by P Gaseaux
Chapter Thirty-one
The cops were back-tracking, they moved beyond the shack to the side of the garage where the old guy’s Inter was sitting. A wall of rounds was raining down on them from the woods to the other side. Whoever it was firing, they were a long way off. To the near side another barrage of shots came from a much deeper-sounding weapon, now they were being flanked; the guys in the woods were a diversion.
Then they heard it, an even louder pair of shots, then two more…a much more powerful noise than anything else. The echo travelled a long way like thunder.
“That’s Gunny Hatfield’s rifle,” whispered Roy Hernandez. “Pity any sucker who’s on the pointy end of that.”
The rapid firing from the woods ceased as quickly as it started. Then a flurry of loud taps and clanging on a sheet metal surface somewhere. Just like a whole tribe of delinquents armed with catapults. Tanaka grabbed Hernandez and forced him down.
“Keep still. They’ve got a machine-pistol.”
Tanaka dropped lower, tried to see from a different angle. He was looking for her, no idea where she’d gone. He was concerned…could use her skills right now. He still couldn’t see Anna but he did see two shadows approaching from the lower side of the trail -- he peeked up with the vain idea of firing and was met by half a mag from an assault rifle fired by some giant, bigger than a wrestler or a circus freak. Rounds spun off the I-beams holding the garage up. Whoever it was, they hobbled with a lame leg, and maybe they’d been hit.
Still no sign of Anna…
“We gotta move,” muttered Hernandez. “Remember -- downhill; we head past the old mine.”
Any thought about the old guy or her was snuffed out by rounds from the Ingram pistol stitching the side of the shed. The rounds went high. Hernandez and Tanaka retreated behind the structure and crawled down the hill, just like the old guy said.
In thickets not too far from the trail lay two Nuestra Sociedad guys, each killed instantly with a double shot from Hatfield’s Garand. Gone to the hills -- the Mountain State -- with the crooks, lured by the cash for a few days’ work, they’d been told they were heading up there to ‘…rough up a sick old hillbilly…’ and instead they walked straight into the sights of a marine sniper, an old man who’d fought wars and still hunted his own food. They’d never seen snow before; they had alighted from the Forester and floundered through the woods in an attempt to meet up at the ranch, flanking anybody who had ideas of escaping. Hatfield had rushed to a fallen sycamore and killed the first one instantly. The second scumbag hit the deck and fired wildly at the trees as the old guy circled him, closing in on the muzzle flash.
Hatfield doubled back and entered the shack; the damage from the firing had left the place looking like a sieve. The room damaged and the last nostalgic memories all over the floor, glass everywhere. The wedding picture…
Thankfully no fires blazing; only glass and shattered timber throughout. Glass from the windows all over the floor -- they’d put a hundred rounds or more, raked the place up and down. The stove was okay, the ammo had ricocheted off the cast iron. Wrecked the place…but it had cost them dearly. He tipped the coffee pot in to snuff the coals and ventured outside. Then he saw her.
“Oh shoot,” he whispered out loud. “They’ve killed her…”
Face down, sprawled out and still, a big dark stain in the snow. Looked more like an ink-stain but it was blood alright, Hatfield darted out and cased the area with the muzzle then got down next to her. He dropped the rifle down softly into the snow a second and carefully turned her over, she was soaked in blood, and he clawed back the warm clothes to see if she had a pulse. Wasn’t the first time in his life he’d done this. The Colt forty-five was gone, she’d dumped it or someone else had it. Then he heard more shooting -- a lot of shooting this time -- there was an exchange of fire coming from down the back. Small-arms fire and the unmistakable thud of the Kalashnikov rifle. Then two explosions followed.
Grenades!
No time to scratch, Hatfield gently laid Anna back on the snow, picked up the Garand and headed down. The gunfire, it was coming from the gully, they must’ve been near the mine.
Muddy water extended as far as the eye could see. She could hear the other dead children singing; it was the nursery rhyme praising the elephant, its trunk, its eyes and long tail. All youngsters knew the song from pre-school. But she couldn’t see them, only the singing, it was coming from somewhere. She didn’t know where, everything was gone now. Far away there were waterspouts -- seven of them -- lined up on the horizon. Only the peaks of tin roofed huts poked above the water and she struggled to move and kept slipping and falling. As she found higher ground she could see nothing but brown water and something kept prodding her left shoulder.
The tamarind tree, that tree, that day she was cursed. The tamarind tree; it was sinking too. The village, where she was born it was going under, the flood kept rising and she staggered and slipped, she was stuck and couldn’t move. Still the singing, still she couldn’t see anyone. Something grabbed her from behind and she whirled around. Defeat. There was nothing she could do. The light was dimming. The waterspouts, they were coming closer. She felt the wind, it picked up. Once more something yanked at her from behind, she tried to turn…tried to scream. Nothing came out, only air. She couldn’t hear the children singing anymore, everything had gone under. She was sinking too. Then something hit her left shoulder blade one last time, and the water covered her head.
Pakdee sat up. Soaked in blood. It was starting to freeze as well -- her blood, type-red -- all over her and the ground around. Panting and nibbling at her was the mysterious blue-eyed dog of Hatfield’s. It poked her heard with its snout. That’s what the tugging and pulling must have been. Then the wolf stared licking at the blood soaked snow. She shivered. Those dreams, they gave her the chills. His dog…it was licking up her blood!
She ran her hand through her hair and felt it, a neat groove along the top of her scalp. She’d been hit and knocked out, the wound still oozed. She saw all the footprints and some more blood, little droplets leading in a trail. Somebody else was hurt. She remembered the gun, Hatfield’s pistol, it was gone.
She could see the wood pile and jammed into a section of hardwood was a woodsman’s axe. Way too large. Pakdee was a swordsman, not a Viking; she scrambled around searching for the forty-five which had vanished. All around were tracks in the snow and the farmhouse empty. Cautiously she stood; she leaned and held the wolf’s collar, and led it toward the exit under the dwelling.
The door was ajar and there was no light except the moon and as she backtracked she could barely make the room out. No power or lighting and she stumbled into the cellar, it was tidy but dark. She reached and felt along the racks -- she would need to hurry -- some boxes, crates; something cylindrical. An old stainless flashlight with ribbing on the side and it worked.
Think! So many stores but only essentials; no weapons -- this was survival gear for preservation of life, not the taking of it. She tore at some boxes and found what she needed: a box of detergent, waterproof matches and on the floor a red pail full of sand which she upended. A jerry can with gasoline was on the ground under a shelf; she filled the pail to the brim and broke open the detergent box and tipped a fistfuls of the powder in; mixing it with her hand, sloshing some over herself and the floor. It’d stick; the mix would burn hot, bright and slow. On the shelf, her hand swept a little timber statue of a figure made of hardwood; it fell and bounced on the mortar surface of the cellar. About eight inches long and just under two inches thick, the thing was heavy and solid. She grabbed it and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. Gripped hard in a closed fist, it’d make a knockout punch.
“Stay,” she hissed at the dog. She eased the exit shut after carefully. The pail was a solid old thing of galvanized metal and it held over two gallons; at least it had a cover but it was heavy and she staggered out and retraced
the prints in the snow down to the wood pile and below the sandstone ledges. It was a struggle but she had to stay upright.
The Nigerian watched on mutely as the Tamil kicked Tanaka, he doubled up in pain. Both he and the sheriff were restrained with their own cuffs, their arms out front but both locked together by the chain-links. They’d surrendered after a short firefight, outgunned. Either that or be shot.
“Where is the old man…where is he?!” The Tamil drooled now, he was crazed and desperate. Another kick and Tanaka doubled over, toppling Hernandez as well. They were confined in an area no larger than a small room and the mine continued beyond. Ten feet further in the old trolley tracks disappeared into the dark, into the mountainside. The moon had gone directly above; it flooded the entrance with white light.
The Tamil clicked the selector on the Ingram and brought it level to Lt. Hernandez’ right kneecap, firing once. The sheriff bellowed in agony as the round struck and passed through the back, blood started filling his thermal boot. He thrashed around and retracted his good leg, hurling Tanaka against an ancient timber, dislocating his wrist as well as pieces of gravel from above that began to spatter like rain.
The villains focused on Tanaka now. “The father…where is he?” demanded the Tamil. “He has some items I need.”
If one or both of them wandered out in search of Hatfield the ex-sniper would cut them down. Or he could stall them; perhaps a better idea as it was the old guy who steered them toward the mine. Tanaka tried to raise his head up and look out but a swift kick sent him flat. It came from the huge black guy who was clutching an injury on his lower left side -- he’d been hit too.
“Hatfield’s son and that whore…” he snarled in a long and low voice, menacing, evil. “They have my money. They embezzled me. I was ripped off!” He prodded Tanaka and voice rose. “Now tell me, where is the old man!”
Tanaka gulped and the sheriff moaned; he was losing blood. Between the Tamil’s ranting there was only dripping sounds, echoes and surely in the distance help would be there. The Nigerian covered the entrance. The old guy…where was he; where was Anna?
He looked up at the Tamil, only shaking his head, and then he lowered his gaze once more.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the Tamil, conciliatory as if to negotiate a business deal. He leaned over and whispered to the cops: “I will make you an offer: a quick humane death,” nodding at the assault rifle. “Or pain like you cannot imagine…”
“Kill a federal agent in this country, dickhead, and it’s the needle -- death row! No exceptions.” Tanaka was only angered by now. The man’s breath was foul, everybody was tired of this game and surely this would end. Without thinking he stared up defiantly:
“Hey pal, you really oughta brush your teeth after going to the toilet.” Get it over with. How dare you come in here and do this to us....
PK Tanaka’s forehead gently touched against the floor of the tunnel and he could feel rumbling. He felt something else; he was wet, it burnt his eyes and an overpowering stench…gasoline, lots of it and it was everywhere. The Tamil was shouting hysterically and waving his machine pistol, the Nigerian giant was whirling around, struggling with something or somebody at the entrance. The Tamil didn’t dare fire. One single shot and the muzzle flash would incinerate them all.
JJ Hatfield had followed the ruckus down; first thing he saw was the black marks and the snow thrown out by the M26. That distinctive smell of Compound-B fumes, it was still. Everything under a silvery moon, the tracks leading in to the mine and sure enough they were in there, stuffed into the entrance. The sheriff, the Washington guy and whoever it was who had them hostage.
“Damn fools,” he muttered aloud.
The mine, it was a hand-dug work of art put in by pioneers -- maybe child-labor -- over a hundred and twenty years ago but it was ready to cave in. Trolley tracks entered the cutaway and on the outside was an old gutter-chute that led straight down the bluff to a waterway below. The chute had become a stream now. The mine itself had struts of rotted timber, and any supports had long decayed through. Hewn through soft shale and sandstone to harvest a four-foot-thick coal seam, the shaft itself was an historic but useless and treacherous monument.
Hatfield kneeled down and rested the Garand on a piece of rock jutting from a washout, it gave him cover. He needed a clean shot and he knew full well he could do a lot of things wrong.
Think damnit!! Made enough screw-ups for one lifetime…wait till they come out, try ‘n’ pick the bad guys off. Or charge ‘em…it’s now or never.
The adrenaline was fading away, he was in pain, and it racked his body, his lungs heaving. If he charged and made enough noise he might just draw them out. Four shots left. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, maybe his last and stood up.
Then he saw her. Couldn’t believe his eyes, she didn’t see him though, and she wasn’t waiting around. Hatfield watched as Anna moved to the ledge above the entrance and jumped.
She made it to an overhang and teetered on the edge, below she saw the huge bulk of the Nigerian with an assault rifle, one type she was well familiar with. Flicked off the lid to the pail, filled with backyard napalm and lifted it up to her chest, clenching her hands in front with the matches, a whole bundle of them. Fifteen feet down they were there. A long way down but she could do it, she’d done jumps before and this would be a long one.
Something made the Nigerian look up, he saw her and drew the assault rifle up and she launched herself…straight at him.
Sammy-Boy didn’t have time to fire; a drum filled with liquid with her behind it collided knocking both he and the Tamil down. Gasoline -- now the Nigerian and everything else in the cavern -- they were soaked in it. They crashed back hard into the mine like a tumble of bodies in a pile-up. The assault rifle clattered to the side; away from them…it was useless anyhow with all the fuel around.
Pakdee righted herself and stood up, moving back to the entrance where the moonlight illuminated her form. The Nigerian heaved himself upright and staggered. Pints of blood all over his jacket. Maybe she got lucky before up at the road, whatever it was it slowed him down. She dropped back and launched a very low leaping kick – aimed for his crotch and got his thigh but she only bounced off. Fell on her back and tried to push with her legs; get out of the cave but the Nigerian grabbed her and with a single hand picked her up and bodily threw her against the wall of the mine where she landed on a metal rail…it connected with her hip and she squealed. Now stones and debris were clattering from the mine’s roof. Next thing she felt two giant hands, first on the side of her neck then they closed around her throat. Ojukowne was choking her, as his paws crushed around her windpipe she was being lifted into the air.
Flexed her neck and jaw muscles hard, but the Nigerian only clamped down harder. She couldn’t get any kicks through; she was in mid-air with nothing to launch from…no power. Couldn’t get any air, she was losing consciousness. She let go of his wrists and dropped her arms by her sides a second then brought both her hands up in front of her face, between the two gigantic forearms that were holding her. Pushed both her arms to the right and with her last ounce of strength forced the Nigerian’s choke-hold downwards, raising his right hand upward a fraction. She flicked her head left and bit down as hard as she could. Now his thumb was between her teeth -- the platinum teeth worth more than the car she drove -- and she clamped her jaws shut with the last of her strength. Like an uncooked chicken drumstick, she felt the bone crack, the blood filling her mouth and the huge hands release their grip…minus one thumb. The Nigerian bellowed in pain and fury.
Pakdee dropped to the ground and took a huge gasp of air. She clawed at her clothes and took the timber statue she’d picked up earlier, clenched it tight and let go one last punch…straight at his throat. He lurched back, grabbing at anything and latched on to an old upright beam as he overbalanced. It came loose, and Ojukowne fell flat on his back.
As he hit the floor of the tunnel a two-ton slab of sandstone the size of a dinner table dropped out of the low ceiling and landed…square on him…with a loud dull thud. He never even had time to make a noise, didn’t see it coming. Like a jelly-roll under a fireman’s boot.
She crawled back toward the mine’s entrance, just in time to see the Tamil hovering over the two cops. And the old guy, he’d come rushing to the mine, lifted the heavy Garand back and slammed the butt stock into the Tamil’s chest, sending him flying. She and Hatfield stooped down on either side of the two cops, still locked with the cuffs, they grabbed one side each and hauled toward the outside as fast as they could move. Lt. Hernandez howling in pain as they dragged him with his bullet wound and Tanaka locked on; they dragged both them out into the open.
The moonlight was gone now, superimposed by a powerful spotlight on a chopper. They could hear sirens, lots of them in the distance and up near the shack flashlights. The cavalry had arrived; cops, dozens of them moving in on foot. The chopper hovered lower, maybe only a few hundred feet above, the aerial searchlight lit the place up like a stadium.
Hatfield and Pakdee dropped the cops and turned back at the old mine and they saw the figure at the entrance -- clear as daylight -- the Tamil. Clutching at something, he stood up and teetered then he brought his hand back behind. The last remaining grenade. Pakdee pushed Hatfield flat and tore at the Garand; she leapt forward and coiled the strap through her arm. Butt into her cheek…she aimed, she fired. Straight into the Tamil’s chest, he fell back into the entrance and the M26 detonated after tumbling inside. Then the fuel exploded. Then the entire hillside came down. A thousand cubic yards. The edge of the landslide caught her and knocked her back, stones, rocks and black sooty dust billowed everywhere.
The gully had collapsed. The mine was no longer. The syndicate was no longer…
Gone. Buried just like the coal that lay under these hills.
She was winded and brought her knees up to her chest, slowly exhaling, then a shallow lungful, followed by another. She relaxed and took a second look at where they had been seconds before, now buried under a small mountain of fresh sandy rock and debris, vegetation and other material.
Hatfield took his rifle back and was hugging Anna now; she was disheveled and covered in dust, soil and congealing blood everywhere, all through her hair and down her front and on the snow and scattered rubble where they lay.
“Thought I told you, darlin’ that mine ain’t safe,” moaned Hatfield. “Never listen to a damn word I say, no one ever listens.”
Exhausted, he rolled over and lay next to her and they both stared at the police helicopter as it banked away to escape the rising black cloud. As it did so the searchlight was obscured. Officers were picking their way down to where the four of them were, the beams from their Maglights darting about. There was shouting, yelling but none of the four had the energy to answer.
As he lay there, Hatfield truly felt his time was up. He turned back to Anna and sniffled. “Pardon the French, but I’m over this shit,” he groaned. He looked at her, to check her reaction.
“JJ Hatfield, from this day now only good luck for you and your life, you know that? Trust me, I kept my promise to you,” she said.
“Glad somebody thinks so,” he whispered.
Believe that when I see it, he thought. One helluva night; one hellava year…could use a little good fortune for once…
