Perilous

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Ready,” Jeff called.

  “One.” I brought my feet under me. “Two.” I got in my stance. “Three.” I kept my head low and ran the length of the truck. The stairs of the patio were just six feet away. The tailgate flew past on my left, and I was out of cover. I tried lunging for the steps but slipped in the snow, and my jump came up short. My knees hit the second stair, and my chest came down on the deck. The shotgun slid from my hand toward the cabin’s back door. I dug my fingers into the snow and frantically got my feet under me. A shot plugged into the wooden stairs by my left leg and threw snow into the air. I clawed my way up the deck and scooped up the shotgun as I fell into the house. I lay covered in snow, next to the wood stove.

  “Get down!” I yelled.

  Jeff dropped to the floor. Bullets splintered the wood frame of the cabin’s window where he’d been standing.

  “Where’s Benson?”

  “He was at the kitchen window.”

  “Benson?” I called.

  “I’m on the floor. No worse than I was.”

  I motioned for Jeff to come over to me. He crawled his way over.

  “Did you get a look?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell, Carl.”

  “Benson, did you get a look?”

  He slid himself into view through the doorway that led into the kitchen. “I saw him.”

  “You’re certain?”

  He nodded. “The shooter is about thirty yards into the woods, lying on the ground.”

  “Woods where?”

  “Directly out from the kitchen window.”

  I needed some kind of realistic approach. I sat quietly, trying to put something together.

  “What are you thinking, Carl?”

  “I think my dad is out there somewhere. We can’t return fire anymore.”

  “Do you think he went after the guy?”

  “I’m damn near positive.”

  Jeff was silent. I knew what he was thinking. My father had been gone for too long to not have gotten this guy’s position and done whatever he’d planned to.

  “He’s been unaccounted for, for too much time,” I said.

  “What’s the plan?” Benson asked.

  “I need you guys to create a distraction. I’m going out a window on the far side of the house. I’ll loop around and see what I can do.”

  “The other sheriffs should be here soon,” Benson said.

  “I’m sure this guy knows that too. He’ll advance or flee. I’m not taking the chance he does either. Plus, if my father is out in the woods injured, I’m not wasting any more time.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Jeff asked.

  “Take a window at the back of the cabin here. Shoot into the woods to get this guy’s attention. Take a shot and get down, then repeat. Keep your shots above twenty feet from the ground. Benson, take two shots to Jeff’s one. We need to try to conserve whatever ammo we have.”

  Benson slid himself out into the cabin’s living room near Jeff and me. I took the shotgun under my arm. “I’ll give you the signal when to take the first shot.” I went to the living-room window facing north and held the butt of the shotgun near the glass. “Go,” I said.

  Jeff swung into the window on the other side and fired. As soon as I heard the shot, I put the butt of the gun through the glass and pulled it around to rid the window frame of any loose shards. Then I swung a leg out of the window. Our shooter didn’t return fire.

  “Remember, Benson,” I yelled, “two shots to Jeff’s one. Keep the shots up.”

  Deputy Benson fired out into the woods. I lowered myself down into the snow and ran north through the woods. Two properties down, I started for the street. As I neared the tree line, I could see to the end of the block. The sheriff I’d spoken with on the way in was gone. I glanced left to right but saw no one moving anywhere. I crouched, ran across the street, and disappeared into the woods. A hundred yards in, I started south. The snow crunched underfoot. The moon, through the cold, cloudless sky, lit my way between the leafless trees. I heard Benson and Jeff taking shots in the distance. Each bullet fired echoed four or five times before disappearing into the night. I never heard the pop of the suppressed rifle returning fire. I continued on.

  Chapter 41 - Yury

  The four men were grouped in the cabin.

  Perfect. All in one spot waiting to die.

  Yury pulled his feet under him. He unzipped the left pocket in his ghillie suit, dropped his gloved hand inside, and slipped out the frag grenade. He planned to loop around the front, out of view, and toss it inside as he took cover. With an effective casualty radius of five meters, anyone inside the small building would be dead or severely injured. He could go in afterward, clean up, and be back to his car within five minutes. He would then drive across the frozen lake to the boat ramp on the far side and disappear cleanly.

  Yury stood, letting his rifle rest against a tree. He brushed the snow from the front of his suit.

  Out of nowhere, Yury took a blow to his spine. The air left his lungs, and his body careened forward. The blow sent him sprawling into the snow. He coughed to try to get his breath. He felt as if he’d just been hit by a truck, and he thrashed in the snow to get his feet under himself. Another blow hit him in the middle of his back, sending him down face-first into the snow. He heard snow crunching and felt a thick arm come under his chin. The arm yanked back against his throat.

  Yury pawed at the snow and twigs on the ground before him. His hand caught something solid—a root from a tree sticking out of the snow. He grabbed hold of the root with all the strength he had and used it as leverage to roll over. The man fell from Yury’s back. Yury stood and stumbled a few steps backward. He caught a shadow of the man rushing him. The man’s shoulder met Yury’s midsection and carried him backward into a tree. As his back slammed against the trunk, Yury’s head snapped back and made contact. His vision blurred. He felt the impact of a fist to the side of his jaw, then another from the other side, twice as hard.

  Yury’s hands went to his waistline to pull his pistol, but a hand swatted it, sending it flying among the trees and beneath the snow. Yury swung blindly at his attacker and made contact. He pulled his right foot up and kicked it out as hard as he could. He hit the man square in the chest, sending him sprawling backward. A fistfight hadn’t been in the cards. Win or lose, the sheriff’s backup would arrive in time to put an end to Yury’s plans. His decision was quick. His hand dove into his pocket and yanked out the frag grenade. He pulled its pin and tossed it directly at his attacker. He turned, covered as much ground as he could within three seconds, and then dove behind the biggest tree he could spot. The shock of the explosion passed over him. As it did, he felt it in his ears. His head rang, and disorientation set in. Yury held his head in his hands, staring at the sky. The stars blurred. He squinted his eyes tight. Then he cracked one eyelid open and looked up, his vision slowly began to focus. As the pain in his skull subsided, more began burning in his leg. He didn’t have time to address or inspect the wound. He was injured and without a weapon. Yury needed to get back to the car.

  Yury pulled himself to his feet and started through the snow toward the lake. He swayed from tree to tree, his leg burning more with each step. The pain intensified as he kept moving forward. The hill down to the lake came into view. He pushed on, and his steps straightened. His car was three properties down, across the frozen ice. Yury tried to get down the hill as fast as he could. The snow was deeper there than the spot he’d ascended. His boot caught in the snow and pulled off of his foot. He wouldn’t take the time to dig for it. Yury leapt, tumbled, and rolled through the snow down to the ice. When he got to his feet at the shoreline, his leg was on fire. Yury lowered his hand to his injured leg. The injury was more severe than he’d previously thought. A six-inch piece of wood about an inch and a half in diameter was protruding from his thigh.

  He didn’t remove it, for fear of bleeding out. Instead, he limped across the ice, dragging
his injured leg toward his car, up ahead. Yury gritted his teeth. “To hell with this,” he said.

  Chapter 42 - Kane

  I was past Jim’s cabin by three properties to the south, two farther than where we’d located the shooter. I checked the street from inside the tree line. I didn’t see the shooter. The shots Jeff and Benson were taking had stopped. I still didn’t hear any return fire though I could have missed it over the sound of my boots crunching through the snow. I crossed the street and entered the woods at the shooter’s back. I quieted my approach through the snow, setting each foot down softly, until it broke the top layer of frozen snow, before I took the step. The process was slow but quiet. The light off the back of the cabin could be seen as a glow through the trees up ahead. I needed to stay straight on my path.

  My eyes were focused on the patch of woods before me, searching for any kind of movement, when the woods lit up in a ball of fire up ahead. The sound of the blast hit me a second later. The explosion was huge—some kind of bomb or grenade. I ran toward the smoke that hung in the woods, the shotgun at my shoulder and ready to fire. I neared the smoky area, where the smell of explosives hung in the air—I remembered it immediately from the times I’d spent watching our SWAT guys train. I saw a round depression, an eight-foot circle free from snow, lying ahead. Then I saw something else, a body lying in the snow. I approached.

  The man moved and made a noise. “Shit.”

  I knelt in the snow next to my father, who was half sitting up against a tree. “Dad!”

  He groaned. “I’m all right. I just got knocked for a loop.”

  “Are you sure?” I looked him over and saw no blood. “What the hell was that?”

  “I was kicking the guy’s ass. He got a lucky kick in that sent me reeling back. As I got my footing, the asshole threw a grenade or something at me.” He tried to stand.

  “Dad, don’t get up.”

  He continued standing. “I said I’m all right. The trees there took the brunt of the damage.” He nodded a few feet away.

  I looked over at a small group of trees nearby. Bark was ripped from their trunks.

  “I dove behind them and curled up. I tried going after the guy, but I couldn’t see worth a crap.”

  “Which way did he go?” I asked.

  “Toward the lake.”

  I held my father by the shoulder of his jacket to steady him. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m getting my bearings back.”

  “Go back to the cabin and stay inside. The other sheriffs should be here any minute.” I started through the snow toward the lake.

  “Are you going after him?” he asked.

  “Hell yes, I’m going after him.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “No. And you don’t have a weapon.”

  My father took a few steps and pulled a rifle from the snow, the shooter’s rifle. “He left this behind.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  He dropped the magazine, checked, and then clicked it back in. “Full magazine.” He worked the charging handle to chamber a round.

  I said nothing.

  “Carl, you’re either going to spend time trying to stop me, or we can go together.”

  I didn’t have time to deal with my father’s stubbornness. “Just come on. Keep your eyes open.”

  We followed the shooter’s footprints through the snow to the ridge leading down to the lake. His footprints turned into large imprints in the snow. “He must have fallen,” I said.

  My father nodded.

  The cranking of a car’s starter broke the silence.

  “Shit, Dad, come on.”

  We thumped through the snow down to the surface of the frozen lake. I heard the engine crank again and then start. I spotted the car behind a pier just a few properties down. I saw the headlights flick on. We ran over as the car began to back up. We were within twenty feet. I fired the shotgun in the air. The car stopped moving.

  “Get out of the car! Keep your hands up!” I shouted.

  I advanced on the car, a newer white Mercedes. I aimed the barrel of the shotgun directly at the driver’s window. The moon lit up the exterior of the car, but through the tinted windows, I couldn’t see the driver.

  “Put it in park! Shut it off and get out!”

  The door didn’t open. He didn’t put it into park. The rear wheels of the Mercedes spun backward and caught, and the front of the sedan spun toward us. I heard the transmission click. The headlights of the car shone on us. “Dad, get off to the side.”

  He kept the rifle aimed at the car and took a few steps sideways to the closest pier. He stepped onto it and retook his firing stance. The car’s motor revved.

  “Don’t do it!” I yelled. I kept the shotgun aimed at the windshield.

  The motor revved again. The tires spun on the ice then grabbed, and the Mercedes lunged toward me. I fired at the car, pumped, and repeated. All four shots hit the hood and windshield of the car. The Mercedes didn’t slow. My father fired four times at it from the side. The passenger side windows shattered. The Mercedes was ten feet from me. I pumped, fired, and dove to the right, out of its path. The car passed just as I hit the ice belly first. The car’s brakes locked, and it spun around on the ice, the headlights shining back on me from fifty yards away. My father fired at least ten shots from the pier at the car, the bullets thumping into the vehicle. Two rounds went through the windshield on the driver’s side.

  The engine revved again.

  I got my feet underneath myself again and brought the butt of the shotgun back into my shoulder.

  The rear tires spun, and the car lurched forward. He was coming for another attempt to run me down. The car picked up speed. I readied myself to fire and dive again. At twenty yards away and almost twenty miles an hour, the nose of the Mercedes veered left toward my dad on the pier.

  “Dad, get out of there!” I shouted.

  He didn’t.

  He stood with the rifle aimed at the windshield and fired continuously. The Mercedes headed straight for him. I fired three shots into the side of the car as I ran toward it. The car didn’t slow or veer off its course.

  “Run!” I yelled.

  My father didn’t budge. He kept firing into the front of the car.

  The car exploded through the end of the pier. The sounds of screeching metal, broken wood, and crunching ice filled the air. Snow and wood splinters flew and slid across the surface of the ice. My father disappeared from view as the Mercedes ripped through. The car slid to a stop as the nose hit shore. I couldn’t see my father anywhere.

  “Dad!” I yelled.

  I ran toward the car. The driver’s door flew open, and I saw a man in a white ghillie suit step from the car. He turned toward me. I stopped and held the shotgun on him. “Face down!”

  He swung a pistol from his hip. I fired the last round in the shotgun, and the chest of his white suit went red. He fell back into the door of the car and collapsed to the ground. I rushed to where I’d last seen my father.

  Among the broken wood, I found him lying five feet from the shoreline. I ran to him and swatted the wood debris away from his side. The rifle lay next to him. His eyes were closed, and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I jammed my fingers under his jaw to check for a pulse.

  “Come on, old man.” I shook him by his chin.

  He let out a moan and rolled onto his side. “Is he dead?” he asked.

  “Yeah, are you all right?”

  He squinted his eyes and clenched his teeth. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

  “Nothing is broken?” I tried checking him out, but he swatted at my hands.

  “I’m fine. This wasn’t how I planned to spend my weekend, Carl.” He grunted in pain and slid himself into a seated position next to me. “Where is he?”

  I didn’t take my eyes off my father. “In the doorway of the car. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  My father looked toward the car and then lunged on top
of me. I heard two shots and felt my father’s body jerk above me. He let out a yelp.

  “Take the rifle,” my father said.

  I glanced to my left. The man stood, using the door to prop himself up against the Mercedes. My head went right, and I saw the rifle my father had used. I pawed at my father, trying to get his two-hundred-plus-pound body off of me before the guy could get off another shot. My father rolled to the ice and yelped in pain again. A shot rang, and the bullet passed over us by inches and hit the frozen surface of the lake five feet away. I rolled toward the rifle. The gunman fired again, the bullet entering the ice inches from my face, sending pieces into my eyes. The cold metal of the AR-15 touched my hand. I scooped it from the ice, rolled onto my back, and used my feet to kick my body toward the shooter. I brought the gun to my shoulder. My eyes met the shooter’s, and I sat up.

  He fired twice, the impact of the rounds hitting me in the chest both times.

  “Carl!” my father yelled.

  The air left my lungs. It felt as if someone had hit me with a bat. The momentum of the rounds pushed my torso back and with it, the aim I had on the man. I glanced down. I saw two holes in the center of my jacket and struggled to get a breath.

  I brought the sights back on him and fired. His head snapped back, and he fell. I pulled myself to my feet and glanced at my father. He sat up in the snow-caked ice, looking over at me. I ran to disarm the man. When I approached him, I realized that wouldn’t be necessary. He lay in a pool of blood at the side of his car, facing up. The bullet had entered just under his right eye and appeared to have exited out the back of his head, from the amount of blood I saw.

  I went to my father’s side. He sat on the ice. Blood surrounded him.

  “Dad, where did you get hit?” I asked.

  He didn’t speak.

  “What the hell were you doing diving on me?”

  “Protecting my son.”

  “I have on a vest.”

  He winced in pain. “That would have been good information to have.”

  “Where are you hit? How bad? Let me see.”