He grunted, raising the machine gun off the hood of the sedan. I fired again. Valentine’s rifle bucked off to the side. The Fat Man began to turn, surprisingly enough, a strange smile on his face even as our bullets struck home. Jill was shooting her pistol now, cranking off shots as fast as she could pull the trigger. I kept shooting, but impossibly the Fat Man stayed on his feet as bullets puckered into his bloated frame, tearing him apart. Reaper’s buckshot rocked him slightly, sending the MG3’s muzzle into the dirt. I kept firing, front sight tracking back down; now I was shooting for his head. One of Hawk’s .44 slugs erupted through his cheek, and he spit teeth but stayed upright. Still closing, Reaper hit him again, the buckshot in a tighter pattern now, taking the Fat Man’s kneecap off.
His ponderous weight hit the hood, sliding inevitably toward the earth, leaving a trail behind him. He was reaching into his coat, somehow finding the strength to go for his gun. Jill fired her last shots into his neck. He was still smiling a toothless death’s head grin, one eye missing now, as he hit the ground.
“Fucking die already!” Reaper shouted, stepping on the Fat Man’s arm, pinning the gun, extending the stubby 12 gauge toward that nebulous smile. BOOM BOOM! Point-blank range. It wasn’t pretty. Reaper stepped back and wiped his arm across his blood-splattered face. “You ain’t coming back now!”
I shoved a fresh magazine into my STI. “Get Bob on the radio.”
“He says he’s okay,” Reaper answered. “And—”
“Down!” Valentine shouted. He was closest to Jill and shoved her aside. I hit the deck as another sedan tore past us, muzzle flashes strobing out the open window, bullets whizzing past. Eddie’s maniacally grinning face was illuminated for a brief instant. He must have gotten into the car while we were distracted by the Fat Man. Hawk fired his .44 one-handed at the speeding car as it bounced down the road. The concussions were deafening, but then the car was around the hillside and out of sight.
“Everybody okay?”
“I think so,” Jill answered from the ground.
“Reaper?” No answer. I scrambled over to my friend. He was on his back next to the headless body of the Fat Man. “Reaper? Reaper!”
A bullet had smashed his chest plate. He was bleeding badly from the side of his head. I shook him. He opened his eyes, looked around in confusion, then grimaced. “Ow, shit, that hurts.” He rolled over and put his hands on his skull. “He shot me, and I hit my head on the car. So quit yelling at me! Oh, man, he shot me in the arm too.” Sure enough, there was a wound on his bicep. Jill knelt by his side and put pressure on it. “I hate getting shot!”
“You’ll live,” Jill said.
I could be relieved later. I pulled Reaper’s radio off his vest. “Bob. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, bro. I’m good. That was close.”
Somehow we had all survived. “If you see another car moving down the road, kill the driver.”
“He’s already around the hill. I can’t acquire.”
I swore as I keyed the radio again. “Get down to the road as fast as you can. We’ll pick you up in a minute.”
“I’m on my way,” he answered.
I stuffed the radio in my pocket. Valentine had picked up the big MG3 and taken up a defensive position. I started for the closest sedan. The door was unlocked. No keys of course. I whipped out my multitool and cracked open the cover beneath the steering wheel. It took all of thirty seconds to get the car hot-wired, and that was between bouts of violent coughing and blood trickling down my arms and making my hands slippery. The engine turned over as I struck the wires together.
The others were already cramming into the sedan. Valentine had to maneuver the German machine gun to make it fit. The entire prison camp was burning bright now, and we needed to get out of here before the authorities showed up. I slammed the car into gear and floored it as soon as everyone was inside.
The car was dying. Something must have been hit as we were unloading on the Fat Man. All the warning lights were on. The engine was coughing almost as badly as I was. Jill was squished against me, with Bob and his body armor taking up most of the front seat. All of us were filthy, sweating, and half of us were bleeding. Bob’s shocked reaction to seeing me under the car’s interior lights when we had picked him up told me about how horrible I looked.
“We’re almost where we left the vehicles,” Bob stated calmly. He was covered in desert dust. His rifle was between his knees. The fire from the work camp was just a visible glow over the hill behind us.
“Status back there?” I asked. “Hawk? Reaper?”
“It’s a shallow cut.” Hawk had his shirt open and had shoved a pressure bandage on his side. “Nothing bad.”
“The kid’s going to be okay. Bullet grazed his bicep, missed the brachial artery. I’ve got the bleeding under control,” Valentine said from the backseat.
“I suck at this stuff,” Reaper whined. “I keep getting shot.”
“You’ll be fine,” Valentine said flatly.
“Bob, I need you to get these guys out of here before the cops show up. They need medical attention. Think you can handle it?”
“No problem,” my brother answered. I knew that he’d been some sort of medic in the National Guard, an 18 Delta he’d called it. “But I think you need a hospital.”
“It’s better than it looks,” I lied. There were deep lacerations on my face, scalp, and down my arms. My hands were a blood soaked mess. I had first degree burns on much of my body, and from the throbbing nerves down my back and legs I knew that there were some spots that were much worse. I couldn’t stop coughing.
But there was no way in hell Eddie was going to get away.
“Holy shit!” Reaper suddenly freaked out. “Look at this! Look at this!”
“Crap. What?”
“I think it’s Eddie’s tablet!” he exclaimed.
“So?”
“He’s logged in!” Reaper cackled in glee. I was too out of it to see the significance. Gunshot wound forgotten, Reaper madly started fiddling with the little gizmo. “Oh, now this, I am good at!”
The car died as we rolled into the rest stop. I jumped out and started toward the stolen Explorer. “Where do you think you’re going?” Jill asked.
“After Eddie.” I opened the door. “He told Gordon that he’d flown into a nearby airport.”
Valentine spoke up. “There’s only one around here. It’s not far.”
“You’re injured! You need medical attention!” Jill insisted. She was right, of course. I was running on nothing but adrenaline and anger now.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ll hook up with you later.” I didn’t want them with me. Gordon had probably notified the authorities, and surely word would reach the cops in Quagmire about the massacre at the old work camp. I grabbed the wheel. My vision was blurred and my head was swimming. Bob was helping Reaper into the back of the G-ride Suburban.
Valentine tossed the keys to his Mustang to Jill. “Follow Bob,” he told her. “And take good care of my car.”
“Lorenzo . . .” Jill trailed off. She was filthy, stupid pink outfit splattered with blood, her hair tangled with dirt, hanging like a dark shadow over half her face, a stolen handgun dangling from one hand.
She was beautiful.
“I know,” I rasped.
Valentine opened the passenger-side door and slid in, maneuvering the big German machine gun to fit between us.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just drive.” He slammed the door.
I pushed the Ford up to a hundred and five. It wouldn’t go any faster. The highway was virtually deserted, and I had the gas pedal floored. I wasn’t worried about being pulled over. God help the stray Highway Patrolman that got between me and Eddie.
Valentine held onto the oh, shit! handle as we barreled down the road. I passed a slow-moving semi truck like it was standing still, pulling back into the right-hand lane just in time to avoid hitting another car head on. The Explorer was vi
brating like hell.
“We’re almost there,” Valentine said. “This airport has been closed for years. Your guy must’ve had his boys come pick him up. There’s nothing there but a few run-down buildings.”
In the back of my mind, I wondered why Valentine came with me. I doubted he’d tell me if I asked. Just then, my cell phone vibrated, disrupting my thoughts. I pulled it out of my pocket and hit the talk button.
It was Eddie, sounding as shrill and oily as ever. “Ah, Lorenzo. Just checking. I thought that was you I saw standing on the side of the road back there. Did I kill any more of your friends with my little drive-by? It was so invigorating! Like one of your American rap-music videos!” The psychopath giggled.
“No, Eddie, you’re a lousy fucking shot.” The sound of his voice made me push the gas pedal that much harder.
“You certainly are hard to kill.”
“You won’t be,” I promised. “What do you want?”
He laughed, somehow managing to sound girly and sadistic at the same time. “To taunt you, of course. My plane is taking off as we speak. I imagine that you’re trying to catch up with me, but you will be too late. As soon as I hang up, I’m going to ring one of my associates, and then the fun will begin. I’m not just going to have your loved ones killed, I’m going to have them tortured first. I’m going to take your little nieces and nephews, and I’m going to have them raped in front of their parents. I’m going to make them watch. I will—”
I ignored Eddie’s ranting. “Where do we turn?”
“Right here, right here!” Valentine said, pointing.
“Hang on!” I’d nearly missed the turnoff. Hitting the brake, I cranked the Explorer to the right, nearly putting it up on two wheels.
“Ow! Damn it!” Valentine snarled as the heavy machine gun slid over and struck him. We sped down a narrow. deserted road. The airport wasn’t far. After a minute or two we shot through an open gate on a rusted chain-link fence and careened onto a wide-open paved area. I smashed the brake, making a tight turn as we crossed a parking area, passed the dilapidated remains of a hanger, and sped onto the tarmac. The airport obviously hadn’t been used in years. The runway and taxiways were cracked and faded, with weeds springing through splits in the pavement. Eddie’s car, now empty, was parked off to the side.
“There!” Valentine shouted, pointing down the runway. At the far end was a speeding Gulfstream jet. Its engines screamed as it built up speed.
Eddie was still going on, screeching like a lunatic. “—you hear me? Nobody crosses Big Eddie! Nobody! I’ve got to make an example out of you, Lorenzo. Everyone needs to know the consequences of my displeasure!”
The Explorer skidded to a stop, leaving a trail of rubber. Valentine leapt out, pulling the machine gun with him as the jet jumped into the air. He set the barrel over the junction of the door and frame, crouched down, and squeezed the trigger.
The MG3 roared, sending a stream of tracers down the runway after the climbing jet. He hosed the rest of the belt, at least fifty rounds, at the target. Bullets streamed into the air, but fell short. The jet was just too far away. The MG3’s bolt flew forward on an empty chamber. That was it.
“That’s the best you’ve got, Lorenzo?” Eddie cackled. “Not a scratch on me!” I stuck the phone in the front of my armor.
“Shit!” Valentine shouted. “I’m out! He’s gonna get away!”
“No,” I stated calmly. While he was shooting, I had limped around to the back door. I opened it, ripped the concealing blanket aside, and pulled out the portable surface to air missile that I had stolen from the Chechen border jumpers. “He’s not.”
“What the . . .” Valentine said, observing my weapon in awe.
I set the heavy tube on my shoulder, took one step around the Explorer and looked through the scope. I had read the instructions earlier, and it seemed relatively straightforward. I found the red and green flashing lights of Eddie’s jet, centered them in the circle, and hit the lock button. It took a few seconds for the sensor to read. It made a noise like a microwave oven saying that the hotdogs were done.
I pulled the heavy trigger.
FOOOOOM!
The concussion was horrendous. The initial charge threw the missile straight out. A split second later the rocket engine ignited in a massive gout of flame and soared after the jet with a shrieking noise like some obscene bird of prey. The impact staggered me. I pulled the phone out of my armor with my shaking left hand.
“—should have just given me the scarab. I’ll—”
I cut him off. “Hey, Eddie . . .”
“What is it, Lorenzo?”
“See you in hell.”
“What are you . . . evade! Evade!” I could hear him screaming at the pilot while an alarm went off in the background. Eddie was rich enough to afford a missile detection system for his private jet.
Not that it did him any good. A fireball blossomed in the night sky. The entire jet was illuminated for a brief moment as one of the rear engines was engulfed, sparks drifting toward the ground like a demented fireworks display. A wing broke off just as the sound of the first impact reached us. The plane rolled over, trailing smoke, and crumpled into the desert floor in a ball of fire.
I looked down at the phone.
Call Disconnected
Elapsed Time: 4:33
The wreckage continued to burn. It was over. Big Eddie was dead.
My body began to shake, to tremble. All of the pain that I had forced aside came rushing back, staggering me, sending me to my knees. A year of doing the impossible, my loved ones held hostage, my friends in danger, some hurt, some killed, all had come down to this.
It was over.
“We better get out of here before the cops show up,” Valentine said. “I don’t want to try to explain to them where you got a Stinger missile from.”
I was leaning against the SUV, shaking. I couldn’t believe it. I was in shock.
“How about I drive?” Valentine suggested, “Since you’re having, um, a moment?”
I jerkily nodded and climbed into the passenger seat. I closed my eyes. The pillar of fire that had been Eddie’s plane burned onto the inside of my eyelids. “It’s over,” I said.
Valentine put the Explorer in gear. “Sure, whatever.” He thought for a moment. “So. Who was that on the plane?”
I let the pain carry me into the dark.
. . . over . . .
Chapter 30:
What Happens
in Vegas . . .
VALENTINE
Las Vegas, Nevada
June 29
0300
Somehow I ended up back in Las Vegas. It was like I couldn’t escape that place. It had been Bob’s idea. Vegas was the nearest big city, and we needed a place to go. We found a crappy motel in a crappy part of town, the kind of place where call girls hang out in the lobby and they don’t bother asking for ID, and checked in.
Hawk had gone home. As far as I knew, neither Gordon Willis nor any of his surviving men had identified any of us. At least I hoped not. We made a pretty big mess and shot down a private jet. There was bound to be a shit-storm over it, and we decided it was best if we scattered before anyone figured out what happened. If they traced it back to Hawk, or any of us for that matter . . . I didn’t know what would happen, but I knew it would be bad.
Bob insisted that Gordon Willis and his people weren’t part of the legitimate government. As much as they’d use every resource to figure out what happened, they’d try just as hard to keep things quiet. That made sense to me. I knew things about Gordon that Bob didn’t know. I knew what Gordon did. He was a traitor, not only to his country, but to Majestic, the shadowy organization he served. He was probably running just as far and just as fast as we were.
We all had injuries, but with some rudimentary supplies we were able to sort ourselves out. Bob was a medic, and a good one at that. Between the two of us we had gotten the others patched up. Lorenzo had been put down with a significant am
ount of painkillers. He probably should have been taken to a burn unit for a few spots on his back and legs, but that would’ve attracted attention, so he was going to have to make do.
Reaper was so preoccupied with the tablet PC he’d found that he barely noticed as we closed the hole in his arm. Jill only had nicks and bruises, but mostly she had just needed to crash. She’d had a hell of a day. All things considered, the girl was doing okay. She was tougher than she looked.
I’d been so close to killing Gordon I could taste it, yet he got away. I needed to get some air, and on top of it I was starving. I left our motel room to get some food. Bob Lorenzo insisted on going with me, which was both annoying and suspicious. It was annoying because I was contemplating just ditching those guys and taking off on my own. That was going to be a challenge riding with the hulking FBI agent in his G-ride SUV.
The ride was awkward, for me at least. I didn’t know Bob, and even though we’d just gone through some shit together, I sure as hell didn’t trust him. It was obvious he wanted to talk to me about something, and I wasn’t comfortable with it.
Bob was quiet for a long time as we fought our way through Vegas traffic. “So, who are you really, Mr. Nightcrawler?” he finally asked. He didn’t look at me.
“Are you asking me as a cop, or are you asking me as a guy who just helped me kill a bunch of people?”
Bob didn’t respond for a long time. “Don’t judge what you don’t understand.”
A sardonic grin split my face. “My name is Michael Valentine, and I understand things a lot better than you think.”
“I believe you,” the big man said slowly. “You used to work for Gordon Willis, right?”
I was quiet for a few moments before I answered, trying to choose my words carefully. My gut told me I could trust Bob. Recent experience taught me that I couldn’t trust anyone. “Yes. Until a month ago, anyway.”
“You seem to have some kind of grudge. Were you in Majestic?”
That’s who Colonel Hunter had said he answered to. “You could say that. To answer both your questions, I mean. I wasn’t really aware of who I was working for until recently. I’m not sure what Majestic is. All I can find on it is a bunch of Internet conspiracy-theory crap.”
Dead Six Page 57
