The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  The van was now closing in, the billowing trail of dust a testament to the speed it was travelling.

  Vaslik was out first, gun in hand and running to meet the oncoming pickup. He was waving his arms at them to stop, but it didn’t seem to be making any impression on the driver.

  Ruth jumped out and watched the van. For a moment it seemed to be holding its course along the road.

  Then without warning the van turned and tore across the verge, bursting through a thin line of wire and rough grass. Once clear, it began to speed up, bouncing over the uneven ground and trailing an even greater dust cloud in its wake like a pillar of smoke.

  This put the men in the van on an intercept course with the approaching pickup, and it was clear what their intentions were.

  Ruth turned and stared at Dave, who had joined her, the rotors of the helicopter still spinning slowly. “We have to do something.”

  He took in the scene unfolding, with Vaslik still running but too far away from the pickup to be able to help. And Ruth saw by Dave’s face that getting back in the air would take too long; by the time he did that, the terrorists would have stopped the pickup and be in command of the situation.

  Dave shook his head and turned away, reaching into the baggage compartment. When he came back he said, “Are you any good with these? If not, say so and I’ll do it. But I’m better with a handgun.”

  He was holding an M4 carbine.

  Ruth nodded. “I think so.” It had been a while since she’d used a rifle, but she’d always prided herself on being reasonably accurate. The problem right now was there was no time for error or hesitation; one glance told her the van was closing in fast on the pickup, which was now slowing, the driver undoubtedly confused by what he or she was seeing.

  “You’ve got about twenty seconds,” Dave said calmly as Ruth took the weapon. “Don’t waste time on the tyres—it won’t stop them. Aim for the driver’s door; these rounds’ll punch right on through.” Then he knelt by her side and slapped his shoulder before clamping both hands over his ears.

  She realised what he wanted her to do. She knelt alongside him, instinctively checking that the safety was off and the rate of fire selector was turned to a three-round burst. The weapon smelled oily and new, and she wondered if this was another Tom Brasher decision, just in case. If it was, the man had been amazingly perceptive.

  “Two hundred yards.” Dave’s voice was steady, counting off the distance between the van and the pickup.

  Taking a deep breath Ruth zoned out everything else around her—the pickup drawing to a stop, the children in the back jumping out and staring towards the charging van with open mouths, the dying whine of the helicopter engine. Vaslik was still running, holding his gun in the air to draw the terrorists’ attention and make them slow down. But they weren’t stopping. In fact the side door was now open and the barrel of a rifle was visible where the gunman inside was trying to draw a bead on Vaslik.

  Nothing else mattered, Ruth told herself. Just stop the men in the van. She breathed easily, nestling the butt of the rifle into her shoulder and bending her head to the optical sight. She felt the warm mass of Dave’s shoulder beneath her supporting arm, and the brief movement of his head as he watched the van. The view through the rubber eye-piece blurred for a moment, then cleared and steadied as she adjusted her stance against Dave and achieved a clear and steady line of sight. The van suddenly blossomed in the viewfinder, the face of the man in the side doorway bright and clear, struggling to line up his rifle on Vaslik while shouting something at the driver.

  Ruth took another breath and let it out slowly.

  “A hundred yards.” Dave again. “Do it.”

  Ruth squeezed the trigger.

  forty-four

  For a long moment nothing seemed to happen. Yet Ruth knew the burst of three shots had drilled right through the center of the driver’s door, leaving vivid holes in the thin white metal.

  Then the vehicle’s nose dipped momentarily before it began to slow and wander off course, finally turning away and stumbling to a halt.

  The moment it stopped one of the side doors opened and a man jumped out. He dodged away to put the van’s body between himself and any incoming fire before Ruth could react. Seconds later the driver’s door opened and another figure appeared. But this one wasn’t moving easily. He dropped to the ground and rolled under the van, dragging a rifle behind him and tucking himself in behind the front wheel.

  “I see two,” said Ruth. “Two only.”

  “Got it,” Dave muttered.

  Ruth checked Vaslik’s position. He was now running in towards the pickup and waving at the children to stay back. They finally seemed to understand that this wasn’t a game and turned and began running back along the track, followed closely by a man in a check shirt, coveralls, and work boots.

  “Firing,” Ruth warned Dave, and squeezed off another three-round burst, this time aiming at the man under the van, who she could see was bringing his rifle round to focus on them. The shots tore into the vehicle’s lower bodywork, one bursting the tyre next to the gunman, and she followed them with another burst, this time seeing the ground beneath the van being chopped up by the high-velocity rounds and raising clouds of dust.

  The gunman stopped moving.

  Andy Vaslik was feeling a sharp pain in his side. He hadn’t run this far in months, and he knew any ability he might have had to use a handgun with accuracy was diminishing with every stride as his body began to shake with the effort and the rush of adrenaline. But he drove himself on, anxious to put himself between the gunmen and the children. He heard Ruth firing again and saw the effect as the bullets tore into the ground, and he loosed off two hasty shots himself at the stationary van to keep the gunmen’s heads down.

  He glimpsed movement behind the van, and saw a figure kneeling down with a rifle to his shoulder. And it was aimed directly at him.

  He swerved to put the gunman off, but the man wasn’t aiming for precision. Instead he let loose a burst of fire in Vaslik’s direction before ducking back. But one round was enough; Vaslik felt as if he’d been punched in the arm. He stumbled as he was thrown off-balance and felt his feet skate from under him like a party drunk.

  It was the suddenness of that move that probably saved his life.

  He heard a snap as another shot tore through the air where his head had been, and he continued rolling, trying to ignore the pain blossoming in his biceps and to focus on not giving the gunman an easy target. He came to rest and adjusted his stance, pushing his gun hand forward and firing three times. In the same instant he saw the van’s side windows disintegrating as a volley of fire poured into them. Above the sound of a rifle, he recognised the snap of a semi-automatic pistol as Dave Proust joined Ruth in firing at the remaining man, who threw himself down flat under the pounding gunfire.

  Vaslik rolled twice more to change his position, then waited to see if the gunman moved again. When he did, the man came up into a kneeling position and fired two rapid shots—but aimed at where Vaslik had been lying, not his new position.

  Fighting a wave of nausea, Vaslik put everything into the next few seconds. Recalling the endless live-fire practice sessions in the police and with Homeland Security, he squeezed off three shots at the distant figure, then three more.

  There was a long silence and the gunman didn’t move.

  Vaslik stood up and changed to his spare clip of ammunition, then waved a cautionary signal at Ruth and Dave as they moved closer. But the danger was over. As he approached the gunman he saw why: the gunman had been struck in the head by a single bullet, although from which gun was impossible to tell.

  He flicked the rifle away as a precaution, then checked the man under the van. He was alive, still, but only just. His chest was a mess.

  Vaslik waved the other two in and went to the rear doors to check the interior. Nothing but a launcher on
the floor, along with bottles of water and two sports bags. He checked them out but they contained only extra clothing and wash things.

  “One dead, the driver wounded,” he reported when Ruth arrived with Dave following behind, talking on his cell phone. “Number three’s missing.”

  “I called it in,” said Dave. “The local cops should be here soon with emergency services. I called Tom Brasher, too; there are going to be questions about our involvement here, but I figure he can act as a firewall if things get heavy.” He looked past the van to where the man and children from the pickup had now stopped running and were watching them. “I’ll go talk to these people and make sure they’re all right.” He nodded down at the wounded man under the van. He was staring back at them, but his eyes were becoming unfocussed and full of pain. “My suggestion: you might want to talk to him before he gets swallowed up in the system.”

  “Good idea.” Vaslik hunkered down next to the man. Up close he could hear his labored breathing, and a whistling sound from his lower chest. From that and the amount of blood it was easy to see he was in a bad way. But Dave’s suggestion was a good one and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. Once the emergency services got here, along with various law-enforcement people from all over the state, the man would be rushed away and wouldn’t be doing any talking.

  “You speak English?” Vaslik asked.

  For a moment the man didn’t respond. Then he nodded twice.

  “Good. What was your job here today?”

  “Driv … driving.” The man blinked slowly, his voice raspy and his accent heavy. “What—?” He looked around, and Vaslik guessed he was asking about his colleagues.

  “Your friend is dead,” he told him. “Along with a lot of other people. Where’s the other one who was with you?”

  “Gone.”

  “Who sent you here?”

  “Broth…brother—” The man coughed, and a fine spray of blood appeared on his lips and ran down his chin.

  “The brotherhood—I get that. But who asked for your help? Was it Malak?” He felt no compunction about questioning him; had they arrived a few minutes later, this man and his colleague would now be holding children as hostages.

  The man shook his head. His eyes were becoming dulled by shock and his chin was dipping, but he clearly had enough determination left to remain silent about who he was working for.

  “Do you know where Malak has gone?”

  No response.

  “Or Bilal?”

  Nothing.

  “How about the drones? Do you know about them?”

  This time there was a flicker; it was momentary, hardly there at all, but it told him that the man at least knew what was going to happen. He wasn’t surprised. The magnitude of what Malak had planned had probably seeped out among those committed to the same cause, and the unusual approach of using drones would have been seen as a clever use of America’s own technology against them.

  “That’s fine,” Vaslik told him. “You’ve heard of Freedom? Freedom Field? We know that’s where it’s going to happen. Pity for Malak is, there’s nobody there. They’ve shut the area down. In fact, the only person there will be Malak himself. He’s going to be a lonely man. Then he’ll be a dead one.”

  The distant sound of sirens drifted across the open fields, and the man’s head lifted. He frowned at first, then nodded with difficulty and gave a faint smile, as if knowing he had a secret he wasn’t going to divulge.

  Vaslik felt a chill and looked past the man as Ruth appeared. She had heard the sirens, too, and was rolling a finger through the air in a signal for him to continue. There wasn’t much time left. This was brutal, but they had to find out where Malak and his toys had gone.

  “So where is it, this Freedom Field?” he said. “It’s going to be a big strike, right? An attack on the US military and the US president. You must know where it is.”

  But the man said nothing more. Moments later he gave a deep sigh and his body seemed to collapse in on itself, and he was gone.

  forty-five

  By the time the first of an extended convoy of vehicles arrived from the local and state police and emergency services, followed quickly by a police helicopter, Ruth was tending to Vaslik’s wound, which was slight, and Dave Proust was explaining the situation to the father of the three children.

  None of them could hide their disappointment at having been unable to find out more about Malak’s whereabouts, although Vaslik was more pragmatic. He watched as Ruth used a bandage from Dave’s first-aid box to bind his upper arm, where the bullet had scored a shallow path without hitting anything vital.

  “We know where he’ll be,” he told her. “We just don’t know where exactly. But we will.”

  “You’re optimistic,” she murmured. “Are you sure you’re not in shock?”

  “It’s a scratch, nothing more.” He smiled but looked a little pale, and nodded at the incoming chopper. “Bet that’s Tom Brasher come to see how we kicked their asses.”

  “Don’t change the subject. And we both know he’s not going to be pleased at the body count.”

  He shrugged with his good shoulder and looked serious. “It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the cops. This is their turf and they won’t like the FBI muscling in. They’re going to be even more pissed when they find out civilians just wound up shooting dead two terrorists.”

  They weren’t long in finding out just how bad that was going to be.

  The first man out of the helicopter was of medium height and lean, with the rank of a police captain and a face filled with thunder. He was accompanied by a civilian gofer scurrying along behind him and shouting details of what had been so far reported. The captain stopped to take a quick look at the crippled van and the bodies of the two dead men, then headed towards Ruth and Vaslik at a furious clip, scattering officers and emergency workers with an imperious flick of his hand.

  “I’m Captain Hubert Danes of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol Special Operations Section,” the man declared loudly, coming to a halt. “What in holy fuck do you people think you’ve done here? This is not some private game park where you can carry on your own little wars and take the law into your own hands. In fact, who the hell are you? Tell me that!”

  “They’re with me,” Tom Brasher said, decanting fast from a police cruiser that had just bumped off the road. He held up his FBI badge. “Tom Brasher, FBI. They’re on approved business.”

  “Approved by who? Not by me, that’s for damned sure!” Danes stuck out his jaw and glared at Brasher. “This is an unauthorised action and these three are now under my jurisdiction, so the Bureau can go suck eggs. They’ll be arrested and charged with causing the deaths of those men and I’ll see they appear before a judge tomorrow.” He turned and studied Ruth, Vaslik, and Dave in turn. “I want your weapons handed over right now and you three had better not plan on going home anytime soon, because you won’t—that’s a promise.”

  “What would you have preferred we did, captain?” Ruth replied quietly. She was reining in an overdose of anger tinged with the aftermath rush of adrenaline after the shooting. “Stood here and watched a group of children get taken into a hostage situation? Watched them and their father being killed like those people back at the county jail? Or is that how you treat your citizens out here when threatened with danger?”

  “I would have preferred it, lady,” Danes snapped, “if you people had stayed out of my state and out of my way. We have a procedure here in the state of Oklahoma, and we’re the ones who dictate the course of action, not outsiders like you and your friends.” He blinked. “And what the hell is that accent, anyway?”

  “It’s British.”

  “Wait up!” Tom Brasher pushed forward, looking ready for a fight. He glared at the captain and said, “Listen to me and listen good. These are extreme circumstances here; you’ve just had a county jail damn near
destroyed by rocket fire, and officers killed along with support workers. I lost a young female colleague in the blast. The terrorists involved—who we know are part of an organisation referred to as a brotherhood—were a direct and imminent threat to the lives of four innocent people, including small children. They’ve made threats against the lives of hundreds of military personnel and the president himself, and one of them is still on the loose. So let’s stop the pissing contest and remember what might have happened if these three civilians, all of whom have law-enforcement backgrounds, including the FBI and Homeland Security, hadn’t intervened.”

  “I don’t give a damn who or what they are,” Danes retorted, now aware of a growing audience of his own officers listening to the exchange with more than a hint of interest.

  “Well, seems to me you should give a damn, Hubert.” A figure stepped forward into the argument. It was the father of the three children, a tall man with a quiet voice and weathered skin, who eased his way through the crowd until he was standing alongside the captain and towering over him. “I’ve known you a long time—like I’ve known most of you fellas, on and off.” He looked round at the other officers before switching his eyes back to Danes. “It sounds to me like you’re forgetting yourself and who you serve.”

  Danes snapped, “Stay out of this, Harry—this is a police matter. I know you’ve had a bit of a scare, but it’ll be best if you just leave this to me and run along home to be with your kids.”

  “Aw, shut the fuck up, Hubert,” the man said softly, unfazed by the captain’s bullying manner. He ducked his head at Ruth. “Excuse the language, ma’am, I guess I’m a little stressed right now.” He looked back at Danes. “Fact is, the young lady here told it right; if they’d waited for you and your men to come along, my kids would all be dead or held hostage by those crazy bastards. Then what would you have done—quoted the law and tried to reason with them? Set up a dialogue, like they teach you in officer training?” He held up a large calloused hand as Danes tried to say something. “No, let me finish. Look at those men, Hubert—they were armed with M4 Colt carbines with 30-round magazines, for Christ’s sake. In case you forgot, I’m ex-military and I know what that stuff can do. You think they were playing games? And you might not have given a damn, but one of these outsiders here was shot and wounded while putting himself between my kids and the gunmen, so I have more than a peck of interest in raising hell with the governor if you don’t pull your darned neck in and see sense.”