by Jeff Carson
They continued on for the next twenty minutes. When they finally reached the truck, all hell broke loose.
…
They came through the final stretch of forest, and to an opening ahead, where Wolf’s old Toyota truck shone in the moonlight.
Wolf now had the .357 in his belt line; his car keys were in his right hand, and for the past few minutes he’d been mentally rehearsing inserting them into his door lock, starting the engine, and driving away.
When they reached the truck, Jack went to the passenger door on the right, and Wolf to the driver’s on the left.
Just then the rear window of his pickup shattered and dropped in a million pieces into the truck bed. Then a second bullet zipped past him, and bark from the side of a pine tree exploded. A third bullet, accompanied by another loud report, closer this time, hit the side-view mirror right next to Wolf’s shoulder.
For several agonizing seconds, he pushed the key toward the driver’s side keyhole, missing each time.
“Quick!” Jack said from the other side of the truck. “They’re right there! Dad!”
Wolf’s vision was tunneling down. He tried again with the key, this time feeling the smooth insertion into the lock.
Another bullet hit the truck with an earsplitting slap, just as Wolf lifted the handle. He reached in and pushed the automatic lock on the inside of his door, and jumped in.
The other door didn’t open; Jack wasn’t on the other side of the truck anymore.
Wolf turned just in time to see Jack near the rear of the truck, pointing the pistol, which was kicking and spitting fire in his hands. He fired four times, and then opened the door and got in.
“Jack, what are you doing? Get down!”
“I got one of them!” Jack slammed the door and jumped onto his knees on the seat, looking through the back window and using the headrest as a shield.
Wolf started the truck, and was relieved when it roared like it had countless times before in its one hundred fifty-thousand-mile lifetime. He pushed the clutch and crammed it into reverse, then grabbed Jack’s shoulder.
“Get on the floor.”
Jack slumped down.
Wolf backed up and cranked the wheel to the left with his right arm to exit the lot, a move that put Jack’s door directly in the line of fire. He held his breath as he lurched the truck back, pushed the clutch again, put it in first, and sped away.
The truck jumped over rocks and ruts and barreled out of the lot, sending Wolf’s head into the ceiling, and Jack against the underside of the dashboard. Ten seconds later they were around a bend and into thick virgin forest.
Jack climbed back onto the seat and buckled his seatbelt.
Wolf drove with one hand, feeling revived with every second that passed. He pushed the limits of the truck’s suspension for the drive down the perilous road, covering the distance that had taken them over an hour to ascend in under fifteen minutes.
“Holy shit,” Jack said, as they finally reached cruising speed on the dark highway far below.
Wolf turned to Jack and looked him up and down. His son was completely fine. “Yeah,” he said. Holy shit.
Chapter 14
Deputy Tom Rachette pushed his foot to the floor. The department-issue Explorer lurched as it downshifted, then caught and sucked them back into their seats.
“Can you please slow down?” Heather Patterson squirmed in the passenger seat, gripping her tiny hand on the ceiling handle.
Rachette ignored her.
The siren screamed and the engine revved so high he thought it might explode, but it shifted back up a couple gears and mellowed out as they reached a downhill straight section of road, the odometer dial passing the one hundred ten miles per hour mark.
The drive from Rocky Points to County Hospital was just over a half-hour’s drive south on a normal day. Rachette aimed to make it in half the time this morning. Simple math: double the speed, half the time.
He moved into the left lane and passed a semi-truck and a car that didn’t have enough reaction time to move to the right shoulder at the speed they were going.
“Please, Deputy Rachette.” Patterson’s eyes were clenched tight, and her teeth were bared, like she expected her life to end at any moment.
“He’s in trouble.”
Patterson wouldn’t quit. “He’s fine for Christ’s sake! They said he’s fine. Slow down!”
She just didn’t get it. After one afternoon on the job, without even spending time with Wolf, there was no way she could understand how much the man meant to him, to the whole department, to the town. Now this new chick was telling him he needed to chill out? To not worry about the only man he’d ever looked up to in his whole life? To take his time while his mentor sat in a hospital bed with a gunshot wound, with tubes sticking out of him, and machines beeping, and God knew what else? Screw that.
They climbed a hill at the end of the straightaway and he let off the gas. At the apex, a caution sign with a right arrow and 45 mph written underneath rose into view.
He mashed the brakes, sending him and Patterson forward in their seats against the restraints. The whole vehicle shuddered. The tires squealed and the barrier cage behind their heads rattled with the vibration. Another vehicle was halfway through the turn ahead, coming the other way, so he had to crank the wheel to keep in his own lane, or risk a head-on collision.
He clenched his teeth and held his breath as the left wheels screeched and the right wheels lifted. With just the right combination of physical force applied at just the right time, they missed the other car. The instant the blur of paint was out of his peripheral vision, he compensated, steering to the left to avoid rolling, sending all wheels back to the pavement and the Explorer drifting into the other lane.
With pulse pounding, he let the SUV coast as he jerked back into the right lane, and watched the speedometer needle dip below ninety, eighty, then sixty-five. He let out a deep breath and felt himself go nova in the face.
At the same rate that his pulse abated, Patterson’s presence seemed to grow next to him. It was probably the veins popping from the thin muscles of her forearm as she gripped the center console, or the death clench on the ceiling handle, exposing her rock-hard arm muscles.
When she kept silent for another few seconds, he stole a quick glance at her to make sure she was still conscious.
Her face was pale, and her lower lip jutted out. She stared out the windshield with cold, solid-ice eyes, and then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she swiveled her head and glared at him.
“Sorry,” he said, thoroughly creeped out by the near collision, and now the deadly vibe he was getting from Patterson.
With a sudden move, she let go of the handle, sending it smacking against the ceiling on its springs. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and stared out the passenger window without blinking or moving another muscle.
Rachette swallowed, and slowed to the sixty-mile-an-hour speed limit. He kept that pace for the remainder of the trip.
Chapter 15
Wolf can hardly imagine a less habitable environment than the heat of a Sri Lankan jungle before a breaking monsoon.
He looks at the line of people shuffling forward onto the CH-47 Chinook, and is at least grateful for their mission objective—to get in, get the embassy employees, and get the hell out. If it weren’t for the twin rotor wash of the giant helicopter, he’s certain he would have melted out of his ACU by now.
Sweat is pouring out of his helmet as he gazes into the thick jungle at the edge of the embassy lawn. He knows there is real danger out there. That’s why they were called here. They’re only called to places with real danger.
“South, check,” a voice calls in his earpiece.
“West, check,” he responds.
“North, check.”
“East, check.”
Wolf continues to scan the edge of the thick lush growth. There are leaves hanging off trees that probably weigh as much as him, full of gallons of water. He looks to the sky, which is a
muddy haze, ready to dump warm buckets of rain any second.
The line of people is getting smaller back at the Chinook, only … seven more to load. Seven more people waiting to escape the latest flame-up of violence from the local faction of Tamil Tigers. Then they’ll be on their way, and into an air-conditioned building on the Indian mainland. Then, if the rumors were right, a week in Diego Garcia for his team, a tropical paradise Naval Support Facility nine hundred miles south. And some much needed R & R.
A movement catches Wolf’s attention to his right, against the line of vegetation, between the helicopter and him.
“I have movement on the west jungle wall.” Wolf narrows his eyes, and confusion overtakes him for a moment. It’s a child, no older than eight. “It’s a kid. Stand by.”
Wolf moves toward the child in long, fast strides through a patch of hip-high grass.
The child is barefoot, wearing a brightly colored backpack, and approaching the helicopter with a fast walk. It’s a boy. He’s holding something in front of his face, in his hand, like a popsicle or something, and he wants to show the people on the helicopter what he has.
Then Wolf freezes, and the blood drains from his face. As the little boy gets nearer the helicopter, he looks over his shoulder to the jungle, toward the trees with wide eyes, like he’s searching for approval, like a kid in a soccer game looking over to the sidelines for encouragement from his parents, and Wolf takes in the truth of the situation in an instant.
The popsicle in the child’s hand is a bomb-detonation device, a black rod with a thumb poised over a red switch, and the kid is wearing a backpack, filled with explosives. He’s looking over his shoulder at men who have just ducked down and scurried away into the jungle, leaving swaying leaves in their wake.
Wolf shoulders his Colt M4 carbine just as a grasshopper lands on his face. Ignoring the clawing of the insect’s legs on his cheek, he takes aim and fires without hesitation. The boy’s head wrenches back and he falls at an awkward angle, dead before he hits the ground.
…
Wolf opened his eyes and sucked in a breath through his mouth.
After a few seconds of disorientation, he realized he was slumped in a hospital bed, staring at a cot next to him where Jack lay. His son was snoring softly under a gray blanket, a stream of drool coming out of his mouth.
Wolf released an exhale and panted trying to catch his breath. His heart was still racing, and a trickle of sweat fell down the side of his cheek. He reached up to wipe it off, and it felt like a nail had been hammered into his left arm.
He winced and looked down, saw the bandage and sling, and memories flooded back to him. More recent memories.
They were in one of the rooms of County Hospital. Sluice County Hospital, with Rocky Points just over the pass to the north.
How? He didn’t remember driving; nothing past reaching the main highway. Did Jack take over? Did Wolf lose consciousness? Did he get in an accident?
Memory fragments flashed like a strobe light inside his mind. Jack had driven. Wolf had walked inside the emergency room, propped up by Jack, practically carried inside by his son. Or was it a cop? Did a cop carry him? An IV. Blood bags. His arm being stitched. And then sleep. Fitful sleep.
Wolf checked his watch. It was 7:32 a.m. He remembered speaking to a couple of cops last night, though he couldn’t remember who they were or what was said.
There was a soft knock on the door. Wolf turned to see a man in a green uniform on the other side of the rectangle of glass.
Wolf nodded and scooted off the bed. He planted his feet on the cold floor, picked up his jeans, which sat folded on a plastic seat, and awkwardly pulled them on with one arm. He kept the hospital gown on top, as his T-shirt was nowhere to be found.
He glanced at Jack, who hadn’t moved a muscle, and stepped out into the hallway.
“Sheriff Wolf?” A uniformed deputy Wolf vaguely recognized stood in front of him with an extended hand. “Deputy Sergeant McCall, Garfield County Sheriff’s Department.”
McCall stood a few inches below Wolf, looking up with pine-green eyes, almost the same shade as Jack’s, Wolf thought. His hair was closely cut and light brown, and he had a solid beard of matching color and trim. He was muscular, though not bulky.
“Hi,” Wolf said. “Did I talk to you last night?”
“No, sir. That was a state patrolman and another one of ours.”
“You come all the way from Glenwood Springs?”
“I did. Yes, sir. Our deputy was at the county line last night, heard the 911 dispatch request for an intercept.”
“Intercept?” Wolf asked.
“Yes. Your son called 911. Told the dispatcher his age, and the dispatcher called out for the nearest law enforcement. Our deputy and the state patrolman were nearest. My deputy caught up with you guys first, and then ended up driving you guys to the hospital.”
“Oh.” Wolf shook his head. “I don’t remember that at all.” He didn’t know what else to say. It must have been quite the adventure for Jack.
“You were pretty out of it last night, with the loss of blood and fluids. Your son told us what happened, and we took an official statement when we figured out it had taken place in our county. Up at Grimm Lake, your son said.”
Wolf nodded.
McCall held up a pen and paper. “And here’s where I come in. I’d like to get your statement, now. If you don’t mind.”
Wolf nodded. “No problem. I could use some coffee.”
“Good idea,” McCall said, and they walked down the hall to a coffee machine. McCall appraised Wolf’s bandage and shook his head. “As if you guys don’t have enough going on in Rocky Points this week.”
Wolf looked at him. “The music festival? Yeah, this isn’t going to help.”
“I’d actually been pushing my boss to let me volunteer for that. But we’ve already got three other deputies going over. Maybe next time.”
“Really? I would think having to come to Rocky Points to run security for a couple of nights would be a crap assignment.”
McCall shrugged. “I like Rocky Points, and I was thinking I could use a change of scenery.”
“Your boss Sheriff Greene?” Wolf asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’d put a word in for you, but you’d probably be fired shortly thereafter.”
McCall chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “You two don’t get along?”
“You could say that.”
“Then I guess I should let you know he’ll be coming here in the next few minutes, and he’d like to speak to you as well.”
“Oh, good.”
McCall chuckled again.
They grabbed a styrofoam cup of coffee and walked back to a group of chairs outside the room.
Wolf checked through the window to make sure Jack was still asleep and sat down.
McCall was an attentive listener as Wolf rehashed the adventure from the night before. The Garfield County deputy contorted his face and made noises of exasperation as he took notes.
When Wolf ended the story with Jack shooting one of the men, and their narrow escape, McCall sat back and shook his head. “Good lord. We gotta get these two guys.” He widened his eyes and looked down the hall. “We have deputies up on the trail now. They’re saying there weren’t any vehicles in the lot, and they haven’t seen anyone. We’ve also checked every hospital in the surrounding four counties. Nobody had a man come in with a gunshot wound last night.”
They turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Sheriff Wolf,” bellowed a deep voice.
Wolf winced as he bumped his injured arm against the chair and stood up. “Sheriff Greene. Good to see you again.”
Sheriff Greene stopped on thick trunks for legs and held out a flesh-pillow hand. “Yeah, right.”
Wolf had no clue what that response meant. Going on thirteen years now, Greene had never liked Wolf, and found it necessary to pretend that Wolf didn’t like him ba
ck. Why, exactly, was a mystery Wolf had never solved.
Greene wheezed as his cold hand shook Wolf’s with the vigor of a dead squid. “Sounds like you got into some trouble last night, boy.”
Wolf nodded. “You could say that.”
Greene was worse looking than Wolf had seen him last. Redder and larger, were two words that came to mind.
“Didn’t think I’d see you down here,” Wolf said.
“Why’s that?”
Wolf shrugged. He knew that Greene, due to retire within the year, had already mentally checked out, just like Hal Burton had prior to Wolf’s stepping in as sheriff. On top of that, Sheriff Greene had always been a delegator, preferring the warmth of his office to the world outside.
“I’ve just gotten word that we have a double attempted murder and a possible homicide in my county. Why the hell wouldn’t I be down here?”
“I stand corrected,” Wolf said. “Thanks for coming down. I appreciate it.”
Greene glared at Wolf and heaved his barrel chest.
“I had just finished telling Deputy Sergeant McCall about what happened last night.”
Greene nodded. “I’ll read the report. Spare you telling it again.”
Wolf nodded, taken aback by the small kindness. “Thanks.”
“Coffee,” Greene declared, turning around and walking down the hall.
He watched Greene’s ample frame teeter from side to side and wondered what had been wedged between himself and that man over the years. It wasn’t like they’d seen each other more than once or twice a year, but when they had, Greene had always been on the defensive. Wolf suspected it was something his father had done, years ago, and Wolf had inherited Greene’s hatred.
Wolf went to the room door and looked in the window again. Jack still slept, now sprawled face down on the cot.
“My son saw one of them”—Wolf turned to McCall, remembering another snippet of time from the night before—“and says he can give a decent description.”
McCall nodded. “That’s what I hear. We have a sketch artist we use in town.”
