No Good Options

by Alex Ander

  Standing near the dozer’s blade, Randall eyed the side of the machine, noting certain points. He leaned out from the engine housing and fired three rounds.

  230-grain jacketed projectiles pinged off steel.

  Linebacker kept the bucket between him and the incoming fire.

  His hands and feet finding the holds he had scoped out a moment ago, Randall scaled the dozer, stretched out onto the machine’s canopy, closed his left eye, and lined up his sights.

  Two seconds later, Linebacker lifted his head just enough to see over the backhoe’s bucket.

  From his position of advantage, Randall squeezed off one shot.

  Linebacker’s head rocked backward before disappearing behind the construction equipment.

  Randall leaped away from the bulldozer and ran. Casting backward glances, he inserted his last full magazine and stowed the partial while rounding the tree line.

  Keeping her weight on the ball of her injured foot, Faith half hopped/half lumbered toward the Charger. She looked as if she were wearing one regular shoe and one high-heeled pump.

  “Coming up on your six.”

  Hearing the familiar voice, she slowed.

  Barely breaking his stride, Randall stooped, swept her off her feet, and carried her the last fifty feet to the Dodge before setting her down and opening the passenger door.

  “I got it from here. Get this thing running.” Using the car’s roof and doorframe for support, she bounced twice on her good foot, pivoted right, and fell back into her seat.

  He joined her a second later, both slamming their doors at the same time. Depositing his Walther into the center console, he started the engine, jerked on the gearshift, and stomped on the gas pedal.

  The Charger lunged backward ten yards.

  The driver whipped the steering wheel to the right.

  Its rear end lurching in the same direction, the vehicle jumped a curb, its tires sinking into soft sand.

  Randall worked the transmission, jammed his right foot to the floor, and whirled the wheel back to the left.

  Tires spinning and throwing sand, its rear end fishtailing right, the muscle car jerked left and sped away.

  Exhaling a big breath, Randall adjusted his position in the seat, pressed his back to the upright, and glanced at his mirrors. “I think we made it.” He faced his passenger. “How are you doing over there?”

  She laid her tender foot on her left knee and inspected the bloody wound. “Since you just plucked me from a bad, bad situation, you’ll hear no complaints from me.”

  “So no bullets found their way into you?”

  “Nope. Only,” she touched her heel and made a face, “whatever’s in here.” She faced him. “You think we could stop by a hospital?”

  “Your wish is my—” catching sight of the rear-view mirror, he scowled at the reflection of a six-wheel GMC 3500 pickup truck barreling down on them, the behemoth’s extra tires visible under protruding quarter panels. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait.”

  Pivoting in her seat, Faith gawked at the truck sporting oversized tires. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What’s with these guys, anyway?”

  “You must’ve made quite an impression on them. Don’t worry.” Listing forward, his right foot pressing the accelerator closer to the floor, he patted the dashboard. “This baby can outrun anything.”

  A mile later, the Dodge Charger took a bend in the road.

  Randall eased off the gas. “Oh, come on.”

  Faith peered through the windshield. “Can this baby outrun road construction?”

  Up ahead, cars were stopped, waiting their turn to pass through a one-lane road.

  After spotting a man in an orange vest holding a ‘STOP’ sign and speaking into a walkie-talkie, Randall looked up at the sky, and pumped open hands. “Seriously? I even said a prayer.”

  She faced him. “You did?” Faith threw up an arm and turned away. “Now it makes sense. I said a prayer back there, too.” She came back to him. “Yours probably cancelled out mine.”

  Spying the trees on either side of the road and no turnoffs between him and the line of cars a quarter mile away, Randall let out a short snigger. “Hang on.” He swerved right, made a left-hand U-turn, and straightened the steering wheel. Still chuckling, he peeped at Faith. “When this is all over, Miss Mahoney, you’re going to have to let me buy you a drink.”

  The corners of her mouth sloping upward, she faced him. “It’s a deal. Now tell me why you’re racing toward the bad guys?”

  “Like knights on white steeds,” he rolled down his window before grasping his gun with his left hand, “it’s time for some modern-day jousting.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” Wide-eyed, she gaped at the oncoming truck. “You plan to play chicken...with guns?”

  He looked at the wilderness around him. “I’m open to better ideas.”

  After seeing what he was seeing, she yanked her seatbelt across her chest and made a connection. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Or we’re going to be having that drink together from the hospital...through clear tubes.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 17

  We’re Screwed

  His right hand on the wheel, his head, and left arm, hanging out the window, his Walther PPQ45 in hand, he got off three shots.

  The first pinged off the truck’s stainless-steel roll bar. The second shattered the GMC’s left headlight. The third missed the 3500 completely.

  “Wow,” Faith mumbled to herself. “We’re screwed.”

  “Give me a break. I’m right-handed. And contrary to how easy they make it look on TV, shooting while driving...”

  She undid her safety belt.

  “...is actually quite...”

  “Hand it over.”

  “...difficult.” He curled back inside the Dodge. “I’m not done yet.”

  “Yes,” she thrust out her arm and wiggled her fingers, “you are. You keep the car straight, and,” she seized the weapon from him, “I’ll do the shooting.”

  “Well, hurry up. They’re closing fast.”

  She assumed a two-handed hold on the Walther and steadied the back of her left hand, her support hand, against the doorframe.

  A man’s upper body emerged from the truck’s passenger window.

  Randall stared at the AR-15 in the man’s hands. “You got this. Nice and slow.”

  The rifleman wrapped the gun’s sling around his left arm.

  Randall glimpsed Faith and squinted at Rifleman. On most days, rifle beats pistol. “That’s a forty-five you got there. Remember that on your follow-up shots.”

  Rifleman lowered his left elbow onto the pickup’s windshield and brought the stock into his shoulder.

  Randall peeked at the speedometer, 76, before focusing on the approaching shiny grille. A few more seconds, and I’ll have to, “Anytime now, Miss Mahon—”

  Faith fired.

  The bullet destroyed the AR-15’s optics, entered Rifleman’s right eye, blew out the back of his skull, and continued into the faraway forest.

  The dead man slumped over the door with the AR still entwined in his arms.

  Randall arched eyebrows. Nice...

  She fired two more times.

  ...shot.

  Both bullets struck the windshield in front of where the driver’s head would be on the other side of the glass.

  The GMC swerved to its right and left before veering toward its three o’clock, doing a complete three-sixty, and coming to rest on the side of the road facing Randall and Faith.

  She snaked her way back inside the car.

  He hit the brakes.

  She stiff armed the dashboard to keep from flying out of her seat.

  He ran the gearshift to ‘Park,’ gave her his phone, and retrieved his pistol. “Stay here and call the police.” Randall shoved open his door.

  “No need.” Faith lifted a finger toward oncoming flashing lights. “They’re already he
re.”

  He climbed out and crept toward the still running 3500, his gun aimed at the driver whose chin rested on his chest.

  Its siren blaring, the police cruiser skidded to a stop to form a triangle with the GMC truck and the Dodge Charger, Randall in the middle of all three.

  Two officers exited their car and took cover between their open doors and the rest of the vehicle.

  Cop #1: “Seattle PD. Drop the weapon now!”

  Randall pumped a hand their way. “It’s okay, officers. I’m...”

  Cop #2: “Drop the gun!”

  “...with the U.S. Marshals Service.”

  Cop #1: “Show me some ID.”

  Remembering Devlin had not issued him his credentials yet, he froze. Oh, this day just gets better and... “I’d love to, gentlemen, but,” he offered a feeble smile, “funny story.”

  “Drop the gun and get down on your knees.”

  Cop #2: “This is your last warning,” he tacked on a vulgar name before lowering his stance and lining up his sights. “Drop it now.”

  “If you’ll just let me explain, I can clear this—”

  “It’s okay, guys.”

  Keeping their weapons trained on Randall, both law enforcement officials turned their heads toward the Charger, toward a female voice.

  Sliding her left hand along the car’s right fender for support, Faith limped toward the right-front corner of the muscle car. “I’m a detective with,” she hobbled, “with the Seattle PD.”

  Cop #1, the nearest LEO, cocked his head at her. “Detective Mahoney?”

  She squinted at him. “Tim? Is that you?”

  Tim faced Randall. “Is this the,” he swore, “who kidnapped you?”

  “No. No. He’s a good guy.” She motioned toward the truck. “They’re the ones you need to arrest.” She pointed at Randall, “He,” while struggling to walk in front of the Dodge and get closer to her savior, hoping her proximity to him would relax the officers’ trigger fingers, “rescued me from them. He’s with me.”

  The officers flicked their eyes toward Randall.

  “She’s telling you...” he looked back at Faith.

  She had stepped away from her steel crutch and was shuffling toward him.

  “...the tru—”

  Two feet from him, she stumbled.

  Throwing out his right foot, he nearly did the splits to catch her before she fell onto the hard roadway. “What are you doing? I told you to stay in the car.”

  “I’m trying to keep you from getting shot.”

  Barking orders, the two cops rushed toward the GMC, their guns up.

  “You’re welcome by the way. And a word of advice.” She dipped her head toward the men in blue. “When a cop tells you to drop your weapon, you drop your weapon.”

  “Yeah, well,” he holstered his Walther and got a better hold on her, “I’m used to being the one who gets others to drop their guns. Come on.” He shepherded her toward the Dodge. “Let’s get you off that banged up foot of yours.”

  Three paces later, stopping and standing taller, “Dang,” he stared straight ahead. “I just remembered. I could’ve shown them my DEA creds. I’m sure that would’ve put their minds at ease.” He faced her, a half grin on his face. “Oops.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 18

  Faith? Is That You?

  12:09 P.M.

  Randall had ushered Faith to the Charger and helped her sit down. Acting on a hunch, he had left to go scrounge around inside the trunk of Detective Harker’s car, returning from his scavenger hunt ten seconds later with a medical kit.

  After getting an unopened bottle of water from one of the officers, he went to work on her injured heel, first pouring the water over the dirty gash.

  “So,” sitting sidesaddle in the passenger seat, her legs crossed at the knee, right over left, her right shoulder leaning against the backrest, she ogled him, “are you ever going to tell me your name...or am I going to have to run a background check on you?”

  He grinned. “Don’t you usually have to have the name in order to run those?”

  Faith huffed. “Are you always like this?”

  “My apologies.” His left hand cupping her right calf, he placed the water bottle on the ground and extended his free hand. “Noah Randall. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Miss Mahoney.”

  She shook his offering. “And I know nothing about you. But...since you saved me from a couple of creeps, I’m going to make the call that,” she half closed one eye at him, “that you’re a pretty good guy.”

  “Well, thank you. I,” he frowned while repeating her words to himself. Make the call. He uttered a mild cuss word and reached for his jacket pocket. Patting his dress shirt, his hand coming up empty, he spotted his coat on Faith and gestured toward her. “My phone’s in the left pocket. Do you mind?”

  She handed him the device.

  “There’s someone I need to call.” He pecked the screen with his thumb. “And she’s going to be ticked at me for not doing so sooner; however,” he tapped the ‘speakerphone’ icon and gave the cell back to Faith, “I’m thinking you can help smooth things over with—”

  “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you now for...”

  He leaned closer to the phone. “Jess—”

  “...twenty minutes.”

  “Jessic—”

  “My calls have been going straight to voicemail. You know I—”

  “Jessica?” Faith’s attention went back and forth from the phone to Randall.

  “Faith?” Devlin’s voice cracked on her next words. “Is...is that you?”

  Her mouth hanging open, Faith eyed Randall. “How do you know my sister?”

  “Oh my...Faith, are you all right? Talk to me.”

  He waved off the confused woman, “I’ll explain later,” before jabbing a finger at his mobile. “Just talk to her. She’s been worried sick about you.”

  *******

  While the women had cried, conversed, reminisced about childhood stories, and made promises of future family gatherings, Randall had removed foreign objects from Faith’s wound, washed the area again, applied antiseptic, and wrapped her foot in a white bandage.

  Faith: “I love you, Jessica. I’ll see you soon.”

  He lifted his hand.

  “Hold on a second, Jess.” Faith forfeited the phone.

  Stepping away from the car, he turned his back on Faith, took Devlin off speakerphone, and put the device to his cheek. “What happened with Crane?”

  Devlin told him what had transpired. “I did get the jet’s tail numbers. I’ve forwarded them to Thorn. She’s working on finding out where in the world that plane landed.”

  “And when she does, we’re going there, too, right?”

  “Of course, we are.”

  “Okay. Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  Dead air passed over the line.

  “I’m not sure I did the right thing by letting him go, Noah.”

  Randall rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “It’s like you said when you were here...you had no good options. If there was even the slightest chance of saving your sister, you had to take it. Anyway, she’s safe now, and we have a lead on Crane. In my book, those are wins.”

  More dead air.

  “Thanks, Noah...for getting to her in time. I owe you.”

  He pivoted and glimpsed Faith, who was eyeballing her injury. “It was my pleasure. You don’t owe me anything,” a beat, “except a big, fat paycheck from Uncle Sam. You know, you still haven’t told me how much money I’m making.”

  Devlin laughed.

  “And what about moving expenses? Oh. And do I get an expense account?” He spied his sullied jacket. “I could use a new suit right about now, too.”

  Faith looked up at him.

  He grinned at her.

  Devlin: “I promise, Mr. R
andall. I’ll do my best to get you all those things. Have a safe flight back to Virginia.”

  “I will.” He disconnected the call, took a knee, and reclaimed Faith’s bum foot. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure I got everything out.”

  “It looks good. And it feels better already, too.” Her eyes went to her legs, legs that had not seen a razor in days. “Be careful. I wouldn’t want my stubble to draw blood on you.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Fibber.”

  He lifted a corner of his mouth at her before holding her right calf in his left hand and cocking his head to one side. “I hope I’m not out of line when I say,” he ogled her foot, “you have very attractive feet. You know that?”

  Faith snorted out a short laugh.

  “Seriously, you have high—”

  “Feet, huh? You’ve seen every square inch of my nakedness and,” she lifted a finger toward the appendage he was admiring, “that’s what does it for you?”

  Randall smiled. “I’m trying to keep things light, ease the awkwardness. Would you rather I comment on the womanly areas I saw earlier?”

  She studied him, imagining his manly areas, Yes, before offering a threadlike smile. “Thank you for your discretion.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, as I was saying,” he slid his palm across the top of her foot, “you have high arches, and your toes are well proportioned. On me, that second one,” he thrust out an arm, “sticks out a mile long. Yours, however...”

  She chortled.

  “...are the perfect length. And your skin is quite soft as well.” He went to work collecting and replacing the medical supplies. “I suspect a lot of women would love to have those qualities.”

  “Well, thank you for the...unique compliment.” Faith rubbed her foot. “And thank you for the patch job, too.”

  “My pleasure.” Randall grabbed the water bottle and stood. Twisting off the cap, he held it out to her.

  She eyed the lip of the bottle and raised an eyebrow at him.

  “It’s clean. It never touched your foot.”

  “Well, even if it had,” she took a sip and gave him back the container, “my...”