Cold Hit Page 29

  “We need to set up an ambush,” he whispered.

  “We should sneak back up the road to their car,” I responded.

  “Right.” But he stayed where he was, hunkered down in the brush. “You didn’t really think it was me murdering those homeless guys, did you?”

  I didn’t want to talk about this now. We needed to keep moving.

  “I gotta know,” Zack said. “You really thought I was the unsub?”

  “I’m sorry, Zack. But you looked pretty good for it. I couldn’t get past the Vaughn Rolaine coincidence and how fucked up the murder book was. It was almost like you were trying to tank the case. And then after you damn near killed me…I’m sorry, but for a while, that’s the way I saw it.”

  He shook his head, looking down at his shoes. “Guess loyalty just ain’t one a your strong suits,” he said, softly.

  “What’s important is, I was wrong.”

  He was still kneeling there, shaking his head while cradling the automatic weapon in those huge, fleshy forearms. “You know how completely fucked that is?” His voice was loud, carrying in the still forest.

  Suddenly, I felt very strange about all this. I hadn’t exactly proved that Sammy was the unsub. Boiled down to its essence, that was just a promising theory. I gripped the hunting knife tighter, wondering whether I’d just made another terrible mistake.

  When Zack looked up at me, he had tears in his eyes. “I’m afraid to let the people I love get close,” he said.

  “Zack—”

  “My dad committed suicide when I was eight. It hurt so much I swore I’d never let anybody hurt me like that again. The day he did it, he told me he was gonna go help pour out the rain. Thought he was talkin’ about our rain cisterns out back. But that wasn’t what he was talking about at all.”

  “Zack, we gotta keep our mind on business here. These guys aren’t pushovers. We gotta keep moving.”

  I looked up the hill behind me. I couldn’t see or hear anybody up there, but my combat training told me we’d stayed in one spot too long.

  “Zack—”

  “Shut up, okay?” he interrupted. “I gotta tell you this. It may be our only time.” He took a deep breath. “I found him down in the basement. His brains were on the ground, maggots crawling in his head. I puked. Couldn’t touch him—my dad, and I couldn’t touch him.” He shook his head. “After that, Mom stayed drunk for two years. Her liver was so stewed they had t’put her in a hospital to dry her out. Kept my brother but dumped me in foster care, same as you. Only I was this fat kid nobody wanted and my foster folks kept throwing me back.”

  Then he looked directly at me. “You asked me why I hung on to you when you were so wasted. That’s the reason, man. That’s why I did it. I knew I couldn’t let you go, ’cause you were just like me. It wasn’t that you were too drunk to testify at my shooting reviews. It was because I understood you, Shane. I understood because your demons were the same as mine.”

  We were quiet for a minute, both thinking about that shared emptiness.

  Then we heard voices in the distance. Zack rose out of his crouch. “Let’s go.”

  We took off, moving just off the road, hiding in the brush. It took us almost twenty minutes to travel three hundred yards. When we finally got close enough, Zack held up his hand, signaling me to stop.

  We could just make out the black Cadillac through the brush, parked on the road about twenty yards away. One of the Russians was leaning against the car. Then, almost as if inviting an attack, he set his pistol down on the trunk to pull out a cigarette.

  Zack pointed at me, then at his eyes, indicating he wanted me to keep an eye on him while he moved up closer. I was only armed with a knife, so I wasn’t going to be much backup unless I got in close. I held up my knife and pointed at myself, then to the car. He shook his head violently, and before I could argue, moved off in a low crouch, staying by the side of the road.

  He was almost halfway there when he stepped on a piece of wood.

  There was a dry snap and all hell broke loose.

  The Russian grabbed his gun off the trunk as simultaneously Zack fired the .223, blowing him out of his loafers and halfway across the road, taking out most of his chest with one four-shot burst. The man flopped on his back, dead before he landed. Zack moved out onto the road toward him.

  At that moment a Kalashnikov RPK opened up from somewhere further up the road. Zack was spun around by a stream of bullets as the barrage turned him. Blood sprayed out of his chest. He went down hard. I spotted the Russian with the machine gun crouched behind a rock twenty yards further up the road.

  We were the ones who’d been lured into the ambush. Sammy Petrovitch, also a combat veteran, had left two rear guards and split them.

  I ran toward Zack’s fallen body, keeping the Cad between me and the second guard. The Kalashnikov started chattering again. Bullets thunked into the car, breaking windows. I ducked down, then rushed out, grabbed Zack by the heels, and dragged him off the road. The machine gun suddenly went quiet. The brigadier had emptied the weapon and was changing clips. A few seconds later, the machine gun started up again, but by then I had my partner behind the car. I rolled Zack over and checked his wounds. He’d been hit by more than half a dozen rounds. Blood was seeping out of both sides of him, but his eyes were still open.

  “That didn’t quite work,” he whispered weakly.

  I knew the gunfire would bring the Petrovitches and henchman down on our position. There wasn’t much time. I sprinted out into the road where Zack had dropped our .223. As soon as I showed myself, machine-gun fire erupted. I scooped up the long rifle and took off into the woods on the opposite side of the road. The Russian tracked my run with a stream of lead, hitting trees and boulders as I disappeared into the heavy foliage. I took cover in the deep forest, then started moving back toward him. I needed to clear the guy out before going back for Zack, and I knew Sammy and the others were headed this way.

  Suddenly there was motion on the road. The brigadier had changed positions and was now standing below me with the Kalashnikov on his hip pointed up in my direction. He spotted me and started spraying bullets.

  The cover was thin now and I was pretty much his for the taking. At that moment, I lost my sense of self, as rage over Zack and everything else that had gone wrong flooded over me. Without judging the danger or fearing for my safety, I ran straight down the hill at the Russian, firing the AR-15—charging right into his chattering Kalashnikov, squeezing off short bursts one after another, guided by some insane force.

  “Motherfucker!” I yelled as I charged.

  When we were only twenty feet apart, the Russian mobster swung his gun barrel toward me and pulled the trigger. But the Kalashnikov fired just one round and jammed. The slug went a foot wide and flew past my head, whining into the forest. The brigadier crouched, struggling frantically with the slide, trying to clear the breech.

  I squeezed the trigger. A four-shot burst caught him in the neck. He flew backwards into the road, landing on his back.

  I hurried toward the man and checked his pulse.

  Dead.

  Then I grabbed the Kalashnikov and ran back to Zack.

  He had pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the Cadillac, but his eyelids were sagging. He was pale and losing blood fast.

  “Let’s go,” I said, reaching down for him.

  He whispered. “Time ta go pour out some rain, Bubba.”

  “You’re not done, Zack. We’re gonna make it.”

  I threw the jammed Kalashnikov far into the woods, then pulled Zack onto his feet. He weighed over three hundred pounds, but I got him over my shoulder in an awkward fireman’s carry and started lumbering down the road toward the chalet and my potential getaway car—the remaining FBI sedan. I couldn’t carry him far without stopping. I was still weak from lost blood, but adrenaline was fueling my effort.

  When we finally reached the clearing by the chalet, the gray sedan was gone. I spotted a woodshed off
to the side of the property and ran toward it, stumbling as I went, finally going down, sprawling on the grass with Zack on my back ten yards from the shed’s door. I was so weak, I dragged Zack the rest of the way across the grass, into the shack.

  Once we were inside I closed the door, then leaned down and checked him closer. He was still gushing blood from seven or eight holes. I knew if I didn’t stem the flow immediately, he’d be dead in minutes. I sat next to him with his head in my lap and started ripping my already torn shirt, stuffing the fabric deep into the bullet wounds, pushing it down as far as I could using both hands, ignoring the pain from my clipped-off fingertip.

  “No—” Zack said. “Stop.” His eyes were open again, but he was dangerously pale.

  “Lemme go, Shane.”

  “No.”

  “Leave me. Save yourself.”

  “Zack, I can’t leave you. I’m getting you outta here.”

  “I got nothing left to live for,” he whispered.

  “Don’t do this.”

  Then a thin smile split his lips. “I saved your ass here, Bubba. When you get back, put me in for that medal. Do that and we’re square. When they have the ceremony, I’ll be watching. I’ll know.”

  He was talking about the dumb-ass Medal of Valor. “You want that fucking medal, I’ll get it for you,” I said. “But you gotta stay alive to receive it.”

  Then he started coughing and blood flowed out of his mouth. After a minute, he got the spasm under control. “Shane…listen.” His voice was so weak I could barely hear it. “The department—with what happened at the hospital—they’ll try to freeze my line-of-duty death benefits. I need that cash for Zack Junior’s college. Promise me you’ll make sure Fran and the boys—make sure they—”

  And then, in midsentence, his eyes lost their shine. I watched him shrink back inside his own body as his spirit left.

  I sat there, overwhelmed with an intense feeling of loss. How had this happened? How had it all managed to go so wrong?

  Suddenly, one of the light machine guns opened up outside.

  Then two more.

  Bullets started punching holes in the thin, cedar walls of the shed. I threw myself down on top of Zack, protecting his dead body.

  Good instinct, I thought, bitterly. But I should have protected him when he needed it.

  I heard Sammy’s high-pitched, breathy shriek yelling in Russian, “Ti—mertvyetz, svoloch!”

  More bullets rained into the shack.

  How did they know I was in here? Then my eyes fell on the trail of blood that Zack had left as I dragged him inside. A gory path pointed right at us.

  Another barrage of bullets hit the shed. I dove for cover behind a pile of cut firewood and cowered while Zack’s body was rocked with occasional hits.

  Splinters of flying pine flew as more lead rained in on me.

  I was pinned down and out of options.

  61

  Every time I raised my head to fire the .223 through the walls, more death rained in on me from all sides. I ended up just hunkered down with my head tucked between my knees, making myself as small a target as possible.

  Then I heard the faint sound of an incoming helicopter. As the sound grew louder, the machine guns stopped firing at the shed and began cranking off rounds into the sky.

  The shed hadn’t taken any hits for a minute or more, so I crawled out from behind the woodpile and wormed my way across the dirt floor. Using the barrel of the gun, I pushed the door ajar.

  Hovering out by the lake, was an LAPD red-and-gray Bell Jet Ranger. A skinny man with a bad haircut was crouched in the open side door. Even from this distance, it was easy to recognize Emdee Perry. He was holding a large weapon in both hands, and while I watched, he opened fire.

  Tracer rounds streaked out the door of the helicopter, across the lawn, toward Sammy and his men. The stream of lead was followed by a loud, ripping noise. I knew that sound well. Perry had commandeered one of the M-60s from the LAPD SWAT house in the Valley. The big machine gun scattered the Petrovitches and their brigadier. They ran across the grass toward the chalet, firing at the helicopter as they went.

  I could now see that there were two other passengers in the hovering bird. Their faces became clearer as it neared. Alexa was seated next to the pilot. In the backseat, peeking out from behind Perry, was Roger Broadway.

  The chopper landed on the lawn close to the lake and the three dove out, finding cover behind one of the brick walls that framed the driveway. I got to my feet and stepped out of the shed onto the lawn, waving my hands so they would see me.

  “Stay down!” Alexa screamed over the roar of the chopper, just as the Kalashnikovs opened up from the second floor of the house, chasing me back.

  Then I heard the first, deadly KA-WUNK.

  The sound of an RPG grenade launcher. The ground in front of the Bell Jet Ranger suddenly exploded. Pieces of dirt and turf flew into the air, and landed on the shiny red-and-gray nose of the chopper. The pilot immediately powered up, pulled back the collective and took off, banking quickly away.

  The grenade launcher fired two more pineapples at the brick wall where my rescue party hid. Pieces of grass and brick flew high in the air. Roger, Alexa, and Emdee all rose out of their positions behind the low garden wall. Roger had a SWAT team Benelli M1014 combat shotgun in his hands. He let loose with two blasts while Emdee ran to the right, firing the M-60. Alexa and Roger went left.

  Suddenly, Alexa spun away from Roger and made a suicidal run across the open lawn toward the shed where I stood. The Kalashnikov opened up. Bullets tore at her heels as she ran. I stepped away from the shed, faced the chalet, and fired three bursts from the .223 at the upstairs windows, driving the shooter away from the opening. Alexa was almost to me so I ran toward her, grabbed her hand and slung her toward the riddled cedar woodshed. She fell through the door and I dove in after her.

  KA-WUNK! KA-WUNK! KA-WUNK!

  Three explosions followed and the walls of the structure were ripped apart, shredded by exploding hand grenades. I stood to get out of there, but Alexa was transfixed, looking down at Zack’s dead body.

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked, shocked.

  “Looking after his partner.”

  I grabbed Alexa, pulled her up and led her through the smoke and debris. We ran through a large gap in the back wall out into the bright sunlight. The loud, sharp burp of Emdee’s M-60 tore a hole in the wall of noise.

  Alexa and I made it to the cover of the woods and knelt down. She carried a 9-mm pistol in her right hand. From this position we could cover the back of the chalet through the dense foliage.

  “Nice save,” I said. “How’d you find me?”

  “The kids saw it happen from the top of the Ferris wheel. They called me, hysterical. I figured it had to be the Petrovitches. We had the address on their lake house, so I got Rowdy and Snitch, commandeered Air One, and here we are.”

  Then she saw my bloody left hand, crudely wrapped and taped.

  “What happened to your finger?” she asked, concerned.

  “What finger?” I said, ruefully.

  Just then we heard the grenade launcher fire, followed a few seconds later by three more explosions. I moved a few yards back to my right, and saw that Emdee was pinned down behind another garden wall. Sod and brick fragments were raining down on him. I couldn’t see Roger, but Emdee suddenly stood up from behind the ruined wall, exposing himself to the deadly Kalashnikovs while letting loose with the M-60. His slugs tore through open windows on the second floor and ripped holes in the front wall of the chalet. Then he ducked down again, as two more grenades exploded ten feet from his position.

  “That RPG is murder,” Alexa shouted over the racket. “Once they get the range dialed in, we’re done.”

  I had an idea. “I’m gonna sneak up to the house from the back and see if I can set fire to the place. Smoke ’em out.”

  I started to go, but Alexa grabbed me. She unbuttoned her jacket and pulled a long,
fat pistol out of her belt.

  “Flare gun. It was in the chopper. If we can get a shell through an upstairs window, it oughta do the job.”

  I took the gun and fumbled it open using my right hand. There was one fat phosphorous round in the breech. I closed the gun and took off the safety.

  “I’m gonna get closer.”

  I turned for the house. Again, she stopped me.

  “Give that back,” she ordered.

  “You’re not doing this.”

  “What was your last range score?”

  I didn’t answer because we both knew I barely qualified.

  “A lousy seventy-eight as I recall. I shot marksman.”

  She snatched the gun out of my hand and took off in a crouch, using the tree line at the back of the house for cover. I followed, staying close on her heels. When we were about fifty yards away, directly behind the back door, she kneeled down and aimed the flare gun at the second floor. After sighting carefully, she pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud bang. The flare streaked across the lawn and went right through a second-story window.

  “Great shot!” I said. She’d hit it dead center.

  Then the M-60 cut loose out front. Twenty yards to our right in the trees, a second gun barked. I turned and spotted Roger Broadway in a crouch, firing the riot gun at the house. He had retreated deeper in the woods and established a position just east of us, cutting off an escape from that side. The four of us had the chalet more or less surrounded.

  The upstairs took about ten minutes to catch fire. After that, the flames spread rapidly. Smoke started pouring out of all of the upstairs windows, igniting the roof. Then the intense heat lit drapes and furniture on the ground floor. Alexa dialed a number on her cell phone.

  “How’s it look out there?” she asked.

  Emdee’s voice came back through the earpiece, loud enough for me to hear. “We’re turnin’ Joe Bobs into shiskababs.”

  “We’ll hold the back,” Alexa said. “If they come toward you, give ’em one chance to throw down their guns, then blow them away.”