Текст книги "Penance"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
CHAPTER 29 – EFFINGHAM, ILLINOIS
Weaver had everybody muster in his room at 9am. He’d run out early, picked up a mess of Kripsy Kremes, little noblese oblige, prove he was one of the guys. Weaver wished there was a Dunkin’ Donuts in town. Krispy Kremes were good warm, but he’d take a Dunkin’ at room temperature any day. What he really wanted was a coffee, but the boys would be shooting today, so coffee was out for them, and he wasn’t going to drink it in front of them.
“Everybody get some grub here,” Weaver said. Ferguson and Chen grabbed the other two chairs at the small round table, Chen opening up the laptop that was practically part of her. Capelli and Richter took the two beds. Richter was wearing a black T-shirt with a smiling skull on the front. The caption under the skull read “You Can Run, but You’ll Just Die Tired.” A pile of Farm & Fleet bags were stacked between the beds.
“Chen’s got the uniform of the day for you. Commercial hunting cammies, standard woodland pattern. Not perfect, I know, but we can’t have anybody turning up in a ghillie if things go south.”
“Jesus, Colonel,” Richter said. “Gotta go out dressed like Jethro?”
Weaver just gave him a look. Chen’s laptop gave three quick beeps. She hit a few keys.
“Fisher has used the McBride ID again,” she said.
“Where?” asked Weaver.
“Comfort Inn, three blocks west of here. He used the automatic checkout at 6.17am, but the desk didn’t process it until seventeen minutes ago.”
“OK, good, so we know he’s on site. Anything, Fergie?”
“Just glad I didn’t know he was that close last night,” said Ferguson. “Don’t think I would’ve slept well. If he’s been outbound since 0617 hours, we should probably pack up and roll. Take a little more time on the set-up, give everybody a chance to recon the site. Get your cammies on. Check the batteries on your radios. We’ll do com checks en route.”
Weaver stood by the door, clapping everybody on the back as the team filed out, feeling old. He missed this shit. On the other hand, playing games in the woods with Ishmael Fisher was the type of thing that played hell with your life expectancy. Weaver even gave Chen a pat as she walked past. Closing the door, he felt as though he’d had an ice-water enema.
Chen dropped Ferguson and his team off one at a time at the trailheads along the road at the back of the ridge behind Holy Angels. By 11.30, Ferguson had scouted the funnel and placed his men. They did one more quick com check. Everybody’s radios were online. Now it was just a matter of waiting.
At 12.07, Ferguson heard Weaver through his ear piece.
“Yeah?” Ferguson answered.
“Change of plans, Fergie. Chen got another hit on the McBride ID. Fisher charged a couple energy bars and some water at Moriah Marathon just after 8am this morning. Chen’s scouted it out. Fisher’s car is still there. Guy says Fisher asked for a brake job, wanted the car ready by 3pm. Brakes are done, car’s still there. Get this. Fisher said he was going to go hiking until the car was done. I want you guys over at that station.”
“We’re set up here, boss. Sure we want to make the move? You know I don’t like the other team calling my plays.”
“It’s your op, Fergie, so it’s your call. Do me a favor, though, and check the site. Map handy?”
“Yeah.”
“OK. Look at the road Chen dropped you at. Now follow that about six clicks west. See the curve to the north?”
“Got it.”
“See that flat spot on the north side of the road just before the curve?”
“Sitting in the bottom of the bowl? Yeah.”
“That’s the spot. Tell me you don’t like that terrain better.”
Ferguson looked at the map. He remembered reading about the Union cavalry commander who’d been the first Union officer at Gettysburg. He’d taken one look at Cemetery Ridge, dismounted his troops, and dug in until Meade got there. Later, he’d said a cavalry commander’s job was to find some land worth dying for and that had been it. This gas station was perfect. Flanking overlooks on three sides. Let Fisher get into the bowl, they’d have him in a fucking Cuisinart. Get Lawrence up high on one side, get himself up on the other, take the Barretts, they’d have a clean shot down the road either way for at least a few hundred yards if Fisher somehow made it to the car. Nothing was perfect, but this was close.
“Time’s gonna be tight,” Ferguson said. “Get everybody back down to the road. Have Chen drop us at the trailhead three, four clicks north of that station, up around that curve. Get down to that bowl, scout out sites. Gotta switch weapons, too. Capelli and Richter are gonna have to trade the H&Ks in for the scoped 16s. Lawrence and I are gonna need the Barretts. Chen got them in the truck?”
“She’s got them,” Weaver answered. “You got to go or no-go this now, Fergie.”
Ferguson’d never really liked the idea of trying to take Fisher in open ground on the back of the ridge. It was the best option under the circumstances, but he felt it was about a sixty-forty play. This bowl, that was ninety-ten if they had time, probably still eighty-twenty rushing it.
“Let’s do it,” Ferguson said. “We don’t have time to disperse the pickup. Have Chen pull into the trailhead she dropped me at. We’ll all meet there. We’re out.”
By 2.40pm Ferguson had his team in place. Ferguson was at the top north end of the bowl where it jutted out into the road, just where the road curved around to the north. The station was a single cinderblock building set back from the road. There were two pump islands out front, four pumps. To the east of the station was a small paved lot. Fisher’s Tempo was parked at the east end of the lot, away from the building. Back of the bowl was the high ground, but it was no good. The station blocked too much of the view to the lot. Ferguson had Lawrence at the top of the east side of the bowl with the other Barrett. He had a clear shot at the car, at the lot, and down the road to the east. Capelli and Richter were spread out on a ledge on the east side of the bowl about one hundred and fifty yards up from the lot, maybe two hundred yards down from Lawrence.
The plan was simple. Let Fisher get in, pay, and head for the car. When he was in the open in the lot, Capelli and Richter would open up with the 16s. They should cut him down before he even heard a shot. Lawrence would start pumping .50s from the Barrett into the Tempo’s engine just to make sure that, if Fisher makes it to the car somehow, it ain’t going anywhere.
Ferguson had one hardball round and then five incendiary rounds on the top of his ten-round clip. Soon as he heard Capelli and Richter cut loose, he would put one round through the phone junction outside the shop, put the landline out. Guy inside could have a cell, but the reception was spotty in these ridges. Down in that bowl, a cell wasn’t calling anybody. Ferguson had even had trouble with the radio until he got on top of the bowl. Once the phone was down, Ferguson would put the incendiary rounds through the Tempo’s gas tank, set that off, and then take out Fisher if he wasn’t down yet. If Fisher made it back into the building somehow, Lawrence and Ferguson would slap in armor piercing clips and start pumping rounds through the building’s walls and roof while Capelli and Richter moved in. Ferguson knew better than to count his chickens, but this sure smelled like a bucket of extra crispy to him. Fisher was on a short clock.
Ferguson used a pile of dead brush facing the station as cover for him and the long barrel of the Barrett. There wasn’t much cover facing the road to his left or behind him, but if he had to take that shot, Fisher would already know it was coming. Ferguson pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the other side of the bowl. It took him a few minutes to find Lawrence. He could barely make out the end of the barrel poking out from behind a fallen tree. Ferguson keyed the throat mic on his tactical radio.
“Lawrence,” he said.
Ferguson heard a single click in response. Affirmative.
“Pull back about six inches. I can see your barrel.”
Another click.
“How am I looking?” Ferguson asked.
“Got your left foot,” Lawrence said. “Don’t think it’s visible from the ground.”
Ferguson gave the mic a click.
Ferguson scanned down to Capelli and Richter. They were on a larger, flatter ledge with heavy cover. It took a couple of minutes to pick them out.
“OK, everybody, let’s settle in,” Ferguson said.
Fisher had been prone in his ghillie suit since 9.45am. They had come in from the northwest, using the trail that ran by the back of the bowl. He heard three men walk past his position, could hear another one cut south. He gave them thirty minutes to settle in before he moved.
Slowly, Fisher raised the Dragunov. He’d be firing through a lot of cover, so he was careful picking his line. He’d take the three on the east side of the bowl first. He found Lawrence near the top of the ridgeline. He had good cover in front of him, but Fisher had a quartering shot at the base of the skull. Range was under four hundred meters. Fisher let out half a breath, let his mind clear, let the mil dots settle, slowly started squeezing the trigger. The Dragunov twitched with a low cough. Through the scope, Fisher saw a puff of red and gray as the top of Lawrence’s head disintegrated. Fisher slowly moved the Dragunov down and to the right.
The next target was easier. Less brush in the way. But he would have to work quickly. These two targets were only twenty meters apart. He didn’t know them. Younger guys. They were set up closest to the lot, both carrying M16s with scopes and extended magazines. If he didn’t get them clean, Fisher would have a mess of incoming fire. The first target was prone, closest to Fisher. The second had a good sitting perch between two trees. Farther guy was the tougher shot, and he could roll into cover easily. Take him first. Fisher didn’t see any bunching to indicate body armor but didn’t want to risk a chest shot. A branch hung down across the top of the target’s head. Fisher sighted in on his throat and fired and then quickly swung the rifle to the left. The prone target was rolling and bringing his M16 up toward the back of the ridge. Guy processed the shot quick, Fisher thought, figured the angle. Fisher took a snap shot at center mass and the target lost his weapon, curling into a fetal position. Still some movement, though. Fisher centered his sight picture on the side of the target’s head and fired.
Ferguson watched the station and waited, trying to gauge the odds of somebody driving by or stopping for gas at a bad time. Traffic was sparse. One couple arrived in separate cars, left one for service and drove off together. Only one other car on the road in the fifteen minutes he’d been watching. Guy must do service business mostly, Ferguson thought. Maybe more traffic in the fall, once hunting season opened. Lots of deer signs in the woods.
Ferguson was trying to stay focused. The terrain was perfect, but he didn’t like throwing an op together this fast. Something was eating at him. Ferguson tried to think what was missing. But, shit, the terrain was perfect. Suddenly, Ferguson keyed his mic.
“Chen, you on line?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the next closest service station?”
“One moment,” she answered. “It’s on the east side of town, at the end of the ramp off the Interstate. From your position, 6.1 kilometers.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Ferguson. That’s what was wrong. Why would Fisher put himself in this bag if he didn’t have to? Just for a brake job? With another station six clicks away in a public space with good sight lines? “Tell Weaver we are bugging out. Meet us back at the trailhead. Out.”
Ferguson thought he saw something and knew he heard something. He thought he saw lateral movement at the top of the ridge directly behind the station. Peripheral vision. When he looked directly, nothing. But he knew he heard a click, like someone activating a throat mic. Ferguson clicked his. No response. “Lawrence,” he whispered. Nothing. Movement again, turning his way this time. Ghillie. A gun in a ghillie. He could see the suppressor. Ferguson tried to swing the Barrett, but he had only cleared a field of fire for the station and the road. The Barrett hung up in the brush. Fuck this, he thought, and rolled off the ledge down the loose rock scree toward the road.
Fisher’s sight picture settled on Ferguson just as he tried to turn the Barrett. Fisher knew Ferguson. He had worked with him, had eaten at his house, knew his children. Fisher paused. Just a fraction of a pause. As Ferguson rolled toward the edge, Fisher fired. Ferguson disappeared, his Barrett hung up in the brush at the top of the ledge, and then slid butt-first over the edge. Fisher wasn’t sure on Ferguson, but he had done what he had set out to do. He had warned the Philistines.
Fisher pulled the green duffle holding the rifle case out from under the brush and looped it over his shoulder
Fisher made his way east along the edge of the ridge. He stopped as he passed Lawrence’s position. Fisher took the Barrett and slipped the bandolier of spare magazines off the corpse and into the duffle. The Barrett’s barrel stuck out a long way. Half a mile east of the station, he cut across the road and south, uphill toward the ridge overlooking the church.
In the woods along the ridge behind the church, Fisher stripped off the Ghillie and left it on the ground. He wouldn’t need it anymore. He pulled the duffle off his shoulder and set the Dragunov inside. He took the stock off the Barrett and separated the barrel assembly. Now it fit in the duffle.
The red pickup was parked in the far corner of the parking lot close to the ridge. Confessions had started, but Fisher was not doing God’s work today. He was in the City of Man. He opened the truck cap, set the duffle in the back, and then drove across the lot, down Hill Street, down Main Street, and back to I-57. The sign at the exit read North Chicago.
Back to the City of God.
Ferguson rested for a minute on the shoulder of the road at the base of the rocky incline he had just tumbled down, letting the trivial pains – the cuts, scrapes, and bruises – settle out so he could focus on any major damage. Nasty cut on the back of his head. He could feel blood running down inside his collar. Right shoulder hurt like hell. Looking at it, he could see a furrow through the jacket, the shirt, and the flesh on the top of the shoulder. Fisher had come pretty close. Ferguson tested the range of motion. Not separated. Nothing felt broken. Maybe a rib. Might be a cracked rib. Right hip was stiffening up in a big hurry where his radio had been smashed into uselessness. Other than that, just garden-variety pain, a feeling like he had been put in a dryer with a laundry basket full of rocks.
The Barrett had clattered down a few feet to his right. The objective lens in the scope was cracked. Ferguson picked the weapon up and worked the action. A shell ejected and the next shell in the clip fed into the chamber. Nothing jammed. He set the Barrett in the shallow ditch between the rock face and the road.
The big question was this: Was Fisher coming for him? He reached inside the cammie jacket where he had a Browning Hi-Power 9mm in a shoulder holster and pulled the pistol free. He slipped off the safety and chambered a round, then switched the Browning to his left hand. He could knock out the X-ring with either hand from fifty feet, and he still wasn’t real sure about his right arm.
The road had been cut into the rock intermittently along this stretch. Just ahead, a shoulder of rock jutted out, cutting off Ferguson’s view around the corner back to the Marathon station. He got to his feet. No light-headedness, no sudden failures in the ankles or knees. He made his way to the edge of the rock outcropping. Decision time. If Fisher was waiting, Ferguson would be dead as soon as he stuck his head around the corner. Of course, if Fisher was stalking him to confirm the kill, then he would be dead in the next few minutes anyway. He had no way to contact Chen. He needed to get back to the trailhead, but that would take twenty minutes at least, probably thirty at the rate he’d be moving now. No time for that. Better get inside the station, use the landline, see if Weaver had a plan to come back from this shit.
No point being coy. Ferguson slipped the Browning back into its holster, walked around the corner and across the blacktop toward the station. When he was still alive after the first two steps, he knew Fisher was gone. Ferguson remembered what Winston Churchill had said, that nothing was quite so gratifying as having been shot at and missed. Thing was, this didn’t feel real special. Used to. Sad goddamn thing when living through the day didn’t float your boat anymore.
Ferguson could see a man in a blue work shirt behind the counter. He could see the man’s eyes widen when he saw Ferguson. He could see the man pick up the phone and dial a number. Without breaking stride, Ferguson drew the Browning, brought it up, and snapped three quick shots through the window and into the blue shirt. The shots knocked the man backward into a wire rack of cigarette cartons. The man and the cartons tumbled down behind the counter.
The door had a bell over it that jangled when Ferguson walked in. He walked around the counter and stepped over the body. The receiver to the phone was on the floor, the cord snaking up to the wall unit. Ferguson grabbed the cord and put the receiver to his ear. Dial tone. He hit the redial button. Three tones. 911. He hung up and called Weaver’s cellular.
“Weaver.”
“He set us up,” said Ferguson. “Had a suppressor on the Dragunov. I just caught a sense, took a header off my hide. Radio’s smashed to shit. I’m on the land line from the station. Owner got a call in to 911 before I popped him. Gotta figure we got heat on the way.”
“What about the other three?”
“They’re dead. Either that or you’re betting Fisher missed two shots in one day.”
“Fisher bug out?”
“I had to walk across thirty meters of open asphalt to get in here. He’s gone.”
“OK. Chen’s on the way. Figure two minutes from the trailhead.”
“OK. Sorry, Colonel. I screwed the pooch on this one. Should have seen it coming.”
“Fuck, Fergie, we all should have. And seeing things coming is my job. You didn’t screw the pooch, just gave the old boy a hand job is all. See you at the hangar.”
Ferguson hung up the phone and walked back out the door toward the rock face. Figured he’d better get the Barrett.
Ninety seconds after Ferguson walked out of the station, Chen came around the rock face from the north and pulled into the lot. As Ferguson walked toward the black Suburban, a purple minivan pulled into the station from the south and rolled up to the pumps. A plump blonde soccer mom got out and reached for the pump handle. She froze when she saw Ferguson. Chen climbed out of the Suburban.
“Hi,” the soccer mom said.
Chen whipped her little .25 from behind her back and shot the soccer mom through the forehead. The woman slumped back against the side of the minivan and slid to the pavement. Ferguson heard a siren coming fast from the north. A sheriff’s car came around the rock face. The cop saw the body against the van, Chen with the gun in her hand, Ferguson in his cammies, blood on him. The cop pulled a perfect bootleg skid, sliding the car around to put it between him and the Suburban. Chen was already putting rounds through the cruiser’s windshield with the .25, but the cop had his door open and went out low, getting the engine block between him and Chen.
“Chen,” Ferguson called. He pulled the Browning from the holster and tossed it. Chen caught it with her left hand while she took the last shot in the .25 with her right. Then she started lighting up the front of the squad car with the Browning.
Ferguson grabbed up the Barrett, swung the barrel down, pulled the butt back into his damaged right shoulder (and wasn’t that going to hurt because the Barrett kicked like a couple hundred angry Rockettes), lined up the hood of the cop car, and cut loose.
The Barrett didn’t sound like a rifle. It sounded like the voice of God, and like God was really pissed off. Ferguson wasn’t aiming the first round. The .50 slug tore through the front quarter panel and into the engine block, rocking the cruiser on its suspension and ripping something loose that caused a jet of steam to shoot out the front of the hood. Metal scrap must have blown down into the tire, because it blew out and the cruiser settled toward Ferguson. Ferguson remembered the incendiary rounds. He swung the barrel toward the rear of the cruiser and fired.
The back of the cruiser erupted in a yellow-orange flash, the car leaping up on its front tires like a horse trying to throw a rider and then smashing back down. The cop rolled away from the front of the car, his clothes on fire. Chen took careful aim and put two rounds through the side of his head. Ferguson was ready to climb into the Suburban when he noticed Chen walking toward the minivan. In the back in a car seat was a kid, no more than two, pink coat. The kid was screaming.
Ferguson leveled the Barrett at Chen.
“Chen,” he called. “Leave the kid.”
Chen turned, saw Ferguson with the Barrett pointing at her across the hood of the truck.
“It’s a sterile mission, Ferguson. No contagions.”
“It’s a fucking baby, Chen. It’s not a contagion. Kid can’t even talk. Weaver wants the kid, he can come out here and do it himself. Release the clip, pull back the slide.”
Chen paused for a second. Then the clip fell to the pavement, and she ejected the round in the Browning’s chamber. She walked to the truck and put the Browning on the hood.
“Get in,” Ferguson said. “You drive.”
As she climbed into the truck, Ferguson set down the Barrett, picked up the Browning, slapped in a new clip, and chambered a round. He opened the rear passenger door and tossed the Barrett over the seat into the cargo area. Ferguson climbed into the back, sitting behind Chen, still holding the Browning.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Chen drove past the burning cruiser and the purple minivan, out onto the two-lane road and east toward the Interstate. A mile later, two sheriff’s cars shot past them, headed west. Ferguson felt the adrenaline starting to wear off and the pain setting in. His shoulder was the worst of it, but it had competition. He pulled the first-aid kit from the back and took out a bottle of painkillers. The bottle said two every four hours. He took four. By the time they cleared Moriah, he was starting to feel better. Hell of a thing. Three friends dead. OK, two friends and Richter, never did much like Richter. Killed some poor fuck just trying to run a gas station. Helped kill some soccer mom and incinerate a cop, and he was starting to feel better. He hoped they didn’t run into anymore shit on the way to Effingham.
