Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

He doubted Thorpe would follow multiple adversaries into the woods alone at night. Most likely, he’d wait alongside the road, concealed, and hope to ambush them as they made their way out of the trees. That’s what Phipps would do if he were in Thorpe’s position. On the other hand, Thorpe might move in an arc to the north, in an effort to cut off their retreat.

Their extraction element—Brandon Baker—idled in a car a few miles to the east. Their intent had been to kill Thorpe, hike out, call Baker and get the fuck outta Dodge.

Well, that plan had gone to shit. Phipps decided his best bet at survival would be to trek north fast enough to ensure Thorpe didn’t get in front of him. Phipps might have to spend the entire night in the woods, but it wouldn’t be his first. As he rose and began picking his way through the underbrush, he heard Shaw screaming his name.

Fuck ‘im; that Gomer was on his own.

SHAW DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE what direction he was headed. Goddamn Phipps! His left arm was on fire. It hung like a piece of meat from the elbow down. A round had caught him near the elbow and had completely disintegrated the joint. Shaw needed medical treatment but instead blundered sightless through the middle of nowhere in freezing temperatures with sleet pelting his face. His glasses were nearly useless; stashed in his breast pocket, they’d broken when he’d begun running and ricocheting off trees. All he had left was one cracked lens and no flashlight.

And Phipps…that motherfucker, wouldn’t answer. Shaw didn’t know where the man had gone or if he was even alive. Fuck, it was cold. Shaw, convinced he would die if he didn’t get immediate medical attention, withdrew his phone and called Baker.

“Is it done?” Baker said, answering his phone.

“Yeah…change of plans though. You need to come in his neighborhood and pick us up. We’re lost in the woods, but we’re close to the road.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“Just get your ass in here and pick us up. You need to honk your horn when you get close to Thorpe’s house so we can follow the sound.”

“Bullshit. You trying to get us all arrested?”

“Look, ain’t nobody the fuck out here! It’s colder than shit so people’s windows are closed; they’re not going to hear you.”

“Fuck that!”

“If you don’t come get us, and the police pick us up, the first person I’m going to throw down is you. Now get your white ass in here and pick us up.”

Shaw terminated the call. Hopefully Baker wouldn’t phone Phipps before driving in; no way he’d come if he knew Thorpe was still alive and engaging targets with an automatic weapon.

THORPE HEARD THE SCREAMINGBEFORE he reached the road. Someone was yelling Phipps’ name.

“Phipps…I’m hit…where are you? Phipps!”

Concerned it was a trap, Thorpe resisted the temptation to follow. He did cross the road but kept well south of the commotion. He hid behind a fallen tree and waited in the black. Thorpe removed the SID-supplied night vision device from his pack and secured it to his head. He knew he should use his dogs, but he’d become too attached. Better he die in these woods than Al and Trixie.

The thrashing and yelling to the north ceased, and Thorpe tried to attune to the sounds of his environment over the falling sleet. Several minutes later he observed the wash of headlights on the branches above his position. Behind him, a vehicle approached from the east. A minute after the car passed, Thorpe focused on a faint glow of light moving through the trees ahead.

SHAW CAUGHT THE FLASH OF headlights and began picking his way toward the road. He again called Baker.

“Where you at?” Baker answered on the first ring.

“Did you just drive by?”

“Yeah, I’m passing Thorpe’s house now.”

“Turn around and come back the way you came. You don’t have to honk your horn; I could see your lights. Stay on the phone, I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Shaw was having a hell of a time navigating through the trees. It was impossible to see, particularly with only one cracked, sleet-covered lens. After a minute, Shaw picked out Baker’s headlights approaching from the west.

“Stop. Stay where you are and cut your lights. I’m heading your way.”

Shaw couldn’t wait to get out of the woods. To help avoid losing an eyeball to a tree branch, he decided to use the light from his cell phone’s LCD screen to illuminate his way. Holding the phone straight out, he picked up the pace toward the waiting vehicle.

THORPE SAW THE VEHICLE APPROACH from the west, stop twenty yards behind and to his left and cut its lights. Then he watched the glow slice through the woods toward the waiting automobile.

What the hell? Thorpe lifted the goggles away from his eyes. The approaching light cast a blue haze. This is too easy…has to be a trap.

On the other hand, the car on the road was a sitting duck. If Thorpe wanted to step out and fill the windshield with .223 rounds, there was nothing to stop him. Perhaps it wasn’t a trap after all.

They’re actually that stupid.

Thorpe lowered the goggles and plotted an intersecting course with the wielder of blue light. Footfalls audible over the cascading sleet, his target crashed carelessly through the woods. Thorpe timed his steps to those of his prey.

The glow grew near. Whoever he stalked was using a damned cell phone to light his way through the trees. The display might provide a couple of feet of visibility but would totally wreck the person’s night vision beyond that distance. Thorpe propped his AR against a tree and retrieved a Sig Sauer .357 caliber pistol from his side holster. He didn’t really want to use the weapon because he’d purchased it himself, and it was registered in his name. If forced to use the weapon, he would be disappointed in having to destroy it—he was already going to have to dispose of parts of his personal AR.

Thorpe held the pistol in his left hand and a large black knife in his right. If given the opportunity, he’d use the blade.

He stood behind a large tree as his target passed eight feet in front of him, moving right to left. The man held the phone out in front with his right hand—his left arm dangled at his side, hand empty. Was this idiot really walking without a weapon at the ready? Thorpe again checked to see if his target was being followed. He doubted someone would willingly sacrifice himself as bait, but Thorpe was genuinely perplexed with his quarry’s carelessness. To make himself less of a target, he decided to take the man to the ground.

Thorpe holstered his Sig and rushed his phone-wielding adversary. His prey heard death descending upon him and turned—too late. Thorpe tackled him with a well-placed elbow to the jaw, both men crashing to the ground with Thorpe on top. Thorpe secured the man’s right wrist and ignored the noodle-like left arm that slithered about the leaf-strewn forest floor. He pressed his knife across the man’s trachea and looked down into a pair of wild eyes.

Thadius Shaw. Thorpe lowered himself to within inches of the man’s face, partly to instill fear, but mostly to get his head closer to the ground and out of danger.

“How many of you are there?” Thorpe hissed.

“Just me and Phipps…and Baker’s in the car,” Shaw declared without hesitation. “Please don’t…”

“Is Phipps still alive?”

“I don’t know, I…”

Thorpe ended Shaw’s sentence, cutting deep into muscle and cartilage with the razor-sharp knife. He was up and moving well before Shaw’s heart stopped pumping steaming blood onto the frozen ground.

Thadius Shaw…that meant Phipps was dead, injured, fleeing or stalking. Thorpe reattached his night vision goggles and located Shaw’s phone a few feet south of his gurgling body. Retrieving the phone and his AR, Thorpe found cover and listened. He heard nothing except for the sound of sleet striking the trees and the idling engine of the vehicle on the road.

Good fight, son. One thing: you didn’t breathe until I paid Levi his money. Thorpe often heard his father’s words. He went about regulating his breathing while simultaneously considering his options.

He could approach the vehicle from behind and eliminate Baker up close. Or he could just step out onto the road and permeate the vehicle with .223 rounds. If he were Phipps, he’d sit in a locale where he could see the vehicle and take out his opposition when and if it moved in. Thorpe decided taking down the vehicle at this location presented too much risk. He quickly came up with a plan he figured had an above average chance of success and offered better protection from a counterattack.

Thorpe moved into a position of concealment that provided a limited view of the vehicle, a dark SUV.

He retrieved Shaw’s cell phone, covered the light, and found the last dialed call—Brandon Baker. Thorpe tracked east, being careful to keep low, stop, look and listen. Beyond view of the vehicle, he dashed out onto the road and sprinted to a place of concealment. If Phipps were in fact watching the car, Thorpe would be out of visual range at this location. He withdrew Shaw’s phone, retrieved Baker’s number and punched the send button.

“Where in the fuck are you?” Baker answered, obviously thinking he was speaking to Shaw.

“Looking at you,” Thorpe answered.

“Who’s this?”

“That’s a nice vehicle you got there, Baker. Too bad I’m about to decorate the interior with your brains.”

Thorpe heard the roar of the engine and the spray of gravel. Baker might drive with his head down at first, but he’d rise up when he thought he’d reached a safe distance. Thorpe could see the dark form of the vehicle approaching. Then the headlights flashed on—that meant his head was up. Thorpe was positioned at a bend in the road, so he would be firing at a ninety-degree angle into the windshield.

The .223 isn’t much of a penetrating round. Thorpe knew the first few bullets would be deflected—counterintuitively—downward. He selected semi-auto and placed the Aimpoint’s red dot just above head level. He systematically began pumping rounds into the windshield, aiming lower with each successive shot.

BRANDON BAKER HAD BEEN SITTING with his lights off for what seemed an eternity. His nerves had caused him to break into a sweat, and even though he wasn’t moving, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. And then he got the phone call.

Fucking Thorpe was still alive and getting ready to put a bullet in his head. Baker ducked down in his seat, pulled the gearshift into drive and stomped the gas pedal. He drove blindly before realizing he would probably leave the road, strike a tree and die at the hands of that crazy fuck.

Baker peered over the dash and turned on his headlights to make his way through the darkness. Shit—he still couldn’t see. He activated the windshield wipers to clear the accumulated sleet, only to find a quickly approaching right-hand turn. Baker rose fully in his seat to better handle the high-speed maneuver when the windshield exploded into an opaque plane of fractured glass. Fragments tore into his eyes. He ducked and yanked the wheel to the right, anticipating where the turn should be. He felt the left front wheel dip into the ditch, then lost complete control as the Durango left the road. The SUV came to a violent stop. Bleeding from the eyes, Baker lay across the center console and awaited death.

PHIPPS HAD WORKED HIS WAY northward, unsure of his precise location or future destination. His sole plan was to survive the night. Occasionally, he’d stop and listen for unfriendlies over the deluge of sleet. It was during one of these pauses he’d heard the distinctive report of a high-powered rifle being fired at a steady cadence. The shooter had to be Thorpe, who was apparently still at work behind him—a safe distance away based on the sound of things. Phipps’ good news likely indicated the demise of Shaw, however.

Probably for the best, Phipps thought. The man was a walking Charlie Foxtrot.

With the gunfire well behind him, Phipps decided it’d be safe to use his cell phone to make Baker aware of recent developments. He’d have Baker look for a road that intersected Phipps’ northerly path. He retrieved his silenced phone and discovered two missed calls from Baker within the last few minutes. Phipps returned the calls.

AS THORPE PLACED ROUNDS IN the windshield, the SUV entered the turn at too high a speed. It left the roadway and struck a stand of scrub oak. Thorpe slapped in a fresh magazine and fired into the driver’s side door. Reaching the wrecked vehicle, Thorpe knelt behind the door and yanked it open. Stepping to his left, he illuminated the interior of the cab with the rifle’s attached flashlight. Brandon Baker lay in a heap, stomach down, his head in the passenger seat.

Thorpe fired two additional “insurance” rounds into Baker’s upper back, slung the AR, and ran to the passenger side. He pulled open the door, hoisted Baker onto the ground, and shone a flashlight into his vacant eyes—no dilation. Two fingers across a stagnant carotid artery confirmed death.

Baker no longer a threat, the vehicle presented Thorpe’s most pressing problem. He needed it gone. The engine was still running. Hopefully he’d be able to dislodge the SUV from the trees.

Thorpe opened the rear passenger door and, with considerable effort, managed to stuff the body inside. He hurried to the driver’s seat, put the vehicle into four-wheel drive, and was able to reverse the Durango. He cut the wheels, shifted into drive and got back onto the gravel road. Driving the SUV away from his home, Thorpe heard a cell phone ringing near his feet. He retrieved the device off the floorboard and saw the name displayed on the lit LCD screen. Phipps.

Thorpe accepted the call and let out an indiscernible grunt.

“Baker?” Phipps asked.

“Baker is feeling a bit under the weather at the moment; would you like to leave a message?”

“Thorpe?”

“And I believe they call you Mr. Phipps.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“You’re a funny motherfucker—even when you’re about to die,” Phipps finally said.

“I am a funny motherfucker. But you’re a little confused on who’s going to die.”

“You know who you’re fucking with, motherfucker?”

“I do, but you obviously don’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you on your dead buddy’s cell phone. Would I, Recon?”

“I’m still standing, motherfucker!”

“No, I think you’re running scared, but I’m sure you’ll call it ‘tactically retreating’ to make you feel like less of a pussy. In fact, I bet you take some R & R for a few weeks like a good little bitch,” Thorpe said, purposely pushing the man’s buttons.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Well then, come on back, and we’ll finish this like warriors.”

“I’ll finish this on my terms, motherfucker, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere—you can count on it.”

“If you do leave, we’ll both know you’re the biggest gaping pussy this side of the Grand Canyon…by the way, is ‘motherfucker’ the only four syllable word you know?”

“Fuck you.”

“Way to improvise, Marine.”

Marines are a proud bunch, and Thorpe figured the insults had cast the man into a mild rage, hopefully mad enough to stick around to try and finish the job. It’d be nerve-racking if Phipps were to take a long vacation. Thorpe would have to worry if the man was really out of town or actually the new bush in his backyard.

Right now, he had other problems to worry about, like driving a Dodge Durango with seventeen bullet holes, front-end damage and a dead guy in the backseat. He needed to get the car well out of his neighborhood—and do it without getting pulled over by the police. Afterward, he’d have to find a way home that couldn’t be traced. Thorpe had one thing working in his favor: officers hate to stop cars in inclement weather, and conditions didn’t get much nastier than they were tonight. Thorpe sometimes jokingly commented if he sold drugs for a living, he’d only move his product when it was raining.

Thorpe stopped in a secluded area and surveyed the Durango’s damage. A headlight was busted. The windows on both front doors were nearly gone. The windshield was shattered. And there were bullet holes in the driver’s side door.

Thorpe located the vehicle’s lug wrench and used it to rake the remaining glass from the two front windows. Then he returned to the driver’s seat and kicked out the windshield. Yet another pair of boots I have to replace.

It would be hell driving sixty miles an hour in the sleet without a windshield, but seeing through the shattered glass was nearly impossible. Thorpe located a pair of Baker’s sunglasses and put them on. The tinted lenses weren’t optimal but would be an improvement over speed-driven sleet ripping at his eyes.

Thorpe dropped the SUV into drive and sped toward Tulsa in an open cockpit. As he neared the city limits, he retrieved Shaw’s cell phone from his pocket and thumbed through its contacts. He located the one he wanted, and dialed.

“Thadius? What are you doing calling me in the…” Samantha Daniels—Cole Daniels’ recent widow—answered the phone, clearly irritated.

Hoping to keep his voice indiscernible, Thorpe interrupted her with raspy speech aided by the whipping wind.

“Samantha? Samantha, I need help. They’ve got me…the same people who got Cole got me…”

Thorpe didn’t like using Samantha, considering the woman had just lost her husband, but now was not the time for niceties.

“Thadius, what’s going on? I…”

“Listen! I’m in the trunk of a white Lincoln Town car. They’re going to kill me, Samantha. My phone couldn’t get through to 911. You gotta call the police.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. We’re parked somewhere in North Tulsa. I think we’re close to Reservoir Hill. White Lincoln Town car. Three white males. You gotta call. They’re going to hear me…I gotta go.”

Hopefully Samantha would phone 911 and make for a credible caller. Even if she thought it was a prank, she’d most likely report the phone call. Every available unit would respond to North Tulsa, looking for three white males in a white Lincoln Town car. Taking into consideration the caller and recent events, even the State Troopers and the Tulsa County Sheriff’s Department would be notified. Thorpe should have a “police free” zone where he was headed.

Even if units did remain in the area, they’d be looking for three Caucasian males in a white Lincoln—a far cry from a black Dodge Durango with one headlight. Thorpe turned east onto the Creek Turnpike making his way around the south side of the city before connecting with Highway 169 and continuing north. He merged with I-244 before exiting onto Memorial Drive, thankful he hadn’t yet spotted a marked patrol unit and angry with himself for not having brought along a police radio. He entered a neighborhood north of McClure Park, where he removed his equipment from the Durango and set out on foot.

The offices of SID were just over a mile away, but since he’d be traveling peripheral streets, his urban hike would be closer to two miles. He looked forward to the exercise; despite his layers of protective clothing, sixty-mile-an-hour subfreezing winds had taken its toll. Thorpe hid his AR and equipment in the shrubbery of a nearby house. Not many people were up at this hour, but a man ensconced in camouflage toting an assault rifle would likely raise an eyebrow or two. Thorpe had some distance to travel, but in an effort to keep all eyebrows at an acceptable elevation, resisted the urge to run.

Twenty-two minutes later Thorpe approached the offices from the southwest. He only had keys to one extra vehicle in the lot. If that car were gone, he’d have to enter the building via his keycard, which would electronically record his presence. He preferred to avoid leaving any indication he’d been in the area.

Thorpe climbed the parking ramp and avoided using his keycard by scaling the chain link gate. The sight of the green Jeep Wrangler brought instant relief; he wouldn’t have to enter the office to retrieve a set of keys. Thorpe got behind the wheel and pulled up to the gate, where a weight-sensitive pad released him without any electronic documentation.

He wished he could buy a gas can and fuel, but knew every convenience store in the Tulsa area would receive follow-up investigations after tonight. And most stations had video, at least on the inside of the stores. Instead of using a gas can, he had another idea.

Thorpe drove the Jeep to a dark, isolated area inside McClure Park where prostitutes often serviced their johns. He doubted any officers would check the area because, hopefully, they were busy searching for a Lincoln Town car, and because like cops, hookers hate working in poor weather. Having parked, Thorpe returned to where he’d stashed his equipment, retrieved the items and made his way back to the Durango.

There, he considered his options on how to collect an accelerant.

There were really only two: he could slide under the SUV and go to work on the plastic gas tank with a knife. It probably wouldn’t take long to puncture, and the drainage would be fast. There was just one problem: he’d end up with gasoline—a.k.a. evidence—all over his person and clothing. Plus, he’d transfer that evidence to the Jeep when he drove away. He decided on option number two, which would be much cleaner but more time consuming.

Thorpe climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key and turned it on to activate the fuel pump. He then popped the hood, removed the bladder from his Camelbak, stepped outside and dumped the water on the street. Lifting the hood and using his knife as a screwdriver, Thorpe released the fuel rail and slowly began filling the bladder. When it was full, he poured the gasoline in the cab of the vehicle and on the body of Brandon Baker, careful not to get any on his own clothing.

Taking one last look around, Thorpe sparked a lighter he’d found in the console. Flames leapt into the air. This time, Thorpe did run. As he approached the Jeep, he removed his gloves hoping to avoid leaving traces of the accelerant on the steering wheel. He started the engine and with a flaming ball in his rearview mirror, headed for home.

He still had work to do.