Blue Heaven Part 35

Gonzalez nodded. Newkirk could see starlight reflect from his teeth.

"Newkirk?"

"Sure, Lieutenant."

"We've been given our hunting license," Singer said. "Let's go finish this. Gonzo, do you have the bolt cutters in your truck?"

Monday, 4:55 A.M.

JESS NOW LAY on top of the rock ridge he had explored as a child, amid the slate, the dampness of the gra.s.s long since soaked into his jeans and ranch coat. His scoped .270 hunting rifle was next to him, as was the Winchester .25-35 saddle carbine and a box of bullets. He watched the sky lighten, felt the dawn breeze start to move along the ground with an icy pulse. He thought about how Monica and Hearne had been connected all of these years. How he'd hoped, as Monica told him the story, that it had been J.J. He was surprised how he'd unburdened himself to her in the barn like that. How his words had tumbled out as if he'd rehea.r.s.ed them. Of course he'd said too much. But by saying what he had he felt somehow cleaner now, pleased he had a mission. It felt good.

His heart hardened when he saw the riderless horse cantering across the meadow toward the barn. He could see the saddle had slipped upside down, and could see the stirrups flapping as the horse ran. He knew how unlikely it was that Jim Hearne, exrodeo cowboy, had been bucked off.

Jess knew what it meant. He thought about Annie, and Monica. Jim Hearne had been a good man.

But now, they were on their own.

A BRANCH snapped up in the timber, in the direction of the road. Shortly after, a rock was dislodged, and he heard it tumble down the hill until it stopped with a pock sound against a tree trunk. He didn't see anyone in the darkness of the timber, but he knew someone was up there, scouting.

Now there was a ping of metal, faint but distinct. And familiar. It was the sound of a link of chain being cut.

A moment later came the throaty sound of engines starting. Jess shifted where he lay and studied the timber where the road was. No headlights winked through the trees. Either the vehicles hadn't begun to come down the road, or they were rolling with their headlights off. He guessed the latter.

He looked quickly toward his house. It was dark and still. He wondered if Monica and Villatoro could hear the vehicles idling.

There was no way to stop it now.

Monday, 5:10 A.M.

NEWKIRK NERVOUSLY rubbed his thumb along the wooden hand-grip of the shotgun on the seat next to him. It was still too dark to make out the two-track road, and the trees on each side of him were so dark and tall that it felt like he was moving through a tunnel. They were creeping down the hill, the Escalade in four-wheel-drive low so the lieutenant wouldn't have to apply the brakes and flash brake lights. How could Singer even see where he was going?

The AR-15, a fully automatic rifle with a banana clip, was on the seat as well, next to Singer.

A pine branch sc.r.a.ped the side of the Escalade and showered needles through the open pa.s.senger window. Newkirk brushed them from his lap, and Singer corrected the wheel to the left.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Newkirk could tell they'd cleared the trees. The terrain opened up in front of them, lightened, but it was still too dark to see clearly. The sky to the east was gunmetal gray, though, as dawn approached.

Singer brought the vehicle to a gentle stop, having to tap the brakes.

Newkirk looked back, hoping Gonzalez had seen the flash of light and wouldn't drive right into them.

"We'll wait here until we can see better," Singer whispered, almost imperceptibly.

JESS WATCHED the two vehicles emerge from the timber and stop, saw a blink of a brake light. Even though they were there, as he expected they would be, a part of him couldn't believe it was actually happening.

Nosing the .270 over a piece of slate, he looked at the trucks through his rifle scope, thankful that it gathered more light than his naked eye. The white of the first vehicle was more p.r.o.nounced against the dark, but he still couldn't see inside. Minutes went by before he thought he could make out two forms in the front of the white car, and another two in the pickup behind it.

The crosshairs rested on the driver's side window of the white SUV. It was too far for an accurate shot. Nevertheless, he worked the bolt of the rifle and chambered a round. The sound of the bolt action in the still morning jarred him, but he didn't think it could be heard by the men in the trucks.

NEWKIRK CHECKED the time obsessively. He felt cold all over, and his nose ran freely. The ranch house, the barn, the other outbuildings began to take shape at the bottom of the hill. To their left was a gra.s.sy ridge with broken rocks on top. On their right was a gentle saddle slope with black fingers of pine reaching down the hill.

He looked over at Singer, who sat still, his eyes surveying the valley below. The man was so cool, Newkirk thought. Newkirk wished it would rub off.

A shiver started in his chest, ran up his neck, made his teeth chatter. He clamped his mouth shut, waiting for the shiver to run out. It had nothing to do with the cold.

JESS BREATHED in a long, quivering breath. The crosshairs trembled on the driver's side window. He realized he had been holding his position too long, that his legs and arms were cramping up, causing him to shake. He tried to relax, tried to breathe normally to steady himself, flatten out his aim.

When had he last sighted in the rifle? He couldn't remember. Jesus. It might be completely off.

Again, he glanced down at his house. No movement, no light. Good.

In the barn, the calf he had delivered the night before bawled for its mother.

Then the vehicles were moving forward, down the switchback. The white SUV was picking up speed, the men inside not nearly so worried about stealth now. The black pickup, the same vehicle Jess had seen the day before in front of his house, was right behind it.

There was a curve in the road about 250 yards away from Jess, where the intruders would need to slow down to make the turn safely. It would be close enough for a decent shot, but not a sure shot. Jess pulled the stock tight to his shoulder, eased his eye to the scope, saw the crosshairs bounce around on the side of Singer's face. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

"s.h.i.t!" he said, remembering to thumb the safety off. But by the time he did and sighted through the scope again, the trucks had turned away from the curve and were barreling down the road away from him. He couldn't believe he'd made such an amateur mistake in such a critical circ.u.mstance, and was furious with himself.

NEWKIRK REACHED up through the open window and clamped onto the roof with his hand to steady himself as Singer upshifted and the engine roared and they reached the bottom of the hill where the road straightened out. He saw the ranch house fill the windshield and Singer drove toward it. Gonzalez and Swann shot past them in the pickup on Newkirk's side.

Both vehicles slid to a stop in the gravel, facing the front door of the house.

Training took over now, and Newkirk bailed out of the Escalade, keeping the open pa.s.senger door between him and the structure, aiming his shotgun at the front door of the house over the lip of the open window. In his peripheral vision, he saw Singer do the same after snapping back the bolt to arm the AR-15.

Gonzalez was out of his pickup, racking a sh.e.l.l into the chamber of his shotgun, the sound as sharp and dangerous as anything Newkirk had ever heard. Swann had stayed inside.

While Newkirk and Singer covered him, Gonzalez jogged across the lawn, up the porch steps, and flattened himself against the wall of the house next to the door. Newkirk shot a glance at the picture window. The curtains were pulled closed except for a narrow s.p.a.ce between them. Another window on the far side of the house was covered inside with tightly drawn blinds. There was no movement behind either of the windows.

Gonzalez held his shotgun at port arms, then spun and used the b.u.t.t of it to pound the front door.

"Jess Rawlins! This is the sheriff's department. Come out of the house right now!"

The sound of the pounding and Gonzalez's deep voice cut through the silence of the morning.

Newkirk racked the pump on his own shotgun, aimed again at the front door. Waited.

Gonzalez shot a glance to Singer, asking with his eyes, What now?

Singer nodded: Do it again.

This time, Gonzalez pounded the door so hard with the shotgun, Newkirk expected the gla.s.s to fall out of the panes of the window. He saw Swann open the truck door and slide out, stand unsteadily on the lawn with a pistol in his hand.

"Jess Rawlins! We need you to come out right now! RIGHT f.u.c.kING NOW!"

Nothing. The pounding echoed back from the wall of timber to the north.

"Jesus Christ," Gonzalez said, looking again at Singer. Swann limped across the lawn, climbed the steps to the porch, and struggled toward the corner of the house.

Newkirk thinking, They're not there. No one's inside. The chopper's on the way. We're f.u.c.ked, but thank G.o.d it's over. Thank G.o.d for that. But no ...

Gonzalez stepped away from the front of the house, and for a second Newkirk expected the sergeant to try to kick the door down. But he must have decided against it, because he turned and took a step toward the picture window.

Newkirk watched as Gonzalez leaned over, trying to see through the slit in the curtains.

JESS WATCHED it all through the scope on his rifle, the safety off this time for sure. He had not taken a breath since Gonzalez had pounded on the door the second time and the sound washed up and over him.

Gonzalez was in front of the window, leading with his head, trying to see in. Jess was surprised to see that Swann was with them. His head was bandaged, and he appeared to be wearing a hospital smock.

Jess whispered, "Now."

INSIDE THE front room, Eduardo Villatoro sighted down the barrel of the shotgun at the shadow on the other side of the curtain, put the front bead on the bridge of Gonzalez's nose through the gla.s.s, and fired.

NEWKIRK HEARD the boom, saw Gonzalez's head snap back and come apart at the same time, shards of gla.s.s cascading through the air, the shotgun clattering on the porch. The sergeant took two steps straight back away from the house and hit the railing and crashed through it. He fell in the gra.s.s with his arms outstretched over his head, his boots still up on the porch, shards of gla.s.s dropping from the window in a delayed reaction.

Swann cried out and flung himself against the outside of the house, near the door but away from the window. He held his pistol with both hands, the muzzle pointed down, ready to react.

"G.o.ddammit!" Singer said, standing, raising the AR-15, and the morning was filled with a long, furious ripping sound as he raked the house on both sides of the window from right to left, then back again.

ANNIE HAD peered out from behind the cast-iron stove, where she and William had hidden, in time to see Villatoro raise the shotgun and fire. Her mother pulled her back down. After the blast, which was much louder than anything Annie had antic.i.p.ated, her mother gathered her and William closer as bullets ripped through the walls, a few clanging off the stove behind which they hid.

PLACING THE crosshairs between Singer's shoulder blades, Jess squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked, the scope jerked upward, over the top of the roof of his house. He quickly worked the bolt and peered back down the scope, saw Singer arching as if stretching his back, slowly turning around to face him, holding his weapon out away from his body.

Did I miss? No-Jess could see a bloom of dark red blood on Singer's coat and a spray of it across the hood of the white SUV.

Jess quickly found Newkirk in the scope. The man was crouched, looking up, searching the ridge for the source of the shot. Newkirk looked confused, and very human. Jess shot him, saw Newkirk fall back into the door of the car, then roll away, under the car, out of sight.

When Jess swung the rifle back to Singer, Singer was gone, probably hiding under the SUV.

And where was Swann? Jess couldn't see him on the porch.

NEWKIRK FELT as though someone had kicked him in the stomach so hard it took his breath away. He rolled under the car until his shoulder thumped the front differential, where he stopped.

The engine radiated heat above him, the gra.s.s was icy and wet beneath him. Slowly, the kicked feeling receded, and something burned. He imagined a red-hot poker pressed against his bare stomach. He knew what it was. He'd been shot. He always wondered what it would feel like to be gutshot, to have a bullet rip through his soft organs, opening up their fluid contents to mix together inside of him.

From where he was stuck under the car, he rolled his head back, looked around.

Gonzalez's body was in the gra.s.s ten feet away. Steam rose from the ma.s.s of pulp that used to be his face. He could still make out half of Gonzo's mustache, though. The other half was somewhere else.

He flopped his head the other way. Singer had pulled himself up again. His boots were there, near the front of the car.

"Newkirk, G.o.ddammit," Singer was saying, his voice filling with liquid, "I'm hit. Where are you? I need cover fire."

Newkirk kept his mouth shut, for once. He wondered where his shotgun was. Instead, he drew his service weapon, racked the slide, held it tight to him.

He was in the third person again, where he longed to be, hovering over the body of the man wedged beneath the car, watching, shaking his head with disappointment, relieved that it was all happening to somebody else.

Monday, Newkirk thought. It was Monday morning. The boys and Lindsey should be getting ready to go to school. Wouldn't they be ashamed to know where their father was right now?

The car rocked, and another shot boomed down from the ridge. Then another. This time he heard breaking gla.s.s, and it cascaded down around him in the gra.s.s.

A long rip from Singer's AR-15 made his ears ring.

Where had Swann disappeared to?

JESS HAD SWITCHED to the .25-35 when he was out of cartridges with the .270. As he levered in the first sh.e.l.l, there was an angry burst as bullets. .h.i.t and ricocheted off the plates of slate and cut branches from trees in back of him. Something stung his face, and he reached up, saw the blood on his fingers. He rolled to his side, then pushed the barrel of the saddle carbine through a V in the rock.

Without the scope, he could barely see Singer's coat through the broken windows of the SUV, but he could see it, and he fired.

Jess thought, I'm shooting men, but it doesn't feel like it. He'd never had a wide-open shot in Southeast Asia, not like this. He could not think of the men down there as human beings but as enemy targets. Targets who would do harm to the children, Monica, him, his ranch ...

ANNIE HEARD the back door smash in but didn't see Swann until he jerked her out from behind the stove by her hair. She screamed and struggled, kicking at the floor, heard William burst into tears, and shout "NO!," saw her mother wheel and both of her hands go up, pleading. Villatoro had been crouching behind a desk, but he rose when he heard the scream.

"Drop that shotgun or everybody dies," Swann said to Villatoro.

Villatoro hesitated but dropped the shotgun on the floor.

Swann said, "You were supposed to be dead. That f.u.c.king Newkirk ..." He shot Villatoro twice-bangbang-and the retired detective collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"Oscar, don't hurt her, don't hurt her," her mother pleaded. "Take me if you need to take someone. Don't hurt Annie anymore."

Swann turned his attention to Monica and didn't respond so much as growl, and he lifted Annie to her feet by her hair and pressed the muzzle of the hot pistol into her neck.

"Oscar, please ..." her mother cried.

"Shut up," Swann said. "I've got to use her to get out of here, to get that rancher."

Monica glanced at the shotgun Villatoro had dropped on the floor, and Annie felt Swann tighten his grip on her and saw the pistol rise over her shoulder and aim at her mother. Villatoro was still.

Swann said, "Back off now into that room back there and take your boy. I'm going to lock you in because I may need you for later. But if you try and get out, she dies, you all die."

NEWKIRK HEARD another bullet hit Singer, a punching sound, heard it go thump like when a baseball hits a batter. Saw Singer suddenly drop back into view, on the ground with him again, Singer squirming like he was trying to get ants out of his clothes. Inside the house there had been two quick gunshots. Newkirk thought, h.e.l.l has broken loose.

Newkirk and Singer were eye to eye. Singer's coat was drenched with red. Newkirk could smell it, hot and metallic. Bright red blood foamed from Singer's mouth and nostrils as he tried to breathe, but his eyes were blue and sharp, fixed on Newkirk.

"You hid," Singer said, spitting blood as he talked. "You f.u.c.king hid...."

"It never should have gone this far," Newkirk said.

"We deserved it, we earned it!" Singer said in a rage. He sounded like he was drowning inside, and he probably was, Newkirk thought. Singer's lungs were filling up with his own blood. Bad way to go, but he wished he'd quit talking and twitching.

"It wasn't worth it," Newkirk said. He raised his weapon and shot Singer in the forehead.

Singer stopped squirming.

"There," Newkirk said. "Enough."

Then he heard the sound of a car coming down the road, and the faraway beating of a helicopter.