Perilous (14 page)

I walked around the far side of the bed—my father’s side. His reading glasses and local newspaper were still on the nightstand. I found a little more blood on the carpet and something else. I knelt and got a better look. It was a broken tooth. I followed the drips of blood. On the floor against the wall molding were two more.

I smirked. My father had gotten a couple of good licks in and left us something to work with.

“You find something over there?” Kinnear asked.

I looked over the bed at him standing at the door. “Teeth. One of the attackers.”

“You know for sure?”

I nodded. “My father and stepmother both have dentures.”

“I got something in the bathroom.” He waved me to come along.

I stood, left the bedroom, and followed him two doors down the hall.

Kinnear stood to the side of the door and pointed me in. “Toilet,” he said.

The lid was up, and I glanced inside. Two cell phones lay beneath the water.

“I found drips of blood leading back through the house, outside. Hard to spot if I wasn’t looking for it. Blends in with the color of the hardwood floors.”

I bit at my lip and bobbed my head in confirmation. “Let’s give the workshop a once-over until everyone arrives. See if the cars are there. I don’t want to risk disturbing any more evidence with us trampling around back and forth through the house.”

We headed for the front door.

Ramon thumbed the button on his radio. “Status?”

Low static came through his earpiece. “I’m in position. Waiting on you,” Daniel called back.

“Do you have a shot?” Ramon asked.

“I keep getting flashes of them passing the windows. Nothing clear. It looks like they are heading out.”

“Got it. Go dark.”

Ramon took his right hand from the radio and brought the assault rifle to his shoulder. He motioned to Rodrigo and pointed at the front door.

“Hold on a second, Kinnear,” I said.

He stood at the front door, holding the knob.

“What?”

“I just want to check something out quick.”

I walked to the refrigerator in the kitchen and opened the door—mostly empty: a few miscellaneous condiments and leftovers, no beer, no soda. I looked in the sink. A stack of dirty dishes lay inside with a couple coffee cups.

“What are you thinking?” Kinnear asked.

“I think these guys stayed here for a bit. Sandy, my stepmother, would never leave dishes in the sink. My dad would never be without beer and soda in the refrigerator.”

I stepped on the flapper to open the recycling bin. It was full of beer bottles. I did the same with the garbage can next to it. Inside were miscellaneous candy and fast-food wrappers. I glanced at the side of a crumpled-up bag from a fast-food restaurant. My father and Sandy didn’t eat fast food. I grabbed the bag from the corner and lifted it from the trash. The receipt was stapled to the outside. I brought it to eye level and read it—a couple breakfast sandwiches. I looked for a time and date.

“Nine sixteen this morning in Townsend. A couple miles down the street,” I said.

“Think they are still in the area?”

“I don’t know. We’ll leave this for your crime-lab guys.” I set the bag on the counter.

Kinnear pulled his jacket sleeve back and looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes or so until everyone shows up.”

I nodded and pointed at the door. “Let’s check the shop quick.”

Kinnear twisted the knob and opened the door. He thumbed the latch for the screen door and pushed it open.

I heard a shot. The storm glass over the screen door shattered, and Kinnear fell back into me. More successive shots broke the night air—semiautomatic gunfire. Bullets ripped into the wood around the front door. Kinnear’s backward momentum took us to the ground.

Kinnear moaned. “I’m hit.”

I grabbed him by the shoulder of the jacket and pulled him back through the doorway. I kicked the front door shut.

“How bad?” I asked.

He didn’t respond.

“How bad!” I yelled.

“I’ll be fine.”

Kinnear scooted himself backward toward the wall across from the door. He tucked himself between the breakfast bar and my father’s recliner. He took his service weapon from his hip. “Do you know the combination for that gun safe?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Good, because I’m not going to be able to hold anyone off with a bullet in me.” Kinnear winced in pain and scooted closer to the wall. He took aim at the front door and thumbed at his police radio to call in the shots fired.

As he moved, blood leaked from the bottom of his jacket.

I tried to stay low and ran for the bedroom. Each window I passed in the hall exploded in from gunfire behind me.

“Multiple shooters,” Kinnear said.

I didn’t respond.

Whoever was shooting from the back was at distance. I dove through the doorway of the master bedroom and went for the phone, lying on the floor. I flipped it off the receiver and hit 9-1-1 but didn’t wait to talk. I went for the closet, and three more gunshots rang out. The bedroom’s bay window facing the driveway shattered into the room. I crawled through the glass on the floor for the closet.

I spun the dial on the safe: 16-12-27. They were the dates of my, my sister’s, and my stepmother’s birthdays. That made it easier for my father to remember. I clicked the handle down and pulled open the door. My father’s guns lay before me: two shotguns, a couple hunting rifles, and a Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun. The choice was easy. I grabbed the submachine gun, an extra thirty-round magazine, and a Colt pistol from the top shelf. I jammed the pistol and gun magazine into my jacket pocket. I left the safe door open and crawled back to the hall.

I could see Kinnear sitting in the same position, next to the recliner, tucked in against the wall. “Are you okay?” I called.

“Yeah,” Kinnear yelled back.

“Where are those other sheriffs?”

He looked at me. His face was filled with a mix of pain and what looked like worry. “I called in a ten fifty-three. I didn’t get a response.”

“They said they were on their way though, the last time you spoke?”

He winced again. “Yeah, hopefully they get here pretty damn soon.”

“Just hang tight.”

I started down the hall. Moving quickly, I lunged past the first window facing the back of the property. I heard two shots, followed by the rounds plugging into the hallway wall a split second later. I spun my arms around the broken window with the Heckler & Koch and fired five quick shots into the darkness. Return fire came as soon as I pulled the gun back. I needed to get the shooter’s location. On my stomach, I crawled to the light switch, reached up, and killed the hallway lights. I retook my spot at the edge of the window. I fired out again—ten shots left to right. I jerked the gun back through then rolled to the second window, where I stayed low and watched.

He returned fire through and around the window I’d just left. I saw the muzzle flash from his gun. I had him. He lay a hundred yards up the hill, amongst the trees. I rested the barrel on the window sill and unloaded the gun on the area, fifteen shots directly toward him. As soon as the magazine was empty, I lunged from the window. On the hallway carpet, I dropped the empty magazine and clicked in the full one from my pocket. No return fire came. I crawled to Kinnear in the living room.

“Are you still hanging in there?” I asked.

His right hand held his gun on the door. His left was inside his jacket. “I’m losing blood.”

“Where are you hit?”

“A round went through my vest on the side. I took another one in the chest that the vest stopped.”

“Watch that door,” I said.

I pushed the recliner from Kinnear’s side, stretched out, and grabbed the wooden leg of the coffee table. I struggled to pull it toward him. My father had built it years back—it was thick, heavy, and extremely overbuilt for its use. The top was three-inch-thick planks of oak, more than suitable as a shield. After getting it in front of Kinnear, I pushed it onto its side for cover.

“Let me see. Keep that gun on the door.” I unzipped his jacket. A puddle of blood trapped inside spilled to the floor. Kinnear squirmed. I pulled at the buttons on his blue sheriffs-issue shirt, to expose the vest. I immediately saw the bullet to his heart that the vest had stopped. I tugged at his shirt bottom, tucked into his pants. His side below his rib cage was soaked in blood. I saw a rip in the fabric where the bullet entered.

“Use my shoulder to pull yourself up a bit,” I said.

He did.

I put my hand inside his shirt and slipped it around to the back of the vest. I didn’t feel an exit wound.

“The bullet is still inside. Here.” I pulled my winter cap from my head, balled it up and jammed it between the entry wound and his vest. “Keep your hand on it. Keep applying pressure.”

He pulled in a breath through clenched teeth. “Is it bad?”

I didn’t answer. I took a position next to him, facing the front door.

The sound of yelling came from outside. I tried to make out the words. It sounded like someone yelled, “Spray it!”

In an instant, the front windows of the cabin erupted in shattered glass.

“Get down!” I yelled. I grabbed Kinnear and pulled him to the floor behind the oak table.

I kept my head low. Left to right, I heard bullets rip through the house. The sound of window glass shattering could be heard in the moments between shots. I looked to my right. The couch threw bits of foam into the air. I looked up. The antler chandelier swung and splintered. From the corner of my eye, I saw the television on the wall just before it shattered to the floor in sparks. The recliner to my right bucked toward us. Five loud thumps hit our coffee-table shield before I heard the bullets continue toward the kitchen.

The gunfire stopped. I slid out from the side of the table and crawled toward one of the front windows. I lay on the floor and reached the barrel of the gun up into the window void. I fired blindly at where I guessed they were standing outside then pulled the gun back down. Return fire whizzed past my head as I crawled back for cover next to Kinnear.

“Get one?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just stay low. Where is that backup?”

“Any minute.”

“They better get their asses here.”

Kinnear tried his radio again, he didn’t get a response.

I yanked my Heckler & Koch up onto the edge of the table and held it on the door.

We waited.

The sounds of more gunshots echoed outside—semiautomatic gunfire, at least twenty shots. Nothing hit the cabin. A second later, another group of shots rang out. I could hear faint shouting then more gunfire. Everything went quiet. I kept the barrel of my gun on the door. Kinnear struggled to do the same.

“Slide down,” I said. “I have the door. Just keep pressure on that wound.”

Kinnear squinted and nodded. We waited.

Through the void of the broken windows, I heard feet crunching on snow.

“Sheriff’s Department,” a voice called. “If there’s someone inside, come on out, hands in the air.”

My gun remained aimed at the door. I wasn’t ruling out a ruse by whoever was shooting at us. I said nothing.

Kinnear looked at me and nodded. “That’s Deputy Sommer, the shift commander. I recognize his voice.”

I wasn’t ready to rely on Kinnear’s voice recognition after he’d been losing blood for ten minutes. My gun stayed on the door, and I heard footsteps climbing the front steps of the patio.

“Sheriff’s Department,” the voice called again.

“Stay down,” I whispered to Kinnear. I slipped from the back of the coffee table and took two quick strides to the side of the front door. I positioned myself just inside the kitchen, at the wall. I held the barrel of my gun on the front door and used the wall for cover. The front door sat open an inch, facing into the house. I wouldn’t be able to see whoever it was until they were three feet into the room. However, they also wouldn’t be able to see me.

“There’s two inside,” I said.

No one kicked the door open and started shooting.

“Deputy Kinnear?” the voice asked.

“Yeah,” Kinnear answered. “Is that you, Sommer?”

“And Esler. We’re coming in.”

I looked over at Kinnear. He nodded.

The front door pushed open, and I saw a flash through the crack—two men walking in. I saw two hands, each holding a gun, then blue jacket sleeves, then the two sheriffs in plain view. I lowered my weapon.

Sommer holstered his weapon and went to Kinnear. He slid the coffee table away. “Where are you hit?”

Kinnear lifted his hand from the area. “A bullet went through my vest.”

“Shit.” Sommer grabbed his shoulder radio and called for paramedics. The call went through. “Keep your hand on that. They are on the way.” Sommer looked at the other deputy. “Esler, where’s that backup?”

“Any second,” Esler said.

“What the hell is going on here?” Sommer asked. He stood and waited for my response.

I told him who I was and laid it out for him—we’d found evidence that my parents were taken, and we found blood and signs of a struggle. We were waiting on the rest of the deputies to arrive when we started taking gunfire.

“Do you know who is behind this?” he asked.

“Not directly. Indirectly, I have a pretty damn good idea.”

“Give me a name,” Sommer said.

“Viktor Azarov. He’s Russian organized crime. It won’t do you any good, though.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s incarcerated at USP Coleman.”

The deputy flashed me a confused look.

“It’s in Florida,” I said.

“Do you think he hired this out?”

I nodded. “We heard a barrage of gunfire outside. What happened?” I asked.

“We took fire, pulling up. A guy was standing at the end of the driveway and unloaded on us. By the time we got out and were able to return fire, they were already up the street. They jumped into a dark sedan and took off.”

“Why didn’t you pursue?”

“Go look at our car, and you’ll see. Both front tires are out, and the guy put at least five shots directly into the engine.”