The List (13 page)

Tom went to the dining room, but that was a scene from hell, every single bit of furniture was a large, crackling bonfire.

“I think I’d rather get shot.” Roy yelled into his ear. As the fire grew it became louder, a roar that was drowning out Tom’s thoughts.

They went back into the kitchen, Bert and Harold hunched down under the falling veil of smoke. Tom looked around the room, hoping to see a magic escape route. His eyes rested on the refrigerator. It was a compact model, older, about five feet tall. He grabbed the sides and tried pulling it back. It was on rollers.

“Roy! Come on!”

They pulled the fridge out of its nook and yanked the power cord.

The floor was tile and it moved easily. Tom positioned it ten feet in front of the burning back door.

“Ready?”

Roy nodded. They got behind the refrigerator and pushed it, gaining speed and momentum, hitting the back door at a full sprint.

Their aim was true. The appliance burst through the blazing entrance, flipping onto its side in the doorway. The flames rushed out of the kitchen in a big whoosh, starving for the new oxygen. They now had an opening.

Roy took out his gun and climbed over the fridge. Tom went back for Bert and the doctor. He was helping them through the door when the gunfire began.

Roy yanked Bert off the refrigerator and to the ground outside, the suitcases flying. Harold fell backward onto Tom, pinning him to the floor of the burning kitchen. Tom struggled out from under the doctor.

Harold’s plaid shirt was soaked in blood. His breath was faint.

“We can get you out of here. Try to hold onto my neck.”

Harold shook his head. “You go.”

Tom put his arm around the man’s shoulders and began to lift him up. The doctor coughed violently, blood bubbling from his lips.

“Live...”

“Hold on, Doc. Just hold on.”

Harold looked up at him, eyes dreamy and far away. A pleasant smile crossed his lips.

“Live... up to... expectations...”

His body went slack in Tom’s arms. Flame began to close off the hole they’d made. Struggling with his balance, Tom gripped Harold tight and stepped up to the doorway.

The machine gun thundered again, and Tom leapt off the refrigerator. He landed hard, the ground erupting in little dust pockets as slugs ripped into the dirt around him. He got to his knees and continued to drag Harold away from the house.

Shots to his left. Roy, returning fire. He and Bert were on their bellies, behind Bert’s suitcases. Tom took out his Glock and lay next to Roy.

“Where?”

“On the ridge, three o’clock, about a hundred yards.”

“How many?”

“I spot one.”

“I saw a guy in front earlier. So there’s at least two.”

Running in a crouch, Tom began a wide arc through the plains.

The burning house was throwing off a lot of flickering light and shadows, but that worked to his advantage; a moving target would be hard to pinpoint.

More gunshots. Roy, firing far off to his right. Tom hunkered down and waited for the return barrage, trying to spot the enemy’s position. When the machine gun let loose, it caught Tom by surprise.

He was less than thirty feet away. The muzzle flash illuminated a short man with a crew cut, holding an Army issue M-16. Arthur Kilpatrick.

Or Attila, as Tom had begun to think of him.

Tom’s response was automatic—he dropped to one knee, aimed for the head, and fired as fast as his finger could pull the trigger.

Attila pitched forward, rolling down the mound of raised dirt he’d been perched on. He didn’t let go of the rifle.

Tom ran forward, firing wildly. If Attila got that M-16 around...

Movement on the ground, the rifle barrel raising. Tom jumped off the mound and belly flopped onto the smaller man, pinning the machine gun to his chest. He brought his Glock up to Attila’s head and jammed it under his jaw. Anger and fear had released a potent adrenaline cocktail in his body, and Tom fought to keep his hands from shaking. Attila’s body went completely limp.

“I’m not resisting arrest.”

Tom’s finger tightened on the trigger. He had one bad moment when he didn’t think he could stop himself, but common sense prevailed. With his free hand he found the rifle and tossed it to the side.

“Roll onto your stomach, hands behind your head.”

Attila complied, and Tom pressed his knee into the back of the man’s neck.

“Aren’t you gonna read me my rights, Tommy?”

“Who else is out there?”

“I’m all alone.”

Tom put more pressure on his knee, pushing the smaller man’s face into the dirt.

“You broke your neck in the fall. I don’t think society will shed any tears.”

Attila’s voice was strained. “Jack’s here too.”

Tom fished out some disposable handcuffs—an unbreakable plastic line that tightened around a suspect’s wrists and could only be taken off with tin snips. He looped one around Attila’s hands and snugged it tight.

“How’d you find us?”

“GPS and a laptop. We put a tracker in Albert’s luggage. We can trace it on the Internet.”

Tom uncoiled another length of plastic line and wrapped it around Attila’s ankles.

“How are you in touch with Jack?”

“Cell phone.”

“Call him.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Don’t be stupid, Attila.”

“So, you finally found out who I am.” He rolled onto his side, facing Tom. “You think you know it all now? You don’t know the half of it. I’ll get another shot at you, soon enough. There isn’t a place on earth you can hide from us.”

Tom considered standing on his neck again, or giving him a swift kick to the stab wound, but decided against it. The police would be here any minute, and when they showed up Jack would run. They would have to get him another day. Tom took out his phone and dialed Roy.

“Got Attila. Jack’s still out there. Stay alert.”

“I called an ambulance. Won’t help, though.”

“Harold?”

“Took at least three hits. Long gone.”

Tom hit the
END
button. He shoved Attila with his foot.

“So who’s behind this? Stang?”

“I want my lawyer.”

“Harold’s dead. We got you for murder, clean and tight. And we’ll hang Jessup’s murder on you too. I don’t know about New Mexico, but Illinois has the death penalty. Talk to me.”

Attila grinned at him, his gold tooth sparkling in the glare of the burning house.

“How’s your ribs?”

“How’s your leg? I want my knife back, by the way.”

“You have no idea how big this is. How deep it goes. You’re in way over your head, Jefferson.”

Tom didn’t like being called Jefferson. And he really didn’t like Attila’s conceit. They had this guy, dead to rights, and he was acting like it was a parking ticket.

“You know what I don’t get? You’ve got the same genes as the greatest warrior of all time. A guy who conquered the world. And you’re just a petty thug who burned down his mommy’s house.”

Attila lost his smile.

“I’ll be coming for you, soon. You and the rest of our siblings.

The last cop that messed with us took sixteen hours to die. With you, it’ll be twice as long.”

Attila began to rant on about all of the horrible things he was going to do, but Tom tuned him out. He sat on the mound of dirt, exhausted, and waited quietly for the police to arrive.

Albuquerque

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tom was gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles had lost their color.

“It’s over my head, Mankowski. This is from the Police Superintendent herself. As of now, you and Lewis are on a mandatory leave of absence.”

“I don’t believe this, Lieutenant. Why would we get suspended—”

“It isn’t a suspension. You’re keeping your pay. But this goes high up, Tom. I don’t have a say in it. Until this matter is all sorted out, consider yourself on vacation. One more thing—you have to turn in your guns and badges to the Albuquerque PD.”

Tom was grinding his jaw so hard he could crush marbles.

“Lieutenant Daniels—”

“Just do it and get your asses back to Chicago. I’ll do everything I can to find out what the hell is going on. You guys must have pissed off someone pretty important. The Super wanted your jobs. Put Lewis on.”

He handed the phone to Roy and took a deep breath. Gerry Watterson, the Albuquerque Chief of Police, gave Tom a sympathetic frown from behind his office desk. The Chief was heavyset, tan, balding. A few hours ago he was their good buddy, organizing the fruitless search for Jack and extending over-the-top professional courtesy. Several phone calls later, the man put on his Pontius Pilate face.

“I’m sorry, Detective Mankowski. It looks like a clean bust to me.

But my boss told me the same thing. I’ll need to take your shield and weapon.”

“What?” Roy yelled into the phone. “We catch the bad guy and you suspend us? Oh—paid vacation my ass!”

Tom put his hands on the desk, looking hard at Watterson. The Chief seemed like a good enough person, but then Lieutenant Daniels was a good person too. How could it have gone this way?

“Chief, you’re making a big mistake.”

“I don’t have a choice in the matter. My hands are tied.”

“My gun and badge?” Roy was screaming now. “You got to have a thousand mile dick, be fucking me all the way from Illinois!” Roy slammed down the phone and stared at Tom. “I cannot believe this.

Can you believe this?”

“At least let us question the suspect.” Tom tried to push his anger aside and appear rational. “The lives of several people are at stake here.”

Watterson held out his hands, palms up. “I’d like to help, but that’s impossible. The suspect was taken into Federal custody an hour ago.”

Motes swam in Tom’s vision.

“Where the hell did they take him?”

“I have no idea.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No.” Watterson was raising his voice now. “
You
don’t understand. I know you guys are getting the shit end of the stick, but I can’t do a damn thing about it, and neither can you. So give me your shields and your guns, and then go straighten it out on your end. I’m sorry, but there’s no other choice here.”

“Little back-ass redneck town.” Roy spat. “You got a pointy white hood in that desk, Chief?”

A vein bulged out on the side of Watterson’s head. “Arnolds!

Johnson!”

Two Albuquerque uniforms came into the office. They had been on the crime scene earlier, helping Roy and Tom search for the second gunman. Now they also seemed to have undergone an attitude adjustment.

“These gentlemen have been ordered to relinquish their weapons, and are resisting the order.”

Both cops drew their sidearms.

“Please put your hands behind your heads and lace your fingers together.”

Tom and Roy exchanged a look. Tom sighed, then obeyed the command. Roy followed suit, mumbling obscenities under his breath.

One cop covered them, while the other removed their pistols.

“Badges too.”

“Sorry, guys.” The cop did a quick frisk and took their badge cases and ID. He put them all on Watterson’s desk.

“Thank you, Officers. Dismissed.”

The two uniforms holstered their weapons and left the room. Tom decided to cross New Mexico off his list of future vacation spots.

“I’ll take care of these for you.” Watterson’s eyes told them it was the truth. “Now get out of here.”

“The guys that did this.” Tom spoke with all of the urgency he could muster. “They’re going to be waiting for us.”

Tom could see that Watterson was considering this. After almost a minute, the man picked up Tom’s Glock and chuckled.

“I don’t see how you big city guys are comfortable with automatics. They jam, they misfire, you never know how many shots you have left.”

Watterson took a key out of his pocket and opened up his lower desk drawer.

“In my book, nothing beats a Smith and Wesson 38 Special. Look at these beauties. Matching set, got them off a drug dealer.”

He placed the revolvers before him on the desk.

“Probably stolen. Serial numbers have been filed off. We tried to do a search, couldn’t find the owner.”

Watterson swiveled around in his chair, facing the wall. Tom and Roy exchanged a glance, and then each took a gun. Tom spun the cylinder, noting it was loaded.

“Thank you, Chief.”

“You mean for holding onto your guns and badges? No problem.

Just do yourselves a favor and don’t get caught in my county in possession of any type of firearm, or I’ll have to bust your asses.”

“Chief.” Roy put the revolver into his holster. “About that pointy hood thing...”

“Apology accepted. Now get the hell out of here before I lynch you both.” Watterson turned back around and gave them hard stares.

“Good luck figuring this thing out.”

They left the office and found Bert sitting in the hallway, going through his suitcase. He stared up at them, his face anguished.

“Did you hear? This is horrible.”

“How did you find out?” Tom asked. “We were just told.”

“Perhaps I can replace the rear treble, but the paint job is ruined.

That’s at least five hundred dollars off the price.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My Flying Helgramite. A three thousand dollar lure. Those maniacs shot it.”

Roy was on him before Tom could intervene. The cop grabbed Bert by the shirt and pulled him close.

“It’s your damn lures almost got us killed. There’s a tracer in the suitcase.”

Bert’s reaction was totally unexpected. Rather than cower or cringe, he drove his heel into Roy’s instep and rammed his head into the bigger man’s chin. Roy staggered back, more shocked than hurt.

“I’m sick of you, and I’m sick of all of this!”

He squatted and began to close his suitcase.

“Bert.” Tom put a hand on his shoulder. Bert shrugged it off.

“Don’t touch me! I’m leaving.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“Whoop-dee-doo. Like you care. Like anyone freaking cares.”

Bert hefted both cases and began to walk down the hall. Tom followed.

“Look, Bert, this is stressful for all of us. But we have to stick together.”