The Hard Stuff, Page 3

  “You’re getting four thousand?”

  “Yes, sir. If I bring him back alive before his court date.”

  “Well, then I think if we’re going to partner on this, unofficially, it should be fifty-fifty, don’t you?”

  “You’re a tough man,” Joe said, then he smiled. “But a fair one. It’s a deal.” He held his hand out again, and this time the deputy shook it with enthusiasm. He put on his hat.

  “My car’s out back.”

  “Actually,” Joe said, standing, “we should really take my truck. It’s built for that terrain. And once I get the fugitive manacled in there, it’s straight back with no stops. Better security.”

  “Suits me,” Cook said. “I’ll meet you out front. Just let me take a leak.”

  *

  Joe and Deputy Cook drove out to the survivalist camp. They left the main road a few miles out of town and followed a winding single lane uphill through trees and weeds that topped the truck, driving in silence, the classic rock radio station playing low. They reached a deep creek, like a sharp fissure in the road, crossed by a rough bridge made of planks. Joe stopped.

  “Easy now,” Cook said. “She’s wide enough, but there’s no rails.”

  “Right.” Joe hung his head out the window so he could keep his eye on the tires as they rolled slowly across the bridge, Cook watching out the right side, calling, “Good. Good. You got it.” Joe saw the water below, swirling over sharp rocks. On the other side the trees were denser, and the road turned to dirt. Dust rose as they climbed the steep hill to the camp, which was set in a clearing, screened off by camo netting. There was a Quonset hut, a trailer up on cinder blocks, and a couple of plywood shacks, also painted camo green and brown, with propane tanks and a gas-powered generator. Pickups and cars were parked to one side and on the other was a homemade firing range and a human-shaped wooden target stuck with throwing knives.

  “Follow my lead. They can be skittish,” Cook said as they pulled in. Bearded men in fatigue pants and camo vests stepped out of the shelters, holding assault rifles. Two came forward, the others hanging behind.

  “Right,” Joe said, cutting the engine and killing the music, but leaving the keys in the ignition. He opened his door and climbed down as the deputy led the way.

  “Good morning,” Cook called out as he approached the men, Joe a step behind.

  “Morning …” the men nodded and replied.

  Cook continued: “This is Mayoff. A bounty hunter visiting from New York City.” Cook pointed at a guy with a red goatee and a ball cap on along with his military gear. “That’s Jonesy right there,” Cook said as he drew his gun and pointed it at Joe. “And that,” he added, nodding at another stocky blond with a dense beard, “is my cousin Randy.”

  Joe put his hands up. “I’m not here looking to interfere with you guys. But you do know that Mr. Grables is wanted to stand trial?”

  Grables smiled, showing brown stubby teeth through his beard. “Good thing we ain’t in Jew York, then, right?”

  Cousin Randy nodded, staring Joe down, fingering his firearm. “This here is the Sovereign Territory of the United States of America.”

  “Sorry, Jack,” Deputy Cook said. “Looks like you picked the wrong deputy.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Joe said. “I picked just right.” Then he ducked, shutting his eyes and covering his ears as he heard the first rocket scream by. The Quonset hut exploded. As everyone else ducked and scrambled, a volley of gunfire rattled against the propane tank beside the trailer, and that went, too, throwing up a rush of orange flame and dark smoke.

  While Cook was still staring in wonder, Joe came up and grabbed his gun arm across the wrist with his right hand while his left seized the gun by the barrel and pushed it aside. Cook fired a shot into the dirt before Joe twisted the gun away, snapping his trigger finger. Cook grunted in pain and Joe, now wielding the gun, cracked him hard across the forehead with it. As Grables rushed him, he turned again, pointing the deputy’s pistol at his forehead.

  “Hold it,” Joe said, and Grables froze. “Don’t move,” he told Randy, the cousin, who was still crouched down, hiding his head from the explosions. Joe got behind Grables, wrapping an arm around his neck, using him a shield, and pressed the gun to his temple. Still, Randy went for his weapon, gripping the assault rifle hanging from his shoulder and swinging it toward Joe, so Joe shot him through the heart.

  *

  Joe had talked the guys through his plan in the diner, using the map of the camp that Clevon had provided, then rehearsed them quickly in the lot, including a quick tutorial on firing the rocket-propelled grenade launcher that Clevon had stashed, along with a few AR-15s in the lockers that he had installed under the back two rows of seats. Then Feather and Blackie hopped in, taking a locker each. Joe shut the lids and lowered the seats, but left them unlocked, so they could hide with the weapons while he was with the deputy. They drove up to camp, Joe trying to keep the ride as smooth as he could, while Cash, the best driver among them, followed discreetly in his own car, also with an assault rifle. Joe told them when the engine cut off and the music stopped to count ten, then come out and start blowing shit up. Blackie had blasted the hut with an RPG while Feather fired on the tanks. Now they were both firing bursts of gunfire at the retreating survivalists while Joe hustled Grables to the truck.

  “Get in,” he ordered, stripping Grables of weapons and pushing him into the locker.

  “Wait,” Grables shouted. “This ain’t legal. I got rights.”

  “I’ll read them to you later,” Joe said and cracked him across the jaw with the gun. He shut the locker, and this time he threw the bolts that secured it before lowering the cushioned seat. “Let’s go!” he yelled.

  Blackie got behind the wheel, Feather still firing at the survivalists from the passenger side, while Joe picked up the grenade launcher and reloaded it, sitting on the rear seat under which Grables was lying. “Seat belts,” Joe called out as they began to move, while the survivalists scrambled to regroup and opened fire. Joe crouched low, aiming the grenade launcher out the open rear window. He fired, blowing up a pickup truck parked near the entrance to the camp to scare the survivalists back as they sped out.

  They bounced and bucked down the steep dirt road, no longer worried about the comfort of the passenger in the locker, whom Joe could hear rolling and groaning beneath him. They were kicking up a lot of dust, but now Joe could see the survivalists in their trucks, a way back still, but gaining. There were two grenades left. Joe reloaded, then braced himself and waited.

  They got to the wooden bridge and Blackie slowed. They could see Cash waiting on the paved road up the other bank. He’d backed his car up for a quick retreat and was now stationed behind it, weapon poised, ready to give them cover.

  “Okay, Blackie,” Joe said. “Now take your time. Easy does it.”

  Blackie began driving the truck slowly over the bridge, careful to stay centered. The survivalists appeared over the hill behind them and Cash opened fire, holding them back. As the truck crossed, Joe aimed carefully, planning to blow the bridge after they cleared it. Then one of the survivalists popped up from the back of a pickup, aiming a shotgun over the roof, and blew out their rear left tire. The truck lurched sickeningly, and for a second Joe thought they were going into the creek. But Blackie floored it, wrestling the wheel as the powerful engine roared and getting the truck’s front tires up onto the bank as the back end skidded sideways. The pickup started over the bridge behind them. Joe fired.

  At that short range, firing just a few yards, the blast was tremendous. The bridge splintered, the front of the pickup was destroyed, and the truck dropped violently, ending up halfway up the bank with its rear end hanging over the collapsed bridge, now beginning to burn. Joe had ducked to the floor of the truck after firing, but he was rattled and had no idea where the launcher or the remaining grenade had gone. The back of the truck was crushed where it had hit the ground and broken the axle. Feather and Blackie, strappe
d into their seats at Joe’s insistence, were shaken but fine. They began scrambling out of the truck’s front windows and yelling for Joe.

  Joe heard Grables banging softly but frantically under the seat. He lifted the seat cover and tried the lock. It was jammed. He rattled it, but the bolt had bent in the crash and wouldn’t slide at all. Grables heard him and pounded louder. “Hey!” Joe heard a voice, muffled as through a pillow. “Hey!”

  “Joe!” It was Feather. “Come on. This shit’s going to go up any second.”

  He was right. Joe could see the flames rising as the bridge and the pickup both burned. Gunfire drilled through the back of the truck. It couldn’t reach him through all the steel if he stayed low, but the bullets or the flames would reach the gas tank soon or find that loose grenade. Joe leaned back and kicked the jammed lock hard with the flat of his foot. Nothing. Again. It didn’t budge.

  Blackie and Feather were yelling. “Joe! What the fuck! Come on!”

  The truck lurched again, as a burning plank gave way beneath it, and Joe saw flames rising in the back window. Automatic gunfire crackled and a howl came from the locker as Grables was hit, a bullet piercing the locker from that side.

  “Sorry,” Joe said, knowing he couldn’t be heard. Then he went.

  *

  Joe climbed out of the truck’s driver’s side window, Blackie yanking him up while Feather and Cash both laid down covering fire, spraying the other bank. They scrambled up the slope to the BMW and Cash floored it, fishtailing as they raced away. They heard the blast.

  The flames reached the grenade and it exploded, igniting the fumes in the gas tank almost immediately and sending up first an orange fireball and then a belch of black, gasoline-fueled smoke as parts of two trucks and, presumably, Grables, were scattered over the area. The bridge buckled, its remaining structure shattered in the blast, and the whole mess collapsed into the creek, hissing as it was extinguished.

  As they careened down the narrow road, trees flashing beside them, Joe quickly removed the clip from the deputy’s Glock and tossed it out the window. Then he racked the slide, ejecting the bullet in the chamber out the window, and removed that whole part of the assemblage from the frame. Inserting his apartment key into a small opening, he removed the backstop and took out the firing pin, disabling the pistol. He tossed all the parts out, one by one, as they drove.

  “Guns out. Wipe them down and hand them to me.”

  “Are you sure?” Feather asked, beside him in the back seat. “What if they come after us?”

  “Even if they cross the river, they’ll be on foot. But if we get pulled over, we’re fucked.”

  Feather nodded. He pulled out a bandanna and began wiping and dismantling his rifle while Blackie did the same to his gun up front and handed Cash’s back to Joe. They tossed the pieces into the forest.

  7

  By the time Donna and Logan got to the police station, Donna was staring out the window in silence. At first she’d tried to make conversation, update Logan on the guy they were chasing, but Logan just cut her off with: “Yeah, I read the file.” So Donna dropped it, and when her phone beeped with a message from the office, she used it as an excuse, first checking work emails, then, discreetly, Instagram. They parked in front of a small municipal building that had a courtroom and town hall up front and the police around the side.

  “Here we go,” Logan said, her first words in an hour. “Local PD.”

  “Right.” Donna got out and let her take the lead. They followed the signs to an empty waiting room and waited, standing on the public side of a waist-high room divider. Donna could hear a voice murmuring from behind the far door.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Anybody here?” She shrugged at Logan, opened the swinging door in the divider, and went through to the door in back. There was a hall with a number of doors off it. The voice was coming from an open one marked CHIEF. She stuck her head in. A large white man with white hair and a big pustule-covered nose was talking into a radio.

  “Excuse me, Chief?” He looked up. She held up her credentials. “Special Agent Donna Zamora. Sorry to barge in, but there was no one up front.”

  “There should be a deputy. Can’t raise him on the radio either. Weird thing is his car’s outside.” He sighed. “Well, anyway, that’s not your problem. What can I do you for?”

  “Really just a courtesy stop. I’m with a US Marshal in pursuit of a federal fugitive.” She told him the basics about Grables and the tip that he was at the camp.

  “Well,” the chief said, “I’ve been meaning to get up there myself. Maybe I’ll tag along to observe.” He went to a gun cabinet and took out his keys. “And bring my shotgun in case we see some quail.”

  He followed them out, locking doors behind him and hanging a BACK SOON sign on the door, then got into his patrol car. The two women got back in their Impala and pulled up behind him while he started his engine, still trying to raise his damned deputy on the radio. Then they heard the blast.

  *

  When Joe saw Donna, for a moment he felt like he was dreaming. After the explosion, Cash had raced down the hill from the camp, piloting the car expertly around the curves, then braking smoothly to a legal speed as they turned onto the main road and cruised back through town toward the highway. Joe was just starting to relax a little, to feel they were almost in the clear. He removed the damaged sunglasses from his pocket and unfolded them; an arm dropped off. They were done for. A casualty of war. He could still hear it, that muffled thump coming from the jammed locker, Grables frantically, hopelessly fighting for his admittedly pretty worthless, mean, and stupid life. But still, a life. And life always fought against death. Even a rat, a bug, a germ. Not always though, Joe reminded himself. Some gave up or were defeated before their hearts ever stopped. Not Grables, his shitty little heart pounded like a fist till the end.

  Then they heard the sirens, not coming after them but approaching from the center of town. A minute later, they saw the cop car. It was in the oncoming lane, lights flashing.

  “Fuck,” Blackie muttered up front.

  “Easy,” Joe said. “We’re fine.”

  As the corner light turned red, the cop car rushed through.

  “Don’t worry,” Cash said in an even tone, checking his rearview, chewing his gum slowly. “I got it.” He stopped with the rest of the traffic to let the cop car pass. It was driven by an older white guy in a hat and uniform like the deputy’s, with aviator sunglasses and a big, lumpy nose. Right behind him was a black Impala with government plates. And there, in the passenger seat, casually looking out her window and right into Joe’s, was Donna. Her eyes widened as if she were seeing a ghost. She glanced back, doing a double take. Their gazes met and though he remained perfectly still, he realized that without meaning to he was smiling. Then in a couple of seconds, she was gone. A beat later, as if breaking the spell, the fire truck came, wailing, guys in rubber gear clinging to the sides and the red ambulance right behind. All four of the men in the car sat in tense silence as the convoy rushed past.

  “Damn, that was close,” Feather said, turning to look out the back. He patted Joe’s arm. “Good thing we ditched the guns, dude.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “Good thing.”

  *

  When Donna saw Joe, for a moment she thought she was dreaming. The sudden sound of an explosion, booming like thunder from the hills outside town had thrown them into action. The chief had flipped on his siren and taken off, with Logan close on his tail, and the fire department joining a few minutes behind. The blast came from the direction of the camp, but what possible connection could there be between a routine follow-up on a report of a wanted fugitive and a sudden explosion in the same general area? Still, Donna did not believe in coincidences, and she had the feeling that another seemingly standard operation was about to slide into chaos. That’s when, glancing out her window at the cars that had pulled over to let them pass, she saw him in the back seat of a white BMW, staring casually back out at h
er. Joe Brody. It was only a second or two, but their eyes clearly met, and he clearly recognized her. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. And then, just as they slid away, she thought she saw him smile.

  “You really think this could have something to do with Grables?” Logan was asking, half to Donna, half to herself.

  “Something is telling me it just might,” Donna said.

  The chief turned off the main road and led them up a steep hill, engines roaring as they climbed, and Logan was caught off guard when the chief screeched to a halt, pulling left, his rear end blocking the road. Logan went right, standing on the brake and kicking up a cloud as she stopped.

  “What the fuck is—” Logan began, but then through the dust she saw why the chief had pulled up: they were perched over a creek, a deep narrow cut in the hill. The wrecks of what looked like two vehicles were dumped into the creek along with the smoldering remains of a bridge. And standing before them, heavily armed and looking both dangerous and confused, was a line of mostly bearded men in camo and military surplus gear.

  Donna drew her weapon as she unbuckled her seat belt and was out the door in one fluid motion, while Logan did the same on her side.

  “Hold it,” they shouted, almost in unison, both taking two-handed stances while the chief sprang from his car, racking his rifle.

  There was a second of hesitation, the survivalists looking back and forth like scared creatures choosing between fight and flight. Then on the far right, the one closest to Donna drew down, swinging his assault rifle toward them, and she fired, killing him instantly as her shot tore open his chest. In a flash, as though someone had dropped a match into a box of firecrackers, everyone was blazing away. Donna shot the next one in line, two through the belly, while Logan took down two more on her side, killing one outright as he fired and wounding the next as he turned away and her bullet passed through his side. The chief took out a large, heavyset guy in hunting clothes, knocking him right off his feet with the blast from the shotgun.