The inside of the old blue truck was vintage 1980s. The upholstery was held together with so much cloth tape that only the sides revealed the original blue vinyl. Both windows were rolled down, and they’d kicked out the windshield since the maze of cracks made it near to impossible to see through the glass.
Danya sat between the two men, hands on her lap and secured at the wrists with a couple wraps of gray duct tape. They bounced along secondary roads for about three quarters of an hour, she estimated, before stopping at a lone ranch house. It was the first building she’d seen since leaving the dirt road that encircled Sheep Creek Reservoir.
The house had a couple front-facing windows to the left of the entry door. Draperies covered the windows, blocking any view inside. Cement blocks, with paint peeling from years of neglect, formed the lower three feet of the exterior walls. The roof was clad in decades-old, weathered asphalt shingles curling along the exposed edges. A compacted gravel driveway led up to the double-car garage.
Inside, Leonard was standing before a beat-up old cast-iron wood stove. He was holding a photo of his mother and father, but his thoughts were elsewhere, imagining a newborn swaddled in a soft blanket and cradled in his arms. He longed for a family with Sacheen, but he had no time for such indulgences. He was at war. Later, he told himself. When the fighting was over.
His mind was drawn back to the present by the sound of crunching gravel. The pickup parked beside two rusted sedans, both with flat tires and sun-faded paint.
“Let’s get her inside,” the driver said. “Leonard wants to talk to her.”
“What about?” his partner said.
“Hell if I know. You know, sometimes you ask too many questions.”
The driver got out and strode toward the house, while the other man held the door open so Danya could slide across the seat and exit. She dangled her feet out the opening, but the truck was too high, and her feet wouldn’t reach the ground.
She rolled her eyes. “A little help…”
He reached forward, squeezing her bicep in a tight grip, and steadied her while she dropped a couple inches and planted her feet, legs slightly bent at the knees. As soon as he released his grip, she uppercut him in the chin with both fists. His head snapped back, and his teeth crunched together. Before he could stagger backwards and away, she thrust her knee into his groin. He doubled over, and she yanked her pistol from his lower back where he’d tucked it inside his belt, figuring to sell the gun later for a few hundred dollars.
She landed a brutal kick that whipped his head to the side, knocking him out. It all happened within the span of three heartbeats—too fast for the driver to realize the gravitas of the situation.
Gripping the SIG with both hands, she spun sideways and brought her sights to bear on the driver. The sound of the scuffle had drawn his attention, but too late.
“Drop the gun,” she said.
“Okay, okay.” He slowly removed the revolver from his holster.
The front door flew open, and a shotgun blast split the air. Danya dropped behind the front wheel. She needed to get her hands free.
She fired two shots around the front grill and then darted alongside the body of the truck, angling toward the back and a rusted corner of steel bumper. The ragged metal wasn’t exactly sharp, but it didn’t need to be. She rubbed the edge of the binding against the bottom of the bumper. As soon as a nick was formed in the tape, it rapidly spread, and she separated her wrists. Hands free, she made herself small behind the rear wheel.
The shotgun roared again, sending a cluster of buckshot through both rear fenders, narrowly missing her. Then the driver fired, sending a bullet through the body of the truck above her head. She lowered her face, and peering underneath the vehicle, spotted a pair of legs only a few yards away. It was the driver, and he was searching above the pickup, not under it.
She squeezed off a trio of shots. The rounds smashed through both legs below the knees. He fell forward, writhing in agony on the gravel. She fired once more into his prone body, the bullet entering his shoulder and tearing a massive wound cavity down through his chest, and eventually stopped at his pelvis. His death was quick, if not painless.
The shotgun fired again, but as before, the load of shot was placed too high. She had glimpsed a figure within the entryway, lost in shadows. She fired at the doorway, attempting to drive the shooter deeper into the house.
Hopping to her feet, she reached into the cargo bed to retrieve her tomahawk and the machete, which she returned to the sheath on her back. Ducking again, she dashed to the far side of the nearest derelict automobile. It was a Cadillac, and in its day was the epitome of American luxury. Now, with the peeling vinyl roof and oxidized bronze paint, it was a shadow of its former glory. Still, it was a massive chunk of steel, affording her precious moments to consider her options.
The metal hulks would give her reasonable cover to skirt around the garage and angle for an opening at the back of the house. Will the gunman be expecting that, and be lying in wait? And where are they holding Toby?
From her position, she still had an angle on the front windows, albeit an obtuse angle. Maybe she could set up a diversion of sorts.
She aimed over the trunk of the Cadillac and rapidly fired the remainder of her rounds into the windows, shattering the glass into thousands of fragments, and certainly drawing the attention of the gunman. She ran around the garage, even as the empty magazine fell to the dirt.
With a full mag inserted, and round chambered, she reached the back of the garage. The rear wall went straight from the back of the garage all the way to the end of the structure. She stuck her head and neck out further to take in the details, and saw two doors. One was nearby, and she reasoned it entered the garage. The farther one probably connected to a dining room or laundry room. Beyond the second door were a couple large picture windows.
She stalked forward, passing the garage door, weapon raised and ready to fire. Upon reaching the second door, she gently tested the latch. Locked.
Although her shoulder still ached from the tumble the previous day, she barely felt any discomfort—a welcomed side-effect of being jacked up on adrenalin. The pain would come later, and so would the meds.
She threw her shoulder into the door and crashed inside with barely any resistance. Her forward progress was arrested by a washing machine. Another closed door was to her left.
Knowing she’d announced her presence, Danya didn’t waste any time. Standing to the side, she threw open the door and then waited for the count of two before passing through.
Of all the varied types of combat she’d trained for, house-to-house—or in this case, room-to-room within a house—was the most nerve-racking. The confrontation distance was short, and almost always the first to shoot was the victor. Although the walls looked solid, modern framing and sheetrock were no match for bullets.
A table with two chairs was pressed against the far wall, separated by a counter from the galley kitchen. She edged forward. Once in the kitchen, she noticed another door to the right. Probably goes to the garage.
The sound strategy was to clear the building, room by room. That meant she had to either clear the garage or secure the door so that if the shooter was in the garage, he couldn’t sneak up behind her. She chose the latter and wedged a chair underneath the door handle.
The front door was ajar to her right, adding some natural light to the illumination from two table lamps ahead in the living room. She continued her cautious advance. A hallway extended toward the far end of the house, which now seemed much larger than it appeared from the exterior. The musty smell was pervasive, but she was happy to have the lime-green shag carpet underfoot to soften her steps.
Every two steps, she paused, straining her ears for any sound that might betray the position of her adversary.
There were two doors ahead in the hallway. One must connect to the bedroom, and the other to the bathroom. Both doors were closed.
She continued to edge forward, and then stopped four feet short of the first door. Shifting her grip on the pistol to one hand, she used the other to draw the Kukri from its sheath across her back. Then, her arm stretched to its full length, she rattled the doorknob with the tip of the machete.
A blast of shot blew a ragged hole in the center of the door, followed by a second load of buckshot blasting through the door and frame just above the latch.
Danya imagined the shooter sitting in a corner of the room opposite the door. She returned fire through the walls, hoping for a lucky hit. But her shots also hinted at her position.
The scatter gun roared again. This time, the shot was close enough to spray white gypsum powder from the drywall onto her clothing. She fired back, again and again, making minute adjustments to the bullet’s trajectory, until the slide stopped open.
Her gun was empty, and she had no more reloads. She dropped to her belly and crawled along the rank carpet for the deep shadows at the end of the hallway farthest from the living room. There, she waited with the Kukri in hand, her legs coiled, ready to spring forward.
After a long minute, the door swung open and Leonard emerged with the shotgun cradled in his hands—a twelve-gauge riot gun.
She had wagered that his tactics would be crude and undisciplined. And she was right.
He turned to the stretch of hall leading to the living room, never considering the threat that was right next to him.
She sprang to her feet, thrusting forward with the curved blade. At the last second, Leonard swiveled and blocked the knife with the barrel of the shotgun. Although he held a far more powerful weapon, the hallway was too confining for him to effectively bring it to bear.
He was backpedaling rapidly. Danya kept pressing her attack—thrusting and slashing, forcing Leonard to parry her attacks rather than aim his weapon.
He’d made it to the open space of the living room. Emerging from the hall only feet from Leonard, she slashed downward. The hardened steel blade bit into the blued barrel, generating a cascade of orange sparks, before sliding forward and into Leonard’s fingers. He cried in pain and released his grip. The muzzle of the riot gun drooped, and he drew his injured hand to his chest. With several fingers nearly severed, he was bleeding profusely.
Both warriors stood facing the other, sizing up the opponent, seeking vulnerabilities.
“You,” Leonard said. “You attacked my men on Alcatraz. How did you know to find me here?”
“Wasn’t hard to piece together. You talked a lot. Told Toby about your home here, your connection to family that lived here.”
“The FBI ordered the murder of my aunt and her children at their home only a mile from here. They burned them alive.”
“Your allegations are just that. The investigation—”
“The investigation was a joke. A coverup.”
“It was a tragedy. And you let it consume you with anger and hatred, like a cancer. This sciamachy you’ve been waging against imagined conspirators has led you to ruins.”
“I’ll kill you!” he screamed, and raised the shotgun barrel, one-handed.
But not fast enough. Danya seized her advantage and whipped the machete downward. The Kukri, designed as a combat knife, performed as expected. The steel bit into his shoulder, just missing his collar bone. It slashed diagonally across his chest, leaving an eighteen-inch laceration down to the ribs.
In an agonized scream, he pulled the trigger, even though he knew the shot wouldn’t connect. He staggered, but stayed on his feet. His eyes burned with hatred.
“Where is she?” Danya said.
Leonard laughed. “You’re too late.”
“Where is she? Or I’ll cut you up piece by piece until you tell me.”
A spasm of pain choked off his amusement, rendering his countenance a grimace.
“Not here,” he said.
“Where?”
“Gone. Poof.”
“Drop the gun.”
“This?” He summoned the strength to raise the barrel and grasp the foregrip with his bloody hand. “No.” He jerked back the foregrip to chamber a shell.
She swung the blade horizontally, which cut deep into his arm and knocked the gun aside. She pivoted. A glint of light flashed off the polished blade just before it sliced through his neck. With wide eyes, Leonard stared back at her. As the blood drained from his carotid arteries, he collapsed to the shag carpet and bled out in seconds.