CHAPTER TEN
I never lost consciousness. As with the fall, I had just enough time to protect my head. The roof battering me doubled the pain I was already in. I might have welcomed a blow to the noggin. But if the goon squad overcame or got past Rich, I'd be easy pickings lying knocked out amid a pile of old wood. If I wanted to be any help to Rich—and myself—I had to get out of here. The wood pieces that landed on my arms when I covered my head fell away easily enough.
Next, the three planks that crashed onto my chest. They flew off with a shove that sent a flare of pain running down my shoulder. My legs were covered, by a beam across my thighs and a bunch of two-by-fours below my knees. The larger piece of wood did not respond to my first push. I shifted my hips as much as I could, put both arms under the beam, and heaved. It lifted about a foot. My left arm screamed at me. I didn't have the strength or pain tolerance to throw it off. Instead, I turned more and thrust my arms upward. The beam crashed back to the concrete about two inches above my head. I let out a deep breath.
Behind me, the fire raged. A window somewhere in the house popped and sprayed glass into the backyard. I heard voices. Before I crashed through the carport's roof, Rich had gone hunting for the men who brought him here. I needed to help him. They had three when they kidnapped him and could have picked up the fourth member. I sat up. My left shoulder still hurt something fierce, and the rest of my body was one large dull ache. I reached behind me for my gun.
It wasn't there.
I heard voices again. Harsh, unfamiliar. Definitely not Rich. I looked around for the gun but didn't see it. It must have fallen out when I took my tumble and got buried by the roof. I rummaged through the detritus. Most of it was brown and darkened by water damage. The color made finding a black gun difficult. If I survived this, maybe I could bling out my pistols with some nickel grips.
A gunshot rang out, then wood splintered. I searched faster. Three more shots came from the direction of the splintering. I heard what sounded like two people grunting and falling over. When digging through a pile, my hand bumped something metal. The gun. I grabbed it, then crouched and looked out from behind a pile of wood in the ruins of the carport. One of the goons ran from my left. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rich coming from the right. He stayed close to the house and used the shadows of trees as he moved around. The other man didn't see him. By the time he did, Rich was ten feet away, and the shot was easy.
Rich looked at the wreckage and frowned. "You all right?"
"I'll live," I said.
"Stay here. I'm pretty sure they brought a fourth. I'm going to find him." Rich skulked away toward my left. I kept surveying the grounds. No sign of the last guy from the SUV. I also heard no sirens. Even though first responders wouldn't come into the house, between the fire and the gunshots, I figured someone would have called the cops. Maybe this street really was empty.
On the far side of the yard, past the house, Rich moved away from the burning structure and deeper into the yard. It was a mess of shrubs and overgrowth, perfect for hiding a goon who didn't mind getting dirty. Then I saw the fourth man stalking Rich. "Shit," I muttered as I stood and ran over. The man did not have a gun but carried a two-by-four. "Behind you!" I yelled, but before Rich could turn, the other guy clubbed him and sent him crashing to the ground. I pushed ahead faster as the assailant bent down to pick up Rich's gun. He grabbed it and stood. "Put it down," I said as I got to within twenty feet.
The goon looked at me, then the prone Rich, who lay in the grass and groaned. I took a couple steps closer. My pulse thumped in my ears.
"You gonna shoot me?" he said. I recognized him from the fight at the motel, but he had been one of the guys who fought Rich.
"I will if you raise the gun." He held it in front of him, still pointed toward the earth.
"Ever shoot anyone before?" He grinned at me like a predator eying up its next meal.
"First time for everything." My hear rate slowed a bit now that I wasn't running, but the situation kept it high. I didn't have Rich's practiced calm. I hoped I wouldn't need it. This asshole would put Rich's gun down, I would pistol-whip him, and it would be over.
"Sure you got it in you?" he said.
"You're close to finding out," I said. I was fifteen feet away and a good enough shot not to miss at this distance.
He nodded, looked at Rich, then at me again. "Yeah, I guess you're right." This screamed setup, like the guy who fakes turning away and then throws a punch. I stayed on guard. The goon raised his left hand and started to crouch.
Then the gun flashed up.
I fired once. Twice. A third time.
Three red spots appeared on the man's chest, two on the left side and one on the right. He looked confused. The gun fell from his hand. He tried to say something, but his mouth didn't work, and a thin stream of blood ran out instead.
Then he fell to his knees and pitched forward.
I dropped the gun and stared ahead.
I just killed a man.
***
Everything transpired in slow motion. Rich sat up and rubbed his head. He looked at the dead goon, then at me. His head pivoted slowly, as if he moved underwater. I kept staring ahead. It was all I could do. Rich looked down and saw the gun. He said something, but I couldn't understand it, like he shouted from behind a waterfall. Rich crouched and shook my shoulders. I blinked for the first time since I dropped the gun.
"Are you all right?" he said, and I understood it this time.
"I . . .I . . . shot him."
"Yeah. Good thing, too. I don't know how the fucker snuck up on me. He would have shot you or me. Or both of us."
"I shot him," I said again.
Rich frowned. "First time, right?" I nodded. He sighed. "Always the worst. Look, you'll get past it. I can help you." He glanced around. "And I will. Wait there." Rich left for a short while. It could have been ten seconds or an hour. Whichever, he came back and stuffed something in his pockets. "Right now, we should go. Who knows if these assholes called for reinforcements?" He collected my gun.
I felt myself nod. What Rich said made sense.We should leave. More goons could be rolling up any minute. I knelt on the ground, unmoving, as if I had grown roots. My legs didn't want to move. "Come on," Rich said. He hooked me under the arm and lifted me up. I stumbled in the direction of the Camaro. Rich gripped my bicep to steady me as we jogged. He opened the door and shoved me in. I stared forward and fumbled with the seatbelt. The V8's rumble broke my reverie. Rich turned the car around and took off down the street. "We have to change hotels," he said as we sped along the road. "Even if we have to stay outside the city, it's worth it." He paused, obviously waiting for me to concur. I couldn't form any words, so I nodded.
Something burned in my gut. I replayed the scene over and over. The man walloped Rich with a plank. I ran over. He acted like he was putting the gun down, then tried to raise it. I shot him. Once. Twice. Three times. Red spread over his chest. He lay face-down in the grass. At least his dead eyes didn't stare at me. It may have been too much right now.
The burning traveled up my throat. "Pull over," I managed to say. Rich jerked the wheel and skidded the car to a stop near the treeline. I opened the door, staggered out, and vomited all over the ground. I puked again and again, until I heaved only air. I closed my eyes and took a few ragged breaths. Rich put a hand on my shoulder. "You did the right thing," he said.
I nodded. On some level, I knew it. "Doesn't feel like it right now," I said in a raw, scratchy voice. Between the fire and throwing up, my throat felt like I had gargled with lava.
Rich handed me a couple napkins. I was about to ask where he got them when he said, "You brought a bag of food with you?"
In spite of the situation, I chuckled. "Had it in my hand when everything went down." I wiped my mouth. I wished I could have sandblasted it.
"Well, when you're feeling up to it, go ahead and eat." He looked down at the pool of vomit in the grass and handed me a bottle of water. "I think you'll need to."
I opened the water and drained half of it in one long swig. "Maybe later," I said.
"You better now?"
"Yeah." I stood. A little wobbly, but I made it.
"Let's go, then."
We got back in the car and headed toward Route 219. "Let's check out the motel," Rich said when we were closer. "If it looks like someone is sitting on it, we keep going."
"I want my laptop and gear," I said. Rich glared at me. "It's good stuff. I'm not letting it go just because a couple assholes are outside our doors." We got to 219. "Make a right," I said.
"What? Why?"
"I want to see if anyone is camped outside the back of our rooms. It'll work better if no one sees your super obvious car drive past the lot."
We snaked our way around the back roads, emerging onto 219 above the hotel. Rich pulled over and I got out. "Be careful," he said.
"I'll try to leave the shooting to you," I said. I approached the motel from the rear. The rooms backed to a grassy lot, then a short fence. I kept low, moving along the fence, but I was the only person out here. A single bound got me over the barrier. Now I had to hope I picked the right room. The window in the bathroom wasn't big, but I could fit through it. First, I need it to be unlocked. Of course, it wasn't.
I had a special keyring full of tools for picking locks, but it was in my room. There didn't appear to be a way to open the window from the outside, anyway. So I improvised. I took the gun out of my pants, gripped the barrel, and smashed the handle into the glass. I cleared some remaining shards. A few sharp bits remained. I doffed my sweatshirt and draped it over the bottom of the window frame. I lifted myself through the window, grunting in pain as my left shoulder barked at me again.
My feet hit the bathroom floor. I opened the door slowly, my gun leading the way. If anyone was in the room, they were the hide and seek world champion. I grabbed my gear and tossed it into my bag. Then I saw my clothes. I liked what I brought. There was room in the bag. I shoved everything in and walked back into the bathroom. No one waited for me outside the window. I craned my neck and looked in both directions. The area was goon-free. I threw the bag onto the grass, climbed out behind it, and dashed back to Rich's car.
***
I persuaded Rich to pull over. We got off 219 and turned into a parking lot behind a nondescript building. Someone would have to look for us to notice us here. "What are we doing?" he said. I thumbed through a few notes on my phone.
"Finding a place to stay," I said.
"We can find a hotel."
"So can the people who tried to kill us."
"You have a better idea?" said Rich.
"We'll see." I found the number and called. Luke Thompson answered on the second ring. "You still want a story?"
"What do you have in mind?" he said.
I gave him a rundown of recent events. "Our concern is they're looking for us. They could have more guys, or they could even have some deputies."
"You want a place to stay." It wasn't a question.
"And a place to hide the most obvious car in the county for a day or two," I said. Rich frowned. I covered my phone. "I'm not the one with a bright blue Camaro."
"I think I can help you with those," said Luke.
"Thanks."
"It's not out of the kindness of my heart. I want to fill page one with the story you guys are going to give me."
"I think you'll be able to," I said. "We need a little time to wrap it up, but it could be a career-maker."
"Where are you now?" I told him. "Stay there. I'll come meet you, then you can follow me. I'll try to keep us off the main roads as much as possible."
I hung up. We waited.
***
We followed Luke's Jeep down the back roads of Oakland. A couple blocks from the Republican's office, he led us to a body shop. Rich pulled the Camaro into a vacant bay. We got out. The door closed behind us. "My brother's shop," Luke said when we got into his Jeep—Rich up front and me in the back. "He'll keep it in there for a couple days. Shouldn't take you longer than that, right?"
"No," Rich said. "I think we're close to wrapping it up."
"Good." Luke pulled out onto the road. "What else do you need to do?"
"Tie up loose ends," I said. "I need to do some research. There have to be connections here."
"Connections where?"
"Between Land of the Brave, the mayor, maybe the sheriff's office, and whoever provides meatheads for hire."
"I grabbed a couple of their IDs," Rich added. "Doesn't tell us who hired them, but we can still use it."
"I'll see if I can help you with it," Luke said. He steered us down yet another in a series of twisty county streets I couldn't distinguish. "I've lived here long enough."
"I do . . . different research than a lot of people," I said.
"Hacking?"
I nodded. "None of it will be traceable back to you."
"So you're the law and order one," Luke said, inclining his head at Rich. Then he half-turned to glance at me. "And you're the one who colors outside the lines."
"I'm the better-looking one, too," I said. Rich snorted in the passenger's seat. I saw the top third of his head shaking above the headrest.
"I'll make sure the readers know," said Luke.
"Please do."
Luke owned a small, two-story house with a short driveway leading to a detached garage that looked more like a barn. He parked the Jeep and we all went into his home. It felt cool, like he hadn't run the heat since Spring began six months ago. Ugly green carpeting covered the floors. It went with the beige walls, but it was still hideous. If my house had come with such abominable carpet, I might have burned the whole place down just to ensure I was rid of it.
The rest of the place was furnished by and for a bachelor. Luke and I had similar tastes in furniture if not in quality. The living room room consisted of a sofa, recliner, entertainment center with two game consoles, and a large TV mounted on the wall. The dining room held a small square table and four plain chairs. "You can setup here for now," Luke said. He told me his Wi-Fi password. A minute later, my laptop was on his network and connected to the VPN. "You don't take many chances, do you?"
"Not with my technology," I said.
Rich and Luke adjourned to the dining room while I banged away at my research. The people had to be connected. The helpful mayor, the nice charity director, guys like Billy, the four goons. I couldn't link them professionally, and in a small town, I couldn't go around and interrogate people. That left Google and other tools. I preferred those to most people anyway.
There are plenty of websites, legitimate and otherwise, dedicated to aggregating information about people. With the right search parameters, you could find a trove of embarrassing information on most people. Humiliation was always nice, but I wanted to see how these people fit together. Ken Dennehy. Pete and George Rodgers. The two dead assholes whose wallets ended up in Rich's pocket. Even Billy the drug delivery guy. Something other than drugs tied them to each other.
The first domino fell in about a minute. George Rodgers took his wedding vows thirteen years ago, marrying Dawn Dennehy, sister of Ken. They had an older sister, Sheila, who married a man now deceased. Their son William in West Virginia struggled with addiction and often found himself on the wrong side of the law. The dead husband, Edward Leonard, had a son from his first marriage. Tyler Leonard's picture looked back at me from one of the dead men's wallets. A family operation, more or less.
This would give Luke his story. He could pull a couple more threads and unravel the whole thing. I did enough of the heavy lifting for him.
Now Rich and I had to bring these people down.