Authors: Stephen Hunter
“Swagger, we have six eight-man reactive squads in the area. We can have a SWAT team here in three minutes. We have choppers and dogs. You’ll never get it done. It’s over. You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I came back to bury my old dog, and nobody’s going to stop me. Now let’s get going.”
The three of them walked stiffly through the swinging doors.
“Now up here, to the left. You boys put him in the human morgue. That’s proper, because he’s a better man than most men, I’ll tell you.”
They reached the morgue.
“Here we are, Memphis. Don’t fuck this up like you fucked up Tulsa. You hit the first time, Pork.”
Nick blanched; his shame, yanked up out of the past on him. How had he known?
“Yes?”
It was Nivens, the county coroner, who’d done the autopsy on the dog.
“Uh, Dr. Nivens, my name’s Nick Memphis, FBI,” Nick said. Nick drew out his credentials and the three of them faced the runty little doctor.
“We’ve, uh, we’ve decided to send the dog’s body on to Washington for further testing and—”
“Oh, God, Bob, Jesus, don’t shoot—”
The doctor had recognized Bob even as Nick was talking. So Bob pulled the Colt out and said, “Now, don’t do anything stupid, Doc, I just come to get my damned poor old dog. Give him to this young fool here.”
But in the face of the pistol, the doctor simply surrendered;
he was one of those natural victims eager to give up. He went to his knees and blubbered at Bob not to shoot him because he had three children, a mortgage, a sick wife.
“Where’s the dog, dammit?” Bob asked.
The doctor mumbled something about Number 7, and Bob gave Nick a shove in the direction of the drawer marked 7. Nick ambled over to it. He had a Colt Agent .38 snub in a ballistic nylon holster strapped to his ankle, in accordance with the new Bureau reg that permitted backup guns in units with high-contact probability, but the problem with an ankle carry is its awkwardness. He’d never get to the piece, get it unstrapped, get it into his big hands and find a shooting position before Bob had shot him several dozen times. But he knew that Howard had a piece on his ankle also and he was afraid that Howard, now furiously ashamed to be taken so easily and caught up in the drama of a collapsing career, might lose it and go for the piece and get himself and probably everyone else in the room killed.
Nick slid open the drawer; it was cool inside. The dog, wrapped in a human body bag, was light enough. He hoisted it.
“Fine,” said Bob, watching him, watching the doctor, watching poor Howard, “now bring him over here.”
“Swagger, give it up,” said Howard, “before somebody innocent gets hurt.”
“Now, sir,” said Bob, courtly as ever, “you just mind your own business and nothing sudden will happen to anybody. All’s I want is to bury my dog.”
Suddenly, they heard sirens.
“Colonel?” It was one of Payne’s men, an ex-cop, and he’d just caught up with Shreck in the corridor.
“Yes?”
“It’s Jack, in the Electrotek 5400 in Arkansas. He’s just monitored an FBI report from outside Blue Eye to the effect that they’ve got Bob Lee Swagger caught in the Polk County Health Complex. They’re just this second bringing in their SWAT teams and snipers, and the state cops and the local cops are pouring all kinds of stuff into the place.”
Shreck’s eyes acquired the color of ball bearings.
“I want you to get to Operations and bring it up off the shortwave on loudspeaker. I’ll be there in a second. And clear the room. I want to hear this one without a lot of asshole chatter from the teams.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” said Shreck.
He felt nothing: no elation, no dizzying blast of happiness, no relief. He was a professional. But in the tunnel that was his mind, he had just a split second of pleasure. It was about to end.
He raced toward Operations.
“All right,” said Bob, gesturing to Howard and the doctor. “Y’all lie down on the floor. Keep your heads down and don’t try anything foolish. You, chubby, you’re coming with me. Bring the dog.”
Abruptly, they stepped through the swinging doors, leaving the stunned victims in the morgue.
“Hold it,” Bob commanded.
He positioned himself next to the doors, and two seconds later they blew open to reveal Howard with his little .38 on a rampage, and Bob simply clipped him between the eyes with the hard butt of the .45, in a kind of insolent, backhanded swat, sending him down to the floor with a thump, his little revolver clattering away.
“Wasn’t he the stupid one?” he said laconically to Nick, who watched the whole thing in astonishment.
“Now, this way,” Bob directed with his .45, as the sirens grew louder outside.
“You got every SWAT team in six states on your ass,” said Nick.
“Pork, you’re here to carry the dog, so why not just keep that mouth buttoned up?”
Everywhere they ran through the building they encountered frightened people who melted away with shrieks or faints. But no officers; Howard hadn’t gotten any men into the building yet and probably wouldn’t until the evacuation was complete.
Nick felt his Colt Agent jostling in the ankle holster; but he still had no good shot at getting it out, not with the eerily aware Bob shoving him down the hallway toward God knew what.
“Where we headed?” he asked.
“Shut up, Pork,” said Bob.
Suddenly the loudspeakers boomed through the hallways.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the FBI requests that you stay in your offices. There’s evidently a felon loose in the complex.”
“Jesus,” Nick said, “they got you now.”
A state police car whirled down Route 71 from Mena toward the health complex, siren blaring, blowing by the Electrotek van, which had been discreetly parked at a wayside stopover. Behind the police car came another and another. A helicopter churned overhead.
In the van, a scrawny ex-cop named Eddie Nicoletta and called Eddie Nickles, said, “His ass is grass.”
But Jack Payne didn’t say a thing. He just sat there listening to the orchestration of the law enforcement units over the radio intercept. Nothing showed on his mean little face.
The radio chattered on.
“Command, I got three State teams coming in.”
“Okay, good, Victor Michael Five, I want you to work ’em around back and coordinate with our sniper post.”
“Ten-four, Command. Are we green light?”
“That’s a negative, Victor Michael Five, we have a federal officer as a hostage, I repeat, we have a federal officer as a hostage. I’ll call the shot if it goes to it.”
“But suppose we get him clean?”
“Ah, we’ll have to get back to you, Victor Michael Five,” said the command voice.
“Fuckin’ feds,” said Nicoletta, “they take over and then they don’t know what the fuck their policy is. I remember this time, working narc, when—”
“Shut up, Nickles,” said Payne. Then he turned to Pony, a Panther Battalion communications technician really named Pinto, and asked, “They getting this back at Dulles?”
“Loud and clear,” the Salvadoran said. “I tell you, man, with this stuff you could start a radio station.”
Another chopper roared down the road.
I want to be there
, thought Jack Payne suddenly, a yearning going off in him like an inflating balloon.
But he sat tight.
“Don’t touch that dial,” he said.
Bob stopped to pull on the padlock of a door marked
ENGINEERING ONLY
. Magically, the lock popped open.
They stepped into a little closet. There was a grating on the floor and Bob bent to open it; beneath, Nick could see a metal ladder.
“That’s our ticket out, Pork. Get your ass and a half down there and then go to prone, on your belly, legs and arms spread. You make a stupid move, I’ll have to dump your bones here. Sad for a big boy like you to have to die over a dead dog.”
Nick struggled down with the dog’s corpse; he could
sense Bob above him, the yawning bore of the .45 always locked onto him. The man carried the gun lightly, easily, as if he’d been born with it.
At the bottom Nick looked up, and there was Bob, the gun on him. Obediently he went to the floor as Bob clambered down, pulling the grate shut after him.
“This way, now,” he said.
Nick had to admit it; yes, he was impressed. Bob knew the layout of the place cold; he’d left the woman up front to call the cops because he wanted lots of commotion and chaos; he figured he could get out. But he couldn’t make it with the dog, so he’d had to wait until a strong enough man showed up who could carry Mike while he, Bob, negotiated the obstacles.
Recon, remembered Nick. A good sniper always recons the area before he operates. He never goes in blind. He knows where everything is, he plans escape routes, evasion maneuvers, always has a plan.
At the end of the narrow tunnel they came to another ladder; this time Bob went up first, back against the rungs, the gun on Nick. Nick followed, covered the whole way, and had trouble lugging the dog’s body up the ladder, but Bob didn’t help him a bit. Finally, grunting heavily, he was up.
“Damn dog is
heavy
,” he said.
“You ought to try humping a seventy-pound pack in the boonies in a-hundred-twenty-degree weather, Pork,” said Bob. “Now shut up. This part might be tricky.”
They were in another closet, close in the dark. Outside it, they could hear motion, the staticky crackle of a radio, the low murmuring of serious men.
“Hold on to that dog,” whispered Bob.
Then he pressed open the door. They were in some sort of garage a good seventy yards from the main health complex building. Outside, Nick saw three state police
cars set up to form a perimeter around the building. Cops were crouched behind their wheel wells, aiming shotguns or scoped rifles. But Bob and Nick were outside the perimeter.
“Now, we go out here, we walk, we don’t run, about a hundred yards, to where you see a generating shack. Around back, there’s a red pickup. That’s where we’re going. You make any sudden moves, son, and you know what’s waiting for you.”
“Yeah,” said Nick.
“So let’s do it.”
They walked out into the bright sunlight and didn’t look back. The damn dog was getting even heavier. Nick’s arms ached. He watched as the generating shack wobbled closer, wondering when the hell Howard would shake the cobwebs from his skull and figure out what was going on and order his snipers to green light the two walking men. The bullets would sing out and since the guys didn’t shoot worth a shit at any range over seven yards, he knew he’d get blasted. What made it worse was the sense of commotion rising behind them, two or three new choppers arriving, while all the sirens in the world seemed to be sounding, as if it were some kind of state police convention in Little Rock.
But they made it to the shed, and behind it found the red truck.
“Put the dog in back,” said Bob, who had opened the cab and pulled out a short-barreled lever action carbine, an actual Winchester.
“Now, get in, Pork. You’re driving, and I got this little rifle on your butt.” He spat a leisurely gob into the dust.
“Jesus, now we’re just going to drive on out of here? Like, nobody’s going to notice? There’s maybe five hundred men out there by now.”
“We’re going out the back way and up the hill.”
“What back way? There is no back way.”
“I think you’re going to be surprised, son. Now get going. Key’s in the ignition and I’ve got this damn poodle-shooter on you.”
Suddenly there was a helicopter hovering overhead, whipping up a brisk curtain of . dust and beating the trees back.
“You in the truck,” came the loudspeakered voice, “out, or we’ll fire.”
“Shit,” said Nick.
“Punch it,” said Bob.
Feeling extremely mortal, Nick punched the truck. With a stunning leap, the vehicle took off, blowing up its own curtain of dust as it zoomed along the perimeter of the fence.
The shadow of the chopper stayed with them. Sirens rose; from around the sides of the building a fleet of squad cars emerged, plunging like a cavalry charge across the grounds at them.
“Now left, left,” shrieked Bob.
But there was nothing left but Cyclone fence.
In Operations, the men sat quietly, faces grave. Nobody looked at anybody else. From the bank of communications equipment, they could hear the drama playing itself out.
“All units, all units, I have suspects in red pickup inside the wire perimeter, goddamn that’s him, I swear, goddamn—”
“This is Command, this is Command, all units, stay in position, I want state police in pursuit, do you read, Victor Michael Five, get after him.”
“Are we green light, are we green light?”
“Only if you get a clear shot, all units, suspect is armed and dangerous but he’s got a federal hostage.”
“Is hostage expendable?”
“You must not let suspect get away, that’s imperative, all units.”
“Jesus,” said one of the Operations guys, “whoever’s on command just said go ahead and drop their own guy if they have to. The feds want this boy bad.”
Not as bad as I do
,
thought Shreck
.
“Left!
” screamed Bob, himself reaching over to shove the wheel. Nick felt the truck swerve and before it there was a steel fence post and he knew it would stop them and he’d end up wrapped around it. But the post went down like a snowman, yanking with it twenty feet of fence—Nick knew instantly it had already been cut through, that Bob had laid the whole thing out
hours
ago—and now they faced hill. Nick didn’t need instructions. He pressed the gas and rocked backwards through the gears and the truck bucked and clawed its way up, through underbrush, until it felt like a rocket ship ascending toward gravity’s release. It seemed almost vertical; he waited to slide back, felt the truck fighting and fighting and fighting.
Then, amazingly, they were over the crest of a ledge and on a dirt road.
“Go, go, you sonovabitch!” Swagger was yelling. “Wooo-eeee, left those old boys way back there.”
Indeed the police cruisers and the FBI cars didn’t have the gear ratios to make the incline. Nick could see one or two of them stuck halfway up and the others paralleling his course at ground level. But the choppers were everywhere, two, three, now four of them, darting like predatory birds.