T. Parker - Storm Runners

“The ocean can.”

“First things first.”

Stromsoe went to the foyer and looked out the windows to the avocado orchard.

“That razor-blade-in-the-mouth trick,” said Stromsoe. “I read about it years ago in the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin .”

“I did too.”

“You going to kill Frankie, or both of us?”

“Frankie.”

“Weren’t Hallie and Billy enough?”

“Nothing is enough.”

The artillery sounded against his body and through the phone. From the corner of the foyer Stromsoe scooped up four shot shells and stuffed them into a pocket. Then he tucked the butt of the blond shotgun under his right arm, slid off the safety, and trotted down the hallway.

“You’d like Frankie,” said Stromsoe. “You wouldn’t hurt her if you just knew her a little.”

“That’s very Matt, Matt.”

The master bath was damp and still smelled of soap and shampoo from Frankie’s shower. There was a sliding-glass door leading outside to a small patio with wooden furniture and a chimenea . Beyond the patio was a stand of eucalyptus trees, and beyond them the orchard. Stromsoe believed that Mike was in that orchard, watching the front of the house. He was armed and intended to kill them both when they came out the front door. This was only a guess but a guess informed by the twenty-four years he’d known the boy and the man he became. It was possible that Mike had someone with him but Stromsoe believed he was alone. In his own way, Mike had always been alone. Stromsoe’s plan was to get fifty yards into the looming avocado trees without being seen, then come up on Mike from behind.

He quietly slid open the door and stepped outside.

“How many times do I have to tell you that Ofelia was an accident? I wasn’t there, Mike.”

“You created the there, ” said Tavarez. “You made it what it was. At a certain point, the only thing that can happen is what does happen. This is called consequence and it’s a simple concept, my old friend.”

Stromsoe passed through the eucalyptus and into the fragrant shade of the orchard, balancing the shotgun on the meat of his right arm like a bird hunter, left hand raised to his ear with the cell phone, eyes searching the orchard beyond the drive. His heart was pounding wild and fast.

The cannons boomed through the sky from Pendleton.

And echoed through the speaker of the phone.

“Why don’t we make a deal?” asked Stromsoe.

“You don’t have anything I want.”

“We were friends once, Mike.”

“You’re not asking for mercy, are you?”

“Haven’t you had enough blood?”

The guns of Pendleton thundered and again Stromsoe heard them in his chest and in his ear.

“I mean, you’re free now, Mike. Why not just head to Mexico, find Ofelia’s ghost, or her sister, marry her, spend your millions?”

“What are your plans? Do you love this tall news lady?”

Stromsoe stayed to the middle of one row, moving deeper into the orchard. The fallen leaves were thick on the ground but they were soaked from the recent storm and allowed him to pass quietly. Led by faith and instinct, Stromsoe made the turn that he hoped would lead him to Mike. He had never missed his left eye like he did now.

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re very lucky to love twice. You must say your prayers every night, and pay your taxes, and go to church on Sundays.”

Stromsoe saw Mike standing beside the trunk of an avocado tree, facing the driveway and the house, his back to Stromsoe, an arm raised to his ear. Alone.

Stromsoe looked down before each step, keeping away from the leaves and on the damp silent earth left by the heavy rain.

“I’m not much of a churchgoer,” he said.

“Can she really make it rain?”

“She really can. It’s impressive.”

“Think how valuable she would be to the deserts of Mexico. Think of the thousands of acres of poppies.”

“Bring us down as your guests when you get settled. She’ll make some rain. Funny, though — I have the feeling you’re already there.”

“I went north. Everyone will be looking south.”

“That was smart.”

“Enjoy your time with the rainmaker. I’ll see you when you least expect it. And I’ll make you one promise, Stromsoe, for an old friend — I’ll never use another bomb.”

“Maybe a razor, like the guard?”

“Too wet, even for me.”

Stromsoe was seventy feet from Mike now. Mike had on a white dress shirt tucked neatly into his jeans, and cowboy boots. The sun hit him in a shifting pattern allowed by the big-leafed trees. He leaned on one elbow against a low tree limb and he looked like a gentleman farmer sizing up this year’s crop.

The artillery thundered again.

Sixty feet.

Mike hummed a few bars of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Every nerve in Stromsoe’s body stood up and listened.

Lord, how I want to be in that number...

Fifty feet.

“Adios,” said Mike. “Always watch your back, my friend.”

“Good-bye,” said Stromsoe. “Don’t forget to watch your own.”

He guessed that Mike had heard him, but Tavarez was still and silent for a moment.

Then Mike wheeled quickly to his left and Stromsoe saw a flash of steel in the sunlight.

Stromsoe swung his left hand up to the gun stock as Mike dropped and rolled and fired.

The double blast took out the limb. The bullet from Mike’s handgun screamed past Stromsoe’s head. Tavarez zigzagged into the grove, his white shirt flickering amid the tree trunks.

Stromsoe barreled after him, reloading the twenty-gauge without looking at it.

Tavarez scrambled up a hillock, made the top, and whirled around. Stromsoe saw the muzzle flash and heard the wooden knock of the round hitting the tree beside him. Mike was gone by the time he had the shotgun to his shoulder.

Stromsoe thought ambush as he reached the hillock, knew that if he rounded the crest he’d catch a bullet, so he veered out around the rise and tried to do it fast so as to keep Mike at least guessing.

He came around the back with the shotgun held out and two fingers on the two triggers but Mike had already made the road. Stromsoe charged ahead. Through the trees he watched Mike lope across the asphalt into more orchard and he could see the blood on the white shirt.

Mike made straight between the trees now, trying to stretch his lead, but Stromsoe stayed heavy upon him. Bars of shadow and sunlight held Mike as if inside a large cage but Stromsoe knew that if Mike could get out of sight, Mike could surprise and kill him, so he willed his legs to do more.

Then he came up a gentle swale. The grove ended abruptly at a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Beyond the fence were rolling hills of flowers — an ocean of reds and yellows and white stretching all the way back to the blue Fallbrook sky.

Mike ran parallel to the fence but geometry was on Stromsoe’s side now and he closed the distance.

Mike fired but Stromsoe could hear only the roar of the two barrels and feel the sharp kick of the butt against his shoulder.

He stepped behind the trunk of an avocado tree, reloaded the side-by, and flicked the safety off. He could see Mike outstretched on the ground. Stromsoe aimed down the barrels as he walked.

Mike’s chest was a bloody mess and he was breathing fast. One arm was out and one was trapped beneath him. His legs were spread. His pistol was on the ground by his right boot. Stromsoe lowered the shotgun but kept it pointed at Tavarez’s head as he kicked away the handgun. Mike’s eyes followed him but he didn’t move.

Stromsoe went to his knees beside Mike and looked at his white, blood-splattered face. “Mike.”