John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

There was a dull clap as Finch’s gun barked, but the bulldozer blade deflected the round. Tug’s third blast hit Finch in the right shoulder, rendering his hand inoperable as the gun locked in his grip fell heavily to the dirt.

Tug heard a report and felt a slap to his right shoulder. He turned to see Albert kick out at the last standing shooter, striking him in his back before he could fire again. It didn’t keep the man from firing at Tug, but it spoiled his aim. As Albert shifted his balance to kick out again, the crate fell on its side, the noose abruptly ending his fall. It took longer than it should have for Tug to point the gun, but the back-kicked man was squatting now to get a more solid shooting stance. He took the buckshot square in his stomach and fell behind the overturned crate. Tug pointed the shotgun at the crate and fired again, the buckshot piercing its wood slat walls to find the man behind it.

Having counted his shots, Tug was peeling a shell from the bandolier as he made his way around the blade. Albert grunted and clawed desperately at the noose and began spinning and kicking, moving in a jerky circle. In the time it took to get a shell in the tube, jack it into the gun’s receiver, and aim at the swaying rope, Albert’s tongue was already sticking straight out between his teeth.

The lead pellets cut the ski rope and Albert fell, flattening the crate.

As Tug rushed past Finch, he kicked his Browning away. He set the shotgun down and loosened the slipknot. Albert gagged and choked, but he picked up one of the shoes he’d kicked off and hummed it at Finch.

Albert couldn’t talk, but he grunted pitifully, pointed a fat finger at Finch, and made a throat-slashing motion.

“Good idea,” Tug said, plucking out a foam earplug. He stood, took out his folding knife, and went over to Finch, who looked at him with furious eyes. “Go ahead, wanker. You don’t know what you’re in for,” he said.

“I know what you’re in for,” Tug said.

Finch smiled. “They know you’re…” Tug grabbed Finch’s ear, and as he was drawing the serrated edge hard through Finch’s throat, the man said something that sounded like “Paulazar.” Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be saying it again, because Tug severed Finch’s windpipe as he drew the blade through his neck, with no concern for the warm spray that hit his face. When Tug stood and looked at Albert, he saw figures moving behind him and several bright muzzle flashes. The kneeling Albert White jerked like he’d grabbed a live wire. His shirt sprouted red blossoms as more red spray filled the still air.

Tug felt dull punches all over his body. He threw himself behind the manager’s shack as the dirt where he had stood was still being churned. Bullets pinged the pieces of equipment as, with great effort, Tug pulled out his pistol and fired several rounds toward the figures dressed in black who’d come through the same door he had. He heard a loud grunt and smiled bitterly. At least he’d hit one of them, but they had to be SWAT because they were in black assault suits with body armor, so the hit wouldn’t do more than knock the breath out of him. He had seen at least four shapes, though it was likely there were twice that many.

“You think you’re going to arrest me?”

A man laughed. “We aren’t the arresting type. Here’s the offer. Come out and we’ll hold fire.”

“Go fuck yourself with a stick,” Tug barked, spitting blood. If they weren’t cops, were they Finch’s backup? Christ, what had the man expected he might run into? He could hear more men running into the building and dispersing. In a few seconds they would kill him where he lay mortally wounded.

He looked from the door to the explosives safe facing him. Sitting up, he crawled over, aimed, and used two bullets to blow off the hasp holding the large padlock. Painfully, he pulled the door open and scooted inside the dark cold space.

“You aren’t getting out!” the voice yelled.

Tug set the handgun down and used the flashlight from his pocket to look at the stacked crates of TNT. He figured there were several hundred pounds of explosives in the small shack. He was losing focus as the blood ran in gushes from a dozen holes in his body. The bullet-struck organs were closing down, and coupled with blood loss, it made it difficult to remember why he was there. He stared at the boxes in the circle of light from the flashlight he had dropped, reached for one of the small cardboard boxes on the shelves beside him, and put it on the floor against the carton of dynamite closest to him.

“Hey!” he yelled, coughing. “Come on in. I’ve got something for you!”

He heard men talking outside the structure and, opening the box, he looked at the cylinders stacked inside.

“Ten seconds to come out or we start filling that shed with holes,” a voice replied. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…”

Tug used his remaining strength to stick the muzzle of the HK down against the blasting caps and tighten his grip.

“Three, two…”

His hand trembling, Tug felt the trigger giving.

“One!” the voice outside yelled.

Smiling, Tug Murphy closed his eyes and squeezed.

Kurt Klein stood in the living room beside a tall balding man wearing an expensive-looking suit, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and a yellow and blue paisley silk bow tie. The man smiled when he saw Billy Lyons.

“Billy?” he said, crossing to shake hands. “I didn’t know you were representing Mrs. Gardner.”

Shaking the man’s hand vigorously, Billy said, “Jerry, I can’t believe after all these years with me thinking you knew everything, you’re admitting there’s something you don’t know.”

Jerry laughed and turned to Leigh.

“Jerry Cunningham, may I introduce my client, Leigh Gardner.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gardner. My condolences,” he said, taking her offered hand in his.

“For whom?” she asked.

Jerry’s smile faltered. “Your ex-husband. I understood he was killed.”

“He and Sherry Adams, who worked for me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Cunningham.”

Winter was looking at Klein when Leigh spoke. He saw the industrialist’s eyes turn away, but the German’s smile stayed perfectly focused.

“And these gentlemen are Winter Massey, who I’ve known longer than I like to admit, and Bradley Barnett, the sheriff around here. Him, I’ve only known since Ole Miss. We were fraternity brothers,” Billy said jovially.

Jerry shook each of their hands as they were introduced. “And this is my client, Kurt Klein,” he said, stepping back as Kurt approached, hand outstretched.

“Mrs. Gardner. So nice to finally meet you.” He took her hand, held it for a second, and said, “My condolences in the matter of both of your recent tragic losses.”

Winter half expected her to say something like, “You’ve done enough already,” but she chose to let it go. What she said was, “Thank you,” and she smiled as she said it.

Kurt indicated that they should take seats in front of the roaring fireplace, which was a natural gas fire licking steel logs that appeared to be real.

“These are the bearer bonds,” Kurt said, pointing at an envelope on the table. “Ten instruments each worth five hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

Billy took the bonds out, inspected them, and nodded his approval.

Signing the papers took two minutes. Once notarized and signed by Leigh, along with Winter and Brad, who served as witnesses, they stood and prepared to leave.

Leigh handed Brad the envelope. “If you’ll see this is put in a safe place.”

“Safest place there is,” Brad said.

As they were leaving, Kurt said, “Mr. Massey, might I have a word with you in private?”