Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

“One of ’em has a gun! He just shot out two floods.”

Lou managed a cold smile. George must have brought more than a camera with him.

“Hey, Welcome, that you?” the man closest to him called out. “Your fat black friend is dead. Toast. You should have stayed at home, because you’re next!”

It was strange for Lou to hear his name called, but not surprising. Clearly, his mounting suspicions about Kings Ridge had gotten someone’s attention.

There was a sudden, intense rustling of corn from some distance away to his right, and moments later the gunman shouted, “Drop it, asshole!.. I said drop it!”

He had George.

“Welcome,” he called out a minute later, “I’ll give you until five to show yourself! Then I’m gonna blow this little sucker’s head off.… One…”

Lou judged the killer to be some twenty feet directly in front of him. After rising slowly, he remained hunched over as he moved ahead.

“Two…”

“Lou, the motherfuckers shot Notso!”

“Three…”

“Fuck you! Go ahead and shoot me, you prick!”

In the eerie glow from one of the remaining spotlights, Lou could see the gunman’s broad back, one shoulder, and the gun he held pointed at George’s head.

“Four…”

“I’m not afraid of you, you fat-”

Blood running down from gouges in his forehead and neck, Lou had moved as close to the man as he could chance.

One … more … step … and …

“Five!”

Ten feet away, George was on his knees. His glasses had been knocked off, and Lou sensed the frustration and anger in his eyes.

But no fear.

“That’s it, Welcome. His blood is on your-”

Bellowing, Lou exploded from his crouch like a football lineman.

The gunman whirled awkwardly and George rolled at his legs, connecting just below his knees. The man managed two quick shots, but he was off balance, and the slugs slapped harmlessly into the soil.

Driven by a burst of adrenaline and countless hours of sparring, Lou’s fists came up. He landed a powerful left-right-left combination to the larger man’s jaw, snapping his head from side to side like a puppet’s. His knees already wobbly, he dropped his gun and staggered backwards. Lou launched himself again, pummeling his face and the center of his chest.

Both men went down, Lou on top, still hammering downward with as much power as he had in him. It was as if he were punching stone. The man, with at least a four-inch and fifty-pound advantage, reached up and grasped Lou by the throat. He was a beast, and his ham-hock hands were pure power. Lou tucked in his chin to protect himself, but too late. His trachea and larynx were seconds from collapsing.

Still on top, he slammed his forehead down onto the man’s nose. Blood burst from both nostrils, but incredibly, the killer’s grip hardly lessened. His teeth were bared in a snarling rictus, and Lou’s vision began to dim. Grinning obscenely, he rolled Lou onto his back. Thick dollops of blood splashed down into Lou’s eyes.

He landed two more wild blows, but the behemoth simply squeezed harder. Lou’s flailing weakened. It was over. Images of Emily and Renee, his father and brother took over his thoughts. At the instant his vision went completely dark, he heard a loud gunshot followed by a muffled cry of pain from on top of him. The flow of blood from the man exploded into a fountain, and he toppled limply to the ground.

Gasping, Lou could only lie where he was.

Finally, he managed to turn.

The huge killer lay motionless beside him, blood soaking through the groin of his trousers. Then Lou realized that the top of his head had burst open as well.

George knelt nearby, smiling proudly. “I couldn’t find my thirty-eight,” George said, “but this damn water buffalo had a cannon. Just look at this thing. This is some serious firepower.”

Groaning, Lou forced himself to his knees. George’s bullet had gone straight up between the man’s legs and had blown off the top of his head.

Serious firepower, indeed.

“Nice shot,” Lou understated.

“You all right, Welcome?” George asked. “You look like something Jason got ahold of in Friday the Thirteenth .”

Lou pawed at the gore on his face with the sleeve of his jacket. It took some work, but gradually his vision cleared. “I’m okay, thanks to you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about your cousin.”

“I can’t believe this has happened. We gotta find him. He’s not dead. I know my cousin, Welcome. He’s not dead!”

“We’ll look for him as soon as we can,” Lou said, knowing in his heart what they would find. “We’ve got to get back to the car. We can call for help, provided there’s any reception.”

“How many you estimate are out there, not countin’ him?”

“I’m guessing four. Could be five. Stay low, George, and try not to fire that thing anymore unless someone’s about to kill me again.”

Crouching low, Lou moved ahead, pushing the densely packed rows of corn aside. George followed closely. They found the road again, and after a careful walk along the edge, saw George’s car. The overhead spotlights had been shut off. There was no sign of Cap or Notso.

“Cap!” George cried out anxiously. “Where you at, man? Notso! Cap!”

“George, keep it quiet!” Lou whispered harshly, but his warning came too late.

Gunfire erupted from across the road, forcing them back into the corn. Bullets streaked past them from several directions, but their cover held. Sticking close together, they pressed deeper into the corn. At that instant, the silence was pierced by a low rumbling, coming from the direction in which they were headed. Shoulder to shoulder, they ducked down in a furrow. The noise built steadily until it seemed like a jet engine had fired up and was heading toward them.

“What the hell is that?” George asked.

Lou stood up on his tiptoes and peered over the corn.

Instantly, his blood turned cold.

Advancing rapidly toward them through the darkness, looking like an attacking spaceship, its bank of headlights blazing, engine roaring, was a massive combine harvester. Attached to the front end of the harvester, whirling at a blurring speed, was a cylindrical threshing reel, at least twenty feet wide. The machine, with tires taller than Lou, was shearing stalks off at ground level.

Wind generated by the rotating blades sprayed dirt toward Lou and rushed ahead with enough force to throw him off balance. In the brightly lit cab, he could see the silhouette of the driver and wondered what George and he must have looked like to the man.

Helpless was the only word that came to mind.

Most frightening to him about the thresher was its speed. For several precious seconds, he was frozen-almost literally, a deer in the headlights of the powerful beast. The gap between him and the machine seemed to be closing rapidly. Finally, with no specific plan in mind, he whirled to his right. Nimbly, the combine responded. Moments later, Lou tripped and fell, pitching facefirst onto the rugged ground.

“George! Run! Get out of here!” he shouted, stumbling to his feet.

He could barely hear himself over the roaring engine, and knew there was no way George could hear him.

The screech of the razorlike blades was deafening, and the skill of the driver had him persistently locked between the headlights. Slivered stalks flew out from the base of the apparatus like daggers. A shot rang out from the right, then another. Bullets sparked off the metal framework of the cab. A third shot seemed to spiderweb the windshield.

Lou saw the muzzle flashes and located George, thrashing ahead through the corn, firing over his shoulder like a sharpshooter in a Wild West show. For the moment, at least, he seemed to be well beyond the far end of the screeching rotors.