Jeff Abbott: Cut and Run

Whit had thought Jose knew about Montana because he killed Harry. But whoever killed Harry could have coached Jose. Frank never knew about Montana until he saw Harry Chyme’s notes.

Frank’s left us with guns pointing at each other’s throats while he has the money.

Whit eased back from the crates. The stack stood five feet high, next to a long wall of shelving, and he abandoned his original position, ducked down, tried to move silently under the shelving, his pistol in front of him.

‘Whit!’ Eve yelled.

‘You. Shut it down,’ Tasha said. A hard slap. ‘Scout,’ Tasha called. The little nickname she’d given him back at the club, a thousand years ago. ‘Come on now. Make it easy on her and you, okay?’

Then silence.

Whit knew that in the sudden quiet, Jose was hunting him. Moving into the maze of crates, not waiting for him to show himself. He moved further back along the wall, heading south, and in a bit of open space he spotted Trevor. Dead on the floor, eyes glassed, a puddle of brainy gunk underneath his head. He’d come around in a swath through the boxes, caught the two guys shooting at Heavy, killing them, before catching a head shot.

An assault rifle lay by his side.

Whit inched over, knowing he was putting himself into the open. But he didn’t see Tasha, didn’t see Jose. He carefully picked up the rifle, pulled it close to him, crabbed back behind a crate. It was wicked, an AR-15 he guessed, the kind popular in law enforcement and the military, a sixteen-inch barrel. Maybe thirty rounds in a magazine, he thought Claudia had told him once. No idea how many Trevor had used, the rifle could be empty. He checked the selector lever; it was set on auto.

Near him was a set of metal stairs that led to a catwalk that cut straight over the warehouse space. At the level of the catwalk an array of fluorescent lights, dimmed but active, gleamed.

Climb up there and he would be a dove in the sky, an easy target. But he was getting backed into a corner. He could dash across the remaining open space of the warehouse that he could reach, pray they couldn’t see him in time… and then what?

He heard footsteps. A soft tread. Coming his way.

In the dim light he backed into the stairway, trying not to clang the rifle barrel against the steel. Looking back he spotted red metal behind him, beyond the stairs. More canisters of gasoline, stacked near another set of crates. Weird, why gas where they had their drugs? Why weren’t they getting the cocaine out of here and onto the street as fast as they could? Perhaps the coke was gone. But no, these were the pottery crates that Kiko had smuggled the goods in. Eve had said the dope was in pottery. But hardly a crate opened, the drugs staying put.

Tasha and Jose didn’t want to deal the cocaine. They were going to burn it. Hence the gasoline and flammables in the front office.

Or he could. They were going to kill him and Eve. He could not hide longer than perhaps another two minutes.

He made his choice. He was going to kill people now, including himself, and he fought down the sharp throb of fear and regret in his chest. Because there was no other route, no other way. At the least Jose wouldn’t get away.

Whit closed his eyes, thought of his father, his brothers, Claudia, Gooch. Eve. Said his good-byes.

He opened a canister, gently tipped it over, let the fuel glug out onto the floor.

‘Whit. Come out, now.’ Twenty feet away from him. ‘You give us the money, we’ll let you go. We’re really not the bad guys here.’

Whit upended another container of gasoline, then a third and a fourth, scurried back from the spreading puddle. The smell rose like swamp gas; Jose had to know what he was doing. He backed up into stairs that led to the catwalk that crossed the space. Looked up, saw the fluorescents, still dimmed.

‘We’re not the bad guys,’ Jose repeated. ‘We’re doing good. We’re all about stopping the drug dealing, man.’

Whit stopped, counted the lights, wondered how much they would spark. Either from the electricity being shorted or bullets hitting metal.

Jose’s voice drew closer. ‘We call ourselves Public Service, Whit. We rid the world of this scourge of drugs. Your mother’s joined us. Willingly. Isn’t that right, Eve? She’s nodding, Whit. We could use a resourceful guy like you on our side. Don’t be afraid. “True nobility is exempt from fear.” What we do is truly noble. Let’s talk.’

Ten feet now.

‘If you join us-’ Jose started.

Whit fired the assault rifle at the canisters, stacked by the fuel he’d poured. They blossomed into flame. Then he spun and ran up the steel steps, fired a long burst at the ceiling, at the array of fluorescents.

The lights shattered, sparking from the gunfire, plummeting into the spreading gasoline. Debris hit his shoulder, cut his arms. He reached the top of the catwalk and heard the whoo-humph of the gasoline catching in full fury, felt the sudden heat beneath his feet. The lights flickered in the other half of the warehouse and running hard along the catwalk, harder than he ever had, he saw his mother. Handcuffed to a folding chair, Tasha shoving her toward the office door, Jose screaming below him, caught in the flush of fire, screaming, screaming, and then not.

Bucks limped after the women, his pants leg torn and bloodied. Whit ran down the stairs at the other end of the catwalk, thinking Christ was I stupid, the fire moves faster than me and then he was on the floor, the crates erupting into fire as more canisters exploded, the warehouse’s very air seeming to ignite. He dropped the empty assault rifle, grabbed Bucks’ arm, hurried him through the splintered warehouse door. Heat rose like a storm surge behind them.

They ran through the outer office into the thin rain of the night. Eve lay on the ground, Tasha standing over her, forcing her to her feet.

‘Stop!’ Whit yelled. He grabbed the Sig tucked into his pants, tried to bring it to bear.

Tasha spun and fired at them as they came through the busted door and Bucks howled, staggered, fell to his knees. Whit jumped from the concrete steps, no place for cover, fired at Tasha. Missed.

And then Tasha had her gun at Eve’s head.

‘Scout! Back off!’

The heat flooded the air behind him, rising to an inferno. He aimed the gun at Tasha, at her shoulder. Eve dragged her feet, dragged the chair she was bound to, trying to slow Tasha, pull her off balance.

‘Let her go,’ Whit yelled.

‘You let me walk!’ Tasha shouted. ‘Or she dies!’

He moved faster toward them.

Eve screamed, ‘Whit, run!’

Tasha aimed at Whit, fired as Eve swatted at her arm, and the bullet cracked inches past his head. But Eve and Tasha were too close together for him to shoot.

‘Get away from my mother,’ Whit shouted.

‘You let me walk,’ Tasha screamed and Whit said, ‘Fine. Fine. Go.’

‘What?’ Tasha screamed. Disbelieving.

He turned the gun up, away from her, palms open. ‘Go. But don’t kill my mother. Please.’

‘Don’t do to me what was done to you, okay?’ Eve said.

Tasha backed away from them both, and Whit thought what are you doing, she’s guilty as hell, don’t let her go but letting her go meant saving his mother. Tasha ran. Whit hurried to Eve’s side, put himself between Tasha and Eve. Tasha bolted to her Honda, barreled the car through the closed gates, windshield breaking, metal screeching, but then on the street and careening away.

Eve was sobbing. ‘You came for me. You came for me.’

He held her for a moment. Then raced back over to Bucks. Blood welled from his chest, from his mouth. He checked Bucks’ pulse. Faint. Fading. Inside the warehouse a series of explosions shuddered. Fire department, police would be here any second.