Чак Хоган: The Standoff

The black marshal was yelling through teeth clenched on a lit cheroot. “Fucking bug spray,” he said. “On a covert surveillance op, fucking bug spray—” He strained against the arms of the four marshals holding him back. “The fuck were you thinking? This a fucking picnic here?”

“No, sir,” croaked the painted marshal.

A flaring shower of tobacco ash as the black marshal got an arm free and whipped his cheroot off the painted marshal’s vest. “Fuck me, no sir, you piece of shit. You fucking pussy. You bug-free fucking girl. They scented you. The dogs fucking scented you, you fucking perfume-wearing motherfucker. Bascombe’s fucking stung to death and you’re goddamn fucking bite-free. I will fucking kill you. Get the fuck out of my sight, I will fucking shoot you myself.”

The painted marshal was not breathing now. His mouth was twisted open and he was looking around dog-faced, as though for his dead partner. Then he turned and walked off.

The men released the black marshal but he fought them off anyway. He stalked around and saw a transport Jeep parked nearby and walked up to it and punched the center of the windshield with his gloved fist. It cracked in a fine web burst but did not shatter. Then his big arms dropped at his sides. “Fucking corpse,” he muttered.

He turned and saw Banish there with Perkins. The black marshal’s eyes were sharp over his frowning mouth, his hair cropped tight under a black ball cap “What?” he said.

Perkins introduced, too mildly: “Deputy Fagin, head of Marshals Special Ops Group; SA John Banish. Banish is the case agent on this one.”

Fagin stopped. “What fucking case agent?”

Perkins stiffened, stumbling over some of the words. “SA Banish is a hostage negotiator with Special Operations and Research—”

“Hostages?” Fagin came forward fast, looking at both of them. “There are no hostages on this mountain. What the fuck is this?”

Banish said, “Tell me what happened up there.”

Fagin turned. “Fuck you.”

Perkins said, “Now wait a minute—”

Fagin turned to him. “You fucking wait. I don’t mind a field division rep up here and I don’t mind Bureau deep-pocket help. But this is a U.S. Marshals Service operation.”

Perkins shook his head with an expression of tight-faced regret. “Not anymore.”

Fagin said, “Bullshit. Ables is a federal fugitive. Recapturing him is Marshal responsibility.”

Perkins listed the charges. “Kidnapping, assault on a police officer, assault on a federal agent, murder of a federal agent, conspiracy, conspiracy to commit murder—”

“Bullshit.” Fagin stalked away five broad steps, then came right back. Body language punctuated his vehemence. “Bullshit. That’s my man flying home under a sheet.”

Behind him, the BOLOs stirred with interest and narrow-eyed defiance. Grim, mustached men. But Banish watched everyone with the narrowest eyes of all.

“Was he married?” Banish said.

Fagin looked at Banish. His face seemed ready to explode. “This is your specialist?” he said to Perkins. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

“Did he have any children?” Banish said.

Fagin looked at him as though he were crazy. His expression as he shook his head was one of broad, taunting confusion.

One of the BOLOs spoke up behind. “He was married,” the marshal said. “No kids.”

Banish nodded. “Late twenties?”

The BOLO nodded yes.

Banish closed his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, then his temples, then just his eyes with the thumb and finger of his left hand. There was no headache, just a swirl of complications and old, distorted voices. In the darkness he could have been anywhere.

He opened his eyes and was back where he was, the others all staring at him, waiting or annoyed or wondering what the hell. Banish was accustomed to the staring.

He looked at Fagin. “Call your Director,” he said. “Get me assigned off this mountain.”

Fagin showed him a face. “Fuck you,” he said.

Banish shook his head earnestly. “It’s all yours. I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. Call him up and get me out of here today.”

“Fuck you. You know that’s not how it’s done.”

Banish did know. If it were that easy, he would already have placed the call himself. “Then tell me what happened up there,” he said.

Fagin glared. He looked over at Perkins, who showed him nothing. Then he crossed his big arms.

“Routine surveillance-containment, two-by-two cover formation. Two teams flanked laterally in a gully thirty-five yards below the target. Oh-seven-hundred hours, a neighbor approaches the property. Red Cross had been escorting residents up to their homes to feed animals or pick up medicine; this individual somehow slipped away. The suspect, Ables, his brother-in-law Mellis, and one of Ables’s daughters all exit with dogs and guns to greet the visitor. The dogs pick up Lobach’s scent and charge the gully. Bascombe is positioned behind a tree twenty yards down. The lead dog passes him, going for Lobach. Bascombe jumps out, ID’s himself and taps a dog, then takes three quick, two in the chest, one in the throat.”

Banish tensed a little, recalling the sensation of lead tearing through skin and muscle. “Armor?” he said.

“Thin ballistic standard. Fucking tin. They’re using AR-15s.”

“Trigger?”

“Unknown. All three were firing, including the fucking girl. Ten more minutes of swapping shots, then a hose-down from the cabin and all three individuals retreated. The dogs are dead. We can’t get to two of them. Cabin fire pinned us down and the fog and terrain eighty-sixed air support. Rescue teams had to hike up. Took three passes to get the body out.” Fagin glanced aside again, shaking his head. “Fucking bug spray.”

“Your men didn’t hit anyone?”

Fagin said, “Unknown at this time.”

“The girl,” Banish said, pressing him.

Fagin said, “Unknown.”

“How old is she?”

Fagin looked incredulous again. “How old? The fuck does it matter, how old?”

“It matters. What are the children’s ages?”

“Read the file,” Fagin said. “Then you can send them all birthday cards. Meanwhile, we got a fucking situation here.”

Banish nodded, but to himself. Too much to handle all at once. He felt suddenly transparent standing there, as though everyone could see right through him. Confidence was crucial to success. Especially the image of confidence. He needed something here. He turned quickly to Perkins. “We’ll have a full staging area set up in this clearing — supply trucks, U-Hauls, bulldozers, more trailers, Humvees — everything fully operational by tomorrow A.M.”

Then to Fagin, “No more Red Cross walk-ups. Tighten the cabin perimeter and close it to forty yards, no one in or out. Then requisition some legitimate body armor ASAP. When things quiet down, have your men start up a collection for the deceased’s wife.”

The BOLO said, “Bascombe, sir.”

Banish nodded. He was in charge now, he should know the man’s name. “Bascombe,” he said.

The BOLOs behind Fagin nodded. Each was a family man, or planned to be, and the scent of death scared them. Nobody wanted to die alone.

Banish felt himself faltering. He had to get away and regroup. He turned and found Agent Coyle and relieved her of his suitcase. “Which trailer is mine?” he said.

Perkins said, “We’re tripled up. You can have—”

“I’ll have my own. Vacate it and send someone over with the complete file. Where does this road go?”

He was looking back across the clearing to where a Jeep was entering. The Jeep swam a bit in his vision.

Perkins said, “Down to the bridge, where we set up a roadblock. But we only have so many trailers—”