John Sandford - Heat Lightning

“Ah, man-you’re taking fire right now?”

“Right now. Right now. I’m in the driveway, I’m under the car, I can hear a fucking machine gun, man, can you hear that?” The guy was shouting again. “Christ, it’s a nightmare, they got fuckin’ machine guns…”

“ Warren ’s down?”

“I’m looking at him, man, his whole fuckin’ head is gone, man, he’s gone, he’s gone, I got blood all over me, I’m drowning in blood, man…”

“We’re on the way, we’re on the way…”

Virgil looked at Davenport. “They just hit Warren. They’re talking machine guns. Warren ’s dead in his driveway.”

THEY TOOK Davenport ’s car, and Davenport pushed it hard, out to the interstate, into Minneapolis, Del trailing behind in the state car. Warren ’s neighborhood had been shut off, and two helicopters were picking through the brush with searchlights. They found a place to park, and Virgil, Del, and Davenport walked down the street to Warren ’s place, where a dozen cops were milling around in the yard. Eight or ten cop cars were parked along the street and on the other side of the lake, and two hundred people from the neighborhood were out in the street, standing in clumps, watching.

They found a Minneapolis captain named Roark who’d taken charge of the scene, who nodded at Lucas, checked out his tux, asked, “Is that the new BCA uniform?” and said, not waiting for an answer, “I hear you guys are involved.”

Lucas nodded. “This is the lemon killings. The killers are three Vietnamese, a woman and two men. We can get prints and DNA anytime we need them-on the woman, anyway. Probably on all three. They’re running.”

“Any idea on their vehicles?”

Virgil shook his head. “No. But they’ll have an exit plan, so they’re twenty miles from here and moving. Or they’re getting on a plane somewhere.”

Del asked, “You know what happened?”

“They got him when he was uncovered for one second, getting out of his car,” Roark said. “His bodyguard swears it was one second. They don’t know where the shot came from, but we think it was from across the lake. We sent some guys over there with a flashlight, and they found a matted-down place in the brush, and a mosquito net thing, you know, a head net, and a beanbag that was probably used as a rest.”

Virgil looked. “Easy shot, if you know guns.”

“I talked to one of the bodyguards, he said they never thought about the other side of the lake. The lake was like a barrier, but it’s only about a hundred and forty yards.”

“Goddamnit,” Davenport said. “They might never have been at the golf course. If they knew he was coming out tonight, that would have been enough to wait here.”

“What about machine guns?” Virgil asked Roark. “We talked to a guy…”

Roark was shaking his head. “One of the bodyguards freaked out and hosed down a ceramic statue. Blew it up, said he thought the guy had ducked for cover, so he put a couple more magazines into it.”

“So no machine guns?”

“We think it was one shot,” Roark said. “Big gun. Warren never knew what hit him. Blew out a good piece of his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

Davenport looked at Virgil. “You think they’ll try for Knox?”

“Yeah. They don’t know that we know where he is-in fact, they think we don’t know where he is.”

“Better get your ass up there,” Davenport said. “I’ll get you a plane, get some guys from the Bemidji office. Take some heavy shit with you.”

“I gotta get back to my truck…”

“We’re not doing any good here. Let’s go.”

ON THE WAY OUT, Virgil got on his phone and called Louis Jarlait at Red Lake. “Louis, We figured out the lemon killers. Three Vietnamese, two guys and a woman. They’re headed your way; they’re going after a guy up on the Rainy River, outside of International Falls. I’m flying into International Falls tonight, but I could use a little help-guys who know their way around in the woods.”

“I could get Rudy and go up there,” Jarlait said.

“Man, I’d appreciate it. We’re gonna get some guys from the BCA office in Bemidji, but they’ll be investigator types. We need some guys with deer rifles.”

When he was off the phone, he said to Davenport, “You should talk to Sinclair tonight. I’m wondering if he told me what he did to flush Warren out in the open. To make a predictable move.”

“I’ll do that. You take it easy up there.”

As they came up to his truck, Virgil said, “I’m going to call you in about one minute-they’re probably still monitoring my truck, and I’m going to tell them I don’t know where Knox is. You might get a little pissed about that.”

“I’ll play,” Davenport said.

IN THE TRUCK, headed down to the BCA office, Virgil got on the phone to Davenport, shouting: “Warren’s dead. They shot him at his house…”

Davenport: “Have you found Knox? Where the hell is Knox?”

“I don’t know. His daughter says he does photography, that he might be out in North Dakota somewhere. Maybe I could put out a BOLO on his car, maybe with the North Dakota guys. I don’t know where to take it…”

“How are these Vietnamese finding this shit out?” Davenport demanded. “Where are they getting their information?”

“Good fuckin’ question,” Virgil said. “I’ll talk to Sinclair about that.”

“You said he wasn’t home.”

“He’s not. I don’t know where the hell he is,” Virgil said. “He’s not answering his cell. Maybe he’s with the Viets-he was some kind of fruitcake left-winger…”

“So what’re you gonna do?”

“I’m going to put Shrake outside Sinclair’s house. If he comes back, we nail him. I’m gonna head down to the office, start working the phones. Honest to God, we gotta find Knox. Maybe tomorrow morning we could drop something in the media, something that would get him to call in.”

“If he sees it,” Davenport said. “Man, you gotta do better than this. You just gotta do better than this.”

THEY SOUNDED pretty good, Virgil thought after he rang off. He’d have bought it.

Virgil stopped first at the BCA office, transferred his outdoors duffel to a state car, including head nets and cross-country ski gloves, good for shooting and fending off mosquitoes. From the BCA equipment room, he got armor and an M16 and five magazines and two night-vision monoculars. Driving the state car, he stopped at the motel, picked up a jacket, and traded his cowboy boots for hiking boots.

Davenport called: “Got you a plane. They’ll pick you up at the St. Paul airport. They’re starting three guys to International Falls from Bemidji, but it’s a ride. It’ll take a while.”

“It’ll take Mai longer, unless they’re flying,” Virgil said. “If they’re flying, they still won’t be that far in front of us. I’m gonna try to call Knox, too. Tell him to get the fuck out.”

“Tell him to leave the lights on,” Davenport said. “Tell him to leave a car in the driveway. We need to pull them in there. We need to get this done with.”

VIRGIL CALLED Knox, and this time the phone was answered. Virgil identified himself and was told that Knox was in bed. “Then get him out of bed,” Virgil said. “I need to talk to him, now.”

Knox came up a minute later. “What happened?”

“Warren got hit. He’s dead. The killers are a Vietnamese intel team, apparently after revenge for the ’75 murders.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Knox said with some heat.

“Well, they don’t know that-or they don’t give a shit,” Virgil said. “Anyway, they’re headed your way. They know where you are.”

A few seconds of silence, then; “How would they find that out?”