Cannon headed to the back door.
“So, we know they come south from Indianapolis. We know they’ll come into Jasper and pick up some PSF escorts like last time. The question is, which way will they come?” asked Turnbull. Langer didn’t bother looking at the map Turnbull had spread across the work bench in Lee Rogers’s garage.
“Gotta come down 231,” Langer said. “Now, the question is whether they keep coming down 231 after Jasper to 64, or if they come down on 162 and hit 64.”
“We can’t know,” Turnbull said. “We need to hit them before they get to Jasper, somewhere along 231, before they pick up their PSF escort.”
“You got a 20 mile shot straight south from Loogootee,” Langer said. “Gotta be somewhere that’s good near the middle.”
Turnbull pulled the keys to Lee Rogers’s Ford truck out of his pocket and jiggled them.
It was an even day, and Lee’s truck had an even-numbered license plate to avoid attention and climate crime traffic stops. The pair took side streets until they got to 231 just south of the Walmart and turned north. There was not much traffic in the late morning. About half-way up, they found what they were looking for – a narrow stretch, with a wooded rise on one side and a long field stretching away in the other. Deep ditches paralleled both shoulders.
“We could seal it off there with a big truck or something,” Turnbull said. “And then another behind to block them in the kill zone.”
“Plenty of big trucks around,” Langer replied as a semi whipped past northbound.
“At least 15 minutes until help arrives, assuming they even get a call off. Lots of roads heading west, so afterwards we can get away fast and work our way back south. The meet-up in Jasper is supposed to be at 2030 hours, so this probably goes down around 2000 hours.”
Langer nodded. “We hook us up a spotter with a cell phone up in Loogootee, and he gives us a heads-up when they’re coming south.”
“We can bounce the calls around so it’s hard to track to someone around here. Dale can figure out who calls who.
“I got a team I want to use,” Langer said. “They did good the other night.”
“I want to use Banks’s team from Bretzville,” Turnbull said. “Though if we miss their area is undefended.”
“Reckon we best not miss then.”
“Yeah. Let’s go. We got nine hours ‘til show time.”
They kept to the speed limit heading south, and it was as they crossed the low span of the East Fork of the White River that a PSF cruiser pulled off the side of the road and fell in behind him.
Langer said nothing. He pulled out his .357, opened the chamber to confirm he had six magnum rounds loaded. Turnbull carefully and with little fuss pulled the Wilson Combat from behind him and placed it on his lap.
“We got the right plates, evens, right?” asked Langer calmly.
“Not sure that matters,” Turnbull said, eyes on the rearview.
The cruiser hit its lights.
“Better make this quick, before they can call it in,” Langer said. “Lee’ll be mighty pissed if she finds out there’s a BOLO on her truck.”
Turnbull eased the truck to the shoulder and released his seatbelt. Langer hadn’t been wearing one.
Turnbull’s right hand took the .45; his left reached over and grasped the door handle.
The cruiser rolled up close. Two officers. Their doors cracked open. No big deal, apparently.
Turnbull and Langer each threw their respective door open and rolled out onto their respective feet, catching the PSF officers as they were in the midst of exiting their sedan.
It wasn’t clear who fired first, Langer or Turnbull. Turnbull aimed center mass on the officer through the window of his target’s open door.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The window was down because there was no shatter. Instead, there were three eruptions on the front of the PSF officer’s uniform. He staggered backwards and onto the road, trying to draw. He had a vest, and probably some broken ribs. Turnbull fired again and again, then pivoted upwards and fired four more headshots. At least one connected – there was a puff of pink and the officer dropped dead on his back on the road.
The .45’s slide was locked back. Turnbull dropped the extended mag and slapped home a full one then released the slide and returned to seeking targets.
Movement left – no, it was Langer by the PSF car, pointing the big magnum at something on the ground and firing.
The last gunshot echoed in the air – fortunately, the nearest house was some distance away.
“You clear?” shouted Turnbull, searching for targets. His own was not moving – even his twitching had ceased.
“Oh yeah, I’m good,” said Langer. “This son of a bitch ain’t so good, though.”
“Help me get them in the truck bed before someone comes along and sees us.
They loaded the bodies in the back of Lee Rogers’s pick-up and covered them with a tarp.
“Follow me,” Langer said, trotting back to the cruiser. He did something under the dash, then fired it up and turned it around, heading back to the bridge. Turnbull followed him as he made a right onto a dirt road running parallel to the river and about 15 feet above it. They went in about a quarter mile to a quiet bend, where Langer stopped. Turnbull parked.
“Pulled out the GPS,” Langer said, holding up a grey metal device with a couple of wires hanging from it.
“Get the radio out too. Maybe we can listen in.”
Langer nodded and went to work as Turnbull kept watch. After a few minutes, he produced the radio. He also took the AKs out of the vehicle, along with the extra ammo. They had already liberated the side arms. To Turnbull’s disappointment, the dead PSF carried 9 millimeter Berettas. He had only about one and a half magazines of .45 left. But he did retrieve a fairly decent Kevlar plate from the back of each one’s vest. The front plates were terminal. Those would go in his own plate carrier rig, front and back. And he liberated a thigh holster from one as well.
Langer put the sedan in neutral and pushed from the driver’s door so he could steer; Turnbull pushed from behind. The sedan went forward over the bank and down into the river with a splash. The windows were all open, so it flooded almost immediately. With a final gasp in the form of a huge air bubble, it sunk into the muddy water.
“I’d plant those two here, but I need to go back to Lee’s and borrow her shovel too,” Langer said. They returned to the truck and headed south toward town.
Turnbull was taking the lead on this one personally. There were two cells involved, one Langer had trained and Banks’s from Bretzville. Their vehicles were left guarded about a mile west off a little used farm road. They made the march east to the ambush point with the sun still up, so they kept to the woods. They had all taken off work early to plan and rehearse; most worked for themselves or each other, so no one outside the circle of trust noticed.
The mission was much more impromptu than Turnbull liked, but they would be fighting somewhere tonight, and his vote was for on the ground of his own choosing. He planned it and rehearsed them as best he could in the time he had.
“How did your discussion with the ag inspector go?” Turnbull asked Banks as they walked between the trees.
“Pretty well. A couple of guys in masks pushed his car off the road, dragged him out from behind the wheel and kicked his ass pretty good. Told him things had changed and that his services were no longer needed,” Banks replied. “He won’t be back.”
“He?” asked Turnbull. “You didn’t misgender xim, did you?”
“I’m pretty sure he was a he,” Banks said. “From the way he cried when I slammed the butt of my fourteen into his nutsack.”