“That’s a negative,” said Whitehurst. “That’s why I haven’t confirmed yet. Philadelphia can’t get their bird airborne. Trouble with the fuel line…”
His hand tightened on the Sig’s grip. “What’re you talking about? I got one homing in on me right now.”
There was a pause on the other end. “No good, McCauley. Get everybody outta there! That’s not us!”
A little late for that, thought Dex. His pulse jumped so quickly, he felt an instant of pain behind his ears, a blur of vision. “I’m gonna need some help here!” he said, then punched off the call, knowing he should be doing something.
He moved away from his pick-up, leapt over the hedge and ran along the left perimeter of the front lawn. Interior lights blazed from most of the windows on that side of the house, like beacons to guide him in for a closer look.
Rotors were slashing and beating the air above him. Looking up, he saw a dark fuselage silhouetted briefly against the low cloud cover then it vanished. The aircraft had cut its running lights and only the increasing baffle of it blades belied its proximity. Dex wondered if it carried heat-sig scanners which would reveal his position instantly.
Can’t worry about it now.
Moving to a window under a flower bed, he wedged himself in between two large manicured shrubs. Thin, designer blinds shuttered the light from inside, but remained slanted just enough for him to squint into the thin horizontal opening.
Just enough to see a very bad situation.
Richard and Peggy Bruckner lay on the floor, hands and ankles bound by Monadnock plastic restraints — the kind now used by most cops. Dex couldn’t hear them, but Richard was muttering something as his wife sobbed demonstrably. Jason Bruckner was on the carpet as well, but seated and leaning against the wall — he’d taken off his shirt and was trying to staunch a heavily bleeding wound in his leg. His expression a combination of shock and abject terror.
No sign of Augie, Bruckner, or Tommy.
Jesus, what the fuck now…?
As if in answer, the rotor noise above him changed pitch and the chopper’s engine surged with power and intention. Wedged in between the cover of the large bushes, Dex look up to see the black aircraft careen over him at a severe angle, skimming the nearest decorative trees in the front yard as well as the peaked roof. Then it dipped and swooped like a gigantic, predatory insect as it dropped to the wide expanse of lawn behind the Bruckner’s colonial. It was small and sleek, and he didn’t recognize the model or the manufacturer, which meant it could be some exotic foreign bird.
The ratcheting rotor noise was loud and fearsome. Porch lights of neighboring homes were switching on, doors were opening as neighbors were checking on the disturbance.
Moving along the edge of the house, Dex reached the rear left corner, using a stand of small evergreens for cover. The bay door of the chopper had slid open to accept its cargo — which had moved into view simultaneously upon touchdown.
Tommy, hands bound behind his back, being rousted along by a tall, rangy dark-skinned guy wearing all black. The man’s right hand wedged a handgun under Tommy’s chin while his other arm held him close as human shield. Right behind him, a shorter stocky red-haired man with a mustache, who was basically supporting a wrist-bound Captain Bruckner, held in the same shield maneuver.
Even though Dex had raised his Sig, he knew — no way he was getting off a shot.
Anger and frustration caused his arm to tremble and waver.
Clusterfuck. Complete and total.
The thought burned through him as the black chopper angled skyward in a savage leap, its engine screaming with power and menace. Within seconds, it had tilted and twisted westward into the night sky, the beat of its blades dopplering away into a faint mocking whisper.
It was only then, he was aware of his Trac Fone chirping at him.
Slowly, he lowered his weapon, tucked it away just in case someone saw him and got the wrong idea. The ambient sounds of people yelling and moving about left him in an impotent haze, as he keyed on the phone.
“McCauley…” he said in a raspy voice.
“Jesus Christ, Chief! What’s going on? Why’d didn’t you pick up?”
“Situation Fubar, Admiral. Can’t talk now. I’ve got casualties…”
He punched off the call and moved quickly to the back entrance of the house where the patio sliding glass door yawned open. As he moved quickly through the kitchen he heard a woman still moaning and sobbing.
He started yelling to announce his presence. Last thing he wanted was to create more panic. “Jason! Mr. Bruckner! It’s Dex!”
The Trac Fone started chirping, but he ignored it.
Peggy Bruckner was screaming, so loudly she effectively masked whatever it was Richard Bruckner was trying to say. Turning the corner out of the kitchen, Dex entered the room he glimpsed through the slatted blinds. Augie’s still form on the carpet remained in the same position — not good. Against the far wall, Jason had slumped over, conscious but growing pale. He looked like he was bleeding out, although slower than from an arterial wound. Peggy continued to wail, lost in total hysteria.
The Trac Fone went silent.
Kneeling by Richard, Dex pulled out his Spyderco and ripped through the restraint’s tough plastic with the knife’s inner serrated edge.
“Get ’im out of here! He’s hurt bad!” yelled Richard.
“What happened here—quickly!” Dex handed him the knife to cut his wife free, turned to Jason.
“They shot him in the leg! Hit the old guy pretty hard… dead, I think. And they said there’s a bomb!”
Are you fucking kidding me?
The thought pressed down on him like an enormous slab, threatening to flatten him into total surrender. But Dex kneeled, tightened the shreds of Jason’s shirt above the wound, started to yank him to an upright position. The Trac Fone started again, but he was way too occupied to answer it.
Peggy’s screaming had settled into a heaving series of soft cries, like some kind of weird seabird, which blended into the chirping cell phone. Richard had cut her free and as she had begun crawling on all fours toward the kitchen, he joined Dex to sling Jason between them.
When they’d caught up with Peggy, Richard urged his wife to get up, to get out of the house. But she kept half-crawling, half-dragging herself across the tiled floor, still sobbing and trying to catch her breath. “Anybody call for help?” said Dex as he and Richard dragged Jason toward the back door.
“They said they’d blow us up if we tried to call,” said Richard Bruckner. He was overweight enough to be gasping for breath and enough strength to push on. Dex figured the bomb thing might have been a bluff to immobilize everyone, but he still needed to get everybody clear of the house just in case.
His Trac Fone went off again as he struggled with Richard and Jason down the wooden steps of the deck, and reached the far corner of the yard. “Stay with him,” said Dex. Angrily, he punched off the ringer, then flipped his Trac Fone to Richard. “Call 911! Now!”
Then he was running back to intercept Peggy at the back door, who was feebly trying to sit up, to get to her feet. Reaching under both arms, Dex finished the job for her, and guided her out into the yard. She moved like someone under heavy sedation and her eyes rolled around, unable to fix on anything. The whole scene was surreal, like something from a distorted molasses-like dream. With each step, her weight seemed to be doubling. Finally, he reached the far corner of the lawn.
He heard Richard Bruckner say, “They’re on the way!” Even though Dex stood right next to him, his words sounded as if they were traveling a great distance, strained and weak.