Knight's Late Train (7 page)

The new slip renter of number 12, Mrs. Esmeralda McCourkle, had just sailed in and was tying off her 36-foot Hunter sailboat, the
Nauti-Gal
. She was quite a virago for being in her mid-seventies.

“Maybe the dumb Greek was telling one truth to draw me off,” Rankle said.
“He told me ‘
Slip 12
’, didn’t he?”

The old woman sailor on the boat gathered up her calico cat and stood gawking at them. “Who’s the prick in the suit,” she asked, “and why is he eyeballing my boat?”

Smokey smiled at the seventy-something-year-old, admiring her perception. She had discovered a fondness for the old gal from the start when she met Esmeralda McCourkle and rented her the slip earlier this morning.

Old lady McCourkle released her cat, and it leapt to the pier. She told it, “Sic him, Friendly!”

The cat trotted up aggressively, but stopped about ten feet from Rankle, turned sideways with arched back and started a spit and hiss fit.

“Slip 21
is over here,” Lt. Legend said and gently led Rankle away.

In a few seconds they were standing in front of E Z’s boat.

“The
Reckless Abandon
?” Rankle asked, reading the boat’s stern. “That’s an understatement.” He scanned the old 27-foot Catalina, then his eyes lit up. “I’m betting Knight is here, and he’s hiding inside the boat’s cabin right now.”

Smokey saw the bikini top and bottom la
ying out on the cabin roof as if drying in the sun. A towel lay in the open cabin companionway.

Rankle stepped onto the boat and withdrew his gun, as the small vessel rocked. “Come out with your hands up! You know I won’t mind putting a bullet in you.”

In a blur of pink flesh, a young nude woman raced out, threw a small fur-ball at Rankle and dove into the water beside the dock.

The
fur-ball turned out to be a very angry ferret. It latched onto Rankle’s nose. The ADA went crazy and fired two shots wildly, before the small polecat let go. It bounded twice across the boat and then followed the girl into the water.

“Stop it!” Smokey yelled. “You’re going to kill someone.”

“What the hell was that?” Rankle said, not paying attention to Smokey, his gun aimed at the cabin companionway. “Knight, come out!” He edged closer, then stepped down into the cabin. In a couple of seconds, he was back out.

“He’s not here,” he said, blood dripping from his nose. He looked over the side of the boat at the water. “Who’s the girl?”

“It was only Jada,” Tamara said. “You damn near killed her!”

Smokey added, “She’s just a teenager who does odd jobs around the marina for folks. She cleans their boats, chips some paint ….”

“And sleeps with them?” Rankle asked.

Smokey sh
ook her head. “She sometimes stays in boats when the owners are away.”

Rankle smiled. “She’s a minor, isn’t she?”

“She’s a computer geek,” Smokey said.

“And she has an illegal,
wild
, exotic animal as a pet,” Rankle said, now holding a monogrammed handkerchief to his nose.

Smokey realized what was coming. Nostradamus was a
stray but very sociable ferret that E Z had befriended and the kids around the marina had grown very attached to, including Jada and her own son Rabbit and little daughter Dolly.

“You mean that wharf rat?”
Smokey asked, remembering she’d seen a dead one next to the garbage this morning. “Looked to me like she was trying to get away from it as much as she was trying to get away from you. The poor girl was scared to death. She thought you intended to shoot her.”

“
It was a ferret that attacked me, and ferrets are illegal in California.” Rankle’s voice became excited, “I’m making a long list. Knight’s going back to prison as soon as I find him. Indecent liberties with a minor, statutory rape, probably sodomy, illegal possession of an exotic animal, violating parole by both leaving the county and state without permission, as well as by violating a Federal court ordered restraining order. I’ve got him. I’ve got him by the short hairs!”

“
It wasn’t a ferret and what you
got
might be hydrophobia,” Smokey said. “You get peed on, spit at — and now bitten. Animals don’t seem to like you, Assistant District Attorney Edward Rankle. But don’t worry. I hear that long battery of shots they give for rabies aren’t quite as bad as they used to be.”

Rankle’s eyes got
big, again. “Lt. Legend, get animal control here right away. And find that damn rabid ferret!”

Smokey hoped the dead rat was still next to the dumpsters. She was pretty sure she could convince animal control it was what had “attacked” Rankle
— as long as Nostradamus stayed out of sight.

B & B Besieged

6
:00 PM MST, Doc’s B & B, near Crested Butte, Colorado

“Rillie, stay with Specks.” I handed her Big Deal’s Glock 9mm.

Even
though the clouds, trees and mountains hid the late-day sun from the clearing, the snow made the day bright enough to see clearly without extra light. It would be a different story on the narrow, shielded path surrounded by tall pines I’d soon be following. But the dimming light could be my ally.

From the equipment bag, I quickly pulled an M-4A1 close-assault carbine and a loaded magazine that I snapped into place under the rifle. Next, I extracted a back pack and ruck sack
pre-packed with an assortment weapons. I’d requested the “shopping list” while speaking with Judge Hammer’s assistant, Mama Lo, the night before.

“But, E Z, you might need me. Specks
is okay by himself, for now. He’s snoring peacefully back there.”

“Do you have any military experience?” I asked her. “Law enforcement? Can you shoot a gun as good as you can swing a pipe wrench?”

“No, but I can try,” she pleaded.

“No,” I told her. “That’s automatic gunfire. It’s serious stuff. It can cut you in half before you even feel the pain. I have no time to argue. You’re staying here.”

I took off, sprinting from the snow-covered clearing and onto a path that was mostly protected by pine trees. After a minute of sprinting down the hiking path, the gunfire stopped. Within 50 yards of Doc’s place, I could see two National Guard Blackhawk helicopters, with their pilots waiting inside, settled in the big, open parking area in front of the lodge. To one side of the front entry, three heavily armed men in white camouflage fatigues and white parka’s stood vigilantly, while another four men walked the perimeter. On their heads, they wore only stocking caps that would be much more comfortable and warmer than helmets.

At least some of the reason for the gunfire lay in the front parking area where the choppers rested. Scattered in front of Doc’s lovely, warm and welcoming log lodge were all three of his dogs; a black lab, a yellow lab and a collie — all had been beautiful and well-behaved animals.
The Boys
, as Doc referred to them, had been mowed down while defending their human family and home.

The sight made my heart sink and slam to the bottom of my soul.

This image of such beautiful animals lying murdered, along with a dozen other atrocities, would surely remain in the back of my mind for the rest of my days, and it brought tears to my eyes. The years of civilian life — even though much of it had passed behind prison bars — had softened my very thick, calloused feelings. My palms became sweaty. My heart pounded against my ribs and my hands trembled. The fear I’d abated had scaled the high wall of my resolve and was now tearing at my mind.

My children could be dead
, as well.

With eyes closed, I took a deep breath and turned my focus away from
what was
and
what could be
and the pain stabbing my temples. My thoughts must be directed totally at this being a rescue mission and not a balls-out massacre of some despicable assholes.

R
egaining my composure, I found a familiar deer trail that led to the back of Doc’s large log cabin. The backside of the house faced south, and its entire south wall was covered in large windows. If I stayed concealed, I had a good chance of surprising and overwhelming a squad-size force.

The
impressive great room with high-vaulted ceiling and rough-hewn beams was well lit. Five men in the white, snow-camo fatigues stood in easy view. A black man sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the big room. I took a set of binoculars from my backpack and got a better look. Focused on the sitting man, I soon recognized the bludgeoned and bloody face of John Sites’.

I’d known John
all of my life. He was in his seventies, but still an imposing yet polite figure at six-five and 200, muscular pounds. After Vietnam, it was John who got my father his railroad job with the ATSF Railway, now BNSF. They’d been best friends ever since. Although he’d left railroad employment long ago in favor of the government Federal Railroad Inspector job, he’d stayed in contact with Doc — and through my father, with me.

Bringing the binoculars down and shaking my head, I remembered John babysitting me when I was five. Specks and John Sites were my past — they were my father’s life, and I found my whole being anchored strongly with these good men.

Scanning the rest of what I could see of the house and yard, I found no one else. I prayed the children and Mary had somehow managed to escape. But were they outside someplace, unprotected in the snow? Now that the cold storm front had passed, the temperature was back up into the teens, but was dropping with the sun and would bottom out at near zero tonight. I inspected my surroundings and saw nothing, not even a trace that someone had passed into the woods.

After devising a quick plan, I pulled off my parka and dug into my backpack
and ruck sack in preparation for an impromptu mission. In three minutes, I’d buckled my weapons belt over a light jacket, and I was ready to deliver Hell to these Colorado National Guardsmen wannabes.

A
bout to shove off on a sprint to the back door, I stopped. in the lodge, John Sites leapt up from his chair and ran for the next room. One of the men who’d stood over him raised a Mac 10, lined up in the doorway and let the bullets fly. Within a couple of seconds, he turned away and walked back to the others as if his task was done.

If I’d begun my attack a minute sooner, John Sites might have still been alive.

With my kids nowhere to be seen and my mind bent on revenge, I decided to take a direct route to the big lodge. I wanted my adversaries to see that they were being attacked by only one man so that they wouldn’t panic and kill their hostages — if that’s what Mary and the kids had become. I wanted these assholes to underestimate their attacking force. Then, I’d give them one hell of a surprise.

*
  *  *

With the M-4 on full auto, I squeeze the trigger and the first shot takes down one of the men paroling the perimeter. But a second round doesn’t chamber. I jack in another bullet and fire again at a second adversary. This time I miss my target
altogether, and again the bolt doesn’t reload the next round. I manually cock and fire again and repeat the process as I advance.

I am shooting, but the only place bullets are landing is around me.

The M-4 carbine is a gas-operated gun that utilizes the high pressure created from a fired bullet to chamber another round. “Shit!” I said, realizing the carbine in my hands must be loaded with blank cartridges that create little back pressure. Only the first bullet was real so that upon a quick inspection, I wouldn’t notice the blank cartridges below it. Still, in front of several armed men, I chide myself for not noticing the magazine was a little light, loaded with the less weighty blank cartridges instead of full metal jackets.

Damn it
! What the hell—Rillie?

I soon discover I was fortunate, however. The guards from the front join the ot
hers and the six men approach cautiously, obviously having orders to capture me, as they close in without returning my blank shots.

“We got Knight,” one of the men
who’d come around from the front of the lodge says into a microphone on his weapons belt suspenders. Then he motions with his M-16 and tells me, “Let’s go, asshole.”

“Strike one,” I t
ell him. Why call me an asshole? I’m defending my people. He’s attacking and harming them. He’s the asshole.

“What?”

I look at the M-4 in my hands. It’s useless as a rifle — and they obviously were in on the knowledge of me having only blank cartridges — but it’s still a weapon. “Strike two,” I answer. I’ve left my pack and ruck sack with assorted weapons back in the tree line. But letting me keep the assault rifle, even for an extra second, is like me giving him a fastball that he watches go straight over the plate.

One of the armed men behind me reaches over my shoulder and confiscates the K
A-BAR knife I have sheathed there. Then he gives me a shove. “He said, let’s go, dumbass!”

I stumble a step and
smile. They’ve let their guard down, thinking I’m unarmed. “Strike three.”

Curiosity and apprehension comes over the leaders face as I grin at him.

“I’ll take your weapon, now” he says, his arm extended.

I tell him, “Gladly.”

In the next second, my boot is in the groin of the impatient jerk behind me.

I’ve flipped m
y M-4 around and the carbine’s butt is in the leader’s surprised face before he has a chance to react. He loses at least three teeth.

With the
carbine flipped back around, the muzzle contacts the heads of three of the four remaining men, all standing to my left, and two go down.

My sidekick to the guy on my right drops him to the ground holding his broken knee.

The last man standing was only temporarily stunned by my gun muzzle, so I give it to him again with a forceful jab, just as he’s raising his M-16. Now he’ll have but one good eye for the rest of his very short life, and he easily relinquishes his weapon.

I flip his M-16 around and shoot all
six center of mass as they’re recovering. I don’t wait to see how sure my shots have been, but sprint toward the large center window of the lodge and, shoulder first, dive through. After rolling on the great room’s oak floor, I quickly regain my feet and prepare for a fight.

No movement — the large cabin is still.

Remembering John Sites had run into the den the last I’d seen him, I entered that adjoining room cautiously.

I find Doc’s old friend behind a shot up sofa next to the large fireplace. He’s taken one in the chest, but he is conscious.

“John,” I say, “hold on. We’ll get you help.”

“Ethan,” he says, “So glad to see you. Help’s on
its way — US Marshals are only ten minutes out. Your dad and Specks?”

“Found Specks. I think he’ll be all right. He’s with Rillie back at our chopper.”

John looks blankly for a second, as if he’s trying to make out what I’m saying. He says, “Really?”

He’s clearly out of it, and a small thing gives me pause — he’d
mispronounced Rillie’s name with “
eel
” instill of “
ill
”. I tell him, “Looks like Doc hitched a train.”

He
suddenly seems clear-headed again. “Ethan, Doc’s in big trouble. We all are. They’re mercenaries — not just Americans, but … Germans, South Africans, Columbians, French, Russian. The hazmat train…,” he loses his breath.

I want him to say more, but I don’t want him to kill himself doing it. “Don’t talk, now. Just point to where the kids and Mary are.”

“… the hazmat train, Ethan, it’s going to … Denver. They’re going to … blow it up in front of Federal Plaza.”

“Okay. W
e’ll stop ‘em. Just rest. Where are Mary and the kids? They okay?”

“I locked them … in the basemen
t … when the choppers came in.” he says and points toward the basement door in the hallway.

But t
he door he says he’d locked is open and my fears heighten.

He grabs my arm. “Take my phone. I ran when they told me … to hand it over. Then you busted in …
and they disappeared. I recorded everything I know … on it … in case I didn’t make it.”

I take his phone.

He continues, “I’m okay. Posse’s on its way. Go take care of … your kids and Mary.”

I leave him and edge toward the basement doorway.

Then he calls out, “E Z, the hazmat train — it’s carrying … yellowcake.”

It finally jives:
Betty Crocker
—
yellowcake
, not
yellow cake
. When Doc told Specks, “
It ain’t Betty Crocker’s
” he wasn’t referring to the baking kind of yellow cake, but the highly radioactive uranium ore, separated, grinded and purified into a yellow powder known as
yellowcake
.

Over my sho
ulder, I say low, “I understand,” and pause at the top of the basement steps. The lights are out, but instead of using the tactical flashlight attached to the barrel of the M-16 I’d confiscated from one of my adversaries outside, I decide the darkness might help conceal me.

I slowly descend
the stairs. Remembering the fourth step creaks, I bypass it in favor of the next one down. Wanting to be as clandestine as possible, I inch my way. But, reminding myself that not only Mary and my children’s lives are in jeopardy, but quite possibly half of the population of Denver, Colorado, I pick up the pace.

At the foot of the basement stairway, I scan the lightless basement that’s hardly bigger
than a storm shelter, its primary purpose a cool canning room for Mary. I’m unable to determine any movement or anything out of place in the darkness, so I find I must switch on the tactical light on my carbine and check again.