Origins (Remote) (19 page)

Cassie heard the gunshot and was out of her chair before Ronnie could process the noise. Killing the lights, she ducked down the hall in an instant, calling for Ronnie. “Get the bags, get the bags!” In the bedroom she stayed low, fumbled with the zipper on the bat bag, pulling out the revolver she’d picked up in the parking lot. Ronnie had recovered enough to be right behind her, joining her in the hall with the knapsack in his hand. More shots split the night, a deep boom, followed by another, and a series of short pops. “Check the front.” Cassie said, pushing Ronnie in that direction, “Stay low, stay low.” Ronnie dragged himself from the hall flat on his stomach, heading toward the window in the front.

With Ronnie in front
Cassie risked a move into the kitchen, stood up to take a quick look out the window on the side wall. The night was pitch black, she couldn’t see anything. She turned in time for the back door to open. Breed fell in, followed by Woods with his gun drawn. Outside another boom echoed, a short sharp scream then a long wailing string of words that ended with another pop. Woods slammed the door, turned and low crawled to the window in the rear wall. From there he could just make out the top of the stairs. He couldn’t see well but knew anything that came up the steps wouldn’t be friendly. “Get to the phone.” Woods shouted at Breed, “Get some units out here. We’ll try and hold them off.” Breed made for the kitchen, crawling on his hands and knees.

Ronnie dragged himself back from the front. “There’s a car on the road right out front,” he said, breathing in and out in gasps. “Somebody’s standing by it but I can’t see anything else.” Breed had reached the phone, pulling the handset down by the cord. He held it to his ear, hearing nothing but silence. “Dead,” he said, and threw it down. Outside, things had gone quiet. Even the insects held still, perhaps stunned into silence, waiting.
Cassie pushed Ronnie back towards the front of the house. “We go out the front. We can jump down to the ground over the railing, head south, that way.” she said, pointing.

“You can’t go out,” Woods said, “There’s someone with a shotgun out that way.”

“Exactly,” said Cassie. “that’s why we’re going that way.”

The first blast from the shotgun caught Thorne completely by surprised. He saw the muzzle flash come off the porch of the house next door, cursed to himself. Whoever was in the house started yelling. His men returned fire. Two minutes before he had idled his car up to the driveway to block any exit. He was feeling confident. With the water as a barrier he had them hemmed in. Now he saw his plan begin to fall apart. The lights in the reporter’s camp went out. Thorne pulled his pistol and began a slow movement up the driveway. If they came out the front he was the only one between them and the road. His men to the south were shooting back, the team to the north still hidden. He flattened himself on the ground, watching the front of the house. He had to get them tonight, one way or another. If they stayed inside he had enough men to storm the place. If they moved they would probably run away from the shooting. That meant they would move north where he had men waiting. Or they might try and make the road where he was. Go north, he thought, go north.

Cassie was having none of it. She was pulling Ronnie now, moving to the front of the camp. Without thinking about it she knew something had already gone wrong with their attacker’s plan. The shotgun to the south and the return fire convinced her someone else was out there, stumbling into the middle of things. She pulled Ronnie closer. “When we get on the porch go left. Stay low. We’re going to go over the rail. When we hit the ground, head for the weeds between the houses. It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

Ronnie moved without thinking, instinctively acting on her words. Woods was behind them shouting but Ronnie couldn’t make out anything he was saying, it was all noise. Breed had followed
Cassie thinking he could pull her back but the kids were moving fast now, too fast for him to do anything but watch as the door came open, Ronnie bending low and disappearing to the left, Cassie right behind him. Jesus, he thought, Nobody is ever going to believe this, and went out the door after them.

Gene Fontenot was pissed. Two months before thieves had gotten onto his boat behind the camp and stolen most of his fishing equipment. Now they were back and they were shooting at him. Shooting at him! He scuttled down the hall to his front door, stopped long enough to get another shell into the shotgun, checking his pocket for more. Moving out his front door he went right, turning the corner down his porch to the back of the house. The two men were still moving north, headed toward the neighboring camp. They were trotting now, almost to the heavy growth between the camps. Fontenot ran to the rear corner of the porch, propped his shotgun up on the top rail. No more bullshit overhead shots. This time he was playing for real. The figures paused for a second and Fontenot pulled the trigger.

The first blast of birdshot caught the rear man full in the back. He staggered, fell to his knees. , getting halfway around when Fontenot pulled the trigger again. They were too far away for the shot to be deadly but the turn had left the intruders face exposed to the spray of pellets, two of which found their way into his left eye. He dropped his pistol, his hands coming to his face, and screamed. The other intruder returned fire and hit the porch rail. It exploded it into splinters eight inches away from Fontenot’s face. He went down, rolled on his back, reaching for another pair of shells in his pocket. Fully loaded again, Fontenot rolled himself to the edge of the house, using the planking beneath him as cover. Staying low he worked his way to the middle of the porch in the back. When he reached the wooden steps in the middle he leaned out over the top step, found his mark. The man he’d hit was thrashing around on the ground, holding his hands over his face. Fontenot was shocked as the man’s partner stood over him and shot him in the head. He pulled the trigger of the shotgun three times in quick succession, watching as the standing figure went down into the weeds.

Crouching out front Thorne saw the door swing open. Two figures moved rapidly across the porch moving to his right. He watched as they crossed to the railing, hesitated, and went over. Too small to be the reporter or cop. A third figure came out just after the first pair. Thorne went up on one knee, popping off a shot he thought went high. He waited. When the third figure hit the ground he fired again, saw with satisfaction the stumble and fall. Two shots blasted out the front door opening toward Thorne. The first caught his left leg, grazing the thigh and he fell to the side. The second passed further to his left, smacking into the soft ground with a thud.

By this time the team from the north had moved in, one heading to the back of the house the other joining Thorne in covering the front. The agent in front fired off two rounds, forcing Woods, who had come out too late to make the jump, back into the house. Woods retreated to the kitchen area. He paused long enough to replace the two fired rounds in his revolver. The back door was still swinging open and he looked out carefully. Movement below froze his steps. He held his breath, waiting, as the man below stepped on the bottom stair and stopped, listening. Woods next move came without thought, two quick steps to the top of the stairs, his gun coming around, pulling the trigger. Three quick shots one after the other caught the agent in the shoulder and arm, knocking him back as Woods followed his weapon down the stairs. Another shot full in the chest finished him off and the detective turned south in a crouching run to the weeds between the camp and Fontenot’s place.

Woods hit the tall grass and went down hard, his heart pounding in his ears. He had one down behind the house, at least two others in front. He trusted to luck that the shotgun wielding neighbor had at least crippled the two coming from the south. The night had gone quiet again and he listened for movement in the brush around him. He chanced a quick look to the front, saw Breed lying on the ground not moving.
Cassie and Ronnie were nowhere in sight. Two men were approaching Breed from the driveway, one limping but still moving, the other scanning the area behind the house. Woods made a mental count, six shots total, two left in the pistol, another four in his belt. He lay quietly on the ground, rolled over an reloaded.

The limping man was bending over Breed when Woods chanced another look. The other continued his sweep towards the rear, moving in the underside of the house from support piling to support piling. Woods held his breath. He figured he’d get one shot, the first one. After that he’d be caught in the crossfire if he missed. The agent under the house paused, listening, made one slow step toward the next piling and Woods pulled the trigger. The figure went down but Woods couldn’t see if he was hit. The man with the limp took off to the North in a stumbling run.

Ronnie went over the railing, feeling
Cassie right behind him. He hit the ground, rolled, lost the gun, kept moving toward the south and the cover of the weeds and brush between the camps. Cassie was still behind him, urging him on in breathless bursts of words, “Go, Go, Go.” Two shots and they lost Breed but didn’t stop, pushed into the weeds and cattails, running low. Ronnie was running full out but Cassie passed him, taking the lead. They pushed out the other side of the brush running, crossed the flat expanse of grass that made up Fontenot’s front yard, and made for the road. Running parallel to the highway on the shell siding Cassie led them down past two more driveways before veering sharply right across the concrete and down the other side into the dark and the line of small camps set up on the bayou side of the highway.

More shots came to them from the battle behind and
Cassie ran on instinct. When they stopped to catch their breath they were behind a trailer butted close to the water. A dock ran out into the bayou, a flatboat tied to the end. At the foot of the dock was a small shed topped with a tin roof. “We can’t keep running.” Cassie said, trying to catch her breath, “We need a car or a boat or something.” She stood up, headed toward the shed, found the door unlocked and went inside. Ronnie slipped in behind her. “I lost the gun.” he said, “I dropped it when we fell.”

Cassie
waved him off. The shed was inky black inside, the only light coming through matching windows in the front and rear. It was enough for her to see they were in a work shed, tools lined up on the far wall, a bench on the wall with the door they had just come through. The back was a jumble of equipment, gas cans lined up on the floor, an outboard motor, and in the corner a welding tank on a wheeled rack, the hoses wrapped neatly around the handle. Cassie moved further in. She had been hoping for a ride. Something they could use to put distance between themselves and Thorne. She looked around again, her eyes finally settling on the back wall and the array of tools lined up neatly against it. She turned to Ronnie.

“Find me something to cut with,”
Cassie said, “a knife or saw or something. And see if there’s any rope laying around in here.”

Woods was engaged in a standoff with the shotgun and the man behind it. Fontenot was still on his porch. He waved the shotgun, screaming for Woods to get his ass out of the weeds. The detective held his hands in the air.

“I’ve got a badge, God damn it,” Woods was yelling. “I’m NOPD.” He was still yelling when the agent under the house shot Fontenot, who rolled over the porch railing in a perfect movie fall. Woods tried to move away under the cover of the weeds. He’d gotten ten feet when the bullet caught him in his left side, tearing into his lung.

Throne dragged himself after the kids, moving onto the shells running alongside the road. He could see well enough to follow their progress down the highway. Their shadows gave them away as they crossed the road. They were gaining some distance though and he cursed his bad luck with the leg. He reached the spot where he thought they crossed and scanned the houses from across the highway. There. Two flitting shadows moving next to a small structure set on the water.

With all the missions Thorne had been a part of he was no stranger to failures. Things went wrong. It was inevitable. In the end though, the results were what mattered. He had to have these two kids in his possession. Get that and all the rest would fall by the wayside. He watched as Cassie and Ronnie went into the shed. Hiding was always a last resort and his quarry was grasping at that last straw. It was time to grab them while they were cornered and get the hell out. He could pick up the pieces later. Using his radio he found he had only one man left. It would have to do.

Sending his last remaining team member to trail in from the back side Thorne crossed the road and set up behind the trailer. The boy came out, carrying something in his hand, some kind of container, walking it out to the end of the dock. It was too dark to see exactly what he was doing but Thorne didn’t care. There was noplace for them to go now. The boy set the container in the boat and returned to the shed. Thorne couldn’t see the girl but knew she must still be inside. If they were planning on using the boat he had to get to them first. He could see his man move into position on the corner of the shed. He motioned for him to wait, ran across the yard, and crouched down beside the door. Inside the shed was silent. He called out to the kids inside.

“Hey! You can’t get out. Time to give it up. Come on out. You won’t get hurt.” No response from inside but he could hear movement now. Thorne moved to the other side of the door, turned the knob, and rolled inside.