The Good Soldier (43 page)

"Cops," the boy said.

"What?" I rose up and looked at him.

"Sirens," he said. "In the distance."

If the cops were on their way, I knew that Burnett would take off whether he was ready or not. No way I'd let him get away with this.

"You," I pointed at the boy. "I need you to keep pushing on her chest like I was doing. OK?"

"OK," he said.

"And you," I pointed at the girl. "You need to give her your breath, like I did. OK?"

"OK," she said.

I got up, grabbed my gun and started running toward Burnett's warehouse. I stopped and turned. "If anyone other than me comes from this way, you run."

I heard the men from the boat talking. Their voices placed them past the edge of a building that sat closer to the water than the others, but still a good distance away from Burnett's warehouse. I pressed back against the steel exterior wall and stepped sideways, moving slowly. I kept my gun up and ready. If I fired, I'd draw the attention of everyone. They had expected the two shots earlier. Those bullets had been meant for me. They wouldn't be receptive to additional gunfire. I wondered why they hadn't moved yet. Wouldn't the other men have returned by now? Perhaps Burnett anticipated a time gap while they disposed of my body. I couldn't go down with the car since the point was for me to watch. They probably had a plan to bring my body to the boat where they'd wrap chains around me and attach them to cinder blocks. I'd sink to the bottom of the Atlantic, lost forever. I found the thought tranquil, in an odd sort of way.

I was close enough to hear what the men were saying. They weren't part of Burnett's inner circle. Instead, they'd been hired to transport him. These weren't good men, not by any stretch of the imagination. They'd done some bad things in the past, and would again in the future, if given the chance. I felt no qualms about killing either one of them. I peeked around the corner. They stood with their backs facing me and at a distance of about four feet. Close enough.

I took a deep breath. The salt air filled my lungs with a slight burn. I looked down and for the first time noticed the gash across my left side. It'd need stitches, but I could manage for now.

I tucked the gun into my waistband and then burst around the corner. My arms whipped around, up and out, the way a master of the butterfly stroke breaks through the water and seemingly flies through the air. My hands wrapped around the outside of their heads, respectively. The momentum carried my hands inward, smashing their heads together. I continued to slide my fingers around, cupped each man under their chin, dragged them around the corner.

I let the guy on the left drop to the ground semi-conscious.

I placed my left hand around the other guy's head. I stood with him in front of me, my arms crisscrossed around his head. He moaned and tried to talk. It came out gurgled. I pulled my arms to the left and right, toward their natural positions. His neck snapped and his body went limp.

I looked down and saw that the other guy had started to crawl away. I took a step, leapt, and came down with my foot on the back of his head. His face crunched against the pavement. Maybe his jaw broke or his orbital socket split in half. Maybe the sound was his teeth snapping off one by one. I didn't look. Didn't care. I reached down and pulled him back by his hair. His body bowed below me, waist on the ground, head pulled back so far it was behind his ass. I gripped his head with both hands and pulled hard to the side. Another snap. Another man who would never take another breath.

I searched their pockets. One had a knife and the other a gun. Perfect. I tucked the knife inside one of my boots. Kept one pistol tucked in my pants and walked with the other in front of me. From this point on, I'd shoot anybody but Burnett on sight.

It took me a couple minutes to reach the warehouse. The area was silent and empty. I stopped in front of the semi and leaned against the chrome grill. Bungee cords dangled. My foot caught one and the metal clasp on the end scraped against the pavement.

I heard a whistle behind me, then the shuffling of feet. "What're you doing, Jack?"

I looked over my shoulder and saw Reece standing there.

"Arms up," he said.

I lifted my arms to the side and said nothing. Hoped like hell he'd play the game.

"Place the gun on the hood of the truck."

I did.

"Now turn around."

I turned.

He smiled. "Burnett's going to love this." He took two steps toward me, then stopped, then leaned to his right, like he was looking past the cab of the over-sized truck. Most important of all, he stopped looking at me.

I pulled my shirt up with my left hand and grabbed the pistol with my right. His head moved first, then his body. His arm followed through last. By that time, I had mine extended. I fired two shots. One caught him in the shoulder; the other missed and slammed into the wall behind him with a thud.

He tried to lift his arm but couldn't. He fired anyway. The bullet smashed into the pavement, sending chips of concrete into the air.

I pulled the trigger again, hitting him in the chest. A red stain bloomed from the center of his shirt. I fired again, this time hitting him in the stomach. He bowed back, but didn't go down. I took one more shot and hit him in the forehead. His head snapped back, and then he collapsed onto his knees and fell forward.

I grabbed the gun off the hood of the truck and walked toward the open warehouse. Burnett stood against the back wall. He clutched the rifle across his chest.

"Don't come in here," he yelled.

"Either shoot me or drop it," I said, taking two steps inside the musty room.

Fear and hatred and rage mixed on his face. I wasn't sure if he was going to take aim or piss himself. He did neither.

"We can work this out, Jack," he said.

"No we can't," I said.

"There's tons of money. I can give it all to you."

"Blood money. The money of how many children's souls, Senator?"

"This has nothing to do with that, Jack."

I stopped and lowered my weapon.

He let the butt of the rifle fall toward the floor, holding it by the barrel with his left hand. He held his other hand out and took a couple steps forward, slightly bent at the waist, trying not to look intimidating, I supposed.

"Listen, Jack, there's no reason that you and I-"

"Why'd you do it?" I said.

He paused and tilted his head. "Money."

"What was your plan?"

He nodded and looked over my shoulder. "My boy's on the boat. We planned to sail down south. Hole up for a while and at the same time, a radical group was going to claim they'd kidnapped us. No ransom or any bullshit like that."

"This group," I said, "these are the men you sold the kids to?"

He nodded. "One of them, at least."

"OK. Then what?"

He took a few more steps forward. Stopped and swallowed. "After a few months I'd return home. I'd have to get beaten up a bit, but in the end I'd free me and my boy and make it out alive."

"Why drag your son into it?"

"It's the only way."

"Only way for what?"

He took another step, but this time I held out my pistol to stop him. His hand went up and he took a step back.

"The only way for us to reunite, you see," he said.

"No, I don't see. What do you mean reunite? You and Christopher?"

"Yeah."

This time, I took a step back. "What about the garbage you fed me earlier about how you'd adopt him?"

He smiled and dipped his head an inch. "See, as far as anyone will know, I didn't take him, Jack. Someone kidnapped him, and I risked my life to rescue him. In the process, I was taken as well. But those bastards slipped up and I killed them and got us out alive."

"And you come home a hero," I said. "And everyone will brush off the fact that you'd had an affair with a woman ten years ago and fathered a child with her. And while you'd been abducted, someone came along and killed her."

"Great minds and all that."

I heard the slight sound of shuffling behind me. Burnett smiled and looked over my shoulder. It wasn't much, a second, but it told me plenty.

I dropped to one knee and spun. Saw a man I'd never seen before. He held a gun and aimed it at me. I fired before he did. The bullet hit him in the chest and he fell backward upon impact. I spun again and saw Burnett holding the rifle with both hands, taking aim. I squeezed the trigger and hit him in the right shoulder. He dropped the rifle and staggered backward until he reached the wall.

"You son of a bitch," he yelled.

I crossed the room. He kept sliding along the wall until he found the corner. I grabbed him by his collar and threw him to the ground. Ran up and kicked him from behind.

"Move!" I said.

He scrambled to his knees. Blood poured from his wound, staining his shirt and coating his arm in crimson. There was cursing mixed with yells of pain. We reached the open doorway. I kicked him from behind again, sending him headfirst into the pavement. I walked up behind him and grabbed his collar a second time. Pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward the semi.

"Walk," I said.

"Where're we going?" he said.

"To the truck."

"Jack," he said. "I'll give you anything. Anything you want."

We were next to the cab of the truck. I reached out, grabbed his left shoulder and spun him around.

"Anything?" I said.

"Name it. I'm good for it, Jack."

"Bring Sarah back to life."

"I… I…"

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

I shoved him against the side of the truck's cab. His right shoulder slammed into it and he yelled in pain. I grabbed him by his hair again and dragged him to the front of the truck. Blood from the bullet hole in his shoulder smeared along the white fiberglass. I pushed him back against the chrome grill, then threw an uppercut into his chin. His body slumped to the ground.

There were six bungee cords attached to the truck's grill. They were various lengths and colors and designs. I hooked them all to one side in a straight up and down line, letting one end of each dangle.

Burnett lay on the ground, groaning. I reached down, pulled him up, and hoisted him a foot off the ground. I held him there with one hand, while I strapped the first cord across his shoulder. I looped the cord through the grill a few times to tighten it, then attached it on the other side. I pulled his left arm out and secured it. Then I stretched another cord over his waist, then his thighs and calves. Finally, I secured his right hand.

I took a few steps back and smiled at my handiwork. He was fixed to the grill of the truck, arms out, legs tight together, and his feet off the ground.

"What the hell are you doing, Jack?" he said for the twentieth time.

This time I answered him. "One thing your research didn't tell you about me, Senator. I kill in kind."

"What?"

I ignored him, stepped around the side of the truck, pulled myself up into the cab. Once behind the wheel, I fired the big diesel engine up, and it roared to life like a pride of lions rising for the hunt. I looked around, but didn't see what I needed inside the truck, so I scanned the area around the buildings. Saw a cinder block and knew that would work for my purposes. I got out and ran over to the block. Burnett watched me the entire way back. This time he said nothing.

I hopped back into the cab and put the truck in first gear. It jerked into motion and I steered it in a half circle, then straightened it out so that we were driving away from the kids and Sarah's body. I got the truck to a steady speed and opened the door. I stood in the open doorway, one hand on the wheel, the other on the cinder block. I dropped the block on the gas and hopped onto the concrete. My body slammed into the ground hard. I was sure I had a few new scrapes and possibly a broken bone. The sound of Burnett's screams rising above that old diesel engine made it worth it, though. I rolled too far and almost went over the edge into the water. I scrambled to my feet and followed the truck with my eyes.

Its path was taking it closer and closer to the edge, but there was another building that stood out further than the others did. At this point, it was a tossup whether it would hit the building or plunge into the ocean. I watched with heightened anticipation. The truck had veered far enough over that if it hit the building, Burnett wouldn't be smashed into the steel exterior. Finally, the truck passed by and inched closer to the edge of the road. Twenty seconds later, the first tire went over the edge, and then the next. Finally, the big truck teetered on the edge, scraping the pavement and sending sparks into the air. And then it went over. The grill went in first and dove toward the bottom.

I turned and headed toward the kids and Sarah's body. I stopped at the boat and called for Christopher. The boy came above deck. I told him everything was all right. I helped him off the boat and carried him down the stretch of pavement between the warehouses and the ocean.

We reached the kids and Sarah's body as the cops did. All eyes fell on me, and their guns followed.

I set the kid down, then held up my hands. "My name's Jack Noble," I said. "I'm a federal agent. They took my wallet, but if you call Frank Skinner, he'll provide all the information you need." I gave them the number to reach Frank.

They told me to stay put, but I didn't. The boy pointed toward Sarah's body, which still lay on the pavement. Her skin was pale and her lips were no longer blue. Her chest rose and fell in an awkward cadence. She was alive.

By four p.m. that afternoon, Frank had a private jet waiting for us at an executive airport north of the city. He got the cops off my back and somehow managed to get them to escort us, first to the hospital and then to the airport once Sarah had been cleared.

I had been concerned that she wouldn't be able to return to us. She was still unconscious when they loaded her into the ambulance, and there was the possibility that she'd suffered some brain damage. The kids had kept working on her after I left to take care of Burnett. They didn't give up on her and she came through.