24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (33 page)

Jack said, “Talk fast, Pettibone. Who is Winnetou? Where’s Reb Weld? What’s the plot against the Round Table?”

Pettibone had recovered from his initial fright. His jawline and chin took on a belligerent set. He said, “I ain’t gonna say a goddamned thing and that’s the last you’re gonna get out of me.”

“At least you have the sense not to deny anything. Stay sensible and save yourself a lot of grief.”

Pettibone was silent, not even bothering to shake his head. He refused to listen to reason and the clock was running out. Harsh measures were called for. A preliminary roughing up and slapping around failed to make him see the light.
More extreme inflictions left him gasping and groaning with pain but unwilling to unburden himself of the relevant facts.

A nasty bit of business forced from him a choking half sob. “Reb’ll kill me if I talk!”

That irked Griff. “Listen up, dipshit. Reb’s on the run from me and my bro here. You’re scared of him? He’s scared of us. You’re gonna find out why.”

Now Pettibone found himself tied to a chair in the garage. His eyes looked like shelled oysters, his glasses had been taken from him earlier at the start of the session.

Fisk’s patrol car was parked in the substation parking lot. Rowdy started it up, drove it into the garage, and switched it off. He popped open the hood and got back behind the wheel.

Griff held a pair of battery jumper cables that he’d found in the garage and busied himself under the hood. The jumper cables had spring- hinged, rubber-handled copper pincers at each end. He attached a pair to the twin terminals on the car battery.

He crossed to Pettibone and stood facing him, holding the latter’s switchblade. He thumbed the handle stud and the blade came snicking out. It was a long, thin, sharp stiletto. Griff smiled evilly and moved closer to the man tied to the chair. Pettibone’s hands were tied with rope behind the back of the chair. He sat rigid, trembling, staring off into the distance.

Griff cut off Pettibone’s vest and T-shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up.
Pettibone’s flesh, rank and unwashed, was the dead-white of creatures that spend their lives in dark caves away from the sun.
He was skinny with a prominent collarbone and his rib cage showing so clearly that each separate rib could be counted.

Griff taunted, “What’d you think, I was gonna cut you?” He pressed the handle stud and the blade retracted. He pocketed the weapon. “Maybe later.”

He picked up a galvanized metal mop bucket that he’d filled with water and dashed its contents on Pettibone, soaking him above the waist. He grabbed up one of the jumper cables, squeezing the rubber-handled grip. The inside of its saw-toothed jaws were sharp and pointy, the better to clamp down on battery terminals.

Griff said, “We’re gonna give your tongue a jump start to set it a-wagging.” He fastened the clamp to Pettibone’s chest at the right nipple. Pettibone whinnied like a horse breaking a leg. Griff waited until the shrieks died down and said, “Hurts, huh? You wanna talk?”

Pettibone shook his head no. Griff fastened the other jumper cable to Pettibone’s chest over his left nipple.
Pettibone howled, squirming against the ropes, drumming his booted feet on the garage floor.

Griff surveyed his handiwork with evident satisfaction. “Still won’t talk? No? What a dumbass.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You called the tune.”

He upended the metal mop bucket and placed it over Pettibone’s head. Rowdy sat in the driver’s seat of the patrol car, resting his elbow on the top of the door and sticking his head out of the window, grinning.

Griff said, “Start ’er up!”

Rowdy switched on the ignition and started the car. The engine noise was loud inside the garage. Live current from the vehicle’s nine-volt battery streamed through the jumper cables into Pettibone, the conductivity aided by the water that had doused him.

Pettibone looked like a white marble statue that had gone too long without a cleaning. His back was arched, his flesh rigid. Every muscle, tendon, and sinew stood out in bold relief. He spasmed like an epileptic throwing a fit, his head rattling against the inside of the metal bucket.

Rowdy gunned the motor, sending blue-gray clouds pouring from the exhaust pipe and out the open garage door. Griff studied the face of Jack Bauer, monitoring his reaction. Jack’s
expression was blandly neutral. He wondered what Griff expected him to do, flinch? He returned the biker’s survey with a pleasant smile.

Thirty long seconds passed before Griff made a throat-cutting gesture, signaling Rowdy to switch off the engine. Silence fell like a concrete tomb lid.

Pettibone slumped, sagging against the ropes. He panted for breath between the muffled sobs that came from beneath the bucket. Griff waited a minute until the worst of it had passed before he knocked on the bucket and said, “Ready to start singing yet?”

Pettibone was still holding out. Griff said, “Hit it, Rowdy!”

Rowdy started the car again. Pettibone convulsed as the electricity zapped him, reacting so violently that the bucket was thrown clear from his head to hit the garage ceiling. Griff said, “Wow!”

The shocking ran longer the second time than the first. Griff gave the cutoff signal and Rowdy killed the engine.

Pettibone took longer to recover the second time, too. He shivered, shuddered, sobbed, and shook. He wept and drooled. Griff cupped the other’s chin and tilted his head back so he could look him in the face. He said, “How about it?”

Pettibone’s gurgled response was hard to make out. Rowdy frowned, said, “What’s he saying?”

Jack interpreted. “The same old song: Reb’ll kill him if he talks.” Griff looked up at Jack. Jack raised his eyebrows as if to say, Is that all you’ve got?

Griff was really steamed. He told Pettibone, “I’m through playing with you.” He unbuckled Pettibone’s belt and started opening his pants.

Pettibone vented a fresh round of howls but this time he’d changed his tune. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” He did.

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

Rimrock Road, Colorado

A patrol car bearing the emblem of the state police Mobile Response Team drove south on Rimrock Road. Hardin and Taggart were in it, Taggart driving. Taggart said, “That meeting ran long. I thought it would never end.”

Hardin nodded. “Nothing Sheriff Mack likes better than the sound of his own voice.”

“ ’Cept for maybe stuffing his fat face. Too bad that ol’ tub of guts won’t be at Sky Mount tonight.”

Hardin was philosophical. “You can’t have everything. Look at the bright side: by tomorrow Mack’ll be out on his ass, looking for a new line of work.”

Taggart chuckled appreciatively. “I reckon a lot of police bigs’ll be finding themselves in that position come sunup.”

“But not us, Cole.”

“No, sir.”

“We’re clean as a hound’s tooth.”

The moon was high, almost directly overhead, a three- quarter bone- white orb that seemed far distant from the mountain landscape.
Moonlight reflected off the strand of empty road beyond the reach of the car’s headlights; rocky crags and needlelike pinnacles were silhouetted against a purple- black sky speckled with remote points of light that were stars.

Hardin worked the hand mic, radioing the Mountain Lake dispatcher’s desk. The only reply was silence. Hardin replaced the mic in its dashboard bracket and settled heavily back in his seat. “Still no answer.”

Taggart said, “That don’t mean nothing. They might be away from the radio, out back making the handoff, transferring the prisoner to Pettibone. Probably are.”

“Kind of late for that. Pettibone should’ve been and gone by now.”

“He might be running late, too.”

“Um.”

Taggart looked away from the winding ribbon of road unrolling under the headlights to glance at Hardin, the lieutenant’s heavy features in profile underlit by the instrument panel’s glow.
“Ain’t worried, are you, Bryce?”

Hardin said, “I just hope Fisk didn’t do something stupid.”

“Like beating Jack Bauer to death?”

“It could happen.”

“Not with Sharon there to ride herd on him.”

“You know what that jackass nephew of mine is like, Cole. Once he starts beating on somebody he’s hard to stop.”

“He likes it too much.”

“And he didn’t like Bauer, not even a little bit.”

Taggart shrugged. “Say he got carried away and Jack is dead. So what?”

Hardin said, “Weld’ll be pissed.”

“Screw him. As far as I’m concerned he’s just another two-bit gun punk and snottier than most.”

“On that score, my friend, we’re in complete agreement. Unfortunately Mr. Pettibone doesn’t share that opinion. He’s scared of Weld. He’ll be doing plenty of pissing and moaning if Bauer’s dead.”

“Screw him, too. If he don’t like it, tough. Anyhow, we’re almost there, so we’ll find out what’s what soon enough.”

The car swung left around a bend and came on a long straightaway. The substation’s lights could be seen at the end of it. The car went to it, slowing as it neared its destination.

Taggart said, “Home, sweet home.” He turned left on to the drive connecting the road to the parking lot and followed it. Hardin leaned forward in his seat. “I don’t see Fisk’s car—”

Taggart said, “There it is, in the motor pool.”

The car halted outside the garage. Hardin eased up and sat back. He groused, “Damn it, I told that boy not to park there. Honk the horn so he’ll come out and move it— ”

Headlights came on, filling the car interior with white light. They belonged to the pickup truck that had been standing idling out of sight behind the station. It barreled out with a roar of power and plowed into the patrol car, broadsiding it on the driver’s side.

The car wrapped itself around the truck’s steel-plated front. Hardin and Taggart received a hell of a jolt, only their seat belts saving them from being tossed around the car’s interior. The stunning blow knocked their hats off and left the duo breathless with heads reeling.

Taggart caught a faceful of shattered glass from the driver’s side window, which had fragmented upon impact. So had that side’s rear window. The windshield frame was bent and the glass frosted. Taggart pawed his face trying to clear his eyes. He shouted, “He crazy—?”

Hardin groaned, his body aching. He felt cut in half from where the seat belt harness had caught him. He raised his hands in a vain attempt to ward off the truck’s glaring high beams.

The car shivered as the pickup went into reverse and pulled free of it, backing up to get some running room. The driver stomped the accelerator, and the truck leaped forward to deliver another pulverizing blow to the patrol car.

The second hit transformed the car’s shape from a U to a V. The driver’s side accordioned. Jagged metal imploded, swatting Taggart. He writhed screaming and thrashing, but the seat belt harness held him in place. The front seat area was diminished by half, pinning its occupants against each other and crowding them against the passenger side. The windshield was gone, the entire sheet of safety glass having popped free of its now warped and distorted frame.

The pickup reversed, shaking itself loose from the car and rolling away from it. Hardin struggled to get free but Taggart’s body pinned him against the inside of the door. Taggart wouldn’t stop screaming. Hardin pounded him with clublike fists in an attempt to break free or at least silence the screaming, failing at both.

The shrieks dueted with the vroom of the pickup’s engine as it made its third and final charge. It hit the car at an angle, shoving it toward the rear of the parking lot. The driver stepped on the gas, pushing the car across the asphalt into a knee- high guardrail.

The car was sandwiched between the rail and the truck. The truck kept pushing. The metal rail bowed outward into empty space, rivets popping. The truck’s wheels spun, burning rubber.

There was a giddy sensation of release as the rail gave way. Several feet of ground stood between the edge of the asphalt and eternity. The car slid across them under the truck’s relentless pushing and jostling.

The car’s passenger side wheels ran out of ground and touched emptiness. There was a bump as the undercarriage hit the edge of the cliff and the car tilted downward.
It hung there for a instant before a final nudge from the truck tipped the scales and sent it tumbling off the precipice.

Taggart had stopped screaming but Hardin didn’t notice it because he was too busy screaming himself.
He screamed all the way down until the car hit a rocky outcropping four or five hundred feet below.

The car bounced off it like a kicked football, sailing into the void for another thousand feet before hitting bottom.

The truck rolled backward away from the edge deeper into the parking lot and halted. Jack Bauer put it into park, unfastened his safety harness, opened the driver’s side door, and slid out
from behind the steering wheel. He rose, holding on to the side, standing half- in and half-out of the truck cab.