The Assassin's Case (8 page)

Grant scanned the desert, searching for signs of pursuit.

Tedesco guided them through the desert, tires bouncing over the rough terrain, airborne it seemed more than not, ripping through clumps of scrub brush and cacti. All with the headlights off, making the journey seem even more perilous.

Grant clutched a handgrip mounted over his door. He turned to check the rear seat’s occupants. Jaime nodded while she gripped her own handhold, and Doctor Morgan hugged the case to his chest.

“There it is,” Tedesco said.

The Bronco ramped over another hill. Grant could just make out the faded stripes of a thin black ribbon of road below. They landed with a jolt and a squeal of tires, their momentum shooting them to the opposite side of the blacktop. Tedesco wrestled the wheel as they fishtailed in the loose detritus on the side of the road. He regained control and they shot north on the highway.

Grant craned his neck, searching the road, the sky. They had been on Route 338 for no more than thirty seconds when the Bronco was speared by a shaft of light and a burst of gunfire. The roar of the wind and the rumble of the 400 hundred horse V-8 had disguised the approach of the helicopter.

Tedesco swerved, accelerating, decelerating, but they remained in the halo of light from the chopper’s spotlight. Grant leaned out of the window, wind blasting his torso, firing his pistol. Useless. The short gun’s slugs were like ant bites on an elephant. “I need a rifle.” He had to yell over the cacophony of wind, gunfire, and engine noise.

Swerving again to avoid another volley of gunfire, Tedesco spoke without taking his eyes from the road. “I’ve got a Remington in the back.”

Grant nodded. He crawled between the front bucket seats and slid over the rear seats to lie down in the cargo area. He nodded to Jaime and she took his position in the front seat, taking over firing through the window. Among a stack of supplies Grant located a leather gun case. He unzipped it and slipped the gun free. A bolt action Remington 700 with a scope. Brown laminate stock, leather shoulder strap, laser engraved barrel, capable of holding five rounds, plus one in the chamber. Not a sniper rifle, but a fine weapon. He levered the bolt. Unloaded. He called. “Ammo?”

“There’s a box on the floor.”

Using the palm of his hand Grant felt around on the carpet. He located the box of .30-06 shells and flipped open the top. The vehicle jerked and shells spilled, but Grant was able to scoop up a handful before they all rolled away. He thumbed in five bullets as Jaime was forced to pull her head in to avoid a hail of gunfire. The Bronco’s engine sputtered and smoke from the engine poured into the cab. The smell of radiator fluid filled the air.

Grant shoved the rear tailgate open and crawled on his belly facing back. The helicopter circled them, the skilled pilot maneuvering it to allow a constant firing position from its rear passenger doors. Grant sighted through the scope, a simple 4X hunting scope with a target dot reticle. It would have to suffice, and there was no need to dial in distance or wind. “Tedesco. When I yell, hit the brakes. Hard.” Though the shots would be difficult, Grant needed to ensure every one scored.

He peered over his left shoulder. The chopper hovered about thirty feet over the road, now in front of them. He placed the soles of his shoes against the back seat, flattened against the floor, and gripped the rifle. “Now!”

The Bronco skidded across the pavement, and for the moment, the helicopter no longer matched their pace. Gunfire cracked on the blacktop. As soon as the crushing forward momentum eased, and before the SUV arrived at a complete stop, Grant rolled onto his back on the tailgate. He swung his legs over and landed on his feet in a stumbling run, realizing if he fell they were dead. The moment his forward impetus slowed enough, he bent his knees and rolled, sideways across his back, ignoring a flash of pain in his right shoulder. As he finished the roll, he came up in a kneeling firing position, right shin flat on the ground, right knee up. The spotlight swept across him. He tucked the rifle to his shoulder, right eye peering through the scope. The copter hung still in the air for a moment. He forced calm in and his breath out as he gently eased the slack on the trigger, attempting to ignore the fact that while he aimed at them, they were aiming at him.

The first shot extinguished the lancing beam of the spotlight. Bullets tracked, pinging around him. The lack of ambient light made the scope almost useless, almost. The gleam from the glass in the front canopy provided a target. Grant delivered the remaining four shots through the pilot’s door. The helicopter whirled away, providing a respite from the constant barrage. He didn’t know for certain if he hit the pilot, but at least the light was doused.

Grant jumped into the rear of the Bronco. “Go. No lights. Don’t dare hit the brakes, and get the hell off the road.”

Tedesco jammed the accelerator and they shot forward. After about a hundred yards he angled away from the road and into the desert.

ELEVEN

The Bronco finally lurched to a halt somewhere north of Animas. The overheated engine boiled smoke from beneath the hood. It sat on the crest of a small hill in the midst of an expansive semi-desert of scrub grass and sand. The vista was broken by the occasional copse of trees, scrub brush, cacti, and the dark silhouettes of mountains on the horizon.

              The group piled out of the dead vehicle. Grant studied the sky. If the helicopter flew over, even without a spotlight, in its present exposed position the Bronco would be clearly visible.

              Tedesco rubbed a hand over the hood of the SUV and shook his head.

              “We’ve got to try to hide this thing, or they’ll know we’re on foot,” Grant said. “And it won’t take them long to find us after that.” He scanned the slope behind him. He didn’t even consider attempting to push the big vehicle up and over the top of the hill. Down was the only option. A shallow wash at the hill’s base might be enough. He pointed to it. “There.”                                        

With Tedesco’s help Grant rolled the Bronco back down the hill, gravity doing most of the work once it started rolling. With some nudges on the steering wheel they maneuvered it into the shallow ditch.

Jaime remained with Morgan on top of the hill to keep watch.

Using a small spade he kept in the back of the truck, Tedesco threw dirt on the hood and roof.

Grant took his knife and cut the stalks of some nearby bushes. He piled them near the ditch, pulled the branches apart, and scattered them over and around the Bronco.

The two men stood back and examined their handiwork. Grant nodded. “It’ll have to do.” As they moved to join their companions, Grant swiped a sheen of sweat from his face, already beginning to cool in the chill wind.

“Which way?” Grant asked.

Tedesco studied the sky and the area around them. He pointed north. “That way. The nearest town is Cotton City. It should only be a couple of miles from here.” He turned to Dr. Morgan. “Can you make it?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Grant extended a hand. “Let me take that.”

Morgan nodded and Grant grabbed the case from his hands.

The foursome set out, allowing Morgan to establish the pace. They mounted the crest of the hill and Grant hoped Tedesco knew what he was talking about. Judging by the vast amount of space around them, it didn’t seem as if they were close to anything. Not so much as a hint of a house, a shed, or a shack was visible.

Tedesco and Morgan in the lead, Jaime walked next to Grant. The clouds parted as they hiked and the moon covered the landscape in a soft white glow. With the absence of cloud cover the temperature dropped.

Jaime shivered and hugged herself.

Grant dropped the case to the ground and removed his coat. “Here.” He held the jacket in front of him.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

Grant lifted the case. “This things heavy. Believe me, I’m warm.” Before she could argue further he tossed the coat to her.

“Thanks.” She slid it over her arms.

They hiked through the empty expanse surrounded by scenery that could have belonged on another planet. The night granted an almost humanoid appearance to the cactus. Their arms stretched to the sky like aliens entreating the mother ship to return. The Chihuahuan desert seemed to engulf the little band trekking through the boot heel of New Mexico. They trod upon ground rich in history. You could almost feel the presence of the Clanton gang who used the caves and canyons here as hideouts. Envision Geronimo riding with his faithful band from the shelter of an arroyo, seeking vengeance for the death of his family and the subjugation of his people. The silence was often broken by the forlorn call of a coyote.

The farther they walked, the more Jaime slowed, allowing Tedesco and Morgan to move well ahead. Grant matched her steps and they walked in an uncomfortable silence. He could tell something was on her mind, so he remained quiet.

She edged closer to Grant. “I missed you.” She allowed her words to hang in the air, keeping her eyes straight ahead, never looking at Grant’s face while she spoke. 

The tone of her voice said more than her words. He detected a hint of both hurt and anger. “I missed you too.” Grant stared at her, attempting to read her expression, but couldn’t fathom anything from the profile of her face. He waited to see if she would say more about what was obviously weighing on her mind. While he watched her, instead of the uneven terrain, he stumbled. He caught himself before he fell, but the tail of his shirt slipped from the back of his jeans, exposing the waistband of his underwear.

She turned to look at him. A hand over her mouth attempted to hide her smile, but failed.

Grant squared his shoulders. “At least I’m still smooth.” He switched the case to his left hand and used the right to tuck in his shirt.

Jaime trained her eyes back to the front and stuffed her hands in the jacket’s pockets, her smile fading. “After you left you never even attempted to contact me. Let me know how you were. Say hello. If it weren’t for Steve I wouldn’t even know if you were alive or dead.”

              Grant tried to compose a reasonable response, but couldn’t. Everything he came up with sounded selfish and shallow. I was in pain. I had to get away. I wanted to forget. I. I. I. Me. Me. Me. To be honest he had missed her. Maybe he cared more for her than he wanted to, or could, admit. Back then the grief had been so fresh, even more all-consuming than now. Also, to be honest, he hadn’t considered her feelings. When the attempts on his life started he justified pushing everyone he knew away on the basis he was protecting them. He barely even talked to Steve. Grant usually called him when he knew he wouldn’t be in the office, leaving voice mails.

              She stepped in front of him, crossing her arms. “We were partners. I thought we were friends. You never even told me you were going to quit. You didn’t even say goodbye. We would have found a way for you to keep your job.”

              Staring into Jaime’s eyes Grant felt shame. Her gaze withered him. If she had been angry he could’ve handled it, but he detected real pain. And it seemed that being near him made her realize it. As if seeing him again forced the full extent of her feelings of betrayal to bubble to the surface.

              Grant gripped her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself.”

              She continued staring at him. And Grant realized how blind he was. He thought about that last year they spent together and little pieces of the puzzle snapped together. He had been clueless. She’d had feelings for him, the signs were there, and he had been so focused on himself he missed it. Did she still? True, he hadn’t been ready then, but he could have shown common decency, an ilk of compassion for her feelings, a passing thought to her welfare. Her gaze seemed to pull him in, her eyes blotting out everything else. Drowning. The appropriate word was drowning. Drowning in her eyes. He stood mesmerized, for the moment nothing else existed but her. Was he ready now? If so, was it too late? Probably. He opened his mouth to speak, a flood of questions on the tip of his tongue. Where did she live? Married? Boyfriend?             

              “Hey you guys.” Tedesco’s call ripped Grant from the spell. Tedesco and Morgan sat at the crest of a hill, Tedesco waved them forward.

              Jaime punched Grant in the arm. “See that it doesn’t happen again.” Before he could respond she turned and jogged toward their waiting companions.

              Grant flexed his right arm. She had smacked him pretty good, a Charlie-horse in the bicep.
I guess I deserved that.

He ran to catch up, joining the group on the hill. Below them sections of the desert had been tamed into farmland. Fences enclosed uniform rows of planted fields. Lights twinkled from a few scattered houses, and in the distance a church steeple poked toward the sky.

Tedesco pointed to a road past the nearest farmhouse. “That will take us into Cotton City.” He reached down to help Dr. Morgan to his feet. “We’re almost there.”

The group trudged down the hill and across a field until they reached a barbed-wire fence running parallel to the road. Grant pushed the bottom wire down with the sole of his boot and pulled the middle section up with his hand, allowing the rest of the group to crawl between the strands. Once they were past he stepped through.  

They marched north on the blacktop road, eventually passing a sign which indicated they had connected with highway 338. The case in Grant’s hands grew heavy and he periodically switched it from the left to the right. He walked at the rear of the group, Jaime and Tedesco abreast of Dr. Morgan, their pace slow due to the elderly man’s fading strength.

              As they hiked past the widely scattered houses they were met with the inevitable barking of dogs, but no heads poked out of darkened doorways to investigate the disturbance. A few happy hounds even trotted out to greet them with wagging tails, escorting the group safely past their yards before returning to the comfort of their porches.

              The highway was barren of cars even after they passed the sign telling them they had entered the limits of Cotton City. Though city was a rather generous word for the community. The only indication they had arrived in a town were a few cross streets, some houses, and the steeple of a church.

              Dr. Morgan stumbled but Jaime and Tedesco caught him beneath the arms. They needed wheels. Soon. Grant’s hackles rose at the thought of the people hunting them. If they were caught here, now, in the open, it would be a massacre.

              Grant stared at the backs of the three people walking before him. Tonight had been some sort of surreal version of
This Is Your Life.
Who’s the next guest on this twisted game show? He shivered, his gaze moving from shadow to shadow, imagination filling the darkness with enemies. The way his luck was running, now would be the moment someone jumped from behind a tree and started shooting.

              A form flitted through his vision in the yard to the right. He spun toward the movement, hand blurring toward the pistol in his waistband. As he extended the gun’s barrel to track the target he realized it was a cat. The animal saw him and froze for an instant before turning to bound up a tree.  

              He noticed his companions staring at him and realized he still aimed the pistol, the barrel shadowing the cat’s movements. He stuffed the pistol back into his jeans and cleared his dry throat. “What?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve always been a dog person.” He nodded toward the cat. “But, I’ll let him go this time.” While his companions continued to stare, laughter in their eyes, he ignored them and continued walking. 

              Grant set a more brisk pace, ready to get off the road. As they moved deeper into the town he became more nervous. Even a town this small would have some sort of law enforcement. Four strangers, on foot, three of them armed, would attract attention. And while Jaime could explain their way out of it, the longer they lingered, the more chance there was of Cane catching up to them. And their presence could put the good people of Cotton City in danger.

              They rounded a bend in the road and a service station appeared, but no lights were on. Still, Grant hurried toward it. The small establishment had two uncovered gas pumps, a couple of vending machines near the front door, and a small service bay on the side. But what drew Grant’s interest was an old and dusty Aerostar mini-van parked near the closed service bay door.

              He moved to peer through the van’s windows. The driver’s side door lock was popped up in the open position and a key stuck out of the ignition. He pulled open the door and plopped onto the seat, gripping the key. The van was here for a reason. It obviously needed a repair of some kind. Grant held his breath.
Here goes nothin’.
The starter whirred and the interior lights dimmed, but after a few long seconds the van choked to life. For a minute it seemed as if it might die but as the engine warmed it began to run smooth.

              Tedesco, Morgan, and Jaime caught up and waited near the van. 

              “Pile in,” Grant said. “Tedesco you drive.”

              “I don’t know,” Tedesco said. “We can’t just steal it.”

              “You can’t be serious,” Grant said. “We don’t have a lot of other choices.”

              Jaime opened the rear door and helped Dr. Morgan onto the backseat before sliding in beside him. The argument settled without any further discussion.

              Grant passed a searing gaze toward Tedesco and moved to the vending machines. He dug out his wallet and fished for some ones. He stood before the Coke machine, searching for a spot to slip in the bill, before he realized the thing was a relic. It was one of the old style devices with a long rectangular glass door on the right side, the tips of bottles sitting there, ready to be pulled free for the price of two quarters. And nowhere to put a dollar bill.

You’ve got to be kidding me!

He ripped the door open and started pulling at bottles hard enough to rattle the entire machine. But the contraption refused to release its grip on a single one of the delicious and refreshing beverages. His parched throat and dry tongue ached for a taste of grape soda, a splash of cola, a smidgeon of the strawberry drink.
Strawberry
.
Oh, my goodness.
His eyes locked on the cap of his favorite soda. He gripped the neck of the bottle and started tugging again with vigor.