The Forgotten Holocaust (Ben Hope, Book 10) (28 page)

Erin paced her comfortable room in the Hyatt Regency until the restlessness building up inside her like steam pressure made her feel as if something was going to pop inside her mind if she didn’t get out of this place and
do
something. Part of her resented that Ben had left her stranded here in this gilded cage while he went off on his own. Another part of her was deeply concerned about him and wanted to help. She shouldn’t have let him go, damn it.

She stalked out of the room, took the lift down to the lobby and after asking at the desk was directed to a business centre with superfast broadband access for hotel guests. Settling in behind a free terminal, she ran the search phrase
BIG BEAR TULSA
through Google to see what came up. It was what Ben had written down after talking to Kurzweil. It had to mean something.

After some hunting around, the search led her to a website called www.Abandoned-Oklahoma.com, which gave listings of ghost towns and settlements classed as barren, neglected, abandoned and semi-abandoned. She’d never realised there were so many. From the site, she learned that the town of Adonis in neighbouring Muskogee County, de-established in 1949, had once been the nearest community to the old Big Bear farmstead, a wheat-growing concern that had gone bust some time in the fifties and fallen into rack and ruin.

‘Bingo,’ she murmured.

Google Maps helped her to quickly pinpoint the farm. The satellite image zoomed in close enough to get a blurry view of a scatter of agricultural buildings. She blinked. Was this where McCrory had kept his arsenal hidden from the FBI all this time?

‘I’m going,’ she said out loud, drawing a couple of looks from other computer users in the room. She had no idea what she was going to find when she got out there, or even how she could get to such a remote and distant place without a car. Public transport was minimal in these parts. She only knew she desperately wanted to be involved, and that every minute lost was time that Ben was on his own without a soul to help him.

Erin returned to her room to collect her things, then headed quickly out into the street. A cab was her best chance. If she had to, she’d get the driver to take her all the way to Adonis, and worry about paying the fare later.

The sun was beating down hard, and the paving was blinding white in the glare. Erin crossed East 2nd Street and hurried along in the shade of the tree-lined sidewalk in the direction of the towering Bank of Oklahoma high-rise.
Please God let there be a taxi
, she prayed.
Please God let a taxi appear right this moment.

Her heart leapt as, moments later, precisely that happened. The yellow checker cab slowed as she hailed it, cut out of the traffic and pulled into the kerb twenty yards up the street near the entrance to the bank. Erin broke into a jog, amazed at her good fortune. But before she could get to the waiting car, an obese man in a drumskin-tight business suit carrying an attaché case came striding out of the bank, eyes front and talking on a phone, and barged in ahead of her.

‘Too bad Conroy is upset, Artie,’ he was saying in a piping voice, loud enough for the whole street to hear. ‘I want the goddamn Radisson deal closed today. We’re bleeding money on this.’

‘Excuse me,’ Erin said, catching up. ‘But that cab’s mine.’

He jerked around and stared at her in indignation. ‘Hold on, Artie.
What?
’

‘I said, this cab’s mine,’ she said levelly. ‘I need it.’

He shrugged, and gave her an alligator smile. ‘I just made it mine.’

‘I saw it first,’ she said.

‘What are you, twelve years old? Shit happens. Get another.’

She moved between him and the taxi door, laid a hand on his arm and gave him what she hoped was her best pleading look. ‘I have important business. Please. You don’t realise how important—’

‘Kiss my ass, lady.’ He used his bulk to push past her, almost knocking her down, then opened the taxi door and started wedging himself inside as he resumed his phone call. ‘Nah, just some stupid skank. Like I was saying, Artie.
Fuck
Conroy.’

Erin stared at this insolent sonofabitch stealing her taxi right out from under her nose. That was when the pressure finally went
pop
inside her mind.

She took her pistol out of her bag and aimed it in his face.

‘Okay, you asked for it, cheesehog. Out of the damn cab. I said, get out of the taxi,
now!
’

A few bystanders scattered in alarm. Someone yelled, ‘Whoa, holy shit!’

The fat guy dropped his phone and his case and put up his hands. ‘Jesus Christ. Okay! Okay! Whatever you say, ma’am.’ He plucked his bulk out of the taxi door and stepped away in a hurry, his chins wobbling. The cab driver craned his neck from behind the wheel and gaped at Erin, too stunned to move.

‘POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPON!’

Erin froze. She hadn’t noticed the two beat cops approaching. They were just ten yards away, Glocks drawn and trained right on her.

She let her pistol clatter from her fingers and put her hands up. One cop covered his partner as he darted across to pick up her gun. ‘Against the car!’ Erin did what they said.

The arrest didn’t take long. Within what seemed like just seconds, a police cruiser screeched up with lights flashing, and in front of the gathering crowd of onlookers Erin was bundled into the back and read her rights through a wire mesh.

She was too shocked to register where the patrol car was taking her. A hand pressed to the top of her head as she got out; she was walked inside a building, handed over, processed, fingerprinted and finally banged up inside a cell. She slumped on a fixed metal bench and put her head in her hands, feeling ready to throw up out of self-disgust and anger.

Minutes went by. Then the cell door rattled and she looked up to see a craggy face leering at her through the bars.

‘Well, what have we here?’ Chief O’Rourke growled. ‘Look what the cat brought in.’

The commotion Ben had been expecting kicked off one startled beat after the truck engine roared into life. McCrory’s men dropped what they were doing and began yelling and running towards the truck, grappling for their pistols, leaping to grab their rifles.

Ben crunched the gearstick into first, stamped on the gas and the truck lurched violently forwards, bouncing over the uneven ground. He could feel the sheer weight of the cargo of weaponry and munitions in the back. There was no way he could have tried to use it as a getaway vehicle and outrun the 4×4s belonging to the crew. That was fine by him, because theft wasn’t his intention.

His purpose was simple: to inflict maximum damage. Hit McCrory where it hurt most, hit him hard and whittle down his forces with all the speed, aggression and surprise the SAS had taught Ben to deploy.

He drove the loaded truck straight towards the half-loaded one, revving the diesel to a scream and bracing himself for the impact that bounced his ribcage off the steering wheel amid a rending crash of heavy metal. Men hurled themselves out of the way as the half-loaded truck was rammed sideways into the crane lorry. The crane toppled over the edge like a falling tree, crushing its operator who hadn’t been able to get out of the way in time. As if in slow motion it went smashing down into the concrete pit, crushing ladders and equipment and crates, followed by the truck which tumbled over on end, shedding its cargo everywhere.

By then, bullets were thwacking into the bodywork of Ben’s truck, which had ploughed to a halt at a crazy angle at the edge of the pit. With the shotgun still slung around his shoulder, he grabbed the two grenade launchers, kicked open the driver’s door and hurled himself out. He hadn’t hit the ground before he squeezed off the first grenade. It sailed into the side of one of the 4×4s and the vehicle was lifted off the ground and flipped like a toy in a rolling ball of fire. Shrapnel cut down the three men who’d been too slow to escape the range of the explosion. Another managed to dive clear. He fired at Ben. Ben fired another grenade that caught the guy square in the chest, carried him off his feet and backwards into the pit before it went off, setting off a chain explosion of the spilled munitions down there that rocked the earth like a volcanic eruption and sent up a spout of flame bigger than the blazing oil-wells of Kuwait.

Ben felt the skin-peeling heatwave gush by him like dragon’s breath as he ducked around the side of a building. One of the big barns was instantly engulfed in the conflagration, its flimsy wooden structure collapsing, buckled and blackened sheet metal raining down to bury several more of the 4×4s while McCrory’s crew ran like ants.

Never let your enemy get up once he’s down
. Tacticians from Napoleon Bonaparte to General George Patton had said it, and with eight grenades to go, it was wisdom Ben intended to honour. He didn’t stop squeezing off shots until both launchers were empty and both trucks and two more farm buildings were blazing skeletons. The fireworks shooting up from the arsenal pit were lighting up the sky with one massive mushrooming blast after another that melted into a rising skyscraper of black smoke they could probably see in Oklahoma City.

Ben threw down the launchers and unslung the shotgun. The first round was already in the chamber. He fired a round of buckshot at a guy who was aiming a pistol his way from behind an old trailer. The shotgun kicked against Ben’s shoulder. The guy’s head dropped out of sight. Ben racked the shotgun lightning-fast.
Ker-chunk
. Fired again, swept the man’s legs out from under him with the second shot and racked it again and blew out his heart and lungs with the third as he went down.

A bullet skipped off the ground near Ben’s feet and he danced away between the buildings, topping up the shotgun’s magazine from the loose cartridges in his pockets. He kept moving, running back in the direction of the higher ground where he’d stashed the dead sentry’s rifle. Hastily aimed gunfire followed him as he went. He whirled round and fired back from the hip, saw a bite-shaped chunk of masonry disappear from the corner of a building and the guy leaning out from behind it go down with a red flower spreading over his white T-shirt.

Ben kept running. He reached the tree stumps, threw himself down prone behind them in the tall yellow grass and switched weapons. The blunt instrument of a sawn-off shotgun was out of its depth at this distance, but the rifle was a scalpel. Scanning left to right with the ten-times magnification scope, with the gun mounted in the V of the tree stumps, he picked out running figures through the smoke. Still no sign of Ritter or Moon. He wondered where they were, and why not here. What was left of the loading crew was a disorganised rabble. Ben smoothly tracked the rifle after one of them, crucified him in the scope’s fine cross hairs and squeezed the trigger. The .308 punched his shoulder and his eardrums; Ben saw the red-pink mist of blood spray from his target and instantly moved on to acquire another in his sights. Fired again. Same result. Then the wind changed, and a sweeping pall of black smoke engulfed the battlefield that had been Big Bear Farm, obscuring everything from view.

Ben took his eye from the scope. Time to leave. Enough damage had been done.

For now.

Turning his back on the burning farm, he returned un-noticed to the place he’d hidden the car. As he walked down the track he checked through the wallet he’d taken from the sentry. Two hundred and eighty dollars cash, driver’s licence and assorted cards. This guy was the kind of rent-a-thug who actually carried ID on a job. His name had been Dwayne S. Gulick. Next Ben did a quick inspection of Gulick’s phone. There might be one or two contacts on there that could be useful to him.

On the way back through Adonis, he tried calling Erin. There was no reply, and her phone was turned off. He left a brief message asking her to call him. But something didn’t feel right. He pulled over at the side of the road, got the Hyatt Regency front desk number from Google and called them to ask to be put through to Miss Lang in room 421. After a few moments, the receptionist informed him that Miss Lang had gone out.

A tingle of worry began to grow inside him, and he drove on more quickly.

Finn McCrory was alone at home, gnawing on a cold meat sandwich at the bar in the kitchen and still avoiding the office, even avoiding his campaign manager Theo Walsh, when he got the call that spoiled his lunch.

‘I told you how it’d go down,’ Ritter said. ‘Hate to say it, but you shoulda listened to me.’

‘You told me what?’

‘You’d best sit, boss.’

‘I am sitting. Spill it, goddamnit.’

‘It’s not good news, boss. I just got a call from Meagher up at Big Bear. Or what’s left of it. Ain’t much.’

Oh no. It couldn’t be true. Finn plunged his head into his hand. His guts began to churn.

‘Hope?’ he said in a small voice.

‘Who else? You got me and Moon sitting on our asses in fucking Crosbie Heights while he’s doing exactly what I warned you he’d do.’

‘Oh, Lord. When did this happen?’

‘Just now. Minutes ago.’

‘How bad is it?’ First the cabin, now this. If Hope was involved, the answer was predictable enough.

‘Couldn’t be much worse. The trucks are blown to shit, along with everything in them and the entire stock. They’re still draggin’ bodies out of the wreckage. Twelve confirmed dead, three missing. It’s only Meagher, Lukas and Strickman left, and Strickman’s lost an ear.’

Strickman’s missing ear was of small concern to Finn. His heart was rattling along like a train. ‘Jesus Christ, how’d he get into the place? Who was on the gate?’

‘Gulick had the watch. Looks like he never saw it coming. Hope slit’m from ear to ear. Took his wallet and his phone. Used his rifle to kill Hannigan and Stearns.’

A plug of hot bile rose up in Finn’s throat, though not out of sympathy for Gulick or the others. He managed to swallow it back down again, only just.

‘When you say there’s
nothing
left—’

Any tiny glimmer of hopefulness was swiftly dashed by Ritter’s reply. ‘Sounds like what it is, boss. Meagher said the place looks like fuckin’ Hiroshima.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ Finn repeated. His stomach didn’t feel good at all. ‘Where are you?’

‘Still here clocking an empty house,’ Ritter said pointedly. ‘You want me and Moon to head down to Big Bear? Boss? Boss?’

Finn had hung up, in order to dash to the kitchen sink and let go of the rising tide that wouldn’t be kept down any longer. He was violently sick twice, then gulped down a glass of water and a fistful of antacids and collapsed in a wicker chair. A cold sweat rippled down his body like witches ‘fingers at the thought of his precious stock all gone, gone, blown to smithereens. But the cold sweat was nothing compared to the dread terror of what would happen when the Mexicans found out about this. Those guys were as paranoid as they were ruthless. They’d instantly suspect that the attack was the work of the DEA or the FBI – that a massive law enforcement operation was closing on a supplier it was now time to cut their ties with. Cutting ties meant visits in the night. It meant carjacking, kidnapping and heaven knew what else. It meant slitting throats. Colombian neckties. Slow dismemberment. Blood-spattered shower curtains. Screaming horror and death.

Finn rose from his chair and made it to the kitchen sink before throwing up a third time. He splashed water in his face, screwed up his eyes and let out a miserable groan.

That was when the phone rang again. He wiped his chin and stared at it, thinking it must be Ritter calling with even worse news. Like the Mexicans were on their way already, armed with chainsaws and blowtorches. ‘What the hell,’ he croaked wretchedly, and picked up.

‘Guess what I got for you,’ said the gravelly voice of Liam O’Rourke, sounding uncharacte‌ristically upbeat.

A small ray of sunshine beamed down over Finn McCrory as he listened to the news. O’Rourke’s version of events naturally gave him all the credit for tracking down the Hayes woman and bringing her into custody.

‘She’s under arrest?’

‘Sure, but I wouldn’t worry about that. Paperwork can disappear, just like people can. The officer who booked her, he’s my guy.’

Finn was beginning to smile as the black clouds overhead rapidly dissolved away to clear blue sky and he suddenly could see how he was going to get through this. It was a magnificent turnaround. The Hayes woman was no longer a threat, and soon neither would Ben Hope be. His secrets would be protected. He would survive. Even the Mexicans didn’t seem like such a big deal. In his elation he quite believed that things would be smoothed out just fine. It was just a glitch. He’d come out on top, like always. He was Finn McCrory.

‘What you want me to do with her?’ O’Rourke asked.

The chief of police, at his beck and call, awaiting orders. Finn’s smile widened. With the cabin and the farm gone, there was only one place he could keep his new hostage. Certainly not at the house, and the aircraft hangar was too public. Serendipity had provided a nice alternative.

‘Bring the bitch up to the ranch,’ he said.

O’Rourke hesitated. ‘Arrowhead? Big Joe’s place? Christ, Finn, you sure?’

Unbelievable. The old bastard managed to intimidate even Liam O’Rourke.

‘He’s out of the way for a couple days,’ Finn said. ‘Topeka. Seeing a man about a horse, I don’t know what. Point is, we have the place to ourselves.’

O’Rourke seemed relieved to hear that Big Joe was two hundred miles away in Kansas. ‘Okay. I’ll take care of it personally.’

‘Get rolling, chief. And bring as many of the boys as you can get hold of.’

‘We expecting trouble?’

‘Not that we can’t handle,’ McCrory said with a grin. ‘Not any more.’