The Forgotten Holocaust (Ben Hope, Book 10) (29 page)

Ben tried again to call Erin’s mobile as he crossed the line back into Tulsa County, then once more coming into the outskirts of Broken Arrow. Still no reply.

‘Come on, answer the damn thing,’ he said out loud.

Of all the things that worried him at the moment, it was Erin that worried him the most. The fact that she’d left the hotel when she’d been supposed to lie low there, and that she wasn’t responding to her phone when she was meant to be waiting for his call. It wasn’t like her.

The other two things on his mind were Ritter and Moon. Ben had little doubt that their not being present at Big Bear Farm that day had made his work there a lot easier. That was a plus. But now he’d lost his biggest tactical advantage – the element of surprise that had enabled him to strike hard and fast and get out again before the enemy had known what hit them. Now they knew he was coming, and they’d be waiting for him to make his next move, ready to respond with everything they had. That was a big negative.

Nor was Ben happy not knowing where Ritter and Moon were, especially now that Erin had strangely disappeared off his radar screen. Put all those concerns together, and they added up to a set of possibilities that he didn’t like. He didn’t like them one bit.

His jaw tightened and he pressed a little harder on the gas, shooting past slower cars and trucks to the throaty tune of the Barracuda’s Hemi V8. The turnpike led straight into the heart of Tulsa. He’d be there in just a few minutes. Then he would see what he would see.

That was when the sudden shrill of the Dixie ringtone sounded in the car next to him. He glanced across to see that it was coming from the phone he’d taken from the sentry called Gulick, which was lying on the front passenger seat next to the dead man’s wallet.

The phone kept ringing insistently. He hesitated, then reached over for it, thumbed the
REPLY
button and pressed it to his ear without saying anything.

‘Hey there. How are you feeling on this fine sunny day?’

Ben’s fist tightened on the steering wheel as he recognised McCrory’s voice. He sounded bright and breezy, like a friend calling up for a catch-up chatter. His amicable tone gave Ben a chill.

‘Congratulations, Mr Hope. You sure had some fun at my expense today, didn’t you? I’ll bet you had a ball. Yes, sir.’

Ben said nothing.

‘Well, I just wanted to call and let you know that the fun ain’t over,’ said the cheery voice in his ear. ‘In fact, it’s just about to begin. We got ourselves some female company, me and the boys here. That lady friend of yours is quite something, isn’t she?’

‘Put her on,’ Ben said. He felt numb. The road kept spooling towards him at ninety miles an hour.

McCrory laughed. ‘Sorry, bud. She can’t talk right now.’

‘She’d better be all right.’

‘Oh, we’re taking good care of her. Don’t you worry about that.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Why, just the pleasure of your acquaintance. I was thinking, how about you come and join us all here? We’ll have ourselves a party. Talk things over. Kind of square things up, man to man.’

‘Tell me where,’ Ben said.

‘Arrowhead Ranch. Out by Sand Springs. You’ll know where to find it.’

‘I’ll see you there,’ Ben said.

McCrory laughed again. ‘Delighted to hear it. I’ll be waiting. Put on a nice reception for you. Just like old pals.’

‘Soon,’ Ben said. He tossed the phone out of the car window and hit the gas harder.

Finn McCrory smiled as the line went dead. He turned off his phone and tucked it into the pocket of the fancy hand-stitched jeans he was wearing, along with a cool white shirt and his favourite tooled cowboy boots. The jeans were tight around the middle, cinched with a silver-buckled alligator belt on which was riding his .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver in a custom John Bianchi holster. The gun was a special order in mirror-finish nickel plate, with scroll engraving and cocobolo hardwood grips by Hogue, monogrammed with his initials in mother-of-pearl. It felt pretty good there on his hip. Made him feel invulnerable.

It was a beautiful afternoon. Finn stood by his still-ticking Mercedes and gazed up at the sky, an unbroken azure dome above the green pastures of Arrowhead Ranch that stretched for miles in three directions, a world of peace and tranquillity as far from anything as a man could ever want to get. The thoroughbreds were grazing in their neatly fenced paddocks. The birds were singing in the old oak trees that pleasantly shaded the big whitewood century ranch house. Yes, a beautiful day – one that might not have started so well for him, but which was now turning out just fine.

Hadn’t he said it? Hadn’t it been his brainwave that the woman was the key to getting Hope? Finn was pretty pleased with himself. And soon, very soon, the rest of the plan would fall into place as nice as pie.

An approaching dust cloud on the long private road that wound up to the ranch turned out to be the white GMC van. Finn walked out to greet it as it rolled up. Ritter and Moon sprang down from the cab while the side door slid open and Meagher, Lukas and Strickman got out. Strickman was wearing a thick makeshift bandage covering one ear and the side of his head, and looked like death. Moon’s chest slogan for the day was ‘I DON’T CALL 911’.

‘This all you could get?’ Finn asked them, surveying the crew through narrowed eyes. Never mind, it would be enough.

‘This is all that’s left,’ Ritter said. ‘She here?’

‘Any time now,’ Finn replied, and shielded his eyes with his hand to scan the horizon. Moments later, a second dust cloud appeared in the distance. They watched the two faraway cars turn off the road and grow steadily larger. Chief Liam O’Rourke’s silver Mercury Grand Marquis led the way, followed by an unmarked Crown Victoria.

The cars crunched to a halt up next to the other vehicles. O’Rourke stepped out of the Mercury, jacketless in a shoulder holster rig and accompanied by fellow Irishman Mike Corcoran. Finn knew all three cops in the Crown Vic: Lou Wylie, Dixon Coyle and Cliff Duhame. All three were on his payroll.

Duhame got out of the back seat clutching their guest of honour by the arm. She was still protesting as violently as she’d been when they’d hauled her from her cell for an unauthorised ride out into the country.

‘Spirited little thing, ain’t she?’ O’Rourke grunted.

Moon was almost salivating.

‘Afternoon, Miss Hayes,’ Finn said with a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Arrowhead Ranch. Pleasure to have you with us.’

‘Rot in hell!’ Erin spat back at him.

‘See what I mean?’ O’Rourke said.

‘She’ll soon cool down.’ Finn motioned to Ritter and Moon, who stepped forward and took Erin from Duhame, one arm each so that she was powerless to fight them. Finn led the way from the house to the stable block around the side. Most of them were unused nowadays, since the old man had laid off the ranch-hands and drastically scaled down his stock in latter years (hopefully a sign of age finally catching up). So was the brick-built tack-room at the end of the stable building. ‘In there,’ Finn said, and Ritter and Moon shoved Erin inside.

‘See ya real soon, sugar tits,’ Moon said to her, and then lolled his tongue obscenely.

The door banged shut and Finn double-bolted it, snapping the padlock shut and giving the key to Moon. ‘You’re the jailer.’

‘My pleasure,’ Moon said with a wolfish smile.

Back at the house, the mixed group of gangsters and bent cops were eyeing one another warily. ‘Hope doesn’t stand a chance,’ Finn said, surveying his little defence force.

‘So this Hope guy is the one who’s been causing all the trouble, huh?’ O’Rourke said.

Finn gave a dismissive wave. ‘He’s nothing.’

‘He’s a little more than that,’ Ritter said. ‘You called down the thunder. Storm’s coming.’

‘He won’t be so tough when we start peeling his girlfriend’s skin off,’ Finn said.

‘All the same, boss, I think you should find somewhere to take cover when he gets here.’

‘You worry too much, Ritter.’ Finn laughed, and the cops laughed with him. But Finn stopped laughing before they did, and his hand found its way to rest on the butt of his revolver.

Ritter looked at his watch. ‘He could be here any time. Dave, break out the gear.’ Meagher nodded and opened up the back of the van. Coyle peered inside. ‘Crap. You boys bring enough hardware?’

Moon tossed him an M4 battle rifle. ‘Gonna need it. This guy ain’t easy to kill.’

‘Why, Billy Bob, I do believe you’re afraid,’ O’Rourke said. He and Moon had crossed paths on a few previous occasions.

‘Up your ass,’ Moon replied, giving him the finger. ‘Sonofabitch I’d be afraid of ain’t born yet, and his mother’s dead.’

The next couple of minutes were taken up with the unloading of weapons from the van and the cars. Corcoran and Wylie had raided the police armoury for a couple of Remington twelve-gauge pumps. Everyone had brought their sidearms for backup, too. Conversation dropped to a minimum amid the pre-battle sound of magazines being loaded and inserted, bolts being clacked and general tooling up.

Moon smirked as all five cops put on their bulky Kevlar vests. ‘Now who’s pussy?’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Finn said, ignoring him.

The interior of the ranch house was traditional Okie, the way the old man had designed it. He liked big rooms, big furniture, sumptuously varnished wood and acres of steerhide leather. The walls were decorated with mounted animal heads, racks of antlers and pictures of Big Joe posing with all manner of stuff he’d killed on scores of hunting trips. An original Wells Fargo stagecoach wheel had been made into a chandelier. A section of the enormous living room was fashioned after a western saloon bar, complete with cow horns and a spittoon. Cherokee spears and tomahawks hung above doorways and antique six-guns and Winchesters were everywhere. Finn had grown up with all that Roy Rogers shit and didn’t even look at it. He threw himself into a deep leather couch while the others stood around or sat in chairs or leaned against the walls, biding their time.

They waited. And waited. Finn got up and began pacing. Ritter sat completely immobile with a blank thousand-yard stare, nursing his rifle as if it were a part of his flesh. Moon smacked gum and thought about Erin Hayes.

‘How ’bout a drink?’ Coyle suggested, eyeing the spirits cabinet. It was hot sitting about in those damn bulletproof vests.

‘I’d stay sharp if I was you,’ Ritter said, without moving his eyes.

More time passed, and nothing happened. The sun sank in the west and the sky turned golden-red and then purple.

‘Why ain’t he here yet?’ Mike Corcoran asked. Nobody replied.

Evening slowly merged into night, the stars came out. Still nothing. They drew the blinds so that Hope couldn’t see inside the house. A coyote yipped and howled in the distance and Coyle and Duhame exchanged uneasy glances. The cops hadn’t reckoned on this. They had anxious wives and hot dinners and TV and warm beds waiting for them at home. The silence and the waiting had them rattled.

‘Maybe he ran,’ Finn said, breaking another long, tense silence. ‘Hell, maybe he won’t come at all.’

‘He’ll come,’ Ritter said.

Twenty more minutes had passed before they saw the approaching car lights shining brightly through the gaps in the blinds. Everyone moved nearer the window, tense, listening hard. Soon afterwards, they heard the growl of a big V8 getting closer.

‘This is it, boys,’ O’Rourke said, assuming command as befitted his rank. ‘He’s here.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Wylie said, watching through the blinds as the lights drew steadily closer. ‘He’s just driving right up to the house. Fucker’s as bold as brass.’

‘Guy’s got some balls, gotta give’m that,’ O’Rourke muttered. He had beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. He puffed out his chest. ‘All right. Let’s take care of business.’

O’Rourke drew his Colt Python from the shoulder rig. Corcoran racked a round into the chamber of his Remington pump with that bright, crunchy
snick-snack
that had put the fear into a million hearts. Moon quietly pressed off the safety of his M4 and swapped glances with Ritter. Both thinking the same thing.
Fuckin’ cops.
On another day, they wouldn’t have hesitated to gun down the whole stinking bunch and do themselves and the world a favour. The people you had to work with.

‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Finn murmured, watching from another window. But as the dazzling lights drew up close to the house and he recognised the vehicle, he deflated like a punctured ball.

The Dodge Ram.

It wasn’t Hope. Big Joe was back.

‘Oh, shit,’ Finn said under his breath.

He watched, paralysed, as the pickup truck stopped outside. The lights and engine died. The old man got out, showing no apparent stiffness after his long drive from Kansas. He was in his travelling clothes, jeans and denim jacket, and had a sling bag over his shoulder. He lingered for a moment to stare at the four vehicles parked outside his house, and Finn saw his face crease up into a deep, dark frown that Finn had seen before.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said again. He swallowed.

The sound of the front door opening; heavy, deliberate footsteps in the hall. Then Big Joe walked into the room, stopped and glared from under beetling white brows at his son and the armed men inside his house.

‘I thought you were in Topeka,’ was all Finn could think to say at first.

‘What the hell’s this?’

‘Let’s go in the other room, Daddy,’ Finn said, stepping over and anxiously taking his elbow to steer him back through the doorway. Big Joe resisted, then emitted a long, low sound like a snarl and let Finn guide him across the hall to the room opposite, which Big Joe used as a TV lounge.

Big Joe looked grim. ‘I come home early and there’s a bunch of gorillas with guns in my house. You owe me an explanation. Let’s have it.’

‘It’s none of your concern, Daddy. I got some business to take care of, that’s all. You keep out of the way, now, before you go and get yourself hurt.’

‘Don’t you Daddy me. What business? You wouldn’t know business if it crept up and chewed your butt off.’

‘Now listen, Daddy—’

‘I want these people out of my home right now.’

Finn flushed. ‘No way.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said no way. This is a meeting. These are my associates.’

‘Associates,’ Big Joe said, clenching his teeth. He gripped Finn’s arm. ‘Associates my ass. You think I never saw a bunch of cheap hoods before?’

‘That’s the police chief in there.’

‘Exactly. You think I’m blind, boy? Think I can’t see what this is?’

The hold the old man had on Finn’s arm felt like a steel pincer. ‘Let go.’ Finn wrenched his arm free and backed away.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ his father seethed at him. ‘What the hell are you into? This what I brought you up to be? A goddamn criminal?’

Finn felt something break inside him and the anger gushed out. ‘Oh, it was easy for you. You made something of yourself. What about me? How’m I supposed to make my way, with your reputation hanging over me? You ever stop to think about that?’

‘I always knew you were a coward and a cheat. Now you’re fixin’ to kill a man right here in my own home. That’s what this is, right? An ambush.’

‘I—’

‘This is what you call your business. This is what you do when my back is turned. Don’t lie to me, boy!’

‘He – he knows our secret, Daddy. I did everything I could, but he knows. I can’t let it go any further.’

Big Joe’s eyes bugged in fury. ‘So that’s it. You opened your big mouth. You let it out.’

‘No! I—’

‘Not a soul,’ the old man rasped. ‘Not a living soul ever knew. I’ve been keepin’ it locked up like the holy of holies since twenty years before you were even born. Now you just up and spill it right out. You got horseshit for brains, son? Don’t you know what’s gonna happen to you if folks know the truth about our family?’ His big fists were clenched as he advanced on Finn.

Finn unholstered the revolver from his belt. ‘I’ve taken enough abuse from you. All my life you’ve been putting me down.’

Big Joe showed him yellow teeth as he kept on coming. ‘I put you down, boy, you won’t be getting back up again.’

‘Don’t you come any closer, you hear me? Back off!’ Finn pointed the gun and thumbed the hammer.

But Big Joe just glanced disdainfully at the revolver. He seemed eight feet tall. A granite mountain looming over Finn, ready to fall on him like a million tons of rock. ‘What the hell are you going to do with that? You gonna smoke me? You gonna ventilate the old man with your roscoe? Huh? Show us all what a big tough guy you are? Huh?’ He kept prodding Finn in the chest, shoving him back harder each time.

‘I’m warning you …’

Big Joe regarded him with pure disgust, as if he could spit blood at the very sight of him. ‘You shame me, Finn McCrory. I shoulda strangled you the day they pulled you out of your momma, God rest her soul.’

Finn’s back was against the wall. He could retreat no further—

Big Joe lunged to wrench the gun from Finn’s hand—

The stunning BOOM of the magnum seemed to drive all the air out of the room. For a terrible moment, Big Joe stood rocking on his feet, staring in speechless apoplectic disbelieving rage at his son who’d just shot him. Then his eyes rolled down and he saw the blood. He staggered back a step. One knee buckled first, then the other, and Big Joe twirled and hit the polished floor face first with a crash almost as loud as the gunshot.

Finn stared down at him. Stared at the revolver in his hand.

The door burst open. Ritter ran into the room, stopped and looked down at the inert hulk of Big Joe.

‘I didn’t kill’m,’ Finn said, talking loudly like a deaf person over the ringing whine in his ears. ‘Hope did. We all saw it, right? Hope came here and murdered a defenceless old man. You’re a witness, Ritter.’

Ritter said nothing.

The blast of a second gunshot made them turn. It had come from the other room.