Smoke and Mirrors

107

Tug had followed the limousine, and parked White’s SUV at the edge of the woods. On foot, he trailed the five men into the enormous barn filled with massive earth-moving equipment. The tires on some of the pieces were taller than he was. Only the closest rows of overhead warehouse lights were on, and the men were clustered below a steel support beam in front of the manager’s trailer.

After slipping into the rows of equipment, Tug watched as the driver placed a cinder block and a wooden crate side by side below the beam. The larger of the thugs went into the office trailer and returned with a looped yellow nylon rope, which he threw over the beam. The driver tied a slipknot in one end and, after taking out the slack, the noose dangled five feet over the crate.

“You’re planning to hang me?” Albert asked in a horrified voice. “Not that!”

“Do as we say,” Finch told Albert. “There are propane torches in here, if you’d like to go that route.”

“Get up on the crate, fatso,” the largest thug demanded. “There’s also dynamite in the explosives shed. We could shove a stick up your ass and light it.” The men all laughed, no doubt delighted by the prospect.

“We could roast your little pig balls,” the driver said, snickering.

Tug moved closer each time the men said something, using their noise to cover his stealthy movements.

Resigned, legs shaking, Albert climbed onto the cinder block and stepped onto the crate, which shifted under his considerable weight. While the smaller of the thugs kept his gun aimed at Albert’s groin, Finch climbed up onto the block and placed the noose around Albert’s neck. The driver pulled the far end tight and tied it to a steel water pipe.

Albert began begging for his life, steam issuing from his mouth in the cold building.

“Please…please…don’t do me like this, Mr. Finch,” he said.

“Mr. Finch…please!” the driver called out. The four men, standing in a loose line with their backs to the equipment, were laughing and jeering.

Tug Murphy was in position, his shotgun loaded to its steel gills with five rounds of double-ought. It would be enough. He had left his coat outside so he would have immediate access to the USP45 in his shoulder holster, along with the six loaded magazines suspended under his right armpit.

“Please!” Albert screamed. “Please let me have me a few last words!”

Tug stopped behind a bulldozer that stood between him and the men. He crept around the massive steel treads and in behind the lowered blade. Tug put the shotgun against his shoulder, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and straightened, now square to the men as the gun cleared the top of the steel blade. While only his head and shoulders were exposed, the men between him and the wall had no cover at all, and not one of Klein’s henchmen had a gun in their hand at the moment.

The limousine driver saw Tug rise into view, but the barrel aimed at him froze him in mid-laugh. When Tug squeezed the trigger, the driver’s head literally vanished. As his corpse collapsed, his hat spun away like a Frisbee.

Tug aimed the next shot at Finch’s legs, but because Finch was already moving, the buckshot only took his right knee off. The South African fell hard on his left side and went for his gun, but Tug swung the barrel to one of the others who had drawn steel and was raising the muzzle of his handgun. Tug blew a hole in that man’s chest, a few inches below his neck.

There was a dull clap as Finch’s gun barked, but the bulldozer blade deflected the round. Tug’s third blast hit Finch in the right shoulder, rendering his hand inoperable as the gun locked in his grip fell heavily to the dirt.

Tug heard a report and felt a slap to his right shoulder. He turned to see Albert kick out at the last standing shooter, striking him in his back before he could fire again. It didn’t keep the man from firing at Tug, but it spoiled his aim. As Albert shifted his balance to kick out again, the crate fell on its side, the noose abruptly ending his fall. It took longer than it should have for Tug to point the gun, but the back-kicked man was squatting now to get a more solid shooting stance. He took the buckshot square in his stomach and fell behind the overturned crate. Tug pointed the shotgun at the crate and fired again, the buckshot piercing its wood slat walls to find the man behind it.

Having counted his shots, Tug was peeling a shell from the bandolier as he made his way around the blade. Albert grunted and clawed desperately at the noose and began spinning and kicking, moving in a jerky circle. In the time it took to get a shell in the tube, jack it into the gun’s receiver, and aim at the swaying rope, Albert’s tongue was already sticking straight out between his teeth.

The lead pellets cut the ski rope and Albert fell, flattening the crate.

As Tug rushed past Finch, he kicked his Browning away. He set the shotgun down and loosened the slipknot. Albert gagged and choked, but he picked up one of the shoes he’d kicked off and hummed it at Finch.

Albert couldn’t talk, but he grunted pitifully, pointed a fat finger at Finch, and made a throat-slashing motion.

“Good idea,” Tug said, plucking out a foam earplug. He stood, took out his folding knife, and went over to Finch, who looked at him with furious eyes. “Go ahead, wanker. You don’t know what you’re in for,” he said.

“I know what you’re in for,” Tug said.

Finch smiled. “They know you’re…” Tug grabbed Finch’s ear, and as he was drawing the serrated edge hard through Finch’s throat, the man said something that sounded like “Paulazar.” Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be saying it again, because Tug severed Finch’s windpipe as he drew the blade through his neck, with no concern for the warm spray that hit his face. When Tug stood and looked at Albert, he saw figures moving behind him and several bright muzzle flashes. The kneeling Albert White jerked like he’d grabbed a live wire. His shirt sprouted red blossoms as more red spray filled the still air.

Tug felt dull punches all over his body. He threw himself behind the manager’s shack as the dirt where he had stood was still being churned. Bullets pinged the pieces of equipment as, with great effort, Tug pulled out his pistol and fired several rounds toward the figures dressed in black who’d come through the same door he had. He heard a loud grunt and smiled bitterly. At least he’d hit one of them, but they had to be SWAT because they were in black assault suits with body armor, so the hit wouldn’t do more than knock the breath out of him. He had seen at least four shapes, though it was likely there were twice that many.

“You think you’re going to arrest me?”

A man laughed. “We aren’t the arresting type. Here’s the offer. Come out and we’ll hold fire.”

“Go fuck yourself with a stick,” Tug barked, spitting blood. If they weren’t cops, were they Finch’s backup? Christ, what had the man expected he might run into? He could hear more men running into the building and dispersing. In a few seconds they would kill him where he lay mortally wounded.

He looked from the door to the explosives safe facing him. Sitting up, he crawled over, aimed, and used two bullets to blow off the hasp holding the large padlock. Painfully, he pulled the door open and scooted inside the dark cold space.

“You aren’t getting out!” the voice yelled.

Tug set the handgun down and used the flashlight from his pocket to look at the stacked crates of TNT. He figured there were several hundred pounds of explosives in the small shack. He was losing focus as the blood ran in gushes from a dozen holes in his body. The bullet-struck organs were closing down, and coupled with blood loss, it made it difficult to remember why he was there. He stared at the boxes in the circle of light from the flashlight he had dropped, reached for one of the small cardboard boxes on the shelves beside him, and put it on the floor against the carton of dynamite closest to him.

“Hey!” he yelled, coughing. “Come on in. I’ve got something for you!”

He heard men talking outside the structure and, opening the box, he looked at the cylinders stacked inside.

“Ten seconds to come out or we start filling that shed with holes,” a voice replied. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…”

Tug used his remaining strength to stick the muzzle of the HK down against the blasting caps and tighten his grip.

“Three, two…”

His hand trembling, Tug felt the trigger giving.

“One!” the voice outside yelled.

Smiling, Tug Murphy closed his eyes and squeezed.