A train whistle blew. Somebody yelled, “Now!”
The sharpshooters ducked down. The gas men hugged the ground. The fire team ran behind a pine row–Bud found a tree up close. Jack took a spot beside him.
The train made the curve–brakes caught, sparks on the tracks. The engine car stopped–nose up to the obstruction.
Megaphone: “Sheriff’s! Identify yourself with the password!” Silence–ten seconds’ worth. Bud eyeballed the engine car window–blue demin flashed.
“Sheriff’s! Identify yourself with the password!”
Silence–then a fake bird call.
The gas men hit the windows–grenades broke glass, slipped between the bars. Tommygunners charged car 3–full clips took down the door.
Smoke, screams.
Somebody yelled, “Now!”
Smoke out the door–men in khaki running through it. A sharpshooter picked one off; somebody yelled, “No, they’re ours!”
Cops swarmed the car–masks on, shotguns up. Jack grabbed Bud. “They’re not in that one!”
Bud ran, hit the car 4 platform. Open the door–a dead guard just inside, inmates running helter-skelter.
Bud fired, pumped, fired–three went down, one aimed a handgun. Bud pumped, fired, missed–a crate beside the man exploded. Jack jumped on the platform–the inmate squeezed a shot. Jack caught it in the face, spun, hit the tracks.
The shooter ran. Bud pumped, hit empty. He dropped his shotgun, pulled his .38-one, two, three, four, five, six shots– hits in the back, he was killing a dead man. Noise outside the car-convicts on the tracks by Trashcan’s body. Deputies behind them firing close–buckshot and blood, black/red air.
A smoke bomb exploded–Bud ran into #5 gagging. Gunfire: white guys in denim shooting colored guys in denim, guards in khaki shooting both of them. He jumped the train, ran for the trees.
Bodies on the tracks.
Convicts picked off sitting duck-style.
Bud hit the pines, hit his car, gunned it over the tracks dragging the axles. Into a gully, fishtailing down, tires sliding on gravel. A tall man standing by a car. Bud saw who he was, aimed straight for him.
The man ran. Bud sideswiped the car, skidded to a stop. He got out–groggy, bloody from a crack on the dash. Deuce Perkins walked up shooting.
Bud caught one in the leg, one in the side. Two misses, a hit in the shoulder. Another miss–Perkins dropped the gun, pulled a knife. Bud saw rings on his fmgers.
Deuce stabbed. Bud felt his chest rip, tried to make fists, couldn’t. Deuce lowered his face, smirked–Bud kneed him in the balls and bit his nose off. Perkins shrieked; Bud bit into his arm, threw his weight down.
They tumbled. Perkins made animal noises. Bud thrashed his head, felt the arm rip out of its socket.
Deuce dropped the knife. Bud picked it up–blinded by rings that killed women. He dropped the knife, beat Perkins to death with his own two wounded hands.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The Patchett estate in ruins– two acres of soot, debris. Shingles on the lawn, a scorched palm tree in the pool. The house itself rubble-collapsed stucco, soaked ashes. Find a booby-trapped safe inside a six-trillionsquare-inch perimeter.
Ed kicked through the rubble. David Mertens hovered–he had to be _there_, it was just too right.
The floor collapsed into the foundation blocks–timber to be cleared away. Wood heaps, mounds of sodden fabric–no telltale metal glints. A ten-man/one-week job, a tech for the booby trap. Around to the yard.
A cement back porch–a slab with fried furniture. Solid cement–no cracks, no grooves, no obvious access to a safe hole. The pool house another rubble heap.
Wood three feet high–too much work if Mertens was there. Circuit the pool–burned chairs, a diving platform. A handgrenade pin floating in the water.
Ed kicked the floating palm tree. Porcelain chips in the fronds; a piece of shrapnel embedded in the trunk. Down prone, squinting: capsules in the water, black squares that looked like detonator caps. The shallow end steps exploded plaster–metal grids showing, more pills. Check the lawn–extra-scorched grass running from the pool to the house.
Access to the safe. Grenade and dynamite safeguards. Flames shooting to the terminus, defusing the booby trap-just maybe.
Ed jumped in the water, tore at the plaster–pills and bubbles broke to the surface. Two-handed rips–plaster, water, bubbles, a swinging metal door. Pill eruptions, folders under plastic, plastic over cash and white powder. Loads and loads and loads–then nothing but a deep black hole. Sopping-wet runs to his car–the sun beat down–he was almost dry when he got the stash loaded. One last trip in case HE was THERE: pills scooped from the deep end.