Chapter Fifteen

 

DAVIS

 

I don't want to ever even have to think about what went through my head, watching Ryan Beauchamp—drug runner, gun smuggler, and all-around scumbag—go down for what I thought would be the last time.

He opens up on the guy who shot him. How strangely like him. Someone runs up and grabs him, pulls him back, as if they were pulling him back from the brink of death.

That direction's a no-go then. Unless someone brought grenades, but that seems too much to hope for at this point. After all, why would they have brought grenades?

Someone steps forward, pulling something out of his pocket. I hear the sound of metal flinging itself against a plywood wall.

Why would they have brought grenades, indeed? The only thing that he shows of himself around the corner might be the bareliest part of one finger. I hear the thing slam into a plywood wall, and then I hear it rip a hole in the whole office section of the building.

We move fast, now. If Ryan is still hurting, he doesn't show it. In we go. I keep my gun down. Nobody's getting shot by me—not today. I'm not a criminal. I won't get myself killed if I can avoid it, but I'm not going to shoot anyone if I don't have to.

That would put me on the same level as them, and I'm not on the same level as them. I never will be. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Not in a million years.

I want to talk to Spider. To tell him my plan. If he knows what's going on, it'll be easier to get him not to have himself pulled out.

He could be in the wind in an hour if need be, especially if it was with Beauchamp's permission. Knowing that there wouldn't always be the chance of some gang member behind you, showing up like a magic bullet, would go a long way toward peace of mind.

Ryan sticks close to us. Sticks close to me, at least. Too close to get anything like a message off, besides an occasional slap on the back to let him know I'm here, he's got cover and support.

The entire raid is over within four minutes. I can hear shots going off in the distance. Easy. I know that we're not losing the gunfights because it doesn't take long before there aren't any.

Instead, I see McCallister's men moving towards the truck. Trying to get it out of there. It's big and painted plain blue. As inconspicuous as it can get. Well, that's great for them.

I force myself to focus up. They might be done with gunfights, but that doesn't mean that I am. We're at the end of the hall. There's a door, nice and big and in the dark it looks gray but it might be red or blue.

Wes motions for me to take the left side of it. Hawkins takes the right, and Wes leans back against the far wall and rears back to kick hard like a mule.

The door latch explodes through the hinge, splintering the door along with the shattered lock. The ring of the lock softly tinkles as it hits the floor, and Wes pulls out of the way as shots spray through the now-open door.

Hawkins pulls a grenade off his belt. In the dark I can see the cylindrical shape of a flash grenade. He gives it a light toss. The loud pop deafens even my ears. I should've covered them, I realize all too late.

We swarm the room. I can't hear my own voice as I start shouting, almost by rote: "Get down! Get the fuck down!"

There are three of them, there. One of them tries to bring a gun up, but he's dropped by Hawkins. The other two go down on their knees, hands up. They've got guns within easy reach, where they dropped them.

I step forward, kick them away. I don't know how motorcycle gangs feel about prisoners. Do they keep them? Set them free? Kill them?

Wes looks at them, perplexed. Is there something going on here that I'm not understanding? I wonder if he recognizes these goons, even in the dim light. Maybe taking prisoners at all, or surrendering when there's a gunfight going on, those are the strange things.

My ears are still ringing so loud that I can't hear my own thoughts. But that doesn't mean that I don't see it when Wes grabs the guy and stands him up. He's rough about it. If he recognizes them, I think, they're not likely to be friends.

Then they're moving. Wes keeps his gun up, trained on their backs. He's giving them instructions, but God damn it all, I can't hear them. I wonder how anyone could hear again so soon after that fucking noise.

Still, when he points at me, and points at the door, I know what to do, more or less. I pass a gun on the floor. Pick it up. An automatic, like the others. Just in case I ever need it, and if I don't, it's evidence.

Then I take the lead. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm walking halfway backwards anyways, keeping an eye on the prisoners behind me. Keeping an eye on Hawkins and Beauchamp, as well.

I let Beauchamp call the shots, the ringing in my ears finally starting to subside by the time he points me in the direction of the door into the warehouse. I push it open. No surprises. I've already seen through the windows in the thin plywood walls what I'm going to find.

A few crates. It's a small place, compared to most warehouses, but then again there can't be that much to find. I already know what I'm going to find in there.

Someone's already on the forklift. When he pulls in close, I recognize the older Beauchamp. He picks up one of the pallets, drives off with it. They're loading up the truck, and they seem to be in a God damned hurry about it, too.

I swallow hard, the sound of blood surging in my ears almost as deafening as the ringing that had overtaken my hearing for minutes on end.

I feel a little light-headed. Hawkins goes on ahead, loads the prisoners up into the back of the truck. He's not explaining what's going to happen, but I don't have to guess. They'll be let off, eventually. Probably a few miles into the desert.

They'll be able to walk back to town, which won't be fun, but they'll have their lives and they'll only be an hour out of civilization.

By that point, though, we'll be long gone. They'll come in here and find nobody and nothing.

Logan Beauchamp takes another crate. Ryan stands beside me, wordless. Everything's happening without any instruction from him, but even still he watches like an instructor waiting to give out a grade.

"What's going on that truck?" I ask.

He doesn't answer for a minute. I figure I shouldn't have asked and don't bother asking again. The question will just be forgotten by time, I think.

"Guns. Probably the same stuff that they're using at the warehouse."

His answer surprises me, after the long silence that he treated me to.

"And what are we going to do with them?"

"We're going to wait for McCallister to give us a call."

"That sounds like a terrible idea."

"How else do you figure you meet the man?"

I don't have an answer to that, except that I'm not sure it works that way.

"Green!" he suddenly shouts. "We got less than five minutes, get that cab up and running!"

The guy I don't recognize jumps up in the cab and I can see him leaning over, fiddling. Checking for a key. He finds one in the overhead, and fits it into the ignition. The engine turns over quickly and easily, and I'm about to breathe a sigh of relief when the whole place explodes.