Dead Is Dead (The Jack Bertolino Series Book 3) (26 page)

Thirty-seven

A compact canyon oak had seeded itself near the summit of the cliff. Darkness was Jack’s ally as he grabbed it and carefully worked his way to the left of the pathway, out of the expected line of fire, and crawled to the top. He peered over the edge at the Dirks’ location. The herd of buffalo was in silhouette, bunched in an undulating, tightening group behind the Dirks. An eight-hundred-pound bull with a broken horn stomped the ground.

“Terrence, Sean, Toby . . . Bertolino here,” he shouted over the grazing field. “It’s over. You’re on an island, your boat’s scuttled; the LAPD is in the air. There’s only one good choice and one way out.”

“Son of a bitch,” Terrence spit as he signaled his brothers to spread out, widening their circumference and shooting range.

Nick and Cruz used Jack’s distraction to move rapidly up the path.

“How many are you?” Terrence shouted.

“You know me, Red, I’m a lone wolf. Drop your weapons and live to hire a good lawyer,” Jack shouted back. “Terrence, you’re fairly clean at this juncture. I guess the real question is whether your brothers will let you leave the island alive.”

“Fuck you, Bertolino,” Sean’s voice echoed in the damp night.

“That you, Sean? A tougher road for you, but I think it’s brother Toby who’s going to take the major hit. But who knows? Do the right thing, get the right jury, you’ll do time, but you’re smart guys, you can play the system. Your call.”

“Who do you have with you, Jack?” Terrence shouted, not buying the lone-wolf routine.

“Clock’s ticking, Terrence. I need you to drop your weapons and come out with your hands raised. And I need your answer now.”

“I got your answer right here, Jack,” Toby snarled as he raised his pistol and fired a single shot that echoed in the night.

Terrence nodded, and the Dirk brothers took one step forward and attacked. Three automatic weapons spit fire, throwing flames into the darkness, chewing up the hillside in the direction of Jack’s voice.

Jack dove for cover, flattened against the hillside, eating dirt as rounds divoted the rocky soil inches from his body.

The herd of buffalo, led by the broken-horned monster, started to shuffle, disjointed at first, spinning in place, and pawing, and then running slowly in a looping, circular pattern in the grazing field until the bull abruptly changed course and pounded down the rise, away from the intense firearm assault, in the direction of the campground followed by the herd, a hundred and fifty strong.

Jack glanced skyward. The sound of gunfire was obscured by a sudden calamitous windstorm kicked up by the massive rotors of a helicopter as it circled the area, looking for a landing site near the campground.

“That’s not the Coast Guard,” Jack shouted to his men.

The roar of the chopper and the spit of automatic weapons fire sent the buffalo into a frenzied, panicked stampede.

The monster with the ragged horn changed course. He pounded away from the thrumming rotors of the helicopter, followed by the herd, thundering straight back toward the Dirk brothers’ position and Jack’s team.

Jack rapid fired at the Dirks, laying down suppression rounds. He shouted to Nick and Cruz. “Separate their line of fire!” The men complied, dashing over the rise, finding safety behind trees, and boulders, and shadows, just below the ridgeline.

The Dirks were breathing hard as they slapped in fresh clips. They knew Jack had support, but were unsure of the number of men and guns. Bullets were pinging off rocks, dirt, and scrub from multiple directions now.

“If I had my fucking .22, we could sit tight and I’d pick them off,” Toby said. “There’s only one way in.”

“We’ve got bigger problems,” Terrance shouted, dreading the answer. “Who’s in the chopper, and why are they here?”

Sean signaled down the slope. The brothers turned to see the herd pounding in their direction and ran for cover.

Captain Rouche yelled over the sound of the rotors, in the cabin of his navy-blue helicopter, “This is insane. There’s no way I can set her down.”

The tallest of the cartel’s men shoved the barrel of an AK into the pilot’s neck. “We go down,” he shouted. “One way or the other.”

With cold steel pressed against his neck, Rouche did a tight, dangerous spinning maneuver, and started to lower the chopper onto the middle of the campground. “You no move until we say,” the short man screamed. The pilot tightened his jaw, and set the bird down.

The cartel operatives, brandishing their AK-47s, leapt out of the cabin and duckwalked until they cleared the spinning rotors. The short man trained his automatic weapon on the Dirks who were shadows on the move, and let loose with a series of short bursts. He strafed a buffalo and then a second. Both huge beasts thundered to the ground, dead on the spot.

The bull snorted and stomped the earth as the herd spooked, scattering in all directions. But the sound, and the whirling rotors of the navy-blue chopper, kicking up dust and grass, kept the giant beasts running in crazed patterns in the natural bowl of the grazing field, making it all but impossible for the cartel killers to get off a clean shot.

Jack watched as the melee of wild beasts and armed gunmen forced the Dirks to separate. The apprehension of the brothers was spinning out of control, but Jack took the moment to charge from his elevated position and reconnoiter with Nick and Cruz, who was white faced but alive. “They’re shooting the fucking animals,” Cruz cried.

“They are animals.” Nick shouted from his position. “When were you going to tell me about the buffalo, Jack?” Nick asked, not expecting an answer.

“It looks like the cartel enforcers figured out the play,” Jack shouted. “They’re after the Dirks, but they’ll kill anything that moves, so stay lively. Shoot first, ask questions later. I’ll cut toward the water tanks. Cruz, you stay back by the path, make sure you’re well covered, and only shoot if someone runs in your direction.” And to Nick, “Flank on the left and try to work your way behind the brothers.”

A second helicopter thundered overhead. “Captain Deak’s here,” Jack shouted and pointed skyward with his 9mm.

“Yes! Fuck!” Cruz shouted as a thousand-candle spotlight snapped on and crisscrossed the action, lighting the battlefield like a klieg light at a movie premier.

“Can you get him on the horn?” Jack asked. Cruz grabbed his cell, dialed, and handed it to Jack. “It’s a cluster fuck down here, Deak. Some cartel scumbags arrived on scene, gunning for the Dirks who stole their drugs. Automatic weapons, AKs, watch your approach.”

Jack gave the cell phone back to Cruz. “Let’s take ’em down, boys,” and the men split off running.

The scarred commando raised his AK and rapid-fired metal-piercing rounds into the air trying to down the Coast Guard bird that, already alerted, veered up and out of harm’s way.

But then the little man saw that the rotors of his own chopper had started whipping again, gaining velocity, ready to lift and escape, leaving him and his partner without an exit strategy.

He dodged a charging bull, screamed, “
Chinga tu madres pendejo!
” and unloaded his banana clip of high-velocity AK rounds in a lethal spray across the body of the navy-blue craft, piercing the polished metal and finding the chopper’s turbine engine.

Captain Rouche, the chopper pilot, fought to steady his craft. He grimaced as the high-velocity rounds pierced the skin of his chopper and his cabin filled with smoke. The stick shook violently in his hand as he lifted the helicopter off the ground, leaking fuel and smoke. Rouche could see the buffalos stampeding below and the Coast Guard helicopter above. He uttered a silent prayer as his chopper vibrated violently, reversed direction, and went into an uncontrollable death spin.

The small cartel gunman ran for his life.

The concussive explosion tore Rouche and the chopper to pieces, dropping shards of metal and liquid fire to the ground, revealing the battlefield in its lurid light.

Thirty-eight

The mushroom cloud billowed thick white smoke against the black night sky.

Captain Deak’s chopper, caught in the shock wave, wobbled violently, and then pulled up and circled away.

Jack could feel the heat of the flaming fuel on his face. Shrapnel rained down on the war zone. Smoke melding with dust choked the combatants and beasts as the men ducked for cover. Jack took off running. A man on the hunt.

Sean ran to cover Terrence, who was exchanging rounds with Nick, but was forced behind a boulder as five buffalo pounded in his direction, horns lowered, and then veered off at the last second, leaving him spitting dust. Sean was unaware that a cartel killer was close on his trail.

Toby saw the small gunman stalking Sean, but was too far away, and the killer, too close to his brother to stop the inevitable. “Nooooo!” he screamed on the run. “Sean!” Sean’s head snapped in the direction of his brother’s voice as the cartel assassin sprang from shadow, and in one violent slash, pulled a serrated knife across Sean’s neck, nearly severing his head.

Sean dropped to his knees, bleeding out. He clutched his neck as blood streamed through his fingers. The short killer grunted as he spun and plunged his knife into Sean’s stomach, ready to slice him from his gut to his heart.

Toby closed the distance and emptied his 9mm into the cartel enforcer’s body. Tears flooded Toby’s vision as his bullets tore the small man apart.

Terrence heard the commotion, fired at Nick, and ran from cover. He sucked in a ragged breath when he saw Sean’s desecrated body. He fired two rounds into the assassin’s face, and then Toby stripped the AK off the dead man.

Terrence grabbed Toby around the shoulder and pulled him tight. “I love you, brother.” His blue eyes blazed. “We split up, we stay alive. I love you, Toby. To the grave.”

Toby nodded, slammed home a fresh clip into his Python, and slid the strap of the AK-47 around his neck.

One of Nick’s bullets ricocheted against a granite boulder sending shards flying. Terrence moved toward the water tanks, Toby ran deeper into the chaparral.

A black and silver LAPD chopper joined the Coast Guard bird in the night sky. Its high-intensity light joined the Coast Guard’s, raking the battlefield. Its powerful speaker squealed to life. A disembodied voice boomed, “Drop your weapons. Drop to the ground with your hands behind your head. This is the LAPD. Drop your weapons, and drop to the ground, hands behind your head.”

Undaunted by the ghastly scene, the LAPD pilot set the police chopper down next to the burning hulk, its door swung opened, and its SWAT team deployed.

Jack caught sight of Terrence leapfrogging from one shadow to the next, making his way toward the rusted water tanks, and followed, staying in cover.

Terrence planned to make his exit beyond the tanks, on the far side of the cliff, where a tight trail led back down to the narrow beachhead. He’d hijack the boat Jack arrived in and make his escape.

Jack’s attention shifted as he saw the second cartel enforcer tracking Terrence from behind. Jack knew he had to take the killer out. The wild card was making his apprehension impossible.

The gunman raised his automatic weapon.

Jack stepped from cover, aimed his 9mm in Terrence’s direction, and fired twice.

Terrence thought the bullets were meant for him until he turned to see two dark patches blossom on the cartel soldier’s chest. The killer staggered back, losing consciousness, wildly squeezing off a full clip of high-intensity rounds. The AK spit flames and the bullets arced across the rusted water tower, sending a spray of water onto Terrence. The cartel hit man toppled to the ground.

Terrence spun in place and fired his 9mm at Jack, who had just saved his life. Jack dove for cover as Terrence’s weapon dry-clicked. He ejected the magazine and grabbed a full clip from his pocket. He was about to slam it home when Jack, hell-bent on ending the carnage, charged.

Jack closed the distance in a heartbeat and bulldogged his shoulder into Terrence Dirk’s abdomen, slamming him against the water tank. As the tall, thin redhead blanched, and spouts of water streamed from the tank drenching them both, Jack pulled back a fist and smashed him in the face. Terrence’s head bounced and echoed off the metal tank, but the concussive blow didn’t stop him from throwing a sizzling uppercut, which rocked Jack on his heels and into the path of the stampeding herd.

Jack dodged one charging buffalo, brushing against the flank of another beast that threatened to knock him down. He caught his balance and stepped clear of the onslaught, straight into Terrence’s fist. Jack shook off the blow and countered with a lethal punch of his own. His fist hammered the side of Terrence’s neck, staggering him and sending him down onto one knee. The main body of the herd was closing in fast. Jack dove out of the way of the massive hooves and rolled heavily on the hard pack.

Terrence tried to rise to his feet, but Jack grabbed him by the back of his shirt and whipped him back down, followed by a fist that flattened Terrence’s nose. Blood splattered his pale face.

Nick was stalking Toby, exchanging shots on the move. “LAPD! Drop your weapon, Toby, and you can walk out of here alive,” he shouted. A bullet twanged past Nick’s head and he return-fired multiple rounds, forcing Toby to take cover.

Nick slammed in a full clip.

Toby stepped from behind a tree, calmed his breath, and fired his last bullet.

Nick took a solid punishing round to the shoulder that knocked him back against a rock facing. “Fuck! I’m hit!” he yelled alerting Cruz, wincing in pain, but he didn’t go down. Nick pushed away from the granite and charged Toby, who raised the AK, flashed an ugly grin, and fired. The automatic weapon jammed.

Cruz stepped from behind a boulder, his 9mm pointed at Toby, prepared to take him down, but couldn’t get off a clean shot without hitting Nick.

Nick lowered his good shoulder, and slammed into Toby like a defensive linebacker before falling to the ground himself.

Toby stumbled backward on the uneven rocky soil, his arms flailing as he tried to maintain his footing. The AK went flying.

The eight-hundred-pound bull with the jagged horn, spooked by the thunderous downwash of the LAPD chopper, was determined to make somebody pay. He charged like a locomotive and smashed into Toby’s back.

Toby went airborne and slammed down hard onto the ground unconscious.

The bull lowered its splintered horn, snorted, bucked, and charged again, going for the kill.

Nick knew he was vulnerable and summoned the strength to one-arm drag himself out of harm’s way.

Cruz, freaked, ran from cover, grabbed Toby by the scruff of his collar, and dragged him out of the path of the beast’s deadly horns and hooves, saving him by seconds.

The bull reared its massive head, spittle flying, ground thumping, and then turned and thundered back down the hill followed by his wild herd.

Cruz rolled Toby over and plastic-cuffed his wrists, and then his ankles. He pulled out his phone and speed-dialed the Coast Guard chopper, shouting, “Man down! LAPD detective Nick Aprea has sustained a bullet wound. Police officer down!”

Cruz dropped to his knees beside Nick. “Shit, man, how bad is it?”

“I got hit good,” Nick said, his face devoid of color.

“Man down! Man down!” Cruz shouted across the battlefield to anyone in earshot, praying for help as the sun crested the horizon.

Jack and Terrence were lost in a pitched mano a mano battle.

The LAPD had arrived on scene and ordered the men to hold up, but the combatants weren’t listening. The SWAT team stepped back and let the drama play out.

Both men, bloodied and fatigued, continued to throw punches.

Jack hammered a hard right into Terrence’s face for the trail of bodies the Dirk brothers had left behind in their greedy wake.

He pounded one of Terrence’s eyes shut and hammered his nose again. Jack’s own blood streamed down his cheek from an open gash on his forehead, blinding him in one eye.

Terrence was in a primal battle for his life. He saw an opening and threw a haymaker, hitting Jack on the side of his bandaged head, staggering him, and then he swung and nailed him again.

Jack refused to go down. He gasped for air and rocketed a punch from his heels, connecting with Red’s jaw.

Terrence’s head whiplashed back. The tall, thin man reeled, swayed, and then crumbled to the ground.

Jack, staggered over, reached down, and yanked Terrence up by his bloody, wet, matted red hair. He pulled his face close and growled, “They told me you were the brains of the operation. Go figure.”

Jack shoved Terrence Dirk toward a young SWAT officer who spun him around and snapped on the cuffs.

Captain Deak’s chopper set down next to the LAPD’s. For a moment, all the men could hear were the sounds of receding hooves pounding down the grassy plains in the distance, as the massive rotors whipped to a stop. The sun had breached the horizon, and the black sky was melding with steaks of orange and blue.

The calm was soon joined by the muffled screams of Toby Dirk, who started struggling with two members of the SWAT team. Jack watched as they dragged Toby, his legs still bound, toward their chopper. He took some joy when Toby tried to head butt one of the cops, and they dropped him facedown on the hard pack.

Jack heard Cruz’s cry and ran across the grazing field. When he realized Nick had suffered a gunshot wound, he ripped off his T-shirt, bunched it up, and compressed the ragged bullet hole in Nick’s shoulder. Nick had lost a lot of blood and was in danger of going into shock.

“When’s the last time you washed that dirty rag?” Nick mustered in an angry rasp.

“Eighty-nine. It’s a collector’s item.” And then to Cruz, “You just suffered a trial by fire.”

“No shit,” he said irreverently.

“You passed the test.”

“Fuck. Him,” Nick croaked. “I’m the one who’s shot.”

Two Coast Guard medics ran from Deak’s chopper carrying a military evacuation stretcher and a satchel of first aid gear.

“Yeowww,” Nick groaned as one of the medics cut off his shirt and staunched the flow of blood, while his partner started a field IV drip.

“Go easy,” Jack cautioned. “That’s a police officer in your care.”

Once Nick was stabilized, the two men lifted the field stretcher.

“Hasta la bye bye,” Nick said before letting his head drop heavily down on the stretcher.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital,” Jack said, running with Cruz, alongside, as the medics hoofed it back toward their helicopter. Plans had been made for Captain Deak to fly the wounded detective to St. John’s, where the emergency room had been alerted of his imminent arrival and doctors were standing by.

Jack and Cruz stepped away from the Coast Guard chopper as Nick’s stretcher was secured, the doors closed, and the bird lifted off.

They surveyed the carnage. Dead bodies, dead animals, the smoldering carcass of the destroyed chopper. They knew it would take days to fully assess the damage.

“We did okay,” Jack said to Cruz. And then, “I’ve got to call Nick’s wife.”

Cruz handed him his cell. “Oh, boss,” he said, and Jack turned back, “your head’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Jack looked resigned as he touched the side of his stitched head and came up with a handful of blood. He wiped it on his jeans.

A young cop handed Jack an LAPD T-shirt. He thanked him, shrugged into it as he stepped away, dialed, and got Nick’s wife on the line.

“Hi, Lynn, no, he’s okay. He’s been shot, but Lynn, the EMTs said he wasn’t in danger. . . . I know, if he wasn’t in danger, he wouldn’t have gotten shot. . . . Shoulder. They’re flying him to St. John’s. Alive and snarky as hell . . . I’m sure . . . I’ll see you there when he’s out of surgery.”

Jack clicked off and watched as Terrence was walked, and Toby, bleeding and in shock, dragged, across the killing field to the waiting LAPD helicopter and their short flight to the mainland and incarceration. Jack was weary, disgusted, and angry as he contemplated the Dirk brothers. Entitled young men who could stand shoulder to shoulder with upper-crust society and murder six people in a four-day killing spree. They were responsible for another four deaths after the fact, and had to bury one of their own. And for what?

Greed and retribution.