Don't Leave Me (26 page)
Authors: James Scott Bell
Alarms still sounding throughout.
“This way!” Stan said.
Chuck followed his brother, down the hall, down stairs in the back.
Where was Julia? What was going on in the rest of the house?
Why can’t we stop this, slow it down, like a replay on ESPN?
His head felt like a football kicked for a fifty-yard field goal.
Down the stairs and out through a back door with leaded glass. A pool was there and vegetation and the moon bright enough to bathe it all in silver.
“Here Chuck!” Stan was at the wall next to a rounded door. Stan tried to open it.
It didn’t budge.
Chuck grabbed the latch, tried it. Nothing. Stuck or locked.
“Look out,” Chuck said. Then gave it a police-breaking-the-door-down kick. And got a pain shooting up the leg.
“That only works in movies, Chuck!”
“Stay back!”
He gave it another kick, blood returning to his head, heart pumping. He would get them out, get Stan out, and then he’d think about Julia. He needed time!
Another kick.
A fourth.
The door moved a little.
I am Chuck Norris. And this
is
a movie.
is
a movie.
Chuck gave it everything he had.
The door cracked open.
“You did it!” Stan said.
Chuck took him by the arm and led him through the door to a broad expanse of open hillside.
Where a dark figure was waiting for them.
In the moonlight, Chuck saw the glint of a knife.
From the silhouette and the hair he was sure it was Mad Russian.
Who lunged forward, knife out.
Chuck readied his hands.
Just as Stan jumped in front of him.
And took the blade in his gut.
.
Sandy Epperson couldn’t help thinking back to the time they had that shooter up on Beachwood, right below the Hollywood sign. He’d parked his trailer up on the fire road, about a hundred yards from the nearest house.
But he was sending rounds into the back of the homes all along the ridge with a high-powered rifle. Killed a dog and almost a toddler.
By the time they’d gotten a command post together it was hell on the hillside as this guy had unlimited ammo and a perfect spot to let it go. Stark hill behind him, narrow road in front that couldn’t be accessed. Three SWAT snipers couldn’t draw a bead on him because of oleander overgrowth.
It was like this guy had planned it all out. He wasn’t some crazed vet with too much beer and Doxepin in him. He was sending a message or making a statement or just taking it out on the world.
The standoff took four hours to resolve. It was night when it finally ended under helicopter lights and a SWAT drop from the hill.
It was amazing what one guy in the right position could do. Sandy thought about that now as police and sheriffs and FBI came together on another, much tonier hillside.
The guy in the trailer turned out to be a petty criminal turned actor who’d been turned down for a one-line part in a Bruce Willis movie.
But this one, if they were right, would be a fish much bigger. Moby-Dick size.
All because of a message that had been auto-forwarded to her phone and traced by Agent DeSoto’s partner using a tracking system DeSoto referred to as “Bowser.” Sandy didn’t know if that was an acronym or a dog name, but it didn’t matter. They were converging on a location now, and doing so with extreme care and reinforcements.
Driving up the street behind DeSoto’s unmarked car, it seemed to Sandy just like Beachwood again. There was no Hollywood sign this time. A big moon was out instead, like a sign that said “Welcome to Malibu.”
Chuck’s fist caught Mad Russian directly in the nose. He could feel the cartilage crunch. His only thought was to create as much immediate pain as he possibly could, put an end to his life if need be, but at whatever cost incapacitate him.
Because he still held the knife.
Stan was on the ground behind him.
Chuck felt every move as if it were orchestrated, all of the techniques he’d learned as a Navy chaplain training with Marines, and all of the old dirty fighting tricks he’d picked up along the way.
Curling his fingers into a fist and sticking out his thumb, Chuck jabbed at Mad Russian’s left eye. In the dimness it could not be precise but as it landed Chuck knew it was a pretty good guess.
Solid contact.
Mad Russian cried out, brought a hand up to his face as he stumbled backward.
He couldn’t be allowed to recover. When an assailant had a knife it did the most damage when it slashed. Every advantage had to be taken when he became distracted.
Like now.
Chuck put everything he could into a kick between Mad Russian’s legs.
And missed the bulls-eye.
But Mad Russian took another step back.
Had this been a one-on-one street fight, Chuck would have run away. That was, after all, the first rule. You get away from someone with a blade. Only a fool stays and tries to disarm a knife attacker.
But he could not leave Stan, and Stan could not run.
Somebody was going to die on this hill.
.
Sandy knew from bitter experience that there was nothing more difficult in a SWAT situation than expedited neighborhood securing at night. You had two simultaneous problems to handle, and either one of them could explode out of control at any moment.
First, there was the danger itself, the “hot spot,” be it shooter, hostage taker, or armed resister. Or, worse, a number of resisters with weapons and ammo.
Second, you had to protect those in homes, the potential gawkers and looky loos, but also the folks just sitting inside having a relaxing time by their windows. Anyone in the line of potential fire had to be notified and usually evacuated.
It was worse when you weren’t sure of the terrain. Even with the command post vehicle provided by the Sheriff’s department, and its monitors of neighborhood layout, getting to the homes in real time and as quickly as possible was the challenge.
There was another problem—the low ground. Snipers always worked best with “elevated advantage.” That wasn’t going to happen here.
As Sandy was thinking about all this she got a call from Agent DeSoto.
“We’ve been made,” DeSoto said.
Three things happened simultaneously in Chuck’s brain.
The first was his next move, seen as if projected on a screen. Mad Russian was back against a retaining wall or small hedge––Chuck couldn’t tell in the light––and it was going to be just like the old schoolyard prank. Guy gets behind another guy, on all fours, and a third pushes the hapless victim backward.
This would be one push, and it would have to be now, and it would have to work.
The second flash in Chuck’s mind was Julia’s face. It held a grim, mocking look. It was a nightmare face.
Third, he heard Dylan Bly’s voice. He was talking about a truck . . .
Chuck put his hands out like battering rams and charged. Flush contact with his chest. And as the knife hit Chuck’s chest, Mad Russian fell over a hedge. The momentum of the hit thrust Chuck forward, and he fell, too, following Mad Russian over and on top of him, and they began to roll.
.
Sandy Epperson, Los Angeles Police Department detective, was trained like all police officers to handle a weapon. Her choice was the Beretta 92F, which had been standard issue before Chief Bratton took over in 2002. Bratton favored the Glock, but Sandy stuck with her Beretta––and a backup Smith & Wesson .38.
She’d only had to fire the Beretta once in the line of duty, and that had been two warning shots at the corner of Western and Santa Monica when two utes (she did like
My Cousin Vinny)
did not attend to her order to stop. She fired in the air––not SOP she would later learn before a board of inquiry––but it did get them hitting the ground so she could effect the arrest.
My Cousin Vinny)
did not attend to her order to stop. She fired in the air––not SOP she would later learn before a board of inquiry––but it did get them hitting the ground so she could effect the arrest.
The brass was not happy with her, but the Korean liquor store owner brought his entire family down to the Bradbury Building and practically laid siege to it on Sandy’s behalf. Nothing further was done, not even a reprimand.
Now, out of her car on the road in the Malibu hills, Sandy had her weapon drawn again and was prepared for what might be coming down the hill toward her.
This was her position now, for better or worse. She and the entire ad hoc team would have to do what they hated most––make the best of a bad situation.
That’s when she heard the roar above her head.
.
Chuck Samson had never head butted anyone, even in his dreams. He knew it was a risky move and done clumsily could cause as much injury to the butter as to the buttee.
He knew it had to be the rim of the forehead. A Marine once told him that if your head was a cigar, the strike point should be where you cut the cigar, just below the rounded edge. Not the part of the forehead you slap when you forgot your car keys. Just above that.
But then there was the target. It couldn’t be the teeth or you’d get cut.
And it couldn’t be the forehead, or you’d get your own bell rung.
That meant the nose again, and that’s where Chuck, now atop Mad Russian on the ground, aimed.
Keeping his teeth clenched, he hit pay dirt with a satisfying thud. Clean, like hitting a pitch with the fat part of the bat.
He didn’t have to guess about the damage. Mad Russian was hurt. It was just a matter of how bad.
Now he had to get the knife.
If there had been something around he could have picked up and used as a club, Chuck would have done it. But there was no time to look.
There was only time to bite.
Chuck pushed upward then reached out with his left hand and covered Mad Russian’s right. He brought his right hand over and gripped Mad Russian’s forearm just above the wrist.
Then Chuck dove into that fleshy middle like a starving man taking his first bite of corn on the cob.
The Mad one screamed as Chuck tasted blood.
And felt the Mad hand loosen.
Chuck swiped with his left hand and made contact with the knife handle. He scraped the weapon out of Mad’s grip like one would get rid of a tarantula.
He heard something roar over his head.
Chuck brought his elbow up and brought it down toward Mad’s windpipe. But Mad heaved upward and Chuck made contact with the chest only, and not at full force.
His attacker issued a guttural cry like a wounded animal. It turned into a raging scream and all his muscles seemed to tense at once under Chuck.
From the feel of him, he was massively strong. Stronger than Chuck for sure. A cold-blooded killer he’d be if he was at full strength.
He could not be allowed to get to full strength.
Then Chuck’s world turned upside down.
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