Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (23 page)

The first room they came to was an empty and darkened kitchen.  The only lights were the digital time on the microwave and on the oven.  They moved onward and came to the first door.  O’Connor signaled to Eiselmann to try the doorknob on a count of three.  Eiselmann did, and the knob turned easily.  He pushed it open, and the two of them entered the darkened room swiftly and silently.  The bed was made, no one was present and there weren’t any signs that the room had been used. Both looked at each other and almost simultaneously sighed in relief.

They moved down the hallway, and the next two rooms were the same as the first: dark, empty and unused.  Knowing that at least two guards were still asleep, they had four doors left to check.  They gripped their guns tighter, took a deep breath and Eiselmann reached out cautiously, and slowly turned the doorknob. 

It was locked.

He showed the key to O’Connor, who nodded.  Eiselmann inserted it as softly as he could, and the door unlocked with a soft, yet audible click.  He opened the door quietly to the sound of slow, heavy breathing.  O’Connor nodded at Eiselmann and turned facing the hallway in a crouch.

Eiselmann moved to the side of the bed, clamping one hand down on the mouth of the man sleeping, waking him up, while shoving his gun into his cheek just below his left eye.

He bent low and whispered, “You make one sound, and I’ll blow your fucking head off.  You understand?”

Now wide awake, the man nodded cautiously so as not to have the gun go off accidently.  Keeping the gun in his face, Eiselmann took his hand off the man’s mouth and used it to grab the man’s hair, yanking him up and out of the bed, forcing him to the floor.  Paul bent low and in a whisper, ordered the man to put both of his hands behind his back, which he did.  Then using twist ties, bound the man’s hands and feet, and duct taped his mouth shut.  It took Paul less than five minutes.  He locked the room behind him and joined O’Connor in the hallway.

Three doors left and behind them, one or more sleeping guards.  Hopefully, sleeping guards.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“Fitz, I’m on the landing just above the first floor . . . I’m coming to you.  Do you copy?”

“Yeah.  All clear down here.  Better watch your ass though,” he answered hoarsely.

Jamie backed up against the landing wall and looked up towards the second floor.  He was exposed if anyone should come down.  He needed to move and move quickly.

“I’m coming now, Fitz.”

He came down the landing with his gun out, head on a swivel looking both below and above him.  The air smelled of gunpowder, oil, dirt and dust.  There weren’t any lights and the little that filtered in from under the garage door was negligible. 

“Fitz, where are you?”

“Your twelve o’clock, twenty yards on the other side of the Camaro.  I saw a light switch to your left on the wall as you come off the last step.”

He found three lights and flicked on the first, which turned on two lights on the far wall over the van and the Camaro.  He didn’t turn on any others, thinking that he could find Fitz and use the darkness in the rest of the garage to their advantage.

Jamie covered the ground quickly, yet cautiously.  He rounded the front end of the Lumina, then the Grand Prix and saw one of the guards lying on his back in a syrupy pool of thickening blood.  He had to step over the other man to find Fitz, sitting down against the side of the van, listing to one side.

“How you doin’ Buddy?” Jamie said as he knelt down to check Fitz’s shoulder.

“Just ducky!  Gonna play a couple rounds of golf when we get back,” he answered through a cough.

He had lost a lot of blood, and he had to get help in a hurry.

“Pete or Skip, call Chet and find out the ETA on the posse.”

Pete heard him in the earpiece as did Dahlke but didn’t answer because of his closeness to the second floor door.  Dahlke responded by saying he’d place a call right away.  Distracted, Pete didn’t hear the door open.  Not just one, but two guards came through the door, and one placed a gun to the back of Pete’s head, cocking it, while the other one took Pete’s gun from him.  Pete raised his hands, and one of the men shoved his face into wall, kicked his legs apart and frisked him, but found nothing.

“Let’s go back upstairs and see what’s happening,” a man whispered into his ear. “But first, how many guns up there?”

“Fuck you, Pervert,” Pete spat.

The man with the gun wrapped it hard on the back of Pete’s head while the other one punched him twice in the lower back in the area of his kidneys.

“No matter, you’ll go through the door first.  You’re gonna be our Kryptonite, Mother Fucker.  You’ll get the first bullet while we take out whoever’s left.”

Hoping that the two guards didn’t know about him being wired, and hoping that Dahlke would listen and understand what was about to happen, he said, “As long as you two guys get shot, I don’t care if they take me out.  They can pull the trigger on you two and keep on shooting until the well is dry for all I care.”

One of the guards grabbed Pete roughly by the back of his jacket and shoved him up the stairs.

“Just get your ass up there and don’t try to be a hero, or I’ll be the one to cap your ass.  Got it Mother Fucker?”

“You two are so brave . . . you fuck eleven and twelve year olds.  You two guys are so tough.  I’m real worried.”

Pete kept up a running commentary of bullshit, repeating “two guys” often enough that Dahlke was bound to understand, wouldn’t he?  But would he tell the kid with the gun he was going to walk in on?  How would he react?

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

O’Connor and Eiselmann stood in the hallway knowing that behind one of three doors, a guard lay in bed sleeping. 

Hopefully.

And then there was always the possibility that there was more than one guard sleeping behind those doors.  Eiselmann moved to the next door and softly tried the knob.  Locked.  As he did before, he inserted the key quietly and then stood off to the side and pushed the door open.

Two shots from what sounded like a .38 blasted from the darkness of the room and harmlessly into the hallway, hitting neither Eiselmann nor O’Connor.  Pat signaled that he’d watch the hallway to see if there were any other guards in either of the two rooms across the hallway, while Paul would deal with the shooter in the room.

While O’Connor moved away from the open door and crouched low facing the two unopened doors, Eiselmann concentrated on the man with the gun in the dark bedroom.  How to flush the guy out?

“Look, there are more of us than you have bullets, so why don’t you just . . .”

Two shots in rapid succession rang out and into the door and wall across the hallway just like the first two shots, far away from either officer.

“We have all night, Asshole.  In about five minutes, this building will be crawling with FBI so . . .”

One more shot rang out.

“How stupid are you?” Eiselmann asked.

There was silence. 

“It doesn’t have to end like this, Dumb Shit.  Really, it doesn’t.”

It wasn’t textbook negotiation, but at this point, Eiselmann didn’t care.  He just wanted it done.  This was met with silence. It stretched on and on.  No one came out of either door.  There was no sound in the building other than slight movement from inside the open bedroom door and distant sirens that came gradually louder and closer.

“Buddy, the posse is almost here.  We don’t have much time.  We can end this with flash bang grenades and a full out fire fight, but . . .”

A single shot rang out, followed by a thud from inside the room, along with metallic clatter as if a gun had fallen to the floor.  O’Connor and Eiselmann looked at each other and knew it was over, other than to check the other two rooms.

Eiselmann snaked his arm around the doorway and found the light switch and flipped on the lights.  No shots.  No sound.  O’Connor chanced a glance into the room from the low right side of the doorway and saw the man lying in his underwear on the floor.  Blood pooled around the man’s head in a crimson satanic halo.

He shook his head at Eiselmann and motioned that the man was prone, down on the floor, and chopped his hand in a way to convey it is over, done.  Eiselmann took a quick look into the room, then took his time and entered the room slowly, cautiously.

It was over in Los Angeles.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Jamie and Fitz heard Pete’s chatter.  Two of the three guards had him on the stairs and were headed to the third floor.  Some way, somehow, he had to help protect those kids and Pete.

“Skip, did you copy that?”

“Yeah . . . so, what do you want me to do?”

Jamie looked at Fitz who seemed to be sweating as much as he was bleeding.  He was in a bad way.  With his good hand, Fitz waved Jamie off as if to say, ‘Go help Pete’.

“What did Chet say about the cavalry?” Jamie asked.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

A hell of a lot can happen in fifteen or twenty minutes.

“Skip, you can’t let that door open.  One of them might have a key, and they’re going to use Pete as a shield.  You
cannot
fire until he’s clear.  Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I get that.  I’ll hold them off until you or somebody gets here,” he said solemnly.

“Fitz, I’m going to follow up the stairs, so I can help Pete.  You gonna be all right down here?”

Fitz nodded and waved him off again.  No, Jamie thought, Fitz is not going to be all right unless somebody gets here quickly.

He got up from between the van and the Camaro and moved in a quick walk towards the stairs when the first of two shots rang out slamming into the back concrete wall, just missing him.  He was able to duck back between the garage door and the broken down office.

They had to have come from the other side of the garage towards the front of the building, meaning: sleeping guard number three was wide awake and shooting.  That also still left the possibility of two other guards roaming the building.  Jamie got onto his belly and waited for any sound that might give the guard away.

“Skip and Pete, Fitz and I are pinned down. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.  Guys, be careful.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Skip and Brett had come up with a plan.  Or actually, Brett came up with the plan, and Skip reluctantly agreed because it sounded half-way plausible, but a whole lot dangerous.  Skip stayed in a room where he could see both ends of the hallway, yet closer to the back end where he knew Pete would come through the door.  Brett stayed half in, half out of the room where the red-haired man was.  His right hand carried the .45 with the safety off, finger slightly on the trigger, not visible from the back door.  Brett was to move out of the way, so Skip could get a good shot at the two guards.

Brett heard the key slide in the lock and saw the knob begin to turn.  He had time to shut his eyes, breathe deeply and let it out slowly.  Pete came in with his hands in the air and stopped short, eyes wide in horror as he saw the boy.  Luckily, he was shoved forward, which gave Brett and Skip the room they needed.

“Kid, what are you doin’ out here?” the guard asked.

Brett knew him as Ace.

“Butch told me to fetch one of you as soon as you showed up.”

As the two guards lowered their guns, Brett stepped fully into the hallway, pulled his gun up with both hands and took out Ace with two shots to the chest.  It took only a second before the other guard registered that the kid had a gun, which didn’t make sense to him, but for that guard, it was a second too long.  As he swung his gun up, Brett shot him first in the stomach, then in the chest.  The guard got off one shot spinning Brett around, knocking him to the floor.

Before Pete could react, Skip put three shots into the guard and a fourth in the wall high and to the right.

“Jesus Fucking
Christ
!” Pete yelled as he ran to the boy and knelt down.  “Brett . . .  Brett, you okay?”

No answer but moans and groans.  Blood everywhere.  Brett held his shoulder, blood oozing out of the wound and between his fingers.  He rolled slowly around on the floor, finally stopping, and curled up in a fetal position.

“Skip, I need help . . . now!”

Dahlke came on a run, dropping his rifle on the floor, kneeling down beside the boy.

“I need something for bandages.  Quickly!  Water, if possible.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Pete asked desperately.

“How the hell do I know?” Skip shouted. “I work on dead people!”

Brett looked up at both men, but his eyes didn’t register or focus.  He tried to smile, but the pain was too intense.  He began to shiver.  Skip ran to the bedroom and grabbed the blanket and pillow off the bed and wrapped the boy in it, laying his head on the pillow.  Pete had run off to find anything that could be used as bandages.

“Kid, hang in there.  This doesn’t look that bad,” Skip lied.  “But you have to fight, okay?”

He didn’t know if Brett had heard or had understood him as there was no reaction from him.  Brett had shut his eyes and had become pasty-white.  Skip recognized that at the least, he was going into shock.  Hopefully, he wasn’t dying.

Pete pulled out his cell and dialed up Chet.

“We need two ambulances, maybe three . . .
NOW
!” he yelled running back to Skip with an armful of sheets.  “We need the cavalry
NOW
, goddammit!”

He didn’t wait for Chet’s reply but clicked off the phone and shoved it back into his pocket.  Skip had already taken off his shirt and was tearing it in strips.

“Can’t use sheets, Pete.  Too risky given what was done on them,” Skip said calmly.  “Go help Jamie.  I got this.”

As Pete was leaving, he added, “We need to wrap this up in a hurry,” nodding at the boy.

“Pete, if you’re coming, use the front stairs.  That way, we’ll have the asshole between us.  Just don’t get caught in my crossfire.  And remember, there might be more than one guard down here.”

Jamie had often made fun of shows where cops storm buildings from more than one entrance.  It never really happened that way in real life because of the possibility of shots being fired at each other.  It was always better to seal one exit and enter through a different one.  That way, there wouldn’t be the possibility of anyone getting shot with friendly fire.

Pete took one last look at Brett who seemed so small wrapped in the blanket.  Skip packed the wound with strips of his shirt trying to stem the flow of blood.  Brett, the little boy who had acted so tough, but was so gentle helping the other boys.  The little boy who had been through so much.  No way can he die when he and the other kids were so close to going home.  No way.   

Pete picked up the rifle Skip had used and took off down the hallway on a run, checking his ammunition.  He burst through the door and onto the third floor landing, stopped at the second door, opened it up cautiously, shut it quietly behind him and then ran down the stairs as cautiously, quickly and as quietly as he could to the first floor. 

“Jamie, I’m at the door.  Give a couple of bursts to keep the asshole down.  I’ll come through low and to the right.  I’d prefer not to get shot.”

“I’ll see what I can do.  On my count.”

Jamie let loose a burst of gun fire, five or six shots and said, “One . . . two . . .” and he let out another burst of fire.  “Three!”

Pete stayed as low as he could and opened the door quietly, looking around to see as much as he could, as he dared.  He found himself on a landing, six steps from the garage floor.  He shut the door quietly behind him.

In the distance, sirens.

“Hey, Asshole!” Jamie yelled.  “You don’t have much time.  Hear those sirens?  They’re coming our way.”

A shot rang out below and to Pete’s left.  In the semi-darkness, the muzzle flash was bright.  The problem was that it was too bright, and it left an imprint on Pete’s eyes.  He shut them briefly and then opened them up, and while still present, the imprint was dimmer.

He saw movement in the general vicinity of where the gunfire had come from.  He looked around for something, anything, to throw and had to settle for twenty-three cents he had in his front pocket.  He threw the coins against the wall opposite him.

The guard stood up and fired three shots in rapid succession and that was all Pete needed.  He opened fire in a general spray pattern, saw the man get lifted up off his feet and over a barrel.

“Pete, you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, but instead fired another spray in that direction.

“Pete?”

“I think he’s down.  No movement.”

“Stay where you are.  I’ll come up the far wall.  Where do you think he is exactly?”

“From your position, one o’clock, ten yards from my position on the landing.”

“Got it.”

Jamie moved in a crouch up the far wall, and Pete saw him coming.  He’d stop every so often behind a barrel or a pile of one thing or another, until he was maybe fifteen yards from the position of the guard.

“There’s been no movement,” Pete said.

“On the wall by the last step are light switches.  Turn them on, and I’ll cover you.”

Pete took the last six steps very quietly, slowly, then flicked on all three lights and suddenly, the entire garage was filled with light.

Sprawled over a barrel on his back spread-eagle, a man lay still and unmoving.  Both Jamie and Pete approached him warily, guns at the ready.  He was almost cut in two.  In fact, the only thing keeping him together was his torn shirt which was dripping with blood and various internal organs.  The sirens drew ever nearer and that was when Pete’s phone chirped.

“This is FBI Agent Vincent Cochrane of the Chicago Field Office.  We have two ambulances on stand-by with EMTs, with a third ambulance handy in case we need it.  We also caught two armed men as they ran out the front of the building.  We have the perimeter secured, and we’re waiting for your go ahead.”