Authors: Reavis Z Wortham
Vengeance is Mine (26 page)
Cody powered up the Motorola and keyed the mike. “Ned.”
A pause. “I'm here. Find the kids?”
“Got 'em.”
“Good. Beat their little asses and then bring 'em home. I'm still here.”
Cody needed to tell him about the gunshots, but he didn't want anyone, especially Griffin, to hear. “
Bamppulli
.”
Gun.
“At you?”
“No.”
“Then come home.”
Cody hesitated. “But you heard what I said.”
“It's too dangerous.”
Cody waited for a long moment. “I can't.” More shots rang out, the reports distinct. “I'm leaving the kids here with Arch Landers and going somewhere to see better. Meet me at the⦔ He paused, struggling to find the word for store. Using Landers' name wouldn't give anything away to Griffin, but he needed to remember the right word. “Atato, noâ¦wait. Dammit, I can't remember! Something like attoba..attit⦔
“
Aiitatoba
?”
Store.
“That's it!”
“All right.” Cody heard the tension in Ned's voice. “Something's going on that ain't right. We got too many irons in this fire and I don't know which of 'em are ours. And You Know Who is in this up to his neck, and I don't have any idea who he has working with him. You have the kids, and we're all here. Let's wait it out till the smoke clears and we get some help.”
“No. Tony's in trouble, and I intend to help him out. Ned, you did the same for me and stepped across a line here-while-back. I don't have a line, but I have a job.” Frustrated, Cody slapped the mike back on the hanger. He didn't understand why Ned insisted on waiting, but more gunshots told him to move quickly.
Griffin lowered down the volume on his radio and pondered the dark front of Reid's store, less than three miles from Center Springs.
He was almost as frustrated as Cody, wondering what was going on. Those two Parkers were arguing about something in Choctaw, or at least he figured that's what they were talking. Ned wanted to hunker down and wait until the morning, completely out of character for the old man who usually bulled his way into everything.
But now he knew where they were. Tony Agrioli's rented house.
Unfortunately, there was also the total absence of Washington. He wasn't on the radio, and hadn't called in for some time.
He worried Griffin most of all.
For good reason.
Defending a house alone was insane, and he knew it.
Tony didn't fall for the breaking glass, figuring it was a ruse. With the .45 in his hand, he peeked around the corner from the foyer to see the small utility porch off the kitchen, the only one of the three doors out of his sight.
The particularly loud bang of a strong lightning bolt was the trigger he'd been expecting. The chest-compressing thump filled the space between the storm and the ground with a monstrous concussion.
The screen door was open, swinging in the wind. A shadow moved toward him. Tony knelt on one knee and raised the Colt. He fired twice, the whip crack reports hammering his ears. A cry and the thump of something heavy striking the floor in the utility room told him the shots were accurate.
Those rounds triggered a barrage from outside. The lowered paper shades in the living room jumped and danced as slugs and shotgun pellets punched through the glass to smack into the plaster and lath walls.
These guys don't act like police or lawmen. This damned sheriff brought his own army.
Staying low, Tony duck-walked to the living room doorway. The east side of the wrap-around porch led to the other doorway, opening into the furthermost bedroom. He waited, expecting someone to rush past the windows and kick the door in.
The glass and wood front door flew back from a strong kick. It struck the wall and a figure stepped through, firing rapidly with a semi-automatic shotgun.
Tony returned fire, driving the man back. A bullet snapped past his ear. He cursed himself for assuming the guy in the utility room was out of action. He whipped around and poured it on him, forcing the wounded man deeper onto the screened porch and halting any further attack.
The battle paused. Ears ringing, Tony dodged back into the middle hallway. He ejected the spent magazine and pulled a fresh one from the shoulder holster's strap under his right arm. He slapped it in, loaded a round, and waited, expecting them to rush the house soon. He had a little surprise waiting in the corner beside the staircase.
C'mon, Griffin. I need one clear shot at you.
From where we stood in the wind beside Mr. Landers' house, it sounded like a war movie. Heavier strikes and deep claps of thunder punctuated the rattle of gunfire from the Ordway place.
Pepper wanted to step around to the side so she could hear better over the wind and thrashing trees, but Mr. Landers wouldn't let her. “We got a good, solid house between us, Missy. There ain't no bullets gonna go plumb through and hit us here. If you step out there, though, no telling what might happen. Some of them bullets are liable to lob over them trees back there and hit you.”
Uncle Cody was gone, and the number of shots had me worried. “Don't you think you oughta call for help?”
“Done did.” Mr. Landers sounded as calm as if he were in church. “Mama called your granddaddy and told him what we heard over here, and about Cody. I imagine somebody was listening in on the line, so the switchboard's probably lit up like a Christmas tree right about now.”
What we didn't know was how many people jammed the lines right away, trying to call Grandpa. Most of 'em didn't know squat about the details, but they figured they could ring him up and find out, like he'd have time to answer all their questions.
When they couldn't get through to him, folks called the sheriff's department. I imagine the phone at Uncle Cody's was ringing off the table, too.
The dominos began to fall, then. Of course Dispatch tried to call Grandpa, and when he didn't answer, they tried Uncle Cody, who was far away from his own radio. Them that knew then tried Mr. John's radio and when he didn't answer, they began to fear the worst.
Tony quickly realized more men were moving into position while his attention was diverted from the rear, but it couldn't be helped. He slipped into the living room for a quick peek out the front window.
The electric storm was right on top of them, increasing in intensity. Brief, scattered raindrops slapped against the damaged windows while wind whistled thorough the bullet holes in the glass. Paper shades rapped sharply against frames.
Pressed against the wall, he crept forward. It was only a matter of time before the pull-down shades blew into the room, far enough to see out. Flickering lightning offered the only illumination inside the house. Thunder was a physical presence.
The shades hung still.
Another flicker, immediately followed by a deep crack, rattled the loose and broken windows. A chunk of glass hit the wooden floor.
Then another.
He waited, feeling alive for the first time in weeks. The throbbing in his forehead was gone.
A gust of wind reached the shades. They filled like sails on a ship, revealing two men armed with shotguns only inches away. Startled that they were so close, Tony fired a moment too soon and missed with his first shot.
Then he locked onto a target. One of the assailants folded like an empty sheet. The second happened to be left-handed, with the muzzle of the shotgun pointed toward the house. He instinctively pulled the trigger, punching a huge hole in one of the remaining windows, then immediately fired again as he lunged away. The second load of buckshot tore through the wall above Tony's head, blowing plaster and pieces of lath through the room and filling his eyes with dust.
Tony instinctively ducked and opened up with the .45, punching huge holes in the wall where he thought the shooter might be. Footsteps disappeared as the assailant rushed past the door. Enraged, Tony smacked the shade back with his left hand to reveal the first man lying on the porch and moving weakly, still holding his shotgun. Tony shot him twice more for insurance.
What the hell???
He took another quick peek at the body. The man's suit told him they weren't local.
Who did Griffin bring in?”
Glass crunching underfoot, he dodged back into the foyer and ejected the empty magazine. It hit the floor at his feet and he locked another into place, wondering who was out there.
More gunfire from the rear shattered glassware in the kitchen cabinets. Tony quick-stepped into the master bedroom again and flattened himself against the wall. The flicker of lighting was almost constant, like flashbulbs at a Hollywood movie premier. He resisted the urge to fire at the silhouette of a running man outside. Not much more than his head could be seen above the level of the window.
Thunder boomed, and gunfire erupted from outside.
Jesus, how many did they bring!
Tony knew he was significantly outnumbered. Huddled against the wall, he scooted back into the foyer and then once again, to the middle doorway.
A shadow kicked in the back bedroom door.
The front door simultaneously slammed inward.
Men charged into the kitchen from the utility porch, completing a three-pronged attack.
And the house lights blinked as the electricity came back on.
His targets clear in the bright light, Tony threw two rounds toward the front door. A doughy, pineapple-shaped man fell back, gasping. Another twisted away, grasping at his shoulder.
With those two out of commission, Tony whipped the pistol toward the bedroom and fired until the .45 ran dry. A fusillade from the kitchen drove Tony around to his original position under the stairs.
He grabbed the Thompson just as Nicky ducked into the kitchen and took cover behind the Frigidaire and motioned for one of Ray Marco's men to follow. Reluctant to step into the open, the man hesitated, but stumbled forward when The Machine roughly shoved him forward. “Go on!”
The brief glimpse told Tony everything he needed to know.
Johnny Machine! Here! This isn't Griffin. These are Best's men!
Marco's man caught his balance, fired, and charged toward Tony's position.
His timing couldn't have been worse.
Tony leveled the drum-fed Thompson, tucked the stock snugly against his shoulder, and hosed the kitchen. Designed not for accuracy, but for volume, the heavy slugs blew out chunks of wood, plaster, and human flesh.
Huge chunks of lead blasted through the refrigerator, throwing Nicky backward. He fell in an awkward sprawl on top of Marco's almost disassembled thug. Crouched in a ball on the service porch, The Machine waited for the barrage to cease.
Senses jangling, Tony glanced over his shoulder. One of the wounded men in the far bedroom raised an arm. Tony turned and opened up with the machine gun a second time. Sensing movement behind, he spun and sprayed the front door.
The Machine had a clear view. He fired twice, and one of the shots slammed Tony into the wall. Crossfire raged from the front door and added to the din.
Tony's back went numb and his left leg buckled. Bracing against the doorframe, he directed his fire once again into the kitchen. With his left hand tight on the front grip to keep the barrel from rising, he swept the far wall, knowing they would be hiding on the other side.
The monstrous bullets chewed up their cover like balsa wood. Furious that Best had sent men after him, Tony reversed direction and again sprayed the front doorway with the same results. Ricochets whined away. His ears felt jammed full of cotton from the massive detonations. Bodies fell and pieces of men flew under the onslaught.
The roll of thunder that erupted from the killing machine in his hands drowned the storm outside.
It was a slaughter.
The Thompson finally ran dry. A scream filled the air, and Tony realized it came from his own hoarse throat. Gunsmoke and dust swirled in the room. He dropped the now useless chunk of iron and yanked the .38 from behind his belt.
The muzzle of a pistol appeared in an opening blasted apart by the .45s. Johnny Machine pulled the trigger on the automatic as fast as possible. An unheard shot caught Tony in his already numb thigh and he went down on his good knee.
Another round snapped past his ear from behind, punching through the wall and nearly hitting The Machine. Bending forward, Tony ducked his head to the right, extended his arm back, and fired until there was no one standing.
No one that is, except Johnny Machine, who stumbled back outside to wait for another chance.
Gunfire rattled the night.
The bright pole light over the store sputtered to life. Startled, Ned and Cody ducked behind a pile of wooden crates full of empty soda bottles.
“Damn, Ned. I'm glad you're here, but what a helluva time for the electricity to come back on!”
Seconds later, a roll of man-made thunder filled in behind the storm.
“That's a sonofabitchin'
machine gun!”
“Keep down.” Cody aimed his own .45 toward the Ordway house and flinched as lead slapped into Neal Box's store and the domino hall. “I see people falling on the porch. There's probably more keeping an eye out back this-a-way.”
“What are them fellers after Tony for?”
“That's a damn good question, but he ain't going easy.”
The machine gun spoke again, and this time the storm couldn't cover the shrill screams of dying men.
They peeked over the crates. The hundred yard expanse broken only by large trees was a killing field that neither could cross. Icy raindrops pounded down for a second, and then quit.
Ned rubbed his wet head. “We need to help, but I don't know who the bad guys are, or how many.”
Cody shook his head, frustrated at their position. “I don't see a way to get up there and help Tony without getting shot up ourselves. We're way outgunned.”
He looked around, hoping for inspiration. The asphalt road in front of them headed off past the house and overgrown fencerow bordering the pasture. A quarter mile away, another farmhouse was once owned by Ben and Sylvia Winters, and their son Little Ben, an entire family murdered by the Whitlatch gang only months before. The house was still empty.
“Ned, I think I'm gonna swing around to the right here and come up from the back, past the barn over there.”
“That'll take a few minutes.”
“It's better than sitting here and doing nothing.”
Wishing he was already there instead of by the store, Cody glanced down the dark road. They were stuck, unless something happened.
Lightning ripped overhead, tearing the clouds apart and flashing in the red reflectors and spotlight on a dark sedan rolling slowly their direction. Wind gusted. The electricity went off again, plunging Center Springs back into black. Cody stood higher behind the crates of bottles, squinting at the car. Gunfire inside the house backlit the paper shades. A stray round slammed into the store and they instinctively dropped.
Cody rose and Ned joined him. “Who's car is that? Is it John, or Griffin?”
Unable to figure out why it was creeping along without headlights, Cody couldn't take his eyes off the oncoming vehicle. The next flicker confirmed his suspicions. “It's a lawman's car, but from this angle I can't tell whose it is.”
They watched the sedan as it crawled toward them. Two distinct flashes of gunfire lanced from the trees toward the car. The response was immediate from inside, and then again, and again.
Ned grinned. “That'd be Deputy John Washington's twelve-gauge.”
Maddeningly, the electricity came back on as power lines somewhere far away made contact again. Cody pushed Ned's shoulder. “Get down!”
Instead of ducking with him, Cody charged out under the bright light, waving his arms. John's headlights came on when he recognized Cody, who sprinted for the nearest bur oak, hoping the wide trunk would give him some protection.
Realizing Cody's intent, John's engine roared as he punched the accelerator and turned past the free-standing garage. Gunfire from two different directions outside the house missed the moving target as John slid to a stop beside the oaks closest to the house. Shotgun in hand, he rolled out of the passenger side and using the car for cover, threw two shots from the pump gun toward the muzzle flashes beside the house.
Cody rammed into the side of the car beside the crouching deputy
“What's this all about, Cody?” Eyes wide, John thumbed thick red shells into the receiver. He shucked one into the chamber and finished filling the magazine. “Dispatch knows there's shootin' out here behind the store, but I didn't think I'd drive into a war!”
He glanced over his shoulder and gaped in amazement at Ned Parker walking calmly up the drive like it was a warm spring day.