Losing Sarah (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 16) Page 15

  When he was done and both vehicles were handicapped, he hunkered down behind the front hood of the vehicle farthest from the barn and waited. There was no way to tell how many bullets were left in the gun without checking.

  He set the wooden club down, and wiped sweat from his brow. They would come and he was ready. There was no walking out of this desolate area. These men needed their cars, but they wouldn’t get very far in either of these vehicles.

  Gunfire erupted from behind the barn again. Something clanged inside the barn. Like a chunk of wood smashing down. Whitman didn’t think Aaron and Parkman, if still alive, would remain so if the onslaught of bullets didn’t stop soon. He couldn’t wait here until they ran out of ammo.

  “Hey!” he shouted. The guns ceased. He decided on another tactic. “Hey. What are you guys doing on my property? Why are you assholes shooting up my barn?”

  Chapter 36

  Parkman curled into a ball and prayed none of the bullets would find their mark on him or Aaron. Thunk after thunk hit the wall of the shack above him, shattering it into broken strips of wood. The candles had been destroyed in explosions of wax and flame. The inside of the building was darker than the outside now.

  As suddenly as the gunfire started, it stopped.

  “Hey,” Parkman heard a man shout. “What are you guys doing on my property? Why are you assholes shooting up my barn?”

  Had the owner of the property just showed up? Somehow that didn’t fit. Why would dirty cops bring them here without knowing if the place was safe? Unless they intended on blaming the property owner for their murders.

  “Nobody owns this land,” someone shouted in reply.

  “Fuck you. Who built that barn? I did.”

  A shuffling noise beside Parkman. Aaron was moving closer. He waited until Aaron was right beside him before he spoke.

  “You hit?” he asked in a whisper.

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “You think that’s the owner?”

  “Not sure. Whoever he is, he’s stopped the guns for now. You think we could crawl out of here?”

  “If we go through a window. The door is too exposed and the angle those bullets came in makes me think they can see the door.”

  “Then out a window we go—”

  “We’re Rosarito Police,” someone shouted from the back, cutting off Parkman. “We have armed fugitives inside the barn.”

  “If someone was alive inside that barn, they’re dead now,” the owner’s voice volleyed back.

  Parkman could barely make out Aaron’s face in the dark. Enough light from the moon filtered in a window two feet from him to catch the silhouette of his profile.

  “We need to get out of here,” Parkman said.

  “How’s your arm?”

  Parkman eased his hand away from the wound and felt a small trickle of blood run down the back of his tricep.

  “Doing okay. It’s clotting.”

  “Can you walk on your own?”

  “Yeah. Sure. To get out of here, I’ll run a fucking marathon bleeding from both arms.”

  “How about jump through a window head first?”

  “To save my life. Yeah.”

  “Then let’s go.” Aaron grabbed Parkman’s good arm and helped him to his feet. Before they got halfway across the shack’s floor, something crashed just outside the outer wall. A gun fired. Then another gun from another direction.

  They dropped to the ruined floor of the shack again.

  What the hell?

  Parkman curled into a ball as pain in his arm flared up and the guns outside spat over and over.

  “Could use a break here,” he shouted.

  Chapter 37

  Whitman got ready. As soon as they said they were police, he had zeroed in on the location of the voice good enough to get into position. He waited an extra moment, confident his idea would work, but not entirely sure. The idea was schoolyard worthy. Something kids would play on their friends as a trick. He needed this to work. If it didn’t, Parkman’s and Aaron’s chances, if they were still alive, would slim to almost nothing.

  He knelt down by a tree, placed his arm on the stump and aimed the weapon in the general direction of the voice. The wood in his other hand, he swung it by his side once, brought it back, then swung it again and let it go. The wood sailed quietly through the air until it came down beside the barn’s wall.

  He remembered as a kid in Toronto, growing up in the Greek community near Danforth and Pape on Hunter Street, when he would go to the park with his friends at night and play Hide ’n’ Seek. His goal was always to make them think he was somewhere else as they neared his location. He would hide with a large stone or stick. When the seeker got close, Whitman would toss the stone as a diversion. After a while, the other kids caught on to his tactics but couldn’t do anything about it as they still had to find him and the stone could’ve been thrown from anywhere.

  Tonight, under the waxing gibbous moon, there was enough light for Whitman to play one more version of Hide ’n’ Seek, but this one came with deadly consequences for the opponent.

  Upon the thunk of the wood, the cop fired blindly in its general direction, allowing Whitman to see the muzzle flash. He was already in position, arm resting on the tree stump, hand steady.

  He squeezed the trigger. The gun fired. Something fell hard from the direction of the muzzle flash.

  To the left of his aim, another muzzle flashed. The whiz of the bullet traveled close to his head sounding like an angry carpenter bee. He adjusted his aim and let loose, firing the weapon in his hand until it clicked empty.

  He dropped the empty gun and lowered himself to the ground. The night was quiet around the ringing in his ears. He waited. No gun now. No wood. Now, only armed with the hope that all five assailants were down, he raised himself to his feet.

  The cops had chosen their execution spot well, so Whitman wasn’t concerned anyone had heard the gunplay. But remaining at the scene of five dead Mexican police officers would end with his untimely demise.

  “Parkman?” he yelled. “Aaron? Either one of you still breathing?”

  “Yeah,” one of them shouted to Whitman’s relief. “Who are you?”

  “Are you both alive?”

  “Yeah. Parkman’s hit. Arm wound. Still bleeding.”

  “Okay, we can fix that. You guys ready to leave?”

  “Yeah, but who are you?”

  “John Whitman—” he stopped. “You might know me as Drake Bellamy, but I’m no longer him. I’m Whitman now.”

  There was a pause. While Aaron considered what Whitman had just said, he listened for movement, for anything that would reveal the Mexicans were still alive.

  “If you guys want to get out of here,” Whitman shouted. “Don’t use the door, just in case. Come out the window on my side. Listen to my voice for direction.”

  “We’re at the window now.”

  Whitman stared at the window and was barely able to see a man crawl out. Then another man. No one fired a weapon. It had been a gamble to get them to exit without confirming all the assailants were dead, but he was reasonably sure they were safe.

  With Aaron leading the way and Parkman’s arm around Aaron’s shoulder, they started toward Whitman. He wiped his prints off the weapon by his feet, then tossed the empty gun aside.

  The closer they got, the easier it was to see them. He stepped out from behind the tree stump.

  “Sorry that took so long,” Whitman said. “I wasn’t carrying as I wasn’t prepared for this.”

  “Fuck that,” Parkman said. “We’re just happy to see you. How did you find us?”

  Whitman slipped in beside Parkman as they walked away from the carnage. “Was watching the hotel for signs of Sarah. Saw you two get in the cars with the police. Didn’t think that looked good. Decided to follow you and here we are.” They stepped onto the access road and started out toward the main highway. “My car’s up ahead. Once we get clear of this area, I’ll do a fi
eld dressing on that arm.”

  “Why were you watching for Sarah?” Aaron asked.

  Whitman expected that question. “She saved my life several times a few years back. When I heard a cartel had kidnapped you and Sarah was in Mexico, I flew down to see if I could help in any way. Caught up with you guys just as the RV left the Enzo compound.”

  “Was that you who followed Sarah and me to Rosarito?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Should I be concerned about your intentions?” Aaron asked.

  “Aaron,” Parkman said, a tone of caution in his voice. “Really? You want to do that right now? After Whiteman just saved our asses? Isn’t that a display of his intentions?”

  “Whitman.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Just checking,” Aaron said.

  “There’s nothing to be concerned about, Aaron,” Whitman added.

  “See,” Parkman snapped. “Can we just get out of here?”

  Halfway to the car, something metallic smashed behind them. Whitman spun around and saw that Aaron was already turned around, his hands up in a defensive gesture.

  Shit, he’s fast.

  The bang came again.

  “Sounds like one of the cops is alive,” Whitman whispered. “We need to move. He could radio for help.”

  “Roadblocks?” Parkman added.

  “That too. Let’s go.”

  They started to jog.

  A car started behind them. The engine revved. Neither car would be going very far with flat tires.

  “Shit,” Aaron said. “How far to your car?”

  “Two minutes.”

  “We won’t make it.”

  “Their vehicles aren’t going anywhere. I saw to that.”

  Aaron glanced his way. Whitman met Aaron’s gaze with the confidence of a man who was trained by retired Joint Task Force Two members in Toronto. After the required amount of male bravado eye stare, Parkman stepped between them.

  “Seriously, guys, I’m going to bitch slap the both of you if we die out here.” He turned to Aaron. “I’m still bleeding because you shot me. Now move. We need to get in Whiteman’s car and get out of here.”

  Parkman held his wound as he jogged. After a minute, with Whitman’s car in sight, he corrected Parkman again by saying, “The name’s Whitman. Not Whiteman.”

  “You’re Bellamy to me. Always will be.”

  “Use that name in public and the wrong person might hear it.” Whitman opened the door for Parkman to get in the backseat. “Is that the thanks I get for saving your ass?”

  “You’re right. I’ll try to remember the new name.”

  Once they were in, Whitman turned the car on, left the headlights off, and pulled away from the shoulder. He was a mile away when he realized his mistake. The pit of his stomach dropped and he felt like shit.

  When Aaron had asked who he was back when they were in the shack, he had answered to reassure them and get them to come out. Whitman had identified himself and even used the Drake Bellamy name.

  One of the cops was left alive and now he knew the name of the Toronto man who had killed his colleagues. It wouldn’t be long before every cop in Mexico would be hunting John Whitman for the murder of four of their own.

  And he’d left the cell phone behind. Recording. There was no way he could go back to retrieve it.

  Maybe it was time for him to leave Mexico.

  Not before finding Sarah. That’s what he came down here to do and he wouldn’t leave until he did.

  Dead or alive.

  Chapter 38

  Special agents Stacy King and Mary Fitzgerald grew weary of stakeouts. Stake out this, stake out that. All to talk to Blair Turner and get him to spy on his mother. All this in order to discover what Jane Turner was up to in foreign countries. The stakeouts were murder on the bladder and butt, and King was done with it. She could only play Scrabble on her iPad so often without losing her mind.

  “We need to find a new way of doing this.” King said. “Sitting a block from the Turner residence waiting for days on end for Blair to come out and play isn’t what I signed up for.”

  Fitzgerald rolled her window down, spit gum from her mouth, then rolled the window back up. They had at least two more hours until the sun rose and King did not want more coffee.

  “That’s the job. You know why, too. There’s nothing we can do but wait. Jane Turner hasn’t broken any laws. We can’t bring her in.”

  King clicked her iPad off and tossed it in the backseat. “Then why are we here? Really? If we can’t approach the mother, what good will the son be to us? He’s been locked inside that house with Sarah for a day and a half now.” She checked her watch. “Scratch that. Two days. We’re getting nowhere here.”

  “These are our orders.” Fitzgerald’s tone warned caution. She spoke slowly, sounding out each word. “It’s what we do. Unless you have a better idea.”

  “It’s not what Jack Bauer would do. Or Ray Donovan. They’d go in, get the answers needed, and move on to the next crazy.”

  “Right, but this isn’t fictional TV and if we did something like that, we’d be up on charges.” Fitzgerald turned the air conditioning off. “What’s really bothering you? I’ve been on stakeouts with you before. What’s different about this one?”

  King stared out her window while biting on a fingernail. “I think it’s Sarah. It bothers me that she’s in there. I don’t want her anywhere near our case.” King dropped her hand and faced Fitzgerald. “I mean, why is this her business? This is FBI business. She needs to go home and let the professionals do their jobs.”

  “I knew it.” Fitzgerald slapped the steering wheel. “You’re anti-religion, anti-new age, anti—”

  “Anti-everything,” King cut in. “I believe in the here and now. Flesh and blood. Dust to dust and all that shit. From what I know of her, Sarah plays a whole different game, dances to a different drummer. One that does not recognize the Band of the Hand.”

  “Band of the Hand? What the hell is that?”

  “A movie.” King tilted her head sideways and eyed Fitzgerald suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Michael Mann did it. Same guy who produced over a hundred Miami Vice TV shows.”

  “What’s it about? Or should I ask?”

  King stared out the windshield, a blank look on her face. “This is why we don’t connect all the time. Why we don’t get one another.”

  “Oh shut the fuck up,” Fitzgerald said, playfully slapping King on the shoulder. “Just tell me what the movie’s about.”

  “I’ll tell you this. I watched it on my VCR, back when VHS were still around. It’s the only movie I watched, rewound and watched again in one sitting. It’s that good. A masterpiece. To this day, not a single movie has knocked it out of my personal number one spot.”

  Fitzgerald pulled her cell phone out and began typing.

  “What are you doing?” King asked.

  “Looking it up.”

  King rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes. They had another four hours before relief came. Her bladder was cooperating today. Less coffee would do that for a girl. But less coffee meant more drowsiness.

  “Found it. Synopsis sounds pretty good, but it got a low rating. Box office wasn’t that high.” Fitzgerald turned toward her. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same movie?”

  Fitzgerald’s cell phone rang in her hand.

  “Shit.”

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Fitzgerald here.” A pause. “Okay.” She smacked the steering wheel. Seemed to be a pastime of hers. “Fine.” She keyed the engine and pulled away from the curb. “On our way.”

  Before she could end the call, King sat up straighter and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Fitzgerald dropped the phone beside her and signaled to turn left.

  “We’re being pulled off surveillance.”

  “What? Why?”
>
  “Don’t be in too much of a rush to question it. You got what you wanted. No stakeout.”

  “What I want is to learn what Jane Turner is up to. Not drive home with our tails between our legs.”

  “We’re to leave Mexico immediately. Plane tickets are waiting for us.”