Now it was Walt’s turn to sigh. “Yes, he’s in position.”
“So what’s wrong?”
Walt looked at his cell phone sitting on his desk as a reminder of what had set him off on a ten minute pace. “I just received a text from him telling me to keep the troops out of Denton. He’s about to do something and needs room to operate.”
“What’s he up to?”
“I don’t know. He said to have ambulances waiting at the end of the exit road from Denton. He expects casualties to be leaving town within the hour and told me to make sure we were there to take their cell phones away immediately.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s. .” Walt considered who he was speaking with and thought carefully about revealing his own translation to Nick’s words. “It means, I don’t know. I don’t even want to guess. He told me if we don’t hear from him by midnight to bring the entire force into town.”
“How many people do you have ready?”
“Including FBI, Marines, Special Forces and National Guard-around five hundred.”
“Geesh, Walt, you expecting a war?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m expecting,” Walt said, tapping his foot. “I have no intention of losing any more agents.”
“All right,” Ken said. “I’ll keep pounding the phones and see what I can get for you.”
Walt hung up and leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut. He wasn’t about to tell Ken that Nick had stopped returning his calls forty-five minutes ago. Something his top agent had never done before. In all the years he’d worked with Nick, the longest he’d ever waited for a return call was three minutes.
His phone chirped with a text message and he swiped it from his desk and read the sender’s name. His wife. It was the third consecutive night he’d missed dinner. She’d been way too patient with him and he couldn’t stand how much he’d failed to be there for her. He tried to imagine the thoughts running through her mind as she sat in their empty nest and waited for him to be with her.
Walt winced in preparation as he opened her message:
“I love you,” was all it said.
He held the phone to his chest and sighed. “I love you too, Sweetie.”
* * *
Nick opened the door to the Denton Bar and Grill and felt the examination begin. Twenty patrons were scattered around round tables, while three sat at the bar. He could tell almost immediately which ones would be trouble and which were bystanders. There were five men who Nick thought were the culprits. A manageable number.
George Straight was singing a love song from the wooden speakers behind the bar, while a large ceiling fan with two missing blades slowly spun overhead. He stepped up to the bar and ordered a Bud Light. The pock-faced bartender looked just interested enough to make that happen.
Nick turned and saw the same five men trying to avoid detection; their surveillance technique was the worst he’d ever seen. But then, they probably weren’t used to professional investigators stopping by for a drink. In the back was the deputy and his friend. They seemed to be in high spirits, clinking their beer bottles to some inept toast.
When the bartender returned, Nick thanked him and gave him a twenty. He saw the waitress at the end of the bar looking sullen, not the cheery girl Tommy had told him about. Her left cheek was blotched with red marks and there was a long scratch down the side of her face. He took a drink of his beer and went up to the girl.
“Samantha?” Nick asked.
The girl gave him a suspicious glare. “Yes.”
“Relax,” Nick said. “These guys can’t hurt you.”
Samantha’s face scrunched up tight. “What guys?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, her movements jittery.
“My cousin Tommy was here a little while ago.”
She covered her open mouth with her hand.
“It’s okay,” Nick said. “He’s in a hospital recovering. He’ll be fine. He wanted me to thank you for trying to stop them. He said you were very brave.”
Samantha’s eyes became glossy. She saw something over Nick’s shoulder and stepped back to tend to her order book.
When Nick turned, he saw the thin guy with a big gut coming his way.
“Get out of here,” Nick whispered to Samantha. When she hesitated, he said more forcefully, “Now,” and watched her exit the bar through the kitchen entrance.
The man walked up into Nick’s face about to say something when Nick grinned and said, “You must be Doug.”
The guy cocked his head. “Yeah.”
Nick pointed at his dirty boots. “Didn’t you notice that?”
Doug followed Nick’s finger. Big mistake.
With his knees bent and his hand clenched, Nick swung his fist up into Doug’s chin with a ferocious uppercut. The power came from Nick’s legs and drove Doug’s lower teeth into his uppers with such a force, his head snapped back and a short whimper escaped as he hit the floor.
Nick unclenched his fist and rubbed his knuckles, while he kicked Doug’s face.
“I don’t like bullies,” Nick said. “Never did.”
The bartender pulled up a twelve gauge shotgun from behind the bar. Three men around another table stood with their pistols stretched.
From the back of the room the deputy held out his pistol and said, “That’ll be enough.”
Nick didn’t care. The adrenalin was just beginning to peak. He stepped on Doug’s throat and watched blood bubble out the side of his mouth and down his face.
“I said, that’s enough,” the deputy shouted now, closer along with three or more friends gaining strength from the numbers. Nick was drawing them out, making sure they were all in the open.
The bartender placed the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder and aimed it at Nick, who ignored every instinct and stepped even harder on the bar owner’s face.
That’s when the gunshots rang out in rapid succession. Five, six, seven, eight. The burst of shots rang out through the bar with a high-pitched squeal. When the gunfire had stopped, a handful of men were on the floor, clutching their arms or legs. The bartender had dropped behind the bar and gave out a painful wail.
Nick was the only person in the room left standing. Untouched.
From one of the side tables, sitting by himself, was a man in a cowboy hat, twirling a government-issued 9mm pistol with professional dexterity.
Matt McColm.
He pushed up on his cowboy hat with the tip of his gun and scanned the room as if to say, “Anyone else?”
“I think I have your attention,” Nick said. There were still three or four tables of customers who looked panic-stricken and held up their hands like they were being robbed.
Without looking at his partner, Nick said, “He can shoot a dime out of midair from fifty yards, so be grateful he didn’t choose headshots.”
There was a movement to Nick’s right, followed by a gunshot. The bartender had reappeared with the shotgun only to have Matt clip him in the opposite shoulder from his first shot. The guy stumbled backward, unable to grasp at his wound because both shoulders were now damaged.
“You really don’t learn, do you?” Nick said, watching the guy slide down, about to go into shock.
Matt was standing, taking it all in, anxious to be challenged. The tension seemed to evaporate from his face like steam from a boiling teapot. Nick felt it was cathartic for him to get the rage out of his system.
“Now listen to me,” Nick said, above the country music. He made a face, then gave his partner a look. Matt fired one shot at the radio behind the bar and the music stopped. The silence allowed for the sobs and heavy breathing to fill in the space.
Nick held up his shield. “My name is Nick Bracco. I’m an FBI agent. All I want is Sonny Chizek,” he said, making eye contact with everyone in the room. “The rest of you goons are useless to me. However, my partner and I will be back every couple of hours to rip this town apart. The visits will not stop until we get what we want.”
“You can’t just shoot people for no reason,” the deputy said from the floor, grabbing his wounded shoulder.