All hell broke loose.
I got off two more fast rounds. The shots missed, but Buddy’s men scattered.
I darted to my right, dropped, rolled, and shot again.
Buddy shouted at his men as they scattered. “Goddammit, get back here.” He swung around, drew a pistol and fired two quick shots over their heads. They stopped and turned. “Shoot that cocksucker! Now, goddammit!” He pointed right at me. The men raised their guns.
My heart raced.
Suddenly, to my left, a series of huge blasts sounded. Hammer, gripping the riot gun, stood next to the police car, pumping rounds into the line of guards.
I looked back. One guy went down, screaming, “I’m hit!”
Another guy dropped like a sack of rotten tomatoes. That left seven. Too many.
Buddy pointed at Hammer. “Kill him!” The men swung their rifles toward Hammer.
He lunged behind the car just as the AK-47s exploded.
I ran a zigzag pattern, sprinting through the scrub. Tripping over a rock, I struggled to my feet and got up running. I tore along the ground racing closer to the works. Stopping halfway there, I slid down behind a large yucca tree, gulping air.
I heard Hammer call out, “I’ll be back, O’Brien!”
Maybe he would. It was my only chance.
I raised my gun, squeezed the trigger and drew their fire, then jerked back behind the yucca. Almost instantly, slugs from the AK-47s peppered the tree trunk and whizzed by on both sides. Peering out, I saw Hammer leap into the cop car. Wheels spinning, the car zoomed backward and disappeared beyond the hump in the road. Some of the guards were still shooting at the fleeing car. Others continued to shoot at me.
I wouldn’t be safe here for long. Any more of this and the slugs would chop the tree in two, or they would rush me and I’d be one dead lawyer.
I checked the Beretta’s clip: one round. I jammed the gun in my belt, crouched down, and looked out from behind the tree. The shooting had stopped, and I knew why.
The kids at the borax plant had scattered in all directions. Buddy turned and pointed. Some of the guards took off to chase them, scurrying like rats across the desert. I bolted, moving five yards closer.
Buddy immediately turned back. He stood in the road with two of his men. They searched intently for me, gazing out at the scrub. I’d have to get past them to reach Rita.
I crept toward the office, moving quietly from one thicket of sagebrush to another. Most of the guards would be busy for a while, I figured. I had to find Rita and get her out of this place. But first I had to sneak past Buddy and his goons.
He continued to scan, his eyes sweeping from side to side. He signaled his men to fan out; one marched off to my left, the other to the right. They’d circle around and come up behind me. Then he must’ve thought he saw something. He shot three times at a dense cluster of cholla cacti ten feet away from me. Some cactus wrens fluttered and took flight.
Buddy was alone now, but didn’t budge from his spot. I had to make my move. If I waited too long, I’d be so outnumbered that I’d never get Rita out of here. I had one bullet left. If I shot at Buddy and missed… well, I didn’t want to think about that. Besides, I’d need that round in case anyone was guarding Rita.
On my belly, I slithered out from behind the bushes and inched closer. I scooted forward, moving at a deliberate pace. I thought of the old World War II movies, thought about how John Wayne would handle this. He’d throw a rock off somewhere, drawing the bad guy’s attention, and then he’d jump up, rush the guy, take his rifle, and gut him with the bayonet.
I couldn’t do that. Buddy didn’t have a bayonet.
CHAPTER 40
A dry breeze stirred, and the scent of coal tar pitch from the creosote bush I hid behind filled my nostrils as the sun continued to beat down on me. The unblinking reptilian orb of a fat chuckwalla, inches from my face, pinned me eyeball to eyeball like in a kid’s game of chicken. I wanted to smash the goddamn lizard with a rock.
I lay sweating, waiting for Buddy to move from his spot and come look for me, to move away from the road long enough for me to circle around him. I was only ten yards from where he stood, and another ten yards behind him was the entrance to the borax works. I figured they had Rita in the small office, which was located in the middle of the facility next to a towering crane and surrounded on three sides by piles of slag. Used equipment and rusty junk were scattered on the grounds heaped among a number of old stone buildings.
Shifting my eyes, I could see the two guards advancing through the scrub on either side. In a few moments they’d be behind me.
I didn’t have a second to lose; I had to make my move now. The guards who’d been chasing the kids were starting to return, dragging them by the scruffs of their necks. Soon they, too, would be looking for me.
Scrunched over, I moved out from behind the bush and scuttled closer. If Buddy turned his head in the slightest he’d see me. But I kept crawling through the undergrowth, purposeful and silent, like a cat after its prey. Five more yards and I’d be close enough to get the jump on him, take his gun and put it to his head. Then I’d force him to release Rita.
A thousand to one shot, maybe ten thousand, but it was a shot.
Suddenly, he turned. I leaped back behind a tall bush and dropped to the ground. Shots rang out; two slugs hit the dirt next to me.
“Hey, O’Brien,” Buddy shouted. “Get out here. The next one’s gonna-”
A police siren pierced the air. What the hell?
Buddy lowered the gun to his side, shaded his eyes, and peered out at the road in front of him. He continued to stare.
I took a quick look around. The guards had also stopped, and now glanced up the road. A fast-moving black and white cruiser, its red lights flashing, drifted over the hump trailing a thick cloud of dust. The car grew ominously larger as it sped closer to the works, the resounding wail of its siren reverberating in the valley. Buddy obviously knew who drove the vehicle. He stepped casually to the side of the road and waited. The police car zoomed right on past me and slammed to a stop next to him.
Burt Krause, chief of Barstow’s finest, leaned out of the driver’s side window and spoke to Buddy. I couldn’t hear what they talked about, but Buddy looked pissed. Sitting stoically in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, was Ben Moran.
A few seconds passed. The cop car pulled away and drove up to the front of the office. The men climbed out and rushed inside.
Buddy shouted and waved his arm, signaling for the two guards to return. They conferred with him for a few seconds before he stormed off in the direction of the office.
The guards glanced out at the scrub once more, then trailed in Buddy’s wake and took up a position in front of the door holding their rifles across their chests. No one seemed to be looking for me now. Why’d they stop?
I had no idea what was going on in the little building, but I grabbed at the chance to move. I jumped up, veered right, and made a beeline for one of the slag piles close to the rear of the office. I covered the distance in three seconds flat and hid behind the small mound.
Two more guards appeared, patrolling the area between me and the clapboard building. Turning, I glanced at the area behind me. I looked out beyond a five-foot-high stack of old wooden beams and a huge pile of rusting metal way out to a landing strip. I relaxed for a few beats. No one was watching. I turned back and peered around the slag pile. The guards moved cautiously, their weapons extended in front of them. When they came to the far edge of the office, they turned toward the front and disappeared around the corner. They’d be back soon.
I dashed to the rear of the building and flattened my body against the wall. Without looking down I fingered the automatic in my belt, a reassuring gesture, though not too reassuring with only one cartridge in the clip. I pulled the gun out. My hand trembled in fear-or maybe anger-as I chambered the round and tucked it back in my belt. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, I slid along the wall toward a dirty window in the center of the building next to a closed door.