The Trial, page 23
part #91 of The Executioner Series
There was another gun, and then two more — a goddamned arsenal — and Kendricks was already clutching at his Smith & Wesson .44 when the impromptu firing squad cut loose. He swung the cannon up, prepared to fire, but then a beefy woman in a wide-brimmed hat sprang up in front of him. The sheriff held his fire and stepped forward to wrench her aside. He saw that everything had changed.
The young reporter had a weapon now, recovered from the gunner dressed in suit and tie, and he was blasting at the other members of the firing squad. He took one out and was angling for another when a bailiff hit him low and hard, the two of them rebounding from a hardwood bench before they hit the floor. The two surviving gunners had their weapons trained on Bolan's table, but the Executioner was under cover now, his lawyer with him.
A sudden panicked thought hit Kendricks like a fist above the heart, and he was pivoting to search for Price when he saw Hank Musgrove stalking down the center aisle with gun in hand. The deputy was pale as death, and his hands were trembling visibly. He held the Magnum in a double-handed grip to keep the muzzle steady while he took his aim.
Round one impacted on the table where Bolan should have been, and Kendricks realized that Musgrove wasn't aiming for the members of the firing squad. He was assisting them!
The bastard had been in it from the start.
Another deputy, with pistol drawn, erupted from behind the witness stand. He pegged a shot at one of the torpedoes, missed and was advancing on the double when Musgrove punched a Magnum crusher through his chest. A startled gunner finished it with automatic fire, but Kendricks knew the deputy was dead as hell before those parabellum rounds ripped into him.
His blood was on Hank Musgrove's hands.
The room became a crimson blur for Kendricks, an epitome of hell on earth.
He snapped a round at Musgrove, heedless of the bodies pushing past him and around him. Missed. But Musgrove saw the second coming, abject terror edging out the concentration on his pallid face. A wild return shot whistled over Kendricks's head, and then his former deputy was dodging toward the exit.
Bo Kendricks was aware of automatic weapons battering the air behind him, but he closed his mind to everything beyond the vision of his one-time deputy racing along the aisle with elbows pumping, side arm fanning at the air. An old man stepped in front of Musgrove, and before he had a chance to dodge aside, Hank shot him in the face at point-blank range.
"Fucking bastard."
Primed to kill, Kendricks squared his sights on Musgrove's Stetson, dropped them to a point between the meaty shoulder blades — and froze with finger to the trigger as a woman, babe in arms, rose up to block his field of fire.
With something like a primal fury boiling in his gut, Kendricks sprinted after Musgrove, scattering the faceless newsmen and civilians in his wake. Whatever had already happened in the courtroom, he meant to bring Hank Musgrove down.
The son of a bitch had disgraced his uniform, had turned upon civilians, had slain a fellow officer — and he was not about to waltz away scot-free. The bastard wasn't going anywhere, not if Kendricks had a thing to say about it.
The corridor was an extension of the chaos in the courtroom, men and women, children, bailiffs, lawyers and defendants scattering for cover as he burst through the double doors. Some thirty yards away, he spotted Musgrove making for the elevators, head down, running like a jogger on the verge of cardiac arrest, one arm outstretched to hit the button.
The sheriff tottered to a halt on high-heeled boots, his Smith & Wesson braced in both big hands, already squeezing off, and knowing as he fired that it was too damned early. Riding out the Magnum's recoil, Kendricks saw his round explode against the metal panel that housed the elevator button, spewing bright electric sparks and halting Musgrove in his tracks. He spun to face the sheriff, snapping up his pistol in a dueling stance, a fatal resignation written on his doughy face.
The woman came from nowhere, and in her desperate haste to quit that scene of chaos, she jostled into Musgrove. In an instant he seized her, his free hand circling her body beneath her arms.
She stood between them like a shield, and Kendricks eased off on the Smith & Wesson's trigger, waiting.
"I want outta here!" The tension had converted Musgrove to an alto, going on soprano. "Anybody tries to stop me, this's one dead bitch!"
"No good." The words were out before Bo Kendricks knew that he had spoken. "You're not going anywhere."
"Let's cut the bullshit, Bo. There's nothing you can do to stop me now."
"There might be," Kendricks told him softly, moving in another pace.
"Tha's far enough." Hank Musgrove gestured with his pistol for effect.
It was a crazy move, beyond audacious, and Kendricks knew that if he missed there would be hell to pay. In the remaining heartbeat before he fired, Bo Kendricks wiped his mind of politics, his job, the next election, concentrating on his duty to the badge. He tightened down and squeezed before Hank Musgrove had a chance to see it coming.
The impact of a bullet traveling at nearly 1,800 feet per second, carrying a weight of some 240 grains, is nothing short of catastrophic to the human frame. Deep shock is almost instantaneous as the expanding bullet pushes shards of bone and twists of mutilated flesh in front of it, destroying veins and arteries within the flicker of an eye.
Hank Musgrove never understood precisely what happened to him, but the end results were inescapable. Impacting on his shoulder joint, the Magnum round came close to ripping off his gun arm, spinning him around with such velocity that both his pistol and his human shield were lost before he toppled, sprawling in the corridor. An almost human whimper issued from his throat, but part of him refused to let it go, and he rose, struggling to his knees now, searching for his lost revolver with a dazed expression on his bloodless face.
Bo Kendricks let him find it and watched the broken figure wallow toward the weapon that could never help him now. He waited until Musgrove's fingers closed around the checkered grips, until he rocked back on his haunches, pivoting to raise the pistol, seeking a target through his daze.
Far enough.
The next round lifted Musgrove from his crouch and bounced him off the marble slab that framed the elevator doors. Stone dead before he hit, his body slithered sideways and became a limp, untidy bundle on the floor.
Bo Kendricks turned away, disgust and rage and all of it escaping with his pent-up breath. The nausea was coming, and he hoped that he could hold it off until he had a chance to face the carnage in the courtroom.
He was moving back in that direction when he froze, his Smith & Wesson dangling toward the floor. He had no more capacity to feel surprise, but only resignation to his fate.
Mack Bolan stood before him, still in chains, an Uzi submachine gun in his hands. Beside him, similarly armed, Bo Kendricks recognized the young man who had touched the violence off initially, the one he had mistaken for a journalist.
"Your play," the sheriff said, and Bolan heard the weight of ages in his voice.
"No play. I've never had a quarrel with you."
The lawman risked a glance across his shoulder, toward the leaking deputy's remains. "You didn't kill that Jennings woman, did you? Musgrove did it all."
"Not all. He was a tool."
"He set you up."
"He followed orders."
Sheriff Kendricks nodded. "Well, he won't be takin' any more."
The silence spun between them for a timeless moment, but was finally broken by the sound of running feet behind Bolan's back somewhere along the corridor.
"Get outta here, son," the sheriff said. "There's been enough."
Their eyes met, locked and moved on. Bolan nodded, nudged his brother and brushed past the sheriff as he doubled back along the corridor in the direction of the courtroom.
The Bolans shunned the elevators, opting for the stairs. The two men were delayed by Bolan's shackles, which would not permit a jogging pace. Downstairs, the courthouse lobby was a wasteland, various employees and civilians either gone to join the melee on the second floor, or off in search of shelter from the storm. They had the exit to themselves and passed in tandem through the swinging double doors.
"I'll get the wheels."
Without a backward glance, Johnny darted for the street in the direction of the aging Alamo Hotel directly opposite. When he was halfway there, a racing engine and the squeal of tortured rubber drew the Executioner's attention, gaining swiftly on his flank.
And there had been a backup waiting for him, sure.
The Cadillac was close, no more than half a block away and closing fast. The windows on the driver's side were down and bristling with hardware, scatterguns and carbines angling for target acquisitions, gunners making swift allowances for speed. Encumbered by his shackles, painfully aware that there was nowhere left to run, the soldier stood his ground.
At thirty yards, he held the Uzi's trigger down and swept the stubby muzzle in an arc from left to right, then back again. There was no time to aim, and Bolan tracked the progress of his automatic rounds by visual effect — the spiderwebbing on a previously unmarked windshield, gleaming punctures in the bodywork along both doors, a spray of stuffing as his bullets ripped upholstery inside.
The gunners were unloading even as they died, their stray round peppering the courthouse, shattering the glass doors at Bolan's back. The Caddy was dead even with him when it jumped the curb, running with two wheels in the gutter, mowing down a mailbox and impacting on the corner hydrant with destructive force. He hesitated for a moment, waiting for survivors to emerge beneath the foaming geyser's spray, but there was no one left to challenge Bolan anymore.
His brother swung the Jimmy four-wheel drive across two empty lanes and brought it to curbside, opening the passenger door.
"You set?"
"I'd say."
When he was settled in, the Uzi wedged between his knees, Johnny stood on the accelerator, unleashing all that power underneath the hood. In moments they had cleared the city limits, and the wasteland opened out before them.
"Name it."
Johnny's grin was warm, infectious, and the Executioner could not withhold his own.
But he could name it, sure.
"Let's take it home."
Epilogue
The bourbon wasn't helping anymore, and Ethan Peck pushed the bottle back, unmindful when it toppled from the table, burbling its contents into the expensive deep-pile carpeting. No matter. He had more important problems on his mind.
The early radio reports of what had taken place around the courthouse sickened him. The local yokels might not know a thing about professional delivery, but they were aces when it came to laying down bad news. Four of his people dead — Hank Musgrove made it five — along with sheriff's deputies, civilians.
Conspicuous among the living were Mack Bolan and the goddamned sheriff, Kendricks. Double trouble, sure, but of the two, it was the Executioner who worried Ethan most. The rancher would be gone before Bo Kendricks finished putting it all together, but the Bolan fumble would be something else again. The boys in Dallas would be looking to repay him for his failure.
He thought about the hit team dispatched from Dallas, knew that they could not be far away. Assuming that they heard the news flash on their radio and pulled over to a roadside phone, they should be close by now. They wouldn't bother driving by the courthouse; too much risk of being stopped. The team would have their orders. They would come directly to his door.
As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard heavy car doors slam out front. He counted three even as he moved toward the desk and began rummaging beneath some papers in an upper drawer. The rancher found what he was looking for, examined it and weighed it briefly in his hands.
The single-action Colt had cost a bundle when he had bought it years before, and it was damn near priceless now. Hand-tooled, with gold and silver inlays on the barrel, cylinder and frame, it glistened like a royal scepter when he raised it to the light. The five-inch barrel bore a simulated autograph from Big John Wayne along each side, the graven letters filled with eighteen-karat gold, and through the years that autograph had been a source of inspiration, strength, to Ethan Peck.
So what if there had been a hundred other guns just like it, each inscribed by some anonymous machine? It was the spirit of the Duke that made it special, his indomitable courage when the chips were down.
Like now.
He double-checked the weapon's load and sat down behind his desk, the Colt Peacemaker balanced on one thigh. No time to run until he finished with his business here... and Ethan was as ready to receive his guests as he would ever be.
He had released his houseman for the day, preferring solitude for what he had to do, and there was no one to respond when Ethan's uninvited visitors began to hammer on the door. He waited, listening, imagining that he heard the jimmy bar inserted, shattering the lock. He took a breath and held it, stilling the trembling in his hands with almost superhuman effort.
Shadows in the study doorway took human form.
"You had us worried, Ethan. For a second there we thought you weren't at home."
He didn't know the men, had never seen them in his life, but Ethan wasn't startled by the mock familiarity.
"I didn't hear you knock," he lied.
"You're slipping, Ethan."
There were two of them, which meant another somewhere in the house. Gorillas, both of them, with narrow eyes and barrel chests, their jackets hanging open, granting access to the holstered hardware underneath. They hadn't made a move so far, and if he played his cards right...
"Guess you heard about the mess in town?"
He nodded. "Better luck next time around."
The nearest of them shook his bullet head. "No next time, Ethan. That's the message."
"Oh?"
"You had your chance. You blew it, guy."
"I guess there's no way I could talk you out of this?"
"'Fraid not. We've got our orders on this thing, you know?"
"I understand."
He was amazed by the composure that he felt, the sudden and immediate release of tension from the moment his enemies had shown themselves. Confronted by the worst of it, he was released from the anticipation, from the fear.
And when he fired, the echo of the Colt's report was amplified beneath his desk. He felt the searing muzzle blast against his inner thigh, already kicking backward, rolling with the coasters on his high-backed chair, the six-gun rising, tracking into target acquisition.
Round one took the headman just below the breastbone, opening a blowhole in his paunch and killing him before he had a chance to reach the pistol slung beneath his arm. Gorilla number two was fading in the direction of the door, one hand inside his jacket, a confused expression on his face. He didn't seem to realize precisely what was happening, but his reaction to the gunshot was immediate, professional.
And it was almost good enough.
Almost.
The second .45 round drilled him through the upper chest, exploded through a shoulder blade and bounced him off the door frame, spewing crimson front and back. He staggered, then stumbled to one knee as he hauled out his holstered piece, incredibly defying shock and loss of blood, his teeth clenched against the pain.
Peck braced the Colt in both hands and fired again, unable to suppress a grimace as the shooter's jaw was sheared away. There was no time to wait for dying tremors to subside, and Ethan reached the door in three long strides, the six-gun cocked and ready to receive all comers.
Pounding footsteps in the corridor alerted him to number three, and when he cleared the study doorway he was crouching, turning in profile to the enemy. The shooter still had twenty yards to go, and the stunned expression on his face revealed an understanding that he'd never make it now.
Peck cut a bull's-eye at the range of twenty yards, his human target vaulting backward, boot heels drumming briefly on the hardwood floor until his shattered heart gave up the ghost. He waited another moment to be sure, then rose to stand above the dead.
Three up, three down, and wouldn't Dallas shit when news of this got home? They might think twice before they put the bloodhounds on his trail, and if they were intent upon revenge... well, he had rubbed their noses in it once, and he could do the same again, no matter where they tracked him down.
Peck tucked the six-gun in his belt, unmindful of the barrel's heat against his skin. The Duke would shake his hand if he could see what Peck had done, no doubt about it. Just like in the frigging movies.
He doubled back into the study and fetched the heavy satchel from underneath his desk. He had been packed to go before the Dallas team had arrived, and there was no point wasting any further time. The bag was stuffed with money, better than two hundred thou, and he could hit the bank accounts long-distance once he found a temporary roost. His clothes and all the rest of it could be replaced, so long as he had cash in hand, and Peck would do just fine.
Peck made a short hike down the corridor past the leaking carcass of gorilla number three. He cleared the hallway and was halfway to the ruined door before he sensed the enemy behind him, watching silently. Peck halted in his tracks and dropped the satchel, holding both hands out empty as he turned to face the cut-down scattergun. Out front, for just a heartbeat, he had seen the Caddy with its driver's door still open wide.
And he had counted only three.
"I've got almost a quarter-million dollars in that bag," he told the driver, knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. "Let me walk away, it's yours."
The driver shook his head. "No way."
"I'll double that if you let me have an hour."
"You'll double shit."
And he was right of course. The shooter could fulfill his contract, save his ass and keep the satchel for himself in any case. Peck had no aces left to play.
He felt the pistol's weight tugging at his belt, inviting him to try his hand. It would be suicidal, certainly. The scattergun was pointed at his chest, and he could never hope to beat the gunner's time. It was preposterous. Insane.
