Innocence (38 page)

She raised her fist to Seldon, giving him the ready sign. In a matter of seconds, it should all be over.

It was at that moment she heard the gunshots. They broke through the quiet with electric clarity: two loud, crisp reports from up by the church. She flinched, and her heartbeat doubled as she watched all those within the garage break into motion, unslinging their weapons and heading toward the safety and cover of the garage.

The advantage was lost, she realized instantly, and what had looked to be a swift, easy roundup had morphed into an inevitable siege. She cursed under her breath. Then she stood up from behind the bushes, raising her gun toward the men running for the garage. In a loud, clear voice, she yelled, “Federal officers! Put down your weapons!”

z

Kozlowski was easing his way down along the side of the rectory when he heard the first two gunshots. He looked back up toward the church, which seemed to loom over the other two buildings in the complex in dark judgment.

Finn!

Kozlowski hadn’t actually been concerned about the lawyer’s lack of formal police experience. Finn was smart and levelheaded, and Kozlowski had seen the way he responded under pressure. He knew that Finn would be a good man to have around in just about any fight. But not this one. In this fight, Kozlowski had only one objective—to kill Carlos. Kozlowski couldn’t go back to Lissa and tell her that the man responsible for her ordeal was still breathing. And if killing Carlos required him to give up his own life . . . well, his life had always been about sacrifice, hadn’t it?

Finn, though, wouldn’t understand, and even if he would, Kozlowski didn’t want him involved. It was his sacrifice to make, not Finn’s, and that was why he had sent Finn into the safety of the church.

When he heard the gunshots, though, Kozlowski felt ill. In the process of pursuing his own vendetta, he had sent Finn into an ambush. He took two steps back toward the church, then looked around again toward the garage below, caught in indecision. Before he had the chance to think through his options clearly, he heard Flaherty’s voice calling out, “Federal officers! Put down your weapons!”

In a matter of seconds, the real gunfire started in earnest.

z

Flaherty was on her feet for less than two seconds before a barrage of gunfire chopped at the bushes in front of her. She went down, gripping the snow as she tried to push herself deeper into the ground. She wished she had chosen a spot with better cover, but there was little she could do to correct that now.

Besides, she was confident that the assault wouldn’t last long. The two initial shots had drawn the attention of those down in the driveway and the garage toward the church, and her shouts had redirected it toward the day-care center. That left the driveway entrance clear, and she knew that the other agents wouldn’t hesitate to exploit that approach.

She turned her head and looked through the shrubs in front of her toward the driveway, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that her assumptions were well founded. Three of her men were moving in quickly down the driveway, advancing on the VDS gang members from behind. They didn’t even bother announcing their presence or intentions; they simply took aim, dropping two of the shooters without warning.

Three left
, Flaherty thought as she took advantage of the break in the gunfire to stand up and motion for Seldon to follow her. As long as the Middle Easterners weren’t armed—and she couldn’t see VDS arming a bunch of al Qaeda terrorists, no matter how much they were paying to be brought into the country—she and her men had a two-to-one tactical advantage.

As she and Seldon moved down the hill toward the driveway, she could see that the other agents were already pressing their assault. All four of them were there, and they were trying to cut off the retreat into the garage. That was where the terrorists and gang members were headed: pulling back to mount a stand. Behind them, Flaherty could see the refugees huddled into a corner, trying desperately to find cover and stay out of the way. The terrorists, unarmed as they were, seemed to be searching for some way to join the battle, but they probably realized from experience how ineffectual rocks and sticks were against modern police hardware.

Flaherty heard Carlos, the leader, yell something in Spanish, and one of the two remaining VDS soldiers rushed forward from within the garage, reaching up to grab the overhead door and pull it down. Flaherty dropped to a knee and squeezed off two shots, taking him in the center of the chest and putting him down. The door slid halfway toward the ground and then caught on its runners. The man had failed to close the door entirely, but the line of fire was partially blocked, and it would make the siege even more difficult.

Flaherty and Seldon joined the other agents, who were using the vans for cover as they peppered the garage doors with their fire. “Down to two?” she called out, looking to confirm her count.

“I think so,” one of the other agents yelled back. “Never can tell, though.”

“All right,” she said. “Let’s be careful with our aim. We want prisoners if we can get them. Body bags don’t tell us much.”

“Sure,” the agent responded. “You got any ideas about how to be careful with our aim and not get killed in the process, I’m all ears.”

She thought about it. “You stay here and keep them pinned down.” She looked at Seldon. “You feel lucky?”

He gave her a game smile. “Always.”

“Good. Come with me.”

z

Carlos had been talking to the tall Syrian when the first two shots were fired. He called himself Hassan, but Carlos knew that was not his real name. The man’s real name had been lost over a decade ago and been covered carefully by his sponsors to make tracking him—or even identifying him—nearly impossible. Not that Carlos cared about his real identity; Hassan was willing to pay for the services VDS could provide, and Carlos was, at the core, a believer in rough capitalism. To the extent that Carlos had any reservations, they stemmed from the increased risks associated with bringing people like Hassan and his associates across the border. The smuggling operation VDS had established nearly two decades before was a profitable one, and Carlos was sometimes concerned that he was putting that at risk. But the Arabs paid twenty times what the refugees could, and that kind of money was difficult to turn down, no matter what the risks were.

When Carlos heard the shots, it occurred to him that his judgment might have been flawed. “
¡Adentro! ¡Adentro!
” he shouted to his men. His men were well trained, but when the woman on the hill announced her presence, they turned and engaged her. It was a fatal mistake, he knew “
¡No! ¡Al garaje!
” He ordered them back into the garage, but it was too late. Two of his men were killed almost instantly, falling in their own blood on the driveway, as more officers moved in from the street. It left them with only three guns, and he knew then that it was a losing battle.

“
¡Cierra la puerta!
” he yelled to another one of his men. Carlos watched from behind as the man reached to pull the door down, but before the task was completed, the center of the man’s back exploded as one of the federal officers’ high-velocity shells hit him in the chest and tore a pathway through his body, exiting with a spray of blood.

Carlos ticked off the options in his head and realized that escape was the only one that held even a modicum of hope. He turned to Hassan and held out his automatic rifle.

“What will you use?” Hassan asked, taking the gun without waiting for the answer.

Carlos pulled a pistol out of his jacket, holding it up for Hassan to see. “We need as many men as we have returning fire,” he said.

Hassan nodded and moved up toward the front of the garage.

Now was Carlos’s only chance. If anyone else saw him, they would be tempted to follow, and while a single man might slip through whatever perimeter the police had established, a group would be doomed.

He moved all the way to the back of the garage, into the corner opposite from the refugees, who were balled up like rats on the floor, each trying to dive to relative safety at the bottom of the pile. There, covered by a stack of cardboard, was the door to a stairway that led up to the rectory’s kitchen.

Carlos backed up against the door, taking one last look around the garage. Pedro, a young soldier who had been with Carlos for over two years, was still firing his weapon, trying in vain to hold off the onslaught. He was a good man, well trained and loyal. It might be possible to save him as well, but the risk was too great. Without another thought, Carlos ducked through the doorway and was gone.

z

Finn froze when he heard the gunfire coming from the rectory. All he could think about was Linda Flaherty. There were so many things he hadn’t said to her—so many things he needed to say. It took a moment for him to stand, and once on his feet, he was unsure where to go. His first thought was to head back out the front door of the church and hurry around the corner to join the fight. As he stood there, he realized there might be a more direct route: through the church. It might get him into a position to help her that much sooner, allowing him to approach the gunfire from the rear, which might provide a strategic advantage.

He took a few hesitant steps toward the heavy curtain that separated the entryway from the nave. Then, as quietly as he could, he pulled the fabric to one side and slipped through the opening into the unknown.

z

Kozlowski was still caught in indecision, considering whether to run back to the church to help Finn, when the shooting behind the rectory erupted. It took only another moment for him to react. It was clear that the real fight was down by the garage; only two quick shots had been fired in the church, and it seemed that whatever skirmish had taken place there must have been brief and decisive. Finn had either survived it or not, and it was unlikely that there was anything Kozlowski could do now to change that.

He slid the last ten yards down the side of the sunken rectory garage until he came to the corner of the building. From where he was, perched on the hill directly to the side of the garage doors, he could see Flaherty and her men in the driveway, and it seemed that they had the advantage. Two bodies lay on the hardtop, and looking closely at them, Kozlowski could tell they were not officers. He could also see that neither one was Carlos, as their tattoos, while prominent, left significant swaths of unpainted skin on their faces, necks, and hands.

Kozlowski looked down and to his right, and he realized that he could see directly into the garage through the top row of windows. It looked as though there were only two armed men fighting the battle from within, though they were both wielding automatic rifles, which meant that a full-frontal attack on the garage would be like walking into a wood chipper. A group of defenseless people was piled into a corner, seeking cover, and another body lay in a pool of blood near the far garage door. Carlos was nowhere to be seen.

Kozlowski looked back toward the driveway and saw the federal agents fire a concentrated hail of gunshots at the garage—covering fire, Kozlowski guessed—and then Flaherty and Seldon emerged from behind one of the vans, making a direct run at the garage.

It was hopeless, Kozlowski could see. Although the covering fire probably seemed overwhelming from the driveway, one of the shooters in the garage was well protected by the garage door and still had a clear shot at the two officers as they made their approach. He aimed and fired, and Seldon fell to the ground with a sickening thud. Kozlowski watched as the shooter shifted his aim toward Flaherty, his head down on the gun’s stock.

Kozlowski reacted without thought, bringing up his own gun and firing in one swift motion. The window on the garage door shattered, and the shooter jerked upright, his eyes wide in surprise as a stream of blood flowed from his throat. He hovered, looking about in confusion, and then fell over.

Kozlowski was nearly as surprised as the man he’d shot. He stood there on the hill watching the man die, as if in a trance. He was shaken back into the moment only when another small window in the garage door crashed apart, and he heard the whistle of gunfire pass by his ear.

Kozlowski turned to see the last remaining gunman in the garage pointing his rifle directly at his head. He dove back into the snow on the hill as the ground exploded in puffs of white around him. The bursts of automatic gunfire were deafening, and Kozlowski knew that even with poor aim, the shooter would hit him eventually. Then he heard three sharp, distinct reports of a military-issue pistol, and the rifle fire went silent. The quiet was soon replaced by shouting as the entire federal team moved into the garage. By all indications, it seemed that the situation was well under control.

Kozlowski sat up and patted down his chest and arms, feeling for wounds. He held up his hands, looking for blood, but all he could see was the snow melting on his fingertips. He gave one quick glance down into the garage and, satisfied that the shooting was over, pulled himself to his feet and ran back toward the church.

z

Carlos was heading out the side door of the rectory when the shooting stopped. He cursed his men; he had hoped they might hold out longer. In the future, he would have to train them better. He paused at the door, looking around and listening for any sign of law enforcement. There was nothing, but with the shooting over, they could be coming after him any second. He couldn’t stay out in the open.

He ran along the covered walkway, his gun drawn. As he came even with the church, sensing few other options, he turned and ran up the staircase to the back door.

z

The main hall of the church was bright compared to the entryway; Finn was thankful for that, at least. The glow from the full moon streamed in through the simple stained-glass window behind the altar, lending the place a dim, otherworldly glow. It might have seemed peaceful were it not for the gunfire exploding in the distance, rattling the colored panes in the montage of biblical characters looking down in indifference. The sweet stench of decay lingered in the air, and Finn wondered if a racoon had died underneath the floorboards.