Overkill (25 page)

Marty’s blood turned to ice when Katja raised the rifle and trained it on Erica, a hundred and fifty yards away and moving fast.

The Dragunov would be faster.

The mini Magnum pressed insistently against her scalp. Marty stared at the girl’s form, her heart pounding. She stared at the Russian woman, evil personified. She visualized herself going for the gun. Right hand, fingers jamming into her hair, yanking it out. Her finger on the trigger. She would take out the female first. A single shot to the chest. Then she would drop slightly. Shift the muzzle to the male. Aim for the chest, the largest target. Take him out with two shots. She could do it.

Her eyes followed Erica.
Run!
Her brain chanted the word like a mantra. The girl was two hundred yards away now. Running as fast as her legs would take her. The Dragunov could still reach her. Death could reach out and snatch her young life away before she ever heard the shot.

Marty wasn’t going to let that happen.

An eerie calm descended inside her head. Closing her eyes, Marty grappled for focus, for resolve, and reached for her gun.

 
It had been a long time since Clay was truly terrified.
Since he’d experienced the kind of terror that paralyzed a man from the inside out and left him as ineffectual as a spent cartridge. He felt that terror now, like a cancer rampaging through his body, tearing him down, leaving him in a place that was as black as death.

He parked the Explorer a mile from the interstate, grabbed the rifle and binoculars, and set out at a dead run toward the wind farm.

The surrounding land was flat and sparsely vegetated, offering very little in the way of cover. How the hell was he going to get close enough to stop this?

He’d put an emergency call out to the Deaf Smith Sheriff’s Department and Amarillo SWAT, warning first responders to approach with caution. No lights. No siren. Clay hadn’t waited for them. He knew if he did, they would try to force him to sit this one out. They’d tell him he was too personally involved. There was no way in hell Clay could sit back and do nothing.

They had no way of knowing Erica wasn’t the only person he cared for who was in mortal danger. Marty was the target, after all. Erica had merely been a convenient way of reeling her in. Clay knew enough about the Russian Mafia to know they had no compunction about killing children. All he could do was pray they spared his child. That they spared the woman he’d come to love.

His boots pounded the hard-packed surface of the dirt road. He ran until his lungs threatened to ignite. Until his heart verged on bursting. A mile or so from the wind farm, he stopped. His breaths ripped from his throat as he raised the binoculars. He was trembling so violently he could barely hold the field glasses steady. But he saw enough to realize he was facing a tactical nightmare.

Marty stood twenty feet from a white Lexus. The Russians had stripped off her clothes. More than likely to make sure she wasn’t armed, but also to demean. He knew how it worked. “Hang tight, Hogan,” he whispered.

Where was Erica?

He shifted the binoculars, swept the area. His heart stopped when he spotted her. A hundred and fifty yards to the east, Erica was running through a cow pasture. Her arms pumped, keeping perfect time with her legs. Even from two miles away and through field glasses, Clay could see the terror in her eyes. Were they letting her go?

“Baby, run. Oh, honey, run.”

Every cell in his body screamed for him to jump up and run to her. But Clay knew that would be not only ineffectual, but suicidal.

He shifted the binoculars back to the Lexus. Katja Ivanov stood near the open trunk. She’d withdrawn a rifle. From this distance Clay couldn’t ascertain the model, couldn’t predict its range. The male, Radimir, stood at the rear of the Lexus, looking in the trunk. Clay couldn’t see what he was doing. God only knew what else they had stashed inside.

He thought about trying to set up a shot. Take out the biggest threat first: the woman. Then quickly take out the male. But the AR-15 wasn’t accurate at this distance. He didn’t have a tripod to stabilize the muzzle. His own hands were far from steady. He had to get closer.

Heart pounding, he looked around. His best hope lay with the bar ditch that ran alongside the road. It was barely three feet in depth and width. But it was his only cover.

Looping the binoculars around his neck, he ran to the bar ditch. It was going to be tough going; the ditch was filled with tumbleweeds and rock. Bending at the waist, he gripped the rifle and broke into a run toward the wind farm.

 
Marty watched Katja put her eye to the scope, set her
finger against the trigger and prepare for the shot. In her peripheral vision, she saw Radimir still rummaging in the trunk.

Marty brought up her right hand, jammed her fingers into her hair, yanked out the gun. Hair tore from her scalp, but she barely felt the smart. She trained the gun on the woman. Katja glanced over her shoulder. Saw the gun. Her eyes went wide.

Gotcha, Marty thought and pulled the trigger.

The woman dropped the rifle and reeled backward. Red bloomed on her shirt, a bloody rose opening deadly petals. A sound tore from her throat. She went down, landed in the dust on her back.

Marty shifted the gun. Through a fog of adrenaline and terror, she saw Radimir turn, the blue steel of a gun in his hand. She heard a gunshot, and fired blindly. Once. Twice.

The bullet struck her right hand. The slash of a sickle opening her palm from finger to thumb. Marty screamed as pain shocked her system, climbed to her shoulder. The mini Magnum flew from her hand. She looked down, saw blood and mangled skin.

A sudden rush of nausea sent her to her knees. Choking back sickness and sobs of shock and pain, she grasped her wrist with her left hand and tried to stanch the flow. Blood continued to drip from her fingertips onto the dusty ground.

Marty looked up to see the man rush to his sister and help her to a sitting position. The woman was conscious, but pale and sweating. Blood soaked the entire front of her shirt.

“She fucking shot me!” she screamed.

“You will be all right.” The man helped her to her feet. “Come. We must go.”

“Kill her!” Her face contorted in rage and pain, Katja thrust a shaking finger at Marty.
“Kill her!”

“Go to the car!” he ordered.

The woman screamed in agony as he lifted her to her feet. But she never took her eyes off Marty. “Kill her,” she said. “Use the chain. The way we planned.”

“Get in the car!”

He yanked open the passenger door of the Lexus and shoved her onto the seat. He reclined the seatback slightly, touched her face gently with his knuckles, then slammed the door.

His eyes were black with fury when they fell upon Marty. “You will pay for shooting my sister.”

Sweating and nauseous, Marty looked out across the open plain. Erica was nowhere in sight. Even though Marty was pretty sure she was going to die, the realization that she’d saved the girl’s life bolstered her.

She risked a look at the man. “Your sister is gut-shot. You need to get her to a hospital or she’ll die.”

“She will go to prison if I take her there.” He nodded as if convincing himself he was right. “She would prefer death.”

Marty had always envisioned herself dying at a ripe old age in some retirement home, playing bridge or poker, being a pain in the ass to the orderlies. Standing in this open field with two people whose mission in life was to kill her, she could feel death taunting her with dark threats, ridiculing her like a cruel jokester.

“The girl will go to the police,” she said.

He smiled. “In that case, we will begin,” he said and started toward her.

TWENTY-TWO

The sound of the first gunshot hit his brain with the vio
lence of a bomb. Clay fell to his knees, jammed the binoculars to his eyes and watched helplessly as Marty opened fire on the woman. Hope leapt in his chest when Katja Ivanov fell.

That hope shriveled when the man drew down on Marty and fired.

Horror punched him when Marty went to her knees. “Aw, Marty, no,” he heard himself say. “God, no.”

Cursing, he swung the field glasses to where he’d last seen Erica. Relief turned his bones to rubber when he realized his daughter had reached the fence on the opposite side of the pasture. Probably heading for the nearest farm-house. She was out of range. Safe for now.

He swung the glasses back to Marty. He saw blood on her hand and knew she’d been shot. He squinted, trying to figure out where the bullet had hit her.

Clay got to his feet, hit his lapel mike. “This is 02. I’m 10-23.”

“Chief?” came Jo Nell’s voice. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I need someone to pick up Erica. She’s on foot. South of County Road 53. North of the Interstate. Expedite. No siren. No lights.”

She started to speak, but Clay muted his mike. Keeping as low as possible, he broke into a wild sprint in the bar ditch. He was three quarters of a mile from where the Lexus sat. Too far to get off a shot. Eight hundred yards was the maximum accurate range of the AR-15. He had to get closer.

Stumbling over rocks, crashing through jams of tumbleweeds, Clay sprinted as fast as his legs would take him. Around him the wind moaned through the fence posts and barbed wire. The prairie grass whispered and taunted.

He couldn’t get the image of Marty out of his head. Blood on her hand. Practically nude. The dull sheen of hopelessness in her eyes. “Hang on,” he said between gritted teeth.

Images of everything they’d shared back at the hotel scrolled in his mind’s eye. The rush of emotion that followed wrenched a sound of pure regret from his throat. It was then that he realized he’d done the one thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t.

He’d fallen in love with her.

 
Marty had always heard that when a person suffered a
gunshot wound, they went into shock. Shock was supposed to dull the pain, and the mind’s reaction to it. Only now did she realize the theory was a crock of shit.

Her injured hand hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced. A jagged pain ripped up her arm as if some ravenous flesh-eating creature were tearing away at it with sharp teeth. She looked down and shuddered at the sight. The bullet had gone straight through. Both the palm and top of her hand were a bloody mess of damaged tissue. Her fingers were numb; she couldn’t move any of them. A hell of a lot of good a gun would have done her at that moment.

Blood flowed from the wound and dripped off her fingertips. She could feel her entire body responding to the massive wound. Her limbs quaked violently. Sweat poured down her neck and back. Fear was a clenched fist in her gut.

She wanted desperately to believe Clay had received her e-mails. That he was en route. That the scene would soon be surrounded by various law enforcement agencies. The man with the gun would surrender without incident. An ambulance would rush her to the hospital, where some skilled surgeon would restore full use of her hand.

But Marty held no such illusions.

This wasn’t going to end nicely. There was a high probability she would not survive. The thought swung open a gate, and a sort of desperate panic gushed forth. She didn’t want to die. Not like this. She thought of Clay, pictured him in her mind’s eye. The way he’d looked the day of the rodeo, cheering his daughter on. The way he looked when he’d kissed her, when he’d touched her, made love to her. For a moment she was able to draw comfort from those images.

But the realization that she would probably never see him again twisted something inside her, as if a giant hand reached into her chest and wrenched her heart. She wished she’d told him she loved him, even if he hadn’t wanted to hear it. She wished he’d told her the same, even if he didn’t mean it.

Choking back sobs, Marty glanced toward the Lexus. From where she stood, she could see the back of Katja’s head in the passenger seat and wondered how badly she was injured. If she was still a threat.

Radimir yanked a length of heavy chain from the trunk. One end of it fell to the dusty ground with a thump. Kneeling, he looped the other end around the undercarriage of the car.

The chain was about twenty feet in length. Newly bought, because it was still shiny and rust free. Holding the other end in his hand, he started toward her. He was muttering in Russian. He looked shaken as he approached. Marty had a pretty good idea what he was going to do, and the thought terrified her so thoroughly that for a moment she was frozen. She had two choices: Run and risk getting shot in the back. Or fight him and try to gain control of his weapon.

Neither option seemed feasible. If she made a run for it and he opened fire, he probably wouldn’t miss. She wasn’t strong enough for a physical altercation. The shock and pain from the gunshot wound had weakened her. Her pulse skittered thready and fast. She felt dizzy and nauseous and so scared she could barely catch her breath.

“Don’t do this,” she heard herself say.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Movement beyond him snagged her attention. Marty looked up to see the woman emerge from the car and stumble toward them, her body bent in pain. Blood soaked the lower portion of her blouse on the right side and leached down to soak the front of her jeans. Her face was the color of paste. Blood leaked between her fingers where she pressed her hand against her abdomen. Her hate-filled eyes landed on Marty. Her lips pulled back into a snarl.

“Chain her ankle,” she spat to the man.

He gave his sister an assessing look. “Get back in the car, Katja.”

“I want to watch.”

Shaking his head, he turned to Marty. “Get on the ground.”

“She needs to go to the hospital,” Marty tried.

“Get on the ground or I’ll put a hole in your other hand!”

Willing to risk a bullet in the back rather than face a torturous death by dragging, Marty spun and propelled herself into a run. She had made it three steps when she heard an ominous
whoosh!
The chain hit the backs of both knees, buckling them on impact. Pain exploded up and down her legs.

A scream tore from her throat as she fell to her hands and knees in the dust. The chain rattled behind her. She twisted to face the man. Leaning back on her elbows, she lashed out with both feet. But she wasn’t fast enough.

Catching her right foot with both hands, he quickly wrapped the chain around her ankle and secured it with a shackle bolt. “Now you pay,” he said. “For Rurik. For Katja.”

He started toward the car. Sneering, the woman moved closer and spat. “See you in hell.”

Marty jerked against the chain. Using her left hand, she tried to unscrew the shackle bolt, but her hand was shaking too violently. Frustration ate at her when it wouldn’t budge. He’d screwed it down tight. She dug frantically at the shackle. “Come on,” she choked. “Come
on.
”

The car doors slammed. Desperate and terrified, Marty crawled toward the undercarriage of the car. If she could unhook the chain there and run, she might be able to get away. She reached for the slip hook with her left hand, rocked it back and forth.

The engine started. Marty worked frantically to release the hook, but it was jammed tight over the link. Her fingers shook so hard, she lost precious seconds. In the back of her mind, she remembered reading about a case in Texas where an African-American man was dragged to death by racists. She remembered thinking what a horrific death that was. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the same thing happening to her.

An instant later, the transmission clicked. The engine revved.
Oh, dear God, this can’t be happening.
“No!” she screamed. “No! Stop!
Stop!
”

The tires spun, spewing dust into her eyes. Gravel flew at her like bullets. The car fishtailed and shot forward. Marty grabbed the chain with her uninjured hand. An instant later the chain jerked taut so violently she lost her grip. The next thing she knew her leg was yanked out from under her. She landed on her back. Her head struck the ground hard enough to daze. Gravel tore into her skin as she was dragged across the ground. Pain ripped down her back as the ground abraded her flesh. She tried to twist and grab the chain, but the ride was too violent.

An animalistic scream tore from her throat as the earth raked her body. Ahead, the car turned sharply. Like a child playing crack the whip, Marty felt her body being snapped in a different direction, then tumbling end over end into the bar ditch.

Tufts of grass, gravel and dusty earth ate at her flesh. Rocks struck hard enough to bruise bone. All she could think was that this was the end. There was no way she could survive this.

The car’s engine revved and picked up speed. Marty rolled, caught a glimpse of a perfect blue sky overhead. Beyond, the yellow grass of the open plain. She thought of Clay and choked out a sob. She thought of Rosetti and an odd sense of acceptance calmed her.

Closing her eyes, she descended into darkness.

 
Clay saw the cloud of dust and knew immediately the
Lexus was coming his way. Dropping to the ground in the bar ditch, he raised the binoculars. His only thought was for Marty. Where was she? Had they shot her and left her body for him to find?

The thought shook him so profoundly that for a moment he couldn’t hold the field glasses steady. He struggled to calm himself, regain his concentration. When he squinted into the binoculars and focused, he couldn’t believe the sight that accosted him.

Radimir Ivanov was driving. Katja was in the passenger seat. A terrible sense of horror and outrage descended when he saw something being dragged behind the car. He wanted to believe the vehicle had picked up a piece of debris or maybe a tumbleweed.

But he knew that wasn’t what had happened.

Clay had seen some terrible things in his lifetime. But he’d never seen anything as horrific as the sight of Marty being chained and dragged.

For an instant the sheer atrociousness of it froze him in place. Nausea filled his mouth with bile. He spat, struggled to keep his head. Knowing he had to act now to save her life, he slid the rifle into position and set his eye against the scope. He focused, considered shooting out the tires. But while that would stop the car, it would leave the most dangerous element—the driver—free to do harm.

The car was half a mile away and closing fast. Clay set the crosshairs on the driver’s head. He concentrated on his breathing. Somehow, his body remembered his military training. His breathing slowed. His hands steadied. On exhale, he squeezed the trigger.

He took two shots. The gun recoiled against his shoulder. Clay didn’t move his eye from the crosshairs. The windshield splintered. The car swerved wildly, then skidded toward the bar ditch to stop abruptly nose-down.

He scrambled to his feet. Holding the rifle ready to fire, he sprinted toward the car. A hundred yards away he saw the female disembark. “Police! Get on the ground!” he screamed. “Do it now!”

She reached into the car, came out with a rifle. Clay put his weapon to his shoulder. For an instant the child he’d shot and killed in Kuwait flashed in his mind’s eye. Dark hair. Slight build.

He pulled the trigger. The woman’s body jerked. The weapon slipped from her hands. Clay sprinted toward her as she went to her knees, then fell facedown into the dust and lay still. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. Blood and brain matter caked the back of his head. He was no longer a threat.

Clay’s breaths tore raggedly from his throat as he raced toward Marty. She lay still as death twenty feet behind the car. A tangled heap of bruised and bleeding flesh.

“Marty! Aw, God.” A sound of pure outrage burst from his lips as he streaked toward her. Somehow his hand found his mike. “Officer down!” He barely recognized his own voice. “I need a medivac! Wildorado wind farm!”

He reached her, dropped to his knees, horrified by the sight of blood and torn flesh. She lay on her side, arms stretched out above her, as if she’d been trying desperately to grab on to something that would stop her. The chain was wrapped around her right ankle. The steel had cut deep grooves into her flesh. Her ankle looked broken.

“Aw, honey. Marty. Jesus.”

He wanted to touch her, but he was afraid. He wanted to move her, roll her onto her back, cover her nudeness, but he was terrified he might hurt her. He settled for putting his finger against her carotid artery. A sound of relief squeezed from his throat when he found a pulse. It was rapid and thready, but she was alive.

She was
alive.

“Marty. Honey, it’s Clay. Can you hear me?”

A sound that was part groan, part whisper slid from her mouth. “Alive . . .” She shifted, pulled her arms closer to her body. The movement caused her face to screw up. “Hurts.”

“Don’t try to move,” he said.

“How . . . bad?”

“You’re going to be okay. There’s a chopper on the way.”

Her eyes fluttered open. Clay just about lost it when she focused on him, and he saw recognition in her eyes. “I’m here, honey.”

“I’m . . . in a bad way.”

“You’re banged up, but you’re going to be okay.”

“Erica?”

“Deaf Smith County picked her up. She’s fine.”

She closed her eyes tightly, then met his gaze. “The Russians?”

“Male is dead. Female is down.”

“Bastards . . . killed . . . Rosetti.”

“They’re not going to be hurting anyone else.”

She raised her head slightly, wincing, and looked down at her battered body. “My . . . clothes.”

Clay set the rifle on the ground and quickly worked off his shirt and covered her with it. “I’ve got you covered. Don’t worry.”