Stand Down

Keeping the gun trained on the motionless body, she glanced over to see Kelly in the doorway to the hall, her mouth open in shock at what she was seeing.

“Kelly, get back, now!” Sandra bore down on the trigger, but the moment’s distraction was enough. When she returned her attention to the prone gunman, Sandra saw he was pointing his SIG-Sauer at her, and fired.

The bullet plowed through her midsection, mangling her large intestine and shattering her spine before punching a grape-sized hole in her lower back as it exited. There was a remarkable lack of pain; instead, it felt as if a large part of her body was suddenly just not there.

With all control of her legs gone, Sandra stayed upright just long enough to pull the trigger of her own pistol, the bullet flying harmlessly wide, before collapsing on the floor, landing hard enough to make stars swim before her. Her vision cleared enough to see Kelly coming toward her. With a tremendous effort, Sandra shook her head, mouthing, “Run…” Tears streaming down her face, her daughter vanished up the stairs.

Hearing movement from the other end of the kitchen, Sandra managed to twist her head back to see the deputy climb to his feet, breathing hard, but apparently none the worse for wear. She saw the hole in her jacket where her bullet had entered—a perfect heart shot—but Deputy Quintanar moved like he hadn’t been shot at all. Bastard was wearing a vest…she thought.

He kept his pistol trained on her as he stepped forward. Sandra tried to raise her gun, wanting one more chance at the man who was about to take everything from her, but her numb arm refused to obey the command. Then he was next to her, nudging the revolver out of her hand and placing it on the counter.

“Although I admire your courage, Mrs. Bitterman, it is a pity you didn’t choose to cooperate. Now your husband will have to see you in this state, to say nothing of your daughter. I’m sure he will cooperate fully with our investigation once he knows we have Kelly in custody.”

He moved to step past her, but was stopped by her hand on his ankle. Although she already found it hard to breathe, she forced the words out. “You leave…my daughter…out of this.”

He shook her off like a horse shook off a bothersome fly. “I’m afraid that is no longer possible. You can be consoled, however, by the fact that you will not be alive to see what will happen to her.”

Sandra steeled herself for the final bullet, but instead the deputy stepped past her and walked into the hallway, pistol in front of him as he searched the rest of the house.

Sandra felt herself growing cold, and realized that she was bleeding to death. She hoped Kelly had been smart enough to get out of the house—there were a few ways to leave, even from the second story. She knew the plan, but it had all counted on her securing a vehicle. On foot, she might make it to safety, but there were no guarantees. Sandra racked her brain. There had to be a way to enable her daughter to get to the garage….

The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted to her nose, and Sandra realized what she could do. She reached for the nearest cabinet, grabbing the stainless-steel handles, pulling each drawer out, and pulling herself up by them with her single good arm. Her injured shoulder throbbed with pain each time she moved, but strangely, she felt nothing below her waist, just numbness. The floor was slick with blood—her blood—making it easier to move, but she didn’t know if she’d be able to stand up in the slippery pool. With all of her remaining strength, she twisted her body so she was facing the counter, and smiled as she saw her target just within reach.

She had just gotten her fingers on the pot handle when she heard noise coming from two different directions—the tread of the deputy’s feet on the stairs, and the rattle of Jack’s key in the front door lock. Twisting back again, Sandra opened her mouth to shout a warning, but simply breathing was an effort, to say nothing of trying to force air out to warn him off.

“Sandra? Sandra, where are you—oh my God!” Jack rushed in, skidding to a stop as he saw his wife slumped against the cabinets in a large pool of blood. “Jesus Christ—” He fumbled for his cell phone as she tried to form words while nodding toward the hallway.

For fuck’s sake, she thought. He isn’t paying attention…again…

“Mr. Bitterman, so glad you could join us.” Sandra watched as Deputy Quintanar’s words made Jack freeze with the cell phone at his ear. For a moment, he was oblivious to the pistol in the other man’s hand, then he recovered his poise and pointed at Sandra.

“Why the hell are you just standing there? My wife’s been shot! Help her, for God’s sake!” Jack stared at the deputy while waiting for his call to connect. Deputy Quintanar didn’t move a muscle toward Sandra, but turned toward Jack, his pistol more visible now.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve noticed several discrepancies in the month-end statements—amounts not matching up in various accounts, that sort of thing. We’ve traced the discrepancies to your department. You are going to return with me to company headquarters to answer some questions Mr. De Cavallos would like to ask you.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized what the deputy was there for. Sandra rolled her own eyes in disgust. Dumb bastard not only gets himself in trouble, but just makes it worse, she thought. With the last of her strength, she heaved the decanter of hot coffee at the deputy’s crotch.

The scalding liquid splashed over his pants, making him shout in pain. Jack seized the distraction to leap for the pistol on the counter. Sandra heard a flurry of shots explode around her as her senses dimmed, her vision fading to black, her last memory the scent of Kona Blend coffee mingling with the coppery smell of blood all over her formerly spotless kitchen floor.

1

Damn, that horizon just keeps moving away, no matter how fast I drive toward it, Mack Bolan thought as he stared out at the endless prairie surrounding him on all sides. The gently rolling grassland was split only by the concrete ribbon of Interstate 70, stretching into infinity both in front of him to the east and behind him to the west. Occasionally the stark landscape would be broken up by a truck stop or restaurant near an exit, but for the most part there was nothing but Bolan, his car and the plains.

He smiled grimly as he considered the apt metaphor of the horizon, always retreating, endlessly out of reach. A lesser man would consider his personal crusade against the enemies of freedom in much the same way—always struggling to reach an ever-elusive goal. Bolan took a more pragmatic view of his ultimate objective. As he’d once said, “Every terrorist I kill, every madman I eliminate, every criminal I put in the ground, that’s one less psychotic thug in the world menacing innocent people. If the job takes the rest of my life, then that’s what it will take.”

His commitment to his crusade against the enemies of freedom and liberty notwithstanding, after his last mission on the West Coast, Bolan, aka the Executioner, decided to take a few days of downtime and drive back to his base of operations, Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Although he was aware of several hot spots that could use his special kind of attention, he also knew constant combat took its toll on any warrior. The trip east had seemed to be a perfect solution at first. He’d planned to relax by driving the entire way, but after a half day of the endless Midwest grasslands, he was beginning to regret his decision. That was the problem with the prairie—absolutely nothing happened or changed out here. Maybe he’d drop the car off in Kansas City or Chicago and hop an airplane.

At least his rental car was comfortable. The slate-gray Cadillac SRX crossover rode across the asphalt as if he were driving a cloud. Bolan was half worried he might fall asleep if something didn’t change soon.

Then something did happen—the low gas light turned on with a polite chime, almost as if the car were too polite to draw his attention to its condition. Bolan eyed the dashboard, then hit the GPS for the next gas station, locating one just a few miles away. Pulling in a few minutes later, he glanced around the barren refueling station, which had one other car in the parking lot. He filled the tank, and saw the sign as he was walking to the cinder-block building to pay.

Visit Quincyville

The Best Little Town in the Midwest!

Unlike most of the road signs out here, the red, white and blue board was as fresh and new as if it had been put up yesterday. Bolan stared at it for a moment, then headed inside.

Even though it was early spring, the air-conditioning was on full blast inside the store. Bolan paid his bill in cash, then nodded at the sign, still visible through the window. “Where’s Quincyville?”

The clerk, a clean-cut teenager, pointed east along the high way. “Just head down another mile, take exit 27, turn left and go about five miles up.”

“A little slice of Midwest America, huh?”

The kid frowned. “If you say so. They wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for that bug pharmaceutical company on the outskirts. Saved the whole place from dryin’ up and blowin’ away.”

“Is that so? Any place good to eat there?”

“Rollins’s Restaurant on Main Street has the best chicken-fried steak in the county. Hobo stew’s good, too.”

Bolan considered it, his stomach chiming in to add its emptiness to the internal discussion. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome, and have a good day.”

Bolan nodded as he headed out into the warm afternoon. Getting back in his car, he got on the highway and followed the kid’s directions. Less than ten minutes later, he saw a picture-perfect small town on the horizon. As he approached, Bolan noticed a cluster of several large, white buildings on his right. The complex was at the end of a double lane paved road with a manned guard shack at the end. The perimeter around the buildings was ringed with an eight-foot cyclone fence topped with double rows of razor wire. Between the road and the fence was a sign that read Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company.

Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight. Typically, U.S. drug companies outsourced their labs overseas, not the other way around. Still, if they were making it work…

Cresting a hill, he saw a lone mansion in the distance on his left, with two police cars out front and yellow crime scene tape around the house. Bolan slowed the Cadillac and casually studied the scene as he passed, then shook his head as he headed into town. Seemed nowhere was picture-perfect anymore.

Passing a Walmart with a packed parking lot, he drove up Main Street, which was neat and clean in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pickups and midsize sedans filled the parking spaces, along with a scattering of luxury cars here and there. People were out and about, but they were few and far between, all intent on their business. Bolan passed the usual buildings—drug store, local grocery store, freestanding department store, more gas stations, various fast-food restaurants.

He found the Rollins place at the north end of town, an unassuming clapboard building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The parking lot was also filled, which Bolan took as a good sign. He found a spot on the end, almost in the weeds, and got out, glancing at the back seat to make sure his black duffel bag hadn’t shifted during the trip. Satisfied that it was secure, he locked up the Caddy and headed toward the front doors.

The interior might have come right out of the 1950s as well. Near the door, the cash register sat at one end of the long Formica counter, with a row of stools, each covered with a patron. Booths with red vinyl seats ran along the wall nearest the parking lot, ending in a large corner booth filled with a boisterous group of teenagers laughing and talking to and over one another. The booths continued along the back wall, and in the middle of it all was a row of tables, also filled to capacity. Unlike many of the retro places that only appeared authentic, this restaurant was the real deal. The chrome edging the counter and booths looked well-used, but also well cared for, and the linoleum on the floor was faded and scuffed with the passage of thousands of shoes and boots.

Bolan entered into a bustle of activity: waitresses carrying trays piled-high with food, diners entering and leaving, and above all, that welcome smell of delicious, home-cooked food. The soldier caught the traditional aromas of cooking oil, bread and spices, but also sniffed what smelled like burning mesquite wood, which made his mouth water. He dutifully took his place at the end of the line and waited his turn.

The conversation level in the place was muted, and Bolan noticed that many men and women kept their heads down, and at least once he thought he saw a woman come out of the washroom with red, mascara-streaked eyes. Although there seemed to be a lot of regulars, with headgear on the men split evenly between Stetsons and gimme caps, there were also plenty of people who had just come to eat, and the stools turned over quickly. Bolan was able to take a seat after just a few minutes.

“Coffee?”

“That’d be fine.” Bolan scanned the menu, which had a decided Tex-Mex flair that caught him by surprise. Although the carne asada tacos looked good, he decided to stick with the kid’s recommendation. “Chicken-fried steak, please.”

“Gravy on your potatoes, too?” the middle-aged waitress asked.

Bolan glanced down at his taut midsection and decided to double-down on his arteries. “Sure.”