The Lost Orphans Omnibus Page 10

  Following her old tracks, Rachel returned to the road ditch. Gates was gone, along with the body and the other cops. Peak rested his back against Rachel’s car with his head craned up to the sky. He opened an eye at the sound of Rachel’s approach.

  “The others thought you got lost,” Peak said.

  “What did you tell them?” Rachel asked, rubbing her hands together.

  “That you did.”

  “Cute,” Rachel replied. “I know how to find Kirk.”

  Peak contacted the precinct as Rachel drove them back. It didn’t take long before they got a hit on Clairease’s vehicle’s built-in GPS. It was parked at the end of a dirt road nearly at the bottom of Highlands plateau. The building at the end of the dirt road was an old granary.

  The bullpen buzzed at the news. Officers donned Kevlar vests, knee and elbow pads, and grabbed the siege equipment. It was a sight Rachel loved to see. It meant progress. The final push. Yeah, all of them would be plunging into hell, but Kirk Heineken would fall today.

  Lieutenant McConnell said, “I never trust a man named after a beer.”

  He pulled Rachel and Peak aside while the other officers dressed. “I was shaky on the details. How did you know the woman owned a Chrysler?”

  Peak cleared his throat. “We contacted the Kettlebach family.”

  “Right,” McConnell said, not fully convinced. “I wish you luck out there.”

  One of the officers called for McConnell. Scratching his long sideburns, McConnell headed that way.

  Rachel took a breath. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “One day, he’ll find out about your condition,” Peak said, watching the lieutenant direct an officer.

  “As long as it is not today,” Rachel said.

  After washing off her face in the bathroom sink, Rachel headed for the locker room. Putting in the proper combination, she opened her tall and skinny locker and removed her bulletproof vest. She slung it over her head and pulled the side straps so snugly that breathing became a chore. She slid on the knee pads and elbow pads. Lastly, she put her hair into a bun and pulled on her black helmet with a translucent plastic faceguard. Refilling her pistol magazine and her spare, she was ready to rock and roll. As she pulled open the door, the Taft family appeared behind her. Slack-jawed Roger, round-face Hannah, and feral Yogi. They stared at Rachel with expectation. Rachel gave them curt nods and left.

  Rachel, Peak, and more armored cops sat shoulder to shoulder in the armored van. Outside, the blizzard howled. All of the Highlands police officers participating in the raid looked identical. They didn’t feel like cops, but like soldiers under express orders to take Father alive or dead. Appalachian born and raised, the men were husky and hardy with lips full of tobacco dip. Rachel and Peak’s slender frames made them stand out.

  The road twisted down the mountain. Rachel and Peak swayed at the movement. No one spoke. Somehow it seemed wrong to break the silence. The officer adjacent to Rachel mouthed a prayer. For himself, for Father’s fall, or for the captives, Rachel didn’t know.

  Peak shifted in his seat. He pulled out a picture of Clove. In the photo, his daughter knelt before a Christmas tree with squinted eyes and a contagious smile. The folds in the photograph produced a crease in the shape of a cross at the center of the child’s nose. Peak brushed his thumb over Clove’s cheek, closed his eyes for a moment, and refolded the photo.

  The van rumbled on the dirt. The light strip over Rachel’s head flickered. She should’ve called Liam and told him that she loved him. I’ll talk to him when I get back.

  The vehicle stopped.

  No one breathed.

  The officers nearest the door shouted “go go go” in quick succession before swinging open the double back doors and dropping off into the dense snowfall. A flurry of snow sucked into the van like a wave of smoke. One at the time, the officers dropped out into the black night. Rachel gave Peak a pat, sending him out first. When it was Rachel’s turn, she hunched, raced against the storm, and leapt onto the frozen dirt road.

  Nearby, more armored cops spilled from the second van. Some had battering rams, others had tactical shotguns, and most wielded police-issued pistols. Green lasers sliced through the thick snowfall. Rachel kept her plastic faceguard down. Her breath fogged up the lower portion.

  A river ran parallel to the dirt road. Chunks of ice raced down its surface. Trees rose out of the snow, but there were many places with no cover. Up ahead, Rachel saw Clairease’s red Chrysler and the mill. The first story’s walls were cobblestone and the next two floors were made of wooden slats. The A-frame roof was the color of crusty blood and was missing many shingles. Jutting from the second riverside wall, the waterwheel turned methodically rushing water.

  Rachel kept her eyes ahead and with her pistol drawn, she moved in a fan alongside the other cops.

  9

  The Wheel

  The waterwheel turned and turned, its wooden planks churning the icy river. The mill must’ve been a century old. Frost was etched in the lower cobblestone walls. Like a black mouth, the third-story window with the shape of a tombstone made Rachel’s skin crawl. The Sense warned her of danger.

  The officers fanned out as they neared the mill. Like fireflies, their weapons’ green laser pointers flickered in the falling snow. Wind through her helmet’s ear protection distorted most sound. The black night and blizzard obscured their visuals. The cold tingled their skin. In summation, none of them could trust their senses.

  Rachel was walking cautiously toward the building when the gunshot sounded. The officer nearest Rachel slumped into the dirt.

  “Officer down! Officer down! Take cover!” someone shouted.

  Rachel rushed behind the nearest tree. Through the dense wall of snowfall, the rest of the officers scurried to find cover in the form of trees, rocks, and other natural formations.

  Another gunshot sounded.

  Rachel didn’t see where it hit.

  Behind the fogged plastic guard, sweat raced down her face. She scanned the area for another felled officer. She didn’t see one.

  A few cops fired at the third-story window. A muzzle flashed. A chunk of bark blew off the tree where an officer hid. He patted himself down, checking for bullet wounds. None.

  The shooter fired two more times, keeping the police from moving forward.

  Rachel crouched down. She didn’t know if the shooter could see her, but she couldn’t afford mistakes. About ten feet away, blood as black as ink leaked under the downed officer. Rachel thought he was dead until she saw his finger twitch. Panicked, she looked around for the nearest officer who could assist the dying man. It didn’t take long before she realized she was the closest. Leave him. He’s as good as dead anyway. Rachel ignored the internal voice and dashed to the downed officer.

  Sliding on her knees, Rachel relied on adrenaline to give her the strength to turn the officer over. She crouched, put her hands under his armpits, and started pulling. In her peripheral, she saw the glint of riflescope tracing her path. No time to retreat. She was committed.

  A green laser point reflected on the scope’s eye. The shooter fired. Rachel shut her eyes and kept pulling the man’s hefty body. The bullet drilled a hole in the ground beside Rachel. In seconds, she was behind the tree.

  Leaning from cover, Peak--distinguishable by his skinny frame--kept the laser pointer on the scope and squeezed off a round from his 9mm pistol. The shooter fell back. Was it over?

  The shooter fired again, narrowly missing Peak’s head.

  Rachel rested the injured cop against the tree trunk and put his hands over his torso wound. Those bullets cracked the vest like it was nothing.

  “Apply pressure. You’re going to get through this,” Rachel said. Her arms and shoulders were sore from pulling the heavy man.

  The man’s head nodded a few times like he was about to fall asleep.

  “Stay awake,” Rachel commanded him.

  Again, officers tried to move up. They were quickly deterred b
y gunfire. Thankfully, no one else had been injured. Yet.

  From the door to where Rachel took cover was not a far journey. By the looks of it, she had the best shot out of all the officers at reaching the building. Fear gripped her more than the cold as she peered out. Get to the car, take cover, and then get to the door. Three easy steps. Though simple didn’t mean safe. She glanced about the dirt road that had become a battlefield. Cops pushed forward, albeit gradually. Every second that was wasted meant another chance Kirk could gun them down. Peak’s daughter Clove came to mind. Rachel wondered how many of her follow officers had wives and children. Most of them, she knew. They all had something to go back home to. Rachel just had a big, empty house. Keeping that in mind, she charged for the Chrysler.

  Her ankles nearly rolled on the rough, rutted road, but she managed to get to the vehicle’s bumper in one piece. Despite the temperature being twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit, Rachel was burning up in her Kevlar vest. She wanted to peek over the car’s trunk and examine the third-story window, but thought better of it. She knew the gunman was up there and had to believe he was aiming at her this very moment.

  Here goes nothing, Rachel thought as she bolted for the front door. Halfway through her sprint, she realized just how pointless everything would be if a bullet took her life at this very moment. Did she save enough people? Did she free enough Orphans? Unlikely. The most pressing question in her mind was who would avenge her if she were the only one who had the Gift?

  She fired a few blind rounds off at the window as she ran. The gunman fired back. Metal pinged and a car alarm sounded. He missed. The arched door’s wooden awing concealed her. Unable to slow down fast enough, her shoulder rammed into the cobblestone wall. She remembered Kirk’s impeccable aim during the mountain road chase. Was the snow really obscuring his vision that badly? Rachel decided to count her blessings. She tried the knob. Locked. She took a step back and fired three times, blasting multiple forty-caliber rounds into the door’s built-in lock.

  The gunman stopped shooting. He knows I’m going inside. Good or bad, it would allow an opportunity for the other officers to advance. Darting from tree to tree, Peak folded in beside Rachel. They nodded at one another and gave the door the boot. It blasted open, sucking in snow and cold with it.

  Completely dark inside, Rachel and Peak flicked their flashlights on and scanned the ancient mill. The air was cold and dry. Wind whistled from some unseen crack. The beam of Rachel’s flashlight traced over the dirty stone floor, the massive turning cogs in the back of the room, and the long arm jutted outward and connected to the waterwheel. Guns aimed, Rachel and Peak parted, each moving to their own corner of the building before proceeding forward. The river filled the building with its rumble. In the far corner of the room, rickety stairs ascended to the second story. At the center, vertical chutes ran from the ceiling and ended a few feet from the floor. Beneath them were a few old burlap sacks used to collect wheat or corn from the upstairs grin stone.

  Dust sprinkled Rachel’s shoulders. Someone was walking above her. Against his unsaid wishes, Rachel moved ahead of Peak and started hiking up the stairs. Behind her, officers flooded inside. The upstairs door was locked as well.

  One of the officers with a metal ram hurried past her and gave the door a good whack. The wood splintered but the door didn’t give. He swung the portable ram back and slammed it into the door’s face. Something broke. The final hit blew the door open. Rachel rushed inside, stepping over the broken wooden block that once barred the door.

  The second story had a wooden floor with a wide container at its center. It had the appearance of a flipped-over basket with a hole on top. Above the hole were a series of little slides that once carried corn and other wheat into the “basket” that then dropped the crop into the chutes on the first floor. A large, multifaceted post from the cogs Rachel saw downstairs ran through the floor and into the ceiling. A final set of stairs led to the top floor.

  Rachel scanned the area with her pistol and flashlight. Her beam of light illuminated a plastic table with cold bread, deli meats, and paper plates. Next to it was a single, collapsible rusty metal chair and a portable radio from the 1990s.

  Rachel felt the Sense grabbing onto her and stretching out her skin. Ten steps and she would be face to face with her adversary. Rachel’s breathing quickened. Her faceguard kept fogging. The floor groaned beneath her feet.

  Boom! Boom!

  Two bullets blew through the wooden ceiling. Rachel ducked to the side. Wood splinters clacked on her helmet. An officer aimed his gun at the ceiling and put his finger over the trigger. Rachel pushed down his weapon and whispered, “Hostages.”

  The cop shrugged off the comment and stepped aside. The floor gave way under his weight. He shouted as it fell onto the first floor. He rolled to his side, unhurt but winded. The rest of the officers steered clear of the hole. It was a miracle this place was still standing.

  Rachel conquered the steps one by one. They whined under her feet.

  “Last chance to come out, Heineken,” Peak shouted.

  No reply.

  Peak nodded at Rachel. She nodded at the officer with the battering ram. He dashed up the stairs and bashed open the door.

  Rachel moved in behind him just in time to see the rifle on the floor and the pistol in the figure’s hand. The figure fired at the same time as Rachel. Rachel’s bullet hit the person in the gut. The stranger’s bullet hit Rachel between the eyes.

  Rachel stumbled back and sank to the ground.

  She blinked a few times, seeing officers swarming the downed figure. Peak crouched down in front of her. There was a crack across his hazy face. He grabbed Rachel’s plastic faceguard and pulled it up. His face appeared normal.

  “You took a good one,” Peak said and helped her up.

  Rachel pulled off her helmet and saw the bullet lodged in the guard.

  She peered over at the downed figure. It wasn’t Kirk, but an adult woman with buzzed cherry-blonde hair, a heart-shaped face, and a little nose. She looked terrified. One officer took the 9mm pistol in her hand. Flashlights beams climbed over stacks of canned food, noodles, and lastly, six terrified children with dirt-caked faces.

  The officers fanned out. There was no sign of Kirk.

  “Where’s Father?” Rachel asked the girl who shot her. The twenty-something year old held her bullet wound and said nothing.

  “We need to get these kids out of here,” Peak commanded. “Call ambulances. Let’s get moving.”

  Rachel looked at the captives, recalling Number Four’s drawing. The adult girl on the ground was Number Two. She could see some resemblance between her and Yogi.

  The twenty-year-old boy with messy black hair who protected the little ones in the corner of the room was Number Three. Five was a short and slender seventeen year old. Six was a fourteen-year-old female with a curved beak and black eye. Eight, Ten, and Eleven were all females below the age of ten, Eleven being around five years old.

  Peak took a handful of officers to search the perimeter for Kirk. Via the mill’s upstairs window, Rachel watched Peak and the others vanish into the snowstorm and trees. The children cowered in the corner, huddled beneath a heavy blanket covered in patches. Number Three charged at an officer. The butt of the cop’s shotgun floored the kid and another officer cuffed him. The other children screamed as the cops lifted them and carried them downstairs. They had to put the ones older than ten in handcuffs.

  Rachel stayed on the third floor, clenching Number Two’s hand. The woman sobbed while an officer performed emergency first aid on her bullet wound.

  “A through and through,” the officer said, up to his wrist in blood. “If the EMT can make it through the storm in time, she can be saved.”

  Rachel nervously bit her lower lip. The woman looked past Rachel and at Yogi’s Orphan looming behind her. Number Two smiled at her bucktooth brother. Her eyes fluttered.

  Rachel squeezed her hand tightly. “No, Vinna. I’m not going to let you d
ie.”

  The woman’s eyes shot open, hearing the name she’d not heard in twenty years.

  New Year’s Eve.

  “Prost.”

  “Prost.”

  Rachel and Peak toasted with cheap beers in the middle of the decorated bullpen. Their eyes were bloodshot from staring at screens all day, but it was a welcome change in pace.

  “I never thought I’d miss paperwork,” Rachel said and took a swig from her beer bottle.

  Peak smirked. He put aside his drink and rested his bottom on the corner of his desk. Construction paper ringlets and red and green holiday fuzzies were strung across the ceiling. An office Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room. All but two desks were vacant.

  A warm mug of coffee in hand, Lieutenant McConnell approached the detectives. “I’m surprised you two are hanging around—oh, and no beer in my bullpen.”

  Peak and Rachel ignored the last part and stole sips from their bottles.

  “We still have work to do,” Peak explained. “Kirk is still out there.”

  “So he is,” McConnell said. “But every cop in the nation is looking for him. He won’t last long. What matters are the lives you saved.”

  “What will happen to the captives?” Rachel asked.

  “A few of their parents are coming out of the woodwork, looking to claim them. Others have set up donations to put them through the best therapy and counseling money can buy. At this very instant, Highlands’ finest doctors are taking care of them. The girl who shot you lost a lot of blood but will make it.” McConnell took a sip of coffee. “Some say they’re in the talks to make a reality show about the girl. Life After Father or something like that.”

  “No doubt superficial reality television will do wonders for their damaged psyche,” Peak said sarcastically.

  McConnell chuckled. “I have my wife waiting for me. You two enjoy your night. Oh, and happy New Year.” He tossed Peak a fresh set of car keys and vanished out the door.