Act of Mercy – Chapter Three
Art decided to do the new kid a favor by spending longer with him than he normally would, allowing Rachel the morning to settle down. He gave him a complete tour of the courthouse building, managing to avoid an introduction to Judge Reardon by scooting down a back hallway, and included a trip down to the evidence room to say hello to Charlie Weaver. He rounded it out by taking him for lunch with the Marshal transferring in from Dallas.
Dan Shaw, a native Texan, was older than Art but the bureau Chief was happy to have him and his thirty years in the service. The office had been short a Marshal for a while and the experienced extra man would be an asset while they brought the new Deputy up to speed.
The three headed to the local pub and the two older men chatted and exchanged stories while Tim mostly kept quiet and ate. They finally started peppering him with questions about his time with the Rangers and were rewarded for their troubles with a few one word answers and a half dozen shrugs.
"I did a tour in Vietnam," Dan finally said, looking at Tim in sympathy. He spoke in a comfortable Texas drawl, unhurried, easy. "It was hard coming back. I hated answering questions, even good ones, and worse was listening to stupid comments. Took a while to settle down and come to terms with the inanities of civilian life. It all seemed so trite after the insanities of combat life. For quite a time I felt like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs."
Well over six feet tall, Dan got attention just being in a room, but it was the truth in his words that had Tim riveted.
"It gets better, though, you hear? So hang in there."
Tim wanted to be convinced and nodded.
"What did you do with the Rangers?" Dan asked. "Did you have any specialized training?"
"I was a sniper," Tim replied, still looking at Dan. "Pretty much from the start."
"Sniper school?"
"Army version, first. Got sent to the Marine school later for some extra training. Improved my skills with a .50 cal."
"You must be pretty good, then. What'd they make of you in firearms class at Glynco?" Dan inquired, mischievously glancing at Art.
Tim reverted to shrugging.
Art piped in for him. "Cathy says he was instructing the instructors. They finally set him up as a target 'cause they didn't know what else to do with him."
Tim smiled, pleased by the compliment, fidgeted with his fork.
Art looked thoughtfully at his young Marshal for a moment. "Are you as good with a rifle as Cathy says you are with a handgun?"
"Yessir. Well, actually, better."
"Son," Art said, "you know you don't have to call me 'sir'."
Tim looked up at him blankly. Dan came to his rescue.
"Just call him Chief or Big Chief," he suggested with a wink. "All the bureau chiefs like it. It makes them feel important."
Dan's comment provoked an evil look from Art but it bounced harmlessly off the Texan's too-many-years-in-the-service skin.
"Right, Big Chief?" Dan kept at him.
"Whatever you say, old timer," Art retorted.
"There's the pot calling the kettle black."
Art decided he'd lose this one, so he turned his attention back to Tim. "How would you feel about picking up a rifle again if a situation arose requiring it?"
"I'd be fine with that, sir…Chief."
"Well, alright then," Art said cheerfully, contemplating the new weapon at his disposal. "You may have to submit a monthly cold-bore test or something to satisfy the lawyers. I'll figure that out, get you cleared. The Marshals Service uses a Remington 700. You comfortable on one?"
"Yessir…Chief," Tim amended. "Any chance I could get time at a range with it?"
"We'll make sure you do," Art replied. "I'll put a requisition through for one this afternoon."
"Requisition? You mean a new one?" Tim exclaimed. "No one else will be using it?"
"He looks like the youngest of nine, just being told he's getting a brand new bike all for his own," Dan teased.
Art agreed. "You kind of want to pat him on the head, don't you?"
Tim made a wry face and looked up the ceiling, though he didn't mind the ribbing, not from these two.
"This makes me obscenely happy," Art gloated. "Shit, it'll be nice not to have to call SWAT in all the time, the yahoos."
Dan nodded solemnly. "Whenever I see a tactical squad in action it reminds of something my daddy used to say – when you're a hammer, all problems look like nails."
Rachel was dutiful and took Tim from Art after lunch. Her court date that afternoon had been rescheduled, postponed two weeks at the request of the defense. She was relieved. Court appearances were her least favorite part of the job.
She decided to look into the lead in the Sullivan case, check out the brother's truck and take her ex-Army Ranger on his first outing as a Marshal. If he really were comfortable in a gun fight he should be able to handle it. If not, maybe she'd get lucky and he'd quit. She walked Tim through the bureaucracy of signing out a fleet car then took him downstairs to the garage. He walked to the passenger's side.
"Don't you want to drive?" she asked.
"Whatever you want, ma'am," he responded and started back around to the driver's side.
"I'd like you to stop calling me 'ma'am'," she said coolly.
He pulled up short and looked at her, trying to figure out what his offense was.
"Yessir," he snapped smartly, not sure what else to say.
She ignored the sarcasm and dropped the keys in his hand.
The only communication after that was the exchange of information to get to the address provided by the county Sheriff. Rachel directed Tim to pull over to the side of the road and they sat looking at the house, a permanent trailer, where Sullivan's truck was currently parked. There was a deck built onto one side, large enough for a beer party, extending from the door down to one end, with a railing and three steps up to it from the front. The trailer was a bit isolated and the area well treed and hilly. Tim didn't like the terrain, too many hiding places.
"Who is this guy?" he asked, breaking the silence. Curious about what they were to do next but not wanting to appear too green, he chose a safe question and hoped to get more out of the answer than a name.
"Albert Sullivan," Rachel replied. "A run-of-the-mill scumbag. He's been in and out, trafficking, assault. I'd just like a word with him right now. His brother's the fugitive. He's wanted in Tennessee in connection with a murder, under commission. A meth lab he was operating blew up and killed two of his men."
She recited the details like she was reading the instructions for a new microwave. Tim looked at her, impressed she could be so calm.
"Let's see if anyone's home," she said and opened the car door.
She walked around and came up beside Tim just as he reached to unclip his sidearm and pull it out.
"What are you doing?" she asked, stepping in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Unclip it, but we don't draw unless there's an immediate threat."
Tim slid his Glock back in the holster. Walking up to a house with possible enemy hostiles inside seemed like an immediate threat to him.
They headed across the yard, taking a cautious survey of the surroundings, and climbed the steps to the deck. Rachel knocked and stood back. Tim leaned against the wall of the trailer, trying to look more cavalier than he felt, so that when Sullivan swung the door open he had a good view of them both. It also gave them a good view of the shotgun he held loosely in his right hand.
"I don't give to charity and I ain't religious, so get off my property," he snarled, his tone at odds with the smile he flashed them.
Rachel showed him her badge and smiled back with an equal dose of sincerity. "Albert Sullivan? I'm Deputy Marshal Brooks, this is Deputy Marshal Gutterson. We're not collecting and we're not preaching. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you're willing." She shrugged and added, "Though we'll ask them even if you're not, just down at the station instead of here on your deck."
Sullivan took a couple of menacing steps forward, letting the door swing shut behind him and pulling the shotgun up to get a two-handed grip on it. Rachel and Tim looked like his partners in a strange dance trio, matching his movements to keep a comfortable distance between them. Tim reached for his sidearm again but Rachel put out a warning hand to stop him.
"I don't have to talk to nobody," Sullivan said.
"I just have a couple of questions about your brother, Randy," Rachel responded still calm. "We can get through them now, or I can go spend twenty minutes on my phone in the car and come back with an assault team and a warrant."
Two men appeared from behind the far end of the trailer with weapons aimed up on the porch, a rifle and another shotgun. Tim, facing them, threw a quick quizzical look at Rachel hoping for instructions but she had turned her head toward the new threat and missed the cue.
"Hey boys, look," Sullivan sneered, pulling the shotgun up level, moving it back and forth between the Marshals. "It's an itty bitty Deputy and her little brother. I think they're selling cookies."
Tim fell back on his training and did a quick combat assessment.
"Am I cleared hot?" he demanded.
She gave him a look of incomprehension which he took as a military yes: action first, permission second.
Tim grabbed the shotgun barrel and pushed it straight up, twisting around to pull its owner off-balance, then reversed and threw his weight backwards, knocking the man into the wall of the trailer and freeing the weapon. He spun it back to front pointing the muzzle at Sullivan and took a quick step to the side for better cover.
Only a heartbeat or two had passed and only Rachel reacted, moving fluidly into the new situation. She drew her sidearm with the distraction and backed up a couple of steps beyond Tim, giving herself a better angle on the two men at the corner of the trailer and them a difficult shot past Sullivan.
"Call off your dogs," Tim said slowly, and Rachel heard for the first time the Kentucky in him.
"They'll shoot," Sullivan snarled.
"Really? One's carrying a shotgun, good as useless from there. So better think, how good's your man on the rifle?" Tim questioned. "You trust him aiming past you? 'Cause I can't miss from here."
"Gutterson," Rachel urged cautiously, "I don't think this is the time for a showdown. We'll come back later."
Sullivan had his hands up, surrendering, and his eyes gave away his nervousness. He put an unconvincing sneer in his voice and said, "Better listen to your big sister, kid."
"Do you have a big sister?" Tim asked quietly.
Sullivan nodded.
"Do you do what she tells you?"
Sullivan's eyes widened a little.
"Me neither," Tim threatened. "Last time I'm saying. Call off your dogs."
"Boys," Sullivan called out to his men, "I'm just going to have a…a chat with the Marshals."
"Weapons on the deck and back away. Now!" Rachel ordered.
The men hesitated, clearly feeling they had the upper hand. Tim pressed the muzzle of the shotgun right up on Sullivan's cheek.
"Do as she says," Sullivan squeaked.
Rachel watched amused as Tim fumbled trying to handcuff the two men beside the trailer. He finally used one pair and passed the cuffs through a post on the deck railing, hoping it was less flimsy than it looked. He eyed them threateningly as Rachel marched Sullivan over to the car. After seating him in the back, she called the local Sheriff for assistance, closed the car door and turned to Tim.
"What was that all about?" she asked quietly, annoyed that he'd blatantly disregarded her orders. "I asked you to stand down."
"It was a situation," he said uncertainly, falling back on the time-worn sergeant's reasoning, only without the expletives.
"It was a situation?" she repeated, disapproving. She hooked her hands on her hips. "Most of the time, they're going to think twice before shooting a law enforcement officer. The consequences for them are huge. I'm not suggesting they won't ever, but usually you can talk your way out of a standoff and there's less chance that someone gets hurt."
Tim wasn't sure he could get used to that thinking. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it, making him look even more uncertain and impossibly young. "Okay," he stated, backing down.
His demeanor disarmed her as effectively as he'd disarmed Sullivan. She was expecting an argument. "Nice move," she added, a little uncertain herself. "It's just not how I like to handle things."
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