Act of Mercy – Chapter Five
The weather was pretty average for a February in Kentucky, cold, wet, but not freezing. Tim was grateful for his sleeping bag, a dry pair of wool socks, and a thermos of coffee, and especially grateful for the quiet woods. He was as comfortable as he could be outside in the winter. He saved his pity for Rachel.
Dan Shaw had dropped them at the Marshal-friendly neighbors in the evening to avoid leaving any strange vehicles in the driveway for prying eyes. After a half hour listening to the husband and wife bicker Tim had grabbed his supplies and bee-lined it for the forest leaving Rachel and her patience alone with her hosts. It started to drizzle lightly an hour later, a degree or two lower and it might have turned to sleet, but still Tim wouldn't have traded places with her. He hunkered down under a tarp and did what he did best, he watched and waited.
All the next day the three men, Albert Sullivan and his two gun thugs, took turns sitting on the porch, trying to look casual but only managing to be conspicuous in early February. They were watching for a hint of the Marshals unaware that the Marshals were already entrenched and watching for a glimpse of Randy Sullivan. The following evening, close to 11pm, Tim's attention was drawn to movement in the back. Albert Sullivan left the trailer and stepped into the woods carrying a flashlight and a knapsack. Tim relayed the information to Rachel.
"Maybe he's taking supplies to Randy," she suggested.
"Only one way to know," Tim whispered back.
He wiggled out of his sleeping bag and tailed him. It hadn't stopped raining until late in the afternoon and the wet forest muffled his footsteps making it easy for him to follow unheard parallel with his prey. After half an hour of trudging a well-worn path of soggy leaves Albert approached a small, rough hunting shack in the woods. They were upwind from it, its sounds and smells not reaching them until they were closer. Then Tim caught a whiff of firewood burning from a stove. He crouched down when Albert whistled and the door opened a crack, then wide, flooding the area in front with light.
Randy Sullivan stood fully visible in the doorway and smiled for his brother. "What took you so long? Shit, we ran out of toilet paper."
"The Marshals are sniffing around," Albert replied in a hushed voice, passing over the pack. "I spent a night in lock-up because of you. Look, Randy, I know you're family and all, but I need you gone."
"Federal Marshals? For real? I feel like I'm in a movie," Randy whooped happily.
"I'm serious Randy," Albert shook his head. "Tomorrow, you hear? You need to be on your way tomorrow. I mean it."
Albert turned and headed back the way he came, leaving Tim to choose between brothers. He decided to stay and keep an eye on Randy. He tried to contact Rachel but he was out of the effective range of the radios. Swearing under his breath, he started back, too, trying every few minutes to get through. When he was more than halfway back he heard Rachel's voice in the earpiece.
"Gutterson? Tim?"
"Right here," he responded.
"Jesus," she exclaimed. He heard the relief. "What happened?"
"Got too far away, dropped the signal," he explained. "I saw Randy. Albert has him hid out in a shack up the hill a ways."
"You saw him?"
"And heard his name. It's definitely him."
There was a moment of silence while she considered their options. "Were you on their property?"
"Likely."
"Shit." The curse came out fast, unguarded. "Do you think you could find a spot to watch from that's not on their property?"
Tim rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently. It reminded him of his days in Paktia, pretending that no one ever went over the border into Pakistan.
"I'll figure it out."
"I'll get Art on a search warrant. Check back in an hour."
What little light was grudgingly donated by the half-moon was gone by the time he got back to his original hiding spot. The clouds converged and it started drizzling again. He grabbed the tarp, a flashlight and his pack and trudged back up the hill, periodically checking his progress against the terrain, the GPS he was carrying, and a surveyor's map. Luckily the shack was, he estimated, close to the property line and he set up well into the neighboring land, allowing himself and the lawyers a good safety margin.
Art's phone rang and woke him up. It was almost midnight.
"Chief?"
"Rachel."
"Can you get me a search warrant?"
"Now?"
"Now."
"Shit. I'll see what I can do. What have you got for me?"
Art pulled into the Marshal-friendly neighbors' driveway before dawn with Dan Shaw, two cruisers of men from the local County Sheriff's office and a warrant. Rachel walked out to meet him.
"Has it been raining all night?" Art asked grumpily sloshing through the puddles.
"Pretty much," Rachel answered curtly and proceeded with a report. "Tim got in touch after I called you. Randy isn't the only one up in the shack. He thinks there's one, possibly two men with him."
"Tim? Who's Tim?" Art feigned confusion. "Oh, you mean your ex-Army Ranger."
She gave him her is-this-really-the-time, raised-eyebrow expression. He was happy to see it and got down to business.
"Where's Tim?"
"Up by the shack, out of communication range. It's a ways up the hill. He hasn't seen anyone since I called you but he says he's heard talking. I told him that you were coming with a warrant and he said he'd come down and meet us. You're early," she stated, leading them into the house.
"I'm insanely early. It's not even five o'clock yet," Art muttered.
Tim waded out of the woods ten minutes later and joined the gathering in the kitchen. He stood dripping just inside the back door, creating a muddy puddle, amused by the baleful looks directed his way by the homeowner, hovering. Clearly, she was beginning to regret her offer of helping the Marshals.
Art reconfirmed, "Tim, you're definitely on the neighbor's property?"
"Yessir."
"How do you know?"
"SWAG, sir."
Art scrunched his face. "What?"
"Scientific wild-ass guess," Tim clarified, "with lots of maneuvering room."
"And you can see the door of the shack clearly?"
"Yessir."
"Okay then. Let's go."
They divided into two teams. Tim would lead Rachel and two of the local deputies up to the shack and Art and Dan, with the Sheriff, would take care of approaching the trailer and keeping its occupants busy with the legal bureaucracy of delivering the warrant.
Dan put a hand on Rachel's elbow before they split up and said, "Feeling lucky this morning, Deputy Brooks?"
"I hope you stopped and bought me a lottery ticket on the way here, Deputy Shaw," she replied smoothly, "because today is my day."
Dan grinned down at her, "Go get him, tiger."
Rachel, Tim and the Sheriff's deputies walked silently through the trees. They were just past the halfway point to the shack when the sound of a car alarm ripped through the quiet pre-dawn, stopping them in their tracks. Then a gunshot blew a hole through the sound of the alarm.
"Shotgun," said Tim with a pointed look at Rachel.
"Shit," she exploded. "Move!"
All four sprinted up the hill, no longer bothering with stealth. Tim's obsessive running got him within sight of the shack ahead of the others, in time to see three men stumble out, not clothed for the weather, and take off in different directions. He picked out Randy Sullivan and ran to cut him off first.
Randy had bolted for the door without his boots. His socks slipped on the mat of wet leaves like leather on ice and he went down in a heap with a loud slap. Tim had caught up, was directly on the fugitive's heels and unable to avoid the collision. His legs were taken out from under him by Sullivan's slide on the hill and he landed hard on top of him. The two men wrestled briefly until Tim got a hold, regained his footing then planted a knee on Sullivan's back. Randy had at least fifty pounds on the Marshal and was attempting to throw him off when Rachel came up behind them.
"I've got a gun out and aimed, Sullivan," she called out. "It'd probably be easier for my partner to cuff you if I put a bullet in your leg to settle you down."
Tim had less trouble with the handcuffs this time.
"Leave him with me," Rachel ordered when Tim had hauled Sullivan to his feet. "The Sheriff's men are chasing down the others." She pointed across the hill.
Tim nodded and headed at a run back to the shack then in the direction the other two men had taken. He jogged in a straight line up the hill, stopping abruptly when he saw beams of light coming up the rise about thirty yards to his left. He reached into his pocket for his own flashlight and frowned when his hand found nothing. He crouched down defensively, acutely aware of the dangers of firearms in the dark. He checked his immediate surroundings, looking for cover, seeing only his breath in the cold air. A sudden flashback took him by surprise. He froze, back in a similar night lying flat on a slope, quiet, keeping his head down, listening for the stealthy footsteps of an enemy patrol over the rise, seeing only his breath in the cold air on a moonless night in the mountains of the Hindu Kush.
He squeezed his eyes shut on the image, picked up some wet leaves and focused on that, bringing himself back to Kentucky. He heard movement to his right this time, close, and brought up his arm, pushing his face into the inside of his elbow to deaden the sound of his ragged breathing.
A shape appeared between tree trunks, a man. Tim reached down for his sidearm, unclipping it carefully. A twig snapped loudly under the shadow's foot and the flashlight beams snapped over with it. Tim dropped instinctively before the first shot from the nervous deputies skimmed past and the shadow turned and disappeared. Holding himself flat, he ignored the urge to stand up and give chase or shoot at the retreating figure. He lay still while a few more shots sailed overhead, thinking about the irony of being killed by friendly fire right here in Kentucky. The deputies stopped shooting and started cautiously walking his way and he called out to them.
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