Act of Mercy – Chapter Sixteen
"Gutterson, you're with me this afternoon." Dan Shaw met Tim at the door after lunch and turned him around. "Deputy Brooks has some personal business to attend to."
"Nick again?"
"I didn't inquire."
Tim spun on his heel and followed Dan to the elevators. "Where're we headed?"
"Just out to Versailles. I got to pick up a two-bit, chop-shop, dip-shit who's supposed to have shown up for court today." Dan sauntered onto the elevator, disgruntled words but the usual easy drawl. "I told the Judge to give me the okay to keep him in custody the night before the trial, told him he wouldn't show, but no, too much trouble to sign the paperwork. So now I have to chauffeur the idiot. At least I get the pleasure of putting him in handcuffs."
Dan explained the workings of the auto theft ring while they took the short drive out of Lexington. They were small-time crooks involved in inter-state crimes, and Dan gave an amusing account of the star witness who was supposed to show up for the trial and didn't. When he had Tim softened up, chuckling at his descriptions, he pounced.
"What's eating you?"
"What?"
"Come on, now. None of us are blind. Our job is reading people. So, what's eating you?" Dan turned a look on him.
"I must've missed that class during training."
Dan drew back, confused. "What class?"
"The class that you and Rachel and the Chief obviously took where they teach that look," Tim replied, gesturing over at the Texan's face.
"This look?" Dan pulled the face again.
"Yep."
"I learned it from my second ex. If you want I'll invite her to Lexington to teach it to you."
"Somehow, I don't think it'd be worth it."
"She's probably a little old for you," Dan conceded.
They arrived at their destination before Dan could get a proper response from Tim. He pulled over to the curb outside the gates of an automobile graveyard. Hundreds of cars, skeletons, stripped, stacked, and waiting to be crushed then sold for metal scrap.
"I've never been in a wrecking yard," Tim said, eager to check it out. He felt the boy in him jumping up and down. "You know, I always wanted to be a race car driver, either that or a mechanic."
But the memory faded and the smile with it as he caught sight of the three expensive SUVs parked in a line on the opposite side of the street, conspicuous. Dan was eyeing them, too, and they both hesitated, instinctively wary.
"You want me to call in the plates?"
"Yeah, good idea," Dan replied.
Tim rang the office and read the one license plate number he could see on the first car. Art must've been standing by the administrator's desk because he came on the line with the information on the car, obviously bothered by something. He asked a few questions of his own then hung up.
"The dark one in front is registered to a guy from Frankfort, Dixie Mafia apparently," Tim relayed.
"Dixie Mafia. No kidding," Dan chuckled. "I didn't know anyone used that name anymore, thought it fizzled out in the '70s. For real?"
Tim shrugged. "It's all new to me."
Tim's phone rang, still in his hand. He had a quick conversation, then, "That was Art calling back. He suggests we sit tight. He's coming up and bringing some extra bodies with him. He says the Frankfort thugs are gun happy."
Dan sat a moment, considering his options. "I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle." He rolled his eyes and said, mocking, "Dixie Mafia," and climbed out of the car. "Some piddly little crime syndicate and they think putting 'Mafia' in their name puts them on a par with the New York families."
"You worked in New York?" Tim asked, following behind to the wrecking yard office.
"Six years. I tell you, every Marshals office is different; different feel, different work. The New York City office is as different as they come. You'd hate it."
"Why would I hate it?"
"In a big office in a major city, the GL-07s, the new guys like you, they're stuck with either court duty full-time or just doing the shit work for the 11s and 12s. Considering how physical your last job was, I think you'd go crazy," Dan explained. "You were smart choosing a small bureau for your first, better variety in the work and you get out more."
"Don't mean to disappoint you but I wasn't smart. It was just familiar."
"You're from Kentucky?"
"Yep."
"I'd've taken something in Texas when I started if it were available. I did my three in Memphis."
"What grade were you when you were in New York?"
"I was a GL-12 by then, assigned full-time to the Fugitive Task Force. It was never dull. Though I have to admit, I kind of like being here. I could do this longer if they'd let me. Wouldn't want to be back in New York at my age."
No one was in the office so they walked past the open gate and peered around the building into the yard. The yard, too, was empty and quiet. They both drew their sidearms and continued, edging slowly and cautiously along the ends of the rows of wrecks. Down the last aisle was the item Dan was looking for, the witness along with three of his acquaintances from Frankfort. It didn't look like a friendly reunion.
"Well, damn. It's never just easy," Dan summarized his feelings about the job.
He did a quick check of the area then stepped into the open and called out, "Gentlemen, I'm Deputy Shaw, US Marshal. That item there currently belongs to the Federal Government. If you would just set any firearms you might be carrying on the ground and take a step or two back, I'll take possession and be on my way and I promise no trouble for you this afternoon."
Both Tim and Dan had their weapons up, all business.
The witness started weaseling. "I don't know what they're talking about. I got no business with the Feds."
One of the Frankfort boys knocked him to his knees with a crowbar to the back of the legs.
"Oh now, you break it, you buy it," Dan warned. "And the price involves time at a federal pen. He's expensive and no doubt not worth it."
"Marshal," the one in the suit spoke, Number One, Tim labeled him, "five of my men are standing behind you, armed every one and happy to have an excuse. I'll give you one chance to walk away. Go have a drink. Come back in an hour."
Dan turned to look behind him, wondered where they'd been hiding, cursed, "Well, damn. Like I said, it's never just easy. Tim, I suggest…"
Then he just collapsed, crumpled, like someone pulled the stake out of the scarecrow. Everyone stared. Tim looked down briefly. Dan was staring back up at him and blinked, looking confused. Tim stepped next to him and leveled his weapon at the man in the suit, Number One.
He heard footsteps behind him, maybe twenty yards back, and a round chambered and a voice growled, "Put your gun down."
"Not happening," Tim replied forcefully.
He didn't turn to look. He kept his Glock and his eyes locked on the man in charge.
"Put your gun down," the voice commanded again.
"Nope."
He understood fear well; he understood the value of taking out the commanding officer. A quick survey earlier of the group had provided all the clues he needed to identify which one was giving the orders, which one was next in line for promotion. If it came to it he knew he wouldn't survive the ensuing battle but he'd take out number one and number two. He played the shots out in his head, a loop, stood calmly and hoped that Art was breaking some speed limits.
Number One spoke, "Put down your gun, Marshal. What're you going to do, shoot us all? One signal from me and you're dead."
"Believe me, I'm watching for that signal. That's my signal, too," Tim replied.
"Drop the gun!"
"NO!"
He pulled the trigger back through to the firing stage, kept the gun level. Number One hesitated. Number Two looked uncertainly at Number One. The tension was a haze. Then Art's voice cleared the air.
"US Marshals. You're completely surrounded. Drop your weapons and place your hands on your heads."
Tim didn't hear the last words. Before Art could finish the men had turned to the new threat and opened fire, happy to release the tension built up out through their arms and by osmosis into their rifles. Everyone scrambled for cover in the volley of bullets. Tim, forgotten in the middle of the mayhem, moved with the first shot, crouched, grabbed Dan by the jacket and dragged him to the side, pulling him between two cars and out of the line of fire.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he cursed softly, looking for a way to join in but unable, caught where they were behind enemy lines. He decided it best to wait it out.
Dan sat up suddenly, looking surprised. "What the hell happened?"
"What the hell happened? Why did you go in? We were only fifteen minutes down the road. And what the hell was Tim doing? Did he seriously think he could take on eight guys, all armed, by himself? He could've gotten you both killed!" Art was on a roll, pacing the hospital room, upset about the possible outcome, angry at losing control of the situation. And he didn't like being shot at.
"Art, now, come on. Tim was in that situation because he trusted me and I led him into it." Dan interrupted the rant and spoke gravely and it was unusual enough that Art stopped and listened. "I've had plenty of time to think about it while the doctors have been running all their tests. I was arrogant. Didn't think the hillbilly crooks in Kentucky could put together this kind of manpower and went ahead without waiting for you. Tim only did what he was trained to do, and that's never give up his weapon."
"That is not what they teach at Glynco, Dan, and you know it."
"Art, he was at Glynco for eighteen weeks, less than six here on the job, and by my calculations he was a Ranger for most of eight years. They drill it into you in the Army – never relinquish your rifle. In war, the enemy is not going to worry about the consequences of shooting you. They don't go to jail. And I remember the stories about what they'd do if they captured a sniper. Both sides. Dead would be preferable." Dan smiled sadly. "Give him time. He's got a good head on his shoulders. He just needs to adjust his thinking."
Dan and Art had 60 years in the Marshals Service between them. They both knew how quickly and how often things could go sideways, the potential chaos when firearms were blended with desperation and clashing motives. Second guesses weren't practical. Art reconsidered.
Dan continued, "Besides, I'm not so sure he handled it wrong."
"Of course you'd think that," Art quipped. "You're a Texan." He tapped the breast of his jacket, hoping to surprise himself and find a secret bourbon stash. "I need a flask for days like this," he said, calmer now.
"I have one in my car," Dan offered.
"I didn't need to hear that."
"Then I shouldn't mention the bottle in your desk drawer?"
Art sat back and made a wry face. "So, how do I manage this one? I've got a veteran who made a rookie mistake; and a rookie who made a veteran mistake."
Dan chuckled appreciatively. "That's a good way to sum it up."
"And we still need to talk about you and what happened today," Art gestured at Dan, smiled in empathy. "Why do you think I took on a desk job?"
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Author's Note: I always enjoyed the full stories in a single line that are scattered throughout empousai's writing, a goldmine of Ranger characteristics. The idea in this chapter was borrowed by permission from a sentence in 'the mess you find yourself in':
'The first hostage situation he had ever been in with the Marshals service had almost cost him his life because he steadfastly refused to surrender his gun.'
Thank you!