The Crossland ShootoutA Novel by JOHN MYERS
Chapter 9
The Crossland Shootout—Act II, or,
Hector And His Auto AK Rides Again
The terrible sound came from up the hill and I figured it had to be the incoming officer getting ambushed. Oh Lord, help him.
As I got up and jerked open the screen door, I heard another burst of the same noise, without a doubt the sound of a full automatic AK-47, and this time, the ceiling fans started slowing down and the lights inside went out. Electricity is off, I thought.
I slammed the front door and locked it, then ran over to the back door and did the same. Then I snatched up my pistol belt and holster where I had left it on the kitchen counter and strapped it around my waist.
I dashed over to the telephone and picked it up. Dead, too.
For a second I stood there in confusion, then I sprinted clanging up the steel stairs to my second-floor bedroom, shouting at the kids, "Get up, get up, get up! Man your battle stations, man your battle stations, this is not a drill, this is not a drill!"
I am an old-fashioned guy in many ways, and not a fan of much of the new technology. I do love home computers and the coming information superhighway, because at least the first wave of it enabled me to work out of my home and send stories to newspapers all over North and South Carolina from my home computer and modem.
I could do the same all over the world, should there be a market for news of the central Carolina region, anywhere there's a telephone line and a computer or FAX machine on the other end.
But one of the popular new technologies I have been very slow and reluctant to embrace is the cellular telephone.
To begin with, I have never liked the telephone in the first place. I am not one of those people who just absolutely must answer a telephone just because it rings.
Another piece of technology, the answering machine, can handle that chore just fine, thank you, even when I'm home, and I will continue doing whatever I'm doing while I listen to see who is leaving the message and decide whether I want to talk to them.
I have a one-track mind and when I'm occupied with one task, it really irritates the heck out of me to have to drop that and attend to another one.
That's why I have never liked that call-waiting feature my daughter insisted I needed on the telephone.
I can only talk to one person at a time, so why do I need to know that somebody else is also trying to call me? They can wait until I hang up and try again.
And why should I want one of those cellular phones to carry around, so I can never have a moment's peace from the telephone?
But due to the nature of my work for several newspapers in the region, I finally gave in a few months ago and bought one of those little cellular jobs, particularly after I checked them out and discovered they have a wonderful feature that gets no publicity.
It's called the off button. When you don't want somebody to call you on your cellular phone, you just push the off button.
I only use mine when I'm out of the house on the job, or if not on the job, then doing something where I don't mind being interrupted. And the only people who have my cellular telephone number are the editors who need to get in touch with me, the guys who send me the paychecks which pay the bills around here.
But now I thanked the good Lord I had given in and bought one of those pesky little machines, because I had a bad feeling that it was my last chance to send for the cavalry to come to the rescue and get Hector Cruz off our backs.
I found my cellular phone in my "office," the far end of my bedroom where I have my computer and library of resources.
But instead of punching 911, I dialed the number for the sheriff's office. If as I feared, the deputy on the way in had been ambushed by that first burst of fire I heard, I didn't want to put out an alarm on 911 that would get another cop shot, too, as he rushed to the rescue.
Sheriff's Department," the dispatcher answered my call.
Is, uh, the major in?" I asked, trying to sound calm and collected and probably failing, since my voice cracked a wee bit.
I'll see," the dispatcher said, and put me on hold.
Dummy," I said out loud to myself. "I bet the major doesn't even work on Saturdays," but I hardly got the words out before I heard a familiar voice come on. "Major Worley. May I help you?"
Major," I shot back. "This is Jay. Have you heard from the deputy who was on the way over here?"
No," he replied, "we just tried to raise him on the radio and didn't get any answer. What's happening?" he asked, his voice rising a register or two.
I was afraid of that. He's probably down," I replied.
D---," the major cursed.
I heard what sounded like an AK cut loose up on the hill, maybe about a quarter mile away towards town, and right after that it cut loose again and the lights and phone went out."
The phone went out?" the major squeaked as his voice went up another register or two. "Then how'd you call?"
I'm on my cellular phone. You'd better send some help, but be careful coming in. I don't want anybody else getting hurt."
When the major gets excited, he could do a stand-in for Mickey Mouse, and now he was squeaking worse than I ever heard him before.
Hold on, we're on the way," he squeaked, and hung up.
While I was on the phone, J.J. had rolled out of bed and pounded past my bedroom, barechested in his jockey shorts, but wearing his pistol belt with his 9 mm Ruger flapping and carrying his .223 cal. Colt Sporter assault rifle at port arms as he ran clanging barefooted up the circular steel stairs to the tower top.
As I hung up, I heard the explosion of his .223 come ringing down the stairwell as he cut loose at something out there.
I ran over to my battle station, snatched up my SKS assault rifle, then crawled over and peeped over the window sill to see what I could see. Nothing so far.
Then I almost jumped out of my skin as a cold nose hit me in the ear. It was Clyde, I realized, as I tried to calm myself down.
I put my arm around Clyde and felt him trembling with fear as Suzy came running in my bedroom right behind Clyde. She set an all-time personal best that morning for getting up and getting dressed.
Here, honey, take Clyde and go on down to the basement," I said. She may have been as scared as I was, but I saw she had her .40 cal. Glock in her hand.
As she grabbed Clyde by the collar and started out of the room, stopping over to stay below the windows, I reminded her, "Remember honey, aim for the middle of the torso and keep shooting until he goes down." She left without answering and went clanging down the tower steps with Clyde in tow.
I reached up and unlatched the clips holding the bottom of the window screen in place, pushed out and let it fall to the ground.
As I looked for a target, I heard J.J. cut loose again, this time with a burst that sounded so fast I thought for a minute it was the full auto AK. But it was the different-sounding .223, plus it was coming from above me in the tower, not from outside.
He was letting the rounds rip, fast as he could trigger them, first one burst of three or four, then another, then another.
Give 'em hell, son," I shouted up at him, but then I had to duck as we got our first return fire. Nothing came through my window, but I could hear the AK rounds thunking into the logs on the far side of the house, and pinging on the rock tower walls.
The fire from the tower stopped for a few seconds, but just when I was wondering if J.J. had been hit already, I realized he had only been changing magazines because his hot and heavy firing then resumed at the same pace, or maybe even a little faster.
I was so excited I almost forgot I was supposed to be doing the same. Peeping over the window sill, I still didn't see anybody, so I decided maybe I better use the telescopic sight to look a bit further and closer than my aging eyes could see unaided.
Dialing the 3X magnification on the scope, for the widest field of vision, I began scanning rocks and trees on the uphill slope on my end of the house.
There, behind that big pine up on the hill, I saw some movement. I twisted the magnification dial up to 9X and at first couldn't see anything. Then I spotted something white against the dark tree trunk, a toe, probably a basketball shoe. And peeping out around the other side of the trunk, I could see a baseball-cap wearing man, playing hide and seek, peeping out, ducking back.
Then as he popped out, he cut loose a burst of fire that thunked into the logs of the house, but didn't come close to me.
Using the rangefinder feature on the scope, I determined it was just a shade under 200 yards to the tree. Since the SKS was zeroed for 200, no correction would be necessary. While I was taking the range on the tree trunk, the man with the cap came out again, loosing another a burst of automatic fire in my direction.
I ducked down and heard the rounds impact into the log walls and roof. Missed me again, thank God. Oh well, I thought, there goes my 20-year shingles. Bet my roof will leak now. Odd thought to be worrying about shingles at a time like this, I told myself.
I slipped up for another look through the scope and the man had ducked back behind the tree again with his gun.
But the toe and about half of the shoe was staying exposed on the other side of the tree trunk. I rested the rifle barrel on the window sill, put the cross-hairs on that foot, took a big breath, let out about half of it, held that and squeezed off a round.
The results were immediate. A weapon, perhaps an AK-47, came tumbling out from the shoe side of the tree, and the ball-cap wearer came tumbling out the other side, falling tail over tea kettle down the hillside, coming to a dusty stop as he slid into the clear on the gravel road, lying in a pile there, unmoving.
I didn't have the heart to shoot him again, lying their unconscious without a weapon, but I figured he was out of action. At the least, he had a broken foot, and he must have been knocked out rolling down the hill.
One down on my side. How many to go? I had no earthly idea.
From the sounds coming from above me, J.J. was doing his share and more as he kept that .223 booming away. If he was hitting anything or not, he was certainly making them keep their distance, which is all we needed to do, until the cavalry arrived from the sheriff's department.
I thought to myself, this isn't a whole lot different from rifle-team competition at the military school where I finished high school, Carolina Military Academy down in Maxton, now long-closed.
Shooting match .22 caliber bolt-action single-shot rifles on the 50-foot firing range, I learned how to hit the exact center of a bull's-eye often enough to consistently score in the 290s out of 300 points in the prone position.
But then I found out why this was not the same at all.
As I was looking for another target, I found one, or more correctly, one found me. And this one was shooting at me. Accurately.
I ducked down as a burst of automatic AK-47 fire raked the end of the house near me, thunking into the logs, which thankfully I noted were not letting the rounds through.
But as I started to raise up again, a second burst cut loose even more accurately, ripping through my windows, showering me with glass and sending the curtains and rods down on my head.
Untangling myself, I pushed the curtains and rods aside gingerly, trying not to cut myself on the glass all mixed in.
I peeped over the sill again, just in time to greet another burst of fire, but this time before I ducked down I saw where it was coming from. The second shooter was off to my left, closer than the first, maybe 150 yards away, behind a big rock outcropping.
I decided moving might be smart, since he knew which window I was using, judging by the glass and curtains all over the floor.
So I crawled on elbows and knees, carefully trying to avoid the glass, cradling the SKS in my arms, over to the far left window. This time I didn't bother removing the screen, not wanting to give my position away, and scoped him through the screen.
I could see a bare head, black curly hair, and part of a black shirt, showing behind a large, white flint rock. Using the rock for the rangefinder on the scope, I found it was about 140 yards away.
I guess I'll find out if shooting through the screen works.
I put the crosshairs on the exposed shirt, his right shoulder, moved down a hair to adjust for the shorter distance than the rifle's zero, then went through the familiar routine learned on the CMA rifle range those many years ago back in high school.
Take a deep breath, let half of it out, hold it, squeeze gently.
But just as I started my trigger pull, the man popped up behind the rock to fire again. The crosshairs were still lined up just below his right shoulder, but now I had a bigger target, so I just finished the squeeze without adjusting my aim.
The explosion of the SKS was again greeted with instant results, another weapon clattering over the rock, but this time no shooter. He simply disappeared behind the rock.
Oh well, no weapon, no threat, I thought.
So far so good.
That's what the optimist who fell off the Empire State Building was heard to say as he passed the 40th floor.
I hope my cause for optimism wasn't as unfounded as his.
I realized as I looked for another target that I had been praying intensely, every since I heard that first ripping roll of thundering fire as I sat on the front porch.
Oh Lord, just get me through this and I'll ... I'll ... what would I do? I don't know Lord, just keep me and Suzy and J.J. safe from harm and get us out of this mess. Clyde, too, dear Lord.
How could I pray while doing those other things, too?
I didn't think I had the mental capacity to do two things at once, before now, but to paraphrase a wise saying I once heard, nothing concentrates the mind so wonderfully as the sound of full automatic AK-47 fire, particularly when it's pointed at you.
But then my cause for optimism shattered as I heard that awful sound once again. And this time it was coming from the worst possible direction, from downstairs, the far end of the house, about the direction of the basement door outside entrance.
Oh my God, I thought, our plan is worthless without somebody on the first floor covering the base of the tower where J.J. can't see. And that sound had to be somebody shooting in the basement door, down there were Suzy and Clyde were supposed to be safe. And the lawman who was supposed to be on the ground floor was lying wounded or dead up the road in an ambush.
My fears were realized as I heard an explosion of barking in counterpoint to the ripping sound of the AK-47 echoing up the stairwell. Clyde was going crazy barking.
And then I heard pop, pop, pop, pop, except the pops were coming so close together I couldn't count them accurately.
Suzy!" I screamed, but before I could get up and move, I heard her scream "Daddy!" and her feet come pounding up the steel steps in the tower staircase. I met her as she came out of the stairwell at the second floor landing, Clyde right on her heels, and she ran right into my arms, almost bowling me over.
I shot him, daddy," she sobbed. "I shot him, I shot him."
Did you hit him, honey?" I asked, holding her at arm's length.
Yes, I'm sure I did. I aimed for the middle of his chest as he came through the door and kept shooting until he dropped his gun and fell down. Then I ran."
It's all right, honey, it's all right," I told her as I pushed her into the master bathroom along with Clyde. "Lie down on the floor and hold Clyde and don't come out unless it's me or J.J.," I told her, shutting the bathroom door. "And if somebody tries to come in without yelling first, shoot," I shouted through the bathroom door. She didn't answer.
J.J. was still shooting above me, and I debated whether to go back to my window or downstairs to the first floor or basement.
Then the decision was made for me.
About the only thing I have never liked about the house that Jeff Hardy built is that circular steel staircase in the tower.
It must have cost him a fortune just to get that thing hauled in here and lifted into place, with a big crane perhaps?
It would have been much simpler to build wooden steps inside the tower, plus wooden steps wouldn't make that awful clanging noise that steel steps make when you step on them. Even barefooted, they're noisy, practically impossible to climb without the annoyance of noisy steps, and shoes or boots make them absolutely clang like bells.
But now I was glad for Jeff's steel steps, because no matter how quietly you try to come up them, the faintest step will ring out and send the noise floating up the tower well to where I was.
And now I could hear someone coming up those tower steps. And I guess the climber realized he wasn't sneaking up on anyone as the steps clanged, because he called out in a soft, raspy voice that carried up the stair well, "I'm coming up, señor."
And if any doubt remained that somebody was coming up the steps, Clyde suddenly began barking from behind the closed bathroom door, going crazy with excitement.
I never counted the steps in that tower, but it seemed like thousands that day. Even as J.J. kept blasting away up above me, I could hear the faint "clang ... clang ... clang ..." as the climber slowly came up one step at a time, even over Clyde's loud barking, rising in cadence and volume as the steps neared.
I had left my SKS at the far window in my bedroom and I didn't want to take time to leave the hallway to go back and get it now, if I had time. I had no idea how many steps were left, but the "clang ... clang ... clang ..." was definitely getting a bit louder and a bit closer quickly.
I'm coming to get you, señor," the soft, raspy voice said again, clearer now over the sound of Clyde's more frantic barking and J.J.'s shooting.
I drew my Glock .45 from the holster on my hip, backed across the hallway from the tower stair landing and slipped through the doorway of my bedroom, using the door frame on the left side to steady my aim with the two-handed grip Tom Golden taught me.
It was only about 25 feet to the tower stairwell landing from where I was standing. How could I miss? I better not.
It was hard to concentrate as the echoing noise of Clyde's barking seemed to be bouncing off the walls of the hallway. And above me, J.J. continued shooting his cannon, adding to the roar.
But over all that noise, the barking and shooting, I could still clearly hear the man coming, "clang ... clang ... clang ..." as he said again, "Here I come, señor," in that soft, raspy voice.
First I saw the dark-haired head of the man coming up the steps and started to shoot him. But remembering Golden's rule of pistol shooting, I waited until I could see his chest clearly, lined up the three white dots of the Glock sight, the two on the rear sight flanking the white dot of the front sight, all centered in the middle of the man's chest, then started shooting.
The Glock .45 explosions sounded like a cannon in the close confines of the hallway, and I must have pumped out at least five or six rounds before the man staggered and then fell back.
He seemed to absorb the first shot or two, but slowly dropped from sight as I kept firing, and I heard the rifle he had been carrying at port arms, crosswise to his chest, clatter on the steel steps as he dropped it, then the man fell back, following his gun.
With the sound of the shots, Clyde had stopped barking and the house was deathly quiet. Even J.J. had stopped shooting.
I slumped down, feeling like my legs and arms had turned to overcooked strands of spaghetti. I heard J.J. resume shooting.
But then I heard that noise again, "clang ... clang ... clang ..." and that deadly soft voice again, too, "I'm coming back up, señor. I'm going to kill you this time."
That set Clyde off again with a new spasm of barking.
Who is this guy, I thought? Superman? I know I hit him. I saw the cloth jump on the front of his white shirt as the rounds hit.
No human can take six Glaser rounds from a .45 and get up.
But this one did, and "clang ... clang ... clang ..." here he comes again. "I coming back, señor. Get ready to die," he said.
As the black hair appeared again, coming up the steps, I really lost it. I straightened up, put the three dots on his chest again and started shooting, not stopping as the man dropped the rifle and staggered and fell back on the steps again.
I kept firing even as the man dropped back out of sight and I finally realized the Glock was empty, but I was still trying to squeeze the trigger and nothing was happening.
Again, the shooting had silenced Clyde's barking, but J.J. kept on shooting up above me, his cannon blasting out rounds.
This time I sat down in the floor, feeling like I had just run a marathon, my legs and arms trembling, refusing to hold still.
And then I heard that sound again, "clang ... clang ... clang ..." And that same soft, raspy voice one more time, "I'm coming up again, señor. Are you ready to die?" That set Clyde barking again, even louder and more frantically than before.
I guess I am going to die, Lord, I realized I was praying again. I've done everything I know to do, Lord, and this Dracula or Frankenstein or whatever he is keeps coming back for more.
As the black hair appeared on the steps again, I just sat there. What more could I do? Lord, it's up to you now. If you don't stop this monster, I'm going to die, it's just that simple, Lord.
This time the man stepped out onto the second floor landing and I could see him clearly for the first time. He was in his late 20s, early 30s, hard to tell with Mexican men, hard for me anyway.
They'd probably say the same thing about us white honkies, or whatever a Mexican calls a white man: We all look the same.
He was wearing one of those fancy embroidered white shirts, loose-fitting, with several holes in the fabric across his chest. I could see a bloody bandage on his neck, showing above his collar, so he was human, after all. But why wasn't he dead?
I also noticed he was wearing high-heeled cowboy boots with pointy toes. The heels were why I could hear him clanging on the steps, even over Clyde's barking and J.J.'s shooting.
And though the loose-fitting shirt wasn't tucked in at the waist, I didn't have to wonder if he had a pistol. He didn't need one, because he was holding an AK-47, no doubt fully automatic.
And if any doubt remained as to who this Superman was, he filled in the rest of the blanks for me.
Do you know who I am, señor?" he asked in that soft, raspy voice, which I could hear clearly over Clyde's barking frenzy.
I shook my head dumbly, and he answered his own question.
A man ought to know who it is that kills him. I am Hector Cruz, señor, and you must be the man who shot me at the party the other night, the man who did this," he said, touching the bloody bandage on his neck.
I nodded dumbly again. No need to deny it now. There he stood with his AK-47 and here I sat on the floor with an empty Glock .45 in my hand. I suppose I could throw it at him, I thought, but what good would that do, if 14 rounds of .45 Glasers won't stop him?
And then it registered in my brain what my eyes had been telling me all along. Peeping through the ragged holes across his chest through the fabric of the loose white shirt Hector Cruz was wearing I could see spots of flesh color.
But it wasn't Mexican flesh color I was seeing, not the dark color of that nut-brown face with the evil grin.
But flesh color more like my skin. Color about the light tan of the armored vest I had seen hanging in Major Jimmy Worley's office. Of course, you dummy, I thought, he's wearing an armored vest under that shirt, one of those new ones like the major had.
And those Glaser rounds I was using and Suzy was using, they don't penetrate worth squat on an armored vest. Hector Cruz might have a few bruises on his chest tomorrow. But I'll be dead.
And then he'll kill Suzy and Clyde and go on up and kill J.J.
Lord, all my plans have come to nothing. Help us, Lord.
Goodbye, señor, see you in hell," Hector Cruz said, as he swung that deadly AK-47 to bear on me. As he lined up that wicked weapon on my head, I closed my eyes and thought, "Well, at least he's wrong about that. At least I'm saved, he can't take that away from me, Lord, so I guess I'll be seeing you in a minute."
Then the thought occurred to me, perhaps the last I'd have in this life, that I had just prayed my daddy's prayer, Lord, help us.
That was the only prayer I ever heard my daddy pray, aside from saying grace before his meals. He was a church-going man all his life and he told me not long before he died that he was saved at age 18, the same year his grandfather, Jay James Barton, died.
But if he prayed aloud, he did it where nobody ever heard him.
Except for that one prayer.
We were in Atlanta when I was just a boy, visiting my older brother, the eldest in the family, who had just graduated from college and begun his quest in the corporate world of finance.
The morning we loaded up the family station wagon to head back home to Crossland, we couldn't get started early enough to suit daddy, so he made us wait until 9 to let rush-hour traffic clear.
Daddy was always an early riser and an early starter on trips, but he had too many of us to get going early on that trip, three of us kids plus my mother and grandma. So he waited until 9, but that was as long as he could stand it. We loaded up and hit the road.
But that Atlanta rush-hour traffic was still going strong, and we were caught in a six-lane-wide mess, bumper to bumper, flying along as 65 miles an hour right through the middle of the city. Daddy was driving in the far right lane of the interstate.
And as a truck passed us, it pulled in too soon and hit the left front fender of the station wagon, just as we started across a bridge overpass. We didn't know it then, but learned later our right front tire hit a concrete pillar and sheared the wheel off.
Daddy jerked the steering wheel so hard trying to keep us from hitting that concrete pillar that he ripped the steering wheel off the column, breaking two of his ribs with it. And we went flying across six lanes of traffic, heading for the opposite bridge railing on three wheels and no steering wheel.
I'll never forget daddy's shouted prayer, "God, help us!"
God did, because daddy sure wasn't guiding that car with the steering wheel in his lap. I don't know how we avoided getting hit broad-side by that bumper-to-bumper traffic as we crossed six lanes. I was too chicken to look and ducked down in the seat, but I remember thinking just a moment before that you couldn't flip a quarter into that bumper-to-bumper mess without hitting a vehicle. Angels must also have been bumper-to-bumper on the interstate that day, guiding us through that flying traffic.
With a shattering crash, we came to a stop and I raised up.
The hood of the car was perfectly centered on a steel light pole in the middle of the bridge on the opposite side. As I opened my door behind the driver's door and stepped out, I saw the bridge railing was gone, and the front of the station wagon was hanging precariously over the edge with that bent light pole the only saving grace keeping us from going on over.
Mama had a cut on her forehead and my little brother had a broken arm. The rest of us were shook up, but that was all. Daddy's shouted three-word prayer was answered that day and I'll never forget it as long as I live.
Which wouldn't be long, as I waited for Hector Cruz to shoot.
When I heard the ear-shattering explosion of a rifle, I sat there for a second, wondering why I didn't feel the bullet.
Then I opened my eyes in time to see Hector Cruz in mid-air, falling toward me as he dropped the AK-47, then landed on top of it, sprawled out on the hardwood floor of the hallway, blood spreading out in a pool under him and seeping from a hole in his back. Oh my God, I'll never get that bloodstain out of the hardwood floor, I thought.
And then I heard another clatter on the steel steps as J.J. came flying down, leaped over the body of Cruz and knelt down in front of me, still holding his .223 assault rifle in his hands.
Pop, you all right, pop? Say something, pop," he pleaded.
I'm all right," I managed to croak out, and then the bathroom door opened and Suzy and Clyde came flying out. Clyde had finally quit barking, and after cautiously sniffing around Hector's body, he came over and wedged himself in between the three of us, all sitting together on the floor, hugging each other and crying with relief.
It's all right, it's over now," I said to both my kids.
And it was over. A few minutes later, I heard a cautious knock on the front door, then a squeaky voice called out, "Morgan County Sheriff's Department. Jay, you in there? You all right?"
We're all right, major," I croaked as loudly as I could. "We're all up here, upstairs. Me and Suzy and J.J. and Hector Cruz. Don't kick the door in. I'll be down in a minute to let you in."
Epilogue
The End Of Hector Cruz, Bad Man, Maybe,
or, Keep Your Powder Dry, Just In Case
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