“He’s been following the story.”
“How’s he doing?”
Tarlton shrugged. “He’s still in the ER. He’s got some bruises and a few stitches. The doc was talking about keeping him for a few more hours in case there’s a concussion. But he’s going to be all right.”
“If it comes to it, will he testify?”
“Yeah. He’s a stand-up kid.” Tarlton smiled a little. “He has visions of being a hero.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Will said. “That’s why a lot of men get into this business.”
Will had come to the NCIS to get off shipboard duty and try to save his failing marriage. But he’d since learned a lot about the other law enforcement personnel and the passions that drove them.
“I always thought it was the cool uniforms,” Remy said with a straight face.
“They don’t come any cooler than the Marine Corps,” Tarlton said.
“Marines can’t touch Navy dress whites, Chief.”
“When are we going to do this?” Will interrupted before the friendly banter could continue.
“Well,” Tarlton said, “there’s no time like the present.” He folded the map. “Let’s roll.”
29
›› Hawthorne Machine Shop
›› Hawthorne Lane
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 0729 Hours
Hawthorne Machine Shop sat back in a stand of old oak trees whose branches scraped the metal top of the two-story building. It was a rectangular cinder block building with a simple sign over the front of the north side that advertised Hawthorne Speed Shop. A black-and-white checkered flag hung above the doorway to the speed shop. A large window showed a selection of tires, rims, and other accessories in bright, gleaming chrome.
The west end of the building held another sign, announcing the presence of the Hawthorne Machine Shop. Both signs looked similar, standing on rectangular surfaces that were attached to the building by supports.
Both businesses were open.
“We got civilians on the premises,” Tarlton announced over the radio headsets.
At the back of the Taurus, Will and Remy suited up in the riot gear. In addition to helmets and Kevlar vests with NCIS Agent stenciled on the back, they also wore shoulder and knee protective gear and gloves to protect against abrasions and impacts.
Will and Remy used the buddy system, each checking the other off on the prep list as they readied themselves. Will carried one XD-40 on his right hip and another under his left arm.
Remy carried two Beretta M9s in the same positions.
Both of them left their M4 assault rifles in the equipment duffels, but they picked up chopped-down Mossberg pump-action shotguns that held five rounds and sported skeletal folding wire stocks.
“You ready?” Tarlton asked.
Will nodded. Adrenaline flooded his body, but he was used to the feeling and concentrated on his breathing. Remy was as relaxed as if he were out for a Sunday walk.
Lord, Will prayed quietly, keep us safe and let us do no harm.
After a brief radio check, they followed Tarlton’s SWAT team onto the premises.
Will’s stomach clenched in anticipation of what was about to take place.
Trying to fight the police and sheriff’s department would be foolish, and Victor Gant was no fool, but Will knew the man was ruthless.
He kept moving, the shotgun in both hands and canted forward and down so he could snap it up into readiness at a moment’s notice.
›› Allington Hotel
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 0733 Hours
When the ringing phone woke him, FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Scott Urlacher cursed. He wanted to ignore it, but he knew he couldn’t. He hadn’t gotten promoted to his present position by ducking trouble when it came his way.
He grabbed the phone and barked, “Hello.”
“We’ve got a problem.”
It took Urlacher a moment to recognize the voice as one of the men he had watching over Victor Gant.
“I don’t want to have a problem,” Urlacher replied.
“The local police, sheriff’s deputies, and the NCIS are closing in on Gant’s place over on Hawthorne.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But they’ve come loaded for bear. Riot gear and a lot of men.”
“Find out,” Urlacher ordered. “And get the team there.” He pushed himself out of bed and grabbed for his pants. He wasn’t about to let his plans for Victor Gant be thwarted by the likes of Will Coburn. Gant had managed to stay out of trouble for a long time. His son’s death had put him up against the wall.
Urlacher intended to keep him there.
›› Hawthorne Machine Shop
›› 0736 Hours
Victor came up with a pistol in his fist. His dreams had been twisted and dark, taking him back to the jungle. He’d been turning over bodies after a rocket attack had taken out his unit. Every body he turned over had worn Bobby Lee’s face.
The pistol sights settled on Fat Mike’s round face, only inches out of reach.
“Friendly!” Fat Mike yelped and held his hands up over his head. “Victor! Friendly!”
Fat Mike’s words and voice soaked through the old terror and frustration that gripped Victor. He eased the pistol’s hammer back down and dropped his hand and the weapon to the bed again.
He gazed around the simple room. It took a moment for it to click in; then he realized he was on the second floor of the machine shop. Those rooms had been turned into crash pads for the chapter.
“What’s going on?” Victor grated.
Fat Mike stood to the side of one of the windows. He peered out at the rising sun.
“Cops,” Fat Mike said. “They’re all over the place, bro.”
That woke Victor. He sat up in bed and started coughing. Cursing his smoking habit, he reached for the pack of cigarettes beside the bed, shook one out, and lit up. He joined Fat Mike at the window.
Looking out, he saw that the police had congregated on the premises en masse. He cursed again.
“I told you not to break into the ME’s office,” Fat Mike said.
“It had to be done,” Victor said. “They weren’t going to let me tell Bobby Lee good-bye otherwise.”
“Didn’t say it wasn’t the right thing to do,” Fat Mike agreed. “I just don’t think it was the brightest thing.”
“Done is done. Can’t go crying over spilt beer.” Victor reached into his pants pocket and dragged his cell phone out. He’d put Agent Urlacher’s number on speed dial.
›› 0737 Hours
Will followed Tarlton’s people. For a locally trained police unit, they moved well. They also kept quiet and didn’t talk much, which was another plus. A lot of guys got the idea they should dialogue during an op like the men featured on Cops and other television shows.
The bikers in the machine shop saw them coming. They were hard-eyed men in jeans and sleeveless shirts, with tattoos all over their arms and bandannas tied around their heads.
Tarlton’s people and Greene’s deputies put bikers and customers up against the wall as a matter of course. The same question kept cropping up.
“Where is Victor Gant?”
Only a few of those asked knew. They told them the outlaw biker leader was upstairs.
