The radio crackled once again.
“He’s upstairs, Drake, where they had Joshua before,” said Cory. “You remember the room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bust the window if you have to, and get him out.”
Drake did as instructed, climbing the tree he had been up before only a few days ago while trying to save the boy.
This time the window was shut tight. He had heard somewhere that tear gas could be harmful, and even fatal to people with respiratory conditions and other health problems, but it was more likely to injure someone by hitting them or burning them.
With a woman or child, he would have been hesitant and even subordinate, but it was Ralph, the one man who held the cards.
He got close and launched the tear gas hard and straight at the window, smashing it.
“Oh, no,” yelled Drake watching the can bounce back and fall 15 feet to the ground as it hissed and jumped.
Smoke rose quickly under him, and he put a bandana over his face.
The decision was simple. He could climb back down the tree as quickly as he had come up, and likely have minimal exposure to the gas. Then he could throw another one into the broken window.
He looked down at the ground as the smoke poured out of the twisting can.
His decision was made. He couldn’t fail on his second mission in this very same tree.
“Pow!” said Ralph, catching his attention back to the window just before the first shot.
Drake turned just in time to see the flash of light from the pistol that a smiling Ralph had pointed towards him.
The bullet caught Drake in the left elbow, dropping all but one of the remaining canisters from his shoulder bag.
With his arm stinging and useless, his legs clamped down on the sturdy pine branch, and he swung the last canister in his right hand towards the open window. This time it flew inside, missing Ralph’s head as the second shot rang in his ears. He lost his leg grip on the branch and began to fall.
“No!” screamed Whitney, running out from behind the barn. He fell 15 feet and hit the ground with a thud.
Gas poured through the upstairs of the house and out the open window.
“Drake! Drake!” she called out. “Help me, it’s Drake!” she screamed.
“Mac, you got this?” asked Cory, already heading to the side of the house.
“Yeah, but be careful.”
Cory ran quickly but cautiously around the side of the house.
Drake lay motionless on the ground. In most other circumstances, he would have been careful to find out what happened and call for the paramedics before moving someone, in case of a spinal injury or brain trauma.
Today, he had no choice. Whitney was choking and crying out in pain. Today the former Chief of Police dragged his unconscious man by the shoulders, yelling for Whitney to follow. He held his breath and closed his eyes as best he could, keeping most of the gas out.
Laying him down on the ground with the others, Cory checked Drake’s breathing and found it shallow but steady.
There was blood on his left arm and right upper thigh, and a growing lump on the back of his head.
“What happened?” he asked a still distressed and coughing Whitney.
“I saw him fall from the tree, and I heard shots before that. He didn’t even try to land on his feet. Is he dead?” she asked, crying softly.
“No, sweetie. He’s breathing, but I’m not sure how badly he’s hurt.”
Cory radioed the man watching the four-wheelers.
“Take all of the keys out and ride one straight up the road to the MacDonalds’ place.”
“You want me to leave the bikes?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Ride straight up here as fast as you can.”
Mac got Sarah on the radio and told her he had a man from our side needing help.
“We will have him at the hospital in 30-40 minutes, if all goes well,” he added.
Cory had a flashback of this same kind of scenario happening only a few short weeks ago with Jimmy.
He wrapped the two bullet wounds with gauze and he secured them with duct tape. They didn’t appear to be life-threatening. They were not nearly as concerning as Jimmy’s had been.
But the boy was unconscious after a near 15-foot fall and had hit his head on the way down.
Mac called Cory’s former female officer, tasking her with helping to bring Drake down to the hospital as soon as transportation arrived.
* * * *
With her help, they rode back towards the hospital. Drake was slumped over the vehicle, now semi-conscious and groaning.
Mac called for his megaphone man to repeat instructions to Ralph and his last security guy to come out and surrender.
Five minutes went by…then ten…and finally fifteen. The smoke had cleared, and only traces of the tear gas reached those already on the ground.
“Where’s Ralph?” asked Mac.
“I don’t see him,” replied Cory, “but unless both he and his security guy died, the only thing I can guess is that they have masks.”
“I thought about that,” said Mac, “but even then, they were in the middle of it.”
“What’s that?” asked Cory, hearing an engine start 100 yards up the road.
“I don’t know,” replied Mac, as Whitney chimed in.
“It’s my grandfather’s four-wheeler. I think it’s at the end of the tunnel.”
“What tunnel?” asked Mac.
“The escape... Oh, I forgot to tell you about that, I guess.”
“And your grandparents too!” he replied.
“I’m guessing it goes from the house and dumps out up the road,” interjected Cory.
“Yes, that’s right,” she replied. “Are you going to go after them?”
“Nope. They’re gone and off this earth as far as I’m concerned,” stated Mac sternly. “We will deal with those before us
