Not that it matters, Titus thought. The order to stand roving watches was a waste of time in his book. No one knows we’re here. And people rarely come out this way.
As he turned to walk back up the driveway, he heard a foreign mechanical groaning sound in the distance. It got louder, and he quickly realized that it was an approaching vehicle.
Titus stepped casually off the driveway and into the tree-and-shrub-littered shadows. The vehicle slowed as it approached the gate. Its tires crunched gravel as it veered off the main road, and it squeaked to a stop just outside the gate.
Titus peeked over the shrubs and caught a glimpse of the vehicle. It was a police cruiser. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
What in the hell are the police doing all the way out here?
Titus watched and waited as the police car idled. After a minute, the driver put the vehicle in park and shut off the engine. The doors opened and two officers stepped out. They both surveyed the scene through sunglasses as they sauntered straight for the gate.
“Why exactly are we out here?” the younger of the two officers asked.
“Our office got a tip, Blake,” Sergeant Brian Tate shrugged. “Supposedly, this is where good old Deacon Lynch ran off to. The police chief up in Key West says she heard it from a trustworthy source.”
The two officers examined the area.
“Looks like someone’s driven in recently,” Officer Blake said, kneeling and looking at the faint tire tracks.
Titus cursed to himself. These guys were good. Not detectives, but still experienced patrol officers.
“Looks like a newer lock, too,” Tate said.
He touched the big industrial padlock securing the gate.
“Should we break it free?” the younger officer inquired.
“Not yet. We will when the rest arrive.”
“They already got a warrant?”
“Not necessary,” Tate said. “This place closed years ago, and the guys at the station contacted the bank. We have permission to enter. I got the feeling that they’d forgotten about the place. Haven’t been on the property since it foreclosed apparently.”
“Well, somebody’s been on the property.”
Tate nodded. “Call in and see what’s the ETA on the others.”
Blake did as his sergeant ordered, grabbing the radio from inside the vehicle and placing a call.
Titus’s heart began to pound like a jackhammer. He felt the cold steel of the Taurus 9mm handgun in the back of his waistband. Reaching back, he pulled it free, held it with two hands, and swallowed.
He needed to warn the others. But how in the hell could he make it back to the main building without being spotted? The two officers were less than fifty feet away from him.
No, he needed to make a move. The cops had mentioned that backup was on its way. If a squad of police officers drove into the compound without Lynch and the others being warned, they’d have a hard time putting up a good fight. And Titus knew Lynch’s stance—everyone did. The white supremacist leader would rather die fighting than be dragged off to jail again. He wasn’t spending another second behind bars, and his men fully supported the idea of fighting to the death.
Titus tightened his grip on his weapon. In the shadows of the thick brush, he lifted it to chest height, then rose just barely over the branch in front of him.
“Five minutes out,” Officer Blake said.
The sergeant nodded, then placed his hands on his hips and stared in through the gate. Titus put the man right in his sights. He held his breath and tried his best to remain steady.
Tate continued to scan the inside of the farm. As his eyes hit Titus, they froze. The sergeant tilted his head forward for a better view. His eyes bulged, and he just had enough time to open his mouth before Titus pulled the trigger. The loud bang of exploding gunpowder tore across the landscape like thunder. Tate barely made a sound before the bullet struck his chest. He twisted from the blow, his feet shuffling in the gravel, then fell hard onto his side.
Officer Blake dropped for cover and whipped out his service weapon in the blink of an eye. He took aim through the chain link, but the powerful boom had echoed out in all directions, making it difficult to pinpoint the source of the sound.
The downed officer struggled, deep red blossoming from his chest and staining his uniform. He’d been hit through the heart. A well-placed kill shot. No chance of recovery, and the experienced cop knew it. It was only a matter of seconds before the blood loss would be too great and he’d breathe his last.
Seeing his mentor and friend dying on the ground, Blake strode toward him while firing shots into the forest where he’d thought the attack had come from.
Tate waved a hand. “Get to cover!” he yelled as best he could through clenched teeth.
Titus popped back up as Blake froze, his face angry and conflicted. The white supremacist took aim and fired again, but his second shot was off the mark. The younger officer jolted back toward the cruiser just as Titus let loose, and the round struck the cop’s left upper leg.
Blake groaned and fell, rolling behind the police vehicle. Titus didn’t let up. He fired off a barrage of gunfire, peppering the car with bullets and blasting holes in the windows.
Blake fired back again, and the two engaged in a standoff until Titus’s Taurus locked back. He’d emptied his magazine and didn’t have a spare. Dropping into the shadows,
