KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set Page 3

  I stand, my arms to my sides. “Look, there’s no need for this — the guy you’re after has already made it to the road. His partner’s picked him up, by now.”

  “Freeze! Keep your mouth shut and raise those hands before I put a bullet it you!”

  Strike one.

  I hesitate, but the woman detective’s eyes tell me she means it. I bring my arms up weakly. I don’t want to show them how scared I actually am at having so many trigger-happy cops pointing their weapons at me. Over the past few years I’ve been in similar situations, but none quite like this.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tied and True

  Before I knew it, I was face down in the gravel and zip-tied.

  “I didn’t do anything! There was a shooter in the bushes.”

  “Yeah-yeah, I know” the pretty little plainclothes detective said, “and one in the grassy knoll, I bet. Even caught plain as day molesting a woman, you come up with shit like that? You dirt bag!” To the uniformed cops who had me down, she said. “Get this asshole out of my sight. Inform him of his rights on the ride in.”

  Dirt bag? Asshole? That’s strike two. She forgot jack-wagon.

  To Tamara White Cloud, the lady detective asked, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  My parole officer seemed dazed. She was sitting sideways on the driver side of her car with the door open. The side-view mirror lay in her hands, and she toyed with it nervously.

  “I think so.”

  “Did this man attack you, ma’am?”

  “Well, I ... I don’t know. He knocked me down and tore the mirror off my car. Then he dragged me away ... I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know — after all that? Are you Federal Parole Officer Tamara White Cloud?”

  “Yes. Yes.” She looked up at the female cop, “Who are you? What’s this all about? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m Detective Lieutenant Harper Lee Legend, ma’am. About ten minutes ago, we received a tip from the FBI that there would be an attempt on your life. An informant told the FBI it would take place here in this parking lot.”

  “What?” Tamara White Cloud dropped the mirror and looked at me. “And Mr. Knight was going to kill me?”

  “It looks that way, ma’am.”

  “But ... why me?”

  “We don’t know, ma’am. That’s all we were told. Perhaps he can tell us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I insisted. “I don’t have any reason to kill my parole officer?”

  They ignored me. Tamara said, “He was convicted of killing his wife four years ago.”

  As the detective lieutenant raised her eyebrows, I said, “Come on! I didn’t do it. I was acquitted.”

  Tamara continued, “He escaped from prison and killed two FBI special agents.”

  Lt. Legend glared at me.

  “Okay, I did do that — but they deserved it.”

  With five pairs of cop eyes on me, if looks could kill — all these cops would have sent me into the great beyond a hundred times over with the Devil’s pitchfork up my ass.

  Tamara said, “Somebody pulled some strings. He pled guilty to second degree manslaughter and got ten years parole.”

  Every lip in sight curled in disdain.

  I said, “But you’re not hearing the whole story.”

  “Get him outa here before I puke,” Lt. Legend said.

  They lifted me, roughly assisting me to their police cruiser.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  My protest went unanswered.

  After shoving me into one of their cars, we followed the other black and white toward the street.

  The patrol car in front of us pulled into traffic, but we stopped and waited for an opening. As the cop on the passenger side read me my Miranda Rights, I noticed the silver Chevy was now parked on the street by a row of trees. It was about a hundred yards from the marina parking lot’s far entrance.

  These guys were tenacious. They were waiting for another opportunity. Either they were skilled professionals and still confident they could yet pull this off, or they were amateurs and just plain stupid.

  Without so much as looking over his shoulder, the cop in the passenger seat said, “Hey, asshole. Here’s your rights: you have the right to remain silent.”

  I told them, “Guys, look to the left down the street. See the silver Chevy? Those are the ones — they tried to kill the woman, not me.”

  The driver glanced down the street, the cop on the passenger side didn’t. “Shut up back there and listen to your rights. And, if you must address us again, it’s ‘officers,’ not ‘guys’.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Officers, you listen to me. Those two in the silver Chevy are going to kill the woman as soon as we leave.”

  The passenger turned in his seat. “I said shut the hell up! Now, where was I? Oh, yeah — anything you say can be used against you.”

  Our driver patiently waiting for a chance to pull out, I twisted to look over my shoulder at the scene in the parking lot. The detective was still consoling Tamara White Cloud. My two buddies had arrived and were among the small crowd of onlookers who’d gathered by the marina restaurant. They must have gotten my newly purchased sailboat docked.

  The cop continued, “You have the right to an attorney.”

  I nodded to them with the most urgent look on my face I could muster. With the windows up and the crowd and traffic noise, it would do no good to shout out, so I only lipped HELP! I hoped they’d somehow understand the seriousness of the situation.

  “If you cannot afford an attorney, you have the right to have an attorney appointed.”

  My expression did cause them to glance at each other questioningly.

  A few years back, without question, either one of them would have pulled weapons and come to my rescue, guns blazing.

  That was a different time and place.

  Beautiful Johnson was a former Force Recon Marine, like me. This black, gentle giant stood six-six, weighed nearly 300 pounds and was a body builder. He was also the kindest, most polite man you’d ever care to meet — until you pissed him off.

  On the other hand, Booker “Booger Rat” Ratcliff, was quite a different story. He too was a former US Marine, but he’d been in Explosive Ordinance Disposal — the Marine’s version of the bomb squad. Unlike many in his old unit, he still had most of his fingers. Defusing and disposing of bombs had evidently gotten to the guy, however, and he’d turned to drugs as soon as he got out of the service. Regardless, deep down inside he was a good man — and he’d saved my life many years back. Of course, back in those days of Hell, it was hard telling who was saving whom.

  I had no idea what my friends would do, or how they’d do it. But, as we pulled into traffic on the street, I saw them trotting out to a nearby wrecker truck that had Smokey’s Marina stenciled on the side.

  My Mirandization continued, “You have the right to talk to an attorney before talking to us, the police. And please use this right — I don’t want to hear your stupid ass.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wrecking Crew

  As we pulled up to a stoplight a block down the road from the marina, the cop on the passenger side was finishing up with my Miranda Warning.

  He wasn’t looking at me any longer, but was facing forward. “Do you understand each of these rights?”

  He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Understanding each of these rights, I hope you do not now wish to speak to the police without a lawyer being present, asshole.”

  I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. “Stupid bastards, you’ve got to go back — you’ll be damn sorry if you don’t.”

  The big guy in the front turned in his seat again. This time he was pointing a Taser at me. I wished there was a barrier between us like in some of the other patrol cars I’d been in.

  “You’re threatening us? You’ve waived your Miranda and now you’re threatening us?” He was about to pop me, I could tell. “You won’t be killing a couple of law
enforcement officers, today, asshole. You know why?” He looked to the driver and began his theatrics. “Jerry, I think we’re in danger. This guy’s a known felon — a cop killer — and he’s threatened us. Oh my, what should I-I do?”

  “Well Frank,” the driver played along. He nodded at the Taser in his partner’s hand. “How about you subdue him?”

  “Oh yeah,” Frank said glancing at the Taser, “you’re right. That’s what I should do.” He smiled at me. “You heard my partner, Jerry. I guess I’ll have to subdue you. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt me a bit.”

  I watched the muscles in his hand flex and his finger tightened on the trigger.

  * * *

  At the same instant I expect the Taser to fire, I twist to the side to try to avoid the tiny, stinging darts.

  I see stars and my ears ring. But it’s not from the Taser. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck — a wrecker truck.

  Through the shattered window on the crushed side door of the police cruiser, I see my friend Booger Rat. I slowly comprehend what’s happened. He’s smiling from the driver’s seat of the wrecker that had been parked at the marina. It’s now smashed into the driver side back door of the cop car.

  I feel arms around me, and I realize Beautiful Johnson is pulling me out from the opposite side of the patrol car.

  The cop with the Taser lies halfway out the open passenger-side door, a deflated side-door airbag over his legs. He’s been stuck in the chest with his own Taser darts, the tiny wires coiling out from the red gun lying on the ground nearby.

  Obviously, Beautiful had gotten to the cop and then pulled me out.

  The driver seems adequately blinded, rubbing his eyes. Booger is trotting over to help Beautiful, jamming a pepper spray dispenser back into his pants pocket.

  I’m hoping my friends will end up in the same prison as me for this little mischief I’ve gotten them into.

  For now, I must focus on something more important — saving an innocent life.

  “I’m okay, guys!” I tell them as they try to get me to Beautiful’s Escalade, parked fifty feet back from the intersection. Beautiful’s very sweet little wife is in the passenger side. I remember that Abby was going to bring Beautiful’s SUV up to meet her husband and Booger, so they could drive it back home to San Diego.

  “You’ve done enough! Get the hell away from me. They’ll ID you — and you’ll all get arrested!”

  “Come on, E Z,” Beautiful says, “you’re hurt. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “No. I have to go back. But do one more thing; you have a knife or scissors? I need my hands free.”

  Booger asks Beautiful, “Maybe something in your car, in a tool box?”

  Beautiful is stumped. He never was much for tools or small weapons — with his huge paws, he’s always been a hands-only sort of guy. “I don’t think so. Sorry, E Z.”

  “Just let me go then,” I tell them.

  “E Z, we can’t leave you behind!”

  “No. Let me go. You guys did good. I’m leaving you behind.”

  “But, E Z,” Booger says, “your hands are zipped together. You won’t get far like that.”

  “I just need to make about three hundred yards, real quick.”

  Booger says, “What kinda shit you in?”

  The cop with the teared eyes takes a blind shot toward our voices, and a low limb snaps off from a tree beyond the curb. He’s rubbing his face with one hand and feeling the side of his wrecked car with the other — the one with the Glock 9mm in it.

  “Get the hell outa here before Officer Asshole gets his sight back.”

  I realize my friends are in it up to their necks, as I scan the stopped traffic and dozens of onlookers around us.

  Yet a little dazed, I jerk loose from their grip. “Thanks guys. I’ll contact you later.”

  I leave them perplexed, but they don’t stand around long. A couple more shots ring out, and as I dodge and dive into some bushes lining the street, my friends are racing toward Beautiful’s SUV.

  I squeeze through the shrubbery and hear the Escalade’s tires squeal as it roars away.

  With my next step, I trip and tumble down an embankment. But after quickly recovering, I’m racing back toward the marina.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dead Man's Bluff?

  I make it back to Smokey’s Marina just as the EMS van is leaving and Tamara White Cloud is opening her door to get back into her car. The small crowd of six or eight people have dispersed, and the only other person there is Lieutenant Legend. She’s standing next to Tamara with her back to me.

  I’m trotting toward them, out of breath. But neither woman notices me. With the exception of Marine Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape (SERE) School, I’d never run this far with my hands secured behind my back. The negative affect it has on balance and stamina surprises me.

  Just as I’m thinking there’s no need to rush — the silver Chevy isn’t anywhere in sight and neither is the guy with the rifle — I notice the silenced muzzle of an assault rifle protruding from the side of the marina.

  Awkwardly, I sprint at the two women.

  “No!” I shout. “Get down!”

  The lady cop turns, drawing her Glock 22 .40 cal. My parole officer now has one foot inside her car.

  I body slam Lt. Legend into Tamara White Cloud.

  The lieutenant’s handgun goes flying and Tamara’s purse spills out just as the driver-side window shatters. Glass rains over us, and I know the window breaking is not from my assault, but from a bullet.

  I’m lying across the lieutenant sideways, and she gives me an elbow thrust to the top of my chest as she gets up. Without a means to block it, I take the full force of her attack, and it knocks the air from my lungs.

  With a couple of gasps, I find the oxygen to say, “Wasn’t me! Shooter at the corner of the building!”

  My warning comes too late. As Lt. Legend is reaching for her gun on the gravel, she takes a bullet in the back.

  “Damn it!” I say and stumble up, my hands still behind me.

  Tamara White Cloud has slipped away and is heading across the parking lot in the opposite direction from the marina.

  “Tamara, get back here. Get down!”

  Again, too late. She runs into the shrubs that separate the lot from the street and right into the arms of the other assailant.

  I strain to hear sirens, but there are none. Where are the damn cops when you need them?

  I turn clumsily. I want to go to the downed cop, but she can’t be a priority, now. She’s not moving and quite possibly dead. I need to get to Tamara, but with hands zipped behind my back and a shooter behind me in the opposite direction, I’m unsure of how.

  Lt. Legend starts to move. A silenced bullet kicks up rocks in the gravel lot only a few inches from her head. It’s a warning shot. From the short range with a nearly stationary target, a ten-year-old with a slingshot could have easily hit her.

  I have no hope but to attempt a stalling bluff. The cops are going to be back any second, I’m sure of it — and if these guys have any sense at all, they should realize that too.

  I stand and glare at the shooter, sixty feet away. "If you let them both go now,” I tell him, “I won't kill you."

  Both assassins laugh. They have the same laugh, and they’re both short and stocky.

  "He's wasting our time. Kill 'em!" says the guy holding Tamara. “We got her alive — that’s a double bonus.”

  The shooter says, “You’re a dead man.”

  As foolhardy as it may seem, my only chance is that I might somehow defeat them with a kamikaze attack. This little plan depends on confidence — but not mine. I must rely purely on luck. It’s the overconfidence of our attackers that I’m counting on to better my overwhelmingly dismal odds: their overconfidence in easily staving off the attack of an unarmed — double entendre intended — seemingly defenseless man.

  I begin a swift walk toward the shooter whose aim is shifting from Lt. Legend to me, my eyes on
the guy’s trigger finger.

  Time seems to slow.

  The sniper takes quick aim.

  Now forty feet away, I see he’s not wasting a second for careful placement of the round that should kill me. He’s aiming center of mass — dead center of my chest.

  He’s squeezing the trigger, I can feel it — I see it.

  I twist sideways like a bullfighter stepping away from the bull, as the sniper fires. The bullet misses my chest by what couldn’t be more than a millimeter.

  He’s surprised but quickly adjusts.

  Now I’m twenty feet away.

  He squeezes off another hasty shot, as I zig in the other direction.

  The bullet misses again. I assess my target.

  At ten feet, I zag away. The guy’s so flustered, he misses a third time.

  Now I’m on him, and I kick the rifle up and out of his hand as it discharges a fourth time, the bullet going wild.

  My next move is quick, but couldn’t be more carefully planned. I’m just glad he’s not very tall — I haven’t done my stretches.

  I kick him once more, this time under the jaw.

  The guy's head snaps up and back, unnaturally — the base of his skull separating from the top of his vertebrae, his neck breaking in a loud crack.

  No reason to check, I’ve heard that sound before. The assailant is either dead or paralyzed.

  I turn toward Tamara. Number two is bringing her closer, toward her car. I’m thinking he’s coming to finish me off and check on his partner. They must be a close team, maybe brothers. If they were only after the money, the survivor would have left on his own.

  The second guy and Tamara are now about seventy-five feet away.

  She’s lucky he hasn’t killed her already, if that’s what they were here to do. Maybe it’s a kidnap-if-you-can-for-a- bonus, kill-if-you-can’t. Regardless, if given a chance, I’m sure he’ll use her as a hostage and a shield.

  But Tamara surprises me, while surprising number two even more. She stomps her right high heel into the top of the guy's foot and then twists out of his grasp.

  I’m sprinting at the second attacker now.