Chapter Forty-Nine #2
It occurred to Court that if he had time to think about it, he’d probably have a serious bout of PTSD from being back in this building.
He’d spent some scary times as a child in here, often against his wishes, growing up working for his dad, being subjected to thousands of Simunition rounds fired by amped-up and big SWAT officers who saw young Court as their mortal enemy, lest they fail the course.
As if his father could read his mind, Jim said, “I’m sorry I was so hard on you back then, Court. I know I made a lot of mistakes. Especially considering you and your brother didn’t have a mom around.”
“Dad, let’s not get into that right now. It’s good to see you.”
“You, too.”
They made it to the Tomb; it was even smaller than Court remembered, just enough room for himself and his father, but they could look out on a larger room, a long hall, and several stretches of the wooden-beamed catwalk above.
There, Court said, “I’m really sorry I got you into this, Dad.”
Jim was breathing hard. This had to have been the most arduous morning of the last ten years for him.
Still, Court saw his dad’s smile in the low light.
He said, “If we get you out of this alive, maybe kill that man who’s after you, then this will be the best fucking day of my life, boy.
” He pulled his revolver from his pocket, looked it over.
“I mean, if I had an MP5 it would be better, but—”
This gave Court an idea. He drew his bigger weapon, turned it around, and extended it towards his father.
“Dad, give me your piece.”
“What? I’m not giving you my—”
“Look, I’m going to need some help from you if we’re going to get out of here.
I was taught by the best instructor in the world.
With your revolver I can put five rounds in five foreheads in four seconds if it comes to it.
You’ll do better with a bigger gun, a red dot sight, more ammo, and a flashlight on the rail. You know I’m right about this.”
Jim Gentry said, “Are you sure? I’ve never even shot one of those—”
“It’s just like an old 1911, but without the recoil. Plus, an eighteen-round magazine instead of just seven.” He handed his dad two extra magazines. “Let ’em have it.”
Jim passed his little stainless steel revolver over, along with a six-round strip clip, essentially a slim rubber holder for ammo that helped one reload a little faster than just fishing loose shells out of one’s pocket.
When Court accepted the Smith and Wesson from his dad, Jim said, “Take care of my baby. I’m gonna want that back.”
The two men tried to listen over the racket of the rain and near-constant thunder. Finally, Jim said, “Those guys we saw on the right. They moved in a gaggle. Disorganized. We can frustrate them, get them pissed off. They will lose discipline.”
Court nodded. “They’ll hit from the west and the east, groups of three, probably, but by the time they come through the maze of this building, they could be separated and might be approaching from any direction.”
Jim said, “Watch for vertical threats. They’re going to assume the catwalk is going to give them better visibility. They’ll have problems up there, but they might get lucky and see you before they come crashing down.”
“Will do.”
To his surprise, his father put his hand on his back. “Whatever happens, Court. Just know…you did the right thing by coming here.”
Court nodded.
Jim added, “Now that I’ve seen you both again…I can die a happy man.”
“You’re not going to die.” Then Court turned to him. “What do you mean, you’ve seen us both?”
“You and your brother.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I told myself I had to see you both, just once more, before I went to the Lord.”
Court’s brother had died seven years earlier.
“When did you see Chance, Dad?”
“Last year. Just like with you, I just saw him from a distance, standing in a field, and then he was gone.”
Court wondered if his dad was suffering from dementia.
A shouted voice came from somewhere in front of them, refocusing their attention. Court recognized the Irish accent of Campbell Coyle. “Hey, Court? I’m talkin’ to you, chief! I know you can hear me! Send your da out. I’m not after him! Let’s you and me fight, forget the rest!”
Jim squeezed his son’s forearm, shook his head no.
Court spoke softly to his dad. “I send you out there and he’d have you up on that catwalk with one of those other assholes pointing a gun at your forehead in ten seconds.”
Soon they saw a flashlight’s beam coming up a hallway, ahead and to their left. It shone on thick vines hanging from the catwalk above; they glistened with rain, and lightning struck somewhere nearby.
The thunder sounded like a bomb going off. Jim aimed the Staccato at the light. To his son, he said, “Save your ammo.”
The light grew brighter, but before they could see the origin of the beam, it stopped. Whoever was holding it was now stationary in the hall.
Court and Jim both knew this indicated someone was coming from a different direction, and the man with the light, or men if there were more than one behind the beam, had been ordered to hold position.
Court took a chance, stepped out of the little room they called King Tut’s Tomb, looked to the left in the darkness, and saw a man coming around the threshold of another entrance. He fired once with the .38 Special, hitting the approaching figure just above his left eye.
The man dropped his weapon in a puddle and crumpled down on top of it.
Behind him, Jim fired three rounds. Court looked back to see that his dad hit the wall just to the left of where the beam of light had been coming from.
The Gentrys knew that was a plywood wall, not reinforced like some others were in this massive building.
Immediately, the flashlight in the hallway fell to the ground.
Court began to regress to the Tomb where his dad was, but instantly gunfire sparked nearby.
Someone was firing from the catwalk above; the flashes came from behind Court, so he raced forward, towards the entrance where he’d just shot the man, and in so doing, leaving his father behind.