Deadly Stillwater

The chief reached the top of the path and met Brown’s eyes, and the barrel of the. 45. He raised the Smith.

The end of the path emerged into a clearing on the top of the cliffs. Mac looked up to the chopper.

“Shit.”

Brown went the other way. There’s no way Riley would have missed him. He immediately turned back to his left where the chief’s path would have come out of the cliff. The exit of the chief’s path would have been into the dense forest. Then he saw the muzzle flashes.

“Riles, shots fired at ten o’clock! Shots fired at ten o’clock!” Mac yelled as he ran into the dense woods and toward the muzzle flashes.

The chief got two off before he ducked for cover, as Brown unloaded his. 45 causing shards from the trees to rain down upon him. The shots stopped, and the chief looked to see Brown was running down the path. The chief pushed himself up and gave chase, firing.

The chopper was overhead scanning the path as Smith ran as hard as he could, even as one, two, and then three shots went by. The chopper must have seen the muzzle flashes for Flanagan’s shots as the light was behind him now. The truck was within reach, another thirty yards. But he needed to stop Flanagan first or he wouldn’t be able to get the tarp off and get away.

The chief was shooting on the fly. Then he saw Brown turning around with the. 45, standing in the middle of the path, exposed. The chief set his feet.

Smith’s leg buckled as Flanagan’s shot grazed his right leg. He was hit, but it didn’t put him down. It was nothing like the wound in his left shoulder. Flanagan was trying to fire again, but nothing was coming out of the gun. He was out of bullets. Slowly Flanagan’s arm dropped to his side and a resigned look appeared on his face.

“Flanagan, that must be an old Smith you’re holding there and you’ve had your six. You’re finished,” Brown yelled as he raised the. 45.

“But I’m not!” a voice yelled from behind him.

Smith turned around to see Mac McRyan, with bloody arms and face, feet set, gun pointed right at him.

“Put it down, Brown!”

Brown started to raise the. 45.

Mac didn’t hesitate.

He hit center mass three times.

Smith Brown was blown flat on his back.

The chief walked up to Brown and kicked the. 45 away. Brown spit blood out of his mouth, laboring to breathe, laboring to speak.

“You… may have… got me. But you won’t… find… the girls.”

A blood-filled smile crossed his face.

“I lost my daughter… because of… you. Now you… will know… how it feels.”

The chief kneeled down and looked Brown in the face and smiled.

“My boys, they found the girls.”

Brown’s eyes went wide with disbelief.

“No… it’s not… it’s not possible. You’re lying.” Brown said, spitting more blood.

“No we’re not,” Mac answered, standing over him now, blood streaming down his left cheek, the duffel bag of ransom money in his left hand. “We dug them out of the ground at O’Brien State Park a couple of hours ago.”

“They’re alive,” the chief stated. “You failed.”

“And we know about Burton,” Mac added. “He sold you out. He broke in two minutes.”

Brown’s shook his head, “N… N… No,” he said, the blood running out of his mouth. Death was seconds away. Mac held up the duffel bag, smiled and uttered the last words Smith Brown would ever hear.

“Game. Set. Match.”

41 “ It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

JULY 5th

4:48 AM

It took a little over two hours, and he was dead tired, but Mac gave Heather Foxx everything, or just about everything.

He looked like hell, like death warmed over he said later. Sally, watching from behind the camera, remarked that he looked ten years older.

“But that’s fine,” Heather said. “It makes the story that much more dramatic. People will see what you put into it, how hard you went after it. The big scar on your face. The whole ‘never say die’ and ‘against all odds’ thing. It’ll be great.”

“If you say so.” Mac hated interviews. But in this case, it was the least he could do. Heather had saved the chief and kept her word, kept the story close until it was done. She had lost the story of the girls’ rescue to another station – that broke while she was interviewing Mac. But she was the first with the whole story, and she had it in time for the morning news program. By the end of the day, her face – and Mac’s – would be on stations across the country, she predicted.

“Sorry Mac, the story is just that good.”

“Great,” was his wry reply. “But I’m done, right? I don’t have to do any more of this?”

“Not with me. I imagine many of my brethren will be seeking your time.”

“Not if I can help it,” Mac answered, yawning. He could barely stay awake; his body was shutting down.