Going Dark(71)

Frank smacked into another branch, almost put out an eye, and knew with even more certainty that things were fucked as some idiot up ahead fired his automatic weapon. Sounded like he’d held down the trigger till the clip was empty. Nothing disciplined about it. No way that could be a SWAT member. No way. It had to be an ELF guy. Goddamn, had to be.

Lights blazed to his left and he cut that way, staying in a crouch. Ahead, maybe twenty yards, flashlights were mingled with the bright blue flash of the barf beamer.

That’s the name Pipes, one of the NCIS guys, had used back at the marina, showing it off to the FBI team. Sheffield had heard of it, never seen one. An incapacitator. It used light-emitting diodes to shoot superbright pulses of light at rapidly changing wavelengths. Supposed to disorient its subject, bring on nausea.

What the hell use it would serve in an operation such as this he had no idea, but he didn’t want to get into the weeds with Magnuson, so he hadn’t squawked. Another check mark against him.

Sheffield yanked aside the bushes, plowed through the dense brush, no longer concerned with the noise he was making, even drawing out his flashlight and switching it on. Pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other, backhanding the branches. Ten yards ahead was open ground, stray voices, someone barking commands. Loud, angry, though Frank couldn’t make out the words, blocked by his own heaving breath, his rush through the scrub.

Breaking through the last of the undergrowth, Frank lurched onto a field, grassy and wide open, flashlights dancing up ahead, and the barf beamer holding steady on the side of the tent. All weapons aimed at the cone of light where the tent’s fabric was shredded, pocked with dozens of bullet holes.

No way to tell if they were incoming or outgoing.

“Hold your goddamn fire!” Frank hustled toward the others.

He aimed his flashlight at his own face and slashed a hand across his throat to call them off.

Thirty feet from the tent, Magnuson stood at the rear of his three men, all kneeling in shooting position. Sheffield’s crew was still arriving, out of breath, automatic weapons raking across the patches of darkness surrounding them.

Inside the tent a single lightbulb swung from a cord. The torn fabric rippled in the wind. From inside the tent the shadow of a man rose from a squat to a standing position. One hand appeared to be raised above his head. Maybe surrendering or, hell, who could tell, maybe he was about to toss a grenade. The men on Magnuson’s team tightened their aims.

“I said stand down.”

Then Frank called out for the man to drop his weapon and do it now.

But the shadow stayed put, one arm raised, the man beginning to turn in what appeared to be a circle, a sluggish pirouette.

“Area’s clear, Frank,” his team leader, Dinkins, hissed in his ear. “We did the grid search, found no one. No boats at the beach. Nobody’s here. The shitheads jumped ship.”

“Except for that individual,” Magnuson said.

“Are the choppers in play?” Sheffield asked Dinkins.

“They’re working the quadrants, sir. Seen nothing yet.”

“Who fired their weapon?”

Agent Pipes raised his hand, then reset it on his AR-15. His barf beamer was propped between two rocks two yards away from him. If the light drew fire, he was distanced.

“Why’d you shoot?”

“Because of him,” the agent said, nodding at the tent.

The shadow Man made more noises. Babbling something.

“Agent Pipes, is this man armed? Did he fire on you?”

“He was holding a weapon. What looked like a weapon.”

Shadow Man was speaking in a hoarse, incoherent stream.

“I believe that’s one of ours, sir,” Agent Dinkins said.

“One of ours?”

“Billy Dean Reynolds, sir. I think it’s him in there.”

Frank flashed his light around the group, searching for Reynolds.

“When we landed Billy went ahead,” Dinkins said. “Running point.”

Frank did a quick head count, and, yes, Billy Dean was not present.

“Agent Reynolds!” Frank shouted at the shadow man. “Is that you? You inside that tent, Billy Dean?”

The man in the tent spoke again, doing another slow circle, one arm in the air, the other clutched around his midsection as if he were dancing with himself. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed.

Frank made it through the tent flap behind Agent Hale, who fell to his knees over Billy Dean and stripped open the fallen man’s rain gear. Shining his light directly on the wound.

“He’s torn up bad, sir.”

“Call in one of the choppers, land in the field, we need to evacuate him now. And get a medical kit in here fast.”

Hale sprinted off. Sheffield tugged the bloody clothes aside and aimed his light on the shredded flesh, heavy white bones splintered, strands of meat and muscle torn to hell. Several rounds had sneaked past his Kevlar and had ravaged the shoulder joint. Frank had seen enough gunshot wounds to know this would take months to heal, require multiple operations, a long rehab, might even put Billy behind a desk the rest of his career. Assuming he survived.