American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (19 page)

“Stop, stop, stop!” Dylan commanded the Agent Brinson.

In the parking lot of the trail head at Monson, the official-looking vehicle of the wanted man was still parked.

“This is where her tractor is?” Brinson asked, puzzled.

“No. That’s the car your fugitive is driving. He’s still here,” Dylan answered.

“Are you sure?” the agent probed.

“Turn around in the next driveway on your left. Then pull over to the side of the road where you can see his car,” Dylan instructed.

Agent Brinson bristled. “You don’t give orders to me.”

“Look, we both know the longer things drag on, the harder they are to solve. If this guy gets in that car and drives away, you may never catch him,” Dylan explained.

“We’re not going to sit on a stakeout,” the agent insisted, and smiled at the outdated notion.

“Got that right.” Dylan opened the door and jumped out of the moving car. He ran toward the parking lot.

The Brinson turned the car in the driveway and pulled over to the side of the road just as Dylan suggested. Chasing Dylan into the woods left them both exposed and gave the suspect an open escape. Driving somewhere else would take him away from the scene and his best lead for finding the criminal. He swiped his phone and called in to the police headquarters to request backup.

Dylan stopped running just as he came out of the woods.

When he reached the Gould house, he pulled his phone from a pocket and pretended to swipe it alive. The phone went to his ear as he walked and he thought about what to say.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said loudly. “I can barely hear you, the signal is weak here.”

He paused like he was listening to someone on the other end of a call.

“Okay. I promise I didn’t write anything down. If they stop me before I get the Lease, there’s no way they can find it on their own,” he yelled, immediately embarrassed by his overacting.

Keeping his head focused in front of him, he used his peripheral vision to detect the slightest disturbance.

It took over a minute, and much more space than he expected, before he saw the branches move opposite the wind. Then a pair of birds was scared out of the trees. While there was the possibility that it was a deer, coyote, or other large animal, Dylan sensed that it was a man. Besides, most of the animals would be resting quietly at this time of day, preferring to feed in the dawn and dusk hours.

Knowing that speed was one of his few advantages, Dylan came up with a plan.

“The FBI guy is following me,” he said into his fake call more softly, but still loud enough. “I’m going to ditch him and then circle back. No way are we letting the Feds take this into evidence.”

He sprinted down the old dirt road.

If things worked out the way he hoped, the guy in the woods would have been looking behind Dylan in search of the FBI agent. When he noticed Dylan running, he would realize that he had no hope of moving through the dense forest quickly and quietly enough to catch up. The thief’s best option would be to sit and wait, like he had been for most of the day.

Well past the last cellar hole, Dylan veered left and directly into the woods. He made no special effort to be silent at first. Once he was twenty yards into the trees and brush, he stopped completely and listened.

Silence.

Not knowing how deep into the woods the fake FBI man was hiding concerned him, but he did not stop. He made each step slow and careful with the knowledge that the sound of a leaf or breaking branch was related to its size. Big branches made big cracks.

His running had taken him further away than he thought, and the trip back to where the road opened up required more energy than he expected. Sweat ran down his back and dripped from the end of his nose.

Finally he spotted a navy blue patch against the red, yellow, and orange backdrop of autumn leaves. The imposter may have been well-trained and lethal, but he was not dressed for hiding in the woods.

Taking advantage of the noise created by a few steady gusts of wind, Dylan closed to within fifteen yards of the man who had previously assaulted him. In truth, he had never expected to get this close and wasn’t sure about how to close the last space between them.

Another gust of wind would help, but maybe not enough now that he was so close. He needed another distraction.

His phone.

Taking the cell phone from his pocket, he texted Abbey.

“Call me in thirty seconds. –Dylan”

A few moments later, the reply came: “Counting down. Be careful. –Abbey”

Dylan counted to ten, quickly, and then threw his phone off to the right of the suit in front of him.

When the phone landed, he could see the man shift and search the area the sounds had come from.

Dylan found a branch slightly thicker than a baseball bat and gripped it firmly. The next twenty seconds passed slowly.

As soon as the phone began ringing, the would-be killer raised himself up slightly to get a better view.

Dylan crossed the space between them in just a few strides. He swung the branch forcefully, making direct contact with the back of the man’s head. The body slumped over the log he had been hiding behind and the gun he was holding fell down into the leaves.

That was easy
, Dylan thought, regretting it immediately.

A shot rang out and the log in front of his left leg splintered violently.

Without hesitation, he dove to the earth.

Another report cracked the still forest and bark from the tree directly behind him exploded and rained down on his back.

The gun from his unconscious stalker was on the other side of the log. Taking three quick breaths, he mustered his courage.

This was no dash for the end zone where a hard hit would be softened by pads and the adrenaline that comes with a touchdown. This was life or death.

He reached over the log and grabbed the gun quickly.

Another bullet splintered the log, inches from his hand.

As he lay back on the earth, Dylan saw that the last bullet had blown a hole in the log he was hiding behind. Soggy, rotten wood spilled out on his side in a gaping hole that tapered to a narrow opening only slightly larger than the bullet that created it.

With the new opening he could see across the road into the woods behind the cellar holes.

Not only were these assailants better shots, they were also better at hiding.

His phone had already worked as a distraction, and now it was out of reach, deep in a bed of leaves. How could he flush them out of hiding when he couldn’t see them?

Looking at the unconscious body on the ground next to him, he started to worry about the man regaining consciousness. To keep him out of the fight, Dylan would need to incapacitate him, but he didn’t want to kill him.

Wiggling around on the ground in his best effort to keep below the cover of the log, Dylan grabbed hold of the man’s suit sleeve. Laying his head back, he moved himself into a position where he could see through the hole and still maneuver his hands.

Slowly, he raised the arm of the fake FBI agent, making it clearly visible above the log.

Within seconds a shot rang out and Dylan was able to see the flash from the muzzle of the gun that fired it. He did his best to note the exact tree that hid the shooter but knew that when his perspective changed it would be tough to find.

The man on the ground next to him screamed in pain. Blood poured from his hand —his first two fingers were completely gone.

Dylan saw a rage-filled face staring at him and a flash of steel.

He was able to move his leg just before the knife slashed down and dug into the soft earth.

Dylan kicked hard and struck the man in the head.

Another growl came from deep within his attacker as the knife was raised for another strike.

Using his other foot, Dylan pushed at the man’s shoulder. Apparently unaware of the other shooter, the FBI imposter used the push as leverage to rise up to his knees for a more powerful strike.

Brain matter and blood created a fine mist in the air. The impact from the bullet caused the body to fall backwards, harmlessly away from Dylan. He couldn’t tell if he’d heard the gunshot or not, but his breathing slowed while he checked his own body for injury.

The dead man next to him was no longer a problem. A greater problem existed in the form of a sniper across the road.

Looking out through the peephole in the log, Dylan was surprised to see two men casually walking between two cellar holes. Both were dressed in full camouflage and one held a long rifle in the crook of his right arm. They looked like triumphant hunters casually strolling to collect their kill.

As they approached his side of the road, Dylan could see that they were the men who had threatened him in the gas station parking lot. He doubted they were partners with the man who had been killed, but he knew for certain they were not on his team.

They must have triangulated on his phone and not seen him attack the fake agent. He would have to act before they arrived at his hiding place.

Giving the gun in his right hand a squeeze, Dylan closed his eyes and visualized the chest of the man carrying the rifle. He knew that close to a hundred yards was a tough shot with a handgun, but hoped that the gunfire would at least buy him time to get lost in the trees.

Rolling up to his knees, Dylan aligned the rear site and the barrel site squarely on the man’s chest before squeezing off three quick shots.

Without waiting or watching, he rose to his feet and ran into the trees. He dodged each of the first trees in a different direction; left, right, left, right.

A series of gunshots rang out and Dylan hunched his back, waiting for the painful impact of a bullet.

No bullets whizzed past and none found their mark on his body.

After passing a large maple, Dylan stopped and took cover. Looking back to gauge the pursuit of the hunters resulted in a pleasant surprise.

Off on the old Monson road, Agent Brinson carefully approached two camouflaged lumps on the ground. His gun was drawn and Dylan thought he could hear talking.

In the distance, sirens wailed, growing closer with each second.

Dylan stayed behind his protective maple tree until the first police cruiser slid to a stop in front of the old Wallingford cellar hole. Confident that the threat was passed, he tucked the gun into his waistband.

He emerged from his hiding spot and began carefully walking toward the scene. Several guns were still drawn and he did not want to get shot; he tried to be obvious but not surprising.

Rustling a few leaves and breaking some branches caused every head to turn in his direction. This time there were no guns pointed at him. Just in case, he raised both hands above his head.

When he arrived at the log where the third shooter died, he stopped.

“There’s a body up here,” he called out to the team.

“Are you okay?” Agent Brinson asked loudly.

“My ears are ringing a little, but I’ll be fine,” Dylan answered before walking toward the clearing.

By this time the lumbering, boxy ambulance had arrived. Paramedics were tending to the two men lying in the road, but Dylan couldn’t tell if they were alive. The police officers surrounded him with an anxious tension.

“I have a gun in my waistband, but I don’t want to surprise anyone. Should I take it out or do you want to take it from me?” Dylan offered.

“Give us a minute.” Agent Brinson almost smiled. “Guys, could someone get an evidence bag and take the weapon from Mr. Cold?”

The tension dissipated almost immediately.

For a small town, Dylan was impressed with the paramedic’s work. Dylan and the police surrounding him did not distract them. Their movements were quick and efficient without being hurried.

Looking closely, he could see the chest of one man rise and fall slowly; he was alive. The other man had just begun to groan and complain loudly, making it clear that he was not only alive but very unhappy.

As the unconscious man was lifted onto a stretcher, Agent Brinson pointed and said, “Cuff him to that gurney.”

One of the local officers hurried over and fumbled with his handcuffs before securing the man to the bed. Another officer waited anxiously by the other, more agitated patient, to do the same.

“Do you have a body bag in the rig?” one of the officers asked a medic.

“I’m going to take Mr. Cold back to the station for debriefing. I’ll expect copies of everyone’s report as soon as they’re filed. Your chief will know where to send them,” Agent Brinson explained.

“Did my shots hit those men?” Dylan asked.

“No. But I’m giving you credit with bringing them in. You are entitled to the rewards on all of them.” Brinson seemed almost proud.

“Any chance they could erase my criminal record instead?” Dylan doubted it, but figured this was his best chance of that ever happening.

“You seem like a stand-up guy. Like I said earlier, I saw a bit of your file and we may be able to work something out for you. Let’s talk back at the station,” Agent Brinson said.