Chapter 70

70

Rumbling slowly out of the parking lot at the rail of the elevated boom platform a moment later with the fire axe on his shoulder, Shaw drank in the awed looks from the local cops.

This is glory , Shaw thought. Actual glory. I am Ben-Hur on his glorious chariot being borne to the battle. Stand aside!

"Can't this thing go any faster?" Shaw said to the operator, some Hispanic cop who looked like he was still in high school.

"This is it, sir," the kid said from the control console as they turtle crawled, finally turning onto South Street.

Passing the grocery store, he gave a thumbs-up to Doug propped in a sniper's position up on its roof.

Doug wasn't messing around, Shaw noticed. He was pointing the big barrel of a Barrett, an actual fifty-caliber Barrett, at the upper windows of the brick factory.

Shaw smiled. Doug had his orders. They all did.

Shoot to kill, kill, kill.

"Okay, Doug," Shaw called into his mic as they turned onto State Street.

"Get everyone into position now."

"Roger," Doug called.

As Shaw watched, first a half dozen and then ten cop cars screeched down Route 4 and Depot Street to surround the entire north half of the factory. He watched the cops stop and open their doors and crouch down beside them, holding long guns.

"Okay, wait, wait," Shaw called into the mic as they got closer.

The platform finally arrived at the parking lot beside the wrecked restaurant.

"Okay, covering fire. Now, now, now."

First there were a few pops and then Shaw smiled again as they all opened up at once from behind the hoods of the cruisers.

The cops letting it rip was something to see all right. And hear , Shaw thought as a full-on symphony of blasting shotguns and rat-a-tat-tatting AR15s filled his ears. Added to this Hollywood blockbuster soundtrack soon came the sound effect of the factory's twenty front-facing windows all simultaneously getting shattered into bits by flying lead.

In fact, the entire front facade seemed to shatter and shudder as windowpanes imploded and bricks were obliterated in puffs of red dust. Bullets ripped off the window headers and exploded the jambs. Under this withering barrage, a waterfall of brick fragments and glass shards and wood splinters began dropping down into the parking lot.

Shaw smiled some more as he thought of the cocky cop inside. He was in there, no doubt sucking the floor, probably pissing himself, as the place got filled with an unrelenting fusillade of lead.

Or had he already taken several bullets to the head? Shaw wondered. He certainly hoped so.

King of the castle? They were tearing a hole into the wall of this little castle, weren't they? he thought as he watched the glorious destruction.

No way was he going to let this cop win. He was going to put this pesky piece of shit where he belonged. In a body bag.

"That's it, boys. Get some, get some!" he cried into the mic as the moving platform came alongside the factory itself. "Let's take this place down brick by brick."

Coming ever closer, Shaw crouched low as he heard a stray friendly round whip past his ear.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" he cried. "And stay the hell away from the left. Just at the north of the building, not the south side where I am!"

He slammed the operator on his back hard.

"Move the boom up now. Let's go! Get me on the roof. Move it!"

Shaw already had the platform gate open as they came to the side of the two-story building's roof.

The tar paper under his feet had a springy give when he stepped onto it, but it seemed firm enough. Jogging with the axe and gas can, he arrived to the midpoint of the roof and placed the gas can down and went to work.

The tar paper gave easily under the head of the axe when he whacked at it. He chopped once and then twice. The third time he chopped, he saw plywood and a snarl of wooly insulation and he knelt and touched it. It was yellowed. How many years old? he wondered. A hundred? More.

It was as dry as tinder.

Perfect , he thought.

He stood and turned the axe around and swung again. The long pickax side sank deep. After he wedged it loose, he looked down and smiled. There was now an opening into the building below.

Once he had four such holes into the building two feet apart in a rough square, he paused for a moment, his face a sheen of sweat. He leaned on the shaft of the axe like a farmer resting in a field. Out behind the factory he took in the clear view of the bridge, the flowing river, the lights of the roadblock on the ridge on its other side.

He giggled as he dropped the axe and retrieved the gas can. He proceeded to pour the gasoline hole to hole to hole to hole and back.

The heady sweet masculine reek of the fuel was invigorating. As was the sound of it splattering into the factory floor below. After the can was empty, he tossed it aside and wiped his hands on the thighs of his tactical pants and lit a cigarette. The red cherry on it pulsed as he blew on its tip.

He took in a deep drag and let it out with a few smoke rings.

Then he flicked it.

"Nothing but net," he said as it tumbled end over end and disappeared down into the first gasoline drenched hole.

There was a pause and then a ribbon of flame flicked out of the hole like a large tongue out of a mouth. Then there were two tongues, then a trio, then a quartet.

The smoke started to rise and Shaw began to back away from the flames toward the platform, smiling ear to ear.