Chapter 6 - Blood on Black River Road
By three in the afternoon, the storm had returned, turning the dirt tracks of the timber ridges into thick gray mud.
Barnes didn't wait for lawful warrants. He had gathered six of his most loyal deputies—men who had participated in the offloads, men who shared in the cash shipments—and loaded them into two blacked-out Chevy Suburbans.
Their destination was the small, one-story clapboard house on the outskirts of town where Sarah and I had lived for nearly two decades.
Barnes intended to burn it to the ground. He intended to send a message to the hospital that would ensure no one spoke at any hearing.
The two Suburbans roared up the gravel driveway of my home, their tires spraying stones against the peeling white picket fence. The six men stepped out into the pouring rain, clad in tactical plate carriers, carrying semi-automatic shotguns and patrol rifles.
Barnes remained in the lead vehicle, watching through the rain-streaked windshield.
"Kick the door," Barnes ordered over the tactical channel. "Clear the rooms. If the wife is there, take her. If Dennis is there, put a bullet in his head and drop a throwaway gun by his hand."
Two deputies—Miller and Vance’s nephew, Travis—charged up the wooden porch steps. Travis raised his boot and kicked the front door beside the brass lock.
The door swung inward with no resistance.
The living room was completely empty. No furniture. No family photos on the mantelpiece. No curtains on the windows.
Sitting in the exact center of the bare wooden floor was a single, old-fashioned wind-up kitchen timer.
It was ticking.
*Click. Click. Click.*
"Trap!" Travis screamed, turning to leap off the porch.
A flash-bang grenade mounted above the lintel detonated with a deafening, concussive crack that shattered the front windows and blew both deputies off the porch into the muddy yard.
Before the smoke could clear, the surrounding treeline spoke.
It did not speak with wild, frantic gunfire. It spoke with the measured, rhythmic cadence of disciplined professionals.
From sixty yards out, Bishop’s suppressed sniper rifle fired twice.
Two rounds struck the engine blocks of the Suburbans, punching through the cast aluminum and rupturing the fuel lines, disabling both vehicles instantly.
From the left flank, Hector emerged from the shadows of an old tool shed, carrying an M249 squad automatic weapon converted for low-signature suppression. He didn't fire at the men; he stitched a line of heavy rounds across the hoods of the trucks, shredding the sheet metal and sending the deputies diving into the mud, shrieking in panic.
"Cover! Take cover!" Miller screamed, crawling toward the ditch.
I stepped out from the treeline directly behind the lead Suburban.
I carried an M4 carbine with a short barrel, held at the low-ready position. I walked with the steady, measured pace of a man inspecting an empty corridor at midnight.
A deputy scrambled up from behind the rear bumper, raising his shotgun toward me.
I pivoted smoothly, brought the rifle up, and fired a double-tap into his right shoulder and knee. The man collapsed into the mud with a shriek of agony, his weapon spinning out of his hands into the grass.
Another deputy turned, raising his weapon—and Hector was upon him. A single, sweeping blow from Hector’s rifle stock fractured the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling into the gravel, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Within forty-five seconds, the skirmish was over.
Five deputies lay wounded or disarmed in the mud, crying out in terror and pain, completely shattered by the speed and brutality of the ambush.
Inside the lead Suburban, Sheriff Rick Barnes sat frozen, his hand shaking as he tried to chamber a round into his personal 1911 pistol.
I walked to the driver’s side door.
I didn't break the glass this time. I opened the door calmly, reached inside, and placed the cold barrel of my carbine against Barnes’s temple.
The sheriff stopped breathing. The pistol slipped from his fingers, falling onto the floor mat.
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"Afternoon, Rick," I said softly.
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