Page 158 of The Fourth Option
The lead vehicle swerved to the right and smashed into one of the supports. The truck continued, rolling past the disabled minivan and slowed to a stop.
Walker racked the shotgun and moved forward.
The driver of the truck kicked open the door and fell to the pier. Walker’s double aught took him in the chest. Walker racked the shotgun and fired into the man’s head. He then set the weapon’s stock on top of his right shoulder and twisted it to the outside. He grabbed the most forward shell on the side saddle with his index finger and the next shell in line with his pinky. He moved his thumb behind the second shell and slid both into the loading port on the underside of the shotgun to top himself off. He then approached the open driver’s-side door and looked across to see a man in the passenger seat struggling to breathe. Walkeraligned his sights on his face and pressed the trigger, immediately racking the shotgun again to chamber another cartridge.
He stepped to the rear passenger door on the driver’s side and unloaded two more barrages through the closed window before he opened it to find a man sprawled in the back seat. Walker leveled the barrel at the top of the man’s head and fired again.
He topped off the shotgun with the remaining four shells in his side saddle and moved to the minivan. As he came around the back corner of the pickup, he saw a man in khakis and a tank top holding a stainless revolver wiping blood from his face. Walker shot him once in the chest and again in the face as he dropped to his knees. Gunfire erupted through the windows of the minivan, in his general direction, but it was wild and ineffective.
Four rounds left.
He continued his approach, sending his final four rounds into the source of the shots. As his weapon went dry, he dropped it to the ground and drew the Staccato from his belt. He fired as he walked to the open sliding door of the vehicle, adjusting aim as bodies came into view: driver, passenger, and another man in the back seat. Walker put rounds into each of their heads before walking back to the Charger.
He was now on the clock.
“Jesus,” Gormley stammered. “You killed them all.”
“And you tried stalling, talking to me, knowing you had men on the way.”
“I’m sorry. Please, let me live and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Unfortunately for you, those explosions mean that cops will be here any minute. If it’s any consolation, your buddy Bates will be joining you soon.”
“No, please,” he pleaded.
Walker revved the engine.
“Christ, man, who the fuck are you?” he asked, eyes wide in horror.
“You know who I am.”
Walker put the car in drive, and then stepped from the vehicle, letting it roll forward and plunge into the Mississippi.
Gormley screamed the whole way down.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
NEW ORLEANS FIREDepartment trucks, ambulances, marked and unmarked police cars, and vehicles from a slew of federal agencies had descended upon Dorado Freight. Mobile command centers and tents had gone up to process what was already being called an act of terrorism by the media.
The scene had been cordoned off until the NOPD bomb squad finished a thorough clearance of the entire facility to ensure there were no additional IEDs. The morning rain mixed with the remnants of the four explosive devices and gave the air around the pier an edge of acrid metallic notes as if to remind those standing among the bodies and wreckage of their own mortality.
But by the Grace of God…
The press was being held outside the front gates for safety reasons and to preserve an active crime scene. Local media had arrived before sunup, with national news networks steadily increasing their presence in the intervening hours. All of them were scrambling for sound bites and video. Helicopters were grounded due to weather but would be up as soon as they had clearance.
Stanton stood by what was left of the truck as a team of CSI technicians continued to take photos and bag evidence. His FBI windbreaker was soaked, collar turned up against the downpour. Water dripped from the brim of his Bureau-issued cap. Beside him, J.J. squinted through the rain taking notes on a small pad streaked with ink. They had been on the scene since before dawn, waiting for the go-ahead from the bomb squad.
The blasts had done minimal damage to the pier but maximum damage to the two vehicles. The seven dead bodies were covered in gang-affiliated tattoos. None of the victims carried driver’s licenses orpassports. Audie Lloyd had been getting twitchy. Icy was breathing down his neck, pushing the Mexicansicarioangle. Lloyd wanted results and he wanted them fast.
“Are we sure there is no video surveillance system?” Stanton asked. “Seems strange that this place wouldn’t have security.”
J.J. shook her head. “There are cameras, but someone ripped out the server. Wires are torn and twisted where it was set up in the office.”
“Ripped out before the blast?”
“Hard to say.”
Stanton scanned the two-vehicle wreckage and seven bodies.
