The Standoff Read online

  Brooks stepped back off the porch and out onto the drive. He flipped the phone open and dialed a number from memory and put the phone to his ear. He listened to an automated voice from a bank repeating the time and date to him. It was a generic number, no association to him.

  “I got a problem. Yeah. We’re broke down.”

  He paused like he was listening. He looked back at the Whites. They were quiet, listening to him and watching.

  “Uh-huh. Right. Yeah.”

  He went silent for a second like he was getting instructions.

  Brooks said, “Jim Nelson. We’re out near Cherokee Hill Farm. Oh, you do? Okay. Great. See you then.”

  Brooks mimicked like he was clicking off the call and flipped the phone closed. He returned to the porch, returned to the Whites, and handed the flip phone back to Abby.

  “Hope you got someone to come out and give you a hand?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  Walter said, “That was pretty easy.”

  His father said, “A lot easier than I would’ve guessed.

  “We have good Triple-A.”

  Abby turned and went back into the house.

  Abe offered to shake. “That’s lucky.

  “Yeah. Thanks for the phone. I hope I didn’t intrude?”

  “No intrusion.”

  Abe smiled at Brooks.

  Walter said, “Let me get my keys, and I’ll give you a ride back to your vehicle.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Sure, it is. It’s no problem.”

  “I’m not going that far. We’re right down the drive.”

  Abe intervened.

  “I insist. Let my son take you back.”

  “You know. I’m not bad with engines. I can even take a look for you when we get there.”

  Brooks shrugged.

  “Okay. I’m not going to turn down a free ride.”

  “Okay. Let me grab the keys.”

  Walter turned and went back into the house.

  “Get your warm coat too.”

  Abe turned back to Brooks.

  “So what brings you guys off the beaten path?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said you were heading to Washington from Atlanta. Why come out here? Why Spartan County? Seems out of the way to get to DC.”

  “We had to make a stop in Carbine.”

  Abe paused a moment.

  “How did that go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really? What about the explosion?”

  Brooks slipped his gun hand back around to his hip and planted it there like it was a normal habit of his. He matched it with the other hand and rested it on his hip. The Glock was a second from being brandished in his hand and ready to fire.

  “Oh, I heard about that on the radio. Yeah sounds bad. Actually, that’s how we got out here. The cops directed us off the interstate. They had things buttoned up. We scraped around and thought we were taking a shortcut through all the mess. You know? Like we were trying to circle around. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Abe’s lip tilted and twisted like he was struck with a math problem he was trying to solve. It was a facial expression that Abby had seen many times before. So, had Walter and his dead older brother. They had seen it when they were children.

  Abe did it involuntarily whenever he caught one of the boys in a lie.

  “That’s funny. My son got through the roadblocks just fine.”

  “There are lots of roadblocks. Maybe he went through a different one.”

  “That’s true.”

  Abe’s lips retracted and defaulted back to a smile.

  “Of course. Of course. Makes sense.”

  No more words came between them. They stood in silence until both Walter and Abby walked back out to the porch.

  Brooks glanced casually in and down the hall whenever he got the chance. So far he counted both Abe and Abby and then Walter and his wife. He also saw their son and a young girl, probably a teenager, and he guessed there was a seventh person in the living room because Walter’s wife was conversing with someone and it sounded like an adult.

  Brooks guessed it was a woman. In his experience, whenever a strange man comes to the family door, most men come to the door to scope out danger, which was a good instinct, but it would make no difference. If he wanted in, then he was getting in.

  Abby stepped out first. She carried two metal coffee thermoses. Steam emerged from the lip of both.

  “Here, Mr. Nelson.”

  Abby reached out her hands, offering both thermoses to Brooks.

  He ignored her at first because she had called him by his alias. It slipped his mind.

  Abe noticed.

  “Jim?”

  Brooks course-corrected and took both thermoses, against his instincts because now both his hands were occupied, which would’ve been smart on the part of the Whites—if they had intended to do it. They didn’t. He knew that.

  “Oh, sorry, ma’am. What’s this?”

  “I brought you a hot coffee to keep you warm out here in this nastiness. Plus, a second one to bring to your friend.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Walter showed his truck keys to all of them.

  “Let’s get going. You don’t want to miss Triple-A.”

  “Okay. I’m right behind you,” Brooks said and turned and smiled at Abe and Abby.

  “Thanks for being so kind. I’ll send the thermoses back with your son.”

  Abe nodded.

  “You get yourself back to your vehicle and keep warm.”

  Abby said, “Don’t worry about the thermoses if you don’t finish the coffee. Those are our beaters. They’re not important. We got plenty. We drink a lot of coffee out here.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Walter stepped past his mother and father and off the porch. He walked out to the newer Tundra and got in the driver’s side. Brooks followed and didn’t look back. He opened the passenger side. The first thing he did was stick the thermoses into the truck’s cup holders to free his hands, then he got in, making sure that his Glock didn’t come out from under his coat. He was forced to sit on it haphazardly. He couldn’t adjust it. That might give it away to Walter. He left his seatbelt off.

  Walter fired up the ignition. The Tundra started right up, no delays due to cold weather. It sounded vibrant and alive and built to last, perfect for Brooks’ needs. He took note.

  Walter slipped his seatbelt on. He pulled the gear into drive, and they slid off.

  A minute later, the truck climbed uphill from the farmhouse side. The men were not speaking, but the seatbelt sensor kicked on with an annoying chime, and a dash light flashed on. The noise filled the silence.

  Brooks did nothing.

  He didn’t put his belt on.

  Walter cleared his throat.

  Nothing.

  Walter cleared his throat again.

  Nothing. No movement.

  Brooks didn’t put his belt on.

  The truck drove out of sight of the farmhouse.

  “You mind putting your seatbelt on?”

  Nothing.

  Walter continued to drive forward. He eased up on the gas a bit, hoping that the reduction in speed would cut off the seatbelt sensor, but it didn’t. Once the sensor was triggered, only buckling the other seatbelt would cut it off. Like a barking dog, it wasn’t going to stop.

  “Buckle up, please.”

  No response.

  “That sound is so annoying. So, buckle up.”

  Nothing.

  Walter stayed quiet as the Tundra climbed to the top of the hill and then over it and picked up speed on the way down. The seatbelt sensor squawked and tolled gallingly.

  As they went downhill, he couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Sir, please fasten the seatbelt. That sensor is never gonna stop till you do.”

  Brooks looked over at him cryptically.
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  “Oh. Sure. No problem.”

  Brooks reached his right hand back behind him like he was going to grab the belt. He didn’t grab it.

  Instead, he came out with his Glock and shoved it hard into Walter’s ear. The whole thing was so fast Walter didn’t know it was a gun until he felt the cold nylon-based polymer end of the muzzle.

  “What is this?”

  “Shut up!”

  Walter took his foot off the gas.

  “Keep going!”

  Walter did as instructed. The truck continued to descend the hill and the drive. It bounced and sprang.

  “Slow it down a bit.”

  “You said keep going.”

  Brooks stared at him.

  “It’s just as easy for me to pull this trigger, splatter your brains all over that window, and kick you out and drive myself as it is to let you live.”

  Walter froze. His hands gripped the steering wheel at the ten and two o’clock positions. He stared straight ahead as if he kept Brooks out of his peripheral vision the man and the gun would disappear like a nightmare he wanted to wake up from.

  Brooks pushed the gun harder.

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good. Drive straight.”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  Walter drove the rest of the way down to the backroad. The truck came to a stop at the mailbox.

  “Which way, Jim?”

  “Brooks.”

  “What?”

  “That’s my name. Not Jim.”

  “Okay, Brooks. Which way?”

  “Go straight.”

  “Straight?”

  Brooks pointed with his free hand at the abandoned farm’s driveway down the street.

  “There.”

  “Pine Farms?”

  “The what?”

  “The Pines. They used to live there.”

  “Whatever. Go that way. Take it slow.”

  Walter took his foot off the brake and then gassed, slowly like he was told. He drove over bumps and crossed the backroad and drove to the end of the Pines’ drive.

  Brooks fished his free hand into his pocket and jerked out his radio. He thumbed the knob to switch the radio on. Static crackled.

  He clicked the talk button.

  “Jargo. It’s me. I’m coming home.”

  A second passed, and a voice came over the air.

  “Who you got with ya?”

  “One of them.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Brooks slipped the radio back into his pocket, and he retracted his gun hand. He rested it on his lap.

  “Keep going. Don’t think that you are out of danger. There’s a sniper rifle trained on you right now.”

  Walter did not question. Instead, he leaned forward and looked up at the barn in the distance.

  It was automatic. He never served in the military as his brother had, but he was country-boy enough to know about rifles. The barn’s loft was the best setup for a sniper’s nest.

  Brooks noticed.

  “It’s a Barrett fifty cal. You know what that is?”

  Brooks lied. Jargo’s rifle didn’t fire fifty-caliber bullets, but no reason to tell Walter that.

  Walter leaned back. His shaking increased.

  “I don’t. Not exactly. I’ve never seen one.”

  Brooks chuckled.

  “Of course you’ve never seen one. They’re expensive. Therefore, not practical for a guy like you. Know how much?”

  Walter didn’t answer.

  Brooks reached the Glock up, fast and poked him in the arm with the muzzle.

  Walter answered.

  “How much?”

  “Close to ten grand. Not quite ten grand, but close to ten grand.”

  “That’s expensive.”

  “Sure is.”

  They continued until the Tundra got close to the farmhouse and the barn.

  Walter saw the sniper in the loft. It was the guy from the radio, Jargo.

  Suddenly, the barn doors sprang open and the abandoned farmhouse’s front door opened wide.

  Six men appeared from different directions, all but one were armed. Walter saw assault rifles and two shotguns.

  The only one not armed was an older man decked out all in white as if he just stepped out of a store’s showroom with brand-new winter clothes.

  Walter asked, “What’s this?”

  Brooks didn’t answer him.

  Instead, he said, “Park, right there.”

  Walter pulled the Tundra up and over to the barn doors, stopped twenty feet back and parked where Brooks had pointed out.

  “Kill the engine.”

  Walter cut off the engine and pulled out the keys.

  Brooks showed him his free hand, opened it up. It was big and massive, like a baseball glove.

  “Keys.”

  Walter shivered and held the keys up and dropped them into Brooks’ hand. The moment they hit his skin, Walter felt that his life was over, as if giving up those keys destroyed the last ounce of hope he had to escape.

  “Get out.”

  Walter got out, and Brooks followed. They closed their doors one after the other and met in front of the truck’s grille.

  Walter held his hands up in the air like he was surrendering to police at gunpoint.

  The old man in white walked out slowly, his hands up at eye level and visible as if he was giving a peace offering.

  “Hello, neighbor.”

  Walter said nothing. He just stood in front of the truck’s grille, hands up, shaking.

  Abel walked and stopped eight feet away from Walter. Brooks kept his Glock out and down by his side, his finger on the trigger.

  “What’s your name, neighbor?”

  Walter said nothing.

  Abel looked at Brooks.

  “He mute or something?”

  “No. He can speak.”

  Abel stared at Walter.

  “Walter White.”

  Flack stood with a shotgun in the barn’s doorway. He chuckled out loud.

  Abel turned to look at him.

  “Something funny, soldier?”

  “Walter White.”

  Abel shrugged. Flack looked at Cucci and Tanis and then Brooks.

  “No one?”

  “What?” Abel asked.

  “Walter White? It’s from that show. About the drug-dealing school teacher?”

  No one spoke.

  “Never mind. Sorry for interrupting, General.”

  Abel turned back to Walter.

  He offered up his arms like he wanted a hug.

  Walter stayed where he was.

  Abel said, “Come on. We’re neighbors and neighbors hug.”

  “We are? They do?”

  “Mr. White, are you a man of scripture?”

  Walter nodded.

  “Well, so are we. The Bible says: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.’”

  Walter looked around slowly. He saw the faces of each man, except Jargo. They stared back at him, intensely. He saw nothing but insanity. They saw nothing but sheer terror.

  He stepped forward, slowly, and stopped in front of Abel.

  Abel reached out fast, grabbed him, pulled him in, and embraced him.

  “Good. Good. We were neighbors, and now we’re friends.”

  Walter shook. Abel let him go and stepped back.

  “Now, from one neighbor to another, we need your help.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. See, we have a problem. Several, in fact. But the most pressing one is we need wheels.”

  Walter stayed standing, but he felt his knees shake. His body felt heavy.

  “Take my truck.”

  “Oh, thank you. That’s kind.”

  Abel stared at him, hard like he had another request, but didn’t speak it.

  Walter asked, “What?”

  “I’m afraid we may need more than that.

  “What else do you need?”r />
  “We may need hostages. A little insurance. And this is a maybe. I haven’t decided, yet.”

  “No. No. Take me. Leave my family out of this.”

  Just then Jargo called down from his sniper’s nest.

  “Cops! Cops!”

  Abel pulled out his radio, spoke, and waited for Jargo to respond.

  “Where?”

  “At the end of the drive.”

  “Boys. We got company. Grab cover.”

  Abel got off the radio, and his men hopped to action. Jargo slipped back into a prone position, making sure his rifle was out of sight. Cucci and Tanis took positions on the outside of the house. Flack slipped back into the barn, closed the doors behind him.

  Brooks stayed where he was.

  He asked, “What about his truck?”

  Abel stared at the truck.

  “No time to hide it now.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Abel pointed a long, bony finger at Walter.

  “Get rid of them.”

  “What?”

  “Get rid of the cops, or we will pay your family a visit.”

  They all heard tires on snow and gravel climbing the bottom of the drive.

  “They’re headed this way.”

  “Do it! Get rid of the cops or you’re dead. Your family’s dead.”

  Walter stood frozen.

  Brooks walked closer to him and grabbed his forearm. He squeezed it hard. Walter felt instant pain. Brooks pulled it up into the air and then clamped his fingers down on pressure points in Walter’s wrist.

  Walter belted out.

  Brooks reached his other hand out and held Walter’s truck keys out and dangled them in front of his face.

  “I’ve got your keys. You say something. You tip the cops off in any way. I see you wink or smile or twitch—anything. I’ll take the keys and slip into your house. I’ll kill the old man first. Then I’ll have my way with the women. All the women. Including that peachy teenager. Got it?”

  Walter swallowed hard.

  “I got it! I got it!”

  “Good. Get rid of them.”

  Brooks released him and pocketed the keys. He went off to the side of the driveway to a cluster of trees and rotten fence. Walter followed him with his eyes until Brooks was lost to sight. He blended into the trees and brush like a chameleon, like something out of a nightmare.

  Abel headed into the house and stopped in the foyer. He left the door ajar.

  Walter saw his face. Abel winked at him and put one finger on his lips and mouthed a single, taunting word.