Silent Night

FORTY SIX

Down below, Wicks had stepped out of the van and was spreading the word to everyone around the campsite to pack up. It was met with a lot of disapproval and resentment. Most of them had been drinking and were having a good time and none felt like starting the drive back to Texas tonight. Wicks hadn’t been down here since they arrived on Friday but saw they’d set up meth labs beside the camp, not bothering with any safety precautions. He shook his head at the stupidity just as one of the doors of the caravans opened. A big bearded man the size of a doorframe stepped out. He saw the commotion and pulled his mask down off his face.

'What's going on?' he shouted.

'Pack your shit,’ Wicks called back. ‘We're leaving.'

‘What about the deal?’

‘It’s off.’

'We’re not done yet.’

‘Then stay. I don’t give a shit’

The bearded man looked around. ‘Where're Bob and Finn?'

'They're following.’

‘What happened to Harper, Travis and Stacks? We need their help.’

‘They’re staying. They got arrested.’

‘What for?’

‘Jesus Christ, who gives a shit? Just pack up or stay.’

Muttering expletives, the man swung round and stepped back into the caravan.

Wicks turned and saw several of the crew had gathered by the white van. They were all looking over at him.

'What's in the back?' one of them asked. He was a guy called Peterson, an ex-grunt. Bobby had taken to him and had been in the process of setting up a gun trade with one of Peterson’s old contacts at Fort Hood.

'None of your business,' he said, walking over.

'You drag us up here for three days and we don't even get to find out what’s going on?'

‘Exactly.’

Peterson went to argue, but Wicks’ hand moved inside his jacket, resting on his pistol, his temper flaring. It had been a long night and his patience was almost gone.

‘Touch the handle. Please. I’m begging you.’

Peterson saw his hand and the look in his eyes; he took the hint.



'Shit,' Faison hissed, listening and watching the exchange in the shadows. 'We don't know what's inside.'

'Do we move?' Hendricks asked over the radio.

Faison grabbed his own radio. 'All teams, stand by. I repeat, stand by.'



Wicks glared at Peterson for a moment longer then turned and walked off. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, drew one out with his lips and replacing the pack, pulled a lighter.

Watching him sparking the smoke, Peterson took his chance. He suddenly grabbed the handle and pulled open the doors.

Behind him, Wicks heard and swung round.

‘Hey!’



‘Stand by,’ Faison's voice said over the radio.



Peterson looked inside the van as Wicks ran over, pulling his pistol.

The back was empty.



Fifty yards to the west a skinhead suddenly appeared from around the boulder, having wandered out of the camp to take a leak. As he unzipped his fly, he looked up.

And stared at Hendricks, his team and Marquez, five yards in front of him.

It took just over a second for the thug to register what he was looking at. His hand flashed towards a semi-automatic pistol tucked into the back of his waistband but Hendricks was already raising his shotgun. The pistol appeared in the skinhead’s right, headed in a sweeping arc towards the trio of NYPD detectives.

And Hendricks fired.



Seconds earlier, Wicks had joined Peterson. But he hadn’t fired his pistol. He was staring inside the empty van, confused. There was nothing inside.

‘What the hell?’

Then a shotgun blast echoed across the estate. Down by the van, the neo-Nazis all turned.



‘Oh shit!’ Faison said. He grabbed his radio. ‘All teams, move in! Move in!’