Dakota (Ch 35)

He was on his way up the gravel road when the sound of a shot ricocheted through the air. He slammed on the brakes bringing the car to a complete stop and sending a swirl of dusty air up around him. He waited for a moment so that it was clear in front of him. He looked around. It had come from too far off. He knew he wasn't close enough to the Samuels' yet, but the sound of the shot surprised him. And scared him. He punched the gas and sped off in the direction of the house and hoped that he wasn't too late for Rebekah. Or any of them. He knew he already had men down and he had called in so much backup he feared the National Guard would show up. That would be overkill. He kept the sirens off. He didn't want to scare this guy. He wanted to catch him. He wanted to take him in. He owed it to the Samuels and the Murphys. He owed it to Holt.

Trees swept past the windows as he neared the dirt lane. He slowed to a crawl and kept a careful watch of the area. He didn't want to risk get any closer. If the shooter was in the woods and saw the Sheriff's vehicle pull up, he was sure to become a target. He drifted to a stop behind a group of thick pines. He left the car, pulled on a brown jacket, unfastened his holster, and readied his weapon. He wasn't going to hesitate to shoot at any target he saw.

He walked slowly in soft fallen pine needles and half-rotted leaves that had just been made visible again from the spring thaw. He saw the three cars in the lane. Rebekah's door still hung open. All three appeared to be abandoned. As he continued to move along the road gaining a perspective of the situation, he crossed the lane and moved in the direction in which he assumed Rebekah would have moved. There was not a sound. No movement. Nothing. He glanced back at the open door and saw the body slumped against the side of the car. Panic set in. He rushed to the body. He leaned down expecting to see the face of Rebekah, but instead discovered that of a dead FBI agent. He was relieved she had made it out of the car. But his level of awareness peaked. This guy knew what he was doing, he was a trained member of a government agency, and the shooter took him out, one shot.

Crouching low, all of his weight on the balls of his feet, Kahle, scanned 360 degrees. Still nothing. He focus returned to that of Rebekah's path from the car. He moved in the direction of the road. He looked for ditches and adequate places to hide, as he had instructed her to do. As he moved, the silence faded and he heard the gasping of labored breathing. He moved steadily, but still cautiously in that direction. As the breathing grew nearer, louder, he spotted her yellow shirt. His pace quickened. He dropped on his knees at her side. She lie on her back, eyes toward the treetops and the sky beyond. Her gaze was glassy. She didn't recognize his presence. He took a visual inventory of her condition.

"Rebekah..."

He spoke softly but urgently. Her eyes batted slightly at the mention of her name. He put his hand around hers.

"Rebekah, I'm here. And help is on its way for you. You're going to be OK. You're going to be just fine."

He did his best to reassure her. There was a lot of blood. The brown leaves were stained to their autumnal reds once again. She was struggling for air. Her eyes never wavered from their skyward trance. She tried to speak. She tried to push a few words past her lips. It was difficult. But she finally was able to muster just two.

"My...baby..."

That was all. That was all that she could force out. Kahle's eyes shifted to her stomach. He placed his open palms on her belly. He reached for his radio and called for an ambulance. They were already on their way but he put a rush on one. He tried to assess her. She had been hit in the left shoulder. It was high enough that she might be able to get through it, but she had lost a lot of blood.

"Aahhh--"

She tried her best to squelch her scream. She tried to keep quiet. But the pain was too great. And the trauma from the gunshot was bringing on her labor.

"Rebekah, I need you to listen to me. Is the baby coming?"

She couldn't answer. She didn't have the strength. Blood was draining into her lungs.

"OK, OK, Rebekah? I need you to blink if you're in labor."

Blink.

"Alright. It's OK. It's alright. I can do this. Just hang in there. We can do this."

He couldn't do this. He was terrified. He was distracted. He had helped deliver two babies before. But that was under fairly normal circumstances. The expectant mothers had just waited too long before heading to the hospital. This was completely different. The mother could very well be dying. There was a lot of blood. He didn't know if she was going to be able to stay conscious to push. He didn't have any equipment. He was in the middle of the woods. There was a killer roaming the woods. The targets of that killer were still locked up in the house to his back. This was not normal. This was not a run of the mill Sheriff-delivering-a-baby-scenario. This wasn't in the training. This was essentially the combination of every piece of training and contingency that could possibly occur. And it was all happening at once, right now. He didn't have a choice. He was the only one on the scene. He was going to have to deal with one issue at a time. And Rebekah was first in line.

/ / /

After firing a fifth shot at the unknown figure in the distance, there was no reconsidering. He didn't know who was out there. But he didn't care. He was here for one reason and one reason alone. Jake and Janie Samuels needed to die. He turned abruptly toward the front of the house and completed the fifteen paces to the door. He stopped for a moment, raised the gun to his shoulder and blasted the knob off the door.

He pushed in and the door swung back against wall. He put out his foot to prevent it from swinging back and blocking his view. The room before him was empty. He moved past the coffee table, glanced into the kitchen and proceeded toward the fireplace. He rounded the other side of it and found himself in the dining room. The house was quiet. His head spun and took in the entirety of the room and the kitchen beyond. Blink. No one.

The door to the back porch was in front of him. He stepped up to it. He peered through the screen. His eyes dragged across the horizon from left to right. They stopped midway between center and right. Movement. He pushed open the door and stepped silently onto the wooden porch. He kept his foot in the door for a moment to prevent it from slamming shut. He descended the four or five stairs to the ground, keeping his eye on the body moving steadily away from the house. He raised the gun to his shoulder once again, and placed his index finger on the trigger. The nail was carefully manicured, precise. The trigger was pulled back. The blast left the barrel and propelled its way through the thin cool air of the early Dakota spring. The shell fell to the ground at the feet of the shooter. It bounced once on the soft forest floor and rolled to a rest against his left boot. The sound seemed to silence all other sounds. Birds didn't sing. The air didn't blow. The trees seemed to grow more rigid. Echoes bounced back and multiplied. The body in the distance stumbled and fell to the ground between the trees. A muffled thud answered back to the blast.

The shotgun was lowered. As a hunter retrieving his kill, the boots began their march in the direction of the fallen target.