Fic Post: A Loaded God Complex (3/3)
Sep. 14th, 2008 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwendolyngraceBegun in Part One....
Continued from Part Two....
Sam had just about had enough. Enough waiting around, enough comforting Chris and being all brave, and most important, enough of sitting there letting these dickwads terrorize the crap out of everyone.
Martin had tortured Nate in front of those kids. He’d sliced his calves, so that blood soaked Nate’s socks and ran down over his Nikes. Then he’d radioed the gym and told Drake and Smitty to take Nate down there, where they would hang him from the basketball hoop as a warning to all the other kids in there. There would be no escapes.
Nearly half the students had been sick, and the other half looked like they’d have puked if they’d had anything in their stomachs to start with. Everyone—even people who hated Nate—flinched along with him when Martin sliced the knife across Nate’s leg. Sam thought it was kind of like in the olden days, on ships, watching a flogging. For the first time, he thought he understood why public corporal punishment had been thought so effective a deterrent. And why it had created so much sympathy for its victims that it had eventually been determined inhumane.
Forty minutes had passed since they’d dragged Nate away, and Martin had not let up lecturing them about how they were good for nothing but sacrifice, how they had been chosen to do something so noble they probably couldn’t understand it—and probably didn’t deserve the honor of dying for Valac.
“Man, Branch Davidians have nothing on this loser,” Sam muttered, patience fraying.
“Huh?” Chris grunted beside him.
“Nothin’,” Sam said quietly. “I’m just sick of this yahbo.”
“Sam, he’ll kill you,” Chris warned. “Please don’t say anything.”
Sam puffed out his cheeks and released the air in a huff. “Y’know, Nate was right about one thing,” he said. “If we all rushed them now, all at once, we’d have a chance.”
“A chance to get killed,” Sarah Boyle said archly, butting in on his left.
“I don’t think so,” Sam observed. “See, they’ve each got Ruger 10/22s, with a ten-round magazine, but they need to pump between each shot. And Drake? There’s something wrong with his—his magazine’s not seated right. See how it’s sticking out too much where it fits into the stock? That probably means he hasn’t even racked one in the chamber yet, or he’d know it’s screwed up. I’m betting it’ll jam, or at least fail to feed. Smitty’s got his safety on,” he continued, inclining his head to the right where Smitty leaned on the music stands. “Plus, his gun’s slung across his back. It’ll take him forever to pull it around and be able to fire it. So if we were fast enough, we could probably get to him before he’d be ready to fire. Martin’s a problem, though, even without a rifle. He’s not gonna put his gun down, and he’s got some kind of backup strapped to his ankle.”
“How can you tell?” Chris asked. Sam blushed, worried for a moment that he’d once again revealed himself as “Sam Winchester, The Amazing Freak.” But Chris seemed to be more fascinated than appalled.
“Well, see the way his left cuff is folded into his boot?” Sam hid his pointed finger with his leg.
“Yeah, I see,” Sarah breathed.
“Me, too,” Chris whispered, sounding pleased.
“Okay, now look at the right one,” Sam instructed. “See how it’s got a bulge and it’s not tucked in all the way?”
“Whoa, that’s cool,” a new voice behind Sam added. It was Matt Brandtly, back among the living. “What else, Sherlock?”
“Sh…” Sam warned. “Okay. Well, I think if we can devise a reason for him to come over, we can distract him, and…I can get his piece.”
“Seriously?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah—well, we’ll have to be quick,” Sam mused. “And careful….” He looked around and realized that a number of kids had been edging closer to him. He now had a small court facing him, including Wally Linstrom.
“How the heck do you know all this?” one of the others wondered.
“Yeah, and how come you’re covered in blood, but you’re not even a little freaked? What, did you transfer here from Detroit or something?”
Sam’s hand wandered back up to his hair and he self-consciously rubbed the matted mess. He became aware again, acutely, of Sarah sitting next to him, and the fact that he must stink. But really, being covered with human remains, while creepy, and being held at gunpoint by men, while scary, wasn’t nearly as frightening as being told to wait in the car, in the open, while Dean and Dad chased down a shifter—one that could have come after him at any moment—and that was over a year ago. But he couldn’t very well tell any of them that.
“We…lived in South Central LA for a while,” he declared solemnly. That earned a ripple of impressed nods and “Oh”s of understanding.
“What’s your plan, Sam?” Wally asked. Sam wasn’t surprised to find that Wally wanted vengeance for Nate. What surprised him was how Wally turned control over to Sam so easily. It gave him instant cred in a way almost nothing else could accomplish. Well, except maybe just having told them he’d lived in gangland.
“I think if we took out Martin, we won’t have to worry too much about the others.”
“The fuck are you ladies all jabbering about?” Martin demanded. He waded through the kids to the nexus surrounding Sam.
“Sam told Chris that Tom wants to ask Kimberly out, but he’s too scared,” Sarah said immediately and very matter-of-factly. “And Tom said he’s not too scared, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance, because you’re going to kill us all. But then Chris said that Nate deserved to die, but you’d better at least give us last requests, because even murderers get last requests, and we’ve never hurt anyone, except for that time Steve singed his dog Benji’s fur, but hardly anyone remembers that anymore, and so he—Chris, I mean, not Steve—he figured for his last request, he’d ask to go to his prom, because everyone knows that you have to grant a last request, like in the Evil Overlord’s Guide or something—”
“Shut up!” Martin shouted at Sarah. “God, what the fuck is wrong with this bitch?” he asked Drake and Smitty, twisting to face his audience.
Sam put his hands in his lap quickly and smiled at Sarah, nodding thanks. The gun was already warm and fit his palm comfortably.
“Get him!” Wally screamed. The others all around Sam grabbed Martin’s clothing and pulled him down. One pair of hands reached the hem of his jacket; another clawed at the pockets on his fatigue pants. As he fell, Martin’s pistol went off, the round hitting the ceiling. A couple people screamed; Smitty ducked into a crouch, covering his head like a scared turtle. A shattered acoustic tile fell in a spray of foam. Someone wrested the gun from him with two hands, and then they were on him from all angles. Meanwhile, Sam sprang to his feet and leveled Martin’s backup at Drake.
“Don’t move,” he said, sounding a lot more like his dad than he thought possible. His heart was pounding even though he’d already swiped the gun, and all he’d had to do was stand up and aim. “Someone get Martin’s gun and cover Smitty,” he ordered.
“Got it,” Matt said. Matt yanked the rifle away and immediately began to make machine gun noises with his mouth. He was clutching the stock, but shaking the gun as he “air-fired.”
“Careful, Matt; the safety’s off,” Sam reminded him. “Okay,” he said to Drake and Smitty, “very slowly, put your weapons on the floor and kick them away. Chris, get the guns.”
Drake and Smitty complied, expressions warring between abashed and relieved. Martin had been kicked and pummeled by the students, who were now tying his wrists with the zip ties they found in his back pocket.
“Good,” Sam congratulated everyone. He looked around at the little crew and felt sort of like the pride he thought his father might feel when Dean had done something perfect, first-time. “Now, we’re getting out—”
The PA crackled. “Attention, intruder,” a voice came over the air a second later. “We know you’re still at large,” the voice announced coldly. “But kindly remember that we have your son. Cooperate or, please believe me, he will die.”
Sam’s attitude turned intense and fierce in a nanosecond. His mouth went dry and his brain went into overdrive at the implications of the announcement. His stomach turned over again, after he’d thought he couldn’t come any closer to throwing up. He looked around at Chris and Sarah, who stared at him dumbly, then at Drake, who was kneeling with his hands on his head, and Smitty, being tied up by Wally and Ken. Sam rejected the two of them as small potatoes. He wanted the big fish.
Martin was curled fetal with his face turning purple from the beating he’d received. Sam hauled Martin’s head up by the hair, much as Martin had abused Nate earlier.
“Where’s Fornham, you bastard?” he snarled, whipping him in the face with the pistol. “Where is he, you sick fuck? Where?!”
“Sam, what the hell?” Chris put a steadying hand on Sam’s arm.
“They’re talking to my Dad,” Sam spat. “They’ve got Dean.”
~*~
Officer Scanlon was okay, Dean decided, but that didn’t mean he was ready to actually befriend a cop. He couldn’t very well not respect a guy who’d taken a bullet for him, even if it did put them at a disadvantage. A little while ago he had doused Scanlon’s shoulder with peroxide and put on a field dressing. He held off giving him the codeine out of his little field medkit until he’d decided it was safe to check the hallway. Dad might need it, though Scanlon had assured him Dad was okay when he last saw him.
To keep occupied, he was reloading all the weapons he’d taken from the balcony and from Miller, who still slept soundly in the back of the classroom. Scanlon was flipping between channels on the walkie, listening for a sign that the cultists were coming for them. So far, he was staving off shock, but barely.
“Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, where did you serve?” Dean wondered, making conversation while they waited for the posse to intrude on their OK corral.
“Desert Storm,” Scanlon replied. “I figured, how different can one desert be from another?” He squinted up at the transom above the door. “Boy, was I wrong.”
“There’s lots of different kinds of hot,” Dean agreed. “Arizona hot isn’t West Texas hot, and that’s way not Alabama or Florida hot. Figures Persian Gulf hot would be completely unlike anything in this part of the world.”
“Been around, huh?” Scanlon surmised. “Lemme guess: That Marine pop of yours is career military.”
“Yeah,” Dean lied with a gregarious smile. “All our lives, one base to another, that’s us.”
“No, he’s not,” Scanlon smirked.
“Huh?”
“Marines have Pendleton, Lejeune, and Cherry Point, kid,” Scanlon informed him. “Three or four other minor facilities. Not like Army bases or AFBs. I may be doped, but don’t bullshit me.”
“Okay, fine. We just move a lot,” Dean admitted testily. He stowed the extra clips in the duffel. “If you know the answer, why ask the question?”
Scanlon shrugged, then winced from the way the involuntary motion tugged his injury. “De…detective work,” he said when he could breathe again. “I don’t know your answer. But what you choose to say tells me a lot.”
“Like what?” Dean inquired, on the defensive instantly. What had he said that was so revealing? What did this joker think he knew?
“Like you and your friend John. He reminds you of your dad—military, but probably doesn’t stomp on you like your old man did. Right?”
Dean snarled at the implication, but it was better than Scanlon uncovering something true about the supernatural.
But Scanlon wasn’t done profiling. “So, I figure you took off from home, maybe a couple years ago, met this John guy, paramilitary extremist, took you under his wing, taught you everything you always wanted Pop to show you. Getting close?”
“Not even warm, Officer Friendly,” Dean smirked.
“C’mon, Dean. It’s okay to want a mentor. Trouble is your friend John is just as crazy as these sick bastards. Truth, now: Where did he pick you up?”
Dean scoffed. Scanlon was going way too far down the wrong road. He decided to cut him off before his fantasy got any sicker. “At the hospital, when I was born. He is my dad, dumbass.” He “tsked” in mockery. “You don’t know nothin’ about me, man. Nothin’ about us.” He crawled to the barricade and peered out. “And you’re not—”
The speaker in the corner of the classroom crackled. A second later, a voice spoke over the air. “Attention, intruder.”
Dean listened to the message with growing dread. By the end, his agitation couldn’t be contained. He couldn’t sit still while these dickwads threatened his brother. He grabbed his sawed-off and one of the rifles, stuffing his pockets with extra shells and magazines.
“I gotta get out there,” he announced. “Stay here.”
“No. No way. It’s one thing to go scope out the territory and gather some intel, but I’m not letting you head back into their clutches alone.” Scanlon tried to get to his feet. He fell back after only getting to his knees, looking green with nausea.
“How’re you gonna stop me?” Dean half-taunted, half-threatened. “You don’t get it; they’re talking to Dad. They’ve got Sam.”
“Sam? Who’s Sam?”
“My brother, okay? They must have made Dad and figured out Sam was in the school.” Dean double-checked the chamber on his shotgun and tucked it under his arm. He popped the clip out of his backup, tapped it once, and slid it back in the grip.
“Okay, okay,” Scanlon held up his good hand. “Don’t panic, Dean. We’ll save him. I’m betting the squad’s out there now.”
“You think they can handle this?” Dean’s voice rose in volume…and unfortunately, in pitch.
“I think they’ve got more experience with hostage situations than you—or your dad,” Scanlon countered mildly. He sounded like he was trying to tame a skittish horse.
“I thought you said you’d been in with these guys,” Dean said, frowning. “They seem like the ‘negotiate with cops’ kind?”
“No,” Scanlon admitted with a sad shake of his head. “But you try to get to Fornham, guns blazing, they’re gonna kill you, they’ll kill your brother—assuming they already have him.”
That stopped Dean’s nervous pacing. “Come again?”
“Think about it, Dean,” Scanlon commented sanguinely. He seemed way too calm—maybe it was the codeine. “How many kids have they got here? Couple hundred—in different classrooms, all over the school. How quickly d’you think they could identify your brother?”
“All they need to do is ask,” Dean reasoned. “Even if Sam’s smart enough to suspect a trap, no one here has any reason not to give him up.” The whole thing made him sick to his stomach: that they never stayed anywhere long enough for loyalty, that kids in general were so cutthroat, that Sam always tried to fit in and never quite managed it. But it was what it was—no sense dwelling on what wasn’t.
Play the hand you’re dealt, Dad would say.
“Well, let’s say they did find him,” Scanlon allowed. “Your dad wouldn’t want you to compromise your own safety—”
“That’s exactly what he would want,” Dean said angrily—not at Dad, of course, but at Scanlon for trying, however kindly, to confuse him. “It’s my job to take care of Sam, dude. Like I said, you don’t know shit about my family.” He prepared to move the cabinet and glanced back at Scanlon, surrounded by rifles he probably couldn’t fire one-handed. “Got a backup?”
Scanlon reached for his inner ankle and pulled out a .38. Dean scowled at it. He checked the hallway. “Hang on a sec,” he said. He shifted the cabinet away and slipped out. Corey and Gilchrist were gone. A blood trail headed down the walkway where it looked like Gilchrist must have supported Corey as they stumbled toward their comrades.
Unlike the last time he’d ducked out to check on things, the classroom door stood open and the students were nowhere in sight. And just about then, he heard people coming. He hurried back to the science lab.
“It’s me,” he called hastily to identify himself to Scanlon. “We’ve got company coming.”
He relocked the door and shoved the cabinet back into place, knowing the flimsy button in the doorknob wouldn’t hold anything for long. Scanlon had pushed himself forward with his Glock in his hand. He dragged the duffel after him, bristling with the other weapons: the .45 Gilchrist had used to shoot him; Corey’s rifle, and all the others Dean had brought with him.
“Any clue how many?” Scanlon asked.
“Didn’t stick around to find out,” Dean said regretfully. “They’re not using the radio?”
“Nah, probably know we’d be able to listen,” he said with a frown. “That’s okay,” Scanlon assured him. “But we can’t stay in here.”
“Too vulnerable?”
“No,” Scanlon replied, wagging his head. “You said the kids are at large. We have to get to them, help them stay safe.”
“Listen, Mr. Protect-and-Serve, that may be your mission, but—” Dean ducked his head instinctively as a gunshot cracked against the reinforced glass. He dove for the relative cover of the lab table next to Scanlon. “Guess we’re stuck,” he said with an impish grin.
Scanlon grimaced and clumsily primed his rifle with one hand.
What Scanlon had said about battle adrenaline turned out to be completely true. The echo of the single shot in the hallway was the coo of a dove compared to the clatter of gunfire that peppered the door and the walls of the lab. The reinforced glass shattered within the first few seconds of constant fire. They spent the next few minutes in an old-fashioned shoot-out worthy of the movies. Once the cultists blew off the lock, they had to put down their weapons to push Dean’s barricade aside. There were only four of them, but two of them laid down covering fire on the door and walls while the other two cleared the debris. Then they ducked low and tried to run in like Hawkeye and BJ avoiding helicopter blades.
Dean and Scanlon huddled at ground level, used the storage drawers as cover, and aimed for extremities to disable them while their buddies tried to shift the barricade away—legs, mostly, since they weren’t covered by the Kevlar. Scanlon, though pinned, matched Dean for aim. Before long the first two attackers were down and the second two had to stop and reload. Dean rushed to the barricade and hit them in the knees before they’d replaced their ammo. After that, they weren’t so interested in shooting anymore.
Dean shook his head. “Is being a cop always this easy?” he asked Scanlon.
“No substitute for a stupid perp,” Scanlon answered, coming up behind him to look over the four wounded men. He was definitely much perkier than before the shooting started, but he still took care not to move his left arm at all. He knelt down to inspect the damage. “We should probably get field dressings on them.” He didn’t sound happy about it; more like it was his duty to keep them from bleeding out.
“Nuh-uh, no time,” Dean protested.
But Scanlon had found someone who was conscious. “Hey! Kimmett. Where’s everyone else?” He hauled up on the guy’s jacket. “Got some painkillers here. Want’em?”
“Yeah, man. Please—”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Looking…looking for the…students. Please, man…my knee….”
“Yeah. Dean, give him some codeine.”
Dean held up a tab, but he twisted his mouth in disapproval. “What about Sam?” he asked, snatching the pill back at the last second.
“Who?”
“Sam. The kid the announcer said they’re gonna kill.”
Kimmett groaned. His head lolled backward. “There’s no kid, okay?” he told them. “By the time we figured out what room he was in, they were all gone. They’re getting out.” He looked up at Scanlon. “Martin was in bad shape. They kicked the shit out of him.” He began to giggle, then shiver.
“He’s going into shock,” Scanlon said. “Give him the meds, kid.”
“Not a kid,” Dean grumbled, but held the pill to Kimmett’s lips and followed it with a little water from the canteen.
“They’re all loose?” Scanlon asked. “All the students?”
“Dunno,” Kimmett admitted. “But at least three classrooms that we passed. And the teachers. This was so dumb…. Oh, God, I’m gonna die.”
“No. But you’ll be in prison for a good long time,” Scanlon promised. “C’mon, Dean. Let’s find your brother.”
~*~
Sam gave Martin’s gun to Wally. He didn’t want to touch anything that had belonged to the man. Then he led the whole troop of kids out of the music room, leaving Martin and Smitty tied up on the floor and pushing Drake ahead of him by brandishing the man’s own handgun. Some of the kids wanted to stop at the bathrooms, but Sam wouldn’t let them. He was too anxious to get to where they were holding Dean. When they got to the end of the building, he told everyone to split up.
“Chris, you and Matt take the younger kids and make for the edge of the school grounds,” he advised, picking the students who seemed more on the brink of losing their shit. “There’s gotta be cops there by now. Just make sure to keep your hands up if you see them, and tell them loud and clear that you’re students and not to shoot. They’ll cover you.”
He handed a shotgun to Sarah. “Sarah, you take this. You and Wally go to the teachers’ lounge. Open up as many classrooms as you can on the way—don’t try to engage the kidnappers; just open the door and run on. The more chaos, the better…these jerks won’t know who to secure first. There’s too many of us.”
“Won’t they shoot us?” Sarah asked.
Sam patted the gun in her hand. “Look like you know how to use it. Give it to Wally if you’re scared to carry it.”
“No, I’m okay,” she insisted.
“They won’t shoot, not when it starts falling apart,” Sam assured her. He hoped he was right, but he couldn’t think of a better diversion, and he had to make sure as many of the kidnappers as possible were occupied so he could get to Dean…and Dad. “If all else fails, play hide-and-seek.”
Sarah looked him up and down and wrinkled her nose. Sam believed for a moment that she was about to refuse, and he tensed. But then she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “But Sam? You should really clean up.”
Sam shook his head. “No time, thanks.”
“What about you?” Chris asked earnestly.
“I’m gonna save my brother,” Sam announced with determination. Dad had told him to aim a little low with higher caliber guns until he could control the recoil better. He leveled Drake’s Browning at Drake’s ribs, so that when he fired, the kick would put the bullet in his heart. He cocked the hammer all the way back and thumbed off the safety without looking away from Drake’s eyes. A muscle in the man’s jaw worked nervously. “And you’re gonna help me.”
Drake dropped his eyes, but not his scowl.
After standing by to make sure that Chris’s group got away safely, Sam waved Drake forward. They went with Sarah and her group for a short ways until their paths diverged. Then Sarah turned left while Drake led Sam toward the school administration office where the PA was. Sam worried that they’d encounter other cultists despite his plan to keep them busy. He worried he’d have to prove his sincerity by shooting Drake and leave himself without shield or guide. He worried the police would storm the school and arrest Dad and Dean, assuming they were the enemy. He worried that with the plan going awry, Fornham would start the ritual ahead of schedule, and summon the demon anyway.
Then he heard gunshots. They were coming from above, perhaps a building away. Sam thought for a horrible moment that the cultists were shooting his schoolmates, after he’d told Sarah so confidently that they wouldn’t. But then, more muffled, he heard returning fire. “Dad,” he breathed, suddenly certain that he knew what was going on. He wanted to go toward that noise, but knew just as certainly that Dad would go ballistic if Sam deliberately put himself anywhere near a firefight. He rebelled against instinct and stuck to his plan.
“Listen, kid,” Drake said. “It’s gettin’ crazy out there. Just do yourself a favor, and let me go. You can go join your little friends, okay?”
“You listen to me,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “You just take me to my brother, you dickhead. If we see anyone, we’re going to take cover. If you make a sound, if you tip them off in any way, I’ll shoot you. I swear to God. Got that?”
Drake tensed. Sam lowered the barrel of the Browning from Drake’s chest to his crotch with a glower. “Okay, okay, I got it,” Drake said in a hurry.
The plan worked to some extent. They only had to duck aside a few times, and while Sam held his breath, Drake didn’t chance getting shot. It took about ten minutes, including the time they spent hiding, to skirt around to the nearest part of the administration building. They reached a corner and Sam peered across the campus.
“The cops are out there,” he pointed out the flash of sun on a car hood to Drake. “Your friend Fornham is toast.”
Drake sighed. “Kid, give up if you know what’s good for you. Fornham’s probably starting early. The cops won’t know what hit’em.”
“Man, you’re dumb,” Sam observed. “Why would anyone want to summon a demon?”
“Valac’s not a demon; he’s a god,” Drake recited with awe.
“He’s a demon, asswipe,” Sam insisted. “Trust me; I’ve done the research. Tell you something else: Demons don’t stop to ask whether you’re their followers or not. They just kill you. What’s worse, prison or death?”
“How would you know?” Drake asked. “You’re just a kid.”
“I’m the kid who put Martin on his ass,” Sam pointed out hotly. They heard steps fall heavily on the stairs at the end of the walkway to their left. Sam shoved Drake under the eaves of the stairwell.
“How can you be so sure?” a gravelly voice asked.
“Are you kidding? I’d recognize that whine half a state away,” the second voice declared audaciously.
“Dean!” Sam shouted.
“Sammy?” Dean called. His voice was the mixture of concern and anger that it usually took on whenever they’d been forcibly separated. It was amazing how Dean’s timbre dropped about an octave when he got frantic like that. Not that he’d ever admit to panicking when he couldn’t find Sam any given moment.
“Dean!” Sam abandoned his hiding place. He kept the pistol aimed loosely at Drake, but really, he didn’t much care now if Drake got away. Dean wasn’t a hostage. He was alive, he was safe, he looked whole, and Sam had never been happier to see him. Dean pulled him in with both hands and checked him head to toe. “I’m okay, Dean,” Sam kept saying, but Dean wasn’t listening.
“Sammy, what did they do to you?” Dean asked, patting the back of his head, his shoulders, turning him to look.
He remembered that he was still coated in blood and brains. “It’s not mine,” he tried to explain. “It was Mr. Sny….” He broke off. Dean pushed him aside and looked beyond him to Drake, who hadn’t moved, too fascinated by the brothers’ reunion.
“You sick fuck,” Dean cried viciously, launching at Drake. He lashed out with a right cross and Drake dropped like a stone. Dean hauled him up and cracked him again. “Sacrificing innocent kids? You better be glad he’s okay….”
“Hey, hey, Dean, whoa!”
The owner of the gravelly voice had come down the stairs and rounded the corner. His left arm was in a sling made out of a handkerchief and medical gauze. A Marine tattoo showed where his sleeve had been cut off. He had dirty blond hair cut high and tight and he looked younger than Dad, but was a hair taller and almost as broad.
“Easy, champ. Easy,” he walked past Sam to Dean and carefully placed his right hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Everyone’s okay, Dean.”
Dean looked at his own fist like he hadn’t been aware he’d started pummeling Drake with it. He looked up at the Marine. “Right….” He said slowly, like he was just realizing where he was. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The guy turned back to Sam. “You must be Sam. I’m Lee.”
“You’re one of the cultists,” Sam said cautiously.
“He’s a cop, Sammy,” Dean told him, coming back over and rubbing his knuckles. “What are you doing here—I thought they were holding you at gunpoint.”
Sam held up the pistol, safety on. “We sorta took matters into our own hands. I thought they’d caught you,” he added. “That announcement—”
“That’s what I meant, the PA—”
“They said they were gonna—”
They looked each other in the eye. “We gotta stop Dad,” they said in unison. They took off together toward the administrative office.
“Hey, don’t mind me!” Sam heard Lee call after them.
~*~
John hauled ass away from the gym, Billy bouncing on his shoulder. He anticipated that at least one able guard would pursue, and if he didn’t, he’d be on his radio alerting the others to their rat problem pretty quickly. He had to find Sam in a hurry.
He passed a girls’ bathroom and ducked inside for a place to hide and form his strategy. He set Billy down.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” John demanded. “You could have got us both killed. Now are you done bawling?” he asked gruffly. “Because I will knock you out if you can’t keep quiet.”
Billy sniffled, but nodded. He didn’t even bitch about being in a girls’ bathroom.
“Good. Now, quietly, d’you know where Sam is?” he asked Billy. “I mean, where he was before this shit started?”
Billy shrugged. For all that he’d been eager to wag his tongue before, he was taking the order to shut his piehole seriously now.
“Shit. Class schedule,” John muttered to himself, pacing. He wished he’d paid more attention. Dean almost always knew Sam’s patterns, what classes he took which days, but John had always been abysmal at keeping track of that sort of thing for either of the boys. What the fuck day was it, even? Tuesday or Wednesday?
Outside, he heard a commotion of tramping feet and voices. He froze. Most men, looking for other men, would discount the women’s bathrooms, but if they decided to lay out a grid, that wouldn’t matter. He listened, tensed for a firefight.
But the voices were high-pitched and included some whining and crying. Perhaps the terrorists were moving the kids somewhere more secured? John didn’t risk it. He stayed put, weapon primed, until the noise faded. He ventured back out after a twenty count; the corridor looked deserted again.
The pause gave him time to think, too. Sam had called him, said Fornham had been his substitute science teacher. The science labs were on the upper level of Building Two, he remembered that from the tour—remembered wondering why anyone would put Bunsen burners in a room that wasn’t on the ground. But Fornham surely wasn’t playing guard-dog himself, so they must have combined Sam’s with another class. Idiot, he told himself, Scanlon told you that they grouped them, like in the gym. Think straight, Winchester.
“Arright, listen to me, uh, Billy,” he said. “Go into the far stall and stay there until the cops come to get you. Got that?”
Billy nodded vigorously and stayed rooted to the spot. John pointed wordlessly. Billy’s eyes widened with comprehension. He closed himself in the bathroom stall.
John moved on with a sense of purpose. If the other cultists recognized him, fine, at this point. He was through fucking around—and running out of time before they figured out which child was his. As he crossed the open walkway to the next building, he caught a flash of metal. He dove for a support column just in time to avoid the whistle of a shot. SWAT team sniper? he wondered. Just fuckin’ great. He pushed away and dodged the few feet between the column and the corner of the next building. But the stairs were in the open, too aligned with the sniper to risk running up them. Instead, John kept to the covered walkway, under the stairs, using the buildings on the quad as his cover.
They’ll probably have another sniper at the other end, he thought glumly. He had the length of the building to think of a way to get upstairs. Before he got there, though, he had something worse than a sniper to worry about.
“Attention, intruder,” the PA announced crisply. “We know that you are still at large. But kindly remember that we have your son. Cooperate or, please believe me, he will die.”
John stood stock still, transfixed by the polite, slightly cultured voice telling him to surrender, telling them that if he didn’t help round up the children who had escaped from the gymnasium—children he had helped to escape in the first place—they would torture his son before they killed him. It was Fornham’s voice, of that John was certain.
A piece of the puzzle fit into place for him: the voices, the clatter on the concrete outside the bathroom—that had been the students from the gym. They must have run while the guards came out to look for him. Nice goin’, he congratulated them privately, hoping that the snipers could tell the difference between grown men and unarmed kids.
“You have five minutes to comply,” Fornham’s polite drone informed him. “Or your son will suffer.”
Touch one hair on Sammy’s head— John stopped. He reviewed Fornham’s threats quickly, and sure enough, he had never mentioned the boy by name. Just “your son” or meaningless pronouns. Never anything about where or how they had him. Never letting Sam say anything to prove they had him. Could be a bluff. Or it could be….
“Dean,” he said, the thought forming into a word without any conscious effort. The science lab was no longer anywhere near his goal. He checked his ammo, confirmed that the round was still chambered, and plunged over the edge of the walkway to dart between buildings. His legs pumped violently, bent low in a crouch, pushed with all speed to get to new cover. A shot ricocheted off the sidewalk. John flinched away, but didn’t stop moving. The building would offer its own protection in three steps, two…safe from snipers. He paused, caught his breath. Even running every day, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. And Arizona was fucking hot.
Dean would remind him that West Texas and California hot were different from, even worse than, Arizona hot. “I’m coming, boys,” he promised. The bricks at his back seemed to vibrate with his resolve.
He got his bearings. The Admin Office, where the PA was, would be on the west side of the building he was currently using as a prop. Smart of Fornham, too, to set up there, because it was on the inside of the campus, where it would be harder for cops to pick his men off with high-powered rifles and telescopic sights.
John wasn’t sure he’d be leaving much for the cops.
He moved in a controlled walk to the end of the corridor, figuring there was no reason to let any of the cultists suspect anything if they didn’t already. At the corner, he took a deep breath and turned, pistol loose in his hand and that hand low by his thigh: ready, but not obvious.
There were two men in the front of the office, neither one Fornham, neither one Sam or Dean. “Who’re you?” one asked immediately, fumbling on the desk for his weapon.
John leveled his nine-mil. “I think your boss was looking for me. You wanna tell him I’m here—and don’t even think about it,” he continued, sliding his eyes to the second guard. Number Two froze halfway to his holster. “And bring the boy out here, too,” John added. “I’ll want to make sure he’s safe.”
The men looked at each other and then Number Two nodded. “I’ll get them,” he said calmly.
John held Number One at gunpoint and moved to secure both men’s firearms. By that time, the second guard came out of the Principal’s office, followed by Fornham.
He was dressed in a suit, well-tailored, with a gold tie bar and gold cufflinks. His eyes were as cold and brittle as the day John had met him in his little storefront church back when he’d started investigating the cult. For a man of John’s age, he looked at least another five years older, with steel grey hair and highly distinguished crows’ feet. He was small, considering how many people he had influenced. He remembered John’s face, too.
“Mr. Holcomb,” he said, not warmly, using the name John had given. “Or is it Winchester? I’m a bit confused.”
“It’s give me my fucking son,” John replied, “and cut the bullshit.”
“Your son is somewhere in the school,” Fornham told him, smooth as eighteen-year-old Scotch. “You must have noticed that we didn’t let him speak to you? Why should we risk separating him from his classmates? The chances are so much more…random this way, don’t you agree?”
Fornham smiled and John thought of poisonous lizards in the desert. “No, it was much more effective to make you come to us.”
The door opened behind them. John heard several men enter, heard the unmistakable sound of rifles cocking.
“Put the guns down, please,” Fornham requested.
A bluff. It had been a bluff, a trap to bring him out of hiding and right into their hands. But at least it meant they didn’t have Sam, after all—at least not right at their disposal. Bad choice of words. And they didn’t have Dean. And Scanlon and his buddies in blue were on the scene, too. Fornham wasn’t getting out of this. That could either make him vulnerable…or desperate. Either way, John figured he still had a chance, if he could keep Fornham distracted. He set the Browning down along with the other two guns. The two guards retrieved their weapons and made John back up from the desk.
“Ya know, the cops are already here,” John informed him.
“No matter. We have time. Police want to negotiate, to keep us talking. We’re happy to talk. Meanwhile, we’ll start the ritual.” He nodded to his men and three of them left, leaving four watching John.
“Oh, right, Valac,” John said disdainfully. He took half a step forward. “Ever summon a demon before, Fornham? How’d it work out for you?”
“Valac is no mere demon,” Fornham reminded him. “If you’d really listened that night you spied on us, you’d know that Valac is the source of power and reward for his loyal servants.”
“My experience,” John said dolefully, “demons’re generally only interested in rewarding themselves. Not a lot of room for humans.”
“Ah, but that’s where the students come in. Including your son, of course.” Fornham hooked one leg over the desk to perch there, twitching his trouser leg up elegantly. “Give a demon enough incentive, and it will recognize you as an ally.”
“The students?” John scoffed. Another half step. “Would that be the students that are loose on the grounds, running to the cops if they’ve got half a brain among them?”
Fornham’s mouth tightened. It was the first sign of annoyance John had seen. “They wouldn’t have escaped if you hadn’t interfered,” he told John tersely. “Which is why you’ll be helping us round them back up.”
John shook his head. “No can do, chief,” he said cockily. “Maybe you don’t get it, but I’m one of the good guys.”
“You’re about to be one of the dead ones,” Fornham retorted.
“You think your chance of survival is so high?” John goaded, taking another half-step in. “You’ve got a dead 13-year-old in the gym, did you know that? How do you think the cops are going to treat you? You think the DA is going to accept anything less than the death penalty?”
“I’m about to sacrifice over a hundred souls and you think I care about mortal punishment?” Fornham murmured so calmly he sounded almost amused.
“What would you say if I told you I’d already blessed the water tank?” John asked when he could find his voice again. “That I’ve drawn sigils of protection all over the school?”
“I’d say you’re lying,” Fornham said.
The door flew open behind them. Fornham turned to look. In half a second, John grabbed his Browning and twisted Fornham into his grasp, shielding himself with Fornham’s body.
“Drop your weapons, or I drop your boss,” John growled at the four guards.
“Dad!” Dean came in with his shotgun at the ready. Sam appeared a step behind him with one of the Rugers the cultists had all been carrying. John’s knees turned to water, but he forced himself to keep his grip on Fornham. He wanted to check them for injury; he told himself there’d be time later, after the threat was neutralized.
“Drop’em. Hands up! Against the wall,” Dean ordered. His voice carried a lot more authority than his years should have given him; he sounded like he did when he was yelling at (or for) Sam. Luckily, the guards responded to the barked instructions, focused on the double barrel staring them in the face, and didn’t question. The rifles went down; Sam slid in and kicked them away with care.
“Sammy, get out!” John shouted. Sam trotted out without argument, ducking meekly behind Dean’s protective circle. It looked like there might be something staining the back of Sam’s shirt. His hair was a mess. John turned his head for a better view. Fornham twisted in John’s grip and tried to force the gun out of his hands. John whipped the gun down and squeezed the trigger. Fornham fell away, minus half his gut. Powder stains and blood stained his fashionable suit.
“Whoa,” Scanlon said, appearing in the doorway. John looked up. Scanlon looked like he might fall over himself. John recognized Dean’s field dressing on his shoulder, and the tattoo on his arm below the neat bandages. Scanlon held the other arm out, physically signaling that he had blocked Sam’s view bodily, but what Sam witnessed or hadn’t was the least of John’s worries.
“He sent someone to start the ritual,” John told Dean, ignoring Scanlon’s attempt to intervene.
“Yup, he did,” Scanlon agreed. “But they didn’t make it far.”
~*~
The clean up took most of the evening—and that was just the priority stuff. Luckily, Sam Winchester and his friends had managed to free most of the hostages on their own. The teachers had also escaped at some point (Lee suspected John’s involvement) and were helping the police sort out returning the children to their families. They found one little boy cowering in a girls’ bathroom, stunned silent, and were trying to get a psychologist down to talk to him right away. Someone found Nate Delancy’s parents and broke the bad news to them.
Dean and John made short work of removing all John’s prints from the office. Lee watched them and wondered if their efficiency was a sign that they’d done something like this before. Still, the shooting was as clean as something like this got. He’d arrived at the office just in time to see Fornham practically throw himself on John’s gun, and he’d testify to that if necessary.
So would the witnesses, he told them, if they expected any clemency at all.
Trouble was, Winchester and his boys had no intention of sticking around for the dog and pony show. John was already sending Sam and Dean overland to get through the perimeter and wait for him at their car.
“Where’s the car?” Lee asked.
“So you can have a patrol watching it?” John chuckled. “No way. Dean, Sam, go on.”
Dean brought Sam over and offered his hand to Lee. “You should get your shoulder looked at,” Dean told him.
“Yeah, tell me about it. Hurts like a sonofabitch. Take care, Dean,” Lee told him, shaking warmly. “Try not to turn commando again before you finish high school.”
Dean smiled angelically. “Well, if Sammy can avoid being at ground zero every time we turn around, I think I can manage that.”
“Wasn’t my fault,” Sam insisted.
“Yeah, whatever, squirt. C’mon, Dad says to shag ass.”
“Bye, Sam,” Lee held up his hand. Sam waved back, but his brother was already pulling him away.
“You really should stick around,” Lee told John as the boys headed out across the playground.
“Can’t do it,” John answered with a frown. “Fact is, we’ll be leaving Phoenix soon,” he said, holstering the nine-mil in his waistband.
“Really,” Lee said sardonically. “Y’know, you’re a material witness.”
“I know.”
“So’s Dean.”
Winchester nodded. “Which is why we’ll be leaving Phoenix. Tonight.”
Lee looked over where Sam and Dean were walking. “Look, I know it’s not my business, but Sam should probably talk to someone,” he said with concern. “I don’t know if he saw you shoot Fornham, but the Vice Principal, uh, Snyder, was blown away right in front of him.”
“He told you that?”
“He told Dean that, a couple minutes ago,” Lee clarified, gesturing to them with a wagging finger. “I just overheard it. Tried to tell him before, in fact, but they hared off after you first.” This last sounded more like a gripe than a report.
John frowned. “Sam’s okay.”
“Are you seriously telling me he’s seen a man killed in front of him before?” Lee put his hands on his hips in disgust.
John looked him in the eye. “I’m seriously telling you, Marine, that he’ll be fine. He’s seen worse than an innocent man dying.”
“Man, I should—”
“You know, Dean’s not kidding. You should get that shoulder fixed up. Before you do anything else.” John squinted into the sunset. “Just give us a head start,” he reasoned. “Tell them whatever you want, but…we’re done here. We’re moving on.”
Lee sighed. “I really shouldn’t.”
“But you’re really going to.”
“Oh, yeah? Why?” Lee demanded.
“Semper Fi,” John said.
And infuriatingly, Lee knew he was right. He’d cover for them while they slipped away. He was sure the witnesses would tell them about a vigilante, but he’d stick to his story—that he’d been made trying to release some of the hostages and he’d holed up in the lab until he was sure he could get away. By the time he arrived in Fornham’s office, the man was dead.
Yup. It was the truth, anyway.
Mostly.
And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to get him that promotion. Detective Leland Scanlon. Still had a good ring. No doubt, his first case would be to find the mystery man of Crenshaw Middle.
He held out his right hand to Winchester, who shook it.
~Fin~
Continued from Part Two....
Sam had just about had enough. Enough waiting around, enough comforting Chris and being all brave, and most important, enough of sitting there letting these dickwads terrorize the crap out of everyone.
Martin had tortured Nate in front of those kids. He’d sliced his calves, so that blood soaked Nate’s socks and ran down over his Nikes. Then he’d radioed the gym and told Drake and Smitty to take Nate down there, where they would hang him from the basketball hoop as a warning to all the other kids in there. There would be no escapes.
Nearly half the students had been sick, and the other half looked like they’d have puked if they’d had anything in their stomachs to start with. Everyone—even people who hated Nate—flinched along with him when Martin sliced the knife across Nate’s leg. Sam thought it was kind of like in the olden days, on ships, watching a flogging. For the first time, he thought he understood why public corporal punishment had been thought so effective a deterrent. And why it had created so much sympathy for its victims that it had eventually been determined inhumane.
Forty minutes had passed since they’d dragged Nate away, and Martin had not let up lecturing them about how they were good for nothing but sacrifice, how they had been chosen to do something so noble they probably couldn’t understand it—and probably didn’t deserve the honor of dying for Valac.
“Man, Branch Davidians have nothing on this loser,” Sam muttered, patience fraying.
“Huh?” Chris grunted beside him.
“Nothin’,” Sam said quietly. “I’m just sick of this yahbo.”
“Sam, he’ll kill you,” Chris warned. “Please don’t say anything.”
Sam puffed out his cheeks and released the air in a huff. “Y’know, Nate was right about one thing,” he said. “If we all rushed them now, all at once, we’d have a chance.”
“A chance to get killed,” Sarah Boyle said archly, butting in on his left.
“I don’t think so,” Sam observed. “See, they’ve each got Ruger 10/22s, with a ten-round magazine, but they need to pump between each shot. And Drake? There’s something wrong with his—his magazine’s not seated right. See how it’s sticking out too much where it fits into the stock? That probably means he hasn’t even racked one in the chamber yet, or he’d know it’s screwed up. I’m betting it’ll jam, or at least fail to feed. Smitty’s got his safety on,” he continued, inclining his head to the right where Smitty leaned on the music stands. “Plus, his gun’s slung across his back. It’ll take him forever to pull it around and be able to fire it. So if we were fast enough, we could probably get to him before he’d be ready to fire. Martin’s a problem, though, even without a rifle. He’s not gonna put his gun down, and he’s got some kind of backup strapped to his ankle.”
“How can you tell?” Chris asked. Sam blushed, worried for a moment that he’d once again revealed himself as “Sam Winchester, The Amazing Freak.” But Chris seemed to be more fascinated than appalled.
“Well, see the way his left cuff is folded into his boot?” Sam hid his pointed finger with his leg.
“Yeah, I see,” Sarah breathed.
“Me, too,” Chris whispered, sounding pleased.
“Okay, now look at the right one,” Sam instructed. “See how it’s got a bulge and it’s not tucked in all the way?”
“Whoa, that’s cool,” a new voice behind Sam added. It was Matt Brandtly, back among the living. “What else, Sherlock?”
“Sh…” Sam warned. “Okay. Well, I think if we can devise a reason for him to come over, we can distract him, and…I can get his piece.”
“Seriously?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah—well, we’ll have to be quick,” Sam mused. “And careful….” He looked around and realized that a number of kids had been edging closer to him. He now had a small court facing him, including Wally Linstrom.
“How the heck do you know all this?” one of the others wondered.
“Yeah, and how come you’re covered in blood, but you’re not even a little freaked? What, did you transfer here from Detroit or something?”
Sam’s hand wandered back up to his hair and he self-consciously rubbed the matted mess. He became aware again, acutely, of Sarah sitting next to him, and the fact that he must stink. But really, being covered with human remains, while creepy, and being held at gunpoint by men, while scary, wasn’t nearly as frightening as being told to wait in the car, in the open, while Dean and Dad chased down a shifter—one that could have come after him at any moment—and that was over a year ago. But he couldn’t very well tell any of them that.
“We…lived in South Central LA for a while,” he declared solemnly. That earned a ripple of impressed nods and “Oh”s of understanding.
“What’s your plan, Sam?” Wally asked. Sam wasn’t surprised to find that Wally wanted vengeance for Nate. What surprised him was how Wally turned control over to Sam so easily. It gave him instant cred in a way almost nothing else could accomplish. Well, except maybe just having told them he’d lived in gangland.
“I think if we took out Martin, we won’t have to worry too much about the others.”
“The fuck are you ladies all jabbering about?” Martin demanded. He waded through the kids to the nexus surrounding Sam.
“Sam told Chris that Tom wants to ask Kimberly out, but he’s too scared,” Sarah said immediately and very matter-of-factly. “And Tom said he’s not too scared, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance, because you’re going to kill us all. But then Chris said that Nate deserved to die, but you’d better at least give us last requests, because even murderers get last requests, and we’ve never hurt anyone, except for that time Steve singed his dog Benji’s fur, but hardly anyone remembers that anymore, and so he—Chris, I mean, not Steve—he figured for his last request, he’d ask to go to his prom, because everyone knows that you have to grant a last request, like in the Evil Overlord’s Guide or something—”
“Shut up!” Martin shouted at Sarah. “God, what the fuck is wrong with this bitch?” he asked Drake and Smitty, twisting to face his audience.
Sam put his hands in his lap quickly and smiled at Sarah, nodding thanks. The gun was already warm and fit his palm comfortably.
“Get him!” Wally screamed. The others all around Sam grabbed Martin’s clothing and pulled him down. One pair of hands reached the hem of his jacket; another clawed at the pockets on his fatigue pants. As he fell, Martin’s pistol went off, the round hitting the ceiling. A couple people screamed; Smitty ducked into a crouch, covering his head like a scared turtle. A shattered acoustic tile fell in a spray of foam. Someone wrested the gun from him with two hands, and then they were on him from all angles. Meanwhile, Sam sprang to his feet and leveled Martin’s backup at Drake.
“Don’t move,” he said, sounding a lot more like his dad than he thought possible. His heart was pounding even though he’d already swiped the gun, and all he’d had to do was stand up and aim. “Someone get Martin’s gun and cover Smitty,” he ordered.
“Got it,” Matt said. Matt yanked the rifle away and immediately began to make machine gun noises with his mouth. He was clutching the stock, but shaking the gun as he “air-fired.”
“Careful, Matt; the safety’s off,” Sam reminded him. “Okay,” he said to Drake and Smitty, “very slowly, put your weapons on the floor and kick them away. Chris, get the guns.”
Drake and Smitty complied, expressions warring between abashed and relieved. Martin had been kicked and pummeled by the students, who were now tying his wrists with the zip ties they found in his back pocket.
“Good,” Sam congratulated everyone. He looked around at the little crew and felt sort of like the pride he thought his father might feel when Dean had done something perfect, first-time. “Now, we’re getting out—”
The PA crackled. “Attention, intruder,” a voice came over the air a second later. “We know you’re still at large,” the voice announced coldly. “But kindly remember that we have your son. Cooperate or, please believe me, he will die.”
Sam’s attitude turned intense and fierce in a nanosecond. His mouth went dry and his brain went into overdrive at the implications of the announcement. His stomach turned over again, after he’d thought he couldn’t come any closer to throwing up. He looked around at Chris and Sarah, who stared at him dumbly, then at Drake, who was kneeling with his hands on his head, and Smitty, being tied up by Wally and Ken. Sam rejected the two of them as small potatoes. He wanted the big fish.
Martin was curled fetal with his face turning purple from the beating he’d received. Sam hauled Martin’s head up by the hair, much as Martin had abused Nate earlier.
“Where’s Fornham, you bastard?” he snarled, whipping him in the face with the pistol. “Where is he, you sick fuck? Where?!”
“Sam, what the hell?” Chris put a steadying hand on Sam’s arm.
“They’re talking to my Dad,” Sam spat. “They’ve got Dean.”
~*~
Officer Scanlon was okay, Dean decided, but that didn’t mean he was ready to actually befriend a cop. He couldn’t very well not respect a guy who’d taken a bullet for him, even if it did put them at a disadvantage. A little while ago he had doused Scanlon’s shoulder with peroxide and put on a field dressing. He held off giving him the codeine out of his little field medkit until he’d decided it was safe to check the hallway. Dad might need it, though Scanlon had assured him Dad was okay when he last saw him.
To keep occupied, he was reloading all the weapons he’d taken from the balcony and from Miller, who still slept soundly in the back of the classroom. Scanlon was flipping between channels on the walkie, listening for a sign that the cultists were coming for them. So far, he was staving off shock, but barely.
“Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, where did you serve?” Dean wondered, making conversation while they waited for the posse to intrude on their OK corral.
“Desert Storm,” Scanlon replied. “I figured, how different can one desert be from another?” He squinted up at the transom above the door. “Boy, was I wrong.”
“There’s lots of different kinds of hot,” Dean agreed. “Arizona hot isn’t West Texas hot, and that’s way not Alabama or Florida hot. Figures Persian Gulf hot would be completely unlike anything in this part of the world.”
“Been around, huh?” Scanlon surmised. “Lemme guess: That Marine pop of yours is career military.”
“Yeah,” Dean lied with a gregarious smile. “All our lives, one base to another, that’s us.”
“No, he’s not,” Scanlon smirked.
“Huh?”
“Marines have Pendleton, Lejeune, and Cherry Point, kid,” Scanlon informed him. “Three or four other minor facilities. Not like Army bases or AFBs. I may be doped, but don’t bullshit me.”
“Okay, fine. We just move a lot,” Dean admitted testily. He stowed the extra clips in the duffel. “If you know the answer, why ask the question?”
Scanlon shrugged, then winced from the way the involuntary motion tugged his injury. “De…detective work,” he said when he could breathe again. “I don’t know your answer. But what you choose to say tells me a lot.”
“Like what?” Dean inquired, on the defensive instantly. What had he said that was so revealing? What did this joker think he knew?
“Like you and your friend John. He reminds you of your dad—military, but probably doesn’t stomp on you like your old man did. Right?”
Dean snarled at the implication, but it was better than Scanlon uncovering something true about the supernatural.
But Scanlon wasn’t done profiling. “So, I figure you took off from home, maybe a couple years ago, met this John guy, paramilitary extremist, took you under his wing, taught you everything you always wanted Pop to show you. Getting close?”
“Not even warm, Officer Friendly,” Dean smirked.
“C’mon, Dean. It’s okay to want a mentor. Trouble is your friend John is just as crazy as these sick bastards. Truth, now: Where did he pick you up?”
Dean scoffed. Scanlon was going way too far down the wrong road. He decided to cut him off before his fantasy got any sicker. “At the hospital, when I was born. He is my dad, dumbass.” He “tsked” in mockery. “You don’t know nothin’ about me, man. Nothin’ about us.” He crawled to the barricade and peered out. “And you’re not—”
The speaker in the corner of the classroom crackled. A second later, a voice spoke over the air. “Attention, intruder.”
Dean listened to the message with growing dread. By the end, his agitation couldn’t be contained. He couldn’t sit still while these dickwads threatened his brother. He grabbed his sawed-off and one of the rifles, stuffing his pockets with extra shells and magazines.
“I gotta get out there,” he announced. “Stay here.”
“No. No way. It’s one thing to go scope out the territory and gather some intel, but I’m not letting you head back into their clutches alone.” Scanlon tried to get to his feet. He fell back after only getting to his knees, looking green with nausea.
“How’re you gonna stop me?” Dean half-taunted, half-threatened. “You don’t get it; they’re talking to Dad. They’ve got Sam.”
“Sam? Who’s Sam?”
“My brother, okay? They must have made Dad and figured out Sam was in the school.” Dean double-checked the chamber on his shotgun and tucked it under his arm. He popped the clip out of his backup, tapped it once, and slid it back in the grip.
“Okay, okay,” Scanlon held up his good hand. “Don’t panic, Dean. We’ll save him. I’m betting the squad’s out there now.”
“You think they can handle this?” Dean’s voice rose in volume…and unfortunately, in pitch.
“I think they’ve got more experience with hostage situations than you—or your dad,” Scanlon countered mildly. He sounded like he was trying to tame a skittish horse.
“I thought you said you’d been in with these guys,” Dean said, frowning. “They seem like the ‘negotiate with cops’ kind?”
“No,” Scanlon admitted with a sad shake of his head. “But you try to get to Fornham, guns blazing, they’re gonna kill you, they’ll kill your brother—assuming they already have him.”
That stopped Dean’s nervous pacing. “Come again?”
“Think about it, Dean,” Scanlon commented sanguinely. He seemed way too calm—maybe it was the codeine. “How many kids have they got here? Couple hundred—in different classrooms, all over the school. How quickly d’you think they could identify your brother?”
“All they need to do is ask,” Dean reasoned. “Even if Sam’s smart enough to suspect a trap, no one here has any reason not to give him up.” The whole thing made him sick to his stomach: that they never stayed anywhere long enough for loyalty, that kids in general were so cutthroat, that Sam always tried to fit in and never quite managed it. But it was what it was—no sense dwelling on what wasn’t.
Play the hand you’re dealt, Dad would say.
“Well, let’s say they did find him,” Scanlon allowed. “Your dad wouldn’t want you to compromise your own safety—”
“That’s exactly what he would want,” Dean said angrily—not at Dad, of course, but at Scanlon for trying, however kindly, to confuse him. “It’s my job to take care of Sam, dude. Like I said, you don’t know shit about my family.” He prepared to move the cabinet and glanced back at Scanlon, surrounded by rifles he probably couldn’t fire one-handed. “Got a backup?”
Scanlon reached for his inner ankle and pulled out a .38. Dean scowled at it. He checked the hallway. “Hang on a sec,” he said. He shifted the cabinet away and slipped out. Corey and Gilchrist were gone. A blood trail headed down the walkway where it looked like Gilchrist must have supported Corey as they stumbled toward their comrades.
Unlike the last time he’d ducked out to check on things, the classroom door stood open and the students were nowhere in sight. And just about then, he heard people coming. He hurried back to the science lab.
“It’s me,” he called hastily to identify himself to Scanlon. “We’ve got company coming.”
He relocked the door and shoved the cabinet back into place, knowing the flimsy button in the doorknob wouldn’t hold anything for long. Scanlon had pushed himself forward with his Glock in his hand. He dragged the duffel after him, bristling with the other weapons: the .45 Gilchrist had used to shoot him; Corey’s rifle, and all the others Dean had brought with him.
“Any clue how many?” Scanlon asked.
“Didn’t stick around to find out,” Dean said regretfully. “They’re not using the radio?”
“Nah, probably know we’d be able to listen,” he said with a frown. “That’s okay,” Scanlon assured him. “But we can’t stay in here.”
“Too vulnerable?”
“No,” Scanlon replied, wagging his head. “You said the kids are at large. We have to get to them, help them stay safe.”
“Listen, Mr. Protect-and-Serve, that may be your mission, but—” Dean ducked his head instinctively as a gunshot cracked against the reinforced glass. He dove for the relative cover of the lab table next to Scanlon. “Guess we’re stuck,” he said with an impish grin.
Scanlon grimaced and clumsily primed his rifle with one hand.
What Scanlon had said about battle adrenaline turned out to be completely true. The echo of the single shot in the hallway was the coo of a dove compared to the clatter of gunfire that peppered the door and the walls of the lab. The reinforced glass shattered within the first few seconds of constant fire. They spent the next few minutes in an old-fashioned shoot-out worthy of the movies. Once the cultists blew off the lock, they had to put down their weapons to push Dean’s barricade aside. There were only four of them, but two of them laid down covering fire on the door and walls while the other two cleared the debris. Then they ducked low and tried to run in like Hawkeye and BJ avoiding helicopter blades.
Dean and Scanlon huddled at ground level, used the storage drawers as cover, and aimed for extremities to disable them while their buddies tried to shift the barricade away—legs, mostly, since they weren’t covered by the Kevlar. Scanlon, though pinned, matched Dean for aim. Before long the first two attackers were down and the second two had to stop and reload. Dean rushed to the barricade and hit them in the knees before they’d replaced their ammo. After that, they weren’t so interested in shooting anymore.
Dean shook his head. “Is being a cop always this easy?” he asked Scanlon.
“No substitute for a stupid perp,” Scanlon answered, coming up behind him to look over the four wounded men. He was definitely much perkier than before the shooting started, but he still took care not to move his left arm at all. He knelt down to inspect the damage. “We should probably get field dressings on them.” He didn’t sound happy about it; more like it was his duty to keep them from bleeding out.
“Nuh-uh, no time,” Dean protested.
But Scanlon had found someone who was conscious. “Hey! Kimmett. Where’s everyone else?” He hauled up on the guy’s jacket. “Got some painkillers here. Want’em?”
“Yeah, man. Please—”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Looking…looking for the…students. Please, man…my knee….”
“Yeah. Dean, give him some codeine.”
Dean held up a tab, but he twisted his mouth in disapproval. “What about Sam?” he asked, snatching the pill back at the last second.
“Who?”
“Sam. The kid the announcer said they’re gonna kill.”
Kimmett groaned. His head lolled backward. “There’s no kid, okay?” he told them. “By the time we figured out what room he was in, they were all gone. They’re getting out.” He looked up at Scanlon. “Martin was in bad shape. They kicked the shit out of him.” He began to giggle, then shiver.
“He’s going into shock,” Scanlon said. “Give him the meds, kid.”
“Not a kid,” Dean grumbled, but held the pill to Kimmett’s lips and followed it with a little water from the canteen.
“They’re all loose?” Scanlon asked. “All the students?”
“Dunno,” Kimmett admitted. “But at least three classrooms that we passed. And the teachers. This was so dumb…. Oh, God, I’m gonna die.”
“No. But you’ll be in prison for a good long time,” Scanlon promised. “C’mon, Dean. Let’s find your brother.”
~*~
Sam gave Martin’s gun to Wally. He didn’t want to touch anything that had belonged to the man. Then he led the whole troop of kids out of the music room, leaving Martin and Smitty tied up on the floor and pushing Drake ahead of him by brandishing the man’s own handgun. Some of the kids wanted to stop at the bathrooms, but Sam wouldn’t let them. He was too anxious to get to where they were holding Dean. When they got to the end of the building, he told everyone to split up.
“Chris, you and Matt take the younger kids and make for the edge of the school grounds,” he advised, picking the students who seemed more on the brink of losing their shit. “There’s gotta be cops there by now. Just make sure to keep your hands up if you see them, and tell them loud and clear that you’re students and not to shoot. They’ll cover you.”
He handed a shotgun to Sarah. “Sarah, you take this. You and Wally go to the teachers’ lounge. Open up as many classrooms as you can on the way—don’t try to engage the kidnappers; just open the door and run on. The more chaos, the better…these jerks won’t know who to secure first. There’s too many of us.”
“Won’t they shoot us?” Sarah asked.
Sam patted the gun in her hand. “Look like you know how to use it. Give it to Wally if you’re scared to carry it.”
“No, I’m okay,” she insisted.
“They won’t shoot, not when it starts falling apart,” Sam assured her. He hoped he was right, but he couldn’t think of a better diversion, and he had to make sure as many of the kidnappers as possible were occupied so he could get to Dean…and Dad. “If all else fails, play hide-and-seek.”
Sarah looked him up and down and wrinkled her nose. Sam believed for a moment that she was about to refuse, and he tensed. But then she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “But Sam? You should really clean up.”
Sam shook his head. “No time, thanks.”
“What about you?” Chris asked earnestly.
“I’m gonna save my brother,” Sam announced with determination. Dad had told him to aim a little low with higher caliber guns until he could control the recoil better. He leveled Drake’s Browning at Drake’s ribs, so that when he fired, the kick would put the bullet in his heart. He cocked the hammer all the way back and thumbed off the safety without looking away from Drake’s eyes. A muscle in the man’s jaw worked nervously. “And you’re gonna help me.”
Drake dropped his eyes, but not his scowl.
After standing by to make sure that Chris’s group got away safely, Sam waved Drake forward. They went with Sarah and her group for a short ways until their paths diverged. Then Sarah turned left while Drake led Sam toward the school administration office where the PA was. Sam worried that they’d encounter other cultists despite his plan to keep them busy. He worried he’d have to prove his sincerity by shooting Drake and leave himself without shield or guide. He worried the police would storm the school and arrest Dad and Dean, assuming they were the enemy. He worried that with the plan going awry, Fornham would start the ritual ahead of schedule, and summon the demon anyway.
Then he heard gunshots. They were coming from above, perhaps a building away. Sam thought for a horrible moment that the cultists were shooting his schoolmates, after he’d told Sarah so confidently that they wouldn’t. But then, more muffled, he heard returning fire. “Dad,” he breathed, suddenly certain that he knew what was going on. He wanted to go toward that noise, but knew just as certainly that Dad would go ballistic if Sam deliberately put himself anywhere near a firefight. He rebelled against instinct and stuck to his plan.
“Listen, kid,” Drake said. “It’s gettin’ crazy out there. Just do yourself a favor, and let me go. You can go join your little friends, okay?”
“You listen to me,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “You just take me to my brother, you dickhead. If we see anyone, we’re going to take cover. If you make a sound, if you tip them off in any way, I’ll shoot you. I swear to God. Got that?”
Drake tensed. Sam lowered the barrel of the Browning from Drake’s chest to his crotch with a glower. “Okay, okay, I got it,” Drake said in a hurry.
The plan worked to some extent. They only had to duck aside a few times, and while Sam held his breath, Drake didn’t chance getting shot. It took about ten minutes, including the time they spent hiding, to skirt around to the nearest part of the administration building. They reached a corner and Sam peered across the campus.
“The cops are out there,” he pointed out the flash of sun on a car hood to Drake. “Your friend Fornham is toast.”
Drake sighed. “Kid, give up if you know what’s good for you. Fornham’s probably starting early. The cops won’t know what hit’em.”
“Man, you’re dumb,” Sam observed. “Why would anyone want to summon a demon?”
“Valac’s not a demon; he’s a god,” Drake recited with awe.
“He’s a demon, asswipe,” Sam insisted. “Trust me; I’ve done the research. Tell you something else: Demons don’t stop to ask whether you’re their followers or not. They just kill you. What’s worse, prison or death?”
“How would you know?” Drake asked. “You’re just a kid.”
“I’m the kid who put Martin on his ass,” Sam pointed out hotly. They heard steps fall heavily on the stairs at the end of the walkway to their left. Sam shoved Drake under the eaves of the stairwell.
“How can you be so sure?” a gravelly voice asked.
“Are you kidding? I’d recognize that whine half a state away,” the second voice declared audaciously.
“Dean!” Sam shouted.
“Sammy?” Dean called. His voice was the mixture of concern and anger that it usually took on whenever they’d been forcibly separated. It was amazing how Dean’s timbre dropped about an octave when he got frantic like that. Not that he’d ever admit to panicking when he couldn’t find Sam any given moment.
“Dean!” Sam abandoned his hiding place. He kept the pistol aimed loosely at Drake, but really, he didn’t much care now if Drake got away. Dean wasn’t a hostage. He was alive, he was safe, he looked whole, and Sam had never been happier to see him. Dean pulled him in with both hands and checked him head to toe. “I’m okay, Dean,” Sam kept saying, but Dean wasn’t listening.
“Sammy, what did they do to you?” Dean asked, patting the back of his head, his shoulders, turning him to look.
He remembered that he was still coated in blood and brains. “It’s not mine,” he tried to explain. “It was Mr. Sny….” He broke off. Dean pushed him aside and looked beyond him to Drake, who hadn’t moved, too fascinated by the brothers’ reunion.
“You sick fuck,” Dean cried viciously, launching at Drake. He lashed out with a right cross and Drake dropped like a stone. Dean hauled him up and cracked him again. “Sacrificing innocent kids? You better be glad he’s okay….”
“Hey, hey, Dean, whoa!”
The owner of the gravelly voice had come down the stairs and rounded the corner. His left arm was in a sling made out of a handkerchief and medical gauze. A Marine tattoo showed where his sleeve had been cut off. He had dirty blond hair cut high and tight and he looked younger than Dad, but was a hair taller and almost as broad.
“Easy, champ. Easy,” he walked past Sam to Dean and carefully placed his right hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Everyone’s okay, Dean.”
Dean looked at his own fist like he hadn’t been aware he’d started pummeling Drake with it. He looked up at the Marine. “Right….” He said slowly, like he was just realizing where he was. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The guy turned back to Sam. “You must be Sam. I’m Lee.”
“You’re one of the cultists,” Sam said cautiously.
“He’s a cop, Sammy,” Dean told him, coming back over and rubbing his knuckles. “What are you doing here—I thought they were holding you at gunpoint.”
Sam held up the pistol, safety on. “We sorta took matters into our own hands. I thought they’d caught you,” he added. “That announcement—”
“That’s what I meant, the PA—”
“They said they were gonna—”
They looked each other in the eye. “We gotta stop Dad,” they said in unison. They took off together toward the administrative office.
“Hey, don’t mind me!” Sam heard Lee call after them.
~*~
John hauled ass away from the gym, Billy bouncing on his shoulder. He anticipated that at least one able guard would pursue, and if he didn’t, he’d be on his radio alerting the others to their rat problem pretty quickly. He had to find Sam in a hurry.
He passed a girls’ bathroom and ducked inside for a place to hide and form his strategy. He set Billy down.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” John demanded. “You could have got us both killed. Now are you done bawling?” he asked gruffly. “Because I will knock you out if you can’t keep quiet.”
Billy sniffled, but nodded. He didn’t even bitch about being in a girls’ bathroom.
“Good. Now, quietly, d’you know where Sam is?” he asked Billy. “I mean, where he was before this shit started?”
Billy shrugged. For all that he’d been eager to wag his tongue before, he was taking the order to shut his piehole seriously now.
“Shit. Class schedule,” John muttered to himself, pacing. He wished he’d paid more attention. Dean almost always knew Sam’s patterns, what classes he took which days, but John had always been abysmal at keeping track of that sort of thing for either of the boys. What the fuck day was it, even? Tuesday or Wednesday?
Outside, he heard a commotion of tramping feet and voices. He froze. Most men, looking for other men, would discount the women’s bathrooms, but if they decided to lay out a grid, that wouldn’t matter. He listened, tensed for a firefight.
But the voices were high-pitched and included some whining and crying. Perhaps the terrorists were moving the kids somewhere more secured? John didn’t risk it. He stayed put, weapon primed, until the noise faded. He ventured back out after a twenty count; the corridor looked deserted again.
The pause gave him time to think, too. Sam had called him, said Fornham had been his substitute science teacher. The science labs were on the upper level of Building Two, he remembered that from the tour—remembered wondering why anyone would put Bunsen burners in a room that wasn’t on the ground. But Fornham surely wasn’t playing guard-dog himself, so they must have combined Sam’s with another class. Idiot, he told himself, Scanlon told you that they grouped them, like in the gym. Think straight, Winchester.
“Arright, listen to me, uh, Billy,” he said. “Go into the far stall and stay there until the cops come to get you. Got that?”
Billy nodded vigorously and stayed rooted to the spot. John pointed wordlessly. Billy’s eyes widened with comprehension. He closed himself in the bathroom stall.
John moved on with a sense of purpose. If the other cultists recognized him, fine, at this point. He was through fucking around—and running out of time before they figured out which child was his. As he crossed the open walkway to the next building, he caught a flash of metal. He dove for a support column just in time to avoid the whistle of a shot. SWAT team sniper? he wondered. Just fuckin’ great. He pushed away and dodged the few feet between the column and the corner of the next building. But the stairs were in the open, too aligned with the sniper to risk running up them. Instead, John kept to the covered walkway, under the stairs, using the buildings on the quad as his cover.
They’ll probably have another sniper at the other end, he thought glumly. He had the length of the building to think of a way to get upstairs. Before he got there, though, he had something worse than a sniper to worry about.
“Attention, intruder,” the PA announced crisply. “We know that you are still at large. But kindly remember that we have your son. Cooperate or, please believe me, he will die.”
John stood stock still, transfixed by the polite, slightly cultured voice telling him to surrender, telling them that if he didn’t help round up the children who had escaped from the gymnasium—children he had helped to escape in the first place—they would torture his son before they killed him. It was Fornham’s voice, of that John was certain.
A piece of the puzzle fit into place for him: the voices, the clatter on the concrete outside the bathroom—that had been the students from the gym. They must have run while the guards came out to look for him. Nice goin’, he congratulated them privately, hoping that the snipers could tell the difference between grown men and unarmed kids.
“You have five minutes to comply,” Fornham’s polite drone informed him. “Or your son will suffer.”
Touch one hair on Sammy’s head— John stopped. He reviewed Fornham’s threats quickly, and sure enough, he had never mentioned the boy by name. Just “your son” or meaningless pronouns. Never anything about where or how they had him. Never letting Sam say anything to prove they had him. Could be a bluff. Or it could be….
“Dean,” he said, the thought forming into a word without any conscious effort. The science lab was no longer anywhere near his goal. He checked his ammo, confirmed that the round was still chambered, and plunged over the edge of the walkway to dart between buildings. His legs pumped violently, bent low in a crouch, pushed with all speed to get to new cover. A shot ricocheted off the sidewalk. John flinched away, but didn’t stop moving. The building would offer its own protection in three steps, two…safe from snipers. He paused, caught his breath. Even running every day, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. And Arizona was fucking hot.
Dean would remind him that West Texas and California hot were different from, even worse than, Arizona hot. “I’m coming, boys,” he promised. The bricks at his back seemed to vibrate with his resolve.
He got his bearings. The Admin Office, where the PA was, would be on the west side of the building he was currently using as a prop. Smart of Fornham, too, to set up there, because it was on the inside of the campus, where it would be harder for cops to pick his men off with high-powered rifles and telescopic sights.
John wasn’t sure he’d be leaving much for the cops.
He moved in a controlled walk to the end of the corridor, figuring there was no reason to let any of the cultists suspect anything if they didn’t already. At the corner, he took a deep breath and turned, pistol loose in his hand and that hand low by his thigh: ready, but not obvious.
There were two men in the front of the office, neither one Fornham, neither one Sam or Dean. “Who’re you?” one asked immediately, fumbling on the desk for his weapon.
John leveled his nine-mil. “I think your boss was looking for me. You wanna tell him I’m here—and don’t even think about it,” he continued, sliding his eyes to the second guard. Number Two froze halfway to his holster. “And bring the boy out here, too,” John added. “I’ll want to make sure he’s safe.”
The men looked at each other and then Number Two nodded. “I’ll get them,” he said calmly.
John held Number One at gunpoint and moved to secure both men’s firearms. By that time, the second guard came out of the Principal’s office, followed by Fornham.
He was dressed in a suit, well-tailored, with a gold tie bar and gold cufflinks. His eyes were as cold and brittle as the day John had met him in his little storefront church back when he’d started investigating the cult. For a man of John’s age, he looked at least another five years older, with steel grey hair and highly distinguished crows’ feet. He was small, considering how many people he had influenced. He remembered John’s face, too.
“Mr. Holcomb,” he said, not warmly, using the name John had given. “Or is it Winchester? I’m a bit confused.”
“It’s give me my fucking son,” John replied, “and cut the bullshit.”
“Your son is somewhere in the school,” Fornham told him, smooth as eighteen-year-old Scotch. “You must have noticed that we didn’t let him speak to you? Why should we risk separating him from his classmates? The chances are so much more…random this way, don’t you agree?”
Fornham smiled and John thought of poisonous lizards in the desert. “No, it was much more effective to make you come to us.”
The door opened behind them. John heard several men enter, heard the unmistakable sound of rifles cocking.
“Put the guns down, please,” Fornham requested.
A bluff. It had been a bluff, a trap to bring him out of hiding and right into their hands. But at least it meant they didn’t have Sam, after all—at least not right at their disposal. Bad choice of words. And they didn’t have Dean. And Scanlon and his buddies in blue were on the scene, too. Fornham wasn’t getting out of this. That could either make him vulnerable…or desperate. Either way, John figured he still had a chance, if he could keep Fornham distracted. He set the Browning down along with the other two guns. The two guards retrieved their weapons and made John back up from the desk.
“Ya know, the cops are already here,” John informed him.
“No matter. We have time. Police want to negotiate, to keep us talking. We’re happy to talk. Meanwhile, we’ll start the ritual.” He nodded to his men and three of them left, leaving four watching John.
“Oh, right, Valac,” John said disdainfully. He took half a step forward. “Ever summon a demon before, Fornham? How’d it work out for you?”
“Valac is no mere demon,” Fornham reminded him. “If you’d really listened that night you spied on us, you’d know that Valac is the source of power and reward for his loyal servants.”
“My experience,” John said dolefully, “demons’re generally only interested in rewarding themselves. Not a lot of room for humans.”
“Ah, but that’s where the students come in. Including your son, of course.” Fornham hooked one leg over the desk to perch there, twitching his trouser leg up elegantly. “Give a demon enough incentive, and it will recognize you as an ally.”
“The students?” John scoffed. Another half step. “Would that be the students that are loose on the grounds, running to the cops if they’ve got half a brain among them?”
Fornham’s mouth tightened. It was the first sign of annoyance John had seen. “They wouldn’t have escaped if you hadn’t interfered,” he told John tersely. “Which is why you’ll be helping us round them back up.”
John shook his head. “No can do, chief,” he said cockily. “Maybe you don’t get it, but I’m one of the good guys.”
“You’re about to be one of the dead ones,” Fornham retorted.
“You think your chance of survival is so high?” John goaded, taking another half-step in. “You’ve got a dead 13-year-old in the gym, did you know that? How do you think the cops are going to treat you? You think the DA is going to accept anything less than the death penalty?”
“I’m about to sacrifice over a hundred souls and you think I care about mortal punishment?” Fornham murmured so calmly he sounded almost amused.
“What would you say if I told you I’d already blessed the water tank?” John asked when he could find his voice again. “That I’ve drawn sigils of protection all over the school?”
“I’d say you’re lying,” Fornham said.
The door flew open behind them. Fornham turned to look. In half a second, John grabbed his Browning and twisted Fornham into his grasp, shielding himself with Fornham’s body.
“Drop your weapons, or I drop your boss,” John growled at the four guards.
“Dad!” Dean came in with his shotgun at the ready. Sam appeared a step behind him with one of the Rugers the cultists had all been carrying. John’s knees turned to water, but he forced himself to keep his grip on Fornham. He wanted to check them for injury; he told himself there’d be time later, after the threat was neutralized.
“Drop’em. Hands up! Against the wall,” Dean ordered. His voice carried a lot more authority than his years should have given him; he sounded like he did when he was yelling at (or for) Sam. Luckily, the guards responded to the barked instructions, focused on the double barrel staring them in the face, and didn’t question. The rifles went down; Sam slid in and kicked them away with care.
“Sammy, get out!” John shouted. Sam trotted out without argument, ducking meekly behind Dean’s protective circle. It looked like there might be something staining the back of Sam’s shirt. His hair was a mess. John turned his head for a better view. Fornham twisted in John’s grip and tried to force the gun out of his hands. John whipped the gun down and squeezed the trigger. Fornham fell away, minus half his gut. Powder stains and blood stained his fashionable suit.
“Whoa,” Scanlon said, appearing in the doorway. John looked up. Scanlon looked like he might fall over himself. John recognized Dean’s field dressing on his shoulder, and the tattoo on his arm below the neat bandages. Scanlon held the other arm out, physically signaling that he had blocked Sam’s view bodily, but what Sam witnessed or hadn’t was the least of John’s worries.
“He sent someone to start the ritual,” John told Dean, ignoring Scanlon’s attempt to intervene.
“Yup, he did,” Scanlon agreed. “But they didn’t make it far.”
~*~
The clean up took most of the evening—and that was just the priority stuff. Luckily, Sam Winchester and his friends had managed to free most of the hostages on their own. The teachers had also escaped at some point (Lee suspected John’s involvement) and were helping the police sort out returning the children to their families. They found one little boy cowering in a girls’ bathroom, stunned silent, and were trying to get a psychologist down to talk to him right away. Someone found Nate Delancy’s parents and broke the bad news to them.
Dean and John made short work of removing all John’s prints from the office. Lee watched them and wondered if their efficiency was a sign that they’d done something like this before. Still, the shooting was as clean as something like this got. He’d arrived at the office just in time to see Fornham practically throw himself on John’s gun, and he’d testify to that if necessary.
So would the witnesses, he told them, if they expected any clemency at all.
Trouble was, Winchester and his boys had no intention of sticking around for the dog and pony show. John was already sending Sam and Dean overland to get through the perimeter and wait for him at their car.
“Where’s the car?” Lee asked.
“So you can have a patrol watching it?” John chuckled. “No way. Dean, Sam, go on.”
Dean brought Sam over and offered his hand to Lee. “You should get your shoulder looked at,” Dean told him.
“Yeah, tell me about it. Hurts like a sonofabitch. Take care, Dean,” Lee told him, shaking warmly. “Try not to turn commando again before you finish high school.”
Dean smiled angelically. “Well, if Sammy can avoid being at ground zero every time we turn around, I think I can manage that.”
“Wasn’t my fault,” Sam insisted.
“Yeah, whatever, squirt. C’mon, Dad says to shag ass.”
“Bye, Sam,” Lee held up his hand. Sam waved back, but his brother was already pulling him away.
“You really should stick around,” Lee told John as the boys headed out across the playground.
“Can’t do it,” John answered with a frown. “Fact is, we’ll be leaving Phoenix soon,” he said, holstering the nine-mil in his waistband.
“Really,” Lee said sardonically. “Y’know, you’re a material witness.”
“I know.”
“So’s Dean.”
Winchester nodded. “Which is why we’ll be leaving Phoenix. Tonight.”
Lee looked over where Sam and Dean were walking. “Look, I know it’s not my business, but Sam should probably talk to someone,” he said with concern. “I don’t know if he saw you shoot Fornham, but the Vice Principal, uh, Snyder, was blown away right in front of him.”
“He told you that?”
“He told Dean that, a couple minutes ago,” Lee clarified, gesturing to them with a wagging finger. “I just overheard it. Tried to tell him before, in fact, but they hared off after you first.” This last sounded more like a gripe than a report.
John frowned. “Sam’s okay.”
“Are you seriously telling me he’s seen a man killed in front of him before?” Lee put his hands on his hips in disgust.
John looked him in the eye. “I’m seriously telling you, Marine, that he’ll be fine. He’s seen worse than an innocent man dying.”
“Man, I should—”
“You know, Dean’s not kidding. You should get that shoulder fixed up. Before you do anything else.” John squinted into the sunset. “Just give us a head start,” he reasoned. “Tell them whatever you want, but…we’re done here. We’re moving on.”
Lee sighed. “I really shouldn’t.”
“But you’re really going to.”
“Oh, yeah? Why?” Lee demanded.
“Semper Fi,” John said.
And infuriatingly, Lee knew he was right. He’d cover for them while they slipped away. He was sure the witnesses would tell them about a vigilante, but he’d stick to his story—that he’d been made trying to release some of the hostages and he’d holed up in the lab until he was sure he could get away. By the time he arrived in Fornham’s office, the man was dead.
Yup. It was the truth, anyway.
Mostly.
And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to get him that promotion. Detective Leland Scanlon. Still had a good ring. No doubt, his first case would be to find the mystery man of Crenshaw Middle.
He held out his right hand to Winchester, who shook it.
~Fin~
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Date: 2008-12-08 04:17 am (UTC)I kid you not... I was just shuffling through some papers on my computer desk and had the printout of this story in my hand when your reply landed! I'd just re-read the title and author name and the story came back to me with a smile and then I looked up again, at my inbox, and there you were *g*
Suffice it to say, that smile I gave the printout was genuine and my fondness for this story carries on :)
that's half the fun of writing pre-series fics
I hope this means you have more in the works at some point down the line ;)