Bullet Rain Read online

  Bullet Rain

  A Nova Bartkowski Novel

  Robert Swartwood

  RMS Press

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  Details can be found at the end of Bullet Rain.

  The Holly Lin Series

  No Shelter

  Bullet Rain

  First Kill

  The Devil You Know

  Hollow Point

  Dedicated to my grandmother, Audrey Acton

  August 5, 1926 — April 18, 2014

  One

  The sniper sat on top of the ridge, his back against a boulder. He had his eyes closed, earbuds in his ears, listening to an audiobook.

  He listened to an audiobook almost every day, having nothing else to do except sit here in this makeshift hut and wait. There was a cooler with water and Gatorade and the remains of his lunch—tuna fish sandwich and barbecue potato chips, a can of diet soda—and that was it. If he needed to loosen his bowels, he did so in a hole one hundred yards away.

  His transportation was a 2009 Honda CRF dirt bike. It was parked five hundred yards away down the embankment, in the shade of a Utah juniper tree.

  In the next hour or so he would ride the dirt bike three miles across the desert to town. His home, a doublewide trailer, sat on the outskirts. A wooden shed was beside it, and it was into the shed he would ease the dirt bike, snap shut the padlock on the door, and head inside the trailer. Strip out of his clothes, take a shower, then lower himself down into his recliner with a cold bottle of beer, turn on the TV, and watch sports until he drifted off to sleep.

  But that was later, and this was now, and currently he sat with his back against the boulder, his eyes closed, listening to his audiobook. It was a murder mystery, a book in an ongoing series that he liked. What he liked most was the narrator’s voice. It was smooth and confident. The narrator had the uncanny ability to change his voice to match any character in the book, even a secondary character, sometimes even a tertiary character.

  The sniper was impressed.

  He was also bored.

  This job paid well—exceedingly well—and it was relatively easy, but not much happened. Hence the earbuds and audiobook. Hence the hut with the corrugated steel roof that protected him from the sun. The desert was dry and played hell on his sinuses, but he had become accustomed to it over the past two years. That was how long he had been doing the work, ever since he had left the Marines.

  He had had thirty-seven kills during his service to his country.

  He was a killer, he supposed, though he thought of himself more as a marksman. A very skilled marksman, to be exact, one of the best in his platoon, so it made sense why he had been snatched up so quickly after leaving the Marines.

  Of course, the fact that he had a gambling problem, and that he had been down nearly one hundred thousand dollars, also factored into his decision to be where he was right now.

  His debt had been paid off long ago, and if he wanted, he could have left this job and pursued another, but hell, the money he was making for the little work he was doing, it was just too good to walk away from.

  He had gone to war to fight for the American dream, and now he was living it.

  In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated.

  He opened his eyes. Outside the narrow opening of the steel hut the desert stretched out in front of him. The day had worn on and the sun was already headed toward the horizon. In another hour it would be gone. Night would come, and the temperature would drop, and the desert would become alive with the nocturnal sounds of nature. And the sniper? By then he would be home, his feet up on the ottoman, SportsCenter on the widescreen.

  The audiobook was getting to a good part, the detective close to finding out who the killer was, and part of him wanted to just keep listening, while another part—the rational part, the part that liked money—woke up his iPod to stop the audiobook. He plucked out the earbuds just as he withdrew the phone from his pocket.

  A text message was on the screen: RED MUSTANG, FOUR MILES EAST.

  The sniper set the iPod and earbuds aside. He climbed to his feet, stretched his arms, his legs, his neck. He stepped over to the mesh case on the ground, bent and opened it up to reveal an XM2010 enhanced sniper rifle.

  The XM2010 was a fine machine. The Army had issued it in 2011, so he hadn’t had the pleasure of using it during combat, but he thought he got better use out of it now as a civilian.

  The rifle weighed twelve pounds and was nearly four feet long, the barrel exactly twenty-four inches.

  He hefted it and exited the hut, keeping low as he advanced to the edge of the ridge. From here he had a perfect view of the valley, and the highway that snaked through it. The closest section was almost a straight shot, nearly two miles of state-maintained pavement, and oftentimes drivers put the pedal to the metal, either to try to save an extra minute or to get a rush.

  The red Mustang was still three miles away. He could just make out the dot on the horizon. If the car was going too fast—and he had to assume it would be—it made his job harder. But that was why he got paid the big bucks. Nobody ever said it would be easy.

  He lowered himself down into his usual spot. He attached the sound suppressor, made sure it was tight and secure, then opened up the tactical rails, locked them in place, and set the rifle down on the ground.

  He closed his left eye and with his right eye peered through the scope.

  The range on the rifle was 1,300 yards.

  From where he was crouched up on the ridge to the place the Mustang would pass was just under 1,000 yards.

  More than enough room for him to play with.

  In fact, it was almost child’s play.

  The XM2010 had a five-round detachable box magazine. He attached it now, though he would only need two bullets. All he ever needed were two bullets, .300 Winchester Magnums.

  He took a breath, released it. Took another breath, let it out only halfway.

  He looked through the scope again.

  There was the Mustang, coming right at him.

  His finger touched the trigger.

  He waited … waited … waited …

  A slight squeeze of the trigger, the kick of the rifle, a quick adjustment; another slight squeeze of the trigger, another kick of the rifle, and that was it. His job for the day was done.

  Two

  Nova was doing seventy-five, the needle inching up toward eighty, Guns N’ Roses blasting from the speakers, when the Mustang’s rear tire blew and nearly sent him careening off the highway.

  He only had one hand on the steering wheel—his right—while his left arm was on the open windowsill, his fingers tapping a quiet beat to the pounding music. But once the tire blew and the car began to buckle and he felt the centrifugal force start to pull him off the highway, he grabbed the wheel and gripped it hard, jerking it to the left just a bit, enough to keep him on the macadam.

  A second later, the front tire blew—the same side as the rear—and Nova wrestled the wheel again to gain control, then lifted his foot off the gas and coasted to a shaky stop along the side of the highway.

  From the speakers, Axl Rose screamed that the jungle was going to bring Nova to his knees.

  Nova punched the power on the ancient stereo, cutting Axl off mid-scream.

  The engine was still idling, purring like a beast, eager to keep eating up miles.

  Nova cut the ignition, withdrew the key, and opened his door.

  At once the silence of the desert enveloped him. There were sounds, yes, the desert sounds of nature—wind, cicadas, a bird, possibly a hawk, calling from somewhere nearby—but the sounds he was used to hearing—t
raffic, construction, people—were absent. It was one of the reasons why he had taken this road trip in the first place, to just get away from it all. But this right here, not one but two of his tires blown flat, had not been part of the plan.

  He shut his door—the sound of metal meeting metal becoming the loudest sound in the desert—and circled around the hood to check on the tire.

  Yep, the thing was flat, just like the rear tire.

  Crouching down, Nova squinted at the worn rubber. The light was leaving the sky, but there was still enough to see that the tire had been shredded in one spot. Even though he knew he was going to find the same thing, he checked the rear tire.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He stood back up and stared down the empty space of highway he’d just driven. He hadn’t noticed anything in his path, broken glass or shaved metal, anything to cause two tires to blow like that … though he had been getting into the song at the time, singing along with the chorus like a jackass.

  There was a spare tire in the trunk, but it was just one spare, and right now one spare was not going to help.

  He withdrew his iPhone from his pocket, slid the bar across the screen, entered his PIN, but then said, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  NO SERVICE, the iPhone informed him.

  Nova held up the phone, slowly turned himself in a full three-sixty as if that might magically restore cell service.

  It didn’t.

  Nova released a heavy breath. He knew what this meant. He knew what it meant and he didn’t like it one bit.

  The last town he had passed through was about six miles back. It had been a small town, a handful of houses, trailers, some buildings, and not much else. He wasn’t sure how far up the next town was, and without cell reception, he couldn’t check Google Maps.

  Which meant he had no choice but to head back the way he had come.

  He considered grabbing one of his bags from the trunk but decided he only needed his leather jacket instead. The temperature wasn’t too bad—was rather comfortable, in fact—but he knew just how cold it got in the desert. In the next hour or so, once the sun disappeared, it would be best to have a jacket.

  He locked the doors and stood back from the car for a moment to take in its beauty.

  It was a 1966 Mustang Shelby GT 350, cherry red with white racing stripes. He had always wanted a Mustang, ever since he was a kid, and had promised himself he would eventually buy one. But then life, as it always did, got in the way, and he was barely home long enough to enjoy such a car.

  But then all that shit went down back in D.C., and his pickup ended up in the Potomac, and then he quit his job and needed a new ride and figured, what the hell, he’d always wanted a Mustang, didn’t he?

  The price for this one was a pretty penny—just over six figures—but it was more than worth it and Nova had the extra money to spend so he went all out.

  And now here it was, a vintage classic with two blown tires, sitting slumped along the side of an empty highway in the Nevada desert.

  “Son of a bitch,” Nova said again.

  He started walking.

  Three

  It took him an hour before he saw the town off in the distance—a few lights in the growing darkness—and it took him another twenty minutes before those lights materialized into actual buildings. By then the sun had set and the temperature had dropped, just as Nova had known it would, and he was doubly glad he had brought along the leather jacket.

  For the first mile or so he had focused on the sun-weathered macadam, trying to spot anything that might have caused two of his tires to blow, but besides a flattened can of Old Milwaukee along the side of the highway, there was nothing.

  Traffic was sporadic for the most part, the first vehicle passing him a tractor-trailer. It had been coming toward him, away from town. He stuck out his thumb anyway, in the hopes the driver would stop, so Nova could use the CB radio. But the truck had just kept going—the trailer itself white with no markings on its side—and Nova had watched it receding, noting the license plate was from California.

  A few other vehicles had passed him along the way—some headed west, others headed east—but by then he had no interest in hitching a ride. He would reach town soon enough.

  He checked his phone every half mile, hoping for a signal. None was available. It was strange—he had been passing through most of rural America in the past two days and there had almost always been cell reception. Granted, it was usually only one or two bars, and even those weren’t reliable, but at least they had been something.

  Strangely enough, as he neared town—nearly a half mile away—service was suddenly restored to his phone. Four bars, even, more than enough to make a phone call or use the Internet. He unlocked the screen, pulled up the phone application, but then realized he had nobody to call. He wasn’t a member of AAA, and even if he was he knew it didn’t matter unless there was a tow truck nearby, and if there was a tow truck nearby, then he might as well find it himself. The town looked small enough to walk from one end to the other in five minutes, so he kept walking.

  Most of the town—houses and trailers—sat off on one side of the highway. On the other side was a diner and a bar, as well as a long, squat building that he realized after a moment was a motel. Behind the motel sat two dust-covered tractor-trailers.

  Nova tried the diner first. The lights were on inside, but the doors were locked. A sign on the door said the diner closed at eight. He checked his watch. It was 8:15.

  Inside, a middle-aged woman was wiping down the tables and counters. Another was mopping the linoleum floor. The one wiping tables noticed him, smiled and shrugged.

  He went to the motel next. It appeared to have six rooms. There was only one car in the parking lot, a Volkswagen Rabbit convertible.

  He couldn’t seem to find an office. All there appeared to be were the six rooms, and only one of them—occupied by the owner of the Rabbit, presumably—had lights on inside. He was half-tempted to knock on the door, inquire how one went about contacting the front desk, if such a front desk existed, but decided not to bother.

  Nova headed for the bar.

  Four

  Outside the bar were parked three pickup trucks, two beaters, three motorcycles. Judging by the number of vehicles, he assumed there might be a dozen patrons inside at the most, but when he walked through the door he found double that amount, mostly men but a few women, too, sitting at tables and booths. None of them occupied the bar, where Nova headed through a fog of cigarette smoke and country music, instinctively veering toward the corner of the bar, so he could view the room with his back up against the wall.

  The bartender was an older woman who had seen better days. She wore too much makeup and her hair had been bleached down to the roots. She barely acknowledged Nova at first, standing behind the bar, puffing on a cigarette, staring into space.

  Finally Nova said, “Can I get a drink?”

  She blinked and studied him for a long moment, before crushing her cigarette out in an ashtray sprouting used butts. She waltzed over, taking her time, still staring off into space like she would rather be anywhere else but here.

  “Whatcha want?”

  “Beer.”

  “What kind of beer?”

  “I don’t care. Just as long as it’s cold.”

  She pursed her lips, studying him again, before silently grabbing a glass and filling it from one of the taps set up along the bar. Despite the Budweiser and Miller Lite neon signs buzzing in the windows, none of the taps were labeled, so Nova figured it would be a crapshoot to see what he ended up with.

  The beer, when she set it down in front of him, had too much head, and the foam overflowed along the sides of the glass.

  “Thanks,” Nova said. “You got a napkin, too?”

  She ignored him. “You want to start a tab?”

  “Sure.”

  The woman started to walk away, probably to grab another cigarette, when Nova said, “Who runs the motel?” r />
  She gave him an irritated look. “What’s that?”

  “The motel. I’m looking for a room.”

  “Oh yeah?” She turned to him fully, lighting herself another cigarette. “And why’s that?”

  “My car broke down a couple miles from here. This time of night, I’m guessing I won’t get a hold of a mechanic until morning, so I figured I might as well get a room.”

  The woman seemed to think about this for a moment before nodding. “You want a room? I can give you a room.”

  “You manage the motel?”

  “The motel, the diner, this bar—I manage it all. One night’s stay will cost you eighty bucks.”

  “Seems pretty steep considering you have six rooms and only one of those is currently being used.”

  Her eyebrow lifted. “You trying to haggle with me? Because I don’t have to rent you a room at all.”

  “Eighty’s fine. Where can I get a key?”

  “The keys are already inside the rooms, right on top of the pillows. But don’t expect to find any mechanic in the morning.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There ain’t any. At least there ain’t any around here. The closest mechanic shop is in Townsend, the next town over, and that’s at least twelve miles. They’ll send someone out, but it might take most of the day.”

  This wasn’t the news Nova wanted to hear, but he wasn’t surprised. He had passed through towns just as small as this in the past two days, towns that barely deserved a dot on the map, so he couldn’t complain. At least he had a place to lay his head down, even though he was beginning to think the sheets might not have been washed in a while.

  Laughter exploded at a booth off in the corner, a trio of beefy men pounding the tabletop.

  The bartender started to drift away again, and Nova said to her, “Small town, huh?”