Shred of Evidence

They found Fire Chief Reginald Morrigan dead early one winter morning, drowned in a large bathtub full of bootleg gin inside the town firehouse. For five years he had been using the firehouse in Calerton, New York as a front to make rye, gin and scotch and to sneak good Canadian whiskey and beer into Upstate New York right near the American-Canadian border.

Ed Dugan and the other firemen dragged Morrigan’s alcohol-soaked corpse out of the tub, laid it down on the floor and waited for the local meat wagon to come pick it up. The whole firehouse reeked of booze and it made Ed’s eyes water. Seeing the chief like that also filled him with anger. He had to wait outside the fire hall and light a cigarette, ignoring the cold that bore right down into his blood and bones.

He knew who had done this. It was the Rogan family, Irish mafia that had come up from New York City. Although they hadn’t left any message, Morrigan’s body made the message quite clear. Stay out of bootlegging trade or else you’re next.

Ed had seen them move in on several of the smaller border towns in Upstate New York and take them over from the inside out, using bribes, threats and then force if the townspeople didn’t cooperate. And now it was Calerton’s turn.

Already the Rogans had firebombed the local clothing store where bathtub gin was made, gunned down one of the local deputies, Bill Harris, who drove in Canadian whiskey on the weekends and killed several of the local skunks and deer and laid their heads and carcasses on the doorsteps of known bootleggers.

“Somebody’s got to put a stop to them before we bring down the next shipment,” Christopher Reynolds said.

Ed looked back at his friend.

“I know that,” Ed said. “But what do you suggest we do?”

“Get Sheriff Amnerfield to do something.”

“The sheriff can’t do a damn thing. If he could have done something, don’t you think he would’ve done it already? Besides, the Rogans have probably got more people on their payroll than this whole town does.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Are we supposed to just let these bums come in and take us over.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I say we form a posse—”

“And what? Hunt them all down like we’re cowboys, in the dead of fucking winter? I think you’ve been sniffing too much of that hooch in there.”

Deep down, though, Ed knew that he was right. They couldn’t let the Rogans get away with killing Morrigan.

Ed sighed and scratched his mustache.

“Are we going to cancel the shipment then?” Christopher said.

“No,” Ed said.

“Then how are we going to keep it safe from them?”

“Let me worry about keeping it safe. You just worry about keeping the chief’s death under wraps.”

“What am I supposed to tell the coroner? That he slipped on ice and cracked his head?”

“Tell ‘em that he died of natural causes or something.”

“Natural causes?” Christopher said. “Excuse me, but how the fuck can drowning in a big tub of hooch be considered natural causes?”

“I don’t know,” Ed said. “Invent something. Say that the chief was out drinking all night, came in from the cold and thought he’d warm up in the tub. Unfortunately the tub was filled with liquor and he drowned. How the hell am I supposed to know? Just make sure that everybody in town doesn’t find out about this. I’m going down to the Amnerfield’s office and see if he’s still in with us on the next shipment.”

Ed dropped his cigarette into the snow, tightened up his coat and then walked up the hill to Amnerfield’s office.

* * *

Sheriff George P. Amnerfield slept in his chair with the radio playing softly. He was pushing sixty and looked every single year of it, with his wrinkled skin hanging off his face and limbs like loose dough. He was wrapped in several old Indian blankets and had a long white mustache and beard.

His whole office smelled of the burnt wood and farts and he spent half the time drinking and the other half sleeping off his drinking. Seeing the pitiful excuse for a town sheriff, Ed wished that his father had still been the town sheriff. Unfortunately he had died in the Spanish-American War, a victim of a bad canned ham, and Amnerfield had inherited the position ever since.

Ed opened the office door, then slammed it shut as hard as he could. Amnerfield awoke with a start, gasping and clutching his chest.

He blinked with his rheumy eyes and then said, “Ed, Jesus, you nearly stopped my ticker back there. Next time knock.”

“If I had knocked, I would have been waiting out there to next Christmas.” Ed strode over to the radio and snapped the dial off, then went over to the chair in front of his desk and sat.

Never one for manners, Amnerfield farted, then grabbed a bottle out of his drawer and tipped it up to drink. Only to realize that there wasn’t anything left. He grunted, then tossed the bottle into the trash and pulled out another one, started drinking out of it.

“I see you haven’t had breakfast yet,” Ed said.

“What do you want?”

“They found Morrigan dead in the firehouse. Somebody drowned him in a tub full of his own gin.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amnerfield said, sounding anything but sorry. He took a long swig on the bottle, then put it on his desk and belched.

“I thought you might want to know that.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Some police work might be nice. Considering a man died in your own township.” Ed put his hands together and leaned forward. “But then police work hasn’t exactly been your specialty ever since you took over.”

“What are you getting at? You’re not exactly a bright and shining example of a civil servant yourself, Ed, especially when you’re fucking the mayor’s daughter right behind his back.” He laughed, a harsh, racking laugh that turned into a coughing spasm. Once it stopped, he continued drinking for a moment, then stopped and gazed at the smoldering ashes in the fireplace.

“Are you with the Rogans now?” Ed asked.

“Am I?” Amnerfield took another swig of whiskey.

“Yes or no.”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me and the boys. And to everybody else in this town, for that matter. What, you think we’re going to live on fucking nuts all winter like squirrels?”

“This town is a graveyard, Ed. If people like you had half the sense they claimed to, they would have already gone down south where it’s warmer.”

“Not everybody can afford to up and move like you. What about old lady Huntington? She needs the money from the shipment to keep her house warm.”

“Hey, I’ve been loyal to this town for more than twenty years. I’ve stayed here when men half my age would have went looking for a better job down in Albany or New York City or even Florida. So what if I don’t bust a few bootleggers? I let you assholes run the show for long enough already. Why don’t you just let the pros come in and handle it? They’ve got experience, they got lots more trucks and workers, they know how to move the goods and get maximum profits. Hell, they said that if we let them in, they’ll share a percentage with us.”

“What? Ten percent? Fifteen? When we’re running the show, we’ve got one hundred percent of the profits and no bullshit.”

“You can’t win against these city boys, Ed. They’ve got enough muscle to push the whole town around if they want to.”

“And what if I call the Feds in here? Show them all the little hiding places that you and the other deputies have.”

“Fine, go ahead. As long as you don’t mind taking a long stretch yourself up in Attica.” He took another sip. “Don’t threaten me. You think you can hold out against them—well, I’ve got news for you. You can’t. The best thing for you to do is just pack it in and give them the names of your suppliers.”

“Oh, I see. I should just do that and let them get away with killing Morrigan and Harris.”

“When you get to be my age, you know when to cut your losses.” He coughed and spat some phlegm into a nearby spittoon. “What, you think I like the fact that they killed Harris and Morrigan? They were good men, good family men. But Morrigan didn’t know when to quit. And Harris didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut and look the other way.”

“And the others?”

“Hey, the Rogans have agreed to lay off as long as everybody lets them handle the booze around here.”

“And if we don’t, what are they going to do? Burn down the whole town?”

Amnerfield glared at him over the bottle’s rim. Ed shuddered and realized that they would. If they came to that, they’d do that and much worse.

“I’m too old to stop them and even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have enough men to do it.”

“But the town needs the money we get from selling it to the distributors downstate if we’re going to make it through the rest of the winter.”

“That’s not my problem. Besides, I’m doing all right for myself.”

Ed shot up from his chair, knocked the bottle off Amnerfield’s desk and said, “Well then goddamn it, maybe it should be.” The bottle shattered on the floor and the liquor splashed all over the floor and seeped down into the cracks and spaces in between the wood floorboards.

“Have you got anything else to say, or are you finished?”

“I’m finished, all right. I’m through with you.”

Ed turned and strode to the front door.

“Ed,” Amnerfield said.

He stopped at the door and looked back at Amnerfield.

“If you’re thinking about running that next shipment in, don’t even bother. Just forget about it.”

Ed ignored Amnerfield and left his office.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Ed returned to the firehouse. Christopher emerged from the firehouse and said, “So, what did Amnerfield say?”

“He told me to forget about the shipment and let the Rogans move in,” Ed said.

“That old bastard. He would do this to us.” He nodded. “We should have never told him anything.”

“Well, it’s too late now.”

“Yeah.” Christopher looked around. “Are you going to give up the names of our shippers?”

“No, I’m not. We’re going to bring in the shipment, whether they like it or not.”

“But they’ll send their people out to stop you. You know they will.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’ll have something ready for them. In the meantime, though, you just make sure that those canuks of yours up there have it ready to go.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re moving tomorrow.”

“We might not be ready by then.”

“They’d better be ready by then. Otherwise they can dump all their whiskey and beer into the nearest river. Because we aren’t paying them for it. You’ll have to make the arrangements with them.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“You can do it. Make sure they understand what will happen if they don’t. Tell them about the Rogans. They’ll get the picture.”

“Yeah, I suppose they will.”

“And we’ll need some protection. I’ll need some boys who won’t crack under pressure. We may get into a lot of trouble out there on the road.”

“I’ll go.”

“All right. I have a few ideas how we can play it safe, and I’ve got the route mapped. We just have to make sure that nobody tips our hand before then, got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Remember, tomorrow.” Ed slapped Christopher on the shoulder.

“Right.”

Ed nodded to him.

“Where the hell are you going?”

Ed smiled and said, “I’m going to put out a fire. Before it starts.”

Christopher nodded in understanding.

* * *

“Where have you been?” Louise Dugan said when Ed arrived at his house. “I was worried sick about you.”

“Busy down in the fire hall,” Ed said.

Ed slipped past her, through the living room and into his study. Inside the warm, oak-paneled room, he unlocked his gun cabinet and laid out his guns, the Colt .45 that he had when he served during the Great War as an explosives expert in the U.S. Army. He also laid out his pump action shotgun and the Tommy Gun he had bought through mail order. Once they were on the table, he started cleaning them.

“What, are you going back to France or are you and the boys hunting a rabid elephant?” Louise said.

“No,” Ed said, then sighed and collapsed in his leather chair.

Louise came up to his side and put her hands on his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?”

“Morrigan’s dead.”

“What?” Her face paled.

“We found him drowned in a tub of gin. Fucking Rogans are trying to move in on us and they killed off Morrigan as a warning. Apparently they don’t want us making the latest shipment.”

“Then don’t do it.”

“I don’t give a shit where those micks think they came from. They aren’t pushing me or this town around.”

“Ed—”

“Louise, I want you to take a vacation. Go to your sister’s. Take the train and go to Albany for a couple of days. I’ll call you after this is done.”

“Absolutely not. I’m staying here with you.”

“Look, if they can get to Morrigan, then they can get to me. And to you. I don’t want you caught in this. It’s going to get ugly. Very ugly.”

“I don’t care. I’m not running away.”

“Do it for me, huh? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“And you think I want to see you get hurt? You think I want to see you dead?”

“I’m not going to die, Louise.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I came home from France, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. But I just…I don’t want…” Her voice trailed off.

He rubbed the back of her hand.

“It’ll be O.K. I promise.” He leaned up and kissed her.

“Ed…”

“Go. Now. Don’t argue with me. Just go.”

She bowed her head, then turned and left the room. He sighed, then returned to cleaning his guns.

* * *

That evening Louise left Calerton on the train. The weather had warmed up just enough during the day so that the ice melted from the tracks and allowed the trains to head east. Ed waved to her from the car as the train left the station. A large ache burned through his heart as he watched disappear along with the train down the tracks. He feared that it would be the last time that he would ever see her alive, but he had to swallow that fear like he had during the war. He had to swallow it because he knew that if he didn’t, then he wouldn’t be able to go on and then the Rogans would win.

Once her train was out of sight, he drove home.

Before he had left, he stuck all his guns in his model T. The shotgun and Tommy gun were in the trunk, the Colt .45 in his shoulder holster and a back up .38 Smith and Wesson revolver in the glove compartment. All the guns were loaded.

On the way home, he noticed smoke drifting up from a house in the distance.

His house.

“Shit,” Ed said.

He slammed down on the accelerator and hurried home as fast as he could. His car kept on slipping on the slush and ice and he had to slow down just to keep from slipping off the road.

Just as he drove onto the dirt road that led up to his house, two cars raced out from behind the pine trees that formed a wall on both sides of the road. The cars cut him off from the front and back. Several men in blue suits and fedoras raced out of the vehicles. They had Tommy guns and shotguns and they aimed them at Ed.

For a moment, Ed thought that they were Feds. But he knew otherwise when one of the men called out in a faint Irish accent, “Ed Dugan?”

The men threw open the driver side door before he could reach his piece, yanked him out of the car and threw him down into the snow. Cold snow soaked into his suit and one of the men kicked him in the ribs and flipped him over like a turtle. Another reached down, yanked out his Colt .45 and threw it away while a third frisked him. He kicked the third man’s face with both feet and knocked him back against the ground, but another one smashed him in the chest with a blackjack and took all the wind out of him. Pain flared up through his chest and the third man scrambled to his feet, spitting out blood and teeth.

“I see that you aren’t in the cooperating mood today,” an old man said as he emerged from one of the cars.

One of the thugs yanked him up and the third man punched him in the gut, then spat some blood in his face. Ed groaned. Stars danced in front of his vision and the cold muck from the ground seeped through his suit and into his flesh. He knew that he was going to die and he felt strangely apathetic about it, like it had to happen sooner or later.

“Who are you?” Ed said.

“Shut up,” one of the thugs said. He punched Ed in the mouth. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out from the pain. But the old man threw muddy slush in his face and that kept him awake.

“My name is Terence Rogan,” the old man said, and tipped his hat to Ed.

“You going to kill me?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. But no. I just want to know the name of your suppliers up in Canada. If you tell me now, then maybe I’ll let you live for the time being. And you give your word as a man of honor that you won’t be making any more shipments across the border. This is our town now, you understand. And we really don’t like competition from the locals. So why don’t you give me the information?”

“Are all you micks as dumb as you look?” Ed said, sounding a lot braver than he really felt.

He reached an elbow in the back for that one, and he screamed in agony. Only the men holding his arms up kept him collapsing.

“Have you ever heard of an Irish shave, Ed?” Terence whipped out a straight razor and held it in front of Ed’s face. “It starts at your neck and then works itself all the way down to your balls. If you’re lucky, though, it only goes down to the edge of your throat.” He gave Ed a small slash on his right cheek and fire screamed through the flesh there. “So tell me, are you in the mood for a Irish shave? Or do you want to tell me the names of those suppliers of yours?”

Ed gasped as hot blood spilled down his cold face. Whatever heroism he had a moment ago fled like a horse with a hot poker up its ass and he knew that he couldn’t hold out against them, not when they were willing to go all the way. So he fed them a false lead.

“Morcheka and Brunwitz. They work out of a lumberyard about twenty miles in from the Canadian border. They bring in the booze from their wholesaler and we bring it down with our fire trucks.”

“Who else?”

“That’s it. I’m telling you. That’s all I know.”

“Are you sure? Because if we go up there and find that you’ve led us on a wild goose chase, we’re going to come back to this shithole. And what we did to Morrigan will look like a mercy compared to what we’re going to do to you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“Good.” He nodded to his men. They dropped him on the ground.

“I want you to go back to your boys in the firehouse and I want you to tell them that they’ll be no more stills and no more home brewing unless we say so. Then I want you to spread the word to everybody else in town. We’re in charge here from now on. And don’t try to slip anything down these roads, because we’ll be watching them around the clock.” He tipped his hat once again to Ed. “In the meantime, sir, have a good evening.”

Terence and all of his men, save one, walked back to their cars and got in. The last one took a grenade out of one of his coat pockets, pulled the pin and flung it inside his model T, then hurried back to the car and jumped in. Ed ran as fast as he could towards the forest. A second later the car exploded behind him and the blast threw him back into the trees. When he looked back down the road, the other cars were gone.

Ed staggered back over to his Colt .45, picked it up along with his hat, dusted it off and stuck it back on his head. Then he holstered his gun and began the long walk back to the firehouse.

* * *

By the time he arrived back at the firehouse, he was shivering half to death from the cold. He collapsed inside and Christopher and several of the men grabbed him, pulled him inside and wrapped blankets around him, then deposited him in front of the fireplace.

“Ed, what happened?” Christopher said.

“Rogans…ambushed me…blew up my car…made me…give up name…but false.” He spoke with chattering teeth and had to wait a minute to warm up.

“What?”

“I gave them…a false lead. Lumber yard.”

One of the men came with a rag and a bowl and began washing his cheek wound.

“When they find out…that the place…is gone. They are going to come after us. We have to move the liquor back here tonight.”

“We can’t. They aren’t ready.”

“When they find out I fed them a false lead, then they are going to come back here. And they won’t stop until they’ve gotten the names of our real suppliers—they’ll break us and they’ll get the names. I know they will. So we’ve got to move tonight. We’ve got to move the liquor and take those sons of bitches out. Every last one of them.”

“I don’t think the suppliers—”

“You tell them that the Rogans are going to hit them if they don’t move the merchandise. You tell them that. Tell them I’ll give them the names. See if they are still around next week.”

“All right, I’ll call them up. See what I can do.”

“Do it fast.” Ed turned to his men and said, “You boys better get your weapons ready. We’re moving out as soon as he’s got the go ahead.”

“How are we going to get up there. Once they see the fire trucks, they’ll—”

“We aren’t taking those trucks. We’re taking some other trucks.”

“Where?”

“From the bakery.”

“From the bakery?”

“Yeah, from the bakery. After all, Donald Gregor owes me a favor. But we have to get moving. I have a little surprise for the Rogans and I need time to set it up.” He touched his sliced cheek and his fingers came back red. “In the meantime, though, can somebody sew this cheek of mine up? It’s killing me.”

One of the boys ran out to find a needle and thread.

* * *

Early the next morning, before the sun had come up, three trucks drove down the long, dark and cold roads near Calerton. A snowstorm hit that morning and covered the road and air with white. On one hand, Ed was happy to see the snow, since it covered their trail. But on the other, it made driving a pain in the ass. The trucks constantly slipped across the winding roads and they had to keep it slow all the way to Canada and back.

He almost considered calling it off, but he knew that he couldn’t wait when the Rogans found out his information was wrong.

Inside the car he shivered. Christopher sat next to him, driving the first truck and they had boys hiding in the back behind the barrels. Everybody was wearing several suits and wrapped head to toe in blankets. Even still, they were cold. And Ed’s truck had to be especially careful, since it was carrying barrels of TNT instead of beer and whiskey. He planned the truck as a decoy in case the Rogans managed to steal it.

“God,” Christopher said. “If it gets any colder, we’re going to be pissing icicles.”

“Yeah,” Ed said, and laughed. “Tell me about it. I don’t think—”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“We’ve got company.”

Ed looked at the rearview window. Through the thick snow he caught a pair of headlights following them down the long mountain road that led into Calerton. Ed’s grip tightened on his shotgun he was carrying. With each passing second, the headlights grew closer and shined brighter. Up ahead the snow was flying so thick that they could hardly see ten feet in front of them.

“Should I speed up?”

“Yeah, but not too fast. We don’t want to go off the road.”

“Right.”

Christopher pressed down some more on the accelerator and the truck sped forward. He turned a large curve and the truck slid so much that his heart slammed into his shoulder. As they passed a four-way intersection, two more cars joined them, one on their left and another on the right. They followed close.

One of the Rogans’ men leaned out of their car and fired a Tommy gun at their tires. Christopher pulled the truck into the left lane just in time and the bullets hit the snow-covered pavement. Ed leaned out and fired his shotgun at the car on the right. The buckshot struck the side of the car, leaving several tiny holes, but it missed the shooter.

Ed pumped his shotgun and fired and pumped and fired and blew one of the men right out of the car.

Behind them the other two cars were firing back and forth between the truck. One of them struck two tires and blew them out. The truck went spinning off the roads and crashed into some trees.

“Damn it,” Ed said. He turned to Christopher. “Drive faster.”

“I can’t!”

“They’ll run us off the fucking road.”

“If I go faster—”

One of the cars sped right up next to them and slammed into the side, firing a few stray shots along. Ed saw one hit the fender near the right tire and the truck wobbled and screamed. A few more shots pinged against the frame. Ed leaned out the passenger door, fired once, and blew apart their left front tire.

The car skidded off the road and flew right over the shoulder and down a cliff.

Ed looked back and saw that the other trucks and cars were barely keeping on the road. When he faced front again, a roadblock stood at the end of the mountain road. Three cars blocked their way.

“Down,” Ed screamed, and threw himself down.

The men at the roadblock fired on the approaching truck. Bullets shattered the windshield and shredded Christopher. He screamed and slumped dead against the wheel, his blood spilling all over the car floor. Bullets pinged right over Ed’s head and broken glass rained down on him. He tried to reach for the brake, but Christopher’s body stood in the way.

Knowing it was hopeless, he threw open the door, leaped out onto the snowy road, rolled three times and then ran for his life into the forest. When he looked back, shots chewed up the trees near him and he watched the truck crash head-on into the roadblock, knocking men and cars out of the way. The impact threw the Rogans into the snow and the truck tipped over. At the roadblock, two of the Rogans recovered quickly and chased after Ed while the other five men fired on the second approaching truck.

Ed hid behind a tree and reloaded his shotgun, his heart racing with fear. When he looked back down the road, the remaining car were slamming into the truck and it teetered right on the edge of the cliff, trying to slam the car back while firing. But the roadblock was there and they wouldn’t get past it.

The other men were following his footsteps and Ed ran deeper into the forest, sweat pouring down his forehead. Shots pinged behind him and blew off branches and bark. He leaped behind a tree, then popped out and fired once at the pursuing men. His buckshot struck one of the Rogans in the gut and he screamed and collapsed. The others threw themselves behind two separate pine trees and fired back with their Tommy guns.

Ed ducked behind the tree and waited for the gunfire to stop. Amidst the gunfire, he could hear one of the men running towards him from the right side while the other provided cover fire. Ed lay low and aimed his shotgun upwards.

A moment later, the man popped out from a tree on his right and blasted the empty air above Ed’s head with his Tommy gun. Before he could realize his mistake, Ed blew him away with another shot. The third man screamed and charged right for the tree. Ed rolled out from his hiding spot and fired his shotgun empty. Two blasts slammed him back onto the snow-covered ground. He shuddered once and then died.

Ed dropped his shotgun, ran over to the dead gangster, grabbed his Tommy gun, tore out the used drum clip and stuck in a fresh one from the man’s pocket, then pulled back the slide. Down by the road, he could hear more gunfire.

After taking a deep breath, he ran back towards the roadblock. Near the shoulder, he dove behind a tree and peered out at the fighting. The Rogans had the second truck pinned from both sides of the road with gunfire and two of his firemen lay dead in the road in pools of their own blood. Only three boys remained alive, fighting for their lives.

Anger rushed through Ed in a thick, hot wave. He tightened his grip on the Tommy gun, then ran out from behind the tree and fired on the men hiding behind the roadblock. The bullets slammed into two of the men without warning and splattered their blood all over the car. By the time the third Rogan turned, Ed blasted his head apart and splattered his brains all over the roadside.

The snow turned dark red with their blood.

The other two men tried to run, but Ed chased them and shot their legs out. The men screamed and collapsed in the snow, thrashing like marionettes with their strings cut. Ed ran up to them.

“Don’t,” one of the men screamed, and held his hands up.

Ed shot them to pieces until his Tommy gun was empty. Then he threw it away, pulled out his .45 pistol and ran over to the second truck to help his boys. With the distraction he provided, though, his other boys managed to blew the remaining Rogans away.

After the last Rogans were dead, the men turned to him, looking as tired as the men he had seen in the Somme.

“Help me get these cars off the road,” Ed said.

The men ran forward and helped him drive the cars out of the way. Once that was done, they collected some more weapons off the dead men, got back into their trucks and drove on to the firehouse.

* * *

When they arrived back at the firehouse, two more cars blocked the garage entrance. Terence Rogan stood at the head of the cars along with seven other men, all with Tommy guns pointed at them.

Ed slammed the truck into the cars and gripped the Tommy gun that he had while the other truck stayed down the road, the firemen inside ready with their guns.

“I trust that you met up with our reception down the road a ways,” Terence said.

“Yeah, I did. And they’re all dead.”

“But I can always bring in more men. That’s not a problem.”

“Then we’ll kill every last one of them.”

“I guess you don’t understand the lengths to which I’m willing to go to secure this town’s cooperation.” Terence pointed a revolver at the truck.

“I know how far you’ll go.”

“Then you’d best be advised to give up the fight and walk away. Before I kill you and that pretty wife of yours.”

Ed gasped, knowing that he knew about her. For a moment, he expected him to pull her out of one of the cars. But he didn’t see her.

“You touch her and you’re dead, Rogan.”

“I’m giving you one chance to walk away with your life. You’ve proven yourself a corker, I’ll grant you. But you can’t win this.”

Ed breathed and he looked at the blood on the floor. Chris’s blood. And he looked at the others in his fire company. They looked ready to fight and die for him.

“All right,” Ed said. “You win. You want the town, you got it. In fact, to celebrate, why don’t we have a little drink? On the house. Like we did with Morrigan.”

He reached under the seat, armed the small bomb that he had planted there, then hopped out of the truck with his gun still on Terence and backed away from the truck. Terence followed him away from the truck while the other Rogans stayed at their cars.

“I appreciate the gesture, Ed, but I’m afraid that I have to kill you now,” Terence said.

Ed fired first and hit Terence in the shoulder, then dove behind a snowdrift. Terence staggered away from the truck and collapsed in front of the firehouse while the other men rushed from behind their cars to finish Ed off.

Suddenly the first truck exploded, blowing them all up along with their cars. Ed came over with his Tommy gun, but at the last second Terence spun around and shot Ed right in the gut with his revolver.

Pain burned through his lower side and he collapsed on the side. Terence laughed despite his pain. When he rose, though, one of the other firemen ran up and kicked the revolver out of his hand and dragged him up.

One of the firemen aimed his pistol at Terence and cocked the hammer.

“Don’t shoot him,” Ed whispered. “Not yet.”

“We’ll get you to a hospital, Ed,” one of his boys said. “Don’t worry.”

“No…don’t think I’ll make it.” He knew he wouldn’t. But even despite the pain, he smiled as he looked at Terence Rogan. Terence’s face froze in hopeless terror.

“Boys, go fill up the tub with some gin.” Ed coughed. “And use the best stuff we got. Because I want to see Terence have one last drink before I die.”

The firemen dragged Terence kicking and screaming into the firehouse while the others picked Ed up and brought him inside soon after.