Free Ship of the Damned by James F. David Page B

windows, but this window
had missing boards and the glass underneath was broken. Sloan followed Jett to the house, where they joined Compton.
    Nodding, Jett pulled out his phone.
    “What’s the situation?” Jett asked the man who answered.
    “We’re holding the cops for now, but they won’t cooperate long. Worse, the media’s here. A TV crew picked up the police call.”
    “Ask what happened to Pierce?” Sloan whispered.
    Jett would have ignored Sloan, but he worried that Pierce might be delirious and need to be shut up.
    “What about Pierce?” Jett asked.
    “Dead. His spine was broken.”
    “Send a unit to back us up. We’ve got the Special contained and we’re moving in.”
    “Well?” Sloan whispered.
    “He’s dead.”
    Sloan’s face went red, his lips tightening. Jett had seen the signs before; it was rage—something Jett had never felt.
    “I’m going to kill that bastard,” Sloan said, starting to stand.
    Jett held him down while Compton watched dispassionately.
    “We’ll go in, but we coordinate entry,” Jett said.
    “Okay, but I kill him,” Sloan insisted.
    “If you get there first,” Compton said, smiling slightly.
    “Just stay out of my way!”
    “We’ll enter the same way he did,” Jett said.
    “I’m first,” Sloan said.
    Jett watched Sloan creep toward the window, then looked at Compton. She was still smiling. They followed Sloan, taking up positions on either side of the window, then signalled Sloan that they were ready. Having had a minute to calm down, Sloan was less reckless and peeked into the room first. Satisfied, he placed both hands on the sill and leaned inside, pulling one knee up. Suddenly the window exploded—the frame, boards, and remaining glass were blown away, Sloan with them. Jett lay on the ground picking splinters out of his face and hands. Compton was doing the same. Sloan lay twenty feet away on his stomach, his head twisted at an impossible angle.
    “I was afraid of that,” Compton said matter-of-factly. “Now what?”
    “I could order you inside,” Jett said.
    “Don’t waste your breath.”
    A black van pulled up, three of their men spilling out, taking cover and waiting for directions.
    “Make him come to us,” Compton said.
    Jett thought for a second, then told Compton to hold her position, and ran to the van.
    “Find some containers, siphon out some gas,” he ordered. “We’re going to burn him out.”
    Ten minutes later they had three glass jugs of gas, rags sticking out the top. Jett directed his men to surround the building. With everyone in position he handed Compton one of the jugs.
    “We’ll only have a few minutes once the fire starts,” he said. “The police are only a couple of blocks away and antsy.”
    Lighting the rag, Compton threw it through the window, the jug shattering and spreading the gas. Flames lit the interior. The other jugs were thrown through windows in the front. The old wood-frame building caught fire quickly. A minute passed, and another; nothing happened. Smoke poured from the building, a tell-tale plume streaming into the sky. Shouts of “Fire!” came from down the street, and workers came out of a plant across the road. Jett called for another team to keep the crowd back, but his men were spread thin. The standoff had to end soon.
    Suddenly, wood splintered in the front of the house, sounding as if a wrecking ball had broken through the wall. Then came another blast of wood and glass. Jett held his ground, looking at Compton.
    “It’s a diversion,” he said.
    Compton nodded, smiling slightly. He lifted his gun, supporting it with his left hand. Then the back door blew out, broken into dozens of pieces. Smoke billowed from the door, and through the smoke came the Special. Jett and Compton put six bullets into him before he made two steps, and continued to fire as he fell. They replaced their clips before advancing to make sure the Special was dead.
    As they were checking the body the police arrived,