The Bay Bulls Standoff by Chris Ryan

Author:Chris Ryan
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub
Tags: bay bulls, leo crockwell, newfoundland and labrador, st. johns, rcmp, standoff, rifle, chris ryan, tension, community, observation, sharpshooter, police, gravel pit
Publisher: Flanker Press
Published: 2014-10-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

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Thursday, December 9

I got to the pit around 8:00 a.m. on Thursday. The weather was warmer that morning, around seven or eight degrees. Joe was there. As usual, we were the first ones on site.

“Day six. I wonder, will Leo end this today? How long can he sustain all this? Lesser men would have walked out days ago. I’m thinking of their attack last night. Only made him more determined. I wonder what he’s drawing on to continue? I guess we’ll never know. With every window that can be reached by the robot beat out, and the temperature hovering around zero degrees Celsius nearly every night since this started, and with a northerly gale blowing four of the last six nights, bringing the temperature to a couple of degrees below freezing . . . I’d say it is close to hell, if ever there is such a place.”

“Dutch, that kind of sums up the situation Leo is in.”

“Joe, how did you sleep?”

“Not good. Every time I closed my eyes, all I kept seeing was smoke rising. And bangs going off in my head. I must’ve woken up eight or ten times. I saw that green house in my head a hundred times last night. And every time I saw it, it was on fire. I hope they don’t try that again. They couldn’t get in the first time. Their chances of getting in after their first try most likely will be futile. What about you? You sleep well?”

“Joe, I sleep well every night. I get eight to nine hours of sleep. I need that much sleep. If not, I start to go downhill. But this standoff is starting to cut into it. I’m not used to these early mornings. Last time I was getting up this early I was still working on the Terra Nova FPSO. The good old days.”

“Dutch, it was only five years ago that you worked offshore. The way you talk, it’s like it was forty years ago.”

“Well, Joe, it bloody well feels like it. Since I got this damn back injury, time is flying. Five years seems like twenty-five.”

“Dutch, what does FPSO stand for? I’ve always wondered.”

“It means floating production, storage and off-loading vessel.”

“Okay. I may have heard it before, but forgot.”

“We had another name for it. Floating piece of shit offshore. We weren’t allowed to say it when we were aboard the boat. The higher-ups on board used to get mad at us for saying it. And the crowd in the Scotiabank building downtown. We said it anyway. We didn’t give a fuck.

“Joe, turn on the radio, put it on VOCM. Guaranteed they’ll have something on about the failed assault on the house last night.”

“Why? You think there was a reporter around that late?”

“Guaranteed that fellow from the Telegram was down by Uncle Tom’s. Joe, as I lay in bed last night after I went home, I started thinking that I couldn’t believe what we saw. Man, that was like war. It had all the makings of a military action.

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