The second gunman must have tripped. Lying facedown in front of the electrical box, he was an easy target.
It was over.
Finally.
Why did they make such a stupid move? Did they run out of ammunition?
He descended the hill, squeezing the walkie-talkie, and said, “Gramps, we’re all clear, but we lost Will.”
“Damn it!”
His gaze drifted toward his friend, and an ache carved through him. Was it suicide? Did he really believe that child was his blond-haired, blue-eyed Billy? Did it even matter?
Palming his forehead, fingers gripping his temples as if wringing emotion from his mind, Bradley recalled how Will had always been there—through his mother’s battle with cancer, through all the shit his father had pulled, through his first heartbreak. Scenarios streaked through his mind, things he could have done, should have done to protect Will from himself.
“I tried to warn him,” Abby said. “Will, he—he just wouldn’t listen.”
Bradley draped an arm around her shoulder. “It’s not your fault ... Why don’t you go to the Levins’ house and get some sheets to cover him up? Give him a little dignity.”
“It’s a damn shame.” Gramps’ voice was husky, his blue eyes glistened. “That boy was family.”
Sucking in a breath, Bradley said, “Will wanted to be reunited with his kids ... and now he is.”
He abruptly walked away and busied himself with rounding up weapons and ammunition. None of the dead men bore identification. All appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, and he recognized one of them as the teen from the propaganda parade.
Did I lead them here?
Bradley stacked five AK-47s in a pile and headed toward the green electrical box.
What were you guys thinking? he wondered, noting the placement of the bodies. They had been moving toward the street instead of up the hill toward the cover of trees, an escape route that would have made them more challenging targets.
Behind the electrical box, pools of blackened-steel shell casings littered the grass—hundreds of them. Bradley stopped midstride. “No fucking way.”
He moved two yards to his right, toward the base of the hill, and picked up the baseball-sized black hunk of metal—Abby’s grenade. In the chaos of the firefight, the savages assumed it was live. That was why they had scrambled toward the street.
Pocketing the grenade, he glanced at Abby, admiring her unorthodox problem-solving skills. The breeze tossed her long blonde hair; and with her rifle slung over her shoulder, she was as lethal as she was beautiful. His pulse doubled, pumping something beyond admiration through his veins.
92B
KYLE’S MIND BRISTLED with troublesome questions. Who are these gunmen? Why did they attack us? How could they use a child as a weapon? It was incomprehensible. This new world continued to grow more horrific, and a biting question barreled through him.
Would I have approached the child absent Bradley’s warning?
That could’ve been me, Kyle decided, staring at Will’s blood-soaked, shrapnel-pocked body. In a world ruled by survival of the fittest, he felt hopelessly out of shape. Inept.
All his fears and insecurities had intensified after losing Jessie. For two decades, she had been his rudder, keeping his life upright and on track. How am I going to make it through without her?
“You okay, Dad?” Abby asked as she jogged toward the Levins’ house.
“Yeah, just a little shell-shocked, I guess.” He turned away to hide the fear rampaging through him; then seeing the dead man on the Levins’ lawn, words began howling through his mind.
I killed him.
He couldn’t shut it off. Chest aching, heart bludgeoning itself against his rib cage, he felt dizzy. A veil of sweat dampened his face, his back. He staggered around the side of the house—for privacy. Then feeling as if he had inhaled firecrackers, he sunk down onto the grass. His body shook uncontrollably.
Am I having a heart attack? he wondered. Will Abby survive without me? Or am I so worthless, so powerless as a protector that my absence won’t matter?
93B
BRADLEY WALKED TOWARD the Levins’ house. Two more gunmen lay dead in the driveway, a third in the grass.
“I shot those two.”
Surprised by Abby’s nonchalant tone, Bradley turned toward her. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Relieved that Abby hadn’t been injured? Impressed that she had dispatched savages? Or devastated that she would have to cope with taking two lives?
“Quit looking at me like that. I’m fine.”
“Because it hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“Bradley, those bastards turned a little boy into a suicide bomber. They got what they deserved.”
He stared at her, puzzled by her composure. Was she in a bizarre state of denial like Will? Having some kind of delayed reaction? With her mother gone and her father struggling to keep himself together, would Abby be forced to deal with it alone?
“Listen, eventually, it’s gonna hit you. Hard ... And when it does, think about all the Americans these guys would’ve killed in the future. Focus on all the lives you saved.”
She contemplated his words, expression disturbingly neutral, then asked, “Do you feel any remorse?”
“For me, remorse is kind of like snow. It accumulates over time.” Bradley offered a sheepish grin and lobbed the grenade to her. “I think you dropped this.”
Abby caught it with a downward swiping motion. “You’re welcome.” A playful taunt glinted in her blue eyes, then she began walking up the hill. “Did you count the two up here?”
Bradley trailed after her.
A man halfway up the hill had been shot twice, through the thigh and the back.
“Freaking lead,” she muttered. “Took me four shots—triple miss.”
Bradley liberated an American-made M4 from the dead man’s grasp and cleared the rifle. Unlike the others, this guy was clothed in a U.S. Army battle dress uniform with name and rank insignias identifying him as Sergeant Smith.
Bradley squatted beside the body and removed a black headband, adorned with a silk-screened white rectangle and a foreign script that looked Middle Eastern. His attention was riveted on the emblems printed on either side; a globe, and in the foreground, a fist grasping an assault rifle.
He followed Abby to the second body at the top of the ridge. “Sergeant Dias” clutched an M4, and Bradley tracked the barrel to overwatch. A frosty tingle ricocheted inside his skull, whizzed along his spine, and blitzed every nerve ending in his body. He had come within seconds of being shot.
“He never should’ve made it this far,” Abby was saying, her tone apologetic.
That’s why she was so pissed about the four shots, he thought. Bradley took a closer look at the man who had nearly killed him. “A head shot? Up here?”
“That’s all I could see. And it still took me two stinking tries.”
Their eyes fused in an unspoken conversation, and Bradley knew his were betraying his emotions, exposing feelings he had desperately tried to conceal. Abby was seeing that he adored her; that he wanted her so badly it scared him; but he didn’t care. She already knew. Everybody freaking knew.
Abby sidestepped to higher ground, eliminating the height difference between them. “You could’ve been killed. And I never would’ve gotten a chance to find out.”
Find out what? he thought, pulse accelerating as her arms looped around his neck. Then those warm, full lips pressed against his, softly and seductively.
Bradley’s restraint shattered. His left arm closed around her waist, drawing her body against him; his right hand cupped her face. He returned her kiss, his tongue grazing her lips, gently prodding them apart, and he felt her shiver. Pent-up emotion coursed through him like a tidal wave. Kissing her felt so intoxicating, so natural; Bradley never wanted to stop. Nothing else mattered.
Not that she was sixteen.
Not that he would have to report for duty.
Not even her father
... watching from the street below.
94B
“BAD GUY’S DEAD; ABBY’S alive. You did the right thing,” George told Kyle.
“When’s it going to start feeling that way?”
“Soon as you lay eyes on your daughter. Come on.”
They started toward Sugar Lake Road, then George rested a firm hand on Kyle’s shoulder, restraining him. “Don’t, Son.”
“Look at them, George! Of course, I’m going over there—”
“As one father to another, I’m asking you to wait. Emotions are running way too high right now. And we don’t need Abby running off again.”
Kyle winced from the verbal flogging; then indignation morphed into anger. “So there aren’t rules anymore? Moral values go out the window? I just let her do whatever she damned well pleases?”
“Son, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just asking you to wait ... until you calm down.”
95B
BRADLEY GRABBED A SHOVEL, and as he began digging the grave, it seeped into his consciousness, how close he had come to dying.
Rattled and disillusioned, it was more than the prospect of dying in a firefight; it was his own obliviousness that haunted him. Abby had snuck up on him the day Will arrived; and today, he had allowed a savage to do the same thing. When it came to situational awareness, Bradley was failing.
If Abby had missed, he would be dead right now. The thought soured his stomach. He was supposed to be protecting her. Giving a flustered sigh, Bradley wondered which was worse: Being shot by a sixteen-year-old girl? Or being saved by one?
Or maybe it was French kissing one on a hilltop for all to see?
His resolve had crumbled, he had crossed a boundary, and the damage was irreversible. No kiss had ever stirred him so intensely. Was it just a psychological craving for forbidden fruit? Infatuation? Or something far more frightening?
Kyle was approaching, shovel in hand, and Bradley grimaced.
What do I say to him?
“Are you planning on burying all the savages?”
“Hell no,” Bradley told him.
“Feed them to the gators?”
“Not a good plan if you intend to eat the gators.”
Both men shoveled in uneasy silence, metal slicing against sand, the slooshing sound ticking off time until Bradley said, “The next couple days will be rough for Abby. We need to keep a close eye on her.”
“We?” Kyle let out a scornful laugh, a nonverbal accusation. “You never miss an opportunity, do you? I mean, you watch your best friend get shredded. Corpses litter our street. And you decide it’s a good time to jam your tongue down my daughter’s throat?”
Spoken aloud, it sounded even more unseemly, indefensible. Bradley slammed the shovel into the sand, rested both hands atop the wooden handle, and stared down into the hole, wishing he could disappear into it.
“Look, Bradley, I know you’re the reason we’re alive. I get that. And I appreciate it.”
“But?”
“But, I’m asking you to back off. Stay away from Abby ...”
He was surprised how deeply those words cut.
“... She worships you because you’re a Sniper. You know that, so don’t take advantage of it.”
Take advantage? Bradley bit the inside of his mouth, attempting to contain his anger. “Understood, sir. And you won’t have to worry about it much longer because I’ll be leaving.”
“Leaving?” Kyle repeated.
“I have an obligation to the Marine Corps.”
Kyle stumbled backward, clumsily taking a seat on the hillside. “Bradley, I don’t want you to leave.”
“Well, I have to. And I’m done waiting for you to figure shit out. Your training starts tomorrow at 0700 hours.”
( ( ( 49% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(2B)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 2B
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( DAY 14B ) ) )
Thursday, February 27th
96B
“IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE,” Bradley said, tossing two black headbands onto the kitchen table.
Gramps examined the tattered fabric, speckled with blood and missing its ties. He plunged a pinky through the bullet hole. “Showing off on this one?”
“Nope. That was your protégé.”
“Abby should be aiming center mass,” Gramps said, tapping his chest. “No head shots. Did you set her straight?”
“She, uh ... That’s all she could see.”
“The body at the crest?” Gramps’ brow tightened as he reconstructed the scenario. “So the tongue wrestling on the hill? That was your way of thanking Abby for saving your ass?”
He stiffened, eyes momentarily clamping shut to deflect the question. Did the trauma of yesterday’s firefight catch up with Abby? Is she emotionally fit for overwatch this morning? Can she pull the trigger again if the savages return?
To hell with Kyle’s edict. I have to check on her, he thought, braving Gramps’ stare.
His grandfather began humming Can’t Help Falling In Love.
“Can we get back on task, here?” Bradley snapped. “Those weren’t just garden-variety savages.”
Grudgingly, Gramps’ attention returned to the headband. “If we’re lucky, it’s a group of wannabes ... Or we could be dealing with the Al Quds Force, the branch of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps responsible for spreading the Islamic revolution abroad.”
“IRGC?” Bradley repeated. “Why the hell would they attack us?”
A pained recognition registered on Gramps’ face. “Will’s truck.”
Bradley swatted the possibility as if shooing an insect. “It’s been in the Levins’ gar—” His chair scraped backward. He sprung to his feet, palms flattened against the table. “Abby’s bike! You let Will take the truck to get it?”
“I didn’t exactly let him.” Gramps’ arms folded across his chest. “He just took off. I gave him hell when he got back. He assured me he hadn’t been seen.”
Bradley’s thoughts spun. Foreboding feelings buzzed through him. What if they have explosives, rocket-propelled grenades, or mortars? What if they come back with fifty fighters?
“Damn it, Gramps. We may have just swatted a hornets’ nest.”
“The question is, will they want revenge? Or just the truck?”
“Probably both.” Bradley shouldered his rifle. It was time to put that truck to better use.
97B
IT’S GOING TO BE ANOTHER long day, Kyle thought, yawning. The aftermath of yesterday’s battle and his argument with Abby had made sleep impossible.
I don’t want her involved with a twenty-year-old. Does that really make me a tyrant?
A strained silence loomed during the six-mile drive to Summit Springs, but as Bradley backed the pickup onto the playground, Kyle’s mood lightened.
One by one, they pitched dead savages over the tailgate and erected a human monument beside the swing set, an inkling of justice for that young girl.
Bradley jumped down from the truck bed.
“What about that last body?” Kyle asked.
“We’re taking him with us. Just get in.”
Taking him where? Kyle wondered, climbing back into the passenger’s seat. And why?
Bradley drove north for ten miles, weaving around vehicles; and for brief stretches the landscape appeared ordinary, untouched by the EMP. Kyle began to reminisce, mourning the beautifully intricate and indulgent world he had lost: waking up alongside his wife; being able to eat anything, anytime; feeling safe inside his own home; having an entire planet of experts an Internet connection away. He had taken so much for granted.
I want to go back, Kyle thought, knowing he would have a better chance of getting to Mars. At least Mars still existed.
Bradley braked to an abrupt stop south of Astatula. “You need to stand watch,” he said, gesturing toward a scraggly orange tree at the side of the road.
Despite dozens of questions whipp
ing through Kyle’s mind, he slid from the passenger’s seat, rifle in hand, and hurried toward the tree, a good vantage point to detect threats.
Bradley hauled the dead savage from the truck bed and wrestled his rigid body into the driver’s seat. The barrel of an AK-47 jutted out the window. Kyle forced his focus back to the road. The peak of a gently sloping hill lay to the north; to the south, the road bent and seemed to be swallowed up by trees. Why this location? Desolate and remote?
Kyle stole another glance. The Marine was hammering something inside the engine, then he closed the hood. Is this some clever plan? Or did he lose it?
A glistening wet thread was twiddling along the roadway.
“Um, Bradley ... truck’s leaking oil.”
“I know. I jacked the oil filter, so the engine will seize in about a half hour.”
He’s destroying the only running vehicle we have?
Waving for Kyle, Bradley said, “Follow me and stay low to the ground.”
They crept into a stand of trees at the hill’s apex. Below them stood a khaki-colored warehouse with thirty-foot corrugated steel walls and a rolling bay door large enough for a tractor trailer. Two traditional man-sized doors provided access to the front and side of the building, and dozens of skylights allowed natural light into the windowless metal box. An eight-foot, chain-link fence enclosed the warehouse and its parking area; and stationed at the gate, two men in U.S. military uniforms stood guard.
“Are those U.S. troops?” Kyle asked.
“Negative. This warehouse is a distribution hub for the savages.”
Sabotaging the truck, the dead driver—the madness was starting to make sense.
A low-pitched, cranking growl drew Kyle’s attention back to the warehouse. A desert-camouflage fuel tanker was chugging from the building, streaming a cloud of dense black exhaust. Two more Army vehicles emerged and turned north onto County Road 561.
Bradley’s lips were set in a grim line. Outrage seemed to radiate from his pores.
“Just how bad is this?” Kyle whispered.
“Worse than you can imagine.”
98B
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