Battle Cry

by Dustin Stevens

A thin smile comes to Byrdie’s face. “Among others.”

  For eleven days, the Wolves have been trying to find Kyle Clady. The man that somehow lured Linc out of The Wolf Den and ended his life. The same one that shot Prince while sitting in his car and put Joker and Rocket in the hospital.

  The one responsible for the underlying bruising on the side of Byrdie’s face.

  “Among others...” Snapper repeats. He breathes sharply, trying to place what Byrdie is saying. “Who?”

  Byrdie’s problems started years before, back when Ringer somehow leapfrogged him into the top position. An oversized oaf with an inferiority complex, the man had made it his mission to put Byrdie in his place. He’d named him a Deputy. Made a point of giving him the most tedious of tasks, no matter how far beneath him they were.

  Always he’d been sure to cast a spotlight on any tiny misstep Byrdie committed. Any words that weren’t chosen carefully or choices that didn’t align exactly through the lens of hindsight.

  That much is undeniable.

  As is the fact that of everyone else that contributed to his recent demise, none is more prominent than the man that just climbed out of his vehicle a few doors down.

  “Clady.”

  “Are you...” Snapper mutters. His voice trails away, though Byrdie doesn’t need to hear the words to know the feeling. It is the same one he first had after seeing the headlights blink out and Clady emerge from his car.

  Head aimed at the ground and walking fast, he hadn’t even glanced at the new addition to the parking lot before disappearing from sight.

  There and gone in a flash.

  “Both of them?” Snapper asks. Without waiting for a reply, he asks, “Where are you?”

  “A shit box named the Valley View, just outside of Santee,” Byrdie replies.

  Outside, night descends faster than usual. Throughout the afternoon, the clouds overhead have continued to grow thicker. So heavy that now they blot the sky above from view, threatening to open up at any moment.

  The only illumination is the sign out by the road and the single bulbs above each of the doorways.

  Keeping the lights in his room off to prevent any shadows, Byrdie creeps a bit closer. Holed up in room three, he peers out, seeing no signs of life beyond the lone sedan that just pulled up.

  “Never heard of it.”

  Byrdie’s smile grows a bit more pronounced. Finally, he is out ahead of the man that has been toying with them for more than a week. Not only does he have no idea he is being watched, but the isolated location he chose is about to make taking him down that much easier.

  And in the process, it is not only going to get Byrdie back in a vest, it is going to elevate him to the post he deserves.

  “Give it an hour or so, make sure it’s full dark,” Byrdie whispers. “And then bring everything you’ve got.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Despite the air temperature climbing well into the eighties or higher each day, the incoming water swirling around Sven’s ankles sits comfortably in the sixties. Warm enough so as to not shock the system as it rises a few inches higher before retreating back into the Pacific.

  Sufficiently cool to have the intended effect, putting him in a state of peace.

  For much of the afternoon, he has fought to push back the rising angst within him. To contain his contempt in the wake of the call with Elsa Teller.

  Barely twelve hours before, he had been shot while performing part of the task imparted to him. Not fired upon, and not simply grazed.

  Shot, from a distance of just a few feet away.

  A gas-propelled round that had scraped across his abdomen, cracking bone and ripping his flesh.

  Far from the first time he’d sustained an injury on the job, he hadn’t complained about it. He hadn’t gone to a medical facility, drawing attention to himself or the situation he’d been inserted into.

  Instead, he’d planted himself in the sand not twenty yards from where he now stands. Using little more than some forceps and rubbing alcohol, he’d fished the bullet from his side.

  Two hours later, he’d been out hiking through the desert, intent on the next task on his list. He’d ignored his flagging system and basic physiological warnings. Fought against dehydration and pain receptors.

  All of that, he is okay with. Even the fact that when she did call, he was back by the side of the van, taking in IV’s.

  What he will not abide is someone like Carter Flynn rushing him. Changing the rules whenever he likes simply to fit his own selfish motivations. Insinuating that what has been done thus far is not good enough.

  Taking a step forward, Sven feels the cool water rise to his knees. Out ahead of him, the sun still sits an inch above the horizon, though little more than a sliver is visible. Tucked behind the dense clouds gathered above, it manages to only push through a few strands of gold.

  Pausing his march, Sven takes in a deep breath. He allows the briny scent of the sea to fill his lungs. He waits as his body adjusts to the cool now enveloping his bottom third.

  Little by little, he feels himself returning to neutral. He pushes away the animosity he’s carried throughout the afternoon, knowing that it will do him no good in the evening ahead.

  His eyes drift shut, the gentle breeze pushing his hair back behind him. He feels the wound along his ribs itch slightly, the skin contracting with the chill, tightening around the glue holding it together.

  Long ago, Sven stopped counting the various scars lining his torso. The pink furls standing out against his tanned skin, no discernible pattern to their arrangement.

  Many cultures use tattoos to tell their stories. The Russians and their symbolic ink, every item etched into their skin representative of some aspect of their journey. A star to display mafia affiliation. A spire to demonstrate a stint in prison. Specific shading to denote loyalties or past conquests.

  In Hawaii, he’d learned about the ancient Polynesian art of kakau. Much more reliant on geometric shapes and designs, meant to announce their role in society.

  To Sven, the healed wounds are his story. They tell of his exploits in a way that far outpaces anything a tattoo needle could ever accomplish. A lifetime spent doing noble work.

  A story that would make his Viking ancestors proud.

  His eyes cracking open, Sven takes another step forward. He allows the water to climb higher, swirling up to his waist. He rests his fingertips along the surface, drawing his focus inward.

  One scene at a time, he plays through what the coming hours will hold. From emerging from the sea and telling Maile to prepare to move later tonight to making his way out into the desert. Retracing his steps over the sandy path toward the isolated motel.

  Easing up on his target and finishing her off, fleeing without the slightest trace. Just as he did with the doctor, and countless others before.

  Returning to his truck and calling Teller to let her know it is finished.

  And that he better never hear from her or the Senator again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The knock is harder than I intend it to be. Unlike this morning, when I flicked with two knuckles, this is the entire side of my fist. Punching it three quick times, it sets the entire door to rocking, the aging wood rattling in its frame.

  On contact, I know it is too loud. Too aggressive. Likely scared the hell out of the ladies waiting inside.

  Not that there is a lot I can do about it, trepidation roiling through me.

  “Valerie, you there?” I call, raising my voice just loud enough to be heard. “It’s me, Kyle.”

  Taking a step back, I cast a sideways glance down the length of the sidewalk running along the front of the motel. Four doors down, a new car has arrived. Battered and pockmarked, it looks to be in even worse shape than the minivan a couple days ago.

  When it arrived, I have no way of knowing. In the few minutes since I got back, I haven’t seen anybody come or go from it. Not even a light on from the room it is parked outside of.


  In front of me, the door cracks open an inch, held in place by the thin brass chain at chest height. Bright light spills out from the top of the opening, the bottom blocked by a dark silhouette.

  “Kyle?” Valerie Ogo asks. Backlit by the lamps inside the room, her voice is the only distinguishable characteristic. “Is everything alright?”

  Ignoring the question entirely, I thrust out the cellphone gripped in my left hand. Still up on screen is the text message she sent me a few minutes before, a simple question that instantly caused my pulse to spike.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Much like the knock, it is more demanding than I intend, though right now I can’t do much about it. Shots of adrenaline are seeping into my system, making things like tone and volume difficult to control.

  There is no verbal response for a moment. The door closes, the light extinguished as the chain is slid free.

  Just as fast, it swings wide, the glow from within growing infinitely more pronounced. Standing before me is Valerie. Still wearing the Peanuts Halloween t-shirt from this morning, her arms are folded over her torso. A bit of color paints her cheeks, no doubt flushed from my sudden arrival.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, again casting a glance the length of the hallway. “I just...your text surprised me.”

  “Why?” she asks. “Who is he?”

  Peering over the top of her head, I see her grandmother standing alongside the bed. Hands clasped before her, she stares on in rapt silence, her lips pursed. Her weight shifts slowly from one side to the other.

  A stance that means she either has to pee, or she is prepared to run if need be.

  “Sorry,” I repeat, raising my voice just slightly, even knowing the older woman doesn’t speak the language. “Can I come in? Just for a minute?”

  After getting off the phone with Marsh earlier, my nerves were already a bit frayed. For the fourth time in the last week, the man was asking to meet. And just like each of the other times, he had purposely avoided my questions, remaining deliberately vague.

  Something had come up in the course of their investigation. Few more things they need to ask me.

  What the hell the man thinks I have, I can’t be certain. He knows for a fact I didn’t kill my wife, and that I damned sure have never ridden with the Wolves.

  Beyond that, I can’t help but think he is just fishing. He figures that if he keeps hurling things my way, eventually something is going to stick.

  Getting the text message from Valerie shortly after leaving only made things that much worse.

  “Sure,” Valerie replies, her response and her tone seemingly at odds. Stepping to the side, she allows me to pass inside, closing the door in my wake.

  It appears my sudden arrival has interrupted dinner. Gathered on the small circular table is a host of gas station foodstuffs. Sandwiches cut in triangles and microwaveable soups. Interspersed between them are bottles of green tea, condensation visible along the sides.

  The scent of tomato hangs heavy in the air.

  “Why did you ask about Mark Tinley?” I ask, turning back to face Valerie. Phone still clutched in my hand, I wag it at her, letting her see the screen that has since retreated to black.

  Flicking her gaze from me to the phone, she replies, “Um, he called twice earlier. The first time, I didn’t recognize the number so I didn’t pick up. The second time, I was at the gas station, didn’t even know about it until I got an alert saying I had a voicemail.”

  My pulse continues to thrum. Ever since the Wolves first showed up at the house in Chula Vista, the Ogos have been out here. Like me, they’ve been doing the best they can to scrape by, living on whatever food can be stored in a mini fridge and cooked in a microwave. Purchasing clothing as the need arises.

  It is far from ideal. We all know that. But until we get this situation resolved, at the very least can figure out why the Wolves were targeting my wife and Fran Ogo, it is the best we can do.

  With the exception of our outing to Point Loma yesterday to meet with the Chuukese church gathering, Fran has been nowhere. Valerie, only nominally more. Outside of that one brief incident a week before, neither have been near anything that would catch the eye of law enforcement.

  Making the call from Tinley all the more disconcerting.

  “What did it say?” I ask.

  “Nothing, really,” Valerie replies. “Just that it was Mark Tinley, calling to speak with Valerie Ogo about an issue with our rental property. Left a number and asked that I call him back.”

  With each word she shares, the mix of feelings within me grows more pronounced. By the time she is done, my entire core is contracted so tight it feels like I can barely breathe.

  Questions arrive by the handful, outpacing even those after speaking with Daniel Lucero earlier today.

  Snapping my phone up, I thumb the device to life. Minimizing the text message still up front, I go into my call log and pull up the first number I dialed this morning.

  Ten seconds later, Jeff Swinger is on the line. “Yo, you back?”

  I answer his question with one of my own, firing back, “How far out are you right now?”

  “How far...” he begins, repeating the question until finally it resonates. “Fifteen, twenty at most. Why? What’s up?”

  “Half hour ago, I got a call from Detective Marsh asking to meet,” I say. “Said he was going to be in El Cajon, all but insisted on knowing where I was and coming to me.”

  “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “You think-”

  I keep going, needing to get this out before being derailed. “Five minutes after that, his partner called Valerie and left a bogus message about some problem at the house she rents.”

  Across from me, Valerie’s eyes go large. The previous color bleeds from her cheeks as she glances to her grandmother, the older woman still having not moved since my arrival.

  “Oh, shit,” he repeats. He pauses, letting it resonate, before asking, “What do you think that means?”

  “I have no clue, but I have a half hour before they get here.”

  Jumping right in, he completes my thought, saying, “And it might not be a good thing for them to find you all there together.”

  I knew it the instant I dropped away from the side of the helicopter. The very moment when I was supposed to have stepped into free fall, body feeling weightless as I flattened out, drifting toward the earth.

  And instead felt myself get whipped hard to the side, strong gusts of wind rushing in off the ocean.

  Toppling end over end, adrenaline poured into my system. Dumping itself directly into my veins, it caused my heart rate to spike. Sweat rose to my pores, brought on by my lungs fighting for air.

  With daybreak still more than twenty minutes away, the world sped by in a blur of hazy green. An alien tint caused by the night vision goggles I was wearing, my mind barely able to process what I was seeing as I writhed through the air.

  Pulse thrumming through my temples, I fought with everything I had against the varied forces impinging on all sides. The rush of gravity. The power of the wind. The lactic acid pulsating through my own body.

  Teeth clamped tight, I pushed all four appendages out as wide as I could. Made my body into the largest, flattest form possible.

  Continued to battle against the speed and pressure of the wind and the push of gravity, deltoids and quads burning from trying to hold my legs and arms out wide.

  Pulling in shallow breaths, I fought for more than ten seconds. Long enough that my body leveled out just enough for me to determine which way was up. For the push of the wind and gravity to hit me square in the chest instead of dragging itself across my body.

  The instant I had that bearing, was no longer concerned about tangling myself up and ensuring my death in a coffin of my own parachute, I pulled the ripcords. Heard the sound of nylon canvas being released behind me.

  Felt the snap as the chute opened and filled with air, slowing my descent.

  Knowing I was still a long way from safe, I
jerked my gaze to either side. I tried to peer out into the darkness, looking for some sign of Swinger or the others.

  Able to make out nothing more than a vague pale smudge ahead of me, I did my best to fall in behind it. Together, I hoped we would be able to find a clear spot through the dense forest and rocky crags lining the face of the Chugokus.

  The original plan was for the helicopter to drop us just south of the landing zone. From there, we would free fall for a set period before pulling our chutes and allowing the normal ocean air currents to carry us to the cleared site.

  A plan that was now completely shot to hell, those original gusts no doubt knocking us well off course.

  Legs tucked up slightly before me, my pulse climbed ever higher. Body reclined, I scanned the face of the earth growing steadily closer below.

  Saw nothing but the same harsh topography, the tips of towering pine trees rising like spires through my goggles.

  Given what little I knew about the region, I had two options. Two distinct choices for where to aim.

  One was to find one of the open spaces abutting the rocky outcroppings. A narrow strip where I could touch down, trading out a much harder surface for a cleared path.

  The other was to try and thread my way through the forest, hoping to find a clearing large enough to touch down. A plan that would provide a much softer landing, but carried with it an infinitely higher probability of slamming into a tree.

  An impact there would be no chance of walking away from, the force alone causing the tree to slice through my body like the proverbial hot knife through butter.

  Staring out, I saw as the world climbed up to meet me. My elevation continued to fall, forcing a decision I did not want to make to the fore.

  One last time, I raised my focus to the world around me. Tried to find the pale smudge I had seen moments before. Any sign of Spahn or Alcove.

  No hint of them came to me. Nothing but the same pale green spikes whizzing by, their tops extended like fingers reaching ever upward, trying to pull me in.