He has a point. Suddenly, I’m off-kilter. Dad was right all along: There really are FBI agents in the woods. “I—I don’t think we should be talking.”
“I need your help.”
Leaves crunch behind me.
Fear seizes Karl’s eyes as his gaze shifts. He draws a large knife from the sheath on his leg. I gasp as he puts a hand on my arm, shoving me behind him. He points his blade the direction of the approaching sound.
Dad rounds the cabin, stiffening when he sees us.
Karl turns toward me without skipping a beat. “And that’s how you protect your comrade when you only have a knife,” he announces before sheathing his blade. His eyes beg me to play along. “Got it?”
“I—I think so?”
Karl slaps me on the shoulder, a little too hard. I stumble forward. “Teaching Rebel some defensive maneuvers.”
Dad nears the porch steps and stops, noticing the disassembled weapon. “Wade asked me to get the iodine tablets,” he says as he bends over to grab the gun parts. “He knows I keep a few boxes on hand.” Dad clicks the magazine onto the lower portion of the gun.
Karl’s hand moves to his sheath.
“For water purification?” I ask, my voice wavering.
“Right,” Dad says.
Karl clears his throat. “If it’s alright with you, Nathan, I’d like to show your boy a few things on the training grounds before we leave.” He hasn’t taken his hand off the hilt of his knife.
“He’s not much of a shot.”
Karl grabs my shoulder; I jump. “If he’s going to tag along, he needs to learn how to do more than weapons assembly. Let me teach him a few things.”
Dad shrugs. “I’ll need him back in about an hour to help clean and pack.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Karl says and nudges me away from the cabin, his fingers still touching the knife.
We walk a few steps before Dad calls, “Hold up.”
Karl squeezes my shoulder, making me yelp.
Dad carries the reassembled gun to Karl. “You forgot.”
“Wouldn’t have been long before I missed it,” Karl says with a false laugh as he takes the gun.
Dad glances at me for a split second; my heart races. He knows. He must know something’s up. Karl is being way too nice to me.
“Let’s go,” Karl says, shoving me downhill, away from Dad before he can ask.
When we reach the river, Karl checks over his shoulder and slings the gun across his back. “I need your help,” he whispers.
“Why me?”
“Because Wade doesn’t lay out a job until right before it happens, and only to those who are involved.” He gestures to the dry rock in the middle, but I refuse to cross. “I’m sure Wade told your dad about the robbery only a few hours before it happened.”
My eyes widen. “You know about that?”
“Of course,” he says and leaps to the rock before landing on the other side. He waits for me, a smirk on his face.
He knows about the robbery, and I was there. If this guy really is FBI, Dad is already in trouble. I probably am, too. All of a sudden, I don’t feel so good. I hop to the center rock and then across. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
Karl forges ahead. When I catch up, his eyes are scanning the trees, checking all directions, as he speaks under his breath, “You’re not in trouble unless you planned the robbery.”
I immediately shake my head, keeping pace. “No, sir.”
He climbs over a rock smothered in lichen; I follow. “We recently received the surveillance video from the business across the street.” He’s moving full speed ahead. “We know you were an innocent bystander.”
“We?” I ask, getting a little winded from his rapid pace.
Karl nods, whispering, “The FBI.” He waves, and I can see Dwight has spotted us through the trees. He’s carrying boxes, labeled DEHYDRATED FOOD, across the clearing.
“About a third of the warehouse is empty,” Dwight reports to Karl as we exit the trees. “We should have it done in the next hour, sir.”
“Very good,” Karl says, and Dwight walks away. Karl hands me his gun. “Here, safety’s off. Stay here.” He turns and climbs up the watchtower ladder.
As he ascends, I flip the safety with my finger and try to breathe. Karl is an FBI agent, posing as head of security for a racist, anti-government militia. I almost laugh at the irony: They forgot to watch the most important watchman of all—their own.
Before I know it, Karl is standing in front of me again with another gun in his hand, a handgun tucked in his waistband, along with the knife on his leg. He must keep a stash of weapons in the watchtower. “Shall we?” he says, gesturing toward the training grounds.
Morgan and some of the other kids are peeling paper targets from the gun range, while Justin lifts one of the barrels inside the fence line.
“Leave it,” Karl commands. “We’ll scrap it later. Go help your dad gather the grenades.”
Grenades?
“Yes, sir,” Justin says, dropping the barrel before running to his next assignment.
I shake my head, whispering, “I bet he wouldn’t be so eager to follow orders if he knew you were FBI.”
Karl shoots me a stern look.
“There’s something I don’t get, though,” I say, ignoring his glare. “If you already know about the robbery, why haven’t you arrested everyone?”
He nudges me toward the fence, speaking under his breath, “First of all, we just received the video evidence.” He leaps over the fence and ducks behind a barrel, expecting me to join him. It takes me a second, but when I finally make it over, he whispers, “Second, I’m getting close. I can feel it.” He nods, sticking in his earplugs. “Ears.”
Huh?
Oh, earplugs. I don’t have mine.
Karl sighs in frustration and searches his pockets until he finds an extra pair inside his shirt. He pushes them into the meat of my hand. “I’ve been investigating these guys for about nine months now; they’re funding all kinds of racist groups. And there’s something about to go down, bigger than a robbery.”
“What?” I ask, nervous all over again.
Karl taps his ear, and I hurriedly shove the plugs in mine, muffling the sound of his first gunshot. Boom! A perfect shot in the middle of the target’s skull.
He moves to the next barrel and gestures for me to join him. I run and land on my knees before he turns to me, speaking under his breath, “Like I said: Wade is pretty paranoid. He’ll let me know things when he thinks I need to know them, but I’m afraid it might be too late.”
“So why don’t you bug his cabin, too?” I ask.
“Can’t,” Karl answers. “Paranoid son of a gun sweeps the place three times a day. Besides, he’s always moving when he’s giving assignments. Always outside. Always different places.” Karl shakes his head. “I can’t bug every tree in the woods.” He stops and peeks over the barrel, checking our surroundings, before he comes back down, whispering, “Something big is about to happen once we meet up with the others, and your dad’s involved in whatever that is. Innocent people are going to get hurt if we don’t stop them.”
“We?”
He points between us. “You and me.”
I bristle. Dad wouldn’t hurt innocent people, especially after all the regret he’s had over that girl. “My dad wouldn’t hurt innocent people,” I argue.
“You sure?” Karl shoots again.
I jump and then check: The hole’s in the heart of his target. He nods at me, as if expecting me to shoot.
With trembling hands, I raise the weapon. “Safety!” Karl shouts.
I startle, but flip the switch and quickly pull the trigger. Bam! The butt of the gun slams against my shoulder. The smell of gunpowder burns my nose. I’m definitely getting a bruise.
“You need to wrap your body around it more. Are you even looking through the scope?” he asks and then runs toward the kill house, where Dwight shot the child’s picture.
Look through the scope?
He flings open the door to the house and ducks behind it before taking another shot. Again, in the skull of the target. He looks to me.
I try not to think about the gun in my hands and run forward again, landing near the outside door behind Karl.
He puts two fingers to his eyes and then gestures for us to move forward.
“Two targets?” I ask, and he nods before taking one shot. A second. He hits the targets perfectly.
Karl pulls out his earplugs and waits for me to do the same before speaking in a normal voice. “The key is to line your target in the crosshairs of the scope.”
I glance through the scope and see the black lines forming a cross.
“Your target should be sitting on top of the notch at the front of your weapon.” He pushes on the end of the gun.
I nod.
“Try it?” he asks, returning the plugs to his ears.
I press my lips together as I push the earplugs in and force myself still. Wrapping my body around the weapon, I pull the butt of the gun into my shoulder and look through the scope toward the target. Without thinking too hard, I shoot. My ears ring.
“Better,” Karl says.
My heart races. I check: It’s glanced off the paper target’s shoulder. I’m a little light-headed.
“Wade’s enacted Operation Mutual Defense,” Karl says softly before rounding the corner. He squats behind a wall in the center of the kill house.
“What does that mean?” I ask, jostling the gun as I huddle close so I can hear him without removing my earplugs again.
“It’s a call to arms to militia groups around the country. The plan is—in five days—everyone will be gathering near Washington, D.C.”
“What’s in Washington?”
“I’m supposed to meet Wade at a hotel there and await further instructions.” He shrugs. “That’s all I know, and I’m afraid by the time I get there, it’ll be too late to get my guys in place.”
I slide to my butt, sitting on the cool packed dirt. “So why are you telling me this?”
“Because your dad knows something. And I’d bet you my life Wade’s talked to him about what they’re going to do once we get to Washington.”
“And you want me to ask my dad what’s going on and report back to you?”
Karl nods.
I can’t believe it: He’s asking me to snitch on my dad. “So you can arrest him.” I shake my head. “Forget it.” I rise to my feet.
Karl grabs my arm, stopping me. “It will save lives, Rebel.”
I shake free. “My dad wouldn’t hurt innocent people,” I say a little louder than I mean to.
Karl puts a finger over his lips and checks around the corners of the kill house.
“I know he likes his guns,” I say, a little softer. “And he can be a big talker, but he’s a hero—a real one. He’s a hero,” I repeat.
“What if he’s not anymore?”
I tense. “You’re wrong.”
“Your dad needs help, Rebel.”
My hands tighten around the gun.
“I’m guessing he doesn’t sleep much.”
My palms are getting sweaty; I shift my grip.
“I bet he has sudden mood swings and can’t be in public too long without getting restless. Not to mention the constant bouts of anger. Am I right?”
My mouth is dry. How does he know all of this?
Karl’s head tilts slightly. “Has he ever been diagnosed with PTSD?” I blink without answering, but it must be enough for Karl because he continues, “That’s what I thought.”
“You don’t know how he was before,” I say, still feeling the need to defend him.
“You’re right,” Karl says and then stands next to me. “But these militia groups love guys like your dad. Former military. Police officers with a taste for living on the edge. And what’s not to love? It gives them legitimacy since people like your dad already have weapons experience, leadership skills. Your dad’s accustomed to following orders and can survive—even thrive—in the worst conditions.” He lifts a finger. “But the number one reason I think Wade is going to use your dad: loyalty.”
“My dad wouldn’t hurt someone just because he’s loyal to the Flag Bearers.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Outside, a truck’s engine rumbles. “I need to go,” I say, turning away from him.
“Rebel,” he calls. “Stop.” There’s something about the way he says it that makes me stop. “Even if you don’t help me, I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d at least let me get you home to your aunt.”
He knows about Aunt Birdie? Suddenly, I’m worried for her. Dad didn’t want them to know. “Do the Flag Bearers know about her?”
“No,” he says. “Just me.”
I shake my head, not sure I can trust him. “You’ll send me home even if I don’t help you?”
He nods. “This isn’t a place for kids. I said so when you first arrived, and I still believe that. Even Wade knows it. He’s about to tell his own daughter she can’t come with us.”
“But how?” My heart flutters with the possibility. “How would you get me home?”
“I’d tell Wade you need to ride with me tonight so we can discuss another weapons order and how fast you can get it together. Then I’ll find a way to get you to one of my guys, and we’ll get you home.” He doesn’t blink. “You say the word, and I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
I could go home.
“Rebel,” Dad calls from outside the kill house; my head knocks against the plywood.
Karl squeezes my arm, his expression desperate. “If you tell him I’m FBI, he’ll kill me. No questions asked.”
“I want to go home,” I blurt, hearing Dad’s approach.
Karl nods and releases me as Dad peeks around the corner.
“I thought you were learning how to shoot in here,” Dad says, sounding suspicious.
“He is,” Karl says at the same time I say, “I am.”
Smooth.
“Haven’t heard any gunshots in a while,” Dad notes.
“I’ve been talking him through it. You’re kid’s a thinker before a doer,” Karl explains and then nods to me. “Show him, Rebel.”
I eye Karl, surprised. He’s figured me out after only knowing me for a little while. Dad still hasn’t figured me out, and it’s been over thirteen years.
“Let’s see it, then,” Dad says.
With a breath, I force myself calm and raise the weapon.
“Remember everything I told you,” Karl says.
I take another breath and glance through the scope, through the crosshairs toward the front notch, before edging around the corner and outside. I stall a second for my eyes to adjust to the changing light—it’s brighter, with the sun filtering between the trees. I keep the gun tight against my shoulder, like Karl said, and line up the notch with my target about a hundred feet away. I hold my breath before I fire. Boom!
Immediately, Dad pushes me aside and runs upfield to check. When he gets there, he slaps the target with his hand. “It’s a kill,” he calls.
“Really?” I ask, my heart galloping.
Karl and I hurry to join him to see where I’ve struck—a bit to the right of the heart. “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes,” Dad says, a huge grin brightening his face.
I smile, too. Not because it’s a kill. But because I did that: I made him smile.
“He’s a natural,” Karl adds.
Dad laughs. “Don’t know how you did it, Karl, but you must be some kind of a genius.”
Karl nods toward me. “I had a good student.”
“This is great,” Dad says. “Now you can do more than assembly on our next mission.”
My smile falls.
He gestures at the building where I assembled the guns. “Come on, the other kids are already helping, and I need you to clean weapons and get them packed. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
&nbs
p; TWENTY-TWO
The licorice-like smell of Ballistol hovers in the air. I’ve been cleaning guns all afternoon in the WHITES ONLY building, trying to think of a way to convince Dad we can’t follow the Flag Bearers to Washington, D.C.
The only thing I can come up with? The truth.
I don’t want them to hurt Karl, but my dad’s greatest fear has come to life: The feds are after him. And I don’t want him to get into more trouble than he already is.
Karl doesn’t believe me, but I know, deep down, my dad’s a good person. He would never intentionally hurt innocent people. I also know if he follows Wade into battle, only trouble will follow.
I have to get him alone—tell him about Karl. But I can’t seem to get him alone with all of the preparations before the big move.
Disassembled parts of the last gun sit on the table in front of me. I take the firing pin and groan to myself. It feels like this is the thousandth gun I’ve cleaned, though it’s probably more like the sixtieth.
“How’s it coming?” Dad asks as he walks into the building and lifts another crate full of clean weapons from the floor.
I sit up, taking my chance. “I need to tell you something.”
But then the door flings open; Dwight marches into the building, followed by Justin, and, within earshot, they count the stacked boxes of hand grenades.
Dad looks at me, waiting.
“Almost done.” I slump in my chair and spray Ballistol onto the pin in my hand and wipe, graying an old cloth with the carbon deposits I rub off the pin.
“Good,” Dad says. “Because, when you’re finished here, I need to give you something.” His boots clomp against the concrete as he walks away, carrying the full crate outside.
“Pretty exciting stuff, huh?” Justin says, stopping his count to glance over at me.
“Exciting,” I say, not feeling at all excited as I spray the retainer pin. What am I going to do?
When I finish cleaning the parts, I reassemble the final gun and carefully place it inside the wooden crate, sealing it with a lid. I struggle to lift the same kind of box Dad lifted easily. I grunt as I carry the crate to the door, nudging it open with my foot.
The Inside Battle Page 17