by C. G. Cooper
Tears ran down his cheeks and blurred the writing on the stone. He wiped them away with his sleeve, closed his eyes, and heard himself say he was sorry. She didn’t like to see him cry. He kissed the top of the headstone. It was blazing hot in the Tennessee sun.
He moved on to Travis, more older brother than cousin. Still dead. Still gone. Nothing from him but the sound of snowfall.
Cal was no man of prayer, and so he sat in silence between his lost love and his lost family for a long time, hoping they at least knew he was there. They had to. He needed that.
Reluctantly, he pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and said goodbye.
He’d just hit the bottom of the backside of the hill when another runner almost ran into him.
“Woah, sorry about that,” the runner said. He was fit like the rest of the guys around SSI, and Cal estimated he was probably nearing the half-point of his run.
“No problem,” Cal said, already moving on. “Have a good run.”
“Hey, aren’t you Cal Stokes?”
Something about the way the guy asked made Cal turn. He had to remind himself that he was in a safe space among allies, if not friends.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The guy put a hand to his mouth. “Well, no shit. Sorry, I’m not usually a gusher, but, man, you’re a living legend around here. The way some of the guys talk about you, I’d swear they think you were Moses.”
“They’re probably referring to the time I parted the swimming pool.”
The guy laughed and slapped his leg. “Man, they told me you’re a funny sonofabitch, too.”
Cal scanned everything about the man. A slight bulge at his side. No doubt armed like every other gunslinger in the place. The eyes told him nothing but what the words were saying. His hair was so blonde he looked like a throwback to Huntington Beach of the eighties.
“Hey look, I’m new around here, but if you’re ever around and need a partner for the kill house or on the mats, I’m your man.”
An odd offer. Cal wasn’t used to being fanboyed. Is this what being any type of celebrity got you?
“Sure thing,” he said. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
And with that, the guy hoofed it up the hill, leaving Cal to wonder why he’d let his guard down.
Maybe I’m getting old, he said to himself. And then, as if realizing he’d just remembered the antidote to his own antiquity, he sprinted off in the direction of home.
This last part of the trail was always his favorite. He’d always craved being in the woods, playing Indians and settlers when he was a kid. Of course, Cal always wanted to be an Indian. He made the other kids be the settlers, or soldiers, if they really complained. He could never understand the appeal. Indians knew the land. They knew how to use it. Settlers just, well, settled.
The coolness of the shade cast over him, and Cal took his pace down to a slow jog. His heartbeat was still pounding in his ears, so he focused on his breathing. Steady now.
He’d just passed a family of chipmunks chasing one another when a sound that didn’t belong—something behind him and close by—made him glance back.
What the...?
He dove into a brush of dogwoods as the rounds hit the spot where he’d been standing.
Chapter Thirty-Four
STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY
His world coalesced into a sphere of concentration. He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d come under fire in his life, but this was different. This was sacrilege. An act of treason on the very ground his family built. It made him want to run at the bastard who was hunting him. Run at him and blast a fist through his face.
“You shouldn’t have turned around,” the familiar voice said. The guy from the hill.
“Who the hell are you?” Cal yelled, looking for anything he could use as a weapon.
“I don’t wanna hurt you, Stokes.”
“Sorry, but your actions lead me to believe something else entirely.” As he spoke, his hand found a rock. Not much, but still something.
“Think about it,” said the voice. “What did you hear?”
Hear? Hear what?
And that’s when it hit him. The rounds. The report of the weapon. Not the cracking boom of a real pistol. Something different. Something unfamiliar.
He managed a peek through the scrub. His attacker was standing in the middle of the trail, pointing what looked like an oversized dragoon’s pistol in his direction.
“Come with me. It’s silly to waste time with this hide-and-seek crap.”
This guy couldn’t be serious. Surely someone at headquarters had heard the shots. But then Cal realized that this new enemy’s timing was perfect. He waited until they were in the woods. Sound muffled.
If only he’d brought his phone. If only he had a gun with a single bullet, he’d make quick work of this clown.
Then something hit home, so hard and so fast that he squeezed the rock like he might break it.
The rest of SSI.
If this guy was in, who else might’ve infiltrated? Was there a bigger plot at hand or was he the sole target? The banter on the hill pointed to the latter, but Cal wasn’t the man who would risk the lives of his men on chance.
Rock still in hand, he stood and looked the man right in the eye, hoping he’d made the right choice. Sometimes you had to let yourself hang on the noose just to see if the gallows were really working that day.
“Who are—”
The man’s torso exploded in a rain of blood and bone shrapnel.
For a split second, Cal could see the green of the foliage through the man’s guts. The strange gun dropped from the dead grip as the hollowed-out body flopped to the ground.
He expected the cavalry to show up the next second. They didn’t. And all that Cal Stokes was left with was a rock in hand and a question the size of Alaska.
Chapter Thirty-Five
DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY
Despite his best judgment he went and saw the body. No doubt this was the same soldier he’d seen run the shot house days earlier. A good kid, as he remembered him, though he had to admit to not knowing the whole file.
But that was the least of his concerns. What to do with the raging Marine who’d come barging into his office demanding answers and was now standing arms folded before him, expecting more—that was top of the list.
“Where did the shot come from?” Dunn asked, stalking the scene like an Indian scout on the hunt.
Stokes pointed toward the highest hill in the distance. “That way.”
Dunn gazed out at the familiar landscape. There was a single hole in the canopy. An impossible shot. “Think it was Briggs?”
“He’s not in Tennessee.”
The implications began to dawn on the head of SSI. He was no political animal, just a good soldier who put his all into everything he did. But his brain cranked anyway, a steady churning of details to the rhythm of experience.
“If not Briggs,” he said, swiveling on his heel, “then who?”
“I think we need to table that question for the time being.”
Dunn took a frustrated breath. “This place is my responsibility. Whether you like it or not, I’m in charge.”
The Marine didn’t squirm like Dunn wished he would. “I don’t care who’s in charge,” said Stokes. “What I care about is the possibility that this guy is just one of many.”
The final cog thunked into place in Dunn’s brain. “Shit,” he said, a word he reserved for the direst occasion.
“Yeah.”
The one-time friends exchanged a look that was closer to a temporary truce than a peace accord, and then both broke into a sprint to see what other surprises were in store.
Chapter Thirty-Six
HUCKLEBERRY — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY
His hands moved in a blur before him, clicking buttons to his right almost absentmindedly.
&
nbsp; “This is impossible,” he muttered.
This wasn’t looking good for his rep. He was the newest man, but he was their best. Yes, he was. Of course he was. He’d proven that not with words but actions. The way computer geniuses do. He’d bested them all and they’d collectively bowed to his towering intellect and expertise. But now it looked like he hadn’t a single skill to bring to bear that would fix the crumbling situation.
But wait...
Oh, Huckleberry, you friggin’ god! The answer seemed to sprout from the facts before him. He licked the smile on his lips and clicked away for a half second, then let out a triumphant giggle.
“Got it.”
He sat back for a quick count of five, relieved that he’d stopped it, but far from done.
“Huck, the boss wants to see you.”
He waved the annoyance away. “Sorry, can’t do it. I’ll probably be here for the next three days.”
The annoyance left, and for the next fifteen minutes Elijah Huckleberry did what he did best, scouring SSI’s inner working for threats and rooting them out piece by piece.
“Mr. Huckleberry,” a voice said behind him.
“I said I don’t have time. If you wanna be useful, get me an espresso, half cream, no sugar.”
The next time Elijah sensed a foreign presence, he saw a paper espresso cup being laid in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said to the computer screen.
“You’re welcome, Elijah.”
Oh crap.
He tried to spring from his chair but Stokes’s hand held him in place.
“It’s okay, kid. I just need a minute.”
“Right, sure. I can make a minute.”
As intimidating as Stokes was, Huck found he could appreciate the man’s style. The fact that he’d gotten the espresso before returning—that had panache.
Stokes pulled up a chair. “First, Dunn sent me. You’re welcome to check with him to make sure. I’ll wait.”
“What? Oh, no, it’s okay. I believe you.” And then, because he’d remembered the rest of the calamity on the main level, he added, “How are things upstairs?”
“They’re working on it. Now, tell me what you’ve found.”
“Okay, where to start? Well, whoever got into our system knew exactly where to go.” Saying it out loud made him freeze at the sudden realization. “Oh, man, you don’t think they’re down here do you?”
“We’ll figure that out soon. Go back to what you were saying.”
“Right. Like I was saying, whoever did this made a beeline for specific targets. They seemed to be interested only in personnel files and clientele. The strange thing is there wasn’t even a rudimentary attempt to cover their trail. Once I found it, I just followed the crumbs. It was harder reprogramming every access point. But that’s done, and no one’s getting in unless I let them.”
“You’re sure that was all they accessed?”
“Ninety-seven percent. I was close to the end of the rabbit hole when you came in. We’re still gonna need to comb through bit by bit to make sure nothing was left behind. The last thing we need is a trap waiting to hit us a year down the line.”
Stokes nodded thoughtfully. “Why don’t you get back to it. I’ll hang around if you don’t mind.”
“No problem.”
He went back to his task checking each and every personnel file for tampering. First the active files, then the employees on leave. He moved onto the older files, some of the originals. And that’s when he hit pay dirt.
“Got it,” Huckleberry said, maneuvering in like a surgeon clamping a bleeder. These were the moments he lived for. The hunt coming to a head. So close.
And there it was like golden doors opening to reveal the jewels of some long-dead emperor. But his elation quickly turned to dread. He turned to Stokes, feeling the blood drain from his face, and said, “It’s yours.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY
On her own again.
Everyone she knew was either dead or gone. The Marines were off at war. Shamblin was six feet under. Lena had heard stories about guys who still fight the war in their heads long after it’s over. Is this how they feel? Alone, feral, just on the edge of sanity?
What she wouldn’t give for another letter from her father. The days of brooding solitude were the days she missed him most of all. It was as if his ghost always found a way to slip into the vacuum of her mind. Wasn’t the pain supposed to go the opposite direction? Didn’t ghosts burn themselves out over time?
With high school diploma in hand, Lena’s first stop was the bank. The safety deposit box her only link back to her old life. They’d set one up in each of ten small towns. She remembered every address by heart, and there was a different identity to go with each box. They always asked for her identification, but in this part of America, no one was targeting cute blondes with disarming smiles as possible terrorists, let alone experts in mail fraud.
How she wished she could blend in and live here until she was old. She’d go to the same old diner three times a day. Pancakes for breakfast. A BLT or Reuben for lunch. And a plate of fried chicken topped up with a few pops of hot sauce for dinner. She’d get good and fat, maybe meet a man who liked ’em good and fat. She’d get a dog for sure. The life she lived now made having a pet impossible. Pretending to have a family while going to high school was hard enough.
High school had been at the insistence of her father. He wanted his Little Rabbit to have a dash of normalcy in her otherwise chaotic life. She pretended to be excited when the other girls talked of boys or bands or whatever was trending that week. Sometimes she’d flirt and once she’d gone on a date. He was a nice boy. Quiet. Never tried a thing. That was where it ended. He’d sensed her detachment. And how could he not? She wore it like a back brace.
So, no, a normal life wasn’t in the plans. Never had been.
“Hi, honey,” the middle-aged woman with three rows of family pictures on her desk greeted when she came in with the jingle of the glass door.
“Hey, Mrs. Pascal,” she said sweetly. “How’s Grover doing?”
The woman smiled down at the old retriever, who lay like a mat in front of the desk. “We had an appointment yesterday. Vet says he’s getting too fat, but what do they know? I can’t say no to him, you know?”
Lena nodded like she did and bent down to give the pooch a rub on the head.
“Safety deposit box again?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Pascal chatted away as she fetched the keys and led Lena back to the double rows of safety deposit boxes.
“You really should come over for dinner sometime. I’ve told my grandbabies all about you. They’re so interested in meeting the young lady who’s fancy enough to have her own deposit box. They think you’re some kind of spy.”
Lena rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid they’d be disappointed.”
Inside, she knew this was the last time she’d ever see Mrs. Pascal. Too much attention and curiosity, and Lena couldn’t afford either.
She sighed inwardly. Another speck of normal life wiped from the windshield of her worldview.
Mrs. Pascal heaved the box out of the stack and walked to the adjoining room. After setting it on the table, she let out a gush of air as if she’d just set down a boulder. “Can I get you anything to drink, honey?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Are you sure? We have some sweet tea, freshly made.”
“I’m sure, Mrs. Pascal,” she said with a smile.
And then Mrs. Pascal was gone and the 19-year-old young girl sat staring at the metal box. A part of her—a very large part—didn’t want to open it. For then she’d have to unload the contents into her backpack instead of doing what she really wanted to do, which was take some of the cash, put the box back, take Mrs. Pascal up on dinner, and live out her days in the little Podunk like millions of other normal people.
She opened the box and starte
d pulling items out one at a time. A stack of old passport photos. Capsules full of one-ounce gold round coins. Hundred-dollar bills, well-laundered. A 9mm pistol and three spare magazines. That was supposed to be it. But at the bottom there was something else, something she hadn’t remembered putting here.
She lifted the white envelope gingerly, inspecting every edge. It was probably wisest to open it later, but she was tired, curious, and lacking her normal, well-earned patience.
She slid a fingernail under one edge, breaking the seal millimeter by millimeter. There was a single piece of paper inside. Unlined. Unfolded. The size of an index card.
Again, she was careful. She didn’t know who’d put it there, and that meant that all manner of contaminant could be inside. How could she have been so stupid?
She reached into her pack and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, handy if she wanted to make a visit sans fingerprints. With gloves on, the paper came out. She could see the writing on the other side but held it up to the light just in case there was something else there. Nothing.
She flipped the paper over and promptly dropped it, arm coming up to cover her mouth in order to stifle the scream.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY
His words in his writing.
“Happy birthday, Little Rabbit! I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you. You’ve come so far, learned so much. I can’t be with you yet, but soon. Have faith in me and please understand that if I could’ve seen you sooner, I would have. It wasn’t safe. It still isn’t. But the time when we can be together again is coming. I love you more than I can put into words, my Lena.”
Total, complete, utter, all-consuming shock. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, reading the words over and over again. It had to be him. Or...