And what was she thinking about right now, behind those placid blue eyes that looked so much like Angela’s own?
That question was answered a moment later.
“Did he kill him?” Abby asked.
Angela blinked a few times. “I’m sorry, Honey. What?”
Abby looked at her as though she were being dense. “Lee. Did he kill that man?”
Heat crept up the back of Angela’s neck. She glanced to the seat directly across from her. Brinly sat there, his hands clasped in his lap, looking relaxed, though his eyes shown sharply back at Angela. Wondering how she was going to answer that.
“Uh…” Angela shifted in her seat to face Abby a little more. “What makes you ask a question like that?”
Abby sniffed and looked away from her mother. She looked at Brinly instead. “He should.”
Angela’s mouth worked, but she couldn’t come up with the right, motherly thing to say. All that came to her head in that moment was the cold, implacable truth of their reality. All that came to her was the thoughts of the woman she’d become. Hard. Pragmatic. Utilitarian. Focused.
Not at all what she wanted for her daughter.
Since Abby seemed to be directing this statement right at Brinly, the gray-haired Marine leaned forward onto his elbows and lifted his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “And why is that, Abby?”
Abby swayed in her seat as the vehicle trundled across a rough patch of roadway. Her demeanor remained cool. Even-keeled. “Corporal Ryan was insubordinate. Lee gave him a chance. He put him under Sam’s command when we got here, but Ryan wouldn’t listen to Sam. That’s insubordinate. Right?”
Brinly glanced at Angela, as though to question if he were overstepping his boundaries, but Angela was too shell-shocked—and maybe too curious—to stop him.
Back to Abby, Brinly nodded. “Yes. That’s insubordinate.”
“Well.” Abby seemed pleased to come to a logical conclusion. “What else are you supposed to do with insubordinate people? You can’t just let them get away with it. What if Corporal Ryan didn’t follow orders when they were important? Like, in the middle of a fight? Then he might get people killed. We don’t have a jail to put him in. If we just left him behind, that’s the same as killing him, or worse, he might go to the other side and tell them things about us.” Abby shrugged. “So what else was Lee supposed to do with Corporal Ryan except kill him?”
Brinly and Angela just stared at the girl, with her innocent blonde curls, and her not-so-innocent eyes. Brinly’s expression was carefully devoid of emotion. Angela’s was beginning to twist with something like ill-concealed horror.
Horror? Really?
That her daughter might see things as they are? Is the truth horrible? Or is it just the truth?
Competing emotions rammed into each other in Angela’s head. She couldn’t deny a sort of closeted pride—that her daughter would be so adaptable, that her daughter would so quickly learn to be strong in the face of these hardships, so quickly learn what had taken Angela years to come to terms with.
But also sadness. At the death of innocence. Guilt. Because no matter what Angela did, she couldn’t protect Abby from the realities around them. Abby was a part of this world now. She was that unique generation that was coming of age outside of civility. Her memories of the world that had come before were hazy at best, and likely colored by everything she now knew about people. Things that she shouldn’t have had to confront at such a young age.
That they were all animals. That civility was just a façade, always maintained through force, or the threat of force. That violence was the only currency that human beings would ever truly deal in.
Abby raised the paperback again and leafed to a dog-eared page. “Well, if Lee didn’t kill him, then he should have.”
A new emotion came to Angela then. Anger. At Abby. For how nonchalantly she said it.
Angela snatched the book out of Abby’s hands. Abby jerked, surprised, then looked at her mother with a frown.
“Taking another human being’s life is nothing to be so casual about.” Angela’s voice strained as she spoke. “You can’t just sit here with your nose in a book and pronounce death sentences like it doesn’t matter. You’re not the one that has to take another person’s life. You should take it more seriously.”
Abby’s eyes flared to match her mother’s anger, but then she did something different. Something that no normal eleven year old girl would do. Rather than react out of emotion, Abby straightened her back, took a breath, and when she breathed it out, her eyes cooled.
“Do you want me to cry about it, Mom?”
The paperback trembled in Angela’s grip. She had the urge to suddenly slap Abby across the face—to slap that cold, calm look right out of her. The pages of the book crinkled as Angela’s grip tightened on it.
“I don’t want Corporal Ryan to die,” Abby said softly in the face of her mother’s ire. “I don’t want anybody to die. But if it has to happen, then why be sad about it?”
Brinly cleared his throat, breaking into Angela’s half-cocked response. “We all have our ways of coping with it, Abby. But your mother’s right. It has to be taken seriously.”
Abby nodded, not taking her eyes from Angela. “Was I wrong?”
Angela pressed her lips together. Was her daughter wrong? No. And Brinly was right as well. Everyone had their ways of coping with these things. Was this the best way to cope, though? Did Angela have any motherly wisdom she could impart in that moment?
She only said everything you already know. You can’t even add to it.
No. Angela had nothing else to give her.
She pressed the book back into her daughter’s hands. “Read your book.”
Abby looked briefly disappointed, as though perhaps she wished her mother did have something else to give her. Some guidance. Something. She opened the book back up, straightened the pages Angela had wrinkled, then found her place again, and began reading with a disconcerted frown.
Angela sucked in air and plastered her spine to the back of the seat, her hands gripping her thighs. “Major Brinly. How long to the rendezvous point?”
“Not long,” Brinly answered, crossing one boot onto his knee. “Thirty or forty-five minutes out.”
“When’s the last time you heard from your scout elements?”
“Earlier this morning. All’s still quiet at Triprock. Initial estimates have been confirmed. Looking at about a hundred civilians, give or take. Maybe a dozen Cornerstone, still holed up there.” Brinly wiggled his boot. “That’s less than Lee estimated when he was there a month ago. They must’ve pulled most of them back to Greeley, but left a small garrison.”
Gradually, Angela’s grip on her thighs relaxed. “What’s the living situation like for them?”
“For the civilians? Unclear. The only folks my scouts have seen with weapons are the Cornerstone guys. Lee says that he and Abe armed the populace with a mish-mash of weapons, but whoever came in and subdued the settlement must’ve taken them. They might be locked up on site, or maybe taken back to Greeley. We don’t know yet.”
“I mean…” Angela began, trying to find a way to put it that would be acceptable to eleven-year-old ears, but then wondered if that was even necessary? And if Abby was going to be in this mobile office for the foreseeable future, then she was going to have to get used to hearing these things.
She’s already used to it. That’s the problem.
Brinly helped her out: “Has there been any instances of violence towards the civilians?”
“Yes.”
A shrug. “Not that we’ve seen so far. But then, my scouts have only had eyes on for twenty-four hours now.”
“What happened to the cartel that Lee reported seeing there?”
“Unknown at this time. Possible that they were disarmed too and are now in amongst the civilians. More likely, they beat feet when Lee took out Mateo Ibarra.”
Angela grimaced. “You know what Abe said when he got back from Mex
ico. That cartel’s not dead yet. They’re just biding their time across the border. How long before they start making problems again?”
Brinly gave her a weary smile. “One thing at a time, Madam President. One thing at a time.”
Angela grit her teeth and nodded. “Right.”
Greeley.
But before Greeley, there was every settlement along the way. Before they could accomplish their mission, there would have to be a grassroots movement from the people, a call to arms, and a willingness to join the fight.
And before there was any of that, there was Triprock.
One thing at a time.
FOUR
─▬▬▬─
THE TANK
Every step that Sam took, he expected to hear a shout behind him, and turn to find the guards at the checkpoint pursuing them, having just realized who it was that they’d let past their gates.
It didn’t happen.
Which was only a partial relief to Sam.
As they neared The Tank, the smells coming from it intensified. Small gusts of wind carried alternate scents of burning wood, burning rubber, and shit. The people were visible, stacked on the shady sides of buildings, like the moss that grows on the north side of trees.
They watched the group of six walking towards them, and their looks were apathetic at best, and downright hostile at worst. Another six people to compete with. For food and water. For lodging. And for a spot in Greeley.
And that was the thing that kept Sam’s mind working overtime. Not where they would sleep, or what they would eat, but how in the hell they were going to get out of this shit hole, and into Greeley.
Because Sam couldn’t do a whole hell of a lot for his mission if he was stuck in The Tank. He needed intel on Greeley. And that meant seeing the troops, seeing their movements, and seeing the layout of the buildings. Where were the hard points? Where were the civilian sectors? Where were the soft entry points that could be taken advantage of?
Sam had told Lee that he was up to the task. But how was he going to accomplish it if he and his crew were stuck here? And for how long?
“Heads up,” Pickell said from Sam’s left side. He nodded his head a little to the left of the main street that they were taking into the small town.
There, in the middle of another street, Sam recognized the group that had gone before them. Two men and two women. Now surrounded by several others.
The newcomer’s packs were on the ground, their hands in the air, and the men that had them surrounded were rifling through their belongings.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Jones commented. “So, not only are we stuck in limbo, but we gotta deal with roving street gangs trying to steal our lunch money? Fine. I’ll get down on that shit. Jackass back there got me all hot and bothered anyways.”
“Just be cool,” Sam reiterated. “They’re distracted with someone else. Let’s just saunter on through.”
“Right. Yeah. Saunter. I can saunter.”
Sam’s elbow pinched down on the fixed blade on his right hip. They all had one. The only weapons the guards had allowed them to keep. “Anyone ever been in a knife fight?”
Silence answered him.
Sam nodded. “Yeah, me neither.”
“I mean,” Jones said. “They taught us some shit in basic, but that was fucking ten years ago. I’ve never used it.”
“It’s fine,” Sam said, as they passed the corner of the first set of buildings, and passed out of view of the potential hard-cases. “They didn’t see us. Next question: Where do we find a place to shack up?”
“My bet?” Marie spoke up. “One of the back corners, away from this main street. When Greeley’s looking for people, they’ll probably just come straight in here. I’d guess the closer you get to the main street the more prime the real estate is considered around here.”
“Well, if being close to the main street increases your chances of getting into Greeley, isn’t that where we want to be?”
“Sure. But something tells me ain’t nobody gonna give up their spot for us. And we probably don’t want to be starting fights. Bad way to get on the radar.”
Frenchie shouldered into the midst of Sam and Marie. “We could post a lookout up here while the rest of us stay back. Holler when we see someone from Greeley coming.”
Sam made a face. “As friendly as everyone looks in this place, I don’t really want to split us up. Besides,” he sighed. “Back corner might give us a view of Greeley. A decent view might be the best we can hope for at this point.”
“Egg-fucking-scuse me,” a voice cut in from the left.
Sam didn’t immediately stop walking, hoping this was not directed at him. But a glance into the alley they were passing revealed the same band of idiots that had surrounded the other group of newcomers, striding out into the middle of the street to block their way.
Sam stopped. His eyes ranged over them, taking a rapid headcount.
There were seven of them. Three, small and skinny and young. Four older. Two of the older ones looked burly enough to cause problems. The biggest and burliest of them wore a snaggle-toothed grin beneath a shaved head, and Sam could only assume he’d been the one that had spoken.
Jones groaned and murmured, “You gotta be kidding me.”
Sam’s pulse thumped through his neck, his insides feeling tight. After counting heads, his eyes dropped to hands. A few hefty-looking pipes. Even a guy with what looked like a table leg. And yes, three of them had knives. Pretty decent ones that looked perfectly capable of splitting a man open, stem to stern.
The main guy had one of the knives. What looked like a cheap rendition of a Bowie knife, the wooden handle broken and replaced with layers of ancient and weathered duct tape. The man used this to point at Sam, and then at the ground.
“Packs on the ground, right now,” he said. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice you sneaking in?”
Thud-thud-thud went Sam’s pulse, as his sight drew to a pinpoint. He forced his eyes to keep moving to stave off the tunnel vision.
Never again, remember? You can never be scared again.
“Well, guys,” Sam said, his voice overly loud in his ears. He turned partially to look at his crew, plastering on a smile. “We got this far. Sucks that we came all this way just for this shit.” He shucked off his backpack, dropped it at his feet, then turned back to the gang leader.
The man rolled his eyes. “Cry me a fucking river. Everyone pays to enter. Don’t worry, we won’t take everything.”
Sam waved his left hand. “Go ahead, guys. Drop your packs.”
“Ryder…” Jones whispered.
“No,” Sam snapped, heat rising in his chest. He stoked the anger that would burn away the fear. “Go ahead. Drop your fucking packs.” He thrust a hand at the bald man. “This motherfucker right here wants to take what you have. So go ahead. Drop ‘em.”
Sam stared at the man across from him, and instead of thinking of that big Bowie knife and what it might do to him, he pictured something else. He pictured ramming his own knife straight up through that man’s chin. Straight up through the roof of his mouth, and right into his brain.
The man across from him blinked, as though he were seeing something he hadn’t entirely expected. He still smiled, but a shadow passed over it.
Sam was seething now. He saw that little bit of weakness, and it bolstered him. Made him want to hurt the man even more. The fear wasn’t entirely forgotten, but he was just so damned pissed that all that was left in his head was murder.
It was a quick transition, and Sam found a small voice in the back of his head reminding him, keep control of yourself. But he didn’t know if he was going to.
The sound of five more packs hitting the ground.
The man across from him smiled, and seemed to relax. “Good.”
“Yeah, it is good,” Sam grunted. “Good that we don’t have our packs weighing us down anymore. That’ll make us lighter on our feet.” Sam’s right hand slipped under his sweaty, filthy
shirt, and snatched out the fixed blade from his belt. He held it underhanded, as he’d been taught, instead of thrust out in front like the amateur across from him.
Sam stepped over his pack. Planted his feet.
His crew did the same.
The smile on the man’s face turned brittle.
Sam lowered his stance. “You know what they say about knife fighting, Big Fuck? Winners bleed, and losers gush.” He pointed to his pack. “I’m willing to gush for that bag. Are you?”
The man’s smile was gone now. His posture tensed. “Listen to the mouth on this wetback.”
Wetback? Sam almost laughed. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. If this guy wanted to peel back Sam’s layers and see how deep the darkness went, then fuck it, let him. He felt like he was on a waterslide, plummeting downwards, and he didn’t dare try to stop it now. If he tried to pull back, the fear might return.
All that was left in Sam was crazy.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened, baring his teeth. “I do got a big mouth. I really do. And it’s hungry. I’m fucking starving. Let’s do this, Big Fuck. Just you and me. Winner bleeds. Loser gushes. And whoever lives gets to eat the other one. That sound good to you, Big Fuck?” Sam’s eyes shot down to the man’s legs. “You got some nice shanks on you, Big Fuck. Me, I’m a little stringy. But a meal’s a meal, right?” He took a step forward, feeling genuinely, insanely…starving. “And we’re all so hungry, aren’t we? Everyone’s…just…so hungry.”
Sam locked eyes with the man again, and what he pictured then was nothing human, and nothing that he would ever care to remember after that point in time.
A tremor passed over the man’s face.
Do it, Sam willed the man. I want you to do it.
The man forced a smile. “You’re as crazy as a shithouse rat.” He straightened. The point of his blade dipped. “You know, boys, we could use a crazy motherfucker like this.”
“No,” Sam said, his voice almost a whisper. “No, we’re not going to be friends, Big Fuck. You’re gonna fucking fight me and feed me, or you’re going to get the fuck out of my way. Those are the only two options here.” Sam turned his wild eyes on the others. “And anyone else that wants to join in. Go ahead. Let’s make it a goddamned feast.”
Lee Harden Series | Book 5 | Unbowed Page 3