An Act of Treason
Page 30
He holstered the pistol and walked back into the house, leaving Hall screaming. In the kitchen, he emptied his thermos and refilled it with the warm brew. There was a partially used block of cheese set out on the table, and he cut off a large slice. He grabbed a blanket from the bedroom and a chair from the dining area, then returned outside.
The pool of blood had increased around the sprawled body of Jim Hall and was caking fast in the cold. Hall’s eyes were rolling in torment. “My legs are gone, man. I can’t feel them.” He sucked in the cold morning mountain air. “God, this hurts. Take me back to the States and put me on trial. Put me in the SuperMax in Colorado. I’ll plead guilty to everything!”
Kyle did not reply. He put the chair beside the money, wrapped himself in the blanket, and sat down facing Hall. “This is what it was all about for you. Always was. You were always talking money, money, money.”
“We were friends,” Hall groaned.
Swanson barked a harsh laugh. “My friend Jim Hall died years ago. You’re just another asshole terrorist. You had everything, but even that wasn’t enough. You turned traitor to your country and worked to give nuclear weapons to the Taliban.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, I admit it. Put me on trial, dude. One of those Gitmo tribunals, so it can be kept out of sight.” He sucked in more air, twisting in the snow, the pain from his stomach joining in increased agony with the pain in his thigh. He twisted at the flex-ties on his wrists and the ropes on his ankles.
Swanson continued as if he had not heard a word. “You betrayed me, and worst of all, you damned near killed my Lauren. You did not have to do that, but you did it anyway, and shot her in ways that you fucking knew would prevent me from chasing you. That girl had loved and respected you at one time, and you shot her down like a stray dog and didn’t care if she died.”
Hall just stared at Kyle. Swanson fumbled in a deep pocket and came up with a yellow can of lighter fluid, flipped open the little red nozzle, and squeezed. A liquid stream squirted onto the mound of money. He kept squeezing, saturating the paper. When the can was empty, Kyle put it back in the pocket, swapping it for a plastic cigarette lighter.
“You want a trial? You had it the day you shot Lauren. I was your judge and jury, and I decided right then to show you the same amount of kindness you allowed her.”
“Mercy shot, man.” Jim Hall’s eyes were glazed in pain. “Gimme a mercy shot.”
Swanson clicked the lighter, and when the little flame popped up, he touched it to the soaked pile of money, which erupted with a loud whoosh. Streams of flame immediately whipped out in paths created by the flammable fuel, and the money caught fire and burned brightly.
Hall whimpered, “Kyle. Please. Take all the money. I have more. Millions. It’s all yours. Just let me go.”
“I sentenced you then to a slow and painful death.” Swanson took a sip of coffee from his thermos, then bit into the sharp cheese. He sat, chewing, and stared at Jim Hall, the fire warm on his face.
Hall whimpered, “I’ll do whatever you want, Kyle. Just let me live.” He began to cry.
“I’m all out of words, Jim.” He took another sip of coffee, another bite of cheese, and wrapped the blanket tighter around him, his empty eyes watching the burning cash. Kyle Swanson felt nothing for the man bleeding to death in the snow. He adjusted the hood of his parka. The snow was starting to fall heavier, and a stiff breeze was picking up.
He waited as more blood oozed out of the wounds with every heartbeat, and new snow kept covering the angry crimson stain, as if trying to erase what was happening. Within minutes, Jim Hall’s eyes fluttered and closed as he fell unconscious. Kyle waited a while longer before standing up, moving to the body, and kneeling beside it. He removed a glove and felt for a pulse, finding none.
Standing up, he took out the heavy pistol once again, aimed carefully, and put a 9 mm bullet right between the eyes. The body jumped with the impact. The job was done, his pledge fulfilled.
Kyle Swanson looked straight up into the falling snow. He just wanted the flakes to wash over him and the cold wind to take him away, to fly him through that steel-gray sky. The pistol in his hand was the ticket that could take him away from all of this. One more squeeze of the trigger was all that would be required. He stood like a statue, not a muscle moving, for several minutes, and eventually a fragment of the Robert Frost poem swam into his thoughts: The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
He sighed heavily. No. I won’t be dying here, and not today. He holstered the weapon and immediately switched his thoughts back to the routine of finishing the job. He had to burn the body beyond recognition and torch the cabin and hike out to the landing zone for helicopter pickup. Miles to go.
Jack Coughlin
***
Donald A. Davis
***
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