Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  The pretty ones are often the most dangerous because you never see them coming. I would have to keep an eye on her.

  Next was Ian Hargreaves, formerly of the British Army’s Special Air Service and Villalobos’ head of security. He was dark haired, dark eyed, obviously fit, and gazed out from his photograph with eyes like flecks of obsidian. Looking over his service record, I couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. He had made quite a name for himself in Basra and Helmand Province, earning a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross and racking up a body count that would have made Joseph Stalin raise an eyebrow. Anytime someone has the letters SAS associated with their name, they are a force to be reckoned with. But even among so highly-trained a group of soldiers, there are the elite of the elite. Those who stand out as being especially deadly, regarded with fear and respect among their fellows. Soldiers who usually wind up working for their respective country’s clandestine services. Hargreaves was just such a man, but rather than landing in the quagmire of MI6, he had gone private.

  And now, he was in my way.

  Blow up that bridge when you get to it.

  Next was Conner Hughes, a former commando in Her Majesty’s Royal Marines who had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan. Nothing to write home about, just your standard ex-soldier gone mercenary. More of a visual deterrent than anything else. A big ugly hostile presence to warn others against trying anything foolish. I had faced a hundred guys like him.

  Then there was Gustavo Silva, a battle-scarred former BOPE officer from Rio de Janeiro’s military police. That one would bear extra caution; anyone who could survive as long as he had against the drug gangs in Rio’s favelas was a tough customer indeed. That said, I couldn’t help but wonder what would drive a man who had spent so many years fighting the cancer of the drug trade to go over to the dark side. Maybe he decided if he couldn’t beat ‘em, he’d join ‘em.

  Additionally, we could count on Villalobos to contract out some of the local talent, the kind that specialized in protecting wealthy, dangerous people with lots of enemies and keeping it off the books. Cities like New York had armies of them. Ex-soldiers, ex-cops, former federal agents, the works. We had our work cut out for us.

  I heard rattling and a pouring sound behind me, and a few seconds later Rocco appeared at my shoulder holding out a drink. “Knob Creek and tonic, just the way you like it.”

  Tanner looked up from his dossier and frowned disapprovingly. “You know it’s only one in the afternoon, right?”

  The Jersey boy shrugged. “Who cares? We’re off the clock, and the drinks are on Uncle Sam’s dime. Take it where you can get it, right?”

  I accepted the drink, feeling a familiar dread at Rocco’s statement. Take it where you can get it. The ‘it’, in this case, was a single word that encompassed a vast array of things. Relaxation. Pleasure. Good food. The taste of a quality drink. The little things you might regret passing up if an operation goes south and you find yourself breathing your last. “Damn right,” I said.

  Rocco gave me a light punch on my shoulder. “You see? This guy gets it.”

  “Just don’t get drunk.” Tanner went back to his reading.

  After we finished getting to know our enemies, we reviewed the mission briefing. As usual, we were the last stage in an operation that was years in the making, as evidenced by the volume of information on our target, and the numerous assets planted amongst the staff at the Waldorf Astoria. It was stacking up to be a run of the mill snatch-and-grab operation. Tolliver wanted Villalobos alive, and he wanted it done with a minimum of noise. Our job was to separate him from the herd, incapacitate him, and get him to any one of the hotel’s service exits. From there, one of several government SUV’s staged nearby would take custody and the rest of us would make our escape. Later, a report would be leaked to the press exposing Villalobos’ ties to the Las Sombras cartel and blaming his disappearance on rival drug lords. A likely enough story.

  When we had finished, Rocco held up a finger. “I got a question.”

  Tanner rolled his eyes.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Why do this at the Waldorf? I mean, there’s a lot of eyes in a place like that. Guests, security cameras, you name it. Wouldn’t it be easier just to snatch him off the street or something?”

  “That would be too high-profile,” I said. “The kind of thing that gets attention from the media and local law enforcement. It’s better to set up a controlled environment where we have assets in place and plausible deniability if something goes wrong. Keeps things quieter that way.”

  Tanner nodded and added, “Not to mention that with as much security as Villalobos has following him around, any attempt to take him on the street would result in a firefight. A situation where civilians could get caught in the crossfire. The last thing you want on an op like this is collateral damage.”

  “Also,” I continued, “the investor conference is the perfect cover story. It lures Villalobos away from his home turf to somewhere with a strong Homeland Security presence. Makes it easy to put the right people in the right places.”

  Rocco scratched the back of his head and stood up. “Yeah, I guess you have a point there.”

  He walked over to a mirror next to the door and began fussing at his suit. Fixing his hair. Straightening his tie. “Since we have time to kill, I’m gonna go downstairs and see if I can’t score some ass. All the bored Park Avenue housewives love to get shitfaced in the middle of the day at places like this. Makes for easy pickings.”

  Tanner glanced at him in disgust. “Didn’t Tolliver tell us to keep a low profile?”

  “Fuck Tolliver. He’s not the one risking his ass. If he has a problem with me getting my dick wet before a job, he can hire someone else to do his dirty work for him.”

  After one last glance in the mirror, Rocco shot us a wink and left. Tanner looked at me as the door clicked shut. “How do you put up with him?” he asked.

  “He’s delightful in small doses. We don’t cross paths very often.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “You two have worked together before?”

  “Yes, several times. I’ll admit he’s good at his job, but he lacks discipline.”

  “He just sees the job for what it is.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Fleeting. This is a young man’s game we’re in, Tanner. Guys like us are nearing the end of our shelf life. Pretty soon, somebody younger and hungrier and more daring will come along and put us out to pasture. Rocco’s just enjoying the ride while he can.”

  Tanner stared at me, his posture becoming strained. After a long moment, he faked a smile and began gathering up files. “Speak for yourself, Mr. Garrett. I plan to be on top of my game for many years to come. Is there anything else we should discuss regarding the mission?”

  “I think we about covered it.”

  “I’ll be in my room if you need me.” He scooped up his paperwork and crossed the room with irritated haste, back straight, head down, wingtip shoes thumping on the thin carpeting. He opened the door faster than needed and stepped out, not casting a backward glance. The door shut on its own.

  Guess I struck a nerve.

  NINETEEN

  The guards saw the smoke.

  The sheriff’s investigation uncovered a cabin burned to the ground with three dead bodies inside. I had hoped Walter would take the scene at face value and assume a trio of wanderers had taken refuge there. That they had been careless with a kerosene heater, and died of smoke inhalation before being consumed by the flames.

  Unfortunately, the old man was not so easily fooled.

  He had the bones bagged up and hauled back to town for further examination. While he was no forensic anthropologist, the sheriff had investigated a few murders in his time and knew bones could tell a great deal about how a person died. Within two days, he declared the skeletons were the remains of three Caucasian males, two dead of gunshot wounds, and foul play suspected in the third. His report indicated a notch found
on the underside of the third victim’s sternum that appeared to be a tool mark of some kind. Possibly caused by a knife. The report went on to state that there were currently no suspects, but the investigation was ongoing.

  I kept to myself and awaited the inevitable.

  It happened on a bitterly cold Monday night as I was eating dinner alone at Stall’s Tavern. A biting, sub-freezing wind had sent most of the townsfolk scurrying for shelter, leaving the place mostly empty. I was seated at the bar picking disconsolately at my stew and thinking about how distant Elizabeth had been the last few days, and how our intimacy had grown stale in the wake of Sean Montford’s murder. She rarely came to see me, and the few times she did, an uncomfortable silence took hold, making the usual affectionate touches and gestures awkward and insincere. Every time she looked at me, I could see the questions stirring in her eyes, the doubts, the fear. She had seen my name carved into that poor farmer’s back, and she wasn’t willing to believe I knew nothing about it any more than Sheriff Elliott was. As I ruminated over this, I heard the door to the tavern open behind me.

  A familiar clomp of boots approached, the slow, heavy gait of a man who saves all his hurrying for the times when it really counts. There was the creak of leather and the slight jingling of metallic accoutrements, the shiny distinguishing insignia of a solemn office. The steps grew closer, landing steady and purposeful, the unflinching pace of sureness and authority. They stopped behind me as an aged, slightly liver-spotted hand pulled back the barstool next to me and the wide-brimmed hat with the sheriff’s star appeared in my peripheral vision.

  “You mind, Gabe?”

  I gestured with my spoon. “Not at all, Walt. Take a load off.”

  He sat down, taking off his hat and laying it on the shiny surface of the bar, brim facing up. The aging hands clasped together in front of him, long fingers layering over one another as he looked down and considered his warbled reflection in the polyurethane. Mike came over and said Mattie Wallace had made her famous venison stew, and there was plenty left in the pot if he was interested. The sheriff declined, ordering only a cup of herbal tea. Mike went back to the kitchen, leaving the two of us in silence.

  “You know why I’m here.”

  I nodded. “Figured you’d be coming around sooner or later.”

  “Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

  I turned my head and looked him in the eye. “Nope.”

  There was a pause. “I don’t suppose you can tell me where you were night of March seventh between midnight and three AM?”

  “At my warehouse, doing inventory.”

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”

  “It was cold, Walt. Folks stayed in that night.”

  “So no one saw you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  “She was asleep. I didn’t get home until two in the morning.”

  One of the hands came up and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “That’s awfully damned convenient, Gabe.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh and dropped my spoon into the half-eaten bowl of stew in front of me. It was good, but my appetite had been suffering lately. “Just come out with it already, will you? I know what you’re thinking.”

  The watery blue eyes were frank and searching, hunting for deception like a hawk over a field. “Did you do it?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I tell you. You’re not going to believe me anyway.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  I pushed my bowl away and shouted for Mike to put it on my tab. The sheriff remained motionless as I gathered my things to leave. “If you’re going to charge me with something, Walt, do it. Otherwise, stop wasting my time.”

  I made it five steps before his voice stopped me. “They killed him, didn’t they? The three people we found dead. They were the ones who murdered Sean Montford.”

  I stood motionless, not saying a word.

  “Dragonfly. Two graves. Garrett. I was right, wasn’t I? It was a message. Someone wanted you to know they were out there. Wanted to draw you out.”

  I stayed silent.

  “Vendetta is a powerful force, Gabe. I’ve seen it drive people to do the craziest things. But you would have to be pretty damned angry to track somebody to a little place like this, especially with the world being the way it is. Whatever you did to them, it must have been terrible.”

  I turned around and looked at him. He still had his back to me, head down.

  “I can’t say I’m terribly broken up about it, not after what they did to that poor man. But my father always said two wrongs don’t make a right. It’s a rule I’ve lived by my whole life. Something I’ve tried to uphold as a lawman.”

  He swiveled around on his stool and stood up, face haggard, one hand idly flicking at the yellow-stitched star on his jacket. “I know there ain’t much law and order left in the world, but I’ve tried to make sure Hollow Rock doesn’t wind up like so many other places out there. Places where murder and thievery happen as sure as the sunrise. Things are different here. People are different here. They understand how much better life is when you have sensible laws in place, and someone to enforce them. It’s why they keep electing me.”

  “That’s very moving, Walt. Is there a point to this little speech?”

  He dropped his hand and gave me a wan smile. “Sorry. I tend to ramble in my old age. My point is, you lied to me, Gabe. You looked me in the eye and you deliberately and knowingly withheld information pertinent to a murder investigation.”

  “You can’t prove that, Walt.”

  “Even worse,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, “you went vigilante and killed the men responsible. I’m not going to stand here and say it wasn’t justified, but that’s not how we do things in Hollow Rock.”

  “Again, you have no proof. This is pointless.”

  “Just because I can’t prove it doesn’t mean you didn’t do it. You need to know this changes things, Gabe. How am I supposed to trust you from now on knowing you lied to me?”

  “Like I said, Walt. You’ve already made up your mind, so nothing I say is going to make any difference. Just know I’m still on your side, and I’m going to keep doing what I can to protect this town, same as you.”

  He shook his head. “No, Gabe. Not the same as me. I wouldn’t have killed those men unless I had no other choice. I would have brought them in and made them stand trial. I would have given them a chance to defend themselves.”

  “And what if there wasn’t enough evidence to convict them? What would you have done then? Let them go?”

  He stared at me, lips set in a hard line. He didn’t answer.

  “Would you have let them get away with murder? I don’t think so, Walter. I think you would have fortified yourself with a few shots of bourbon and paid me a visit.”

  He let his eyes drop, confidence draining.

  “You would have come to me half-drunk and bitter, complaining about all the ways your badge ties your hands, about all the times you had to let someone walk because you didn’t have enough evidence to try them. You would have cursed those men for what they did to Sean Montford, and you would have suggested someone ought to do something about it. Maybe let slip the location where they were released, where I could start tracking them. Arrange something with the guards at the main gate so I could come and go unnoticed. Tell me I’m wrong, Sheriff.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “If you had put them on trial and convicted them, they would have stood in front of a firing squad. If they were acquitted, you would have asked me to hunt them down. The end result would have been the same regardless. So why come to me now and piss in my ear about it?”

  He offered no response.

  “Law and order is fine for the good people, Walt. It’s fine for the petty criminals. But some people are smart and know how to manipulate the law. How to use it against you. That’s where I come in. If someone wants to operate outside t
he law, I make sure they understand the consequences. Because if a person can’t obey the law, they don’t deserve its protection.”

  I took a few steps closer so that we were less than a foot apart, voice low, bending down to make him meet my gaze. “You know I’m right, Walter. You’ve been a cop too long to believe otherwise. So before you go throwing stones, I suggest you take a good hard look at the world beyond that wall out there. At the infected, and the marauders, and slavers, and insurgents, and the war that could break out any day now. You take a good look and tell me how your dime-novel morality is going to protect this town from all the monsters out there, living and dead. You think about that, Sheriff. You think long and hard.”

  With that, I turned and left.

  Later, Mike told me the sheriff had stood there for a long time, head down, hands trembling a little. After a while, he had come back to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. Then he’d ordered three more. Mike cut him off and watched as he staggered his way to the door, mumbling something about going home. A week later—about the right amount of time to let things simmer down—he announced he was closing the investigation due to a lack of evidence.

  He never asked me about it again.

  *****

  That night, as I lay awake in bed feeling the cold hollowness of Liz’s absence, I thought about what the sheriff had said to me. How it would take a hell of a lot of anger to track someone to an out-of-the-way place like Hollow Rock, especially three years after the end of the world. I thought about that mission in Manhattan, and Miguel Villalobos, and Anja Renner, and how it all went wrong. I thought about protocol, and rules, and the risks people take, never believing they will be the ones to fall. I thought about a choice I made, and how I could have sacrificed a mission to save a life.

  I lay there with the moonlight streaming into my window, arms crossed behind my head, and I remembered those words again, that haunting, searing, prophetic turn of phrase burned indelibly into my heart. I thought again of Karen’s sad eyes as she shut the door and left my life forever.