by James Cook
“Don’t,” I said. “We need him alive. Don’t worry, he’ll pay for what he’s done.”
The glare lasted a moment longer before subsiding. “He damn well better.” The hand came down slowly, finger off the trigger. Turning to Hicks, I said, “Go get the other hostages and lead them out of here. Use the north gate. I’ll radio as soon as I can.”
I half expected him to protest, or question my intentions, but he surprised me by simply nodding and giving a gruff, “Will do.” Then turned and led the others away.
When they were out of sight, I keyed my radio. “This is Garrett. Everyone still in position?”
They answered according to protocol, Thompson, Cole, then Sanchez. All stations standing by.
“All right, then,” I said. “Stay put. I’m on my way.”
*****
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
It is an adage ingrained in me from a young age, and it has never steered me wrong.
When I conducted my recon the night before, I counted thirty-one men including Powell. But that was before the fighting started. So subtract the leader, the five guards on the wall, the three guards watching the hostages, and the six we killed at the comms building, and that leaves 16. Nearly half their original force. Which meant my men and I were now only outnumbered four to one.
Not the best odds, under most circumstances.
But considering most, if not all, of those men were in various states of drunkenness, and sleeping to boot, we had on our side the factor which allows small forces to defeat larger ones, which can turn the tide of even the most desperate of battles.
Surprise.
Two bunkhouses. Sixteen troops. How to proceed?
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
Cole was in position on a rooftop, SAW dialed in, two LAW rockets lying next to him. Sanchez and Thompson were with me, stacked up outside the door to the southernmost barracks. I had studied the barracks through my FLIR scope, and by cranking the device to its highest, battery-draining setting, discerned the outlines of ten men. Meaning the other six were in the northern barracks.
So check the weapons, exchange a few terse sentences, evaluate the lanes of fire, check the weapons again—rounds chambered? safeties off? suppressors fitted properly?—and stack up.
The door did not have a lock. Just a simple wooden latch, enough to hold it shut when the wind blew and nothing more. I raised a careful hand and unlatched it, then swung it open. Sanchez was the point man, so he went in first. I followed close behind, Thompson nipping at my heels.
There is a sense of unreality to these things. The progression that comes with time and practice mitigates but does not entirely destroy the giddy adrenaline rush, the sense of crossing a threshold when the first sleeping target is sighted and the trigger is pulled and the blood is spilled, the certainty of it, the finality, the fruition of guile and malicious intent made manifest, to wield the power of life and death and choose death. We moved silently, purposefully. Take aim, head shots, two to be sure. Hear the clacking, the metallic pinging of shell casings bouncing on wooden planks. Hear the death rattles, the spasmodic shuffling of feet under wool blankets.
End of the room. Last target is awake, mouth opening, but the hands are fast and sure and he is dead before the warning comes out. Beat him by a fraction of a second. On such things the fates of men and nations rest.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
Our boots left tread-pattern prints in expanding black pools as we left, clinging to soles and souls and leaving gradually fading tracks. We repeated the procedure. Stacked up around the door. Again, I reached out, left handed, palm turned toward the wall.
And then the wall exploded around my hand.
We fell back, rifles up, firing through the wall, backpedaling as fast as we could. Must have heard us in there, I thought dimly. My right heel caught something in the pavement and I went over backward, landing with a grunt. When I put my hand to the ground to pick myself up, it occurred to me I couldn’t feel it. There was a great pressure there, a numbness, a slowly building heat. It still responded to commands however, so I put it back on the foregrip and kept firing.
Cole’s SAW came to life across the street, bright orange fireball around the muzzle, bullets ripping into the barracks like rain. The chamber on my rifle clanged open on the last round. I was slow on the reload, numb left hand fumbling at the mag carrier, unable to get a decent grip. Then something brushed the end of my ring finger and a streak of molten fire shot up my arm. The pain roared to life, blinding, searing, relentless. Not a throb, but a howling torch where my finger used to be. Giving up on that hand, I let my rifle dangle and pulled a mag with my right. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the weapon with my left, shoved home the P-mag, and brought the stock back up to my shoulder. As I began to squeeze the trigger, I noticed that the night had gone silent. The SAW no longer chattered. The distinctive bark of AKs had departed. No clack-clang of suppressed M-4s.
My mouth moved before my brain had a chance to catch up. “Move in. Make sure they’re all down.”
There was a brief hesitation, a gathering of breath and wits, quick self-pat-downs, making sure there were no perforations. It occurred to me to check my left hand. I decided it could wait.
As I approached the door, a warmness began to spread on my right side, just below the border of the Dragon Skin vest. The muscles felt tight there, twitching, like an overworked hamstring on the verge of a cramp. Whatever was going on down there, it wasn’t good.
Thompson went through first, firing at anything that moved. He heard me behind him and broke left, so I broke right. Caught sight of a man trying to stuff his guts back into his abdomen. Ended his misery. Sanchez moved past me with a noticeable limp. Four more bodies on my side. No way they were alive, but I gave them each two in the head anyway.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
I cast a look around, just to be sure. “Clear.”
Sanchez raised his NVGs and walked over to me. “I’m hit.”
“How bad?”
“Not sure. Got me in the lower leg.”
“Well, you’re still walking, so it can’t be that bad.”
“Didn’t feel it for a while there,” he said grimacing. “But I’m getting around to it.”
“That’s how it usually goes.” I reached down and wormed my fingers under my gear down to my undershirt. Warm, sticky blood held the fabric against my skin. I probed it, ignoring the hot agony it caused, and felt a six-inch groove through the flesh, deeper towards the back. The wound was pretty ragged back there, but not life-threatening. Some stitches and iodine and a little fresh air, and it would be just another artifact in the collection.
“Holy shit,” Sanchez muttered and clicked on his flashlight. He pointed it in my direction.
“What?”
“Gabe, your hand.”
I raised it and looked at it. There was a noticeable gap.
“Well that’s not good,” I said, and passed out.
FORTY-FOUR
Vague memories of a hand slapping my face, being lifted up, grunt and curses. Jeez, he’s a heavy son of a bitch.
There had been warning signs. A man can’t just starve for a week and become severely dehydrated and expect to recover in a day or two. The legs didn’t move as quickly. There was a little tremor in the hands, a tightness around the eyes. It took a few extra breaths to recover after a sprint. The sweat came quickly from the least exertion and had the close, humid, clammy texture of a fever. I had moments of forgetfulness, which should have been a big red flag flapping agitatedly in gale-force winds.
But I ignored it. It’s mind over matter, you see. If you don’t mind, it don’t matter. This works just fine in theory, but in reality, disrupting the body’s processes of breaking down raw materials for nutrients and utilizing those chemicals, enzymes, proteins, and minerals to build new cells has severe consequences. The fat sto
res disappear. Muscle tissue is cannibalized. ATP is at a premium. There is very little energy on demand, and if you use up too much of it, the body hits the kill switch.
So I lay on a table, and woke up with the sun in my face. Thompson was there, staring at a picture of his family. He had showed it to me, once. Pretty red-headed wife. A baby who was now, as I understood, three years old. Even at six months he bore a strong resemblance to his father. Ethan was different in the picture as well. Ethan? First name, now? I must be really loopy.
The kid’s name was Aiden. The wife’s name was Andrea. They lived in a house, Fort Bragg, four bedroom. Justin Schmidt and his girlfriend Emily and their baby son, Joshua. All under one roof. The ache on Ethan’s face could have been one of Rembrandt’s famous sketches.
“Hey,” I croaked.
He tucked the picture in a clear plastic case, then stowed it safely in a chest pocket. “Hey yourself. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.”
He nodded. “I’m not surprised. How much do you remember?”
“Not much.”
He filled me in.
Sending Hicks outside the wall with the hostages turned out to be a waste of time. But they were all safely back now, engaged with piecing together as much of their shattered lives as they could.
While Brownsville’s surviving residents cleaned up, Hicks and Sanchez took the truck back to the funeral home, retrieved the trussed-up prisoners, and turned them over to Sheriff Tucker. They were currently in lockup, awaiting their fate.
There had been some radio chatter. Hicks, quick thinking fellow that he is, informed Powell that his continued presence among the living hinged upon his performance convincing Blackmire that everything was five by five. He succeeded, and a contingent from said den of iniquity was inbound. ETA tomorrow morning.
“Is Tanner with them?”
Ethan looked confused. “Who?”
“Sorry. Blackmire, the leader. Is he coming?”
“Not sure. Ask Hicks, he might know.”
I lifted myself up slowly, wincing first at the pain in my side, then in my hand as it pressed against the table.
“Shit.”
Thompson stood up and crossed the room. “Careful. I stitched it up as best I could, but it’s going to hurt for a while.”
I held up my left hand and stared silently. The left ring finger started at the knuckle connecting it to my palm just like it always had. It proceeded upward to the second knuckle without interruption. Beyond the second knuckle, there was a bit of an oblong nub swathed in bandages and compression tape, and that was all. End of the line.
“Motherfucker.”
“At least you’re right handed.”
I tore my eyes away and let the hand fall to my lap. “That’s something, I guess.”
“Be careful with it, Gabe. I cleaned it up, but I don’t have any antibiotics. It could very easily become infected. Same with the stitches on your side.”
I nodded. “How’s the Pride of Hermosillo?”
“He’ll make a full recovery. Bullet tore out a chunk of is inner calf, right about here.” He tapped a finger against the appropriate spot on my leg. “He’ll have a limp for a while, but with a little physical therapy, he should eventually be a hundred percent.”
“That’s a relief.” I pushed off the table and stood wobbling for a moment, then felt a little strength return. “Got any water?”
“Sure.” He fetched a canteen from his pack and handed it to me. I drank slowly in little sips until it was empty. Paced the room while I did it, working a little mobility back into my stiff right side, trying to ignore the throbbing in my hand.
“You were awake when I stitched it, you know.” Ethan had resumed his seat by the window.
“Was I?”
“Yep. Hicks loaned you his belt to bite down on. Didn’t have any local anesthetic. You cursed at me bad enough to wilt flowers.”
I searched the hard drive, but came up empty. “I don’t remember that.”
“You were pretty out of it. The others had to hold you down. You gave Cole a pretty good shiner.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the skin between them. “Sorry about that.”
He smiled faintly and waved a hand. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll forgive you. As for me, I’ve seen a heck of a lot worse.”
Looking at the thousand yards between his eyes and where his gaze came to rest, I believed him.
*****
The enemy was inbound, so I made the most of the day.
The first step was a town meeting. I briefed Steinman on the situation and told him what I needed him to say. He gathered everyone in a rough wooden building that served as town hall and did as requested.
While he spoke, I watched the faces of the women, boys, teenage girls, and the younger children. It reminded me of pictures in American history books, the documented history of the old west, photos of lean, hard-faced, unsmiling people in frontier attire. Only now they were not dampened by primitive photography or the grainy texture of a printed page. They were real, vivid, in high definition, every haggard line, puckered scar, smudge of dirt, and dark angry gaze. They listened first to Steinman, then to me. I told them what I needed from them and asked for volunteers.
Nearly every hand in the room came up.
There were a few babies and toddlers too young to understand what was going on, but other than that, I had my army.
“All right then,” I said, trying my best to sound confident and determined. “We have work to do.”
*****
If Powell was bothered by the demise of his men, he didn’t show it.
He stayed on the radio, exchanging chatter with Blackmire, very humble, very servile. Yes sir, no sir, whatever you need sir. I promised him if he cooperated he would not be prosecuted since his men were dead. The relief on his face was nauseating.
The Crow Hunters had brought in generators—likely stolen from a Phoenix Initiative shipment—and plenty of fuel, which we used to power the radio and antenna array on the truck. Hicks parked the big vehicle behind a square of buildings so Blackmire’s men would not see it when they rode into town.
When all preparations were complete, I found Sheriff Tucker and gave her a report.
“You seem to know your business,” she said, head tilted to the side, intelligent eyes probing mine. She stepped closer, just within arm’s reach, taking a sounding. “You know, I don’t think I ever said thank you for saving us.”
Against my will, my eyes tracked to the other side of town and the frozen pile of corpses that had once been husbands, uncles, brothers, nephews, grandfathers, and sons. “I just wish I could have gotten here sooner.”
Her hand was gentle on my arm. “Still. Thank you.”
I nodded silently, taking in the firm planes of her face. She was neither ugly not pretty. Sort of severe. Then she smiled, and she was ten years younger. “I put you up in the tavern, over there.” She pointed. “The owner’s wi-…well, I guess she’s the owner now. She’ll have her girls draw you a bath. There’ll be a warm bed for you tonight.”
“You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”
The hand squeezed. “It’s the least we could do. Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”
I followed her to the tavern and stepped inside. A fifty-ish woman and several girls in their early twenties were busy cleaning the place. Wiping tables, mopping the floor, restocking the shelves behind the bar, setting overturned chairs upright. The smell of stew wafted from the kitchen, causing my stomach to remind me how long it had been since I last ate. The older woman, who I assumed to be the new owner, came out from the behind the bar and offered me a hand.
“You’re him? The one who killed the Crow Hunters?”
I shook the hand and found it surprisingly strong. The eyes behind it were red-rimmed from tears shed not very long ago. I was reminded again of those early pioneers, those hard people who buried husbands, wives, and children by the side of the trail, sa
id a few words over them, then hitched up their horses, slapped the reins, and rode on undeterred. “I had help.”
She took me in for a few seconds, looking me up and down. “You look formidable enough.”
“I have been accused of that from time to time.”
A smile showed itself, albeit a sad one. “Will you have a drink?”
“What do you trade?”
It was a common question, asked far and wide by traders and Runners and everyone with a good or service to purvey. But this was the first time in my experience anyone had ever taken offense to it.
“You drink for free, here,” she said sternly. “You and your men. And you eat for free, and whenever you come around, you’ll get a room and a bath for free. And if I hear one damn word of argument about it, I whop you upside the head with a frying pan. Do I make myself clear?”
I kept my face neutral and nodded respectfully. “Yes ma’am.”
“Penny. The name’s Penelope, but everybody around here calls me Penny. You will too.”
“Yes Mrs. Penny.”
“That’s the right attitude. Now have a seat, soldier. I’ll go get your drink and have some food brought out to you in just a little while.”
She bustled off. I briefly considered correcting her on the distinction between soldiers and Marines, but thought better of it. I have not survived two decades of near-constant violence by being stupid.
I did as ordered.
FORTY-FIVE
The food was good, but the bath was better. I emerged from the tub, then dried, shaved, ran a comb through the no-longer-regulation-length hair, and felt like a new man.
Despite the pain in my side and hand, sleep came quickly. I was out by eight thirty. Consequently, I awoke promptly at four-thirty in the morning, refreshed and as ready for what lay ahead as a man can get.
In the dining room, a single candle burned at a table near the door. If not for that lone pool of orange-yellow illumination, the room would have been pitch black.