Redaction: The Meltdown Part II

by Andrews, Linda

  Robertson squatted, picked up a twig and scratched out rectangles. “Here’s the truck.” He made a big shape behind a dozen or so others. “These are the cars.” He pointed to the smaller ones. “We want you to clear out three rows around the truck, then fall back to here.” A line marked the boundary beyond the rectangles. “Keep down but aware.”

  “Aware of what?” Pete asked.

  “Of the targets’ locations.” Robertson wiped the smaller rectangles away. “This should be enough space for us to pick them off, but if they reach the cars things might get hairy.”

  Manny scratched the peach fuzz on his chin. Hairy was obviously something to be avoided. “Okay.”

  Robertson pushed to his feet. “Good. Vegas, get into costume.”

  Costume? What costume? Manny sidled closer to Rini and Beth. “Are you okay doing this?”

  Beth swallowed hard. “Trent won’t be back will he?”

  “He won’t be in a position to hurt anyone after we’re finished with him.” Robertson cracked his knuckles.

  A dark-skinned Latino emerged from the shadows. Without a word, he skinned the jacket and teeshirt off the corpse. “Pants ain’t gonna fit.”

  Manny compared the dead body to the soldier’s. The corpse’s legs were half the size of the Vegas’s tree trunk thighs and in the uniform that would be noticeable. The knot on his rope belt dug into his gut. “You can have mine.”

  He fumbled with the rope.

  Vegas snorted and shook his head. “Manuel, I ain’t gonna get one of my legs in there.”

  “It’s Manny.” Working the knot free, he stepped away from the girls and held out the waistband. Two of him could now fit where one had once strained to fit. Skipping meals for six months had taken off all the bulk he’d acquired in Juvenile Detention.

  Robertson whistled. “Damn.”

  Vegas looked at the ground. “Come on, Manny. We don’t want to give the ladies a show.”

  Holding up his pants, Manny followed the soldier into the woods. Quiet settled around him. A few snowflakes drifted through the branches overhead.

  “You’re gonna need to stay behind the vehicles as much as possible when you return.” Vegas stripped off his jacket and shirt. Another tan shirt molded to his chest.

  Manny turned around and pulled off his pants. Cold air slapped his legs. Scars criss-crossed his thighs from the accident that had killed Rini’s brother. “I don’t think they’ll know if I was wearing camo pants.”

  He tugged the string out of the belt loops and wrapped it around his fingers.

  “They’ll notice.” Vegas growled. “Every damn one of you is wearing jeans.”

  Manny jerked the wide legs over his damp sneakers, careful not to let the blue jeans get any damper. Cupping one hand over his shrinking privates, Manny turned around.

  Blood stained the front of the teeshirt and created lines on the jacket Vegas wore. “You know about the power of military ACUs don’t you Manny?”

  He swapped his soft jeans for the stiff fabric. Water beaded on the outside. What had they done to it? It felt like those weird tablecloths his mother used to put on the patio table. “What power?”

  “You step into those uniform pants and the girls are gonna wanna take theirs off.” Vegas jumped a little as he pulled the jeans over his legs.

  Heat burned Manny’s face as he stepped into his new pants.

  “And you’ve already got yourself one admirer.”

  Manny cleared his throat and tried to slip the rope through the belt loop. “Beth and I are just friends.”

  “Whatever you say.” Vegas chuckled. “It’s gotta drawstring already.”

  Now he felt like a fool, too. Folding down the waistband, he caught the string and tugged. As the fabric gathered, he pushed it back bunching it around his sides and back. “Why are you dressed in that man’s clothing?”

  “I’m going to escort you out of the woods, then pretend to go back and play with Mrs. Hunt.” Vegas tucked the teeshirt into his pants then pulled it out again. “That way there’s a reason why you and the others came back.”

  “You two about done in there?” Robertson stepped out from behind a tree. The dog thumped his tail and his ears twitched.

  “We’re ready.” Vegas picked up his rifle. “Remember what I said about those pants, Manny.”

  Manny rolled his eyes. Like he believed it. After folding the cuffs, he trailed behind them.

  Talking with her hands as much as her mouth, Rini spoke with Pete and Paul under a big pine. Beth stood a little to the side. When she spied Manny, she inspected him from head to toe.

  Manny stood a little straighter.

  Vegas nudged his shoulder. “Told you. Chicks dig the uniform.”

  Robertson checked his weapon. “Alright, let’s get this thing going.”

  Vegas led the way through the woods.

  Manny fell in behind him.

  A twig snapped; Beth slipped her hand into his. “I’m scared.”

  Who wasn’t? “We’ll be fine.”

  The soldiers would take care of the bad guys. His job and hers was to keep everyone behind the cars. There would be no hostages.

  The pines cleared enough so they could see the trunk. Robertson gathered them close. “Okay I want you to look scared. Don’t go near the targets unless you absolutely have to.”

  Vegas bowed and motioned for them to precede him with a bloody knife. “After you.”

  A hand settled on Manny’s shoulder as they reached the clearing.

  Vegas grinned. “Mind your step,” he whispered, shoving his shoulder. “And don’t interrupt me again.”

  Manny staggered across the snow, digging a trench. When he looked up, the two guards were watching him. He jogged a little faster and caught up with the girls. “Let’s get going.”

  The three rows of cars had been cleared.

  “We have to hurry.” They separated, each taking a row. None of the other kids looked at him. He passed a bumper of a Honda. Two kids shoved the body in the driver’s seat to the passenger’s side. Beth stayed behind him. They’d paused by the open door when a shot rang out.

  Someone screamed. Everyone ducked.

  Manny pushed Beth in front of him then onto the road.

  “Hey boy!” The guard standing on the hood aimed at him. “Get over here.”

  Manny rose to his feet. His legs shook.

  “Don’t go!” Beth clawed at his hand.

  He had to. Swallowing the lump stuck in his throat, he put one foot in front of the other. Three rows of cars had been cleared. The soldiers would take out the bad guys soon. He moved abreast of the rear wheels.

  “Faster.”

  Where were they? Manny held his arms stiffly at his side. Don’t look at the woods. Don’t look at the woods. He set his hand on the trunk. Another step and he’d be in the open.

  Another shot rang out.

  The guard on the road jerked his head backward then he fell.

  “Robert E!” The one on the hood turned toward the wood, raising his weapon. Another shot and red splattered his chest. He crumpled onto the metal then rolled off. The German shepherd darted out of the trees, beelining for the bodies.

  Robertson strode from the woods, blowing the barrel of his weapon.

  While two soldiers knelt at the edge of the wood, sweeping the area with their muzzles, two more stormed across the road. Vegas stooped near the first body on the ground and touched his throat. “Clear.”

  A big burly soldier with two bags stopped near the second. He checked for life signs. “Clear.”

  The dog loped over to Robertson and plopped down.

  “Alright everyone,” Robertson shouted. “Get in the trucks, we’ll join the others for lunch.”

  Manny turned to take Beth’s hand just as another shot rang out.

  This one came from where Trent had gone. Where the niños were.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Trent toggled the security device off the sweater. It wasn’t ca
shmere but it would do in a pinch. Melted snow dripped onto the stockroom floor. The smell of starch mingled with mildew. Faint popping noises drifted through the metal receiving door. Either Robert E. and Ernest enjoyed displaying their power or those stupid kids were getting uppity.

  Wool scratched his fingers as he slid the sweater into the bag. Must be the power. The teens had no reason to complain. After all, Trent was letting them drive. He grabbed the bag off the battered, wooden prep table. The weight pulled on his arm. Not a bad haul. Trousers that would need to be hemmed. Dress shirts to mask the itch of the wool sweaters. Of course, the two pairs of dress shoes, black socks and boxer-briefs weren’t up to his usual standard, but he shouldn’t complain too much.

  And then there was the little extra something he’d found.

  His ears twitched at a whisper of movement.

  So ol’ Jake decided to kill him now instead of waiting until later.

  Well, Trent had a little surprise in store for him. He scanned the storeroom. Stacks of boxes morphed into dark towers. Melted snow crawled across the concrete and made black puddles in the divots. Palming the flashlight in the same hand as the bag, he swung them over his shoulder. Cold seeped through his sweater where the barrel rested and a bright yellow eyeball of light rolled over the storeroom.

  With his free hand, he scraped the box cutter off the table and kept it close to his pant leg. The asshole would only see the glimmer of the blade when Trent struck.

  A hollow thump sounded to his right.

  He spun on his heel, scratching the soles of his new shoes. So the bastard thought to sneak up on him in the dark. The fool. Trent smiled. Time to have a little fun before the carving began. “Who’s there?”

  “Trent?” A man called out. A stack of boxes wobbled in the flashlight’s glow.

  He blinked. That didn’t sound like Jake. Neither did it sound like Ernest or Robert E. Could it be Gary? Had he gotten so bloody cutting up the woman that he needed to change his clothes? “Gary?”

  “No. It’s Henry.” A cone of light sprayed the aisle. “Henry Dobbins.”

  Trent stumbled backward. No. No, it couldn’t be. He eyed the towers walling him in. No break in the boxes. No way to hide, nowhere to run. Fuck! How could this happen to him?

  Henry Dobbins rolled around the corner. His steel gray ponytail draped over his flannel covered shoulder. “Dang. It’s hard to maneuver around this place.”

  Trent’s thoughts raced. Henry was here. Henry who should have been left behind. If Henry was here, then the soldiers must be too. Cold misted Trent’s skin. Those shots…

  “Done a little shopping, I see.” Henry nodded to the bag sticking out from behind Trent’s back.

  Trent opened his fingers. Static electricity crackled down his back as the plastic slid to the floor.

  He shone the light around the wheelchair-bound man.

  Empty space. But what did that mean? For all he knew, the soldiers could be behind the boxes waiting to spring. The metal housing of the box cutter slipped against his palm. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shopping.” Henry shrugged. “Same as you.”

  Trent swallowed a snort. The man didn’t have anything on his lap. He hadn’t gone shopping. But he did block the exit. Was the old man trying to stall for time until the soldiers surrounded Trent? “Didn’t find anything to your liking?”

  “It’s in the truck.” Henry raised his hands, flashing his palms. The gesture lay bare the pistol on his lap.

  Son of a bitch. A box cutter against a gun, he knew how that would end. He had to get out of here and he’d have to go through his ex-neighbor to do it. The asshole always had to stick his nose in other people’s business. In Trent’s business. Henry had ruined Trent’s marriage and now he wanted to ruin his new society.

  Not today.

  Trent tightened his grip on the box cutter. “Guess this isn’t a friendly talk, after all.”

  Henry sighed and picked up the weapon but didn’t aim it at Trent. “The gun is a precaution.”

  Trent stooped to pick up his bag. The light from his flashlight bounced wildly around the room. He would use the stupid man’s ignorance of gun etiquette to make his escape. “Against what?”

  “Against you getting any ideas of running away.”

  “Run away?” Straightening, Trent crooked his arm so he spotlighted the other man. When the time came, he’d blind him with it, but for now he’d pretend to go along. “We were heading for the main group. It’s not our fault that your truck fell behind.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Henry shrugged. “But the soldiers hold you to blame for what happened to their drivers.”

  Fuck. Trent ground his teeth together. Those idiots! He should have insisted they stop and throw the bodies farther from the road. Who the hell knew they would be found? Out. He needed an out. No, he didn’t. He was innocent. “I was riding in the back. What happened to the drivers?”

  Henry shook his head. “Gonna deny everything to the end?”

  Trent inched closer to the cripple. “I haven’t done anything. Of course, I am guilty of shoplifting. But you, yourself said you were getting a five-finger discount, too.”

  “Cut the crap, Trent. You were a lying, cheating, asshole when we met and you’ve only gotten worse.”

  Worse? He paused. Something else was going on here. “What do you mean?”

  “Denise. Your wife.” Henry aimed the gun at Trent’s chest. “I found her body.”

  So the bitch had been found. So what? There was nothing to trace her death back to him. He’d made sure of it. His plan was flawless. “The police said she hung herself. Just another person who couldn’t live with the grief.”

  “The police had nothing to do with it.” Henry snarled.

  The cripple hadn’t reported it? That was even better. Trent crept forward again. Another five feet and he could throw the bag.

  “I should have let the soldiers shoot you when you left the store.”

  Ah-ha. The soldiers were outside the store. Were there enough of them to cover all the doors? The old man may be stupid, but he wasn’t a complete moron. He wouldn’t have come alone. “So why did you come, old man?”

  “I wanted you to have a fair trial.”

  Fair trial? Trent ran his hand down the metal side of the box cutter. He’d never been treated fairly in his life. People were always jealous of his looks, his intelligence and his talents. They colluded to keep him down, keep him small like the dregs of humanity. He closed the gap by another foot.

  “Why would I go on trial? I’ve done nothing wrong.” His wife deserved what she’d gotten. As for those soldiers… “I was in the back with everyone else. I didn’t even know those men were missing until we stopped for lunch.”

  And there were at least forty witnesses to confirm his alibi.

  Henry rolled back. The wheelchair turned at an angle since he only used one hand. With the gun, he motioned toward the stockroom’s exit. “Let’s go.”

  The hair on Trent’s neck stood up. No way was he going through those double doors. The soldiers must be on the other side, waiting. He slowed. His plan should work. After all the old fart was no match for him.

  And as a bonus, he’d keep the gun.

  Henry retreated behind the stand of boxes, clearing the aisle to the doors.

  No, that wasn’t going to work. Trent stopped. The cripple needed to be within sight. “You know those soldiers are going to kill me as soon as I step outside. You’ll have my blood on your hands.”

  The hypocrite.

  “They won’t. They gave me their word.”

  “Like you can trust them.” Trent snorted. How long would it take for the old man to realize he wasn’t obeying orders.

  Henry rolled forward. “I do more than—”

  Trent hurled the bag and flashlight. Just as he planned, they landed in Henry’s lap, smothering the gun.

  Henry jerked his hands out from underneath the clothes then shoved them off his lap.
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  Trent body slammed the boxes next to the cripple. Cardboard crunched under the impact of his shoulder. They wobbled then two toppled over.

  Henry grabbed his wheels and shot forward. He angled his chair up and over the bag.

  No. He wouldn’t get away. Trent slashed at his hands, ripping open the flesh.

  Henry yanked his hand away.

  Plastic stretched, catching the wheels. Boxes crashed into the wheelchair’s handles. In slow motion, the seat tilted back farther until gravity caught it.

  Henry raised the gun.

  Trent leapt onto the wheelchair, pinning Henry’s arms to the seat with his legs. The handles hit the ground. The cripple’s head lolled back. Victory slammed through Trent. His heart sped up, red blurred the edges of his vision. He slashed the old man’s exposed throat with the box cutter. Warm liquid sprayed his hand. His grip slipped on the second pass. Flesh unzippered with each swipe.

  The gun fired.

  Heat blazed along his thigh.

  The fucker tried to kill him. He slashed again. And again. And again. Bastard wouldn’t ruin his plans.

  “Colonel Dobbins.” A man called through the door.

  Trent blinked and the world exploded in his vision. God damn it. He had to get away. Now. He wouldn’t be able to kill the man properly. The soldiers were here.

  The old man gurgled. Blood bubbled out his throat.

  Metal rattled beyond the door.

  He had to stop them from entering. Trent rolled off the loser and scrambled to his feet. The box cutter slipped from his shaking hands, clattered to the ground.

  In slow motion, Henry raised the gun.

  “Fuck you.” Trent wrenched it out of his hand. He aimed it at the old man and stroked the trigger. It would be so easy.

  Henry glared up at him.

  Too easy. The bastard deserved to drown in his blood. Trent tucked the gun in his waistband. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you.”

  Henry tried to speak but only blood came out of his mouth.

  “How does it feel to lose, old man?” Flattening his back against the boxes, Trent shoved with his legs. Muscle burned as he moved them toward the door. One row. Two. He dusted his hands on his trousers. That should hold them for a while.