“What you think of them Yankees?” Crawler asked.
“I don’t give a shit. Look at the road,” the gunner said.
“You see the game they had against the Orioles?” He turned the wheel and circumvented a VW-sized boulder outside Jim’s window.
“The road, Crawler. The road.”
“Nine to one. Almost a shutout.”
“I don’t care what the hell they did. Watch the damn road!”
Crawler smirked, then turned forward again, winking at Jim as he jammed the cigar back between his teeth.
Around the next turn the trail narrowed, running laterally across a steep ridge. On Jim’s side rose a sharp hill and to the other was a steep drop-off, several hundred feet to a dry ravine.
Jim pushed the cover back from his watch, then grabbed the radio and held the mic close. He pressed the button and a shock wave swept over the Humvee with a deafening boom. He turned to see the front end of the M35 transport behind them on fire. He looked at the mic button. Had he triggered the explosion?
The M35 crunched into the hill and came to a stop. Fire billowed from the engine compartment and the driver was slouched back in his seat. Automatic fire crackled from the hill above, stitching holes in the hood near the wheel. The gunner stood upright into the turret and the fifty cal boomed.
Jim shouted into the radio, “Transport down! Suppressing fire!” Men leapt from the burning vehicle. Several scrambled behind a Cougar mine-resistant truck while another pulled the driver from the burning wreck.
The Humvee peeled away, tires spinning, pressing Jim back into his seat. “What the hell you doing?” The truck continued to accelerate. He aimed his M4 at Crawler’s head.
“I ain’t going nowhere,” Crawler said. “Point that at the guys shootin’.”
Ahead the trail widened. Crawler turned hard and slammed the brakes, locking all four wheels. They slid sideways, almost all the way around, then accelerated hard back toward the burning M35. Jim stuck his head out the window, then leaned away as if it were on fire. The wheels were riding on the edge of the drop-off.
The gunner ducked from the turret. “Son of a bitch! You can’t make it past that truck! I can cover from here!” Crawler said nothing, keeping the accelerator down. They plowed down the side of the burning transport, tearing off the open door where the driver had been pulled out. Jim felt the tires beneath him slip down toward the ravine, but they held.
Red Harmon was in the middle of the trail, M4 aimed high and returning fire over the unconscious driver. Crawler headed directly for them at speed, then turned hard and slammed the brakes. This time, the skid was graceful. Red dropped to his belly and the Humvee came to a stop, straddling the pair. The fifty cal echoed from the turret as Jim helped lift the injured driver into the back.
“Get the rest into the other trucks,” he shouted at Red. Jim ran back to the cab and aimed his weapon up the hill through the open window. No enemy in sight. Only dust clouds along a ridge where the gunner was concentrating the fifty cal. Tracers from the combat mix ammunition snapped like lasers every fifth round.
The burning troop transport blocked their escape. Crawler sped up, slamming into the back of it and pushing forward. Gravel clinked against the floorboards as all four wheels on the Humvee spun. The transport wandered toward the cliff, the road curving away. After a few seconds, it rolled down the side and the convoy sped past. The sulfur stench of burning gear oil filled Jim’s nose. He pressed one nostril closed and blew onto the floor. A quarter mile later the landscape leveled somewhat.
Loud groaning and white smoke came from the Humvee’s engine compartment, but it kept running. The sweet aroma of burning antifreeze filled the cabin. Crawler leaned over and shouted above the engine noise. “Round the next curve’s a bitch! A red zone, maybe half mile long. ‘The Gauntlet’ we calls it. Tell your guys to get low till we’re through.”
“Ever have trouble there?”
“No shots. But they ain’t friendlies.”
Crawler slowed around the sharp curve. Several small white rocks the size of a man’s fist were in the middle of the road, as if newly fallen.
“See those?”
“Nothing. We checked ’em on the way out,” Crawler said, speeding over.
An orange stone-walled town stood ahead, the road running straight through the middle. Situated on a ridge, it offered no way around. A burning car blocked the entrance. Jim put the radio down and shouted, “We can’t go back. Our tail’s got a vehicle in pursuit.”
Crawler leaned back his head. “Keep your eyes on the rooftops!” he shouted to the gunner. He slowed and slammed into the burning car, crunching it into the wall, clearing the road. Heads emerged atop a two-story home, peeking over the mud-brown parapet, like jack-o-lanterns on a wall. A man stood and an AK-47 clattered. The gunner spun and the fifty cal roared, blowing chunks off the low wall, puffing dust clouds that floated slowly away like they had on the ridge.
The engine revved higher as the truck accelerated. Jim smacked into the doorpost when Crawler yanked the wheel avoiding potholes. The turn made the gunner stitch the entire side of the home, shattering a second-story window. The AK stopped, but a block later a short bespectacled man stepped into the road in front of them. He raised a pistol and opened fire. Crawler swerved toward him, catching him square in the chest and bouncing his head off the quarter panel, spraying blood on Jim through bullet holes in the windshield.
The mad driver almost looked like he was smiling as he leaned over and shouted above the still-ringing fifty cal, “They’s high on all kindsa shit. Don’t even move!”
A few hundred feet ahead, atop a yellow adobe building, a brown turban peeked over a knee-high wall. The last tall structure before they were through.
“RPG!” Jim shouted, pointing to the rooftop. The gunner spun and fired. The turban sank back down.
Crawler slammed the brakes and stopped ahead of the building. Jim leaned out his window. Barely enough room for the convoy to pass.
The driver opened his door. “Keep that guy’s head down!” he shouted, then drew his pistol and ran inside.
“What the hell,” Jim said, dropping the radio and jumping out. Dumbass just ran through the door. Didn’t even clear it.
As Jim followed, gunfire broke from inside, the racket of a single AK mixed with a sidearm.
Shit. Now I’m gonna be driving us home.
Jim stooped and ducked through the door, M4 raised. The room was dark and broiling, a concrete floor and dirty yellow walls. He blinked, adjusting to the dimness. The smell of mold was heavy. He knelt past the entrance, keeping aware of anything that may move in his peripheral vision. Ahead was an open room with rotting wooden crates stacked around, half of them caving in. Crawler’s silhouette was a few paces forward, squatting beside a corner wall, sidearm pointed toward a body lying facedown on the concrete.
“Got one,” he whispered, then dropped an empty magazine to the floor. The clatter echoed off the concrete.
Dumbass.
Before he grabbed a second magazine, a skinny, thin-bearded man in brown kameez ran from behind a crate a few feet away, charging Crawler with a knife. Jim leaned to get a clear shot around him, but Crawler stepped into the line of fire, readying himself for the attack. He dropped the sidearm and snatched his KA-BAR, pushing it through the attacker’s belly on the upstroke till it stuck out his back. The blow lifted the skinny man from his feet. Crawler threw him backwards on the cement, pulling the knife out and returning it to a scabbard without wiping the blade, then stooped and wrapped the sidearm in a hairy fist. “That’s the other.”
Jim inhaled the heavy scent of entrails, like an eviscerated deer after a successful hunt. “Stupid shit! I could’ve gotten him! Next time get the hell out of my way!”
Crawler turned and ran up gray-plank stairs that bent under his weight.
Runs like a damn elephant. Gonna kill the both of us.
Jim followed, weapon and eyes focused behind them. Crawler w
as almost at the roof access when a shower of wood splinters exploded. Bullets riddled the door from the outside, stitching the rafters. Crawler pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it across the jamb, the door flapping on its hinges, smacking the munition, almost sending it back down the stairs. Footsteps pounded above, running in opposite directions, one cracking the thin wooden roof. A second later the grenade blew a crater where the crack had been, spraying splinters and dust against Jim’s goggles. Crawler barreled up through the door and turned toward the RPG, halfway blocking the opening, back to the other soldier.
Son of a bitch was gonna get shot. Jim pushed his shoulders between the doorpost and Crawler, slicing a neat line in his arm on a sharp nail. Crawler fired twice.
Across the crater, Jim saw a soldier with a green bandolier lying facedown. The enemy rolled over, pulling a pistol from under his leg, bleeding in gushes. Jim squeezed a double tap, stapling his head to the roof. He checked the rest of the area. Crawler started toward the door. Jim stepped in front and went down first, angling his rifle into the darkness. Sweat dripped into the gash on his shoulder, burning. The last truck in the convoy was passing as they closed the doors of the Humvee. Crawler pulled out and took up the tail.
The radio was alive with chatter and a headcount confirmed no one missing. Only serious injury was the driver of the M35, now stretched in the back of the Humvee, a doc wrapping gauze around a charred face. Then silence. Precious silence.
Jim glanced at Crawler. His shoulders were hunched. Splinters stuck to one forearm like the whiskers on his cheeks. “Didn’t have a clue what you were doing, did you?”
The driver squinted. “Nope!” He winced as he pulled out a bloody sliver. “But I wasn’t gonna let that sonofabitch hit my train.”
Jim grabbed at the slice in the shoulder of his fatigues and gave a yank, tearing the rip-stop fabric with a snap-snap-snap. The gash in his shoulder ached as he pinched the flesh together. “For a dumb shit, not bad. You got lucky. Do that again and you’ll be going home in a C-17, zipped in a body bag.”
“That’s what the Army’s hopin’.”
“What?”
The driver rubbed his forehead, squeezing dirty sweat droplets down his cheeks. “Long story.”
“Know how to drive anything other than a Humvee?”
Crawler smiled for the first time. “Only if it’s got wheels . . . or tracks.”
Jim glanced back at the medic, who’d jumped from his own transport into the Humvee as the convoy had passed. He was sticking a fentanyl lollipop between bandage strips into the injured driver’s mouth. “Sergeant Crawler, thought you’d kill us squeezing past that burning truck. Interested in getting stateside?”
Crawler frowned. “Love to, but I gotta finish my tour. Volunteered. Third one. Some tickets need to drop off my record stateside. Trucks out here is the only thing the Army is letting me do.”
“Drive like that for me, and I’ll have you licensed tomorrow. Don’t care what your record says.”
Crawler’s forehead wrinkled. “You fuh real?”
“I make one call and you’re mine. We leave in the morning. Your choice.”
Chapter 4
Leak
The cool six a.m. air stung the back of Red’s throat as his breath came harder. Approaching the end of the morning run, he pushed himself down the ice-packed street, startling a neighbor wrapped in blue-plaid flannel bending over to pick up a paper. Winter was like death—the skeletons of leafless trees against the cold sky. At dawn everything seemed to bleed gray. Gray houses, gray cars, sidewalks, and lawns. However, this morning held some warmth, a little light, as the rising sun cast deep-pink streaks beneath black clouds.
Since the Walmart incident, morning runs helped clear his head. The time to himself, enjoying the heavy morning frost that held the beloved crisp scent. This was what he imagined the expanse of the Arctic must radiate when there’s nothing around but frozen emptiness. He pictured himself running across the tundra, alone, breathing the heavy air. It had been six years since his discharge from the Air Force, but he kept fit. Just didn’t feel right if he didn’t push himself.
He settled into a slow jog, the warm-down, no faster than a brisk walk. Around the corner a white Chevy Malibu was parked in front of his house. It was not out of place in a middle-class neighborhood, but he didn’t recognize it. He stalked up from behind to the driver’s side, sliding his feet flat across the slick, packed snow, then peered in. A closed laptop was mounted in front of the armrest, an empty shotgun stand next to it. A clipboard was bungeed to the passenger headrest.
Unmarked police car.
Red ran across the clean snow on his front lawn and bounded up the porch steps, then stooped to grab the house key he’d laced in his shoe. Muted voices bled through the mail slot. The knob was unlocked. He trotted through the warm living room, trailing melted snow.
Lori’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Sounds like him now.”
Matt Carter was leaning against the kitchen island. He straightened when Red came in, but said nothing. Red extended a hand. “Good to see you again.”
The creases on the detective’s forehead disappeared, his countenance softening as they shook. “Sorry for the intrusion. Thought it’d be best if, well, there’s been a turn of events.”
Red pulled a stool close and all three sat around the black granite counter where the family ate breakfast. Carter took Nick’s usual seat. Where were the kids? Shouldn’t they be up by now?
Red slowed his breathing, catching up from the jog. The warm air caused his pores to open further, sweat rolling down his beard, dripping to the counter. He took off his sweatshirt. The granite was cool as he leaned on an arm. The other he slipped under and squeezed Lori’s knee. She tossed her hair over one shoulder, looking ready to give one of her sales pitches to a group of execs.
Carter’s face reddened in anger. “The Walmart surveillance video went viral.”
Lori stared. “What does that mean?”
“It was leaked.”
“Great!” She looked at Red, grimacing. “Just great.”
“We don’t know how or who, yet. Maybe someone from Walmart, or could be in our office. Yesterday it had half a million hits on YouTube. We found out when a friend of my deputy posted a link. The deputy recognized it and let me know yesterday. Around two o’clock.”
Red stared at him. What? How could the cops let that happen? Would the family be in danger? But Carter had said they didn’t know who leaked it. Courteous, giving bad news in person.
The deep lines returned to Carter’s forehead. “We don’t have the resources to track those things electronically. Going to figure it out the old-fashioned way. I’ve put in for warrants. Hopefully get us past the gatekeepers at YouTube. The video should be pulled soon, but that won’t matter. It’s out there.”
Red leaned in toward Carter. “Do we need to be worried? Was any of our info leaked with it?”
“No. Not as far as we can tell. That’s what put fuel on the fire. There’re threads out there on a couple blogs where folks are trying to figure it out. Where it was. Who it was. The only detail we can see is the time-date stamp from the surveillance camera. I’ve put the fear of God and a gag order on the guys at Walmart. They won’t be saying anything.”
“Won’t someone connect the dots?”
“They could, but not without effort. We’ve kept the incident out of the papers for two weeks. The feds could figure it out, but no one on some random blog. But there’s always Murphy’s Law working against you. Someone from town could see the video and notice it looks like our Walmart. Could be as simple as posting, ‘I was at Walmart that night. There’s my car.’”
Lori’s cheeks reddened till they matched her lipstick. “But even if they figure out the location, they can’t pin it to us. Plus, it’s not like we did anything wrong.”
Red leaned back. “Yeah, but I don’t want the headache. Father Ingram only lives two doors down. He’ll be wondering why I ha
ven’t been to confession. I can have some fun for a while, but if it gets out, our friends will keep us at arm’s length.”
“We’ve got great friends. They’ll stand by us.” Lori lifted her chin. “On the other hand, my family has been waiting for you to accomplish something big. Now you have.”
Red rolled his eyes. Hadn’t told her family yet, waiting for a more opportune time. He turned to Carter. “Sorry. Inside joke. You see, my wife is perfect. The youngest of three girls. Straight A’s. No trouble. Never drank till twenty-three. Drop-dead gorgeous. Stiff-armed every guy that asked for a date. Ivy League college. Grad school at U Penn.” Red patted his chest. “Meets me at a bar. Way out of my league, but I trick her long enough to get married, then discover it was actually she who pulled one over on me. She’d hidden me from her parents . . . till rehearsal dinner. My self-esteem gradually gets chipped away as I get introduced around the table. Hell, I was the jock in high school. Did okay in college football. Big fish in a small pond. Only didn’t have sense to know how small. Lori grew up in a much bigger pond.”
Lori put her hand on Red’s leg and rubbed the inside of his thigh. It always turned her on when he bragged about her. “You’re exaggerating, but that’s okay,” she said, squeezing.
“Her father’s a three-term state senator. Used to play for the Colts. Mother, concert pianist. Rest of the family just like ’em. Me? Building manager, two inches shorter than my wife. They call me Lori’s husband. Keep me because we make cute kids.”
Lori’s smile was contented. The way her hand was rubbing his leg, she was well pleased. Tonight would be a good night.
“Don’t let him fool you. My family loves Tony despite his shortcomings.”
Red grimaced. “Thanks. Now back to reality. The guy in ICU, still there?”
Carter nodded.
“If we get ID’d on the video, reporters might show up for a few days. I’ll go on the talk show circuit and admit I don’t have any recall, and we make a few dollars off the deal. Maybe write a book. It’ll be forgotten quick as it started. Awkward with the neighbors, but I don’t see any big deal. Though I appreciate you stopping by, the heads-up.”
Recall Page 3