No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  “How the fuck did they find us?” Gallagher glared at Mr. Black. “You said Desmond didn’t talk.”

  Mr. Black shrugged. “I believed him. That was a mistake.”

  Gallagher’s face paled. “You talked to Desmond? He was alive when you got there?”

  Mr. Black smiled thinly. “For a short while.”

  “Christ, did you even try to call an ambulance?”

  “He died in my arms,” said Mr. Black. “He couldn’t be saved. Besides,” he nodded out the window at the white SUV, “he obviously couldn’t be trusted either.”

  Gallagher snarled. “He saved my life.”

  Mr. Black flared his nostrils in anger. “I saved your goddamn life. Desmond was little more than a pack mule.” Before Gallagher could respond, Mr. Black stabbed his chin out the window again. “Are you going to talk to Wallace?”

  Gallagher licked his lips and looked away. “Don’t know yet,” he said. “Hate to give the fucker false hope.”

  “Fine.”

  Mr. Black returned to the scope, selected his target and—

  Squeezed the trigger.

  At the edge of light and shadow, a fountain of blood blossomed like an exploding poppy.

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Gallagher. “What did you do that for?”

  “Time to end his misery,” said Mr. Black calmly. “As you pointed out, why give him false hope?”

  CHAPTER 63

  The shotgun was torn out of Wallace’s hands as the world exploded and a bloody wave slapped across his face and chest.

  One second he was looking directly at Ronson, praying he still meant something to the armed men inside the house, and the next he was neutered, unarmed and blind.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, pulling at him.

  A voice. Crow’s.

  Yelling.

  Screaming.

  Frantic.

  Get inside! Get inside!

  Wallace numbly dragged a limp hand across his eyes, swiping away a blindfold of gore.

  He staggered, his knees buckling as he gripped the door and struggled to stay upright.

  A fresh corpse lay at his feet. Hands bound behind its back. Executed. Without mercy or warning or reason.

  The top of Ronson’s head flapped open like a greedy child’s Easter egg, unwrapped and bitten before being tossed aside for another.

  Crow’s hand squeezed Wallace’s shoulder with more urgency. His voice still yelled the same instructions.

  Get inside! Get inside!

  Wallace was frozen. Unable to move. Unable to think.

  Strong fingers pinched, grabbing hold of shirt, skin and unyielding muscle. A second hand gripped his other shoulder.

  It hurt. Wallace registered the pain, but it was as if it was happening to someone else.

  He felt himself being lifted, dragged backwards, his heels skidding across the ground. He smacked the side of the SUV and then Crow’s hands wrapped around his chest and yanked him inside the vehicle.

  Huddled on the floor, using the leather seatbacks as a shield, Crow stared at him in shocked disbelief. His eyes were larger than Wallace had ever seen; that noble, fearsome glare replaced with true horror and fright. Spatters of someone else’s blood dripped down his face and his mouth opened and closed like a surprised goldfish scooped out of the bowl by a determined kitten.

  “Holy Fuck!” he screamed when the words finally took flight. To Wallace’s ears, the expletive sounded no louder than a whisper.

  Glass shattered and both men ducked as a renewed burst of automatic gunfire smacked into and through the doors that Wallace had thought could protect him. The metal became confetti; the tinted glass vanished as though returned to sand.

  The shots were a mockery. A final Fuck You from a foe that knew it held the upper hand.

  Wallace felt his anger return. An agonized heat coursed through his veins and thawed his frozen limbs.

  He wiped his face on his shirt, pinched his nose and blew to make his ears pop. He gave his head a shake to restart his brain and turned to Crow.

  “I think I heard them,” he said.

  “Who?” asked Crow.

  “My boys,” said Wallace. “I’m sure I heard them cry out for me.”

  He glanced out the door at his shotgun tangled in a nest of bloody tape around the gaping skull of a dead man.

  “We have any more weapons?” he asked.

  Crow handed Wallace the remaining shotgun and pulled a Glock handgun from his waistband.

  “That’s it?” Wallace tried not to show his disappointment.

  “Hold on.”

  Crow scrambled over the seatback and into the rear cargo area. Keeping his head down, he pulled back a colorful Hudson Bay blanket.

  “Cheveyo had me stop by Randolph’s on the way down.” He held up a half-dozen grey cylindrical canisters marked with a bright yellow stripe and yellow markings that read: SMOKE WP. “He convinced me to take a box of these. What did he call them, Paleface Barbecue Lighters?”

  Wallace’s own face paled. “I don’t want to set the house on fire. Alicia and the boys are inside.”

  “We’ll throw short,” said Crow. “These puppies can create a real thick blanket of smoke. That’ll give us time to either get the hell out of this mess or go deeper in without getting our asses shot off.”

  “I’m not running away,” said Wallace bluntly. “Not now.”

  “Then let’s get close,” said Crow. His mouth was grim. “I want to look these motherfuckers in the eye.”

  CHAPTER 64

  The rear hatch of the white SUV popped open and slowly drifted above the roofline on silent air-filled struts.

  Gallagher shattered the door’s heavy glass with a simple three-bullet burst.

  When he looked over at Mr. Black, Gallagher’s grin had returned. His moment of mourning for two dead soldiers already in the past.

  “They must be shitting themselves,” he said. “Think they’ll run?”

  “It’s a long dash back to the woods,” said Mr. Black.

  “What other choice do they have?”

  “None.”

  Mr. Black scanned the perimeter of light again, trying to sense if there was movement in the dark woods beyond. The two men appeared to be alone, but he knew there was at least one other person working with them. And where there was one, there could be others.

  He didn’t like the feeling.

  Gallagher was oblivious to the threat. His senses had been dulled by too much time away from the inherent paranoia of combat. He was over-excited by this skirmish, his actions more like a patriotic greenhorn with his first taste of blood rather than a battle-hardened salt who understood the enemy was mere vermin and they were the exterminators.

  His former sergeant’s eyes were lit up like sparklers and he inhaled deeply though his nose, drawing in the cordite fumes from over a hundred spent shells as though the brass carcasses released pure oxygen.

  Mr. Black disliked the smell of burnt gunpowder, it reminded him too much of too much, but Gallagher was a man born for war. He was the type whose blood is meant to stain the sand, his body returning in silence and secret under a folded flag. The unsung hero. The martyr. The mourned husband and father.

  Stripping him of his medals had been like flaying a layer of skin.

  Not so, Mr. Black. He preferred more visceral trophies.

  Like Gallagher, he wasn’t born for civilian life, but neither, as had been made abundantly clear, was he meant for uniform. At least not one that was afraid of a little senseless bloodshed.

  The others had mourned their military discharge and closed their eyes to just how much freedom there was outside the government yoke. Desmond had even traded one uniform for another. And now Gallagher. Instead of embracing the possibilities — Africa, Central America, wherever the highest bidder wanted to send them — he had moved the war inside his mind and become lost to it.

  Pity. He had been a ruthless killer once. A man worth following.

  Mr. Blac
k looked down at the rifle in his hands and pondered where Gallagher might have secreted his own ill-gotten reserves. The war had treated them well in many ways. Cash would be kept close, readily available, but unlike Desmond, it wouldn’t be behind a mirror.

  He glanced up at the ceiling as though seeing through the wood and plaster to the unfinished area beyond. Why was there a lock on the trapdoor?

  He grinned behind thick, plum-colored lips. This was no longer his battle. It was time for a new path.

  A new beginning.

  A fresh start.

  “When they run . . .” Gallagher’s words rolled hurriedly off his oiled tongue like a starving junkie with a found loaf of bread, thinking it glorious and white, ignoring the laundry powder scent of mold and the squirm of fresh larva. “. . . I’ll stitch a few rounds right behind their heels, get their blood really pumping, make them think they’re Superman. When they’re at full gallop, you take a knee. One each.”

  “I could just take them out,” said Mr. Black. Wanting it over, wanting it done. “Back of the head. Easy.”

  “Nah, let’s make them crawl. Give them a little glimpse of hope. See how far they get before we switch out the lights. We could make it interesting. A wager? Which one do you think will crawl the furthest?”

  “It’s a sucker’s bet.”

  Gallagher looked over. Annoyed. “Huh?”

  Mr. Black sighed quietly. “I can take out a knee cleanly or I can blow it apart. The choice is mine.”

  Gallagher considered this. “If you did them both clean, who would you pick?”

  Mr. Black didn’t hesitate. “The Indian.”

  “Why?”

  “More to live for. He’s got a wife and family back home, but you’ve already taken everything from Wallace. Dying here is no different than dying elsewhere.”

  “He could start over.”

  Mr. Black almost offered a cruel smile as he shook the words away. “You couldn’t.”

  Gallagher rocked back on his heels as though he had been punched. “I’m trying to.” His voice was a growl. “That’s what this is all about.”

  “No.” It was time to speak his mind. “This is war. Plain and simple. You needed a distraction to stop from sticking a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger.”

  “Fuck you,” Gallagher snarled. “You know what he—”

  “It’s bullshit,” said Mr. Black calmly. “I know what you told the others, but I know better. You don’t care about this woman. She’s not here to replace your wife. She never could. She hates you. Just look in her eyes. She’ll always hate you.”

  Gallagher flinched, but Mr. Black continued.

  “You saw a man, a civilian no less, who risked everything to save your wife and child after you drove them away. You wanted to punish him because it wasn’t you. Your obsession was an excuse to go one-on-one against the man who did what you couldn’t. He set your family free. You needed to break him. To bring him down to your level.” His eyes blazed with challenge. “But you didn’t. Wallace didn’t give up. He’s here and that really pisses you off.”

  “How fucking dare you.” Gallagher pointed his weapon. “You don’t challenge me.”

  Mr. Black peeled back his lips and showed all his teeth. Glorious. This was a glimpse of his old sergeant, but it was too late for resurrection now.

  “The enemy is not in here or out there.” He stabbed a finger into his chest at a point above his heart. “It’s here. I oughta know. Killing doesn’t dull the pain unless you really embrace it.”

  “You don’t know me,” said Gallagher. “Don’t think you know my fucking pain.”

  Mr. Black rested his rifle against the window sill, stood tall and stretched his back. He stood unarmed and unafraid. The decision made, he felt wonderfully free like the time he had walked down the midnight street as a child, the perfume of gasoline and smoke clinging to his clothes, the sound of screaming fading in the distance.

  He loomed above Gallagher, his teeth flashing like silverfish in the dull light.

  “You always believed I was your obedient dog,” he said. “But I was the bug in your ear, whispering dark thoughts. Let’s take the village . . . Let’s kill every motherfucker in the whole motherfucking world.” He laughed huskily. “We burned that camp to the ground, littered the dead with explosives, and you still thought it was your idea. Why do you think I rescued you? Who else would give me such freedom to kill. You thought you held a leash, but it was you who turned me loose.” He laughed again, making it shrill and sharp as he reached for his knife. “Trouble is, al Qaeda took more than your fingers. They also took your fucking balls.”

  Gallagher’s finger tightened on the trigger of his M4 just as the window behind him blew apart and white smoke flooded the room.

  CHAPTER 65

  Wallace ducked behind the SUV as the grenade detonated with an explosion powerful enough to shatter glass and spread white phosphorous particles for dozens of feet. The particles ignited to burn at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit and release a thick cloud of smoke.

  “Shit,” he cried. “That was too close.”

  “Let’s hope it stunned them,” said Crow.

  He stepped out and lobbed two more grenades toward the house. They both exploded a second after he was back behind the vehicle. A dark shadow fell over them as the security lights became diffused, their intensity lost in the dense, sputtering smog.

  When no gunfire followed, Crow chanced a second look. The house was barely visible behind the eerily distorted glow of the security lights. The cool night air and damp weather, however, was quickly ruining their plan.

  “The smoke’s rising too fast,” said Crow. “We have to move now if we want cover.”

  Wallace pointed to the two large Lincolns parked a short distance from the house’s rear door.

  “We get between those,” he said. “Regroup. That’s one step closer.”

  Crow lifted his handgun. “I’ll cover you.”

  Wallace shook his head. “We do this together.”

  Crow swallowed hard and handed Wallace one of the last three remaining grenades. He slipped the other two into his pockets.

  “We should have stolen a couple of buses,” said Crow. “Showed them what we’re really made of.”

  Wallace grinned. “You ready?”

  Both men ran.

  CHAPTER 66

  Gallagher screamed in surprise as a tiny particle of white phosphorous sizzled through his sleeve and became embedded in his skin.

  He ran to the sink and slapped a soaking wet cloth over the smoking hole while he frantically squeezed and pinched the burning flesh until the tiny grain finally popped loose. He dropped the cloth in the sink and cursed aloud.

  He knew what that stuff did to flesh. It didn’t just burn you, it burned through you. He had witnessed it first hand . . . hell, oftentimes it had been by his hand . . . and it was one of the worst ways to die he could imagine.

  Maybe Bone was right to kill Ronson, he thought. Stupid fuck had obviously kept a stash of military-grade weapons at his house. And not only had he handed them over to Wallace, he had also led the driver directly to this door.

  Smoke filled the room, blinding him, but it was dissipating through the house and disappearing almost as quickly as it had arrived. A phosphorous grenade only burns for sixty seconds. Plenty of time for a trained man, but the drivers were pussies. They were probably still awestruck by the pretty smoke.

  Gallagher grinned and reached for his weapon. He frowned. The weight was off. Too light. Six pounds, practically on the nose. He cursed himself, cursed the rust and the drink. In the sand he was a force not to be messed with, but out here, with nothing but woods and silence and fucking rain, his edge had dulled.

  That’s why Bone hadn’t been afraid. Black bastard was keeping track; knew his magazine had run dry.

  Gallagher moved effortlessly through the smoke to the kitchen table. A blind Marine was still a deadly Marine. He didn’t need sight to do what needed to be
done. He knew the workings of his weapon better than the curves of his own wife.

  At the table, he rummaged in the canvas bag for a fresh magazine. There were only two left. He had already gone through four.

  Gallagher dumped the spent magazine on the floor and snapped in a fresh one. He enjoyed the sound as it clicked home.

  Locked and loaded, muthafucker!

  You scared now? You fucking should be.

  Gallagher squatted down and scanned the room. Hot smoke rose as cool air rushed in through the broken windows to restore balance. From beneath the table, the room was dim but smoke free. Gallagher inhaled deeply. The air was sweet, fresh, a tang of salt and cedar.

  Bone’s discarded sniper rifle lay on the floor surrounded by an abstract puddle of broken glass. No blood. No body. He would be in his element. In close quarters, Bone always used a knife.

  Gallagher checked his M4 was still set to fire rapid three-round bursts rather than single-shot semi-auto. Naturally, it was. His ingrained soldier’s instincts and training were still moving faster than his conscious mind. The difference, as any drill instructor would tell you, between life and death.

  He moved through the doorway beside the broken windows that separated the small kitchen from the larger dining room and connected living area.

  The high ceiling lifted the smoke skyward, allowing him to stand. The rooms looked undisturbed. As quiet and peaceful as he had left it.

  The living room was Carly’s favorite. The tall picture windows looking out over the ocean. The log fireplace for those winter nights when it was just . . . he shook his head, not wanting to remember, not wanting to admit . . . Carly always said it was never just the three of them. The Corps was always present.

  Before she took their daughter and left, she told him this was her favorite room when it was just the two of them . . . Katie and her . . . when he was gone, away from them, fighting a war . . . fighting for—

  He wanted to believe it was for them, but deep down he knew it was for himself. He needed war as others needed air. Carly understood that, better than anyone, she just couldn’t live with it.