Recon

by David McCaleb

  The man who’d given the water opened a rear door. A doctor. “After you, ladies,” he said with a smile. His teeth were so white they looked like dentures. Mom crawled in with a sigh, tossing a Mimi dolly off the seat.

  Penny had accumulated a hoard of Mimis when she was little. Even though she’d outgrown them, she’d never mustered the strength to throw away her collection, and never knew any other five-year-olds who liked them enough to want to adopt them. Maybe Mr. Stump’s kid would want them. Should she interrupt him? He didn’t look like he was talking on the phone, only listening. “Would your daughter like some Mimi dolls? I’ve got a bunch that—”

  His ears twitched when he smiled. “That’s sweet. You don’t need to do that. But I’m sure she’d enjoy talking to you about them.”

  “How old is she?”

  His eyes cut back and forth, like he was listening to the phone. “About your age. Ten maybe. She’s crazy about those things.”

  Penny pasted her best smile, trying hard not to laugh. Was he trying to be funny? No one her age would be caught dead with a Mimi. They’d be teased the rest of their life. That was why she was trying to get rid of them in the first place. Mr. Stump put a finger to his ear and bent his neck, now clearly concentrating on listening to the phone.

  As she slid across, she noticed a booster seat in the back cargo area. But the stickers on the window showed Mr. Stump’s girl was the youngest. No one Penny’s age would need a booster seat.

  A knot tightened in her stomach. What had Dad said when he was teaching her to stop, look, and listen? He’d shared his story about how he and his team had stumbled through the woods blindfolded. How he’d learned he’d taken sounds for granted. Listen for anything that doesn’t fit, he’d said. The white cloth face of Anna, a baby Mimi lying on the floor, was stretched wide in her perpetual cry.

  Penny cupped her hands around Mom’s ear.

  * * * *

  Scrugs centered the crosshairs of his scope on the short man’s center of mass, the one sitting behind the steering wheel. Who the hell were these guys? And why would Red just let his family get in an SUV with them? Were they using some alien mind control trick? They’d take ’em to the underground bunker out west of Woodland Park, and let the ETs erase their memory. Either way, he couldn’t shoot now. The 14.5-millimeter bullet would go clear through the short guy, his seat, Red’s little girl behind him, and on out the back without even changing its trajectory. If he was going to take a shot, no one could be behind his target.

  Another glance to Red. It was him all right. His copper beard shone in the high sun. His limp wasn’t as bad Lam said it would be, but still noticeable.

  Scrugs whistled a silent catcall when he glimpsed the wife. Tall and thin, though her blond hair frizzed wildly in the dry Colorado air. The knees of her jeans were caked with pinkish dust and an elbow stuck out a tear in her white blouse. She bent her neck and slipped into the backseat of the Nissan.

  The little girl held herself tall, shoulders back. A spitfire for sure. Scrugs still couldn’t believe Lam’s story how she’d saved her dad. Sounded like she had more vigor than a billy goat after a spring thundershower.

  What the…? The wife was opening the SUV’s door. But slowly. She gripped her daughter by the hand. It was as if she was trying to sneak out. Why? The short guy wasn’t making any threatening moves.

  Oh-oh. The driver peeked behind, then hopped out himself, hand on the grip of a stainless revolver. He held the pistol to his side, where the wife couldn’t see it. But Scrugs had caught its glint as the man stepped from the vehicle. The FBI didn’t carry revolvers. Must be a US Marshal, or some local law enforcement helping in the search. Maybe a game warden. Be nice to shoot one of them.

  Scrugs reached into his backpack and snatched a palm-sized device that looked like a mini video recorder. He held the laser rangefinder to his eyes and pressed a black button on top. Eight hundred sixty-eight yards. His bullet would be traveling around three thousand feet per second. A little less than one second airtime to reach the short man. The steel nuts he’d dropped a few minutes ago had taken three seconds to hit the ground and had moved six feet perpendicular to his shot. Two feet horizontal for every second in the air. Approximately.

  He reached atop his scope and twisted the elevation knob three notches to adjust for distance, then reversed it two of the clicks when he considered he was seated several hundred feet higher than his target. This is such a guessing game with so many variables.

  The wife shut her door. Shorty slipped his pistol from his belt. A quick glance to Red, and Scrugs saw the other guy had him looking at a piece of paper, maybe a map, distracting him. Shorty cocked the hammer, then motioned with the pistol for the wife to get back in.

  Scrugs had no shot. The bullet would have to go through the driver’s opened door, then Shorty. But the wife was behind the man. He might even hit her daughter as well.

  He waved his hand as if she could see him from this distance. Move, lady! Get the hell out of the way! Scrugs aimed at the center of the man’s back, then moved the crosshairs two feet to the side. The breeze was steady, so that should be about right. But still no clear shot. The Motorola clipped to his vest squawked, but he ignored its chatter. He gently squeezed the trigger till it rested against the break point. Exhaled most his breath, then held it. The crosshairs rose and fell each second with the beat of his heart, dropping back to level with his target’s center of mass. The mother took a step back toward the SUV. Her ankle twisted on a rock, and she fell to the ground. Her daughter dropped beside her. A beat, and the crosshairs leveled. Scrugs pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 27

  Mimis

  The cold water cooled Red’s throat as he tipped the clear bottle and took another swig. He sighed in relief now that the family was finally headed out of the forest. His shoulders hung with fatigue. Drowsiness weighed on him, as if he were drugged. He shifted weight from his aching leg and leaned on the walking stick. Then stretched his neck side to side, fighting the exhaustion. Couldn’t let himself relax. They needed to get moving. He stuck his head inside the passenger window to see if the keys were in the ignition. He should just drive them out.

  Sandals, the medic, pointed a long, bent finger at the center of a folded topography map, calling Red’s attention to it. The faint green terrain lines gathered tightly, almost into a single fat mark that defined the steep border of the Front Range of the mountains. Just beyond the gorge toward which the family had been headed.

  Sandals moved his finger along a squiggly blue line. “We’re right about here. Fastest way out is…” He stooped and spread the paper onto the ground, unfolding it to follow the line further. Another gust shook the trees and blew a puff of dust behind the truck. The wind cooled Red’s skin as it whistled through aspen leaves.

  Just like the breeze as he’d snuck up behind Yoga.

  A door of the SUV clicked open, and in Red’s periphery Lori stepped from the far side of the vehicle. With their low water intake, she probably had to stretch out a leg cramp.

  “We’ll head out to Route 67 here and…” The medic was trying to call his attention back to the map.

  They needed to get on the road. Red knew where they were going. They had to travel all the way around the mountain to get to Colorado Springs. Why’d this guy care about explaining it to him? What Red really needed to do was call his sister, to let her know the family was OK. She’d be worried terribly by now, not having heard from them since heading up on the Pikes Peak Cog Railway early yesterday morning. And Jackson and Nick. They’d be inconsolable. He held out a hand to the kneeling man. “Need your phone.”

  He glanced back to the SUV, and crack! The driver’s-side door slammed against Stump in the bright flash of a fireball. It knocked him to the ground behind the vehicle. Lori and Penny were nowhere in sight. The breeze carried the scent of burnt metal. The shot had been an armor-piercing,
incendiary round. Trajectory from the east, near the gully.

  He stepped toward the SUV. Lori sat on the far side of the road, holding her ankle, mouth agape, staring at a writhing Stump in disbelief. The man clutched hands over his sternum, pulling deep breaths. A sucking chest wound gurgled between his fingers. If some sniper had just hit Stump, Lori’d be next. He waved an arm at her. “Get off the road!”

  She clutched Penny’s wrist and scrambled across the trail, slipping between a short holly and a dead pine trunk. Red glimpsed Sandals, reflection in the rear window of the SUV, raising his pistol to the back of Red’s skull. Red ducked, and the shot shattered the pane. Red swung his walking stick and struck the weapon, but Sandals’ grasp remained firm. Another rapid strike and the stick smashed into the man’s knee. With both hands Red gripped Sandals’ wrist and pulled it across his body, straining to keep the weapon pointed away. He swept his leg in a tight circle and managed to trip the man. They both fell to the ground behind trees, Red atop his arm, pinning the weapon, still aimed away. At least they’d be out of the sniper’s sight.

  Sandals’ wide smile now an angry glower. Did he think Red had something to do with the shooter? “I didn’t do it!” Red hollered. “We need to get undercover or we’ll be next.”

  Sandals wound up and punched his ribs with his free arm. A powerful blow. But Red didn’t dare let go of his hold. The medic cocked his fist and beat him again and again. With each strike, he grunted. “You…just…won’t…die!”

  This man wasn’t confused. He meant to kill him!

  Red couldn’t reach his own weapon under his sweater without releasing the pinned arm. He smashed his forehead against Sandals’ face, but the punches kept coming. One to the kidney sent fire down his legs. He bit Sandals’ nose till cartilage snapped and warm blood filled his mouth. The man jerked his face away, and Red spat the severed chunk back at his eye. Sandals screamed and reached above his head, fingers combing the ground. A black hunting knife lay in the dust. Must’ve dropped from Sandals’ belt earlier. The blade glinted as his fingers wrapped around the handle.

  Not good.

  Red released his grasp, rolled away, and sprung up. Snatching his walking stick, he brought it down hard on the man’s forearm as he raised the pistol. The crack of bone, and the weapon fell to the ground. Before Red could kick it away, Sandals lunged with the knife. Red dodged the thrust, but the man’s arms were at least six inches longer than his own. His attacks were quick as Yoga’s, but with the extra reach, Red barely stayed out of the blade’s path. One slashed into his thigh. He spun away and swung the stick across Sandals’ back, sending him sprawling onto the SUV’s hood. Two rapid blows to the neck and head, and the medic dropped, eyes rolled up, convulsing.

  Red dove behind a thick pine trunk and yanked out his own weapon. Why hadn’t the sniper tried to shoot him too? Was Stump one of the enemy operatives, or had he just taken a bullet meant for Sandals? Or Red? Or both? Was the sniper an FBI asset, trying to protect Lori? But why would he kill Stump, if Stump was FBI? Maybe the sniper was—

  Hell, this wouldn’t get him anywhere. Bottom line: there was a marksman with a big-ass rifle and Lori or Red were his next target.

  A glance up and, shit. API ammo could pass clear through the pine trunk he lay behind. He rolled toward the woods and crept up behind the same thick, black rock he’d knelt behind earlier. Lori was in clear view now, across the road. No sight of Penny. Must be huddled in the grass clumps behind her. He caught Lori’s eye, and they both glanced at Stump. A puddle of crimson grew beneath his shoulders. His eyes lay wide open, staring toward high wisps of cloud. Breath came in shallow gasps.

  But Red dared not try and drag him to safety or he’d get shot himself. The haunting, acrid scent of burning flesh. Earth and seared skin. The incendiary round would have partially cauterized the wound channel. The man could live, but not likely.

  Sandals lay ten feet away. The medic had stopped convulsing and would wake any minute now. Red cursed as he glimpsed the man’s pistol underneath the SUV. He’d have to shoot him if he woke and rolled for it.

  Stump’s chest fell, but didn’t rise again.

  Gravel crunched in the distance under heavy steps. “Red!”

  A familiar voice, but who? Lori pointed to her own eyes, then down the road in the direction of the sound. She eased her pistol up, over the boulder. Her position was well concealed by the tall stalks of blue-green grass.

  The steps came faster now. “Red! You OK? It’s Lam.” A flash of recognition and Red held up a hand to Lori, shaking his head. He peeked around the edge of the black rock. A man jogged toward them, fifty meters away, dark brown shirt with Jeep in light-colored block letters. One arm was in the same sling Red had hurriedly tied together early the previous night. With his other he gripped a bolt-action rifle slung around his neck, stock wedged so tightly into his armpit the weapon stuck out straight, ready to shoot.

  Was Lam an enemy operative? Had he shot Stump? No. Not with that hunting rifle at least. He could’ve killed Red anytime last night. Red waved a hand in the air, and Lam slid to a halt. He stuck his head out the rest of the way so the mechanic had a clear view, but kept his body behind the cover of the black boulder.

  “What’s going on, Lam?” He glanced to his rifle. “Mind aiming that thing away? Why you shooting federal agents?”

  Lam pointed the weapon at the road. A Remington 700 of some variety. He glanced behind, nodding toward one of the radio towers. “I didn’t take the shot. That was Scrugs, a friend of mine. And these aren’t federal agents.”

  “How you know?”

  Moving slowly, Lam pulled out a black handheld two-way the size of a brick from his arm sling. “Two FBI agents were killed on Beaver Valley Road earlier. Report came across the radio just a few minutes ago. Report said one victim’s personal vehicle was stolen, a yellow Nissan SUV.” Lam pointed the antenna of the two-way at Stump. “When that guy started waving a pistol at your daughter and wife, Scrugs took the shot.”

  “Just like that? Little man pulls a gun and your buddy takes him out?”

  Lam nodded. “Just like that. Guy’s cracked. Don’t need much encouragement to pull a trigger.”

  Story was too crazy to be made up. Red slipped out and stepped toward him, pistol still in a firm grip.

  The receiver in the mechanic’s hand crackled with static. “Everything OK, Lam? This Red fella gonna go apeshit on ya?”

  A corner of Lam’s mouth curled as he lifted the device to his mouth. Red’s grip on his pistol tightened, knowing the distant sniper’s X was on his chest, but he forced a deep breath and slipped his weapon beneath his belt.

  “No. We’re good. Thanks, buddy. Unless you see any other vehicles from up there, you can stand down. We’ll call the feds, so get that cannon of yours hidden in the bed of my truck.”

  Red trotted over to Stump and put two fingers to his neck. No pulse. The exit wound in his chest was at least a half inch across. The brown T-shirt well stained, though blood no longer welled from the hole.

  A groan from Sandals. His foot twitched. Lam knelt on the man’s back as Red rooted through the trunk’s contents. He grabbed jumper cables from beneath the rear seat and tied the operative’s wrists and ankles. Lori stepped onto the road from behind the grassy cover, gripping Penny’s hand. She slipped up behind Red and peered down at the tied operative, then drew her husband into a hug.

  “You did good,” she said. “We got a live one. Maybe we’ll figure this thing out yet.”

  Red smiled and turned toward his friend. “Lori, this is—”

  “Lam!” Penny hollered. She ran over and wrapped her arms around the mechanic’s waist, smiling and gazing at the man’s sweaty, unshaven face. “I told Mom that short guy wasn’t real. He was lying about the Mimi doll. Ten-year-olds don’t do Mimis.”

  Another groan from Sandals. He lifted his head from the gravel, t
hen dropped it again. His eyes focused in growing awareness.

  Lam tousled Penny’s hair. “Well, my daughter Jessica, she’s a little younger than you, and even she told me a while back she was too old for Mimis anymore.”

  Red frowned. What the hell’s a Mimi?

  Lam glanced at him, to Penny, then the tied man. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder like a hitchhiker, pointing toward a log lying beside the road. Enough distance to be out of earshot.

  Red nodded.

  Lam bent and grabbed Sandals’ black knife from the gravel, a straight blade with green paracord wrapped around the hilt. Red felt his stomach tense, but Lam only held it out, handle first. “That man put up an awful fight,” he said, winking. “Got himself beat to hell. Lost a lot of blood. May not make it. Might need this to cut bandages.” The mechanic slipped Penny’s hand into his own. “My arm’s hurtin’ bad. I see a log up there we can sit at. Why don’t you come and tell me all about it, what you did since last night. Your dad and mom need to talk to this fella alone for a bit, before we get driving.”

  Chapter 28

  Pink Pantsuit

  Red flashed a US Marshals star to a pale kid with slicked hair and a rosy pimpled neck. The guy must’ve shaved with a rusty blade. The Geeks on Wheels look-alike studied his badge. Red grazed his two-week-old bullet wound returning his wallet to his back pocket. The flesh had knitted and the hole was covered with a mound of new, tender skin. But he could even walk without a limp now when he concentrated. The slash on his leg had not proven to be deep and was almost completely healed.

  Carter planted himself in front of the security guard’s desk and flipped open his wallet also, holding an ID in front of Rusty Blade’s forehead. As he stood in the middle of the glass-walled foyer, his pressed pants hung crisply down to shiny brown shoes. He looked like the suit displayed on the cover of the Men’s Health magazine beneath Rusty Blade’s coffee cup.