The congressman nodded. From the periphery of his vision, he was certain he saw the look of relief on Jacobs’ face that he wasn't being dispatched on this mission.
"Yes, you. Asbury is dead and Muncie is out of the picture. Who the hell else can I trust? You know what to look for. I can’t trust that anyone else on our team can do that."
"You want Bradshaw to go by himself or with some of the men?" Jacobs asked.
"Pick two men. Take one truck and offload all the non-essential gear. Just take what you need."
"Why? Are you concerned about losing your precious gear if we don’t make it back?" Bradshaw asked.
The smartass comment was unusual from Bradshaw and the congressman gave him a look of displeasure. "There are multiple reasons you won't need all that gear with you. You’ll get better fuel economy. The truck will be more maneuverable without all that crap tied onto it. You also might need an empty bed if you come across some supplies on your trip. I do also acknowledge one of those reasons might be that if your mission fails there's no use losing valuable gear. I think that’s a realistic concern. It’s certainly nothing personal directed at you."
"Nice to know that my position among the group is somewhere below that of a truckload of gear," Bradshaw spat. “You must think I’ll be easier to replace.”
"Quit pouting, snowflake. You know I'm sending you because I need eyes with a brain attached to them. I need a tactical assessment of what we’re looking at up there. You’re going and I’m done talking about it."
Bradshaw was still stewing but Jacobs changed the subject.
"Speaking of useful, what are we going to do about Muncie? That hand needs some serious attention. I got a medic that could shoot him up with some lidocaine, clean and stitch it. It's pretty nasty. He'll need antibiotics and will be out of action for a while. He might be able to pull guard duty but that's it. If he detects a threat, he’ll just have to sound an alarm because I doubt he can shoot with that injury."
"I don’t like the sound of that. If this injury permanently debilitates him, how much use will he be to us long-term?" the congressman asked. “Do we need to keep him around?”
"Now wait a damn minute," Bradshaw said. "Let’s not go down that road. If we start getting rid of everyone who gets injured we’ll be facing a mutiny before long. Nobody is going to remain committed to this mission if they think an injury will threaten their position within the group. I think we need to give Muncie top-notch care, baby him a little bit, and let the rest of the men see that. They need to see that. He won't be much of a drain on resources since we've lost Asbury. That's already one less mouth to feed."
“But we picked up the girl,” the congressman said.
"I never liked Asbury. Too mouthy for my taste," Jacobs growled.
"He wasn’t someone I’d buddy up with either," Bradshaw responded, "but he was part of a team. I'll have men who want take revenge for this because he was one of them. I know we can't allow that to happen for obvious reasons but we can't act unaffected by his death either. People won’t like that. Just halfway act like you give a shit, okay? Both of you."
The congressman shrugged to concede the point. He understood the logic. "You guys go ahead and find your medic. Get Muncie squared away and find a place to put the girl up for the night. Be thinking about the two men you want to go with you. After breakfast you guys will head out.”
“I got a few questions,” Bradshaw said.
The congressman nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Any thoughts on a timeline for going into the town? Are you going to wait until we gather intel on Hardwick or are you going to head on into town to establish a foothold among that community?”
The congressman shook his head. “I don’t know yet.”
“Just keep in mind that it may take a little while for you to get them to the point they’ll work for you,” Jacobs pointed out. “You don’t win hearts and minds on day one.”
“Acknowledged,” the congressman said. “I have a lot to think about it.”
20
"As much as I like having you here, I feel bad for you guys," Grace said. “I feel bad you’re displaced. I can’t imagine what that must feel like.”
She and Tom were tending to the livestock. They fed vegetable scraps to the chickens and made sure the water was full. The goats and sheep shared one fenced pasture and they checked their water also. The cattle had a watering pond filled by run-off and wet weather springs so the pair simply did a count to make sure all of their few head were still there.
"It's okay. We’re in a day-to-day world right now. It's hard for anyone to make plans very far in the future. You just have to roll with it."
"You mother seems to be enjoying her time at the neighbor’s. At first I thought she was just being helpful but now I'm not sure she wants to come back."
Tom laughed. "Don't take it personally. My mom likes to stay busy. She likes to feel needed."
"She should have felt needed here," Grace said. "There’s always work to do."
"There's a difference between pitching in to be helpful and really being needed. The way your dad describes it, that poor woman Karen is pretty desperate. My mom can make a real difference with somebody like that. I've seen it in action."
"When you came home from the war?"
Tom nodded. “I know there were people in more desperate condition than me. I saw them in the VA hospitals. There were injuries I had nightmares over. I never felt so desperate in my entire life. During the first six months after my injury there were a lot more days I wanted to be dead than I wanted to live."
Grace wasn’t certain how to respond to that but finally found words. "I'm sure that was only natural under the circumstances."
Tom shrugged. "Does that really make a difference, it being natural? I mean, I don't know you well enough to know if this is true or not, but assume you have bad PMS. You are super emotional and feeling crazy. If someone tells you that you are simply experiencing PMS and your emotions are only natural, do you feel better because of that?"
Grace looked a little sheepish. "Uh, not really. I get your point. Knowing why you feel bad doesn't necessarily make you feel better."
“Exactly. I lost, and am still losing, friends to PTSD. They know full well they have PTSD. They know their rage, depression, and other symptoms are from the PTSD, but that doesn’t stop them from, you know, taking that big step. The one you can’t come back from."
Tom lost his momentum and fell silent. Grace could tell he was lost in thought, remembering the people he was talking about.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
It was not a question she usually asked people. She assumed if they wanted you to know they’d be talking instead of thinking. She wanted to know though. She wanted to know him. His eyes, focusing off in the distance somewhere, flickered to hers and she saw complex chemistry in there. Whatever he was thinking made him experience a range of emotions that he wasn't exactly excited to talk about.
"I'm not big on talking about feelings."
Grace smiled. "Yeah, me neither. To be honest, I don't care about most people's feelings. I care about yours though, that's why asked. How you are feeling is important to me." Although she wasn’t usually this open, the words were coming out on their own.
His eyes returned to hers and this time there was less complexity in there. Something she said had affected him. "Why do you care how I feel?"
Grace stared off into the distance, not even seeing the fields and forest in front of her. She'd been more comfortable asking the questions than explaining her motivation for asking them. "I told you I don't like talking about feelings but, to go out on a limb here, I've got feelings for you. I know these are messed up circumstances. Logically, while I know those feelings could just be a reaction to the two of us being thrown together in a stressful situation, it doesn't change how I feel. It's like you said a minute ago, knowing why you feel something doesn't make you feel it any less. This is what I feel."
> Tom nodded, processing. "It's the same here, Grace. I feel the same way about you. I've been telling myself it was probably, like you said, a reaction to circumstances. The heart wants what the heart wants, though, and I know what mine wants."
They both fell silent for a moment. They had thrown out some serious words and exposed themselves in a way neither was accustomed to. Perhaps they were both afraid to speak now. Afraid of destroying the moment. Afraid of what else might come out of mouths that appeared to be working of their own accord.
"What I was starting to say, before you blew my mind, was about my buddies. There were guys I kept in touch with online. Some with physical injuries, some with PTSD. Talking about it made me wonder how they were doing."
"So I blew your mind?"
"Yeah, you kind of did."
"How?" Grace asked.
“Because in a few minutes, with a few interesting combinations of words, we may have changed our worlds."
Grace nodded. "Yeah, it's crazy isn't it?”
"The point of all that, going back to where we started, was that you shouldn’t feel bad that the world stuck me here so far from home. There's nowhere I'd rather be."
"That doesn’t help your mom.”
Tom shrugged. "Mom wants to be where I am. If I want to be here, she’ll want to be here."
Grace's face took on a concerned look but her eyes held a mischievous twinkle. "You think she's willing to share her son?"
Tom laughed. "Nothing would make her happier than seeing me happy. We’re tight but she's not an obsessed psycho mom. We've been through a lot together and it bonded us."
“We better get back to the house before they send out a search party,” Grace said.
“You’re probably right,” Tom agreed.
21
Bradshaw gassed up Muncie's truck while Cummings and several other men offloaded the contents into Muncie and Asbury’s camper.
"I'm still not sure why you have to take my truck," Muncie grumbled. He was sitting in a camp chair watching the events with a pained expression on his face. His injured hand was elevated above his head, having discovered that was the only way to reduce the constant gnawing pain. He'd been taking Tylenol but it had barely any effect at all.
"Asbury is dead and you’re not going to be driving anytime soon," Bradshaw said. “It’s the logical choice.”
"I don’t want it coming back shot full of holes," Muncie grumbled. “I’m still making payments.”
“Not anymore you’re not,” Bradshaw said. “Who are you sending them to? And how are you sending them?”
Muncie looked away in disgust.
When the gas can ran dry, Bradshaw carefully shook it to get out every precious drop. He replaced the lid on the can, set it in the bed of the truck, and replaced the gas cap. He climbed in the cab and turned the ignition key just enough to see the gauges kick to life.
"Less than a quarter tank. We better hope this chick isn’t jerking us around. If she is, we won’t be enjoying the pleasure of her company on the ride back."
"That the last of the gas?" Muncie asked.
"It's the last we’re putting in that truck," the congressman said, walking up with Debbie.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Muncie asked.
"It means if we don't find what we're looking for pretty darn soon we’re going to have to scale back our operation significantly. A caravan this big requires a lot of resources, both for people and machines. I don't know how much longer we’ll be able to meet that need."
Muncie didn’t like the sound of that. He couldn’t contain himself, the pain putting him on edge. "You hear that, Cummings? At any point, they might throw you away like trash. I wondered if this moment might come, especially now that I’m dead weight. If I suddenly disappear, you guys remember this because it might be you next time."
"You shut your damn mouth," Bradshaw barked. "No one said anything about getting rid of you. You think I’d allow that to happen?”
Muncie nodded in the congressman’s direction. “Damn sure sounded like it to me.”
Bradshaw shook his head. “That ain’t happening, son. The only discussion we've had along those lines is that we may have to consider shedding some of the nonessential gear, like people's personal items. We may have to consolidate to fewer vehicles. It won't be comfortable but it may be the only way to make the fuel get us farther."
"Bradshaw is exactly right,” the congressman said. “You’re overreacting. Must be the pain getting to you, making you think all crazy."
The look on the congressman's face was not exactly comforting to Muncie. He didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. He’d always thought he was a sleazy liar, always manipulating people, but he’d been okay with that before. It was part of the job. Now he felt like he might be in danger. Though the pain was making him irritable, he knew it was time to shut up. He needed to bite his tongue, hold his cards closer to his chest.
The last of the gear was offloaded from the back of the truck. Cummings threw in his personal pack, his rifle, and a chest rig with spare mags. The other man going with them was a private security guard from the Washington, D.C. area named Stevens. He stashed his gear in the truck, while the rest of the men were sent back to their regular duties. Muncie remained sitting in the camp chair while Cummings, Stevens, Bradshaw, Debbie, and the congressman gathered at the tailgate of the truck.
The congressman started to say something and then said to Muncie, "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
Muncie gave a smug grin and shook his head. "Not really. I won’t be able to do anything for a couple of days. This thing still hurts like a bitch. The stitches are too tight and will come out if I move it much. The medic said the bone needed to be cut back some but there's no way to do that without surgery."
The congressman raised an eyebrow. "This ain't elementary school. You don't get excused from recess because you got a note from the school nurse. If you can sit upright, like you obviously are, you could be providing security somewhere. Grab a rifle and drag that lawn chair somewhere useful. I don't care if you have to hold the rifle barrel between your toes to aim. Just get the hell out of here and earn your keep."
For a long moment the two men shared a venomous look. Muncie never held any illusion that he was a valuable member of this operation and his injury made it even more apparent how precarious his footing was. He had a feeling that if Bradshaw, Jacobs, or someone wasn't advocating for him, the congressman would have already booted him out. It should be a wake-up call for all the men—for all the muscle behind this operation—that they were disposable.
Eventually Muncie broke off the stare and did as he’d been ordered. He retrieved his rifle from his camper and looped the sling around his neck like a pair of binoculars. With a parting look at the congressman, Muncie snatched up his camp chair and stalked off.
The congressman gave him a moment to put some distance between them and then he shook his head wistfully. "I don't know about that man. I think his injury is affecting his mind. His attitude isn’t what it was. We’ll need to keep an eye on him."
"He'll be fine," Bradshaw interjected. "You have other things to worry about. Let me worry about my men."
The congressman locked eyes with Bradshaw and appeared to want to say something but must have thought better of it. He changed gears and put on his most professional smile. "On to other business. I just spent some time speaking with the charming Miss Debbie here. If everything she says is true, then I think the Hardwick compound will comfortably support all of us until this mess is over. If her story ends up not being true, I think she understands the consequences.”
Though Debbie certainly didn’t look cowed, she nodded in agreement. She was more chilled than she had been last night. She started her day with part of a pain pill. Just a little to take the edge off, to calm her nerves.
“I want to go over the plan one more time, gentlemen,” the congressman said. “Bradshaw, Jacobs, and I discussed this last night but I want
to make sure the rest of you are on board. We need confirmation that the location Miss Debbie is providing us is indeed the Hardwick compound. I don’t want you to just confirm the route. I want you to get eyes on the house itself. I want to know who is living there. How many are there? What security measures are in place? Are they armed at all times? You get the picture?”
“If we think we can take them, should we engage?” Cummings asked.
“Negative,” the congressman replied. “These folks are reputed to be quite scrappy. They’ve turned back everyone who has tried. In fact, I believe Miss Debbie here is the only one to cross them and survive to tell the story. I do not want to take that property until we’re certain we can do so successfully. If you try and fail, we may never get another opportunity.”
Cummings nodded.
“What are the rules of engagement if we’re fired upon?” Stevens asked.
“If you’re being fired upon, you’ve screwed up and been spotted,” Jacobs pointed out. “We’d prefer you not be spotted.”
“Exactly,” the congressman agreed.
“But if our lives depend on it?” Stevens pressed.
“Then by all means, defend yourself. But I reiterate, do not screw this up. Do not be spotted. Do not do anything that will make this family feel like they need to up their security or bring in reinforcements. That will only make our job harder down the road.” The congressman met each man’s eyes to confirm that he understood those instructions.
“What about her?” Cummings asked, nodding toward Debbie. “We take her all the way in with us?”
“Yes.”
Cummings made a face, started to open his mouth to protest, but the congressman cut him off.
“She knows the faces. She’s familiar with the layout. We need her.”
“What if she decides to blow our cover?” Cummings asked. “What if she decides to rat us out?”
The congressman looked at Debbie. “She knows the score. We’ve talked about this. If she threatens the operation, you stick a knife in her and leave her behind.”
Blood Bought: Book Four in The Locker Nine Series Page 19
