A failure, she thought, except for the propaganda value of his death.
Although Omar had committed suicide, Middle Eastern news networks were reporting that a SEAL team had brutally tortured and executed him. It was a lie that could never be disproven, at least not for the masses of the Arab Street who were flocking to join the jihad against the West.
During the past four hours, however, the shipboard gossip had revolved around Sarah’s achievement: eight missing F-22 Raptors that had simultaneously disappeared.
She attached a bonding cable to a fighter jet to protect the aircraft against static shocks during fueling. Amused by the irony, she slipped a hand into her pocket. Her fingers closed around four pink plastic sleeves, intentionally designed to look like tampons—an item most Sailors would ignore. She squeezed them to set their timers in motion, to sync their ignition to prevent distress calls and Pilot ejections.
Dragging a heavy fuel hose over her shoulder toward the F-22, she scanned nearby crew members. All were engrossed with their own duties. Sarah palmed a tampon, scratched its adhesive tab to create a sticky spot, and nonchalantly brushed her hand across the end of the single-point refueling nozzle just before jamming it into the jet’s fuel intake. Sarah grasped the two locking handles that stuck out like devil’s horns and yanked them to the right.
Three more to go, she thought as pressurized fuel washed the tiny pink time bomb into the F-22’s fuel tank.
52B
HEARING A GUNSHOT, Bradley vaulted out of bed.
The savages are back, he thought, stumbling into a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The sound of a woman shrieking sliced through him, then two more blasts rent the night.
He disengaged the safety on the M1A and activated the nightscope. From Gramps’ front porch, he saw the silhouette of a man running out of the Murphys’ house. He shouted, “Kyle?”
The figure wheeled toward him, handgun rising, and fired off three rounds. He missed.
Bradley didn’t; and the intruder fell face-first onto the hillside.
A loner without an AK-47. Not one of the savages, Bradley concluded.
He advanced cautiously toward the open front door, fearful of what he might find. Inside the house, blood shimmered under ghoulish warm light. Mr. Murphy was sitting on the floor, crying, stroking blood-soaked blonde hair. Was it Jessie or Abby? The question seared Bradley’s gut and left behind a hollow ache.
He inched forward, close enough to see the entry wound at the temple, close enough to hear Kyle’s poignant refrain, “Stay with me, Jessie. I love you. Don’t leave me.”
Realizing it wasn’t Abby, he felt a curious degree of relief, which immediately yielded to shame. How could he take solace in such a horrendous outcome?
Detecting movement in the stairwell, Bradley’s rifle swung left, finger on the trigger, then dropped abruptly. Dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, Abby ascended the stairs, rifle barrel gripped with one hand, cheeks drenched with tears.
“Abby, are you hurt?”
Her stare veered from her parents to Bradley; and without a word, she relinquished her rifle and brushed past him.
Bradley placed her AR-10 on the couch and followed her out the door to the lake’s edge. Abby’s head drooped, her legs folded, and she crumpled like a falling stage curtain.
Taking a knee, he wrapped an arm around her, and she buried her face into his shoulder. Silent tremors of grief racked her body. He felt the wetness of her tears seeping through his T-shirt, and Bradley held her tighter, as if he could somehow supply the strength she needed.
“It’s m-m-my fault,” she stammered. “I let him shoot my mom.”
“There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
“I sh-sh-should’ve sh-shot the bastard!” Abby inhaled in a rapid succession of minigasps then began to cry harder.
“You couldn’t. Not with all your ammo locked in the safe.”
“I had three rounds ... from yesterday,” she said, her voice strengthened by self-condemnation and guilt. “I was on the deck. At the window. And didn’t take the shot ... Their heads were so damn close ... All I could think about was that I’d never fired that rifle.”
Bradley berated himself for not retrieving those rounds, for setting her up for a lifetime of regret.
“Honestly, Abby, even I would’ve been reluctant to take that shot with an unfamiliar weapon.”
“You don’t understand! Even after ... afterward, I just stood there screaming while he shot at my dad.”
Bradley pulled back. His fingers curled beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“Whatever you’re feeling right now ... Trust me, it would be worse if you’d missed; if your bullet had been the one to take your mother’s life.”
53B
WHEN ABBY AND BRADLEY walked through the front door, Kyle eased Jessie’s lifeless body to the floor and rose to his feet. He hugged his daughter and gulped hard as a fresh crop of tears dampened his face.
Kyle hadn’t noticed that Abby was on the deck until she started screaming, and he thanked God that she had been spared.
“Your mother’s last words ... She wanted you to know how much she loved you.”
Abby managed a grief-stricken nod and flopped down onto the couch. She snatched the AR-10 and wrathfully jerked the charging handle in quick succession, expelling three live rounds.
Momentarily speechless, Kyle gave her a sidelong glance of disbelief. “Your rifle was loaded?”
His daughter looked away, avoiding his question; then shock and betrayal uncorked a Pandora’s box of emotions that had been festering within Kyle since the EMP.
“Abigail, why the hell didn’t you shoot him?” he shouted, unable to contain his fury.
“But Dad—”
“You could’ve saved your mother’s life!”
“I was afraid that I’d accidentally hit her. Because you wouldn’t let me zero my rifle.”
“Bullshit! You were barely ten yards away.” Kyle ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his scalp. “For two years, all you’ve talked about is becoming a Sniper. And when you get your big chance, you just stand there? And let your mother die?”
Red-faced, Abby jumped to her feet and challenged his gaze, contempt boiling in her blue eyes; then she quietly said, “Like father, like daughter!”
54B
POOR ABBY, BRADLEY thought, watching her stomp down the stairs. He recalled how he had felt about not being able to save that girl at the swing set—and he didn’t have anyone screaming at him.
“Abigail, don’t you dare walk away from me!” Mr. Murphy lifted the AR-10 from the couch and shouted, “I swear, I’m gonna throw this fucking rifle into the lake!”
Unable to hold his tongue, words spewed from Bradley. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Bradley, don’t,” Gramps told him. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“No. He needs to hear it.” Bradley marched across the room. “You wouldn’t let her zero the rifle. That fucking matters when the target’s two inches from your wife’s head!”
“Bradley, enough!”
“No, it’s not! I was the one out there with her while she was shaking and crying. Abby’s already blaming herself, and that’s a burden she’ll have to live with for the rest of her life. She doesn’t need him piling on!”
“Your grandfather’s right,” Mr. Murphy said. “You should leave.”
Bradley took a step forward, going nose to nose with him. “You are a grown man. You should’ve handled the situation. So man up and stop taking it out on your daughter!”
55B
WILL HAD BEEN LYING behind an overgrown azalea bush, clutching Eli’s bolt-action rifle for nearly eight hours. His legs and back ached, his neck felt like it was on fire, and a wicked pain raged behind his eyes, but he refused to move. The other two thugs would return for the truck. He was sure of it.
He used to razz Bradley, claiming Snipers were lazy shits who got to lounge around for hours, doing nothing; then, in
a split second, they squeezed the trigger and were lauded as heroes. In reality, all those “lounging hours doing nothing” were more demanding than expected. Beyond the physical discomfort of remaining motionless, it became a tedious mental challenge to cope with boredom and manage to stay alert.
Will rubbed his eyes, stinging from the smoke, lids drooping from fatigue. The dying flames from the barn were a visual lullaby, dimming along with his vigilance.
That truck is Billy’s only chance, he told himself. I can’t lose it again.
His son’s little body had become sweat-soaked with fever. How high? Will could only guess since the thermometer was back in Orlando. One obsessive thought was driving him. If he made it back home, Billy would survive; and for that, he needed the truck.
Just before daybreak, two shadows were moving across the yard. Will didn’t move. Rifle sights fixed on the base of the driver’s window, he waited until a target stepped into the kill zone.
He squeezed the trigger. Screams wafted from the house behind him. Will cycled the bolt to chamber a new round.
The other man had entered through the passenger’s door, slid across the truck’s bench seat, and was frantically trying to start the engine, unaware that the vehicle was missing its coil cable.
Will fired a second time and watched the body sag onto the steering wheel; then he pushed himself to a standing position and retreated into the house, too emotionally depleted to grasp the fact that he had killed four people.
56B SKIP
57B
“SON, THAT WAS A FAMILY dispute.” Gramps’ angry blue eyes burrowed into Bradley. “And you should’ve stayed out of it.”
Bradley threw back his head, shoveled a handful of dry cereal into his mouth, and chased it with a gulp of water. Last night, he had deferred this conversation, expecting time to defuse his emotions, but after five sleepless hours his anger had not dissipated.
“Come on, Gramps. You know what Abby’s going through. Do you think she needed to listen to that bullshit?”
“No. And I think Kyle was wrong,” Gramps told him. “But when a man loses his wife so tragically, he’s not able to think clearly.”
“He was clearheaded enough to blame his daughter.”
Gramps nodded as though he had solved a puzzle. “Son, what’s the source of that overprotective outburst? Brotherly love? Or hopelessly in love?”
Bradley harrumphed, his chin dipped, and his face swung away from Gramps. “Neither. I just call it as I see it.”
“Yee-yup,” Gramps said. “Hopelessly, it is.”
Hopelessly, my ass, Bradley thought. Sure he was attracted to Abby—more than he cared to admit—but that didn’t mean he was in love with her.
Bradley squinted. Was that a shadow moving across the living room window? He grabbed the 1911 Springfield from the table and hurried to the front door. After peeking through the window, he grimaced and returned to the kitchen.
“Gramps, Mr. Murphy’s here.”
“Well, why didn’t you let him in?”
“You talk to him,” Bradley said, letting his weight fall against the kitchen chair. “This time, I might knock him out.”
Gramps began whistling and shuffled toward the front door.
What song is that? It crooned through Bradley’s head until he recalled the old Elvis tune, Can’t Help Falling In Love.
The memory of holding Abby in his arms crept into his mind, and Bradley downed the remainder of his water as if he could drown the recollection. He heard Gramps open the front door.
Without pleasantries, Mr. Murphy’s frenzied voice asked, “Is Abby here?”
“No,” Gramps told him. “Why would she be here?”
“I can’t find her. And her bike’s gone.”
Bradley fired his empty water bottle across the kitchen, shoved back his chair, and stalked into his bedroom. Images of that girl tied to the swing set assailed him. He jammed his feet into his boots, shouldered his backpack and rifle, and strode back to the foyer.
Squatting to lace his boots, he said, “Any idea where she might have headed?”
Shrugging, Mr. Murphy said, “Maybe to Allison’s house. That’s her best friend.”
“Where does she live?”
“About six miles from here, over near the elementary school.”
“Fuck!” The word squirted from Bradley’s mouth. His stomach turned inside out and spontaneously combusted.
“I’m going with you,” Mr. Murphy said.
“Like hell you are. You’ll just slow me down.”
“Bradley, you were right. I acted like an ass last night. I know this is my fault, and I need to make things right.”
Surprising, Bradley thought. Abby’s well-being outranks his pride.
“You go; you follow my orders,” he said, then his face drifted upward, praying for the guidance to find Abby—before the savages did.
58B
BLEARY EYED, EXHAUSTED, and aching, Will ventured outside. The sun was shining, a light breeze was rustling leaves, and birds were soaring across a cloudless blue sky.
A beautiful day on the farm, he thought, except for one dead brother-in-law, four bloody corpses, and a smoldering barn.
Beside the rising wisps of gray smoke, the pasture was empty. Was the cow stolen or did it wander off?
Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Either way, there would be no milk for his kids.
Head shaking at the insanity, Will approached the chicken coop, its frame mangled from having been dropped. The chickens had exploded into a grisly paste of blood, flesh, and feathers.
No more eggs, he thought.
Will watched Heather and Erica emerge from the bullet-scarred house. Buckshot had shattered all the windows and clusters of pellets had tunneled through peeling paint into the clapboard siding.
Heather had a blanket over her shoulder, nursing their infant daughter. Erica walked beside her, Billy propped against a hip. Despair siphoned the color from his sister-in-law’s face as her eyes roamed from the barn, to the empty cow pasture, to the chicken coop.
“You should stay inside,” Will told both women. “It’s pretty gruesome out here.”
Erica’s accusing glare was a biting slap to wet skin. “Not as gruesome as staring at my dead husband. This is your fault, Will. You led them here. Everything was fine until you showed up.”
Frightened by the raucous argument, Billy began to cry. Will reached for his son, but Erica pirouetted and slogged toward the house, shouting, “Eli’s dead. The house is ruined. The livestock is gone. I have nothing! And I hate you, Will!”
“What happened to country folks helping each other? Huh?” he shouted after her. “Eli’s dead because Eli was stupid!”
Heather’s eyes contracted into surgical blades. “Do you have to be so obnoxious? She just lost her husband.”
“I’m tired of being blamed for everything—”
“You lost the truck,” Heather said, poking her index finger into his face. “Then they showed up. How is it not your fault?”
Will threw up his hands in mock surrender. Why did he bother arguing? Should’ve stayed in Florida, he thought, and—
His thought severed.
A single gunshot boomed.
Billy was screaming.
The sound echoed through Will as he sprinted across the yard. The gun cabinet, he had broken the door last night. Did Billy mistake the handgun for a toy?
Will leapt the porch steps in one stride, stormed into the house, and swept his crying son into his arms. He skidded to a stop and grasped Billy’s head, pressing his son’s face into his shoulder to shield him from the grim scene.
Erica had stemmed her misery with a quarter-inch lead pill administered into her temple, then she had collapsed atop Eli.
59B
IN THE BACK OF ROOM 309, Abby slouched against her desk, the one she had occupied a week earlier—a lifetime ago, when math was her most urgent problem. The high school had not been part of her itinerary, but she neede
d a quiet place to pull herself together after the revolting streetscape she had encountered.
Summit Springs looked like the set of a zombie movie with bloated, bug-infested corpses everywhere. Hollywood, however, had failed to convey the vile stench of decomposing bodies. It was like a demonic entity, attaching itself to her clothes, her hair, her skin.
Even inside the classroom, the odor haunted her, though it was more tolerable than outside. Reaching beneath the desk, she grabbed an Algebra book and leafed through it. Systems of Linear Equations. Abby tore out the page, crumbled it into a ball, and fired it at the trash can beside the teacher’s desk, missing wide left.
Radical Expressions. She shredded that page and tossed confetti pieces into the air.
“Catching up on homework?”
Startled, Abby looked up. Her father was standing in the doorway.
How did he find me?
Without answering, she ripped another page from the book and folded it into a paper airplane, which crash-landed on the teacher’s desk.
Her father strolled into the room, looking more relieved than angry. “Abby, I owe you an apology.”
Mystified, she glanced at him, wondering if the odor had somehow messed up her hearing.
“You know, Dad, a week ago this was my biggest problem,” she said, turning pages with an angry flick of her hand.
“I know. It’s a different world now.”
“Well, it’s a shitty world. I want my life back. I want my mother back!” She slammed the textbook shut and hurled it like a Frisbee, striking the trash can which clattered against the wall.
“Sweetie-pie, I’d give anything to fix that,” her father said. “But I can’t. Abby, I was screaming at you, but I was really mad at myself ... Because I couldn’t save your mother.”
She looked up at him, watching his eyes well with emotion.
“Abby, you never should’ve been in that position. I should’ve been able to handle it. What happened to your mother ... That’s my fault.” He drew a slow breath then presented her rifle.
“You didn’t throw it into the lake?” Her right hand locked onto the barrel; her left arm closed around her father’s neck; and he hugged Abby so tight she could barely breathe.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 37
