Abby ruled out dead. The shot she’d taken couldn’t even qualify as a scientific wild-ass guess. Retreat was possible, but unlikely. A sniper wouldn’t just give up. For him, five hours hunting a target would be a mere blink of an eye.
Hearing a rustling noise, she held her breath. The sound was moving closer, emanating from behind, and Abby didn’t dare move. Above her thumping pulse, she heard a flutter directly overhead. Eyes projected upward, she saw nothing.
It must’ve been a bat, she decided, returning to its roost after feasting on insects near the lake.
Taking a slow breath, she thought, what would I do if I were the sniper? Her gaze swerved from her hide to the trip wire at the base of the hill. I’d establish the twine’s direction and sneak in from behind.
With deliberately slow movements, she retrieved the grenade from the pocket of her cargo pants. If she lobbed it at the middle of the trip wire, shrapnel would pelt anyone within a forty-five foot radius. Without the nightscope, it seemed her best—and only—defense.
Perilous thoughts seeped into her mind. Would Gramps have spotted the sniper if he hadn’t been distracted by their bet? Did she inadvertently get him killed? Get her mother killed? Get everybody killed?
Gramps would be so disappointed, she thought, not to mention my dad and Bradley.
Abby could feel herself crumbling, overwhelmed by grief and guilt, aggravated by her own incompetence. Hot tears began rolling over her cheeks, and she fought the impulse to vent a primal scream that her dad and Bradley could hear up in Tavares. That is, if they were alive. What if they were dead? What if she was completely alone?
Saliva pooled. Stomach acid raced upward, barely a mouthful, but burning and bitter; and for a moment, she considered giving up. What was the point in fighting to survive if everyone she loved was dead? Then a reason came to mind: to kill the bastard who had shot her mother, Gramps, and Uncle Dave.
Armed with a sense of purpose, she blinked away her tears and wrestled to control her emotions. Ironically, the sniper was the safest subject to dwell on.
Abby heard a muffled noise, and she tightened her grip on the grenade.
Her heart slammed to a stop.
Her eyes locked on a faint orange glimmer piercing the blackness at the base of the hill.
The sniper had just set off her trip wire.
187E
BRADLEY COULDN’T SEE IT, even with night vision, but he felt it. Something had caught the heel of his boot. It had too much give to be a tree root, too much resistance to be a broken branch. Adjusting his hold on the slumbering little girl, he bent over and swatted at leaves and pine needles, unearthing a wire anchored to an oak tree. Its trunk glowed with an ominous orange light.
He shouted, “Trip wire! Abby, don’t shoot!” and dove onto the ground, his injured arm taking the brunt of the impact to spare Nikki.
Kyle and Ryan landed beside him. Bradley shushed the drowsy five-year-old, then he heard Abby reply, “Two shooters! Only one down!”
“So much for R-and-R,” Ryan whispered. “This day just won’t fu-u-uh—fudging end.”
Bradley turned toward Kyle. “There’s an active shooter. You stay here and keep Nikki quiet. And that’s an order!”
“You move; you make a sound; you get shot,” Ryan said, underscoring the point.
Kyle nodded, seemingly too unnerved to speak.
Bradley crept up the hill with Ryan behind him, his senses on high alert. Halfway up, his eye was drawn to the shape of an arm. It lingered a few seconds before retracting into a bush. That had to be Abby, but why was she on the northern ridge instead of overwatch?
Resisting the urge to move faster, he pressed on, feeling as if he would never get to her. Was she hurt? Where was Gramps? How long had they been under attack?
Inch by inch the distance shrunk, yet she remained virtually invisible, and that observation comforted him. If he had trouble finding her, so would the shooter.
Abby presented her shaking hands. One gripped a grenade; the other, a pin. “I could use a little help.”
Ryan whispered, “What the fuck!”
“This one’s real,” she said. “I swiped it from Haywood Field.”
Bradley dropped his rifle. His hand clamped around Abby’s, reinforcing the pressure on the lever. He slid the pin back into position.
“The Army advises against pin reinsertion,” Ryan said.
“I know. That’s why you’re gonna lob it into the lake.”
The Ranger grimaced then took possession of the grenade.
“Who the hell is he?” Abby asked, suddenly noticing his presence. “And where’s my dad?”
“Damn it, Abby!” Bradley snapped, his voice a furious whisper. “You could’ve killed us!”
“But I didn’t.”
He had to forcibly repress his anger. Right now, he had to deal with the shooter. “What happened?”
“They ambushed us at change of overwatch. Uncle Dave was relieving Gramps. He forgot the nightscope, so my mom was delivering it. Three shots, all from the southern ridge.”
Bradley felt like the ground beneath him was sinking.
“Same location as the guy with the headband.” Abby drew an audible breath before continuing. “I nailed the spotter, but the sniper got away—”
“Whoa,” he said, his tone hushed yet teeming with urgency. “Why do you think he’s a sniper?”
“Stealthy movement—Gramps was on watch and didn’t pick him up. And who else has a scoped rifle and a spotter?”
Is this revenge for Astatula? Or did the Iranians track us from Haywood Field?
“Anything else?” Bradley asked, mentally berating himself over that sawed-off crepe myrtle crutch.
“Just before dark, he fired at my decoy. I spotted his muzzle flash and did a point-and-shoot. Since then it’s been quiet.”
“Any chance you got him?”
Abby’s head shook. “It was literally just a ‘shot in the dark.’ ”
“Where?”
“Sixty feet below overwatch, ten yards west.”
His patience thinned by the near mishap with the grenade, Bradley whispered, “You stand down! Don’t move until I give an all clear.”
When Ryan returned, both men crawled west along the ridgeline. Bradley saw a gun barrel poking through a wild bush ten yards below him. This bastard had ambushed Gramps and Abby; this was personal, and he was finding it difficult to slow his breathing, to calm his body.
He aligned his rifle scope, then his head drooped with disappointment. It wasn’t the shooter. It was Abby’s decoy, an AK-47, a long-sleeved shirt packed with sand, and a camouflage bicycle helmet—a freaking ballistic scarecrow.
He skull dragged farther west, his wounded arm feeling like it was being ripped open.
Sure enough, there was a shooter lying prone in the location Abby described.
But if this guy was a sniper, Bradley thought, he would’ve moved.
He targeted the man’s head, which tipped forward as if asleep. Bradley squeezed the trigger, and the bullet sheared off the top of the bastard’s skull. It seemed too easy.
He slinked farther west, across the damp ground with crickets blaring like an alarm. Each yard felt like a mile. As he moved past the body, he noticed a large exit wound between the man’s shoulder blades.
That explains why he didn’t change position. Was Abby’s “shot in the dark” a lucky hit? Or did the sniper position his dead spotter there as a clever trap?
Uncertainty bolstering caution, he spent more than an hour skulking around the southern ridge. Ryan trailed a few yards behind, and Bradley was grateful to have an experienced pair of eyes watching his back.
As he began the ascent, he thought, if there’s not a body at the crest, it’s going to be a long night.
The south-facing hillside was noticeably steeper and choked with weeds, its crown of trees blotting out the moonlight. Nearing the peak, he saw a figure lying prone, overlooking the lake. A sense of relief ignited then
faded like the flash of a camera. Yes, he had found a body, but was it a dead spotter? Or a live sniper?
He regained control of his respiration and readied his shot, then exhaled, half laughing, half sighing.
A large portion of the man’s head was already missing.
“Un-fucking-believable!” Ryan said in an awed whisper.
Pushing himself to a standing position, Bradley said, “Yee-yup—I trained her.”
With solemn strides, he walked toward overwatch, fixated on Gramps. Still clutching his rifle, the General lay facedown behind the sand-filled bins.
Oh ... Gramps. Bradley removed the walkie-talkie from his grandfather’s belt, pulled it to his face, and then let it drop to his side, unable to find his voice.
Ryan extended his hand, silently requesting the walkie-talkie.
Bradley complied and backpedaled, distancing himself from the truth: the man who had raised him—his only real family—was gone.
“Abby, we’re clear,” Ryan said, speaking into the walkie-talkie.
To Bradley, he sounded muffled, miles away. He felt alone. Empty. He kept stepping backward, wanting desperately to turn back time like Kyle had done with the watch; just a few minutes to thank Gramps, to say good-bye.
His back thudded against a tree, his legs buckled, and he slid slowly to the ground, his strength devoured by grief; then he let the tears come.
188E
RYAN EMPATHIZED WITH Bradley’s loss. He had experienced the guilt, played the what-if game, and discovered firsthand that words, no matter how heartfelt, just didn’t help. So he stood beside Bradley and planted a hand on his shoulder.
Ryan gave an exhausted sigh. Was it really only twelve hours since he had met Bradley? He glanced at the grieving Marine, realizing that there was no one in the U.S. military he trusted more.
Hearing pounding feet, he spotted Abby running up the hill. She had shed the ghillie suit, but still clutched an AR-10.
“Bradley, I’m so sorry!” She fell to her knees beside him, sobbing, and Ryan grappled to reconcile that pretty face with deadly marksman.
Leaving Abby and Bradley to comfort each other, he moved down the hill toward a male body. Finding no pulse, Ryan reverently closed the dead man’s eyes. He had been shot once in the shoulder and slowly bled out.
He walked farther east toward another body, a woman. He noted the resemblance to Abby and bowed his head, knowing it was Kyle’s wife. She was lying on her back, an M1A with a nightscope resting atop her torso. A small splotch of blood marked an entry wound in her shoulder; and as Ryan leaned down to check for a pulse, the rifle barrel sprung upward and jammed into his chest.
189E
ABBY BREATHED IN TINY pants, rivulets of salty tears cascaded over her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop trembling. She felt as if a self-destruct button had been pressed and her body was trying to shake itself apart. “I’m s-s-sorry. I didn’t spot them until it was too late.”
Bradley’s arms closed around her, his damp cheek rested atop her head. “Abby, you weren’t even on watch.”
“You told me to keep everybody safe and now ...” Her voice shattered.
Bradley’s hands forcefully clasped her cheeks, demanding eye contact. “This is not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped that first bullet. And neither could I.”
“What about the second one that killed Uncle Dave? Or the third one that killed my mom?”
“For God’s sake, Abby, you were ambushed by a sniper team. And you nailed both of them.”
Head shaking, she said, “You shot the sniper.”
Bradley stood, pulled Abby to her feet, and placed his helmet onto her head. “See for yourself.” Grasping her elbow, he guided her down the hill.
Aided by night vision, she saw it right away. There were two bullet wounds, one to the head, a second to the chest.
“He was already dead when I shot him. That was one hell of a ‘shot in the dark.’ ” Bradley’s voice softened, growing huskier with emotion. “I’m proud of you. Gramps would be too—”
A gunshot resounded.
Bradley took off down the hill, and Abby struggled to keep up on jellied legs.
“It’s okay,” Ryan was saying, an M4 in one hand, the M1A in the other. “Your husband’s a friend of mine.”
“Mom ... ?” The suffocating grip of guilt loosened, and Abby felt weightless. She tackled her mother, enveloping her in a hug. “Thank God you’re alive!”
Bradley said, “Ryan, what the hell happened?”
“She thought I was the sniper. That was too fu-u-uh—fudging close. Where’s Kyle’s whiskey?”
Still holding Abby in a one-armed bear hug, her mother began craning her neck. “Where’s your father?”
A flurry of fear contracted around Abby’s heart. “Bradley, where’s my dad?”
“Holy shit! He actually followed an order!” Bradley cupped his hands like a megaphone and shouted, “Kyle, we’re all clear!”
( ( ( 92% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(4E)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 4E
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( Epilogue E ) ) )
190E
Thursday, March 6th
BRADLEY SUNK DOWN ONTO the Murphys’ front porch and slouched against the house, elbows draped atop his knees. He and Ryan had just finished transporting Gramps and Dave into the garage to protect their remains from predators until they could be buried in the morning.
Numbly, he stared into the blackness. Memories of his grandfather were trickling into his mind, bonding with guilt, forming a toxic emotional haze.
Ryan sat quietly beside him. He made no effort at small talk and offered no obligatory condolences, reminding Bradley of Will’s stubborn presence when his mother died. The memory was an ache in his chest. In just a couple weeks, he had lost so much.
The front door swung open, and Kyle emerged, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Jessie finally fell asleep. Abby’s keeping vigil over her and Nikki.” He settled beside Bradley, taking a long gulp of whiskey before passing it on. “We need to leave for Camp Sunshine ASAP—”
“I’m not leaving until I bury my grandfather.” Bradley’s tone came out harsh, edged with anger.
“Of course I-I,” Kyle stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Bradley downed a mouthful of whiskey, and it hit his stomach like a mortar round. “It’s okay. I know you’re just worried about your wife.”
Kyle leaned toward Ryan. “Camp Sunshine has a hospital, right?”
“Affirmative.” The Ranger lifted the whiskey bottle from Bradley’s hand and swilled it. “But they’re gonna confiscate your guns and personal possessions.”
“Like the savages in Tavares?” Kyle demanded.
“You can’t have sleepers waltzing in with assault rifles or bombs hidden in suitcases and stuffed animals.”
Bradley eased his head back against the wall, waiting for the alcohol to dull the ache inside him.
“I don’t like it,” Kyle said, resignation echoing in his voice. “But I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“There’s more.” Ryan paused to down another gulp of whiskey. “Since there’s no post office, e-mail, or telephones, people are being drafted as they walk through the gates.”
Silence thickened in the night air, congealing into a solid mass, pressing against Bradley. Civilians expected a military rescue, not a military induction.
That can’t be going over well, he thought.
“I’ll gladly fight for my country,” Kyle said. “Especially if it saves Jessie’s life.”
“They’re not gonna draft you,” Ryan said softly. “They’re enlisting everyone ages sixteen to forty. Male and female.”
Bradley’s already tense muscles jumped to high alert. He watched Kyle rub his face as if kneading dough. Would he still opt to go?
“Ryan, what if you and Kyle take Jessie to Camp Sunshine for treatment, and I stay here with Abby and Nikk
i until they return?”
“No go. Once Kyle and Jessie are in, they’ll relocate them to Texas—where the power grid’s been partially restored—and assign them jobs based on their skill set and government needs.”
“So it’s a combination draft board and labor camp?” Kyle asked, anger radiating like a blast furnace. “When did this country become a dictatorship?”
“Look, we’re at war on multiple fronts,” Ryan told him. “If the U.S. can’t start producing beans, bullets, and bodies to fight, you’ll find out what it really means to live under a dictatorship.”
Bradley had mixed emotions. If the government could draft someone and ship them overseas to fight, why not to Texas to work an assembly line? But how long would these extraordinary powers endure?
After lengthy introspection, Kyle said, “Jessie’s bleeding is under control, the wound’s been disinfected, and she’s tough. You heard her. She said that bullet fragment in her shoulder is nowhere near as painful as giving birth.” His head swiveled toward Bradley; a eurekalike expression lifted his features into a hopeful question. “Is there any chance Abby’s pregnant?”
Laughing, Ryan said, “You’re banging his sixteen-year-old daughter?”
In unison, Bradley and Kyle shouted, “Shut up!”
Yesterday in the lanai, the thought had tempted Bradley. His overprotective inclinations had wandered dangerously close to controlling and sabotaging. “No, sir. No chance.”
“Well, you still could—”
“I won’t.”
Ryan leaned toward Kyle and said, “How do I apply for that job?”
The flippant remark triggered a firestorm inside Bradley. He grabbed Ryan’s throat and pinned him against the house. “I’m already getting court-martialed, and the Army thinks you’re dead. Do the math!”
“Relax, I was joking. I’m old enough to be her father.”
“Not funny.” Although Bradley released Ryan, his stare continued drilling into him.
“Understood.” The Ranger redirected his attention to Kyle. “Now that you have the facts, what are you gonna do?”
“We’re staying,” Kyle said flatly. “If the wound gets infected, then we’ll go to Camp Sunshine.”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 117
