by D. J. Molles
And yet Tex could do nothing for them.
He pulled up to the base of a gnarled oak tree. Leaves piled up around his legs. He looked over his shoulder in both directions, into the dark woods, but he could see nothing. He could only hear the sounds of suppressed gunshots, but they seemed far away.
He swung his small go-bag from his back. Sat it in his lap. He ripped open one of the front compartments and then dove in. He pulled out the satphone.
Another flurry of suppressed gunshots. Nearer than last time.
The noose closing.
Bring it on, motherfuckers. This Texas boy had one more thing to do before he went out.
He pulled the thick antenna up, then dialed the number.
It rang, four times.
A single gunshot, very close by. Someone cried out for Jesus, then groaned and died.
“Tex!” Bellamy’s voice on the line. “Is everything okay?”
“Did you do this, you sonofabitch?” Tex hissed into the phone.
There was a pause.
Dread in Bellamy’s voice: “Tex. What happened?”
“You killed us,” Tex answered, his voice just a breath on the wind.
A twig snapped somewhere nearby.
Tex didn’t know whether or not he believed in Bellamy’s act of innocence. But he knew that he didn’t care either way. He’d delivered his message. And now someone was going to die.
Tex set the satphone on the ground next to him and then rolled out from behind the tree, bringing his rifle up as he did.
***
Bellamy stared at the satphone in his hands.
You killed us.
And then there had been shooting. And screaming.
And then nothing.
His brain buzzed like someone had rammed two electrodes into it. Everything around him was overbright and sharp and seemed to shimmer at the edges.
He’d been close to several explosions during his time in the military—concussions that had rung his bell more than is healthy.
That was how it felt right now.
Everything, all at once, disorienting.
You killed us.
Those were Tex’s last words to him. And the full weight of that was still crushing Bellamy flat, and yet he couldn’t really feel it. Like you can’t feel the pain of a terrible injury at first, but you can still tell that you’ve been badly damaged.
What had happened?
And who had died?
His brain bounced from question to question, with no answers. All the way back it bounced, until it hit the one question he did have the answer to.
Who gave me this intel?
Lineberger.
Shit.
They’d used Bellamy to pass misinformation.
Which meant that they knew about him. For how long was anyone’s guess, but at least as long as twenty-four hours ago.
The ringing in his head became the blaring of a mental warning klaxon.
It was only through three very deliberate and forceful breaths that Bellamy cleared the rubble of his former reality away enough to see some daylight.
He had to get the hell out of Greeley.
And he had to leave right that instant.
***
The choppers weren’t strafing the woods.
And that meant only one thing to Lee, as he half-floated in the shallows of the lake, along the shore farthest from the land bridge, amongst mud and roots and fallen branches.
It meant that they didn’t want to hit their own people.
Julia let out another violent shiver against him.
Lee’s back was in the silty mud, his head just above the water. He pulled himself along by clutching the cold, greasy roots of the trees, and the algae-covered branches with one hand. His other was wrapped around Julia’s chest, holding her against his body. His rifle was towed through the muck behind him by the sling.
Lake water slipped into his mouth as he maneuvered the two of them under a fallen tree. He spit the water out.
“How you doin’, Jules?” Lee whispered.
“I’m fuckin’ freezing,” she mumbled. The trembling was more constant now. She had less control over it. She started to curl up, trying to curl into Lee for warmth, but the cold water simply sapped it away.
“Just a little longer,” Lee told her. “We’re almost there, and then I’m gonna start fixing you up.”
But he had no idea what the hell he was gonna do.
If there were enemy soldiers in those woods—and why else would the Apaches be circling and not engaging?—then he wouldn’t have time or safety to operate on Julia. But something had to happen. He had to do something to start fixing her. She wasn’t bleeding arterially, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t bleed out if he didn’t address her wound.
And he needed to get her out of this water! It was too cold. Her body was already struggling against shock. This water was going to make her hypothermic, if it hadn’t already.
And what was he going to do if they came for him in the middle of operating on her?
Should he leave her?
No. He couldn’t do that.
He didn’t care if it was the right tactical decision. He didn’t care if that was what survival dictated. He wasn’t going to leave Julia’s side. Some things were more important than survival.
“Lee,” her voice trembled. “I gotta get outta this water.”
“I know. I’m getting us there.”
“Just get me out of the water.”
“I can’t let you out of the water yet, Jules,” Lee said, straining his way towards a promising-looking bank that had some trees that might give them concealment. “If I stand up now those birds’ll see us and take us out.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The fuck it doesn’t,” he snapped.
“I just need to get warm. Then you gotta leave me.”
“I’m not…” Lee bared his teeth. “Julia, you need to shut up right now.”
She shook against him again, and he realized that it wasn’t just the cold—she was holding in sobs.
“I’m sorry,” Lee mumbled into her ear. It was ice cold against his lips. “I need you to be positive right now. Okay? Can you do that for me?”
She didn’t answer.
Lee made it to the bank. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. He had to get her out of the water. He pressed his back into the mud and sank them deeper, so that their faces were the only thing above the water, and he waited for the Apaches to pass over the woods again, away from him.
The rain had started to drive again, and that was going to help. It was going to decrease the gunships’ visibility and obscure the thermal imaging.
One of them roared overhead, shaking the tree branches. But it didn’t engage them. It passed on.
Lee hauled himself onto the bank, slipping twice in the mud, but never letting go of Julia. “I got you,” he whispered to her. “Let’s get you out of the water. Let’s get you warmed up.”
What are you gonna do about the wound?
Whatever she tells me to do.
It wasn’t until she tried to pull herself up that Lee realized how weak she’d become. She tried to get her hands and knees under her, to crawl forward on the leaves, away from the bank, but her arms didn’t seem to be able to support her weight, and she pitched forward, rolling onto her side to avoid hitting her face.
“Okay,” Lee said. “This is fine. We’ve got concealment.”
Lee straightened, on his knees, and peered through the dark woods all around them, searching for threats. There was the sound of the Apaches, circling. And there was the sound of suppressed gunshots sprinkled throughout the woods.
Those had to be enemy combatants. Lee didn’t think any of Tex’s guys had come equipped with suppressors.
They’re wiping everybody out.
How much time did he have to operate on Julia?
He hunched over her body and pushed her so that she lay on her back. She groaned, but
then relaxed with a hiss of pain.
Lee pulled the medical pack from her shoulders and laid it next to her, then ripped open the Velcro straps of her plate carrier and slung the whole thing off of her chest. “Alright, Jules, talk to me, okay? I need you to make sure I’m doing this right.”
He could have muddled his way through an abdominal wound without help, but maybe it would keep her engaged. He could sense her consciousness wavering, shock threatening to take her over, and Lee didn’t know if he could bring her back from that.
Abdominal wound.
First aide was straightforward: don’t pack the wound, but cover it with gauze, a little pressure, and an occlusive dressing to seal it. That would get you to someone who could do the actual surgery.
But they didn’t have that, did they?
Lee shook his head, the nagging panic beginning to poke at his brain. A big problem, and no options. He ripped open the pack and started searching for what he needed. “The wound’s to your lower abdomen, so I’m gonna put gauze over it, then an occlusive dressing. Is that right?”
A violent tremor took a hold of her, and Lee almost missed the fact that she was shaking her head. Her eyes were clenched closed. Her teeth chattered. It was difficult to tell in the darkness and the rain, but he thought her skin looked shock-white.
“You need…” her voice shook, making her words hard to hear. “You need to…warm me up.”
“Okay.” Lee’s heart gave a lurch of pity, and he ignored it because it threatened to weaken him. This isn’t Julia. This is just a wounded buddy.
He stripped off his gear. He didn’t know how much warmer he could make her—his skin felt chilly. But he could maybe rub some warmth back into her. He’d do his best.
With his gear off, he laid down beside her and pulled her in close. She turned into him, curling again. Her face pressed into his chest. A small hitch in her breathing.
He put his arms around her and rubbed her, trying to work some blood flow and warmth back into her. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. “Get warm.”
A bad tremble seized her, or a cramp—Lee wasn’t sure which. She clutched him tighter. And when it passed after a few seconds, she didn’t let go.
“What about the bleeding, Jules? I gotta do something about the bleeding.”
He felt her head shake again, side to side. “Just get me warm.”
Lee pulled back. “Julia,” he said sternly. “I don’t know if you’re thinking clearly right now. I think I need to do something about the bleeding.”
He felt her hand work free of where it was balled up against his chest, and he felt the cold fingers slide up to his neck, his face. Heard them scrape through his thick stubble. She pulled at him, forcing eye-contact. Her face was scribbled over with pain, but the eyes were firm and lucid.
“I’m thinking clearly,” she said. “I’m shot in the stomach, Lee. Just like that kid Pikes. Even if there was a good medic around, I wouldn’t make it.”
Lee felt the approach of something that he had avoided for a very long time. Something he had not allowed to touch him. Something he had hardened himself to. But Julia was spiking right through that hard crust, and underneath that, he didn’t think he was strong enough to deal with what came next.
Structures were crumbling in the foundation of his brain.
“No,” he said. “Gauze and an occlusive dressing, and then we’ll figure it out. We’ll get you to safety. And we’ll figure it out.”
“You stubborn shit.”
“Julia, I’m not gonna let you give up like that.”
“I’m not…” her voice edged toward anger, but then she stopped, and her hand on his neck became firm. “It could take days for me to die of sepsis. I’ll be sick out of my mind. I won’t even recognize you. That’s how it’s going to happen, Lee. Don’t fucking tell me otherwise, because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I do.” Her hand slipped. Fingers curled around the collar of his shirt. “You’re going to let me bleed out, Lee. Because that hurts less.”
“I’m not gonna let you bleed out,” Lee hissed, because his voice had left him.
“Hold onto me and get me warm.”
And he did, because he didn’t know what else to do except what she told him. Even as he did it, he shook his head in denial. He pulled her in tight, like a bit of driftwood keeping him from sinking into blackness.
Gunships circled like vultures. The rain came down harder. The patter of fat raindrops nearly masked the sound of suppressed gunfire.
What comes next?
What comes next?
He couldn’t picture it. Or refused to.
Next was nothing.
Next was obliteration.
Julia stopped shivering.
He rubbed her more vigorously. Like that could give life. Like friction could solve death. He scrambled for words, sensing the terrible thing continuing its approach, bearing down on him. And he thought of dozens of things to say, and yet they all somehow slipped through his mind like water through his fingers. Like a dream that escapes you as soon as you wake.
The thing was coming, and he had nothing to say.
He would never have another chance. And yet he couldn’t.
And he hated himself for that.
He hated everything.
He wanted to tell her that she was the only good thing that he had left in the world, but his breath had turned to stone. His throat a collapsed tunnel.
The thing had found him.
And Julia could not hear him anyways.
She was already gone.
TWENTY-FIVE
─▬▬▬─
MCNAIR
It’d been almost five minutes since McNair had heard a gunshot.
He stood, tense, locked, in the darkness of the trees, while rain pattered around him, and two miniature hurricanes circled the chunk of land that had become the center of his trap. One of the gunships went overhead right at that moment, stirring up the tree branches and causing fat droplets to trickle down McNair’s collar.
He didn’t take his eyes off the woods in front of him.
He wasn’t even chewing the hard nugget of gum between his teeth—it made too much noise in his head.
His stomach started to cinch up. So far he’d gotten a single confirmed KIA on a Project Hometown operative they hadn’t even expected to be present—some horrific Polish name that McNair couldn’t repeat if he tried.
But still, no one had found the body of Lee Harden, or Abe Darabie, or Terrence Lehy.
It was possible that they were sitting in the smoking ruins of the tank or one of the Humvees. Or they could’ve gotten dashed to mincemeat by a strafing run from the Apaches.
But McNair didn’t think that was the case.
Call him paranoid—and he admitted that he was—and perhaps it was simply because no one had identified the remains yet, but he felt like Harden was still out there. That motherfucker was too damn slippery to die in something so banal as a strafing run.
Darabie and Tex too, for that matter. But if McNair had to go back to Greeley with only one photo of a guy with bullet holes in his head, it would be Harden.
It was going to be Harden.
Other than not finding the right damn bodies, the trap had been flawless. Minimal casualties for them. The birds had taken out the majority of the hostile forces. Some cartel fucks had to die for that to happen, but McNair wasn’t shedding a tear.
The enemy combatants had fled the only direction that they could—across the land bridge, right into these woods, where McNair and his team had been waiting for them. A few passes of machine gun fire from their technicals parked at the edge of the woods, and then they’d gone in on foot to clean up the mess.
Two of his operatives had gone down in a firefight with some of the surviving troops in the woods. But McNair hadn’t expected his team to get off scot-free.
Frankly, it was going better than he’d expected.
Except…no Harden.
&n
bsp; “Anything?” McNair whispered to his left, where Prince stood about five yards away from him in the shadows.
Prince wore his NVGs. McNair didn’t want to spoil his natural night vision just yet. Call him old school, but he still felt like he operated better without the bulky four-tube monstrosities.
“Nada,” Prince mumbled back.
McNair started moving forward again. The wet leaves and pine needles softening his strides. The background of the helicopters and the rain made him virtually silent.
Funny.
His heart had been steady the entire time. Even when they were about to spring the trap—a point in time when, on any other ambush, McNair would have been at his most tense—he’d maintained an almost Zen-like state of calm.
But the missing Harden was now making his pulse thump harder, and quicker.
McNair wasn’t afraid of Harden. Let’s just say…he had a healthy respect for dangerous game. He felt that he was having a pretty reasonable physiological reaction to being in the woods with something that was hunting him back. Something that had a pretty good track record of killing others.
He wasn’t underestimating Lee Harden—that had killed other people.
Neither was he overestimating him. Dangerous or not, he was on the run, surrounded, possibly wounded, probably low on ammunition, and likely angry at having his plan thwarted.
McNair felt that he had Lee Harden pegged pretty solid.
And that was what was going to allow him to take that fucker down.
In a moment of pique, McNair keyed his comms. “McNair to all units. Gimme a sitrep and pos. Sound off.”
They did. One by one, going by two-man teams. McNair still had eight bodies in these woods, including himself and Prince.
They all said that they’d checked every body.
None had seen Harden, or Darabie, or Lehy.
As for their positions, McNair logged them on a mental map of the woods. They’d spread out in a skirmish line. The right side of that line was all the way to the northern bank, near the land bridge.
McNair and Prince were the other side of that skirmish line, all the way to the west.
Which left a small section of woods in the northwestern corner, between McNair and the runoff pond from the power plant’s sluiceway.
