by D. J. Molles
Out of the corner of his vision, he could tell they were looking right at him.
Shit.
He felt the weight of the pistol shoved in the front of his waistband. It would be one quick move. He could take them if he did it now. The one with the canine had only a pistol strapped to his thigh, and his companion still had his rifle slung.
Bellamy reached up and pulled his watch cap lower, so that the edge of it covered his eyebrows. Perhaps it would obscure his features. Make him less recognizeable.
“Excuse me, soldier,” the guard with the canine called.
Shit, shit, shit.
Bellamy stopped walking and tilted his head back. “Marine.”
The soldier with the canine was wrapping his dog’s lead around his hand several times, shortening the leash. The two soldiers and the dog stood about five feet from Bellamy. The dog sniffed at him, but made no aggressive movements.
“What’s that?” the soldier with the canine asked.
“I’m a Marine.” Bellamy tried a cocksure smile. “Not a soldier.”
The two soldiers exchanged a glance that turned into an eye-roll. “Roger that, Marine. See your ID?”
Bellamy took the ID from around his neck. He had to clench it between his thumb and all four of his fingers to keep them from trembling. He pushed it into the soldier’s waiting hand, rather than holding it up for inspection, knowing that they’d see the shake if he did.
The soldier gave the ID a very cursory glance, then handed it back. “And where you headed, Sergeant Gilmore?”
Bellamy was almost shocked. He didn’t think he looked much like the Sergeant Gilmore he’d swiped the ID from—that guy had been ten years younger.
He recovered quickly. “Yellow Zone.”
“Yeah. What for?”
Bellamy sighed. “Get my dick sucked, if you must know.”
The two soldiers snickered to each other.
The soldier with the canine lifted an eyebrow. “How much you paying?”
Bellamy shifted. “A thousand k-cals.”
The soldier cringed. “Double wrap that shit, my friend. Anyone cheaper than two thousand is definitely got the herps.”
“Definitely,” agreed the other soldier.
Still chuckling to themselves, the two soldiers continued on their way.
Bellamy let out a long, shaking breath, then put the ID around his neck again.
He had no more run-ins with patrols.
The coyote waited for him three blocks into the Yellow Zone, right at the street corner he’d promised to be at.
It was a man that had maybe five or ten years on Bellamy. Balding on top. The rest of his hair cut short. A week’s worth of graying stubble on his weathered face. His eyes were suspicious and restless. They hit Bellamy’s face, recognized him, then continued to scan.
“Payment first,” were the first words out of his mouth.
Bellamy nodded, then pulled a ration card from his pocket. The coyote snatched it up like he was afraid someone might see it, then, holding it surreptitiously between him and the wall of the building at which he stood, he perused it.
“This is five thousand a day. Two adults, two kids.” The way the coyote said it—like he was displeased.
Bellamy frowned at him. “That’s what we agreed upon.”
“Yeah.” The coyote glared at him. “That’s before you were wanted by Lineberger and Cornerstone.”
Bellamy swallowed. “How’d you know about that?”
“I’ve got sources,” he growled.
“Well, it’s gonna hafta be good enough,” Bellamy said, finding his temper rising along with his urgency to get out of there. “That’s what the deal was for. That’s what I brought. I can’t just go back and get more at this point.”
The coyote pocketed the ration card. Looked Bellamy over. “You armed?”
Bellamy tightened up. “Why?”
“Because I might could trade you for it.”
“No fucking way.”
The coyote held up a placating hand. “You’ll still have a weapon, cool your tits. It just won’t be as nice as the one you probably got in your keester.” The coyote looked momentarily worried. “You don’t actually have it in your ass, do you?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Glock 19.”
“Mmm.” The coyote seemed to be considering it. “Fine. I’ll take the ration card and the 19. I got a revolver you can have.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“That’s the deal.”
“No, the ration card was the fucking deal.”
A shrug. “That’s the deal,” the coyote repeated.
Bellamy was up against a wall, and the coyote knew it. He let out one more venomous curse and then nodded. “Fine. Deal.”
The coyote held out a hand. “Payment first.”
“Fuck that. We’ll exchange the revolver and the pistol at the same damn time.”
The coyote’s eyes bounced back and forth between Bellamy’s for a few seconds. Another shrug. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”
The coyote spun on his heel and started walking away.
Bellamy went after him.
He watched the man’s back, and he looked around himself, feeling warier now that the deal had been done. Like he was more exposed. Perhaps it was simply the fact that they’d almost not made a deal at all. Maybe that was making Bellamy feel like something had gone wrong.
The coyote, one step ahead of Bellamy, turned his head, glancing across the street.
Bellamy followed the look.
A man stood outside of a building. Had he been looking at them? He wasn’t now—he gazed off down the street, as though waiting on someone else to arrive.
One of the coyote’s men, perhaps?
Ahead of him, the coyote looked like he was angling for an alleyway.
Bellamy didn’t like alleyways.
The mouth of it opened up to the left. A narrow one, sandwiched between two brick-front buildings.
Bellamy didn’t want to go into that alleyway, and he was about to say something about it, but the coyote didn’t slow his pace, nor did he turn into the alley. He kept walking. But as he stepped across the opening, his hands went up.
Tugged at the collar of his jacket.
In any other circumstance, it might’ve seemed like a natural move.
It stopped Bellamy dead in his tracks.
About three feet from the corner of the alley—one step.
The coyote took another two strides before turning back and frowning at Bellamy, and almost looking natural at it. “You coming?” he said. But there was a tremor in his voice. His eyes darted again.
In the direction of the other guy across the street.
The one that looked like he was waiting for a friend.
Bellamy stared at the coyote.
The coyote stared back.
Perhaps it was Bellamy’s imagination, but he thought the man across the street was staring at him too.
In a flash, Bellamy ripped up the front of his hooded sweatshirt and snatched the Glock from his waistband.
The coyote was moving.
So was the guy across the street.
Bellamy punched out, two-handed, and fired three rounds, all of them hitting the coyote square in the chest as he tried to draw his own pistol. He failed, with the pistol not even out of his waistband. He died with his fingers still wrapped around the grip, his legs going out from under him and his body toppling to the curb.
Bellamy spun in place, forcing his feet to move.
Across the street, the other guy came up with a weapon. Bellamy didn’t wait to see what it was. As he cut sideways across the street, diagonal to the man and away from the alleyway, he fired in a steady, controlled rhythm and managed to land four out of the eight shots that he made.
The man across the street slumped against the building, a pistol-grip shotgun in his hand.
Bellamy ran.
He
knew he only had a few bullets left in that magazine. He needed to change it. He angled for another alleyway that would be about twenty-five yards from the one that the coyote had tried to lead him across, and started digging in his pants pocket for his spare magazine.
He never got it.
A bullet hit him square in the back, severing his spine.
He hit the pavement, face-planting out of a full sprint. His arms and legs were useless. He stared at the concrete in front of his face, and he tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He wanted to look up and over, to where that shot had come from, to see where the threat was.
He wanted to fight back.
He hadn’t even had a chance to fight.
He’d spent all this time sneaking around, and he’d never had a chance to fight!
The last seconds of John Bellamy’s life were spent staring at the same bit of concrete, trying with every fiber of his being to get his head to turn, to feel the pistol in his hand, to fight.
The next round, wherever it came from, put him down forever.
***
Daniels strode out into the street. The denizens of the Yellow Zone were already gathering like the curious little monkeys they were, hooting and hollering back and forth as they stared at the dead body that lay crumpled on the concrete.
You’d think they’d never seen a dead body before.
My God, how quickly people regressed to their former, softer ways.
“Get these fucking people outta here,” Daniels snapped at one of his Cornerstone operators, who turned and relayed the same barking command out to a few others, and they in turn began to push the crowd back, not-so-subtly threatening them with force.
He came to a stop at the feet of John Bellamy. The leak.
The traitor.
He was already dead.
Daniels was intimately familiar with the look. Death left no doubts.
The man on the ground was slumped and limp and boneless, like he’d been poured there out of a sack of liquid rubber. His eyes were half open. Bits of concrete dust sat on the surface of his eyes, and they’d already gone dry and filmed over. No more blinking for old John Bellamy.
“Self-important prick,” Daniels murmured to himself.
His satphone rang in his pocket. He’d begun carrying it with him everywhere, as things had been heating up to the point that it was impractical not to.
He grunted in irritation as he dragged it out. Goddamned Lineberger, nagging him for a sitrep, when Daniels had clearly told him that he would contact him when the operation was concluded…
But when Daniels looked at the number that was calling him, it wasn’t Lineberger.
It was Mateo Ibarra.
***
The head of the Nuevas Fronteras cartel stood amid smoke and death, at the Comanche Peak Power Plant.
He stood at a high point, on the very top of the main building, because it provided him a good vantage of everything that was happening, although, in the darkness of the early morning hours, there wasn’t much to see but the flashes of his men’s weaponlights and headlamps.
All around him the smell of spent propellant still managed to hang in the air. Something about the rain that made it stick around. And the tang of high explosives. Not yet the rot of bodies, but that would come soon enough. Mateo wasn’t going to trouble his men with disposing of this many bodies. Let the locos have them.
The earpiece of the phone he held crackled faintly as the connection opened.
A slight hesitation.
“This is Daniels,” the man answered. Cautiously.
“Hello, Mister Daniels,” Mateo smiled as he spoke. “This is Mateo Ibarra. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Another pause. “And what’s that?”
Mateo looked down from the rooftop at the bodies below. Dozens of them. Dark against the light-colored concrete. Some of them were in pieces. His men moved between them, checking faces—if the body had a face to check.
Looking for Terrence Lehy. Or Lee Harden. Or Abe Darabie.
So far, they had not been found.
“Well, if you were waiting for your Mister McNair to contact you, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
***
Daniels didn’t notice his grip on the satphone tightening until his fingertips started to ache. And his ear. Which he was vigorously pressing the phone against.
Mateo Ibarra’s words bounced around his head.
What was that supposed to mean?
“Did you…?” Daniels husked, but didn’t finish his thought.
“Oh, no,” Mateo said over the line, his voice sounding like he felt he had made some sort of social gaff. “I don’t mean to imply that I had them killed or anything like that. Although…” and here, his voice became harder. “…I will express to you that I’m not very pleased with how this was handled. I would have liked your man McNair to explain to me that my men’s lives here at the power plant were disposable bait. I might have chosen less valuable individuals. But, as it stands, since McNair is no longer among the living, I guess we’ll call it even.”
Daniels found his respiration increasing. Hissing in his throat. He closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling like the floor had been removed from underneath him. “What…what are you saying right now, Mateo?”
“I’m saying that, with the exception of your two helicopter pilots, the entire team of soldiers you sent down here is dead.”
“How did they die?”
Mateo actually laughed. “Well, that is most strange, Mister Daniels. I cannot tell you exactly how they died, since my men are dead themselves, and your helicopter pilots have orders not to speak to me.”
Daniels still couldn’t bear to open his eyes. Phantom lights sparkled behind his eyelids. “Did Lee Harden take the power plant?” he asked, incredulous.
“No, no. Nobody took the power plant. It was quite the massacre, as I’m sure your pilots will outline for you, once they re-establish contact. Everyone died.” Another chuckle, but this time there was something voracious behind it. “Well, not everyone. Because it appears that several very important bodies have yet to be found. Namely, Lee Harden, Abe Darabie, and Terrence Lehy. Strange, don’t you think?” Mateo’s voice dropped to a deadpan growl. “Nearly a hundred people dead. Except for the three motherfuckers that were supposed to be dead.”
Daniels finally opened his eyes. Even in the darkness, everything seemed overbright. He swallowed. Gathered himself. “Mateo, once I speak to the helicopter pilots and get the story from them, I’ll be sure to contact you and arrange—”
“Don’t bother,” Mateo said, quietly. “I’ve had enough of your help for today. For now, you should receive your last shipment of oil very soon, if you do not have it in hand already. Any future transactions between us will be on hold until I find and deal with this problem myself.”
Daniels looked down at the body. Trying for a valuable card that might stave off Nuevas Fronteras cutting off the flow of fuel to Greeley. “We took out Bellamy. He was the leak.”
A long hiss of breath from the other end. “Do you believe that this indebts me to you? John Bellamy was your leak. Your problem. I have not had any problems in my house, because my house is clean. I am glad you are getting your house in order. And yet it seems that business between us has not been profitable. I hope that you can correct that in the future.”
“Mateo—” Daniels started to object.
But Mateo Ibarra had already hung up.
THIRTY
─▬▬▬─
REBORN
Lee walked with Julia, through the Butler Safe Zone, twenty minutes after everyone else had already gone to bed, and he was at peace.
Inasmuch as he was able, given their circumstances.
But he thought to himself—and never said it out loud, because he thought it would be hokey—that on the other side of this thing, when the dust had settled and he was back at Fort Bragg and he was traini
ng the next generation of fighters, maybe they could just be together, him and Julia.
Maybe they could have peace.
***
He had died.
Somewhere between the mud and the air.
He was reborn in amniotic waters as black as midnight. As black as the space between stars.
His first breath was a primordial gasp.
And then he went under again.
Each breath formed him as he took it. A golem from the depths, gaining life as it breathed air. And after each breath, he went under and swam through the darkness. And in the darkness he wondered.
Why was he here?
He only knew of one thing, around which his very being had been formed. He knew only war and death. So that must be why he was here.
Eventually, exhausted to the brink of dying, he floated.
On his back, letting the tide take him.
At first, the sky above him was black and sightless. Formless and void. But then the rain stopped pouring, and gradually the blackness of the clouds parted, and the cold light of stars winked down at him, and the moon, a pale orb like a dead man’s eye, stared at him.
The golem stared back.
***
Two men meet.
There is no one there to witness it. They are in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, on a quiet shoreline on the north side of Squaw Creek Reservoir. All around them, the darkened world waits. Lurks. Hunts.
The one who had been watching the other from the shoreline, he leans down and grasps the other’s arm. And the man in the water, not expecting it, lurches up and reaches for the other man’s throat.
They halt in mid-combat with each other.
Recognizing each other as only brothers can.
Sodden and dripping and trembling, Lee Harden wilts. Abe Darabie catches his weight with a grunt, and pulls him out of the water and into the pine needle-strewn shore.
They had not expected to find each other, but neither are they surprised. Nothing could surprise them at this point. They are both beyond such things.
