She tucked the pistol into her waistband and then aimed the rifle at the door. “Come on. Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”
He began stripping the guard. When he took the man’s pants off, he found an extra pouch sewn inside the waistline. It was the same size and shape as the hidden pocket he’d found on the shooter’s body when they were inside Tuttle’s trailer. Bunker looked at Daisy and pointed.
She nodded, but kept silent.
He opened the fabric compartment and found something familiar. He took it out—another purple and yellow playing card. Eight-sided like before.
“Looks like someone has a serious hard-on for Pokemon,” Daisy said in a cynical tone. “Is it the same card?”
“No. The characters are different,” Bunker said, studying it for a moment before motioning to the commander’s body on the floor. “Check his pants.”
While Daisy performed the search on the commander, Bunker tied the unconscious guard’s hands behind his back with the same paracord they’d used on him.
He searched the man, finding a heavy duty folding knife in one of his pockets. The stencil on the blade said Benchmade.
Someone has good taste, he mused silently as he put the man’s pants on. The slacks were a little snug, but he managed to fasten the button at the top. He put the knife in the front pocket with its exterior clip on the outside. He slid the weapon over, positioning it where he could access it easily for a fast draw.
For a moment, he thought about slicing the guard’s throat in retaliation for all the man had done. But he chose not to. It would send the wrong message to Daisy. She was already uneasy about his past. A cold-blooded kill would just enflame her doubts.
Bunker put the man’s shirt on and buttoned it, then finished with his shoes. They were two sizes too big, but they’d suffice until he could find his own clothes.
Daisy stood up from the commander’s body and spun around. “Found them!”
“More than one?”
She fanned them out with her fingers. “Three. All different.”
He took the cards and compared them. Daisy was correct. Each card featured a different scene, with various characters and poses. Only the shape of the eight-sided cards and their color scheme were the same.
“What do you think it all means?” she asked.
Bunker took one last look at the cards before sliding them into a pocket. “Beats the hell out of me. But these men are not carrying them around by accident. We’ll have to figure it out later. Let’s get moving,” Bunker said, extending his hand in the direction of the assault rifle she was holding.
She turned to the right, moving the weapon out of reach. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He didn’t respond right away, needing a few moments to process her reaction. Deep down, he wasn’t surprised. Not when he was standing with a proud deputy who wore her badge with honor.
Her view of him had changed from hero to criminal, all because of some artwork etched into his skin. He couldn’t blame her. He hated himself. Why shouldn’t she?
Regardless, lives were at stake. She’d need his help to rescue the others and get everyone out of the camp safely. To do that, he’d need a weapon other than the folder knife in his pants pocket.
“Okay, Daisy, I understand your reluctance. But seeing my tattoos doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to. I’m still the same man who helped save all those kids on the bus—”
“—and helped me take out the shooter at Tuttle’s,” she said, tentatively, like she was thinking it through.
“Exactly. All that’s happened here is that you’ve learned a little more about my past. A past I left behind. Like I’ve said before, I’m no longer that guy. I’m trying to start over and make things right.”
She didn’t answer, her eyes sharp and her posture tense.
“Look, Daisy, we need to work together if we’re going to rescue Stephanie and the kids. You can’t do this alone. You’re gonna need my help and to do that, I need a weapon. Otherwise, there’s zero chance we’ll get everyone back to Clearwater in one piece. You need to trust me, here. Like you’ve been doing all along. Nothing’s changed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bunker led the charge out of the building, his hands wrapped around the assault rifle Daisy had just given him. He’d expected armed resistance from the hostiles once they were outside, but there was none.
He panned the area and waited. No immediate threats were visible. He hoped the men were drawn away by the explosions. However, he wasn’t familiar with the layout of the camp, giving him pause, especially since the area contained plenty of hides that could be used against them.
Jets of warm air washed over his neck from behind, pulsating with regularity. They were from Daisy, standing close and breathing hard with her pistol in hand.
She was understandably nervous. Anyone with a pulse would be, and not just because of the predicament they were facing against an armed force.
A minute ago, their budding friendship had suffered a meltdown, then a tentative reboot. And now, here they were, outside and working together for the greater good. Everything going forward would be about reestablishing trust and taking a leap of faith. He’d taken one with her, and she with him. And he wasn’t about to let her down.
The sun was almost directly overhead, but not at its midday position. The slight angle indicated the time was around 11 AM or 1 PM. No way to know which of those two it was, not unless he found a patch of trees covered with moss to determine north. Then again, he could drive a long stick into the ground and track its shadow for fifteen minutes.
But there wasn’t time for either. Time being the key. Had it been closer to sunrise or sunset, he would have used the low angle of the sun to blind any potential targets, keeping the brightness at his back.
That left him with only his training and experience. Oh, and of course, Daisy. Odds were, none of it was going to be enough. Not in hostile territory against an unknown enemy. Weaponry and ammo were limited and they were without body armor, tactical gear, explosives, and air support.
“Which way?” she asked.
“Let’s work left to right. I’ll take point. You cover me,” he answered, eyes scanning the sprawling camp that covered a full acre.
Three wooden shacks stood to the right, opposite from the two on the left. Each looked like the wooden hovel they’d just escaped from: decaying walls and rundown roofs with steps leading up to the front door. The vertical slats filling in the walls were a dull gray instead of a vibrant brown, showing signs of extreme weathering.
Everywhere he looked, Bunker saw piles of junk dotting the landscape. Most of it was old mining equipment, rusting after years of neglect. However, there were also strands of broken fences, several toppled water barrels, and at least five stacks of rotting lumber.
Beyond the last pile of wood sat an old-fashioned windmill with two of its four blades missing. Its dilapidated base had it leaning to one side, preparing it for certain death after the next windstorm.
Wild grass and waist-high weeds had taken over most of the clearing, covering the dirt between the buildings like an invasion of green carpet. He could see several trampled paths cutting through the foliage, connecting the buildings to each other. The fresh condition of the paths meant the enemy had only been in camp a few days. Otherwise the crushed stalks would have died and blown away, exposing the dirt to the sun.
Bunker was thankful the wind wasn’t an issue at the moment, the air crisp and still. Had the flora been swaying in a breeze, spotting movement would have been much more difficult. A calm landscape allowed him to use his peripheral vision, watching for discrepancies as he began to move forward.
Ten steps later, something caught his eye—an out-of-place shadow in the weeds ahead. Just then, it changed on its own, shifting positions and getting smaller.
He stopped and dropped to one knee, holding up a closed fist to Daisy to tell her to freeze. He put out an arm and lower
ed it with his palm facing down, instructing her to get low. He turned to check on her. She’d followed his commands. He pointed his index finger at the terrain ahead.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in a whisper, crouching low.
“Movement ahead,” he answered quietly, wishing she’d stick to hand signals to avoid unnecessary conversation.
“Where?”
“In the grass. Ten o’clock. Just this side of the windmill.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Someone’s there, trust me. The shadows aren’t right.”
“Okay then, why aren’t they shooting?”
“Good question. They’ve had plenty of opportunity.”
“What if it’s the kids? Or Stephanie?”
“Doubtful.”
She hesitated for a few moments before speaking again. “Yeah, you’re right. They’d be calling out to us by now.”
“Yes, they would, assuming they could somehow manage to escape on their own. Not likely,” Bunker said, pointing at the small building to the left. It was about fifty feet away. “I’m gonna make my way over there and see if I can get a better angle on the target.”
Daisy pointed to the right with the pistol, at a pile of decaying lumber. “I’m gonna set up there. Better sightlines. They could come at us from anywhere.”
Bunker agreed. “Aim small, shoot small,” he told her, hoping to instill caution since she only had a handgun with limited range and ammo. She’d have to make every shot count.
Daisy nodded with confidence before moving in a crouched stance to the stack of 2x8s with weeds surrounding it on all sides.
Bunker brought the rifle into firing position, nestling the butt of the stock into the soft flesh of his shoulder. He kept both eyes open as he looked through the red dot optics mounted on the top rail of the weapon. He advanced, using a low profile tactical stance with knees bent. His trigger finger was straight and positioned above the trigger guard, waiting for a target to present itself.
Along the way, he came across a wooden platform, about four feet square. Someone had cleared the weeds in the immediate area, then placed four equally sized rocks as posts for the corners of the half-sheet of plywood. The wood had seen its better days, rotting from years of exposure to rain and sun, but it looked relatively level. There was a black letter painted across the center—a large X, with a two-foot diameter circle drawn around it in black. It wasn’t faded or distressed, so it was new.
He wasn’t sure what to make of it. It looked like a shooting target, but there weren’t any bullet holes in the plywood. Plus, someone had built a rock base for the platform, indicating it was meant to be horizontal. Then again, perhaps they just wanted to keep the wood out of the mud when it rained.
Bunker continued, making it to the corner of the building without issue. He pressed his back against the wall to register a zero signature, giving his adversary nothing to shoot at. He peered around the corner to see if he could spot the target from the new location. The shadow was still there, hiding in the weeds. Whoever it was hadn’t moved.
The tightness in his chest had him on full alert. He knew advancing from here would take him directly into the line of fire. A trap could be waiting, possibly a triangulation of fire if the person wasn’t alone.
Bunker brought his eyes around and checked on Daisy. She was still behind the lumber, peeking over the top layer of boards with her pistol at the ready.
Before he could get her attention, she swung her head and looked behind her, then checked the forest to each side.
He waited until her eyes were forward again, then flashed a series of hand signals to inform her he was going to advance on the enemy’s position.
Daisy nodded, then repositioned herself a few feet to her left, near the end of the lumber stack.
Bunker dropped to the ground and began a commando crawl into the grass. Once inside, he broke off a handful of weeds and stuffed them into the collar of his shirt as camouflage. He did the same with his hair, weaving stalks at angles to hide his head and neck. He finished with the sleeves of the clothing he’d stolen, stuffing them as well.
Once the makeover was complete, he took a moment to reflect on the changes to his outfit. The improvised camo wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a forest green Ghillie suit right about now. Or a few grenades—smoke or flashbang, either would work. Hell, if he had a 50cal or a .338, he’d lay down a spray and cover the target in lead.
Next, he took the knife he’d recovered from the guard and dug it deep into the soil. He cut around in a circle to loosen the soil and tear a clump of grass free. He shook the dirt loose, then draped the clump over the end of his rifle before knotting the longer roots to secure it around the barrel.
When his eyes spotted a dozen or so pebbles in the vicinity, he decided to pick them up and stuff them into his pocket. They might come in handy.
If it had rained recently, he would’ve finished by smearing wet dirt across his face. A little battle paint would’ve bolstered his chances, helping his white skin blend into the surroundings.
All that was missing was the wind. If he had the religious conviction of Stephanie King, he’d ask God to kick up a swirl to help to cover his approach. Without it, the target might notice a change in the landscape when Bunker closed the thirty yards of distance.
Even with his stealth crawl, there were no guarantees. All it would take was the snap of a twig to give away his position. The success or failure of this operation was going to come down to one thing: who spotted the other first.
He sucked in a deep breath and held it, focusing all his thoughts. His warrior self was hiding inside—somewhere—buried deep under a glacier of guilt. He hadn’t felt the beast since the moment he was discharged from active duty, even during his days riding with the Kindred.
It took a few seconds, but he managed to summon the demon. Its raw strength poured into his body, supercharging his heart with energy. He wasn’t sure how long it would remain, but he planned to unleash hell while he had it under control.
Someone was dying in the next few minutes, and it wasn’t going to be him. Or Daisy. Or any of his other friends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bunker continued his slither through the underbrush, figuring he was about fifteen yards from the last known position of the shadow. A shadow that didn’t belong. A shadow with death on its agenda—his and Daisy’s.
He brought another knee forward, then his opposite elbow. So far he’d been ultra quiet during his approach, feeling confident the target wasn’t aware of his position.
Bunker stopped moving when more of the dark figure came into view. The weeds and grass didn’t allow him to see every detail of his opponent, but someone was there all right, allowing Bunker to begin a tactical assessment.
The person’s legs were to the left, but their shoes were pointing up, not down or to the side as expected. The shoes were heavy soled and a black color, just like the rest of the tango’s clothing.
Bunker leaned to the left, changing his angle to peer through the stalks. He could only see the middle portion of a face. The broad, distinct nose and the size of the feet told him it was a man, his eyes facing the sky. He didn’t appear to be moving, either. Time to find out why.
Bunker took three of the pebbles from his pocket and lobbed them into the sky at his target. They sailed past the man as intended, thanks to the force behind his throw. He heard them land, snapping a twig and crunching some grass.
The target should have reacted to the sounds, but he didn’t.
Was he dead?
Unconscious?
Or just playing possum?
There was no way to be sure. Not from this distance and not with the thicket of weeds in the way. Regardless, if Bunker took the shot now, he could end the threat.
He brought the cold steel of the AR-10 into position, resting the barrel on a thick mound of grass. It only took a second to bring the sights to bear.
Normally, he’d aim for the most lethal area on the human body—the gap between the nose and mouth, where a bullet could penetrate quickly and sever the spinal cord. But that location wasn’t an option. A temple shot was his only choice, though the limited sightlines would make a precision shot difficult.
His plan was to engage after an exhale, once everything with his body was calm. To do that, he focused his breathing, pacing each breath until his hands steadied.
When he was ready, he brought the tip of his finger down and lightly put it on the trigger. The brush of metal against his skin felt amazing.
Just then, a haunting phrase from his drill sergeant echoed in his brain. Bullets are forever. Verify your target.
The nostalgic words connected with his logic, making him move his trigger finger back to the safe position. He brought his head up and looked over the weapon’s optics to take one last look at the man in the grass.
The target began to stir a moment later, sitting up in a hunch, torso leaning over its legs.
Bunker reacted, snapping twigs as his eyes and hands worked together to bring the red dot back to its target. The instant the sights were lined up, his brain sent the command to fire to his finger. The instant he felt the resistance of the sear engage, the man turned his head and looked at Bunker.
Shit! It’s Franklin Atwater! Megan’s dad!
Bunker jerked the rifle as the hammer sent the round down the barrel. The recoil rammed the folding stock into his shoulder, thanks to the awkward, unsteady rifle position. When the shot was over, Bunker turned the muzzle toward the sky and held a quick breath, waiting to see if his friend had been hit.
Franklin never moved. Not a flinch. Not a duck for cover. Instead, he just sat there, blinking, his eyes glazed over and locked into position, staring at Bunker.
Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 2) Page 15
