Page crossed through the cashier lanes to the other side of the building. He found the entrance to the kitchen and went in. It was time to wrap this up, stop messing around. He believed the video his helmet had sent back to Command was enough to show recruits what could be done. He’d incorporated many of the features built into the helmet:
Night vision prior to Hutch turning on the lights, when he’d scared the woman and kids into hiding. The targeting system on the guard and that punk kid. The helmet’s trajectory warning had saved his butt when Hutch had shot through the waterfall.
The Behavioral Pattern Analysis software had even predicted Hutch’s quick second shot. Page had read about archers of old who could fire twelve, fourteen well-placed arrows in a single minute. He’d had no idea people still practiced that archaic skill, and certainly no clue that Hutch was one of them. But the system had known. It had analyzed Hutch’s pattern of fighting—at the motel, the parking lot, and the downtown rooftop.
Page could not remember Hutch shooting his bow like that. He had not seen all the action on the rooftop. Ian had replayed for him only the “Page, stop!” clip, because Ian had thought it hilarious. Apparently somewhere during those battles, the system picked up on the hunter’s skill and inclination to quickly reshoot, and it had warned Page. That’s what it was all about. Page himself did not have to know everything, did not have to keep everything in mind. Not when he had systems to do it for him.
Page felt immensely satisfied. He was wrapping up a problem that had confounded two fireteams, the one that had blown it at the motel in Washington and the one here. He had scratched the itch for action he’d felt since returning from Baghdad six months earlier. And he was about to pluck from his side the thorn named John Hutchinson. Overall, it had been a good day.
After taking care of the people in this building, he’d have some cleanup to do. Their bodies. Michael in police custody. Michael’s father in the hospital in Kirkland. And leaving Emile’s corpse at the scene downtown was no good at all. He believed Ian had already put into motion everything they needed to come out smelling as sweet as a vintage Havana . . . as he had done with that fiasco in Canada.
He left the kitchen through the door that serviced the dining area in the caves, mines, whatever. Who in their right mind would eat in here anyway? Instead of ascending the stairs as he had done before, he crossed through a hallway to a game room. Coming to another arched entryway, he poked his head out and pulled it back in. He’d seen a cobblestoned area with a wishing well and an empty easel and chairs. Signs and sample drawings advertised caricatures.
On the far side of the space were two flights of stairs. One led to the cavern behind the waterfall, the other to a dark, cavelike opening, above which were a Jolly Roger skull and crossbones and the sign marked BLACK BART’S HIDEAWAY. Minutes ago, Hutch had been in the cavern. Since his enemy had seen him head down the ramp on the other side of the building, Page suspected that this was the way Hutch would come next.
Page eased out onto the cobblestoned area. He stayed close to the wall, where a thatch overhang provided a shadowy spot to wait. Movement under the cavern steps caught him off guard. But that was fine, just a matter of lowering his aim a few feet. The infrared overlay in his face mask picked up Hutch’s body heat before he was visible in the light. The helmet’s targeting system placed blue crosshairs on him. Another set of crosshairs appeared, as a second, smaller, and much less radiant body-heat signature came into view, clinging to Hutch’s side.
Well, how nice, Page thought. They found each other, father and son. The boy must have stayed in the water, the cold shielding him from the helmet’s infrared. Warming up now, he was starting to glow. The two stepped cautiously into the light, passing the cavern stairs. Hutch had his bow in hand, the arrow ready to shoot.
Won’t help you this time, Page thought. He lifted his machine pistol, and the blue crosshairs over Hutch turned red. He shifted it slightly until the boy’s crosshairs turned red. He kept his aim as the two stepped onto the stairs leading into Black Bart’s cave.
Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones. Page spun to see a police officer running toward him, gun drawn and pointing. Page fired his machine gun into the man’s chest. The cop screamed and flew backward. When he hit the ground, something happened, a trick of the light. He flickered and seemed to fade. A yell off to Page’s left gave him no time to think. He pivoted to find a ninja.
“Ian!” Page yelled. He slammed his fist into the side of the helmet. “Ian!”
The ninja spun his weapons before him and ran for Page.
Page shot him and turned back to finish off Hutch and his son. They were gone. His heads-up display flashed an icon, and a beep sounded in his ears. He sidestepped in time to avoid an arrow that came out of the cave’s mouth and stuck into a wall beside him. He rolled through the archway into the game room. A soldier thrust a bayoneted rifle at him. He dodged and fired.
“Ian, what are you doing? Ian!”
A small screen appeared in the corner of his display—picture-in-picture was the technical term. Julian glared at him from it.
“Sorry, Dad,” Julian said, “Colonel Bryson is, uh . . . I guess you could say he’s out right now.”
“Julian, what the hell are you doing? This is not a game. Now is not the time to be—”
“Just learning the system, like you said I should.”
“Where is Ian? Put him on now.”
Julian’s hand filled the screen. The control room flashed by. The camera moved toward the door, which opened. It tilted and settled on Ian, sprawled facedown on stairs. His feet were closest to the camera, several steps above his body. His head, a mass of dark curly locks, rested on the landing below. The camera panned and jiggled again, then settled in its usual position. Julian reappeared. The boy said, “I told you, he’s out.”
“Julian, what have you done? Leave the control room now. Get back to your quarters before I—”
Julian squinted at something, reached for it, and another ninja came screaming out of the dining room. Page shot it—he had found long ago that he could not stand ignoring the avatars while they pranced around him, hacking and shooting. They would not go away until killed or turned off by Command.
“Julian . . .” Page did not know what to say.
Julian leaned close to the camera. His cheeks were flushed, his lips white from being pressed together so tightly. A tear streaked down his face. He said, “Leave those people alone. Leave all of us alone. I won’t be here when you get back.” He lowered his head.
Page heard clicking, a lot of clicking. A soldier appeared between the skeet ball machines. Another from a different era popped into being near a glass display of trinkets. A Pygmy warrior, blow dart in hand—
Page fumbled for his chinstrap, unsnapped it, and tore off his helmet. He sent it flying into a pinball machine. His heart raced—and not in the way it did when he conquered an enemy, not in a way it had for a long time. This was frustration, fury. He stepped to the trinket display case and set down his weapon. His hands roamed over his pockets, found his cigar holder, and pulled it out. One left, a Romeo y Julieta Churchill. He closed the holder and slipped it back into his pocket: better to wait, to make a celebratory smoke after he’d bagged his prey.
Okay, he thought. Let’s do this.
He snatched up the machine gun and strode toward the mines.
SEVENTY-TWO
“What happened?” Logan said.
Hutch squatted just inside the mouth of Black Bart’s Hideaway. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “He started firing, but not at us.”
“Are there other people here?”
Hutch shook his head. He stood, touched Logan’s shoulder, and said, “Come on.”
They wound deeper into the cave, which was Casa Bonita’s version of a haunted house. Hutch rounded a corner. A light flashed onto a skeleton. The thing screamed pathetically. Hutch almost put an arrow in it. A couple more scares, and they reached the plank bridge.
He knelt and craned his head to look under it. “Laura,” he said. “Macie, Dillon, you there?”
No one—no movement, no sound.
“Logan, how far back does it go?”
“Not very. They’re not there. Dad, where do you think—?”
Something touched Hutch’s shoulder. He whirled, swinging his bow around.
“It’s me, it’s me,” Laura said. “I’m sorry. I whispered. You didn’t hear me.”
Hutch reached out and grabbed her arm. “Where—?”
Macie pushed around Laura and jumped at Logan. She wrapped her arms around him. “Logie!”
Logan returned the embrace. “I never thought I’d say this, but I missed you, Macie.”
Laura stepped aside, and Dillon leaned in to give Hutch a quick squeeze.
“I thought you’d be under the bridge,” Hutch said.
“We were,” Dillon said, “for a long time.”
Laura said, “We heard the shooting. It sounded like it was getting close. I wanted to see if there was a better place to hide or an exit or something.”
“Page is out there,” Hutch said. “That guy . . .” He shook his head. “He seems to know my every move. He was tracking me perfectly.” He thought a moment. “Then he just started shooting at I don’t know what and ran into the game room. It’s been quiet for a while. He’s pulling something, maybe sneaking back around.”
“What are we gonna do?” Dillon said.
Hutch locked on Laura’s eyes. “I need you to stay here with the kids. Hide a little longer. Can you do that?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m going to try to draw him away,” Hutch said. “There’s kind of a house setup. It’s above the main ramp, pretty high. If I can get onto the roof, I’ll have a good vantage point. When you hear shooting, run as fast as you can through the game room, then into the mines. I think that will lead you to the kitchen. It’ll have an exit.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Logan said.
Hutch cupped his hand against the boy’s cheek. “You have to, son. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Promise?”
Hutch could only look into Logan’s eyes, which started brimming. “None of that,” Hutch said. “I’m counting on you to be strong.”
The muscles in Logan’s face tightened. He nodded firmly.
Hutch smiled at Macie. Words were forming in his mouth, when Dillon said, “Mom has a gun.”
Hutch snapped his eyes to her.
She held it out to him. It was a large automatic, .40 or 9mm. “Got it off the dead security guard,” she said with a shaky smile. “I heard Page in another part of the building and went looking for anything that would help. I should have taken the kids. We could have gotten out. I just . . . I just . . .”
“You didn’t know,” Hutch said. He closed her fingers around the pistol. “You keep it,” he said. “I’m no good with guns, and I’ll feel better knowing you have it.” He looked around at all of their faces, said, “Can all of you fit under the bridge until it’s time to run? Just in case he comes through this way.”
“Not all of us,” Logan said.
Laura said, “You kids get under. I’ll stand back in the shadows.”
Hutch stood. He watched the children slip under the bridge and disappear into the darkness.
Laura whispered, “You can’t do this.”
“What choice do we have?” he said.
“You said he knows your every move. He’ll get you before you get there, you know it. Hutch, you can’t— What is it?”
“I’m thinking,” he said. “All right, all right. You know something?”
“Tell me.”
“He doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Page heard Hutch coming.
He knew Hutch preferred high ground—a tree, a roof, a scaffold. Page had noticed how the structures in the restaurant climbed higher as they approached the right front corner of the building. There were two routes to that area, maybe more. He figured Hutch would choose the one he was most recently familiar with. So Page had slipped into the cantina and ducked down behind the bar. Now he heard a floorboard groan near the door to the cavern behind the waterfall: Hutch had entered the cantina. He waited until Hutch had passed and stepped through the opposite exit. He rose and came up behind Hutch as he started up a flight of stairs. “Even without technology,” he said.
Hutch froze.
“Drop the bow,” Page said. “You’re fast with it, but not faster than my trigger finger.”
He watched the bow and arrow fall out of Hutch’s hand. They clattered on the tile steps and tumbled down. Hutch turned to face him. He said, “Listen, it doesn’t have to end this way. I know you want me off your back.”
Page said, “Oh, I want much more than that, now.” He began backing away from the cantina, through the resort. “Join me, won’t you? I just want to get my . . .” He leaned over to a table where he had balanced his cigar on the edge. He puffed on it, getting a heady billow of smoke. He plucked it from between his lips and held it up. “This is how sure I was I had you. My victory smoke.”
Page’s finger stiffened over his machine gun’s trigger as Hutch descended the stairs. If Hutch so much as blinked wrong, he’d end it here and now. His muscles and joints were beginning to feel the day’s exertions. He had better things to do than continue chasing this guy.
Hutch walked closer. He said, “You’re not going to tell me how smart you are before shooting me, are you? I’ve seen that movie.”
Page nodded. He pulled in more smoke, blew it out. “Me too. I just want to give you one chance, a very brief chance, to save your children.”
Hutch’s eyes narrowed.
“There are many ways to win a game,” Page said. “I’ll let you choose how I win. I shoot you, then run through the building, lobbing hand grenades into the places I can’t see. Just for good measure, I’ll chain the doors and set the place on fire before I leave. Or . . .”
Another puff—this thing was fantastic, despite having not been toasted correctly.
“Or you call everybody out. I shoot only you and the woman.”
Hutch scowled at him skeptically. “Not the kids?”
“Call me gracious. Besides, thanks to you, I’m short a few soldiers. From what I’ve seen, these kids would fit right into my program. Just call them, Hutch. I know you will. Same way I knew where you would be heading.” He shook his head. “Predictable.” He smiled and drew in a big breath of smoke.
The shot rang out behind him. His cigar tilted out of his fingers. Hutch was moving for his bow.
Page pulled the trigger—or tried to. His hand wasn’t working. The gun slipped loose and fell to the floor. He turned to see the woman, not ten feet away, holding a pistol in her shaking hands. He dropped to his knees, keeping his body upright; at least he could do that. Tasted something. Cedar, coffee, blood. He felt the air escaping from his lungs. He looked down to see blood oozing from a hole in his shirt. It bubbled, and smoke came out. He watched it form a perfect ring and drift away. He glared at it until all the color was gone from his vision.
He heard the woman say, “Did you predict that?”
Everything . . . smoky . . . gray . . . black . . .
Page fell backward. His feet and lower legs were tucked under him. He appeared to be staring at the smoke drifting from his nose, mouth, and incredibly, from the hole in his chest Laura had made.
“I thought you were going to just push the gun into his back, tell him to drop it,” Hutch said.
“Did you hear what he wanted to do with our children?” she said. She dropped the pistol. “Do you think we would have ever been rid of him? He would have found a way . . .” She dropped the gun and lowered her face into her palms.
Hutch pulled off his jacket. He unstrapped the ballistic vest he had retrieved from the floor beside the lagoon. Wearing it had made walking into Page’s ambush a little less frightening, but only a littl
e. He let it drop away. He stepped forward and kicked Page’s gun over the edge, where it splashed into the lagoon below. He patted down the body, finding a big knife and a pistol in an ankle holster. These went into the water as well. He stepped over Page and went to Laura. He wrapped her in his arms. “Shhh.”
Logan’s face appeared from around the stonelike structure that was Black Bart’s Hideaway. Hutch gave him a thumbs-up. He came running out, Macie and Dillon right on his heels.
“Look,” he said, turning Laura to see the children coming around the lagoon. “You did it for them.”
She let out a shaky laugh, and knelt to receive their hugs.
SEVENTY-FOUR
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Can you live with having killed a man?” Hutch asked.
He was standing next to a bench, one foot propped up on it. Laura sat on the bench. They watched Logan, Macie, and Dillon playing in a park. Logan searched a wooden fort, looking for Dillon, who had slipped away and was watching from the branches of a nearby tree. Hutch marveled at how the boy’s stillness and positioning made him nearly invisible, even in a defoliated cottonwood. Macie had watched Dillon ascend, and now she stood at the top of the fort’s big green slide, waving at him. Whenever she sensed Logan turning her way, she stopped and whistled a lighthearted tune.
The air was nippy, but the sun was bright. The small park adjoined St. Anthony’s Hospital, and every so often Hutch would look over at an ambulance waiting in a driveway.
Laura squinted up at him. She said, “I guess most people struggle with having to take a life.” She tilted her face toward the sun, mulling over his question. “I’m not most people.”
He touched a scab on his left eyebrow. His fingers moved up a bit to another scab on his forehead. One of the lacerations he had sustained in Jim’s Mustang. The other in the taxi when the Honda had blown up. He didn’t know which was which. He resisted the temptation to scratch the healing bullet wound on his calf. For a few days after the “Casa Bonita Shoot-out,” as the media called it, he’d often found himself quietly enumerating his many injuries. Macie had noticed and would start counting with him.
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