by R. A. McGee
“I appreciate your service.”
The old man nodded and looked back to the window. “Yours too. Nice to meet another vet, especially in this place.”
Clark sat in silence for a few moments, until a soft hand touched him on the shoulder. “Mr. Clark?”
Clark and the man in the wheelchair both turned their heads at the same time.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here.”
Clark stood and stepped back with the woman. She was attractive, somewhere in her early forties, with a pixie cut that showed off her cheekbones. The name tag pinned to her white scrub top read Linda. “How is he?”
“About the same. Good days and bad. Lately a few more bad days than good, but all in all, he's holding up well.”
“I want to tell you I appreciate you looking after him, Linda. You do a great job.”
“It’s my honor. Besides, he’s fun to work with. Most of the old bastards just keep grabbing my ass.” She stuck her tongue out.
Clark laughed and the room spun around him.
“Mr. Clark? You all right?”
“I actually came to see you tonight, Linda. I was wondering if you could take a look at…”
Clark started to pull his shirt up, to show Linda his ribs and the bullet wound, but the darkness closed in around him and he couldn’t stop it.
When he opened his eyes, Samantha was standing on the porch of the little townhome they shared.
“Could you grab my leftovers?”
Clark jogged back to his new truck, picking up the box of take-home from the Indian restaurant. As he cleared the car, he found himself rooted in the front yard.
Realizing what was happening, Clark struggled to free himself. “No. No! Sam! Sam, don’t open the door.”
For the first time, the nightmare felt different. Before, he’d always felt like a bystander, replaying the worst moment of his life. Now, he felt more agency over the thing. As if he was involved again. If he just fought hard enough…
Samantha looked at him and smiled. She reached for the door handle.
“Samantha, don’t open that door! No,” he screamed, pulling at his legs, rooted in the soft earth.
She twisted the handle, and as always, the flash lit up the hallway behind her, the heat and flames climbing their way out toward her and engulfing her. This time, however, before she changed, before her hair singed or her face melted, Samantha held her hand up—and the flames stopped. Suspended all around her, the maelstrom popped and writhed like a child throwing a tantrum.
Clark stopped pulling at his legs and stared, open-mouthed.
Samantha stepped down the stairs. She was now barefoot and her feet sank slightly into the ground, leaving footprints across the lawn as she walked toward Clark.
“How are you doing this? This isn’t what happened.”
Samantha moved slowly until she was right in front of him. She reached down and touched his legs, and they were no longer rooted to the ground.
He reached out to touch her back, but his arms wouldn’t quite reach. She was right in front of him, but when he reached for her, it was as if she was miles away.
“It’s okay,” she said.
Clark felt a warm sensation at the top of his right arm, where he’d been shot in Mexico, then the sensation traveled to his hands. Somewhere in the distance, the soft beeps of a hospital room played several times until they stopped.
“It’s okay,” Samantha said again.
“I don’t understand,” Clark said, tears in his eyes.
Samantha moved close and kissed him softly on the cheek. “It’s okay.”
With that, she turned and walked back to the porch, fading as she went. Soon she was see-through, and then all Clark could see was an outline of her. The second she was gone, the fire was released, the ensuing explosion angry that it no longer had anyone to eat.
Clark opened his eyes. He was lying on a soft plastic mat, on a table. He looked over and saw Linda readying a bandage.
“What happened?”
“You passed out. Hit the deck, as the old guys like to say. Figured you needed medical attention, so we brought you to the infirmary.”
“How?”
Linda pointed to the old man, sitting in his wheelchair in the corner. His eyes were closed. “Him. He said he wouldn’t leave you behind. He helped me get you in his wheelchair and he pushed you the entire way while I opened doors. He’s still strong.”
Clark looked down at the crook of his elbow and the tape holding a needle and IV tubing in his arm. “So what’s the damage?”
“It isn’t good. There was a bullet lodged right against your rib cage. I can’t imagine that felt great. Your nose is definitely broken. I fixed the stitches on your other arm. They looked a little old and most of them had popped out anyway. Whoever did that wasn’t much of a nurse.”
“No, she’s not,” Clark conceded.
“It looks like you lost a bunch of blood, so I figured I’d give you an IV. Truth is, you need to go to a hospital. No doubt about it.”
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
Linda gave him a sly grin. “Well, before you passed out, you were starting to show me what was underneath your shirt. Unless you were trying to hit on me, I’ll assume you came to me for help. I know you, Clark. Whatever it is you’re involved in, I know you aren’t the bad guy, so if you were desperate enough to come here, I figured the least I could do was help you.
“Besides, I’ve been an RN for twenty years, but I’ve worked here for almost ten. I wondered if I could still do anything besides hand out medicine and treat rashes.”
Clark looked at the stitches in his arm and side. “Looks like you still got it.”
She smiled, picking up a bottle from the table and handing it to Clark. “I can’t write prescriptions, but it’s clear you need a strong course of antibiotics. We keep a stock of them around here since our residents need them so frequently. I tore the names off the bottles. As much as I like you, I’m not losing my license, you got me?”
Clark nodded.
“I’m going to go bury all this stuff in the dumpster out back,” she said, pointing to the pile of used surgical gloves, bloody gauze pads, forceps, and suture kits.
Clark leaned his head back, catching his breath and watched her walk out the door. As soon as it shut, a voice spoke up from the corner. “You got more of those damn tattoos, huh, Son? Been in the shit?”
Sixty-One
Clark sat back up. “Dad?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t help but see the new ones. It feels like it’s been so long since I saw them. They take up your whole damn arm now.”
Looking down at all the keys dotting his left arm, Clark could only nod.
“Listen. I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry if me raising you led you to believe that you had to live this kind of life. I mean, look at you. You’re beat to shit. Tattoos everywhere, scars. How are you living?”
Clark swung his legs to the side of the exam table, careful with his IV line. “It’s tough going sometimes, but it’s what I want to do. You didn’t need anyone to baby you when you were getting your ass shot off in the jungle, did you? Same here.”
A small smile crept over his father’s face. “Yeah, well, I guess you got that from me, huh?”
The men were quiet for a few moments. Clark knew these moments of lucidity were getting fewer and farther in-between. “Dad, I just want you to know that I’m sorry I don’t come more often. I’m just so busy all the time, you know? It’s all too much sometimes.”
“The Army will do that to you,” his father said. “Keep you busy. Treat you like meat.”
Clark nodded. “I’m not in the Army anymore, remember? I went to that private team when I got out?”
“Right, right. I remember.” Seeing the look on Clark’s face, the old man became more forceful. “No, really, I do remember. Something sharp, like… stick. No, that’s not it, it’s… thorn. Black
thorn. Right? It’s Blackthorn?”
Clark smiled. “Good job, Colonel. I’ve been having a rough go. I’m not telling you this for you to coddle me; it’s just the truth. I’m thinking it may be time to move on. Find something else.”
“Like what? What are you good at? As far back as I can remember it was doing this type of work. Hell, you went to that fancy school and didn’t even graduate.”
“All I wanted to do was wrestle. Once my senior season was done, so was I.”
“One semester shy of an Ivy League degree. You remember the look on that dean’s face when you told him you were withdrawing?” Clark’s father rasped out a laugh, his broad shoulders heaving up and down.
“Probably not my finest idea, but everything worked out.”
“Yeah, it did. Did I ever tell you what I thought when you joined the Army?”
Clark shook his head.
“I was so mad at you. Hell, I was pissed off, Son. You had a free education and you dropped out a semester short? I didn’t want you to have to go through life with your knuckles and knives and guns like I did. We all want something different for our children. Something better.
“I realize it was my fault, being hard on you, pushing you the way I did. I guess I ran you straight into the military. I own that. But the day you passed Special Forces selection? Standing up there with your brand-new beret? I couldn’t have been more proud of you. So, so proud. My boy, all grown up.”
The old man put his hand on Clark’s leg. The grip was still incredible.
“Dad, I may have to go away again. For longer this time. I’m painted into a corner and there isn’t much I can do.”
“Well, they say when you get ambushed, the best thing to do is to fight through it.”
“That’s what they say,” Clark said.
Silence for another few moments, until Clark's father spoke. “How’s that girlfriend of yours. What's her name, Rebecca? Rachel?”
Clark chewed his lip. “Rachel was my girl in high school, Pop. Things are… complicated now. I had someone I was serious about, but she’s gone now. Now there’s this thing I think is happening. This girl I work with.”
“You work with her?”
“Yeah. Not sure how she feels. Like I said, complicated.”
“Give me a break. You know how she feels. You’re no dummy.”
The firm grip on Clark’s leg slacked and he looked up at his father. “Dad?”
The old man sat back in his wheelchair. “You look pretty messed up, kid. What happened to you, go through a meat grinder?”
Clark blinked away the tears in his eyes. “Yeah, old-timer, something like that.”
“You have to be careful. The world can be dangerous. Take me, for instance. I was in the Army. Vietnam. Imagine the shit I’ve seen.”
“Maybe one day you tell me about it, huh?”
“Careful what you wish for. I’ll talk your ear off,” the old man said with a raspy laugh.
Linda, the nurse, came back through the door and handed Clark a black sweatshirt. “We keep a stock of these on hand. You never know when someone’s going to get cold or make a mess. Surprised we had one that fit you.”
“Me too,” Clark said. She unhooked him from his IV, and put some extra tape on the gauze pad that covered his wounds.
“Something tells me you need a little extra support. I’d hate for you to pop any more stitches.” She handed him two bottles of generic Pedialyte. “You need to hydrate more. If you aren’t careful, you’ll pass out again.”
Clark nodded. He pulled the sweatshirt on and stood slowly to his feet. “Linda, I appreciate you helping me. I’m surprised you didn’t call the cops, what with the gunshot wounds and all.”
“Nah. I checked the news while you were passed out. No reports of robberies or mass shootings or crazy Wild West stuff, so I felt pretty confident. Besides, when your dad is lucid, he’s told me some things about you that he probably shouldn't have. He knows no one would believe him anyway, so he isn’t as close to the vest. I know you’re one of the good guys. I can’t imagine you’re on a psychotic rampage.”
“Thanks, Linda.” Clark walked to the door, patting the old man on the shoulder as he went by.
“Where are you going?”
“On a psychotic rampage.” Clark smiled and walked out the door.
Sixty-Two
Clark sat heavily in the SUV and pulled out his phone. There were a dozen missed calls, all from the same number. He looked at it, let out a sigh of frustration, then hit dial and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Mr. Clark? Mr. Clark, is that you?”
“Klaus, you don’t know me very well, so what I’m going to say won’t mean much. But I’m very pissed at you right now.”
“Mr. Clark, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do. You were disavowed and McHenry said you did bad things and I thought maybe I coul—”
“Klaus?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up. Now, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just double-cross me, and I wanna know if you’ve had a change of heart. Because if you want Lucy safe, you’re going about it the wrong way.”
“I understand. I’m sorry I lied. I believe you now.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Terry Hakagawa and the rest of his team got in a while ago. A few of them needed to go to the hospital, but they’re all alive. It got me thinking: if you were this super killer who went rogue, why didn’t you just murder them all? It didn’t make sense.
“It also didn’t make sense that Angela was bait to trap you. When I was a kid, I used to fish with my dad. You can only use bait if the fish like to eat it.”
“What does that mean?” Clark said, scanning the parking lot around him.
“It means unless Lucy was really kidnapped and you were trying to find her, you wouldn’t have fallen for the setup. Guy as smart as you, I figure you’d see Angela tied up and take off. Why risk yourself unless you really thought it was Lucy in trouble?”
“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day. So?”
“So what?”
“And just like that, you’re an idiot again.”
Klaus was quiet for a few moments. “Lucy! Yes, I know where she is. Or rather, I know where the phone number that you wanted me to track is. It took some time, but I got it. But I can’t be sure if Lucy is there or just the phone, but I don’t know whose phone it is, and maybe if you told—”
“Just give me the address,” Clark said.
“Right. I just texted it to you.”
“Good. And Klaus, if you're lying to me again—”
“Don’t worry. You can trust me. I swear on Lucy’s life.”
Satisfied he’d been told the truth, Clark hung up the phone and pulled up the text Klaus had sent him. The numbers of the address hit him like a ton of bricks.
He knew where Keever was leading him.
At this point, he couldn’t be sure that Lucy was alive. He knew it was his fault. He’d been sloppy during the encounter with his Blackthorn comrades; his injuries had taken him out of the game for too long. Hours had passed since Keever had taken Lucy from the trailer, and Clark steeled himself against the realization that she might very well be dead.
Three things kept him going.
One was the realization that if Keever had taken Lucy, he’d had a reason. If McHenry wanted to kill her to cover his tracks, he would have just left her in the trailer with Miri. There was a very good chance that she was alive.
The second was that Keever very well could be operating on his own, outside of any playbook. Clark knew Keever hated him and would hurt anyone to get to him. Apparently, the loss of an eye was a sore subject with Keever. He might very well kill Lucy even if McHenry asked him not to—or keep her alive for bait even if McHenry said to kill her. At this point, there was no judging his motivations.
The third factor was that it didn’t matter to Clark at this point. He wanted to save Lucy, more than almost anything in the world, an
d he was going to do anything to make that happen.
That being said, if he got to the location and she was already gone, he was going to kill Keever regardless.
At this point, he just needed to find the asshole.
The drive across town was quick. Intimately familiar with the route he was taking, he drove almost on autopilot, his mind a dozen different places. But the turns were burned into his memory. He’d driven them almost daily for years.
Clark pulled onto the end of the street of his townhome. The place he’d shared with Samantha looked empty and hollow from a hundred yards away. Not just because Samantha wasn’t there anymore, her infectious laughter overcoming his bad days.
In a literal sense, the house was empty. The explosion had been massive but purposefully directed and angled. The fireball had belched out the front, leaving most of the bottom floor singed and toasted, but not touching the unit next to it.
In front sat a large blue dumpster. Clark was vaguely aware that steps were being taken by the insurance company to fix the damage. He hadn’t paid attention during his time in Mexico.
But Jack McHenry had. It was his way of showing Clark that he still cared after Clark had left Blackthorn. Clark was content to let him keep up with the reconstruction efforts—he damn sure didn’t want to do it himself.
He turned the car off and clicked the dome light off before he exited the vehicle. Walking around back, he kept his head on a swivel. He couldn’t be sure where Keever was, but he felt a pair of eyes on him, a feeling he couldn’t shake.
He pulled the rifle from the trunk, as well as an extra magazine, which he stuffed into his pocket. His Glock waited on his hip, ready. He also grabbed a thousand-lumen Surefire flashlight and slammed the trunk.
Clark’s townhome was the end unit. He’d insisted. If he had to share walls, one was better than two. Next to Clark’s unit were several empty lots, which were nestled up against a several-acre wooded lot. The acreage hadn’t been touched for years, and while the leaves had fallen on the ground and the trees were bare, there was a thick—nearly waist-high—blanket of thicket, shrubbery, and vegetation that was evergreen.
