by R. A. McGee
As Clark cinched the rifle across his chest, the back window of the SUV exploded next to him. There was a minimal report of the rifle shot.
Instinctively, Clark set out at a sprint for the tree line. Someone in the woods was waiting for him. Trying to kill him. He needed to find them first.
Dirt kicked up around him as he ran through the first empty lot as fast as his legs could carry him. He reached the cover of the tree line just as a large chunk was blasted out of the tree in front of him.
He pressed his back against the tree, trying to use as much cover as he could, listening to the rounds from a rifle impact the other side of the trunk.
The moon was full in the sky, making it easy for Clark to see around him—and, he guessed, easier for the person watching him. Clark figured the sniper had night vision at the minimum; at most, a night vision/thermal hybrid scope.
As the impacting rounds slowed their pace, Clark dashed for a thick grove of trees further in the woods. Bullets ripped through the leaves around him. Clark decided the sniper was using only night vision. Night vision still required a clear line of sight to the target, but thermal would pick him up through the bushes and shrubs, making it easier to shoot. The fact that the sniper had missed so much led Clark to believe it was the former being used to sight him in.
After getting to the grove of trees, Clark immediately dashed deeper into the woods. He came to a stand of three thick trees and stopped for a moment to collect himself.
Clark knew this area better than anybody who’d be after him. In his mind’s eye, he thought about the angles that would ensure someone could shoot both his SUV, as well as his former position. Knowing there were only a couple of vantage points that would work, Clark calibrated his point of attack. He’d go deeper into the woods, away from the townhome, then make a looping U-turn, right back to the hill that crested in the woods fifty yards from his house. That was the most likely place the sniper would be.
It was where Clark would be if it were him.
Pulling his Surefire light, he clicked the cap to activate continuous illumination, then dropped it on the ground, next to the grove of trees, pointing it toward the SUV. Anyone looking would see a beam of light aimed in the direction he’d come from. It would look like he was eyeing the SUV, and waiting for a moment to run back to it and escape.
Staying low, under the waist-high thicket and shrubs, Clark crawled away from the trees and the flashlight, deeper into the woods. He scrambled from tree to tree, all while keeping the bulk of his body hidden behind any available concealment he could.
Concealed from the naked eye also meant concealed from night vision.
Scrambling over rocks, stumps, and downed trees, Clark moved out into the woods until he was directly behind his townhouse, albeit one hundred fifty yards away.
He stood, pressed into the tree, straining his ears to hear. He moved slowly around the tree, placing his feet gently to avoid disturbing the leaves as best as he could. He realized that if the sniper had amplified ear protection, the crunch would sound like a herd of elephants trampling through the jungle. Clark could only hope that the man was complacent because of the silencer on the end of his rifle, and had no ear protection. If so, he wouldn’t hear Clark until he was much, much closer.
Sneaking from tree to tree, cover to cover, Clark could now see the beam from his own flashlight, ahead and to the left of him, almost one hundred yards away.
The next twenty yards took him up a short, but steep incline, spitting him out on top of a plateau eight feet high. He dropped to a knee next to a thick tree and waited, listening.
From this vantage, the flashlight was at a slightly downward angle. Clark unstrapped his rifle and waited.
The sniper must have grown restless, because he sent a volley of rounds into the tree next to the Surefire flashlight where Clark had been. Where the sniper still thought he was.
The sound from the silencer was small, but still audible, like a single firework on New Year’s Day. It bounced around the wooded area, so Clark couldn’t be sure exactly where it came from, but he knew it was close.
He stepped softly as he went, feet slowly finding their purchase, avoiding any sticks that would snap. Ten yards ahead of him, he saw an unnatural clumping of leaves and vines. A ghillie suit. Used by everyone from military snipers to weekend hunters, the suit was meant to mimic the vegetation of an area, helping to disguise the shooter.
In the bright light of the moon, Clark could see that this one was done well, but not perfectly. To a trained eye, the sniper stood out like a sore thumb.
Clark dropped his rifle and let it hang by the sling on the front of his chest. He pulled out his Spyderco, flipped it open, and held it in front of him, tip down. His left hand was cautiously in front of him, palm outward.
He stepped closer to the next stand of trees. Now the sniper was no more than five yards away. Even through his broken and plugged nose, Clark could still smell and taste the man’s cologne.
Amateur.
Clark left the stand, nothing now between him and the sniper, who was prone on his belly, facing away from Clark.
He stepped closer, his foot gently gliding through the fallen leaves. Clark placed it with care. When he shifted his weight to step again, a branch he hadn’t felt snapped underneath his weight.
The sniper rolled onto his side, his grease-painted face looking straight at Clark, his eyes wide in surprise. The sniper’s heavy rifle was on a bipod and the man reached toward his hip, for what Clark assumed was a pistol waiting.
The element of surprise gone, Clark leaped onto the man, pinning his right arm to his side with his knee, preventing him from drawing a pistol. Clark clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth, squeezing it securely shut. The sniper’s free hand fought wildly, grabbing and clawing at Clark.
Clark stuck the Spyderco into the man’s side, over and over, going under and over his flailing arm, sticking the man where he could, when he could. Then he aimed high, bypassing the man’s arm and sticking the knife into his neck.
Clark worked the knife back and forth, silencing the man forever.
He stayed still for several moments, waiting and listening, his weight still on the sniper as the man lost consciousness and watered the dry, late-fall ground with his blood. Head turning slowly, Clark neither heard nor saw anything that concerned him, so he looked down at the dead man below him.
A grease-painted face looked up at him, frozen in a death mask. Clark pulled his knife out of the man’s neck and stuck the point into the dead man’s left eye.
It slid in with no resistance.
“Shit,” Clark muttered under his breath. Not a prosthetic. Not Keever.
Hefting the sniper's rifle to his shoulder, Clark confirmed that the rifle indeed had only night vision. He pointed it at the rear of his house. There was a small wooden staircase that led to a deck, which accessed the kitchen. No curtains were hanging on the windows.
Through the full-length glass insert in the deck-to-kitchen door, he saw a figure, glowing white in the soft glow of night vision, distinctly female. He knew he was looking at Lucy Gordon. She was standing mannequin-still. Not moving, not walking anywhere. Immobile.
Underneath her was something dense and opaque, showing a dark blue color in the night vision scope. Clark recognized this, as he’d seen something similar before. She was standing on a box, metal reflecting in the night vision. Below that, something else.
Clark knew what was in the box.
Lucy was standing on explosives.
Sixty-Three
Clark lowered the rifle, numb from what he had seen. The fact that Lucy was wired up to an explosive meant two things to him.
First, Keever wasn’t there. Why would he be? Keever was too much of a coward to put himself in harm's way, especially with the threat of a bomb imminent. He wouldn’t sit around in the living room waiting to ambush Clark, when one false step by Lucy meant he would be blown to kingdom come.
The secon
d thing Clark understood was that Keever had never really wanted a showdown with him. Not in the traditional, saw-it-in-a-movie way. In his life, Clark had had more than one person lying in wait for him, ready to kill him themselves.
That wasn’t Keever.
Sure, Keever wanted him dead, but he was just as happy to let his sniper pick Clark off, or have him evaporated by a C-4 charge.
Clark took a long moment, scanning the surrounding area for any sign that there were other trigger pullers waiting. He couldn’t see anyone. Clark lowered the night vision rifle from his shoulder. He hit the eject button for the magazine and worked the charging handle, unloading the rifle and rendering it useless.
He pulled his own rifle up to a ready position. Half-sliding, he dropped off the small rise of the hill and was in his own backyard. The grass was dormant this late in the year, and it crunched noisily underneath his feet. He was close enough now that he could see Lucy through the patio door.
Cautiously moving up the short flight of stairs, Clark leaned into the brick façade that ran the back of the house. He peeked around the corner, getting his best look yet at his friend. She was facing away from him, dark hair loose about her shoulders.
Clark could see her shivering.
He stepped past the glass door to the other wall, then peeked into the kitchen through the back window. No one hiding in what was left of the kitchen. Samantha’s explosion had gutted the ground level; while Clark knew from memory where landmarks like the counter and the island had been, they no longer existed in the townhome. The cabinets were skeletons made from clean, natural-colored wood, missing their doors and hardware.
He turned back to his right and peeked again through the glass-paned door. In one smooth motion, he butt-stroked the glass with the end of his rifle, shattering it and making it fall like crystal rain.
It was safer than opening the door, he figured. Easy to wire the door, harder to rig a glass break to detonate a bomb.
He heard Lucy’s frantic cries. “Luce? You okay?”
The sniffling halted for a moment. “Clark?”
“Yep. I’m just taking a second before I come in there and get you. Do you know if there’s anyone else in the house?”
“Nnnn…no,” she sobbed out. “Nobody.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Clark stepped through the busted-out space and crunched his way through the kitchen, rifle at the ready. He moved past Lucy to the staircases, and looked up and down.
“There’s nobody here, you oaf. Where have you been?” A laugh broke through her sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning from the staircase and walking toward her. “I’m so sorry.”
Her glasses were missing and her hair was matted to her wet face. Clark moved her hair back, relieved at the lack of bruising he saw. It looked like she had a split lip.
“Did Keever hurt you?”
“Hurt me?”
“Yeah. Did he…?”
“Oh, God no. God no. He’s a creep, but he didn’t do that. He just asked me crazy things.”
Clark walked around Lucy, looking at the small metal box she was standing on. It was crudely welded together, the metal still singed black where the torch had burned it. He wanted to keep her talking so she’d calm down a bit. There was a cell phone sitting on the floor next to the box, unconnected by any wires.
“Keever's phone?”
“Yeah. He left it. Said if he knew you like he thought he did, you were just tracking it anyway.”
Clark sighed. No more tracking the man. He could be anywhere. “You said Keever asked you weird stuff? Like what?”
“When did I lose my virginity, did I like thongs, have I ever pissed on anybody, if he could shave my pubes. Weird shit.”
“What happened to your lip?” Clark said, crouching low at her feet.
“He had me tied up at some other place he took me to. I couldn’t move my arms but my legs were free. He said he wanted to smell my feet. Can you believe that shit? I screamed, but he grabbed my leg and stuffed my toes into his nose. I kicked him and he got mad and slapped me.”
“Good job. But you probably didn’t need to do that,” Clark said.
“What? I should just let that creep perv out on me?” Lucy said.
Clark looked up with a smile. “He could only have smelled the funk for a few seconds until it killed him. You should have let him sniff away, save us the trouble of killing him later.”
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t… I mean, they don’t… you asshole.”
Clark laughed then looked back down, his smile quickly fading. The pressure plate in the box underneath Lucy was rigged to go off as soon as she moved. There would be some sort of circuit that completed when the pressure was released, and then, boom. He stood and paced in front of her.
“What? What, Clark? Is it that bad?”
“I’m not gonna lie, it’s not good.”
“Pressure, right? I can’t move? I’ve been figuring out what makes this thing tick all day. I’ve been standing here with nothing else to do. My mind wouldn’t stop racing.”
“It doesn’t mean anything. I can disarm this thing. I’ve been to EOD school. Hell, I taught the course once. No problem. I just need to find the power and cut it. Then we both walk out of here.”
Lucy laughed. “I know how bombs work. I’m smarter than you, remember? Besides, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark paced back and forth. “Maybe if I go downstairs, I can come up through the floorboards and disarm it that way.”
“No chance. I saw him when he brought it in. Metal the whole way around. For shrapnel, you know?”
“I can figure something out. Dig my way into it. Relax, I can figure this thing out.”
“You start digging and we both die. There’s no reason for that. You go. Once you get far enough away, I’ll hop off. It’ll take a second or so for it to ignite, I’d guess, but I won’t feel anything. It’ll be painless.”
“Knock it off. I’m not going to let you die.”
“If the choice is both of us or just me, it’s an easy choice,” Lucy said.
Clark dropped to his belly, looking closely at the device. “Why? You’re as important as anyone.”
“Believe me, people will miss you. I’m expendable.”
Clark rolled over on his side and looked over at her. “Why the hell do you say that? Plenty of people would miss you. Hell, I know a dorky little tech nerd who told me to say hi to you when I found you.”
A small smile involuntarily crept over Lucy’s lips. “Klaus?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” Clark poked at the metal box.
“He said that?”
Clark stood up and walked to the front door, pushed it to make sure it was close, and then went to the back door, opening it wide.
“Clark? He said that?”
“Yes, Lucy. Now all of a sudden you’re not so nihilistic? When we get out of here, you should probably give him a call. Just saying.”
He stood in front of the girl and put his hand on her shoulder. Her smile disappeared. “Okay. I have a low-tech solution to our problem. We’re gonna outrun this thing.”
Lucy blinked hard and didn't say anything.
“You said it yourself, there’ll be a delay before it blows.”
“I said a second. I can’t get anywhere safe in a second.”
“With the doors and windows along the front of the house shut, I think the full brunt of the blast will be maybe another quarter of a second delayed. Even though the back door is open, the house will almost be pressurized. If the other door were open, the open area would feed more oxygen and make the flame that much hotter.”
“That’s not at all true. Besides, we're still talking about such a brief amount of time,” Lucy said. “No to mention that it won’t be long enough for me to go anywhere. I didn’t get into computers because I was the star athlete, you know. I’m slow, Clark.”
“Don’t worry. You’re
not going to have to run.”
Lucy screwed up her face in confusion.
“I’m going to carry you.”
Sixty-Four
Clark walked around the area, dragging together the extra wood from the cabinets, as well as a fifty-five-gallon drum of garbage. He got a squirt can of the sealer that the workers would be using to seal the last coat of varnish, and drenched both the wood and the trash can with it.
“What do you mean you’re going to carry me? Hey. Clark. Listen, what does that mean? And what the hell are you doing right now? That stuff’s flammable you’re squirting all over the place.”
“I’m counting on it,” Clark said. He walked over to the stove, which had been put into place already. It was gas, but Clark turned the broiler on and stood, waiting for the oven element to superheat.
“What good does making this place more flammable do?”
Clark looked into the oven, then walked back over to Lucy. “What does a fire need to grow?”
“It needs an ignition source, it needs a compatible environmental element that would allow—”
“Don’t get egghead on me. What do firemen tell kids is the fuel?”
“Oxygen.”
“Right. After the fire uses the oxygen, what does it release?”
“Okay, I’m not a dummy. What’s your point?”
“What if I start some ancillary fires? All around the level here. Burn up some of the oxygen. Maybe the explosion will have a little less oomph.”
“Oomph? Are you serious? This doesn’t even make sense. The door behind me is wide open, right? The fire will just use that.”
“Of course it will,” Clark said. “But maybe it’ll buy us another split second. Just a fraction of one, really. We need all the help we can get.”
“None of that even factors in the concussive shockwave that’s going to come when the explosive goes off. That’s what’s going to kill us, you know. Boom.”
