The Man Who Walks Away

by Dan Ames

“He’s clear!” Nash shouted, allowing Blatch to veer away from the bigger vehicle.

  Dawkins climbed the ladder and crawled along the top of the motorhome, as Blatch gunned the van forward. Once they were past the bigger vehicle, Blatch cut across in front, forcing it to slow.

  The horn sounded from the motorhome, angry and impatient.

  Both vehicles skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust, dirt and stone.

  Nash leapt from the van and ran to the side door of the motorhome, his rifle raised. Peering inside, he saw no one so he opened fire, shattering the door until it came off its hinge.

  Blatch raced around the other side of the van, hurrying to the rear of the vehicle to cut off anyone trying to escape.

  Nash climbed the stairs into the motorhome, turned, and saw Dawkins drop into the rear of the vehicle through the skylight.

  Inside the vehicle, it was silent except for someone crying.

  “Please, what do you want?” a man asked. He was a skinny white man in a button-down shirt. Next to him, a young woman stared at him, not as scared as the man, but terrified nonetheless.

  There stared at Nash.

  “Where’s Zotz?” he asked.

  The two people, a man and a woman, looked at Nash.

  “Who? Why did you do this?”

  Dawkins stepped up behind them. The man looked at the big black man, saw the enormous knife.

  “We called 9-1-1,” he said. “You can’t hurt us.”

  Dawkins laughed. Nash looked at the woman and knew Blatch would be eager to start his handiwork on her.

  “I’m going to give you one last chance,” Nash said. “Tell us where Zotz is, or when he will be here, and you’ll live.”

  “We don’t know anyone named Zotz, you asshole!” the woman screamed at him, her voice hysterical.

  Nash sighed and shot both of them in the head.

  17

  Pauling awoke disoriented.

  For a moment she thought she was back in New York in her condo. But soon, the utter silence, completely devoid of traffic sounds and cars honking, made her realize she was somewhere else. And when the sounds of Tallon’s gentle breathing reached her ears she remembered where she was.

  They’d had a wonderful reunion, most of it spent in bed, except for occasional breaks for nutritional reinforcement.

  She’d told Tallon about the final process of selling her company, and he’d filled her in on what his last few projects had been, although much of what he told her was somewhat vague. She didn’t take it personally, knowing that much of it was classified and that he was withholding information for her own good. The less she knew certain details, the better.

  Pauling pulled the sheets back carefully, slid from the bed and padded into the kitchen where the coffee was ready. Tallon’s coffee machine had a timer, designed to start brewing fairly early. Maybe it was the aroma of freshly made coffee that had awoken her.

  She stood at the counter, saw the first shafts of morning light bring the distance foothills to life. Pauling was looking forward to doing some exploring, getting to know the land her significant other – she could call him that now – had chosen for his home base.

  The doorbell rang and Pauling knew it wasn’t the coffee that had roused her from sleep. A car must have pulled into the driveway.

  Behind her, Tallon emerged from the bedroom and went straight into his office where she knew he had his home security monitors.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, emerging from his office, his hair tousled, eyeing the cup of coffee jealously in Pauling’s hands.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He sighed.

  “Cops.”

  18

  “I didn’t lie,” Lucas responded to Dr. Aldrich.

  They were still sitting in the conference room. Crawford had stormed out, but his lingering presence and his hostility were still being felt.

  “Withholding the truth is presenting a false narrative,” Aldrich said. He was stroking his scraggly beard and Lucas knew why Crawford hated the man so much. Not only was he a snobby intellectual and about as far from a fighting man as you could get, the doctor was slovenly with his unkempt hair and flakes of dandruff on his black suit coat.

  Lucas had done his research on the man and knew that while brilliant, he was also prone to slightly criminal behavior ranging from petty theft to sexual assault. It was why the scrawny intellectual had been booted from prestigious universities and fell into the lap of the military.

  The truth was, he’d had very few options.

  “For which you should be thanking me,” Lucas said.

  “You did that to help yourself,” Dr. Aldrich replied. “Don’t tell me it was for me because he has no control over my work.”

  It’s not your work I would be worried about, Lucas thought, but he kept the notion to himself. He needed the doctor to focus.

  “So what are you going to do now?” the doctor asked. His tone clearly conveyed he wasn’t very interested even though Lucas knew he ought to be.

  “Establish containment and hopefully retrieval as soon as possible.”

  “Nash will seek to establish something similar to his last deployment,” Dr. Aldrich said. “A command base. Headquarters, whatever you people call it. He’ll be focused on his objective and working with Dawkins and Blatch. He must be found as soon as possible so I can get him back under observation. It’s imperative or he may do something that will go beyond anything we had planned. It would be a disaster.”

  Aldrich said it with a flat monotone that suggested he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “I’ve got aerial surveillance, as well as more boots on the ground. If he’s out there, we’ll find him. Part of it depends on how well he conceals himself.”

  “He’s a soldier,” Dr. Aldrich said. “Highly accomplished. It won’t be easy.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “I have to ask. Does it matter–” Lucas struggled to find the right way to phrase it.

  “Of course it matters,” Aldrich interjected, cutting him off. “You have to bring him back alive.”

  19

  The door opened and Sheriff Bordeau was facing a tall man with broad shoulders and eyes that were curious, not defiant or nervous.

  “Michael Tallon?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Sheriff, how can I help you?”

  Bordeau noted that he had already studied who she was, probably via a security system somewhere. Military guys loved hardware and she figured Tallon was no exception. That, and the adobe casita had the feeling of a fortress. Albeit, a stylish fortress.

  From behind him, she saw a woman, strikingly beautiful, gazing at her. The woman had blonde-ish hair with highlights. A little older than Bordeau would have thought, but the green eyes were striking.

  “Hello,” the woman said, with a raspy voice that could’ve belonged to a whiskey and cigarette jazz singer from the 1920s.

  “Good morning,” Bordeau replied. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions.”

  “Not at all,” Tallon easily answered. “Want a cup of coffee?” He was relaxed and casual as he stepped aside and Bordeau entered the room.

  “This is Lauren Pauling,” he said, gesturing to the woman.

  “I’m Sheriff Bordeau,” she said as the woman regarded her with a frank appraisal, the green eyes curious.

  Bordeau took in the room. It was spacious, well decorated and the furniture was clearly well-made and expensive, but not showy. The floor was a dark wood, the area rug colorful and possibly Native American.

  Tallon returned with a cup of coffee and they gathered in the living room. Tallon slid into a leather couch and Pauling hovered near the kitchen. Not a part of the conversation, but certainly within earshot.

  Bordeau took a leather club chair across from Tallon.

  “Beautiful place you have here,” she said. “I always wondered what the inside looked like.”

  “Thank you,”
he replied, gazing at her with that same curious expression.

  Finally, she plowed ahead.

  “Did you hear about the incident out at Tucker’s Glade?” Bordeau asked. It was the general location of the killing but was broad enough to encompass a very large area.

  “Nope,” Tallon replied. “Where is that?”

  She studied his expression. Eyes clear, his face untroubled. If he was lying, he was very good at it.

  “It’s about a dozen miles out of town. Kind of in the middle of nowhere.”

  “No, never heard of it, actually,” he said. “What kind of incident?”

  “It happened around noon or so yesterday. Any idea where you were?”

  “I was at McCarran picking her up,” Tallon said, referring to the airport outside Las Vegas, which was the closest airport to Death Valley.

  “Any witnesses?”

  He pondered the question. “Well, I went into baggage claim with a big sign that had her name on it,” he said, smiling a little bit. “I know some people on her flight saw me. Plus, you can certainly track my cell phone as we were texting back and forth about her arrival.”

  Bordeau nodded. She believed him, for now. And he was right, she would be able to track his cell phone, although that wasn’t necessarily proof of where he was, just his phone. The eyewitnesses at the airport would be a different matter. She would have to contact the airline, get the names and contact information for the other passengers and call them. It would take a lot of legwork, but it could be done.

  “What happened at noon or so yesterday?” Tallon asked.

  “We had a multiple homicide,” she said, carefully watching his expression. It didn’t change.

  “Why are you here asking me about it?” Tallon wondered. His tone wasn’t threatening or confrontational, just interested in her answer.

  “There may or may not be a military connection to the killings. I heard you were Special Ops and maybe you could help. Any other ex-military in the area you know about?”

  “No, ma’am,” Tallon said. “I chose this place for its solitude and I haven’t met anyone out here. Then again, my work takes me away a lot of time.”

  “What is it you do?”

  “Private security, mostly.”

  Bordeau took a sip of coffee while she pondered her next question.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked, glancing around the room.

  “About five years or so.”

  “Like it?”

  “I do,” he said. “It’s home.”

  Bordeau set down her coffee cup and pulled out one of her business cards. “I won’t keep you any longer,” she said. “But if you do think of anything, or hear anything that might help me in the case, I would appreciate a call. My cell phone is on there, too.”

  “Ok, will do,” Tallon said.

  Bordeau got up, nodded to Pauling who was in the kitchen, watching her with an expression that was hard to read.

  “Nice to meet you,” Bordeau said to her.

  “You too.”

  Tallon opened the door for her and Bordeau walked out, climbed into her squad car and drove away.

  She believed Tallon when he said he didn’t know anything about the murders.

  So why was she so intrigued by him?

  20

  She had two first names and was relentlessly teased about it. Katy Sally was a fitness enthusiast with a fairly large Instagram following, currently training for a triathlon in California.

  Always a strong swimmer and cyclist, she was focusing on her running, which explained why she was alone in the canyons just south of Death Valley, pounding along a deserted highway with the sun beating down on her.

  When she’d crested the hill the motorhome parked along the side of the road caught her attention. Being a woman, alone, in the middle of nowhere was always problematic. However, she had a canister of pepper spray, as well as a tiny pocket knife held snugly in a small pocket inside her running shorts.

  Without breaking stride, Katy Sally found the pepper spray canister and unsnapped it from the belt at her waist so it was in her hand. She rotated it to put the trigger under her finger, just in case a kidnapper jumped from the rear of the motorhome and tried to drag her inside.

  It was a crazy idea, but there were plenty of true stories that were even worse.

  Running downhill, she picked up speed and passed the motorhome, keeping it in view out of the corner of her eye.

  Which is how she saw the body sprawled facedown on the far side of the motorhome, near the front bumper.

  A trick, she thought.

  Katy bore down and ran even faster, but in her mind’s eye she saw the pool of blood around the body and slowed.

  Finally, she stopped and looked back.

  She saw the first body.

  And behind it, a second.

  No matter how much her instincts told her to keep running, she ignored them and slowly walked back toward the motorhome.

  She stopped twenty feet from the sight of the carnage, and unsnapped the case holding her phone firmly against her midsection. She powered the phone on and saw she had two bars of signal strength.

  Enough to call 9-1-1.

  21

  Nash was furious.

  “Are you insane?” he shouted at Blatch. They were back in the command center, Blatch’s shirt covered in blood, a stupid, leering expression on his face. Things had not gone well on their latest attempt to find Zotz. Another dead end, in every sense of the phrase.

  “The woman was a threat!” Blatch shouted.

  “I shot her in the head,” Nash answered. “Exactly how was she a threat?”

  “She refused to follow orders.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Plus, I didn’t think she was dead. It looked like she was sort of edging back toward that closet at the back of the motorhome. Who knew what was in there?”

  “There was nothing in there and she wasn’t edging anywhere. She was dead, with half her brains splattered onto the big screen television.”

  “Did you see the size of that thing?” Dawkins asked. “That was a sweet ride.”

  Both Blatch and Nash ignored him.

  “Yeah, we know there was nothing in that closet now,” Blatch said, continuing to argue. “But at the time there could have been guns or even more bad guys hiding in there. I had to make sure.”

  “But you had to molest her dead body? You locked yourself and her in the bedroom of the motorhome and did whatever it is you do with her – that’s how you disarm a threat? Not to mention, possibly leave evidence at a crime scene. What were you thinking?”

  “I think I was pretty thorough,” Blatch laughed.

  Behind him, Nash heard Dawkins laugh, too.

  At that point, he lost it.

  He lunged at Blatch and drove his fist straight into Blatch’s face. He felt the cartilage squash under the blow and blood splattered into the air.

  Blatch sagged on his feet and Nash drove a knee into his midsection, then threw a wicked uppercut that caught the underside of Blatch’s chin and snapped his teeth together with such force that a chip flew off and hit Nash in the eye.

  “No!” Dawkins shouted.

  But it was too late.

  Nash had grabbed a flashlight nearly a foot long and crashed it down on the back of Blatch’s head. The sound was sickening: like an axe hitting a rotted tree stump.

  Blatch crashed to the floor and Nash pounded the flashlight into the fallen man’s head repeatedly until blood coated his hand. He rolled Blatch over and saw the man’s lifeless eyes staring aback at him.

  “Jesus, you killed him,” Dawkins said, peering over Nash’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. Should’ve done it a long time ago.”

  22

  Lucas never had difficulty reconciling what he did for a living with his own moral code. His mission was a higher calling, the safety of his country, family and friends.

  Sometimes, the lines became a little blurred i
n how much the end justified the means. Most of the time, he could easily rationalize what he was doing.

  Except, that is, when he had to deal with Larkin.

  Rarely was the veil lifted for the public to get glimpses of just how seedy and amoral rogue agents among the military forces could become. Usually, they were identified and discharged with all due haste.

  Occasionally, a news story would appear and a few service members might be charged with petty crimes, or rarer still, something severe like murder.

  The public would move on, satisfied that the extremely rare “bad actors” were caught, punished and relieved of command.

  Occasionally, however, these men were never caught, but instead, knowledge of their utter disregard for both army protocol and other people’s lives never saw the light of day. Instead, they became well-known to the military underground and ultimately, channeled into unofficial projects.

  Such was the case with Larkin.

  His background was highly classified, however, Lucas knew it was replete with off-the-books assassinations. No job was too dirty, and while other mercenaries often stated an aversion to killing women and children, Larkin declared nothing off-limits. If enough money was involved, Larkin would end anyone’s life, anywhere, any time.

  Even worse, the rumor was Larkin also put no restrictions on the people for whom he would work. Drug dealers. Pimps. Organized crime. None of it mattered one iota to Larkin.

  Those were rumors, though, and Lucas had no way to confirm if any of it was true. What he did know was that every time he shared space with the man, he felt an inner dread, as if he was venturing into a dark and dangerous place, alone.

  All Lucas knew was that when he sat down with the man in the same secret building on the base near Death Valley, he felt a dark cloud pass over his soul.

  “Meet Nash, Dawkins and Blatch,” Lucas said.

  He spread out three personnel folders each with a photograph stapled to the front. Lucas placed them in front of Larkin and watched the man glance down at the photos staring back at him.