Orange Face watches the flames from the fire and ponders his next move. His right hand makes the decision for him. It lines the .45’s sights up with the back of the man next to the fire. Best make sure he’s dead.
In rapid succession, the .45 unloads two of its seven shots into the man. Orange Face grins as he watches the man tip over, but something is off. The body is too rigid. It keeps its cross-legged position as it tumbles to the side.
Confused, Orange Face stands upright to get a better view and switches off the night vision goggles. In the light of the campfire, he spots something that makes him take a step forward for a better look. There’s a 14 tattooed on the man’s wrist. It’s the race traitor, Fiddler, the one the Wendigo killed. He just shot a man who was already dead.
But what about the person under the branches? That must be the other man hiding, right? It’s hard to see under all that brush, but sure enough he spots a sleeve.
You wanted me to come into camp before you ambushed me? Nice try.
“Come on out of there and tell me where your chink girlfriend is,” Orange Face says. He waits for a response, but gets none. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Orange Face aims and pulls the trigger five times. There’s no way he missed. Out of ammo, he pauses to swap in a fresh magazine. Just for the fun of it, he pops a few more shots into the brush.
That’s when he feels something press against his throat. His first reaction is to look down, and he spots something on the ground that causes him to scream. It cuts open the silence of the night even more than the gunshots.
At his feet rests his dismembered right hand, still gripping the .45 in its fingers.
24.
The plan didn’t go quite as expected, but I made it work anyway. Using Fiddler’s stiff remains to focus attention away from my hiding spot behind a monolith worked well enough, but I couldn’t reach the psycho’s throat with the ESEE knife. No bother. I took off his hand instead.
Chase, the flexible.
And the mostly naked. Everything but my underwear is beneath that pile of brush, stuffed with wood to look like a body. Another distraction.
Now I’m wrestling with the psycho as he comes to terms with what’s happened. Stabbing him outright in the back won’t put him down fast enough without a face-to-face fight. I prefer to fight dirty. All that talk about fair fights is bullshit. I don’t want a fair fight. I want to live to find this runestone and see my daughter again.
So I quickly sheath the knife and choke the psycho from behind with the gig while he’s still in shock about his hand. It’s a little awkward given the .30-06 slung over his shoulder, but I wriggle into a position that works.
Going pants-less has its advantages, although for some reason I’m reminded of a certain scene in Deliverance and chuckle. It’s completely out of place given the situation, but humor is a trick of the mind to save itself from the trauma of what’s happening in front you. I don’t like killing people, but I don’t live in a world with many options, either. Best to laugh while you can, even if you do it in a microsecond of distracted thought while you force a confused, one-handed shithead toward a fire from behind.
Once I can feel the heat of the fire on my pale knuckles, I shout to Biyu. She’s perched on top of the boulder I hoisted her onto hours before, shielded from view of the shooters on the rim. Had the psycho struggling with his good hand to free himself from my gig paid more attention, he might’ve spotted her. I figured he was an amateur.
“Plan B, Biyu,” I say and wrench the gig tighter against the psycho’s throat. “I only got his hand.”
Biyu scoots up to the edge of the boulder with a grapefruit-sized rock in her hand.
You bailed us out with your MVP pitching skills before. Don’t fail us now.
With a clear view of the psycho’s face in light of the fire, Biyu winds up and tosses the heavy rock in slow motion. With a meaty thud it unzips the psycho’s face and empties his nose onto my hands. I feel the warmth cascade down my wrists, but he’s still fighting me. The first fractures start to open up across the stressed gig.
“Again, Biyu,” I say.
Biyu pitches another rock. This time it’s a fastball. I can’t see the psycho’s face, but I can hear how it isn’t there anymore.
Another few seconds go by, and gradually the pressure on the gig eases. I guide the man to the ground and avert my eyes away from the crater of his face. I don’t need to see that.
Instead, I afford my adversary the pleasure of a death without further suffering. I take the time to peel the .45 from the dismembered hand, then put a bullet into his chest for the coup de grace.
The night returns to silence, save for the crackle of the fire. Biyu beams at me from on top of the boulder. I return the gesture for her sake, but not mine.
I barely have time to pull the .30-06 from the psycho’s body before the shooting begins from up on the rim of The Pit. That’s when Biyu starts screaming.
25.
I catch Biyu as she rolls down the boulder, less a result from the shooting and more because of her losing balance after hurling the rocks. It doesn’t bode well for her injured leg, and her cries of pain let me know it.
“You OK?” I say and prop her up against the boulder after the shooting stops.
“I think so,” Biyu says, although I’m not sure I believe her. She put up with the pain as well as anyone could earlier, but something changed. It could be the beginning of an infection, which would hurt like a bastard.
Time is running out, and I’ve had it with these neo-Nazi pricks.
After offering Biyu the last of the water in the canteen and fetching my clothes from the brush, I raid the dead psycho for gear. The rocks smashed the night vision goggles into his face, so those are useless. Same with the two-way radio. Besides the .45 pistol, .30-06 bolt-action rifle and spare ammo, this guy was remarkably unprepared. No food. No water. A search of his pockets doesn’t even turn up an ID.
I pause, though, when my fingers pull out a plastic baggie containing a few loose pills. They almost look like aspirin, although I can’t be sure.
“These look familiar at all to you?” I say and hold the baggie up to Biyu. “I’m hoping they’re antibiotics or painkillers, but damned if I know.”
Biyu leans in for a closer look.
“I don’t know, either,” she says. “Wouldn’t someone like him have painkillers?”
We both want it to be true, and for a minute I debate taking one myself to see what happens. But in all my travels, I’ve learned never to trust a pill outside of a U.S. pharmacy. I met plenty of people wanting to “help” by offering something for that splitting headache, only for it to turn out to be pure opium or something worse.
“How about we save them for later?” I say and place them next to the bandana on the ground.
Biyu agrees, but I can tell by the look in her eyes she won’t fight the gamble for much longer. I suspect she’s downplayed how much the leg hurts.
“You know how to work this thing, right?” I say. I place the .45 and a few spare mags next to her.
“Of course,” Biyu says.
“Good. I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. “I need to let those Nazis know we’re ready to leave.”
26.
“They killed him. That scream, that shot, I know it,” Long Beard says, jumping to his feet. “Sons of bitches.”
Silent Man rises and offers a comforting hand on his father’s back, but Long Beard swats him away. Doesn’t want his remaining son to see the tears in his eyes.
“Get on that ATV and make sure it doesn’t roll back on me while I’m on the rope. I’m going down,” Long Beard says. He points a finger in the direction of the gravel chute and the ATV.
Silent Man hesitates.
“Yes, I’m sure, and I know how I want to do it,” Long Beard says. “I’ll try to talk some sense into that white man down there while you cover me as best you can from up here. He must be good stock if he lived this long. I’ll get him to turn over the c
hink and help us dig out that stone. Then we’ll see whether we let them leave The Pit. Deal?”
Silent Man raises an eyebrow and looks up at the stars. Sighs.
“Listen, boy,” Long Beard says. He grips Silent Man’s shoulders in his hands. “This isn’t about that stone or preserving our race anymore. This is about family. We can’t let what happened go unanswered.”
The pep talk works. They head to the gravel chute. It isn’t until Silent Man fires up the ATV and Long Beard starts his descent that something unexpected happens.
27.
I return to the cover I used to glass the rim with the spotting scope and wait for signs of movement up top. I can’t see the other two psychos without the night vision goggles, but I can hear just fine. It’s the rumble of an ATV.
The gravel chute. One of them is coming down while the other mans the ATV.
The moonlight isn’t strong, but it’s enough to get a general idea of the chute’s location. I hoist the .30-06 and aim as best I can in the dark. Bang. I work the bolt and pull the trigger again. Bang.
I’m expecting a reply, so I move on to the cover of a nearby boulder and work my way to another clearing. Bang.
That ought to make them think twice about coming down here. I’d rather play sniper with them in the morning when I can see.
From the direction of the chute, I hear loud cursing and a crashing sound. For a minute I think the ATV rolled back into The Pit, but the rumble of the engine confirms it never moved. That must mean whoever was on the rope isn’t anymore.
I keep moving through cover, this time closer to the chute. I won’t let them get the drop on us again. That’s when I hear it. It’s an older man’s voice. He’s calling to me.
“…know you’re out there,” the voice says as I stop to listen. “I won’t shoot if you show yourself.”
The voice sounds pained, as if he’s struggling to breathe. Maybe I popped him a good one.
“My boy is up top, you hear me?” the voice says. “The only reason you’re still alive is because he ain’t decided where to shoot you yet. You show yourself, he’ll hold off.”
Wow, what a bargain.
I slip as close as I can to the chute without leaving the cover of the boulders. Fifty yards separate the voice and me. My eyes can faintly see the outline of the man on his back in the weak moonlight. He’s squirming a bit, probably trying to figure out where he’s hit.
“I just want to talk. That’s it,” the voice says. “No one has to die anymore. Truce. You out there? I said I want a truce.”
A truce? With Nazis? I feel a little like Neville Chamberlain.
“Either you talk to me and take your chances, or you die here in The Pit,” the voice says. “You out there? Answer me.”
Part of me wants to stretch the rifle out of my hiding spot and pop the bastard. One less asshole for me to deal with before digging out that stone. But another part wants an option other than killing. I’ve had enough for one night.
“I’m here,” I say without moving from cover.
“Ah, there you are. I knew you’d come to your senses,” the voice says. “You’re not such a bad shot in the dark. Did a number on my shoulder.”
I remain silent, letting the devil whisper in my ear instead of talking back.
“More the listening type, huh? That’s fine,” the voice says. I watch the silhouette of a long beard wag as he talks. “I think you’re in way over your head here, buddy. That pale guy that led you to The Pit and that chink…er…Asian lady must’ve tricked you into helping them with something that’s not worth dying over. Look, I don’t blame you for being in this situation. It ain’t your deal, but now two people are dead. Maybe we can figure out a way to stop the killin’. That sound good to you?”
His voice stinks of condescension, like he’s explaining calculus to a dog. I don’t want to blow him off right away, though. Maybe I can glean something from him about the runestone. Biyu’s tight-lipped about exactly where it is in The Pit, and I’m not sure she keeps my best interests in mind given her patriotism. She might be my ticket out of here, and then again she might not. My gut tells me she’d choose the runestone over me if given the choice.
It’s not like these psycho Nazi assholes would offer anything better, but right now I need information.
I return the gesture of insincerity with an, “I’m listening.”
“Good, then I’ll let you know exactly what’s on the line. Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors, and yours, came to this land from Europe. Some say Columbus was first, but you probably heard the Vikings beat him to it. With others that followed, they turned this continent into the greatest nation on Earth. It’s a pretty incredible thing if you think about it. From the Stone Age to the moon in less than 200 years. That’s a heritage we can be proud of, don’t you think?” Long Beard says.
Where’s he going with this?
“OK,” I say when it’s clear he needs an acknowledgement before continuing.
“Here’s the thing. Some people want to change that history to suit their own purposes. They’re so wrapped up in political correctness that they seek out ways to discredit the accomplishments of our heritage. That’s how they destroy this country one piece at a time, unless someone steps up and stops them. That’s where people like you and me come in to set the record straight. Do you understand what I mean?” Long Beard says.
Might as well lay it all out there instead of drawing it out like he’s doing. Getting tired of listening to him.
“You’re here to find the runestone because of what’s written on it,” I say. “The Chinese arrived in the Americas before Europeans.”
Long Beard coughs and says, “Correct. At least, that’s what we think it says. One of the descendants of the farmer who discovered the runestones told us about it, but no one knows for sure. Now you tell me what makes more sense: letting some Chinese secret agent ship an artifact that important off to Asia or keeping it in the U. S. of A.”
“But you’re no historian. Don’t you want to destroy the runestone?” I say.
“If it means China won’t send another agent looking for it, yes,” Long Beard says. “Do you really think they’ll stop if this one fails? They’ll just try again.”
I should’ve shot him when I had the chance, because what he’s saying starts to make sense. Why stick my neck out for Biyu? We’re past the point of a normal business relationship anyway. I need to get the hell out of here. That’s all that matters.
If that makes me selfish, I’m not sure I care. I get sucked into high-stakes, save-the-world bullshit every time I step outside the door. It worked for a while, but Ava’s words haven’t left my mind since I first heard them: “You don’t care about me.”
And I’m missing out on being a father for what? The chance to be stuck in The Pit? To re-enact the worst moments of my military service? To risk life and limb for the sake of someone who, at the end of the day, wants to take a swing at the country I signed up to give my life to in the military?
I can’t any more. I’m not Atlas.
“You help me find that runestone, I promise you safe passage. I’ll even forgive you for killing my son back there,” Long Beard says.
Son? He might forgive, but I bet he won’t forget.
Long Beard continues, “I got plenty of jerky, biscuits, coffee, beer, you name it. I bet you could go for a proper meal and a shower.”
He’s right about that. My empty stomach and parched lips nearly rip out of my body and book it up that rope.
“What do you say?” Long Beard says. “You with us?”
28.
My body might want to cave, but my mind doesn’t. It cranks away while Long Beard talks and settles on a plan. It’s perfect, and I’m surprised I didn’t think of it before. Or maybe I’m not surprised. I’m still dehydrated, exhausted and stressed. But as Biyu said yesterday, I don’t need to be good, just lucky. It worked in that bunker in Iraq. It might as well work here, too.
Step one
isn’t too complicated. I simply spin on my crouched heel and start back to camp.
“You aren’t leaving, are you?” Long Beard says.
That’s exactly I’m doing, but I don’t tell him that. Long Beard is as screwed with that busted shoulder as Biyu is with her bad leg. That means the third psycho up top will have to crawl down to help him up the rope. All I need to do is wait for that to happen and pop them when their guard is down.
I find a nook inside a dugout at the base of a boulder with what I think is a decent view of Long Beard and wait. There’s no telling how long they’ll be, but I’m betting they won’t put it off until after sunrise. I might not be able to see much, but it’s worth a proverbial shot.
Sure enough, I hear movement, and it’s not my empty stomach. The crunch-crunch-crunch of footsteps navigating the gravel chute betrays the third psycho descending the rope. The rumble of the ATV tied to the upper end of the rope can’t cover it up.
“Dammit, boy, be careful coming down here,” Long Beard says.
If I try hard, I can spot them struggling to find a position that works for making the climb back up the chute. It looks like something out of the Three Stooges, or so my mind supposes. It fills in the lines of contorting shadows while Long Beard curses.
I prop the rifle against the edge of the dugout and aim toward the sounds. I’ll give it until they’re halfway up the chute before I start firing. Best to make the most of their fall.
Maybe I’ll get lucky. That’s all I need to be, right?
It turns out luck beats bullets tonight. I listen to the cacophony of their disgraceful attempt at gymnastics as they climb the rope. But something else catches my ear, and it’s getting closer: the ATV. The engine whines as it rushes down the chute. The parking brake couldn’t support two people on the rope.
“Oh, shit,” I hear Long Beard say as the ATV separates the two like bowling pins. They and the ATV careen back down the chute, stopping only when they hit the hard edge of a rock jutting out of the ground.
Chase Baker and the Vikings' Secret (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 5) Page 7
