Twisted Iron

by T. J. Loveless

  “Focus in that area. Can you focus on the animal?” I kept my voice low, easy.

  “How do you know it’s an animal?” She stiffened slightly, and blew a hair out of her face. “Okay, you were right. It was an elk.”

  “I know.”

  She whirled on me, “How the hell do you know?”

  “I saw it before you did.” I gave her the gentlest smile I could. “I might need glasses to read, but my far sight is better than perfect.”

  She shook her head and returned to a slow sweep. She stopped several more times, finding a badger, three elk, and one mountain sheep far from home.

  She talked the entire time, telling me what she could see, and I kept telling her to stop focusing on things unless they moved. It was a friendly argument.

  Until I caught a movement on the northeast side. “Give me the binoculars, Jillian.” She handed them to me, and I adjusted the focus.

  “Jillian, do we know anyone who is approximately six foot four, maybe two twenty?” The person was covered in camo, hat pulled low.

  “Blaze.”

  “No, he one walks differently and is six foot seven. The guy outside is less athlete, more military.” The big man put his feet down with purpose, going from one hiding place to another. He carried an AK-47 slung over his back, careful not to leave a crashing trail through the forest.

  “Then no. Unless it’s a hunter.” She squatted low, hiding behind the wooden bench circling the room.

  “It’s illegal to use an AK-47 to hunt in all fifty states. You can only hunt humans with them.”

  “Crap, what are we going to do?” her voice carried notes of fear.

  “Let’s see what he does. You know the third duffel bag you dragged in? The one with the lock on it?” I watched the man, as he stalked closer to the house.

  “Yeah, the heavy mofo.”

  “The key is in the side pocket of my clothes duffel. Inside you’ll find a lot of weapons and ammo. I need you to bring it up.” Of the eight windows, four opened. I could easily line a shot if he came any closer.

  She scrambled out, and I could hear her footsteps running down the stairs. In a few moments, the sounds of her cursing and the thump of a heavy bag against the stairs made its way into the tower.

  She appeared five minutes later, as the man approached the outer ring of pine trees. I handed her the binoculars, “He’s on the northeast side, three trees in from the outside of the forest. He’s moving slow. Keep an eye on him and me updated.”

  I kneeled next to the duffel bag, and opened it. I pulled out the UTG Type 96 Shadow Ops Airsoft Sniper Rifle, set up the bipod, adjusted the sight of the scope, and loaded the twenty-three round magazine. I slowly opened the window, and sighted his head.

  “Aiden, what are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to give him a chance to stop. But if he threatens us, he’ll die.” I fell into the static foam.

  “No!” She grabbed my arm.

  I looked at her, glanced at her hand. “Let go.”

  She released my arm as if burned. I peered through the scope. He looked behind and I saw his face. Young, maybe late twenties, a scar running from his forehead, across his cheek and nose, to disappear in the camo he wore.

  “He may not be out to harm us, Aiden. Give him a chance to talk.”

  I had him in the crosshairs, and spoke loudly, “You have ten seconds to explain why you’re hunting on the property.”

  He spun and looked up, an expression of surprise clear from the tower. He sprinted for the trees, hiding behind one large pine. “Come out slowly, Middleston.”

  His voice was familiar, and I scrambled to place it.

  “Just so you know, I have you sighted.”

  “I’m not the only one, Middleston. We only want what’s ours.” A belt wrapped around the tree, and he used it to climb into the branches, effectively covering himself.

  I released a breath, and pulled the trigger. He yelled in pain. He wasn’t dead, probably just winged him. “I’ll keep shooting until you fall out leaking like a sieve.”

  “Aiden, please, stop!” Jillian begged.

  “Jillian, go downstairs, get everything in the ‘Cuda. We have to go before the rest get here.” I could hear the monotone inflection as I gave orders.

  I noted several branches moving and followed the movement. I aimed slightly higher, and released another shot. His body crashed down several layers of branches. His legs dangled into view briefly, before being pulled into the cover. “I can shoot at least twenty-one more times.”

  A bullet shattered the window to the left. Jillian let out a yelp and ran for the stairs. I looked at the trajectory.

  “Damn it, there’s more.” I swept the forest, finding two men coming from the southeast to Tree Guy’s position. They were running, and I moved the crosshairs slightly in front of the man leading. Pulling the trigger, I watched him fall. They would need DNA to identify him.

  The second man stopped and jumped behind a tree. I swept to the Tree Guy, and watched him run for the fallen man. I aimed. He fell, blood and thicker things covering a nearby tree.

  “I don’t know who you are, but I’ve had enough,” I yelled into the forest.

  “You didn’t have to kill them!” he answered, peeking around the tree. I fired another shot, and he lost the hand gripping the front of the pine. He fell forward, screaming.

  Another shot, and he was dead.

  I carefully arranged the rifle, and picked up the binoculars. I swept the area, put the binoculars in the duffel, took apart the sniper rifle, packed it and slung the duffel over a shoulder. Hanging onto the stair rails, I made my way downstairs.

  The house was quiet, and I limped for the garage. Inside, the ‘Cuda’s trunk was open, along with the driver side door. But Jillian was nowhere to be seen. The garage door was open.

  Dread forming a thick lump in my throat, I turned to look out the garage door.

  Another big male, well built, approximately six foot three, with black hair and olive toned skin, held Jilly Bean by the hair, forcing her head back, a 9MM to her temple.

  “You should have come quietly, Middleston.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sight of the gun against her temple, the fear in her eyes, the pain stampeding across her face made the static foam disappear. I could feel, and it burned hot.

  He pulled her by the hair into the back of a truck which appeared as he stood holding her hostage outside the garage door. Forcing her on her knees, he braced against the truck’s forward movement, keeping the barrel of the weapon at the top of her head.

  I could only stand and watch.

  As soon as they disappeared, I opened the duffel, taking out my Sig, and five full magazines. I threw the duffel in the passenger seat, closed the trunk, and slid into the driver’s seat. The keys dangled from the ignition.

  The car roared to life and I shoved it into first gear, tearing out of the garage and onto the asphalt paved driveway. Shifting sent tendrils of pain through my thigh, stiff and sore from use. I hit third, and could see the truck winding through the turns. The man who’d taken Jillian hostage spotted me and sighted the ‘Cuda.

  A shot rang out and I hit the brakes, turning the wheel to avoid the bullet. It went through the windshield, hitting the passenger seat. Jillian was on all fours, face splotchy from crying.

  He put the weapon to her head, mouthing back off! I kept coming, not believing he would kill the only leverage they had.

  I was five feet behind, when he pulled the hammer on the gun, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered, and she slumped to the bed of the truck as he sighted me again, hitting the front tire and a second shot hitting the radiator. Steam billowed, and I couldn’t see, fighting the steering.

  I hit the brakes, flying against the steering as the car rammed a tree.

  *

  I came to, slumped at the wheel, the memory of her death imprinted permanently. I put both arms on the steering wheel, forehead resting on a
hand.

  The tears wouldn’t stop. Not Jillian, not my Jilly Bean. This is my fault. My fault, my fault, my fault … the thoughts circled, seeing the shot on repeat.

  I sat up, and tried to assess where exactly I was. Less than a quarter mile from the house. Jesse had a beat up Jeep Cherokee in the garage, the keys in a desk on the second floor. I memorized the plates. Surely Blaze would help me find the men responsible for her death.

  I mentally prepared. I was going to kill them all, using everything I had. They wanted war? They were going to get one.

  *

  I drove the Cherokee into Dillon, stopping at the sheriff’s office. Limping inside, I found a deputy at the front desk. “I need to see Sheriff Blaze Porter.”

  His eyes grew round, and he clumsily scrambled for the phone. “Sheriff, Aiden Middleston is asking to see you. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He put it down, and pointed at a hallway behind the desk. “Third door on the right, Mr. Middleston.”

  I nodded, making my way to his office. I knocked once and opened it.

  Blaze sat behind the desk, a look of intense grief in his eyes. It disappeared quickly, and he looked at me, face blank. “What’s going on?” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  I sat in a chair facing him, “They killed Jillian Winters. A red, late model Chevy 1500, two door, Arkansas plates Whiskey Charlie November two-five-nine.”

  Emotions skittered across his handsome features, too fast for me to make sense of. But it put battle trained instincts on alert. Something was wrong, and extremely off. “I’ll get someone on tracing the plates, be right back.” He handed me a legal pad and pen, “Write it all down.”

  He left, his step off, back straight, hands fisted. I walked to the door, peeking out. He’d stopped at a deputy’s desk, pointed at the office and stalked off.

  I ducked out of line of sight, and looked at the windows. I had to leave, and leave now. I went to the desk, and saw a report, my name at the top. Every battle hardened sense told me to get the fuck out of Dodge, and do it now.

  But the sounds of rubber soles on old tile floated through the doorway. I went back to the door, waved at the deputy and shut the door, locking it.

  At one of the windows, I noticed the screen missing. Opening it, I squeezed through, falling gracelessly into the bushes. I stayed on hands and knees, watching for legs. Quickly, I stood, grabbed the window, shutting it, and hid. I crawled to the front door. Several footsteps ran out, one set of boots a size thirteen.

  “Find him, now. He couldn’t have gone far. How the hell did he get by all of you?” Blaze’s voice boomed.

  Forcing my breathing to slow, I remained still, as more of the officers ran out, asking what I’d drove, and had anyone seen the direction I’d gone. One went inside to check the cameras hidden around the building.

  I could see the Jeep in the third row of the parking lot. My duffels were inside. I’d have to run, grab them and hotwire one of the cars. I spotted a late model Dodge Charger, two Toyota Corollas, one big Chevy SUV, and three older trucks with rust spots.

  But I glared at the old, rust bucket of a Jeep CJ-7. The front plates said DOC. What the fuck was Jillian’s Jeep doing in the Sheriff’s parking lot? Jillian said it’d burned with her house.

  I knew where she kept the keys. I also knew what she had under the hood. Plus, while most Jeeps of the time were dangerously top heavy, Jillian had fixed the problem with a new chassis. Her vehicle was my goal. If anyone harmed her Jeep, the last thing I had of her, I’d commit cold-blooded murder.

  The cruisers departed, Blaze went inside, and it was time. Getting out of the bushes, I sprinted for the Cherokee, opening the back and grabbing the bags. Hiding behind cars, I made my way to the CJ-7. They’d be watching tapes from the last ten minutes, not notice me leaving in a vehicle supposedly burned to a crisp in a house fire. The burning pain in my leg slowed my progress, but they didn’t look my way.

  Tossing both bags into the back, relieved she hadn’t changed out the bikini top, I left in a sedate manner. If I could, I was heading to Bozeman. I had an old friend who’d be happy to hide me. Although I’d have to listen to at least two hours of conspiracy theories.

  *

  The trip to Bozeman was uneventful, and I used the three hour drive to plan. I stopped and bought a disposable cell phone, calling Barry in Bozeman.

  “I told you to watch out. Ever since the problems in Laramie, they’ve been watching you.” His voice was nasally and a little high-pitched, but he’d helped us on many occasions with his genius on the computers.

  “You’ve been watching me too?” I chuckled.

  “Those of you who survived, yes. There’s only eight left, Aiden. Eight. They took out twenty-two of you in Laramie. Does that woman know what she sacrificed?” The anger in Barry’s voice made it a little deeper.

  “Yes, and she lives with the guilt every day. I’ll be there in ninety minutes, Barry. Can you clear me from the grid?” I checked the cracked rearview mirrors. Nothing suspicious, and I couldn’t detect anyone following.

  “Of course. By the way, they’re rotating the people following you. You should see a white Nissan Sentra in the background. Dumbasses are talking on an open line.” He chuckled.

  He was right, a Sentra changed lanes, with the driver talking on a phone.

  “Damn.”

  “I’ll throw them off. See how they like all their lines of communication going down. I’m going to have to cut yours too, it won’t work again. See you soon.”

  A loud squeal pierced the rushing air, and I tossed the phone on the passenger floorboard.

  I sped up, weaving around several semis, watching the other driver try to keep up. He merged behind one semi, and flipped a blinker for when an SUV passed him. As he looked behind to see if he could merge, I drove onto the shoulder, and let off the accelerator. The big rig passed me and I joined traffic behind a dually pulling a trailer. Moving slightly to the center, I watched the Sentra take off, weaving in and out, trying to find me. I stayed where I was, safely hidden.

  With their communication down, I assumed they couldn’t tell anyone what was happening. Unless they had backup phones, although many wouldn’t think to bring spares.

  For ninety minutes, the image of Jillian dying played, rational thought gone. The pain in my chest unbearable.

  The turn off for Barry’s arrived and I veered off, checking to see if anyone followed. The small highway to Barry’s was deserted, making anyone following a beacon. The sun was heading for the horizon, as I turned south, and with the empty highway, the loneliness slammed hard into my heart.

  Two women lost in a matter of a year. One who would always be a friend. One who would never know what could have been.

  Life sucked.

  *

  Barry’s house was a metal building gave the appearance of a mechanic shop on the outside. Inside, it was any Techie’s Nirvana. The first floor solely dedicated to anything computer related, and just the thought of keeping up with it made my head hurt. I had an email address, and that was it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d checked it.

  Barry was five foot nine, thin, a head full of curly red hair, freckles across his pale face, and myopic blue eyes. I thought he looked like a tall toddler. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them into place for the umpteenth time. I always found it humorous he was carded for beer and was older by two years.

  “The lines are lit up. They are searching for you and the beat up Jeep.” He turned, waving a hand to follow.

  “That beat up Jeep can haul ass when necessary. Faster than most vehicles on the road.” I slowly went up the metal steps to the second floor, grinning at the complete change from the first floor. Highly polished oak floors shone in the fading light, with a well-appointed living room, and down a hall, three bedrooms, each with a full bath, two hall closets, a small galley kitchen filled to the brim with the latest and greatest appliances, everything modern, and in various shades of gray. Several accents of d
eep red were in the kitchen and living room. On the walls, I spotted a Picasso, two large photos of New York City in black and white, and a color print of the Grand Tetons. Like Barry, the home was a puzzle of the man who lived within the four walls.

  He opened a door into a plain room, with white walls, a queen bed covered in a light green duvet and two pillows, a dresser matching the floors on the wall by the door.

  “That door leads to your bathroom,” pointing to the door on the left. “That is a closet, with plenty of room for your weapons. You don’t have any grenades or explosives?”

  “No. Just a lot of guns and rifles, twelve knives, one sword.”

  He nodded. “Get a nap. Let me send them in the wrong direction, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, your your territory, my friend.”

  “We’ll make them bleed, Aiden. Trust me.” He left.

  I put the heavy bags on the floor, turned and sat on the bed. Exhaustion was using me as a punching bag, and I fell back, wincing slightly. Sleep came easily.

  I woke to the sounds of pans banging in the kitchen, and the smell of something wonderful. Stiff and sore, I winced getting out of bed, making my way to the kitchen. Barry moved gracefully around the kitchen.