Fifty-four years old.
I'm too old for this, he told himself. Seen too much from 'Nam to Dakota to the Pentagon. Too much of this. I ain't got the nerve no more.
Something told him he had used it all up.
Somewhere down the line, in some hellish battle he couldn't even remember, he had used up that best part of himself that, in the old days, would have given him the edge, would have helped him bull his way through this.
The gun wasn't comforting in his hand. It was a toy; a coward's answer to a fear that was way beyond.
Still, he gripped the checkered walnut handle, absently feeling the thin sheen of gun oil on the blue steel.
Seven shots. That's all he had. Seven shots.
Use six of 'em on the bad guys, he thought. Save the last one for myself.
Kertzman laughed brutally, shook his head. He never thought it would come to this, never believed that he would crack. Not until Stephenson told him what he was truly facing.
Forces, Carthwright had said.
People who make things happen …
Kertzman felt the sweat on his back and chest getting colder.
It would be easy to do. Just play the game and finish it. Find this guy, Gage, and step aside to let these people do what they have to do.
Walk away.
Superior beings. The best in the world at what they do. The strongest, the smartest. A master race.
He had denied the fear with Carthwright. Had denied it all the way down to New York, but then, listening to the Englishman in the church, something inside him, brittle and cold with a denied fear had snapped – something he didn't understand.
The thoughts stayed with him, disturbing him, eating away at that unknown fiber of his soul that had always sustained him. He knew that somewhere out there, Gage was fighting these people. He would always be fighting. That's all he knew.
Gage was a warrior, a soldier, a survivor. Gage would never lay it down, never give up. He would fight them until they took him down hard and he'd make them pay for every inch. He'd force these so-called supermen to the edge of what they could endure, make them curse the day they heard of Jonathan Gage, Black Light, the U.S. Army or anything else.
Somehow Kertzman knew this wasn't really about national security or foreign policy. From the beginning it had been something a lot worse. Kertzman had felt it when he was standing in the church, had seen too many of the mysteries coming together.
Something about it was vaguely nightmarish and unnatural; the seminary, the church, the old professor. Too many things that could never be connected to national interest. Even if someone, maybe Carthwright, wanted Gage dead because of Black Light, there was someone else going down here. Something darker.
Kertzman's hand shifted on the .45.
A master race; the ultimate beast of prey.
Kertzman knew that what was on the line here was about a lot more than just surviving, living for another day. No, there wouldn't be any running away from these people. Because if he ran they would always have a hold over him. There would be no freedom, no peace, no way to live with himself. Not if he bowed his head, tucked his tail between his legs, and hunkered down like an ol' beat dog.
Kertzman absently licked his dry lips.
Something told him: That ain't no life. Ain't no life 'cause every day you'll feel the eyes watching and you'll know they're watching a coward. You'll spend the rest of your life hiding what you really are.
Kertzman shook his head, the .45 hanging forgotten in his hand.
No, he thought, I won't live like this – not like this!
Dead would be better than this! Dead ain't half so bad as this! At least I could live my last days in peace and respect and die with just myself instead 'a ghosts.
Kertzman sniffed, moving his head, loosening, and looked down at his hand, at the .45. He thumbed the hammer back on a chambered round, studying the Colt's blue-black gleam.
Just a gun. Nothing in it – nothing that he didn't put in there himself. And the surest way out of this wasn't going to be by a gun. He would have to outsmart them.
Then, slowly, with steady, gathering certainty, a game came to him; a game where he might find the truth and even get himself out alive at the same time, although simply surviving this was by far a secondary consideration.
If he was gonna go out, he was gonna go out on his feet.
Just work the evidence, he thought. Work it hard, and make a good show. But don't put it all together, not really. They'll think you're doing your best, running this guy to ground. Only don't finish it. Don't look where he should really be. Mess up just enough so they'll never figure out that you're holding back. They'll know that you're not getting the job done, but they won't suspect that it's from a lack of trying. In the meantime, track this guy down on your own and find out what's really happening and take down the true bad guys.
A long time passed as Kertzman worked the details of the plot. But he wasn't sure if he could carry it off. He concentrated, replaying all the moments that meant something, trying to find where they had made a mistake. A lot of it was easy.
Milburn was a mistake. An obvious one. He was on the other side, probably since Black Light was active in the late eighties. And Radford couldn't be trusted. He didn't get volunteered for this because of "no reason."
He was in it for a purpose—somebody else's purpose.
Carthwright was a maybe, but Kertzman knew that would make it too easy.
The trick would be stalling everybody without arousing suspicions while he ran Gage to ground. If the investigation even came close to pinpointing Gage's safe house he would have to do some subtle misdirection but not enough to arouse attention. And that wouldn't be easy. He could probably slide something past Milburn and even Radford. But Carthwright would be sharper and far more dangerous if he truly was behind this.
Kertzman shifted, his mind playing out a dozen different scenarios of how it could work. But immediately he knew it would be a close thing.
Too close.
Wiping a cold, sweaty brow with a hairy forearm, Kertzman glanced down again at the Colt.
Frowning, he flicked the safety, locking the hammer back. Now if he thumbed down the lever of the .45 he would have one good, fast shot.
He released a deep breath.
It'd have to do.
*
TWENTY-SIX
A white, distant shade shone through the cold.
The softest rustle of noise; faint, invisible.
Sarah opened her eyes, saw everything at once. The glow in the distance behind the windows, a large dark form, a... black man ... moving carefully around Gage's bed.
Instantly she was on her feet, her hands searching for something, a weapon. But even as she stood she realized, in the space it took for her to move, that the big man was not an enemy. She knew, she understood it all so well with the necessary speed of thought forced upon her by the situation who the black man was.
Moving carefully, gingerly, the big man lowered Gage's arm. And as she reached her feet he turned his head towards her—a smooth, dark, ebony face, masculine and dignified, quietly strong and instantly reassuring by its complete lack of any threatening intent. And for a split-second as he looked towards her, he smiled. Then he turned back to Gage.
With expert deftness he checked the wounds as Sarah moved closer with quiet, careful steps. She knew they had locked all the doors and windows. Everything was, as Gage would call it, secure. But the black man had found his way into the cabin in the dark, past Malachi and Barto sleeping soundly in the other room and to Gage's bed where she slept in the chair.
Silently, as if he did not want to stir Gage, the big black man removed something from a small black bag. Sarah recognized it instantly. It was an IV from an Army-issue trauma kit.
The big man attached the IV to the wall beside the bed and expertly inserted the needle into Gage's arm, causing him to stir slightly. A subsequent series of injections were forced into the IV, the drip rele
ased at what Sarah thought was full-flow, and Gage was immediately sleeping soundly again. Then the man moved to the table, with Sarah, dazed and still somewhat afraid, only steps behind him.
At the table, the big man removed rows of encapsulated medicines and syringes. Then quickly, with a completely casual and even comforting manner he turned towards her, silently holding up one of the medicine capsules. Gingerly she reached out and took it, somehow certain of who he was.
"Sandman?" she whispered, searching the wide, sensitive eyes.
The black man smiled, nodding.
Sarah closed her eyes for only the most fleeting, glancing second, surrendering to the hazy, comforting sensation that fell over her. Then she looked at the capsule—a strong, very expensive all-purpose antibiotic designed to fight a wide array of infections from blood disorders to pneumonia. In a glance she noticed the other capsules, identifying them by color coding: cephalexin, chloram-phenical, dicioxacillin, and gentamicin.
It was everything Gage would need. It was even more than she had in the desert.
The worst was over. He would recover with this.
Sandman looked down on her. He was extremely tall, well over six feet, taller than Gage and much, much heavier. Yet his enormous size did not seem imposing, but reassuring. The close-cut black hair was unimaginative, unannouncing; a practical cut for a practical person.
It was the face that captured Sarah's attention; muscular, strong, promoting the impression of granite but somehow benign and serene with calm, comforting eyes that seemed to constantly smile.
He moved with a limp, as if his left leg were deadened at the knee. In her initial shock, Sarah hadn't thought of it, but now she understood. He was crippled and wore a prosthesis from at least the knee and possibly higher.
Silently he motioned for them to sit down in the two chairs. Sarah obeyed, moving silently with him. Sandman sat down heavily beside her, reaching down with massive hands to bend his knee, positioning the leg. Apparently, the prosthesis began in an area higher than the knee, possibly mid-thigh or even at the hip.
Sandman nodded his head, winked at her.
"He'll be alright," he said in a warm voice.
Against her will, Sarah felt the tears begin, moved her hands to her face. She would no longer have to rely upon her judgment alone. But she didn't want to cry, refused to truly release her fatigue or her fears. She wiped the silent tears away with the heel of her hand as they crept from her eyes.
Sandman's comforting hand was on her shoulder, and then his deep voice, "Everything's gonna be alright ... Ol’ Sandman is here ..."
It was their soft conversation that awoke Malachi and Barto, who entered the room in the late dawn to find them together. Barto made a bizarrely heroic move to do something, but Sandman's unassuming presence instantly defused any adverse reactions. Malachi seemed to take the arrival, even at first glance, with utter calm, and gazed upon the big black man with the attitude of someone experienced at dramatic surprises.
Over coffee at the kitchen table, Barto and Malachi seemed as relieved as Sarah at Sandman's arrival. In low tones they discussed Gage's condition and Sandman assured them that he would be on his feet in a few days.
"Yeah, he'll be alright," he said easily as he walked, with painful slowness towards his coat. "I've seen him get out of a lot worse. I was the medic for our old unit. Navy trained me. Gage was trained, too, but he wasn't a regular medic. He never really liked it that much." He looked at Sarah. "Those are some good sutures. Regular ol' square knots. They work as good as anythin'. You got any more silk left?"
Sarah shook her head.
"That's alright. I got plenty." Sandman nodded. "I'll fix up Gage's infirmary. It looks like he might need it." He paused. "Yeah, it looks like you did alright. Good decisions. But you didn't have any antibiotics to fight the infection. You didn't have enough to work with. You do now, though, and I'm here, so everything gonna be alright."
Sandman reached quickly into his coat, and Sarah's heart reflexively skipped a beat. Then his hand came out of the coat clutching a large metallic radio. Hardly breaking the rhythm of his words, he spoke into the device. A small red light blinked on as he pressed a lever on the side.
"Sandman to Snake. It's clear. Come on in." He set the radio on the table. "Yeah," he continued casually, "it was a real shocker when that big ol' message came across my computer screen last night.
"Gage and me touch base on the tenth and the twentieth of every month. Nine o'clock at night. Just a little ol' status check kind 'a thing. Sometimes there's somebody in a little trouble. But not for a long time. It's been pretty quiet for a year or so."
Sandman shook his head, smiled easily at Sarah. "Then that big ol' message comes across my computer last night and I think, 'Oh no! My boy done done somethin' big! And it looks like he got himself shot to pieces doin' it!' I was so shocked I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure if it was a trap or what so I came in real quiet, checked things out real good before I waltzed in here."
Malachi spoke warmly, "You are a good friend for him."
Sandman nodded, almost pensive for the first time. "I should be. He set me up, helped me a lot. And he'd do anythin' for me. There ain't too many like him no more. He don't care about money and he's got all the money in the world. He don't care about nuthin' except his friends. There ain't much more, he says. He wasn't always like that. He used to be hard." He paused. "But he ain't like that no more. He's changed a lot. But even in the old days he was always semper fi."
He nodded again, as if agreeing with his own words, and tapped his knuckles on his leg. A hollow plastic echo sounded in the kitchen.
"My leg is still in Colombia," He laughed heartily, easily. "It was Gage who carried me to the bird. And not everybody would 'a done it, I can tell you. Not in a firefight that was lightin' up Maicao like a Christmas tree. It was mean, boy, let me tell you. It was like the sky was on fire." He motioned with his hands, a sliding motion. "We had gone in to hit an airfield flyin' dope up from the coast up through Mississippi. Green light on everythin'. Orders to just go wide open, do whatever it took. Don't leave nuthin' standing. But they were ready for us, a hundred of them crackhead gunboys. We thought it might be a tough hit, and it was, boy, it was."
Sandman shook his head, stared for a minute. Sarah was still wondering about the radio transmission.
"Anyway," he continued, shrugging, "we was in the meanest firefight you ever seen. I got hit by so many rounds I lost count. I just saw my leg layin' over there." He pointed vaguely with his hand. "And I thought, 'Well, I'm gone.' And I guess I would 'a been." He pressed his thumb and forefinger of one hand together, an image of pressure. "But sometimes that ol' femoral artery will clamp itself off when you get hit in the leg like that. It'll just do it by itself. Stop the bleeding. That's what happened. That ol' femoral artery just collapsed, shut down, stopped the bleeding all by itself, or, least ways, enough of it. Gage finally got to me, called a bird, hauled me to the bay. Then he went back, takin' it to them. He was mean, boy, I'm tellin' ya. I ain't never seen nuthin' like that. Never. He was everywhere, killin' people left and right. Stackin' 'em up, boy. There was some judgment done that day, son, some separatin' the sheep from the goats. And I don't think it went too good for a lot of them drug-runnin', bushwackin', murderin' scumbags." He shook his head emphatically. "No sir, I don't think it did. Now, if you ask me—"
A shuffling noise in the door made everyone turn. As soon as Sandman saw the form standing in the cold light of midday, he returned to his amiable discourse but Sarah's eyes remained on the second man.
Alone, mean-looking and obviously freezing, a lean, wiry Mexican was poised in the open frame, carefully holding a short black rifle. Though overall small in size, the man had powerfully sloped shoulders with long, simian arms that carried the large weapon easily. Another rifle, much longer and with a scope attached to it, was slung over his back. He was dressed in dark, dirt-caked civilian clothes, but carried a canteen and an array of m
ilitary weapons. Sarah saw a radio, an exact duplicate of the one that Sandman had laid on the table, attached to his left hip. A wire extended from the radio to a listening device he wore in his left ear.
Beneath his long, thin black hair the Mexican's face was disfigured and unsightly. Obviously pockmarked from youth, it had been hideously scarred by fire leaving a ragged, reddish mass of burned tissue on the right side of his face and forehead. A traditional black patch concealed his right eye. The other eye focused on Sarah for a moment with the indifferent, calculating gaze of a snake, before sweeping the interior of the room, eventually settling on Sandman.
Sandman looked blandly at the Mexican, then nodded towards the room where Gage was lying before resuming the momentum of his story, which Sarah could no longer follow. Slowly lowering his weapon, the Mexican moved towards the bedroom. Barto glanced quickly at her, wide-eyed, wondering. But her nervousness vanished when she looked at her father. Serene and steady, surprised at nothing, the old man calmly watched the events unfold.
Malachi couldn't wait for Sandman to finish his speech on what seemed to have transcended into the current geopolitical crises of the world.
"Who's that?" Barto interrupted.
"Oh," said Sandman, waving a hand, "that's Chavez. He don't talk much. You'll get used to him." He paused a moment, focused on Barto. "We came in together. Chavez was in the woods, watching. If something had gone down he would 'a taken care of it, best he could."
Barto seemed transfixed. "What would he have done?"
Sandman shrugged. "I don't know, for sure. He's got that M-79, that big ol' grenade launcher. And on top of that, he's just maddog mean. I guess he would 'a just shot a couple of APGs in here and blown us all to kingdom come, then killed everybody else with that 40x sniper rifle before slidin' into the woods. If it was a trap, he couldn't have got me out. We already knew that. But he would 'a caused some real serious misery while he was here. He knows that both me and Gage would rather die 'cause 'a him than 'cause of some scumbag out for revenge."
Malachi spoke again. "Does Gage have need to fear revenge?"
Reckoning Page 24
