The Storm Giants

by Pearce Hansen

  When the path took them next to one of her patches Everett sensed her mounting tension, as if he might attempt to reach out and steal some of her crop right in front of her. The brothers vouching for Everett didn’t seem to count for much in her book.

  Then they were out of the redwoods and the trail wound its way through a thick grove of sycamores, the clustering lodge pole thin trunks like arrow shafts aimed at the underbelly of the sky. Up ahead, Everett saw the back of the ridgeline overlooking Kerri’s house.

  The redneck girl scowled after them from the patch of redwoods, even though Everett was technically off her territory and her product no longer in jeopardy. Everett favored her with a polite wave.

  Now that they were close to the ridge Norm and Rick faced each other, arguing about their next move with their rifles still in the crooks of their arms.

  How much experience did the brothers have with prey that shot back? Was this a party to them? They didn’t seem convinced that life and death was on the line.

  Everett floated past the squabbling brothers to where the base of the ridge began its slope upward. Everett snapped his fingers once, and they stopped their spat to goggle as he made a horizontal fanning motion with his hand toward his left. They fell in next to him, and they commenced to stalk up the slope side by side in a line.

  The climb was steep and Everett felt it in his calves. Even with the entrenching tool dangling from this belt, when the going got tough Everett could reach out with his free left hand and grab a bush or a branch and still have Kerri’s one handed weapon ready.

  The brothers didn’t have that luxury. They gasped and cursed whenever they had to set their rifles down or sling them to continue their labored progress uphill.

  While the sawed off was made for the close quarters of this kind of combat environment, the brothers’ rifles snagged on every branch, entangling them. But then, their hunting rifles would serve well enough if the Widow’s gunmen popped their heads up like three point bucks and posed for a picture.

  Everett grew warm from the exertion of the climb and the rays of the morning sun that baked his struggling body. He let himself enjoy the sky and sunshine a little, the shrubbery and ruler straight sycamores surrounding and enclosing him from the rest of the world almost engendering a relaxed feeling. The death dealing weight of the sawed off remained heavy in his hand.

  Everett heard the muted swish of Norm to his left, out of sight as he made his parallel climb towards whatever awaited them uphill. Old buddy adrenaline was trying to boil up, and Everett’s lips rippled into a grimace.

  He stopped just below the top of the ridge and pressed prone against the ground as if to dry hump Mother Earth. The eyes were all that moved in Everett’s face as he studied tree line about 15 yards ahead. To the left, about ten and 20 yards away respectively, Norm and Rick came into view. They exited the shrubbery, standing upright as they advanced across the open toward the tree line without pausing.

  Even though their pieces were aimed forward ready to fire from the hip, Everett was confused they hadn’t stopped to scope things out. Whatever knowledge of tactics the brothers possessed came from watching one too many late night war movies on TV.

  Everett opened his mouth to hiss a warning. Norm turned his head in Everett’s direction, surprised not to see his brother in law standing upright like him and Rick.

  There was a slapping thump as a dime-sized red spot appeared on Norm’s abdomen. Dust flew off his cammies from the force of the impact. No other sound, except for Norm’s grunt of pain and bewilderment as he flailed his arms and toppled backward downhill out of Everett’s field of vision.

  Crack! Everett heard from over about where Rick had been, then another wet sounding Crack! and Rick’s frantic cursing as he thrashed away through the shrubbery.

  Everett risked lifting his head for a second and looked that way, peeking cat quick before pressing prone again. There were a couple of shattered branches on the tree Rick had been next to, the sap wet and gleaming. They were facing some kind of silenced weapon.

  Everett followed the arc of the line glowing in his head. Rising to hands and knees and dog scrambling across the open ground between the crest of the ridge and the tree line, angling to his right on a path that was hopefully out of the shooter’s field of vision. He felt naked making his hunched-over rush, expecting to feel a silent round slap into him at any second.

  He dropped prone and froze when he entered the trees. There was an acrid, tangy cordite smell. The shooter’s firing position was close.

  Norm was silent, either dead or smart enough not to draw further attention to himself. With any luck Rick hadn’t been hit, and had the sense to swing around the shooter’s left flank, catching him from the side as Everett was trying to do on the right. But Everett couldn’t count on that, and had to assume he was the sole asset left to remove these fuckers from the catbird seat overlooking his family.

  He made a scan of the surrounding underbrush, rose to hands and knees, planting the ball of one foot preparatory to stand. He was ready to rise and commence the stalk when he saw motion to his left through the obscuring undergrowth.

  A guy in a brand new hunting jacket was walking backwards toward Everett. The shooter carried a rifle in his hands with a fat barrel, several inches in diameter. As he stepped back the guy faced the area of the tree line from which Norm had been shot. Everett aimed his gaze in the direction the shooter was leaving, and then at where he was going towards.

  Was the shooter alone, or did he have a partner? Was the partner pulling rear guard at the tree line to Everett’s left? Or had the partner displaced first, and now waited on Everett’s right for the Shooter to catch up?

  The sawed off only had two barrels, even if the double-ought loads made each shot a guaranteed heart stopper. This whole right/left decision was too much of a 50/50 ‘Lady or the Tiger’ crapshoot to be comfortable about making a commitment on.

  In the event, the decision was made for him. Whether from intuition or because he caught a glimpse of Everett out the corner of his eye, the shooter stiffened and whirled toward Everett, trying to bring the silenced rifle’s cumbersome barrel to bear.

  The guy was quick but it didn’t matter. Everett didn’t even have to rise from his knees as he fired the sawed off one-handed and gave the guy a taste of 12-gauge double-ought at pointblank range.

  The shooter flew back to land on the forest floor, not losing his grasp on the rifle even as he fell. Everett studied his white empty staring face. The shooter was either dead, or a real good actor.

  Movement to the right, and Everett’s sphincter clenched as he surged up from his kneel, whirled behind a sycamore trunk and extended the sawed off at the Widow’s driver running toward him with a Glock in her hand. She saw Everett lurking behind the tree trunk with but half his face exposed, one cold blue eye piercing her as he aimed unflinching with the shotgun. She almost tripped over her own feet as she slid to a halt about ten feet away.

  The tendons on the hand holding the pistol stood rigid beneath her skin. The Widow’s driver commenced trembling. Everett got a good look at her. She was a lanky, athletic twenty something with chestnut brown bangs and a wide, mobile mouth, also wearing a new hunting jacket identical to her dead friend’s.

  The lightning odor of ozone impinged on Everett. The storm giants were close; they’d stirred from slumber at the shooter’s demise. The bastards looked out through his eyes, wanting her dead and having myriad opinions about how it should be done.

  Full knowledge shone from her eyes as well. Things went through her mind as she examined the shit she found herself in.

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” she said in a creaky voice.

  “Not right now,” Everett said, the shotgun’s barrel unwavering. “Not unless you force it.”

  Her face was blank and sweaty, and for a moment it seemed instability was about to happen. This brave girl disbelieved him, but finally realized the futility of any grand desperate gesture in her
current dismal tactical situation. She let the Glock slide from her dangling hand and fall to earth.

  She clasped her hands atop her head and stepped back, trying not to threaten or distress Everett in any way. He gave her a nod of approval and stood away from the tree trunk.

  Someone came lumbering through the underbrush behind her. It was Rick, gun pointed and at the ready, his eyes wild as he came to offer what belated assistance he could.

  When Rick saw the shooter’s body, he spat in its face. But he calmed down a bit as he searched the girl with rough, humiliating thoroughness.

  Everett’s eyes shone as he confiscated the long arm from the corpse’s hands.

  “You know what this is?” He asked Rick. Rick shook his head and waggled his hunting rifle at the girl, who walked ahead of them with her hands still atop her head.

  When they left the trees and reached the ridgeline, Norm lay on his side with his knees up, pressing both hands to the wide stain on the side of his stomach, still alive but in obvious pain.

  “Thanks for penciling me in, assholes,” Norm said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m gut shot here.”

  Everett dropped to one knee next to Norm.

  “Show the wound,” Everett said, and Norm fanned his hands out as if shrugging.

  Everett studied the hole in Norm’s shirt without touching it. “Blood’s red, stain’s spreading slowly. If it had nicked an artery the blood would be black, and coming a gusher.”

  Everett looked at Norm’s back and examined the exit wound. “Through and through, nice and clean. Round didn’t hit bone and mushroom, looks like full metal jacket. You’re not slurring or rolling your eyes so it’s unlikely any major internal stuff was involved. You got lucky.”

  Norm sweated and gasped as he clutched his gunshot wound, and looked at Everett even more strangely than his condition warranted. Rick looked at Everett oddly as well. They were dismayed by the current situation even if he wasn’t, but that was their problem.

  Everett asked, “Where’s that hip flask?”

  Rick handed over the flask. Everett squatted next to Norm and proffered it. Norm shook his head.

  Everett gestured with the flask again, insisting. “It’ll thin your blood and won’t help if you’ve got intestinal lacerations, but you and Rick are a couple of idiots who had themselves a bona fide drunken hunting accident. Your wound’s through and through. They can doubt all they want but they won’t be able to disprove your story by forensics. You’ll take this drink Norm.”

  Everett tipped the flask for him, and Norm took a few unenthusiastic swallows.

  “For Kerri and Raymond,” Norm said when he was done.

  Everett sniffed Norm’s breath and was satisfied. Everett stood and handed the flask to Rick, who started swilling at it like he didn’t need to be asked twice.

  “Fire off a few rounds so your piece is dirty,” Everett said, and Rick looked at the frightened driver girl.

  Everett shook his head. “I have use for her.”

  Rick worked the bolt and chambered and fired one round after another, the butt planted against his hip as he fired the Weatherby 30.06 straight into the air. With each round he fired, Rick stared hard at the Widow’s driver. With each round Rick fired, the girl flinched. She was living proof there was a downside to having too much imagination.

  When Rick was done shooting he slung both his and Norm’s rifles over his shoulder and squatted. Norm howled as Rick tossed him over his shoulder in an unceremonious fireman’s carry and stood with a grunt.

  “Remember,” Everett said as Rick started laboriously picking his way down the ridge. “You’re a couple of drunken fools; you really screwed the pooch. You’re oh so embarrassed you shot Rick. Keep the story simple – it’ll fly.”

  Norm’s head reared up from against his brother’s back to goggle moon faced until they hit a curve in the trail and were gone.

  “What was the use for you?” Everett asked the Widow’s driver. “What was it?”

  He fumbled for the line glimpsed during the earlier excitement. “You’ve got a cellie to call the Widow. Give it.”

  She flashed her eyes at her friend’s corpse. Everett waved her ahead with the sawed off and shouldered the DeLisle as he followed. He fished the cell phone from the shooter’s blood stained buck shot shredded breast pocket. There was only one entry on speed dial.

  Someone picked up on the first ring, but there was silence at the other end. “The Widow,” he said.

  Her voice came from the digital void: “Everett.”

  “Your shooter is dead. No choice. He threw down. You going to ask about your other asset?” Everett asked, staring at the Widow’s driver, who avoided his gaze.

  “I assume there is a purpose to this call, but if so I do not see it,” the Widow said. “The situation is the same. I have the goods on you, and I know where your precious family is at. You are mine.”

  “No, it’s not the same,” Everett said. “I can kill this one, take the family and drop off the map all the way.”

  “In that case I would submit your mother’s DNA samples to the authorities as a concerned citizen, and you will have an APB that you cannot outrun without hiding forever.”

  “Makes for a stalemate,” said Everett, “My freedom of action is curtailed, and yet you don’t get use of me to recover your gold. Unless . . .” He stopped and waited.

  “What did you have in mind?” the Widow finally asked, in a tone like he was pulling teeth.

  “As a gesture of good faith, your surviving operative goes free,” Everett said. “She proves we’re on the same page and that you’re being obeyed. On your end, you don’t plant anyone on this house again. You trust me to play ball.”

  “Trust,” she said.

  Everett continued. “Don’t work for free no matter what kind of threat you make. One million dollars, small bills cash, used and non-sequential, payable in full upon delivery of the bullion to you or your designated agents.”

  “What would prevent you taking it elsewhere to sell?” she asked.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said, voice raised and cold. “This is a specialty item. Big ticket number like this needs a big player in place to unload it fast. You’re convenient and available. Path of least resistance. Smartest move for me.”

  “You bend a bit, makes for a win-win situation,” he said, soft and reasonable like she was a trusted old associate. “This is biz, nothing personal – no beef between us if you back up a skosh.”

  “Very well,” the Widow said, and hung up.

  Everett’s hostage still had her hands pressed to the top of her head. He said, “Your boss seems unconcerned for your welfare. Maybe you and her aren’t as close as you thought?”

  She stood with her hands still atop her head. She thought he was toying with her before the kill.

  Everett said, “Take your hands down.”

  She lowered her hands slowly, still suspecting a trick. The Widow’s driver said. “She’s a great woman and she serves a great cause,” she said. “Great causes require great sacrifices. I’m prepared to do whatever I have to for my race. How can you stand by and let the mud people overwhelm your fellow Nords?”

  Everett had met enough Aryan types that he could preach a racist sermon right back at her if it had been useful. The supremacists always thought Everett a good recruiting candidate for their drivel.

  What was her story? How had she gotten mixed up with the Widow or Quiverfull? She’d probably tell him if he asked forcefully enough. But so what? Even if the player was different, the story was always the same.

  He shooed her ahead of him and they headed toward the tree line where his victim’s corpse awaited. As he walked, he pulled the entrenching tool from his belt, folded it open, and started tightening the shovel blade’s retaining ring.

  Chapter 15 : Fate’s Cruelty

  The Widow’s driver stood waist deep in the grave, flinging shovel fulls of dirt over her shoulder. The miniature military shovel wasn’t
the most convenient digging implement in the world, and she quickly tired of moving earth with it. Already warm from the hump through the woods and the gunplay, making a hole to hide the leavings was making her sweat.

  Everett couldn’t shit this close to where he lived and just walk away from the mess. The damage control and cleanup afterwards were the hardest parts of a killing.

  Maybe it was good the aftermath of murder was so inconvenient. Otherwise more people would do it, most of them unqualified amateurs. Things would get messier than they already were.

  Somebody cleared their throat in the tree line, and Everett and the Driver’s girl both froze. Everett’s shotgun only had one shell left, but the grave would make a good breastwork firing position if he jumped in, and he could strip the entrenching tool from the Widow’s driver if it came up hand to hand.

  Like in one of those optical illusion pictures where if you stare at the jumble just right the hidden image comes clear, Everett became aware of the redneck Frankenstein girl. She stood unobtrusive amongst the trees about twenty feet away. She had a big sack of something or other draped over her shoulder and a full length shovel in her hand. The AK was slung on her other shoulder.

  “Heard the gun fire,” she said, in a surprisingly melodious voice. “Thought I’d be neighborly.”

  The redneck girl still scowled, but that was just the way her face was put together. She looked pugnacious no matter what was going on behind the front of her skull.

  She approached and dropped the shovel and the sack in front of him. The sack was labeled as containing quicklime, perfect for hastening the Shooter’s decomposition.

  Everett quipped, “If you are feeling neighborly, could take a turn at deepening the hole.”

  The redneck girl snorted as she squatted at the grave’s edge. “Don’t push hospitality, friend.”

  She inspected the driver’s progress at digging the grave: “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

  The Widow’s driver stared up at her. “I’ve dug a hole or two,” she said.

  The redneck girl laughed and handed her the shovel, which really made a difference. It only took a few minutes more until the Widow’s driver flung the last clump of dirt from the hole.