"Why do you think I got the urge to go places, little man? Just 'cause I can't?"
If Adam understood her he hid it well, wide eyes flicking from flake to flake.
The phone rang. The only people who used the landline anymore lived in town. She put him in the crib, picked it up and cradled it against her shoulder.
"Hello?"
"Monica. Chris Wilcox."
She rolled her eyes despite no one there to see it. "The fuck do you want?"
"I'm at the store. We got emergency generators and whatnot, so dad's got me working straight through, got a couch in the back and every—"
She hung up.
"Pervert."
The phone rang in her hand. She looked at it, shook her head, then answered.
"Chris, you call here again and—"
"I think you might be in danger."
She whirled and stalked to the bedroom. "Explain."
"Ten minutes ago these guys come through in a jacked up Silverado, extended bed, extended cab, big search lights on top. So anyways, they buy me out of shotgun and three-oh-eight, laughing and joking about a 'cunt hunt.' Thing is, Sandy's here, and she said one of them guys is your Cobalt driver."
She turned cold, despite the heat from the furnace. "That's impossible. Matt crippled that guy at the grocery store. He's in the hospital."
He murmured something, then, "Hang on, here's Sandy."
"Hey," Sandy said. "It's the same guy. I'd bet my life on it."
"No, Matt crippled him. He's in the ICU."
"He's not, Mon. He's not."
"The guy Matt took down won't be able to walk ever—"
"Then they're brothers. Maybe twins or something. But there's worse. One of these guys, he's a Trooper."
She looked out the window at the police car, barely visible behind a wall of falling white. "I have two Troopers in front of my house. They've been there all day."
"Honey, you got to get out of there."
"Where the hell—"
Chris broke in. "You know my cabin out back of Walker's?"
Chris and Cory owned an eight-by-ten hunting shack barely fit for the name, not a terrible walk from her house and inaccessible by car. "Yeah, I know it."
"Head there. You can walk it no problem, and in this shit you won't leave no tracks. Take the boy, leave Ted with plenty of food and water. We'll get some guys out to you, make sure you're okay."
She shoved an extra pair of baby clothes into the diaper bag. "I ain't leaving my dog."
"If you can't keep him quiet—"
"I ain't. Leaving. My dog."
"Fine, but you need to get out of there. Do you have a gun?"
She hesitated. "Four."
"Take whatever you're comfortable with. But go."
Shit fuck dammit shit. "Yeah. I'm going."
She hit "End" and buried her face in her arms.
Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't scream.
First things first, she cinched Matt's holster around her waist, the extra weight of the .357 revolver uncomfortable but better than carrying it in the bag. She threw on another layer, then her coat and boots, grabbed the car seat, and stepped into the nursery. Adam lay in the crib, thumb in his mouth, eyes closed, oblivious to the world. She picked him up, dead weight, put him in the seat, and buckled him in.
Oof. Not an infant anymore, carrying him would be a bear. Nothing for it, she hefted the load and . . . stopped dead at the back door, shaking, frozen, unable to move.
She forced herself to breathe, slow, even, in and out, in and out.
Inaction begets fear. Fear begets inaction. Her Sifu, the other Chris in her life, sprang into her mind, his years of confidence and training cutting through the indecision, shattering the cloying panic with calming words. You become your habits. You are your routine. Take the dog for a walk, one foot in front of the other.
"Ted."
He trotted around the corner, sad eyes betrayed by a wagging tail.
"Heel."
She opened the door and let the storm swallow her, Ted on her heels.
* * *
Matt schooled his face to careful neutrality as the guard opened their cell. He'd played ball, neither saying nor demonstrating that their bars couldn't hold him, while Janet pulled strings behind the scenes. He helped Sakura to her feet and offered her an arm he knew she wouldn't take.
She limped out of the cell in front of him, gave a sharp nod to the guard on the way past, and struggled down the hall without comment or complaint. He watched her go, smiled at the guard, then followed. The officer shadowed him.
Detective MacDonald, in charge of investigating the attack on Kazuko, met them halfway to booking. Sakura ignored his offered hand and hobbled by, eyes forward. Matt shook it, and MacDonald gripped harder than he needed to and didn't let go.
"You've got some high-up friends, Mr. Rowley."
"Yeah, I've always been the popular kid." Being a sixteen million dollar investment had its perks. Holding the secrets behind ICAP might have helped, but might not have—Matt had no idea how many aspiring immortals hadn't lost their lives when Gerstner rose out of the machine, or what kinds of grudges they held.
Is this a vendetta? By who?
"You and your friend are responsible for fourteen bodies in the last sixteen hours, six of them cops." He squeezed harder. "Do I have to tell you to stay out of trouble?"
"I'm not sure what's going on, but let me make a few things clear: One, those men attacked us, and you've got a dozen-plus witnesses to corroborate. Two, we didn't kill those policemen. Three, to defend her daughter, Blossom would kill every man, woman, and child in Missouri, and on that score I've got her back. Now if you're done trying to intimidate me, you might consider that I can crush a human hand to jelly without even straining myself."
MacDonald let go, put his hand on his hip, then in his pocket, then back to his hip.
Whispers babbled through Matt's mind, an unintelligible argument of murderous hate and something softer, gentle without yielding, tender and hard as stone. They swarmed over and suffocated each other, and through them a picture formed in his mind.
He blinked.
"You okay, Mr. Rowley?" Detective MacDonald's expression held more wariness than concern, eyes tight and too attentive.
"Yeah. I'm good."
He pushed past the detective and rounded the corner into the break room where a crappy 90's-era TV sat next to a filthy microwave, right where the whispers had told him it would be.
A talking head blathered next to aerial footage of White Spruce. Main Street burned, a half-dozen buildings engulfed in flame under skies smothered by dark clouds. Light flashed from the Fish and Tackle store, bursts of white from the second-story window sending lances of worry through Matt's chest. Weapons fire.
"I need to get home," he said to no one in particular.
Sakura snorted. "Airport's closed."
"They're flying a helicopter."
She slapped his cheek, just hard enough to draw his eyes from the television. "That's there, not here. Everything's grounded here."
"No."
She slapped him again, a little harder. "Yes. We'll get there, but not today."
"Goddammit."
She rubbed his face where she'd hit him. "Now we agree."
* * *
The tiny cabin shuddered. Snow drifted from the roof, which hadn't seen new shingles in living memory. It joined the dusting of white on the rough pine floor, trampled over with a thousand dog prints, all of them Ted's. In the distance something crackled, like kids playing with fireworks.
Monica rubbed her hands together and held them over the tiny kerosene stove. Her son slept, oblivious to any danger or the change of venue, his cheeks rosy in the drafty shack. She looked through a crack in the wall, no more than a quarter-inch thick, at the hazy orange glow.
Even with the storm past and the new moon, too many trees intervened for her to see the cause. It looked like city lights flickering off the snow, but the f
our lights around the town square couldn't illuminate White Spruce like that. No stars shone in the black sky above town, but they did everywhere else. It had to be fire.
Ted lifted his head. He cocked sideways, then chuffed.
"Ted, hush."
He chuffed again, something closer to a bark.
"Settle." She raised a finger and stared at her enthusiastic idiot of a pet, eyebrows raised. "Settle."
Ted lay down with a small whine, his head turned toward the door, tail flat.
The wind hummed, and the hum turned into the rumble of engines, at least two, and louder each second. They approached the cabin without lights, so she killed the heater and shifted to sit Indian-style in front of it, hiding the dying glow from the outside.
A pair of ATVs pulled up in front of the cabin, sunk almost to the tops of their knobby tires in the dense white snow. The motors died, and three silhouettes approached the cabin, two of them holding long guns. They walked awkwardly through the snow, lifting their feet too high with every step.
Monica held her breath. She clutched the .357 to her chest, then pointed it at the door. The barrel shook, nerves as much as cold. In the confined space she might be better served by kung fu, but if they opened up with those rifles they'd cut her down before she ever got close.
She rose to the balls of her feet in one fluid motion. Cocking the hammer, she winced at the click, too loud in the muffled silence of the forest. One of the shadows had disappeared around the side of the cabin, and she strained to hear where it walked.
Boots scuffed on the porch, a four-by-four plank deck nailed to an old pallet. The lock rattled.
She pointed the revolver at the sound, tried to relax her grip.
"Psst."
Her finger crept to the trigger. She waited, shaking, heart thundering in her chest.
"Monica," the man whispered. "You in there? It's Chris."
She exhaled, long and slow, pulled her finger from the trigger, and un-cocked the hammer. "I'm here!"
She yanked the door open to reveal Chris Wilcox and Kevin Bartell, decked head-to-toe in camo hunting gear with stout work boots and giant hats with ear-flaps.
Kevin towered over even Chris, a giant teddy bear of a man ever since tenth grade, made bigger by scotch and good food and a life spent in a taxidermy studio. He raised one eyebrow. "Grab the kid. We got to go."
She picked up Adam, hauled the dead weight outside, and stopped. "What about Ted? He can't ride an ATV."
She glared at Chris to shut him up before anything left his mouth.
"I'll carry him." Sandy stepped out from behind Kevin.
Monica grinned and looked from Sandy to Chris and back, trying not to think about what it might mean. Sandy scooped Ted off the ground and sat on the back of Chris's ATV. He licked her face, tail thumping against her thigh.
Sandy crinkled her nose. "You stink, Ted."
Chris chuckled. "Don't get too close to the other end!"
Monica rested the car seat on the rear rack. "You'll have to drive slow. So what's happening? I can't get a signal for shit out here."
Kevin shrugged, a mountain rolling up and down. "Nothing good. Chris called, said there's guys might cause you some trouble. Storm's knocked out the power and cell towers. Hardware store caught fire, spread to the grocery, and it sounds like someone's letting off some ammo, too. That explosion a few minutes ago had to be the main propane tank out back.
"The cops at your place . . . they didn't make it. Somebody shot them, up close, right through the window."
Monica gaped. "Wait. But . . . ain't no one fighting back? They're just letting thugs burn up our town and kill people?"
"People are holed up, defending their homes if needs be," Chris said. "Cory went to Ma and Pa's, took the Mossburg with him. Roads are so bad the firefighters can't even get through from Cottontown, and some jackass holed up above the bait shop started popping shots at the news chopper."
Monica got on behind Kevin, hands wrapped around him, clutching Adam's baby seat in his lap. "Marty wouldn't be that dumb. I mean, he's stupid, but he's not—"
Kevin grunted.
"—that—"
A loud crack cut her off.
Kevin leaned forward, then slid sideways off of the ATV, dragging the car seat out of her hands and landing with a soft thump in the snow. Adam wailed, the sound muffled by Kevin's massive body.
"Shit!" Chris yanked up his rifle and whirled it toward the sound. Blood puffed from his back, followed by another crack.
Sandy screamed.
Monica dove next to Kevin and scrabbled through the snow, trying to move his dead weight enough to free her trapped child, whimpers muffled under the dead weight. Her muscles strained, but she found no purchase in the slippery, foot-deep snow.
Sandy's scream turned into a wail with another crack. She stumbled into view, blood pumping from her left arm. Her neck erupted, the geyser of blood steaming in the snow. Another crack.
Ted howled.
Chapter 8
Matt stalked out of the airport slower than he wanted to, Sakura limping at his heels to the vehicle dominating the pickup lane. The governor had declared a state of emergency and travel bans covered not only Tennessee but most of Kentucky, Virginia, and Maryland. Janet LaLonde had, however, displayed her usual attention to detail: the huge, tan, military surplus Oshkosh M-ATV MRAP came equipped with roof lights and a magnetic decal emblazoned "Tennessee Department of Agriculture—Forestry Division."
He eyed the empty mount for an M240 machine gun on top and wondered if the bear problem had gotten so out of control that the forestry service needed a half-million-dollar vehicle designed to protect its occupants from roadside bombs and small arms fire. Still, it would make short work of mountainous terrain.
He took the offered clipboard from the TDA flunky, signed off on the vehicle, and hefted himself up and inside, tossing his bags on the floor in the cabin. He leaned back in the almost-comfortable seat, a novelty in a military vehicle.
Sakura took shotgun and ran her hand over the dashboard. "One of ours."
Responsible parties had not quite managed to buff the ICAP insignia from the synthetic dash cover.
"So it is."
Sakura looked northwest. Matt couldn't blame her. The government considered six competent bodyguards trained and paid by the Department of Homeland Security overkill protection for her daughter, but they'd agonized over the decision to leave Kazuko for the chaos in Matt's home town.
He pulled away from the curb and turned left out of the airport, toward White Spruce. Monica had answered neither texts nor calls to the landline. State police had requested assistance for a potential hostage situation, with two missing Troopers—Monica's bodyguards—and shots fired at a news helicopter, but storm damage and the aftermath had overwhelmed EMS, State Police, and the National Guard. Roads remained impassable, and the governor had given priority to the major metropolitan areas.
They hit deep snow before the city line. White buried the streets so deep he couldn't make out the curb or the sidewalks, except where business and homeowners had valiantly shoveled, kicked, swept, or otherwise tried to clear the areas around their doors. The fifteen-ton vehicle handled the roads with no trouble, and the travel ban had cleared them to the point that he could do a comfortable forty miles an hour without bothering to stop at intersections.
As city transitioned to country, he had to slow down. His precognition hadn't returned to its old level, and he couldn't quite trust it to tell him where the road ended and the ditch began. A country ditch shouldn’t be much of an issue for an MRAP, but some of the culverts ran eight feet deep. Winding Tennessee roads saw the occasional car in the ditch, and Matt's frustration with their speed grew as the gas gauge dropped from full to three-quarters to half a tank.
Just after dawn he approached a woman standing on the shoulder, waving her arms next to an overturned van halfway down an embankment. The whispers shrieked through his brain, their incoherent jibbers urgin
g him to jerk the wheel right and grind her under the wheels. Compassion told him to stop and help. He swerved around her without slowing.
Sakura said nothing, but he felt her judgment, even agreed with it. Everything and anyone that wasn't his wife and child fell by the wayside of the endless churning miles.
"Call that in, please."
Sakura called 911, and in six curt sentences reported the distress.
Some time later they approached White Spruce under clear blue skies marred by a fading pillar of gray smoke. A dull plink rang out, followed by another.
"We're taking fire." Sakura unbuckled her seatbelt, rolled down to her knees, and grabbed the bag of weapons.
"Be careful." Matt snapped on his combat helmet. "We've got some survivalist types up here who might be jumpy after whatever the hell happened last night. I don't want to kill any civilians if we don't have to."
"Are you instructing me not to return fire?"
The MRAP rocked as an RPG exploded next to it, the bang loud enough to set his ears to ringing even through the armor.
"Where?" he hollered.
"I don't know!"
He gunned the gas and swerved in erratic, patternless jerks. Pulling onto Main Street, he passed the burned-out husks of several buildings and took shelter in the shadow of the town hall. He left the motor running, unbuckled, and grabbed the AA-12.
Sakura's knowing look, flat and almost exasperated, raised the hackles on his neck.
"Yeah, so that's a hostile. But I'm instructing you to use heightened target priority. This is my home."
Another bullet ricocheted off of the chassis with a metallic whine.
Sakura nodded out the bulletproof, three-inch thick window. "Bank. Third window in from the right."
Matt spotted the rifle, extended a good six inches past the granite sill. It flashed, and another bullet plinked off of the armor.
"I see him."
Sakura put her hand on the suicide door's handle.
He put his hand on top of hers and shook his head. "I can run. You can't. Do it, before they get another tube on target."
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