by Afraid (lit)
Blood blossomed upward like a Roman candle.
Yes!
No …
“Oh, God, no …”
The woman stared at Josh with dead eyes, her head squished in the center like Mr. Peanut, the bear trap dripping crimson.
You killed her.
Woof limped over and Josh backed away, scared he might hurt the dog, too. Jesus Christ, what did he just do? Why did he hit her when she was obviously just looking for help? He killed her. He freaking killed her.
An accident. It was an accident.
No, it wasn’t.
You didn’t mean to kill her.
That’s what all killers say.
Josh looked at his hands. Murderer’s hands. They were shaking. How was he supposed to live with himself? He felt his stomach do flip-flops, like he’d swallowed a live carp.
What now? Run away? Hide the body? Turn himself in?
He wanted to save lives. That’s all he wanted to do. That was the promise he made to himself. To help others. To make the world a better place.
And now …
Over. His life was over. He couldn’t live with this.
Could he?
Maybe the Charge contributed, made him paranoid. Maybe it even made him temporarily insane. He didn’t mean to kill her. Just stop her. He didn’t know she’d fall on a bear trap.
No. He did want to kill her. He wanted it so bad he couldn’t stop himself.
Could he have stopped himself?
His eyes became glassy. He shook his head again, a litany of “should haves” and “whys” flying at him from all angles.
This is how it feels to be a murderer.
Josh set his jaw, embraced the responsibility.
It was ultimately his decision to hit her. He made the choice. Now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. That’s how a civilized society worked. All criminals could justify their crimes. They all had reasons, excuses. But human beings weren’t programmable robots. Following instincts, or orders, or drug-induced impulses, were not excuses.
Everyone had free will. And no one ever had the right to murder another human being.
I belong in jail, Josh thought.
He dropped to his knees, unsure if he should cry for the poor soul he just slaughtered, or for himself.
Look at the jewelry.
He peeked through his tears. He’d seen that anklet and necklace before. And the ring—that was the ring he helped Erwin pick out when he proposed to Jessie Lee.
Josh begged the universe that he was right, that this woman was indeed a soldier and had played a part in butchering his friends. He crawled over to her, not looking at her face, and patted down her skirt. No pockets. The sweater didn’t have any, either. Josh almost began to cry. He checked to see if she had some sort of purse or backpack, but she didn’t. Then he held her dead hand, looked at the ring and anklet again, and doubted himself.
Maybe those weren’t Jessie Lee’s. Maybe he just desperately wanted them to be.
“What did I do? What did I—”
There. In her other hand. A knife.
Josh pried it from her fist. A combat blade. Then he heard a soft buzz. He followed it to her hiking books and dug a black communicator out of an ankle holster.
The relief enveloped him. He wasn’t a murderer. It was self-defense. The Charge made him aggressive, but it also made him sense something his conscious mind was unaware of. Josh was so happy he almost kissed the communicator. He restrained himself, sliding the cover open instead, reading the last message.
Warren found.
He reasoned it out. The Red-ops had Fran and Duncan. The Red-ops found Warren. So either the Red-ops had brought Fran and Duncan to Warren’s place, or—
Or they didn’t need Fran and Duncan alive anymore.
Dread slapped euphoria right out of Josh. He whistled for Woof, patting the beagle’s head and giving him a scratch under the muzzle and winding his hand around the end of the clothesline.
“Find Duncan, Woof. Find Duncan, boy.”
The dog licked Josh’s face, then took off running. He sprinted after Woof, but the dog’s direction was erratic, zigzagging, and Josh couldn’t run full-tilt, periodically shining the Maglite at the ground to make sure he didn’t wind up in a bear trap.
Woof got farther and farther away, and Josh let out yard after yard of line until he was holding the very end, the dog disappearing into the undergrowth.
Then, abruptly, Woof stopped. The leash went slack.
Josh halted next to a tree, panting, the whole forest lopsided.
“Woof! Come, boy! Woof!
Josh whistled. He whistled again.
“Woof! WOOF!”
No answer.
Josh gathered in the rope, pulled it about a few feet, and then it went taut. He didn’t feel the dog on the end. There was no movement at all. The line must have been caught on something.
He paused, wondering what to do next. His feeling of invincibility had faded, passed. Josh thought about taking another Charge capsule and quickly decided he’d rather die of cyanide poisoning that have that shit in his system again.
Instinct told him something had happened to Woof. Something bad. Maybe a trap. Or maybe something even worse.
He thought, fleetingly, of leaving the dog there, going on without him. But Woof saved his life, and if Josh could return the favor he would. No matter how much it scared him.
Josh began to walk, winding the clothesline around his arm as he did. He took five steps. Listened. Heard nothing. Took five more steps. Listened. Called quietly, “Woof.” Heard nothing. Took five more steps. Listened.
A whine. Faint. Coming from the bushes ahead. The rope trailed beneath them.
Josh pulled lightly on the rope.
The rope tugged lightly back.
Another whine. Louder. Woof was hurt.
Josh gripped the Maglite tight, trying to control the shaking as he pointed it at the bushes, trying to penetrate inside them.
The bushes shook, then stilled.
If it were any other dog on the planet, Josh would have dropped the rope and run in the opposite direction. But he forced himself forward, one foot in front of the other, crouching down where the rope disappeared in the foliage.
The rope began to pull. Gently. Josh tightened his hand around it and tugged, feeling some resistance. He tugged harder, pulling the rope back.
“Woof,” he called, louder.
Woof whined in response.
Relieved, Josh tucked the Maglite under his armpit and began to reel in the clothesline, hand over hand. He wound a yard around his arm. Two yards. Five yards. Knowing he was getting close to the end.
Then, blessedly, Woof bounded out of the trees, running up to Josh, putting his paws on his shoulder.
But Woof wasn’t attached to the rope. His collar was off, and he had some clothesline tied around his snout.
So what was … ?
Santiago poked his head out of the bushes, scaring Josh so badly he jumped backward. The killer stood up, facing Josh, Woof’s collar buckled around his neck.
“I found Logan,” Santiago said. “Was that you, did that to her? I’m surprised. She was very good. A woman, yes, but she liked to get her hands dirty.”
Josh backed up. Santiago carried no weapons, but his hands were balled into fists.
Woof growled, trying to bark.
“And what of Bernie?” Santiago asked. “We haven’t heard from him lately.”
Josh’s wanted to say something tough, but his voice wasn’t working. He nodded his head.
“Bernie, too? Impressive. Especially from someone with no training, no skills at all. You must be a very lucky man.” Santiago grinned. “But your luck has just run out.”
“Woof,” Josh managed. “Go.”
Woof whined.
“Go!” Josh yelled.
Woof took off. The killer came at Josh low and fast, so fast that Josh missed when he swung the Maglite. He tackled Josh, lifting him up off t
he ground, driving him into a tree. It felt like someone had stuck a tube in Josh’s mouth and sucked out all of his oxygen. He fell onto all fours, struggling to breathe, but all that came out was a high-pitched wheeze.
Santiago knelt next to him and Josh felt the man’s lips touch his ear.
“This is for Bernie.”
And then Josh was flat on his face, his right arm pinned behind his back in a hammerlock. Santiago grabbed his little finger.
Bent it.
Kept bending it.
Kept bending it.
Josh actually heard the crack.
Tears came, but his wind hadn’t returned so he couldn’t suck in a breath to scream.
“This is for Logan.”
Josh’s ring finger bent back, hyperextended, and cracked like a twig. But Santiago didn’t let go. He kept manipulating it, kept pulling, until Josh’s entire world was a reduced to a white-hot pinpoint of pain.
“And this is for my ear.”
Santiago didn’t move on to the middle finger. He went back to the pinkie.
The killer twisted it around a full 360 degrees before Josh finally passed out.
• • •
Wiley stared at his plasma-screen TV in the great room. Three men stood around the fake deer at his entrance. One was the soldier who’d found his camera. The other was an older man in fatigues who didn’t look like a soldier at all. The third, incredibly, was that big son of a bitch he’d shot.
Wiley used the remote control to zoom in. The giant was bloody, and his right arm hung limp, but he’d miraculously survived eight shotgun slugs. Wiley had hunted bear before and never needed more than four. He was liking their chances less and less.
Fran and her boy also gawked at the TV, motionless.
“If you want to survive,” he told them, “you have to do everything I say. Fran, have you ever fired a gun before?”
Fran shook her head. Wiley reached behind him and pulled the shotgun out of his shoulder rig.
“This is a Beretta Extrema2, a semiautomatic shotgun. It will fire as fast as you can pull the trigger, and it has a recoil system so it won’t take your arm off. Just point and shoot.”
Fran showed no reluctance in taking the gun. “Show me how to reload.”
“I have to go back to storage, get more shells.” Wiley stared hard at Fran. “Should I bring a gun for Duncan?”
Fran’s gaze went from him, to her son, to the Beretta. She managed a small nod.
“I’ll be right back. It doesn’t look like they’ve figured out how to open the door yet. When they do, the alarm will sound again. Push that table over, get behind it, and shoot anything that comes through the door that isn’t me. It’s also possible they’ll go after the generator. There are candles around the room, matches on the table. Light them all.”
Wiley didn’t wait for a response. He jogged back to the storage area and headed for the gun rack. He grabbed another semiauto shotgun, a Benelli Super Black Eagle II. Then he strapped on two more holsters, one for a Glock G17 .45 ACP, the other for his 50-caliber Desert Eagle. He also clipped an A. G. Russell tactical folding knife to his belt. A leather bag sat on the table, and he filled it with ammo for all three weapons, along with some 380 rounds and the Hi-Point for Duncan.
“Wiley.”
He glanced back, saw his brother had his eyes open. Wiley went to him.
“How you doing, brother?”
Ace offered a weak grin. “Never been better.”
Wiley scooped up the water jug, tilted it so Ace could take a sip.
“Need another shot of Demerol?”
“It depends. Where are the bad guys?”
“Knocking at the front door.”
Ace shook his head. “Instead of the drugs, how about something in a Magnum?”
Wiley smiled for the first time that day, which was also his first smile of the decade. It felt strange, unnatural. But also good.
“Got a Taurus in .357, and a Ruger in .44,” he said.
“Gimme the Taurus.”
“Ruger has more stopping power.”
“Too much kick. Throws off the aim.”
Wiley patted his brother on the chest. “I miss these little conversations, Ace.”
He turned his attention to the open first-aid box and dug out a syringe and a bottle of Prilocaine.
“This won’t put you to sleep. Just numb the area.”
Ace winced when Wiley gave his stump several injections. Then he went back to the pegboard, added the Taurus and a box of rounds to the ammo bag, and slung it over his shoulder.
“This won’t be pleasant,” he told Ace.
Ace only cried out twice as Wiley dragged him across the floor to the great room. Once when he first moved him by pulling his arm, and again when his stump accidentally hit the doorway.
“It’s me!” Wiley called out to Fran. “Hold fire!”
He tugged Ace over to the sofa and couldn’t tell who was breathing harder, him or his brother. Fran had followed directions and overturned the large oak coffee table. She’d set it on an angle to the doorway, so it would be the last thing someone saw when they opened the door and walked into the room. Wiley approved and felt something akin to pride.
It took all three of them to lift Ace up onto the sofa. The sheriff stayed stoic, though his face scrunched up and his forehead beaded with sweat. Wiley propped some pillows behind his back and aimed him at the door, on an angle like Fran had done. Then he spent a minute showing her how to load the Beretta and showing Duncan how to work the slide on the Hi-Point to jack the first round into the chamber.
“The TV,” Streng said, pointing. “They’ve got Josh.”
Everyone looked at the plasma screen. Someone held one of Wiley’s remote cameras in front of a man’s face. The man was screaming in terrible pain. Wiley was grateful there wasn’t audio.
“We have to help him,” Fran said.
Wiley shook his head. “No. They want us to open the door so they can get in.”
Josh’s scream went on and on. Wiley couldn’t imagine what horrible thing they were doing to him. He picked up the remote and switched it off.
“Put it back on,” Fran said.
“Don’t torture yourself by watching it.”
“We have to save him.” Fran’s eyes were glassy, pleading. “He came back for us.”
“I know you don’t want to risk Duncan’s life just to save Josh.”
“Please.” Fran was crying now. “Please do something.”
“We can’t. He’s dead. Forget him.”
Fran walked up to him, met his eyes. “That should be you out there, not Josh. He’s a good man. Have you ever done a single good thing in your life?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Of course it’s about you. Everything has always been about you, you selfish bastard. If you’re not going to do anything, I am.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“I’d rather die fighting than live in fear.”
“You’ll leave Duncan without a mother?”
Duncan appeared at his mother’s side. “Mom?”
Fran knelt down, hugged her son. “I’ll be back, baby. It’s okay.”
Wiley shook his head, amazed. “This man means that much to you?”
Fran looked up. “Yes.”
Wiley cleared his throat again. When was the last time he’d spoken to someone? Weeks? Months? When was the last time he cared about anyone other than himself?
He looked at Ace. “You and Duncan hold down the fort. I’ll need Fran to work the hatch.”
Duncan looked up at him, his small face so full of hope.
“Are you going to save Josh, Wiley?”
Wiley stared down at his grandson. What would a grandfather do? He chose to pat the boy on the head and wink at him.
“I sure as hell am going to try.”
Dr. Stubin had to walk away because Josh’s screaming was giving him a headache. While the brain specialist had never broken a bone,
he couldn’t imagine why a few bent fingers would make a man howl like that. That Special Forces sergeant Stubin killed earlier had his arm blown off and made a lot less noise.
Stubin had set the timer on the explosives in the helicopter footlocker—left there for him by the Red-ops team when they’d landed—and blown up the Special Forces team when they landed. The sergeant babysitting him had barely even whimpered—even when Stubin beat him to death.
Stubin sighed. This operation had taken much longer than necessary. Stubin didn’t blame himself. Warren Streng had proven much harder to find than anyone could have guessed. The lottery ruse was a quick and relatively simple way to gather and interrogate a small group of people, and it had been used by the Red-ops many times throughout the world. Greed had no color, race, or political affiliation. But it turned out no one knew where the bastard was hiding. And even now that they’d found him, they couldn’t get him out of the bunker he’d built for himself. Under that fake deer was a steel hatch that couldn’t be forced open, not even by Ajax. If torturing Josh didn’t gain them entrance, they’d have to go back into town and raid the hardware store to make explosives.
Stubin checked his watch. The military had quarantined the town, as expected. But General Tope would be sending in more Special Forces units soon. Good as the Red-ops were, they were only five people, and Ajax was functioning in a diminished capacity and might not last the night.
Stubin wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. Truth told, he hated these monsters that the army had forced him to create. Ajax cut up his parents at the age of eleven. Bernie had been given the death penalty for burning down a nursing home. Taylor—a vicious schizoid serial killer—was another death-row rescue. They’d gotten Santiago from South America, a sadistic freelance interrogator who wound up working for the wrong side and was captured by the CIA. And Logan was another psycho who’d been plucked from the mental ward, prone to such violent outbursts that her diet consisted mainly of thorazine.
Human garbage, each of them. But they were the only ones he was allowed to perform the implantations on. The only ones he could experiment on. The military spent incredible amounts of time and money teaching soldiers how to kill, and some of them still hesitated at the moment of truth. How much easier it was to take killers and turn them into soldiers.
