She'd questioned GJ about this. Would the marks look any different? GJ had said if the rocks were sharp, no, so Walter came out and looked. She couldn't say for sure, but right near where Randall had been found and, according to Wade, dragged away into a car, she found several rocks that might have done the job. It was entirely possible Randall had not fought at all, but had simply been felled from behind as he ran in terror from the people who showed up and began shooting at his companions.
She disengaged, no longer thinking about Randall as belonging to Wade, as a family member. However, the disengagement could come back and bite her in the ass. She would have to remember to reengage before speaking to Eleri or Wade or even Donovan about it. They were all far more emotionally involved than she. She wasn't, but only because she'd made a conscious effort to do so. She hated this shit.
In the end, she found only one bullet casing, and she couldn't say for sure it had been used for the scenario at hand. She was standing in the woods in the Ozarks, at the foothills of the mountains. It's entirely possible anyone and everyone came out here and shot at any manner of prey. In fact, Will, Art, Burt, and several other members of Wade's extended family admitted to hunting deer though, apparently, sometimes they hunted as wolves. That was something Walter had not yet wrapped her head around, something she could absolutely not imagine Donovan doing. She simply couldn’t see him going for the jugular, even of a deer, with fangs bared, chin dripping the blood of his kill. Though he ate his steaks relatively rare, he got them from a butcher and not the woods. Oh, the irony of Lucy Fisher—the Terminator—Walter Reed, having a relative pacifist for a boyfriend.
Though she wanted to simply slide the shell into her pocket for later examination, she’d learned instead to put it into an evidence bag. She used her GPS watch to note the exact location where she found it, and before she even picked it up, she took a handful of pictures from different angles. GJ would be proud. Only when she completed all the necessary steps to keep and maintain the evidence—evidence that was never going to see the light of day in a courtroom, because the family was freaking werewolves—did she put the bag into her pocket.
She’d found the shell casing a good distance away from where Randall had died. It would indicate there was a spot where somebody might have stood and shot at the group, not specifically where someone had gotten close enough to Randall to create the head wound. However, it was a good location to aim for the spot where Burt had been wounded.
Standing directly where the casing had been, she next looked for nearby areas that might offer cover—a tree to hide behind, branches to provide camouflage, an outcropping of rough rocks, something of the sort. Walter found herself able to stare directly to the path that the men claimed they had taken. They had also marked for her and GJ the location where Burt had been shot.
This spot was perfect for it, and though she couldn't tell by looking—and she didn't have Donovan's sense of smell, or GJ's innate sense of science—she believed this was the spot the shooter had chosen. She hoped that perhaps there would be a residue of silver in the casing, which would show that this one wasn't leftover from something the de Gottardi family had done, but definitely from their new visitors. She wouldn't know until after GJ or an analyst had tested it.
Walter scanned the area again from her new vantage point. She’d hiked out here, a good five miles. Sometimes she thought maybe she shouldn’t do things like this. She had a prosthetic leg, after all. Things could go wrong, and there was no cell signal out here. But if she didn't do this, what was she? If she couldn't survive a night in the Ozarks, then what good was she? If she couldn’t do what other agents didn’t think twice about, then she wasn’t fit to be an agent at all. She’d proved her value at Quantico, not only to her instructors and Westerfield, but also to herself.
So she hiked, her awkward gait making her maybe a little slower than some others. Still faster than GJ, she thought with a smirk. She had five miles to go to get back, and though the day wasn't overly hot, it was getting warmer. She needed food, and she didn't think she'd find anything else of value out here; she’d searched as hard as she could and was beginning to think the wolf hunters had picked up their casings for the exact purpose of covering their tracks.
She was about a quarter mile into her return journey, traipsing straight back toward the compound where the de Gottardi and Little families lived together—really all one big family—when she saw the movement. She was on family property. They owned hundreds, maybe even thousands, of acres up here. So at first she called out. "Hello? It's me, Walter. Who am I talking to?"
No response came back, so she called out again. It was only then that she heard the click of a rifle being cocked and felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.
Walter dropped immediately to the ground, a maneuver she'd had to relearn after getting a prosthetic leg. Rehabbing and getting out of the hospital wasn’t enough; she discovered she still needed her tactical maneuvers, not just the ability to walk and jump like a normal girl. Even though she’d thought she was back up to speed, Quantico had put her efforts to the test. Right now, though, she was grateful for the obscene number of times she practiced it.
She didn't notice as her left hand hit the ground. She didn't feel the sensation of dirt in her fake fingers. She did feel the jarring sensation up into her upper arm that told her that her prosthetic hand was planted at her side for balance, exactly as she'd expected it to be.
What surprised her, maybe, was that as her left hand hit, her right hand was at the ready, her gun pulled from the holster on her hip. Though she'd thought earlier about maybe not bringing it, she told herself she was an FBI agent now. If Westerfield caught her out, in trouble, without her sidearm, that would be more trouble than being caught without it in a dangerous situation.
Yet, here she was. She scanned the area. Her ears had not been hurt in the war, a fact for which she was supremely grateful. She was also highly dependent on her ears for giving her more information from the environment. Though she had spent time in extremely high-decibel gunfire, she was able to use her hearing now to turn and try to place an auditory memory of where she'd heard that specific kind of snick that a rifle made as a person got ready to fire.
Walter wasn't one much for signs from the gods, but right then, the clouds moved enough for sunlight to come out. Her enemy was not as smart as she was. The sun glinted ever so slightly off the barrel of the rifle aimed toward her. Walter would have blackened it, but her enemy’s error allowed her a moment. She used it to roll and come up behind a tree, popping upright and snapping her head to look around, just as she registered the sound of a shot and saw the ground puff up, the bullet hitting exactly where she'd been.
Well, shit, she thought. Thank God she'd been a fighter. Thank God she'd been shot at before, because she had not expected it out here. She had fully assumed that the people hunting the de Gottardi-Little Family would be long gone by now. They'd killed Randall and they’d clearly moved the body back to GJ’s grandfather’s house. They may have been upset that the person they’d sacked was not the kind they were looking for. Getting the body transported such a distance away was solid evidence that they were no longer here. At least, Walter would have thought that. Maybe they weren't still here. Maybe they'd come back.
Walter took a moment and peeked around the other side of the tree, hoping to see what she could. If she was lucky, she could catch a glimpse of the shooter slightly further up the ridgeline. It might save her life.
Walter held the low ground, a position she was not proud of. The trees and the rocks were her friends here, though she had no idea how well the other person knew the area they were traipsing. She’d paid attention on the walk out this way last night and today in the daylight on the way up. It was a lesson hard learned from losing the troops who stood next to you. One second they would be there, and in the next they would be gone in a flash of noise and blood.
While she carefully moved her head just far enough to see, trying to
discern if the bulge she was seeing was actually part of the tree, or perhaps part of a camouflage outfit, the tree barked and cracked in front of her. She jumped back as a bullet hit almost directly opposite where she was.
Bad aim, she thought, but then, another shot spit up dirt too close to her feet for comfort. The problem was, the angles were wrong. Unless someone had side-swiped the tree, which didn’t match where she'd seen the barrel glint just moments before, then another person was there, also shooting at her.
Son of a bitch, she thought, and crouched down low again. No more standing up straight, thinking the tree was adequate cover. Now, the question was, could it possibly be de Gottardi or Little family members? She had no evidence, but her gut told her in no uncertain terms that that wasn't it. Though not every family member had been happy to see them, she did not believe they’d follow her and shoot at her. These were the hunters returned. Did they think she was one of the wolves? It didn't really matter right now. If they killed her they might be disappointed with their find, but she would still be dead. She hadn't survived multiple tours in Afghanistan to die in the Ozarks.
Though her heart rate and her breathing accelerated with her fear, she now took active control of it. Slow deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth. She let her eyes dart back and forth, scanning the area loosely, trying not to focus on anything specific. She hoped that as she scanned something odd would pop in her vision.
After a moment, she saw it, there on her right. Camouflage gear did its job and concealed him quite well. But her unfocused gaze had found him, an odd shape among the trees, a slightly older black male. Could he possibly be the one the de Gottardis reported?
Taking a moment, she tried to figure out if maybe these two were poachers, simply on the land committing illegal acts and not realizing they were shooting at a person.
There was no way, Walter thought. She was dressed in non-camouflage gear. Now, knowing these guys were back, and that they were doing their best to conceal themselves, she realized that giving them a pass was a dangerous mistake.
Slowly, she slid her head over, moving only far enough to reveal one eye. Anyone would have to have serious sharp-shooting skill to be able to take her out with just that small amount of her exposed. It was a trick she learned as a Marine, and one she'd taught to GJ at Quantico. Play the angles.
This time, with her gaze loose again and her heart rate now running lower, she saw a second person. It was possibly the one who'd first taken a shot at her, now slowly creeping around. Shorter than the black male in the distance, this person might be a woman or a small, thin man. Walter couldn't tell. The hat concealed her hair, which would have been a help identifying her, but not today.
Slowly, Walter slid back behind her own tree, though it seemed they already knew she was here. Still, she thought, no quick movements. If they didn’t already know, she wasn’t going to give it away. If they were coming closer, she was going to have to make a run for it. If she stayed put, they would be able to flank her and pin her in. As far as she could tell right now, they had no compunction about killing her first and asking questions later. If she ran, they might get a shot. If they took her down, they might converge upon her and kill her. If she ran, she might also get away. She might get away cleanly enough to be able to track back around and get to the de Gottardi-Little compound.
So many ifs to contemplate. Right now, however, these two stood in between her and where she needed to go. She did not think she would survive splitting them and making a run directly toward the homestead, so before she ran, she had something very important to do. Reaching down to the left side of her waist and using the pressure that she felt on her arm to operate the radio with her robotic fingers, she did what she could. She squeezed her muscles, pushing the fingers together and turned the knob.
21
GJ was standing in the crappiest makeshift lab she'd ever been in when the signal came. Her new “lab” was merely the best lit corner of her motel room.
It did include a laboratory-grade microscope that Westerfield had practically thrown at her as he'd put them onto the plane. Now, GJ was convinced that the microscope, as well as the motel, had seen better days. One of the optics was scratched, leaving her unable to get a clear view of her magnification at forty times normal. While the microscope had a light in the base, the overhead light in the motel room to see how she was setting up her slides, was piss-poor. Even though she'd unplugged and moved several of the bedside lamps, they still gave off only the dullest of yellow glows.
She'd thrown open the curtains, grateful the view was at least pretty. Unfortunately, the day was a bit overcast, and while the quantity of light coming in certainly improved the weak light from the lamps, she couldn't say it helped a lot.
The radio crackling to life suddenly was a welcome change. Her head snapped up. Her eyes and ears turned automatically toward the sound where she'd left the walkie talkie sitting on the dresser top next to her, because of course, she didn't have an actual table or a desk in here. After the initial scratching sound, she waited for Walter to speak.
After another moment, when only static came, she decided it must be Eleri, or Donovan, or even Wade trying to get through to her. She picked up the radio, opened up the signal, and waited. When nothing came through, she frowned at it and wrote the noise off as a glitch. Or that someone unrelated to them was using radios on the same frequency. Cell reception out here was sporadic at best, so this wasn’t an illogical conclusion. She was setting the piece aside when it began making static noises again.
This time she realized what she had missed the first time around. The static was the message. Three longer bursts, followed by three short rapid ones, followed by three longer ones, and oh shit. SOS. It couldn't be Eleri or Donovan or even Wade. It would be Walter, the only one who was really supposed to be close enough to come through on her radio signal. GJ knew Walter was out in the woods today having convinced everyone that she'd be fine out there by herself to retrace Randall's last steps and try to figure out if a car or a truck had taken him. Then maybe where they might have gone.
GJ abandoned her dresser top, leaving the microscope light on, and found her hand on the doorknob to the motel room before she even realized what she was doing. Her right hand had pulled the Glock from its holster of its own volition. She'd been wearing it and had even checked it to be sure she was loaded and ready, all without conscious planning.
Jesus, she thought. Her Quantico training had been even more thorough than she imagined, despite the fact that she and Walter were still a full month shy of actually graduating. Maybe Westerfield had known what he was doing.
She had keys in one hand, and a bag with extra weapons and ammunition for both her and Walter in the other. Luckily, she'd been wearing her hiking boots, as she'd originally thought maybe she would go along. But something had popped in the evidence and she’d stayed behind to examine it, though what she thought she might find the in dim light of the motel room was beyond her. Now she'd left her partner somewhere out in the Ozarks offering only a staticky SOS for communication.
GJ was in the car and wondering if she could be possibly fast enough to save Walter before she'd even realized she put the key in the ignition. More training, she thought as she took a hard left up toward the area where the de Gottardi-Little family lived. She considered calling the house but dismissed the idea as fast as it appeared. The last thing she needed was untrained civilians on scene.
As she raced along the paved roads, she prepped to flash her badge out the window if anyone with a siren came up behind her. She took a hard right onto gravel, fishtailing the tires and wishing that she could fly faster even though the car clearly didn't have the traction to do so. Finally, she was stymied further by turning onto two dirt ruts that they called a “road” up this way. Frustrated beyond measure, she worked to stay on the road as her speed crept lower and lower.
She'd bypassed the houses, going straight for the area closer to where they knew
that Randall and the guys had gone for a run that first night. When she finally stopped the car and turned off the engine, she thought about the noise. Crap. Now fighting time, she opened the car door slowly to muffle the sounds she was making. All the while she looked around wondering if she'd alerted somebody of her presence with the sound of the engine as she approached, and already regretting that she hadn't run the last mile. She closed the door, holding the handle up and managing to almost completely cover the sound of the latch catching as she gently let the handle back into place.
Her right hand did this while her left patted herself down, checking. Gun, yes. Then she reached to touch her rifle with her other hand. Weapon holstered and ready for Walter, should she need to hand it off. She tried to remember how much ammo Walter had on her and was certain that her friend had carried her Glock fully loaded. She also should have another two clips.
While she was sure that Walter had a decent number of bullets on her, she couldn’t be sure just how long they would last. When she heard the popping sounds in the distance, her head shot up and she turned to stalk that way. Though she wanted to run, she held back. That, too, had been drilled into her during months of training. You weren't any help if you were dead. You couldn't save your partner if you were incapacitated. And if you became a burden you not only weren't a benefit to your investigation, you were a detriment.
As she thought it through, she tried to reason a few positive points about the noises she'd heard. It was gunfire. It might be coming from Walter rather than toward her. GJ couldn't quite distinguish the sounds of the different guns. That was Walter's forte.
Gunfire meant that there was still active fighting going on, and she would only hope that meant that Walter was still in the mix. She didn't think any of the other men or women from the de Gottardi-Little family had come up with her. Walter had said she'd wanted to come alone, and GJ could only hope that was still the case.
Salvage: A Shadow Files Novel Page 13
