“Sorry, sir,” he said, handing the General a single sheet of paper containing eleven items on the Daily Action Report. “An incident has been reported that warrants your immediate attention.”
He watched the General’s eyes, waiting for them to land on the last item. The other notices were fairly routine, given the nature and location of their mission. He’d seen it all before when in-country. So had the General.
Flare-ups with residents and troop misconduct were predictable when dealing with command and control of foreign civilians. The newest recruits were usually the problem. It developed like clockwork, usually within days, leading him to classify the troops in one of two groups: those who were overly committed to their first assignment, or those struggling with their own inner demons.
Not every Russian who puts on the uniform can handle the relentless pressure of being in-country, especially when you’re looking into the eyes of innocent women and children.
However, when an officer goes missing—a female officer—everyone takes notice, even the new recruits. Patriotism trumps morality every time. Especially when it’s the General’s interpreter. He’d hoped to have a resolution before stepping into this meeting, but his pair of investigators came up empty.
“When was this reported?” Zhukov asked.
“Forty-five minutes ago. Officer Zakharova failed to appear for a scheduled duty assignment. Our initial search came up empty.”
Zhukov slammed the paper down on the desk. “That’s unacceptable, Orlov! Find her! Tear apart this town if you have to. Task whatever resources you need, but I want her found. Now!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Burt Lowenstein stood next to Bunker and across the table from Apollo and Dicky as he put his scarred finger on the map. Mechanic work ages a man’s hands quickly, leaving them broken, bruised, and beyond salvation. Constant grease and soap were only part of the problem. Wrench slippage near an engine block caused far more damage, tearing skin from bone upon impact.
Burt traced a path along a series of black lines he’d drawn on the map earlier, purposely avoiding the red circles Tuttle had added when the old coot was still alive.
“This is the way I’d go, Bunker. It’s the safest route back to town.”
Bunker nodded slowly, then pointed at a clearing bordered by mountains on all sides. “What can you tell me about this?”
“That’s Patterson’s Meadow. But you’ll want to avoid it, too.” Burt drew a line from north to south, taking Bunker’s eyes through a narrow gap in the topography. “It’s a death trap, with only one way in or out. A guy could get himself killed in there.”
The answer didn’t appear to faze Bunker, almost as if that was the answer he was expecting.
“What’s with all the circles around the meadow?” Stephanie asked, putting a hand on Bunker’s back as she leaned in next to him.
Burt saw her smile at Bunker, then rub her hand across his back. The man didn’t seem to notice. Or else he chose not to react to her friendliness.
“Daisy thought he might be planning to build a cabin on it,” Apollo said from across the table. “But we really don’t know for sure.”
“Okay, I get that,” Stephanie said. “But why highlight all the bridges and the other stuff?”
“It’s important to know the area, especially the egress points,” Bunker said, his tone slow and even, sounding as if he was running it through in his head.
Apollo nodded. “If a forest fire hit, his options would be limited.”
Bunker walked to the other side of Burt, leaving Stephanie’s hand dangling. “I’m going to need to take a closer look at it.”
Burt wasn’t sure why. The meadow was much too close to town to be used as any type of basecamp, if that’s what Bunker was thinking.
Stephanie put her finger on the lines representing the highway near it. “At least it’s close to some pavement. I don’t know about you guys, but driving these dirt roads would get old after a while.”
Burt disagreed with the buxom beauty. The clearing was much too close to the paved highway—would be easy pickings for the Russians. He’d choose something more remote.
Bunker put the tip of his finger on Burt’s original path, then drew an imaginary line from it to the mouth of Patterson’s Meadow. “Is there anything to worry about in here?”
“Not really. Just avoid the highway.” He took the protective cap from the black marker and added another line to the map. “This logging road is one of the nicer ones in the area. The Forest Service maintains it regularly.”
“How wide is it?”
“It’s pretty wide. At least forty feet. Maybe more. The ATV riders fly up and down it all the time. At least they used to whenever I was out there hunting. Those assholes always scared off the game in the area.”
“Wide enough,” Bunker mumbled, his eyes locked onto the map.
“Wide enough for what?” Burt asked.
“It’s not important,” Bunker said, straightening his posture. He rolled up the map. “How are the projects coming along?”
“I’m getting there, but it’s a ton of work,” Burt said. “All I can say is that you better come through with that rifle. Otherwise, you and I are gonna go a few rounds.”
Apollo answered instead of Bunker. “No reason to go there, Burt. A deal is a deal. It’s yours when this is over.”
Bunker’s eyes darted around the room. “Has anyone seen Albert? I need to have a chat with him.”
“He’s down the road, hanging out with Daisy,” Dicky said.
Apollo rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I don’t know how she puts up with it,” Burt said. “Even I don’t drool that bad.”
Apollo looked at Bunker. “While you’re doing that, I’m gonna check on Allison and her mother before Dicky and I head out to look for Victor.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate that. Just don’t overcommit on the search. Can’t risk everyone’s security for the sake of one troubled boy.”
Apollo’s eyes signaled he agreed with the assessment. “There’s a fine line. But we gotta try.”
“Good luck,” Bunker said, holding out his hand for a shake.
“Keep your head down out there,” Apollo said, grabbing his hand and shaking it twice. Dicky did the same. The two men left the room in a rush.
Bunker looked at Stephanie. “You wouldn’t happen to know if Martha has a pen and some paper around here, would you? I’ve got a laundry list to write.”
She pointed at a curved entry table hugging the wall by the front door. “Try the drawer. That’s where I’d keep them.”
CHAPTER 21
Fifteen minutes later . . .
Bunker grabbed the assault rifle leaning against the wall by the front door of Martha Rainey’s place and loaded a magazine from his vest with a firm shove of his hand. He headed outside with the map lashed to his rucksack using the Velcro straps along the side.
Shortly after his feet hit the pavers outside, a tug landed on his right arm. The force was enough to turn him sideways.
“You got a minute?” Stephanie King asked, her son fiddling with the Pokémon cards a few yards away. Dallas was huddled with Jeffrey, shining a flashlight at the underside of one of the cards.
“Sure, but I need to get moving. The sun is almost down.” Bunker didn’t see Megan, but he knew she was around somewhere. He planned to say goodbye to the ebony child who had captured his heart.
“So . . . you’re really going to do this?” Stephanie asked in a defiant tone.
“I’m coming back, Steph. Don’t worry.”
“You say that, but you really don’t know for sure. It’s dangerous out there.”
Bunker held up his rifle. “That’s why I have this.”
She hugged him without warning, her ample chest pressing hard into his tactical vest.
He brought his arms up and wrapped his forearms around her back. He put his free hand on her back and rubbed, ma
king sure she knew he appreciated her concern. “I know you’re worried, but this is what I’m trained to do.”
“But it’s the Russians.”
“Trust me, they have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
“Please be careful. We need you to come back in one piece.”
“I will,” he said, as the hug continued.
“Jeffrey would be heartbroken if you got yourself killed.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty fond of that boy, too,” he said, debating whether to say the next three words lining up on his tongue. He decided to set them free. “What about you?”
She leaned back from the embrace but didn’t answer, her face only inches from his. Her watery eyes never moved. He stopped his breath as her stare lingered for what seemed like a minute, their lower bodies pressing together.
“You two gonna kiss, or what?” Dallas asked.
The words broke through the awkwardness to end the stare-down. Bunker pulled his arms away and stepped back.
Stephanie did the same, looking like she had an hour’s worth of words she was holding back.
Bunker exhaled, letting the breath he’d been holding escape.
Someone tugged at Bunker’s pant leg.
He looked down.
It was Jeffrey, hovering only a foot away, with Dallas next to him. The freckled boy brought his hand up with the deck of Pokémon cards in his clutch. “These are yours, Jack.”
“No Jeffrey, you hang on to them until I get back. Someone needs to keep them safe.”
The boy nodded, then spread the cards out in his hand. He took one from the stack and held it up. “I want you to have this one.”
“For good luck,” Stephanie said a millisecond later, her tone pushy and to the point as usual. She snatched the card and gave it to Bunker.
Bunker knew he couldn’t refuse. He took it and studied the colorful scene. The cartoon character portrayed a demon-looking squirrel creature with a fiery tail. “Which one of them is this?”
Jeffrey’s face lit up with excitement. “That’s Charmeleon, my all-time favorite.”
“He looks fierce.”
“He is. But there are a bunch of other characters I like, too. My second favorite is Metapod. But Parasect is cool, too. Oh, and Arcanine. He’s really fast.”
Bunker never paid much attention to the Pokémon craze. Why should he? He didn’t have any kids and Pokémon wasn’t a high priority for the members of the brotherhood. The Kindred had other hobbies, so to speak, usually with names like Candi or Jasmine. “How many are there?
“Over eight hundred.”
“Wow, that’s a lot more than I thought,” Bunker said, figuring this kid was a collector. He seemed to know a lot about the Pokémon phenomenon. “How many do you have?”
Jeffrey held up the cards Bunker had given him. “Just these. Mom won’t let me collect them.”
Bunker smiled at the boy, then slid the Charmeleon card into one of his pockets. “Thank you, sport. I’ll be sure to keep this one safe for you.”
“Don’t forget my mom and sisters,” Dallas said.
“I won’t,” Bunker answered, figuring he’d run across them along the way. Most likely in town, with the other residents. When you’re the occupying force, a centralized detention zone is the most efficient strategy to maintain order.
Stephanie leaned forward and whispered in Bunker’s ear. “I’m sure Jeffrey would like a hug.”
Bunker nodded. He bent down on one knee and waited with arms outstretched. Jeffrey knew instantly what to do, flying into Bunker’s embrace.
After their hug ended, Stephanie said, “Megan wants to say goodbye, too. She’s waiting for you by the corral.”
Bunker stood. “She’s not by herself, is she?”
“No, Rusty’s keeping an eye on her.”
“I’ll head there shortly.” Bunker turned his feet toward the end of Old Mill Road. “Wish me luck, everyone.”
Stephanie didn’t answer as Bunker walked away.
Neither did Jeffrey or Dallas.
CHAPTER 22
Bunker waved a quick hello at Daisy when he arrived at the guard station by the Old Henley Bridge, but didn’t send any words her way. He aimed his focus at Albert instead. “Can we talk a minute?”
The fat man paused before he nodded, then walked with Bunker using his trademark waddle.
When Dustin started to follow, Bunker held up hand. “Why don’t you hang back a minute, Dustin?”
“Oh, okay. Will do.”
After twenty yards or so, Bunker stopped and turned, keeping Albert in a direct line between him and Daisy.
“I sense a question coming my way,” Albert said, his tone confident.
“You could say that.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I think it’s time for the two of us to clear the air.”
“About what?”
“About something you and I have been dancing around for a while now.”
Albert blinked, but didn’t respond.
Bunker ran through a half-dozen variations in his mind about the question he wanted to ask, before deciding to keep it simple and direct. “Are you really Tin Man?”
Albert’s breathing stopped as he angled his head to the side, staring at the ground in silence.
“It’s not that hard a question,” Bunker said, recognizing the stall maneuver. “It’s either yes or no.”
Albert brought his eyes to bear, letting out the inhale he’d taken in. “Are you really Bulldog, enforcer for The Kindred?”
Bunker couldn’t hold back a short chuckle. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”
“As do you, to mine.”
Bunker should have expected the non-committal rhetoric Albert was slinging. If he was Tin Man, then he’d probably spent his share of time in front of curious law enforcement—as had Bunker. That type of intense scrutiny hardens your resolve, teaching you to remain calm and choose your words carefully, if you decide to speak at all.
Detective teams are masters at spins, lies, and deceit, able to say almost anything to entrap their suspect. Self-incrimination is one of their most powerful tools.
Only those suspects who keep their wits about them while being grilled in the hot seat will survive the hours, sometimes days, it takes until the public defender makes an appearance. For those who rode with The Kindred, a hired barrister would arrive within an hour to end the questioning and ensure the gang’s secrets remained a secret.
A smirk landed on Bunker’s face.
The corners of Albert’s mouth turned up. Yet it wasn’t a grin. It was more of an I’m smarter than you look.
Bunker decided to change tactics, choosing a flanking maneuver instead of an all-out frontal assault. “Look, you and I both know you’re not Tin Man.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because we’re a long way from the streets of LA and these people deserve better, one way or the other.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But since I don’t have a map in front of me, I’ll defer to your expertise on the matter.”
Bunker shook his head. “So the dance continues.”
“Are we done?” Albert asked, looking bored.
Bunker wondered if there was another way to confirm Albert’s identify. The heavy man wasn’t going to give a direct answer.
Right then, his mind connected with a memory from the past. Rumor had it the legendary meth cook possessed certain physical skills that would be easy to confirm without wasting time on any more words.
Bunker made a closed fist and threw a punch at Albert’s head.
Albert responded in a flash, bringing his hands up in a lightning-quick defensive maneuver, deflecting the punch with a hook block. The big man countered by closing the gap between them, moving into Bunker’s center position with a twist of his body.
An instant later, Albert locked Bunker’s outstretched arm in a wedge position, then leveraged his considerable weight to drive Bunker to the
ground on his back.
Albert brought a knee down on Bunker’s chest, while simultaneously unleashing a swift right jab that stopped less than an inch from Bunker’s nose.
“Satisfied?” Albert said a moment later, his eyes focused and fierce.
Daisy ran to their position. “What the hell is going on?”
“Just testing a theory,” Bunker said from the prone position, the rucksack pressing into his spine.
Albert withdrew his fist, then stood up before extending an open palm.
Bunker grabbed it, letting Albert pull him to his feet.
Daisy moved between the two combatants with her arms outstretched and hands pressing on each of their chests.
Dustin joined the circus, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Jesus Christ! Where did that come from, Albert?”
“Are you okay?” Daisy asked Bunker, her hands grabbing at his vest and backpack.
“I’m good.”
She turned to Albert. “And you. Explain yourself.”
Albert flared an eyebrow, his face looking smug. “Just answering a question.”
“What question?”
Albert ignored Daisy, keeping his eyes on Bunker. “Are we good?”
Bunker sent a nod of respect to Albert.
“So that’s it?” she asked, her gaze alternating between Bunker and Albert.
“That’s it,” Bunker said in his most solemn tone. “Time for me to get moving.”
She held for a moment, then huffed before stomping her way to the guard station.
Albert slid around Bunker to change places, now facing the end of Old Mill Road, his eyes peering at Daisy’s position behind Bunker.
He put a hand into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with red crystals, dangling it from his fingertips. “I’m thinking you might need this.”
Bunker recognized the infamous red crystals—Clearwater Red, the purest form of meth ever to have hit the streets. “For what?”
Albert lowered his voice. “To bribe your way past a checkpoint. It’s my finest blend, but I’m sure you already know that.”
Bunker took the gift and tested its weight with a bounce of his hand. It was roughly a pound, he figured, having held the same quantity on a number of occasions when he rode with The Kindred.
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