by LC Champlin
“Sarge, do you copy?” he snapped into his HT.
“We’re on it. Don’t worry.” Engines roared up the parkway.
Nathan trotted down Keelson, practically miles behind Albin. “Run, hunter. See if you can escape the wolves.”
Once in the SUV, Nathan sped northeast on Davit. Out Shell to the parkway—An older- model Buick LeSabre and a grey Ford F-250 ahead slowed.
“He’s going for one of the boats,” Sarge reported.
“He thinks he’s going to escape? Hah!”
Stamping on the accelerator, Nathan reached the vehicles as the mercs piled out. Weapons up, they shouldered through a fence gate to approach the channel.
Their search beams scanned the waterway and docks. There! Albin lunged into a nearby flat-bottom fishing boat.
“Give me a rifle,” Nathan demanded of the nearest mercenary.
“Think fast.” Sarge.
Nathan snatched the AR out of the air. Ready, aim . . . fire. Again and again.
Then a fireball ignited at the bow, lighting up the harbor like day for a heartbeat. The shockwave struck Nathan’s chest—like the bullet Albin had shot him with.
A few yards away, Sarge lowered an M4 that boasted an M203 grenade launcher under the barrel.
The blazing remains of the boat floated for only a moment before they began to sink. Their smoke ascended to Heaven, an offering of victory.
Water washed in to smother the flames.
Cold filled Nathan. No feeling, no thoughts. No satisfaction.
“That should do it” Businesslike as ever, Sarge headed back to his truck. “That’s a bonus mission, by the way. That means I get all of the next run.”
The mercenaries’ vehicles pulled away, leaving Nathan to stare at Albin’s grave. The smell of burning plastic and fabricated wood corrupted the air.
The fires of rage in his heart burned out with the boat’s sinking.
His radio crackled: “What was that? This is a sentry on the north, by the way.”
“It’s not your concern. It is finished.”
Chapter 76
Catch and Release
The Response - Cinema Sleep
Nathan unlocked the Nelsons’ front door. He held the Coleman camping lantern aloft as he made his way to the garage service door. Keeping to one side, he pushed it open.
In the middle of the floor hunched Marvin. He worked to untie the ropes around his feet, having already removed the ones on his wrists.
“Impressive, Marvin.”
The economist froze. Eyes bulging in horror, he whipped about to face his captor.
Emotionless, Nathan set the lamp on the nearby washing machine. He raised Marvin’s confiscated pistol to high-ready position. “It’s time for you to go.” He racked the slide. Resignation filled the prisoner’s eyes, extending to his posture, dragging it down.
Then Nathan locked the slide back, open. He turned the weapon so Marvin could see down the barrel from the empty chamber. “Here.” The weapon clattered onto the concrete, sliding until it struck Marvin’s foot.
Click. Tac knife blade out, flashing in Nathan’s hand. He approached the former ally, tread measured as if he carried out a sacred ceremony. Indeed, this day’s victory would rise to Heaven as an offering to the One who made wars to cease.
Marvin scooted away, as pathetic as half-crushed road kill dragging itself into the ditch—where he no doubt thought he would end tonight.
“Stop.” Nathan raised the knife, pointing it at Marvin’s feet.
The man had hit the dryer anyway, dead-ending his escape. His eyes locked on the blade. “Are you going to kill me? I thought you were going to let me walk.”
“I am.” Nathan crouched to slice the ropes from the captive’s ankles. When the bonds fell away, he straightened. “You’ll need this.” He pulled a full magazine from his pocket and tossed it to join the pistol on the floor. “Go. I don’t need you anymore.”
Marvin gawked for a moment. Reality seized him, and he scooped up pistol and magazine. With a last look of fear and confusion at Nathan, he bolted out the door.
Nathan’s hand lifted of its own and squeezed the PTT. “Sarge, he’s free.”
++++++++++++
Albin adjusted his grip on the moss-slimed dock post. His feet could just reach the bottom of the channel. From the mercenaries’ angle, they had not seen him slide over the side of the boat before . . .
Images of Mr. Serebus opening fire flickered in Albin’s mind like the rifle’s muzzle flare. Interspersed, the madman’s expressionless face appeared as he studied his handiwork in the aftermath.
“I should not be surprised,” Albin murmured. The dark man had abandoned all pretext of peace, moving directly to eliminating the threat. Defying all reason, he had also sided with Sarge. Even in opposition, Mr. Serebus’s efficiency proved impressive.
With no enemies present, Albin slogged ashore, his black clothing hiding him in the darkness. The night would wrap him and bear him on.
What now? Kuznetsov wandered about somewhere on the other shore, and Marvin had likely already fallen into enemy hands.
Albin’s radio hissed inside its Ziploc bag. “Can anyone hear me? This is Marvin.” A trap, surely. Mr. Serebus and his people must have taken the radio and, suspecting Albin’s survival, now attempted to lure him in or at least verify his death.
“I’m coming down the parkway. They let me go. Nathan said he didn’t need me. I know you probably think this is a trap, but I’ll go to where we docked and show you it’s not. I’m sorry I left. I wanted to speak with Josephine. I thought maybe I could convince her . . .”
Albin looked up and down the shore. If he moved into the open, they would see him by the light of the full moon or by their infrared optics. Blast. He frowned at the water, dark and still as an oil spill. “You will pay for this, Mr. Serebus.”
Albin waded back into the depths.
++++++++++++
Nathan eased the Musters’ front door open and slipped inside. In the living room waited Taylor, a shadow among shadows. Easing the door closed, he glanced at her. “This stays between us. We did what was necessary tonight.”
She stared at him but nodded. Hard to tell in the gloom, but fear flickered in her wide eyes.
“It’s easier for everyone this way,” he added, digging himself deeper into the pit beside the Slough of Despond. Shit, he should stop while he still had ground to stand on.
Shoulders slumping with the weight of the night’s endeavors, he trudged to his room. Sleep would not come, so no sense wasting time trying to coax it within reach. Gazing blankly at the wall sounded appealing, though. He dropped into his office chair and leaned back, hands on the armrests like a king on his throne. The crown weighed heavy.
“He’s dead,” he breathed. The words cooled the idea, helped it solidify into reality. “I killed him with my own hands.” Could he have killed him with his bare hands? Anyone could shoot a foe, especially when they couldn’t even see their target but instead shot through the hull of a boat.
They said the hate one felt for a person carried into the manner of . . . execution. The more removed the method, the less emotion and passion the killer had for their target. Poisoning ranked as the most remote and cold, while strangling or beating a victim to death with one’s bare hands expressed the strongest loathing. Could he have choked the life from Albin, or smashed his skull in? Beating a terrorist’s face to a pulp and nearly killing a traitorous bodyguard had caused Nathan no hesitation. To the contrary, the memory brought a stir of pleasure. Victory intoxicated the victor.
His eyes closed, sending him into an even deeper darkness, where he wondered and feared, doubted and dreamed. Darkness, always as close as shutting his eyes, or looking into his heart. “I did what needed to be done.” If he believed it, why did he need to keep repeating it? People only needed mantras when they didn’t believe the words. No one needed to repeat the truth. No one repeat
ed to themselves that the sun would rise or that the taxman would collect his pound of flesh in April.
Nathan leaned forward—Shit. Ribs. Sitting back again, his fingers to his temples, he growled. Images of muzzle flare in the night, bullets flashing into the boat, a fireball erupting. Did it really happen? Had he dreamed it? Everything seemed surreal now.
His best friend had turned into a traitor. Thus, Nathan executed the sentence for treason: death. Neptune could keep his green oceans, because God’s chosen one didn’t need to wash his hands for carrying out justice. Indeed, the Red Hand of the warrior who lived by his strength would continue to be his symbol.
A quiet knock on his door. Amanda? “Come.” He composed himself as much as possible, or as necessary.
The door opened a crack, enough for Denver to poke her small face through. “Nathan? Why aren’t you in bed? Mom says if we’re in our rooms at night, we need to be in bed. But I guess it’s okay since you’re an adult,” she added in the tone of a child parroting a horribly unfair—by kid standards—adult dictate.
“You’re right, Denver. I should be in bed.” He should send her back to her bed. But it didn’t seem right. Having another human nearby did seem right, though, even if she didn’t know the specifics of his actions, or what one felt after taking a life.
“Taylor was gone,” Denver related. “And then she came back. I asked her what she did, and I said I’d tell Mom if she didn’t tell me.” Blackmail, a kid’s best friend.
“I see. Come on, let’s go into the kitchen. I’m thirsty.”
Chapter 77
Irreconcilable Differences
Second Heartbeat - Avenged Sevenfold
Boots squelching, Albin made his way to where he had docked the boat on the north shore.
When he neared the location, a figure came into view beside the skiff: Kuznetsov, given the furtive movements and hunched shoulders of a prey animal. Judge sniffed about beside him.
“Over here, Mr. Kuznetsov.” Albin waved him behind the concealment of a charred vehicle.
The engineer jumped. “Mr. Conrad?” He sighed in relief as he joined Albin. “Where’s Mr. Bridges? Do you think what he said was true? I heard an explosion—”
“It appears we are about to find out.” Albin nodded to the figure jogging down the street toward them. Marvin Bridges, showing no injuries save for a slight limp.
Albin placed a restraining hand on Kuznetsov’s shoulder.
Halting at the boat, Bridges looked about. “Albin? Mikhail? Are you here?”
Albin leaned close to Kuznetsov’s ear. “Go. I will find my own way back. If I do not return by morning, drive the Tacoma as close to Redwood Shores as you are able. They may be watching him. It is better they think me dead for as long as possible.”
Despite a frown of mixed sadness and disapproval, Kuznetsov nodded. After clapping Albin on the shoulder, the engineer approached Bridges at the boat.
The economist spun toward him, hand over his belt line where his pistol resided. Upon recognizing Kuznetsov, however, he relaxed. “Mikhail, am I ever glad to see you. Where’s Albin?”
“I last saw him a while ago. He said he would find his own way back. Get in the boat; we need to be going.”
“Hey, it’s all right. They let me go.”
“What happened?”
“When I ran into Nathan, he and a pack of teenagers ganged up on me. They tied me up and put me in a garage. I thought they were going to torture me or something, but then Nathan came in and cut the ropes. He said he didn’t need me anymore. He even gave me my gun back.”
“And you didn’t shoot him with it?” Kuznetsov’s tone hardened.
“I didn’t go over there to knock on the door and shoot him in the face. Besides, I’m sure he probably would’ve knifed me first.”
“Mm. Let’s go.”
The two entered the boat and pushed off.
“Blast,” Albin murmured. “I should have had them take a different route back.” But as long as Mr. Serebus believed Albin dead, he would likely not bother the other men.
++++++++++++
As Nathan and Denver trooped along the hall, he glanced down at her. “What did your sister say when you threatened to tell on her?”
“She said that . . . that you and the teenagers got in a fight with a guy who used to be your friend. Marvin. And she said you used him to get Albin here. You wanted to talk to him. Did you get to?”
By the end of her speech, they reached the kitchen. Nathan poured a glass of purified water from the pitcher. When he offered one to Denver, she shook her head.
He leaned against the island. “We didn’t talk.” He looked away. What the fuck, he couldn’t meet the eyes of a child? “He didn’t want to.”
“Oh.” She shifted to plant her elbows on the counter, and began toying with a stack of sticky notes. “I remember when Dad left Mom. They said they were going to talk things out, but they always just ended up arguing. It was about anything.
“Dad said he wanted Mom to spend more time with us and him, since she was at work a lot. He called her ‘controlling.’ But then she said he was never home either—that he was at the gym with his friends too much. That’s why she had to run the house.”
Would this lead anywhere useful, or would it ramble on for hours like Davie’s stories? Nathan had never cut his son off, though, and neither would he stop Denver.
“Is that like what happened with you and Albin?” She looked up at him for a moment, eyes full of concern. “Did you guys start arguing over everything?”
“I . . .” What had they argued about that set them on this damnable road? Oh, yes, his attempted execution of Ken, and then Albin ranted about Nathan not treating him like a special snowflake. “Do you mean, was it miscommunication coupled with an underlying incompatibility of priorities?”
Blink. “Um, I meant, did you argue without really wanting to . . . to . . .” She squinched her face up, searching for the word.
“To what?” He took a sip of water.
“Um, to make up. When Mom and Dad argued, they just yelled over each other. They always told me and Taylor to try and see each other’s side. I don’t think they knew how to do that with each other, though. Sometimes they would be arguing for the same thing, but they didn’t notice. They just wanted to fight.” She shrugged, the sticky notes claiming her full attention.
From the mouths of neon-haired rock fans . . . “When a relationship gets bad enough, everything the people in it do annoys each other. They say love covers over a multitude of evils. That means,” he continued when she regarded him with brows furrowed, “when you love a person, you can put up with the irritating things they do, or say, or even believe.”
“Because if you really like a person, it doesn’t matter if you watch different TV shows or like different bands.”
“In theory.”
“You really like Albin, don’t you.”
“I—” Wait, he what?
“He’s your best friend.” She smiled, but it vanished when she remembered what had transpired between them. “And now he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. I’ve been friends with people like that.”
“What did you do?” More importantly, what the hell was he doing? He should be planning his next move, or speaking with Sarge about Marvin and Mikhail. A child’s prattle about friendship should rank as the lowest priority, not even on the list.
“I don’t know.” She began thumbing through a catalog by the moon’s illumination. “At first I just walked off, but Taylor said I should try to understand why they don’t like me anymore. Maybe it was really my fault. And maybe there’s something I can do to make it better, like even just saying sorry.”
“Does that work?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t think it would work in this situation, Denver.” Since speaking to a dead man achieved nothing. “But thank you for your advice.”
“Why wouldn’t it
work? Albin likes you too. And he likes this place. He helped us a lot. He even saved Zander. What happened with you guys, anyway?” Frowning, she gazed at him. “Didn’t he say anything? He wanted to talk to you that once, remember? The neighbors say you only argued. Maybe if you tried again . . .”
A slim figure a few inches taller than Denver crept from the hall. Grand Central Station tonight. “Come join us, Taylor,” he sighed.
“Denver!” she whispered when she reached the kitchen. “It’s late. You should be in bed.”
“So should you, TayTay. I’ll tell Mom what you did.” Denver pulled herself up to her most defiant posture, chin and chest out like a territorial parakeet’s.
“What is it, Taylor?” Nathan intervened.
“I was just . . . looking for Denver.”
“I’m right here. We were talking about why Albin left. I think if we could all just get together and talk about it, and say we’re sorry, things might be okay.” Ah, such refreshing naïveté.
Nathan held Taylor’s gaze. The silence conveyed his meaning: say nothing.
The tweenager looked down, fiddling with a bracelet around her wrist. “I don’t know, Denver. Sometimes people just stop getting along. They change.”
“Mom and Dad could have fixed it.” Anger and frustration strained the words. “You know they could have.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Denver?” Taylor snapped.
“Everything!” Foot stamp. “I’m sick of losing people. I just want us to all be friends. All this stuff going on”—she gestured toward the window to indicate the chaos that consumed the world—“and we can’t even get along with each other? Albin was your friend too, Taylor.”
“Girls.” Nathan held up his hands for peace. “Sometimes people do simply change. They experience different events and may grow apart because of it. There’s no way to change them back.” Especially when they were dead. “We have to accept that their part in our story is over.”
