Throughout their marriage, Cody had controlled Angel so completely that he believed she’d never find the courage and strength needed to escape through that small, hard-to-reach space.
Now, however, he was rightfully leery.
“That’s not good enough,” Ben heard Cody’s nasal voice through Wade’s phone. “I want you standing there, watching her.”
Uh-oh.
But Wade was quick on his feet. “She’s in the shower. Man, I’m not walking in on your wife while she’s taking a fricking shower!”
Ben jumped to unlock the bathroom door, and he turned on the water in the surprisingly clean tub. In fact, the entire bathroom was pristine—although maybe that wasn’t so surprising since it appeared that Angel had been locked in there regularly. He flipped the control and the water came sputtering out of the shower head. By the time he’d pulled the curtain closed, and relocked the door, Wade was off the phone.
“He wants me to stand under the bathroom window,” he told Ben.
“Cody is coming out of the bar,” Ryan reported through the speaker in Ben’s phone, his voice higher pitched from his anxiety. “He’s running to his truck.”
“Places, people,” Adam said. “Wade, if he wants you beneath the window, stand beneath the window. But as soon as he pulls up, go inside with him.”
“What do we do about the window screen?” Ben asked as they all went outside. The bathroom window was on the far side of the single-story house, away from the garage.
The O’Keefe’s didn’t have much in the way of landscaping, so the screen was on the barren and dusty ground, where it had fallen when Angel had “kicked it out of the window.”
At least that’s what they hoped Cody would believe when he saw that she was gone.
“I’ll jam it up there,” Wade said. “Like she put it back as she was going out the window, you know, so it’d look like she was still inside.”
“The truck is pulling out of the pub’s parking lot,” Ryan reported. “And… he just ran a red light.”
“Hide,” Adam told Ben. “Now. God, Eden’s gonna kill me.” And then he ran to his car and pulled away.
“Tell Rye to be careful,” Wade ordered Ben, who passed the message along before hanging up and tucking himself into the shadows of the open garage.
* * *
SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class
John “Seagull” Livingston:
Rock portage. When the instructors announced it, and tagged Boat Squad John to go first, I was mostly psyched. I was thinking Hell, yeah, we’re gonna get to do a practice run in the daylight.
Schloss, however, was suspicious.
* * *
SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class
John “Hans” Schlossman:
I remember asking, “Why do they want us to do this now?” And, “God, this means we’re gonna have to do it twice.” Which the Gull was happy about—crazy mofo that is he.
But I’m all, “It’s a trick. Right now the tide’s low, but it’s coming in. When we do it later, in the freaking dark, tide’s gonna be high and starting to go out. Waves’ll be crazy, plus we’ll be fighting that tidal pull. When we do it now, it’s gonna seem easy, and we cannot think that this shit is easy.”
* * *
SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class
Jon “Timebomb” Jackson:
Schloss was doing his Lost in Space robot imitation. (waves arms) Danger! Danger!
He was making it impossible for us to formulate any kind of a plan. We thought we’d have at least one more meal before we attempted the rock portage exercise. We thought we had time to figure out how to keep the hospital corpsmen from noticing that I was injured.
But now, suddenly, here it is.
So I’m looking to Seagull, and as usual he’s already got it figured out.
But Izzy Zanella’s standing right there, so Seagull goes, “Schlossman’s right. Let’s make this harder than it has to be. DB, your turn to take a rest. Center of the duck. Also? If we can do this without you now, we’ll know we can do it with you, even in the dark, with the tide against us. Hoo-yah, men!”
And we go, “Hoo-yah!”
* * *
Petty Officer First Class
Irving “Izzy” Zanella:
Hoo-yah, indeed.
But (sing song) busted.
Except Squad John’s in the water so quickly, or maybe the Gull is just pretending not to hear me as I suggest we all pause so that Timebomb Jackson can get a medical check.
I don’t know what Seagull’s thinking, like maybe a shark’ll eat me or I’ll wander off up the beach while they’re landing their duck on the rocks, and I’ll just forget that I think that Jackson’s injured…? (shakes head bemused)
Whatever he’s thinking, they do it. The portage (pronounces as if French: Por-tazhe) au rocks. Successfully, because they’re BSJ.
Maybe Seagull was thinking that if I had some time to ponder it, I’d give ’em a pass. Look the other way. But it’s not just me. It’s Tony and Big Mac and Jenkins and everyone else, and we gotta do a med check.
And we’re right. Jackson is seriously injured.
Seagull, of course, doesn’t just let his beloved swim buddy go without a fight. He’s right up in Big Mac’s face, going, “Sir, even without the use of his arm, Jon Jackson is stronger and tougher than most of the men in this class, myself included.”
Med team reports, “Collar bone is definitely broken, sir.”
Gull pushes. “If this was the real world, sir, we’d get Jackson back home. If this was the real world, this injury would be considered a win.”
The med team is like, “Plus what looks like at least two broken ribs.”
Gull’s still going with his win theory. “But, he can still move, he can walk, he can run—”
“He twists wrong, he could puncture a lung,” the head of the med team announces, and that shuts up Gull.
“I’m sorry,” the LT tells Jackson. “But you’re done.”
And with that, Jackson’s rolled.
* * *
SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class
Jon “Timebomb” Jackson:
(Heavy sigh) Shit.
* * *
SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class
John “Hans” Schlossman:
Shit!
* * *
SEAL Candidate Petty Officer Third Class
John “Seagull” Livingston:
Shit!!
* * *
Cody’s truck skidded to a stop half in the driveway, half on the front lawn.
As Ben watched, Wade came around the front of the house to meet his brother. “Shower’s still running,” he reported as Cody went up the front steps in a single bound.
Ben was out of the garage and already hiding around the street side of the truck as Wade followed Cody into the house.
The switchblade was sharp, but Ben still had to put some real muscle into it to puncture the tough rubber of the truck’s front tire. Wade had described exactly where to place the knife on the sidewall, so that helped. But Ben had to lean on it and really pull and drag the blade, so that the hole he created would be too big to patch.
It took longer than he’d imagined and as he pulled out the knife—no easy task there, either—he hoped he’d done enough damage.
He could hear air hissing from the front as he scrambled over to the back tire. That was a good sign.
Still, one damaged tire wouldn’t cut it. Cody had a spare, and with it he’d quickly be mobile and Angel would still be in danger. Ben had to slash a minimum of two tires, but his goal was to get all four.
As he dug the knife as deeply as he could into the second tire, Ben could hear Cody and Wade shouting from inside of the house as they “discovered” that Angel was gone.
Cody: “How the fuck could you let this happen?”
Wade: “That bitch went out the goddamn window! I didn’t notice—she put the screen back…�
�� Then, “Oh, my Jesus, Code! Holy goddamn shit, I just got a text from Julie Busch!”
Cody: “Get the fuck out of my way—I don’t give a shit about Julie Busch, whoever the fuck she is.”
Wade: “Julie, you know, from work…? She says Angel was just over there, at B-Plus. Bro, really, stop, you need to see this!”
The text wasn’t actually from Julie. It was from Adam, whose cell phone number had been input into Wade’s contact list as Julie B.
Hey, sexy. I was gonna drop off your car and maybe give you a little advance thank you (emoticon heart, emoticon kiss) for letting me borrow it, but your SIL just came by work and said you asked her to pick it up. So I gave her the key. See you later anyway? (kiss, kiss, kiss)
As Ben moved to the third tire—on the visible-from-the-house side of the truck this time, Cody was silent as he read the text. But then he exclaimed, “What the goddamn fuck!?”
Wade was even louder: “Angel took my goddamn car! I’ll goddamn fucking kill her!”
Wade was doing as Adam had suggested—keeping his voice, tone, words and rage level as angry and as loud as Cody’s, and so far it seemed to be working to unite them in their mutual anger at Angel.
Of course, maybe Cody was kicking the shit out of Wade, but Ben just couldn’t hear it happening.
Cody: “Why the fuck would you lend your car to Julie-from-work?”
Wade: “Why the fuck do you think? Flip her initials around and you’ll figure it out.”
As he leaned on the knife blade, Ben silently apologized to Julie, who was as nice as she was smart—so nice, in fact, that she’d probably be down with Wade besmirching her to help convince his psycho brother that he was full-power hetero—and to help Angel escape.
Cody: “If Angel just picked up your car from B-Plus, she’s hasn’t gone far. I’m gonna—Jesus Christ, asshole! Get outta my way!”
“Bro, slow down!” Wade was stalling Cody as best he could. “She left her phone—I saw it in the bathroom. Check her browser history—”
“I didn’t let her use the goddamn internet on her goddamn phone,” Cody was dismissive. “You think I have the fucking money to pay for that? Get the fuck out of my way!”
Oh, shit, the knife was stuck, with one tire yet to go. Ben couldn’t just leave it there, sticking out like a White Supremacist Gang version of The Sword in the Stone. Except it wouldn’t take magic to pull it out—just someone with Cody or Wade’s upper body strength. And the last thing they needed was a knife like this in Cody’s crazy hands.
No, Ben had to get this thing free, finish this job, then toss it down the storm drain, as Adam had stressed so many times.
Ben could hear Wade valiantly trying to give Ben more time. “Don’t just go screaming out of here, douche-wipe,” he shouted at his brother, then, “Ow! Shit!” as Cody no doubt manhandled him.
“Ow! Shit!” Ben finally got the knife free, and holy crap that blade was sharp. He’d barely touched his left hand with it, and yet he’d slashed his thumb and two of his fingers. He couldn’t tell how bad it was—there was a shit-ton of blood. So he made a fist with the worst of it—his thumb—inside and he squeezed as he drove the knife hard into the fourth and final tire.
He could hear crashing noises from the house as Wade shouted, “I’m trying to help you,” over Cody’s “Let go of me, asshole!”
Wade: “What are you gonna do, drive through the streets, screaming Angel? At least check the laptop—see what she was Googling. Maybe she MapQuested the route to her sister’s in Phoenix.”
“No way would she go there,” Cody countered.
Wade: “Where else would she go?”
The crashing stopped, and their conversational volume lowered, but Ben could imagine what was being said as Cody discovered the trail of flashing neon breadcrumbs that they’d left for him on the family’s shared laptop: A browser history filled with info about Las Vegas.
A Vegas temp agency that was looking to hire receptionists. Another that was actively looking for bartenders and hostesses. A Craig’s List’s “Roommates Wanted” page for the lower rent part of the city.
The website for Greyhound’s bus schedule… to Vegas.
Even if Cody did find a way to replace all four of his tires in the next few hours, the hope was that, with this info in his pocket, he’d head up the Fifteen instead of the route that Angel had actually taken north.
The knife came out of the fourth tire a little easier, thank gods—just as Wade “spotted” Ben from the house.
“Hey!” Wade shouted. “Ben Gillman! What the goddamn fuck…?”
Ben scrambled for the street and threw the knife into the storm drain—he could hear it clattering as it hit the bottom of the empty pipe.
Wade came rocketing out of the house even as Adam’s car squealed to a stop, his timing impeccable.
“Ben! Thank God I found you!” Adam shouted from his open window. “Ryan is worried sick about you! Get in this car! Get into this car right now, before you do anything stupid!”
“Fuck you, O’Keefe! How dare you threaten my boyfriend!” That was one of Ben’s most important lines. Whatever happened, he was to return to it as often as possible.
“What did you do?” Wade asked, as he stopped and gaped at Cody’s truck, which was, yes, looking very much as if it had four flat tires.
Cody came out of the house, echoing Wade. “What the goddamn fuck…?” as Adam got out of his car with a less profane, “Oh, Ben, seriously?”
“You wanna get me expelled from school,” Ben told Wade, “that’s fine with me. But when you bring my boyfriend into it…? You stay the hell away from Ryan!” And then came the throw-down taunt, complete with air-kiss, delivered a tad quickly since Cody was coming down the stairs. “Unless you want to make it a threesome, in which case, come on over, any time…”
That was Wade’s cue to rush him, and Wade did it with a believability factor of about one point seven billion. It was all Ben could do not to turn and run, and instead trust that Wade would remember everything that Adam had taught them in his crash course version of Stunt Fighting 101.
The person getting “hit” controls the “blow.” That was vital.
Wade swung his giant, ham-sized fist at Ben’s head, and Ben brought his hands up as if to block him, but instead held onto Wade’s hand as he brought his face into contact with it and then snapped his head back, as if he’d just been punched.
Thank you, Wade, for remembering.
Ben had the added special-effect of a bonus handful of blood that he smeared across the lower half of his face—ow, his hand stung!—hoping it would look as if Wade had hit him so hard his nose had broken and all-but exploded.
Apparently it was real-looking enough so that, as they fell together in a tangle of arms and legs onto the dusty lawn, as Wade continued to pretend to pound him, he breathed, “Shit, are you okay?” before bellowing, “I’ll kill you, you faggot!”
“Sharp knife,” Ben breathed back before returning to his line number one: “Threaten Ryan again, and I’ll kill you, O’Keefe!”
Adam was hopping around near them, clapping his hands and shouting, “Stop it! Stop! It! Boys! Boys! Don’t make me call the police!”
The idea was to distinctly separate the boys from the men—to make the fight between Wade and Ben a boyish scuffle rather than something Cody felt the need to join.
But it seemed that Cody wanted the fight to stop for another reason entirely: “Damn, Wade, he got his gay blood all over you! Get offa him before you catch something!”
Wade immediately let go of Ben, the two boys both scrambling crab-style away from each other, as they sat up in the dirt.
Ben wiped his face with his injured hand again, pretending the blood was coming from his nose as Wade reached out to Cody, silently asking for a hand up.
But Cody backed away from his brother, too. “Don’t touch me!”
“This is not okay,” Adam was saying. “This is not how we settle our differences in the
civilized world.”
Meanwhile, the other “responsible” adult in the area began circling his truck, going, “What the goddamn, motherfucking, shit-on-a-brick fuck did that faggot motherfucker do to my tires…?!”
It was then that Ryan arrived, peddling furiously down the street. “Ben!” he called. “Oh, my God! Ben!” He flung himself off his bike and down on the lawn next to Ben, where he looked up at Wade with accusation in his eyes that wasn’t entirely feigned. “What did you do?” Back to Ben, “Oh, my God, baby, is your beautiful nose broken?”
“I need my truck. Who’s gonna pay for this?” Cody demanded as he glared at Ben, yet still, carefully, didn’t get too close.
“Wade will,” Ben said, taking a wad of tissues that Ryan handed him. He held it up to his nose, where his hand bled through it rather quickly.
“Fuck you,” Wade said. “Cody, call the police. That’s destruction of property.”
As Cody fished in his jeans for his phone, Adam said, “Oh, you definitely don’t want to call the police. What Wade just did to Ben was a very clear assault and battery. I mean, if we’re going to be making criminal charges here.” He gestured toward his car almost apologetically. “I caught it all on my dash-cam.” He didn’t have a dash-cam, but Cody didn’t know that. “Also? This latest round of aggression started earlier today.” Adam turned to Wade. “Ben showed me your Facebook post. You can’t threaten to kill people like that.”
“It was a joke,” Wade insisted with just the right amount of sullen indignation.
“It was a threat,” Ben shot back. He imitated Wade’s voice. “I’m gonna goddamn fucking find Ryan Spencer and beat him within an inch of his life. On second thought, I’ll go that extra inch and make the world a slightly more fag-free place. How is that not a threat, posted on my Facebook wall?”
“I deleted it,” Wade said, as if that made it better.
“Not before I got a screenshot,” Ben countered.
Ryan spoke up. “My uncle’s a JAG officer—a Navy lawyer. FYI, that kind of a threat is a crime. It’s assault. So yeah, let’s call the police, Wade, and see who does time. And, oh yeah, then there’s the civil suit that Ben’s family can hit you with. Do you know how much it’ll cost for a plastic surgeon to repair what you did to his nose? Of course, then there’s also emotional damages, of which there are—”
Ready to Roll Page 15
