by Sam Sisavath
He nodded. “I’ll get her back.”
“Thank you.” She reached over and put her hand on his cheek. “Oh, shit…”
“What’s wrong?”
“I got blood on your face. I’m sorry, John.”
He smiled. “That’s okay. I’m used to blood.”
“Save her, John.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Save her, please,” Margo said, as if she hadn’t heard a thing he’d said.
And maybe she hadn’t, because she closed her eyes and whispered, “Save her, John. Please save her,” and then she didn’t say anything else.
Twenty
The first time Smith spilled blood while wearing a Black Tide uniform, he was doing a humanitarian mission in a small town outside of Atlanta, Georgia. He was two years out of basic training and was sent as part of the security detail to watch over another unit that was giving out food, water, and medicine. It was a busy week for everyone—the techs were helping to establish an infrastructure while the medical staff spent almost every hour of their weeklong stay seeing patients.
For Smith, it was a tedious job. Long, hot hours standing around with his M4 hanging in front of him, watching people come and go, and waiting for orders to do this and that. The only action his squad saw for five out of the six days involved an accidental fire that required everyone’s help to put out.
But then it happened.
Smith saw the signs right away, even if his partners didn’t. Lori and Miller were too busy talking about something. Smith couldn’t remember what the topic was that day between the two, even though they’d tried to get him involved. He’d just ignored them and kept looking at the man.
He was big and tall and stood a whole foot higher than everyone standing in line waiting to go into the medical tent to see the doctors. He had on cargo pants and a jacket, despite the fact that it was way too hot to be wearing the extra layers. His left hand hung loosely at his side, but his right was inside his jacket pocket. His head was completely shaved, and sunlight gleamed off the smooth dome, as if he’d just chopped everything off very recently and not a single hair had gotten the chance to regrow.
But it was the boots that really got Smith’s attention.
They were combat boots and were shiny despite it being a very dusty and dirty part of the countryside. Smith’s own clothes were covered in sweat and grime, and yet this man had managed to live in this town while maintaining a damn near polished pair of shoes. He was either the most fastidious man alive, or he didn’t belong.
And if he didn’t belong…
Smith was standing guard less than five meters from the line, far enough to stay out of people’s way but close enough to react if needed. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking at, just that it wasn’t right.
And Miller kept trying to talk to him, while Lori was laughing at him. She must have laughed a little too hard, because the bald man looked over at her—
Except his gaze was drawn to Smith’s, where it stayed.
Their eyes locked.
Smith wasn’t sure how long their connection lasted. Maybe just a second. Maybe less than that. Barely half a heartbeat, maybe.
It was long enough that the man recognized the look of suspicion in Smith’s eyes. He began to look away, and as he did so, took his right hand out of his jacket pocket. Sunlight glinted off something long and metallic, like a cigarette lighter. Except there was a cord connected to the bottom of it that disappeared into his jacket sleeve.
“Everyone get down!” Smith shouted.
The man turned to face Smith, raising his hand into the air as he did so. He shouted, “The Prez sends his regards!”
Or Smith thought the man’s last word was regards, but there was no way to tell for sure, because by the time the man had gotten his out, Smith had drawn his Glock sidearm and shot the man dead center in the forehead.
A day after the incident, Smith was debriefed while the rest of his squad prepared to ship out of town. Their mission was done, and Black Tide had already sent a quick reaction force to take over. Smith had a feeling something big was about to take place, but no one told him anything. It was, as the saying went, above his pay grade.
The woman who arrived to debrief Smith had been at a nearby assignment when she was sent to take charge. She was a small Texan with a noticeable country drawl, and though she asked a lot of questions, he never got the impression she was an enemy.
Smith had expected an interrogation, but it was more of an interview. A mostly friendly one at that. He answered every question truthfully, including why he had suspected the bomber in the first place.
And that was what the dead man had been, as it turned out. He was wearing a jacket despite the heat because there was a vest of explosives hidden underneath. The “cigarette lighter” was a detonator that only needed a push of a button to activate.
“But you didn’t know that at the time,” the interviewer said.
“No, not at the time,” Smith said.
“You suspected.”
“That he was a bomber? No, ma’am.”
“What did you think he was there to do?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I just knew that he didn’t belong.”
“What tipped you off? Was it the jacket?”
“That was odd, too, but it was his boots.”
“His boots?”
“They were too polished. Too clean. He didn’t live here.”
The woman smiled. “His boots… Well, goddamn.” She chuckled, then took a flask from her back pocket and poured some liquid into a metal tin cup before pushing it across the table toward Smith. “You deserve this, kid.”
Smith stared down at the cup. He could smell the alcohol well before he even saw its contents. “I don’t drink, ma’am.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t mind if I do, then,” the woman said, and picked up the cup and took a sip. She winced at the taste but then smiled and took another one. “You know why we’re here?”
“We were told this is a humanitarian mission, ma’am.”
“It is, but it’s more than that. This town that we’re in right now? It’s almost perfectly located between two territories controlled by opposing warlords. Somehow, someway, the people here—their leaders—have managed to stay out of the fight. But there are rumors they might join up with one of the factions. I don’t think you’d be surprised to learn that the one they’re leaning toward is not run by a man calling himself The Prez.”
Smith remembered the dead man’s last words. Something about The Prez sending his regards. Or Smith was sure regards was the last word the bomber had intended.
“Last question,” his interviewer said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Smith said.
“You shot for the head. How did you know he had explosives underneath his jacket? That you could have set them off if you’d hit them with a bullet?”
“I didn’t, ma’am.”
“Didn’t what?”
“I didn’t purposefully not shoot him center mass so as not to detonate the explosives. I wasn’t aware he had explosives underneath his jacket.”
That seemed to catch his interviewer by surprise. “You didn’t know?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So why did you shoot him in the head? Wouldn’t it have been easier to aim for center mass? I remember that being what they teach in basic.”
“It is, ma’am, but it’s not where I always shoot in practice.”
“They teach you to shoot for the head?”
“Not during normal hours, ma’am. After hours.”
“You did range by yourself after hours, Private?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And all you did was practice shooting for the head?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Mind telling me why?”
“I guess shooting center mass was too easy. Basic gets boring if you don’t challenge yourse
lf.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The interviewer grinned at him. Smith wasn’t sure if she was amused or impressed. “You know how hard it is to hit someone in the head with a pistol, Private? I know you weren’t exactly a mile away, but from what I read, he wasn’t exactly standing still for you to take him out, either.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m very well aware that it’s not an easy shot to make at any distance.”
“But you did. With one shot.”
“It took a lot of practice, ma’am.”
“I bet it did. I couldn’t have done it. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have even tried.”
“With enough practice, anything’s possible, ma’am.”
The woman smiled. “Maybe.” Then, “Who was your instructor at basic?”
“Captain Peters, ma’am. He’s also the one who taught me after hours.”
“Peters?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I didn’t know he did that.”
“I guess even Captain Peters gets bored teaching the same things over and over, ma’am.”
“I didn’t know Peters was capable of getting bored,” the woman said. “Well, he did a hell of a job training you, because you saved a lot of lives yesterday, Private. Saying good job to that seems almost like underselling it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You may go now. Helo’s arriving to pick up your squad and take you boys back to Black Tide for reassignment in about an hour.”
He got up to do just that, but for some reason Smith stopped at the last second and turned back around. “Ma’am. May I ask a question?”
“Shoot.” Then, with a devilish grin, “Just kidding, Private.”
Smith forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s your question?”
“What happens now?”
The interviewer was closing the lid on her flask and putting it away. “In regards to what, Private?”
“The factions. The warlords. How will Black Tide respond to this Prez person’s attempted bombing of a civilian town?”
“Good question, but that’s way above your pay grade and mine. Let’s let the higher-ups decide how to proceed, shall we?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Smith said.
“Maddie,” the woman said.
“Ma’am?”
“My name’s Maddie.” She smiled. “I think you deserve to call me by my first name after what you did yesterday, soldier.”
Smith returned her smile. “Yes, ma’am. Maddie, I mean.”
“Get going or you’ll miss your flight.”
He nodded and left.
That night, he replayed the series of events in his head for the hundredth time.
The bald head…
The jacket…
The boots…
The detonator…
And each time it always ended with Smith pulling the trigger and his round entering the man’s forehead before exploding out the back of his skull in a shower of blood and bone and life. But instead of being concerned about what he’d done, Smith tried to figure out why it had taken him so long to draw and fire.
If he’d been a second slower on the draw or on the trigger, the bomber might have managed to press the detonator.
If his shot hadn’t been true—one inch to the right or left, or higher or lower—the bomber might have killed all those people.
If, if, if.
Smith came to one undeniable conclusion that night:
He had to get faster.
He had to get more accurate.
He had to do better.
Twenty-One
He found Clark two lanes over and just a little farther down the highway. He’d been shot three times—once in the cheek, once in the left shoulder, and the one that had done him in, a third bullet through the stomach. He’d bled out, though not immediately. Like Margo, Clark had survived long enough to exchange a lengthy gunfire with Freddy’s group until Smith could make his way back and pick off three of the ambushers.
There were no signs of Donna, but Smith did locate the pack she’d been wearing when he saw her this morning. It was a black bag with two red letter T’s on top of one another, and it sat about five car lengths ahead of where Clark lay dead. Smith didn’t have to think about her current whereabouts.
The answer was obvious: Wherever Freddy was.
At the moment, that was farther up the highway, not that he could see a damn thing with the unrelenting mist not having given a single inch of ground since this morning. It would probably stay that way well into afternoon. Right now, that was still a few hours off.
Smith wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Clark and Margo. He disliked the idea of leaving their bodies where they lay for the carrions to pick on. And if the animals didn’t finish the job, another kind of hunter would come along after nightfall. They were dead, so they wouldn’t turn, but that wouldn’t stop ghouls from dragging them away to violate their remains.
That last thought left him cold. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time to carry Clark and Margo off the highway and dig respectable shallow graves for them. That wouldn’t stop the feeders anyway, and it would take too much time.
Time that he didn’t have if he wanted to catch up to Freddy and Donna.
Smith compromised and put Margo’s body inside a parked SUV, laying it down across the back seat. He’d intended to drag Clark’s body over to the same vehicle so the two could rest alongside one another, but Clark was too heavy, and Smith struggled just lifting him from the pavement. He made it only a quarter of the way before putting Clark inside the back seat of a nearby Audi. He closed the doors on both cars, then went about gathering what he needed.
Did he really think sheltering the bodies inside what was essentially their own metal coffins would spare them the indignity of being fed on later? No. But it was the best he could do given the time constraints. Besides, he didn’t think either one of them would mind if they could speak; both would have wanted Smith to focus on the real task at hand: finding Donna.
“He killed her mother,” Margo had said about Freddy. “He was already starting on her before Wilma’s body was cold. That’s why we left. Clark and me. We had to get her away from him before he did it to her, too. He…didn’t take that too well.”
Margo was definitely understating Freddy’s reaction to having his daughter taken from him. Smith guessed he couldn’t really blame the guy, even if, according to Margo, Freddy was an “asshole.” The man had certainly proven that by hunting the trio down and killing both Margo and Clark in the process. He’d even almost killed his own daughter. Or his men had, anyway.
Smith remembered the two voices other than Freddy’s he’d eavesdropped on earlier. That made three killers that Smith knew of. Probably more hiding in the mist but hadn’t made a peep during the back and forth. He was hoping he was wrong about that. Three was going to be hard enough, especially if they knew he was coming.
The question was: Did they?
He guessed he’d find out the answer soon enough. If it was just three guys, then it did provide a certain symmetry. There were those three Bozos two nights ago, then three of Freddy’s goons today.
And now, three more.
Smith liked that. It was almost as if fate was trying to wink at him.
Of course, fate wasn’t going to bring Freddy to him, so Smith would have to chase the man down. Fortunately, he had some advantages over them, including flexibility and mobility. They were traveling in a group, including a wounded and unwilling prisoner in Donna, and that was going to slow them down. Especially on foot. Losing their horses last night to the ghoul attack was probably not what Freddy had counted on. If Smith was lucky, his enemies would have also lost some of their supplies and would be forced to scavenge along the way. That would slow them down even further.
Smith didn’t bother going back for the supply pack he’d tossed while climbing up the highway and grabbed Margo’s in
stead. There was blood on the sides, but he didn’t bother wiping it off. It would work as a reminder of what he’d promised her: Get Donna back.
As for weapons, Smith stuck with his 9mm, but he reloaded the mag with silver-tipped rounds and made sure to have spares at the ready. He ditched the .45 and replaced it with Margo’s Glock. He thought about grabbing her AR-15, too. It had a basic but decent optic, which would be good if he needed to do some long-range shooting. It wasn’t exactly heavy, but it wasn’t exactly light, either.
But he needed speed on his side…
Margo’s pack would have to do. It had food and supplies, but was running low on water. He added a full canteen from Clark’s bag. He was probably carrying more than he really needed, and the extra weight was going to slow him down, but Smith wasn’t sure how long he was going to have to chase Freddy.
It could be an hour or two—or more than that.
It could be days.
He had to be ready for anything, and having to scavenge would only slow him down, too. Besides, it was always better to have too much than not enough. With too much, he could get rid of excess weight along the way. On the other hand, with too little, he couldn’t make supplies magically appear out of thin air.
Smith took off, jogging between vehicles.
The mist separated in front of him, revealing more abandoned sections of the highway. He wished he could see better but was satisfied that his limitations were also his enemy’s. If he couldn’t see them up there, then they couldn’t see him coming up behind them.
Or, at least, he hoped that was the case. Because if it wasn’t, then this was going to be a very short jaunt.
He was certain of one thing, though: Somewhere up ahead of him was Freddy.
No, not Freddy. He had to stop thinking about the man.
Donna. She was the goal. She was the only reason he was doing this. He had to remember that. What happened to Freddy would be incidental. If Smith had to kill the man—and he was pretty goddamn sure it was going to come to that—then so be it.
