by Scott Blade
“Well, I don’t need much. What do you have?”
“We got full-size, but only singles. No doubles.”
Harvard glanced over at Widow.
“We’re not together. We need separate rooms.”
“Oh, then yeah, we got empty beds.”
“Good. So, ring us up.”
Widow smiled and stayed quiet. He looked around the room. The motel was all neutral colors, but mostly some brown and gray hybrid. Wallpaper was everywhere. It was old but clean.
There were fake plants in three corners of the room. At least, he figured they were fake because the office had no windows for sunlight. Just one on the entrance door. Not enough to adequately feed three potted plants.
Widow kept Harvard’s carry-on bag in his hand. He didn’t want to set it down, not in here.
He walked away from the counter and studied the old photographs on the walls. They were all old, black and whites of different goings-on. At first, he thought they were generic motel photographs, but then he saw they were the town he was in. He saw the lumber mill. Twenty-some lumberjacks and workers were standing out front posing for a photograph. No one smiled, which made him think it was from a hundred-plus years ago when cameras took fifteen minutes to snap a photo. That’s why people weren’t smiling in old black and whites. Nobody could hold a smile for fifteen minutes straight, waiting and posing in the same position.
He remembered he’d read that on a bus once from El Paso, Texas, to somewhere. It was in a book about useless historical facts. He liked that stuff.
Harvard walked up behind him.
“Okay. I got us two rooms.”
He turned and looked at her. She was holding a single copper-looking key on a ring for him to take. It had a cheap, plastic keychain with the room number written on it in Sharpie.
He took it, and she reached up and took her bag from him.
“You paid for mine?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“It’s that cheap.”
“Seriously, why?”
“Come on.”
She led him out of the office and started walking around the building. She pointed to his room, which was on the second floor.
“Where’s yours?”
“Just below you. I can’t do those stairs. I am pregnant after all.”
“You are? You can hardly notice.”
“Funny.”
He stayed quiet.
“Thanks for helping me carry the bag. ”
“Thanks for saving my life.”
She looked at him and paused a moment.
“Have breakfast with me in the morning?”
“Sure,” he said. “What time?”
“Oh six hundred.”
“How long you been out?”
“About a year. Ever since my husband got promoted to captain.”
“Where’s he?”
This time she paused for a long, long moment.
The wind blew, ringing a pair of chimes in the distance. Dogs barked like they were barking at the wind. Widow heard car traffic on the nearest road.
She finally spoke, but first, she made a visible yawn. It was big and obvious, like a signal to Widow that she was tired.
“Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Widow nodded and reached out his hand, offered to shake hers.
She slipped her gun hand into his. It looked like two puzzle pieces trying to fit together, but one of them was from a regulation-sized jigsaw puzzle set, and the other was a cinder block of concrete meant as the foundation to a commercial structure.
He squeezed her hand gently.
She squeezed him as hard as she could, as she had probably done her whole career, being that most MPs in every branch were men.
“Good night, Widow. ”
She had called him by his last name, didn’t ask. She was definitely military.
“Good night, Harvard.”
They released hands, and he watched her unlock her room and enter and close the door behind her.
He couldn’t deny the fact that she was a beautiful woman. Pregnant or not. She had beautiful eyes, great tone body, a strong will, and a Glock. All the things he liked in a woman.
He knew she belonged to another and there was no guilt. He was thinking, not acting.
Widow turned and sauntered to a set of black, metal stairs that led up to the top floor. He passed a soda machine that hummed and an ice machine that cracked a new round of ice cubes as he stepped onto the bottom rung of the stairs.
He got to his room and closed the door. The inside was typical roadside motel almost to the point of being the same basic room as the motel in the movie Psycho , which caused him to take a peek out the window. There was no old house up on a hill. That’s what he had half expected to see. But he could see downtown, the train tracks, car headlights, in the foreground, and in the distance, he saw thick trees, rolling hills, and mountains.
Widow returned to the room. He flipped a switch on the nightstand to turn on a lamp. The light was dull and atmospheric. If he had had a fog machine, he could have filmed a horror movie scene in the room .
Widow turned the light switch on in the bathroom. It was all white, all basic: sink, shower, tub, and toilet.
He returned to the room, popped his shoes off, set them down against the wall near the door. He took his socks off, his black jeans, white button-down and denim jacket with a fabric hoodie. He had bought it all back in New London and washed it once at the home of the girl that he had met in Massachusetts. He looked around the room and thought about what to do with his clothes. There was no closet, no vanity with hangars. There was a dresser with drawers, but he didn’t want to fold them up.
He decided to run the water in the sink, and spot scrub his clothes with a bar of soap. He wrung them all out, one at a time, and finally, he hung his jacket off the back of the door, his shirt off the handle and his jeans off the sink. He dropped the toilet seat and left the socks on the lid.
Widow hopped in the shower and cleaned everything else he owned.
Afterward, he towel-dried and wrapped himself up in the towel. He went to the bed, turned it down, yanking the sheet out from being tucked in under the mattress because he couldn’t sleep in a queen bed with it tucked in. His toes got all mushed down and crumpled over.
He ended up with his feet hanging off the end, which was better than being crammed into the tucked-in sheet .
Widow took off the towel and draped it over an armchair.
He got into bed, killed the lights, and was sound asleep in seconds.
Chapter 15
T EN MILES OUTSIDE of town and earlier in the day, at the first murmurs of dawn, Attack Dog was the only man in view at the lodge’s front porch. He stood there, wearing motorcycle gear like he was a part of a gang, which he was, technically.
He blended in with the occupants of the lodge.
He was alone. He looked at his watch, ten in the morning, but he wasn’t looking at the dials on the clock face. He stared onward, past his watch, off into the wilderness around the lonely T-shaped lodge as if he was signaling to someone in the woods, but didn’t want to be seen.
Attack Dog stepped to the front door and raised a gloved hand and knocked on it, hard. Six hard fist pounds like a sledgehammer pounding down on the thick wood.
He stepped back and heard muffled voices.
“Who’s there?” a female said.
Attack Dog answered. He said a made-up name .
“Sorry to bother you this early in the morning, ma’am. The name’s Spencer. John Spencer. I’m having car trouble. Back on the main road. Yours is the first house I came to.”
Silence.
“I need to use your phone.”
No answer.
“I really do apologize for the inconvenience.”
Another long moment of silence passed. Attack Dog heard more muffled voices. Arguing. Whispering. Contemplating. A serious discussion about the dangers of opening doors for stra
ngers. Then a serious talk about helping someone in need. And the generosity of small-town folk. Then a rebuttal about no one in their little town was that generous. Then the female voice argued for being the better man and setting the proper example.
After this went on for five minutes, bordering on six, with Attack Dog very impatient, the female voice behind the door asked, “Where’s your cell phone?”
An excellent question. A wise observation. A scenario that he’d prepared for, naturally. Major had hand-selected him for this mission for more than just his brute force.
Attack Dog said, “Ain’t got one, ma’am. If I had one, then I wouldn’t be knocking on your door at this time of the morning, now would I?”
He gave her a bit of attitude, a bit of rudeness, which was also a part of the strategy. Be unusually nice to people, and it makes them very suspicious. Be completely rude, and they won’t help you out. But be a little of both, and they buy the lie. Hook, line, and sinker.
Attack Dog added, “Sorry, ma’am. I’m just frustrated. I walked two miles to get here. I don’t believe in cell phones. I’m kinda the outdoors, off-the-grid type. You know what I mean?”
More silence. And more muffled voices.
“I know. Ironic, right? Now’s when I need one.”
The voices went back and forth some more. Finally, Attack Dog heard a chain on the door, and a deadbolt unlock, and the hinges creaked as the occupants opened the door.
Standing there in the doorway was an older couple and their two sons, maybe. They looked just like them. The sons stood behind them.
The sons were huge, scrappy guys. They were also part of a motorcycle gang. That was obvious. They were all tattooed up and had plenty of upper body strength between them, but not in the midsection. That had gone long ago. They both had long beards.
Attack Dog had expected to wake up the whole house this early in the morning, but the parents seemed to have already been awake. The mom was a tiny thing, with long gray hair pulled back. She was already wearing tennis shoes and casual clothing, like she was going out early. The father looked like he was once big like his sons, but now he was old and frail. He was not in shoes but was dressed and wearing house slippers .
Both sons hadn’t been awakened either; they were still fully dressed minus shoes. But that was only because they hadn’t been to sleep yet. They might’ve rolled in right before Attack Dog knocked on their door. He must’ve just missed them on the road, which was a good thing because it would’ve all gone haywire.
The parents stared at Attack Dog up and down, both in separate orders. The sons did not look him up and down. They both approached the open doorway slowly, with caution in each step.
Attack Dog stayed where he was.
The female said, “We can’t allow you to be stranded out there on the road. The wilderness here is big. You could face real dangers.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am.”
She stepped forward and pushed on a screen door installed decades earlier. It creaked like an old man plagued with agonizing arthritis.
Attack Dog looked at the open door and at the elderly people like he was pondering their invitation.
“Actually, ma’am, I’d like to use your phone out here. My boots are filthy, and I’m afraid I’ve been smoking.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and showed it to her.
“Don’t want to stink up your home. I promise to be quick. I’m gonna make a call to my buddy in town, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Nonsense. Come in. Bill smokes anyway.”
She looked at her husband, and he smiled .
Attack Dog’s orders were to get them to step out, which would’ve made his job easier, but in the field, tactics change. And you have to change with them.
He smiled, put the pack of smokes back in his pocket and entered.
The wife walked ahead of him and turned a corner to a kitchen. The husband stayed next to his side, and the sons kept a ten-foot distance from him.
“Come on in,” the wife said.
Bill said, “Dorothy, get him a cup of coffee.”
“Of course. You take it black?”
Bill pointed out a round kitchen table made of thick wood. It’d probably survive gunshots, Attack Dog thought. It could definitely survive nine-millimeter rounds.
Attack Dog took a seat on the outer side of the table, toward the kitchen. Dorothy poured him a cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot and gave it to him. He took it but didn’t drink. He set it on the table.
The sons moved in closer, and the father sat in the seat across the table by the back wall.
Dorothy came over with an old flip phone she pulled out of her purse.
“You can use my phone.”
“Thanks.”
Attack Dog took it and set it on the table in front of him.
“You going to make your call?” one of the sons asked.
“In a moment. ”
Attack Dog smiled.
“Gonna rest my feet for a second. Been walking five miles just to find you guys.”
The younger son nodded along, but the older one moved in closer. He leaned against the corner of the living room wall, right at the border to the kitchen.
“I thought you only walked two miles?”
Attack Dog grabbed the coffee mug and took a sip.
“That’s good coffee.”
He smiled at Dorothy.
“It’s just a store-bought brand.”
“Those are always the best.”
The older son hopped off the wall and moved in closer.
“I asked you a question.”
“What’s that?”
“You heard me. You said you walked two miles, but now you’re saying five. Which is it?”
Bill said, “Son, back off.”
The older son said nothing to that.
Attack Dog took a big gulp from the coffee mug and set it down. He scooped up the phone and made a call.
“Frank, buddy, I broke down out here.”
He gave the person on the other end the road name and miles outside of town, which he said was only four. Then he asked, “How long?”
“Nah. We’re all in the kitchen. Back of the house.”
The sons looked at each other.
“Okay. See you in a bit. ”
Attack Dog hung up the phone but didn’t hand it back to Dorothy. He set it on the table instead.
She looked at him like she disapproved, which she did.
“In case he calls back. You know, looking for directions?”
She smiled and nodded.
The younger son moved in closer and dumped himself down on the seat next to his father.
He looked at Attack Dog like something had just dawned on him.
“You a part of a club?”
“A club?”
The younger son stared up at the older one.
Attack Dog noticed that the younger son sat in a position where he was forced to look back and forth between the two.
Smart, he thought.
“Motorcycle club?”
Attack Dog nodded.
“I am.”
“Which one?”
“You a part of a club?”
“We’re a part of New Hampshire Chapter of Demon Dogs.”
Attack Dog said, “Not me. I’m between things right now.”
The older brother moved in and looked at Attack Dog’s vest. He was studying the patches.
That’s when Attack Dog saw that the older brother brandished a .45 1911. The gun was modified and customized with flames and compensators.
Bill said, “Son, what’s going on?”
The younger brother ignored his father and said, “If you’re between things, they don’t let you wear patches. You walk out on a club, then you’re branded for life.”
Attack Dog said, “I didn’t walk out. Just between things. Long story.”
The older one said, “The thing is, you’v
e got patches from more than one club on that vest.”
The younger son pointed his finger at Attack Dog from across the table. Bill reached out his hand, put it on his son’s forearm.
He whispered, “Not in the house.”
“You ain’t a part of no gang. What are you doing here?” the younger son said.
Attack Dog smiled.
In a fury of muscle and force, he exploded up out of the seat. He threw the hot coffee and mug at the older son’s face.
The coffee swept across his face and he screamed from the heat. Attack Dog was on his feet. He jerked the 1911 out of the son’s hand and flipped it, pointed the muzzle into his chest and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.
POP! POP!
The son toppled back into the wall behind him, banging straight into the drywall and sliding down, crushing the wall .
The younger son was on his feet and ready to jump Attack Dog from behind, but he only made it to his feet.
Before the younger son could get any farther, an explosion echoed out of the trees and a pair of bay windows and metal dividers splintered and burst and shattered into hundreds of fragmented pieces. A fifty-caliber bullet fired from a Barrett sniper rifle from about a hundred yards away ripped straight through the younger son.
His chest caved inward from the front as if it had suddenly imploded. But the bullet exploded out his left shoulder blade. He went flying off his feet and smashed through the window behind him. The only part of his body that remained inside the house by the time he completely landed was his feet. The rest of him lay outside the house on the cement on the back patio.
He was dead instantly before he hit the ground. No doubt about it.
The bullet kept traveling and eventually embedded into a large tree, violently.
Dorothy’s screams echoed after the gunshot finally stopped ringing through the trees and the interior of the house.
Attack Dog pointed the 1911 at Bill, who was frozen in fear. He stared at the muzzle of the gun watching a plume of smoke that seemed to be the last remnant of the bullet that killed one of his sons. He wasn’t wrong.
Attack Dog flicked his wrist and pointed the gun at Dorothy .
“Shut up!” he barked.
She quieted.
“Good. Have a seat.”
He backed away and pointed at the seat he had toppled over when he jumped up.
