Afraid

“Let me out of this cage,” he whispered in Josh’s ear.

Josh struggled to get a breath in.

“Don’t … have … key …” he managed.

“That’s a shame. Hehehe. Such a shame.” Bernie’s other hand appeared before Josh’s face, inches from his nose.

It held a lighter.

“Then you buuuuuurn.”

Bernie flicked on the flame.

• • •

Taylor’s MMDSC vibrated and he looked at the message from Logan, who was searching to the west.

Lat 45.9790993 long –91.8996811 … Negative.

Taylor frowned. They’d been stomping through the woods for half an hour and hadn’t found anything. Had that sewer jockey taken them for a ride? No. He’d been broken. So where was—

Taylor froze. He’d been about to take a step forward, but his augmented vision caught a shadow on the ground that shouldn’t have been there. He crouched and got a closer look.

A bear trap hidden in the leaves. Three feet long, rusty from years of exposure to the elements. The old chain attached to a concrete plug buried in the ground.

Taylor knelt down, touching the end of the trap. Interesting. The rust wasn’t rust at all, but a finish painted to look like rust. The trap also had fresh grease on the hinges. Taylor searched around for a fallen tree branch and found one the width of his wrist. He used that to set off the trap. It worked perfectly, snapping the wood in half with ease.

He stood, casting his eyes upward. In the V of a birch tree, under a bird’s nest, he found the video camera. The lens automatically focused on him as he got closer. Taylor used his Ka-Bar to pry the camera from its camouflaged housing. It was wireless. That meant batteries, which would have to be regularly replaced.

Warren was close. Very close.

Taylor resumed the hunt, paying extra attention to where he stepped.

• • •

Streng didn’t drop the gun, and he didn’t put his hands above his head. As much bad blood as there was between him and Wiley, he didn’t believe his brother would slit his throat.

“Scare you?” Wiley asked.

Streng turned around, letting the rage build. Wiley wore a ghillie suit, a uniform made of netting with various pieces of real and artificial foliage woven to it. Leaves were stitched across his chest and fake vines hung from his arms. Twigs jutted from the side of his headgear, altering his profile.

“People are looking for you,” Streng said in even tones.

“Two so far. Trained. Recon, searching for my house. Determined types.”

“They killed Olen Porrell.”

Wiley cleared his throat. “I know. Never should have used someone local for the septic service. Should have hired out of town. After hiding out for so long, I got lazy.”

Streng kept his voice even. “Other people have died, too.”

“Like I said. Determined types.”

Streng clenched a fist and leaned slightly forward. Wiley didn’t back away.

“Steady, Ace. I know we got unfinished business. But let’s get out of the line of fire first.”

Streng did a slow burn, then nodded.

“Step where I step,” Wiley said. “I’ve rigged the property.”

Streng followed Wiley through the woods, watching his foot placement. After twenty or so yards, his brother stopped at the carcass of a deer. Wiley twisted a hoof and a hatch in the ground opened up.

“It’s steep. Wait five seconds for me to get down.”

Wiley scooted onto his buttocks and slid down a dark ramp. Streng counted to five and did the same. He’d been down here once before and braced his legs for the abrupt stop. He didn’t brace hard enough, and when he reached bottom his knees hit him in the chest, his shin splints flaming.

A mechanical sound from above, then the metallic click of the hatch closing. Black lights came on overhead, illuminating a garage-sized room with a concrete floor. Two motorbikes and a snowmobile were parked along the far wall, in front of a pegboard that held hundreds of hand tools. A fuel pump occupied the far corner. Against the opposite wall sat an electric generator, its exhaust attached to a pipe that snaked into the ceiling. Wiley approached the generator and flipped a switch. It came on, surprisingly quiet.

“The deer is new,” Streng said.

“About ten years old. I kept having trouble finding the entrance, so I needed to mark it.”

Wiley unsnapped his ghillie suit and hung it on a peg. Underneath he wore jeans and a black flannel shirt.

“What if someone passes through, sees it twice, wonders why it hasn’t rotted?”

“I change it every month. Bear. Badger. Dog. Coyote. There’s a taxidermist in Montreal, made a mint on me.”

Wiley walked to the only door in the room, opened it, and went through. Streng followed. No black lights here. This hallway was lined with fluorescents, so bright they stung Streng’s eyes. The walls were matte white, and the floor was a white laminate that didn’t quite match. Four doors lined the hall, and Streng remembered them to be the kitchen, the pantry, the washroom, and a storage area. The final door, where the hallway ended, opened up into what Wiley called the great room.

The room was appropriately named. Perfectly round, and large enough to park three buses side by side. Track lighting lined the fifteen-foot ceiling, an overstuffed leather couch and two loungers faced a large plasma TV, wraparound shelves held thousands of books, records, cassettes, CDs, VHS and Beta tapes, and DVDs, and a big wooden desk with a flat-screen monitor on top sat dead center.

Wiley had gotten many new toys since Streng had last visited, more than twenty years ago. He had come after hearing that his brother had moved back into town from one of the contractors hired to build this place. Wiley’d let him in. Streng could recall their short conversation verbatim.

“Mom’s sick. You should see her.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it make a difference? I’m not going.”

“The past is the past. Our parents want to see you.”

“I’m not going. And don’t you tell them I’m back in town.”

“Or else what?”

A fight ensued. Streng left with a broken nose, vowing never to return.

“I started stealing the Internet back in ’96.” Wiley saw Streng staring at the TV. “Not too long after I started stealing cable.”

Streng fixed his attention on his brother, shocked by how he looked. The last time Streng saw him Wiley had wide brown sideburns, a ponytail, and shoulders like a linebacker. Now his head was mostly bald, a few gray wisps clinging to the sides. A wrinkled forehead, saggy cheeks, and a drooping neck. His broad shoulders had become slumped, his posture stooped.

Wiley had gotten old. Only his eyes—ice blue and alert—were an indicator of the man he used to be.

“Once a thief, always a thief,” Streng said.

Wiley shrugged. “It’s not the money. Utilities mean a paper trail, which can be traced. I don’t want to be found.”

“But you were found,” Streng said. “And people have died because of it. Because of what you did.”

Wiley cleared his throat again and then sighed. “It’s been a long time, Ace. Mom and Dad are long gone. You still want to hold grudges?”

Streng moved closer to Wiley. “You put our parents in jeopardy, the same way you put this town in jeopardy. You’re selfish, Wiley. You only care about yourself.”

Wiley folded his arms.

“Do you remember why I enlisted, Ace?”

“To make money selling black-market goods?”

Wiley’s eyes went mean. “It was to watch over your sorry butt.”

“You were too busy selling drugs and weapons to the Cong to watch over anyone’s butt.”

Wiley walked over, standing toe-to-toe with Streng. He didn’t seem so stooped anymore.

“I did some shit in my day, Ace. But I never sold weapons to the enemy.”

“Really? That’s what the military told me. That’s what they told our parents.”

“They lied,” Wiley said.

“Well, you sure did something to piss the military off. And knowing your history, it probably wasn’t legal.”

“You don’t know the whole story.”

“I know the story. You’re a bad egg, Wiley. Always have been, always will be. When the MPs showed up at the house, told Mom and Dad about your little moneymaking ventures in Vietnam, it destroyed them.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I loved our parents.”

“Sure you did. That’s why you stayed in touch. That’s why you attended their funerals.”

Wiley got right in his face. “You always loved to judge me, Ace. Point the finger, say shame shame shame. You think you’re better than me? What have you done with your life, Sheriff? What makes you holier-than-thou?”

Streng planted both hands on Wiley’s chest and shoved, hard. Wiley staggered back, recovered, and balled up his right fist, pulling back to swing. Streng was faster. The last time they’d tangled, Wiley had beaten him good.

This time was going to be different.

Streng gut-punched Wiley, releasing twenty years of pent-up anger in one blow.

Wiley crumpled, dropping to his knees, then his ass. He wrapped both arms around his belly and breathed through his mouth. Streng reared back to hit him again when something in the room beeped. Wiley turned his attention to the TV.

“They found one of my cameras,” he said.

Streng watched. A soldier, glowing green, seemed to stare out of the plasma screen directly at them. A second later the screen went black.

Wiley got off the floor and picked up a large remote control, switching to another camera. Coming up Deer Tick Road was a car Streng recognized: the late Mrs. Teller’s Roadmaster. Wiley switched again, and the car slowed and parked next to Olen’s Honey Wagon.

Ajax and Santiago got out. When Streng saw that Fran and Duncan were with them, he deflated.

“Do you know who that woman is, Wiley? That child?”

Wiley stared, not answering. But he gave a small nod.

“How long have you known about them?”

Wiley remained silent. Streng felt the anger return. He approached his brother, putting his hand on the back of his neck and squeezing.

“That’s your daughter. That’s your grandson. They’re in this because of you.”

Wiley shrugged out of Streng’s grasp.

“I’m not a father. It was a fling. A mistake. I contributed the DNA. That’s all.”

Streng grabbed Wiley’s shirt, pulled him in close.

“They brought those folks here because of you,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’re going to die because of you.”

Wiley met Streng’s eyes. “It was a one-night stand, dammit! Right before we shipped out to Nam. I gave her money to get rid of it. She decided not to. Then, when I got back, I had to lie low. I couldn’t have a kid. People were after me. It was the only way I could live.”

“You call this living?” Streng turned his head and spat on the floor. “You cower underground, under a dead deer, hiding from the whole world. No family. No friends. You’re a waste, Warren. A selfish waste. And I’m ashamed to call you my brother.”

Streng shoved him away, heading for the exit.

“Where are you going?” Wiley called after him.

“To save that woman and her son.”

“I booby-trapped the whole area. If those don’t get you, the soldiers will.”

Streng stopped and looked at his brother one last time.

“Then I’ll die. And I’ll be waiting for you in hell, Wiley, to kick your sorry ass.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Wiley said.

Streng didn’t answer. He walked out the door.

Duncan shivered. He told himself it was from the cold, but deep down he knew the truth. He was afraid. He was very afraid.

He stood next to the car and held Mom’s hand, grateful she was acting so brave. Duncan knew it was an act. She had to be scared, too. But she was hiding it, and he loved her even more for being strong.

Duncan didn’t know how things went wrong so fast. He fell asleep in the car, and when he woke up, Josh and Woof were gone. It turned out Dr. Stubin wasn’t a nice guy, after all.

The two soldiers with them were dressed like Bernie, and they seemed just as mean. The big one—the one who was going to twist off Mom’s head—was even bigger than Kane on WWE. But the other one was even scarier. Duncan didn’t like how he kept looking at Mom, kept touching her.

Mathison didn’t seem bothered by any of this. He still sat on Duncan’s shoulder, picking though his hair. Duncan reached his hand up to rub the monkey’s belly. Mathison cooed. Duncan scratched higher, up Mathison’s chest. He felt the monkey’s collar, surprised at how thick it was.

“Stop touching the monkey.”

Duncan spun around, saw Dr. Stubin pointing his big shotgun at him, the one they’d put in the back of the car. Duncan’s hand dropped down, and he felt like he was going to pee himself.

Mom stepped between the gun and Duncan, pushing him behind her.

“Mathison!” Stubin barked. “Come!”

Mathison hopped from Duncan’s shoulder to Mom’s. He screeched, sounding pretty upset.

“Now, Mathison!”

Mathison climbed down Mom, but instead of going to Stubin he took off into the forest.

Stubin said, “Stupid primate,” and turned away from them.

Fran knelt down to Duncan’s level. She pushed his bangs out of his face. “It’s going to be okay, baby.”

“Where’s Woof?”

“Josh has him.”

“Is Josh coming to rescue us?”

Duncan watched his mother’s eyes get glassy, and her lower lip trembled. “If he can, I’m sure he’ll try.”

Another man dressed in black came walking out of the woods. When Mom saw him, she stood up and got very stiff.

“I’ve found a few antipersonnel devices and two cameras,” the new man said to Stubin, “and Logan found an exhaust vent disguised as a tree stump half a click east. He’s close. Underground somewhere.”

Stubin nodded. The new man looked at Mom and smiled.

“Hello, Fran. I was hoping we’d see each other again.” He licked his lips. “I can still taste you. Yum.”

Then the man stared at Duncan. Duncan trembled—it felt like he was looking at the devil.

“I bet you’re tasty, too,” the man said. “My name is Taylor. You must be Duncan. Did you have fun with Uncle Bernie?”

Duncan couldn’t help it; he started to cry. His leg was really sore, and he wanted to go home, but he didn’t have a home anymore because it burned down, and bad people kept trying to hurt him and Mom.

Between his sobs he heard his mother say, “We killed Uncle Bernie. And we’ll kill you, too.”

“No,” Taylor answered. “You won’t. What’s going to happen is we’ll find your daddy, make him give us what we want, and then we’ll all take turns with you and your boy. If you’re lucky, really lucky, we’ll kill you after a few days. But I don’t think you’re going to be that lucky.”

Duncan felt his mom squeeze his hand even tighter. He squeezed it back. He didn’t understand why she told Taylor that Bernie was dead. Maybe Sheriff Streng killed him. And maybe Sheriff Streng would come back and kill Taylor, too.

Duncan closed his eyes and hoped with all of his might that he would.

The flame touched Josh’s cheek and made a crackling/singeing sound as it evaporated the sweat.

Then the pain hit.

Josh had been burned before, but never seriously. Stepping on a sparkler when he was a kid. Grabbing the handle of a cast-iron skillet that had been on the stove for too long. Getting accidentally touched by a cigarette by some idiot at a rock concert. And in each case, his reaction had been the same: to flinch away from the heat.

But Josh couldn’t flinch. Bernie had his arm around his throat, and Josh’s head was wedged up against the bars of the cell. Bernie held the lighter—just an ordinary disposable Bic—to Josh’s face, and Josh couldn’t even turn his head. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs and couldn’t break the killer’s steel grip.

The pain started bad, then quickly went to unbearable. Josh howled, and Woof hopped around, barking like mad, and Bernie held it there and held it there and held it there and then finally pulled away.

“Too deep, hehehe, too deep,” Bernie said. “Nerves are dead. Have to find a new spot, new spot.”

Bernie waved the flame in front of his eyes. Josh tried to blow it out, but the hand danced away.

“Where next, where next, how about … here.”

Josh tried to blow, missed, and Bernie held the lighter right under Josh’s nose.

Then Bernie screamed and Josh was miraculously released. The firefighter fell to his hands and knees and turned to see Woof, his head between the bars of the cell, biting and tugging at the pants of Bernie’s bad leg. Bernie went down, his mashed knee bending in a way it shouldn’t bend. He beat on the dog’s head, but Woof refused to let go.

“Woof! Come!” Josh yelled.

But Woof wasn’t finished with Bernie. He shook his head side to side, making Bernie’s knee flex like a rubber hose. Bernie yelled louder than Josh though humanly possible, and then the pyro managed to snag Woof’s neck with one hand. The other brought up the lighter.

Josh tugged on Woof’s leg to pull him away, but Bernie’s grip was solid. Josh frantically looked around for something, anything, saw the pillowcase on the floor, reached for it, and yanked out the can of aerosol antiseptic spray.

When Bernie flicked on the lighter, Josh pointed the can and let him have it.

The results were spectacular. A two-foot blast of fire erupted from the can, hitting Bernie squarely in the face. Josh kept it on him, brought it closer, until the killer released Woof.

The dog pounced away and resumed barking. Josh killed the flame, but Bernie’s didn’t go out. His hair had caught, and Bernie slapped at the sides of his head, which only fanned the fire, making it larger.

Josh ran out of the drunk tank to the janitor’s supply closet, grabbed the mop bucket, took it to the bathroom, and scooped up some toilet water, ran back to Bernie’s cell to find him on his knees, beating his burning, blistering, broken face against the bars.

He threw the water, and the fire went out, the smoke and steam rising up from Bernie’s head smelling like burnt hair and fried sausage patties.

Bernie fell over, onto his side, his breathing shallow and rapid. Josh focused the Maglite on him, saw that his lips were gone and his eyes were dripping goo. Woof came over.

“Aaaaaaaad. Aaaaaaaad. Oooyyyy. Aaaad oooyyy …”

Josh listened to the wheezes, and after a minute thought he understood what Bernie was trying to say.

Bad boy.

That’s an understatement, Josh thought.

He hugged the dog tight, stroking his fur, and together they watched the killer take a few more pathetic gasps and then die.

Josh found the can of antiseptic and the fallen syringe full of lidocaine. He sprayed the needle and gently stuck it into his cheek, near the burn. The pain ebbed, and then there was no feeling at all. Next, Josh checked Woof for injury. Woof mistook it for affection and wagged his tail, furiously licking Josh’s face.

“From now on, every time I see you, I’m bringing you a steak,” Josh promised.

Josh put the syringe and antiseptic back into the pillowcase, and he and Woof left the Water Department building, heading for the junior high.

• • •

Ajax hunts. He creeps through the woods, squinting at shadows, ready to rip apart anything that moves. But he finds nothing. Only trees. The trees are familiar. They remind him of something. Something long ago.

He remembers. A house, with trees in the back. Ajax likes to climb the trees. He’s safe in the trees. Safe from the man and the woman. They’re mean to him. Hate him. Because he’s fucking stupid. They call him fucking stupid all the time. Yell at him for being fucking stupid. Because he’s fucking stupid he has to go to a special school. The other kids pick on him. He’s small and can’t fight back. They chase him. Hurt him. When he tells the man and the woman, they hurt him, too. Everyone hurts him.

Ajax gets a lot of practice blocking out the hurt. He may be fucking stupid, but he learns how to control the pain. The kids hit him. The woman uses a belt on him. The man breaks his teeth with a beer bottle. But Ajax doesn’t cry. This makes everyone afraid.

Ajax likes making people afraid.

Ajax remembers going into the man and woman’s bedroom. They drank beer and hit him for a long time, but now they are sleeping. He has a knife, the one that plugs into the wall that the man uses to cut turkey on turkey day. Ajax is never allowed to have turkey, because he’s fucking stupid. But he is smart enough to plug the knife in the outlet, and press the big red button, and cut them cut them cut them while they scream scream scream.

Then Ajax met Doctor. Doctor never called him fucking stupid. Doctor helped Ajax. He gave him special shots, to make him big and strong. He put something in Ajax’s head to make him smart.

Ajax likes Doctor.

And Ajax still likes making people afraid.

He remembers going somewhere strange where people talked funny. They finished the mission, and it was Fun Time. Taylor and Bernie were cooking someone, eating parts. Logan and Santiago had a man tied to a tree and were cutting off parts and betting which cut would kill him. Ajax was playing with a woman. He would break her leg, then watch her try to crawl away, then bring her back and break her leg in another spot.

She was very afraid.

Then Taylor showed Ajax how to make her even more afraid. He took off her clothes, used his private part.

Ajax tried it, too.

He liked it.

Ajax wants to try it with the woman from the car. He wants to break her arms and legs and make her afraid and then take off all her clothes and …

The giant twitches, the Chip in his head reloading the current objective.

Find Warren Streng.

Ajax searches the woods. Hunting. He wants to find Warren Streng. Wants to find him very bad.

Then he can have Fun Time with the woman.

• • •

The junior high was two blocks away. They ran. For a plump dog Woof kept up easily, even going on ahead and marking his territory on assorted curbs and trees. The school parking lot was full, and, surprisingly, the lights were on. Josh turned the Maglite off but kept it in his hand; its weight reassured him.

The front door was locked. He tried the back entrance, by the gym, and froze. His fire truck was parked alongside the building.

Josh hurried to it, looked in the cab for the keys. Gone. He jogged back to the gymnasium entrance. If the Red-ops had been the ones who stole the tanker, they could be inside the school. People might be in danger.

The door was unlocked. When he yanked it open, Josh witnessed a scene from a nightmare.

“Woof, sit,” Josh said. He left the dog and the pillowcase outside and went in.

Dead. Hundreds dead. On the bleachers. On the floor. On each other. Josh had to climb over a small mountain of bodies to get through. He checked a pulse. And another. And another. The bodies were cool to the touch, and there were no sounds other than the ones Josh made.

These were people he knew. His friends. He saw Mrs. Simmons, his next-door neighbor, still sitting down, her eyes wide and her mouth caked with dried puke. Adam Pepper, a part-time volunteer at the firehouse, curled up fetal on the floor. Janie Richter, her face bright pink, her arms wrapped protectively around her son, a boy no more than Duncan’s age.

Josh kept checking for pulses, kept finding none. A lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. He followed some bloody footprints to the boys’ locker room and saw even more atrocities. Corpses piled to the ceiling, recalling ghastly newsreel footage of the death camps from World War II.

Erwin’s fiancée, Jessie Lee Sloan, had her neck cut so badly it was almost turned 180 degrees. And under her—

Erwin.

Josh began to cry. Just tears at first, then a few small sounds. Those bastards had killed his town. They’d killed it and mutilated it and discarded it. Josh felt the gorge rising in his stomach. He kept it down, but he had to get out of the locker room, had to get out of the school.

He stumbled back into the gym, knowing he needed a car, hating himself for what he had to do. Josh decided on Adam, because he knew Adam drove a yellow Ford Bronco, which would be easy to find in the parking lot. He patted down his dead friend’s pockets, located the keys, and a horrible thought appeared, fully formed, in Josh’s head.

The people in the locker room were sliced up. But what killed the people out here?

He surveyed the grisly tableau once again and couldn’t believe he didn’t put it all together sooner. The bodily fluids. The quick onset of death.

These people were poisoned.

Josh looked at his hands. What had he touched? Had he contaminated himself somehow?

Jesus, is it still in the air?

He stood up, and a wave of dizziness hit him. Josh rushed to the door, kicked something metal. He tracked it down and saw it was a black canister with HCN written on the side.

Hydrogen cyanide.

Josh blinked. The dizziness led to a headache. He tried to remember the EMT class he took last year, the class on poisons. Cyanide was supposed to have an almond odor. Josh took a shallow sniff but smelled only death. Then he recalled that forty percent of people couldn’t detect cyanide by scent. He touched the back of his hand to his forehead and had no idea if he was running a temperature or not.

Continuing on to the exit, Josh felt his chest get tight. He was sure of it now; he had cyanide poisoning. It was in his blood, coursing through his circulatory system. Cyanide inhibited an enzyme that allowed cells to produce energy. His tissue would die, and rapidly.

Josh tripped over a body, landed alongside some poor guy whose face indicated he died screaming—a glimpse at Josh’s immediate future. He got up and scrambled for the door, wracking his brain for the treatment used in cyanide poisoning. Diazepam and activated charcoal? No, that was strychnine. Naloxone? That was for opioids.

Amyl nitrite. It induced the formation of methemoglobin, which combined with cyanide and made it nontoxic.

There was amyl nitrite in the Charge capsules.

Josh picked himself up and climbed over several corpses to get to the door. Woof tried to jump up and lick him, but Josh kept him back, worried he’d transfer the poison. He rummaged through the pillowcase, found the case of Charge, and put one beneath his nostrils.

Ready or not …

The capsule broke between Josh’s fingers and he snorted hard. His sinuses flooded with a hot chemical odor not unlike kerosene, and Josh’s face flushed and his eyes stung and his tongue tasted metal. This was accompanied by a massive head rush that felt like his brain liquefied and sloshed out of his ears.

He held the fumes in his lungs, letting them get absorbed. At the same time, euphoria wrapped its friendly arms around Josh and gave him a big hug. Josh took another sniff, closed his eyes, and allowed a billion thoughts to enter his brain at once, swirling in from all directions. Euphoria mixing with sadness mixing with memories mixing with fantasies. Then the swirl coalesced, forming a ball, and the ball became a face.

Annie.

“I’m so sorry,” Josh said. Or maybe he only thought he said it.

“It’s not your fault,” Annie said. “You can’t save everyone.”

Then Annie’s face changed, and she became Fran.

The image was solid, real, pure. Josh knew he’d been born to rescue people. He hadn’t been able to rescue Annie. But he still had a chance with Fran and Duncan.

Josh shook his head, clearing it a little. He needed to find Adam’s truck, that yellow Bronco. He took one more sniff of the Charge, picked up the pillowcase, and ran into the parking lot, Woof two steps behind him.

• • •

Streng made it up the ramp to the surface, but it had hurt. The steep climb winded him and his shin splints were on fire and his injured kidney felt like someone stood beside him, twisting a knife. He turned the deer hoof, closing the hatch, and then waited for his energy to return.

After a minute of waiting Streng realized his energy wasn’t going to return. So he pressed onward.

The Magnum round from his Colt Python hadn’t penetrated Bernie’s body armor, but it had done some major blunt-force trauma. Still, Streng decided to aim for the head, and only when he had a clear shot. He wasn’t the best marksman, but the Colt had a six-inch barrel, and Streng was accurate to about forty feet.

Now he just had to find one of the bastards. Preferably before they found him.

Streng yawned—which must have been an indicator of how exhausted he was, because he certainly wasn’t bored. He decided to head for the vehicles, hoping Fran and Duncan hadn’t been moved. Painful as it was, Streng moved in a crouch, alternating between eyeing the ground for Wiley’s traps and checking all directions for movement. What he lacked in speed he made up for by being careful, avoiding two bear traps and a covered pit that he guessed housed punji sticks or some other painful deterrent. He wondered if Wiley had ever accidentally killed some wayward hunter or hiker with his paranoia and didn’t put it past him.

Lights, up ahead. The Roadmaster’s headlights. Streng could make out Duncan sitting on the hood, Fran standing next to him. Streng slowed down even further, pausing after every step, listening to the woods around him. When he got within fifty yards, he saw a thin guy in army fatigues, a grenade launcher hanging at his side. It was someone he hadn’t encountered before, and he seemed to be guarding Fran and Duncan.

The guy paced back and forth, not moving or acting like a soldier at all, occasionally looking at the green screen of his communicator.

The communicator.

Streng yanked Bernie’s communicator out of his pocket and shielded the screen with his palm. He quickly read through several updates on the search for Wiley’s home. They hadn’t found it yet.

Streng had learned the term disinformation in the army. Infantry regularly used locals to broadcast false information on enemy radio frequencies. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to use an oldie but a goodie.

“Target acquired,” Streng whispered into the communicator. “Immediate assistance needed. One click directly north of the vehicles.”

That would send them a kilometer in the opposite direction of Wiley’s hidey-hole.

A message scrolled across the screen.

We heard you were dead.

Streng hit the button again.

“Did the bitch tell you that?” He forced himself to giggle like Bernie. “She’ll burn for it.”

He waited. No more messages appeared.

Looking back to the vehicles, the thin guy in the fatigues continued to pace. He didn’t even stop to check his surroundings. Streng still took his time, watching his footing, keeping behind cover. He crossed the last few yards on all fours and finally dropped to his belly when he got within the thirty-foot kill zone.

Streng extended his arms out in front of him, propping the butt of his gun on the ground, steadying his wrist by holding it with his left hand. The grenade launcher bothered him. If the guy wore body armor—it was hard to tell from this distance, but Streng assumed he did—then a hit anywhere other than the head meant he’d be capable of returning fire. Streng didn’t know what kind of rounds were in the launcher, but he’d seen the M79 in action during the war. It could kill by coming within a few yards of the target. Streng didn’t want that thing to go off anywhere near him or the people he was trying to rescue.

Streng watched. The guy paced to the left. Stopped. Turned. Paced to the right. Stopped. Turned. Repeated the process. The sheriff focused on the spot where he turned, cocked the Colt, and waited. When the man once again appeared in his sights, Streng fired at his face.

If the man hadn’t been wearing a helmet Streng would have killed him. But his shot was a few inches too high, and it pinged off the guy’s headgear. Streng fired three more shots as quickly as he could squeeze the trigger, but the Colt had a kick and the guy was sprinting into the woods, so none of them hit. Streng got to his feet and jogged up to Fran and Duncan, who had ducked down behind the Roadmaster.

“Are there keys?” he yelled before getting there. Fran must have recognized his voice, because she opened the driver’s door and checked.

“No!” she called back.

“Look in the truck!”

Streng slowed down, chest burning, knees weak, his side ready to burst. Duncan watched him approach, his eyes wide as dinner plates.

“You okay, son?” Streng wheezed.

Duncan nodded.

“No keys in the truck!” Fran yelled.

“Then we have to move. Follow me.”

Duncan held out his hand and Streng took it, half running/half hobbling back to the tree line, heading for Wiley’s place. Fran met them and took Duncan’s other hand, and they awkwardly maneuvered through the forest, Streng slowing them down so he could look for traps.

“Freeze!”

To the right, next to a big tree. The guy in the fatigues, pointing the grenade launcher at them.

Streng stopped. So did Fran and Duncan.

“Drop the gun,” the guy said.

It took Streng a nanosecond to make his decision.

“Run!” he yelled at Fran, pushing her and the child out of the way. Then he dropped to one knee and fired his two remaining rounds.

The guy fired the grenade launcher at the same time.

The sheriff saw a flash, then felt a punch in the chest at the same time he heard the BOOM. He doubled over, clutching his gut, and before Streng had a chance to wonder how he could still be alive his eyes began to burn.

Sponge grenade, Streng thought. Soaked in pepper spray.

He didn’t breathe in—which wasn’t too hard, because the wind had been knocked out of him—and clenched his eyelids closed while he crawled out of the smoke cloud. The vapors managed to get up his nose anyway, making him choke and then vomit. But he didn’t stop crawling. Blind and oxygen-starved, he moved as fast and as hard as someone half his age.

Streng wasn’t sure how far he’d gotten—perhaps five or ten yards away. He chanced taking a breath. It was like inhaling hellfire. Streng spat up again, his nose running like a faucet, the capsicum making his tongue swell up and restrict his airway.

Keep calm, he told himself. It’s only pain. It will pass.

That’s what he’d told the half-dozen suspects he’d maced in the line of duty, watching as they spat and swore, silently wondering how they could be such babies.

He mentally apologized to all of them. This was awful.

A few more yards, and he breathed again. He was still sucking in fire and brimstone, but it wasn’t as bad.

It will pass. It will pass.

He felt the communicator vibrate in his pocket. They were coming. And they knew where he was. Streng clung to a nearby tree, used it to pull himself up, and realized he no longer held the Colt. No matter. He couldn’t hold off four Special Ops soldiers plus the grenade-launcher guy with just one handgun. His only hope was to make it to Wiley’s.

He tried to look around, but his eyes had swollen to slits and his vision was out of focus. Streng considered calling to Fran but didn’t want her to reveal her position to the enemy. He would have to go it alone.

The sheriff picked the most likely direction to run, then took off at a jog, hands out in front of him so he didn’t run into any trees.

He got four steps before hearing the SNAP!

At first he thought he’d simply caught his leg on something. Then the sickening realization hit him a second before the pain.

A bear trap.

Streng fell to his knee, hands seeking the trap, finding the terrible jaws slicing through the muscles of his calf, anchoring into bone.

Then came agony.

Streng buried his face in the crook of his arm, muffling his scream. This was worse than the pepper spray. Worse than the kidney mauling. His whole body quaked in anguish, and if he still had his Colt he would have put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

He stuck his fingers in the teeth, tried to pull it apart. It gave—an inch, two, three—and then snapped closed again, prompting another horrific scream.

Streng’s mind, insane with pain, struggled to form a lucid thought. He needed something to pry the trap open. Maybe a branch. His hands scoured the ground around him, finding nothing.

The Ka-Bar knife? Streng groped for the fanny pack, finding the Warthog, wedging it into the mechanism and trying to force it open.

No good. The handle was too short. No leverage.

Goddamn you, Wiley.

Streng hated his brother then, hated him more than anyone he’d ever known. He was the cause of this entire mess. And now Streng would be captured, and the pain would get even worse. They’d make him talk. Streng was tough, but Santiago would only have to gently nudge the trap with his foot and Streng would be aching to tell him where Wiley lived. Wiley would die. Fran and Duncan would die. And he would die.

Better if it were only him.

Streng sobbed, coughed, spat, and then raised the knife to his own throat, wishing it was Wiley’s. A bear trap. That son of a bitch. How could he? Especially knowing what their father went through, his leg trapped under that tree …

The sheriff paused. Maybe he didn’t have to die. Maybe he still could get away.

He tugged off his belt and cinched it under his knee.

Don’t think about it, Streng told himself. Dad did it. You can do it, too. And if you do, the pain will stop. You’re an old fart, anyway. Three weeks away from retirement. What do you need two legs for?

Streng brought the knife down. And he began.

The jaws of the trap had already done most of the work. Streng stuck the blade in where the teeth were already embedded, following an imaginary line around the circumference of the calf.

Almost like carving the meat off a ham hock, Streng thought.

The pain was still there, but he felt a curious detachment from what was happening. Detachment. Streng laughed at the double meaning of the word, but it wasn’t a laugh at all, it was a tortured sob, but he had to keep quiet, keep so quiet so they didn’t find him, and then the knife was through the flesh and the muscle and the tissue and he pulled and then screamed again because the leg was still caught.

The bone.

He recalled Dad’s story, how he used a rock to break his leg bone.

Streng didn’t have a rock. But the Ka-Bar Warthog was a heavy blade, razor sharp.

He began to chop.

The belt tourniquet wasn’t helping much. Streng’s fingers were slick with blood, and he’d become so dizzy it was a struggle to stay awake. He alternated knife blows with manually checking to see if the bone had been severed yet; the pain had become so all encompassing he couldn’t tell without touching.

Hack.

Feel.

Hack.

Feel.

Hack.

Feel.

Cut! The bone was cut!

Streng let out a strangled grunt of triumph, put his hands behind him, and tried to pull his leg away again—

—and screamed.

He was still caught.

He palpated the area with muddy fingers. The bone was severed. The flesh was severed. Why was he still—

Son of a gun, Streng thought. Another bone.

In all of Dad’s stories, he’d never mentioned that a leg had two bones in it.

Streng sought out his fanny pack, located the box of Magnum rounds. He broke it open, selected one, and wedged it in the hinge of his mouth, between two molars.

Bite the bullet, old man.

Moaning deep in his throat, Streng raised the Ka-Bar and hacked as fast as he could, not stopping to feel, not wanting to drag it out any longer.

He knew he had to keep quiet, but he couldn’t anymore. The scream came from deep within and went on and on like a foghorn. Streng hacked and hacked and screamed and hacked.

On the eighth hack his leg came free.

Streng didn’t pause to celebrate. He dropped the knife, grabbed two handfuls of dirt, and began to drag himself away from the trap. The pain had reached a point where it seemed like it wasn’t even happening to him anymore. It had become another entity, a doppelgänger of himself, a creature of pure suffering. He crawled alongside his pain, down on his belly, pushing himself forward with his remaining leg, determined to get away.

Noise, to his right. Streng squinted.

Ajax.

Streng considered his next move, and realized he only had one—release the belt on his leg and bleed to death.

He reached down, seeking the buckle.

“Aren’t you a big one?”

The voice came from the left. Streng stared, saw Wiley in his ghillie suit, holding a shotgun.

“Body armor,” Streng managed to say.

Wiley aimed at Ajax and squeezed the trigger.

Streng knew he was hallucinating, because it looked and sounded like Wiley fired eight shots within two seconds.

Ajax crumpled like a demoed building, spraying arterial blood so far that some of it hit Streng in the face.

“Body armor my ass,” Wiley said. He reached down and Streng felt himself being dragged.

Abruptly—and absurdly, considering the circumstance—everything became clear to Streng. He had always looked up to Wiley. Put his older brother on a pedestal. Through the haze of pain, Streng realized that he wasted thirty years trying to analyze why Wiley didn’t measure up to his standards, when he should have simply accepted him. Family shouldn’t judge. Family should forgive.

“I’m sorry,” Streng mumbled, hoping his brother heard him.

The sheriff was sure he heard Wiley say, “I’m sorry, too, Ace,” right before the pain reached a crescendo and he passed out.

Fran huddled close to Duncan and waited in the strange purple room for her father to come back.

My father. Fran still couldn’t get her mind around that.

Two minutes earlier she and Duncan had been running through the woods and were stopped by what appeared to be a swamp monster, vines and sticks hanging from its body.

“I’m Warren,” it said. “Follow me.”

Fran followed. She’d just seen the sheriff get shot, and much as she mistrusted the man in front of her, she had to protect Duncan. Warren Streng led them to a dead deer, pressed some sort of button, and the ground opened up.

“Slide down. I’ll be right back.”

Fran clutched her son and they went down the ramp on their butts, Fran using the rubber grips on the bottom of her sandals to slow their descent. When they reached bottom they were in a room illuminated by black lights. The decals on her sweatshirt and Duncan’s white shoelaces and socks glowed purple.

Above them the hatch closed. Fran startled at the sound. They’d escaped the Red-ops, yet again, but she still felt a long way from safe.

“Is Sheriff Streng okay?” Duncan asked.

“I don’t know, baby.”

“Is that guy really your dad?”

“I think so.”

“So he’s my grandpa?”

“Unfortunately.”

Duncan pulled away from her, trying to stand.

“Stay close to me, baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Mom.”

Fran rubbed his back, like she did when he was an infant and wouldn’t go to sleep. “You’ll always be my baby, Duncan.”

“Can I get lights like this? They’re cool.”

“We’ll see.”

The seconds ticked by. Fran wondered what they would do if Warren didn’t come back. She guessed this place had more rooms. There was probably food, water, weapons. And so far the Red-ops hadn’t been able to find it. Maybe they could stay here for a while, wait for them to leave. Maybe—

A clanging sound, coming from the corner of the room. Fran noticed that some tools on the pegboard were wobbling and a wrench had fallen on the floor.

She stood up, forcing Duncan behind her.

“What is it, Mom?” her son whispered.

“I don’t know, Duncan. Someone else is in here.”

Movement, to their right, followed by a piercing shriek. Fran flinched, putting her hands up to protect her face as something flew at her. It landed on her chest and hugged her neck.

The monkey.

“Mathison!” Mathison jumped from Fran to her son, giving him a hug, as well. “He must have snuck in when Grandpa opened the secret door!”

She didn’t like Duncan calling Warren Grandpa, but she didn’t press the issue.

Instead she walked away from the monkey and child reunion and approached the pegboard, looking for weapons. Fran selected an awl and a hammer with a straight claw.

A clang, from the surface, echoed through the room.

“Mom?” Duncan whispered. “There’s someone coming.”

“Come here, Duncan. Quick.”

Duncan stood at her side, Mathison on his shoulder. Fran held the awl in one hand, the claw hammer in the other, and waited for the person to come down the slide.

There was a noise from above. It got louder. Closer.

“What if it’s them?” Duncan asked.

Fran had weapons. She would fight to the death. They wouldn’t get her son. She held her breath and raised the hammer, watching as two booted feet came down the ramp.

Warren. And he had Sheriff Streng.

“Fran, Duncan, I need some help.”

Warren hit a switch on the wall that closed the above hatch, then hauled the sheriff across the floor, leaving a streak of blood. In the black light it looked like motor oil.

“Get the door,” Warren ordered.

Duncan opened the only door in the room, which led into a bright hallway.

“First door on the right. Fran, grab the first-aid box.”

Fran stepped over Streng and hurried into the room. She found herself in a large storage area, filled with ranks and files of shelves. Food, paper products, boxes of all types, and on the rear wall—racks of guns.

“Second aisle, a white footlocker, bottom shelf.”

Fran spied it, a metal box with a suitcase handle on it, so heavy it took both hands to carry.

“Duncan,” Warren said, his hands on the sheriff’s bleeding leg, “get some jugs of water. Last row, second shelf. Fran, pull this suit off me. And the shotgun.”

Warren wore a camouflage holster on his back, which housed a shotgun that nestled against his spine. Fran removed both holster and gun, then located the snaps on the swamp-monster outfit and tugged it off. Warren’s eyes met hers, and Fran was stricken by how much they looked like Duncan’s. Like her own.

“In the box, get me a scalpel.”

Fran opened up the footlocker and shelves folded out like a tackle box. She found a scalpel in a slot and handed it to Warren.

“I got the water, Grandpa.”

“Pour it on the sheriff’s leg, Duncan.”

Warren cut away Streng’s pants. Fran glanced down, saw the gory stump where the calf used to be, and had to turn away.

“Duncan,” she said. “Leave the room.”

“Like hell he’s leaving the room,” Warren barked.

“He’s a child.”

“He’s got hands. I need those hands. Pour the water, Duncan. And keep pouring until I say quit.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I can help.”

Duncan pulled the cap off a water container and sprinkled some out.

“Faster, son, dump it on there.”

Duncan upended the jug, and Fran stared, mortified, as it flushed away the blood, exposing several wormy blood vessels and two pink bones.

“Fran, give me some clamps.”

Fran didn’t move, paralyzed by the spectacle before her.

“Clamps, Frannie! They look like scissors.”

Frannie. Her mom used to call her Frannie.

Fran found a clamp and handed it to Warren.

“Keep pouring, Duncan. Right here, where my fingers are. Good job.”

Warren locked the clamp around one of the slimy purple worms.

“Another one, Fran. And give me the big silver syringe, the one with two tubes coming out the sides.”

Fran searched the box. Warren clamped off another artery. She heard a chittering sound, saw Mathison sitting on a shelf, watching the proceedings with a worried expression.

“I’m out of water, Grandpa.”

“Get more.”

“I got it,” Fran held the strange-looking syringe out to Warren. The plunger had a loop on the end, and instead of a conventional tip it boasted a valve with two plastic tubes, each ending in a catheter. He took it, rolled up his sleeve, and shoved a needle into his wrist.

“Pull the plunger to take blood from my artery,” Warren said.

Fran did as instructed, tugging on the loop and staring as the syringe filled with blood. Warren searched for one of the sheriff’s veins. He located one in the crook of Streng’s elbow.

“Pour some water on my hands, Duncan. They’re too slippery.”

Duncan complied. Warren found the vein on the third try, and Fran gently pressed the plunger without being told. Warren’s blood flowed into Streng.

“His leg, Duncan, keep going. And more clamps, Fran. And a package of gauze. Hand over the blood tranfuser.”

Warren pulled and pushed on the plunger, sucking and pumping faster than Fran had dared to try. Streng moaned, his head shaking.

“There’s a glass bottle, Fran, bottom of the box, called pethidine. Find it, and fill up one of those small syringes. Duncan, see what I’m doing with this syringe? You do the same.”

Duncan took over the blood transfusion. Warren tied off two more blood vessels while Fran found the bottle and syringes.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Shoot him in the leg.”

Fran squirted a few drops of liquid from the needle and plunged it into the sheriff’s thigh.

“Good. Now I need to see if I got them all. Undo the belt, slowly. Get ready to put it back on if I say so.”

Fran scooted closer, kneeling in the widening pool of red. It soaked into her pants, warming her cold legs.

“Ready … go!”

She unbuckled the belt and a small stream of blood squirted out of Streng’s stump, in time with his heartbeat. Warren pinched the artery closed and applied a clamp.

“Hand me the transfuser, Duncan, and pour more water on him.”

The water ran off mostly clear.

“I think we got all the bleeders. Find the vial marked potassium, Fran, and fill another syringe. That will help clot his blood. Duncan, go to where you found the water and bring me a white plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol.”

While Fran located the vial, Warren dabbed the wound with gauze pads, saturating one after another.

“Good, Duncan. Pour the whole bottle on his leg.”

“Mom uses this when I get cuts,” Duncan said. “It’s going to hurt.”

“It would hurt more if he got an infection and died. That’s why your mom uses it on you. Now let it flow, son.”

Duncan was right. When the liquid hit Streng’s leg his eyes popped open and he jackknifed into a sitting position, letting out a cry that made all three of them flinch. Warren gently pushed him back down and applied more gauze. Fran jabbed the second syringe into his leg and depressed the plunger.

“Duncan, give that transfuse a few more pumps. Frannie, squirt one of those tubes of antibiotic ointment on the stump, and then we can close him up.”

Fran reached for the ointment, then stopped herself.

“Don’t call me Frannie,” she said.

Warren waited.

“Mom called me Frannie, when I was growing up. You weren’t there. You aren’t allowed to call me that.”

“Okay. Fran, can you put on the ointment?”

Fran squeezed the contents onto Streng’s leg, and then Warren stitched a flap of skin closed over the stump, leaving the clamps sticking out. Then he packed on gauze and bandages. She watched him work, weaving the tape through the clamps, moving quickly but efficiently. When he finished he wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up.

“Can you pass me one of those plastic IV bags? The one that says saline on it?”

Fran fished around for the bag, while Warren pinched the needle out of his arm. When she located it, he attached the tube to the inlet valve and placed it on a shelf above Streng.

Warren cleared his throat. “There’s a bathroom around the corner and a kitchen with a laundry room. Both have sinks if you two want to get cleaned up. There are some extra shirts hanging next to the washing machine.”

Fran looked at her hands, her clothes, and found herself completely saturated with blood.

“I need you both back here pronto. We need to plan for when they get in.”

“How can they find us?” Duncan asked. “We’re hidden.”

“They’ll find us. They won’t stop until they do.”

“Why?”

“Because I have something they want.”

“What?”

Warren didn’t answer.

“It would be nice to know,” Fran said, rage bubbling up to the surface, “why these people have been trying to kill us, and why my husband had to die.”

Warren let out a slow breath.

“Tell me,” she ordered.

“No.”

“You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe anyone a goddamn thing.”

“Then why the hell did you let us in? If you don’t care about anything, why didn’t you just let us die?”

Warren stared at her for a moment and seemed to come to a decision.

“I was reckless when I was younger. Got into a lot of trouble. Raised some hell. I met your mother right before I shipped off to Vietnam. I’m sure she was a wonderful lady, but the truth is I’d only spent a few hours total with her, so I didn’t know her too well.”

“Stick to the story.”

“They say war changes people. It didn’t change me. I kept on doing what I always did. I sold drugs, supplies, stolen goods. I smuggled people, too. I had the connections. Wound up being in charge of the black market for the Kontum Province.”

Warren coughed. He bent down and grabbed the water jug, taking a long sip before he continued.

“Anything of value went through me. Not just contraband. Information, too. I passed the important stuff on to the higher-ups—I was a criminal, not a traitor. But near the end of my tour I got something unique. Something I couldn’t give to the higher-ups.”

Warren went to a shelf, opened an old shoe box. He reached inside and removed a blue plastic disk, big as a donut but less than an inch thick.

“A local came to me with this. An eight-millimeter film. Said he found it in a movie camera, near a South Vietnamese village that the enemy had bombed. Told me it was worth a lot. I watched it, realized what it was, and paid him. I was already rich, but this would make me more money than I could ever use.”

“So this is all about a stupid roll of film?” Fran couldn’t get her mind around it. “What’s on it?”

“You don’t want to know. It’s bad. Real bad.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Fran folded her arms. “Why not?”

“It will put you and Duncan in danger.”

She snorted. “How could we be in any more danger?”

“You could. Trust me.”

Fran tried a different tactic. “So why didn’t you sell it?”

“I tried. After the war ended, I shipped my stuff back here. Contacted the potential buyer. I was going to buy a big mansion in Beverly Hills.” Wiley shook his head. “I was a fool. Instead of millions, he sent some men over. I wouldn’t tell them where I hid the film. They tried to make me talk. They tried hard. I got lucky, managed to get away. I knew they’d come after me again, so I disappeared.”

“If they’re after the film, let’s give it to them,” Fran said. “Then they’ll leave us alone.”

Warren shook his head. “They won’t leave us alone. They’ll kill us whether they get the film or not.”

“How do you know?”

Warren met her gaze. “Because that’s what I’d do.”

Fran snatched the roll from him. She was tempted to throw it against the wall, as if destroying it would make all of this horror disappear. She raised it over her head, waited for Warren’s reaction.

He did nothing.

“Don’t you care if I destroy it?” Fran asked.

“No. I stopped caring about things a long time ago.”

“But isn’t it the reason you live like this?” Fran swept her hand across the room. “Underground, surrounded by traps?”

“I live like this,” Warren said in calm, even tones, “because this is what I deserve.”

Fran hadn’t expected that answer. She asked again, “What’s on this film, Warren?”

“We need to get cleaned up.” Warren headed for the door. “They’ll find us soon.”

“I want to see it.”

“No.”

Fran drilled her eyes into him.

“Show me the film. You can’t just tell me half the story.”

“Are you sure? If you watch it, you can’t unwatch it. I know.”

“Show me.”

“You don’t want to see it. Believe me.”

She thrust the film into his chest. “Show me, goddammit.”

Warren’s face seemed to sag.

Then he said, “Okay.”

The projector looked like a small oval suitcase with a metal snap on top. Wiley lifted it by the handle and set it on the hallway floor, then took off the left side of the shell, exposing the inner workings. He plugged it into the wall outlet. Then he opened up the round blue container and removed the film. Seeing it again made Wiley’s stomach clench.

“Duncan, why don’t you go wash up in the kitchen and get a snack,” he said.

“I want to stay here with you and Mom, Grandpa.”

“Go on, Duncan,” Fran said. “This one is adults only.”

Duncan sighed, then plodded down the hall and through the kitchen door.

“I’ve only seen this three times.” Wiley spoke while threading the film through the projector’s sprockets. “The first time, back in Vietnam. Then twenty years ago, when I bought a video camera and transferred it to VHS. The last time was just a few months ago, when I made a digital copy on my computer.”

“Why don’t we watch it on one of those other formats?”

“Because both of those have large screens. This way, I can make the image small.”

Wiley frowned. Even small, it still hit like a sucker punch. But at least you didn’t see as much detail.

“Can you flick the wall switch?”

Fran pressed it, and the overhead fluorescents winked out. Wiley turned the knob to run and aimed the square of light at a blank spot on the wall. The image was half the size of a sheet of paper.

They watched.

The first shot was inside a helicopter, obviously in flight. The camera jerked and jolted, making a blurry pan across the faces of five men sitting in the bay. They all wore black uniforms, their expressions no-nonsense.

“Does this have sound?” Fran asked above the clackety-clack of the projector.

“It’s silent.”

“Who are these men?”

“A secret military unit. They aren’t wearing any insignia, but you can tell they’re U.S. by their boots and weapons. Plus it’s one of our choppers. And see there?”

Wiley pointed to a sixth man, standing by the door, looking smug.

“He’s got major’s stripes. These are our boys, no doubt.”

The film cut to the helicopter after it landed, the cameraman following the six others out of the bay and onto the ground. They were in a village, a poor one, surrounded by jungle. A handful of ramshackle buildings stood alongside a dirt road. Clothing hung on drying lines. Livestock roamed freely.

There were people in the village. Vietnamese peasants. They looked at the approaching unit with curiosity, some of them openly smiling. None of them ran away.

You should have, Wiley thought.

Another cut, and the villagers were being rounded up, gathered in the middle of the town. Over fifty in total.

Then the soldiers raised their M16s.

Wiley winced, knowing what was coming.

Villagers panicked but couldn’t escape their fate. The men in the black uniforms opened fire. The people began to drop.

“Notice they aren’t shooting to kill,” Wiley said. “They’re aiming for legs, so they can’t run away.”

When the whole town was on the ground, screaming, panicking, bleeding, the soldiers set down their guns and drew their knives.

The first peasant died by having his belly slit open. The cameraman got a close-up of his insides being yanked out.

“Oh, Jesus,” Fran said.

It got worse. Much worse. Throats were slit. Eyes gouged out. Limbs hacked off. Scalpings. Beheadings. Castrations. Skinnings. When the pregnant woman came onscreen, Wiley had to look away.

The cameraman had a hard time keeping up. He sometimes got in close to see detail work, other times pulled away to catch multiple atrocities happening at once.

Wiley glanced at Fran. She had her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. He looked back at the flickering image.

They were at the scene where the soldiers began to undress.

“Can I turn it off now?” Wiley asked.

Fran nodded. He reached for the knob and stopped the evil, grateful for the reprieve.

Darkness and silence filled the hallway.

“What happens next?” Fran whispered.

“The soldiers rape many of the people who are still alive. And some who aren’t. They don’t discriminate with age, sex, or orifice. Sometimes they even make new orifices. Based on the position of the sun in the shots, it went on for at least four or five hours. Then they kill the few who are still alive, dismember the bodies, put everything in a big pile, and set it on fire.”

“And then?”

Wiley took a deep breath, let it out through his clenched teeth.

“Then it gets kind of confusing. There’s a quick shot of them setting up charges, and then it jumps to a big explosion, and the camera spins away and dies out. I think the cameraman got too close before it blew, and he died. That’s how they lost the camera. But before that happens, it reveals the name of the village, on a sign. It was in South Vietnam.”

Fran turned on the lights. Wiley squinted against the sudden glare.

“South Vietnam?” she said. “We were fighting to liberate South Vietnam. They were our allies.”

“That’s why no one ran away when the chopper landed. They probably thought we were there to help them.”

Fran was silent for several seconds. Then she spoke a single word.

“Why?”

“When I saw the film the first time, I recognized the major. He was the man I went to after the war ended. I asked him the same thing.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the military was creating a new type of soldier. But before they went into the field, they needed to be tested. They picked a town that wouldn’t see it coming, wouldn’t fight back.”

Wiley turned the knob to reverse the film, keeping the bulb off. They both watched it slowly rewind.

“You went to the major to get money from him.”

Wiley didn’t answer. But he managed a slight nod.

“That unit,” Fran said. “Did it have a name?”

“The major called them a Red-ops unit.”

Fran stood. “Those fuckers outside. They’re a Red-ops unit, too.”

“I figured as much.”

“Why didn’t you expose this? Why didn’t you go to the press?”

Wiley had thought about that many, many times. He didn’t go at first because he wanted the money he thought he could extort from the major. But instead of paying, the major had sent two of his Red-ops team to visit Wiley, to get him to reveal the location of the film.

They worked on him for less than an hour. But they’d inflicted enough pain in that hour to last a lifetime. Nothing permanent had been done to him. Just squeezing. Hitting. Pulling. Breaking.

Wiley would have talked within the first few minutes, but the film was at his parents’ house, shipped back from Vietnam with the rest of his war booty. As selfish as he’d been in the past, as reckless and unconcerned for their feelings, he wasn’t going to let these animals get their hands on his parents. Even if it meant dying in agony.

He got lucky. The Red-ops soldiers the major had sent were geniuses at torture but pretty stupid otherwise. They talked slow. Repeated themselves a lot. Wiley convinced them the film was under his bed, and they believed him. When they couldn’t find it, they brought Wiley over. He reached into the hidden slit in his mattress, grabbed the gun he kept there, and killed them both. Then he hurried to his parents’ house, grabbed all of his stuff, and fled.

That had been the last time he ever saw them.

He could have gone to the press after that. But he was terrified that they’d find him. And they’d hurt him, and his mom, and dad, and brother. So he drifted around for a few years, coming back to Safe Haven after his folks had died, building this bunker where he separated himself from the world.

“You could have stopped them,” Fran said. “Even while you were hiding here. All you had to do was mail the damn film to one of the networks.”

Wiley told her the truth.

“That film cost me everything. My freedom. My family. I wasn’t going to give it away for free, unless I got something in return. I was scared. But mostly, I was greedy.”

Fran stood up, her face twisted with contempt.

“I hate you. I hate you so much.”

Wiley didn’t contradict her. He hated himself, too.

He watched her as she walked away.

Mom came into the kitchen, but she didn’t say anything. She walked to the sink and went at her fingernails with soap and a scrub brush.

Duncan said, “Mom?”

She didn’t answer.

He tugged her shirt.

“Mom? I need to pee.”

“I’ll be done in a few minutes, baby.”

“I can go by myself.”

Mom didn’t turn around. She kept scrubbing. “No. I don’t want you alone with that man.”

“He just saved the sheriff’s life, Mom. And he’s hiding us.”

“I don’t care. Wait until I’ve finished.”

Mom scrubbed even harder, so hard that Duncan wondered if the blood was coming from her. He took one step backward. Two. Three. Then he sneaked out into the hallway, Mathison hanging on his shoulder. The bathroom door was open, and the sheriff’s brother was wiping his hands on a towel.

Duncan stared at him. His dad’s parents died before he was born, and his mom’s parents when he was just a baby. It was weird to think that he actually had a grandpa.

“Is it okay if I call you Grandpa?” Duncan asked.

“I haven’t earned the right for you to call me that.”

“Your name is Warren, right?”

He glanced down at Duncan and cleared his throat. “Yep.”

“Is that what people call you?”

“They call me Wiley.”

“Why?”

“My brother stuck me with that nickname when we were kids. Because I was always sneaking around, trying to be crafty.”

“Like the cartoon? Wile E. Coyote?”

He cleared his throat again. “Kinda like that.”

“You clear your throat a lot.”

“I haven’t used my voice in a while. Now how about we stop with the questions and go get some guns.”

“Okay, Wiley.”

Wiley hung up the towel and Duncan followed him back to the storage room. Wiley stopped by his brother, examined the bandage, and grunted. Then he went on to the back wall, by all the guns. Like the tools in the purple room, all the guns were on a pegboard. Wiley had about thirty of them.

“You ever shoot a gun before, Duncan?”

“Just one. A shotgun. I shot a vent, Wiley.”

Duncan liked saying the name Wiley.

His grandpa removed a gun hanging by its trigger guard.

“This should be easier to handle than a shotgun. It’s a Hi-Point 380 Polymer. Hi-Point is the maker, 380 is the caliber of the bullet, and it’s called a Polymer because some parts are made out of composite plastic, so it’s lighter.”

He held the gun out to Duncan. Duncan shook his head.

“Mom doesn’t want me to touch guns.”

“Why not?”

“Because I could die.”

“Do you know which end the bullets come out?”

Duncan pointed to the barrel.

“Don’t aim that end at your head,” Wiley said, “and you won’t die.”

That seemed sensible to Duncan. He took the gun.

“It feels like a toy.”

“It’s not a toy. It’s a deadly weapon. The first rule when using firearms is to treat the weapon with respect and always assume every gun is loaded.”

Duncan nodded. “Did you ever get shot?”

“No.”

“I did.” Duncan proudly showed off his bandaged leg. “With a shotgun. It hurts, but not too bad. Josh said he doesn’t think the pellet is still in there. He’s the one who put the bandage on.”

“Is Josh your friend?”

“Yeah. He went out with my mom a while ago. I think he’s going to go out with her again. They look at each other a lot, you know, like they’re going to kiss and stuff. He’s going to take us muskie fishing. Do you fish?”

“Not for a long time.”

“Maybe you could come with us. I mean, if you want to. Do you want to?”

“I’m not very good company.”

“Maybe you’re just out of practice.”

“I wasn’t good company even when I was in practice, Duncan.”

“You should come with us anyway. It will be fun. Is that a Desert Eagle?” Duncan pointed at a large handgun near the top of the pegboard.

“Yep. How’d you know that?”

“Grand Theft Auto IV,” Duncan said. “Mom won’t let me buy it, but I play it over at my friend Jerry’s house on his Xbox 360.”

Duncan gave Wiley the Hi-Point, and Wiley unhooked the Desert Eagle from the wall and handed it to him, butt-first. The gun was cool-looking but heavy.

“It’s too big for my hand,” Duncan said.

“You’ll grow into it.”

Duncan extended his finger, but he couldn’t reach the trigger.

“Did you ever kill anyone?” he asked without looking at his grandpa.

Wiley crouched down, so he and Duncan were face-to-face. He didn’t look angry, but his face was very serious.

“When you ask a man a question like that, Duncan, you need to look him in the eye.”

Wiley’s eyes were light blue, just like his. Duncan stared right at them.

“Did you ever kill someone, Wiley?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Bad guys?”

“Some were bad.”

“Did you ever kill any good guys?”

Wiley cleared his throat. “I have.”

“Why?”

“To cover up some bad things I did.”

“Couldn’t you have just shot him in the leg or something?”

“I could have. But I didn’t.”

Duncan thought it over.

“I know bad people do bad things,” Duncan said. “But maybe sometimes good people do bad things, too.”

Wiley appraised the child.

“I go to bed every night hoping you’re right, Duncan.”

“DUNCAN!”

Mom yelled so loud that Mathison jumped from his shoulder and went running off. She stormed over to him, pointing her finger.

“Put down that gun!”

Duncan set it down on the table. “Mom, I was just—”

“You!” Mom’s finger went from him to Wiley. “What kind of man gives a ten-year-old boy a gun?”

Wiley cleared his throat. “Some people are going to break in here, Fran, and try to murder us. Duncan has a right to defend himself same as me and you.”

Mom grabbed Duncan’s hand, but she kept her eyes on Wiley.

“You’re insane! Stay the hell away from my son! Do you get it? We don’t need you in our lives! We never did!”

“Fran …”

Mom pulled Duncan away from the guns and was leading him out of the room when they both heard a beeping sound. Mom stopped, looking around for the source. Wiley hurried past them both.

“That’s the alarm,” he said, strapping on his shotgun holster. “They’ve found the entrance.”

Josh broke another capsule under his nose—his fourth—and swung the Bronco onto Deer Tick Road. The Charge no longer gave him a head rush—just a headache. He was also short of breath and queasy, symptoms of both cyanide poisoning and amyl nitrite overdose. Josh didn’t know if that meant he needed more Charge or less.

I’ve got to get to a hospital, Josh thought. He even had a plan on how to get through the roadblock. But first he had to find Fran and Duncan.

He used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off of his forehead, pushing the speedometer to thirty-five. The Bronco ate up the dirt road, easily taking the bumps and turns. When he passed the final bend he saw Mrs. Teller’s Roadmaster in the distance, the headlights still on. And next to it, Olen’s Honey Wagon.

Josh mashed the brake, causing Woof to lose his balance on the front seat and slip onto the floor.

“Sorry, buddy. We’re going to find Duncan. Do you want to find Duncan?”

Woof barked.

“Good boy. We’re going to find Duncan. Yes, we are.”

Josh jammed the Bronco into park and hunted around the back seat. Adam kept a load of crap back there, and Josh swore he saw a clothesline earlier. He found it and tied an end around Woof’s neck. Then he grabbed his Maglite and his pillowcase of supplies and climbed out of the truck. The world seemed a little wobbly, and he felt more than a little woozy, so he leaned against the fender and rested for a minute.

Woof barked again—it was too high for him to jump. Josh helped him to the ground.

“Where’s Duncan, Woof? Find Duncan. Go, boy!”

Woof tugged on the makeshift leash, and Josh jogged behind him. Part of Josh—the tiny part that still remained rational through all of the fumes he’d inhaled—knew that wandering around with a flashlight and a barking dog would attract the Red-ops. But he wasn’t scared. In fact, he felt in control and powerful. Invincible, even.

The dog sniffed everything: trees, bushes, leaves, sticks, rocks, and the open air. Josh began to wonder if Woof was just out for a good time, but then he strained against the rope and started barking like crazy.

“Duncan?” Josh called, sweeping with the flashlight.

The beam landed on a woman. A woman wearing hiking books and a blue-jean miniskirt. She was in her thirties, attractive. Her face looked like she might have been crying recently.

“Oh, my God!” she shrieked. “You’ve got to help me!”

Woof snarled at the new arrival, and Josh reined him in so he didn’t bite her.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“My friends and I were camping and we got attacked by these guys—oh, my God, it was awful! Do you have a phone or a car?”

She moved closer. Josh noticed she had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and the sleeveless top she wore was dotted with blood. She was seriously built. Her calves above the boots bulged with muscle. So did her bare arms. She didn’t appear to have any makeup on, but she wore several pieces of jewelry, including a thick gold Omega necklace and matching anklet. On her finger was a large diamond engagement ring.

“Can you help me?” she repeated. “Please?”

Josh shook his head—not to say no, but to clear it. Woof kept barking. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t pin down what. He was on edge. No, not on edge. Excited. He felt a tremendous urge, a need, to do something. But he wasn’t sure what.

He blinked, his mouth went dry, and suddenly he knew what he needed to do.

You have to kill her.

The thought didn’t shock Josh like he felt it should have. Rather, it appealed to him.

That’s the drugs talking. It’s the Charge.

No, it’s not the Charge. She’s Red-ops.

“Where’s your car?” she pleaded. “What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

How could she be Red-ops? She’s just some scared girl. It’s the Charge. The chemicals are messing with your mind.

Then what is she doing out here, all by herself? She’s one of them. You have to kill her.

Josh dropped the rope and Woof charged at her. She kicked the dog in the side and he yelped and rolled into the bushes.

“Your dog just attacked me!”

She was four steps away.

You can’t kill her.

Yes, you can. This woman is the enemy. Kill her. Bash her head open.

Three steps away now.

She’s just a camper. She needs your help. The drugs are making you aggressive, making you crazy.

It’s not the drugs. She’s one of them. You need to kill her before she kills you.

“Please. You have to protect me.”

Josh held his hands out in front of him.

“You … you shouldn’t come any closer.” But even as the words left his lips, he wanted her closer. Much closer.

“I need your help, mister. Please.”

Kill her kill her KILL HER!

Two steps away.

“Stay back. Stay away from me.”

The Charge is warping you. Making you violent. But you’re in control. You don’t have to give in to every little urge. Fight it. Do the right thing.

“I was attacked.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you care?”

One step away.

“Yes, I care. Look how much I care.”

Josh used the Maglite like a club, smashing it across her face, trying to bust her skull open. The woman almost kept her balance but tripped on something in the weeds and kissed the ground.

SNAP!

Blood blossomed upward like a Roman candle.

Yes!

No …

“Oh, God, no …”

The woman stared at Josh with dead eyes, her head squished in the center like Mr. Peanut, the bear trap dripping crimson.

You killed her.

Woof limped over and Josh backed away, scared he might hurt the dog, too. Jesus Christ, what did he just do? Why did he hit her when she was obviously just looking for help? He killed her. He freaking killed her.

An accident. It was an accident.

No, it wasn’t.

You didn’t mean to kill her.

That’s what all killers say.

Josh looked at his hands. Murderer’s hands. They were shaking. How was he supposed to live with himself? He felt his stomach do flip-flops, like he’d swallowed a live carp.

What now? Run away? Hide the body? Turn himself in?

He wanted to save lives. That’s all he wanted to do. That was the promise he made to himself. To help others. To make the world a better place.

And now …

Over. His life was over. He couldn’t live with this.

Could he?

Maybe the Charge contributed, made him paranoid. Maybe it even made him temporarily insane. He didn’t mean to kill her. Just stop her. He didn’t know she’d fall on a bear trap.

No. He did want to kill her. He wanted it so bad he couldn’t stop himself.

Could he have stopped himself?

His eyes became glassy. He shook his head again, a litany of “should haves” and “whys” flying at him from all angles.

This is how it feels to be a murderer.

Josh set his jaw, embraced the responsibility.

It was ultimately his decision to hit her. He made the choice. Now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. That’s how a civilized society worked. All criminals could justify their crimes. They all had reasons, excuses. But human beings weren’t programmable robots. Following instincts, or orders, or drug-induced impulses, were not excuses.

Everyone had free will. And no one ever had the right to murder another human being.

I belong in jail, Josh thought.

He dropped to his knees, unsure if he should cry for the poor soul he just slaughtered, or for himself.

Look at the jewelry.

He peeked through his tears. He’d seen that anklet and necklace before. And the ring—that was the ring he helped Erwin pick out when he proposed to Jessie Lee.

Josh begged the universe that he was right, that this woman was indeed a soldier and had played a part in butchering his friends. He crawled over to her, not looking at her face, and patted down her skirt. No pockets. The sweater didn’t have any, either. Josh almost began to cry. He checked to see if she had some sort of purse or backpack, but she didn’t. Then he held her dead hand, looked at the ring and anklet again, and doubted himself.

Maybe those weren’t Jessie Lee’s. Maybe he just desperately wanted them to be.

“What did I do? What did I—”

There. In her other hand. A knife.

Josh pried it from her fist. A combat blade. Then he heard a soft buzz. He followed it to her hiking books and dug a black communicator out of an ankle holster.

The relief enveloped him. He wasn’t a murderer. It was self-defense. The Charge made him aggressive, but it also made him sense something his conscious mind was unaware of. Josh was so happy he almost kissed the communicator. He restrained himself, sliding the cover open instead, reading the last message.

Warren found.

He reasoned it out. The Red-ops had Fran and Duncan. The Red-ops found Warren. So either the Red-ops had brought Fran and Duncan to Warren’s place, or—

Or they didn’t need Fran and Duncan alive anymore.

Dread slapped euphoria right out of Josh. He whistled for Woof, patting the beagle’s head and giving him a scratch under the muzzle and winding his hand around the end of the clothesline.

“Find Duncan, Woof. Find Duncan, boy.”

The dog licked Josh’s face, then took off running. He sprinted after Woof, but the dog’s direction was erratic, zigzagging, and Josh couldn’t run full-tilt, periodically shining the Maglite at the ground to make sure he didn’t wind up in a bear trap.

Woof got farther and farther away, and Josh let out yard after yard of line until he was holding the very end, the dog disappearing into the undergrowth.

Then, abruptly, Woof stopped. The leash went slack.

Josh halted next to a tree, panting, the whole forest lopsided.

“Woof! Come, boy! Woof!

Josh whistled. He whistled again.

“Woof! WOOF!”

No answer.

Josh gathered in the rope, pulled it about a few feet, and then it went taut. He didn’t feel the dog on the end. There was no movement at all. The line must have been caught on something.

He paused, wondering what to do next. His feeling of invincibility had faded, passed. Josh thought about taking another Charge capsule and quickly decided he’d rather die of cyanide poisoning that have that shit in his system again.

Instinct told him something had happened to Woof. Something bad. Maybe a trap. Or maybe something even worse.

He thought, fleetingly, of leaving the dog there, going on without him. But Woof saved his life, and if Josh could return the favor he would. No matter how much it scared him.

Josh began to walk, winding the clothesline around his arm as he did. He took five steps. Listened. Heard nothing. Took five more steps. Listened. Called quietly, “Woof.” Heard nothing. Took five more steps. Listened.

A whine. Faint. Coming from the bushes ahead. The rope trailed beneath them.

Josh pulled lightly on the rope.

The rope tugged lightly back.

Another whine. Louder. Woof was hurt.

Josh gripped the Maglite tight, trying to control the shaking as he pointed it at the bushes, trying to penetrate inside them.

The bushes shook, then stilled.

If it were any other dog on the planet, Josh would have dropped the rope and run in the opposite direction. But he forced himself forward, one foot in front of the other, crouching down where the rope disappeared in the foliage.

The rope began to pull. Gently. Josh tightened his hand around it and tugged, feeling some resistance. He tugged harder, pulling the rope back.

“Woof,” he called, louder.

Woof whined in response.

Relieved, Josh tucked the Maglite under his armpit and began to reel in the clothesline, hand over hand. He wound a yard around his arm. Two yards. Five yards. Knowing he was getting close to the end.

Then, blessedly, Woof bounded out of the trees, running up to Josh, putting his paws on his shoulder.

But Woof wasn’t attached to the rope. His collar was off, and he had some clothesline tied around his snout.

So what was … ?

Santiago poked his head out of the bushes, scaring Josh so badly he jumped backward. The killer stood up, facing Josh, Woof’s collar buckled around his neck.

“I found Logan,” Santiago said. “Was that you, did that to her? I’m surprised. She was very good. A woman, yes, but she liked to get her hands dirty.”

Josh backed up. Santiago carried no weapons, but his hands were balled into fists.

Woof growled, trying to bark.

“And what of Bernie?” Santiago asked. “We haven’t heard from him lately.”

Josh’s wanted to say something tough, but his voice wasn’t working. He nodded his head.

“Bernie, too? Impressive. Especially from someone with no training, no skills at all. You must be a very lucky man.” Santiago grinned. “But your luck has just run out.”

“Woof,” Josh managed. “Go.”

Woof whined.

“Go!” Josh yelled.

Woof took off. The killer came at Josh low and fast, so fast that Josh missed when he swung the Maglite. He tackled Josh, lifting him up off the ground, driving him into a tree. It felt like someone had stuck a tube in Josh’s mouth and sucked out all of his oxygen. He fell onto all fours, struggling to breathe, but all that came out was a high-pitched wheeze.

Santiago knelt next to him and Josh felt the man’s lips touch his ear.

“This is for Bernie.”

And then Josh was flat on his face, his right arm pinned behind his back in a hammerlock. Santiago grabbed his little finger.

Bent it.

Kept bending it.

Kept bending it.

Josh actually heard the crack.

Tears came, but his wind hadn’t returned so he couldn’t suck in a breath to scream.

“This is for Logan.”

Josh’s ring finger bent back, hyperextended, and cracked like a twig. But Santiago didn’t let go. He kept manipulating it, kept pulling, until Josh’s entire world was a reduced to a white-hot pinpoint of pain.

“And this is for my ear.”

Santiago didn’t move on to the middle finger. He went back to the pinkie.

The killer twisted it around a full 360 degrees before Josh finally passed out.

• • •

Wiley stared at his plasma-screen TV in the great room. Three men stood around the fake deer at his entrance. One was the soldier who’d found his camera. The other was an older man in fatigues who didn’t look like a soldier at all. The third, incredibly, was that big son of a bitch he’d shot.

Wiley used the remote control to zoom in. The giant was bloody, and his right arm hung limp, but he’d miraculously survived eight shotgun slugs. Wiley had hunted bear before and never needed more than four. He was liking their chances less and less.

Fran and her boy also gawked at the TV, motionless.

“If you want to survive,” he told them, “you have to do everything I say. Fran, have you ever fired a gun before?”

Fran shook her head. Wiley reached behind him and pulled the shotgun out of his shoulder rig.

“This is a Beretta Extrema2, a semiautomatic shotgun. It will fire as fast as you can pull the trigger, and it has a recoil system so it won’t take your arm off. Just point and shoot.”

Fran showed no reluctance in taking the gun. “Show me how to reload.”

“I have to go back to storage, get more shells.” Wiley stared hard at Fran. “Should I bring a gun for Duncan?”

Fran’s gaze went from him, to her son, to the Beretta. She managed a small nod.

“I’ll be right back. It doesn’t look like they’ve figured out how to open the door yet. When they do, the alarm will sound again. Push that table over, get behind it, and shoot anything that comes through the door that isn’t me. It’s also possible they’ll go after the generator. There are candles around the room, matches on the table. Light them all.”

Wiley didn’t wait for a response. He jogged back to the storage area and headed for the gun rack. He grabbed another semiauto shotgun, a Benelli Super Black Eagle II. Then he strapped on two more holsters, one for a Glock G17 .45 ACP, the other for his 50-caliber Desert Eagle. He also clipped an A. G. Russell tactical folding knife to his belt. A leather bag sat on the table, and he filled it with ammo for all three weapons, along with some 380 rounds and the Hi-Point for Duncan.

“Wiley.”

He glanced back, saw his brother had his eyes open. Wiley went to him.

“How you doing, brother?”

Ace offered a weak grin. “Never been better.”

Wiley scooped up the water jug, tilted it so Ace could take a sip.

“Need another shot of Demerol?”

“It depends. Where are the bad guys?”

“Knocking at the front door.”

Ace shook his head. “Instead of the drugs, how about something in a Magnum?”

Wiley smiled for the first time that day, which was also his first smile of the decade. It felt strange, unnatural. But also good.

“Got a Taurus in .357, and a Ruger in .44,” he said.

“Gimme the Taurus.”

“Ruger has more stopping power.”

“Too much kick. Throws off the aim.”

Wiley patted his brother on the chest. “I miss these little conversations, Ace.”

He turned his attention to the open first-aid box and dug out a syringe and a bottle of Prilocaine.

“This won’t put you to sleep. Just numb the area.”

Ace winced when Wiley gave his stump several injections. Then he went back to the pegboard, added the Taurus and a box of rounds to the ammo bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

“This won’t be pleasant,” he told Ace.

Ace only cried out twice as Wiley dragged him across the floor to the great room. Once when he first moved him by pulling his arm, and again when his stump accidentally hit the doorway.

“It’s me!” Wiley called out to Fran. “Hold fire!”

He tugged Ace over to the sofa and couldn’t tell who was breathing harder, him or his brother. Fran had followed directions and overturned the large oak coffee table. She’d set it on an angle to the doorway, so it would be the last thing someone saw when they opened the door and walked into the room. Wiley approved and felt something akin to pride.

It took all three of them to lift Ace up onto the sofa. The sheriff stayed stoic, though his face scrunched up and his forehead beaded with sweat. Wiley propped some pillows behind his back and aimed him at the door, on an angle like Fran had done. Then he spent a minute showing her how to load the Beretta and showing Duncan how to work the slide on the Hi-Point to jack the first round into the chamber.

“The TV,” Streng said, pointing. “They’ve got Josh.”

Everyone looked at the plasma screen. Someone held one of Wiley’s remote cameras in front of a man’s face. The man was screaming in terrible pain. Wiley was grateful there wasn’t audio.

“We have to help him,” Fran said.

Wiley shook his head. “No. They want us to open the door so they can get in.”

Josh’s scream went on and on. Wiley couldn’t imagine what horrible thing they were doing to him. He picked up the remote and switched it off.

“Put it back on,” Fran said.

“Don’t torture yourself by watching it.”

“We have to save him.” Fran’s eyes were glassy, pleading. “He came back for us.”

“I know you don’t want to risk Duncan’s life just to save Josh.”

“Please.” Fran was crying now. “Please do something.”

“We can’t. He’s dead. Forget him.”

Fran walked up to him, met his eyes. “That should be you out there, not Josh. He’s a good man. Have you ever done a single good thing in your life?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Of course it’s about you. Everything has always been about you, you selfish bastard. If you’re not going to do anything, I am.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“I’d rather die fighting than live in fear.”

“You’ll leave Duncan without a mother?”

Duncan appeared at his mother’s side. “Mom?”

Fran knelt down, hugged her son. “I’ll be back, baby. It’s okay.”

Wiley shook his head, amazed. “This man means that much to you?”

Fran looked up. “Yes.”

Wiley cleared his throat again. When was the last time he’d spoken to someone? Weeks? Months? When was the last time he cared about anyone other than himself?

He looked at Ace. “You and Duncan hold down the fort. I’ll need Fran to work the hatch.”

Duncan looked up at him, his small face so full of hope.

“Are you going to save Josh, Wiley?”

Wiley stared down at his grandson. What would a grandfather do? He chose to pat the boy on the head and wink at him.

“I sure as hell am going to try.”

Dr. Stubin had to walk away because Josh’s screaming was giving him a headache. While the brain specialist had never broken a bone, he couldn’t imagine why a few bent fingers would make a man howl like that. That Special Forces sergeant Stubin killed earlier had his arm blown off and made a lot less noise.

Stubin had set the timer on the explosives in the helicopter footlocker—left there for him by the Red-ops team when they’d landed—and blown up the Special Forces team when they landed. The sergeant babysitting him had barely even whimpered—even when Stubin beat him to death.

Stubin sighed. This operation had taken much longer than necessary. Stubin didn’t blame himself. Warren Streng had proven much harder to find than anyone could have guessed. The lottery ruse was a quick and relatively simple way to gather and interrogate a small group of people, and it had been used by the Red-ops many times throughout the world. Greed had no color, race, or political affiliation. But it turned out no one knew where the bastard was hiding. And even now that they’d found him, they couldn’t get him out of the bunker he’d built for himself. Under that fake deer was a steel hatch that couldn’t be forced open, not even by Ajax. If torturing Josh didn’t gain them entrance, they’d have to go back into town and raid the hardware store to make explosives.

Stubin checked his watch. The military had quarantined the town, as expected. But General Tope would be sending in more Special Forces units soon. Good as the Red-ops were, they were only five people, and Ajax was functioning in a diminished capacity and might not last the night.

Stubin wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. Truth told, he hated these monsters that the army had forced him to create. Ajax cut up his parents at the age of eleven. Bernie had been given the death penalty for burning down a nursing home. Taylor—a vicious schizoid serial killer—was another death-row rescue. They’d gotten Santiago from South America, a sadistic freelance interrogator who wound up working for the wrong side and was captured by the CIA. And Logan was another psycho who’d been plucked from the mental ward, prone to such violent outbursts that her diet consisted mainly of thorazine.

Human garbage, each of them. But they were the only ones he was allowed to perform the implantations on. The only ones he could experiment on. The military spent incredible amounts of time and money teaching soldiers how to kill, and some of them still hesitated at the moment of truth. How much easier it was to take killers and turn them into soldiers.

So now, under his care, he had five Hannibal Lecters with Rambo training and transhuman modifications. The Chip made them programmable, controllable. The Charge rebooted the Chip when it sensed other thoughts interfering with the program. It also fine-tuned their instincts, making them more aggressive, faster, stronger. There were also indications it unlocked powers of the mind known only to monks and mystics. The ability to withstand pain. To function in extreme conditions. To heal faster. Some experiments had shown it could even enhance extrasensory perception.

But who was utilizing this untold power? Who was the subject of his brilliance?

Psychotics and maniacs.

What a waste of my talents, Stubin thought.

Stubin wanted to work on normal people, not crazies. But the government wouldn’t allow it, and no private company would dare fund such a project. When he acquired the film, everything would change. After spending decades being a slave of the U.S. government, he’d get out of his indentured servitude and wind up with some serious money, as well. Stubin figured the film was worth at least two hundred million. He’d set up another lab, one with complete freedom, in Mexico. He’d run his experiments on the locals—bribes ensuring the full blessing of the Mexican government.

And what better way to fulfill his dream than to use the very Red-ops unit he’d been forced to create? They were supposed to be in Afghanistan now, wiping out some village where the Taliban was suspected of hiding. But Stubin decided to run his own program instead. Instead of the Middle East, he brought them here, to find Warren Streng.

The military thought they could control Stubin, keep him in line.

They had greatly underestimated him.

A dog whined nearby, and Stubin froze. That stupid mutt the kid doted on. Maybe if breaking Josh’s fingers couldn’t get them to open the doors, setting the dog on fire would.

“Here, doggy,” Stubin said, his voice high-pitched and sounding ridiculous. “Here, Woof. Come to Dr. Stubin.”

Woof jumped out from behind a tree, his tail wagging. He had some rope tied around his snout.

“Good boy. Come here. Come here, doggy.”

The beagle took a few tentative steps toward Stubin and stopped, looking away.

Then the gunfire began.

Josh had been willing to die to protect Fran and Duncan. He didn’t want his suffering to put them in jeopardy and had done his best to not react to the pain. Seeing the hatch open made him feel dirty, as if he hadn’t tried hard enough.

Santiago continued to hold him, putting a knife up to his throat. Taylor blended into the woods. Ajax stood there watching.

Two seconds passed.

Then five.

Ajax approached the entrance. Then the hatch closed again.

Before Josh could figure out what was happening he heard half a dozen shots come from behind. He was pushed forward, Santiago falling on top of him.

Josh rolled onto his side and Santiago was already up and stumbling into the woods. Someone ran up to Josh and fired a shotgun in Santiago’s direction, then swung it ninety degrees and fired at the retreating Ajax.

“You hit?” Warren Streng asked Josh.

Josh had no idea. It had all happened so fast.

“How did you—?”

“Back entrance. Came at them from behind. Fran worked the hatch as a diversion. You hit?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then move your ass.”

Josh didn’t have to be told twice. They hurried to the entrance and Warren twisted one of the dead deer’s hooves. The hatch opened, revealing a metal slide.

“Thanks for—”

“Not over yet. They’re watching us, and now they know how to get in. Move.” Warren stared down at Josh’s mangled right hand. “Can you shoot lefty?” he asked.

“Not very well.”

Warren handed Josh a massive handgun. “Now’s your chance to learn. Anything that comes down the ramp, kill it.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to put an end to this. How many?”

“Santiago, Taylor, Ajax is the big one. And Dr. Stubin—he’s the leader.”

“I also saw a girl.”

Josh shook his head.

“Are they armed?”

“I only saw knives. But they’re experts with them. Also, there’s a dog. Woof. He’s one of the good guys.”

Warren nodded, shoved Josh onto the ramp, and the firefighter fell onto his butt and slid down into the darkness. Josh almost dropped the gun, and his broken fingers banged against the wall, causing him to cry out. He saw purple light below, and when he hit the bottom someone pointed a shotgun at his head.

Fran.

She set the gun on the ground and hugged him, hugged him so hard that it almost hurt. Josh hugged her back, surprised by the depth of emotion he felt. He never wanted to let go.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her cheek on his ear.

“I’ll live. Duncan?”

“He’s here, with Sheriff Streng.”

A clanging sound from the outside. Warren had closed the hatch.

“They’re coming,” Josh said.

“I know. My father told me what to do.”

“Your father?”

“Long story. Come on.”

Fran picked up the gun and led Josh to the only doorway in the large room. It opened up to a brightly lit hallway. When Fran saw his hand she lost all color.

“Oh, my God, Josh. And your face …”

She touched his chin, which he didn’t feel because he was still numb from the lidocaine. The blurry vision had returned. He removed the metal case from his pocket but couldn’t open it with only one hand.

“We can deal with that later,” he said. “Can you open this and break one of the capsules under my nose? I’ve got cyanide poisoning.”

“Oh, Josh …”

Fran didn’t ask how it happened, which saved him from telling her that most of the town had been killed. They could compare horror stories when they were safe.

The Charge fumes hit, and it was like being shaken awake. After a minute of deep breaths he felt better.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked.

“Warren said this hall was a perfect bottleneck. We’re going to catch them in a crossfire, me in the kitchen, you in the storage room.”

“Sounds good. Let’s—”

Josh stopped midsentence as they both heard the unmistakable sound of the hatch opening.

Wiley lifted the night-vision monocular to his eye and surveyed the woods around him. All clear. He hadn’t bothered with the ghillie suit because it was bulky and often became tangled on things; Wiley wanted to be able to move as fast as possible. He wasn’t sure that at his age, in his condition, he could take out three highly trained soldiers, even though he had the firepower advantage. But that wasn’t his goal. You didn’t win at chess by killing pawns—you won by checkmating the king.

The night was as cool and crisp as biting into an apple, something he hadn’t done in a while. Wiley ordered supplies and food through the Internet, using a credit card with a false name and a delivery service that drop shipped pallets to his property once a month. Fresh produce didn’t make the cut.

Wiley butted up to a pine tree, breathing heavy, and absently wondered if Duncan liked apples. There were a lot of things he wondered about Duncan, and Fran. Maybe, if he cleaned up this mess, he’d have a chance to learn some of those things.

Most men never got a second chance. But this was Wiley’s. To make it right. To stop being afraid.

To finally forgive himself.

He peered through the monocular, the lens gathering up the ambient light and focusing it into a green image. There, thirty yards away, a man walking a dog. He saw the outline of the helmet, the different uniform, and watched the man walk through the woods with the grace of a drunk on roller skates. Dr. Stubin.

He came at them from the side, staying low and stopping every four paces to check for other enemy combatants. As he got closer, he noted Stubin wasn’t carrying any weapons and the dog wasn’t on a leash. The dog would pick up his scent, or hear him, any time now. Wiley decided to speed up the process.

Hiding behind a thick oak, Wiley hooted like an owl. Woof responded by whining.

“It’s just an owl, you stupid dog,” Wiley heard the man say.

When Woof poked his nose behind the tree, Wiley gave him a pat on the head, stepped out, and pointed the shotgun in the guy’s face.

“Hoot hoot,” Wiley said.

Stubin called for help. Or at least he began to before Wiley broke his nose with the stock of the Benelli. The man dropped to his knees, sobbing and gushing blood. Wiley kicked him over, put a foot on his chest.

“You’re Stubin, right?”

“Yes … yes …”

“You running the show?”

“You broke my nose …”

Wiley touched the shotgun barrel to Stubin’s head.

“Are you running the show?”

“I’m … I’m a scientist …”

“Then you’re no use to me.”

Wiley unclipped the tactical folder from his belt and flicked open the blade with his thumb.

“I’m the leader,” Stubin blubbered.

“You’re going to call off your men.”

“I … can’t.”

Wiley pressed the blade to Stubin’s cheek.

“I can’t! They have microchips implanted in their brains … they’re following an uploaded program … they won’t stop until their mission is complete, no matter what I tell them. I’d have to reflash their BIOS, and I only have that equipment back at my lab!”

“So the only way to stop them is to kill them?”

“Yes!”

Wiley waited. Stubin lasted three seconds before shaking his head, sprinkling blood and tears.

“No! There’s an EPFCG in Mathison’s collar. You press the button, it explodes, emitting an electromagnetic pulse. It will fry everything electronic within fifty yards.”

“Define everything.”

“Integrated circuits, vacuum tubes, transistors, inductors. And the chips in their heads.”

“This is in the monkey’s collar?”

“Yes. Yes! I told you how to do it.”

“Then I really don’t need you anymore.” Wiley raised the knife.

“But you do need me! You do! I can give your life back!”

Wiley waited.

“Do you still have the film?” Stubin asked. “Of the training exercise on the Vietnam village?”

“That wasn’t a training exercise. It was butchery.”

“They were an early prototype of the Red-ops program. I used organic brain modification back then—surgery. And the drugs weren’t as pure. The microchips make them much more controllable.”

Wiley didn’t get it. “If you had a hand in that, what do you need the film for? It’s been sitting in a box for thirty years. I wasn’t a threat to you or your program.”

“I need it for money. Just like you.”

Wiley thought it through.

“You want out,” he said.

“Badly.”

“Why didn’t you just expose this yourself?”

Stubin shook his head. “No proof. Since that film got lost, nothing has been allowed to be documented. There’s no paperwork. No photos. No video. No record of anything I’ve done. You can guess how that’s torture to a scientist. Plus I’m like a prisoner. I’m forced to live in my lab, and it’s searched twice a day. I have six people watching me at all times, even though they have no clue why. I do my research on an encrypted computer, and I don’t even know the code. Only one man in the whole nation has clearance.”

“The major,” Wiley said. “The one on the film.”

“Yes.”

Wiley shook his head. “I got news for you, buddy. If you try to blackmail him, he’ll come after you, too.”

Stubin blinked. “Blackmail him? I’m going to sell the film to our enemies. They’ll pay hundreds of millions to embarrass the United States.”

“He’ll still come after you,” Wiley said.

“He’ll be kicked out the military and arrested for war crimes. But even if he tries, I’ll be on foreign soil, with an army of Red-ops around me. As soon as I get the film, I’m leaving the country with the unit. They can protect you, too. You can come with us. We’ll split the money.”

Wiley looked around, scanning the trees for unfriendlies.

“Money’s not something I need,” he said.

“What do you need?”

“To correct my mistake.”

Wiley raised his knife again. Stubin’s eyes got wide.

“I’m a scientist!” he said, talking fast. “I’m doing this for the good of mankind. I’m going to help millions of people. My research is revolutionary. Please.”

His eyes were wide and pleading.

“Sometimes good people do bad things,” Wiley whispered.

“Exactly! Sometimes you have to do things that aren’t ethical for the greater good.”

Wiley said, “I agree.”

The blade was sharp and went through Stubin’s neck without too much trouble. Wiley wiped it off on Stubin’s shoulder, clipped it back onto his belt, and pulled the clothesline from Stubin’s dead hand. He used the monocular to check the area, found it clear, and jogged with Woof down to the dry creek bed, where his second entrance was hidden behind the exposed root system of a large fir tree hugging the bank.

Unlike the main entrance, this was for emergencies only, and Wiley had to get on his belly to fit inside. He pulled on a fake root and tugged open the door, then called Woof to the small opening, patted his head, and took the rope off his snout. The dog sniffed at the hole, then happily climbed in. Wiley followed, feetfirst so he could close the door behind him. The tunnel was actually a PVC pipe with a four-foot circumference, roughly fifty feet long. It angled into the ground at a slighter incline than his main ramp. Wiley had to pause several times to catch his breath and allow his heart rate slow down.

The tube let out into his kitchen closet. Woof jumped on him and licked his face when Wiley made it through. Wiley patted the dog on the head, opened the closet door, and said, “Don’t shoot,” when Fran swung her shotgun at him.

The expression on Fran’s face when she saw Woof was priceless. The beagle ran right to her, and she rubbed its muzzle and kissed his nose, beaming. It reminded Wiley of Fran’s wedding, the last time he’d seen her smile. He hadn’t meant to crash the ceremony, hadn’t meant to be intrusive. Wiley went out of curiosity, not to cause trouble. But the curiosity turned to regret and self-loathing, which led to drinking too much and getting into a shoving match with Fran’s stepfather—a much better man than Wiley ever was.

Wiley watched Fran and Woof, silently jealous of the dog.

“Thank you,” Fran said without looking at him. “And thank you for saving Josh.”

“He’s in the storage room?”

“Yes. The Red-ops, they’re inside, too, but haven’t gotten through the hallway door.”

Wiley figured it would take them a while. It was a steel security door with a brace across the center. Impossible to open without tools. Unfortunately, they had a whole garage full of tools in there with them.

A floor-shaking BAM! coming from the hallway confirmed they’d already gotten started.

“I’ll send Josh in here with you,” Wiley said. “Go give Duncan his dog.”

Fran nodded, heading for the door.

Wiley called to her. “Hold on a second.”

She stopped. He went to her. “Aim the shotgun at the door.”

Fran complied. Her angle was good, but she had the butt tucked under her armpit rather than tight in the shoulder. Wiley got behind her, helped her adjust the stock.

“It’s got a recoil buffer, but it will still kick. Lean into it when you start firing. And don’t be scared by the noise—it will be the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.”

“Am I aiming right?” Fran asked.

He put his hand on hers, raised the barrel.

“Match up the back sight with the front sight.”

“Like this?”

I’m actually holding my daughter, Wiley thought.

“Perfect. You’re doing perfect.”

Wiley released her, watched her walk away. Then he went to the storage room, calling out before entering so Josh didn’t shoot him.

“Thanks again for saving my ass,” Josh said.

“I want you to go into the kitchen with Fran and Duncan. We’re going to hold them off as long as we can, then I want you three to go into the closet and escape the back way, up the tube.”

“What about you and Sheriff Streng?”

“He can’t make it, and I won’t leave him. When the soldiers get in they’ll have access to my weapons. I want you to be long gone by then. Understand?”

Josh nodded.

“One more thing. When all this is over, you should come back here. In those boxes, next to the bottled water, are a few hundred thousand dollars worth of gold, gems, cash. And take this.” He handed Josh a thin black object, made of plastic. It was about the size of his fingernail, and said “8GB” on the top. “A micro SD card. Can be read on computers and cell phones. It holds a digital copy of an old eight-millimeter film.”

“Fran told me about it.”

“Make sure the press gets it. Tell them what you’ve seen here, what’s been happening.”

“I will.”

“Where’s that monkey? Mathison?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen Fran.”

“We need to—”

Wiley caught a blur in his peripheral vision—someone running past the doorway. Someone in black.

Dammit! They must have followed me in through the PVC pipe.

Wiley raced into the hall, saw Santiago pulling off the barricade, yanking open the door.

That big son of a bitch, Ajax, rushed in like a charging linebacker.

Wiley shot slug after slug at him, emptying the Benelli, not missing a single one.

The giant staggered, bleeding from the face and neck, his body armor smoking where the shots hit. But the son of a bitch kept coming.

Wiley dropped the gun and pulled his Glock, backpedaling as he squeezed the trigger, Josh racing to the great room ahead of him.

Ajax got within ten yards.

Wiley aimed for the face, but the huge man was enraged, shaking his big head from side to side like a bull, picking up speed.

Eight yards away, coming on fast. He was going to plow right into Wiley, and the force would no doubt cripple or kill the older man.

Wiley took a different approach. Rather than try to follow the swaying of Ajax’s head, he kept the Glock rock steady. He forced out a breath, sighted down the barrel of his weapon, waiting for the massive forehead to line up with his sights.

Five yards and closing.

Ajax bellowed.

Wiley kept both eyes open and fired.

The bullet entered Ajax’s face just below his right eye, making a small hole. As it left his skull the hole was much larger, blowing out a section of skull big enough to put a fist into.

Ajax dropped to his knees and pitched forward like a felled tree, a mist of red floating to the floor after him.

But it was too late; the other two had gotten into the storage room, and to the guns.

Wiley turned and ran, following Josh into the great room, locking the door behind him.

Duncan went from being very happy to being very scared. Mom brought in Woof, and told him Josh and Wiley were also okay, and just when he started hugging his dog there were gunshots and Josh and Wiley came running in.

“Cover the door,” Wiley said. “They’re coming, and they’re coming armed. Duncan! Where’s that monkey?”

Duncan was too surprised to speak. He pointed to the sofa. Mathison sat on the armrest, looking agitated.

“Duncan, you need to grab his collar. It’s really a special kind of bomb. It has a button. You press it and it will kill the bad guys.”

“How?” Duncan managed.

“They have microchips in their heads. This sends a signal, breaks the chips.”

“Mathison has a chip in his head. Will it hurt him, too?”

Wiley stared at him, and Duncan could tell by his expression that it would hurt Mathison.

“He’s my friend,” Duncan said.

“Duncan, we’re all going to die if we don’t press that button.”

Duncan nodded and swallowed. He walked slowly over to Mathison, the tears making it hard to see.

“I’m sorry, little guy,” Duncan said. “It’s the only way to save everyone.”

Mathison put his tiny paws on his scarred head and screeched. Duncan wondered if he understood what Wiley had said. Duncan held out his hand, trying not to cry too much, and the monkey leapt off the sofa and darted across the room.

Shooting, from the hallway. Duncan turned and saw the door begin to shake. He ran after Mathison, but the monkey screeched at him again and tugged at his collar.

He did understand, Duncan thought. And he doesn’t want to die.

“They’re here!” Wiley yelled.

Duncan looked over at the doorway just as everyone began to fire their guns. The room sounded like bombs were going off, so loud that it hurt Duncan’s head. He knew he should fire back, try to help, but it was so noisy and he was so scared and he was just a kid and what could he do anyway?

The shooting went on and on, and Duncan crouched down with hands pressed to his ears and started to cry, wishing it would end.

Finally Wiley yelled, “Conserve your ammo!” and everyone stopped.

All the gunfire had made the room smoky, and Duncan waved his palm to clear the air and see. Mathison was gone. Josh and Mom were behind the table. Wiley and Sheriff Streng were behind the sofa. Duncan realized he’d dropped his gun somewhere. He scanned the floor but didn’t see it.

“I’m out of bullets!” Josh said. His voice sounded far away. “So is Fran!”

“Where’s the ammo bag?” Wiley called.

“I left it in the kitchen,” Fran said. “Where’s Duncan? Duncan!”

“I’m here, Mom!”

Fran crawled over, hugging him.

“Where’s your gun, baby?”

Duncan was sobbing now, full blown. “I … I dropped it. I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t want us all to die.”

“It’s not your fault, baby,” she was crying, too, and she smoothed his hair and touched his cheek and looked so sad. “It’s not your fault.”

Josh scooted over, putting his arms around both of them.

More gunshots, from Wiley. Then he yelled, “I can’t hold them! They’re coming in!”

Duncan closed his eyes. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too bad when they killed him.

And then he heard someone cooing.

Mathison.

The monkey walked up, walked up on two legs just like a little person. He had his collar in his tiny hand and was holding it out for Duncan. He looked so sad.

Duncan took the collar, which was thick and heavy. He ran his fingers over it and found the button under the buckle.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Mathison.

He patted the monkey on the head, right on his scar. Instead of flinching away, Mathison closed his eyes and opened his arms to be held. Duncan embraced him, hugging hard.

“Bye-bye, Mathison.” Duncan told him, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Then he pressed the button and threw the collar at the door.

There was a loud crackling sound, a flash, and the lights went off. The room became darker, but not totally black, because of the candles he and Mom had lit earlier.

“They’re down!” Josh yelled. “The Red-ops are down!”

Everyone cheered but Duncan. He cried, softly stroking the belly of his friend, Mathison, limp in his lap.

He did it,” Wiley said. “Duncan did it.” The words came out more like a rasp, and then he fell to his knees and onto his side.

“Josh!” Ace yelled. “Something happened to my brother!”

Wiley heard people walk over, saw them bringing candles. Josh crouched next to him, pressed his fingers to his carotid.

“Talk to me, Warren,” Josh said. “What happened? Were you shot?”

“No,” Wiley said. It was tough to breathe. And it hurt. He forgot how much it hurt.

“Help me look for wounds. Let’s get his shirt off.”

Josh and Fran tugged at his clothes and Josh said, “Oh … Warren.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, you old bastard?” Streng asked.

“We weren’t … we weren’t exactly on speaking terms, Ace.”

“How long ago?”

Wiley touched the scar on his breastbone. “Ten years. Went to the ER in Madison. They put in the pacemaker.” He winked at his brother. “Runs on a microchip.”

“Fran told me about the film,” Ace said. “That’s why you didn’t stay in touch.”

“People after me. Too dangerous. Didn’t want them to go after you or our parents.”

Someone grabbed his hand. He stared, saw it was Fran. She squeezed it tight, and he tried to squeeze it back.

“Wiley!” Duncan ran over, knelt next to him. He was still holding the monkey, and he set its dead body down on the sofa. “What’s wrong, Wiley?”

Wiley coughed. “Bad heart, son. Couldn’t take all the excitement.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Wiley shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Duncan. I really would have liked to go fishing with you.”

Duncan hugged him, and for the second time in far too long, Wiley smiled.

“Do you like apples?” he asked his grandson.

“Yeah, Grandpa. I like apples.”

Wiley cleared his throat, and then he felt his heart beat for the last time.

“I like apples, too.”

• • •

Streng closed his eyes. An hour ago, he’d wanted to kick Wiley’s ass. But now he felt a loss even greater than his missing leg.

Though Streng hadn’t followed his brother’s footsteps into seclusion, he did live alone. He had a job, yes, and buddies, and even a small circle of lady friends to help keep warm on chilly winter nights. But Streng had never married, never had children. Wiley was the last of his family. And just as they were rebuilding their relationship after half a lifetime apart, he was taken away.

“How are you doing?” Josh placed his hand on Streng’s shoulder. “Your leg, I mean.”

“I’m managing.”

“The front entrance won’t open. It runs on electricity. But there’s a secret exit. It’s going to be hard on you. We’ll have to pull you up with rope.”

Streng shook his head. “I think I’ll stay here a while. I’ve got food, medicine. Even if you get me out, we can’t get to a hospital.”

“I’ve got a plan for that. And we won’t leave you behind.”

Streng saw the seriousness in Josh’s expression and gave in.

“Okay. Wiley’s desk chair has wheels on it. Let’s roll that bad boy over here and get me mobile.”

Streng tucked the Taurus into his belt and allowed Fran and Josh to manhandle him into the chair. It took every speck of effort he had left not to scream when they set him down too fast and three of the clamps knocked against the floor, but he managed to contain it.

“What about Grandpa and Mathison?” Duncan said. “Are we leaving them here?”

“We’ll come back for them, Duncan. We have to get the sheriff to a hospital first.”

Duncan patted Mathison on the head and reluctantly followed.

“Come, Woof.”

Woof sat next to Wiley and didn’t move.

“Woof, come!” Duncan said again.

Woof licked Wiley’s face, then howled. Then he moved to Mathison and nudged the monkey with his nose.

“Woof!” Fran yelled. “Come, now!”

Woof picked up Mathison in his mouth, ever so gently, and trotted after them.

“Woof! Put that down!”

“It’s okay, Fran,” Streng said. “Woof just isn’t ready to say good-bye yet.”

Duncan joined Josh behind Streng’s chair, helping him push. They moved slowly, no hurry, no speaking, everyone holding candles. It reminded Streng of a funeral vigil.

They gave a wide berth to the dead bodies of Santiago and Taylor and rolled Streng into the dark hallway, maintaining silence. Streng remembered how angry he’d been with Wiley when he shipped all of his black-market stolen goods to their parents’ house after the war, telling their father to hide it all, implicating them in his crimes. Then he remembered a time many years earlier, when he’d twisted an ankle playing in the woods, and Wiley carried him home on his back.

Wiley had known there was a chip in his pacemaker. He told Duncan to press the EMP anyway, to save their lives. That was the Wiley that Streng swore he would remember.

Their procession moved into the kitchen, quiet and solemn. Streng almost felt it sacrilegious to speak.

“Josh, there should be rope in the storage room. Fran will go up first, then Duncan, then you, and the three of you can pull me up.”

“What about Woof?” Duncan asked.

Streng turned to Josh. “Is it too steep for Woof?”

“It’s a plastic pipe. His paws will slip.”

“Then he can go up before me.”

“What if you get stuck?” Fran said. “One of us should go up behind you, if we have to push.”

Streng sighed. “Okay, I’ll go up third, then Josh.”

“Josh can’t use his hand,” Fran said. “He can’t push. I’ll go up last.”

“Fran—” Streng and Josh said it at the same time.

“It will be okay. Let’s find some rope.”

Josh went off to the storage room. Streng stared at Fran and Duncan, and the realization hit him. Wiley hadn’t been the last of his family. Fran was his niece, and Duncan his great-nephew. The thought warmed him.

“I found rope,” Josh said. “And some Demoral, Fran, for your toes.”

“How about your fingers?” she said.

“Are you kidding? I’m so numb I could play tennis.”

Josh attended to Fran, giving her a shot in the foot. Then Fran tied one end of the rope under Streng’s armpits and the other to Josh’s belt.

“Be careful,” she said to Josh.

“I will.”

They looked deep into each other’s eyes for so long that Streng finally said, “You going to kiss, or stare at each other all day?”

Josh kissed her. Duncan giggled. Then Josh went into the closet and up the hole.

They waited, listening to Josh’s progress, every grunt and wheeze getting farther. After two minutes he yelled down, “I made it!”

“Can you do this, Duncan?” Streng asked.

“No problem. I bet I’m faster than Josh.”

“I bet you are, too.”

And then something chirped. Streng looked around, wondering where the sound came from. Another chirp, and Streng determined the sound was coming from Woof.

The dog gingerly set Mathison onto the floor.

The monkey chirped again.

“Mathison!” Duncan exclaimed. He scooped the primate up and rubbed his belly. “Josh! Mathison’s alive!”

Streng’s smile died on his face.

“Fran, you and Duncan up the pipe, now.”

“Sheriff—”

“If Mathison didn’t die, the others might still be alive, too.”

Fran nodded, hurrying Duncan to the hole. He began to climb, Mathison perched on his shoulder. Fran got in after him.

“We’ll pull you up as soon as we get to the top.”

Streng nodded and said, “Go!” Then he undid the knot on his chest and tied the rope around Woof’s chest.

“Take care of them, boy,” he said.

Woof licked his face and then yelped as he got jerked off his feet and up the pipe.

Streng took the Taurus out of his pants and looked in the cylinder. No bullets. He checked his man purse and found two left.

One for Santiago. One for Taylor.

He’d be damned if he let those creatures touch his family.

Streng set the gun in his lap and waited.

Santiago came in first.

“Hello, Sheriff. You’re not looking very well.”

Santiago held a large-caliber semiauto in one hand and a knife in the other.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that the EMP didn’t kill you,” Streng said.

“Kill me?” Santiago smiled. “It liberated me. I’m a free man now, Sheriff. I don’t have to follow orders anymore.”

“Good. Then you can leave us alone.”

Santiago laughed.

“This isn’t about finishing the mission. This is about revenge. Your brother hurt me, Sheriff. The body armor stopped the bullets, but I’m all broken inside. And you broke my cheekbone.”

“I hope it’s painful,” Streng said.

“It’s very painful. And the only thing that helps when I’m feeling this way is to take out my pain on someone else. Like you and your friends. Your suffering will go on for days. I’ll make you scream so much your throat will go raw. You’ll beg me for—”

In one smooth motion Streng picked up the Taurus and shot Santiago above the nose. The Magnum round blew the entire back of his head off, shutting the son of a bitch up for good.

The killer crumpled, and Streng used his remaining foot to push himself over to the body, anxious to reach the dropped gun.

“Sheriff!” Fran called down from the pipe.

Streng ignored her, concentrating on the semiautomatic. If he got it in time, he might be able to end this once and for—

The first bullet hit Streng in the stomach. The next two punched into his chest.

Streng fell off the chair, onto his back, the Taurus flying across the room. Streng couldn’t breathe, and he began to shiver even though it wasn’t cold.

Taylor walked over and stared down at Streng. He was smiling. Streng reached up behind him, searching for Santiago’s gun. His fingers touched something else instead.

“You …” Streng said.

“Yes, Sheriff. It’s me.”

“You … have … got …”

Taylor leaned down, grabbed Streng by his shirt. It didn’t hurt; Streng was past the point of feeling pain. But he knew he had only seconds before he died, and he really needed to get this in.

“You’ve …” Streng whispered, “… got … something …”

“Speak up, old man.”

Streng smiled, blood bubbling up from his lips, but he managed to say, “In … your … eye …”

Then he brought up the knife he’d taken from Santiago’s hand and stabbed Taylor in the face.

• • •

Taylor flinched in time, and the knife missed his eye socket and glanced off his cheekbone. He brought up a hand to feel for damage and found he could touch his teeth through the new hole in his cheek.

Taylor screamed in pain and rage and began to stomp on the sheriff, which did nothing, because the man had already died. He stormed over to the sink, pressed a towel to his face, and began to tremble. Then he set his gun on the countertop and automatically reached for the Charge capsules. Taylor broke one under his nose and—

—nothing. It didn’t relieve the pain. Didn’t calm his mind. Didn’t focus his thoughts. Taylor threw the capsules onto the floor, made a fist, and punched a cabinet, splitting the wooden door in half. His brain was a mess of signals, each one telling him to do something different. It used to get like that sometimes, before Dr. Stubin put the Chip in. He couldn’t figure out what to do next, but then the answer appeared in his head and blinked like a beacon.

Kill them. Kill them all.

Taylor picked up the gun and raced for the closet. He shoved his upper body into the PVC pipe and began to crawl. His cheek continued to bleed, making his hands slip on the plastic, and that only fueled his rage. He’d kill that fucker Josh first. Or maybe he’d just break his knees, so he could watch what Taylor did to the woman and the boy. From now on, his only mission objective, for the rest of his life, was Have Fun.

The outdoors smell hit Taylor, and he saw he was close to the exit. He stuck his head out of the hole and looked around, squinting at the darkness, seeking out his prey.

“Hey!”

Taylor craned his neck up and saw Fran standing above the opening, holding a very large rock.

Then everything went black.

Fran followed Josh’s directions and made a left, turning the Bronco onto Pine Glen Way. She had never been so tired in her life.

In the back seat, Duncan, Woof, and Mathison all slept in a big pile. To her right, Josh held her hand between turns.

“This is a dumb question,” Josh said, “But how are you doing?”

Fran pictured it happening once again—Taylor’s head coming out of the hole, her raising up the rock, smashing it onto his face. She hadn’t intended to get his attention first, but it seemed proper that he saw it coming. And it had to be her doing it. Not only because Josh couldn’t lift anything with his broken fingers, but because killing Taylor herself was the only way she’d ever be able to sleep again.

“I’m okay,” she answered.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She felt Josh hold her hand a little bit tighter.

“Adam’s house is at the next clearing. Right here.”

Fran turned and put the truck into park. Josh took the keys, and Fran carried Duncan around the house, down the pier, to Adam Pepper’s pontoon boat. Woof and Mathison tagged along. They boarded the boat, and Josh used the keys to start it while Fran untied the mooring lines.

Big Lake McDonald was still, quiet. A huge orange hunter’s moon reflected on the surface, and Fran felt herself get a little sleepy. She snuggled up to Duncan in the back seat while Josh guided them to the inlets, made his way into the river, and took it downstream.

“We have a full tank of gas, and we’re making good time,” Josh said. “The Chippewa River feeds a tributary right before the waterfall. We can take it to Eau Claire. They have a hospital.”

Fran closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were passing Safe Haven and the section of the river where she’d jumped in. It seemed like a very long time ago.

“You and Duncan can stay with me for a few days,” Josh said. “For as long as you need to. When I get my hand patched up, I’m going back to Wiley’s. Since he and Sheriff Streng are, um, gone, you’re the sole heir. Wiley showed me some money, some gold. That’s yours now. He wanted you to have it. Plus, he gave me a digital copy of that film you saw, told me to take it to the press.”

Fran liked that idea, going to the press. It sort of reversed the curse her father had brought upon the town. She also liked the idea of living with Josh for a few days.

This time she wasn’t going to let him get away.

“I think—” Fran began, stopping when she saw the five military boats speeding their way.

• • •

General Alton Tope pressed end on the laptop, signing off the mobile USAVOIP security connection a few seconds after the president hung up. The satellite photos, and early reports from the infiltration team, had been grim. Safe Haven had been annihilated. Almost a thousand people killed. A very impressive display.

Tope had been somewhat curious how the commander in chief of the armed forces would handle the situation but wasn’t surprised by his decision. A cover-up and media blackout would save the nation from embarrassment, worldwide disapproval, and a whopper of a lawsuit by the relatives of the slaughtered. The casualties would be blamed on a carbon monoxide leak. The area would be sealed off until the Red-ops team was found and dealt with. End of crisis.

But then they found the survivors. People who had been there.

They were thoroughly searched. So was the boat. Nothing of interest was discovered.

The man, Josh, claimed they didn’t know anything. He said he mangled his hand in a boating accident, the same accident that hurt Fran and her son, Duncan. Fran stuck to the same story. The boy started to cry when questioned, and they hadn’t been able to get anything out of him.

Their explanation for having Dr. Stubin’s monkey was also plausible—they found it on the road. Tope knew that Stubin and the monkey were dropped off at the original crash site. When the second chopper exploded, the monkey could have run off.

But Tope had popped in during their questioning and felt in his bones they were holding back. These people knew something. Something that was a threat to the country.

If it had been up to him he would have dealt with it differently. Tope was very good at covering things up. The secret was to tie up all loose ends. But it wasn’t Tope’s call. The president’s orders in regard to the survivors had to be followed, much as it left a bad taste in Tope’s mouth.

The army had taken over an office building outside of Safe Haven, as a base of operations. Tope left his makeshift command post and walked down the hall. Two soldiers guarded the break room where the survivors were housed. They saluted. Tope returned the salute and dismissed them. He unbuckled the strap on his sidearm and walked into the room.

They were sitting together, their arms around each other, looking appropriately scared. But defiant, too. Even the boy. That proved to Tope that they’d lived through something. He’d seen that look before, in combat troops who had witnessed heavy action. The thousand-yard stare.

“I know you’re lying,” Tope said.

No one answered.

“You may have seen some things,” Tope went on. “You might even think you know what’s going on. But how important do you think the lives of three people are compared to national security?”

Tope leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

“This situation will be resolved. And not in a way that will be satisfying to you. You’ll be tempted to talk to the media, try to explain what happened, set the record straight. You’ll have no proof, of course. We’re almost done cleaning up everything. But if you try, you’ll be found and dealt with. If it were up to me, you’d be dealt with right now. No offense.”

“You’re an asshole,” Josh said. “No offense.”

Tope leaned over to Josh, resting his hand on the butt of his .45.

“Your new home is in Hawaii. You’ll be taken by helicopter to Dane County Regional Airport, where you’re booked on flight 2343 to Honolulu. You’ll be met at the airport by a man who will take you to your new house, and he’ll give you information to access your new bank account, which contains ten million dollars. You’ll quietly live out the rest of your lives there. You also have to cut all ties with friends and relatives and never try to contact them.”

“Too late,” Fran said. “They’re all dead.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, then. Are you willing to accept this offer?”

He drilled his eyes into them, hoping they’d refuse.

“Yes,” Josh said.

Tope nodded. He knew the president was wrong. These people would talk and cause all sorts of problems. The smart thing to do was take them out back and shoot them.

“Where’s Mathison and Woof?” Duncan asked.

Tope squinted at the boy. “Who?”

“The monkey and the dog,” Fran said. “We want them.”

“The dog goes with you. The monkey is government property.”

“We want the monkey, too,” Fran said.

Tope blinked, not believing what he was hearing. They were in no position to bargain.

“Give us Mathison,” Josh said, “And you’ll never have to worry about us blabbing.”

The general recalled the president’s words. Give them what they want. The man was soft, too soft to run the country the way it needed to be run. But Tope was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders. That was the way things worked. That was the way they would always work.

“Fine,” he said. “Don’t ever try to come back to the upper forty-eight.”

Then he turned on his heels and walked out the door.

No one spoke during the car ride to the airport. They were escorted through security, walked to the plane, and seated in the back, Fran between Josh and a very drowsy Duncan.

“What about the animals?” Fran asked their handlers, two soldiers in full dress uniform.

“You can pick them up at baggage claim,” she was told.

They were watched until everyone else had boarded, and then the soldiers left. The plane taxied to the runway, then took off. Fran kissed her sleeping son on the head. Then she looked at Josh.

“We did it,” she said.

“I was worried Duncan would say something. He’s a great kid.”

“When you told him we’d all die unless we lied, he took it to heart.”

“It was the truth. They would have killed us.”

“I know. That man, the one who knew we were lying. He was the one on the film. He was the major who started the Red-ops program.”

“Good,” Josh said. “Then we’ll bring him down, too.”

The captain came over the sound system, informing the passengers that the flight would take a little over thirteen hours. Fran reached up behind her, checked the scrunchie in her hair. The tiny micro SD card was still there, tucked between the fabric and elastic.

“We could do what they said,” she said. “Stay quiet. Spend the rest of our lives in Hawaii on their hush money.”

“Someone has to be accountable, Fran. Don’t you think?”

Fran nodded. That’s what she’d hoped Josh would say.

“And what if they come after us?” she asked.

Josh reached over, took her hand with his good one.

“If we survived this night, we can survive anything.”

She looked at him. “Together?”

“Together.”

Fran closed her eyes, rested her head against Josh’s shoulder, and, for the first time since her husband died, allowed herself to hope.

Taylor opened his eyes. He was still in the tube, and his head was killing him. The last thing he remembered was that bitch, Fran, dropping a rock on his face. Taylor reached up to feel the damage.

Except his arm didn’t work.

He tried his other arm and had identical results. He tried to turn around, but his legs, his toes, his ass: everything below his neck refused to move.

She’d paralyzed him. The bitch had paralyzed him.

Rage came first. Then panic. Then rage again. Then depression.

Minutes passed. Hours. The sun came up.

Taylor stared up at the sky, tears streaking down his face, and waited for those military assholes to find him. They’d help. After all, they were all on the same side. Maybe this wasn’t a permanent injury. Maybe something was just out of place. They could fix him. They could fix him and he’d track down that bitch and—

The coyote stopped a few yards away. Lean and gray, eyes intent. It stared at Taylor and sniffed the air.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he yelled.

The animal stayed where it was. Watching. Waiting.

A moment later, another one joined it.

Taylor shook his head and snarled. He shouted. He swore.

The two became three. Then four. The one who arrived first, the original one, came closer. So close that Taylor could smell his musky fur, his meaty breath. The coyote paused, then licked Taylor’s bloody cheek.

“Get away!”

It bit his shirt and began to pull. Two others joined in, jerking and tugging him out of the tube, dragging him to the dry creek bed.

They started on his fingers.

Taylor screamed and screamed and screamed for help. He screamed until his throat bled.

No help came.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Kilborn prefers not to share personal details about his life. He could be living anywhere. Possibly near you. Visit him at www.JackKilborn.com.

More chilling horror from

JACK KILBORN

Please turn this page for a preview of

TRAPPED

Available Winter 2010

Sara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort—that poor girl had been heaving nonstop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.

Sara closed her eyes, bending her knees slightly to absorb some of the pitch and roll. The nausea reminded Sara of her honeymoon. She and Martin had booked a Caribbean cruise, and their first full day as a married couple found both of them vomiting veal piccata and wedding cake into the Pacific. Lake Huron was smaller than the ocean, the wave crests not as high and troughs not as low. But they came faster and choppier, which made it almost as bad.

Sara opened her eyes, searching for Martin. The only one on deck was Cindy Welp, still perched over the railing. Sara approached the teen on wobbly footing, then rubbed her back. Cindy’s blond hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.

“How are you doing?” Sara asked.

Cindy wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Better. I don’t think there’s anything left in me.”

Cindy proved herself a liar a moment later, pulling away and retching once again. Sara gave her one last reassuring pat, then padded her way carefully up to the bow. The charter boat looked deceptively smaller before they’d gotten on. But there was a lot of space onboard; both a foredeck and an aft deck, a raised bow, plus two levels below boasting six rooms. Though they’d been sailing for more than two hours, Sara had only run into four of their eight-person party. Martin wasn’t one of them. It was almost like he was hiding.

Which, she supposed, he had reason to do.

A swell slapped the boat sideways, spritzing Sara with water. It tasted clean, just like the air. A gull cried out overhead, a wide white M against the shocking blue of sky. Sara squinted west, toward the sun. It was getting low over the lake, turning the clouds pink and orange, hinting at a spectacular sunset to come. A month ago, when she and Martin had planned this trip, staring at such a sun would have made her feel alive and loved. Watching it now made Sara sad. A final bow before the curtain closes for good.

Sara continued to move forward, her gym shoes slippery, and the warm summer breeze already drying the spray on her face. At the prow, Sara saw Tom Gransee, bending down like he was trying to touch the water rushing beneath them.

“Tom! Back in the boat, please.”

Tom spun around, saw Sara, and grinned. Then he took three quick steps and skidded across the wet deck like a skateboarder. Tom’s medication didn’t quite control his ADHD, and the teenager was constantly in motion. He even twitched when he slept.

“No running!” Sara called after him, but he was already on the other side of the cabin, heading below.

Sara peeked at the sun once more, retied the flapping floral print shirttails across her flat belly, and headed after Tom.

As she descended the tight staircase, the mechanical roar of the engine overtook the calm sound of the waves. The captain was the ninth person on the boat, and Sara hadn’t seen him lately either. Her only meeting with him was during their brief but intense negotiation when they arrived at the dock. He was a short, grizzled old man, tanned and wrinkled, and he fought with Martin about their destination, insisting on taking them someplace closer than Rock Island. He only relented after they agreed to bring a radio along, in case of emergencies.

Sara wondered where the captain was now. She assumed he was on the bridge, but didn’t know where to find it. Maybe Martin was with him. Sara wasn’t sure if her desire to speak with Martin was to console him or persuade him. Perhaps both. Or maybe they could simply spend a few moments together without talking. Sara could remember when silence between them was a healthy thing.

A skinny door flew open, and Meadowlark Purcell burst out. Meadow had a pink scar across the bridge of his flattened nose, a disfigurement from when he was blooded in to a Detroit street gang. The boy narrowed his dark brown eyes at Sara, then smiled in recognition.

“Hey, Sara. I be you, I wouldn’t go in there for a while.” He fanned his palm in front of his nose.

“I’m looking for Martin. Seen him?”

Meadow shook his head. “I be hangin’ with Laneesha and Tyrone, playin’ cards. We gonna be there soon?”

“Captain said two and a half hours, and we’re getting near that point.”

“True dat?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

Meadow wandered off. Sara closed the bathroom door and tried the one next to it. In the darkness she made out the shape of a chubby girl asleep on a skinny bed. Georgia. Sara tried the next door. Another cabin, this one empty. After a brief hesitation, Sara went into the room, pulled the folding bed away from the wall, and laid down.

The waves weren’t as pronounced down here, and the rocking motion was gentler. Sara again thought of her honeymoon with Martin. How, once they got their sea legs, they spent all of their time on the ship, in their tiny little cabin, skipping exotic ports to instead order room service and make love. After a rough beginning, it turned out to be a perfect trip.

Sara closed her eyes, and wished it could be like that again.

It was a night exactly like tonight, ten years ago,” Martin said. “Late summer. Full moon. Just before midnight. The woods were quiet. Quiet, but not completely silent. It’s never completely silent in the woods. It seems like it is, because we’re all used to the city. But there are always night sounds. Sounds that only exist when the sun goes down and the dark takes over. Everyone shut your eyes and listen for a moment.”

Sara indulged her husband, letting her eyelids close. Gone were the noises so common in Detroit; cars honking, police sirens, arguing drunks and cheering Tigers fans and bursts of live music when bar doors swung open. Instead, here on the island, there were crickets. A breeze whistling through the pines. An owl. The gentle snaps and crackles of the campfire they sat around.

After a few seconds someone belched.

“My bad,” Tyrone said, raising his hand.

This prompted laughter from almost everyone, Sara included. Martin kept his expression solemn, not breaking character. Seeing Martin like that made Sara remember why she fell in love with him. Her husband had always been passionate about life, and gave everything his all, whether it was painting the garage, starting a business, or telling silly campfire stories to scare their kids.

Her smile faded. They won’t be their kids for very much longer.

“It happened on an island,” Martin continued. “Just like this one. In fact, now that I think about it, this might actually be the island where it all happened.”

Tyrone snorted. “This better not be the same island, dog, or my black ass is jumping in that mofo lake ’n’ swimming back to civilization.”

More laughter, but this time it was clipped. Uneasy. These teenagers had never been this far from an urban environment, and weren’t sure how to act.

Sara shivered, zipping her sweatshirt up in front. All the things she wanted to say to Martin earlier were still bottled up inside because she didn’t have the chance. Since the boat dropped them off, it had been all about hiking and setting up camp and eating dinner. Sara hadn’t been alone with him once. He’d been intentionally avoiding her. But she hadn’t really tried that hard to corner him, either. Sara didn’t want to have the talk any more than he did.

“Was it really this island?” Laneesha asked. Her voice was condescending, almost defiant. But there was a bit of edge to it, a tiny hint of fear.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sara said. “Martin, tell her it wasn’t.”

Martin didn’t say anything, but he did give Laneesha a sly wink.

“So where was it?” Georgia asked.

“It wasn’t anywhere, Georgia.” Sara slapped at a mosquito that had been biting her neck, then wiped the tiny splot of blood onto her jeans. “This is a campfire story. It’s made up, to try to scare you.”

“It’s fake?” Georgia asked. “Pretend?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, it’s pretend. Right, Martin?”

Martin shrugged, still not looking at Sara.

“So what pretend-happened?” Laneesha asked.

“Eight people,” Martin said. He was sitting on an old tree stump, higher up than everyone else. “Camping just like we are. On a night like tonight. On what might be this very island. They vanished, these eight, never to be seen again. But some folks who live around here claim to know what happened. Some say those unfortunate eight people were subjected to things worse than death.”

Meadow folded his arms. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than death.”

Martin stared hard at the teenager. “There are plenty of things worse.”

No one spoke for a moment. Sara felt a chill. Maybe it was the cool night breeze, whistling through the woods. Or maybe it was Martin’s story, which she had to admit was getting sort of creepy. But Sara knew the chill actually went deeper. As normal as everyone seemed right now, it was only an illusion. Their little family was breaking apart.

But she didn’t want to think about that. Now, she wanted to enjoy this final camping trip, to make some good memories.

Sara scooted a tiny bit closer to the campfire and hugged her knees. The night sky was clear, the stars bright against the blackness of space, the hunter’s moon huge and tinged red. Beyond the smoke Sara could smell the pine trees from the surrounding woods, and the big water of Huron, a hundred yards to the west. As goodbyes went, this was a lovely setting for one.

She let her eyes wander over the group. Tyrone Morrow, seventeen, abandoned by parents who could no longer control him, running with one of Motor City’s worst street gangs for more than two years. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans so baggy he has to walk with one hand holding them up.

Meadow was on Tyrone’s right. He was from a rival Detroit club. That they were sitting next to each other was a commitment from each on how much they wanted out of the gangsta life.

On Meadow’s side, holding his hand, Laneesha Simms. Her hair was cropped almost as short as the boys’, but her make-up and curves didn’t allow anyone to mistake her for a man.

Georgia Dailey sat beside Laneesha. Sixteen, white, brunette, pudgy.

Tom Gransee predictably paced around the fire, tugging at his sleeveless tee like it was an extra skin he wanted to shed.

These were kids society had given up on, sentenced into their care by the courts. But Martin—and by extension, Sara—hadn’t given up on them. That was why they created the Second Chance Center.

Sara finally rested her gaze on Martin. The fire flickered across his handsome features, glinted in his blue eyes. He had aged remarkably well, looking thirty rather than forty, as athletic as the day she met him in a graduate psych class twelve years ago.

“On this dark night ten years ago,” Martin continued, “this group of eight people took a boat onto Lake Huron. The SS Minnow.”

Sara smiled, knowing she was the only one old enough to have caught the Gilligan’s Island reference, the boat the castaways had taken on their three-hour tour.

“They had some beer with them,” Martin said. “Some pot …”

“Hells yeah.” Tyrone and Meadow bumped fists.

“… and were set to have a big party. But one of the women—there were four men and four women, just like us—got seasick on the lake.”

“I hear that.” In her oversized jersey and sweatpants, Cindy looked tiny, shapeless. But Sara noted she’d gotten a little bit of her color back.

“So they decided,” Martin raised his voice, “to beach the boat on a nearby island, continue the party there. But they didn’t know the island’s history.”

Tom had stopped his pacing and was standing still, rare for him. “What history, Martin?”

Martin smiled. An evil smile, his chin down and his eyes hooded, the shadows drawing out his features and making him look like an angry wolf.

“In 1862, a prison was built on this island to house captured Confederate soldiers. Like many Civil War prisons, the conditions were horrible. But this one was worse than most. It was run by a war profiteer named Mordecai Plincer. He stole the money that was supposed to be used to feed the prisoners, and ordered his guards to beat them so they wouldn’t stage an uprising while they starved to death. He didn’t issue blankets, even during the winter months, giving them nothing more to wear than sacks with arms and leg holes cut out, even when temperatures dropped to below freezing.”

Sara wasn’t a history buff, but she was pretty sure there had never been a Civil War prison on an island in Lake Huron. She wondered if Martin was using Camp Douglas as the source of this tall tale. It was located in Chicago near Lake Michigan and considered the northern counterpart to the horrors committed at the Confederate prison, Andersonville. Yes, Martin had to be making this up. Though that name, Plincer, did sound familiar.

Martin tossed one of the logs they’d cut earlier onto the fire. It made a whump sound, throwing sparks and cinders.

“But those starving, tortured prisoners staged a rebellion anyway, killing all the guards, driving Plincer from the island. The Union, desperate to cover up their mistake, stopped sending supplies. But the strongest and craziest of the prisoners survived. Even though the food ran out.”

“How?” Tom asked. “You said there are no animals on this island.”

Martin smiled, wickedly. “They survived … by eating each other.”

“Oh, snap.” Tyrone shook his head. “That shit is sick.”

Sara raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Cannibalism, Martin?”

Martin looked at her, in what felt like the first time in hours. She searched for some softness, some love, but he was all wrapped up in his menace act.

“Some were cooked. Some were eaten raw. And during the summer months, when meat would spoil, some were kept alive so they could be eaten piece by piece.”

Sara did a quick group check, wondering if this story was getting too intense. Everyone appeared deadly serious, their eyes laser-focused on Martin. No one seemed upset. A little scared, maybe, but these were tough kids. She decided to let Martin keep going.

Martin stood up, spreading out his hands. “Over the last five decades, more than a hundred people have vanished on this part of Lake Huron. Including those four men and women. What happened to them was truly horrible.”

The crickets picked that eerie moment to stop chirping.

Cindy eventually broke the silence. “What happened to them?”

“It’s said that these prisoners became more animal than human, feeding on each other and on those men unlucky enough to visit the island. Unfortunately for this group of eight partyers, they were all doomed the minute they set foot onto Plincer’s Island. When their partying died down, and everyone was drunk and stoned and passing out, the killers built a gridiron.”

The word gridiron hung in the air like a crooked painting, blending into the forest sounds.

Tyrone whispered, “They built a football field?”

Martin shakes his head. “The term gridiron is used for football these days, but it’s a much older word. It was a form of execution in ancient Rome. A layer of coals are spread on the ground, stoked until they’re red-hot. Then the victim is put in a special iron cage, sort of like a grill, and placed on top of the coals, roasting him or her alive. Unlike being burned at the stake, which is over in a few minutes, it takes hours to die on the gridiron. They say the liquid in your eyes gets so hot, it boils.”

“That’s enough, Martin.” Sara stood up and folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve succeeded in freaking everyone out. Now who wants to roast some marshmallows?”

“I want to hear what happened to those people,” Tom said.

“And I want to be able to sleep tonight,” Sara replied.

Sara’s eyes met Martin’s. She saw intensity there, but also resignation. Eventually his lips curled into a smile.

“But we haven’t gotten to the part where I pretend to be dragged off into the woods, kicking and screaming. That’s the best part.”

Sara placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sure we would have all been terrified.”

Martin sat back down. “You’re the boss. And if the boss wants to do marshmallows, who am I to argue?”

“I thought you’re the one who created the Center,” Laneesha asked.

Martin glanced at Sara. There was kindness in his eyes, and maybe some resignation, too.

“Sara and I created it together. We wanted to make a difference. The system takes kids who are basically good but made a few mistakes, sticks them into juvie, and they come out full-blown crooks. The Center is aimed at taking these kids and helping them change.” Martin smiled sadly. “Well, that was its purpose.”

“It’s bullshit the man cut your funding, Martin.” Meadow tossed a stick onto the fire.

“It sucks,” Cindy added.

There were nods of agreement. Martin shrugged. “Things like this happen all the time. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you kids. Sara and I don’t have any children of our own, but you guys are like our—”

Martin screamed in mid-sentence, then fell backward off the log, rolling into the bushes and the darkness.

Sara, like everyone else, jolted at the sound and violent action. Then laughter broke out, followed by a few of the teens clapping.

“That was awesome, Martin!” Tom yelled into the woods. “It think I wet my freakin’ pants.”

The applause and giggles died down. Sara waited for Martin to lumber out of the woods and take a bow.

But Martin stayed hidden.

“Martin, you can come out now.”

Sara listened. The woods, the whole island, was deathly quiet.

“Martin? You okay?”

No answer.

“Come on, Martin. Joke’s over.”

After a moment the crickets began their song again. But there was no response from Martin.

“Fine,” she called out. “We’re not saving you any marshmallows.”

The forest was silent. Sara picked up the bag of marshmallows and began passing them out, the kids busying themselves with attaching the treats to the sticks they’d picked out earlier. If her husband wanted to screw around in the woods, he was welcome to do so.

“Now what?” Tyrone asked, raising his like a sword.

“You put it in the fire,” Tom said. “Duh.”

“Ain’t never roasted marshmallows before, white boy.”

“It’s like this, Tyrone.” Sara held her stick six inches above the flame. “Like we did with the hot dogs. And keep turning it, so it browns evenly on all sides.”

Everyone followed her lead. Sara allowed herself a small, private smile. These were the moments they came out here for. Everyone getting along. No fighting. Criminal pasts momentarily forgotten. Just six kids acting like kids.

“Mine fell off,” Cindy said.

“Wouldn’t eat it no how. Oughta change yo name to Annie Rekzic.”

“Respect,” Sara reminded Meadow.

“Sorry. My bad.”

There was a comfortable silence. Sara forced herself to stay in the moment, not look over her shoulder for Martin. He’d come back when he was ready.

“I’m on fire.” Georgia held her stick and mouth level and blew hard on the burning marshmallow. Then she bit into it carefully. “Mmm. Gooey.”

“Like an eyeball on the gridiron.” Tom plucked his off the stick and pretended it was oozing out of his eye socket.

“Awful way to die,” Cindy said. “Guy I knew, had an ice lab in his basement. He died like that. When he was cooking a batch it blew up in his face. Burned him down to the bone.”

“You see it?” Tyrone asked.

“Cops told me about it.”

Tyrone frowned, his face looking ten years older. “Saw a brother die, once. Drive-by. Right next door to me. I was eight years old.”

“I saw someone die, too,” Tom said.

Tyrone sneered. “Man, yo gramma doesn’t count.”

“Does too. I was there. Does it count, Sara?”

“It counts. And let’s try to talk about something other than death for a while.”

“Damn.” Meadows stuck out his tongue. “My shit is burned. Tastes nasty.”

“I like the burned ones.” Georgia held out her hand. Meadows passed it over. “Thanks.”

Sara bit into hers. The perfect combination of sweet and toasty. She loaded up another one, then felt her neck prickle, like she was being watched. Sara turned around, peering into the trees. She saw only blackness.

“When is Martin coming back?” Cindy was poking her stick into the fire. She still hadn’t replaced her lost marshmallow.

“He’s probably just beyond the trees,” Sara said. “Waiting to jump out and scare us again.”

“What if someone grabbed him?”

“Cindy, no one grabbed him. We’re the only ones on this island.”

“You sure?”

Sara made an exaggerated motion out of crossing her heart. “And hope to die.”

“What if he had an accident?” Cindy persisted. “Maybe hit his head on a rock or something?”

Sara pursed her lips. There was a slight chance, but it could have happened.

“Tyrone, can you go check?”

Tyrone sneered. “You want me to go in those woods so he can jump out ’n scare the soul outta brother? No way.”

Sara sighed, and just for the sake of argument she let her imagination run unchecked. What if Martin’s little stunt really had gone wrong and he’d hurt himself? What if he’d fallen into a hole? What if a bear got him? There wasn’t supposed to be any bear on this island—according to Google, there wasn’t supposed to be any animal here larger than a raccoon. But what if Google was wrong?

She sighed. Her imagination had won. Even if this was a stupid trick on Martin’s part, Sara still had to go check.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” She got up, handed her stick to Cindy, and dusted off her jeans, staring into the darkness of the woods surrounding them.

And the woods were dark. Very dark.

The confidence Sara normally wore like a lab coat suddenly fell away, and she realized the very last thing in the world she wanted to do was tread into that darkness.

“Tom, can you help me look?”

Tom shook his head. “He can stay out there. I’m not leaving the fire.”

“Ain’t got no balls, white boy?”

“You go then, Meadow.”

“Hells no. At this particular time, Laneesha be holding my balls.”

Laneesha rolled her eyes and stood up. “Y’all are cowards. C’mon, Sara. We’ll go find him.”

Sara blew out the breath she’d been holding, surprised by how grateful she was for the girl’s offer. “There’s a flashlight in one of the packs. I’ll find it.”

She walked over to her tent and ducked inside. It was dim, but the fire provided enough illumination to look around. Sara cast a wistful glance at the double sleeping bag. She tugged her eyes away, then located the backpack. Pawing through the contents, she removed a canteen, a first-aid kit, some wool socks, a bottle of Goniosol medication, a hunting knife, the papers …

Sara squinted at them, staring at the bottom of the last page. It was unsigned. Irritated, she shoved them back in. She eventually dug out the Maglite, pressing the button on the handle. The light came on. It was yellowish and weak—which annoyed Sara even more because she told Martin to buy new batteries.

Putting the papers out of her mind for the time being, she left the tent and joined Laneesha, who was staring into the woods where Martin disappeared.

“If you see any cannibals,” Tom said to their backs, “don’t tell him we’re here.”

“Y’all are weak,” Laneesha said.

Sara eyed her, normally cocky and busting with attitude, and saw uncertainty all over the girl’s face.

“The story was fake, Laneesha.”

“That Plincer cat ain’t real?”

“He might be real. The name is familiar. But the way to make campfire stories sound believable is to mix a little truth with the lies.”

“How ’bout all them cannibal soldiers, eating people?”

“Even if that was true, and it wasn’t, it happened over a hundred and forty years ago. They’d all be long dead.”

“So Martin just joshin’?”

“He’s probably just waiting to jump out and scare us,” Sara said.

“Prolly. That’d suck, but be better than someone grabbing him.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. That possibility was so far out she hadn’t even considered it. “Did you see someone grab him?”

“It was dark, ’n’ he was right in front of that bush. Thought maybe I seen somethin’, but prolly just my mind playing tricks ’n’ shit.”

Now Sara was really reluctant to go into the woods. She knew the Confederate story was BS, but wondered if perhaps someone else was on the island.

That’s crazy, Sara thought. There’s no one here but us.

There were over a hundred of these islands on Lake Huron, from the size of a football field up to thousands of acres. This was one of the big ones, a supposed wildlife refuge. But there was no electricity, and it was too far from the mainland for there to be anyone living here.

Other campers?

Sara reminded herself to be rational. Occam’s Razor. The simplest solution was usually the right one. Martin joking around made much more sense than unknown habitants, or coincidental campers, or old Warden Plincer and his imaginary gang of southern maniacs.

Still, they did have that radio the boat captain gave them. Sara wondered if her husband goofing off qualified as an emergency, because she was almost ready to contact the captain and beg him to return.

“Let’s do this,” Laneesha said.

Sara nodded. Practically hip to hip, the women walked around the bushes and stepped into the thick of the woods.

When they’d hiked to the clearing earlier that afternoon, the woods had been dark. There were so many trees the canopy blocked out most of the sun. Now, at midnight, it was darker than anything Sara had ever experienced. The blackness enveloped them, thick as ink, and the fading Maglite barely pierced it more than a few yards.

“Be easy getting lost out here,” Laneesha said.

Sara played the light across the trees, looking for the red ribbon. They’d tied dozens of ribbons around trunks, in a line leading from the campsite to the shore, so anyone who got lost could find their way back. But in this total darkness every tree looked the same, and she couldn’t find a single ribbon. Sara had a very real fear that if they traveled too far into the woods, they wouldn’t be able to find their way back to the rest of the group. After only a dozen steps she could no longer see the campfire behind them.

“Tyrone, Cindy, can you guys hear me?” she called out.

“We hear you! You find any cannibals yet?”

Neither Sara nor Laneesha shared in the ensuing chuckles. They trekked onward, dead leaves and branches crunching underfoot, an owl hooting somewhere in the distance.

Sara had always been ambivalent about camping, having only gone a few times in her life. But now she realized she hated it. Hated camping, hated the woods, and hated the dark.

But she had hated the dark for a very long time. And with damn good reason.

“Martin,” Sara said, projecting into the woods, “this isn’t funny. It’s stupid, and dangerous.”

She waited for a reply.

No reply came.

“I like Martin,” Laneesha said, “but fuck ’em. I’m a city girl. I don’t do creeping ’round the forest at night. This is a total bad idea.”

Sara agreed. There was no hole or trench around here he could have fallen into, and if Martin hit his head he’d be lying nearby.

Still, if this was a prank, it was being taken too far. It wasn’t funny anymore. It was just plain mean.

And then Sara understood what was happening, and she felt her face flush.

Her husband was doing this because he was angry.

Is this how it’s going to be? Sara thought. Rather than act like the caring adult she fell in love with, he’s going to start behaving like a jerk?

Well, two could play that game.

“You can stay out there!” she yelled.

Her voice echoed through the trees, fading and dying. Then …

“elll …”

The sound was faint, coming from far ahead of them.

“Wassat Martin?” Laneesha asked.

Sara squinted, crinkling her nose. “I’m not sure. Could have been an animal.”

“Sounded like help. Know any animals that call for help?”

“Martin!” Sara shouted into the trees.

There was no answer. Laneesha moved closer to Sara, so close Sara could feel the girl shivering.

“We should go back.”

“What if it’s Martin? He could need help.”

“You the social worker. Y’all good at helping people. I’m a single mom. I gotta take care of myself for my baby’s sake. ’Sides, prolly just an animal.”

“help …” The voice was still faint, but there was no mistaking it.

Martin. And he didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.

Sara began to walk toward the voice. “You go back to camp,” she said to Laneesha. “Martin! I’m coming!”

The trees were so thick Sara couldn’t walk in a straight line for more than a few steps. Even worse, the Maglite was getting dimmer. How far ahead could he be? Fifty yards? A hundred? The woods seemed to be closing in, swallowing her up. There was no red ribbon anywhere.

She stopped, trying to get her bearings. Sara couldn’t even be sure this was the right direction anymore.

A rustling noise, to her left. Sara turned.

“Martin?”

Then something tackled Sara, something strong enough to knock the wind right out of her lungs. Before Sara could see what it was, the flashlight went flying and winked out.