Extraction
Ramirez kept the pistol levelled. Westlake seemed at ease, despite the situation. He’d always been a confident asshole. “Stow the Glock, and put your hands on your head,” she said, the familiar authority rolling off her tongue. “Have you been bitten?”
“No.” Westlake did as she asked. “That your dog?”
“No.”
“You should really have him on a leash. There are laws.”
“Shut up and walk towards me – slowly.” She backed towards the trucks and called out to the others over her shoulder. “Everyone into the trucks – we’re done here! You too, Westlake. Come on.”
He came, if somewhat reluctantly. She could practically read his mind. “If you try to run, I’ll put one in your leg, and you’ll be lunch.”
Westlake glanced back at the approaching zombies. “That’d be unfortunate.”
“Keep walking, and keep your mouth shut.”
Hutch and one of the others had already begun picking off the faster walkers – the staccato boom of Hutch’s Stoner 63 rattling what little glass was left in the windows and drawing in more of them from the other end of the street. They’d woken up the whole town. They were about to be surrounded. She thought quickly, then called out, “Hutch, we need a distraction.”
He glanced at her. “So? Send the dog!”
“I’m sending you. Go play cowboy.”
“Isn’t that more Labrand’s thing?”
“Go, Hutch!”
Hutch cursed, slung the Stoner, and reached for his bullwhip. He stretched the whip between his meaty fists as he started towards his motorcycle. Westlake watched him go, then turned back to Ramirez. “What now?”
“Get in the van.”
He looked around. The walkers were getting close enough to smell, stumbling out of doorways and broken windows. “If I say no?”
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a collapsible baton. She extended it with a snap of her wrist and caught a too-close walker wearing the remnants of a highway patrolman’s uniform across the head, flattening it and sending the Smoky the Bear hat flying. Her pistol bucked in her hand as she put another – this one dressed for a day at the lake – down. “Into the van now!”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Westlake said, hustling past her. Kahwihta was waiting at the van, with Attila. Unlike the rest of them, she didn’t bother with a firearm. Instead, she carried a cattle-prod. She activated it as Westlake approached.
“Want me to give him a zap?” she asked, cheerfully.
“Hey now…” he began, hands raised. He actually sounded worried, for a wonder. Ramirez considered letting Kahwihta do it, just to watch him squirm. But, in the end, she shook her head. They had more important things to do.
“Not unless he tries to run.” Ramirez holstered her pistol and caught the eye of another survivor, Labrand. The big, gawky looking man in the sweat-stained Stetson may have dressed like a refugee from a honky-tonk, but he was good with a gun. “Labrand, you’re driving.” She tossed him the keys. Behind them, the zombies were still approaching.
“You got it, boss.” He touched the brim of his hat and hurried towards the driver’s side.
“Don’t call me boss, damn it,” Ramirez called after him.
Westlake turned. “Hey, look, you got guns – let’s go back to my car. I got stuff in there I need. Stuff you need too, from the look of it.”
Ramirez knocked another walker sprawling. The others were falling back. She heard Hutch’s motorcycle growl to life. “Forget it. Load up! We’re out of here in three.”
“But my car–”
Ramirez turned. “Get in the goddamn van!”
Westlake got in the van. She turned back to the street. The walkers were too close now, and too many. But Hutch would handle that.
She paused, one hand on the door, watching as the biker peeled out, filling the air with fumes and drawing every dead eye in the vicinity. As the motorcycle swung in a tight circle, leaving black marks on the street, he uncoiled his bullwhip and gave it an almost lazy crack. It caught a walker around the neck and Hutch dragged the zombie off its feet.
Hutch whooped and sent the motorcycle roaring up the street, dragging the walker in his wake. The rest stumbled after him, attracted by the noise and motion. At the last second, Hutch let the walker roll loose, bowling over several of its fellows. The rest kept after him.
Ramirez knew from experience that the distraction wouldn’t last long. She and Kahwihta slammed the loading doors shut. Ramirez banged on the metal partition that separated the cab from the back of the van. “Labrand, get us rolling!”
The van started up, and a moment later the convoy was rolling east, heading back to camp. A moment later, she heard the grumble of Hutch’s bike, and felt a flicker of relief. The van squeaked its way up the road, and she grimaced as she banged her head against the wall. The shocks were shot, and the whole vehicle felt as if it might collapse into pieces at any moment. But it was better than walking.
Westlake sat across from her and Kahwihta, looking annoyed and eyeing the supplies scattered on the floor. She settled back and looked him over for the first time. He looked about like she remembered. He was one of those guys who wore his history on his face. Every kick, every punch – it was all there. The first time she’d met him, she’d thought he was a boxer, if a bit skinny.
Instead, he was a thief, and a good one. He’d pulled off a dozen jobs on the East Coast solo, and God alone knew how many out west without so much as a sniff of being caught. Then, one day, the FBI had lucked out, caught his crew, and before you knew it, Westlake was in custody and turning state’s evidence.
She’d been assigned to protect him. It turned out he hadn’t been interested in protection. He’d slipped his detail one night, a few weeks before the world fell apart, and vanished. Her superiors hadn’t been happy. Come to that, she hadn’t been happy either. Seeing him here was something of a surprise. Then, if anyone could make it through the zombie apocalypse in one piece, it was Westlake. The question was, why was he here?
“My name’s Kahwihta. Kahwihta Trapper,” Kahwihta said, startling Ramirez from her reverie. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t talk to him,” Ramirez said.
“I’m Westlake,” Westlake said, offering the young woman his hand. Ramirez knew he was only doing it to annoy her. He was good at it.
“First name or last name?” Kahwihta asked.
“Just a name.” He glanced at Ramirez. “So where are you taking me?”
Ramirez looked at him. “The lodge.”
“And what’s the lodge?”
“Welcome to the Van Hoevenberg Lodge, situated on the pristine shoreline of Heart Lake,” Kahwihta said, as if reciting from memory. The accompanying gestures were somewhat over the top, in Ramirez’ opinion. “To the south, you’ll see Mount Marcy and Algonquin Peak – two of the highest points in the state. To the north, Mount Jo. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
Westlake stared at her for a moment before turning his attention to Ramirez. She sighed. “It’s a big place. Lots of room. Lots of resources. Or it was. Less now.”
“I bet.”
“You could say thank you,” Kahwihta said, studying him curiously.
“Thank you,” Westlake said, after a moment. He seemed bemused by the young woman. Ramirez knew how he felt.
“Not us. Attila.” She knocked a knuckle against the dog’s skull. “He led you right to us, like a good boy. Aren’t you a good boy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Attila panted his appreciation.
“We’ll call it even,” Westlake said, smiling.
Ramirez thought about hitting him. Instead, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Passing through.”
She frowned. “No, you’re not.”
“What makes you an expert on what I’m doing?”
“Because I know you, Westlake. You don’t like the woods. You’re a city boy.”
“Things change.”
“Not that.” Ramirez reached over and took the Glock from him. It was empty, but that was easy enough to solve. Westlake was the sort of guy to have an extra clip somewhere.
“That’s mine,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” She checked the chamber and slid it into her waistband. “You don’t usually carry a gun.”
“It seemed prudent in the current climate. Am I under arrest?”
“That depends,” she said, knowing he was needling her.
“On?” he asked.
“Whether you answer my questions.”
“I am nothing if not forthcoming. Ask away, Special Agent Ramirez.”
“I’m not a special anything, anymore.”
He smiled, and she knew he was trying to get under her skin. Guys like him liked to get on top of you, verbally. They’d get you pissed and suddenly you were answering their questions instead of the other way around. “Once an agent, always an agent. I think John Wayne said that,” he added.
“John Wayne said a lot of stupid shit,” Ramirez said. Kahwihta snorted in laughter.
Westlake shrugged. “Never was a fan, myself. More of an Alan Ladd guy.”
“Color me surprised,” Ramirez said. He could be charming, when he wanted. She remembered that. But it was all an act. A way to get you to lower your guard.
Kahwihta looked at them. “So do you two, like, know each other?”
“You might say that.” Westlake sat back, and found himself eye-to-eye with the dog. Attila ruffed softly and laid his wide head on Westlake’s knee. He looked at Kahwihta. “Does he have to do that?”
Kahwihta smiled. “He likes you.”
“I thought dogs were supposed to be good judges of character,” Ramirez said.
Westlake grunted and absently stroked the dog’s head. “I’m not a bad guy when you get to know me.”
“Says the thief.”
“Really?” Kahwihta asked, a touch too eagerly for Ramirez’ liking. “What’d you steal? Were you like a bank robber?”
“What didn’t he steal?” Ramirez said. “Bearer bonds, diamonds – you even knocked over a casino in Atlantic City once, didn’t you, Westlake?”
“Allegedly.”
“I wonder what it’s like for you now, nothing left to steal.”
He gave a thin smile. “You’d be surprised.”
“Then illuminate me. You only go where there’s something to steal. But there’s nothing out here but trees and… what?”
Westlake said nothing. Out of habit, she suspected. She drew her sidearm and set it on her knee, thumb on the hammer. “Why are you out here, Westlake?”
Kahwihta shifted nervously, but said nothing, for which Ramirez was grateful. She was bluffing, but Westlake didn’t need to know that.
“Like you said, you’re not a Fed anymore,” he said. “I don’t have to say anything.”
“I might not have a badge, but I do have a gun, and my patience is running out.” She didn’t lift the pistol, but her finger tapped the trigger in a meaningful sort of way. Once, it might have been an empty threat. These days, she wasn’t so sure.
“You never did have much patience.”
She lifted the pistol. “Less, now.”
Westlake lifted his hands. “You can’t shoot me.”
“Not a Fed anymore, remember?”
“What’ll your friend here think?”
“I’ll ask her later.” Ramirez spoke harshly, but quietly. “Start talking, Westlake – or I’ll commence to shooting.”
Westlake sighed and scrubbed his scalp. “If you’d intended to shoot me, you’d have done it in the street. Or you’d have left me to the locals.”
Ramirez lowered the pistol. “You’re right.” She studied him. Same old Westlake. He was so certain of himself it hurt. Like he was the one in control. He’d been the same the day she’d met him. Smug. Like the whole world was his for the taking. She banged on the partition. “Stop the van.”
Kahwihta looked at her. “What’s up?”
Ramirez ignored her. “Stop the van!”
The van stopped. She opened the doors and gestured. “Out.”
“Me?” Westlake asked, all innocent.
She tapped her sidearm. “What do you think?”
Westlake got out of the van. The convoy had pulled off the road. Trees stretched like cathedral walls to either side of the road. Labrand was already half out of the van’s cab, one hand on the old-fashioned Colt holstered low on his hip. “Something wrong?” he drawled, eyes flicking to Westlake.
“No. Keep an eye out. And tell the others to stay in the trucks. I want to have a chat with Westlake.” She turned as Kahwihta made to follow. “You stay here too.”
Kahwihta frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Ramirez tried to smile, but wasn’t sure the young woman bought it. She motioned with her weapon. “Over there. Off the road.”
Westlake didn’t argue. She followed him into the trees. It was quiet here. Everywhere was quiet now, mostly. Not even any insects this time of year. Barely any animals. Westlake looked around as he walked. She wondered if he was thinking of running.
“Stop,” she said, softly.
He stopped. “What now?”
“Now we talk.”
“So talk.” Westlake crossed his arms and leaned against a tree. At ease, even in the wilderness. She hated him even more.
“I want the truth, or I’ll put one in your leg and leave you for the walkers.”
“You won’t do that.”
Ramirez took aim at his right leg. “Try me.”
Westlake licked his lips. “I don’t remember you being this hostile last we met. Did I do something to piss you off?”
“You might say that, yeah. When you pulled your disappearing act, it didn’t really do my career a lot of good.”
He shrugged. “My apologies.”
She waved it aside. “So what happened?”
“Sal Bonaro happened.”
Ramirez blinked. “That explains that.” Guys like Bonaro had eyes and ears everywhere. Once he heard that Westlake was planning to talk, he’d have moved to silence him.
“Yeah. Fat lot of good your bunch were, by the way. I thought the FBI were supposed to be good at protecting witnesses.”
“Only if the witness wants to be protected,” Ramirez said, annoyed by the jab. “What were you doing out here?”
He said nothing. She fired. Not into his leg, but into the ground near his feet. He yelped and jumped. “Jesus! Fine. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?” Ramirez demanded.
Westlake looked away. “Sal Bonaro.”
Ramirez blinked. “The same Sal Bonaro you just said tried to kill you?”
“I didn’t say he tried to kill me.”
“You implied it. Besides, what is Sal Bonaro doing in the Adirondacks? He’s even more of a city boy than you.”
Westlake shrugged. “What do you think he’s doing? He’s holed up, waiting for all this to blow over like everybody else.” He gestured in the general direction of the mountains. “Up there. Somewhere,” he finished darkly.
Ramirez stared at him. Then she lowered the pistol. Bits and pieces of old briefings came back to her – half-heard gossip and tall tales. Watercooler talk. That was what she’d thought at the time, at least. “When you say holed up, you mean…?”
He smiled and leaned forward. “What do you think I mean?”
“It’s here?” she asked, softly. “The Villa?”
Westlake nodded.
She ran a hand through her hair and laughed. “Holy shit. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you, Westlake. Because you might just be the answer to our goddamn prayers.”