Twilight edged the sky toward its tipping point. Dark enough that, from my vantage on the crest of the long hill two hundred yards above General Macomber’s house, I could make out the shapes of amber lampshades behind drawn curtains. But still light enough that fingers of smoke drifting from the chimney of his little cave-like dwelling showed white against the black asphalt of the road beyond.
No shadows passed the windows. Macomber wasn’t fool enough to expose himself. The more I considered the house, the more its inviting glow seemed like just that—an invitation.
I switched my focus to the hillside itself. Judging which outcroppings of rock and clumps of scrubby trees might offer the best cover, the best angles.
One spot stood out, about halfway down the slope. A squat boulder had rolled down the hill on some long-ago day and been trapped in a copse of pine trees, which had grown around and over the rock. Not only did the boulder and trees offer a good line of sight to the rear and side of Macomber’s house, it was a few quick steps from another rocky prominence with better coverage of the front of the house and the road. That would be my choice, if I aimed to keep watch.
I retreated behind the hill and made my careful way along its crest, until I’d gone far enough to risk another look. The boulder was below me now, off to the right. No longer visible in the growing dark and with the thick scrub in the way. But the pine trees above it marked the spot. I tightened the strap of the rifle case over my back and crawled over the crest of the hill.
The surface was more dirt than loose rock, which helped to silence my movements as I moved slowly down the slope. Thickets of brush made good cover. Belly-flat and face-first down the hill, like a spider. The angle actually eased the constant throb in my chest a little, encouraging new blood flow into the clotted bruise. I stopped every few feet to listen.
Perhaps half an hour had elapsed since I’d started my descent. Slow enough progress that the chirrup of crickets around me never ceased. No hurry at all. If I was right about my guess, and too hasty to confirm it, I might catch a bullet in the head as a prize.
Twenty yards from the boulder, I heard a shift of boot on sand. Someone adjusting their position for comfort. I waited, the minutes stretching out. The sound didn’t reoccur. Whoever it was, they were good at keeping silent. But not as good as me.
I inched forward. Ten feet away now. I lay in a short ditch. A worm’s-eye view. Close enough that the shapes of the trees and the boulder were distinct against the night sky. And the man. I clocked him as he turned, a skull-crusher harness on his head holding his night vision in place, the goggle of the NOD like a stunted horn.
It wouldn’t be Macomber or the wounded Fain taking watch, and this guy didn’t have enough hair to be Zeke Caton.
“Rigo,” I whispered.
A scrape and a thump, as he hit the deck. He didn’t speak.
“Hold your fire,” I said. “It’s Shaw.”
“The fuck?” his harsh whisper came back. “Show yourself.”
I raised my hands above the ditch. “Peace.” A soft click as Rigo adjusted his opticals to get a look at me in the darkness. He spat out a string of impassioned and impressive curses.
“You’ve got a damn death wish, Shaw. I could have blown your head off.”
The reverse was also true, and we both knew it.
“I want to talk to you,” I said.
“You snuck up on me for a conversation? You’re warped.”
“Watching the house for Jaeger was my original plan, but you got here first.”
Rigo hummed assent. “The enemy of my enemy is a friend, that it?”
“That depends on who you think the bad guys are.”
He shifted his position to watch the house. His whispered answer, when it came, was all the softer from him being turned away. “Not you. The captain shouldn’t have burned you, Shaw. It was wrong.”
Rigoberto wasn’t his usual taciturn self. Maybe it was being away from the group, or being in the dark. Or he was keyed up for the coming fight.
“I gave Fain hell about it,” he said. “Never yelled at an officer before. But that doesn’t make up for leaving you there. Is Pak okay?”
“Yeah. I cut him loose, him and his girl.”
“Jesus.” He said it like he was giving thanks. “I been checking the news. We didn’t get anybody killed in Seattle.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been holding on tight to that fact. I was a cop. Once. And now I’m the guy shooting at cops. Not to take them down, but how the fuck would they have known that? Daryll’s dead. Fain damn near. He won’t go to the hospital. And we left brothers behind. Worst day of my life, Shaw. Worse than Nangarhar or even Tangi Valley. No damn question.”
“But you haven’t left.”
A moment passed. “You’re here, too, man. Is that just to save your own skin?”
“No.”
“What, then? Not to back us up.”
“Is the plan to kill Jaeger when he approaches the house?”
“Snake rears its head, you have to cut it off.” Rigo said it so fast, I wondered if he had been repeating the thought like a mantra. “Right?”
I didn’t have an answer for that, either. The former police officer, trying to stay on the side of the good guys any way he could. Talking himself into crossing a point of no return.
“Are Fain and the others in the house?” I said.
“Ready to light it up. Macomber, too, if it comes to it.”
“When you change shifts, I’ll go down with you.”
He finally turned away from the road. “You’re not killing Fain. No matter what he did to you, we will stop that shit cold.”
“I’m not here for Fain, either. I have to talk to your team about something else. And I need your help.”
I laid it out for him. The swearing Rigo had done before was nothing compared to what came out of his mouth now. But he listened.