After dispatching the men, he crossed the street and, from the shadows of a shuttered building, watched them.
There was no movement for a long while, and then Wiry stumbled out under the single light shining on the bar’s entryway.
He said something, and presently, Sour Breath and the third man came staggering out.
They stood swaying for a moment. Then two of them jumped back, cursing, when Sour Breath bent over and retched.
They grabbed him and hustled him to their vehicle, the SUV, swearing all their way.
Zeb drew out his phone and snapped their pictures. He noted the SUV’s plate and waited till its red lights vanished in the night.
Then he set off for his camp.
His base was west of the Middle Fork Salmon River, a long distance from the Salmon Mountains to the west.
He reached it at one am and stood motionless against a ponderosa nearby, watching, listening.
There was a stream a couple of miles away, too far for him to hear the rushing water.
The forest was quiet, but not utterly silent. Wind blew through it and trees sighed. Nightlife rustled in bushes.
No hostile presence, however. His radar didn’t tingle.
He smiled wryly.
Just some tourists who had too much to drink.
He emerged from the canopy of trees and went to his dwelling, a crude hut fashioned from fallen logs, with a door woven from boughs and leaves. Strips of leather that he had carried with him to this spot served as hinges.
It had taken him three days of painstaking effort to build it, and he had loved every moment.
The floor of the hut was packed, hardened earth, and from its roof hung two battery-powered lanterns.
On the floor was a sleeping bag, and next to it his gear. A backpack that contained a spare Glock, ammo, a couple of knives, more combat and medical equipment, his screens and several battery packs. A larger bag held his hiking gear.
He removed his jacket and brought out one of his screens. He booted up his satellite phone to connect to Werner, the supercomputer in their Columbus Avenue office in New York. He ran the SUV’s plates and put his photos of the men in the bar through a facial recognition program.
Werner responded quickly. None of the three was on any watchlist. Sour Breath was a store owner in the Bronx and had a few arrests for DUI, but nothing major. His friends were clean. One of them worked as a manager in a retail store, while the other was an insurance salesman.
No threat. Zeb shut down his devices and settled down to sleep.
The banging woke him up instantly, the Glock under his bag sliding into his palm as if by magic.
Three am, the dial on his wrist told him.
The door shuddered as someone pounded it again.
He turned off the lamps, plunging the room into darkness, stood to one side, and opened the door carefully.
His mouth opened in surprise when a figure stumbled inside, fell, and remained motionless.
He crouched down and froze.
It was a girl.
Young. He ran his eyes over her swiftly. No weapons.
She didn’t look like she was a threat.
He snapped a glance outside. Nothing. No movement. No other person.
He left the hut and walked around in widening circles, alert, prepared.
He didn’t come across anyone else.
He went back inside, and when he turned the lamps to full brightness, his insides clenched and a coldness gripped him.
The girl looked to be in her teens. Fourteen or fifteen years old, he guessed.
Her eyes were open, but she was clearly in shock.
He bent next to her, his lips tightening when he saw that her face and hands were scratched and bleeding. Her nails were muddy and a couple of them were torn.
He carried her gently—she was slim and didn’t weigh much—to his sleeping bag. She began to mumble as he laid her down, a continuous stream of sound that made no sense to him initially.
He bent his ear to her mouth, and when he finally made out the words, he knew his vacation was over.
‘Namir,’ she said, ‘He killed Dad. Many men. Behind me.’