“You shoot and you’re dead.” Incredibly, Dad was smiling, too.
“You’re at the wrong end of my gun, bud,” the sentry said.
“And you’re at the wrong end of my son’s.” Dad gestured up at me, on the rooftop to his left.
The sentry swiveled, pointing his rifle my way.
I waved. Most of my head and shoulders were protected by the ridgeline. Unless he was exceptionally good with that rifle, I didn’t think he could hit me.
“Boy can hit a squirrel in the eye at 300 yards!” Dad yelled, which was a total lie. “Lower your gun. We just want to trade.”
“Why would I want to trade with you?” He lowered his gun slightly, but I couldn’t relax.
“You’re a Dirty White Boy, right?”
The guy pulled up his shirts. DWB was tattooed in ornate letters across his chest, arching over an outline of Illinois. “To the death.”
“Heard you guys were pimping the hottest girls in Iowa.”
“Yeah, not hags like that one you brought.”
He was talking about Alyssa? Was he blind?
Dad unzipped her jacket and lifted her shirts, revealing a white bra that had been worn and washed so much it was starting to turn gray. He hooked his finger beneath the underwire and roughly lifted it, exposing one breast to the icy air.
I started to look away, realized I was putting us all in danger, and forced myself to look at the sentry again. I wanted to shoot the sentry to put an end to this farce. Even though Alyssa had hatched this lunatic plan herself, it was my fault she was in this position. I swallowed hard, struggling to concentrate.
Dad squeezed Alyssa’s breast. “This isn’t some hag. This is primo ass. Young and fresh.”
Why did Dad have to be so damn crass? I was seized by an irrational desire to shoot him. But it was working. The sentry was chuckling. “Yeah. I’d hit that. But I can’t negotiate. We gotta go see Wolfe.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” Dad said. “We’ll show up in style.” He turned and waved his arms over his head, signaling to Mom to drive the truck up. She was watching with Ben from a spot about a mile down the road.
“I can’t leave my sled.” The sentry safetied his rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He walked up to Dad and Alyssa, and their conversation dropped in volume so that I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
They shook hands. Then the sentry reached toward Alyssa’s still-exposed breast. Dad slapped his hand away. They exchanged a few more words I couldn’t make out as Dad pulled Alyssa’s bra and shirts back into place and zipped her coat. I slid down the front side of the roof, trying to hold my rifle ready and keep one eye on the guard.
By the time I got down, Mom and Ben had pulled up in the UPS truck. The sentry was telling a string of crude jokes to Dad, who laughed and replied with a few of his own.
Dad introduced the sentry as Chad, talking like he was an old friend. Chad told us to follow him and started his motorcycle. Dad pushed Alyssa into the back of the truck with me, then walked around the front to the driver’s side. Mom scooted over into the passenger seat.
I mouthed, “You okay?” at Alyssa.
She responded with the barest hint of a nod.
Chad led us through Iowa City on a winding series of plowed roads. We reached a rundown section of town full of auto repair shops and industrial sites. Suddenly the road ahead narrowed to one lane, partially blocked by snow and ash that had been bulldozed to form a huge wall. Two guys warmed themselves at a small fire just inside the wall. Chad pulled up next to them, his bike blocking the lane. He held out his palm, motioning for us to stop.
The two guys got up from the fire and turned toward our truck. They each wore an assault rifle slung over one shoulder. Dad cranked the truck through the fastest three-point turn I’d ever experienced, leaving it facing back the way we’d come.
One of the DWB guards left, jogging toward a nearby building. The other one was talking to Chad near the fire.
Dad turned around in his seat to offer Alyssa a hand climbing out of the truck. The gentlemanly gesture was completely spoiled when he grabbed the end of her noose with his other hand. He took a couple of steps from the truck and then stopped, one hand holding Alyssa’s leash, the other jammed into his coat pocket.
I slid out of the passenger side and took a position alongside the truck. If things turned bad, I could take cover behind it. Or jump in the back if we had to make a quick getaway. I unslung the rifle from my back, making sure not to aim it at the DWBs. I snicked off the safety and held the rifle casually, pointed at the ground at my side.
Everything was still for a moment. Like that moment right before breaking a board, when you’re totally focused and the world is calm around you. Preparing. Waiting for the violence of the break.
Four guys emerged from the building. The guy in the center had a huge chrome revolver on each hip. The others were armed with assault rifles. But the power resided in the guy with the revolvers; it was clear in the way everyone else circled around him, like planets turning in the warmth of their sun.
Six guys. Against me and my rifle. If this ended in a spray of bullets, none of us would survive. I wiped my damp trigger hand on my coveralls and swallowed my fear.
Chad yelled, “Heeeere’s Wolfey!” in a demented, Jack Nicholson voice.
Someone else said, “That’s Mr. Wolfe to you,” and they all laughed.
Wolfe, the guy with the revolvers, strutted up to Alyssa. His gaze oozed down her body, lingering here and there. “Looks fresh.” He grabbed a lock of her hair and yanked on it, pulling her close. He sniffed. “Smells fresh, too.”
“There’s another one in the truck,” Chad said.
“Fresh?” Wolfe replied.
“No. But hey, if it was dark . . .”
They laughed. Dad’s face had taken on a stony countenance. I adjusted my grip on the rifle. This didn’t look good, but we were prepared for it. I hoped.
“You brought me two new back warmers? You’re too kind.”
Dad said, “I’m only trading—”
“And a truck? You shouldn’t have.”
“The truck’s not—”
“Bring the chicks up to the club,” Wolfe said. “Flense the rest.” He turned his back to Dad as the other five DWBs raised their guns.
“You’d best not,” Dad said quietly, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. I didn’t think anyone else noticed that his voice wasn’t as steady as usual. He held the red button from the propane distributor. His thumb was under the plastic cover. The two wires ran from the back of the button into his coat pocket. “I press this button, and the propane tank blows. Just like a bomb. Probably level three city blocks.”
Wolfe turned around and stepped toward Dad. “Yeah?”
“That’s right.” Dad’s hands were shaking.
“Bullshit!” Wolfe’s hand whipped out, grabbing the two wires and pulling them free.