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“I've noticed when you get to disliking folks they ain’t around long neither.” – Lone Waite, The Outlaw Josey Wales.
Bartlett
When the Bell 407 touched down near the burned-out hulk of the Cessna, Bartlett yanked open the door and vaulted to the ground. Running in a crouch, he cleared the rotor arc then took a knee by the wreckage. His men fanned out and set up a perimeter, scanning the area through tactical scopes on their automatic weapons while the helicopter kicked up sand and pea gravel.
Broken clouds left patchy shadows drifting across the meadow, and mist in the higher elevations seemed to dissipate as he watched. Soon, Bartlett reckoned, the sun would be out, creating annoying shadows among the trees. But what can hide them can hide us, as well. He took a deep breath of pine-scented air overlaid by the reek of burned plastic and bared his teeth in a predator’s grin. Perfect day for a hunt.
“Dominic,” Bartlett yelled.
His sniper hustled over and dropped to a knee beside him. Dominic Lazzari came from Italian ancestors, but Bartlett suspected an Irishman had snuck into Mama Lazzari’s bed. Dominic’s sandy hair and boyish face gave him a collegiate all-American exterior that concealed an ice-cold core. One would never know by looking at him that he had forty-seven confirmed kills in Iraq, two official kills as an ATF agent, and two more of the unofficial variety.
“Where do you want to set up, Dom?”
The sniper scratched the thin stubble on his chin and scrunched his face. “All these trees... being this close makes no sense with the .50-cal. Which way do you think they’ll head?”
“Closest town’s west of here. I don’t know if they’re aware of that.”
Dominic pointed with his chin to a bald, rocky crest a mile or more to the west. “Probably that ridge then. If they head toward me, they’ll come right into my lap. Got to warn you, boss, I may or may not see ’em through these trees.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Bartlett slapped his sniper on the shoulder. “Take that pussy Glenn and park the chopper over that way. You and he are overwatch while the rest of us run these characters to ground. All right? Good man.”
Dominic nodded and loped back to the helicopter. A minute later, the bird lifted off in a cloud of whipping dust, banked, and climbed away. In the quiet that followed, Bartlett keyed his sleeve-mounted microphone and spoke to the remaining team members.
“All right, boys. Our last intel says they went uphill. Lee circled right and attempted a flanking maneuver. I want Reuben, Ray, and Mack to go right, try to find out what happened to Lee. If you locate our, uh, suspects”—due to the remote possibility of his radio signal being overheard, Bartlett changed the word from targets at the last second—“you are to observe and report. Wait for backup before engaging. Steve, you, me, and Dan will circle left and investigate upslope from that direction. Classic pincer movement. Questions?”
Nobody said anything, so Bartlett gave the order to move out. “And keep your eyes peeled, gentlemen. We’ve already lost one man. Let’s not lose any more.”
~~~
Captain Marshall
CAPTAIN MARSHALL’S butt was hardwired to eject him from a seated position every ten minutes. He paced behind his desk like a badger poked with a sharp stick. Movement, any movement, was required. He craved getting somewhere and doing something, not sitting on his ass, watching the damn phone not ring. More than once, he reached for his key ring, intending to drive to New Mexico and mount up in search of his missing people. That dirty bitch Responsibility kept him nailed in place, though.
“You wanted to see me?” said a talking bear standing in his office doorway, holding a half-eaten hoagie and a forty-four-ounce soft drink.
“Dolph! Get in here and close the door.”
If Columbo had a country cousin, he would be Adolph Ahlberg. Six feet of potato sack stuffed into tan polyester slacks and a cream sport coat, Dolph had been Rangering since Davy Crockett died in a hail of gunfire. His “Aw shucks” manner lulled people into talking themselves right up the scaffold and putting their necks through the noose. They would often shake his hand and thank him for pulling the lever.
He toed the door shut, walked to the desk, and aimed his butt at a visitor’s chair. Holding his cup out so as not to spill his drink, he settled in the seat with a sigh, like the walk from his desk had taxed his spirit. A yellow necktie struggled to hold his collar together.
“What’s up, you old coot?” Dolph bit a hunk out of his sandwich.
Marshall filled in his lead investigator on everything he had so far, including the conjecture about Agent Bartlett of the ATF. “I can’t reach the girl’s parents. According to the housekeeper, they’re on a plane from Biloxi to Tucson. Headed from there to New Mexico to join the search.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Hold your dick and whistle Dixie! What do you think I want you to do? Dig into this Bartlett guy and his dead brother. You know every fed south of the Mason-Dixon line. Call ’em up, feel ’em up, kiss ’em, and buy ’em dinner—I don’t care. But get—”
Janelle knocked and stuck her head in the door. “Rita Goldman, line two.”
Marshall stabbed the button for speakerphone and barked, “Goldman, izzat you?”
“What the fuck?” Rita’s Bronx voice assaulted the Captain’s Texas ears. “I leave for like a minute, and you guys lose a guy big as Cable? A plane crash? You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
“Well—”
“Cable din’t die in some plane crash. I know that for shooah.”
“We don’t know. I—”
“Whazzat big dumb cowboy got his ass inna this time?”
“Will you shut the hell up?” Marshall barked.
A few seconds of silence blessed the room. “Sorry, Captain. I don’t play well with others.”
“I do recall that, yes.” Marshall gave her the same facts he’d fed Dolph a few minutes earlier. “Their plane going down after this gal gripes about bad cops is makin’ my scrotum itch.”
“That’s the lice.” Dolph finished his sandwich and wadded up the paper wrapper.
Rita said, “Do you know how many people claim the cops set ’em up?”
Marshall leaned over the phone, propped on his fists. He felt a hundred years older than a man nearing his sixty-eighth birthday. “I know. But runnin’ this down... I’d rather be doing somethin’ more than playing tiddlywinks. Know what I mean?”
“Whaddya want me to do?” Rita asked. “I can drop what I’m on and get to New Mexico today, but I’ll tell ya now—I’m not any good in the woods, with the snakes and whatnot.”
“No, I need something else. You’re the financial wizard, right? Jab a federal anal probe in this guy Bartlett’s bank records, property, assets, all that financial stuff. Do everything you can without triggering any paperwork. Work your United States government mojo. Let’s see if there’s any fire to this smoke. Comprende?”
“Shooah. And...” Rita cleared her throat but didn’t say anything else.
Marshall’s patience ran out after six seconds. “And what?”
She cleared her throat again. “Call me if you hear anything. About, y’know, Cable and those guys. I like the big lummox. I don’t wanna go to his funeral.”
“You’ll be the first—no, the second, right after Sam’s mama.”
Marshall punched the disconnect button and glared at Dolph, who slurped the ice at the bottom of his soda. “Your butt stuck to that chair?”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Dolph lumbered from the room, and Marshall sat back at his desk.
He fished another pack of cigarettes from the center drawer, scattering paper clips and pens along the way. You better not be dead, Sam Cable, you big, ugly son of a bitch. Sarah Jo and Goldman. I don’t want those two pissed at me.
~~~
Sam
“SIX GUYS GOT OFF THE helicopter,” I reported to Stone when I retraced my steps to our camp. “Armed up the yin-yang and dressed like secret-agent commandos.”
“So, not the good guys then.”
“No, I suspect not. Another one got back on the chopper and left. The rest went uphill, away from us, so we have a few minutes while they scout up that way. The rain probably destroyed our tracks. Still and all, I think we need to remove our asses from the area and get the hell off this mountain.”
Stone had finished making the chicken casserole; a good-sized portion remained in the skillet by the fire. My stomach rumbled. “Have you eaten?”
“A few bites.” She busied herself shoving our bits of gear into the backpack. “I tried to get Marlon to eat, but he’s passed out, if not completely comatose.”
“Okay. Problem for later. Fetch me the pole I cut, would you?” I scarfed the casserole, scraping the pan for every last drop.
Stone dragged the sapling back, and I finished cutting the end off.
“I wanted two of these, but one will have to do. You ever see those movies where they strap a captive to a pole and cart him off to the cook pot?”
She nodded.
“That’s what we’re doing here, except we’re gonna use the sleeping bag instead of ropes to hang him off the pole.”
Between us, we managed to zip Marlon into the bag, all the way up past his head, leaving the flap open so he could breathe. I cut a hole in the bottom corner by his feet, near where the zipper started, and threaded the pole through the bag. I missed my mark a little and poked Marlon’s bad arm. He uttered a weak groan but didn’t wake up.
“Sorry, buddy,” I muttered and pushed the pole out past his head. “Stone, grab that and straighten it out... That’s it.”
“Will his head hang down?”
“Maybe a little, if he slips out any more.” I pursed my lips and cocked my head. “We’ll go down with him pointed feet-first and turn around going uphill. Keep the open side pointed up as much as possible.”
“That won’t be hard if you carry that end. What are you? Six-twelve?”
“And made of steel. You ready?”
“Can I do my nails first?”
She was game, I had to give her that. Chased by rogue government agents, plane-wrecked, and lost in the mountains with a wounded man, she could still crack jokes.
“Pack the skillet, and hand me the backpack. I’ll kill the fire. We’ll stop by the creek on the way down and refill the water bottles.”
I scattered the last burning sticks with the toe of my boot, stepped on the embers, and kicked sand over the smoking remains. I shouldered the M4 and the backpack. Stone crouched by her end of the carry pole, so I gripped the end next to Marlon’s head.
“Ready? On three.” At her nod, I chanted, “One, two, three.”
With a grunt, we lifted the Marlon-pouch onto our shoulders. The pine sapling bowed in the middle but not enough to make me think it would break. “Go,” I urged. Since I was crouched in the narrow end of the cave in a near squat, I waddled more than walked until we cleared the opening.
The first ten steps were... interesting. The footing tended to be loose and covered in tripping hazards. I slid and slipped with every step. The weighted bag swayed, adding a balancing component to the challenge of walking. After twenty steps, a slow burn started in my calves, and by the time we reached the stream, I was breathing hard and my back wanted to knot up with a cramp.
“Wait up,” I grunted.
We eased Marlon to the ground, and I noticed Stone huffing and puffing a little, as well. She rolled her carrying shoulder and gave me a wry look.
“He ain’t heavy,” she said. “He’s—”
“Don’t say it.”
Behind us, our scuffing and sliding had left a trail a blind man in a dark room could follow. Ahead of us, the slope led gradually downward as far as I could see, and beyond that lay another ridge. We would have to climb that to see what lay beyond.
I don’t even know if we’re heading toward civilization or away from it. We could be a mile from help and not even know it.
I refilled the water bottles and handed them to Stone to pack away rather than unstrapping the pack, then I drank my fill of the cold running stream. The water could be as full of parasites as Congress, but I suspected I would be dead or rescued long before I got sick from drinking bad water.
I looked at Stone. “Ready?”
“Waiting on you, big fella.”
“Okay, on three.”
We lifted our brother and started downhill.