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THE TWO-LANE BLACKTOP snaked its way into the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Zan had the windows down despite the cold. She savored every second she could breathe that air, pure and scented with pine and the fresh metallic tang of clean water flowing over rocks. It reminded her of her days wandering alone in the Sawtooths, the Idaho mountains where she’d grown up. Those were her happiest times as a child.
She was on her way to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with Kurt and Malcolm, two of her army buddies. They’d both been in her special reconnaissance unit in Afghanistan. Like Zan’s best friend at the time, Patrick, Kurt had been transferred into the unit to get some relief from front-line combat. These days he ran his own handyman business. Malcolm had been the unit’s medic. Now, he was a registered nurse.
The last time she’d seen them was their wedding more than a year before. She’d been Kurt’s “best woman.” He chose her because she’d saved his life in Afghanistan, on the same horrible day she lost Patrick. Kurt loved Patrick, too. Their shared loss bound them more tightly than Zan’s actions, even if Kurt was fond of saying she was responsible for his life now. He kept it up when he got married, teasing her nonstop, insisting it was her job to make sure he had a fabulous wedding.
Mostly thanks to Malcolm, she’d pulled it off. Their nut-job survivalist compound was transformed into a festive bower. The weather was perfect. Even the insects stayed away on that special day. Everyone was high on the fact that this beautiful love—that had survived castigation by the military and the emotional wounds of two men damaged by war—was now fully legitimate in the eyes of the state of New Hampshire.
Zan swallowed hard and turned up the radio, as thoughts of love and marriage led to thoughts of Rainer.
What the fuck, O’Gara? He’s an alien. Who lied to you and slaughtered thirty men. Even if he did tee up your case.
Her stomach wobbled as she took a curve too fast. She hoped this foray into the mountains would get her head straight. She should be feeling good. The case was in great shape, even though every single one of the men in custody had lawyered up. The judge had granted the U.S. Attorney’s petition to remand them to the Federal Detention Center, agreeing they were a flight risk. The prosecutor was going to review all the evidence and talk to officials in Europe over the holiday weekend. Next week, he would dangle a plea deal to see if the pieces of shit had information valuable enough to justify it.
I’m pretty sure they do.
None of this mattered to her state of mind. Now that the case was less pressing, she obsessed over the calendar. Less than a month remained before the winter solstice. Those things might come after her again. She stiffened in her seat and tightened her grip on the wheel. Whenever she had a tender thought about that beautiful bastard, all she needed to do was remember the equinox.
Demons. I got attacked by demons. I almost want to laugh.
Zan was excited to see Kurt and Malcolm, but she also planned to ask for their help. She had legally purchased two semiautomatic AR-15 assault rifles. She was going to ask Kurt to convert them to fully automatic, effectively turning them into M16s. It was illegal, of course, but she figured “attacked by monsters” was the best excuse in the history of excuses.
Even those things should go down if I spray a hundred bullets at them.
She could hear Kurt accusing her of only coming to visit because she wanted something. He gave her as much shit as her brothers.
The entrance to the boys’ driveway was the same as ever. A mailbox, a small keep-out sign, and a big sign that said “Live Free or Die,” the state motto of New Hampshire. She swung in and drove the half mile into the woods to their house, praying the crater-sized mud puddles didn’t hurt her little Mazda. The boys came out as she pulled up, wearing bushy beards and grins.
“How’s my hottie fed?” Kurt said, before planting a sloppy kiss on her face.
“Happy to see you,” Zan replied. She hugged Kurt with all her might then switched to Malcolm. “But really, you two, put some gravel on your damn driveway. I thought I was going to bust an axle.” She got her bag and her guitar out of the trunk.
“Why don’t you drive a nice big 4x4 like a normal person?”
She was about to speak when Kurt held up his hand. “Nope! No spewing your tree-hugger crap. We’re the ones who live out here in touch with nature.”
“How can you stand it, Zan?” Malcolm asked. “Living in that stinky, noisy city?” They walked to the front door of the cabin, an A-frame the boys had built themselves. It looked cozy nestled back in the trees, a couple of big boulders hanging out under the porch, the setting sun reflecting yellow-orange on the front picture window.
“Some people might ask you how you can stand living up here with the redneck survivalists.”
“We are redneck survivalists,” Malcolm said, laughing.
Once inside, Zan took a lungful of Thanksgiving feast. She hadn’t eaten since early that morning. The scent of garlic mingled with butter made her mouth water. “Smells fantastic,” she said.
“Turkey’s going to be great, too. I’m smoking it with applewood out back,” Kurt said.
“Yum.” Zan stashed her stuff in the guest room, freshened up, then rejoined them in the kitchen.
“I made you coffee, Zan.” Kurt pointed to the machine. “And the tap water is delicious and ice cold right out of the faucet.”
“I remember. And thanks, you two, for having dinner so late just for me.”
“Oh, please,” Kurt said. “It actually worked out well for our friends. They’re putting in some family time this afternoon and should be here in half an hour.”
Dinner was fun. And delicious. Zan missed mountain things, like digging a hole in the backyard to smoke a turkey. Kurt and Malcolm’s friends were all veterans so the camaraderie was a balm to her soul. She broke out her guitar and sang songs about war, heartache, and friendship. Sometimes they sang along. If she’d told them she was barely hanging onto sanity, they would’ve laughed and slapped her on the back and asked her how they could help. Or told her they felt that way, too.
God, I needed this. I’m like their little sister.
When all the friends had left, Zan suggested that she and Kurt and Malcolm bundle up and sit on the porch so she could enjoy the night sky. Stars so dense and bright would usually make Zan feel insignificant, make her troubles recede. But tonight, the glittering heavens made her think of Rainer.
Everything makes me think of Rainer.
She glanced at the boys, who were holding hands and sipping bourbon. It was as good a time as any to ask for her favor.
“Um, you guys can tell how happy I am to see you, right?”
“Yeah, Zan.” Kurt reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “Seems like the two-ton weight you were carrying when you showed up got a little lighter.”
“It did.” She put her hand on top of his. “So don’t be insulted when I tell you about my ulterior motive for coming here.”
“You’ve decided the federal government is an oppressive oligarchy run by robber barons and you want to join us in our quest for liberty?” Kurt said, causing Malcolm to choke on his bourbon.
“Tempting, Kurt, but no. I, uh, need you to do something illegal.”
“Uh-ho! I seem to remember you giving us hell about our illegal activities, Madam FBI,” Malcolm said.
“Never busted you though, now did I?”
“That’s because you love us too much,” Kurt said, squeezing her shoulder again.
“Like brothers.” They all grinned at each other.
“Okay, sis,” Kurt went on. ‘What do you need?”
“I need you to convert a couple AR-15s to fully automatic. I know you know how.”
Despite the low light, Zan could not mistake the intensity of the stares Kurt and Malcolm were shooting her way.
“What the fuck, Zan?” Kurt said. “I thought you had a friend who wanted weed or something.”
“You want to break the exact laws you usually enforce?” Malcolm asked. “It makes no sense.”
Zan shifted in her seat. She looked up at the glowing tapestry of stars, then barked out a laugh. “My life doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“What’s going on, sweetie?” Malcolm asked. Kurt grabbed her hand and leaned in close.
“I, um, I can’t tell you anything. I’m sorry. If I told you something vague it would be worse. You know I can take care of myself. Help me do it.”
“I don’t get it,” Kurt said. “You mean to tell me the FBI doesn’t have automatic weapons?”
“Well, of course, it does, but what I am going to do? Go up to the weapons locker clerk and say, ‘Hey Ed, let me check out that MP5 if you don’t mind. I have some personal business I need to take care of.’”
“Personal business?” Kurt nearly fell out of his chair. “What kind of personal business requires automatic weapons?”
“I told you. I can’t tell you. Suffice it to say, I now have more sympathy for your desire to have an arsenal in your basement.”
Kurt and Malcolm gawked at her. Malcolm said, “If bad people are after you, the FBI should protect you.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with my job.”
“What does it have to do with?”
“Please. I can’t tell you. I know it’s fucked up. I’ll understand if you won’t do it.”
“Of course, we’ll do it, Zan,” Kurt said. He glanced at Malcolm. “But thanks a lot. We are now totally freaked out.”
True to his word, Kurt converted her guns the next day. It didn’t take him long. Zan filed it away for some distant point when she would tell Nguyen they really should do something about the ease of conversion.
Kurt also handed her three objects that looked like olive-drab-colored maracas.
“Here,” he said. “If you're going to break the law, you might as well go all the way.”
“What are they?” Zan asked.
“Homemade grenades. You’re obviously in big trouble. Indulge me. Take the grenades.”
Zan laughed and flushed. “So wrong. So great.”
Every demon slayer needs a few homemade grenades in her kit.
By 10:00 a.m. they were sitting on the back deck enjoying the smell of woodsmoke and dried leaves. Kurt and Malcolm were not their usual chatty selves.
I guess they’re dying to ask me questions.
The weather was cold but brilliantly sunny, so Zan suggested they backpack up to Wildcat Mountain to camp, then head down the next day. The boys were always up for a mountain jaunt, and a day on the trail would give them something to focus on besides her mysterious need for firepower. After a flurry of collecting gear, they pigged out on leftovers then hit the trail. Zan thought this might soothe her soul even more than playing ballads for combat veterans.
The mountains will always be home.
A few hours later she was sweating and straining under her pack, taking in big lungfuls of spruce-scented air, watching the kestrels ride thermals over the valley. She concentrated on the sound of her breathing and the burn of her muscles as the hikers ascended the steep, rocky trail toward the ridge.
Right foot, breathe in, left foot, breathe out. Don’t think about anything. So wonderful not to think about anything.
When they rose above the tree line the trail flattened. They stopped to sit on rocks among the red heather and eat hard-boiled eggs. The peaks extended as far as Zan could see, shifting from green and brown to craggy gray in the upper reaches. The highest peak, Mount Washington, sternly faced its children, its top slopes already dusted with snow.
The hikers summited Wildcat by late afternoon. By dark, the tent was up and they were boiling water on a tiny backpacking stove, its blue ring of flame floating in the blackness. They ate their reconstituted chili and told stories about Patrick until they fell asleep. Zan snuggled between Kurt and Malcolm in her bag, grateful for their silent understanding.
All they care about is that I need them.
When she woke at daybreak after dreaming of Rainer, she slipped out of her bag, causing the boys to grumble. She left the tent and sat on an outcropping to watch the rising sun tint the snow on Mount Washington a soft peach. She remembered Rainer’s velvet lips against her face, murmuring that her skin was like mountain snow at dawn.
“What’s wrong, Zan?” Kurt sat beside her.
Zan pulled up her shirt to wipe her eyes. “I, uh, I—” She glanced at Kurt then fixed her gaze on the half-lit sky. “My ex. He broke my heart.” She cried harder, hiding her face in her hands. He put his arm around her.
“Well, we knew something was wrong. Something more than being in danger.” Kurt drew her closer. “Tell me.”
And she did. She told him everything she could. How she missed Rainer but couldn’t be with him. How he had lied to her. How his father was trying to kill him and wanted to use her against him. By the end, she was sobbing. Kurt didn’t let her go.
“Don’t let the crazies get you down, sis. You’ve been through worse. Don’t forget that.”
The two agents strode down the hall in the Federal Detention Center. Bogdani was in the legal consultation room with his lawyer and Mel had the deal possibilities from the U.S. Attorney in hand. Zan was walking so quickly her partner had to ask her to slow down.
Time to see what this sick fuck has to say.
The attorney wasted no time after the agents had taken their seats in the dingy room. “If Mr. Bogdani knows anything about the pornography,” he said, “he wants immunity on the murder.”
The U.S. Attorney had said immunity was contingent on the quality of the information, but Mel played it hard. She sized up the lawyer, who gave off a faint stink of disrepute from beneath his white-shoe façade. He was a little uncomfortable in his Brooks Brothers suit, a little too prone to aggressive chin-jutting. Bogdani maintained his usual stony demeanor, despite his orange jumpsuit.
“No immunity,” Mel said. “This is a high-profile crime. The public won’t be too happy if we grant immunity to people who murdered a helpless man and burned his organs in the national park.”
“My clients did not do that. Nor did they conspire or take any action in furtherance of the crime. If they had anything at all to do with that ritual murder, it was only to provide lodging to some associates of theirs. Accessories at most.”
Bogdani stared at Zan. She knew what he must be thinking. He could start talking about demons. She didn’t know how much he understood, but he obviously knew something about Rainer. He could spill it all. And everyone in the room but her would think he was nuts. Or trying to convince them he was nuts. She met his eyes and hoped her expression would communicate her message.
Go ahead, you depraved piece of shit. Then I'll let him beat the information out of you.
Mel glared at the lawyer. Her lip curled in perfect disgust under her dark eyes. “We need to know the quality of their information before we talk any kind of deal.”
“My clients need a deal in place before they say anything. They are not responsible for the actions of the people who create the product. If they are in any way involved, it is solely as purchasers.”
“Immunity on the obscenity and any charge related to it is not on the table and never will be on the table,” Mel said.
“Then we’re at an impasse.”
Mel looked at Zan. They both rose. “Then we’ll see you at the trials. The prosecutor is looking forward to them. She hasn’t had this much evidence going into a trial in years.” As they headed for the door, the lawyer said, “Wait,” in a loud voice. Like they’d known he would.
“What if my client tells you what he knows off the record? When you know what he’s got, you can make your offer.”
Zan and Mel shared a smirk. They turned around to take their seats.