In the Woods (30 page)

Never mind. There was no time for sentiment. Another man was descending the ladder.

‘Don’t hit him.’ Hank put a hand in front of Jim. ‘It’s Daniels.’

Ranger Daniels stood at the bottom of the ladder, breathless. He looked around with wild eyes. ‘Captain Slader? Damn. They’ve got you, too? These locals have gone crazy. The Hunt Club’s starting a damned revolution.’

Someone shouted from above. ‘Back away from the ladder. We’re coming down.’

Harper finally let go of Hank, nodded at Slader, who motioned for them all to take a step back. Hunting boots stepped through the trapdoor and came down fast. A second man was on the ladder, just a few rungs up from the first.

‘Now!’ Slader said. Jim took hold of the second rung, Harper of the third and Slader the bottom one. ‘Ready, and up,’ Slader commanded.

The three picked up the ladder and yanked it backwards, pulling it down through the open hatch. The ladder fell flat, taking the men who were on it down with it.

They didn’t fall far. As people shouted threats from the open hatch, Moose lay flat on his back, and Ax crawled onto his knees to get to his feet. Hank pounced, twisting Ax’s arm behind his back while Daniels grabbed Ax’s pistol from his waistband.

‘You stupid fucks.’ Ax bent over, glaring at Daniels, wincing when Hank tightened his grip on his arm. ‘Are you nuts?’ His eyes darted around. ‘Moose! A little help, please?’

Moose bounded to his feet and struck Jim in the face, knocking him out. Pulling a hunting knife from his belt, he went after Slader. ‘I’m going to gut you, Chief,’ he growled.

Harper hung back, gauging her position, watching Slader edge back and around, armed with only a flimsy metal rod. They circled each other slowly until Moose swiped, knocked the rod from Slader’s grip, and lunged. Blood spurted from Slader’s shoulder, spattered the wall. Someone screamed – Angela? Harper couldn’t wait any longer. She leapt at Moose, pouncing onto his back, wrapping her legs around his ribcage, grabbing his throat with one hand, clutching the wrist holding the knife with the other.

‘Take the knife,’ she barked at Slader. He was bleeding but still on his feet, holding his shoulder. But Slader didn’t take it. He wobbled onto a cot, staring blankly.

Moose was too strong. Harper couldn’t handle him alone. She tightened her thighs, moved her hand from Moose’s neck to his eyes and dug her fingers in. Moose roared, shimmied, used his free hand to claw at Harper’s fingers, peeling them away one by one.

‘Huh!’ Angela grunted.

Moose released Harper’s fingers. Harper felt his body absorb a blow. She turned her head, saw Angela standing on one leg, swinging Slader’s metal rod like a baseball, striking Moose’s shins and knees. ‘Huh. Huh.’

Moose spun around, bucking, trying to throw Harper off and deck Angela. But Harper held on and pressed her fingers deeper into his eye sockets. Angela slammed him again and again, hitting his shins, his knees. Moose grunted, careening blindly around the room, stumbling over Jim’s legs, crashing into a cot, finally tripping over the ladder and falling to his knees. Still Harper hung on, not releasing him or his eyes even after he dropped the knife, even after Hank told her that it was okay, that they had him, that she could let go. No, Harper stayed on his back, clinging to it as if she could ride it to freedom. She didn’t get off even when Daniels shouted, ‘Look out,’ and Hank called, ‘Get down, damn it.’ When the shooting started, she didn’t move. Finally, Hank had to dive onto her, pull her to the floor and roll them both away.

Eyelids flapping, Pete stared at the shotgun.

‘Put down your weapon and get up.’ The guy had a long reddish beard, curly auburn hair. He motioned for Pete to come out of the shed.

Pete put his rifle down, stood up slowly. Didn’t look around at Bob, but glimpsed him hunkering behind the rocket launcher as he stepped outside.

The guy’s friend walked around from the back of the shed. He was chewing gum or maybe tobacco. He aimed his gun at Pete, smiling. ‘Well, look at what you found. Who is this?’

‘No idea. We haven’t been introduced.’

‘Who do you suppose sent him?’

Sent him? Pete looked from one of them to the other, didn’t like their grins.

‘Got to be the gas company. He doesn’t look like a Fed – too young.’

‘Not that it matters. He’s trespassing, either way.’ The darker guy chewed. ‘He alone?’

The red-haired guy peeked into the shed, didn’t see Bob hiding in the dark. ‘Looks like it.’

‘So what should we do, shoot him?’

‘No – wait.’ Pete took a step back, couldn’t stop blinking. ‘My name’s Pete – I’m just up for the weekend with a friend.’

The men looked at each other. ‘What friend?’

‘No, he’s not here. I got lost and wandered around for a real long time, and then I saw that fence, and I thought maybe I could find somebody here to help me …’

‘Really?’ The red-haired guy lifted his chin. ‘Then what the fuck were you doing hiding in that shack?’ The guy lunged forward, jabbing his muzzle into Pete’s belly.

Pete bent forward, trying to protect his gut. ‘Nothing. I swear—’

‘I say we shoot him.’

‘No! Wait …’ Where the hell was Bob? Was he going to just sit there and let them kill him?

‘What? You got some reason we shouldn’t?’ The red-haired one moved to Pete’s side. ‘Something to tell us? Like, for example, the truth?’

The truth? Pete’s eyelids raced. ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you.’

The darker one turned his head, spat out whatever was in his mouth. ‘You got like thirty seconds.’

Pete tried not to turn and look for Bob. Tried to trust that his friend would rescue him. Tried to think of something to say, but all he could think of was the truth. ‘Like I said, I came here with my friend—’

‘Aw, he’s just bullshitting. Let’s just shoot him.’

‘—to blow up the pipeline.’

‘What?’

Pete repeated it.

The two men gaped at him. Glanced at each other. The darker one tilted his head. ‘You’re telling us that it was you set off those explosions?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You.’

‘With my friend. Look.’ Pete held up his hands. ‘That’s how I got these burns.’

The men eyed his hands, his face. They looked at each other. And burst out laughing.

‘He came to …’ The red-haired one guffawed. ‘To …’ He couldn’t finish, he was laughing so hard.

The darker one was bent over, holding his belly. ‘Can you believe that?’

‘A couple of kids—’

‘—blew up the old septic tanks.’

They roared with laughter, and while roaring, forgot about aiming their guns at Pete.

‘That’ll do.’ Bob stood at the door to the shed, holding a backpack.

The two men kept laughing, couldn’t stop right away. Took a moment to realize that someone else had joined them. When they did, they raised their rifles, aimed them at Bob.

‘You don’t want to shoot me.’ Bob smiled, held up the backpack. ‘You’d set off a terrible blast that would kill us all.’

‘Bullshit,’ the darker one said, but he didn’t move.

‘I was looking around in the shed, and guess what I found in the refrigerator?’

The men glanced at each other.

‘I found lots of explosives. Plastic. Liquid. All kinds. And I packed it up in my backpack. Pete’s, too. Thing is, I’m pretty sure some of that liquid stuff is sensitive. By “sensitive”, I mean that unless it’s kept cold, it will explode on contact. Like if somebody even bumps into it. So. Here’s the thing. You two are going to escort us safely to the gate and send us on our way.’

The men looked at each other, grinning. ‘Kid’s got balls, right?’

‘I’ve also got this backpack. Want to see what happens if I drop it? Or toss it at you?’

‘All that’s in this shed is ammo.’ The red-haired guy turned to his friend. ‘He’s bullshitting, right?’

‘Hell, Simon. You said that kid was alone. Didn’t you even check?’

‘Of course I checked. I didn’t see anyone.’

‘My ass you checked—’

‘Gentlemen, please.’ Bob’s eyes gleamed. ‘Stop bickering. Put your weapons on the ground.’ He directed Pete to confiscate their rifles and radios, held the backpack like a bag of groceries.

The men hesitated, called his bluff. Pointed out that if his explosives would kill them, it would kill him and his friend, too.

Bob smiled. ‘No doubt.’ He held the pack over his head as if he’d smash it on the ground.

‘For real.’ Pete put his hands up. ‘You don’t want to fuck with him.’ He and Bob had almost died twice in the last day, and it hadn’t fazed Bob. Hadn’t stopped him from coming back for a third attempt.

‘I figure you guys want to kill us.’ Bob lowered the backpack. ‘If you really want to, that’s fine. But if I’m going, you’re coming with me.’

Pete couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking crazy fast. Couldn’t tell if Bob was bluffing, was pretty sure he wasn’t. He took the two guys’ radios, heard a woman asking for a check-in, or maybe a shift check. Some kind of check. He set the radios on the ground with the rifles. And, using some cord Bob had taken from a shelf, tied the men back-to-back, inside the shed.

When he was finished binding them, Bob was beside the shed, listening to a woman on the radios, asking about Ranger Daniels. A man answered that Daniels was in the compound. He and his friend were in the hole with the other conspirators.

‘So this is real? We’re going for blood?’ the woman asked.

‘Oh yeah,’ the man answered. ‘No prisoners. Full-out war.’

What was going on? Had she said
blood
? Pete looked around. The sun was dipping behind the trees. His burns throbbed and his stomach kept flipping. He was out of sync, disconnected, as if watching himself from far away. Forget about saving the environment and ending the use of fossil fuels; all he wanted was to run back to the Impala and fly back home.

‘This has gotten weird, Bob,’ he began.

‘Sure has.’ Bob grinned. ‘I don’t know what we can do for those women. Let’s just gather up our stuff and do what we came here to do.’

The radio started again. A man’s voice. ‘Perimeter check-in.’ Static. ‘Again, perimeter? Simon? Dave?’

‘I think they’re calling those guys,’ Pete said.

‘Then we better get going before they come looking for them.’

Pete hesitated before lifting a backpack. ‘That stuff in here – you were serious about how sensitive the explosives—’

‘You bet your ass.’ Bob cradled his pack, started across the field. ‘Come on. Time to go make history.’

Someone pounced on Harper, throwing her off her prisoner. Just as she fell, a bullet whizzed past her head. Gunfire came fast, loud and she landed hard, face down. Someone was on top of her, holding her down. People were screaming, racing for cover. Bumping into each other. Falling. Harper had to get to her patrol – it was an ambush, and they were exposed. She needed to cover them. Needed a weapon. But the damned insurgent on her back was too heavy, holding her down. She fought, flailing, twisting, struggling to get free. Wait, where was her knife? Her prisoner, the man she’d taken down, had had a knife. She lay on her stomach, kicking and wriggling, looking across the floor for a metal blade. Seeing a pool of blood widening beside her head.

Shit. Had she been hit? She took a quick inventory of her body parts, searching for pain. But she remembered the suicide bombing, when her bones had been broken, her flesh seared and gouged, and she’d felt no pain. Nothing at all. So not feeling pain wouldn’t tell her anything about a bullet wound. In fact, all she could feel was the weight of the attacker holding her to the ground. The blood pool was spreading, coming closer to her face. So, wait. It wasn’t hers; couldn’t be. If the blood were hers, the pool would start under her, not close to her. Why couldn’t she think straight? What was wrong with her? Bullets kept coming, one after another, pop-pop-pop. A soprano voice stopped mid-scream.

‘Come on,’ her attacker shouted into her ear, hefted her up by her waistband, held her like a baby, except face down. He was strong, and she had no leverage, couldn’t fight him off. Harper felt his unbalanced run, watched the floor rush under her. Saw her prisoner’s face, half blown away. She turned her head, staring at him. Remembered riding on his back, poking his eyes. Oh God. Someone had pulled her away as a bullet had zipped past her head – the shot had been meant for her. Had hit him instead.

Someone had saved her life.

Someone from her unit?

‘Go go go,’ a man croaked. ‘Come on!’

The floor flashed by. Harper passed over a casualty. A man – his back bloodied. She recognized him. One of hers. She turned her head, saw a woman crawling, one foot bare. Her ankle, swollen, purple. Splatted with blood. Harper’s head passed through a door frame. The running stopped. The floor stopped moving. The man holding her didn’t let go. She could feel his heart pounding.

‘Okay, we’re okay. Close it.’

‘But that other guy …’ The man holding her was out of breath.

‘Jim’s dead,’ said another.

‘How do we know?’

‘If he isn’t, he will be. We can’t help him.’

Why were they speaking English? Shouldn’t insurgents speak Arabic? Farsi? Were they spies? Harper scanned the room. No windows. A mattress on the floor. A portable toilet. Dim light spilling from above. Two men, plus the one holding her. Clearly she was in a prison cell. Someone closed the door.

Outside, the gunfire stopped. Nearby, someone was moaning.

‘Put me down.’ Harper tried to sound dangerous, authoritative.

Beefy arms lowered her gently to the floor.

‘You okay?’ The voice was familiar.

But it made no sense. Had to be a trick. A mind game, a form of psychological torture. She looked up. Hank knelt beside her, touching her forehead. Harper couldn’t help it, let out a yelp.

‘It’s all right, Harper.’ He leaned over and kissed her mouth.

Harper put her hand out, touching him. Making sure he was real. ‘Hank?’ She frowned, trying to understand. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Daniels and I followed your trail—’

‘Have you seen my patrol? Are they okay?’ Harper tried to stand, needed to find them.

‘Your patrol?’

‘What’s she asking?’ one of the men asked.