Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island (16 page)

“That better?” Judd looked around at the others who stared across the fire at them. “I’ll even go one better, kid. I’ll turn my back.” He turned away from Tim, though he still looked at him over his shoulder. “Now, before I look away, let’s get the rules straight. Once I turn my head, you’re on your own. You can pull your fancy gun out and start shooting. All I’ll have are my knives.”

Tim looked at the back of Judd’s pants. Long narrow pockets lined the backs and sides of each thigh. A Velcro flap held the knives in place. Tim calculated how long it would take for Judd to pull the knife out, turn, and throw. Surely he could pull his gun quicker.

“Ready?” Judd asked.

But he’d just seen how quickly Judd had managed to nail Bechler in the, leg. It had happened so fast Tim hadn’t even seen Judd pull out the knife.

“Ready, kid?” Judd repeated.

Tim nodded.

Pulling open the flap would take a moment, so would drawing out the gun. The safety was on, that would take a fraction of a second too. Aiming wouldn’t take long, neither would pulling the trigger. But add them up. Tim didn’t know.

“Here we go,” Judd said, his head slowly swiveling away.

Oddly, Tim found himself wondering, not what his father would do in this situation, but what Fallows would do. After all, it was Fallows who had beaten Eric so far, who had kidnapped Tim and survived every raid and provided the best available goods for his men. Who would know better?

“Go!” Judd said.

Tim watched Judd’s right hand swing back, the thumb extended, digging under the Velcro, prying the flap apart. The index finger and thumb pinching the black blade, pulling it free.

Tim’s instincts were to go for his gun, to scuttle back as far away from Judd as possible as he fired. That made sense. Increasing the range would give the gun the advantage.

But Tim didn’t even go for his gun.

What happened next was something he’d heard about, but never understood. Something his father had told him about, something Big Bill Tenderwolf had described, something Fallows had tried to explain. They had each talked about a moment when your brain gave itself over to the body. It wasn’t instinct, because it told him to go for the gun. It was some primal pulsing at the back of the brain, a black box that released a warm inky fluid that washed over Tim in an instant. And suddenly he was moving, doing things over which he had no say, no control. Logic was dead.

He did not go for the gun. He did not back away.

Instead he grabbed the knife that’d he’d dropped. And as Judd spun around, one of his flat black throwing knives raised high over his head ready for launching, Tim leaned forward, toward Judd, and plunged the knife straight into Judd’s open fly.

Judd screamed like no one Tim had ever heard scream. Judd’s knife dropped to the ground as both his hands went toward his crotch.

Tim drove the knife deeper, holding on tightly as Judd clawed at his hands.

“You little fucker,” Judd rasped, his clawing becoming weaker. He dropped to his knees, face level now with Tim. But still Tim clutched the knife, pressing it forward, though it could go no deeper.

Judd toppled over, dead. His eyes stared at the dirt.

Still Tim would not release the knife. He couldn’t. It was as if he had plugged into some electrical socket and nothing but pure energy was surging through his body. Even Judd’s warm blood oozing over his fingers was like an invigorating salve. It was like the old beliefs Big Bill used to tell him about how killing an enemy gave you his strength. That’s what Tim felt, like he had more strength and power than his body could contain.

Finally, Tim let go of the knife and stood up.

The men around the fire looked at him as blandly as if he’d just stepped on an ant. One of them took a swig from his canteen and said, “Your mess, kid. You clean it up.”

Tim smiled. Despite their hardened gazes, he could tell they respected him and even, a little, feared him. Now he belonged. After all these months, he belonged. He knew now what they felt on those raids, the sense of power, almost invulnerability. What would his father say? Tim wondered. Surely he must have felt it too, in Vietnam. Yet Tim knew his father would disapprove of these feelings, would try to stop them. And right now Tim didn’t want them to stop. Ever.

He looked over at Fallows’ tent, saw the flap move slightly. Had Fallows been watching? He must have, Tim realized. That made him feel good. Proud.

“Hey,” Bechler yelled, struggling to stand on his wounded leg. “Anybody gonna give me a hand?”

No one moved. Tim looked at the others, at Bechler. He smiled and walked back to his tent.

Eric nudged Bolinski’s dead body with his foot. “More food for the zoo animals.” He turned to Washington. “What about you? Want to be on tomorrow’s menu?”

Washington shook his head. “No way, man.”

“Good, then let’s get going.”

“Sure, man. Whatever you say. Where to?”

Eric looked disappointed as he reloaded his crossbow. “Fallows said you guys were stupid, but he didn’t say
this
stupid.”

Washington didn’t respond. Eric aimed the crossbow at him. Washington raised his hands and back-pedaled a couple of steps.

Eric stooped over Bolinski’s body and pulled the bolt out. He wiped the blood on Bolinski’s blue shirt and shoved it back into the quiver at his waist. “Bolinski was your commander, therefore he’s responsible for this screw-up. Fallows instructed me to make sure he was punished.” Eric grinned.

“He had no right!” Washington shouted angrily. Then, aware that he may have said too much, he laughed. “Bolinski may have been a fool, but he was an okay dude, man.”

Eric spoke in Russian. “Now he is a dead dude.”

“What is that? Pig Latin?”

Eric lifted the crossbow to his shoulder and aimed down the runner, lining up the bolt’s point with Washington’s chest. Again he spoke in Russian. “Fallows said if I thought you were going to screw up this operation any more, I should fix you too. Well?”

Washington stared for a minute, his eyes studying Eric, calculating. Finally he let out a deep weary sigh. He nodded at Eric, answering in Russian. “Let’s go.”

“You first,” Eric said.

They hiked through the zoo, Eric watchful for any stray animals. He let Washington lead the way since he had no idea where they were going. Except back to Fallows.

So far it was working. Killing Bolinski had convinced Washington that Eric was indeed sent by Fallows, though Eric still didn’t know what the connection was between the two Soviets and Fallows. Nor did he know why two Russians were dressed in U.S. navy uniforms, or why they were posing as Americans.

“Your American is impressive,” Eric said.

“Better than your Russian.”

“Six-week crash course in the service. Tourist stuff mostly.”

Washington smiled. “Lingo, baby. Jive. That’s what I speak.”

“You learn it in spy school?”

“Spy school?” he laughed. “Shit, I learned it at UCLA. I’m South African. Zulu, to be exact. I was a teenager fighting the Afrikaners’ apartheid in my country with small acts of terrorism. Well, more like vandalism. Slashing tires and such of white businessmen. My father disapproved, naturally, being a member of the Colored Persons Representative Council. Anyway, my underground activities were noticed and I was given money to help organize other youths.”

“KGB,” Eric said.

“Yes, though I didn’t know that at the time. Not that it would have mattered. They were doing something to help our cause.”

Eric didn’t want to ask too many questions, questions that someone sent by Fallows would know the answers to. Like what he was doing here. He’d have to stick to the personal chatter, pick up what he could.

They came to the outer wall. Washington pointed to the barbed wire across the top. “We’d cut through that coming in. She must’ve replaced it.”

“I’ll boost you up,” Eric said. “Throw your shirt over the wire.”

“Why me, man?”

Eric held up the crossbow. “Because I’ve got this.”

Washington nodded. “Right.”

Eric leaned the crossbow against the wall, laced his fingers together into a stirrup, and lifted Washington up onto the wall. Eric dusted off his hands and looked up. Washington was perched ten feet above him.

“Okay,” Eric said, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder. “Give me your hand.” He reached up.

Washington smiled. “Blow it out your ass, honky.” And suddenly he leaped over the barbed wire and jumped down on the other side of the wall.

“Damn!” Eric said. He had thought killing Bolinski had put a big enough scare into Washington. Not so.

Eric ran back twenty feet from the wall, tightened the bow to his back, and ran full-speed for the wall. Three feet from the wall he jumped up, arching his back and extending his hands. Ten feet. The height of a basketball rim. All those days playing one-on-one with Big Bill, dribbling around him for his patented reverse lay-up. Jumping for the rim between games while Big Bill rested and sipped beers. His fingertips could feel the rust flakes where he barely grazed the bottom of the rim.

Eric’s fingers caught the top of the wall, hooked over the edge by the first joints of the knuckles. His feet scrambled for purchase on the wall while his fingers pulled him up by inches. Then in one great effort, he was on top.

Washington was running through the dark, dodging left and right as he made for the deserted highway. Eric shouldered the crossbow, followed his zig-zagging for a few seconds, then squeezed the trigger. The bolt shooshed through the night and stabbed into the ground inches from Washington’s running feet.

“Next one’s in your leg,” Eric shouted.

Washington kept running.

“Unless I miss and hit your back.”

Washington stopped.

Eric stepped carefully over the barbed wire and jumped down from the wall. He reloaded his crossbow and jogged toward Washington.

“I had to try,” Washington shrugged when Eric arrived.

“Why? Fallows and your people are on the same side, right?”

“An uneasy alliance.” Washington pulled the arrow out of the ground and handed it to Eric. “But you are only guessing, aren’t you, Mr. Ravensmith?”

Eric showed no response.

Washington continued. “I know who you are. Bolinski and I suspected. We have heard a great deal about you since arriving here. The Warlord, isn’t it?” When Eric didn’t answer, Washington continued. “The locals have stories, exaggerations no doubt, but after seeing you at work, perhaps not.”

“Why did you come with me?”

“Why not? I figured it was better to try to escape from you than be locked indefinitely in that cage. You were right about one thing, eventually Fallows or my people would have sent somebody. Bolinski and I were idiots to enter that place, selfishly looking for fresh meat. We had been scouting and Bolinski convinced me it would be nothing more than poaching a bird or two.” Washington sighed. “So now you will kill me unless I tell you what Russians are doing in your precious California.”

“No,” Eric said.

Washington raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“But I will kill you if you don’t take me to Fallows’ camp.”

“Then it is true. About your son. That boy is yours.”