His stomach gurgled now as he thought about the time—cold greasy sausage sitting in his plate.
“Mr. Higgins—”
He vomited, the gunk dribbling onto the floor. Grabbing his stomach, he curled over and vomited once more, making it sound worse than it was.
“Disgusting,” the monitor said. “I thought he was supposed to be better.”
“Maybe he’s having a relapse,” a guard said.
“Take him to the infirmary,” the monitor said. “Tell them I don’t want to talk to the traitor until he’s strong enough to withstand some persuasion.”
Jake kept his head down as the guards each grabbed an arm, lifting him off the chair and heading for the door. He had a few hours reprieve, maybe a few days. How could he turn that to his advantage? He didn’t know, but he’d better come up with a plan fast, or he faced being tortured to death—because there was no way he was going to denounce his dad.
Colonel Stan Higgins sat in an auditorium at Southern Front Headquarters. Along with the other colonels and generals, he listened to Tom McGraw outline the winter plans against the PAA, the incremental approach to pushing them completely into northern Mexico.
When the talk ended, Stan mingled with the field grade officers afterward. He worked his way toward McGraw, the big man surrounded by generals. Stan waited, although impatience seethed through him.
For over six months, he’d believed Jake had died in Stillwater. Since talking with Chet, Stan had hunted down the original doctor. He’d spoken at length with the man a second time, finally learning the truth. Homeland Security had indeed taken Jake.
As Stan stood in the gymnasium, listening to people talk, a fierce sense of betrayal filled him as it had been doing for the past weeks. How many times had he put his life on the line for his country? He’d lost count. His country had rewarded him with rank, medals and some honor. Yet it had taken his son, possibly killed him.
How should I react to that? What did he owe his country? His old dead friend Bill would have told him a man’s allegiance followed a strict ranking: God, family, country, in that order. If one’s country affronted God—demanded he disobey the Divine Ruler by accepting things God hated—one must rebel against that. If his country attacked his family… one must also rebel. After that, if someone attacked his country, he would fight to the death for it.
Homeland Security has taken my son. One arm of it has, anyway. Am I honor-bound to obey Max Harold or to obey those who help him?
Stan didn’t believe so. He had a small derringer in his jacket pocket, a tiny thing with two shells. He’d told McGraw some time ago what would happen if they took his boy. A lethal level of bitterness consumed Stan. After years of war, of fighting for his country, how could it come to this? He didn’t understand.
“Stan!”
Higgins looked up. McGraw filled his vision. The big man reached out, clapping him on the shoulder. It made Stan flinch.
“What’s wrong, old son?” McGraw asked. “You’re looking peaked. You’re standing here all by yourself as if the devil is pestering you.”
Despite the others around them, Stan blurted, “They have my son, Tom. Homeland Security plucked him out of a radiation treatment center. They’re holding him captive, likely in one of their detention facilities.”
At the bleakness of his voice, several officers turned toward Stan. He felt their staring eyes, the silent questions.
McGraw’s head swayed back. He seemed surprised. “But I thought…”
Stan opened his mouth to accuse the general, and he let his right hand drop into his jacket pocket.
“Colonel,” McGraw said, becoming serious. “I-I need to have a word with you.”
Stan’s fingers curled around the derringer. Then he palmed it. All he had to do was lift it out of his pocket, push it in McGraw’s face, and pull the trigger twice.
“Colonel!” McGraw boomed.
Stan became aware of many officers watching him. The stupor that had consumed him left, and he realized he had almost murdered Tom McGraw. The general’s words finally penetrated his fogged thoughts.
“When do you want to talk?” Stan asked.
“I’d like a word with you right this minute,” McGraw said.
“In private?”
“Of course. I have a message for you personally.”
Stan nodded, and he felt the weight of the derringer in his pocketed hand. Finally, he was about to get some old-time justice.
McGraw spoke to an aide, a major. The aide spoke to a three-star general. Soon, Stan found himself following McGraw as the man pushed through the crowd. They stepped outside the gymnasium. Cold bit Stan’s cheeks, and he shivered. They crunched through snow, reaching an office building.
Stan glanced at the icy moon. He might never see it again. He gripped the derringer to shoot. As he did, McGraw accelerated up a short ramp. Two bodyguards appeared. McGraw put his right hand on a doorknob, standing twelve feet away. The derringer had no accuracy. Stan had practiced with it before. To hit, he needed to be standing right beside the general.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” the lead bodyguard said.
For an instant, Stan decided to risk it. The bodyguard must have sensed something, because he stepped between Stan and the general.
Annoyance flashed across Stan’s face. Then he realized the chance had passed. He let go of the derringer, taking his hand out of his pocket.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Stan asked the approaching guard.
“Can’t take any chances, old son,” McGraw said. “It’s nothing personal.”
Stan opened his mouth, and shut it. He’d lost his chance.
The bodyguards became four as two more appeared. Before Stan knew it, they were frisking him—strong hands lifting his arms, patting against his ribs. His heart sank as a guard patted his pocket and gave him a sharp look. Stan knew better than to fight the bodyguard.
The man reached in and plucked the derringer from Stan’s pocket. “You’d better see this, General,” the bodyguard said, facing McGraw.
In the starlight, McGraw glanced at the derringer and then peered at Stan.
“Did you mean to murder me with that little toy, old son?”
“I don’t know,” Stan whispered. “Maybe.”
All four bodyguards stiffened. One reached for Stan while the others drew their sidearms.
“No,” McGraw said. “Let him be.”
“But sir—”
“I just gave you an order. Search him again. Tell me what more you find.”
They searched Stan more thoroughly. In silence, he endured the indignity. What did it matter anyway? He should have taken his chance when he had it. He’d blown it. Shortly thereafter, the chief bodyguard told the general they hadn’t found anything else, as there was nothing else to discover.
“Inside, Colonel,” McGraw said. “I want to hear what you have to say about this.”
Stan moved up the ramp as if walking to his gallows. Inside, McGraw flicked on the lights. It was a schoolroom. It surprised Stan none of the bodyguards entered. The big man sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk. Wearily, Stan sank into a chair beside a cluttered table. He sat there staring, trying to collect his thoughts.
“Higgins, were you really going to shoot me?”
“They have my son,” Stan said, as he continued to stare at the carpet.
“I’ve read the report. Jake is dead.”