Big Jolly sat on the ground clutching the backpack, his last man standing over him and using the Mini-14 to keep the cultists off his boss. He fired in three-round bursts, but his eyes were so wide they looked as though they would pop out and he couldn’t hit anything at all. Slowly the cultists closed in.
The remaining rednecks had guns out, shooting everywhere.
In the back of my skull came that twinge about not having a vest, but I was already moving and so I ignored it and concentrated on picking targets.
I dropped the cultists who were drawing symbols first, ending whatever fuck-shit spell they were conjuring. One bullet per, easy to hit because they weren’t moving. The rest of them weren’t standing still.
Shooting people isn’t easy, especially when they are hopped up on drugs or magick or both, in service to their ancient blood cult leaders. You’re flinging a few ounces of lead at them, riding a fucking explosion; just get a few degrees off target and you’ll miss entirely.
Still moving forward, I took three more cultists before my slide locked back.
Thumb the magazine release, let it fall, and have another one in before it hits the ground.
Practice.
In that three seconds, the cultists took the other rednecks.
Cut them down, hit their knees, and began drawing in their blood while the rest turned toward Big Jolly and his last henchman. I hit them from behind just as they closed in, slamming my body into cultists as I fired into them at point-blank range. I was too close, didn’t aim, just shoved the gun forward and pulled the trigger.
I pushed my way through as Big Jolly’s henchman caught a flame knife in the gut and folded in on himself. The cultist that stabbed him pulled the blade out with a hard jerk that split the man just above his hips. A gout of blood splashed onto the cement, spattering up on Big Jolly. The cultist immediately dropped to his knees and began painting in the gore and the guts.
I kicked him in the face, making him snap back and lie flat on the ground in the puddle of blood. I spun, boots slipping on the wet cement, and found my gun locked back and empty again.
This is where Joe Ledger comes in.
He strode in through the bay door like the fucking Terminator, spine straight, shoulders locked, and holding an M4 carbine pressed to his cheek. With each step he took, he popped a cultist. Double-tap motherfuckers.
Head shots almost every one.
The cultists began falling around me like Pentecostals at a tent revival.
One came by me like liquid shadow, and I turned just in time to see him disappearing into the shadows.
Holding the backpack.
When I turned back I was face-to-face with the barrel of a semiautomatic rifle.
The man on the other side of it stood in the ring of people he had just killed, their blood drying on his boots, and kept his gun pointed at me.
“What are you going to do now, Cowboy?” I said.
The eye of his I could see opened in surprise. “What did you say?”
“You might be surprised to know that this isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed in my face.”
“Who do you work for?”
I weighed my options. I could’ve said the OCID, but it’s a shadow organization and I’m more an independent contractor than an employee. I went with, “Freelance. What about you?”
“Department of Military Sciences.”
“Military? That explains the G.I. Joe vibe.”
He lowered the rifle and sniffed. “Freelance explains the Dog the Bounty Hunter vibe.”
“You saved my ass a minute ago, so I’ll let that slide.”
“Wasn’t an insult, just a reference. Like yours.”
Keep telling yourself that.
Behind me, Big Jolly sat crying, big chest rolling with strangely muted sobs that lifted his entire upper body with their intensity. He began to roll over to climb to his feet. The man swung his rifle that way.
“Stay on your ass until I tell you to move.”
Big Jolly nodded and rolled back onto his ass. His suit squelched in the blood puddled around him.
Moving deliberately, I pulled another magazine from the row of pouches under my arm and reloaded. The man just watched me with flat eyes, not raising the rifle. Locked, cocked, and ready to rock, I slid the gun back into its holster.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Deacon Chalk.”
“Seriously?”
I get that sometimes. “Yeah, it’s the South.”
“I know a guy goes by Deacon.”
“I don’t go by it. That’s my name.”
“He’s a prick sometimes.”
“Then he’s half stepping. I was born an asshole and just got bigger.”
He looked up at me. “Joe Ledger.”
“Pleased to meetcha.”
He let go of the rifle, and it slid around his body on the strap to hang behind him. He’d be able to have it ready in a blink. He nudged one of the dead cultists with the toe of his boot. “So, Deacon, what’s going on with these ninja-looking assholes?”
“White Flame,” I answered.
He grunted. “I didn’t know they had moved down here.”
“Yep, everybody comes to the South.”
“Muggy here.”
I shrugged. “Be glad it’s not pollen season.”
His hand swept, indicating the dead bodies. “Hell of a welcome.”
“Just for you,” I said. “So what are you doing here?”
“Got wind Big Jolly here was trying to sell a suitcase nuke to the Heritage Militia, which I assume are these four examples of the laces-and-braces battalion. They planned to use it to kick off a race war. Thought I’d spoil their action.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“One of the White Flame assholes got the backpack from chubs and took off before I could stop him.”
Ledger’s face went dark and he stepped around me, moving with purpose toward Big Jolly. Three steps and he was on the fat man, dropping to one knee and grabbing Jolly’s hanging jowl. Jolly screamed and Ledger yanked on the flesh between his fingers. “Shut the fuck up.”
Jolly quit screaming as if his throat had been slit.
Ledger leaned in and growled, “Don’t lie, not even a little. Is that nuke real?”
“I… I… I didn’t make it!”
Ledger jerked Jolly’s face hard to emphasize each word. “Is. It. Real?”
“Yes! Yes, it’s real! It’s real!”
Ledger pushed Jolly away and stood. “We have a fucking problem.”
No shit, Sherlock.
It took longer to hike to the car than it should have because Big Jolly moved like a conversion van with two broken axles. I’d parked a few streets over from the warehouse, about a half mile away. Big Jolly was a florid color of purple and soaked through with sweat by the time we got there. Ledger had pulled some zip ties from somewhere by his belt and cinched Jolly’s hands in front of him. There was no way he could have done it behind him, not as big as he was. After much huffing and puffing on his part, we turned the corner and there it was, long and lean and badass to the bone. My car. A hopped-up Mercury Comet with a motor that runs like a scalded dog.
“That’s us,” I said, hitting the unlock button on my key fob.
“Nice ride,” Ledger said. “Sixty-nine?”
“Sixty-six.”
“Nice.” He nodded. “Pretty small back seat.”
“Two steps ahead of you.” I pushed another button on the fob that popped the trunk.
Big Jolly protested the whole way, but he went. The car sank four inches as he rolled himself into the trunk. I shut the lid.
“That’s a big trunk,” Ledger said.
“It’s a six-body.”
“Or a one-Jolly.”
“Yep.”
Ledger put his phone away. I don’t know who he was talking to, someone at the DMS — fucking government agencies and their fucking initials — but his face was grim. I could have called Tiff or Heck over at the OCID, but Ledger wanted to avoid any interjurisdictional logistics, so he called his crew and sent them over pictures of the symbols the cultists had been painting.