“Well?” Eric asked. “Anything?”
“Analyzing data,” John replied. He stood still for several moments, staring at the small screen.
“Nothing?”
“It’s not as easy as I’m making it look,” John said.
Eric grinned. “Just trying to light a fire.”
“Okay, it’s complete. There’s definitely abnormal amounts of radiation. Which unit belongs to Fletcher?”
“217, that’s three rows back. Let’s get moving.”
They headed deeper into the storage yard, moving quickly. As they rounded a corner, John raised his hand, staring at the computer screen. “We’re getting closer.”
“Glad it’s you two in there,” Martin’s voice crackled. “Remember that ten years from now when you’re both sterile.”
John frowned and Eric slapped him on the shoulder. “He’s just fucking with you, John, there’s nothing to be worried about.” I hope.
As they walked through the gravel lot, John said, “Getting stronger. It’s definitely coming from this row.”
Eric’s ear-piece crackled. “Heads up. You’ve got incoming. Brown Ford station wagon, four males,” Martin said.
“It’s this unit,” John said, pointing to 217.
“How much time?” Eric asked.
“They’re at the keypad,” Martin answered. “Thirty seconds.”
“That’s not enough,” John said.
“Is Fletcher with them?”
“Cannot confirm, repeat, cannot confirm,” Martin said.
John’s eyes widened. “What do we do?”
Eric thought quickly, dismissing scenarios, then grinned. “We improvise. Make yourself scarce.”
“Gate is opening,” Martin said.
“Okay, we’re playing this by ear,” Eric said.
“Roger that,” Martin said. “Vehicle is through the gate.”
John hurried around the row of storage units, while Eric pulled at his jacket, ruffling it to hide the shoulder holster, then moved down two units. As the station wagon came around the corner he backed up and pantomimed placing keys in his pocket, as if he had just finished closing the storage unit door.
The men in the car eyed him suspiciously as they shut off the engine and piled out. They were dressed in blue jeans and dirty t-shirts, and Eric recognized the driver, Jeff Fletcher, from his rap sheet.
“Oh, hello,” Eric said. “Weird huh?”
Fletcher regarded him coolly. “What’s weird?”
“You almost never see anybody in these storage faculties,” Eric replied, walking closer. “I mean, I drive past places like this all the time but I never actually see anybody.” The men stepped forward, giving each other sidelong glances, as he continued. “I’ve been here a couple of times and this place is always deserted, then you guys showed up. Isn’t that weird?”
Fletcher glared at him. “It’s a mini-warehouse dumbass, someone has to actually put stuff in and take stuff out.”
The three other men smirked but eased back.
Eric watched them, the thousand yard stare allowing him to keep track of all four men with his peripheral vision. He stepped forward again, “I know, but it’s still weird.” He was now close enough to have raised their guard, if not for his nonsensical speech. “Seriously, when was the last time you saw someone else here? It just doesn’t happen. Never, wouldn’t you say?”
He was close enough that Fletcher finally took notice. He had invaded the personal space a stranger should never occupy and was within a step of striking distance. The man to Fletcher’s right was tall, six foot, stocky build, a Harley Davidson shirt stretched across his muscular frame. The men to Fletcher’s left were shorter, but not by much. They were all well-muscled. All wore tattoos of different shapes and colors, all indicating time served in prison. Fletcher was the only one without ink.
Eric grinned. “Hey, do you guys belong to a biker club? Those tattoos are cool.”
“What are you, Walter fucking Cronkite?” Fletcher asked. “You writing a book? Get the fuck outta here and mind your own business.”
“Didn’t mean to bother you,” Eric answered. He took the last step forward. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
He finally triggered some kind of internal alarm, the distance too close for a crazy person on the street, and Fletcher’s eyes widened. Before he could move, Eric slammed his palm under Fletcher’s chin. The man’s jaws slammed together and he went down hard in the loose rock.
Fletcher’s friend, the big man with the Harley shirt, lunged forward. Eric side-stepped and a quick chop with his left hand collapsed the man’s wind-pipe.
Then the two shorter men were on him, one throwing wild punches at his head, the other bolting forward but knocked senseless from the other man’s flailing fists.
He saw John come from behind and strike the wild puncher in the kidneys. The man screamed as he went down.
The other man scrambled up and dove toward Eric, catching his legs, taking him to the ground. He grunted from the pain as his head slammed into the rock. Fletcher rose, dazed, but managed to kick him in the groin before John stepped up from behind and clapped his hands on the sides of Fletcher’s head.
Fletcher screamed as his eardrums ruptured, and John spun and drove his fist deep into the solar plexus of the other man, who collapsed, white-faced and motionless.
Eric was rising when Fletcher pulled the gun, a stubby nickel-plated revolver. He struggled to pull his M11, watching in slow-motion as the barrel of Fletcher’s revolver inched higher, when then there was a double wham.
Two holes appeared in Fletcher’s chest. Fletcher dropped his revolver and collapsed on the ground, eyes glassy. John stood behind, his M11 drawn, a wisp of smoke wafting from the chamber.
John’s gaze flickered from Fletcher to Eric and back again. “Holy shit,” he managed, his face tinted green.
Eric stood and surveyed the damage. “Are they all dead?”
John quickly checked the bodies. “Yeah.”
Eric sighed. “I was trying not to kill them.”
“The training took over,” John said. “I didn’t have time to think.” His hands started to tremble, then he doubled over and threw up, long heaves that emptied his stomach onto the white rock.
“Steeljaw? What’s the sitrep?” Martin asked. “We heard shots fired. Do you have Fletcher?”
Eric stooped and searched Fletcher’s pockets. He found Fletcher’s keys and tried several until he found the one that opened the lock on the sliding door. The storage unit was filled with dozen of brown ammo boxes and a crate of M16’s, but most of the space was full of empty barrels emblazoned with the Landfrey logo.
He turned to John, who was still on his knees wiping spittle from the back of his mouth. The four dead men lay where they had fallen. He looked back to the warehouse, which contained no caesium. “Well fuck!”
John watched as Martin, Johnson and Kelly loaded the men into body bags. He turned as Eric clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, John. Fletcher was going to shoot.”
“I didn’t mean to kill them,” he said. “It was reflex.”
“You didn’t kill them all,” Eric said. “The guy with the collapsed trachea was mine.”
Eric’s words didn’t make him feel better. He watched as Martin and Johnson picked up the body bags, one by one, and flopped them into the back of the van. “It’s not the same.”
“What’s not the same?” Eric asked.
“Killing a man up close. It’s not like Iraq. They were always shooting at us.”
“I won’t lie to you. Killing a man up close is different. You see their eyes, you feel it when you hit them. You see the bodies jerk, smell it when their bowels release. There’s nothing glamorous about death. Taking a life isn’t pleasant, but it’s part of the job. It was us or them. I don’t like killing, never have, never will.”