Dad patted his rifle and spare magazines. “Good to go.”
“We only have enough NVGs to issue you one set. As for suppressors, let me see here ...” He began to thumb through an inventory log.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dad interrupted. “We have our own.”
“NVGs or suppressors?”
“Both.”
Grohl raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yep. I used to work for a company called Black Wolf Tactical. Ever heard of it?”
“It rings a bell. One of those outfits like the Gunsite Academy in Arizona, right?”
“Along the same lines, yeah.”
Grohl scratched at his day’s growth of stubble. “Well that explains a lot. You need anything else from me?”
“Nope,” Dad said. “I believe we’re all set.”
“Very well. Stay sharp out there fellas.”
“Will do.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
As my father and I approached the break between two Bradleys that served as a gate, the glare of floodlights illuminating the interior of the camp grew dim. I reached a hand back to the pouch where I normally kept my NVGs and found it empty.
“Ah, son of a bitch.”
Dad stopped a few steps ahead of me, looked back, and said, “What?”
I thought for a moment before remembering unpacking my NVGs a few hours ago to swap out the batteries. I had been inside the camper at the time, sitting at the table, and must have forgotten to put them back in the pouch. Stupid.
“I think I left my NVGs back at camp.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Afraid not. They’re probably on the kitchen table.”
He made an exasperated noise. “Well go back and get them, and hurry. We’re going to be late for watch.”
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” I shoved my rifle in my father’s hands so it would not slow me down, broke into a fast jog, and beelined for the other side of camp. We had parked our camping trailer on the north side of the circle away from the people from the RV encampment and the soldiers’ tents. It was out of the way, relatively quiet, and aside from Warrant Officer Grohl, no one had bothered us.
After crossing the encampment, I arrived at our site and expected to see Lauren sitting in front of the fire. But her chair was empty. Stopping, I cast a quick glance around to see if she was nearby.
“Lauren?” I called. No answer.
Then I heard noise from the camper, a rattle and a squeak. The big metal box shifted on its axles. I tried the door and found it locked.
“Lauren?” I called again, louder this time. There was a thump from inside the camper, but nothing else. A cold feeling suffused my face, and I felt my heart begin to beat faster in my chest. There was no way Lauren would lock herself in unless she was using the toilet, and even if that were the case, she would answer when I called.
One of the items I usually kept lashed to my pack was a flat pry bar about the length of my forearm. It worked great for a variety of purposes, not the least of which was prying open windows of abandoned houses. Before leaving for watch, I had removed it and left it beside my chair, figuring I would be more comfortable without the extra weight. Picking it up from where it lay, I jammed it into the thin slot between the door and frame and hauled on it with everything I had.
For a couple of seconds, the latch resisted, the pry bar bending a few inches backward. I called up every ounce of strength I had, teeth gritted, blood suffusing my face, muscles standing out like cords under my skin, until finally the door came open with a metallic pop. Drawing my pistol, I dropped the pry bar, stepped through the door, and led the way with my weapon.
And nearly died.
It was dark inside the camper, the room filled with silhouettes. There was someone in there with me, tall and broad, standing on the other side of the small space with a rifle in his hands. I dropped to one knee as he took aim and fired, a three-round burst cutting the air just inches over my head and shattering the window behind me.
I knew in that instant if I had been a fraction of a second slower those rounds would have killed me. Without thinking, I aimed my Beretta, popped off two shots center of mass, then shifted aim and fired a third at his head. The first two shots staggered him, but the third blew the top of his head off. Blood pumped from the wound like a fountain as the gunman fell shuddering to the ground, a black pool spreading on the floor beneath him.
For a few heartbeats, I didn’t move.
I didn’t have the shakes yet, but they were in the mail. The gunman’s feet kicked spasmodically, and I heard his bowels let go. The stench of piss and shit mixing with the coppery, meaty scent of blood tore at my gag reflex. Fighting it down, I rose to my feet, fished a flashlight from my vest, and shined it across the room. On the bed opposite me, Lauren lay face down, limp and unmoving, a rope around her neck, pants around her ankles. She was bent over the edge of the bed, her buttocks and legs exposed, twin streams of blood trickling down her inner thighs. My mind flashed back across the years to our old house, and the closed front door, and the men assaulting her in her own bedroom, the gunshots, the cops, the questions, and the months of walking on eggshells trying not to upset her.
“Oh God. Lauren, no.”
I hurried closer on numb feet and unwound the rope from her neck, desperately hoping I wasn’t too late. As soon as the rope fell free, she drew a rattling breath and started coughing. Her face was battered, her left eye bruised and swollen, blood running from her nose.
Her eyes opened and stared at me in abject panic. She began to buck and thrash, pushing at me with her hands, struggling to scream but unable to do so.
“Wait, Lauren, it’s me, Caleb.” I took a step back, one hand raised defensively, and shined the flashlight on my face. She saw me, and after a few seconds, the panic left her eyes and she began sobbing.
“Caleb, please, turn around.”
I did as she asked. The sound of her struggling to pull her pants up awakened a cold rage within me.
Since my night vision was ruined, I put the flashlight on the man I had just killed. For an insane moment, I hoped he would come back to life so I could kill him again, slowly this time. His face was a bloody, unrecognizable mess, but the nametag on his uniform was plain to see.
Farrell.
“Come on, Lauren,” I said gently. “We need to get you to the medical tent.”
*****
0800 the next morning.
I was in the back of a deuce-and-a-half, my hands cuffed in front of me, sitting at the end of one of the long benches near the cab. There were two armed guards by the exit, hands loose on their rifles. I had not slept. My head hung almost to my knees from exhaustion, my stomach roiled with hunger, and my throat burned with thirst. I had tried to request water, but the guards’ only response was a curt, “Stop talking.”
There had been raised voices in the night. I heard the angry tenor of my father, and Mike’s thundering bass. As usual, Blake kept everyone from killing each other.
My eyes closed again, and this time I did not try to open them. My mind drifted back to the dead body of Sergeant Farrell, and carrying Lauren to the medical tent, and how light she felt in my arms, like carrying a child. The medics asked me what happened to her, and I told them what I had seen. Lauren gathered herself enough to explain the rest in detail.
She had been sitting next to the fire, alone. A soldier approached out of the darkness and asked if she had any coffee to spare. Said he was willing to trade for it. He offered a can of table salt in exchange, which we happened to be running low on. Lauren agreed, and went into the camper to fetch the coffee. The soldier followed her in, and when she turned her back to him, he struck her in the head.
When she fell, he hit her several more times, then forced her onto the bed, pulled her pants down, wrapped a length of nylon rope around her neck to keep her from screaming, and proceeded to rape her. He was perhaps a minute into it by the time I arrived.