Lines in Shadow: Walking in the Rain Read online

  Scott gave her a predatory grin, one that few had ever seen from the normally mild-mannered game warden.

  “We take them out one at a time, Mrs. Porter. Pick them off before they can see us coming. And by the time we get there, to this stronghold in the middle of the woods, we’ll have our own army.”

  “So, first order of business, we need to neutralize Bennie’s group and grab some of their people for intel,” Max said, getting down to business. He looked around the room once again.

  “Scott, you up for lending a hand?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

  “What you do best. I was a little less-than-forthcoming when we first met. I’d heard of your reputation before.” He looked around and met Aaron’s eye, then Thad’s. “He’s probably one of the best trackers, and stalkers, in the state. If a hiker or a little kid goes missing, the state police routinely request his help. Same as if a convict goes missing. Scott always finds them.”

  “That why you’re heading up the scouts for your brother?” Aaron asked, genuinely curious. “You Force Recon, or Marsoc? Scout Sniper, maybe?”

  “Sea Stallion, Sea King, and Blackhawk wrench turner, at your service. No, I’ve just always been a pretty good hunter and I pay attention in the woods. That’s why I went the game warden route.”

  “So you could get away with hunting out of season?” Thad asked, a playful jab that helped lighten the grim mood.

  “I’ll do that hunting for you tonight, Max. I also need to head back and check in with my scouts. They’ve been out a long time with no backup.”

  Max pulled a face then.

  “That’s rough. You want some company?”

  Scott shook his head. “No offense, but I’ll get there faster myself. And that’s the way I’ve been training them to work, Max. We’ve got no medevac, no fire support, and no reinforcements. It sounds cold, but we don’t have any way else to do things. No, I’ll pull one team to lend us a hand, but leave the other on watch overnight.”

  Glancing at Sarah, he asked, “Unless you want to relieve one of the listening posts?”

  “No, I’ll stay here. You’ve said they don’t stir much from the camp after dark, so probably not much going on there. Who are you pulling?”

  Rather than answer Sarah’s question, he swiveled to regard Max for a second, studying the older man.

  “How may you reckon we’ll need to neutralize their guards tonight? And how much support can we give you?”

  Max snorted before replying.

  “We got enough sneakthieves here to do the job. You want to keep your watch on the roads?”

  “Would make me feel better,” Scott conceded. “I left orders not to initiate any attacks, but I know those boys. They see a hunting party heading for the gate, count on the trucks at least taking sniper fire. No, on second thought, I’ll meet with the teams, give them a sitrep, and pull Yalonda. It will be good to have a trained medic with us, and a female one at that.”

  “Alright,” Max conceded, “I’ll go finish my chat with Bennie. Give him one last chance to earn his freedom, ya’ know? Then I’ll get us together some men and supplies for tonight. Lem, you think you can acquire a few drums of that material for Scott tomorrow? After this mess is taken care of, I mean.”

  “Sure,” Lem replied quickly. “Nothing to it, and I think I still have all the keys, so shouldn’t be a problem getting inside.”

  When Max gave him a ‘what the hell’ face, the old man shrugged. “Kept ‘em as a souvenir, I guess. Worked there since the plant opened and I was fresh out of college. Seen five different owners come and go, and seen the workforce shrink steadily as those bastards up the road decided that ‘Made in America’ was a bad deal.” He looked away, muttering something about hoping “those heirs were choking on trying to eat all that useless cash.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Scott said. “Expect me back in three hours or less. If I’m not here by then, don’t come looking.”

  Grim words, but even Marge could tell he meant them. As he approached the door, Scott heard Sarah call his name and he stopped and turned.

  “Scott, you’ll be wanting something besides that Scout rifle tonight, won’t you? No night scope on it, for one thing. You want one of those ARs we picked up today?”

  Thinking about her question, Scott shook his head.

  “Let me take one for now, but I’ll leave it behind when we leave. I may need it for suppressive fire while I’m traveling now, but I won’t trust a weapon to make a shot if I haven’t zeroed it myself.”

  That made Aaron grunt in agreement. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. You go take care of business and we’ll be making things ready here. And, Scott…thanks.”

  “For what?”

  Aaron looked at Max, and then the Porters.

  “For doing the right thing. And reminding us what that means.”

  “Shoot, you guys already know. Look at what you’ve accomplished here, and those you’ve saved.”

  Max raised his head, looking Scott straight in the eye as he spoke.

  “Yeah, we’ve done okay for ourselves and those around us. But we pulled our heads in like turtles in a shell and let things happen out there. But a lot of us, we took an oath to protect and defend, and that oath doesn’t have an expiration date.”

  “Semper fi.”

  “Semper fi.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Killing a man shouldn’t be this easy, Scott thought to himself as he plunged the blade deep into the sleeping guard’s throat, sawing away until he felt the blade grate against bone. Grasping the now cooling body, Scott eased it forward in the lawn chair so a casual observer might think the man was still enjoying his snooze. The tiny sliver of moon peeking through the clouds would offer no hint the sleep would be eternal.

  Relying on information extracted from the unfortunate Bennie, Max and his team arrived in the vicinity of the suspected gang’s hideout before dusk, parking over a mile away and walking up on the rundown farmstead in a dispersed pattern, approaching with a bounding overwatch that might have been overkill. Might have been, unless the group holding up inside had sentries on alert. Then, the action would save lives. Stealth versus speed was always a tradeoff.

  Pausing inside the tree line, a skinny stand of old growth oaks, the group raised their binoculars and surveyed the scene. As it was, none of the eight men observed anything moving in the buildings, but the swaybacked hay barn did mask the house. Maybe this was a dry hole, Scott thought, and then he caught the all-too-familiar scent and went still.

  Using rudimentary hand signals, Scott directed the others to hold silent and be prepared to offer covering fire as he went down in the weeds to quietly approach the hay barn. He took his time, pausing to check for tripwires in the failing light, and snaked his way up to a partially open door. The foul odor grew steadily more noticeable as he used a piece of mirror affixed to a collapsible pointer, peering carefully around in the dark.

  After insuring the door was free of booby-traps, Scott eeled through the opening and rapidly cleared the ground floor. A check in the otherwise empty horse stalls attached to the side of the barn confirmed at least part of Bennie’s story. He discovered the blackened and decaying bodies of the elderly couple who’d up until a week ago, called this their home. At first, Bennie insisted they’d simply happened upon an old, deserted farm, but Scott knew he was lying. After three broken fingers on his left hand, Bennie had eventually admitted the old couple had been ‘put down’ shortly after the gang arrived.

  Checking the upper loft proved to be much more difficult, as Scott worried about a guard setting up shop in that location. Negotiating the rickety-looking ladder without a telltale squeak was an exercise in patience, but after thirty minutes he was satisfied the stacked bales of hay held nothing more dangerous than a few agitated field mice in residence.

  From his elevation, Scott could now make out the details of the small, single-story, wood-shingled house and he noted signs of
movement through the unboarded windows. Definitely multiple inhabitants, but not enough confirmation to press on with the assault. If the gang had already moved on, then these squatters didn’t need to be confronted at all. Time to get closer.

  Using the barn as a partial shield, Scott calculated the angles and traced a slight fold in the ground running across to the backyard. This was only a few inches deep but ran as straight as a plumb line, making Scott suspect this was an old water line that had collapsed and subsided over time. Erosion already flattened the top, but Scott knew he could use the small depression to approach the house unseen. First, though, he needed to wave in the rest of the group.

  Once the other seven fighters hustled across the open ground, Max made quick work of directing the men and women to their positions using the minimum of words. Assigning two upstairs with their scoped rifles to act as lookouts and snipers if needed, Max then detailed Yalonda to watch their rear and kept the other three to stick close to him as a quick reaction force, ready to storm the house if Scott gave the signal. Scott would not have been surprised to know that one of the shadowy figures prepared to rush to his defense was Sarah. Rifles ready, rounds chambered, and safeties engaged, the four fighters stood by with patience born of practice.

  Scott watched the four volunteers prepare and wondered just exactly how Max, an admitted peacetime Marine, managed to gain this level of tactical savvy. Doubting it was something learned from playing Call of Duty, he resolved to ask later, when the time was right.

  Divested of his backpack and rifle, Scott propelled himself across the wide-open ground to the backyard using his elbows, knees, and toes in a familiar combination and halfway there, he felt a burning begin in his hamstrings. Should have taken longer to stretch, he thought with self-reproach. Yoga might not be so bad after all. Fortunately, he had Yalonda along to unbend his legs later.

  The night was in full swing by the time Scott reached the weathered wooden siding of the house and still, he could not stop to rest. Crawling on hands and knees, he circled around to the far side of the farmhouse, away from the rest of his team, to check for more confirmation.

  Yep, he thought, making out the padlocked cellar doors, this must be the right place. According to Bennie, the restrained girls were kept in the cellar until it was time to carry them to market. Approaching one of the windows, Scott carefully sidled up until his head rested right next to the wire mesh screen. Opening his mouth to improve his hearing, the scout strained his ears to pick up the sounds inside. He didn’t have to wait long.

  This gang might have somewhat mastered blackout security but up close, they sounded like a herd of cattle stumbling around in the small house. And none seemed to possess volume control for their voices. Loud and obnoxious was the rule with this gang of filth.

  The conversations were largely useless, as the men simply had little to say other than to bitch about the condition of the house, the state of their food supplies, and the failure of their most recent scouting party to return on time. Oh, and pussy. The lack thereof, since their current supply was chained up under the house.

  That last tidbit caused Scott to scowl, but the other one, about the overdue scouts made Scott’s blood boil as he realized Bennie had managed to get one lie over on them. According to first mouthbreather, anyway, the scouting team should have been back before dark today. The men inside were concerned, but seemed willing to leave the possibility of a follow-up visit for the morning. He even heard one of the other men comment on the possibility of moving their operation to the ‘hippie commune’, since he thought the tents he saw in the back looked pretty. Plus, everybody knew hippie chicks put out without having to persuade them.

  The first part stumped Scott. Hippies? The population at the Porter farm was split, of course, but how anyone could mistake the bikers for hippies was beyond him. The tent comment, though, sounded right. Then the speaker continued, and Scott realized this was one of the men who’d come to the gate looking for food. Apparently, any man with long hair in a ponytail, like many of the bikers sported, and was giving away food to strangers must be a dope-smoking hippie. That opinion, which he heard discussed and debated inside, seemed to reassure the men rumbling about inside that nothing untoward had happened to their men.

  Scott was thankful that the Los Lobos gang member had not gotten back to this farm with his report. Surely he would know of the Copperheads by reputation, if nothing else, as the small motorcycle club had name recognition in certain circles. According law enforcement sources, that reputation was ‘don’t mess with the Copperheads’. That might temporarily scare off this small gang, but then they might have gone out to collect allies to storm the castle. The Copperheads would not be thought to be poor in this new world’s currency of firearms, ammo and drugs.

  So he was at the right place, and the men inside were fair targets. Scott was now on the clock. He quietly circled the house, noting the placement of windows and the two doors, front and back. Not a lot of exits, but more than they had fighters to effectively cover. He began to consider the most dangerous approach at that point, which meant a covert entry.

  About two hours after sunset, the first sentry stumbled out the front door and took up residence in the rusty lawn chair resting on the tiny front porch. Rifle laid across his lap, the raider barely got his butt planted before he appeared to nod off into sleep. Seriously? Scott at first suspected a trap, but he couldn’t see the payoff. Why even send someone out to watch the front, if the man was going to almost immediately take a nap?

  Scott worked his way around the house yet again, making his way to catch a line of sight with the rest of his team. Miming one guard, asleep, he eventually got his message across to Sarah, who translated for everybody else.

  “Let’s move now,” one of the younger men with Sarah enthused. Max ignored the comment, deciding to give the raiders a few hours to settle into their slumber. Sarah silently agreed. She felt as antsy as the young man at her side, but knew the odds favored them the more time they allowed to pass.

  For his part, Scott silently watched the house for movement. A flutter of a blackout curtain here, a creak of the floor there, told him not everyone inside had turned in for the night. Maybe there was a second watch, just inside the door and waiting. He was willing to bide his time, but he used the next two hours effectively.

  First, he decided not to even attempt entry through the front door. Instead, he found a window with only part of the heavy curtain, likely a blanket, nailed into place. Either the curtain had torn, or someone inside wanted an unobstructed view outside. Finally, after several attempts to silently examine the room, he realized the reasoning. This was the bathroom, and nobody liked to use the facilities in the pitch dark. Leaving the window slightly agape allowed some moonlight to pass into the small chamber.

  Using his folding knife, Scott slowly worked the blade under the latch, easing the bar open and potentially gaining himself an entryway. Then, burrowing into the thigh pocket of his pants, the scout withdrew a tiny plastic bottle and squirted a stream on motor oil on the sliding surfaces of the window until the bottle was empty and the frame sat in a quarter inch of oil. The smell might attract attention if someone was using the toilet, but Scott gambled against such for the next few hours. Better a strange smell in the bathroom that likely would go unnoticed than a squeak when he raised the window.

  Satisfied he had a means of getting into the house unseen, Scott knew he needed to deal with the guard up front. Even asleep, the man was the most likely to react first to any sound of a struggle inside. Unless, of course, a waking guard sat watch over the front door on the inside of the building.

  Killing the guard took barely a few seconds, and then Scott had to flex his hands to stop the shaking caused by the sudden adrenaline dump. Giving the four-man assault team one last signal, he held up his wrist and pantomimed the number five several times until he got the okay sign from Sarah. They would begin their dash across the dead ground in five minutes, which allowed Scott
to get into the house, hopefully unseen.

  The window slid up with nary a whisper, the oil doing its job of lubricating the way, and Scott slid arms first into the dark chamber. The room stank, even if the toilet still worked with the addition of water from a bucket to the tank. Poor aim, Scott concluded as the ammonia stink of piss burned his eyes. The room was what real estate agents referred to as a powder room, Scott quickly realized, or a half bath, and the space lacked a shower or bathtub.

  Drawing his long legs in through the small window was a contortionist trick, one accomplished with intense concentration as he avoided the litter of drug paraphernalia laid out on the small linoleum topped sink. A glass crack pipe, two small clear baggies and a minute trace of white powder remained, and Scott wondered if this indicated recent use. He realized he would know soon enough, and then he heard the sound of heavy, erratic footsteps on the floor outside the room.

  Feeling at the flimsy door, Scott noted the door opened outward as he felt for hinges and found none. Well, that was something, the scout thought as he drew his knife yet again. His hands tacky with blood, Scott adjusted his grip on the rubber hilt as he again prepared to drive that six-inch tapered blade into another living human being.

  Carrying a guttering candle holder in one hand and gripping the doorknob in the other, the man who opened the door didn’t notice Scott at first as Scott seemed to melt into the shadow of the back wall. Scott saw this was an older man, close to his own age, medium height with a gaunt face and a thick, salt and pepper goatee. Scott saw a flash of recognition in the other man’s eyes as he stabbed deep with the knife, severing his trachea, vocal chords and the right-side artery as he ripped the steel free. Scott knew him from somewhere, but didn’t pause in doing the job at hand, so he grabbed a handful of the dying man’s filthy denim work shirt and muscled the thrashing corpse into the bathroom. Hefting the man onto the toilet stool, Scott leaned his flaccid weight against the wall while tracking down the dropped candlestick holder, now extinguished and leaking a pool of wax onto the blood-smeared linoleum.