Doesn’t matter.
It might not be one of Sullivan’s silent assassins. It might be just some poor lost survivor hoping for rescue.
Doesn’t matter. Only one thing matters anymore.
The risk.
5
AT THE HOTEL, Sullivan told me a story about shooting a soldier behind some beer coolers and how bad she felt afterward.
“It wasn’t a gun,” she tried to explain. “It was a crucifix.”
“Why is that important?” I asked. “It could have been a Raggedy Ann doll or a bag of M&Ms. What choice did you have?”
“I didn’t. That’s my point.”
I shook my head. “Sometimes you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time and what happens is nobody’s fault. You just want to feel bad so you’ll feel better.”
“Bad so I feel better?” With a deep blush of anger spreading beneath her freckles. “That makes absolutely no friggin’ sense.”
“‘I killed an innocent guy, but look how guilty I feel about it,’” I explained. “Guy’s still dead.”
She stared at me for a long time. “Well. I see why Vosch wanted you for the team.”
• • •
The green blob of his head advances toward me, weaving through the trees, and now I can see the glint of a rifle through the languid snow. I’m pretty sure it isn’t a crucifix.
Cradling my rifle, leaning my head against the tree as if I’m dozing or looking at the flakes float between the glistening bare branches, lioness in the tall grass.
Fifty yards away. The muzzle velocity of a M16 is 3,100 feet per second. Three feet in a yard, which means he has two-thirds of a second left on Earth.
Hope he spends it wisely.
I swing the rifle around, square my shoulders, and let loose the bullet that completes the circle.
The murder of crows rockets from the trees, a riot of black wings and hoarse, scolding cries. The green ball of light drops and doesn’t rise.
I wait. Better to wait and see what happens next. Five minutes. Ten. No motion. No sound. Nothing but the thunderous silence of snow. The woods feel very empty without the company of the birds. With my back pressed against the tree, I slide up and hold still another couple of minutes. Now I can see the green glow again, on the ground, not moving. I step over the body of the dead recruit. Frozen leaves crackle beneath my boots.
Each footstep measures out the time winding down. Halfway to the body, I realize what I’ve done.
Teacup lies curled into a tight ball beside a fallen tree, her face covered in the crumbs of last year’s leaves.
Behind a row of empty beer coolers, a dying man hugged a bloody crucifix to his chest. His killer didn’t have a choice. They gave her no choice. Because of the risk. To her. To them.
I kneel beside her. Her eyes are wide with pain. She reaches for me with hands dark crimson in the gray light.
“Teacup,” I whisper. “Teacup, what are you doing here? Where’s Zombie?”
I scan the woods but don’t hear or see him or anyone else. Her chest heaves and frothy blood boils over her lips. She’s choking. I gently push her face toward the ground to clear her mouth.
She must have heard me cursing. That’s how she found me, by my own voice.
Teacup screams. The sound knifes through the stillness, bounces and ricochets off the trees. Unacceptable. I press my hand down hard over her bloody lips and tell her to hush. I don’t know who shot the kid I found, but whoever did it can’t be far. If the sound of my rifle doesn’t bring him back to investigate, her screaming will.