Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder (26 page)

“You done this before?” Bobo asked softly, his voice now almost conversational.

“No, but I had a good class. Advanced first aid,” I said, not explaining it was for a merit badge. He didn’t need to know that. Still, I made short work of the chore.

“You need something for the pain? I got some stuff here,” I asked, feeling a little better myself now that the wound was properly bandaged.

“Nah, I’m good for now,” Bobo replied calmly, and I wondered if he might have already medicated himself. I know I would have. “I want to be clear headed in case Burg or the boys need me.”

“Gotcha. Just sit here and we’ll keep an eye on things. You want to watch the stairs or the doors?”

“Doors. No offense, but that’s likely where trouble will come. Nobody but our guys are coming down those stairs.”

“None taken. I think it was a mistake, me being here. You guys are the experts. I just wanted to see this through.”

Bobo was silent for several minutes. So long I didn’t think he was going to reply. When he did, the soft words nearly escaped my still ringing ears. “They got your father. I’d fight Hell if I could get mine back.”

I thought about what he said for a second, my eyes never wavering from the stairs. I heard more shots up there, but no calls or sounds that brought a concern to the forefront of my mind.

“Yeah. I came all this way, you know, crossed the middle of the country to get back. I find out raiders killed my grandpa, and today these fuckers killed my uncle and three other people at the ranch. And that Dad is being held prisoner. For helping the sheriff do a better job of protecting the county. My dad’s what holds us together. We have to get him back.”

“Barlow talked about you. Said you were a good troop. Saved one of his men who was wounded, too.”

“The medic did that. I just arranged transport. And gave them a little cover fire.”

“Luke, from a civilian, that’s a lot. We’re in the business of training forces, you know. Your dad spent some time teaching you didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. And if we can somehow forget that whole thing about me having the floorplans for this place, or what I was thinking about doing, that would be great. My mom already thinks I’m a sociopath. No need to feed that misguided opinion.”

“Sorry, kid. I think that boat has sailed. Civilians won’t get it, but…hey, it was just a thought, you know? We all have those kinds of thoughts, time to time.”

Yeah, I knew. I think I figured it out, too. At least to my satisfaction. The question had been nagging me for months now. If the lights hadn’t gone out, what would I have done? All that training, and the research, and for what? The truth was, I couldn’t say for sure, but…

I don’t think I would have done it after all. Not Bryce in Chicago, and not Chad here. Not before. Now? Please.

Then Staff Sergeant Benny, the team medic, came down to check on Bobo. He pronounced Bobo healed, and then said, “Nah, just fucking with you.”

“Screw you, Benny. I got another Purple Heart coming out of this.”

“For a paper cut?” Benny teased as he peeked under the bandage, and then added a squirt of something that made Bobo wiggle and gasp lightly. Since the man had endured the pain so far with a stoic demeanor, I didn’t want to know what would cause that reaction.

Finishing his inspection of the wound, he told Bobo to stay off the leg and that Tinker, one of the other men, was coming down to help stand watch until the rest of the force arrived. In the meantime, Master Sergeant Burghoff wanted Luke upstairs.

“On it,” I replied and rose. Pausing, I gave Bobo a friendly pat on the shoulder and started climbing.

Since the lights went out, I’d witnessed my share of really bad stuff and despicable human beings. I was curious to see where a United States Congressman ranked on that scale.

I was met at the head of the stairs by one of the other soldiers, this one nicknamed Hammer, and led to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Since the lights were on up here, I pushed the night vision goggles back on my head and looked around. I spotted three more dead in the halls, all men wearing their underwear and sporting matching headshots.

“Any trouble?” I asked, and the silent soldier just gave me a look that said,
Really?

“Guess not,” I muttered and stepped over a corpse. The floors up here, like downstairs, were a blonde walnut wood, and I wondered how hard it was going to be to get the blood cleaned up. Glad it wasn’t my problem.

The layout was exactly like I had envisioned based on the floorplans, except more nicely decorated than I had anticipated. I guess money can buy style after all. Or at least pay for a good interior decorator. Not what I would have done with the place, but my sixteen-year-old tastes were still developing, as my mother would have insisted.

In the bedroom, I found Master Sergeant Burghoff standing over the pasty, hairy form of Congressman McCorkle, and this time he wasn’t swaddled in the American flag like he always appeared on television. No American flag lapel pin the size of a rodeo belt buckle, either.

No, this time McCorkle was zip-tied hand and foot, and strapped to a massive wooden chair that would not have looked out of place in a museum for French royalty. Instead of the navy blue power suit from some super expensive tailor I would never have heard of, he was wearing tight satin boxers and nothing else.

The congressman was a short guy and had always appeared stocky, but without the suit, he was clearly a little butterball of a man. His belly hung low over his red underwear and appeared capable of lapping over his junk. His man boobs were matted with thick tuffs of gray hair, and the hairy pelt looked like it extended down his belly and across his back in a jungle of wiry gray fur. All in all, not a very visually pleasing picture.

“Congressman,” I said with a nod, trying to hide a smirk. Now was so not the time.

The bound man didn’t so much as look up at my words, since he was busy trying to get Burghoff to cut him loose. Alternating between begging and demanding, really. Not that his cajoling seemed to have any effect whatsoever.

“Sir, you will be detained until such time as a military court has an opportunity to hear your case,” the master sergeant responded in a monotone. Probably not the first time he’d uttered that phrase this morning.

“But you cannot do this. I am a member of Congress. And a representative of the reorganized government of the State of Texas. You have no authority here, and no jurisdiction.”

Wow, already with the law talk. I wondered if that would get him anywhere.

“Bingo,” I heard a voice call from the adjoining room and saw Birdman step through the open doorway. He was one of the unit’s two intelligence experts, and with the other apparently still busy in Nacogdoches, Birdman was working hard to turn up some dirt. And judging from the familiar style of that hardened, metal encased laptop, he was already finding some success.

“Congressman, what’s the password?” Burghoff demanded.

“I refuse to cooperate with this illegal search and seizure. You have no grounds to be here, and Posse Comitatus has not been suspended.”

“You hear that? No grounds to be here,” Burghoff said with a sad little smile. “If only it were not necessary, McCorkle. Now, give me the password.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Burghoff turned, seeming to see me for the first time. He gave a little gesture for me to approach. I walked over, eyeballing the disgusting politician as I did.

“Luke, we need the password. You want to start the enhanced interrogation now, or wait on the captain?”

“Master Sergeant, there’s just some things officers should never be forced to watch,” I replied briskly, playing along with the sliver of an idea passed to me by the team leader. Marino would indeed want to be present for the interrogation, but if we could get the laptop up and running first, that would save us time. Time my father just didn’t have.

“Very well, and I agree. Start on the toes, I’d say. Leave the fingers for now. He may need to sign something later.”

Taking off my backpack, I started rummaging through until I found the small crowbar I’d been carrying for the master sergeant. It was stuck under a double stack of loaded magazines for the soldiers’ rifles. I was playing pack mule for the soldiers, extra magazines for the HK417s, but so far, they’d mainly stuck to their pistols. Except for that one short burst of fire downstairs, and yes, the rifles were still loud even with the suppressors.

“You want them broken only, or cut off? I’ll need to get my torch to cauterize the stumps if you want them removed,” I pronounced, using a voice that I thought approximated the level of interest I’d experienced when I went to get my driver’s license. Those people really didn’t seem to care if their hair caught on fire. Or if they had to cut off somebody’s toes. Just don’t interfere with their lunches and coffee breaks and they were the same all day long.

“Ah, break ’em first. Then when you run out, cut them off,” Burghoff said with an equally bland tone.

“All right,” I said, hefting the small steel bar. McCorkle, the whole time this exchange was taking place, had been alternating between crying, screaming for mercy, and chanting a string of numbers and letters. Birdman, standing by, had out a pen and paper at the ready.

“I gave you the password! I gave you the password!” he shrieked as I brought the metal tip of the bar down on his little toe. Blood geysered as the tiny bones shattered, and I think Burghoff was nearly as surprised as Birdman when I did it.

I looked at McCorkle, giving him my patented deadeye stare. “Do it again, and get it right this time,” I said simply.

He did, and after a second, Birdman simply said, “We’re in.”

And boy, did the congressman start to sweat after that. As well he should have. By the time Captain Marino arrived, McCorkle had admitted to just about everything except the Lindbergh baby. Ha, didn’t think a youngster like me knew that reference? It was on my Modern American History midterm exam.

“Hey McCorkle, where’s your boy? Where’s Chad?” I asked, killing time while we waited. The intel expert and the master sergeant began scanning the files, and I wondered if I would ever be allowed to see them. Of course, from what Barlow said about Camp Gruber, I wondered if I really want to read the reports.

“I…I don’t know. He was in DC when the lights went out. He was supposed to go to the pickup point, but he…never showed up.”

“Well, I’m sure he would have gotten out if he could. Probably best to hope the cannibals got him. Been my experience, they usually don’t like to play with their food first.”

Watching the look of horror work its way across the broken man’s face, I reflected on all the death and harm caused by this man. We still didn’t even know the extent of McCorkle’s sins, but he had given the order that caused the death of four of our number at the ranch.

Five. Kate. I reminded myself. Kate was dead too. She hadn’t made much of an impression on my life, but maybe somebody somewhere had loved her. So McCorkle ordered a baseless attack and killed five of our people, and now he was our prisoner.

Death, I decided. How hard he died would depend on what happened at daybreak. If my father lived, then McCorkle’s death would be relatively painless. If anything happened, though, I made a vow to myself. If anything happened, then the neighbors would be complaining about McCorkle’s screaming for months.

The convoy wound its way slowly toward town just after sunup, led by a pair of up-armored Humvees, first one operated by the Green Berets and the second, my own rig. Behind that, we had all of the surviving deputies from Shelby County, all twelve of them, packed into two of the government-issue Suburbans. Following behind was a trio of farm trucks packed with “observers” as we called them, which meant some of the armed farmers and a few townspeople who rallied to the sheriff’s cause. We couldn’t take all who wanted to come because they simply couldn’t be spared from the watch. Bringing up the rear were the captain’s two other vehicles, another Hummer and a retrofitted five-ton transport truck.

All of this had been organized by Captain Marino and his four men while the rest of us handled getting the congressman and squeezing the intel. The captain was in nonstop motion for at least twenty-four hours straight, and I never saw him even slow down. As for me, I was exhausted and still carrying a heavy heart over our losses.

When we’d left the night before, headed for Nacogdoches, I remembered rolling through the burned-out remains of Ripley and feeling another slug of sadness settle over me. The little wide spot in the road was only five miles from my home, and I remembered my father letting me pilot the big farm truck down the dirt and gravel roads leading to “town.” I looked at the burned-out skeleton of Hank’s, and felt a longing for a gentle past lost not that long ago.

I’d learned to drive on those roads leading to the rundown little village, which I think is what they would have called it in the Northeast. I wasn’t sure, since my tour of the country failed to include much out that way. My father had only done one TDY posting in New Jersey and we’d never moved from the apartment in Southern California to join him. Later, he said it was just as well. He’d never want us living like that, anyway.

Now I was thinking of things lost as we motored along with our caravan of relative strangers. I rode shotgun in our Humvee while Ike drove and Mike stood in the back, ready to man the 240B. Our group was loaded for bear but coming in under a white flag and looking to talk, not fight. Captain Marino had enough dirt, and then some, to convince the National Guard major that he was backing the wrong dog in this fight. That is, if the major was truly being misled. If he was working knowingly with McCorkle, then things were likely to get a whole lot messier.

Amy wanted to come, of course, but I for once was on the same page as my mother. We somehow convinced her that going on a recon mission with a bunch of highly trained and specially trained soldiers wasn’t a good idea.

“So why are you going?” Amy had asked me then, and I didn’t have a good answer to give.