“I have more questions,” Josh told him. “Then you’ll get the Charge.”
“Can’t think … can’t think … need Charge …” Bernie banged his forehead against the bars in cadence to his words. “Can’t think … can’t think …”
“How many soldiers are in your Red-ops unit?”
“Need Charge … need Charge …”
Josh opened up the metal container, showing Bernie the Charge capsules.
“How many soldiers?”
Bernie twitched, then blinked several times. “Five. Five soldiers. There are five.”
“Name them.”
“Santiago, Taylor, Ajax, Logan, and Bernie.”
Josh took a shot. “Is Dr. Stubin the one who put the chip in your head? Is he the reason you’re here?”
“Yessssss,” Bernie hissed.
That asshole. Josh should have never left Fran and Duncan alone in the car with him.
“What is your mission?”
“Need Charge … need Charge …”
Josh removed a pill from the container and tossed it out of the room, into the darkness.
“NOOOOOOOOO!”
“What’s your mission?”
Bernie shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Josh threw another pill away.
“I DON’T KNOW! I NEED CHARGE! I CAN TELL YOU IF I HAVE CHARGE!”
Josh considered it, then tossed a capsule into the cell. Bernie hobbled after the pill, snatching it from the floor and holding it under his nose. He squeezed and sniffed.
Josh detected a cloying chemical odor. It took him a moment to place it. Freshman year at UW, he had a roommate named Carlos who was gay. Carlos used poppers—butyl nitrite that came in small bottles labeled “Room Deodorizer” and “Video Head Cleaner”—to enhance sex. From his paramedic classes, Josh knew butyl nitrite was a vasodilator, similar chemically to the amyl nitrite used to treat various heart conditions.
Bernie continued to sniff, and his demeanor went from Hyde to Jekyll. One moment frothing at the mouth, the next a picture of serenity.
“What’s your mission?” Josh asked again.
Bernie’s eyes became slits.
“Your sheriff shot me in the knee. It’s shattered. You can’t imagine the pain.”
“Tell me your mission and I’ll help you.”
“How?”
“I have lidocaine.”
“Show me.”
“Tell me first.”
Bernie cocked his head to the side, as if considering it. Then he said, “Our mission. Interrogate townspeople. Find Warren Streng.”
“Why do you want Warren Streng?”
Bernie smiled. His missing teeth made Josh wince.
“Let me have the lidocaine.”
Josh walked back into the hall, Woof at his heels. He picked up the pillowcase he’d left by the door and found the lidocaine vial. Back in the cell room, Josh filled a syringe with two milliliters of the fluid while Bernie stared. He slid the needle across the floor to Bernie, and it came to a stop outside the bars.
In his eagerness, Bernie went for it too fast and knocked it away. He stuck his hand through the cell bars and strained for the needle.
“Please …” Bernie whimpered. “The pain …”
Josh walked over and bent down, reaching for it.
Fast as a whip Bernie had him by the wrist and pulled him up against the bars.
Woof went crazy, jumping and growling and barking. Josh pulled with all he had, but Bernie had arms like anacondas, coiled muscle grabbing him everywhere at once. The killer finally settled on a choke hold, forcing Josh’s back against the bars, locking a forearm around his neck.
“Let me out of this cage,” he whispered in Josh’s ear.
Josh struggled to get a breath in.
“Don’t … have … key …” he managed.
“That’s a shame. Hehehe. Such a shame.” Bernie’s other hand appeared before Josh’s face, inches from his nose.
It held a lighter.
“Then you buuuuuurn.”
Bernie flicked on the flame.
• • •
Taylor’s MMDSC vibrated and he looked at the message from Logan, who was searching to the west.
Lat 45.9790993 long –91.8996811 … Negative.
Taylor frowned. They’d been stomping through the woods for half an hour and hadn’t found anything. Had that sewer jockey taken them for a ride? No. He’d been broken. So where was—
Taylor froze. He’d been about to take a step forward, but his augmented vision caught a shadow on the ground that shouldn’t have been there. He crouched and got a closer look.
A bear trap hidden in the leaves. Three feet long, rusty from years of exposure to the elements. The old chain attached to a concrete plug buried in the ground.
Taylor knelt down, touching the end of the trap. Interesting. The rust wasn’t rust at all, but a finish painted to look like rust. The trap also had fresh grease on the hinges. Taylor searched around for a fallen tree branch and found one the width of his wrist. He used that to set off the trap. It worked perfectly, snapping the wood in half with ease.
He stood, casting his eyes upward. In the V of a birch tree, under a bird’s nest, he found the video camera. The lens automatically focused on him as he got closer. Taylor used his Ka-Bar to pry the camera from its camouflaged housing. It was wireless. That meant batteries, which would have to be regularly replaced.
Warren was close. Very close.
Taylor resumed the hunt, paying extra attention to where he stepped.
• • •
Streng didn’t drop the gun, and he didn’t put his hands above his head. As much bad blood as there was between him and Wiley, he didn’t believe his brother would slit his throat.
“Scare you?” Wiley asked.
Streng turned around, letting the rage build. Wiley wore a ghillie suit, a uniform made of netting with various pieces of real and artificial foliage woven to it. Leaves were stitched across his chest and fake vines hung from his arms. Twigs jutted from the side of his headgear, altering his profile.
“People are looking for you,” Streng said in even tones.
“Two so far. Trained. Recon, searching for my house. Determined types.”
“They killed Olen Porrell.”
Wiley cleared his throat. “I know. Never should have used someone local for the septic service. Should have hired out of town. After hiding out for so long, I got lazy.”
Streng kept his voice even. “Other people have died, too.”
“Like I said. Determined types.”
Streng clenched a fist and leaned slightly forward. Wiley didn’t back away.
“Steady, Ace. I know we got unfinished business. But let’s get out of the line of fire first.”
Streng did a slow burn, then nodded.
“Step where I step,” Wiley said. “I’ve rigged the property.”
Streng followed Wiley through the woods, watching his foot placement. After twenty or so yards, his brother stopped at the carcass of a deer. Wiley twisted a hoof and a hatch in the ground opened up.
“It’s steep. Wait five seconds for me to get down.”
Wiley scooted onto his buttocks and slid down a dark ramp. Streng counted to five and did the same. He’d been down here once before and braced his legs for the abrupt stop. He didn’t brace hard enough, and when he reached bottom his knees hit him in the chest, his shin splints flaming.
A mechanical sound from above, then the metallic click of the hatch closing. Black lights came on overhead, illuminating a garage-sized room with a concrete floor. Two motorbikes and a snowmobile were parked along the far wall, in front of a pegboard that held hundreds of hand tools. A fuel pump occupied the far corner. Against the opposite wall sat an electric generator, its exhaust attached to a pipe that snaked into the ceiling. Wiley approached the generator and flipped a switch. It came on, surprisingly quiet.