But her husband was already on his way out.
21
Hatfield stood in the front doorway, watched the guard bring a cigarette to his lips. He looked back and nodded when he noticed he was being watched.
He nodded back but said nothing, every gear in his mind shifting. The guards had worked in shifts, according to Cecil’s schedule. The three VVs must have leaked that schedule to the others.
Other things caught his attention. He stepped over to the guard, extended his hand. “How are you? Name’s Trevor Hatfield.”
They shook, and the guy laughed. “Come on, we all know who you are. After the job you did with the pistol.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m Jake. Jake Stillwell.”
“Jake, why are we using a chain-link fence?”
He shrugged. “Gives us good visibility. That’s what the captain says.”
“Yeah, but the visibility goes both ways. We can see, and we can be seen.”
“Well, that’s never been an issue. Well, until—” Jake lowered his eyes as if afraid to address a sensitive topic.
“Yes, Jesperson’s shooting. I understand. But it seems to me that it’s never been an issue because you’ve probably never faced a serious threat out there before. Or have you?”
“Sure we have. We’ve had all kinds of crazy people trying to get inside the compound. We even had some looters during the riots. And in the end, they didn’t do us any harm.”
Hatfield said nothing, staring out into the landscape. Cecil’s thinking had begun to make sense. But what made more sense were the reasons it had to change.
In the past, the only dangers the compound faced came from crazed individuals, desperate, hungry, disorganized. They never before faced a group—let alone an organized group who had inside knowledge about the homesteaders and their goings-on. “Look, Jake, we’re going to have to adapt to the changes around here.”
“You mean the fact that we lost so many men?”
“That’s part of it. But we’re up against new dangers, smart people who have us outnumbered. The old ways won’t work.”
Jake nodded, but there was a hollowness to his gesture. It wasn’t clear how convinced he was.
“We can start by varying the schedule of the guards. Make it so that nobody knows when the new one is coming on. In fact, you can start by taking off a little early. I’ll hold things down until the next guard gets here.”
“But Cecil has given us specific orders—”
“I know what Cecil has done. If he has a problem, you tell him to come to talk to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake handed his rifle over, then walked inside.
“We adapt, or we die,” Hatfield said. The words rattled through his head for several seconds. They kept on rattling as he lifted the gun to the target, planting a knee onto the ground.
He hefted the rifle into place the same way he always did, but it soon became clear that it wouldn’t work. He raised up from the crouch, looked at the target again, and smiled as if the target had changed positions. “We adapt, or we die,” he said to himself, then dropped to the ground again and placed the rifle onto his left shoulder.
The first few shots were clumsy, crashing into the dirt a few yards ahead of him, the others knifing into a nearby tree. He tried again, still not quite near the target but no longer bringing up the soil. “We’re getting there,” he groaned to himself.
After lifting himself off the grass, he pulled the pistol from his holster and held it in his left hand, fighting off the sense of awkwardness. After taking a few deep breaths, he fired away, doing better now. He had a ways to go before matching the mastery he’d reached with his right hand, but he soon discovered that the enemy wasn’t the uncomfortable use of his left. It was his inner panic. He needed to stay calm, tell himself that shooting was shooting.
He also needed to ignore the voice. His father’s voice, the same one that had haunted him as a kid. It was still there, reminding him that he wasn’t good enough. But now, it spoke in a single sentence. A leader doesn’t ask of his men what he won’t—or can’t—do himself.
The more shots he took, the more the voice faded into the backdrop. It was a whisper now, no longer a scream. And it was a relic from the past that demanded attention. But he didn’t have to give it the attention it wanted. He could move on.
Maybe someday, he’d win the approval from his father. He wasn’t yet there. But for now, he settled for what he could get. A calming ripple enabled him to shoot.
The bullseyes returned right along with the confidence. Shot after shot found its intended mark.
A different voice called from behind him as he heard footsteps through the tall grass.
“Very nice,” Cecil said. “Versatility is always what you want in a shooter.”
He turned and nodded. “Morning, Captain Payne.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Hatfield,” he answered. The emphasis on “Mr.” was clearly intended as a dig, a reminder that Cecil was a man with a rank, a military background that made him more qualified as a leader.
Hatfield took it in stride, offered a smile.
But the captain had more. “Of course, being a strong shooter—however versatile—doesn’t make one able to lead.”
“True.”
“Now it has come to my attention that you deliberately instructed one of the homesteaders to disobey my orders.”
“That’s correct.”
“Would you care to share why?”
Hatfield chose his words carefully before speaking. “With respect, sir. I feel that under the circumstances, a change was necessary. You see, it occurred to me that the homestead was—and is—up against a group that is more organized than any that had in the past. And that much of that organization revolves around inside knowledge that they have gained.”
“Hatfield, I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”
“But I don’t feel we’ve completed it.”
“I beg to differ with you.”
“Captain…” while seeking the right words, his gaze landed on the landscape.
He spotted a few lumps in the distance. One of them moved, creeping closer. It wasn’t clear what they were up to, but there was no time to figure that out. “Get down!” he shouted, dropping to his belly and gesturing for Cecil to do the same.
They lay in the grass, eyes sharply aimed at the horizon.
Cecil asked, “Hatfield, would you mind telling me why we are doing this?”
“They seem to be approaching us.”
“Who is approaching us?”
Hatfield pointed, prompting the captain to widen his eyes. “I see. And you feel that whoever it is represents a threat to the compound.”
“I do. My hunch is that they are waiting for the guards to change—because they’ve been told when the change usually takes place.”
Cecil said nothing. With his sightline fixed in the distance, he turned. “And you feel the best course of action is to vary our routine, keep them guessing.”
“Yes, long-term. But for the here and now, that’s a little less clear. I’d say if we take one or both of them out, we’ve got a good chance to send the message we want to send. Let them know that when they approach the compound, they do so at their own peril.”
Once again, Cecil remained quiet. He nodded to himself.
Hatfield went on. “Right now, we need a few of our best shooters. If we can catch them off-guard, we can take them both out.”
“I’ll get you those shooters.” The captain crawled in reverse, then slipped back into the compound.
Seconds later, two more homesteaders joined Hatfield at the fence, heads low enough to hide them in the tall grass. They fell in line on either side of him.
“We ready to go?” he asked them both.