Rebecca’s bare hand went to her throat. There was violence in the air, like pollen or plague, descending on them with the snow. She retreated to Kells who held the two plastic fuel jugs from the Irving station. He handed one to Tom Duggan.
“You two take the kid,” he said. “Move to the church steeple as quickly as you can, and make a lot of noise on the way. I’ll take the writer.”
Kells’s matter-of-fact bravado excited Rebecca. She was glad to be paired with him. For some reason she wanted to be near when he struck.
“They don’t have any flak vests,” said Tom Duggan.
“We’re two short,” said Kells. “Whoever wears the vest takes the lead.”
Dr. Rosen turned to Coe. “You stay behind me, no matter what. I mean it.”
Coe nodded, his rifle hanging low. “Yes, sir.”
Kells handed Rebecca the second gasoline jug, and she was surprised to find herself anxious to get into town. “See you at the police station,” Kells told the others, with neither ceremony nor good-bye, and Rebecca walked beside him toward the dark thickness of the trees.
Chapter 29
A rich, rural blackness soaked the common, with only the ground snow retaining some light. From the police station window, Trait could barely see the outlines of the other buildings.
Inkman was starting to flip out in the darkness behind him. “I told you that call was no hoax,” he said.
The thought of a renegade convict tracking the rebels across the countryside exasperated Trait. With five such soldiers he could have put down this insurgence before it began.
He saw shadows emerge from the school, two of his cons stepping outside like children ignored too long in a game of hide-and-seek. He wanted to shoot them himself.
The silence and the blackout were too much for Inkman. “Why did we let them cut the power?”
“Because we knew we could not prevent it,” said Trait. He turned and found Inkman in the gloom. “Three men, the caller said. Do you think we can handle three men?”
“One of them is Clock.”
Inkman’s weakness chafed Trait’s warrior ethic. Trait started toward him. “We were all just hired hands,” Trait said. “Isn’t that how you saw it? Employees. Instruments of your revenge.”
Inkman took one step backward. “What are you talking—”
“Once the money started rolling in, you were going to force another coup. Only this time you were going to see to it that I was killed and you were put into power. Tear down one government, set up another in its place. That’s what you said you and Clock used to do. As soon as we got clear, you were going to run this town like it was your own little country. That was going to be your ultimate revenge on the CIA.”
“And you thought I was cracking under pressure,” said Inkman. “You thought Clock was getting to me.”
Inkman was unconvincing. “I think he will get to you,” said Trait. “Any minute now.”
Gunshots erupted at the far end of the street. Pistol fire, answered by rapid automatic bursts. Inkman’s eyes jumped and he backed away toward the radio room.
DeYoung came out past him, rushing from the radio room with his headset wire dangling. “Luther, they—”
“I know. They cut everything.”
It was a brief exchange, just long enough for Inkman to go into his boot for a gun.
He aimed it at Trait and DeYoung. Trait said nothing, staring at Inkman.
Fear raised Inkman’s voice. “Stand together, you two.”
Trait would not move. DeYoung drifted slowly to him. Trait’s eyes never left Inkman.
Inkman reached for a desk phone, listened a moment, then dropped the receiver and moved to another desk. He punched buttons to be sure. The phone lines were dead.
Trait said, “Who are you calling, Errol?”
Inkman remembered the cell phones in the battery chargers near the door. He flipped one open, working the buttons with manic confidence. “They took everything away from me,” he said. “My wife, my life, everything.” The phone was dead. He put another to his ear. “They thought they ruined me. They thought I was broken, done.” He dialed quickly with his thumb. “Now I’m taking away one of their towns.”
“What for?”
“Spite. And it will force the government to cooperate with us here. I’ll make them call off the rebels.”
Inkman had lost all sense. A beeping noise signaled a disruption in service, and he tried to dial out again, hammering the desk with the cell phone when it failed.
“They took out the wireless,” he said, troubled. “They would never have risked killing the service, unless...”
“Unless they were coming over the mountains,” said Trait.
“Spotty,” realized Inkman, looking at Trait. “What have you done? What have you done?”
“What have I done?” Trait knew then what it was like for Spotty to have lain there while his dogs tore at him. Trait had had enough. “Get out of here,” he told Inkman, barely controlling his fury.
Inkman blinked, confused. He had the gun.
Trait took a step toward him. “Clock is coming for you now, and you will meet him.”
The window glass rattled as Quintano opened up the M60 outside the doors. The racket was tremendous.
Inkman backed to the twin doors, stopping there, still covering Trait.
Trait took another step toward him.
Inkman threw open the door and was gone.
Trait turned quickly, directing DeYoung to grab a rifle from the front table. “I’ll get him,” De Young said.
“No,” said Trait. “Stay here and man the windows. This is the fallback point. We have to hold this place.”
The volume of the gun report rose again as the door opened. Trait spun angrily, expecting Inkman.
It was the leader of the Marielitos. He was alone, coatless, twin holsters strapped across his flak vest bandito-style. Two more guns were in his hands, aimed at Trait and De Young.
De Young was at the weapons table. Trait held his open hand toward De Young to keep him still.
The Marielito’s eyes were merry with savagery. He had come there to kill.
Trait yelled over the M60 noise. “Inkman just left,” he said. “Clock’s mark.”
The Marielito glanced back at the door. He wanted killing, but he wanted vengeance more.
Trait yelled, “He’s the one to shadow — if you still think you can beat Clock.”
Challenged, the Marielito straightened and backed to the doors. He smiled with gritted teeth, to let Trait know he was next, and then swung out of the door.
Trait left DeYoung to cover the windows and hurried down the dark hallway to the twinned cells at the end.
A backup bulb over the fire-alarm box cast the room dim red. Warden James was standing at the bars, listening to the gunfire outside.
“It’s happening,” the warden said.
Trait unlocked the cell door and tossed away the keys, grabbing the warden by the shoulder. He walked him roughly back along the hallway to the door by the radio room.
Outside, Trait could see Inkman’s footprints cutting diagonally across the smooth parking lot snow. He could just make out the backstop of a baseball field in the distance.
The Marielito had skirted the lot to the trees. Trait saw his shadow disappearing there.
Inkman’s run, leading Clock away from the center of town, gave Trait a fighting chance. And if the Marielito got lucky and ambushed Clock, all the better.