Four Blind Mice

Chapter Forty-Five

A three-quarter moon made the going easier through the woods. Starkey had known about the moon beforehand. He wasn't just a control freak; he was obsessive about details because getting them wrong could get you killed, or caught. He knew they could expect mild temperatures, low wind and no rain. Rain would mean mud, and mud would mean a lot of footprints, and footprints would be unacceptable on their mission.

They didn't speak as they moved through the woods. Maybe it wasn't necessary to be so cautious out here, but it was habit, the way they had been conditioned for combat. A simple rule had always been drummed into them: remember how you were trained, and don't ever try to be a hero. Besides, the discipline helped them to concentrate. Their focus was on the killings that would soon take place.

The three men were in their own private worlds as they walked: Harris fantasized about the actual kills with real-life faces and bodies; Starkey and Griffin stayed very real time, and yet they hoped that Harris wasn't pulling their chain with his description of the targets. Starkey remembered one time Brownley had reported the prey was a Vietnamese schoolgirl, whom he went on to describe in elaborate detail. But when they got to the kill zone, a small village in the An Lao Valley, they found an obese woman well into her seventies, with black warts all over her body.

Their reveries were cut short by a male voice piercing the air.

Starkey's hand flew up in warning.

“Hey! Hey! What's going on? Who's out there?” the voice called. “Who's there?”

The three of them stopped in their tracks. Harris and Griffin looked at Starkey, who kept his right arm raised. No one answered the unexpected voice.

“Cynthia? Is that you, sweetie? Not funny if it is.”

Male. Young. Obviously agitated.

Then a bright yellow light flashed in their direction, and Starkey walked forward in its path. “Hey,” was all he said.

“What the hell? You guys Army?” the voice asked next. “What are you doing out here? You training? On the Appalachian Trail?”

Starkey finally flicked on his Maglite flashlight. It lit up a white male in his early twenties, khaki walking shorts down around his ankles, a thick roll of toilet paper in one hand. Skinny kid. Longish black hair. A day's growth on his face. Not a threat.

“We're on maneuvers. Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Starkey said to the young man squatting before him. He chuckled lightly, then turned to Harris. “Who the hell is he?” he whispered.

“Couple Number Three. Shit. They must have fallen behind Target Two.”

“All right then. Change of plan,” Starkey said. “I'll take care of this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Starkey felt a coldness in his chest and knew that the others probably did too. It happened in combat, especially when things went wrong. The senses became heightened. He was acutely aware of everything going on, even at the periphery of his eyesight. His heartbeat was strong, even, steady. He loved these intense feelings, just before it happened.

“Can I get a little privacy here?” the shitter asked. “You guys mind?”

A brighter light suddenly flashed on Brownley Harris was shooting another video movie.

“Hey, is that a fucking camera?”

“Sure is,” Starkey said. He was on top of the crouching, shitting man before he knew what was happening. He picked the victim up by his long hair and slit his throat with the K-Bar.

“What's the woman like?” Griffin turned to Harris, who was still shooting with the hand-held camera.

“Don't know, you horny bastard. The girlfriend was sleeping this morning. Never saw her.”

“Boyfriend wasn't bad-looking,” said Griffin. “So I'm hopeful about the chick. Guess we'll soon find out.”