Target America

51

As it began to grow dark, Marie Shannon stood on the house’s back porch, looking up at the ridge where Buck Ferguson’s two youngest sons, Roger and Glen, had pitched camp to keep watch over the ranch. A storm was coming in from the west, and she was growing concerned about the distant rumbling of thunder.

Buck came out the back door and stood beside her, a Colt .45 on his hip.

“It’s fixin’ to blow,” she said. “You should probably call the boys down for the night. I don’t want ’em struck by lightning.”

“They’ll be fine. They’ve been camping in these mountains all their lives. If Iraq and Afghanistan didn’t kill ’em, these mountains sure as hell won’t.”

She smiled. “Thank you again for coming, Buck.”

“Gil would do the same for us if it was the other way around. We take care of our own out here, always have. You’re too young to remember, but when I was over in Vietnam, your daddy used to look in on Liddy and the boys for me. He was a good man, your daddy.”

“And Liddy was a good woman. I remember she used to bring me warm chocolate chip cookies.”

“Yeah, she was a dandy,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s a shame they’re both long gone. But then again, ain’t nothin’ meant to last, is it?”

“No, I reckon not,” she said sadly.

They sat on the porch talking until the wind began to blow and the rain began to drive.

“I’d really feel better if you called ’em down, Buck.”

He smiled at her in the porch light. “Honey, they’re grown men. You don’t think they know enough to come down on their own if they start gettin’ wet?”

“At least call ’em for me?”

Buck took the cell phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “As usual,” he said. “No signal. That tower they put on my land ain’t worth a holey shirt.”

“Maybe it’s the storm.”

“That ain’t helping, but service around here is always spotty, even in good weather.”

Up on the ridge, Roger and Glen were nice and dry in their tent, both of them lying on the same sleeping bags they’d used during the war. Each of them had an AR-15 carbine, and they’d brought Kashkin’s scoped Mauser along as well. They lay in the dark listening to the thunder, the wind buffeting the tent. There was sporadic lightning, but it didn’t seem dangerously close.

Roger, the youngest at twenty-two, had killed three Taliban during his first tour in Iraq, but Glen, twenty-five, was not yet blooded, at least not that he knew of. He’d fired a few thousand rounds in combat but never knew if he’d hit anyone. He kind of hoped not.

“Think it’ll blow all night?” Roger wondered.

“Weather Channel said it will.”

“Weather Channel don’t know shit about mountain weather.”

Glen lit a cigarette with a First Marines Zippo lighter and tossed the pack at his brother. “Think anybody could see the glow of the cherry through the tent wall?”

“Who the hell would be out in this?”

Glen rolled onto his elbow, his face faintly visible in the glow. “We’re out in it.”

Roger lay on his back, tapping an ash from his cigarette onto the front of his Carhartt jacket and rubbing it in. “If it’s gonna blow all night, we might as well make our way back down to the house. We can’t see shit from in here anyhow.”

“Let’s give it an hour,” Glen said. “It might ease off.”

“The old man’s right,” Roger said. “Bastards won’t make another try at Gil anytime soon. If they were super committed, they’d have sent more than one dude the first time. I think they probably shot their wad for now. Their priority is the nuke.”

“Sons a bitches,” Glen muttered. “Where you think it’s at? I bet it’s in New York. Those fuckers love shittin’ on New York.”

“That’s why I think it’s DC. They won’t bother LA on any account. Even Chechens aren’t stupid enough to blow up Hollywood. Everybody likes our movies too much.”

“Buncha hypocrites.” Glen exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

They bullshitted awhile longer and smoked another couple cigarettes before deciding it was likely to rain all night. “If it quits, we can always come back up.”

They crawled out of the tent, slinging their weapons barrel-down over their shoulders as they walked the ridge line in the downpour.

It was Roger who saw the red laser dot appear on the back of his brother’s head in the driving rain. At first he thought his eyes were playing him tricks, but his instincts were fast to set him in motion.

“Get down!” He shoved Glen forward, spinning to unshoulder his carbine.

He did not hear the 5.56 mm NATO round that struck him in the forehead, dropping him in his tracks. Just as Glen did not hear the rounds that struck him in the back. He hit the ground without ever grabbing for his weapon.

Duke rose soaking wet from a copse of junipers fifty feet away, strolling forward to stand over the bodies that lay crumpled on the muddy horse trail, slinging his suppressed M4 and raising the infrared binocular up onto his forehead.

Akram stood from his place among the rocks and came forward.

“See, it’s like I told you,” Duke said over the sound of the storm. “Even these idiots knew ya gotta hold the high ground… but then, you desert folk probably don’t see much high ground where you’re from. Am I right?” He laughed and turned around, ordering two other men to drag the bodies from the trail into the junipers. “Likely gonna be a long, wet night. You all better get used to the idea right now and stop standin’ around with your hands in your pockets.” Then he walked off, mumbling beneath his breath, “Ya haji pricks.”