He’d been turning as he yelled, but not fast enough. Nothing was fast enough. It was like the world had been submerged under water or Jell-O, everything happening far more slowly than he wanted it too. Everything except his senses, which were suddenly hyperalert. He could see the man at the fence with the black box in his hands, could see the antenna stretching out from it, could see the bastard looking over, seeing them, and trying to decide whether to blow the bins now or wait for a better chance. He could see Wade and Mike Darby sprinting away from their dumpster, heading around the corner of the building. And he could see Morgan scrambling, almost falling, then recovering and scrambling for the cover of the nearest pickup.
Then he saw nothing. He heard nothing. He was maybe aware of pressure—weightlessness, beyond his control, and then a moment of thudding pain, and then it was back to nothing.
Jericho came to in a cloud of dust and confusion. He was in a battle; that much was familiar. He couldn’t hear much, just the dull roar of his blood and a muffled, distant version of gunfire and yelling. His ears were damaged, and they weren’t the only part of him in trouble. Maybe he should just let his eyes shut; they wanted to shut.
But he forced himself to roll onto his side, then fought to keep the dizziness under control. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the scene in front of him. Twisted metal, not the sandy beige of a tank or a Jeep, but mid-blue, with rusty patches—dumpster. School. Militia. Wade!
He squinted through the falling grit. There were bodies—and parts of bodies—there were two pickup trucks, both blown over onto their sides, legs sticking out from underneath at least one of them. The school—he looked behind him: the windows were jagged holes but the walls were standing, and the lockdown drill involved moving all students to interior rooms. The kids should be okay, as long as nobody got inside. But Wade. Where the hell was Wade?
He’d been wearing black and gray, as always. Jericho pushed himself to his feet, using the wall for balance, and screamed, “Wade!”
There was no answer. There was also no more gunfire, not even the distant thuds his damaged hearing had given him. No one left for the militia to shoot at? Was that what the bastards thought? Was it true?
Wade. Where are you?
No, Jericho couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t let himself fall apart.
He stumbled through the debris, wishing he had something to wash his eyes with besides his tears, and finally saw movement. Maybe a hundred yards away, the remaining militiamen were jogging through the field, heading for the school.
Jericho didn’t care what their strategy was. He didn’t care if they were planning to take hostages or just start killing, whether they’d hole up in the building and force the feds to negotiate or just grab some kids and run for the border. They’d had the school in mind when all of this started; they’d had the foresight to come by ahead of time and plant the bombs in the dumpsters. So this was what they wanted?
That was too fucking bad, because they couldn’t have it.
If these fuckers had hurt Wade, then they couldn’t have anything.
Jericho patted his body experimentally and found his M4, still on its strap but slung way around his back. He pulled it to where it belonged.
The weapon felt right in his hands. And it felt good to start moving, not too steady on his feet, but improving as he went. He shifted laterally to the men, and they were out in the open, while he remained hidden by the debris and the dust. His first burst caught the leader, his second the man behind them. He was mowing them down like the psychotic weeds they were, and he knew his lips were drawn back in a feral snarl.
He ran out of ammo just as he reached one of the overturned pickups, pulled another clip from his vest, and slapped it into place. He’d taken out at least three of them, maybe four. Where were the rest now? Creeping toward him, or into the school?
His ears were still useless, and that was a nuisance. He was bleeding too, from at least a few shrapnel wounds and possibly a new graze earned on his most recent efforts. No time for first aid, and fuck it anyway. He didn’t want to help himself, he wanted to hurt others. He wanted to destroy anyone who’d hurt Wade.
So he scrambled to the far end of the pickup, darted his head around for a quick look to be sure the path was clear, then eased around the corner. Dizziness hit him, and he had to lean on the twisted tailgate of the truck. He refused to pass out. This wasn’t over, not yet.
He had to make a decision. He had no way of knowing where the enemy was—stalking him or ignoring him and heading for the school. They were disciplined enough to sacrifice themselves for the cause—they wouldn’t be coming after him for revenge, he didn’t think. But they weren’t stupid, and they wouldn’t want him at their back as they tried to do whatever they were planning to do inside the building. They’d be coming for him.
And they’d expect him to be hiding. He was one man, and there were still at least four of them, maybe more. They were better armed. They weren’t injured. Anyone with sense would be retreating and finding cover.
Jericho tested the stability of the pickup, then hooked his fingers over the top of it—the side, under usual circumstances—and pulled himself up. It was a wide-bedded dually, almost eight feet off the ground, and for a moment he thought he’d lost too much blood and wouldn’t have the strength to lift himself. Then he remembered himself and Wade at the cave in the forest months earlier, climbing the cliff, wrestling at the top. Wade. Goddamn it, Wade. Jericho grunted a little as the edge of the truck rubbed against sore spots on his torso, but he was up.
Slithering forward, staying low, keeping quiet. He wasn’t the prey; he was the hunter. Searching, stalking—and discovering.
The men had split up. Four of them left, as far as he could see, two of them following Jericho’s route around the front of the truck, the other two cautiously working their way around the back. And both teams were divided even further, one partner cutting the corner from up close, the other providing backup from thirty feet out. That made sense, if they were the aggressors. But it wasn’t nearly as good of an idea when they were on the defensive.
Jericho groped inside his vest for the clip he’d emptied moments before and looked toward the school. It was hard to guess how much noise was needed—his own hearing had been okay until the most recent explosion, but these guys had been inside the sheriff’s station when Wade’s—shit, no, don’t think about Wade—when the booby traps had gone off. So he threw the empty clip somewhere it would make enough clatter for them to hear it, hoping they wouldn’t realize it was too obvious.
It worked. The pair closest to the school exchanged glances with each other, nodded, and changed track so they were facing away from Jericho’s truck toward the school.
The other two were trickier, but not by much. A simple sit-up, ignoring the streak of pain across his belly, and two shots into the head of the man farther away. His partner saw him fall and assumed Jericho was on the far side of the truck, shooting out at him. As soon as he moved past the tires Jericho rolled off the truck behind him, popped two bullets into the man’s back, then turned to face the men who’d been heading for the school.
He should dodge, and he knew it. He should find cover, play it smart, live to fight another day. But Wade hadn’t shown up. Wade was—he wasn’t something Jericho ever wanted to think about, and there was only one way to keep himself from doing that. So he didn’t dodge. These bastards had come to his town and ripped it apart, come to his life and ripped it apart. He roared as he sprinted toward them, firing as he went.
One man fell just as the first bullet hit Jericho in the thigh. He took one last step, landing on his good leg as he fell, and his aim was off, his balance, maybe even his vision. But he was close enough now. His body jerked as another bullet hit him, and the shock and blackness closed in. But before it overtook him he saw the man’s throat disintegrate, saw him fall backward and away. He saw enough, and let his eyes close as his body toppled to the tarmac.
You’re an asshole.
And later, You’re an idiot.
