“Damn straight. Now shut up unless it’s business,” Duke says. The chatter on the conference stops immediately.
I’ve made it about a half mile or so before I finally think I see something in the distance, but it turns out to be a wayward branch. It’s all trees and a few birds here and there. I can’t find anybody. Little River is a tiny as fuck place that has like no population at all. The safe house sits far enough back from the highway—a few miles, I think—that I didn’t even know it was here until I took it upon myself to follow Ryan one day when he made it down this way to have a little “talk” with Michael. Nobody told me to follow him, but with how pissed off he was, I didn’t think it was a good idea to let them kill Ruby’s son. Thankfully I didn’t have to do shit because he hopped off his bike before turning off the highway and kicked the shit out of a poor fucking redwood that did nothing but grow in the wrong damn spot. After he calmed his shit about being pissed that I followed him, he wrapped his hand around my shoulder really fucking tight and gave me a nod. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to saying thank you. As much as he’s hating on Michael right now, he doesn’t really want to hurt Ruby.
Trying to walk through woods and not make any noise is probably the stupidest fucking goal ever. If it’s not a pinecone I’m stepping on, then it’s a fallen branch that cracks beneath my boots or a pile of leaves that aren’t wet enough to not make crunching sounds. Sure, let’s hide in the woods. Because that shit makes sense.
Since I’m just a prospect, they don’t tell me shit. But I’m starting to pick up on a few things. The guys who are the best shots are always in the front. That includes Duke, Ryan, and Ian. Ryan tries to take the lead a lot because he’s a cocky motherfucker, but it is actually Ian who consistently has the most accuracy.
“I think I’m lost,” I say into the conference. I feel like I’ve been walking forever and can’t find anybody. Pretty soon I’m going to panic that I’m going to be found and get a bullet to my skull.
“Pull up your pants, shithead,” Wyatt says over the line.
I pause in place and slowly look around but don’t see anything. I take another step before pulling my pants up a little and adjusting my belt so they stay up with my hand that’s not holding the gun.
“Where are you guys?” I ask. I’m fucking failing at this shit. Bad.
“Another twenty feet forward, Jer. And don’t fucking trip on me,” Duke says.
Without arguing, I keep moving forward and don’t see Duke lying in the grass and leaves until I’m almost tripping over him. Shit. He told me not to trip on him. Fuck this noise. I can’t go on these missions—I’m going to get my ass capped.
As I approach Duke, he seems to notice my presence but does not turn around. Instead, he lifts his left arm in the air and raises his closed fist, telling me to stop what I’m doing, and says, “Show yourselves, boys,”
I slowly turn around to find Ryan, Wyatt, and Bear taking a step away from three separate redwoods, each about twenty to thirty feet apart. I walked right between Wyatt and Bear without noticing them. They’re all wearing their own clothes and their cuts—no fancy uniforms or camouflage. Just as quickly as they’ve stepped forward, they’ve stepped back into the shadows of their trees and have completely disappeared from view again. Shit. How long do these assholes train for this shit? I thought I was joining a club, not signing up for special ops or something.
Turning back to Duke, I move forward, and as quietly as I can, I lie down on the mixture of grass and fallen leaves beside him. I don’t get too close, but I don’t want to be too far away either. There’s a fine line between two men lying next to each other at a professional distance and two men coming close to cuddling. And I ain’t fucking cuddling Duke.
He begins to talk as I awkwardly set up my position with the rifle. I try my best to mimic his stance. His AR-15 has a bandana over the top of the scope. He sees me eyeing it and pulls a spare out of his pocket and hands it to me. I fumble with tying the fucking thing on without messing up anything. Just because Dad let me shoot these things when I was a kid doesn’t mean I know much about working a scope.
Duke shifts a little. “These two have been fucking gabbing forever now. I really kind of wish that we could just shoot the fucking WOP.”
“We find out who he is yet?” I ask.