“Nah,” he drawled, “transmission.” And drew his Colt in one smooth motion, muzzle pointed at the man’s heart. “On your knees,” he said, toneless and calm. “Hands behind your head. I won’t ask twice.”
To his credit, the man didn’t react the way most people did in this situation. No gasping or flailing or insisting that he didn’t mean any harm. No reaching for his own gun – which would have gone badly for him. No, instead, he lifted both hands, nice and slow, to press them to his hat and then sank down to his knees in the dirt, expression careful, but not hostile.
Surprise stayed Rooster’s hand a moment.
A gust of wind sent loose dirt and handfuls of dry grass scuttling across the road between them. Carried with it the faint, but unmistakable lowing of cows from somewhere out of sight.
“What branch were you with?” the man asked.
Rooster blinked. “What?” he asked through his teeth.
The man shrugged without moving his hands from his head. “I’m just saying. A civilian breaks down in the middle of nowhere and a truck pulls up, his first reaction is usually to say, ‘Thank God.’ Not to pull a gun on somebody.”
Rooster flashed his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “And all vets are crazy, huh?”
“No. Necessarily cautious, I’d say.”
Rooster studied him a moment, waiting for the inevitable wince, for the begging, the show of nerves.
It never came.
Gun still trained, he walked toward the guy, swung wide, got behind him. “Don’t move.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
A quick glance in the truck proved that it was nothing special: battered vinyl seats, some crumpled McDonald’s wrappers, a water bottle and a Coke in the cup holders. Rooster checked the near door pockets for weapons and found none.
“You didn’t answer the question,” the guy on the ground said.
“You’re so smart, why don’t you guess?” Rooster said as he did a quick, one-handed pat down of the man. No weapons there, either.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m gonna say Marine Corps.”
“Yeah? What about you?” Rooster circled around in front of him again. “National Guard?” he asked with contempt.
The man tipped his head back so he could maintain eye contact. “Army,” he said, unabashed.
Rooster snorted.
“I’m Jake,” he offered. “There’s a garage twelve miles up the road that can take a look at your truck, and I’ll be happy to take it there for you.”
“Why?”
“It’ll be my way of saying thanks. That’s some hell of a trick your girl’s got.”
And there it was: the real reason for this unasked-for kindness.
Rooster lifted his gun a fraction, so the muzzle was aimed at the guy’s face, finger sliding inside the trigger guard. He felt a grim smile tug at this mouth. This just got so old. The same shit, over and over. “I give you credit: you played the game longer than most of them ever do.”
Jake – if that was even his name – looked scared for the first time now, eyes wide and white-rimmed. His mouth opened on a small, gasping breath. “Now wait, just wait, I don’t know–”
A truck door slammed behind him, and Red said, “Rooster, don’t.”
No. No, no, no, no–
Jake’s gaze flicked away from the gun, toward Red.
“Don’t look at her,” Rooster said through his teeth. To Red: “Get back in the truck. Now.”
She didn’t listen. Of course she didn’t. Her boots scuffed quietly over the short grass as she walked toward them. “You can’t shoot him,” she said, reasonably. “He–”
Rooster flung out his left arm and blocked her from coming nearer. “I swear to God, if you don’t get back in the truck–”
“There were witnesses,” she said. “All those people back at the diner saw us and saw him. Saw what I did. If they find him dead on the road–”
“Then they won’t find him! I’ll dig a fucking hole!”
She rested her hand on his arm, like he was some wild animal she could soothe with a touch. “You’re always telling me to be smart. Right? We have to be smart here. And I don’t think he’s one of them.”
“It’s not worth the risk.” But she was right, to a point. He’d killed people these past five years, but all those dead agents – or whatever they were – never made the news. This guy, if he was telling the truth, and was a civilian…that would hit the media. Even if he just disappeared, someone who loved him would file a missing person’s report and the cops would get involved. They could run from shadow organizations all day, but local cops and a murder of a citizen…that would be the thing that caught them, finally. And then Rooster would go to jail, and the Institute would take Red back, and…
He was hyperventilating. The gun shook in his hand.
His hostage stared up at him, frightened, but not backing down. “You haven’t done anything you can’t take back yet,” he said. “It’s okay.”
Red rubbed the arm that he held in front of her like a barrier, small fingers gentle. “Rooster.” A request, a balm.
Rooster swallowed, and his throat was so tight it hurt. “Who do you work for?”
“I own my own wrecker company. I work out of a garage in Farley. Just twelve miles up, like I said.” He wet his lips and added. “Look, I don’t know who you’re running from” – his eyes made a fast dart toward Red, like he knew the why of it – “and it’s none of my business. I’d just really like to not get shot and I’ll give you a tow if you want. I might be Army, but I’m not stupid.”
Rooster was…trapped. Caught in a place from which he couldn’t shoot his way out – not without putting them at greater risk. And he…was tired. So tired. All the good Red’s healing had done last night seemed to bleed out of him now, carried away on a tide of soul-deep exhaustion.
Like he sensed that Rooster’s resolve was wavering, Jake said, “You can even hold a gun on me the whole time if you want. But your arsenal will have to ride in the back.” He nodded toward the duffels that still lay on the ground.
Red’s hand touched his shoulder, a silent please.
Rooster exhaled in a rush. “Fine.”
8
Farley was the sort of town that Rooster always described as Bum Fuck, Egypt. The kind of town they hurried through, because small places bred tight-knit social circles, places where strangers were noticed.
An aptly-named Main Street took them past a water tower and a tidy row of brick two-story shops, American and Wyoming flags flying at the center of the small, green square. Jake – who’d done a remarkable job of keeping calm during their silent, tense twelve-mile truck ride – finally turned left down a side stride cluttered with small, clapboard houses, chain link fences, and industrial buildings with crumbling facades. He piloted them into the lot of a gas station/garage combo, where several old trucks waited on blocks and a man in a white cowboy hat sat smoking a cigarette and reading a paper beneath the convenience store’s front awning.
“Fucking Mayberry,” Rooster muttered.
“Yep,” Jake said. He backed the flatbed up to one of the garage doors and put it in park. Then he turned a flat, almost bored look on Rooster – who was crammed in the middle seat because he was too protective, and stubborn, and Red loved him for it anyway. “Try not to shoot any of my employees, okay?”
Rooster made a face.
“He didn’t say ‘no,’ so that’s something,” Red offered.
Jake twitched a smile and climbed out of the cab.
When they were alone, Rooster turned to her and said, “Stick by me.” Then, low and frightened, “Please.”
Oh, Rooster. She wanted to stroke his hair, put her arms around his neck and breathe in the scent of road dirt off his throat and tell him it would be fine. Instead, she smiled and said, “Okay.”
He nodded and his gaze flicked out through the windshield, toward Jake who now stood in front of the truck, talking to a scruffy-faced young man with holey jeans and a garage smock. He took a quick, unsteady breath. “Transmission work takes time. Depending on how bad it is – shit, we could be here. I don’t–” He pressed his lips together into a thin, white line. “I dunno,” he murmured. “I just–”