The Valley: A Lee Harden Novel, page 32
And now he’d just used Horner as a tool to do what he never could: get the Redoubt out of their metal boxes.
All for one woman.
That was sickening enough. But now they’d done something to Lee, too.
They’d taken Sam.
It was moments like these that made it so difficult to become a better person. Because all Lee wanted to do in that moment was burn this whole chunk of California to the ground.
Lee approached their white pickup truck and swore under his breath as he saw the bullet holes riddling the side panels and windows. “Can’t fucking have anything nice,” he griped as he stopped in front of it, yanked the driver’s door open, and began sweeping out the glass pebbles, taking care not to cut himself in the process.
“Actually, I was the one that broke that window,” Abe admitted.
Lee stared at him. “What the fuck for?”
“They brought it back booby-trapped. Couldn’t open the door.”
“Goddammit.”
“Well,” Abe commented, giving the vehicle a sad look. Like it was a horse that’d broken its leg. “It was about time for a new one anyway.”
“I didn’t want a fucking new one,” Lee muttered, spotting Marie as she approached at a fast clip, satphone in hand. “I liked this one.”
“What? Did you get attached to it?” Abe scoffed.
“I liked it, okay?” Lee said. “It’s a good truck. Was a good truck.”
“Christ, you gonna write a eulogy for it?”
“I fucking might,” Lee snapped over his shoulder, then slammed the door irritably, which only caused more glass pebbles to clatter off the window frame and into the seat.
Marie rounded the front of the truck.
Lee met her at the front quarter panel and nodded to the satphone. “What’s the verdict?”
Marie’s expression was reserved. “She’s working on it.”
Lee considered that with pursed lips for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Where’s Jones?”
Marie nodded over Lee’s shoulder.
He turned and spotted Jones a few boxes down from them, coordinating a couple of guys that were gathering and reloading rifles and spare magazines. Lee hollered at him, got his attention, and waved him over. He seemed all too eager to depart from his retinue with a warning of “Don’t fucking shoot yourselves.”
Timeless advice.
Lee could see that both Abe and Marie had questions, but they held them until the fourth member of their party jogged up.
“I know we’ve dealt with some ignorant fucks,” Jones huffed. “But…wow. I would not be surprised if half the casualties turn out to be blue on blue.”
“Yeah, well, we’re done with these assholes,” Lee announced. “For now, at least.”
Jones looked at him sharply. “We going after Sam?”
Lee nodded. “Got to.” He looked to Abe. “Glad Horner brought our truck back for us.”
Abe smiled. “Mighty kind of him.”
“He didn’t fuck with the auxiliary gas tank, did he?”
“Well, he drained the gas. But left the good stuff.”
“Keys?”
Abe looked to Jones, who then started patting his pockets.
Lee groaned. “You gave them to him again?”
“I’ve got them,” Jones said, defensively. “Here. See?” He pulled them from his right cargo pocket and jangled them in the air. “Got ‘em.”
“Well, that’s a miracle,” Marie sighed.
“Guys, I’m trustworthy as fuck,” Jones asserted.
Lee pointed to the auxiliary tank in the bed, nestled against the cab. “Do me the honors.”
Jones vaulted into the truck bed and knelt at the auxiliary tank, riffling through the set of keys.
Abe gave Lee a quick look up and down. “The hell happened to your armor?” Eyes going to his bare feet. “And your boots for that matter?”
“Oh, I’m sure Marie will be happy to tell you all about it,” Lee said.
“He fucked up,” Marie said. “That’s basically it.”
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Lee groused. “Any chance they left our personal packs?”
Abe shook his head.
“Hold up,” Marie said, turning away from them. “I got an idea.” She jogged off—also in bare feet.
Abe raised his eyebrows high. “So we’re gonna run a rescue op with both you and Marie all busted up, and with no armor, and no shoes?”
Lee eyed his friend. “Better question is, are we not gonna run a rescue op because of a few ouchies and some missing gear?”
Abe shrugged, conceding the point.
Jones had the right key pinched in his fingers, his other hand on the underside of the auxiliary tank, looking for the keyhole. He must have found it, because he smiled and brought the key underneath with his other hand. After a few seconds of finagling, the top of the auxiliary tank popped open an inch.
“There we go,” Jones said, pushing the lid all the way open. From Lee’s vantage on the ground, he couldn’t see inside, but he knew what was in there. Hell, he’d designed the thing and filled it himself, though it had actually been fabricated by a very nice welder they’d met in Oregon. It was an insurance policy against just this situation—having their gear swiped.
Jones reached into the hollow tank and drew out a chubby piece of weaponry. An M32, six-shot revolver-style grenade launcher. He handed it to Lee as he drew out a second one from inside.
Lee hefted the weapon and swiveled the cylinder open to reveal six chambers loaded with 40mm high-explosive rounds. He snapped it closed, satisfied.
Abe nodded. “You and Marie can soften the target with those while me and Jones move in.”
Jones straddled the sidewall of the bed, holding the second M32 and looking pleased. He nudged at Abe with the toe of his boot. “Hey. You and me. We’re gonna be Battle Buddies.”
Abe gave him a skeptical look. “Keys?”
Jones’s expression flattened. “Goddammit,” he muttered, immediately shuffling over to retrieve them from the keyhole where he’d left them.
“Not inspiring my confidence, Jonesy,” Abe sang.
“I got ‘em, I got ‘em,” Jones said, sounding put upon. “God. With the judginess, all the time.”
Marie returned, holding a pair of boots in one hand, and a pair of flip-flops in the other.
“Those look a bit big for you,” Lee commented, eyeing the boots.
Marie shoved them into his spare hand. “They’re for you.”
“Where’d you get ‘em?”
Marie gave him an awkward glance as she dropped the flip-flops and settled her battered feet into them. “They’re Bea’s. Or at least the flip-flops are. The boots were her husband’s.”
Lee winced. Then shrugged, and got to pulling them on, socks be damned. He doubted Bea would be that offended if they were used in the course of her rescue. Assuming she didn’t die. And assuming her rescue was not at odds with Sam’s.
“Oh, and…” Marie paused putting on the flip-flops to dig in her pocket. When her hand came out, it was holding Deuce. Or at least the figurine that represented him. She pushed it towards Lee. “Figured we’d need all the luck we could get.”
Lee accepted it gratefully, slipping it into his pocket.
“Damn,” Jones commented, looking at Marie’s new footwear. “Ma’s rocking the Jesus Cruisers. Bold move, Ma.”
“Keys,” Lee demanded, stomping his feet into the boots. Bit tight, but a few blisters would be better than going barefoot into combat.
Jones slapped the truck keys into Lee’s waiting hand and slid down from the bed. “You gonna tell us about your chat with Ted?”
“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Lee said, climbing into the driver’s seat again. “Jones, grab two IV bags and stick Marie and me.” He slammed the door behind him, glaring at the Redoubters. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Major Ronald “Ron” Paige sat at his desk, staring at the handwritten note, with Angela Houston standing on the other side of that desk and watching him like a hawk.
He was leaned way back in his seat, like the paper was radioactive, one hand curled around his mouth and chin.
Angela just stood there and sweated. Literally. She’d run the mile and half to his office in twelve minutes and thanked her lucky stars that A) she’d been keeping up with her workouts, and B) Paige was in his office.
Paige was Angela’s only point of contact within the military structure based in Aspen. To everyone else in Aspen, she was Angie Blackburn, because the name Angela Houston came with about as much baggage as the name Lee Harden. Luckily, she’d been a public figure during a time without broadcast media, so no one knew her face.
Except Ron Paige. He knew exactly who she was. But he was also ICAO Griffin’s close friend, and the commander of special forces operations in what was generally termed “the American Theater.” He was the only person outside of Angela and Griffin that knew about The Deal.
Angela was praying that would count for something. And she was also praying that the fact that Paige had hunted Lee Harden three years ago, with the intention to kill him for treason, wouldn’t count at all.
Paige was not a petty man. Angela actually liked him quite a lot. But when dealing with a dilemma this dicey, she knew that every little factor was being tallied up in Paige’s mind. And that might include old grudges.
Paige took a deep breath through his nose. Leaned forward, rather slowly, his battered leather office chair creaking. Detached his hand from his face. Placed one index finger on the note. Then said, “No.” And slid it back to her.
First, the blood drained out of Angela’s head.
Then anger pushed it all back in again.
“Why the fuck not?” she demanded, though, if she were being honest with herself, she already knew why not.
Paige was unruffled by her outburst, though he didn’t look particularly pleased. He folded his hands together on his desk and looked at her earnestly. “Because this is wayyyyy beyond the parameters.”
“Parameters?” Angela acted indignant, but, again, she knew.
“Yes, Angela,” Paige said, his tone betraying some irritation. “The parameters that Griffin very specifically told me to adhere to. Which I can only assume he established to fend off just this type of request.”
“He also gave you discretion,” Angela pointed out hotly.
“Not that much discretion.”
“I don’t see how this is any different than usual.”
Paige gave her a laconic eyebrow. “I think you do. God, you’re like a dog with a bone.”
Okay, so it was different than usual. But not in any way that really mattered, Angela thought. And she wasn’t about to release the proverbial bone. Because if Paige really was going to deny her request, he would’ve already put his foot down, told her he’d made his decision, and asked her to leave. The fact that they were still talking was a glimmer of daylight, peeking through a tiny crack in his “no.”
“Explain to me how it’s different,” Angela tried.
Paige laughed. “I don’t need to explain shit to you, Angela. You asked. I said ‘no.’ That’s all there is to it.”
Shit, that was very close to shutting her down.
Angela planted her hands on the table and leaned in, lowering her voice. “Ron, it’s Lee.”
Paige got a flat look. “I’m aware of who it is.”
Angela tilted her head. Time to go on the offensive. “Is that what this is about?” She practically whispered it.
Paige glanced in the direction of his office door. Not good.
“Oh, I see,” Angela hissed, straightening. “You got a bone to pick, so you’re gonna let him die.”
Paige grimaced, and Angela felt like she was playing a game of Battleship—direct hit! He stood up out of his chair, apparently not liking her looming over him like that, and no longer able to maintain his blasé act. “What the fuck do you want me to do here, Angela?” His voice was heated, but quiet. “I’m not trying to fuck the guy over—I’m trying to follow my goddamn orders.”
“Oh, don’t try to sell that ‘orders’ shit to me!” Angela snapped. “There are no orders, Paige, and you know it. There are no orders, because this shit isn’t actually happening, is it? Lee doesn’t exist, right? I don’t exist. And we certainly don’t have him running around, convincing all the forgotten people outside the Interior that ICAO Griffin gives a shit about them.” Angela straightened, eyes going wide as though she’d just realized something. “Oh, wait—yes, that’s exactly what we’re doing! That’s exactly what Lee’s doing. Out there preaching the gospel about how America isn’t quite dead yet, and that we’re working on stabilizing the country, and that we haven’t forgot about them. And he’s done a great job of that, hasn’t he? For three fucking years he’s done that job, Paige. And not once—not once—has he asked for anything more than what was promised him. Not once has he rocked the boat, or bucked Griffin, or gone off rez. And now, when he needs us—when his back is really up against the wall—we’re gonna hang him out to dry?”
Angela put on a face of mystified frustration. “The guy we have going around telling everyone not to lose hope, that the Interim Government hasn’t forgotten about them—him we’re going to forget about? The first time he asks for something that requires the slightest bit of leeway in your so-called parameters, we’re just gonna tell him, ‘sorry, you’re SOL’?” Angela let her voice rise into righteous indignation. She spread her arms out as though to encompass everything from sea to shining sea, her eyes casting about as though looking for an answer. “What the fuck are we even doing here? Is this just a giant circle-jerk? Are we just trying to feel good about ourselves but not actually do shit? Because it’s been three fucking years, Paige, and we haven’t moved the borders. We haven’t done a goddamned thing. But Lee has. Lee’s been doing exactly what he was told to do. Not because he had to, Paige—because remember, Griffin gave him an out—but because it’s the right thing to do. He’s out there doing the right thing. And then you’re gonna sit there in your comfortable fucking leather goddamn armchair, while Lee’s team is busted all to hell and trying to survive in a place we can’t even be bothered to go, and you’re gonna put your little index finger on his request for help and you’re just gonna say ‘no’?” She was almost shouting at this point. “What the fuck are you supposed to be? What the fuck am I supposed to be? What in the actual fuck are we supposed to be doing here?”
She ran out of breath.
Took a deep gulp or air. Considered continuing on, but felt her tirade was spent. She didn’t have anything else to say. She’d only be repeating herself.
She searched Paige’s face, trying to get a read on how well she’d landed her speech, but he gave nothing away. She had no idea where she stood at this point.
Until Paige raised his hands up. And then brought them together in a clap.
Clap…clap…clap.
“Very nice, Angela,” Paige said sourly. “I mean, really great performance. Did you practice it, or was it just off the cuff?”
“Fuck you.”
Paige made a show of looking around the room, then checking behind him. “Is there an audience? No? No audience?” Back to her. “Nope. Just lil’ ol’ me. Lemme ask you a question, Angela—if a politician makes a speech, and no one is around to give a fuck, do they actually make a sound?”
Angela glared at him. “If an asshole hears the truth, but refuses to accept it, is he still full of shit?”
Paige pasted on the most flaccid smile she’d ever seen. “I believe we’re done here, Angela.”
“Oh, I’m not done, Ronald,” she growled, using his full name only because she knew he didn’t prefer it. She had no clue what she was going to do now. Maybe she could go directly to the flight crews?
You’re risking everything for this, she told herself. You’re risking Abby’s medical care...
She reached for the note, still staring tracers at Paige.
He slammed his hand down on the note before she could touch it. It happened so fast, and resulted in such a loud bang that Angela flinched back in spite of her anger. He stared right at her and the look in his eyes was…inscrutable.
“Leave it,” he seethed.
“Wha—?”
“Ah!” He snapped up his other hand. “Shutthefuckup.” He peeled his gaze away like he couldn’t stand looking at her.
What did this mean? Why was he keeping the note?
Angela didn’t know what she should feel. Had she won or lost the battle? Was Lee going to live or die? Was Sam? Would she ever even hear from them again? And what would she do then? What would she do to keep Abby safe and get her the medical care she needed?
Paige slowly drew the note back across the desk to his side. Picked it up. Folded it. Put it in the chest pocket of his uniform. “I’m going to keep this.” He finally deigned to look at her again. “And you’re not going to mention it—ever again. Then you’re going to walk through that door.” He pointed. “You’re going to walk your self-righteous ass back to your cushy, first-world house. And you’re going to sit by the fucking phone.”
“Uhhh…Ohhh-kayyyy…”
Paige stared at her blankly.
Angela frowned. “Are you—”
“Dismissing you? Yes. Yes, that is what I’m doing. You’re dismissed.” That horrendously bland smile again. “Goodbye, Angela.”
Chapter 32
Colin Horner never did make it to the silo.
About a third of the way across the dusty main yard of his ranch, his feet slowed to a stop. He was alone, because he’d growled at Bran and Kat to stay on the porch when they’d tried to follow him.
The empty silo stood straight ahead, maybe another hundred yards. Between Colin and the silos, and a bit to his right, were the holding pens with about fifty head of young bulls awaiting castration. That’s what they were supposed to be doing that day. But then all this shit happened.
