Condemn (BUNKER 12 Book 2) (41 page)

"How many do you think he's got
helping him?" Bix asked.

"Can't be many, I imagine. There were
at least a dozen, dozen and a half, Wraiths back there. He'd need
just enough men to be able to manage our nine— the Largents,
Caprios, and Abramsons. I'm assuming he didn't turn them, since all
the bodies I saw wore camouflage."

Bix didn't reply.

"So, maybe three others besides
himself?"

"That's what I'm thinking. We only
have the one rifle, so we can't pick them all off very easily, not
before they take hostages and threaten to kill someone."

Finn was silent. He hadn't wanted to
kill anyone, not unless he had to. It now looked like he'd have no
choice.

Get it through your thick
head that this is a different world, Finn.

It also made him realize that he
hadn't even stopped to consider what Bix might be going through
right now. After all, he'd just murdered a man.

Will I be able to kill,
when the time comes?

Bix pulled over the side of the road.
They'd just come to the top of a rise, and they could see the road
stretching on for a good ten or fifteen miles ahead. It was the
same road they'd traveled on after fleeing the ranch, but Finn
didn't recognize any of the scenery. He'd been too hyped up to take
notice.

"I've been thinking," Bix said. "Our
only hope is to separate them. It's the only way it'll
work."

"You have a plan?"

Bix nodded. "But we only got one shot
at this. And it means both of us doing more killing."

Finn sat in the shadow of an old highway sign and watched the group
approach through the scope of the M4. His heart was racing and he
felt lightheaded. He squinted against the glare off the road to see
if he could spot Bren among the figures, but they were still a long
ways off, little more than a blur against the gray-white of the
horizon. The shimmering made them appear like a cluster of
phantoms. He couldn't even distinguish the horses among
them.

To his left was a rise. He couldn't
see Bix in his hiding spot at the top, but he could feel him
watching the procession through the binoculars they'd found in
Ramsay's backpack. He hoped his friend was right, that when it
started to go down, the reverend would react in the way they hoped
he would. If not, then someone was likely to get seriously hurt,
maybe even killed. And there was no backup plan.

He lowered his gaze to the rifle by
his side. Ammo was not an issue, it was the accuracy of his aim.
He'd had very little practice. In fact, he had had only the one
chance to shoot the thing, and that was shortly after they left the
base yesterday morning.

Kari had shown him how to sight
properly, how to breathe and then hold the air inside, how to
squeeze rather than pull on the trigger. His shots had been
surprisingly accurate, and she'd been impressed, but that was when
he was shooting at a rusty tin can from fifty paces, not at a
living, breathing, walking human being. Not when other lives were
at stake. Not when there was the possibility of shooting someone
else instead by accident.

"You can do it," Bix had told him. "Go
for the big man first. Shoot his horse out from under him if you
have to."

"I'm not going to shoot a
horse!"

"If it's a choice between the horse
and Bren?"

Finn had stared at his friend for a
moment, wondering when he'd turned into Jonah— cold and
calculating, heartless. But then he realized Bix was right and the
judgment passed.

The exchange still left him with an
unsettling afterimage, a negative impression of Bix, like from one
of those old time photographic films. There was definitely a dark,
practical side to the boy, a side that the happy-go-lucky part of
him masked.

"Can't we just hold them till the rest
of the group catches up?"

"We have to hit them hard," Bix had
said, speaking as if he were some kind of genius military
strategist. "And this is the perfect spot."

Finn had no basis to challenge him,
nor any reason to believe his plan wouldn't work. So he'd had to
accept it. He had to admit it was no worse than his own plan,
though he still didn't like the idea of shooting
anyone."

"The first thing we need to do is get
them separated. Then we pick them off one-by-one."

"Why am I the one doing the
shooting?"

"Because I'm doing the
separating."

The dark, shimmering spots finally
resolved themselves into distinct people and horses. With a sinking
feeling, Finn saw that there was also a large vehicle in the group.
Before long, he knew that it was one of those military trucks. Bren
and the rest of the survivors must be hidden inside.

"So much for not trusting
automobiles," he muttered to himself.

They were still a quarter mile away
when he could see them clearly enough to count the riders. There
appeared to be three, one in front of the truck, two behind. They
were moving at a fairly rapid clip, the riders pushing the horses
in a fast trot.

Three riders— Adrian,
Luke, and Billy
, he thought, though he
couldn't be sure. He didn't know if either of the boys had survived
the Wraiths or the fire back at the ranch.

Three riders, plus one man driving the
truck. Four shots, four bullets. And four pieces of his soul stolen
away.

Bix has done more than his
part. He killed Ramsay. He took your place in the cage and
fought — and killed — Nami.

Nami was already
gone.

He's done more than you
have. What have you done, besides kill Jennifer? It's your
turn.

He rotated the scope further down the
road and thought he saw a sparkle, a reflection of light perhaps
off a windshield way off in the distance. Was it the pickup
truck?

He glanced again at the ridge. Could
Bix see the second vehicle further off with the binoculars? He
wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to work the kink out of his
neck. Soon the horses would be directly in front of his hiding
place. Then it was do or die time.

Moving carefully, in case
the riders were scanning for movement, he settled down into the
hollow beneath the sign and angled the rifle toward the nearest
part of the road in front of him. He used a rock as a base.
Breathe, hold, sight, squeeze
, he thought.
Don't rush
it.

Now he could hear the clip-clop of the
horse's hooves on the road and the whine of the truck's engine. The
riders shifted positions, rotating, always in motion.

It still appeared to be
just the three men. Finn's job was to take out Adrian. But he now
realized he should first shoot the horseman — or
horse
men
 —
guarding the back of the truck.

He nudged the scope to see the front
rider's face. It wasn't Adrian. In fact, it wasn't anyone he
recognized. The other two riders were on the other side of the
truck, and the glare off the windshield prevented him from seeing
the driver.

A hundred and fifty yards away, he
heard the sudden buzz of a small engine, and a motorcycle appeared.
It raced up the road ahead of them, clearly intending to scout the
other side.

"Shit," Finn muttered. They
hadn't expected someone on a motorbike. So, now there were four
riders
and
the
driver. And they didn't know who or what was in the back of the
truck.

"Do it, Bix,"
he whispered to himself, as if his friend could
somehow hear him.
"Take him
out."

The biker disappeared over the other
side of the ridge as the caravan came to a stop below. The truck's
brakes squealed; gears were shifted into neutral. The horses
stamped their hooves restlessly.

Finn counted the seconds, but all he
heard was the wind. A minute later, the rider reappeared and zoomed
back down the road. "All clear!" he shouted.

"Dammit, Bix! What
happened?"

A new horse rider appeared at the
front. It was Luke. He gave a shrill whistle and waved them up the
road. The horses clopped and pulled away. The truck revved its
engine. The gears shifted. Then came the bang of a single
gunshot.

Just one.

"What the hell?" Finn said, almost
forgetting not to shout. "Who the hell is shooting?"

The sound of it rolled across the
land, causing Luke to hold up a hand.

He turned and rode around to the back,
yelling. The other two horse riders appeared. They separated from
each other, moving to opposite sides of the road, and raced up the
ridge with pistols in their hands.

Finn waited. Then came the muffled
explosion of the claymore.

The truck driver shouted out his
window. Luke went over to the motorcycle rider. "You said it was
clear!"

"It was!"

Luke pulled a gun from his hip and
aimed it at the man. "Did you check—"

A second explosion came, closer and
louder this time. The horse reared back and nearly threw Luke off.
But he had pulled the trigger. The motorcycle rider toppled off and
lay still on the road. A woman's scream rose from inside the
truck's canvas covering.

"Turn around!" Luke screamed at the
truck driver. "Go back!"

Finn watched, then
remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He lowered his cheek
to the stock of the rifle and sighted.
Breathe, hold, sight, squeeze.

Luke was perfectly outlined against
the truck's canvas, but Finn couldn't shoot him. If he missed, or
if the bullet passed through Luke's body, it might hit someone
inside. He shifted the site to his left.

The driver's head came into view in
the scope. He centered the crosshairs. The man was trying
desperately to shift into reverse. He leaned forward just as Finn
squeezed.

The rifle jumped against his shoulder,
knocking the breath from his chest. Luke's horse jumped and he spun
around, searching for the origin of the shot. He disappeared around
the other side.

Finn focused on the inside of the cab.
The driver was still alive, still trying to shift into reverse.
After giving up, he decided to simply turn the truck around. Finn
sighted again, but the driver disappeared in a flash of sunlight
reflecting off the glass.

Shoot, Finn. Do it! Just
shoot!

But he couldn't see. He was shooting
blind!

Squeeze the
trigger!

But if I miss, I'll hit
someone in the back!

SHOOT!

Finn sighted onto the center of the
driver's side of the windshield and prayed he didn't miss. He
didn't bother with the breathing and the holding. He squeezed the
trigger and felt the rifle jump again, only this time he remembered
to pull it tight against his shoulder first. The truck kept
turning.

Finn tried again to see inside the
cab, but there was too much glare. The truck completed its
rotation, and the cab was out of sight.

But now Luke was fully exposed. Finn
swiveled the rifle toward him. Luke kicked his horse into a run,
circling the truck again, shouting at the driver. People inside the
truck were screaming. Finn tried not to be distracted by
them.

The truck kept turning. It was coming
back around again. Finn sighted the scope around the front as it
came into view once more, and he saw the driver slumped over the
steering wheel.

Luke reached the door and tried to get
it open. His horse tripped and fell from underneath him. Luke clung
to the doorframe as the poor animal was pulled beneath the tires.
It screamed in pain and fear. The truck rolled over its flailing
legs, snapping the bones.

Finn put it out of its misery with his
third shot.

The truck came to a stop, stalling as
it couldn't roll over the carcass. Luke immediately jumped off the
running board and sprinted to the back.

"Come on," Finn growled. "Where's
Adrian?" He was shaking from the adrenaline. He'd just shot and
killed a man. But shooting the horse had been worse. "Show me that
rat bastard Adrian!"