Redaction: The Meltdown Part II (43 page)

A big burly soldier with two bags stopped near the second. He checked for life signs. “Clear.”

The dog loped over to Robertson and plopped down.

“Alright everyone,” Robertson shouted. “Get in the trucks, we’ll join the others for lunch.”

Manny turned to take Beth’s hand just as another shot rang out.

This one came from where Trent had gone. Where the niños were.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Trent toggled the security device off the sweater. It wasn’t cashmere but it would do in a pinch. Melted snow dripped onto the stockroom floor. The smell of starch mingled with mildew. Faint popping noises drifted through the metal receiving door. Either Robert E. and Ernest enjoyed displaying their power or those stupid kids were getting uppity.

Wool scratched his fingers as he slid the sweater into the bag. Must be the power. The teens had no reason to complain. After all, Trent was letting them drive. He grabbed the bag off the battered, wooden prep table. The weight pulled on his arm. Not a bad haul. Trousers that would need to be hemmed. Dress shirts to mask the itch of the wool sweaters. Of course, the two pairs of dress shoes, black socks and boxer-briefs weren’t up to his usual standard, but he shouldn’t complain too much.

And then there was the little extra something he’d found.

His ears twitched at a whisper of movement.

So ol’ Jake decided to kill him now instead of waiting until later.

Well, Trent had a little surprise in store for him. He scanned the storeroom. Stacks of boxes morphed into dark towers. Melted snow crawled across the concrete and made black puddles in the divots. Palming the flashlight in the same hand as the bag, he swung them over his shoulder. Cold seeped through his sweater where the barrel rested and a bright yellow eyeball of light rolled over the storeroom.

With his free hand, he scraped the box cutter off the table and kept it close to his pant leg. The asshole would only see the glimmer of the blade when Trent struck.

A hollow thump sounded to his right.

He spun on his heel, scratching the soles of his new shoes. So the bastard thought to sneak up on him in the dark. The fool. Trent smiled. Time to have a little fun before the carving began. “Who’s there?”

“Trent?” A man called out. A stack of boxes wobbled in the flashlight’s glow.

He blinked. That didn’t sound like Jake. Neither did it sound like Ernest or Robert E. Could it be Gary? Had he gotten so bloody cutting up the woman that he needed to change his clothes? “Gary?”

“No. It’s Henry.” A cone of light sprayed the aisle. “Henry Dobbins.”

Trent stumbled backward. No. No, it couldn’t be. He eyed the towers walling him in. No break in the boxes. No way to hide, nowhere to run. Fuck! How could this happen to him?

Henry Dobbins rolled around the corner. His steel gray ponytail draped over his flannel covered shoulder. “Dang. It’s hard to maneuver around this place.”

Trent’s thoughts raced. Henry was here. Henry who should have been left behind. If Henry was here, then the soldiers must be too. Cold misted Trent’s skin. Those shots…

“Done a little shopping, I see.” Henry nodded to the bag sticking out from behind Trent’s back.

Trent opened his fingers. Static electricity crackled down his back as the plastic slid to the floor.

He shone the light around the wheelchair-bound man.

Empty space. But what did that mean? For all he knew, the soldiers could be behind the boxes waiting to spring. The metal housing of the box cutter slipped against his palm. “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping.” Henry shrugged. “Same as you.”

Trent swallowed a snort. The man didn’t have anything on his lap. He hadn’t gone shopping. But he did block the exit. Was the old man trying to stall for time until the soldiers surrounded Trent? “Didn’t find anything to your liking?”

“It’s in the truck.” Henry raised his hands, flashing his palms. The gesture lay bare the pistol on his lap.

Son of a bitch. A box cutter against a gun, he knew how that would end. He had to get out of here and he’d have to go through his ex-neighbor to do it. The asshole always had to stick his nose in other people’s business. In Trent’s business. Henry had ruined Trent’s marriage and now he wanted to ruin his new society.

Not today.

Trent tightened his grip on the box cutter. “Guess this isn’t a friendly talk, after all.”

Henry sighed and picked up the weapon but didn’t aim it at Trent. “The gun is a precaution.”

Trent stooped to pick up his bag. The light from his flashlight bounced wildly around the room. He would use the stupid man’s ignorance of gun etiquette to make his escape. “Against what?”

“Against you getting any ideas of running away.”

“Run away?” Straightening, Trent crooked his arm so he spotlighted the other man. When the time came, he’d blind him with it, but for now he’d pretend to go along. “We were heading for the main group. It’s not our fault that your truck fell behind.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Henry shrugged. “But the soldiers hold you to blame for what happened to their drivers.”

Fuck. Trent ground his teeth together. Those idiots! He should have insisted they stop and throw the bodies farther from the road. Who the hell knew they would be found? Out. He needed an out. No, he didn’t. He was innocent. “I was riding in the back. What happened to the drivers?”

Henry shook his head. “Gonna deny everything to the end?”

Trent inched closer to the cripple. “I haven’t done anything. Of course, I am guilty of shoplifting. But you, yourself said you were getting a five-finger discount, too.”

“Cut the crap, Trent. You were a lying, cheating, asshole when we met and you’ve only gotten worse.”

Worse? He paused. Something else was going on here. “What do you mean?”

“Denise. Your wife.” Henry aimed the gun at Trent’s chest. “I found her body.”

So the bitch had been found. So what? There was nothing to trace her death back to him. He’d made sure of it. His plan was flawless. “The police said she hung herself. Just another person who couldn’t live with the grief.”

“The police had nothing to do with it.” Henry snarled.

The cripple hadn’t reported it? That was even better. Trent crept forward again. Another five feet and he could throw the bag.

“I should have let the soldiers shoot you when you left the store.”

Ah-ha. The soldiers were outside the store. Were there enough of them to cover all the doors? The old man may be stupid, but he wasn’t a complete moron. He wouldn’t have come alone. “So why did you come, old man?”

“I wanted you to have a fair trial.”

Fair trial? Trent ran his hand down the metal side of the box cutter. He’d never been treated fairly in his life. People were always jealous of his looks, his intelligence and his talents. They colluded to keep him down, keep him small like the dregs of humanity. He closed the gap by another foot.

“Why would I go on trial? I’ve done nothing wrong.” His wife deserved what she’d gotten. As for those soldiers… “I was in the back with everyone else. I didn’t even know those men were missing until we stopped for lunch.”

And there were at least forty witnesses to confirm his alibi.

Henry rolled back. The wheelchair turned at an angle since he only used one hand. With the gun, he motioned toward the stockroom’s exit. “Let’s go.”

The hair on Trent’s neck stood up. No way was he going through those double doors. The soldiers must be on the other side, waiting. He slowed. His plan should work. After all the old fart was no match for him.

And as a bonus, he’d keep the gun.

Henry retreated behind the stand of boxes, clearing the aisle to the doors.

No, that wasn’t going to work. Trent stopped. The cripple needed to be within sight. “You know those soldiers are going to kill me as soon as I step outside. You’ll have my blood on your hands.”

The hypocrite.

“They won’t. They gave me their word.”

“Like you can trust them.” Trent snorted. How long would it take for the old man to realize he wasn’t obeying orders.

Henry rolled forward. “I do more than—”

Trent hurled the bag and flashlight. Just as he planned, they landed in Henry’s lap, smothering the gun.

Henry jerked his hands out from underneath the clothes then shoved them off his lap.

Trent body slammed the boxes next to the cripple. Cardboard crunched under the impact of his shoulder. They wobbled then two toppled over.

Henry grabbed his wheels and shot forward. He angled his chair up and over the bag.

No. He wouldn’t get away. Trent slashed at his hands, ripping open the flesh.

Henry yanked his hand away.

Plastic stretched, catching the wheels. Boxes crashed into the wheelchair’s handles. In slow motion, the seat tilted back farther until gravity caught it.

Henry raised the gun.

Trent leapt onto the wheelchair, pinning Henry’s arms to the seat with his legs. The handles hit the ground. The cripple’s head lolled back. Victory slammed through Trent. His heart sped up, red blurred the edges of his vision. He slashed the old man’s exposed throat with the box cutter. Warm liquid sprayed his hand. His grip slipped on the second pass. Flesh unzippered with each swipe.

The gun fired.

Heat blazed along his thigh.

The fucker tried to kill him. He slashed again. And again. And again. Bastard wouldn’t ruin his plans.

“Colonel Dobbins.” A man called through the door.

Trent blinked and the world exploded in his vision. God damn it. He had to get away. Now. He wouldn’t be able to kill the man properly. The soldiers were here.

The old man gurgled. Blood bubbled out his throat.

Metal rattled beyond the door.

He had to stop them from entering. Trent rolled off the loser and scrambled to his feet. The box cutter slipped from his shaking hands, clattered to the ground.

In slow motion, Henry raised the gun.

“Fuck you.” Trent wrenched it out of his hand. He aimed it at the old man and stroked the trigger. It would be so easy.

Henry glared up at him.

Too easy. The bastard deserved to drown in his blood. Trent tucked the gun in his waistband. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you.”

Henry tried to speak but only blood came out of his mouth.

“How does it feel to lose, old man?” Flattening his back against the boxes, Trent shoved with his legs. Muscle burned as he moved them toward the door. One row. Two. He dusted his hands on his trousers. That should hold them for a while.

The boxes wobbled when something hit the door.

Or someone.

“Take it down, Marine.”

Fuck. Trent jogged to the receiving doors. Bracing his hand against the rolling door, he pushed up. It didn’t budge. Damn. Metal clinked. He blinked at the chains. Excellent. Grabbing hold with both hands, he yanked.

Pulleys screeched. The door rolled up two inches. Three.

Wood splintered. Two boxes tumbled over. Dress shirts in clear plastic vomited across the floor.

“Halt!” A shot slammed into the cinder block wall near his head. Jagged chips sprayed around him.

Hand over hand, Trent yanked on the chain. Faster. Must move faster. Four inches. Six.

More shots dug into the wall. The boxes crunched and slid.

The Marines were getting in.

At ten inches, Trent dropped to his belly and wormed underneath, pushing snow aside. Footsteps pounded behind him.

“Shoot the chain. Crush the SOB.”

Trent gripped the ledge.

A pop echoed inside. Metal clanged.

Trent slithered free just as the door rattled down. Ha! He dropped to his feet and ran up the ramp. Snow crunched underfoot. His knees throbbed as he plowed on.

A shadow crept across the snow.

He glanced up. No! A military truck blocked the ramp.

Trent fell to one knee and reached for the gun. His fingers touched wet wool. Shit. Why did this always happen to him?

Metal screeched behind him.

The fuckers were coming through the loading dock.

The truck door popped open.

Jake stared back at him. “Hurry up.”

It was about time the asshole showed up. Trent lurched to his feet and sprinted up the incline. He leaped on the running board just as a bullet thumped into the canvas.

The truck rolled forward, picking up speed across the parking lot.

Trent threw himself onto the seat and pulled in his legs. The door slammed close behind him. “Thanks. They’re trying to kill me.”

“You and me both.” With one hand, Jake opened the right flap of his jacket—a neat hole burned through the layers of denim and fleece. Letting it go, he gripped the wheel as they jumped the curb, taking the shortcut back to the freeway.

“Where did they come from?”
And how did they get here before me?
Did he have a traitor? Dirk Benedict. It had to be that fat fool. Payment, no doubt, for the fatso being left behind that morning.

“They were parked on the other side.” Jake swerved around two tractor trailers advertising dog food on its sides. “I blended in while carrying blankets but Dirk noticed me when I bent down to tie my shoe.”

Trent stared at the man’s boots. “You don’t have laces.”

“I know.”

Rage roiled up through Trent. He was surrounded by incompetent fools. Next time, He would have to pick his own minions. His hands curled into fists.

“I think I disabled their trucks. Both of them.” Jake sat up in his seat. “They won’t be following us.”

Well, that was something. Trent settled into a simmer. He checked the mirror. No one seemed to be behind them. But he’d thought that once and the military had gotten ahead of them.

“Where to?” Jake tapped the steering wheel.

“The convoy.” They had no one, nor very many supplies. The convoy and the bitch in charge had plenty of both.

Jake stopped his tapping. “Isn’t that risky?”

Trent uncurled his fists. Blood on his hands made his skin sticky. “Not really. You did take care of all their headsets, didn’t you?”

“Sure.” Jake licked his lips as the truck bumped onto the freeway’s exit ramp.