Sweet Dreams (22 page)

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at a rough-cut wooden table with bits and pieces of wire and material for a bomb that looked just about completed. The third man, who was the driver of the gray pickup, sat in front of the TV and turned his shaggy head toward the door as Mark broke through.

As Mark went through the door, he hit the floor and rolled to the left, coming up in a smooth action to his feet and lowered his shotgun aiming it at the two men sitting at the table. The two men jumped up like a fire ant had just bitten them, and the third man ducked down to the floor behind the couch knocking over the beer he was drinking.

"Don't move--or I'll shoot!" Mark commanded.

The two men at the table threw up their hands when they saw the shotgun pointed at their chests.

"Get up from behind that couch or your friends will get it, from what I hear, a riot gun will do the job!"

The third raised his hands from behind the couch; he hollered something about being unarmed as he slowly stood up.

"Come over here and sit at the table, and keep your hands where I can see them."

The three surprised men sat down at the table as Mark walked around and stood in front of them in-between the open doorway and the bomb parts, He leveled the shotgun at the thick man on the far left. Mark's face was cold and hard as he glared at the three men and the look of rage and complete control made the three men do exactly as he said. They knew the look and it was the look of a man with nothing to lose.

"Now, here's how this is going to happen: You're going to answer with a yes or a no. If you try to move or do anything that sets me off, you will all die. Got it?"

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The three men nodded.

"Now, first--you on the right stand up and empty any weapons you might have onto the table,"

The man had on a red, tattered flannel shirt and ripped blue jeans from which he pulled a six-inch long hunting knife. Slowly reaching down to his boot, drew out a revolver, and placed it on the table. After he was finished, Mark had the next man do the same, then the third, until the table had a pile of pistols and knives on it.

"Now, if any of you feel the need, you go ahead and reach for one of those guns, but I would strongly advise against it."

He took the shotgun and fired off a round in the air, sending wood chips and dust through the dank cabin and it rained down on the three angry captives.

No one made a move.

Mark glared at the men as they sat with their hands up and looks of surprise and confusion on their faces. They looked like a bunch of wild hogs that were just waiting for the right moment to stampede. Mark could see the door to the bathroom, the kitchen off to the left and steam rising from a pot of water that was boiling on the stove. The place was empty and stank of burnt metal and old coffee.

Moving toward the left as he kept the gun pointed at his prisoners, he walked over to the stove and pulled off the pot of boiling water, and held it in one hand. Mark looked down at the boiling water as he spoke in a calm low voice. "First question, and don't bother lying to me,"

They glared up at him with shooting glances at each other not sure who this half insane guy was and wondering if they could take him. "Did you have a kid named Pat steal C-4 for

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you?"

The three heads turned to look at each other, trying to decide who was going to speak and how their little secret had gotten out.

"No." A slim man in the middle spoke up, he had a long sleeved brown shirt on and a thick black beard that made him look like a mountain man. He looked to be the leader of the group and from the size of his arms; he looked like he was an old time logger. Mark shook his head in disappointment as he moved over to the messy haired drivers who sat on the end closest to the kitchen. Standing behind him, he pushed the shotgun barrel up against his neck and the driver squirmed and shifted nervously in his seat.

"I'll ask again," Mark lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes at the leader of the group. He didn't wait a second before he growled out the same response.

Mark took the hot boiling water, and without hesitation, he turned it over on the messy-haired driver's head. The driver cowered in pain and writhed screaming out as the water blistered his skin and sent him crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Mark grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him back up into his chair. His body shook in pain as he tried to brush the hot water off his arms and head.

The driver wiggled in anger and obvious pain, trying to figure out a way to get free from Mark's iron grip. Mark quickly moved around to the front of the table, pointed the gun right in the face of the leader, and growled, "You move, and you die! Now, I'll ask one last time, and this time you better tell me the truth!" Mark was yelling now and his blood was thumping in his ears as he stared into the dark brown eyes of 198 AARON

one of his wife's killers.

"Okay! Yes! Yes, we did," The red flannel spoke up from the other end glancing at his partner who was turning red as a lobster and whimpering in agony.

"Good, see, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" Mark could feel his instincts taking over; he could predict every move as if he had done this before in some other lifetime. He felt like he did at the gun range where the things he needed to know just came to him like a sixth sense.

"Two, did you make a bomb then have Pat put it in the Super Mart?" Mark backed up from the table one-step and pointed the shotgun in the air.

"Screw you!" The leader spit toward Mark as Mr. Red flannel reached for one of the pistols on the table. Bringing the gun down, Mark leaned forward and pulled the trigger just as the barrel touched the heavyset man's hand. He screamed and pulled his hand back, clutching the now bloody stump where his hand used to be, blood spurted up like a leaky pipe and he stared at it in shock and horror.

"Don't push me!" Mark pumped another round into the chamber and looked down the barrel at the leader of the group.

"You want to die?" His voice gritted with anger. He shook his head and looked over at his friend who was trying to stop the bleeding with his belt. "Yes, we had him plant the bomb!" the leader yelled out in frustration and rising anger.

"Last question and we will be done," Mark walked over behind the three men, leaned down and almost whispered.

"Who detonated the bomb?"

The room went silent and even the panting from the hand-

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less fat man stilled, as the full weight of what was happening to them sunk in.

No one spoke as Mark placed the cold steel against the back of the handless man's head. "Was it you?"

Whimpering in pain, he shook his head no and Mark slid the barrel over to the driver of the gray pickup truck and put it to the back of his head asking again. "Was it you?"

His neck was blistered up in great white boils and one broke open as Mark pushed the shotgun to the back of his scalded neck. He shook his head no and hunched over trying to pull away from the still warm barrel. Mark grinned as he put the barrel of the shotgun to the back of the black bearded leader's head.

"So it was
you!
"

Leaning down and whispering in his ear, Mark said, "You killed my wife. You killed my daughter!"

The room fell silent once again as Mark stood up and looked at his three captives, at the back of their twisted perverted filthy heads! Mark turned the gun over, and slammed down the stock on the back of the leader's head. He slumped over, and his face slammed against the table with a dull thud. Slipping around to the front of the table, Mark pulled out a few zip-ties. "Tie your hands, one to each of his," pointing at the unconscious man. They each tied one of their hands to the man sitting next to him, one to the right, and one to the left. The fat man in red had a hard time zipping the tie tight without fingers and the driver reached over to help him. After they finished, they looked up at Mark with anger flashing in their eyes. The fat one on the end was looking pale from loss of blood, but he just gritted his teeth, determined not to let it 200 AARON

show. The driver had one eye swelled shut and his messy hair was now hanging in wet clumps over half of his blistered face. Mark walked over to the kitchen stove and ripped the gas line from out of the wall. A hissing sound came from the gas line as it began to fill the air with toxic gas. He went over to the table and picked up the almost-finished bomb that they were working on. Placing it on the stove, he looked over at the men who sat staring at him.

"Justice will be done today!"

Mark turned, with his back turned to the two conscious men; he stopped for a brief second, and then walked out the front door and onto the porch.

Just as Mark was about to step off the porch, he saw something out of the corner of his eye.
A third truck!

Mark saw a glimmer of steel from the corner of his eye; the shadow of a man stood about one foot away from Mark on the porch crouching, waiting for him to emerge. Like a bolt of lightning, Mark dropped to the ground and rolled toward the figure, grabbing his ankles. Pulling with everything in him, he knocked the man to the floor, sending a pistol flying into the snow a few feet away.

The man grunted as he hit the ground, and like a tiger on a wounded deer, Mark leaped on top of the man. In one quick movement, he punched the man in the throat, crushing his windpipe. Mark stood up as the man gasped for breath and clutched his throat and wiggled like a fish out of water kicking his legs trying to get a lungful of life-giving air. He stiffened his back and his eyes bulged from his head as a final gasp of air escaped his lungs; then he lay still.

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Dead.

Picking up his shotgun, Mark ran as fast as he could back down the road to where he had parked his car.

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THE LEADER, WHO MARK rendered unconscious, began to stir, and his head throbbed from the knot on the back of his head. Coming to, he tried to rub the back of his head but found that he was attached to his partners on both sides with thick white zip-ties. Reaching for a gun on the table, he grabbed one and jumped up as the other two protested and tried to grab the gun from him twisting and pulling his hands like a three-headed dragon fighting for ultimate control.

"No..." he growled.

In an effort to get free, the big, gruff man who had led this group for the last nine years turned in confusion and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through the skull of the scruffy driver splattering blood across the kitchen floor.

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MARK FELT THE FAMILIAR heat on his back just as the earth shattering sound of an explosion raced through his ears. The force of the blast almost pushed him to the ground, even though he was a good hundred yards away but he managed to stay on his feet. He turned to see a ball of fire coming from the cabin and covering the trucks that sat in a row and then one by one, the trucks exploded with a thunderous KaBoom!

Mark turned and kept on running as panic overcame him and his heart rate sped back up, almost causing him to scream. His lungs felt like they were going to explode as he saw his car 202 AARON

and the fear in the back of his mind were confirmed. The passenger door was open and he could see a blood stain in the snow with Pat's hand dangling from the open door like a white flag.

Falling to the ground, Mark sobbed and held his head in his hands. He was so overcome with emotion, he did not know what do. He felt relief and rage all at the same time, his mind reeled, and his body trembled as he cried.

Struggling to his feet, he wiped his eyes and walked over to his car. Inside, he could see the single gunshot wound in Pat's chest oozing blood, he was slumped over, almost falling out onto the snow, but was held back by the zip-tie that Mark had tied to the steering wheel.

"Get it together, Mark!"
Breathing in deep, he cut Pat loose and dragged him out of the car and onto the side of the road, where he covered him over with snow.

Getting into the car, he started the engine and headed back toward the main road. ________________________________________

ISIS SAT IN HER dark Lexus and enjoyed the view of the white snow covered mountains as she drove toward the cabin where Mark had just left. She could see dark, thick smoke rising from the tree line off to her left. Her thoughts wandered a little, but were brought back to reality when she saw Mark's car coming toward her.

"Just be calm,"
she whispered to herself, and as if she did not exist, he passed her without even seeming to notice. She looked at a small screen on her phone showing a map of the area. The dirt road coming up on the left was the one she

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needed.

As she turned on to the rough dirt road, she pushed a small button on the dashboard. A red light went on, and outside the car, small studs grew from the tires like cat claws. She drove on.

The sight of blood on the side of the road was bright against the snow and she slowed and looked around, then spotted a pile of snow off in the ditch. Pulling out a set of black sunglasses, she put them on and looked through the snow to see the dead body of one Pat Rotter. She knew him from the profile she had in Mark's file and was not half-shocked that he ended up this way.

Turning a small dial on the earpiece of her sunglasses, she could see in polarized vision. This cut down on the glare of the bright snow. She kept going until the cabin came into view--or what was left of it.

The fire was still burning the remains of the three vehicles in the front of the now gutted cabin. All four walls were blown apart from the force of the blast; everything was black and charred as smoke rose to the sky from the ruined cabin. She stopped the car and stepped out to get a closer look at the destruction. Examining the cabin floor, she could see parts of the couch and the bottom of where a fireplace used to be. No one had survived the explosion, between the gas and the C-4 that was in the house, the heat consumed anything that would burn like a hungry lion after catching a lonely gazelle. Walking up to where a section of the porch was still intact, she saw a charred hand sticking out from under the rubble. Looking through her glasses, she could see that was all that was left of him.