J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

I should call Charlotte, just to say goodbye. I’m about to push the button when the cars on the highway roll past the open gate. They’re in the far lanes, across the median, pointing in the opposite direction of traffic, though there’s little traffic to speak of. I rush across the dirt circle toward the gate, taking cover right at the edge. The concrete blocks afford pretty good cover against small-arms fire, and this is as good a place as any for a showdown. I’m not sure how many rounds I’ve fired, how many are left in the magazine. I swap it for the fresh one so as to put off the need for a reload as long as possible.

Then it’s time. Game on.

The cars have stopped, and a couple of the men are advancing over the median, trying to use the thin palm trunks as cover. I pick the one most exposed and line up my sights. The carbine bucks and he slumps to the ground. The rest of them drop flat or start rushing back to the cars. Tap, tap . Another man falls. And then a hurricane of return fire pelts the wall, pinging on the metal gate and kicking up dirt a few feet away. I glance around the compound for a new shooting position. That’s when I hear the scream.

Even under the circumstances, with my heart thumping and the task of keeping alive activating the problem-solving centers of my mind, this is a scream so primal and horrifying that I am yanked out of my cool efficiency. I don’t just hear it; I feel it in my spine, the way a kid in a spook house, even though his brain knows the haunts are fake, surrenders himself over to terror. Despite the gun in my hand, despite my will to live, that scream puts fear in me.

My first reaction isn’t to investigate. It’s to run away and hide.

I fire a few rounds to keep their heads down out there, then force myself to sprint across the open dirt, clearing a gap as another storm of bullets zings against the gate. The sound came from inside the metal barn. I pause at the entrance, fumbling in my pocket for the tiny Fenix flashlight I always carry.

Inside, the smell of oil couldn’t be more overwhelming if I were crawling through an engine. There’s ragged breathing coming from the back of the barn, a rhythmic, feral pant. I advance along the right-hand wall, keeping the carbine at hip level, holding the flashlight high and to the left in case it draws anyone’s fire. There’s a yellow combine or tractor to my left, and behind it a pegboard draped with greasy tools. A shop light hangs from a hook in the corner, casting a sterile white halo over the space. I can’t see around the tractor, but the sound is coming from here.

“You’ve seen what I’ll do,” a coaxing voice whispers. “Why make it so hard on yourself? This can end right now, if you’ll just tell me where to find him. Give me a name. Give me an address. Is that so hard to do?”

I click off the light near the back of the tractor.

“March,” the voice says. “We’re back here.”

I step into the halo, my finger on the trigger.

The first thing I see is Jeff’s hand, slick with blood. He stands beside a heavy wooden workbench, feet apart, with his M4 resting, muzzle up, against the bench leg. In his glistening hand he holds something flat and shiny. A sheaf of black zip-ties peeks out from his jeans pocket. He smiles at me with a smile I hope to never see again.

Brandon Ford kneels at his feet, his back against the bench and his arms extended along the table edge. His wrists are secured to the thick wood legs with plastic ties, and he looks like he’s been beaten badly, probably from jumping out of a moving car onto the highway. His black curls are matted with sweat, his face and throat and bare arms displaying the drained pallor of marble. His feverish eyes dart toward me an instant, then wander back to the site of trauma.

At the end of his outstretched left arm, on the back of his hand, a flap of skin hangs uselessly to one side to reveal the teeming redness beneath.

“He’s close,” Jeff says. “He can’t take much more.” He gives Ford’s cheek a gentle pat, almost affectionate. “Give me a second and we can get out of here.”

“ Are you insane? ”

Before he can answer, another volley of gunfire explodes against the gate outside. They must be advancing.

“I don’t need much more time, but if you don’t get out there. .” He says the words slowly, like he’s instructing a child. The tip of his knife catches his attention and he turns it in the light. Just an everyday lockback knife with a clip on the side and a grooved nub on the back of the blade to make one-handed opening easier. It’s no different than the kind many people carry clipped inside their pockets, only the edge is honed razor sharp.

“You’re the one? You killed the man we found in the park? Why? ”

“We don’t have time for this,” he says. “They’re coming.”

I raise the carbine. “ Why? ”

“At the time, I thought it was him .” He flicks the tip of the blade in Ford’s direction. “And they went through quite a bit of trouble to make it seem that way, too, don’t you think? After the fact. The thing with the DNA. That was for my benefit, wasn’t it?” The question is addressed to Ford and punctuated by a slice across the cheek. Ford winces and I take a step forward. “Never mind. Now we’re back where we started and it’s time for answers. He knows who Inferno is, and he knows where to find him. And if he doesn’t tell us, well”-Jeff’s smile widens-“he knows what to expect.”

Voices outside, then more gunfire, this time closer. They’re inside the gate and it won’t take long to figure out where we are.

“And Macneil, that was you, too?”

He appears to be straining to remember. “You mean the guy in Argentina? That was a favor for Mr. Nesbitt’s new friend. The one who was supposed to help him bring Englewood down. Supposedly he’d stashed a lot of money somewhere, but he must have spent it all. Otherwise, by the end, I think he would’ve told me.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“There’s something wrong with the world. At least I’m honest enough to see it for what it really is. You, on the other hand, are a disappointment.”

“Nesbitt thought so, too.”

“I don’t know what he expected from you. I mean, look at you.”

“You have to understand, Jeff. Nesbitt unleashed something he couldn’t control. He thought I could finish it.”

“I’m the one who will finish it.”

“Your way isn’t what he had in mind. He was hoping to make amends.”

“Look,” he says, desperation in his voice, “there’s a back door here. We can slip outside and disappear into the night. But not until Brandon here tells me where to find his friend. So what do you say, Brandon? Do I have to ask the question again?”

He extends the knife toward Ford’s maimed hand, the blade gleaming.

“Jeff-”

The barn’s metal hull amplifies the gunshot. Then there’s the ding of my spent casing bouncing against the wall. Jeff bends at the waist, letting the knife fall, twisting as he tips toward the ground. My round struck his hip, probably shattering it. I had no choice but to shoot, but I couldn’t bring myself to aim for center mass.

“ You shot me ,” he wails.

I pick up the knife and cut Ford’s torn hand free. Then I loose the other one. Hands are pulling at the barn’s roll-up door, looking for a way in. As I cross to the shop light and rip the plug from the outlet, a shot rings out from the open side door. They’re in the barn. I take Ford by the scruff and start pushing toward the back exit.

“March,” Jeff moans.

I pause over him. “I trusted you.” This has no effect on him in his state, and there’s no time for speeches anyway. “Listen, your rifle is where you left it. They’re coming for you. What you do about it is your choice.”