Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

“Your mother?”

“A wet blanket.”

“A wet blanket?”

“You know. Like when— Forget it. We need to go.”

“I think I understand,” she said, and took the shoes from him. She gave them a once-over, shrugged, and then tossed them over her shoulder. They hit the water with a splash and floated away.

“What?” she said when Miller just stared at her.

He pointed to the woods. “I don’t know how far we have to walk, do you?”

She shrugged. “You’re tough.”

Miller smiled. He wouldn’t admit it, but being free of those shoes was a relief. At first he thought they were a good reminder of what the enemy intended to do to the world. But their repeated attempts to kill him kept their lethality on the forefront of his mind. He said a silent thanks to Dave, wrapped the guns in his shirt, and headed for the woods.

The half-mile walk over a pine-needle-covered path actually felt good on his bare feet. The dirt parking lot filled with jagged rocks, not so much. But he quickly found a vehicle that would suit their needs.

The black pickup truck had a sticker of Calvin—from the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip—peeing, a set of rubber “truck nuts” hanging from the rear hitch, and a bumper sticker that said YANKEES SUCK. While none of these things made the truck desirable, they did ease Miller’s conscience about stealing it. And the toolbox in the bed made it possible.

“Hop in,” Miller said. He opened the driver’s side and placed the shirt-wrapped weapons on the seat. Then he headed for the back and opened the toolbox.

Adler looked around nervously like a true first-time thief. “What if someone shows up?”

“I’m a Navy SEAL, remember? And we have guns.” He paused. “Of course, if skinhead Nazis show up, be sure to let me know.” A moment later he found what he needed and joined Adler in the truck’s cab.

He placed a flathead screwdriver in the ignition and held it tight. “Give me a little room,” he said, raising a hammer. Adler leaned back and Miller gave the screwdriver two hard whacks. He gave the screwdriver a twist and the truck roared to life.

He hopped out of the truck and patted the driver’s seat. “Slide over. You’re driving.”

She complied, but asked, “What are you doing?”

“Research,” he said. “But first I need to castrate this truck.” Walking around the back, Miller kicked the oversized rubber testicles from the back of the truck and then got into the passenger’s seat. He closed the door. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure that out. For now, let’s just get out of here before Bubba comes back.”

The truck rumbled out of the dirt parking lot and onto a narrow paved road. Miller took out the iPhone and flicked it on, but before he could get it to work, Adler hit the brakes.

“Shit,” she said.

Miller looked up and saw two police cars ahead. “Don’t slow down!”

Adler flinched. “You don’t want me to ram them?”

“No. Just don’t act nervous.”

“But they’re looking for us. ”

“We don’t know that.”

When they were twenty feet from the squad cars, an officer stepped forward and raised his hand, motioning for them to slow down. The officer, who couldn’t be over twenty-five, approached the passenger’s side. Miller relaxed when he saw the officer’s dark black hair and Hispanic facial features. Racial profiling probably wasn’t the best idea—people could be bought—but he doubted there was a good reason for a small-town Hispanic police officer to be on the take. He rolled down the window and leaned out casually. “Something going on?”

“There was a shooting across the lake,” the officer said. “You folks didn’t see anything… weird? Or hear anything?”

“Heard the gunshots, I think,” Miller said. “Thought they were fireworks at the time.”

The officer gave a slight nod, and then leaned down. “How ’bout you, miss?”

“No. Nothing.”

Miller heard the same thing the officer did. “Nothsing.” Adler tried to mask her German accent, but failed miserably. At first, Miller wondered why she bothered, but when the officer stiffened and stepped back, he understood. Being white and German in a country on high alert for Nazis made Adler a potential enemy. Everyone was profiling.

“Could you step out of the car,” the officer said, hand moving to his hip.

“Don’t do that,” Miller said. “Please.”

Keeping his hand on his sidearm, the officer reached his free hand up to the radio strapped to his chest. Before he could speak, Miller pulled a Walther P38 out from under his shirt and pointed it at the officer, just feet from his face. The man froze.

“Toss the gun,” Miller said. “Now.”

The man slowly drew his weapon and tossed it into the woods behind him.

“What’s your name?” Miller asked.

“Miguel Lewis.”

“Officer Lewis,” Miller said. “Look—”

Before Miller could speak again, a loud voice shouted, “Everything okay, Lewis, or do you need a real cop to come do your job?”

A large white man leaned out of the second squad car. Jowls hung from his portly face. The officer took off his cap and stepped out of the car. Miller doubted the man could run fifty feet, and the walk to the truck winded him.

Miller pulled his hand with the gun back in the car, and gave Lewis a look that said, “Not a peep.” Lewis gave a nervous nod.

The heavyset officer bumbled up to the driver’s window. “Now what the hell is taking so long?” He stopped to look Adler over and grinned. Then he looked up and saw Miller’s face. The smile fell away and was replaced by recognition. And not the happy kind.

Miller couldn’t see the man’s hands, but he could tell he was fumbling for his gun. “Don’t,” Miller said.

“Barnes, don’t,” Lewis said. “He’s—”

Barnes was a surprisingly fast draw once he found his gun. He whipped it up and squeezed off a round. Miller was a little faster, firing three rounds in the same time, and much more accurately—two to the chest, one to the head. Barnes fell away, dead.

Miller spun, expecting to find Lewis taking action, but the man was nowhere in sight. A cough drew Miller’s attention down. Lewis lay on the ground, a wound in his chest. Miller flung open the door and knelt by the fallen man, lifting his head. He inspected the wound. There was nothing to do for the man. He was already dying.

Lewis tried to speak, but only managed a gurgle before he died.

Miller laid Lewis down and shook his head. How many of these assholes are there? he thought. Without another word, he stood, got back in the truck, and closed the door.

Adler rubbed her ears, which rang from the gunshots, and looked at the body of the fat, dead cop. “Should we take their guns?”

Miller rolled his head toward her and held up the German pistol. “This seems to work fine.”

“But—”

“Just drive,” Miller said. “Please.”

Adler steered the truck onto the intersecting street and drove away from the two fresh bodies.

As the woodsy air erased the smell of cordite from the truck’s cab, Miller leaned his head back. There was a lot to figure out, but they had a new problem to take care of first. His face was becoming a liability. And to a certain extent, Adler’s was, too. With every sleeper Nazi in the country taking potshots they might never make it out of New Hampshire, never mind find Milos “Wayne” Vesely, the mysterious last name on the hit list. “Stop at the first drugstore or grocery store you see,” he said. “It’s time to say good-bye to your pretty blond hair.”

Miller sat in the cab of the truck, elbow propped in the open window. He’d just eaten a cheeseburger and was waiting for Adler to complete her makeover in the fast-food restaurant’s bathroom. They had found a pharmacy in town where they bought supplies and changes of clothes. Now dressed in cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of cheap sandals, he looked like any other summertime local. He’d also shaved his facial hair into a goatee, trimmed his hair to a quarter inch, and donned a green John Deere cap. He completed the disguise with a pair of NASCAR sunglasses. Not even his mother would recognize him.