David Dun - Necessary Evil

"Okay, you throw them off to my right and blow 'em." She lay in a swale behind a natural earthen berm covered with snow. Then she heard a thud in the trees, and nothing more.

After a time he called out. "Okay," he gasped.

"They were supposed to explode."

"Too weak. I'd blow my ass off."

"Well, I only heard one-and I have no way of knowing it was a grenade."

"I'm not strong. I threw three… they're close by."

"Crawl toward me."

"I can't."

"Then you're just going to have to die."

"Please." He was choking again.

"I'll think about it."

She crawled toward the spot where she had heard the grenade fall. But after she'd crawled twenty feet, she realized how stupid it was to look for a hole in the snow. Still she kept on.

"More to the right."

Damn. He could hear her. Feeling crazy, she crawled straight toward him until she found a log. Thank God. She couldn't see him, but she was sure he was less than thirty feet away.

Wedging herself way under the large log, she called out. "All right. Tell me who you are, and how many of you there are." It smelled musty under the log, even in the snow.

"Please."

"Listen, you bastard. How do I know you won't cut loose a grenade and blow us both up?"

"I'm dying. Please." The man's breathing sounded as if he had been in a footrace. "I'm no hero."

"Why would blowing me up make you a hero?"

"You stole top-secret-" He gasped for air.

"So what do they think we have?"

"They won't tell us."

"Who won't tell you?"

"Tillman. Not supposed to know his name."

"What's he scared of?"

"Don't know." There was more coughing. "Illegal stuff, probably."

"What do you mean?"

"Buddy of mine took two eggheads to the reservation. He heard… about some mink farm… something with the mink. Now, help me." He sounded like he was fading fast.

"Tell me about the mink first."

"I will. Come." She hesitated. "Please," he said with a certain haunting resignation in his voice.

Something inside tugged at her. He sounded alone and pathetic. Coming to an adversary on his terms was contrary to the rules of engagement she'd learned at Quantico. Dunfee would be appalled. Setting aside the warnings in her mind and ignoring her profound sense of foreboding, she started crawling.

She approached with her gun drawn. But even under the trees, the snow was deep, causing her to stop regularly to push her head above the drifts. Finally she spotted a bloody leg. Low-hanging branches kept her from seeing his torso, his hands. Still hiding behind the tree trunk no bigger than a man's thigh, she looked for a safe vantage point. There was none.

The man stirred. "Where are you?"

She said nothing. Another tree about six feet away would provide minimal cover and maybe a better view. Very slowly, inches at a time, without looking up, she crawled toward it, conscious of every sound. Raising her head, she found him through a break in the foliage. Her breath caught in her throat. Each of his hands clenched a grenade. How could she be so stupid? If he let go, they would both die. She began crawling away. In a minute, she lay back behind the berm, shaking.

"I saw the hand grenades, asshole," she shouted.

A second later the forest rocked with the explosion.

" It wasn't confirmed," the authoritative voice said.

Kier listened to Tillman tell his men about the way Oregon had phrased his last radio call. And of course, Oregon wasn't answering any longer.

"Target One wants us to think he's headed down the mountain without the Fed. Oregon's either dead or useless. He's probably dead. Do we have one man with the boy?''

''Negative that. Somebody came and got the boy; left California unconscious."

"Say again!"

Kier could hear the shock in Tillman's normally smooth voice.

"California is unconscious, the boy is gone. Only one set of tracks came into camp. We can't figure out how they jumped him. Whoever it was just walked right up to California."

"You are saying some unknown person walked into camp and left with this boy?"

"That's affirmative, sir."

''Tell California to stay at the cave. They may come back," Tillman said quietly. He had obviously reacquired his grip.

"This is California," a voice cut in. "I can't walk. They cut me."

"All the more reason to stay put," Tillman replied.

"Nevada and Arizona are on a track. By the look of it, it's Missy the Fed," another voice cut in.

Kier's jaw clenched and his fingers went tight around the automatic.

"Switch and answer after colors. Switch and answer after colors."

Colors? Kier shook his head. Another radio scrambling code.

"Red. Magenta. Green. Yellow."

There was a pause. "Black. Red. Blue. Orange."

No more talking. They had changed frequencies and he couldn't follow. Switching quickly back to the channel on which he had last spoken to Tillman, he waited to see if he might try to contact him. In seconds, he did.

"Medicine man, are you there?"

He debated answering, but reminded himself again that the signal could be triangulated, and that any broadcast would enable them to locate his whereabouts.

"You should be sensible and talk to us. You were exposed to almost every deadly virus and bacteria known to man. I know you must have figured that out. You and the woman need treatment." It puzzled Kier that Tillman admitted to having the disease organisms. But then Tillman's men were logged onto a different frequency. Perhaps he was trying to get Kier's trust by appearing candid.

Kier had moved away from the stripped body of Texas to listen to the radio and wait for the mercenaries that he knew would arrive. Crouching now in a dense grove of young red fir fifty feet from their grenade-riddled comrade, Kier could hear men coming.

Above him was a tan oak that was outgrowing the fir. Eventually, Kier knew, that in the fight for sunlight the fir would overwhelm the broadleaf. But able to survive in shade, the tan oak would still stand after it lost the race. Kier hoped for a fate at least as good as that of the tan oak.

Near the tan oak, a wild onion had found a little bare soil, and there was just enough of a root to make a walnut-sized tuber. The first bite took half. It had the crunch of a fresh apple but no sweetness and the dry, stinging tang of the most potent domestic varieties.

Then he heard the bang, bang, bang — like a fast vibration- of automatic-weapons' fire from farther down the ridge. They had found Jessie. Forcing himself to wait, he knew the soul-wrenching pain of being helpless.

As luck would have it, the two men were beyond the trail on the side opposite the grove where Kier hid, making it impossible for him to see them. All he could do was follow and wait for his chance. It was getting late. More than two hours had passed since he left Jessie. He would need to find her soon.

Moving quietly through the trees was almost impossible, even for Kier. Branches heavy with snow dumped their loads when he brushed by, making sound. Worse yet, he was leaving a trail that a half-blind man could follow. He had to stay away from them, and behind them, so they wouldn't accidentally cross his track. It was spooky, and very dangerous. If one of them got behind him, it would be a simple matter for them to follow, guess at his direction of travel, and use radios to trap him. If they got him before he got them, Jessie would be next.

The man code-named California sat with his head hanging almost to his chest. A sizable gash gaped open across the back of his scalp. His brown hair was matted with blood, and his hands shook as they continually touched the wound as if exploring the damage would make it better. Blood oozing from a severed Achilles tendon spread in a huge crimson stain through the fabric of his camouflage suit. Tillman strode back and forth in the snow, filled with rage at the neutered soldier in front of him.