Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

They broke up into two teams for a nocturnal, violent version of hide-and-seek. Neal hoped that his luck would hold out long enough to put him on the “hide” side, which would make what he had to do a whole lot easier.

The scenario was that a gang of marauding “mud people” were planning to attack the compound to get its food. The defenders would launch a surprise nighttime spoiling raid to scatter the marauders and track them down one by one.

Strekker said he would lead the defender’s team.

“I’ll be a nigger,” Neal volunteered.

“Figures,” Strekker commented.

“See you up there,” Neal said, pointing to the spur.

“Count on it,” Strekker answered.

You don’t know, Neal thought, just how much I’m counting on it, Cal.

Hansen made the rest of the assignments. Neal, Jory, Dave, and Craig made up the marauding band of blacks. Hansen, Strekker, Finley, Carlisle, and Big and Little Johnson were going to track them down and “kill” them.

“You have a ten-minute start,” Hansen said. “Make sure you spread out.”

You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie, Neal thought as he took off at a dead run. I have to put as much space between me and everybody as I can in those ten minutes. Space equals time, and I’m going to need time.

He sprinted across the sagebrush toward the spur until he figured that no one could spot his silhouette. Then he turned right, running parallel to the base of the mountain. He trotted until he found a narrow ravine and dropped down into it. He hoped he had moved enough south to take him out of the main path of the exercise. He crawled out of his denim jacket and baggy canvas pants. Underneath he was wearing a black turtleneck and black jeans. He pulled a tin of black, water-based makeup out of his pocket and spread it over his face and hands. He put a black stocking over his face and then pulled a black watch cap over his head. He took two thin steel cables, each about two feet long, and tied them around his waist. Then he laid flat on the ground and waited.

He thought about chickening out, creeping back to his cabin and forgetting the whole thing. Then he thought about Anne Kelley and Cody and decided to go through with it.

He let a full ten minutes pass before he got up into a crouch and headed west toward the compound. He was hoping that no one would figure him to be this far south, and certainly not to be headed toward, instead of away from, his pursuers. He knew that Strekker was running like a greyhound toward the spur to find him and dispatch him in the most painful acceptable manner.

It took him twenty minutes to make it to the compound fence.

Graham, I wish you were here, he thought. I’m more than a little rusty and could use some coaching. Oh, well, it’s no different from breaking into a car lot or a warehouse. Except that if anyone’s home here, I’m likely to catch a bullet in the chest while I’m sprawled out on the fence.

He wrapped the denim jacket around his waist and tied up the sleeves at his waist. Then he jumped onto the fence, dug a toe into the space between the links, and began to haul himself up. He was sweating not so much from the exertion as from the thought that a searchlight might hit him at any moment, followed shortly by a large-caliber, high-velocity bullet.

He made it to the top of the fence and paused to catch his breath, get a good toehold, and think about the next step. Then he untied the jacket and laid it over the top of the two-strand barbed wire. He took one of the cables from around his waist and looped it underneath the bottom strand, pulled it tight, and tied it off on top. He did the same with the other cable on the other end of the jacket.

When the wire was pulled up tight under the jacket, he took another deep breath and swung his left foot over the top of the jacket, pivoted his hips, and planted the tip of his left foot into a space on the inside of the chain link fence. Then he lifted his right foot over, balanced himself with his hands on the jacket, and pulled himself over the top.

He paused for a second to listen. He didn’t hear any footsteps, or barking dogs, or the sound of a rifle bolt.

Holding himself to the fence with his left hand, he reached up, untied the cables, dropped them, pulled the jacket off, and let it fall to the ground. Then he lowered himself another couple of feet down the fence, listened again, pushed off with his hands, and dropped to the ground. He landed perfectly on the balls of his feet, then fell over backward and hit the ground with his butt.

Rusty, he thought. Definitely rusty. But not bad.

He was still congratulating himself when he heard a deep growl.

It was a Doberman, of course. It was advancing slowly in a low crouch, the hair on its spine standing up, its fangs bared, tiny speckles of spit dripping from its mouth.

Neal muttered, “You could have had the decency to growl while I was on the outside of the fence.”

But it wasn’t a guard dog, Neal realized-guard dogs are trained to bark. It was an attack dog, which was trained to… well, attack.

And this one had ambushed him.

The dog took another careful step forward. It was sizing him up and quickly arriving at the conclusion that this particular human wouldn’t be much of a problem. It showed even more fang and boosted the volume on the growl.

It would leap for his throat at any moment.

There’s only one thing to do, Neal thought.

Panic.

Turn and run for the fence and hope you can climb high enough before Hans here rips into your leg, pulls you backward off the fence, and tears your throat out of your neck.

Panic.

No, no, no, no, no. Think. Surely Graham must have covered this subject in one of his endless lectures. He had covered everything else. Barbed wire, alarm systems… dogs.

What you have to do, Neal, is pretty goddamn weird and presents an enormous initial risk… What you do is…

Neal reached down with a quivering hand and unzipped his fly. Then he assumed the classic men’s room position.

Talk about presenting an initial risk, he thought. As for the “enormous,” well…

The dog kept growling but stopped advancing.

Why is it, Neal asked himself, that when you absolutely have to piss… you can’t? Like when you’re taking a physical and the nurse hands you a jar, or when you’re standing exposed to a potentially homicidal canine…

Come on, come on, come on.

The dog got impatient and started to come forward. It was staring at Neal’s crotch.

Come on, come on, come on… ahhhh.

Neal zipped his fly.

The startled dog came out of his crouch. His nose started twitching madly. He bent his head down to get a closer sniff. Then he turned his back to Neal and lifted his leg.

Now you have established-what do you call it-a rapport with Spot. He understands that you understand doggy etiquette. Of course, if he is really well trained, he’s just going to piss on your puddle and then kill you anyway. Otherwise, try to show him that you consider yourself lower status than he is. With you, this is no problem…

Neal laid down on his back, making himself completely vulnerable to the dog’s attack. The Doberman came over, growled, sniffed Neal’s crotch and stomach, and then opened his jaws over Neal’s throat.

If you move during this pan, you’re a piece of meat…

He felt the dog’s fangs press gently onto his skin.

The dog growled again. Then he let go, straightened up, and wagged his tail.

Then lick his ear.

Lick his ear?

Lick his ear! That’s doggy talk for telling him that he’s the boss. Once he’s confident that you admit that, he probably won’t attack you.

Probably?

What, you want a sure thing? Go into insurance.

Shuffling on all fours to the dog, Neal slowly put his tongue to its ear, and made a great show of licking. If it can be said that a Doberman can smile, the dog positively beamed. It wagged its stub of a tail and invited Neal to have a look around the place.