Райан Уэстфилд - Finding Shelter

“Well?” shouted Grant, as neither nurse answered him.

The male nurse had entered the room. His arms and hands were shaking. Actually quivering.

“You were attacked, sir,” said the male nurse.

The female nurse stood behind him, as if he’d protect her from Grant.

“Give me the facts. Don’t prance around it. Spit it out.” Grant was nearly shouting. He could feel the anger building up in his chest.

He glanced down again, noticing that he still had on his own clothes.

There was a chair in the corner, by the window. His holster and gun lay on the chair. It seemed that the rest of his gear, his knives, his compass, and everything, had been laid out neatly by his gun.

“Your personal secretary, Wilson, is missing,” said the male nurse, speaking haltingly, apparently due to nerves. “The man guarding the stockade is dead. Gunshot wound. Name…”

“I don’t need his name!” shouted Grant. “Give me the rest. Quickly!”

“We presume that Wilson, or his accomplice, attacked you. Perhaps they acted together.”

“Accomplice?” said Grant.

The word triggered a memory. Something he’d forgotten.

There’d been someone.

A man named Max.

The memory came flooding back to Grant. The information he’d gotten from his informant. Information about a power struggle.

“So they’re together? Have you caught them?”

“Not yet, sir. But we’ve dispatched Unit B. They’re working on it as we speak, I’m sure.”

Unit B was supposed to be the crack unit. The unit that did the special missions. The unit that was under Grant’s personal control.

“Working on it? What the hell does that mean?”

“They’re working on tracking Wilson and the escapee.”

Grant didn’t like the fact that Unit B had been dispatched without his own personal orders.

“Who dispatched Unit B? All their orders are supposed to be cleared by me, if not given explicitly by me.”

“Saunders, sir. He installed himself in Wilson’s place, after Wilson absconded.”

Grant grunted his disapproval. He had never liked Saunders. He was a weakling. Someone who never stuck up for himself. He was just supposed to be there as a placeholder.

Grant had never expected that anything would actually happen to Wilson. After all, Wilson had hardly ever exposed himself to danger. He was an office man. A clipboard man. A paperwork man. A man who should have died from old age.

And Grant certainly had never expected that Wilson would betray him.

His blood was starting to boil at the thought of it. He felt the anger in his stomach. The hot anger was in his chest too.

His whole body felt energized. Hot. Angry. Ready for action.

Grant glanced down at the IV. He reached down and ripped it out of his arm.

“Sir!”

The male nurse was over at his bedside in a flash, grabbing the IV. Apparently he was about to attempt to put it back in Grant’s arm.

“You’re dehydrated, sir. You need to replenish your fluids,” said the female nurse.

The male nurse was coming at him with the IV.

Grant felt the anger rising in him. He formed his right hand into a fist and backhanded the male nurse with a single, powerful blow. The male nurse reeled and staggered backwards, colliding with the wall.

The male nurse regained his balance and stood there, stunned, the IV still in his hand.

In a flash, Grant was up on his feet.

It felt good to be standing up. Standing was the position of commanders. Lying down was for suckers.

Grant’s brain was working in flashes. Flashes of insight. Flashes of anger.

In a single stride, he reached the quivering male nurse who clung to the IV as if were a life raft.

Grant grabbed the man’s neck with his left hand. His fingers tightened all the way around the neck. Squeezing.

Grant’s right hand formed a fist and slammed into the man’s face. Blood on the knuckles. Blood on the nurse’s nose.

The nurse’s head swung back, smashed into the wall. His eyes rolled back. Unseeing.

Grant released with his left hand. The male nurse, unconscious, slid down to the floor.

The female nurse shrieked.

Grant turned to her, his body big and menacing.

He felt as if he took up the whole room. That’s how he felt when he was angry. Good and powerful. Full of possibility. As if the world was his. As he deserved everything he wanted. As if he was always right.

It was riotous anger. Good anger. Just anger.

“If you know what’s good for you,” growled Grant, “get me the following men…” And Grant named a half-dozen last names. They were the best of the best. The men who Grant had kept off Unit B so that he could use them when he really needed them, when something really crucial came up. They were men who’d proven themselves. Not just their skill. But their willingness to do whatever Grant asked. They were men who’d gladly put their lives on the line for him, no matter what.

And, most importantly, they were vicious. The kind of men who took pleasure in extreme violence. The kind of men who got a kick from killing, and an even bigger kick from killing in the most brutal way possible. Grant had personally seen all of the six kill. And all six, under Grant’s supervision, had brutally tortured prisoners. Grant had watched them dismember a man, one limb at a time, until he was nothing but a torso and stumps for legs.

Grant and the six had chuckled as they’d watch the man bleed out onto the dirt.

Those had been good times. The kind of good times that not every man could appreciate. Wilson, for example, had to always be kept in the dark about such matters.

It had been several weeks since Grant and the six had had their fun.

Well, now was there chance.

The female nurse stood there, quaking in her slip-on shoes.

“Well?” shouted Grant.

She just gave a meek nod, turned on her heel, and scurried away.

Good.

She’d get the word out. She was too scared not to.

The six would be ready.

They’d be seven with Grant.

Normally they worked on their own and brought the hostages back to Grant so that he could watch the fun.

This time would be different.

They’d be surprised.

But Grant was coming with them.

This time it was personal.

This time he’d relish in the hunt itself.

He was going to find Wilson and deal with him personally.

No one betrayed Grant.

Not without consequences.

Sadie woke up with a start

Somehow, despite the situation she’d fallen asleep. She should have been on high alert. She should have been watching for an opportunity. Watching for more danger.

But it was almost as if her body and mind had been on edge for so long that they’d just shut down.

She’d had strange dreams. Dreams that Max and her mother had come to rescue her. Max had a pump-action shotgun instead of his normal Glock, and he was ruthless with it, although he didn’t actually shoot with it. Instead, he used it like a baseball bat, swinging it in long, high arcs. Her mother, instead of her normal rifle, was at Max’s side with a pickaxe that she played like a guitar.

What did it all mean, that crazy dream? Nothing. That’s what it meant. Not a thing.

It was just her mind making up a story. And for what purpose? She didn’t know. She’d never gotten to that lesson in school, apparently.

Her own education had continued, of course, but not in the way that it would have had she remained in school.

How long had she been asleep?

She didn’t know, but outside it looked like late afternoon. What had the sun been like when she’d arrived? She couldn’t remember.

Sadie tried to move, the way she normally would upon waking, and she suddenly realized that she couldn’t move.