Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“If I scream, I’d wake ’em up.”

“Well, go on and do so. I’d like to sit down for some lunch. That is, if I’m invited.”

Marty took a few steps toward Amanda. She instantly prepared for his assault, assuming the combat knife stance Connor had taught to her.

“Whoa, hold on there Amanda. Hmm… how ’bout that… you might know something about a knife fight.”

“Stay back, mister!”

“Hey listen! I can see you’re skittish and I’m pretty sure there’s no one in there, so I thought I’d just try to place you more at ease.”

“Stay back!

Connor tensed his finger on the M-4 trigger as Marty approached Amanda. Her knife was drawn and Connor realized she was nervous. She had a reason to be—Marty was quite capable of taking her knife from her without breaking a sweat. Marty adjusted smoothly to her movements with a level of expertise well above Amanda’s capabilities. Connor waited for Amanda’s signal, running her fingers through her hair, but she had yet to make this movement. Concerned, he began to second-guess his decision to place her in such a precarious position. He considered pulling the trigger and ending Marty, with or without Amanda’s signal.

“Hold on, Amanda,” said Marty. His initial combat-trained response to her fighting stance needed to change. He took a conciliatory attitude—he rested his rifle next to the bench, near Amanda. Slowly, he removed the knife from his thigh sheath with two fingers and tossed it near the rifle. He backed away and sat down at the opposite end of the bench. He was beyond the range of disarming Amanda and he felt quite naked without his rifle despite the Colt Defender he had hidden in the small of his back. He removed his ball cap and wiped his hand through his long blond hair. Smiling, he folded his hands together, and waited for her next move.

“I’m disarmed, Amanda. It’s your move.”

She relaxed visibly, her shoulders releasing tension and her jaw unclenching. She found it easy to imagine Marty as a blue-eyed surfer boy, simply waiting for the next wave.

“What do you want, Marty?”

“Having lunch with a beautiful woman would make my week—no, it would make my whole month. You know, I have beans and corn in my backpack—it could be the perfect addition to that wonderful stew you’re cooking. It’s stashed over there by that tree.”

“Are you for real?” asked Amanda.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re not just going to try to rape me?”

“No.”

“You know, lull me into a false sense of security so you can get your hands on me?”

“No.”

“Why not? Many have tried.”

“It’d be too easy, Amanda. Besides, I’m not like that. I’ve always liked my women to ask me. Somehow, it always made it better.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s the way I like it.”

“Yeah, I bet you like it when women fall all over you, is that it?”

Marty’s only response was to smile, but the smile held memories of past lovers. Amanda responded with a slight grin of her own. Damn, his smile was infectious. She rubbed her left hand on her thigh with exaggerated slowness and stood across the table, facing him. After a few moments, she sat down and Marty stared intensely.

“Damn, you’re a beautiful woman.”

“Thanks, but I’m accounted for.”

“So you say. By who? One of your imaginary group?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Him,” she answered, pointing at Connor who had edged up with the decksweeper now in his hands. The point blank range left little room for discussion.

Major O’Malley and his men approached the Superhawk with all the stealth and expertise their training had provided. As they neared the two hundred yard perimeter of the bird, they drastically decreased their pace. The major noticed no men guarding the perimeter, but he knew they were there. He flashed his light in a pre-arranged sequence and within seconds, received the expected response, a light flashing in a different pre-arranged sequence. Further flashes near the helicopter requested the “duress code” in the event the major had been compromised. With the exchange of signals, Major O’Malley’s men slid closer to his position.

“Make sure your weapons are neutral,” he reminded his men. The major knew that these moments were delicate—he had personally witnessed live fire between friendlies prior to the Sickness and one man had died. The men all around him were trained at elite levels—he was surrounded by killing machines, conditioned to locate any signs of aggression against their primary protectee, Colonel Hannah Starkes and her new charges, Nicole and CJ. Though he always felt some level of anxiety when returning, he barely suppressed the pride he felt at each man’s professionalism.

Captain Eubanks met Major O’Malley near the designated tree line. “Welcome back, sir.”

“Thank you, captain. I commend you and your men on your deployment of the perimeter guard. Keep up the good work.” The major walked with the captain and the men toward the helicopter and the tent set up nearby.

“Yes, sir. Thank you. You have any luck, major?”

“Yeah, got some word.”

“For real?”

“Yep. Connor Mac’s probably not too far from here. Where’s the colonel?”

“In the small block building at the edge of the airstrip.”

“Thanks.”

“Hello, Marty,” said Connor. Marty began to stand. “No! Stay right there and keep your hands flat on the table.”

Marty grinned to hide embarrassment. “Understood. Caught me flat-footed, didn’t you?” He locked eyes with Connor, ashamed at walking into the trap, but inexplicably relieved that he had overtaken his quarry.

“Appears that way, sniper,” answered Connor, never once lowering his weapon.

“Damn, I was sure Amanda was alone!”

“You were wrong.”

“But that explains the tracks and small feet,” said Marty.

“What?” asked Amanda, confused.

“He’s referencing the difficulty he’s had tracking us. Your small feet confused him—he didn’t expect a female.”

Amanda gathered Marty’s weapons and set them down near Connor, never once blocking Connor’s line of sight.

“Excellent, Connor Mac. Truly excellent. I guess I can think of worse ways to die than trying to have lunch with such a beautiful woman. Are you gonna shoot me now?”

“Depends,” answered Connor, his voice ice cold.

“On what?”

“On what she says and why you’re following us.” Connor was impressed with Marty’s calm, given his present circumstances. “Remove the secondary weapon from your pants. Use your left hand very slowly. If the barrel points anywhere but down, your head is gone. Understood?”

“Understood.” Marty slipped his left hand to his lower back, retrieved the Colt with a finger and thumb, and carefully placed it on the table.

Amanda was embarrassed by her inability to detect Marty’s secondary weapon—she hadn’t considered that he concealed one. She knew she would hear about this lapse in caution at some point.

“Push it as far to the left as you can. Now.”

Marty slid the gun across the table, leaning slightly for extra distance. “Well, I—“

“Shut the fuck up, Marty. She speaks first.” The tone of Connor’s voice left little room for discussion.

Amanda was in tune with the tension of the situation and did her best to diffuse it. “Mac, he was cool. A little crazy, but cool.” She brazenly sat down on the bench across from Marty, partially in the line of fire. If Connor were to pull the trigger, a few shotgun pellets might strike her.