Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Thomas - Day 758

Riley raised a few large, amber-colored bottles stuffed with rags—his face eager and malicious in the flickering light of the candles. “Soon,” he said.

Thomas smiled, knowing full well the opportunity awaited them. He took the bottles and placed them carefully within his ruck then lifted it onto his shoulders.

“We ready?” James asked.

“Your shoulder still feeling okay?”

“Cleaned it up as soon as we got back from the camp.” He poked it a few times. “No complaints here.”

“I figured as much.” Thomas looked over his companions one last time. He eyed Riley’s Soldier patch, envious, his own black uniform held a vacancy where his patch would be. That sun and moon split by the sword. Everything’s riding on this.

A nervousness began to rise within him. Not now, damn it. Thomas inhaled deeply and let out a slow, steady breath. He held his physical state together. He could show no weakness, but inside his stomach churned, and his limbs felt hollow. So much riding on this. Joseph, this is for you, buddy. I’m coming home tomorrow. It’ll be a new day for us. “Let’s go!”

Only a few minutes later they crossed the boulevard, making sure their movements stayed clear from the view of the Butcher’s guards on the southern post. Thomas hesitated as they moved through the unmown field. A nagging uncertainty kept him from taking those initial steps into the wood line. He looked back in an effort to verify the snipers’ presence on the roof—half the moon and a sky full of stars lit up the area surprisingly well, but it wasn’t enough to squash his concerns. He groaned.

“What?” Riley asked.

Thomas ignored him, not wanting to utter his doubt and seem ungrateful for their support. Deep down he knew they were there, but the weight of the mission continued to bear down on him. He had to be sure. He hit the quick-release on the scope and scanned the horizon, taking in what could be seen of the southern service road and over to the rooftop and across it. Two green figures leaned against the air conditioning units atop the college. He snapped the scope back onto the rail.

“Everyone in place?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

They penetrated the woods in a triangle formation—Thomas and Riley at the two front posts, James at rear guard. Each one minded their path—each rifle alert and ready as they weaved through the trees in front of them. The effect of night fell harder upon them as the canopy grew denser with each footstep toward the camp. Thomas kept them on target, peering through the scope, making certain their direction was true and remained safe. It wasn’t long before a few dancing fires in the distance uncovered the Butcher’s campsite.

“Time check,” James whispered.

“22:13. We’re getting close.” A rustle of leaves. “Shhh.” A few noisy footsteps came toward them. Shit. They stopped then broke formation—each of them peeled off to a position of concealment. Thomas caught first glimpse of a guard traipsing toward them, his flashlight swinging casually with his stride, ignorant to any concept of light discipline, unaware of the threat that loomed just ahead.

“Here, come here,” Thomas whispered into the night as he retreated into a more favorable position. The three men hunkered down together, observing as the flashlight finally came to a pause. “It looks like just the one ahead of us.”

“Move on him?” James asked.

“I’ll handle it,” Riley said.

“Wait.” Thomas placed a hand on each of their backs. “Until he shows his intention—”

“But we don’t have all night.”

James is right, but it’s possible he’s out here on patrol. “Just hold tight for now.”

The flashlight held steady for what seemed to be an eternity. What the hell’s this guy doing? A trickling sound of liquid spattering against the ground and a low whistling of “Dixie” gave Thomas his answer.

James sighed a breath of relief. “Alright. Let’s g—”

“I’m heading out,” Riley interrupted him. “It’ll be better if I go at it alone—less likely to grab hold of each other during the scuffle.”

“That’s bullshit. I’m going with you,” James hissed back.

“No, me and you hold here.” Thomas could feel James glaring at him. He knew how badly James felt the need to prove himself. Thomas squeezed the shoulder—just a slight reminder of him being shot earlier. “I need you to follow the plan.”

“Yeah…” James shifted from him. “I got ya.”

“Get back here once it’s done, Riley. We can’t afford to get separated before this thing gets kicked off.”

“Got it.”

Riley stood, and gradually his large silhouette faded into the darkness surrounding them. The Soldier moved adeptly, proficient in his approach of murderous intent. The Butcher has no idea what’s coming. Payback for all this bullshit. Overcome with an unfamiliar warmth of revenge, Thomas focused on the light, waiting for the last breath to escape this man. Silence. Stillness. Waiting for the flashlight to hit the ground. Only a matter of time. This mother—

“He’s got to be close,” James said. “Right? I mean that dude’s not even paying attention to shit.”

“We’re holding here unless something happ—”

A muffled groan, the light fell to the ground, and a few thumps followed. James shuffled forward, trying to push past Thomas’s hand pressed firmly against his chest, but couldn’t. “Hold, damn it. He’s got this.”

“What if he’s in trouble?”

A crack of skull on wood, and a body dropped to the dirt.

“He’s not.”

Immediately, the light was scooped from the ground and abruptly shut off. The two of them remained kneeling side by side in anticipation of Riley’s return. Good. No trouble and barely any noise. “Shouldn’t be long, and we’ll be back on our way.”

“Do we know it’s him?”

Thomas lifted his rifle to view him through the scope, but there was no such luck—the tree guarded the man from this angle. “I can’t tell. Just give it a second.”

A little over a minute passed and there was no indication, whether good or bad, of what occurred. No shots, he reminded himself as he let the rifle go from his shoulder, dropping its weight against the sling while he simultaneously unsheathed his knife. “I’ll go check it out.” Thomas ignored the frustrated puff of air that James expelled, and he crept forward, holding the knife in a reverse grip in front of him.

He rounded a few trees, discovering that every angle available to him proved poorer than the last. It would take a more direct approach, positioning him much closer than he would have cared to be. His steps lightened, the weight kept on the balls of his feet as he pushed forward, finally sidling up to the scene, crouching behind the base of an elm tree maybe ten yards away.

In the darkness, he could barely make out the body lying face down in the dirt or the dark figure kneeling next to him. It was the sound of frantic hands rummaging through pockets that pulled the complete picture together for him. Still can’t tell who. Thomas scrabbled at the ground, picked the first hard object he found, and tossed it in the man’s general direction. The shadow took pause from his search, giving it a second or two to see if the noise had been deliberate. He must have decided it had been, because he rose from his position and whispered, “Hawk.”

“Dove,” Thomas responded. He let out a calming breath and joined him once he knew the coast was clear. “No trouble I see.”

“Not at all.”

“Roll him over, and let’s see which asshole this is.” Thomas took hold of the arm and began to pull at it.