Reign of Evil

Ian had no choice. He drew quick and fired three times, catching the young man named Todd in the chest, head and throat. As his first target fell, he shifted his aim to the woman and fired three more, catching her in a similar pattern. But whatever success he’d found outside with the other lip-sewn girl, this one was different. She remained standing, and as he watched the bullet holes in her skin closed. He heard in his mind the voice of a famous actor known for his deep voice who said simply, “Oh, shit.”

Then two Marines stepped forward to replace the one he’d just been forced to shoot.

Instead of participating in this insane assassination of his own men, Ian turned and walked away. He saw a tabletop covered with liquor bottles. He grabbed a bottle of twenty-year-old Highland Park, flipped off the top with a finger, and brought it to his face. He gulped deeply, holding the bottle there, knowing full well that he was a babe suckling at his mother alcohol. Images of all the men who’d been under his command and not survived slid past in a parody of a mortician’s photo gallery until the final face caused him to jam shut his eyes. Trevor. Good kid to have helped Preeti like he’d done. Even better to have loved her after. He blinked away his tears, heaved back, and threw the bottle against the wall. He breathed deeply, then drew his sword. He knew what he had to do.

CHAPTER 45

BRATTON, WILTSHIRE. 0900 HOURS.

Walker slid into a ditch along with YaYa and Hoover. He breathed heavily through his mouth, trying his best to ignore the cold, wet mud. YaYa held the dog down as they all peered over the edge. At street level, they could see the sticks strewn across the road that were once the Tuatha. The cargo truck had hit it going fifty at least, exploding it into tinder.

But what of the Tuatha? Did the impact of a truck carrying a heavy cargo on a long flatbed kill it? Or even injure it?

Walker had his answer right away.

The driver climbed out of the cab and walked to the front of his truck. He was tall and broad shouldered with a gut that told of a lifetime of off-duty beers and taking up space in pubs from here to London. He held a hand on his head as he stared at the sticks, then looked at the front of his truck. From Walker’s vantage it didn’t seem to have done any damage. But he doubted the trucker cared. At this point, he probably thought he had been seeing things, such as a human-shaped stick man running across the road.

What the man couldn’t see was what was happening beneath the truck—a single stick began to drag itself into the brush on the other side of the road.

Hoover saw it and began to growl, but YaYa hushed him. But the man had heard. He turned to the sound, but the SEALs ducked as low beneath the lip of the ditch as they could.

They heard the man begin to walk in their direction, the heels of his boots clomping on the pavement. Walker reached toward the 9mm pistol under his left arm, wondering what he was going to do once the man saw them. It wasn’t like they were chartered to kill random civilians, nor did he want to.

Holmes spoke over the MBITR. “Walker, what’s your status?”

He didn’t dare speak. The man was almost upon them.

Then a horn honked. Then another. It looked like the local Bratton townsfolk didn’t appreciate a truck stopping in the middle of the road.

The footsteps stopped as the honking increased.

“All right, all right,” he hollered. Then in a softer voice he added, “Bloody eyes are seeing things.”

The restless locals stopped honking. His footsteps receded, then were stopped by the sound of the truck door closing. Soon the truck had pulled away, followed by the seven cars that had stacked up behind it.

Holmes’s voice was filled with stress. “Walker, report!”

“Think it’s on the move again. Stand by.”

YaYa pointed and Hoover took off across the road. The SEALs waited for a car to pass, then followed. Soon they were running across a field. Hoover was sprinting straight for a stick figure. It looked different from the other. Probably because of the shape of the sticks and wood that was available. But Walker had no doubt that it was the same creature.

“Got it. Heading west northwest.”

YaYa pulled ahead as Walker slowed, his legs becoming leaden. Gone were his stress fractures that had plagued him in BUD/S, but the sprinting was tiring him out. But not YaYa, who was an ultramarathoner. He could run for days.

Holmes spoke. “We think it’s heading toward Ian.”

“That far?” Walker figured it would take them hours to run that far. Correction. It would take YaYa hours. It would take Walker days.

“Break off and meet us in Westbury.”

“Dressed like this?”

“Make it happen.”