Fallows leaned against the pine tree and flipped the 9mm bullet into the air, caught it, flipped it up again. Tim squatted on the ground next to him, watching.
The rest of Fallows's men were making camp, following their routine silently, aware that Fallows was observing each one of them even when it looked like he wasn't. But even when the men were sure they were alone, they didn't complain. What for? Fallows might be the meanest bastard alive, but he was also the smartest. They lived better than any of the scum they'd come across in their travels. And there wasn't one thing that Fallows wanted that he hadn't managed to take. Who else on this damn island could make that claim?
"Catch," Fallows said, and flipped the bullet to Tim.
Tim caught it with one hand, opened his palm as if he wasn't sure he'd really caught it after all. But, yes, there it was. A 9mm bullet. A perfect match for his Walther. He didn't do anything with it, though. He watched Fallows, waiting for the trap.
"Smart kid." Fallows grinned, mussing Tim's hair.
Tim didn't budge. Fallows had taken to doing that a lot lately, mussing his hair or patting his back or hugging his shoulder. For the first time, these had become more frequent than the punches, bruises and burns. He didn't understand what Fallows was up to, but he knew it was something. Something creepy.
Tim examined the bullet sitting in the palm of his dirty hand like a jewel set in leather. He considered trying to load the bullet and shooting Fallows, but he knew he wasn't fast enough. He remembered Fallows's hard fingers wrapped around his own, forcing him to squeeze the trigger, forcing him to kill that man Dobbs. It had bothered him a lot at the time, not so much anymore.
"I want you to keep that bullet," Fallows was saying. "Keep it in your pocket. I don't ever want to see you loading that into your gun. You know I'll catch you if you try. Then I'll have to punish you. Right?"
"Right."
Fallows placed his foot against Tim's back. "Huh? I didn't hear you."
"Right, sir."
Fallows kicked Tim's back, sending him sprawling forward into the dirt. A few men glanced over their shoulders at them, but no one said anything.
Fallows had his heavy combat boot on the back of Tim's neck, pinning the boy's head to the ground. "Say what, Tim?"
"Right, sir."
"Louder."
"Right, sir!"
"Louder." He leaned his weight on Tim's neck. Tim moaned. "Louder, son."
"Right, sir!"
Fallows leaned back against the pine tree, lifting his foot from Tim's neck. His voice was calm, pleasant. "That's better. Now put the bullet in your pocket."
Tim slowly dragged himself to his knees. Dirt was smeared on the side of his face, powdered on his lips. He opened his fist and the bullet was still there. He shoved it into his pocket.
"And keep it there. One day I'm going to tell you to load it into your gun. But that's not until I'm certain that you know who your real benefactor is. Understand?"
Tim nodded. With the bullet out of sight, he didn't think about it anymore. He didn't think about his father or Fallows or escaping or anything. It was funny, but he wasn't even mad at Fallows for kicking him or stepping on him or anything. He hardly ever felt mad anymore. Or happy. Or anything. Sometimes he'd think about his mother, but not as much anymore. Sometimes he even had trouble remembering what she looked like. Another funny thing, sometimes Fallows would have to go off and do something and he'd leave Tim with a guard. Weird thing is, once or twice lately when that happened, Tim kind of missed Fallows. Not because he liked him or anything, it was more like: At least he was familiar; Tim knew what to expect. And Fallows talked to him all the time. Crazy talk, Tim used to think, only now he didn't know anymore. Maybe not so crazy.
"Hey, Ryan," Fallows yelled. "Get your ass out to the south perimeter and relieve Jose. Son of a bitch is likely to stay there all day."
"Right, Colonel," Ryan half-saluted with his M-16 and jogged off into the woods. Fallows was right about the big Mexican. He wouldn't budge unless Fallows told him to. He was a couple inches past six feet, used to fight as a heavyweight in Vegas and Atlantic City. Pounded the shit out of a couple contenders for a few rounds, but could never go the distance. Had white man's legs, they'd said, no endurance. But he was loyal to Fallows. Too dumb to be anything else.
"Jose." No answer. "Hey, Martinez." Ryan saw the huge bulk sitting up in the tree, his camouflage hat pulled low over his face, his carbine cradled in his arms. He didn't stir. "Asshole," Ryan muttered. He picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it at Jose. The rock popped off the trunk a foot from the Mexican.
"When I tell Fallows you was sleeping, man, he's gonna stuff your burrito, partner."
No reply.
Ryan walked up to the tree, slung the M-16 over his shoulder, and hung on one of the low branches, letting his weight shake the tree.
The big man in the tree stirred. "Hey, man?"
Ryan dropped from the branch and looked up. "Hey, man, your ass. Time for you to get back to camp, amigo."
But Jose just waved a hand at him, jamming his hat even further down on his face. That wasn't like Jose. Camp meant food to Jose, and no one in his right mind stood between Jose and food.
Ryan started to unsling his M-16, felt a stinging at the back of his neck, looked down in time to watch something slick with blood burst through his throat, and yank his whole body forward a few inches where the arrow stuck into the trunk of the pine tree, pinning his neck to the tree. Ryan tried to talk, but that only forced the air through the hole in his neck. Pink bubbles foamed around the arrow shaft and his throat. With what little strength he had left, he tried to pull his neck free from the arrow. He couldn't. The life drained from his legs, arms, chest. Everything turned heavy, petrified. He passed out and the weight of his body pulled the arrow out of the tree as he fell. He died seven seconds later.
Steve Connors removed Jose's cap and climbed out of the tree. Paige appeared from behind a tree where she wiped the blade of her knife with a leaf. She left Jose's body behind the tree with the throat slit. Well, she'd been able to kill a man after all.
Eric approached from behind another tree, his crossbow loaded again. "That should get their attention."
"Then what, hotshot?" Steve said.
"Then they either split up, one group following us and the other continuing on to the shuttle…"
"Or?" Paige asked.
"Or they all follow us. Either way, that gives the shuttle a chance to still be there when we get back."
"If they haven't caught us."
"At least we'll be able to move," Eric said. "And they don't know where we're going. That plane can't go anywhere. And neither can the people in it. Not for another forty hours."
Paige nodded. They'd been through this before. She didn't like it, but she had to admit it was the best plan they had. This Ravensmith knew what he was doing. Jesus, that's odd, her hands were beginning to shake. She felt funny, tingly, a little faint.
"You OK, Paige?" Steve asked, putting an arm around her.
She shook it off. "Fine, Captain Connors. Let's go." Thing was, though, her feet felt cold, numb.
"You ever kill before, Dr. Lyons?" Eric asked.
She didn't answer. There hadn't been a choice at the time. Ravensmith had gone ahead to scout while she and Steve had taken the south approach. They'd been creeping along quietly when they'd spotted the Mexican climbing down the tree. Steve had signaled for her to wait behind for him and she hadn't argued. The Mexican stretched his legs out, pissed on the side of the tree, and started to climb up again.
Steve sneaked up to the tree, clamping his knife in his teeth like some boyish pirate. Paige thought he looked silly, but realized they couldn't afford to have a gun go off and warn the rest of Fallows's men. Not just yet.
When the Mexican had one leg on the lowest branch, Steve sprung out at him, thrusting the knife straight at the Mexican's barrel chest. But Jose twisted away in time and the knife only managed to slice through his left arm. The carbine dropped from Jose's hand to the ground below.
Steve thrust again. Jose caught Steve's wrist and yanked it hard. The knife plopped next to the carbine. Jose jumped from the tree, his hand still crushing Steve's wrist. With his left fist, Jose punched Steve's jaw twice. Steve fell to the ground, stunned. Jose was angry, too angry to worry about the gun or knife on the ground. He just wanted to show this bastard what he used to do with his kind in the ring. He straddled Steve's chest and began pounding the smaller man with lefts and rights. His wounded arm didn't even hurt anymore. He didn't notice the woman until too late.
Not until she'd already grabbed a handful of his thick black hair, jerked his head back, and slid the knife across his neck. That didn't hurt either and he thought maybe she'd been too squeamish to actually cut him and he would teach her a lesson next, the whore. But then he found he couldn't get up and something was running down his neck like hot soup. She was pulling him off the other man and he was letting her. Fallows would be mad, he thought, dead before he even realized he was dying.
Eric had come back then and set up the scenario. She'd waited behind the tree while they'd finished off the other guy, amazed at how cool and composed she felt. Nonplused was a good word. But now. The shaking, the cold. Christ.
"Let's get moving," Eric said, a tenderness in his voice she hadn't expected. Steve was being soothing but not tender. He didn't know the difference. "You'll feel better if you keep active." Eric grinned at her. "Not that we have any choice. When one of them doesn't return to camp in the next few minutes, they'll come after him."
Paige nodded. "Then after us."
"Right." He hooked his hand under her arm to steady her.
"I've got her, Ravensmith," Steve Connors barked, grabbing Paige's other arm.
Paige shook them both free. "Nobody's 'got' me. Now let's get out of here."
They marched through the woods, through a clearing that arced up a hill. From the top of the hill they could see the rim of the forest where it bordered the fields. They'd also be able to see Fallows's men when they emerged.
"There they are," Paige said, counting the men as they sifted through the trees into the clearing. Seventeen. More than she'd expected. They huddled in a circle around one tall man with white hair. Next to the man was a boy. Ravensmith's son, she realized. "What are they doing?"
"Deciding how many to send after me and how many after your shuttle."
"What do you think they'll do?"
"Depends," Eric said.
"On what?"
"On how badly Fallows wants me."
All seventeen men started through the clearing following the tracks Eric left for them.
"Well," Paige said, "I guess that answers that."