You don’t want to die, Vince, Rachel said. Her voice carried no weapon, no threat, no condemnation. It had that flat, uncanny calm she had used when speaking to young soldiers who were holding their own severed limbs, trying to keep their minds from slipping over the threshold into fatal shock. If you wanted to die, you would have dropped that flare into the drum five minutes ago. You’re waiting because you want me to give you a reason to live.
Shut up! Vince sobbed, taking a half-step back, his boots slipping on the wet steel approach plate. Don’t play your medic mind games with me! You always looked down on me! The brave little soldier girl who went off to fight for democracy while big brother Vince stayed behind in the dirt and the coal dust! You think I wanted to work for Thomas Turner? You think I liked watching his degenerate kid snap his fingers like I was an errand boy? Thomas bought my mortgage, Rachel! He bought the coaching job! Every time I wanted out, he showed me the canceled checks and reminded me that one phone call to the state attorney general would put me in a state pen for twenty years!
And so you let him ship counterfeit armor bolts to an active war zone, Rachel said, taking another slow, measured step forward.
Her right foot touched the dark edge of the pooling solvent. The chemical fumes rose up, stinging her nostrils with the sharp, sweet smell of toluene and industrial benzene. It was an unmistakable sensory match to the burning oil fires outside Fallujah. Her nervous system wanted to surge with panic, but her combat training clamped down on the instinct like an iron vice.
You knew what those bolts were for, Vince, she continued, closing the distance between them to thirty feet. You signed the manifests for the Oshkosh M-ATV belly armor kits. You knew they were being installed on the vehicles assigned to the third platoon. You knew my unit was operating in that sector.
I didn’t know your unit was in those trucks! Vince shrieked, his voice cracking into a ragged, agonized wail that tore through the mountain wind. I swear on our mother’s grave, Rachel, I didn’t know! Thomas told me they were going to training reserves in Kuwait! He swore to me they would never see frontline service! When I got the news that your vehicle was hit… when I saw the casualty list with Ramirez and Miller… I tried to pull the plug! I swear to God I tried!
And what did Thomas do? Rachel asked, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper.
He laughed at me, Vince wept, the flare dipping dangerously close to the wooden planks. He sat behind his big mahogany desk at the dealership, lit a cigar, and told me that if I opened my mouth, he would make sure the state police found thirty pounds of meth in the trunk of my car and a juvenile assault charge on my record. He owned the town, Rachel! He owned the judges! He owned the sheriff! What was I supposed to do against him?
You were supposed to stand up, Vince, Rachel said. She took two more steps. She was now twenty feet away. Even if it broke you. Even if it meant losing the house and the football trophies. You don’t let young men die to save your own comfort. That isn’t survival. That’s murder.
Vince’s face twisted into an ugly, bitter sneer. Hot tears tracked through the grime on his cheeks. Then we die together, Rachel. Right here. Where we started. In the Pennsylvania dirt.
His fingers began to loosen around the burning handle of the flare.
At that exact fraction of a second, Rachel’s mind shifted into overdrive.
She did not draw a weapon. She did not hesitate.
With the explosive power that had earned her a physical excellence citation at the Army’s Special Warfare Center, Rachel launched herself forward into a full-speed sprint across the slick, oil-covered timber.
Cole shouted from behind her, his carbine barking once, twice, the suppressed rounds snapping through the cold air. But the bullets were not meant to kill; they struck the steel bridge cables above Vince’s head, showering him in sparks and severed wire to shatter his focus.
The distraction worked for half a heartbeat.
Vince flinched, his head ducking against the singing metal, and his grip on the road flare slipped. The burning cylinder tumbled toward the solvent-soaked floorboards.
Rachel hit the deck in a low, controlled slide.
