Back on Platt, John headed east again until he passed the Peterson Air Force Base exit. Then he took the next exit onto highway 94, passing the small green sign advertising Schriever Air Force Base and continued east.
About ten minutes later, he turned off 94 onto a side road that led north toward the small town of Falcon. Trees out there were sparse and few grew as high as ten feet. After a mile, he came to a driveway that led along an escarpment. Forty-year old pines bordered the east side of the drive; none were more than twenty feet tall.
The drive ended at a small fenced-in yard. A weathered split rail fence made of lichen-covered cedar ran into the trees on the right. On the left, it paralleled the top of the drop for at least a hundred yards before turning east again. The house was a log home blackened from decades of sun. Its long front porch faced distant Pikes Peak. A thin column of gray smoke rose from the rock chimney.
John parked beside a Dodge 1500 that had seen better days, killed his engine, and got out. Although less snow had fallen out here than back in the Springs, there was still a solid, untouched blanket covering the yard.
He was halfway to the aged drooping steps when the front door opened. A large man with a full, graying beard and shoulder length, gray hair stood behind the screen door and called out, “What’s your business?”
John stared up at him; the man’s right hand was out of sight behind the doorjamb. “Gunny, it’s John Blalock.”
Instantly the screen door pushed back and the big man stepped out onto the porch. Although it’d been years since the knee replacement, he still walked with a limp. His right hand was in view now, and the Berretta 9 mm looked small in its grasp.
“Well, Captain Blalock, as I live and breathe. What are you doing up this way, John? Come all this way just to pay respects to your ol’ Gunny?”
John noticed that the Gunny hadn’t commented on John’s obvious injuries. “No, Gunny, although I wish that were the case. I’ve run into a little trouble.”
“I can see that. Well, don’t stand out here being a target. Come on inside.”
John climbed the snow-covered steps, holding onto the railing as he went, and joined the Gunny on the porch.
The Gunny took his arm and John let him put it over his shoulder and help support John’s weight. They went inside where a log fire burned in a massive stone hearth. The great room was filled with old furniture and copies of Renaissance art. An elk antler chandelier hung over a massive polar bear rug.
“Well, Captain. What do you need more, a drink, ministering, or sleep?”
“That order sounds good.”
“Then that order it’ll be.”
Gunnery Sergeant Albert T. Zim, U.S.M.C., Retired, helped him to the sofa, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. To the tune of ice clinking against glass, John struggled out of his coat. He tossed it to one side and then found that he couldn’t get the shoulder harness rig off no matter how he tried.
He’d given up getting it off when the Gunny returned with two drinks.
“It appears that you’ve had more than a little trouble. Have you been playing hero again?” Gunny asked as he passed John a tumbler filled with Scotch and a single ice cube.
“No, Gunny, I’ve just been trying to survive.”
“I certainly hope so. You know what I always say.”
“Even heroes die,” they said in unison.
“The Corps,” John said, raising his glass.
“The Corps.”
They each drained about half of their drinks. John lowered his glass to the coffee table, taking care to use a recent issue of Guns and Ammo for a coaster.
“Gunny, could you help me out of this rig? I can’t seem to get my arm back far enough.”
“Sure, John.”
Gunny set his glass on the table, directly on the wood. He stood and helped John pull the shoulder holster first off his left arm and then the right.
“Doesn’t look like that vest did you too much good.”
“I’m not dead.”
“You finish your drink. I’ll fetch the first aid kit and we’ll see what can be done for you.”
“Aye, aye, Gunny,” John said and retrieved his glass.
This time he sipped and enjoyed the flavor of the single malt while the massive first sip continued to spread fire throughout his chest.
Gunny returned a couple of minutes later with a first aid kit, a bowl of water, and a white towel in one hand. His other hand held a bottle of Glenfiddich and two ice cubes. He dropped one ice cube into each of their glasses, refilled John’s glass, and topped his own off.
“Where do you want me to start?” Gunny asked.
“I think the back.”
“All right, off with the vest and shirt then.”
With Gunny’s help, John was able to shuck both items.
“When did you start wearing jewelry?”
“What? Oh, this. It’s not jewelry, but it’s a long story.”
“Well then, save it for when I’m done. Now let’s see that back.
As John leaned forward on his knees, Gunny examined the wound.
“How’s the lung?” he asked.
“I don’t think the bullet got that far. If it weren’t for the blood, I’d think the vest stopped it and my shoulder was just bruised.”
“Well, it’s not just a bruise. Let’s clean it and see what we see.”
Gunny dipped one end of the towel into the water and softly rubbed. The water was warm, but the touch was pain. John
