“You guys get some dinner?” asked a tall, clean-cut man with a freshly healing scar over his right eye. It was clear to everyone he alone was now in charge.
“We fed them,” said Mike’s foe.
“I didn’t ask you. It appears that you men had some stew,” he said, looking at the near-empty pot by the fire. “Mike, Max, did you get enough?”
“Just some bread scraps at lunch,” said Mike, winking at the man in charge.
“Let’s have a chat,” the new leader said, grabbing the man by his finger nubs, getting a stifled scream out of him. “Just so we’re on the same page here, the Colonel told you to take care of these two men, and you guys ate without them?”
“Well, it’s not exactly like that. They said they weren’t hungry.”
The man in charge chuckled but didn’t laugh. Max wondered what may happen next, but not Mike. He saw it in the man’s eyes, the very same look he had seen in the mirror every day since he was 14.
The shot was quick under the eight-fingered man’s chin, dropping him straight away.
“Who’s next?” called out the shooter.
Everyone stood still, not answering.
“How about you get some food going for these two and us,” he said, motioning to his men who brought over a bag of canned foods. “Since you guys have already eaten, it would be a bad idea to take some for yourselves. Now, who can cook?”
They all raised their hands, and he chose the two most confident for the task.
“What’s your best dish?”
“Chicken cacciatore,” said one, with the other adding in “porterhouse rare.”
“Well then, boys. This should be easy tonight. Max,” he called out, “take a look at my cut.”
“Sure thing, sir,” he replied, making an extra effort to be respectful to a man he felt could get him close to Colonel Baker.
“Knife wound?” asked Max.
“How did you know?”
“I’ve been in this line of work, sir, for a while. I guess I’ve seen a little bit of everything. I’ll need to clean this up if that’s okay? Have you had anything done to it?”
“No, I haven’t had any medical care. Just too busy, I guess. And yes, you can take a look.”
“Okay, but it’s going to hurt. I can put some cooling spray on it, though, and give you something for the pain.”
“I don’t need any of that; just fix it!”
Max was concerned about inflicting pain on this man who had the power to take his life or get him close to the man who ordered his father’s death.
Mike knew better. A killer, regardless of his morals, never minded enduring pain.
* * * *
Thirty minutes passed. Max was done and still alive, sitting down to the best canned meal he could remember. “Chili con carne with beans and a kick” was advertised on the can. Mike still didn’t have much of an appetite but ate for the strength he would need soon. Surrounded by men they didn’t trust, both Mike and Max slept surprisingly well.
* * * *
“Up and at ’em boys,” came the leader’s call. “These two fine cooks have volunteered to make breakfast.”
They ate and got packed up. It took three men to get Mike in the back of the truck.
“I see you grabbed my bike,” Mike said.
“Belongs to the Colonel now,” said another man. “There are no possessions kept where we’re going.”
“Let’s head out,” called the lead.
Mike shared the truck bed with Max and the two new chefs. The others looked on as the truck pulled out but didn’t say a word. The old truck had lost its shocks, guaranteed if Mike were asked, with every bump causing a sharp pain in his side.
The leader of the four-man transport team occasionally rode in the back, talking to one of his men quietly, so as not to be overheard.
“You take the pain well, Mike,” he said. “It hardly shows on your face.”
“We have something in common,” said Mike, pointing to the man’s forehead.
“How many, Mike?”
“How many what, sir.”
“How many lives have you taken?”
Mike paused, knowing anything could be a test, and a careless lie could get him and his new friend killed on the spot.
The man continued before Mike could answer.
“It’s in your eyes—cold—the thousand-mile stare. Same as mine. So how many?”
“I don’t really know,” replied Mike.
This got a whoop out of the leader, followed by a bang on top of the truck’s cab.
“He doesn’t really know!” he shouted. “I believe you! I do!”
“How many for you, sir?” Mike asked before he could take it back.
“Fifty-six, before it went dark, and thirteen—no, make that fourteen with your guy back there—in this Next-World.”
“How do you know?” asked Mike, now curious.
“This here notebook,” he said, pulling a small pocket-sized navy-blue spiral notebook from his backpack. “Every kill has a name, or at least something about it, to jog my memory.”
Max sat quietly between the two killers and wondered if his father’s name was in the notebook. He hadn’t seen his father’s executioner, only the man who ordered it. Was he sitting next to the man directly responsible? He couldn’t be sure but thought it possible, at least.
* * * *
The drive took a little over eight hours, with two small skirmishes that were over in seconds. Mike mostly kept to himself on the ride over, not wanting to appear too close with Max. They got him out of the truck once to pee, but even that took two men holding him up. He had a rendezvous at Saddle Ranch that simply could not be missed as long as he was breathing, so he focused on healing fast.
Mike thought about his favorite movie ever, called Tombstone. There is a scene when Doc Holliday, played by Val Kilmer, pretends to be sicker than he is and shows up at the last minute to help Wyatt Earp defeat a man called Johnny Ringo. It was a masterpiece and his favorite part of
