Connor said nothing, not trusting himself to open his mouth without laughing. They all waited in silence as whales sang their soothing melody over the radio, while Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, jaw muscles flexing as he ground his teeth, and his other hand drummed impatient fingers on the table.
“There boys and girls,” said the woman eventually, affecting a feather-soft tone like a primary school teacher to a group of five-year olds. “Don’t we feel all relaxed and calmer now?”
To his credit, this time Jamie left the handset where it was, remaining in his vexed pose. It was almost two minutes before he answered.
The woman was less bizarre in her communication, but no less cutting. Her casual wit and mockery punched through Jamie’s need for control like a laser-guided missile, striking at the heart of his defences. Not once in the conversation was Jamie ever at an advantage, and eventually he was forced to withdraw, unable to intimidate the young woman. Even with threats of throwing her to his men to be abused—a menacing oath that only emphasised just how far his brother had fallen—the woman named Lockey appeared utterly immune to any of Jamie’s attempts to frighten her.
Jamie placed the handset down with more care than he needed to, before standing and inhaling a long, frustrated breath. A single, sharp punch to the tabletop was his only sign of anger as he left the room, defeated by the unknown woman and her ridiculous lack of care for the threat he posed.
That had been a week ago. With fuel reserves at a low ebb because of the ambushed supply run two weeks earlier, they had no choice but to try again. This time, Jamie had demanded Connor lead the protection detail with Briggs, taking the best of their men to ensure Mark could fill the tanker without incident.
At first, Connor refused, wanting no part of the war, but then Jamie’s fall was finally complete, and Connor knew that his brother was beyond redemption.
“You will, Connor. You will lead the protection of this fuel run, if you want Caleb to remain safe.”
Connor gaped in open horror at his brother’s statement.
“Jamie, are you threatening me with the safety of our brother?”
“I’m saying that we’re all going to suffer if we don’t resupply this time,” replied Jamie, eyes fixed to Connor’s, his gaze as crisp and cold as morning frost. “Caleb included.”
It was an oily response, avoiding direct threat against their younger sibling’s safety, but the insinuation was sharp and distinct.
You’ll do what I want, or I will hurt Caleb.
Whatever the cost after the supply run was done, Connor would end this. They did need the fuel, but when they returned, Jamie was done. Johnny had brought about his own downfall, of that Connor was sure. The third of the four brothers was a dim-witted bully, and Connor grieved his loss as any brother should, but he knew Johnny. When Lockey had relayed his threatened intention towards her in the radio conversation a week earlier, Connor was not surprised. Nate was merely defending the honour of his friend against a threat and given Johnny the chance to walk away.
As much as it broke his heart—having already lost one brother to this madness—Connor knew Jamie had to go, and he would have to be the one to do it. He needed time to formulate his coup and would begin planning on their return. Maybe then he could parley with this ferocious odd pair and form a truce of some distinction. The living had to fight the dead, not each other.
Instead of planning a coup, however, Connor now sat leaning against a wall, a bullet in his guts, and two undead just feet away.
Nate had taken the first man down from a high balcony in an apartment block just behind a row of terraced housing opposite the petrol station, then arced a makeshift smoke bomb—apparently made from newspaper and wrapped in duct tape—down into the road between the station and houses blocked off by their transport vehicles. Thick white smoke had soon shrouded the area, and just as they got eyes on his position, another bullet smacked into a man to Connor’s left.
Nate had waited for them to get set, out of their vehicles, Mark to start cranking the fuel into the tanker, and let them all settle into the notion that things would remain serene. He had waited a good ten minutes for them to get in the swing of their operation before firing the first round, lighting his makeshift smoke bomb, and tossing it from his elevation into their midst.
“Ambush,” roared Connor into the radio. “Dispatch QRF now!”
He didn’t hear any reply, as he and Briggs, both armed with variants of the SA80 that had full auto instead of burst, unleashed a storm of bullets to suppress the enemy and keep his head down, but the sniper had already displaced. Both former soldiers ejected their empty magazines and reloaded, raising their weapons and searching for the enemy, but finding the bullet perforated balconies empty.
Less than a minute later, another bullet took a man clean through the heart as they searched for the shooter, coming at a more oblique angle from the initial firing position. The sniper was now partially flanking them at a lower elevation than his initial strike, but their vehicles no longer offered sufficient cover from his attacks. The wily old bastard had likely rappelled at speed from the apartment block, entering the rear of one of the terraced buildings opposite them, but at a wider angle and closer distance.
Three were dead in no time at all, and as only he and Briggs had any real experience at working under fire, the rest of the men were shouting garbled things at each other in panic, demanding to know where the shooter was, what should they do, where should they fire, and all crashed together in a cacophony of confused mayhem that
