his lips, Hillman regretted it. Because the pass-down log was sitting right next to his duty log, and the duty log would show that there were two people, not one, in the building. Fortunately, the intruder didn’t appear inclined to want to examine it.
Just then, Mertz and Thornburg returned. “Ready to go. They leave the keys in the trucks.”
Jackson nodded. “Good. Let’s get a move on. You, too,” he added, motioning at Hillman. “Load up the weapons and ammo into the deuce-and-a-halves. It won’t take long — half an hour and we’re out of here.”
Hillman tried to believe that they were going to leave him alive.
Hedges filled in the dispatcher in clipped phrases, adding, “Tell them I’m in the heavy equipment compound. I don’t want to get shot. Once I see them approach, I will step out in the open with my hands up. I have my ID on me.”
“Roger, copy all. Units will be responding — what?” The dispatcher broke off as she listened to someone off- line. “There’ll be a slight delay in the assistance, Greg. We have to call in another agency.”
“Look, I know this is on federal lands, but we’ve got a situation going down,” Hedges snapped. “We don’t have time to wait for the feds to roll out of bed.”
“From what I can tell, they’ve been waiting for your call.”
Fear pulled Hillman in different directions. Every time he looked into the intruders’ faces, a shiver ran through him, terminating somewhere about six inches below his belly button. Their faces were not that easy to make out, not with all that camouflage paint. Surely they didn’t think that he would be able to recognize them. Disobeying any order was unthinkable, yet at the same time, he was desperately certain he knew what would happen when they were done. The only reason he was alive right now was to serve as slave labor loading the trucks. When that was done, he could only be a liability to them.
Finally, the last two shotguns were loaded in the back of the truck. The ammunition had been loaded first to keep it near the center of gravity. At the intruder’s command, Hillman climbed into the back of the truck and helped pull a tarp over the load. It wouldn’t offer much concealment if they were stopped, but it would keep rain off it if a storm came up. Given the moldy, rotten condition of the tarp enclosing the back of the truck, that might be all the protection it had.
He bent down and tugged on the tarp as though making sure it covered part of the load, his fingers scrambling underneath it and closing on a box of shotgun shells. Two of them watched him, their faces impassive. He tried to pretend he was fumbling with the rope, but couldn’t manage to do it.
One of them motioned slightly with a weapon. “Quit fucking with it. It’s done.” His words had a resounding finality to them.
They certainly had not been cautious about letting him see their faces. Why didn’t they care, then? The grab for the shotgun was looking better and better.
The man who climbed up in the truck with him grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him toward the tailgate. “Out.”
On the ground, the leader of the gang took charge again. “Back in the reserve center. I’m going to lock you in the armory. Somebody will come by eventually to let you out, I guess.”
A vast sense of relief flooded Hillman. That was it. They would lock him up. It would be hours before his relief arrived, and they would be far away by then. They were probably ex-military themselves and correctly figured that the watch would change at 0800.
Hillman led the way back into the reserve center, so weak from relief that he could barely walk. The leader followed him while the other two stayed at the truck. Back in the reserve center, he walked docilely to the armory. The sooner he got there, the sooner they would lock him up and go away. Right now, he could think of nothing beside that.
As he stepped into the weapons cage, he turned to face the leader. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor to reassure the man that there was no way he could identify him, none at all.
The leader stepped in the cage with him. In one smooth motion, he drew his.45 and shot Hillman in the head. The young petty officer’s body slammed into the back wall, splattering the pale-green government paint with gore.
Jackson trotted back out to the trucks, shaking his head in annoyance. The first shot to take the lock off had left him slightly deafened, and the second shot had compounded the problem. Maybe he should have shot the sailor in the drill hall where there was more open space to dissipate the sound. But that wouldn’t have had the same impact on those who found him as the armory would. Or would it? Surely they wouldn’t think that incompetent excuse for a soldier had died defending the armory.
It had to be inside somewhere, that was the problem. Even in a part of the country that was normally well armed, somebody might be curious about gunshots coming from the reserve center. Jackson experienced a quiet moment of pride that he even thought of that — many wouldn’t.
Thornburg and Mertz had the trucks started and turned toward the gate. One of them had already snipped the chain holding the gate, and it was pulled open. Jackson jumped into the passenger seat of Thornburg’s vehicle and said, “Let’s go.”
Thornburg gave him a grin and gunned the engine. He let it idle down and then shifted into first gear. He stopped, squinted, then stuck his head out the window. The grin faded into a scowl.
“What is it?” Jackson demanded, still barely able to hear.
“Sirens.”
Hedges had heard the gunshot and started to break cover and run forward. He knew with sick certainty what had happened, and swore silently at his own impotence. He should have run out and jumped one of them, maybe lured one of them off — somehow, he ought to been able to do something. Even without his gun.
He could hear the sirens, marginally louder now, their frequency increasing as they approached. But the trucks were gunning their engines. As he watched, one rolled out and headed for the gate.
Get to the gate. You can hold it shut, you can, one part of his mind insisted.
Inspiration seized him. The lead truck would pass within thirty feet of his location, the second one about twenty feet behind it. There was a risk, but not a large one. The shadows covered this portion of the compound and the gate, and all he needed was a little luck.
He let the second truck pass, took a deep breath, then ran out from the shadows to fall in behind it. Adrenaline flooded his system, giving him the extra energy needed to dart forward, jump, and grab the second truck’s tailgate. He let his arms do the work then, his feet providing traction where they could as the truck picked up speed. He hauled himself into the back of the deuce-and-a-half and slipped under the canvas cover. Inside, it was pitch black, and he prayed that the night was dark enough that the man in front of them would not be able to see him moving.
He fumbled around in the darkness until he located a box of shotgun shells, then quietly felt under the canvas until he found a weapon. There was no sign that the driver noticed anything was amiss. He caressed the shotgun, feeling a whole lot better about what was starting to sound like a stupid plan.
Better, but not good enough. There had to be — yes, there was. His fingers closed around a.45 handgun. Now where was the ammo? It took a little longer, but finally he located it. The noise from the diesel engines and the truck rattling covered the sound as he loaded both weapons.
So now what? He contemplated dropping the tailgate and shoving the rest of the weapons and ammunition out of the truck, rejecting the idea almost at once. Too much noise, and it would pose a hazard for other people on
