Killing Time

25

Eva drew a deep breath to steady herself. They’d done it. They’d gotten inside the belly of the beast.

She’d watched Mike, surrounded by thugs with guns, disappear into a heavily guarded building an hour ago. She didn’t try to hide the fact that she was worried. She was playing the role of Dan Walker’s wife. And what woman wouldn’t worry if the man she loved had walked into unknown territory so long ago and hadn’t been heard from since?

And it wasn’t entirely role-playing. She wasn’t Mike Brown’s woman, but something was happening between them. Something unexpected and extremely unwise.

“We will finish this… When this is over, we will figure this out and we will finish it.”

She had no idea what that “finish” was going to look like, or even what she wanted it to look like. She knew how he made her feel. Very much like a woman again, alive and vital.

But they were a long way from getting out of here alive. The full-body pat-down Simmons had given her had almost prompted Mike to hurl himself at the guard. Now Bryant, who’d been stationed in front of the Jeep to guard her with his sawed-off shotgun, had more than guarding her on his mind, judging by the look in his eye.

And Mike was inside the big building in the center of the “city” square, meeting Lawson.

The heat didn’t help her sense of apprehension. Here in the middle of the open meadow, the sun beat down on the Jeep’s black roof like a blowtorch.

Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts. She’d been ordered not to move, and other than opening the door to let some air in, she hadn’t.

“Roll down the window,” Bryant had told her when she’d asked if she could open the door.

“It’s broken.”

That was a lie, but with the weapons and ammo hidden in the door, she didn’t dare roll the window down. Since the Jeep had seen better days and looked the part, he’d finally conceded—thank God, or she’d have had a heat stroke by now. So here she sat, one foot propped on the open door’s armrest, arms crossed over her breasts, helpless to do a damn thing but commit the layout of the compound to memory.

The aerial photos, while accurate, told only part of the story. She felt like she was looking at a time-confused scene from Little House on the Prairie. She hadn’t expected the compound to be so breathtakingly beautiful. Just a few minutes in, the narrow dirt road had opened up to a stunning valley. Tall green grass, bobbing white daisies, and soft yellow and pink flowers peppered an expansive, idyllic meadow that cradled the epicenter of the UWD compound.

Half-plank logs had been used for siding on the buildings, which had all the earmarks of a small, crudely constructed village in the middle of nowhere. She kept expecting to see teams of horses pulling lumbering wooden wagons. Instead, ATVs, pickups, and Jeeps lined what passed for streets, parked in front of a motor pool and maintenance shed, a first-aid station, food and supply storage, a guard post, and several residence buildings.

Wooden shakes covered the roofs; piles of split wood were stacked under exterior windows and close to entry doors, which were open like the windows to take advantage of the slight breeze.

At the far end of the town’s center was a huge communal garden plot. Chickens wandered around free, pecking between the rows and at the garden’s edge while women and young girls wearing long dark skirts, blouses, and what looked like prairie bonnets bent over hoes or knelt between rows tending spinach, radishes, onions, and lettuce, along with immature tomato, corn, and squash plants. One girl, so young she could barely be in her teens, carried a toddler on her hip. The sight gave Eva a sinking sensation in her stomach. Please let that be her little sister.

The sick feeling increased as she watched the women and girls, all moving with purpose, eyes down, faces somber, always working, rarely resting or even taking time out to take a drink of water under the hot sun. It was as if they were afraid to be idle. Their heads down, subservient, they appeared to be little more than slaves.

Everything she’d read on the UWD movement downplayed that aspect of the culture. But these were the kind of women that men in these movements preyed on. Low self-esteem. Gargantuan need to please and be accepted. Most likely abused, either as children or by a boyfriend or a spouse. It made them weak, yes, but mostly it made them victims. And it made her physically ill.

The boys were an entirely different story. Even though they were also dressed uniformly—jeans, solid-colored T-shirts, and ball caps—the boys were clearly encouraged to be boys. They wandered around kicking rocks down the dirt street, carrying BB guns or fishing poles, or fooling around in a playground that consisted of rope swings, a rope-webbed climbing wall, targets stuck to straw bales, and a wooden teeter-totter.

Holy God. It was Opie Taylor meets the frontier Stepford wives.

Shoulders back, head high, Mike followed the men into what was clearly Lawson’s office. From the bank of computers, the camera monitors, and the whiteboard outlining the duty roster and work schedule, this was also UWD command central. Taking it all in, he stood at attention as Lawson rounded a military surplus gray metal desk and sat down, a man confident of his power. The desk was a behemoth: utilitarian, expansive, rusted in spots, dented in others. Not one item on its surface was out of place. It was as clean and organized as the room, as orderly as Lawson himself, who carried himself like a little general lording it over his troops. A pennant that Mike recognized as the UWD banner—a solid red background showcasing a closed white fist—hung on the wall behind the desk.

A straight-backed wooden chair faced the desk but Mike didn’t take it. Simmons and Wagoner flanked him on either side, cradling their weapons. He stood military straight, hands at his side, legs planted wide, eyes fixed on the banner, not Lawson… the posture of a man who respected his superiors.

He could not wait to bring this bastard down.

“Walker, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why are you here, Mr. Walker?”

“Only one reason. To join the movement and help the cause.”

Lawson leaned back, clasped his hands over his lean midsection, and regarded Mike with a somber expression. “You’ll understand if I’m skeptical.”

Now it got dicey. “Yes, sir. I do. You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me or my motives.”

Lawson continued to watch him with interest. “So what am I supposed to think? That you’re brave, or stupid—or a little bit of both?”

“I’m a devotee, sir. I only want to join the movement.”

Lawson lifted a hand. “And yet you show up here, no advance word, no letter of recommendation.”

“Barry Hill’s my recommendation.”

“Says he knew him in stir.” Simmons was clearly not a believer.

Mike turned to Simmons. “I don’t need you to do any talking for me.”

As he’d hoped, this amused Lawson. Not so much Simmons; the big man’s face turned blood red. Mike figured that was a good thing. Let Lawson know he had Simmons’s number—big, dumb muscle—and Dan Walker was a little higher on the evolution ladder.

He turned back to Lawson.

“I was in the pen in California with Hill. But we go back further than that. We were both in the Navy at the same time. San Diego. We were of like minds even back then.”

“Like minds? What the fuck does that mean?” Simmons growled.

Knowing he was making an enemy, but calculating that it might play well for him to stand up to the big man in the long run, he ignored Simmons again. “When our hitches were up, Hill ended up going one way, I went another. My way didn’t work out. Did six of an eight-year stretch. I was three months from release when Hill showed up. I saw it as a sign, that we crossed paths again, you know? And I still liked what he had to say. He told me to come find you. That you’d have a place for me.”

“Convenient that there’s no way to verify it.” Simmons again.

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Mike said very quietly but with deadly intent, then turned back to Lawson, who lifted a hand motioning Simmons to settle himself down.

Like a good little toy soldier, Simmons backed off.

“With due respect, sir,” Mike went on, “knowing what I do about the sophistication of your organization, I would be very surprised if that was the case.” He nodded toward Simmons.

The subtext in that statement could fill a football field. One, he’d thrown a gauntlet and basically invited Lawson to check out his story. It showed that he had nothing to hide. Two, he’d let Lawson know he was privy to some inside information—which invited the assumption that Hill had confided in him. And three, it cemented the notion in Simmons’s and Lawson’s minds that he was not intimidated by loudmouths like Simmons.

If the slight glimmer of interest in Lawson’s beady eyes was any indication, he’d scored major points on all counts. He hoped to hell that Gabe and the BOIs had gotten Hill to play along. The chances of Lawson not following up and checking with Hill were slim.

Mike forced himself to hold Lawson’s measuring gaze. He was so thin he looked emaciated. His features were so sharp edged and severe they were almost cartoonish. Only there was nothing remotely laughable about this man.

Mike schooled his expression to remain impassive while he played out a mental fantasy of launching himself over the desk and choking the life out of the bastard.

“Explain the woman.” Lawson jarred Mike back to the room.

“Maria Gomez. Sorry. Maria Walker. We got married a month ago… right after I was released. Maria was my attorney. She can be an asset to the movement.”

Lawson tilted his head, interested. “An attorney. One would also assume, then, that she is a strong-willed woman.”

“An intelligent woman. Who bows to my will.” His slight smile was genuine; he was thinking of Eva’s reaction if she heard this exchange.

“And what if she is asked to bow to my will? To the will of the movement?”

Mike knew where this was going. “Maria has no allegiance to the current government. She has her reasons. She’s prepared to contribute what is asked of her.”

Apparently Lawson liked his response. “And you. What do you bring to the table?”

Mike could bullshit with the best of them, and it was time to put the spin on the plate. “I grew up in Colorado, so the mountains here feel like home. My old man believed in less government—he’d have been a follower if he was alive today. Not that I gave a shit what he thought back then.” His smile was jaded. “But then I found out what life in the real world was about… and I finally understood how badly the government screws its people.”

He had Lawson’s full interest now. The UWD leader had started to think he might have a true believer on his hands.

“I tried the Navy when I couldn’t get work. Like I said, that’s where I ran into Hill the first time. Liked what he had to say even then.”

Then he turned the hatred he felt for Lawson and everything he stood for into a passionate line of party rhetoric that would have made a Quaker want to pick up a gun and declare war against Uncle Sam.

Lawson was too proud of what he had created not to feel triumphant over Dan Walker’s impassioned and fanatical declaration. And when Mike put the spit on the polish by reciting the closing lines of the UWD doctrine—

“United we stand against corrupt politicians. United we face an enemy from within. United we prevail over a failed ideology. United we denounce allegiance to a government that has forgotten the people.”

Mike stopped abruptly, and made a show of reining in his enthusiasm.

“You’ve read the manifesto.” The fire in Lawson’s eyes made it clear that he’d begun to see the possibility of promise.

“Anybody can read the manifesto,” Simmons grumbled. “It’s on the website.”

“I’ve read it many times,” Mike said, again ignoring Simmons who seethed beside him. It might not be wise to make an enemy before he’d made a friend, but he needed everyone in the room to know that he understood Simmons’s position in the pecking order. Simmons was an enforcer. A bootlicker. He was not a thinking man.

Dan Walker was.

Lawson was smiling now, but the reservation in his eyes told Mike he wasn’t home free yet.

“Simmons,” Lawson barked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You may speak now. What do you think we should do with our uninvited guests?”

Simmons got a mean, real smug look on his face—and Mike got a sick feeling that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

Eva checked her watch again, avoiding eye contact with her guard, knowing that what she’d see in his eyes would compound her case of the creeps.

Another five minutes had passed. She breathed deep. Realized how thirsty she’d become sitting here. Since she’d rather swallow her tongue than ask him for a drink, she continued her study of the compound.

At the very far end of the meadow, it appeared that most of the men had congregated. They were playing war games, running drills, participating in target practice. The constant, steady barrage of automatic weapons fire from the training site was a muffled thwup, thwup, thwup in the distance.

Back toward the heart of the compound, rows of single-story residence buildings flanked the meadow to the north. At least a dozen individual cabins backed right up to the forest on the south and again to the east. The residences made a U that faced the military hub of the compound and the main building Mike had been led to.

What was taking so long? And what were they doing in there?

A door slammed like a shot and she jumped, making her guard laugh. Ignoring him, she turned toward the sound… and briefly closed her eyes in relief when she saw Mike walking toward her, flanked by the two enforcers who had led him into the building.

None of them looked happy.