Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(117)

Sally froze in her chair. June’s eyes were wide. The Yeti looked up from his notebook, suddenly interested in the present moment. Sally’s men dropped to the ground and began to scramble for their weapons in the wild and flickering light.

“Stop.”

It was Oliver, the smooth-faced young man, with a pistol in his hand. His voice was clear and strong and full of command. Sally’s men froze in place.

Maybe, thought Peter, Oliver wasn’t as young as he looked.

The lantern fuel burned crazily. Shadows leaped in the trees. Oliver looked down the table at Peter. “Who else do you have out there?”

“Friends,” said Peter. “Well-armed, trained, motivated friends.”

Oliver, with exaggerated slowness, set his weapon on the table and leaned back in his chair. Despite his unlined face, there was definitely something older about him now. He looked tired.

“Ms. Sanchez,” he said. “Consider this moment your letter of resignation.”

The flaring light of the fires illuminated her face, making it grotesque. The orchard shadows seemed deeper, darker. Weeds burned slowly with a soft crackle.

“Who the fuck are you to say that to me?” she demanded. “Wilkes, it’s one man with a fucking rifle. It’s almost dark. Get your asses out there.”

Wilkes wouldn’t look at her. He shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Shepard,” she shrieked. “Shepard, I need you.” Her voice echoed off the high granite ridges. It became a shriek. “Kill them all.”

Nothing happened.

Oliver’s smooth face was expressionless. In a voice just slightly louder than normal, he said, “Mr. Shepard. This is Oliver Bent, your commanding officer. Game’s over. Please come in now.”

Outside the light, a shadow resolved into a silhouette, which became a man, barely there. The flickering glow of the broken lanterns revealed him in jagged flashes. Peter saw an empty shoulder holster worn over a black commando sweater, and the mild face of a minor bureaucrat. Had Peter seen him before? He couldn’t say.

Shepard looked at Peter, then at Oliver. He didn’t speak.

Maybe he was still looking at Peter out of the corner of his eye.

“Fuck,” said Sally. “You too, Shepard? What is this?”

Oliver spoke softly. “Last assignment, Mr. Shepard.”

Shepard extended his arm, something black and angular in his fist.

There was a brief spit of fire and Sally Sanchez rocked back in her chair.

June covered her mouth with her hand, her face pale. Her dad put his arm around her, his mouth grim, his notebook forgotten on the table before him.

Peter turned to look at Sally and saw a neat red hole in the direct center of her forehead. He leaned over to see the back of her head, a ragged mess. Her shirt back and the barn coat slung over her chair were sodden with blood, soaked and spreading.

He slipped the small gray automatic from her coat pocket and held it in his lap.

Then he looked for Shepard and found him leaning against the flatbed, his pistol back in his shoulder holster. Watching Peter.

“Mr. Wilkes and company,” said Oliver. “Thank you for today. I am taking command of this facility until further notice. You are to put out these fires and remove the body of Ms. Sanchez. After that, your time is your own until ten hundred tomorrow at the dining hall. If you have any concerns about today’s events, please note that I hold myself entirely responsible for any irregularities that may have occurred.”

Wilkes and his men looked at each other for a moment, then slung their weapons. One man took the heavy canvas tarp off Chip Dawes, now awake and wide-eyed, and beat out the fires with it. Two more men laid out Sally’s body with a crisp white tablecloth for a shroud, then wrapped her in the still-smoking tarp and laid it on the back of the flatbed beside Chip, still silent and trussed like a chicken.

It didn’t take long. June sobbed softly, shoulders heaving. Her dad had both arms around her.

When Wilkes and his men had left, Oliver called out into the night. “There’s plenty of food, gentlemen. If anyone is hungry, they’re welcome to come to supper.”

Peter made a bet with himself, whether Manny and his guys would appear.

He won the bet. Nobody showed.

But the darkness of the orchard became somehow indefinably less crowded, and he knew Manny and his guys were headed home.

Oliver unlocked Peter’s cuffs, then held out his hand. “My name is Oliver Bent.”

Peter shook hands with the man despite himself. “Peter Ash.”

“Your country needs your help.”

Peter looked at him. “You have got to be shitting me.”

The shadows shifted again and Lewis coalesced from the trees, the big Remington over one shoulder. He looked at Shepard, nodded politely, leaned the rifle against the buffet table, found a clean plate, and began to load it with food. He had a black automatic pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

Oliver said, “I know who you are, Mr. Ash.” He angled his head at Lewis. “Your friend, too. For all her faults, Ms. Sanchez was right about one thing. The world is a dangerous place.”

“I’ve done my time for my country,” said Peter.

“Your official file is impressive,” said Oliver. “Your unofficial file, too. And now I’ve seen you at work. We could use you here, you and Ms. Cassidy both.” He nodded at June. “You are both uniquely suited to help run this place. You’d be good at it. Maybe it would be good for you, too.”