The Stickmen (22 page)

I’m not scared,
he suddenly realized.
I should be scared, shouldn’t I?
Sanders was out there
somewhere; he predicted correctly that Garrett would go to Ubel’s,
so it wasn’t a brain-storm to predict he’d be coming here too. At
least Garrett had had the presence of mind not to drive up to the
house: a sniper would be expecting that first and foremost. That’s
why Garrett had parked, not several houses away but several
blocks
away. It was far more tactical to walk in, far less
chance of being seen.

He was lucky at least in that the
street-lights were widely spaced, which left him with ample shadows
to use for make-shift cover. And when he got to the back of the
proper block, he chanced it, and cut through someone’s back yard,
keeping his fingers crossed that no dogs—or people—would spot him.
He crept as quietly as he could, half-feeling his way through the
darkened yard, wary of things to trip over. At one point, though,
he nearly screamed when a raccoon scuttled across his path, looking
up with faint orange glints. In the distance he could still hear
the sirens of fire trucks responding to the Sanders’ handiwork at
Ubel’s apartment building. Garrett prayed that no one had burned up
and that it hadn’t spread to other buildings.

But Garrett himself had been smoked out—that
was for sure.

That’s what had him worried.

In a minute, the rear of the house in
question emerged into view; he could see lights on in the windows.
The back sliding doors were closed but the floor-length drapes
still drawn open.
Good, they’re not in bed.
Garrett got down
on one knee, hunkered behind the picket fence which outlined the
back yard. He kept his eyes on the sliding doors, vigilant for
movement.

He checked his watch—ten p.m. now. He
continued to watch for signs of life for the next ten minutes, but
none were forthcoming.

Shit. Maybe he’s been here already. Maybe
he’s killed everyone.

This was a reasonable speculation,
considering Sanders’ previous moves. And even if the assassin
had
 killed everyone inside, even though the bulk of his
mission would be completed, there was still one more person he had
to take down.

Me,
Garrett knew.

Sanders was probably not given to leaving
loose ends.

Now Garrett realized only two bare choices.
He could stalk up to the windows and peep in, visually scan the
interior of the first floor—but if he did that, and a neighbor saw
him and called the MPs?

I’d never be able to talk my way out of
it,
he realized.
Phony ID or not. I’d be in the stockade and
that would be that.

The second choice?

Walk up to the front door and knock.

He fidgeted, his knee dampening in the
grass.
Fuck it,
he resolved.
Just grow a pair and do
it.

He got up and immediately walked around to
the front of the house. If no one answered the door, he’d need his
picks again, but he hoped he was just being paranoid.
I’d say
I’ve got reason being paranoid. A hit man tried to kill me
today.
Garrett figured that if he was wrong, his life might
easily end right now. Sanders would have already established a
secluded firing position, probably some huge long-range infrared or
Starlight scope.
He’d just be waiting for me, invisible, up in
some tree half a mile away,
Garrett knew with a growing dread
in his belly.
Knowing I’ll be coming to this house. All he’s
gotta do is sit there and wait for me to walk right up to the front
door…

Garrett walked right up to the front door.
He even stood there for a protracted moment under the bright porch
light, waiting for the rifle slug.

It never came.

Okay, let’s do this.

He already knew this was the right house
from the base residential map he got at the admin center, but a
glance over the mailbox reassured him:

GEN. ANTHONY VANDER

I was wrong about the house being
staked,
Garrett thought.
Now it’s time to see if I’m wrong
about everything else.

His finger pressed the door buzzer, and
suddenly he felt sure:
They’re dead. Sanders has already been
here and killed everyone…

Then the door opened, rather abruptly, and
Garrett was being scowled at by a tall, testy man in Army dress
slacks and a summer-weight shirt pulled out. General stars on the
shirt’s epaulets.

It was a good thing looks couldn’t kill.

“Who the hell are you are? What do you want?
What are you doing ringing my bell at this hour?”

Jesus.
“General Vander,” Garrett
bumbled, whipping out his phony ID case. “I’m sorry to disturb you
at this hour but I’m here on a very urgent matter. I’m Special
Agent Richard Odenton with the F.B.I. and—”

“Bullshit!” the general barked back. “The
F.B.I.’s got no business on a military reservation! I’m calling the
MPs!”

Shit!
“Please, sir, wait!” Garrett
blabbered, just as the door slammed in his face. “Your son’s life
is in grave danger!” he shouted.

Garrett’s shout echoed down the street.
After a moment’s pause…the door clicked back open and Garrett was
re-faced by a very solemn General Vander.

“My
son?
” the man said. “Why on earth
would—”

“I know it sounds incredible, sir, but it’s
true. A former Army field operative named John Sanders is under
orders to kill Danny—and me too—and he’s out there, somewhere,
right
now.
Sir, you’ve got to let me in, let me explain. If
you call your security people on me, then they’ll toss me in the
base jail, and then it’ll be too late. Sanders is coming for Danny
tonight, and he’ll kill anyone who gets in his way, including you
and your wife.”

Vander’s eyes leveled on Garrett. “Come
inside.”

I’m in,
Garrett realized, not quite
believing it. But that was the easy part, now that he thought about
it. Everything had happened so fast, every consequence compounding.
Now Garrett was standing right in the middle of his “plan,” and he
didn’t have a clue as to what to do next.

It’s sink or swim time,
he reminded
himself.
You better be right.

“I don’t know what any of this is about,”
Vander said sternly, closing the front. “I’ll give you five minutes
to explain, and if you can’t do that to my satisfaction, then your
ass is in my stockade door—”

But Vander’s words stopped as if
guillotined, because after he’d closed the door and turned back
around—

Garrett was pointing his gun in Vander’s
face.

“I should’ve known this was bullshit,” the
general said.

“Yeah?” Garrett countered. “You? The
king
of bullshit?” Now it was time to play his card. “I know
damn well you’re not General Anthony Vander. You’re John Sanders, a
government murderer. Oh, and nice shooting in the woods today. You
killed the wrong guy, didn’t you, Mr. Big Bad Sniper?”

“You’re absolutely out of your mind! I’m the
commanding officer of this post!”

“Oh, really? Then who’s the S-2 of the
intelligence battalion?”

“Which one? The 2/37th or the 1/81st, you
asshole!”

Garrett paused, chewed his lip in a sinking
dread. “The psychiatrist that Danny’s been seeing—what’s his
name?”

“Captain William Harolds,” the man snapped,
then added, “you asshole! I’m General Anthony Vander, not this-this
Sanders!
Now put that gun down before you get yourself into
even
more
trouble!”

Hmm,
Garrett thought. This could be
looking better. “But, of course, you would’ve seen the same files I
have, including the initial abduction report that was processed by
NSA after Danny began undergoing therapy. So you would already know
Harolds’ name.”

“Drop that gun right now! You don’t know
what you’re doing! You’re making an
idiot
of yourself!”

You know…maybe he’s right.
 But,
still, Garrett remained convinced. “Sanders doesn’t know where the
depot is—if he did, he would’ve killed me from a remote location
when I was walking up to the front door. When that didn’t
happen—that’s when I knew he’d—or I should say
you
—would
have no other option but to masquerade as General Vander. Your
personnel photo has long been officially deleted, so you knew there
was no way I could know what you look like.”

“You’re a nut. You’re some halfwit pinko
terrorist or one of those militia morons, thinks kidnaping a
general is an act of protest.” Vander stared back with a look of
granite. “Well then I guess you’re just going to have to shoot me,
because right now I’m calling the base MPs.”

This, Garrett knew, was the last straw.
If he calls them,
he wondered,
what should I do? Shit in
my pants and run away, or just turn myself in?

Garrett looked straight back at the man. “Go
ahead,
General.
Give ’em a buzz. Shit, I’ll bet they’d be
out here in less than a minute.” Garrett noticed a phone on a stand
by the stairs. He depressed the intercom button and stepped back,
keeping the gun trained. “Call the MPs. Right now. Tell them you’ve
got a halfwit pinko terrorist in your house pointing a gun in your
face.”

Silence. Then—

“Goddamn you, Garret,” Sander muttered.

Garrett felt instantly showered by relief.
Looks like God’s still on my side.
He nudged the gun
forward. “Hands in the air. I mean it.”

“Listen, you don’t realize the—”

BAM!

Garrett squeezed off one round over Sander’s
head. A hole socked into the ceiling, and a puff of white dust
descended.

“Hands in the air,” Garrett repeated. “I’m
not fucking round here. I’ll kill you. And if you even take one
step toward me and try to pull some fancy Army disarm—I’ll kill
you.”

“I don’t think you have the guts to kill,
Garrett. You’re just a no-account writer with a bunch of ideals…but
when it comes times to actually fight for what you believe…you go
yellow. You don’t have the belly to kill anyone.”

Garrett was no crack shot; he knew that. So
he lowered his bead from Sanders’ face to his heart, the wider
vital target area.

“But,” Sanders interrupted, “I’ll
accommodate you. After all, you were smart enough to pick my next
move.”

“You’re fucking-A right.”

Sanders raised his hands.

“Good boy, good killer,” Garrett said. “Now
turn around, grab the wall, and spread ’em. If you even blink, you
get a nine-millimeter enema.”

Again, Sanders, obliged. Garrett jammed the
gun to the small of Sanders’ back and immediately noticed the small
weapon printing in the back pocket. He snatched it out, put it in
his own pocket, then quickly patted the man down and found no other
weapons.

“All right, turn back around. And start
talking. Was I right about Ubel?”

“Yeah,” Sanders admitted through his
decidedly normal looking face. If anything, he didn’t
look
like an assassin. “Earlier, in the woods,
you
were my
intended target.”

“Your
contract
has me on it,
right?”

“Oh, yes. I needed you dead and out of the
way so I could take that punk Ubel alive. I
needed
him
alive.”

“Don’t blame me,” Garrett chided.
“
You’re
the one who’s the lousy shot. Christ, I thought you
were good.”

Sanders, in spite of his predicament, seemed
almost offended. “I’m probably one of top five covert snipers in
the world.”

Garrett laughed. “Yeah? Well today you
couldn’t hit an elephant’s ass with

with a bass fiddle, could you?”

“You moved, for your goddamn
cigarettes.”

“Even bad guys have bad days, huh?”
Speaking of cigarettes, I could sure as hell use one right
now.
“Whoever your bosses are, I hope they’re not paying you
than minimum wage because, buddy, you
suck.
Talk about
fucking up a wet job. Not only do you miss your target, you kill
the only guy on the post who knows where the depot is. Get a job
Jack In The Box, man. It’s hard to fuck up flipping a burger. Hey,
how about a large order of those curly fries?”

Sanders glared at him.

“Oh, sure, you could’ve taken the chance
that Danny would have some previous knowledge of the depot’s
whereabouts, but that would’ve been a
big
chance, wouldn’t
it? The aliens have been trance-channeling into his mind at will.
But they’d be stupid to give him that information until the very
last minute. So I was your only hope, right?”

“Right,” Sanders admitted.

“You knew I’d go back to Ubel’s apartment
for any sensitive information he might have had there, so instead
of waiting for me there and killing me, you burn the place down,
essentially flushing me out to the last place I had to go.
Here.”

“Right again…”

“And you were betting that Ubel had told me
where Area November was before your lousy marksmanship blew his
heart out,” Garrett rambled on. He’d come this far, against
considerable odds. He at least deserved to know that he was right.
“But you wanna know something, chief? He didn’t. I don’t know where
the fuckin’ place is, either. The only one who’ll know is Danny—”
Garrett took a half second peek at his watch—”in a couple of hours.
And you know what else I’m betting on? I’m betting that you haven’t
killed him yet. If you killed him, sure, you’d screw up everything
that’ supposed to happen tonight. But you want more than that,
don’t you?”

Sanders sighed, uncomfortable now from
holding his hands up for so long. “I have to recover the Area
November material too.”

“
Then
you’d kill the kid, after he
took you there.”

“Come on, I’d never kill a kid, for God’s
sake.”

“Yeah, and John Holmes never got laid. Gimme
a break. You’re caught, you’re caput. Why bother lying now?”