The instructor, p.31
The Instructor, page 31
His assailants are close enough now that he can see them. Parker pops up to his right and fires while Dillon advances on his left. Timing their rushes, Derek sights his weapon opposite of their synchronization.
The next time Parker jumps up to lay down covering fire, Derek weathers the onslaught and watches for Dillon. As the man begins his rush, Derek locks on to him and squeezes off a three round burst. The bullets spin him around, and he sprays blood into the air like a lawn sprinkler.
In a fit of fury, Parker screams and charges forward, rifle raised and firing at the gully. Rounds split the trees apart. A flying section of bark scrapes across the right side of Derek’s face, throwing him onto his back. Squinting through the pain, he sees Parker is closing in on him fast.
Derek raises his rifle and fires, but after one burst, the weapon runs dry. He throws the M4 across his chest and goes to his leg holster. As Parker barrels down on his position, Derek fires from his back with his pistol held between his legs. Two of the rounds hit the man in the left arm, separating it at the elbow, while a third slams into his stomach. Parker screams in agony as he stumbles forward and falls to the ground, landing close to Derek’s position. Parker grabs at his severed limb, desperately trying to stay his blood loss with his other hand.
Another break in the machine-gun fire lets Derek rush over to Parker. He puts a round through the top of the man’s skull and then strips him of his remaining magazines. Stuffing them into the empty pouches on his plate carrier, Derek quickly reloads both weapons while scrambling back to the boulder. When gunshots don’t instantly resume, he takes off to the west.
Through the trees, Gil sees the direction that Derek is running. He shifts his position and sights in on the gap between the burning cabin and the mess tent. Gil opens up again and works the machine gun from right to left. Derek sprints past the makeshift chow hall as the bullets tear through the fabric. The rounds kick up dirt and bounce off the trees just behind him. He can feel them getting closer as he charges through the brush. In the forest ahead, three silhouettes move toward him.
Marjorie comes out of the armory, an M249 slung across her back, holding an ammo drum in each hand. She throws one toward Gerry and then realizes that it’s Gil behind the machine gun. Her eyes go wide. Marjorie drops the other drum as she sees the older man’s body lying next to Gil in a puddle of blood. With a cry of rage, she spins her weapon around.
Holding it by the carrying handle in her left and the grip in her right, Marjorie presses the buttstock of the machine gun against her hip. She spies the direction Gil is shooting and screams again, mashing down on the trigger and raking her weapon from left to right, opposite of the other chain of fire. The rounds rip through the cabins to the right of the blacksmith’s shed and continue on.
In the woods just beyond the perimeter, Thomas, Hunter, and Brady continue to circle to the west. They dart from tree to tree with their weapons at the low ready. Derek barrels toward them, pursued by the gunfire. Thomas ducks out from behind a tree and squeezes off bursts that send Derek diving to the ground.
Hunter steps out from behind his own tree and raises his rifle, smiling as he goes to squeeze the trigger. A whip of machine-gun fire cuts him in half. Thomas, Brady, and Derek alike cover themselves as the two streams of bullets intersect.
Thomas screams into his radio, “Cease fire! Cease fire! You just wasted Hunter!”
In the clearing, Gil lays off his trigger, only to hear the rapid report of chained fire continuing behind him. He rolls onto his side and waves at the woman. “Marjorie! Cease fire! Cease fire, goddamn it!”
She doesn’t hear him, or chooses not to. She works the weapon through the shower stalls. The cisterns blow apart behind them. Her firing continues into the mess tent. She reaches the end and then rips the weapon back to the left, covering the same ground she’d just engaged.
“Cease fire!” Gil screams at her. “Cease—”
The woman’s chest explodes as four rounds impact in quick succession. She flops backward, stumbling over the steps leading into the armory. Her corpse comes to rest just inside the doorway, where more bullets tear into her. When they finally stop, Gil turns and sees Marshal holding his .45 out at arm’s length. The slide is locked to the rear, the barrel protruding and smoking. The two men lock eyes until Marshal turns away and starts to reload. Gil sights in and resumes firing into the tree line, but after five shots, he runs out of ammunition. He looks around and scrambles for the spare drum Marjorie had thrown toward Gerry.
Brady jumps to his knees, looking first at his dead friend and then toward their enemy. His skull explodes from a three-round burst. The lookout’s body slumps over, settling awkwardly against a nearby tree.
Derek quickly lifts his head and drops it back down. When the machine gun doesn’t resume, he jumps to his feet and dashes forward. Aligning his sight on the tree Thomas is huddled behind, Derek fires on the run. The bullets smack into the tree, keeping Thomas pinned. Just when Derek is about to get a clear shot, the rifle clicks empty.
Thomas jumps out from behind the tree. Derek doubles down and sprints for him, now only feet away. His hand reaches for his 9mm as Thomas fires a burst. One of the rounds rips across the outside of Derek’s right bicep. The impact partially spins his body. Derek’s momentum keeps him moving forward. With a final push, he leaps for Thomas.
The two crash into each other, a tangle of limbs and weapons rolling end over end. They separate, Thomas rising to his knees first. He drills Derek across the face with a haymaker that knocks him down to his hands and knees. Derek rips his bayonet from its scabbard with his right hand, inverts the blade, and drives it into the man’s side.
Thomas gasps as Derek pulls the knife free, flips it again, and rams it upward, entering Thomas’s head beneath his jaw, then driving the knife to its hilt, burying the entire blade. Thomas’s eyes roll back, and he slumps to the ground, body spasming.
Ripping the knife free, Derek flops onto his back, gasping for breath. For a moment, the air is completely still. Even the birds are silent. Derek winces in pain, lifting his arm up to inspect the wound. He rotates his bicep, taking note of the deep gash, then lets his arm fall limply next to him. He paws at the ground with his left hand and packs dirt into the wound, his teeth grinding with each successive application.
His arm addressed for the moment, he sheaths his knife and goes to reload his rifle. After slapping a magazine into the M4, he rolls over and starts searching Thomas for any spares. His hand freezes, and he can’t help laughing.
Gil sits in the stillness, his weapon trained on the western wood line. The men at the vans reload their rifles during the pause in action. The security team leader keys into his mic.
“Thomas. Come back.” Nothing. Silence. “Dillon. Parker. Sound off.”
Again, the radio crackles with emptiness.
Marshal looks back at him. “What are you waiting for? Get in there and make sure he’s dead this time!”
“They’re all dead, Marshal. They’re gone. We don’t pull back now, we won’t have anyone left.”
“I don’t give a damn! You’re all sheep! I am your shepherd, and I want that bastard dead!”
Staring at Marshal, Gil has had enough. “This ain’t about your fucking clock. We all got debts to settle. I’m gonna make sure I live long enough to see mine through. You do what you want.” He turns back to the vans, absently noting that the truck is no longer parked alongside them. Gil yells to the men there, “Get the vans loaded and get inside! Everyone else keep a sharp lookout. We’re leaving! Now!”
Derek hears the engines turn over. He stumbles to his feet. Light-headed and dizzy, he drops back down after a few steps, fighting against his clouding vision. He pushes himself up with his left arm, his right hanging loosely by his side.
Staggering toward the cluster of cabins in front of him, he makes his way between two of them. On the opposite side of the clearing, the remaining men scramble to get weapons loaded into the vehicles. Derek pops out from between the structures. He eyes the stack of fertilizer and ammunition boxes.
Gil freezes halfway to the vans. He raises his M249.
Derek raises Thomas’s grenade launcher.
A stark thoomp sounds out, followed immediately by a massive explosion. A miniature mushroom cloud erupts, throwing vehicles and bodies through the air, the concussion of the blast leveling everything in its path. The weathered camp structures fold over like houses of cards. Trees nearest to the blast uproot and topple. The mess tent pulls free of its tethers and flies away like a lost kite. The flames on the burning cabin extinguish.
The wave flings Gil and Marshal across the clearing. It slams into Derek, a typhoon of power barreling him backward. Timber, debris, and body parts begin to rain down across the camp.
In the aftermath, there isn’t just stillness. There is absolute silence.
Derek opens his eyes to a landscape covered in the gray smoke and ash of the explosion now settled down upon the camp, obscuring everything. He hacks and coughs it out of his lungs. The dust turns the blood seeping out of a score of his wounds into a black paste.
His ears ring. All sound is reduced to that of a far-off echo. Getting to his feet, Derek stumbles forward unsteadily, cradling his right arm with his left. Distant sounds of cracking tree limbs perforate the void. Somewhere off to his left, a thunderous crash occurs as a tree falls to the earth.
All that is left of the cabins is torn and jumbled together, the structures having collapsed on themselves. As Derek nears the clearing, he notices flickers of dulled orange light. Dozens of small fires burn in every direction.
He slumps against a tree, one of the few ancient monoliths still standing after the blast. Across from him, he can see the massive crater that the explosion carved out.
Slowly, the buzz in his head recedes. He searches about for his rifle and quickly finds that both it and the grenade launcher were ripped away in the blast. He feels for his pistol and is relieved to find it still locked in his holster. Pushing through the pain, he draws the weapon with his right hand and then transfers the gun to his left. A low groan up ahead catches his attention. He picks himself up off the tree and moves forward into the ghostly terrain.
It’s eerie, like the setting of a horror movie. The protagonist walking through a foggy graveyard on Halloween. The sounds of zombies rising from their graves. Except the person groaning isn’t a zombie. Derek stops a few feet away and watches as Gil slowly pulls himself along the ground.
“Get up,” Derek says.
Gil’s head turns toward the sound.
“I said get up!” Derek shouts.
This time, Gil pays attention. He rolls over onto his back, propping himself up on his right elbow. He bleeds from his gut, and his left arm is contorted in multiple directions. He smiles at Derek, blood seeping out of his mouth to streak through the dusty hair on his chin. “Hey there, D.” Gil laughs a little.
Derek cranks the hammer back on his Beretta.
Gil holds up his right hand in a halting motion and leaves it in the air as he works himself up to his feet. “All right now, D. Just hang on a second.” Gil coughs and spits out more blood. “Why don’t you put the gun down and fight like a man.” He reaches down to his leg and pulls a tactical Bowie knife from its sheath, then holds the blade out in front of him. A pained smirk returns. “Come on. You’re such a badass Marine, you don’t need the gun. Edged-weapon instructor, right? Come on, bitch, show me what—”
Derek shoots Gil three times in the chest. The knife topples out of Gil’s hand as he falls onto his back. His eyes are wide. His mouth works open and closed. He stares at Derek.
“This ain’t the movies, you son of a bitch.” Derek stands over Gil and puts a round through his forehead.
Another shot rings out. It snaps as it sails just over his head. Derek dives to the ground as a second shot cracks off. Grabbing Gil’s body, he rolls to his right and pulls the corpse up as a shield. Two more shots go off, and then all falls still again.
Derek can hear cursing off to his left. He lets Gil’s body sag back down and stands up, walking in the direction of the muttering voice. Marshal’s shape materializes out of the smoke. The old man is slumped over on his side, his legs lifeless. He leans on his right elbow, his hands desperately working to get another magazine into his pistol. Derek shoots him in the elbow joint, leveling Marshal to the ground and knocking the weapon free.
Marshal groans through his teeth. “You piece of shit. You fucking traitor. You’ll burn in hell for this.”
Stopping before the man, Derek shakes his head. “No, old man. Not for this. Maybe some other things. But this? Nah.”
“You’ve stopped nothing, you know. We’re everywhere. My death will only spur our cause further. The Lord’s work will be done.”
Derek spits. “Marshal, if God thought you were so righteous, why’d he let someone like me take you down? Makes you think.”
The old man’s mouth opens to deliver an answer.
Derek empties his gun into Marshal.
Off in the distance, he hears sirens. He ambles to the north, calling out, “Kim! Michael!”
All around him, the ash continues to fall, gray snowflakes on a dreary Christmas morning. Passing by the remnants of what used to be his cabin, now nothing more than a smoldering heap of burned timber, he continues to call out. He has to lean against the boulder that provided him cover just minutes earlier, resting from the fatigue and battering he’d sustained throughout the last few days. He yells again before walking on. The next time he stops, he thinks he hears the crackling of brush underfoot.
“Kim?”
Like something out of a dream, their silhouettes materialize through the smoke. Michael is by her side, but breaks from it the moment he sees him.
“Daddy!” the boy cries out.
Sinking to his knees, Derek embraces his son with his good arm, wincing at the pain of his child’s tight embrace, reveling in it at the same time. He breaks down, crying uncontrollably as his boy does the same.
Kim is there a moment later, also crying, falling to her knees as she throws her arms around them both.
“You’re okay,” Derek says. “Thank God you’re okay.”
“Are you?” Kim replies between sobs. “You’re hurt. My God, Derek, you’re shot!”
“I’m all right. You hear that?” He pauses to let the sound of the ever-approaching sirens draw nearer. “They’ll be here soon. We’re safe now.”
Derek reaches up a hand and caresses her cheek. She takes his hand in both of hers and kisses it gently. Derek pulls her face toward his, and their lips find each other.
As they break apart, Kim nuzzles her nose into his neck the way she used to in their tender moments. Derek holds his family as tightly as his broken body will allow.
EPILOGUE
Jason and Rob leave the executive-level conference room and close the polished wood doors behind them. Neither says a word to each other. Instead, they make for the small museum at the entrance to the floor. There, among the displays of past Bureau achievement and innovation, they finally stop and let out overly long-held breaths.
Rob reaches up and pulls his collar open, loosening his tie. Jason takes his jacket and tie off altogether. Deep pockets of sweat radiate out from under his arms. He uncuffs his sleeves and begins rolling them up to the elbows.
“Jesus. If we get any more brass jumping down our throats, we’ll be shitting shell casings.”
Rob gives him a flat, perturbed stare.
“What?” Jason says. “You don’t agree?”
“Of course I do, man. It’s just that I’m trying to figure a way out of this mess.”
Jason shakes his head. “That ship has sailed, bro. A long time ago. Like months ago. We screwed up. Big-time. The only way we’re getting out of this mess is by dusting off our résumés. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m selling insurance by the end of the month. Your ass will probably be in an armored car, doing ATM drops.”
Rob pulls his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and then takes the coat off, slinging it over one arm while he thumbs open the device. “Nah, man. I can’t have that. This is where I want to be. Where I need to be.”
“Shit, so do I. That doesn’t change the fact that the op turned into a clusterfuck and we were at the head of it. This whole ‘administrative leave’ nonsense is probably just protocol while they get the lawyers in a row. Those suits already have their minds made up. Guaranteed.”
Rob doesn’t respond. Instead, he opens an email.
Subject: Almost done?
Hey, you guys have an idea of when you’ll be back down here? I’ve fed him and poured him all the coffee he’s gonna drink. The guy’s getting really antsy, and I’m running out of excuses.
He looks up at his partner.
Jason cocks his head. “I know that look. What are you up to?”
“Hail Mary time,” Rob says as he turns and heads for the elevator. “Come on. Let’s discuss it on the way down.”
* * *
Derek sits in a tight gray room. The walls are gray. The carpet. The cushions on the chairs that surround the small conference table. Even the day outside the windows. A bleak, gray, rainy New York City day.
Once the state and local police had made it to the camp, Derek, Kim, and Michael were rushed to Massena Hospital. Kim and Michael were checked and cleared, but Derek was admitted for treatment to his various wounds and to be kept under observation. It was during that time that Derek exercised his right to remain silent, save for speaking with Special Agent Kelly Scarsboro. The next day, the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s New York field office organized crime unit arrived with two other agents in tow and confirmed the news to him. Shortly thereafter, Derek was discharged, and they were all flown by helicopter to New York City.
Now, sitting in this room, he drums the fingers of his left hand on the tabletop next to an empty Styrofoam cup of coffee. An agent popped in to ask if he needed it refreshed every ten minutes or so. He stopped coming by as often after Derek’s last response. Sitting back in his chair sends jolts of pain through his body.
