Page 56 of At Midnight Comes the Cry

“Just keep a bead on him, for chrissakes.”

“I’m just sayin’. Jeez.”

Russ was getting the feeling these two hadn’t been the ones who laid out the professionally designed camp or had been involved in Pierre’s death—unless through a panicked accident. “This is getting kind of tiring, guys. Can I let my arms down?”

There was a pause. “Yeah, okay.” The second voice—Dillon—continued. “You’re going to walk straight ahead, up the hill. If you fall down, or run, or—”

“Try anything funny.”

Dillon made a frustrated noise. “Try anything funny, we’ll shoot you. Understand?”

“Understood.”

Russ started forward, stepping slowly and carefully to avoid an accidental roll. Behind him, Dillon hissed, “Just let me take care of it, Austin.”

“I don’t remember you getting put in charge.”

Russ had been seething at himself for being dumb enough to get caught; now he was starting to feel embarrassed these two clowns had been the ones to do it. On the other hand, up at the top of this hill there were surely men who would have shot first and asked questions later—if at all.

When they moved out of the tree line, he could see the expanse ofcleared ground wasn’t just due to the stony moraine—tree stumps and the amputated limbs of brush poked above the snow. He wondered if this desecration was what Pierre had seen, and been silenced for.

To his left, he could see evidence of the movement he’d been looking for—a pair of Arctic Cats parked almost out of view. Of course. There were snowmobile trails running through the Santanoni Preserve in winter; while these might be running off-trail, the noise wouldn’t draw any attention.

As they drew closer to the camp, a crowd began to gather. Russ could hear voices and barked orders and the eerie, barely there sound of a dozen rifles being unslung and pointed in his direction.

“We caught this guy!” Austin shouted. “He says Kevin knows him!” A short, lean man, beardless unlike most of the others, pushed his way through the gawkers. He tore off his knit cap, revealing a buzzed-flat tonsure around a gleaming head.

“For Christ-frigging sake, you idiots, you brought him up here without covering up his eyes? So he can see absolutely everything and everyone? Why didn’t you just give him a map and tour?”

“What were we supposed to put over his head?”

“You can’t walk up the hill if you can’t see where you’re going!” Russ’s two captors tumbled over themselves explaining.

“I think Austin and Dillon need a little more training in opsec, Master Sergeant,” Russ said, pitching his voice to be heard above the fray.

The bantamweight man closed his eyes for a moment. “He knows your names. Jesus.” He shook his head before turning his laser-focused gaze on Russ. “Master Sergeant?”

“Or Chief, if you were navy. I was army for twenty-two years, I know an NCO when I hear one.”

“Huh.” The man looked past Russ. “What were you saying about Flynn?”

“He knows him. Said he’d vouch for him.”

“Sergeant.” The small man didn’t turn away from Russ. “Find Flynn and bring him here.”

“Cap’n.” One of the crowd spun and disappeared toward the large tent.

Russ tilted his head. “My apologies, Captain.”

The man bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. “No, you got it right the first time. We just elect our officers, like they did when the militias were fighting against the British.”

Russ nodded. “I knew a few officers who would have been privates if we’d been allowed to vote on it.”

The militia captain grunted. Behind him, the gathered men began shuffling themselves, and Russ spotted the distinctive copper-penny-red hair he and Hadley had been hoping to see. Despite the dangers of the situation, he felt his chest lift when Kevin Flynn pushed forward to stand by the militia leader. He looked good; healthy, bearded, which was a surprise, dressed in hard-wearing outdoors clothing and the pricey Christmas-present boots his father had told Russ about.

“Captain?”

The smaller man nodded toward Russ. “Flynn, do you recognize this man?”