Page 148 of Red Rooster

The words came with difficulty at first; he tripped over them, feeling terribly guilty. Telling would get them found, get them caught. But Red was already caught, wasn’t she? How much worse could it get? And then the dam broke open, and he couldn’tstoptalking.

“God knows what they’re gonna do to her,” he said, out of breath after the telling. “I can’t…” And then words dried up, his panic absorbing them like a sponge.

Jack let out a deep, tired-sounding breath. “Ah, kid.” He leaned over and patted Rooster’s forearm. “You did the best you could.”

“But that wasn’tgood enough.”

Jack sent him a level look. “Most of the time it’s not. Mainly because the world is full of people who don’ttryto be anything – good or otherwise.”

Rooster…couldn’t disagree with that.

“Sometimesenoughisn’t possible, and all you can do isgood.”

“I…yeah.”

Jack nodded, point made, and pulled his hand back. Took another sip of beer and gazed out across the yard. “When’s your friend gonna get here?”

“He said five hours. Which isn’t possible.”

“Well. Maybe he’s got some tricks up his sleeve.”

~*~

It turned out that he did.

Five hours later, Rooster got a text:Field west of town. Bring whatever you need to leave.

Vicki had made enough peanut butter sandwiches for ten men, and packed them all up along with some Coke, coffee, water bottles, and protein bars in a massive waterproof backpack. Rooster had gone to the garage and cleaned out his truck, duffel after duffel of weapons, ammo, and gear.

Last thing, he flipped down the driver-side sun visor, and a strip of photos fell out into the seat. It was a set of three, bought at one of their many roadside carnivals. He remembered: Kansas City, Oklahoma, nothing but open skies and the lights of the Ferris wheel. Red had dragged him after her show, tired but glowing, his wallet thick with cash. In the photos, she was beaming, bridge of her nose scattered with freckles. By contrast, he looked stern and awkward. Hunted.

He tucked the photos carefully in an interior jacket pocket and zipped it closed.

Jack drove him out. Rooster glimpsed the town sliding away in the rearview mirror, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe, chest squeezed tight by the thought that Red had liked it here. Had wanted to stay. Gaudy leather jackets, milkshakes, friends, vast western sunsets.

But none of that had been real – that was what he told himself to ease the ache.

Because some of it had been real: Jack, his kindness. Vicki. The poor souls at the VA who weren’t Jake or his men.

“I can’t believe I fell for it,” he murmured bitterly.

“We all did.” Jack sounded grim, both hands tight on the wheel.

Farley turned to houses, to outskirts, and finally to fields, and Rooster spotted an unmistakable shape in the middle of one of them. He sat up hard, seat belt catching him across the chest.

“Is that a…?” Jack started, leaning forward to peer through the windshield as he turned off the road and onto the crushed grass.

“How the hell, Deshawn?” Rooster wondered aloud.

Perched on the grass like a waiting bird of prey was a Bell AH-1W Super Cobra helicopter, clearly an escort for the pristine Huey that waited behind it. Deshawn stood in the shade cast by the Huey’s rotors, and he wasn’t alone: he and another, similarly built man were dressed in tac gear.

Rooster popped the door before the truck came to a full stop, and Deshawn came to meet him, wide, white smile breaking across his face.

It was more collision than hug when they met each other; Deshawn hugged the breath out of him, slapped him hard on the back. Rooster allowed himself a weak moment and leaned into it, into his friend. He realized, to his embarrassment, that he was shaking, and that his eyes burned.

“I know, I know,” Deshawn murmured in his ear. “We’ll get her back.” Rooster nodded.

Deshawn pulled back, and his tone was normal again; it gave Rooster the strength to blink and pull himself back together. “Look at you, man,” he said with a laugh, tugging on a too-long lock of Rooster’s sandy hair. “You tryna turn into a Viking?”