“Keep that thing away from me,” Lipton said, his tone full of inflections and extra breaths. “I’m warning you.”
“Sit boy,” Krista said, finding the man’s rhetoric a little ridiculous.
The dog did as it was told, planting its hind end on the concrete, never taking its gaze from the scientist perched on the bed.
Lipton looked like a frightened schoolgirl who’d just seen her first snake.
Krista smiled as she went to unhook the leash from the dog’s collar.
That’s when Horton stopped her with hand wave. “Maybe I should hang on to him?”
Krista held for a beat, then looked back at Summer, whose face appeared calmer than before.
Summer nodded. “Good idea. Let’s give him a chance to acclimate first.”
“Acclimate?” Lipton snapped. “That’s what you call it?”
“It’s as good a word as any,” Summer replied.
Lipton pointed to the gaggle of Scab women in the cell next door. “Why don’t you put that mangy animal in with those mangy animals?”
Krista gave Horton the leash. “Because it wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining.”
“You really are a bitch, aren’t you?”
“And then some.”
“Remember, what goes around comes around.”
“Ditto, my obnoxious friend.”
Summer walked into the cell and knelt down next to the dog. She rubbed his back, then gave him one of her patented cooing hugs. “It’ll be okay, boy. I promise. We’ll be back soon.”
Krista backed up and stood outside the bars, while Summer continued to shower the canine with hand rubs and neck scratches.
When Summer was done, she pressed to her feet, turned, and marched to the door, stopping just outside the door. “I hope you’re happy now.”
“It’s a start,” Krista said, closing the cell door with a clang.
The guard came forward and locked it, then stood back with his spine against the wall.
Krista and Summer walked into the hallway together before the guard closed the door behind them.
“You know we’re going to need Lipton later,” Summer said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, whenever we go meet with those people from Blackstone, he’ll need to be in one piece.”
“Speaking of which, we probably need to make another call. Get things moving. I’m sure they’re wondering if we’re still here.”
“That’s what I was saying,” Summer said before she stopped her feet and grabbed Krista’s elbow. She pointed at the door behind her. “Sorry to keep pressing the issue, but do you think it’s really necessary to antagonize the man like that?”
“Oh yeah, I absolutely do.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Relax. Someone just needs to bring that dickhead down a few notches. He’ll eventually get the message.”
“And you want to use Sergeant Barkley to do it?”
Krista shrugged, then laughed. “Sure, why not? It’s the least we can do.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Not today. Not with him.”
“Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“Always a good idea, my friend.”
CHAPTER 16
Nomad waited in the cave with Watson as Wicks cruised ahead and into the recessed chamber on the right.
Not long before, they’d passed the rock formation Nomad liked to call The Witches’ Brew. It featured an outline of an old woman wearing a floppy hat, with her massive nose pointing the way out of the cave. Her snout was almost as big as the blocky shape in her hand, casting a wide shadow on the wall from Watson’s flashlight.
Even though she didn’t appear to be holding a mug of beer, the moniker had a nice ring to it. So it stuck, not that the women living with him cared.
They only grunted anyway, but they did seem to understand the reference to this landmark when he used it.
The same was true for the Big Bird monolith and a few other natural statues he’d given a title, including The Hedge—a waist-high stone that marked the location of the deepest drop-off in the cave system. It was a towering shaft he figured measured at least two hundred feet in depth. He’d dropped a few rocks into the cavern beyond, counting several seconds before they hit bottom.
So far, they’d descended about four stories in total, though each of the levels wasn’t the same in height.
Natural trails and manmade steps didn’t make for precise measurements or equidistant waypoints, but the human brain still needed to classify them as such.
It’s how we mark distance, depth, direction, and the passage of time—with classification and reference points, each one designed to assign meaning to the random.
Nomad wondered if the men he traveled with could feel the weight and thickness of the air changing with every step they took.
He could sense it, but they may have been oblivious with everything else going on. If he were right, it would provide him with a unique opportunity. One that his gut told him he might need soon.
It was a strange sensation to be leading men he didn’t know into his hideout. Granted, he didn’t plan on returning anytime soon, but the entire process went against everything he’d been taught about securing a location and keeping it classified.
The first rule is always about the ‘Need to Know.’ Whether Wicks and Watson actually needed to be brought here would be up to the historians to decide, assuming the events happening today warranted their attention.
Either way, if a location is classified as top secret, the last thing you should do is bring unvetted, unproven newcomers to it. So he’d broken that rule already. A primary rule, one that grunts learn soon after going operational for the first time.
Truth was, nearly everything you did in the field was on a need-to-know basis, sometimes with your CO not even knowing what the CO is supposed to know. Commanding Officer failures like that usually led to unexpected casualties, like what happened to him right before he was forced to retire from active duty on disability.
Watson stood behind Nomad and to the left, guarding him with his gun, while Wicks inspected the contents of the barrels, crates, and totes inside the chamber, not far from a stack of tools leaning against the cave wall.
The two men from Summer’s silo seemed to work well together, though the Nomad figured Watson really didn’t have a choice. Wicks wasn’t the sort of man anyone dared defy. At least, not a thinking man—one without a death wish, that is.
The scar across Wicks’ forehead was certainly an indicator of serious trouble in his past, though Nomad had never seen such a gash before, even when he was deployed in active red zones filled with blood, body parts, and close quarter battles that never seemed to end.
Right now, this very minute, may have been the first time since entering the silo that Nomad had a chance to think. Really think, the pause in activity giving him a few precious seconds to review his decisions.
First, he didn’t have a choice about traveling to the silo with his women in need. He had a sick member of his team and she needed emergency medical attention. Couldn’t fault himself for that. It had to be done.
Next, there was Seven and her status as a captive in Summer’s silo. He needed to make sure she was okay and reunite her with some of the family, so to speak. Again, no fault in the logic there. His clan and their welfare came first.