Map of Sanguine Springs

  Sanguine Springs

  Brad Clarke stood in his kitchen. With the lights off, his moonshadow stretched along the hardwood floor. His throat ached. Before him, visible in the twilight, stood the hickory and glass door of his liquor cabinet.

  It had been two nights. He needed a drink.

  The party had been a flop, a failed attempt to get his niece to socialize. To forget the last month. It had seemed workable at first, until Matthias's gaffe and Allison's departure.

  Poor guy. Poor girl. He was clueless, didn’t know the new arrival had a hair trigger. Jumpy. He felt jumpy, too, come to think of it. Twitchy, even.

  Too sober for too long. Brad reached for the cabinet door. The glass rattled in its frame as he tugged it open.

  A bottle of scotch, one of rum, and two bottles of his own. Two bottles were all that remained of "Sanguine Shine," his personal recipe. Not much to show for a dream—unless you counted the fresh grave in the local cemetery or the totaled truck still parked next door.

  He reached for a bottle of 'shine. He felt the cool glass neck beneath his fingers, the smooth texture a whispered promise of the liquor to come. Smooth until it burned. His mouth moistened with anticipation. It burned so good.

  His shadow pulsed against the wall, cast in crimson. Hearing an electronic beep, Brad turned his head and saw the pulsing light. Both came from a slim black box atop his mantelpiece, its red light flashing at two beats per second. His visitor alarm, its sensor tied to a pressure plate buried in the gravel drive, just shy of the town's final hill.

  The whiskey would have to wait. Someone was coming.

  He placed the bottle back on its shelf, then turned and opened a door between the counter space and the refrigerator. The basement.

  Diamond-plate stairs rattled as Brad descended. Headache and stiff back temporarily forgotten, he reached the bottom, his steel-toed boots solid on the poured concrete floor. Brad turned right, then right again, opening the exterior-grade door of his office. He stepped inside and headed for a computer desk.

  The room had one visible light—a rectangular LED panel in the middle of the ceiling.

  It fit.

  At eight feet long by six wide, the whole room was rectangular. Monastic. Utilitarian. Spartan.

  Any of these could have applied.

  Almost.

  Except for the shelves. They ran the length of the room on either side, further constricting its dimensions. Built-in shelves, from floor to ceiling, packed with books.

  They ran the gamut, from local history, geography, and topography, to the arts of war and death. Books covered the history of places with far-off names like Rorke's Drift, Thermopylae, and Pavlov's House. One entire shelf groaned beneath the weight of manila-colored field manuals, covering topics from "Arctic Survival, Evasion, and Rescue" to "Expedient Weaponry." Beneath it was a prince's ransom in surveillance and countersurveillance techniques, including three he had authored himself: Bradley K. Clarke, Navy (Retired).

  Between the shelves at the room's far end sat a computer with two monitors. The computer was already on. The computer was always on.

  Brad entered a password, tapped the Return key, and stepped back. A grid of video feeds appeared on the monitors, sixteen per screen, for a total of thirty-two cameras. He moved the cursor, selecting one feed out of the many.

  A van blocked the town's gravel road, parked perpendicularly across the single lane. It shone pale white in the moonlight, its back doors flung open. Something moved in the shadows.

  Brad rolled the mouse wheel forward, magnifying the feed, and saw a man in combat kit emerge from the van. The stranger's rifle stood out clearly against the van's stark white side before he circled around to the vehicle's far side.

  An ambush.

  Brad tapped the fingers of his left hand with his thumb, tracking the men as they emerged. He counted six—but how many had emerged before he started counting?

  BATFE. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. They'd come for him, tracked down his moonshine distillery. The long arm of the law, come knocking.

  For a moment, Brad wavered, wondering if the Feds would be willing to talk, especially now, with the still already smashed and his niece sleeping next door. He could meet them on the porch, hands behind his head, and deal with the consequences. He deserved no better, not after Jake's death.

  Then he saw them move. Two fire teams, their numbers hard to determine in the darkness. They split, one heading north, the other south, and stealthily entered the woods.

  The ATF didn't usually go in for ambush tactics like that. Not since Ruby Ridge, anyway. Something about it pricked at Brad's instincts. He glanced at the shelves, at the books he himself had written, and knew something was wrong here. They weren't here just to ask questions. This was dog-killing behavior.

  He wondered why they'd arrived now, not even midnight yet. Maybe they'd stage until 3 a.m. before pulling the raid. But with the reckless way the van had pulled up, blocking the road, and the speed with which the men had entered the shadows, he figured they were moving fast.

  Which meant he needed to act fast as well. Brad checked the other camera screens. None of his cameras covered the deep woods.

  An oversight he'd need to correct—if there was an opportunity. But first, he had to deal with the threat at hand. Realistically, this wasn't going to end well.

  Not for him. But when they split apart and entered the woods in two directions, all thoughts of mortality fled. The contrite moonshiner with his brother's blood on his hands was replaced by Brad Clarke, alarmed former soldier—a man who had seen how the sausage was made and knew exactly what kind of collateral damage this mission would entail.

  I can't let them hurt her, he thought, remembering Allison. His neighbors, too, were innocent of any wrongdoing. A firefight would cause problems for them.

  He left the office, reentered the basement hall, and walked to another room in the corner. There, a bank-vault door was set into the wall.

  He spun the combination and opened it wide. Bright lights flared to life. Blue-white LEDs cast the room's contents in high relief. The vault was shallow, little more than a walk-in closet of concrete, stuffed with loaded racks and shelves. A cool breeze reached his face, air from the tunnels behind his gun room.

  Brad stepped in and ran his hands along the long barrels of his gun rack, searching for the proper tool. His heart thumped as he passed over a Remington 870 twelve-gauge and a Winchester deer rifle with high-magnification scopes. He stopped for a beat in front of a Vietnam-era M16, its finish worn and its polymer buttstock bearing the scratches of long-forgotten service. His father's rifle, smuggled home at the end of his tour of duty.

  He reached for one that already had a magazine in its receiver. An old rifle, but one not listed on the New York SAFE Act. Illegal to own. One of several illegal activities he'd perpetrated during his time in Sanguine Springs.

  But in the end, he passed over his father's gun. Each had its time and place, but not tonight. Tonight he needed the gun that had molded him into the man he was today. He scooped up the cloned MK18 he'd built from an 80% lower receiver and pieced together from parts kits sent to a buddy's house in Vermont. Shorter than the M16, the MK18 was a modern firearm, designed for clearing rooms and engaging the enemy at contact distance.

  With the addition of the forced-reset trigger he'd installed last year, it was capable of simulated full-auto fire in the right hands. And Brad Clarke had the right hands.

  He grabbed a plate carrier and slipped it on. Not one to worry about aesthetics, he'd purchased the baby-puke-colored digital camo from the internet upon his arrival back on U.S. soil. The ACU, hated by many vets, was selling for dirt cheap online. If he'd cared about aesthetics, he could have dyed or painted it. But since Brad only planned on wearing it when the shit truly hit the fan, he'd left it in the original digital camouflage pattern.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Inside was a curved ceramic body armor plate. He felt the weight against his shoulder, tightened the latches, and felt it snug against his chest and stomach. The years since the GWOT had not been kind to Brad. He'd been meaning to get back into fighting trim and had just never found the time.

  Let's see if I've still got it. He tapped the magazine of his rifle, ensuring its snug fit, then racked the charging handle. Satisfied, he grabbed a pistol from the wall-mounted gun rack: a Sig Sauer P226, all black, chambered in 9mm with an extended 18-round Mec-Gar magazine. The pistol, magazines, and rifles were all illegal in New York, but at this point, Brad wasn't worried about regulations. He strapped the Sig's holster to his belt, connected the drop-leg platform to his right thigh, and turned to leave, grabbing a ballistic helmet with quad-tube NODs from the equipment rack as he left.

  Brad returned to his office and set the helmet down on the desk before leaning in to check the cameras. Nothing, not at first. Then he saw movement at the south end—a single shadow appearing briefly at the treeline in the gap between Matthias and Jael's houses. He only saw the one.

  Professionals. They weren't clustered together. And they were closing in. Brad hunched over the keyboard and typed a quick command, bringing a slew of motion-activated floodlights online. The lights were off by default out of deference to the neighbors and the local fauna. Tonight, though, all bets were off.

  Light would take his NODs out of the equation. The weight would slow him down. Brad frowned, then headed for the stairs, leaving the helmet on the desk.

  Brad emerged in the kitchen, his feet barely whispering against the floor. He saw vulnerability and exposure reflected in every pane of glass around him.

  Windows were a luxury for peacetime, and peacetime was over.

  Swaddled in darkness, he flowed across the room to the front door where his coat hung on a brass hook—a heavy canvas jacket that smelled of woodsmoke and faded sweat. Next to it, his balaclava—black, nondescript, and essential when the wind chill dipped below -30. Colder than October, but not colder than death.

  Brad moved back through his house. Entryway. Dining room. Past the large and underused dining table, to the sliding patio door.

  He approached the door, one hand on the grip of his rifle, the other reaching for the handle.

  Slowly. Carefully.

  The latch disengaged with the faintest click. Brad eased the door along its track, inch by careful inch, until the gap was wide enough to slip through. The night air hit him. Cool, a mixture of pine needles, woodsmoke, and frost, mingling with the promise of death.

  He stepped out into the moonlit, fragile silence, leaving the door open behind him.

  Three lights shone in a lonely kitchen. Hanging like pendants over the central island, they illuminated a clean counter devoid of dishes, food waste, or even a towel. The light cast shadows from the fourteen knife handles protruding from Jael Barack’s maple knife block, making them look like raised rifle barrels.

  She sat at the kitchen bar, feet dangling from the stool, burying her disappointment in a bowl of French onion ice cream she had made. The Italian-American music from the party still echoed in her head.

  It was silly, really, to be so worked up over a visitor to town—the daughter of a man she had appreciated but barely known, who was only here to divest himself of his possessions and then leave. But it didn't take away the pain. I wish there was something I could do for that girl, she thought, putting another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. She stared out the window into the darkness and sighed.

  "This isn't your way, Jael," she told herself. "You're getting a heart." She gazed out the kitchen window, taking in the pond lit by the moon high above, and wondered if it would be a good night for a walk. Moonlit walks had always calmed her down when they were available. But she wasn't calm. She was just sad and restless over someone else's problem. I can't take on everyone's problems, Jael thought. If I did, I'd carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, and I have enough of my own to worry about.

  Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the candlesticks on the table and the south wall between the windows where she had once considered hanging some memento of her past life. She could think of nothing that wouldn't raise eyebrows should a visitor ever come by. Not that she'd had one since she moved to Sanguine Springs. Even people at work, at the restaurant in Placid, she kept at arm's length—friendly on the job, but never participating in after-hours parties or holiday get-togethers.

  The weight of a lost connection, brought on by seeing someone else bereft of theirs, settled on her. She stared out the window into the darkened trees, which was when she saw the movement. Something—no, someone—in the trees, fifty yards out. She was sure of it.

  No camouflage could break up a man-shaped silhouette when the moon caught it just right. Amid the trees, the bracken, and the bramble, no disruptive pattern or dark coloring could hide a human form when nature cast its light. And it was in that moment, in that very second, that Jael saw a man moving from one tree to the next, what looked to be a shotgun in his hand.

  They found me. It was her first thought.

  Her second was a litany of possibilities. The Palestinians? The Iranians? The Jordanians? No, probably Syria. Revenge for the Syrian. The regret of that mission, that fatal mistake, welled up. She pressed it down. It was not her fault. The intel had been wrong, planted by a mole to cast a shadow of doubt on her nation in the public eye. Only the machinations of the Mossad had kept it from coming to light.

  But it changed her life forever. She'd always felt that someday they would come hunting for her. Men with guns walking through the woods was a common sight in the Adirondacks, especially in the fall. But she knew that at this time, in this particular part of the world, within the township of Sanguine Springs, the hunter—or hunters, if he was not alone—was hunting the most dangerous game. Or at least its distaff counterpart.

  Two can play at that game, Jael.

  She was off the stool, crossing the kitchen floor on velvety feet, glad to be wearing a pair of rawhide moccasins. She flowed through the kitchen like a vengeful ghost, passing the knife block as she went.

  In a moment, she was at the front door. The door opened, then shut. She was gone.

  Inside the house, the lights still burned over the counter, showing a slowly melting bowl of ice cream smelling of caramel and a sharper aroma. The knife block was lighter now, only eight handles protruding from its mottled wood.

  Though she had only been inside for a short while, the evening air felt cooler than before. Her breath fogged in front of her. Jael walked across her small deck, careful to avoid any boards that might sing out. Five steps, and she was on the ground, feet moving like a deer among the pine needles. Jael flattened against her home’s log-sided exterior and rounded a corner into the darkness, the glint from the reverse-gripped blade in each hand melting into the shadows with her.

  Matthias Neumann's kettlebell arced through the air, tracing the familiar path it had carved a thousand times before. A cannonball with a handle. Heavy—twenty-four kilos. Fifty-three pounds. He let the cast-iron ball float in its fractional beat of hang time before hiking it once more between his legs. His hamstrings burned as he launched the weight forward, careful not to lock out his legs. His left knee—the artificial one, the souvenir from Finland—complained with every hinge, a dull ache that never quite went away.

  He didn't mind. Pain was honest. Pain was earned.

  Forty reps. He finished the set, bringing the bell down on the padded floor in front of him. The thick horse-stall mat muffled the cast iron's impact. He stood, wiping sweat from his eyes. Perspiration darkened his gray tank top, plastering it to his chest and shoulders. Restless between sets, Matthias let his gaze wander around his living-room-turned-gymnasium. Sparse. Functional. A rack of dumbbells against one wall, kettlebells of various weights lined up like iron soldiers, and a pull-up bar he'd bolted into the exposed ceiling beams.

  He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and tried not to think about the sagra or Allison.

  He failed immediately.

  I asked to see her hand. What had he been thinking? The girl was clearly hurting, still processing her grief, and what did he do? He fixated on her prosthetic—treating her like an object. A carnival attraction. Like she hadn't heard that question a hundred times from every yokel she'd ever met.

  Dummkopf.

  He'd seen the look on her face, the way she'd shut down, the abrupt exit. Brad had tried to soften the blow, but it was too late. Even Matthias could tell the uncle was hurting, too.

  Idiot.

  He walked across the floor, flexing his elbows backward. A glance upward located the bar. A roll of the shoulders, and Matthias reached up, grabbed the bar, and began his pull-ups. He pulled from the lats, back arched, tapping his chest to the bar eight times before faltering. His ninth rep took more effort, and the tenth—and last—was a pure, agonizing grind.

  Matthias touched down barefoot on the protective flooring. He would rest, then do another circuit of swings and pull-ups. Tomorrow it would hurt. Tonight, he did not care.

  An angry twinge flared up his left leg. The knee.

  He ignored it.

  Back to the kettlebell. He stood a few feet behind the bell and eased into position, his body hinging like a catcher in a baseball game. He reached for the bell and pulled it in for a swing.

  He thought of Allison again. Why come now? Jake had loved her, but the daughter spoke with detachment. Estrangement. And yet here she was, to finalize his departure from the world. He could not puzzle her out—

  Brilliant light flooded through the windows. The glare broke his thoughts and his flow. His grip slackened. The bell slipped from sweating fingers, its arc traced across the floor in a harsh, high-definition shadow.

  "Was zum—"

  Brrttttt. Muffled and distant, but unmistakable.

  Then another burst.

  Matthias froze, barely registering the crash as his errant kettlebell slammed into the living room's drywall.

  He knew that sound. Had made that sound. 300 Blackout, suppressed.

  Combat fire. An attack, with multiple hostiles responding to the sudden deluge of lights.

  Matthias could smell the burnt powder and hot oil, could taste the acrid smoke of combat. His pulse quickened, his hand reaching for his hip to grab a phantom pistol from its phantom holster. Empty fingers brushed the nylon of his workout shorts, bringing him back to reality.

  He wasn't a leader, not anymore. Unfit. Unarmed. Unprepared.

  Why here? Why now? It didn't matter. Answers could wait. First, he had to survive. And that meant getting a weapon.

  His mind flashed back to Tony's sagra. The duck gun over the fireplace. He hoped the spaghetti-eater kept it loaded.

  Otherwise, this would be a very brief resistance.

  Matthias moved.