A Darkness Absolute (Rockton 2)

I open my mouth to say Anders does, but he shakes his head, telling me not to bother. Cypher has a point, and, damn it, he's going to make it.

Cypher continues, "You don't get a lot of cops in Rockton, and that's not because they need protection less than the average person. It's a matter of statistics. For every cop, you're going to get five office drones, four shop clerks, three factory workers, two schoolteachers, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree. And of the lot of them, you know who'd make the best militia goon? The goddamn partridge. Hell, when I came to Rockton, there wasn't a cop in the entire town. That's why they made me sheriff. A fucking hit man was the closest thing they had to someone with law enforcement experience."

"Hit man?" Anders says. "Tell me that's a joke. You..." He trails off, as if remembering Cypher saying he knew the value of a human life and had worked for people who didn't give a damn about it.

"Shit," Anders says. "A damn hit man."

"A damn good hit man. Like I said, I got one talent. But general talent of the criminal variety? That's what you need more of on your team, boy. If cops aren't an option, get yourself some guys who've spent time on the other side of the law. They know how to do the job. Am I right?"

"Why are you looking at me?" Anders says slowly.

"Oh, come on. Is it that big a secret? I saw those biceps of yours in the station. Saw part of that tat, too. Both are the product of some leisure time courtesy of the Canadian penitentiary system."

"No, both the product of some hard-assed work time courtesy of the American army."

"Ah, so that's why you gave me that look when I talked about soldiers. Didn't argue, though, did you? You avoided jail by joining the army."

Anders's eyes slit now. "I beg your pardon?"

"Get your back down, boy. You know what I mean. Escaped the streets to make a life for yourself in the army. You get my respect for that more than if you'd spent time in jail. Only idiots get caught."

"The streets I grew up on were in a suburb," Anders says. "And the only gang I ever joined was the hall-monitor club in middle school, which I quit after the first month because they abused their power."

"Yeah, hall monitors can be nasty little pricks. First job I ever pulled was on one of them, back in grade eight." When Anders and I both stare at him, Cypher chuckles. "Oh, I'm kidding. Might have, though, if someone had offered me lunch money. But what you need to hire, Eric, is a few good criminals. No shortage of those in Rockton. And on that note, it's time to pipe down. We're almost there. Don't want Roger to hear company coming."

We spread out. Dalton goes into the woods, me following and taking up a position between him and Anders, who stays on the trail with Cypher. We walk about another hundred meters, until we can see a dip at the foot of the mountain, where Cypher claims Roger has set up camp. That's when Dalton signals Anders, who falls back temporarily to tell Sutherland to stay behind.

We get another hundred meters. I still can't see down into that dip, but Dalton motions for us to stop. Then he scales a tree. As he's going up, I gesture, asking if I can do the same. He nods.

I was never much of a tree climber in my youth. On my parents' list of approved childhood activities, it ranked just above trampolines, which they declared the greatest menace to children since the invention of the motor vehicle. But climbing is useful for doing exactly what Dalton was--getting a better vantage point.

I shimmy up the trunk until I reach a branch big enough to support me. By that time, Dalton is already stretched on a limb. He's alternating between looking at his target and glancing at me, to be sure I don't tumble to my doom. Once I'm stable, he turns his full attention to the scene below.

There is a campsite down there, with an old army tent, heavy canvas and low to the ground. The trampled snow suggests someone's been there for a while. Is that someone Roger? Or is this a well-constructed trap?

There's no sign of Roger himself. The campfire looks cold, no wisps of smoke or burning embers. I see none of the scattered detritus I expect at an active shelter site. Just a dead fire and a tent.

Dalton climbs down. I do the same, and by the time I reach the bottom, he's waiting.

"No sign he's there," I say. "The tent's closed, so I can't see inside. Like Tyrone said, it's a strategically located campsite, with no easy access for an ambush. If that means Roger is worried about an attack, he's not likely to nap midafternoon. I see plenty of foot trails coming and going. They seem to come from average-sized boots, and Tyrone does not have average-sized feet. But there's no way I'd call that solid evidence."

"Yeah," he says. In other words, he concurs and has nothing to add.

"I'm taking Ty and closing in," he says. "You and Will stay behind. Keep a wider view of the situation."

Dalton and Cypher begin a direct approach on the camp. If Roger's there, that'll trap him between the mountain and two lawmen.

When Dalton and Cypher begin down the dip, I move forward, keeping an eye on Dalton's back. If Cypher is going to attack, he'll swing behind and tackle him, getting Dalton on the ground as fast as he can.

I'm watching for that move when I hear a rustle behind me. Anders is standing ten meters away, poised and scanning the forest calmly, having heard nothing. I'm turning back to Dalton and Cypher when I catch a louder crackle and realize what it is.

Sutherland.

I madly gesture for Anders to stop Sutherland from getting closer. Anders nods, and he's taking off when I see a blur in the forest. A blur that is not Sutherland.

Someone is between Anders and Sutherland, and I can't run to find out who because that's not my priority. I have Dalton covered, and I cannot turn my back on him while Tyrone Cypher is at his side.

Anders picks up speed. He's spotted the third party. My gaze swings from Anders to Dalton, still creeping up on that tent, too far away to hear what's happening back here. Cypher is close beside him. Too close beside him.