Page 41 of The Fourth Option
The dog was rigid, ears forward, eyes locked in silent alert. Walker knew that posture all too well. He had seen it in a hundred bivouacs across Iraq and Afghanistan.
Walker stayed still on the elevated mattress, hand on the dog’s flank. The van was locked, but the windows were cracked for airflow. He listened.
A rustle in the brush.
His first thought was wildlife. The swamp was alive after dark with animals that might be unfamiliar to Paladin. Earlier that evening, Walker thought he had seen the glint of alligator eyes floating offshore while Paladin drank. He had stood watch with a pistol in hand, just in case. Maybe it was an animal now. Maybe.
Then the rustle shifted and he heard a whisper. Two voices. Trying to be quiet.
Fuck.
If he killed someone, even in self-defense, he would have to answer weeks of questions, maybe even be charged with something in the process. That would defeat his purpose for being in New Orleans. If he could, it would be best to defuse this situation. And if he had to kill, then he would find out if those eyes in the water really belonged to gators.
Maybe the locals did not like a strange van parked on their turf.
Their attempt at stealth and the time they chose to visit said it all—they weren’t here to talk.
Walker slipped his hand around the grip of his Glock 19 and rolled to the side, careful not to silhouette himself. Through the mesh, he caught the silver glint of moonlight on swamp water. Then, across Paladin’s back, he saw an old Chevy Blazer on the other side of the train tracks. Eighties-era, fat tires.
He whispered a command to Paladin, instructing him to stay still. Then, like doing a dip in a gym, he positioned his arms on the sides of the hatch and lowered himself into the van. The shift in weight made the vehicle shake.
An audible laugh from outside. “Guess he heard you. He’s up!”
A shout very close to the van. “Ay, man! Get out here! Let’s go!”
Walker pulled on his jeans so he could holster the Glock and quickly pulled on a T-shirt to conceal it. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He had done enough killing.
Walker saw the 12-gauge shotgun barrel poking through the cracked window on the driver’s side. A light shining down its barrel as the gunman scanned the inside of the van.
He spotted another gun barrel at the window on the starboard sliding door, one that belonged to an AKM. It was like seeing a ghost.
“Get the fuck outta there!” one shouted. “Come on! Move!”
They were young, mid-twenties. The one with the shotgun had a slack mouth, ribbed black tank top, Florida Marlins hat, and a gold chain. The other, wielding the AKM, wore a beanie and sported a wispy beard. The way they held their weapons told Walker that they were amateurs. Still, he remembered an adage from one of his instructors at the Farm: a bullet from an amateur will kill you just as dead as one from a professional. If they knew the area and were looking to score, maybe they could be useful.
“Get out here!” Beanie yelled. “Hands where we can see ’em! Don’t fuck with us!”
“What do you want?” Walker called out. “Just camping here for the night.”
“Whatever you have. Now get your ass out here, bitch!”
“Negative,” Walker said. “You come in here.”
They hadn’t expected that. The pair traded a look. Tank Top tried thesliding door and found it locked while Beanie cupped his hands to the window. “It’s just him!” Beanie called.
“Open it,” Tank Top shouted. “Do anything else, and we splatter you all over this piece of shit.”
Walker leaned forward, unlocked the van door, and slid it open.
“This is a classic,” he said.
“Out!” Tank Top called.
Walker stepped through the door and stood barefoot on the dirt. Tank Top’s slack mouth twisted into a sneer. “Cover him!” he said to Beanie before stepping inside the van.
Walker waited for Tank Top to cross the van’s rear quarter. He would be blind in that moment. Only for a half second, but enough. Three steps… two steps… one.
“Fass!” Walker shouted. Bite.
