BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

He could try to kill himself, but even then, they had him. They will let him be found however they want him to be found. Supposing it’s a building in, say, San Francisco, or some other major US city he had never seen and never will, six stories up, situated by a window, overlooking a plaza where an important person or even the president might have been shot, his rifle still beside him. Maybe he’d used it to blow his brains out, though he wouldn’t know about that. He would never get to be present at that meeting where his death is staged and he thereby gains a certain notoriety in that dark pantheon of assassins.

He laughed out loud at that. He rolled backward and kept going, kept rolling, kept moving, and rolled into the blanket as he went; rolling wrapped up, telling himself, Gotta keep moving. Always keep moving, don’t bunch up. Stop and you’re cornered. Keep your eyes open. His knees and elbows clattered against the concrete wall so hard that he might’ve broken skin if he wasn’t blanketed up. He rolled the other way, chanting, “keep moving, always keep moving, eyes open, stop and you’re cornered . . .”

He kept at it, working up a sweat, not caring if he struck the shit bucket. Maybe he could go out this way, in pure and utter exhaustion, no fluids left, the only man ever to do so, simply expire from motion, just a wool sack, twitching and quivering, until the final spasm and he’d flame out, one last spark in his brain to turn out the lights.

He panted and moaned as he rolled, finding the opposing walls again and again, itching from sweating, so hot now he let the blanket fall away, his limbs gathering scrapes and bruises as he went.

“Keep moving, eyes open . . . stop and you’re cornered . . .”

38.

Kanani trotted through the driving rain after leaving the mess hall. She tried the cover of a forest trail, but the drops only struck bigger and faster there, propelled downward by sagging palm fronds and pointed ferns and slick leaves. Back out on the main path she dodged the forming puddles, telling herself that the rain made her running around camp look less conspicuous and hoping that she wasn’t being followed by one of the few left here.

She headed over to the main gate, keeping to eaves and covered porches when she could, and checked the guard shack at the front gate. The half-asleep guard who normally had this shift was long gone. The new guard looked like a moke she knew from Honolulu. It was the same all over camp. Francisco was bringing in all his goons, posting them at the gates, using them for random sentry duty, and the ones who weren’t his presumably shared the same enforcer mindset of the low-grade psychopath.