Free Rising Phoenix by Kyle Mills Page A

into the darkness.
    Eventually the road turned to gravel and then to dirt. He switched on the four-wheel drive and struggled through deep ruts, slowing to under ten miles per hour. The road narrowed to the point that tree branches swished against both sides of the car. The air, moistened by the dense trees, had turned into a swirling fog. Hobart leaned closer to the windshield, resting his chin on the steering wheel.
    Finally the headlights illuminated a small break in the trees to the right. He turned carefully into it, hearing the bottom of the Jeep scrape as he maneuvered down a steep incline. When he leveled out, a small cedar cabin nestled in the trees became visible about twenty yards away. He cut the engine and coasted to a quiet stop next to its large redwood deck.
    His breath came out like steam, illuminated by the light still on in the interior of the car. His boots made a satisfying crunching sound as he walked around to the back of the car and pulled a large black suitcase out of the cargo space.
    The cracked and faded exterior of the cabin, illuminated briefly by the Jeep’s headlights, didn’t fit with the interior. While the furniture had a hand-me-down look common to weekend retreats, the cabin was immaculately maintained inside. Floors were swept and oiled, and the kitchen was well stocked. Flashlight in hand, Hobart weaved his way through the dark livingroom and lit a propane lamp on the wall. The flame came to life, bathing the inside of the cabin in a soft blue-white glow.
    After unpacking his suitcase in one of the cabin’s two bedrooms, he went back out to the car and pulled a large cooler out of the back. It was full of perishables that couldn’t be kept at the cabin during his long absences. He switched on the refrigerator and loaded in the food, keeping a cold beer on the counter for himself. He started a fire in the wood stove and settled onto the sofa. The sound of the wind blowing through the tall pines that surrounded the cabin lulled him to sleep.
    Hobart jerked as the hot grease spattered on his arm. He quickly threw a lid on the pan, hiding the cooking bacon within. Last night’s fog was only a memory, and the sun was beginning to filter through the skylights high above him. In the light, the house took on a colder feel. The cabin had the same unlived-in look as his home in Baltimore. The motion in the kitchen and the smell of bacon and eggs seemed out of place in the sterile atmosphere.
    He was halfway through eating his breakfast when he heard the unmistakable sound of tires rolling down the steep hill to the cabin. He looked at his watch as he pushed the chair back and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Fifteen minutes early.
    Hobart waved as he walked out the front door and onto the deck. Robert Swenson returned his greeting by sticking an arm out of the window of his beat-upCadillac. Pulling to a stop next to the Jeep, he jumped out and slammed the door behind him.
    “What the hell’s going on, John? A week ago the Reverend comes into my office and tells me he fired you. You don’t return any of my calls, then I get that cloak and dagger message from you on my voice mail.”
    Hobart ignored his question. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here did you?”
    “Hell, no, your message was pretty clear on that subject. So what’s going on?”
    “Come on in,” Hobart said, turning and starting back into the house. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
    Once inside, Hobart repositioned himself in front of his breakfast and started in on it again. “Can I get you something?” he asked, watching Swenson drag a chair in from the living room.
    “Nah, I grabbed an Egg McMuffin on the way. So what happened?”
    “Nothing all that interesting, Bob. Just got sick of that prima donna, you know? We had it out and he fired me.”
    Swenson shook his head knowingly.
    Hobart had first met Robert Swenson in Vietnam when their Special Forces units had been temporarily combined. After the war was