Free The Nameless Dead by Paul Johnston Page B

empty and there was a dull ache in my right shoulder. By the time I got to my feet, Quincy had scoped the target.
    ‘Very funny, motherfucker,’ he said, this time paying no attention to the men behind him.
    I tried not to laugh. ‘I thought you’d like it.’
    He handed me the binoculars. I was impressed. Although the legs were a bit uneven, I’d managed to shoot a decent outline of the human form around the charging infantryman image on the target. The oversize heart that I’d put on the chest was unmistakable.
    ‘What was that Woody Allen film?’ I asked. ‘There was a loudmouthed black sergeant in that, too.’
    Quincy Jerome gave me the eye big-time.
    ‘I remember. Love and Death .’
    ‘Asshole,’ said the big man.
    The other soldiers only just succeeded in keeping their faces straight.
    I decided to move things along. ‘Can I have a go with the shotgun now?’ I asked, pointing at the Mossberg.
    ‘No, Mr. Wells, you cannot,’ Quincy said, relieving me of the M16. ‘That isn’t included in your program.’ He turned away. ‘I just decided.’
     
    I found Karen on the sofa, the laptop on her chest.
    ‘Guess what?’ I said, after I’d kissed her.
    She gave me a languid glance. ‘You shot a perfect score?’
    ‘More or less,’ I replied, deflated. Then I had a worrying thought. Could my ability with the firearms have something to do with the Rothmanns’ conditioning? I had been a reasonable shot in the past, but I’d never done anything like I had on the range today. Maybe the same went for my unarmed combat skills. It wasn’t unlikely. The Rothmanns had trained people to become top-class warriors, as the mayhem in the cathedral in Washington had shown. Then an even worse idea came to me. What if the combat skills, lurking deep in my subconscious, actually freed up more trigger words formerly hidden? I decided not to share those fears with Karen.
    Her due date was still a few days away, but the obstetrician had told us the baby could come any time. She preferred to be horizontal, even though the doctor recommended that she keep active, and she lost her breath easily. She hadn’t said anything, but I knew she was wishing things would get underway. Still, first babies were often latecomers—I remembered that from my daughter Lucy, nearly a week overdue.
    ‘What are you looking at?’
    She pursed her lips. ‘Have you read about these murders?’
    I shouldn’t have been surprised. Karen was a homicide detective at heart, despite the fact that she’d been working on financial crime before the kidnapping, and she wouldn’t let a little thing like childbirth distract her from her calling. I had seen the stories, which had become a lot more high profile with the poor woman in Boston, who had been stripped naked, defenestrated and daubed with the title of Adolf Hitler’s repulsive book.
    ‘The FBI isn’t confirming anything, but some reporters think there are now three in a series with hate crimes elements.’
    ‘The others being in Manhattan and north of Detroit.’
    ‘I might have known you’d be keeping up-to-date. Do you think the bastard Heinz Rothmann’s behind them?’
    ‘It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. There could easily be another brainwashed killer out there.’ Before the attack on the President, there had been a series of so-called ‘occult killings’ in Washington D.C., which were linked to the Rothmanns. There was no guarantee that all the conditioned subjects had been caught at the National Cathedral.
    Karen closed the laptop and shifted her bulk gingerly. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that Peter Sebastian is here rather than at his desk at FBI headquarters?’
    ‘Did he say something to you?’
    ‘Not about the murders, no. He was very interested in you, though.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Oh, how you were getting on with Dr. Rivers and Sergeant Jerome, that kind of thing.’
    Concern stirred in my gut. Then I saw how tired she was, her eyes