Free Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island by Jason Frost - Warlord 05 Page A

think.”
    Fallows ignored the implication. “That’s the mark of a good soldier. Reaction. Muscle memory. The body moving before the mind slows it down.”
    Tim shrugged. “It’s done.”
    “Yes, it’s done. Now what?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Do you keep fighting me, or do you join me? Accept that it’s better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.”
    “John Milton said that. My dad taught me.”
    “What would he answer to that?”
    Tim thought a moment. “Probably that it’s better to rule in heaven.”
    Fallows laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly what he would say.” Then Fallows’ face went grim. “But he was always overambitious. In trying to doublecross me, in trying to protect his family, in trying to get you back.” Fallows stood up. “My ambitions are more modest. But they come true.”
    Tim didn’t say anything. There was truth to what Fallows said. But it felt like a trap, a possible checkmate in three moves.
    “We’re going back into San Diego again. We have enough gold for now. I think maybe it’s time to get you a woman. Interested?”
    Tim turned away. How many nights had he listened while the others had taken women (and sometimes boys) in their tents. Sometimes he heard the moans of pleasure, sometimes the shrieks of pain and terror, depending on the mood of the men and how rough they were. At first they had kept Tim tied up, now they let him roam about, though there was always one or two men keeping him in sight. Tim had to admit, there were times when he felt an urge, a need to be next to a girl.
    “You can decide later,” Fallows said. “Meantime, you’ll need this.” He took his Walther out of his holster and tossed it to Tim. Tim caught it by the grip. The last time Fallows had given him a gun, Tim had fired at Fallows. But the gun had been empty, a trick. Now Tim just held it. “It’s loaded,” Fallows assured him. “If you shot me now, there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it.”
    Tim looked at the gun. The clip was in. But were there any bullets in the clip? Perhaps Fallows had a sniper in the brush with his sights trained on Tim’s back.
    “Go ahead, Tim. Check the clip.”
    Tim released the clip. It was full. He slapped it back into the grip. The firing pin could be busted, he thought.
    Fallows laughed, as if he could read Tim’s mind. “Shoot it at a tree. It works.”
    But Tim knew it would fire. He knew the gun was perfect, he could tell from the look in Fallows’ eyes. He could shoot him right now, kill him. Then why didn’t he?
    Checkmate.
    “It’s yours now, Tim,” Fallows said, turning his back and walking toward the camp.
    Tim watched him go. He thought about shooting, but the gun seemed so damn heavy, impossible to lift. Then Fallows was gone.
    Tim stuffed the gun in his waistband and followed Fallows back to camp.

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9
     
    Eric kicked the wire cage. It flexed but did not break. Next door they could hear the frantic chatter of monkeys hooting and scampering around their own cage. Eric kicked the wire mesh again and the monkeys’ voices rose excitedly.
    “Think they’re laughing at us?” D.B. asked, sitting in the corner.
    “Why not?” Eric said. “I am.”
    He continued to explore the small room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet. The other three walls of their prison were beige cement, too solid to break through. He tested the strength of the wire mesh again, then inspected the small feeding door at the back of the cage. The whole building was a series of such rooms, each facing out so the spectators could walk all the way around the building viewing the different types of monkeys.
    “What now, bwanna?” D.B. asked.
    Eric was on hands and knees, rapping on the feeding door, looking for weaknesses. “Maybe you could lead us all in a rousing chorus of ‘We Shall Overcome.’ ”
    “I’d like to overcome this smell. Christ, what do these apes do?”
    “Guess.”
    She made a face. “Yuck. I thought they were supposed