Free Fallback by Lori Whitwam Page B

to Anton to take up position on the near side. I stayed back in case there were more people or weapons we didn’t know about.
    “I’m going to step in now. Show me your hands, and don’t make any sudden moves, or my buddy here will put one right between your eyes.” What little I knew about Anton indicated he was a cold bastard, and I knew if he decided he had to shoot, he wouldn’t hesitate.
    Marcus took a quick peek around the doorframe, then stepped cautiously through, Anton close on his heels, rifle in the ready position. I stepped around the cluster of weapons and followed.
    The room contained an un-made bed—presumably the source of the sheet—along with a dresser and a round side table, beside which the chair barricade had most likely sat. In the center of the room stood a tall, blond man with his arms extended straight out to his sides. I estimated him around 6’1”, and his worn t-shirt clung to broad shoulders and thick biceps. I guessed his hair must be long, as it was drawn back and secured behind his head, a few loose strands falling around his face. Jeans hung on lean hips, and a short beard followed the curve of his jaw.
    Stop staring, Ellen. He could be about to try to kill you.
    “Name,” Marcus barked, machete in his hand, while Anton kept the gun pointed directly at the man’s face.
    “Ty,” the man said, his lips tight and eyes flat with anger. “Tyler Garrett.”
    Lowering his machete but not sheathing it, Marcus asked, “Where you from, Mr. Garrett?”
    Tyler dropped his head back for a second before looking at us, gaze lingering on me before returning to Marcus. “Listen, can I put my hands down? My weapons are in the hall, and I did go to a lot of effort to let you know what was in here without making a racket and getting those dead bastards all stirred up.”
    Marcus made a circular motion with the tip of his blade. “Turn around, real slow. If I don’t see anything worrisome, we’ll talk.”
    Tyler started a cautious turn to his right, proving my hunch about long hair correct. Anton never lowered his gun. As Tyler’s right hip rotated into view, Anton roared, “Knife!” The butt of the rifle was braced at his shoulder and his finger was tightening around the trigger in an instant.
    “Whoa!” Marcus yelled. “Freeze, everybody.”
    Everybody froze, but Anton didn’t look happy about it.
    “Down,” Marcus ordered. “Flat on your belly. Arms out.”
    Tyler dropped to his knees, then to his stomach, and stretched his arms to his sides. The bead of Anton’s sights never wavered from his skull.
    “Ellen.”
    At Marcus’ nod, I warily approached the prone man and slowly reached for the wooden handle protruding from his back pocket. I did not examine his ass. Much. I withdrew the object, revealing a blade about two and a half inches long, with an odd sideways curl at the tip. I supposed you could do some damage with it, but it didn’t look particularly dangerous.
    “What the…?” Marcus sounded baffled.
    Tyler angled his cheek on the floor so he could see Marcus. “I forgot that was there. It’s a hoof knife, that’s all. I carry it all the time. It’s a tool, not a weapon.”
    “Anything can be a weapon,” Anton snarled.
    “It’s a tool,” Tyler insisted. “I’m a blacksmith. I shoe a lot of horses. I carry it like anybody else might a pen or a flashlight or a set of keys. Never even crossed my mind when you said ‘weapons.’”
    That’s what the hammer in the hall was. A blacksmith hammer. I’d seen one on a school trip to the Shaker village in Pleasant Hill when I was in high school. Which felt like a million years ago at the moment.
    Once satisfied the man didn’t have anything else even vaguely weapon-ish, Marcus allowed him to sit, but not yet stand, and called down to tell the rest of the group inside the house they could go outside, but stay close. Dropping into a crouch against the wall beside the door, he said, “Anton, gun down.”
    Anton