White Wasteland, Jeff Kirkham [ebook reader with highlight function TXT] 📗

up—demons and all—to his wife, Tara. Evan Hafer, now out on patrol, counted as a true friend as well. Thinking of Evan reminded Jeff of the old saying, “A good friend will help you move. A great friend will help you move the bodies.” Jeff smiled. He and Evan had literally moved some bodies together.

If Jeff were completely honest with himself, he could count his true friends on two fingers: Tara and Evan. He and Jason Ross had been moving down that road, making their way toward the short list. Something had recently shifted, though, and Jeff couldn’t put his finger on it. Ross had gone murky.

Jeff had seen it before; combat changed a man, almost always for the worse. Jason Ross had recently killed men in combat and had gone a little overboard, maybe crossing the redline when he smoked all those Tongan guys during the big battle with the gangbangers. Some of what Ross had done in that fight might be mistaken for murder, though Jeff knew from personal experience that there was no “murder” in the middle of a fight for your life. Even so, Ross might not be aware of that fact. If he thought he had killed men dishonorably, that might explain the murkiness. Murder sat heavy on a man’s soul.

On top of the Tongans, Jeff had suspicions about how that Masterson asshole from the neighborhood had died on his own front lawn. Masterson had proven himself a Class A douchebag, and he’d been working hard on screwing things up and costing the Homestead innocent lives. He’d been doing everything in his power to cock up cooperation between the Homestead and the Mormon neighborhood. Then, out of the blue, a rifle bullet ended Masterson’s time on earth. It’d been a long shot, 500 meters at least. They had blamed it on a random trespasser, but Jeff had his doubts.

No question, Masterson’s death had been fortunate for the Homestead—restoring the cooperative atmosphere once that scheming asshole Masterson was out of the way.

A 500 meter shot, though, was probably beyond the ability of a half-starved hunter, and they never found the actual shooter. Jeff couldn’t say for sure, but he’d put his money on Ross. Strange as it might sound, the leader of the Homestead might have taken it upon himself to end the Masterson threat. Hell, Jeff would’ve probably done the same thing if he’d thought of it.

If Ross ventilated Masterson, that would count as one more murder on Ross’ list, and long-shooting a man was a lot more personal than chewing through enemy combatants in the heat of battle. Eyeballing a dude through your scope then blowing his heart out his back—very few men came away from that thinking straight. Some never thought straight again.

Then there was the kid he’d shot. Maybe that most of all.

Jason Ross had a blue-on-blue kill on his conscience like a tick burrowing under a saddle. Jeff had investigated the scene after the fact. Ross had been in a fight-for-his-life, struggling alone to repulse several waves of attackers, all hell-bent on gaining access to the gun vault. Somewhere in that close-quarters battle, Ross shot through the crowd and killed a Homestead teenager.

Jeff couldn’t speak from experience—he’d never killed one of his own men—but he guessed that an accidental killing of a friendly screwed with a man’s mind more than all the other dark shadows of combat combined. In the SOF world, any kind of firearm mistake generally ended the career of the shooter even if nobody got hurt. In combat, when entropy roamed on a pretty long leash, he’d seen a few occasions where blue-on-blue situations had been swept under the rug. Nobody felt particularly inclined to assign blame, play-by-play, after a battle. Everyone in war knew, given the chaos, mistakes happen. Friendly-fire incidents were routinely chalked up to the fog of war.

In Ross’ case, he’d been the only shooter who could have killed the Chapman kid. Part of Jeff wished there had been a little ambiguity; a bit of doubt so Ross could at least wonder if he’d been culpable. If there had been two Homestead defenders that morning down in the vault, then maybe everyone could have just let the thing go, never knowing who’d been responsible. Lord knew, the mob battle in the Homestead had been the most-chaotic fight Jeff had ever seen.

A blue-on-blue kill, though, no matter how understanding the kid’s mom had been and no matter how forgiving the Homestead had been of the incident, would hang around Ross like a scarlet letter.

Jeff concluded that Ross had taken a tumble, ass first, down the stress well. It wasn’t a surprise, but it worried him that Ross had gone subterranean with the guilt. Jeff hoped he talked to someone about the killing. Ross moved like a man haunted; a man in the process of undoing himself.

Jeff recognized the signs. Oversleeping. Sloppiness. Inability to take criticism.

Giving Ross guff about his kit had been a test. He noticed Ross’ missing vest and it set off alarm bells. When he challenged Ross about it, the response had been typical of a man struggling with his confidence: defensiveness, making excuses, displaying weakness. He would’ve preferred it if Ross had told him to screw off.

Jeff turned back to glassing the MRAPs. He had demons of his own—his dream-self was running a funky drama behind the curtain. He couldn’t control his own subconscious currents and it wasn’t a sensation he enjoyed at all. He hadn’t ever experienced his mind running its own agenda, outside his direct control. But Jeff still knew exactly what was real and what was dreamland. He wouldn’t let it effect his performance.

Ross, on the other hand, needed to be watched closely. Sometimes the demons rose up in a man and started making their own decisions. As far as the Homestead was concerned, Jeff couldn’t allow it. He could give it a week. Maybe two. Sometime soon he would need to pull Ross off the steering wheel, if for