All the Young Warriors Read online

  ALL THE YOUNG WARRIORS

  by

  Anthony Neil Smith

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2011

  copyright 2011 Anthony Neil Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Anthony Neil Smith has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Cover photos: Expert Infantry and Moriza

  Visit Anthony Neil Smith at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-01-9

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-908688-00-2

  Version 2-1-3

  Also by Anthony Neil Smith

  Novels

  Choke On Your Lies

  Hogdoggin'

  Yellow Medicine

  The Drummer

  Psychosomatic

  Novellas

  To the Devil, My Regards (with Victor Gischler)

  Also by Blasted Heath

  Novels

  Dead Money by Ray Banks

  Phase Four by Gary Carson

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson by Douglas Lindsay

  The Man in the Seventh Row by Brian Pendreigh

  Keep informed of new releases by signing up to the Blasted Heath newsletter. We'll even send you a free book by way of thanks!

  ONE

  Couple of cops watched a couple of black guys in a little Korean car slide all over the iced-up road in the middle of a blizzard. Poulson said, "Shit, I don't know if they're drunk or foreigners."

  Holm didn't want to laugh but she couldn't help it sometimes. He phrased things just the right way. Missed his true calling—stand-up comedian. Audience full of white good-ol-boys and he'd bring the roof down.

  Poulson had a point about drunk or foreign. Lots of students from overseas came here for some reason. From Nepal and Kenya, ending up in a farm town of about twelve-thousand in southwest Minnesota. How'd that happen? And then all the Somalians coming over from the Twin Cities, where there were a ton of them. These women in hijabs everywhere. Laundromats. Video stores. Wal-Mart. Working in the grocery stores. They wouldn't touch your pork or your booze, had to call someone over to ring it up.

  Poulson had laughed about it. "I need to try that one day. Paperwork's against my religion."

  "Lutherans are built on paperwork, remember? Nailed to the church door?"

  "Not American Lutherans."

  The car they were watching slid again while trying to stop at the light between the taco shop and the liquor store. Wiggled its tail.

  "Didn't think he was going to make it. See that?"

  Hard enough to see anything. A near whiteout, the snow blowing sideways, piling up against the sides of buildings and all the cars at the dealership, the trees heavy with snow on the west side, starting to bend. A few trucks on the road. The plows weren't out yet but they should've been. Poulson and Holm had pretty much figured it would be a quiet shift. Holm had brought magazines, most of them about raising babies.

  She was three months along and everyone in the department knew it, and they knew it was Ray Bleeker's kid, and they knew Ray Bleeker was twenty years older, unhappily married, and last year's bullshit was already carrying over into the first week of the new one. Still, they had decided to keep the baby and make a go of it. Didn't matter if Ray's wife was going to get half of everything, didn't matter that they worked together.

  The light changed and the car spun its wheels trying to get traction. Finally did and shot forward. The driver hit the brakes and went sideways, pulling it back around before doing a full donut.

  "I think we should light them up." Poulson reached for the shifter.

  "No, I'm sure it's okay. Let them go."

  "I'm just saying—"

  Holm sighed, tossed the parenting tips into the backseat. "Maybe, I don't know, follow them a little. See that they get home okay. But do you really want to get out in this?"

  "Cold air's good for the heart." He shifted into D and inched forward from their shelter on the East side of the abandoned Chinese buffet, shut down for health violations. Shame. Holm was craving their barbecued pork. Soon as they cleared the wall, it felt like a crowd of bodybuilders was pushing the squad car sideways.

  Poulson eased in behind the car, kept a good thirty feet or so between them, but it wasn't like it was hard to tell what was up. Even on a blizzard-free day, they couldn't follow someone in New Pheasant Run without being seen. The town only had two main streets that criss-crossed right before downtown—College and Main. They were on College.

  "Going to be okay, Cindy? Need a break?"

  "Fine, fine. Keep going."

  "When are you taking leave, anyway?"

  "You in a hurry to get rid of me?"

  Poulson blushed. "It'll be hard talking to myself. I don't think they can spare a replacement."

  "I figure a couple of months."

  "Don't I get one more run at you while you still can? God knows you've been teasing me." Smiling.

  "That's enough, alright? Didn't we talk about you laying off on the flirting?"

  "I didn't mean anything—"

  "Ever been with a pregnant woman?"

  "Yeah. I cheated on Jenn with one. She was showing as much as you. Jenn found out and put me in the hospital. I didn't wake up for a day, at least."

  Holm rolled her eyes. Poulson had a great marriage in spite of the fact that both he and Jenn were rotten to the core. Holm would never let Polson take a shot at her, but it was a joke that killed time on patrol. Lately, she'd stopped feeling it so much, didn't want Poulson to get any ideas. But it had been fun to riff on before.

  "Ever see Cool Runnings? The Jamaican bobsled team. That's who these guys remind me of. Look at them."

  Sliding to the curb again, bypassing the stoplight at the corner by shortcutting through the parking lot of a video store. Barely able to make it out the other side because of the snow piling on the low curb.

  "He's going to mess up his car."

  Holm said, "Really? Do we have to?"

  "You betcha. We can at least let them know we're not going to arrest them. Maybe then they'll go home and stop trying to ditch us."

  Holm closed her eyes. The wind was the killer. Snow felt like needles with the Midwest Wind Machine cranked up like this. She could pretend like her back was hurting, or something about the baby, then Poulson would probably let her stay in the squad. The cozy and warm squad car. He would never ask, but if she were to even hint at it, he'd cave.

  That wasn't fair. If she started crying for sympathy, well, it was bye-bye Cool Cindy and hello Bitchy Holm around the office. Sure, they say they want equality, but when you get down to it…

  She snugged on her winter hat, earflaps brushing her ears, making her nearly deaf. Zipped up her coat, which didn't help much. Anything bulkier and they'd have trouble grabbing cuffs, pepper spray, gun.

  Poulson did the same, gave her a wink before he hit the lights. "Baby's first traffic stop."

  *

  The car turned a corner, correctly using the blinker, before coming to a stop next to the empty, long-for-sale plot of land behind the Burger King, along a road that led to the small college campus. It was a no man's land between cookie cutter town houses and a rehab halfway house.

  Holm had trouble opening the door. The wind grabbed it from her hands, slung it open farther than it should've. Snow already biting her face. She put on her gloves, climbed out, and fought to close the
door again. Poulson was standing opposite, puffing out his chest and taking in deep breaths like this was his favorite time of year. Holm knew it wasn't. Poulson was more of an Autumn guy. So was nearly everybody. Ray Bleeker, though, he was a true winter guy. Ice fishing, deep woods hunting, snowmobiling. Cold was in Bleeker's blood. Holm was trying to share some of her Spring love with him—gardens and sunshine and birds, oh my.

  The Korean car's brakelights were still flaming red. Holm had called in the tag number, got back a hit on a rental under the name Jimmy Quick, so that didn't help. Rented in Minneapolis. Not a local after all.

  Holm eased up on the passenger side, a few steps behind Poulson's approach on the driver. He did his thing—easy-going, joking. No big deal.

  "You guys having a little trouble with the ice?"

  "Sorry. It's a new car. Still getting used to it."

  She caught the passenger's face in the sideview. Young guy, trying to grow a beard. Not decked out like a gangsta, so that was good. Nervous blinking.

  Poulson kept on, smiling. "Just so you know, it's not the same as racing a dune-buggy across the desert. One little patch of slick here, and you're gone."

  He bent down closer to the driver. Sniffing for alcohol or weed, Holm knew. Trying to find some reason to haul these two guys in. She set her jaw. C'mon. That meant searching the car. That meant more time out in the wind, and she already couldn't see the closest buildings. Only their smudgy lights. Her teeth were starting to hurt. Another couple of minutes was all she could take.

  "You guys been drinking tonight?"

  "We don't drink."

  "Nothing?"

  "No sir. Nothing."

  He thought about it for a minute. Nodded. "Okay, I can buy that. So what are you doing over here? You own this car?"

  "No, I rented it."

  "Good, good. So what's up?"

  "I drove over to see a friend. We had dinner. I'm taking him home now."

  "Looked to me like you were heading out of town. Where does your friend live?"

  "It's not far."

  "That's not what I asked, though. You weren't going to head out to Minneapolis in this, right? You'll get blown off the road."

  Holm tapped on the passenger's window. He stiffened. Made eye contact. She motioned to roll the window down. He did, an inch, flinching at the snow.

  "ID, please?"

  He shrugged. "I left my wallet at home."

  "Uh huh."

  She finally got a better look at the driver. He was the one decked out in hip-hop, head to toe. A hoodie covering his head—in the car. The worst place to wear a hoodie, right? Couldn't see side to side. He turned to check what was going on with his passenger, and she saw the scars. Knife scar on one cheek up to his temple. The rest were acne. Eyes reminded her of a snake, the way he held them. Compared to him, the passenger was angelic, practically glowing.

  Poulson said, "So, Mr. Quick, let's see a license and proof of insurance, to make it official."

  "Please, no. Please don't arrest us."

  "Hey, nobody said anything about arresting you. Still need to see a license, son."

  "We didn't do anything. It's the car. Not good in the snow."

  Poulson raised all five-foot-eleven of himself up to full height, glanced across at Holm. She knew he was feeling the tingle, same as her, the one they got when things were about to turn shaky on them. Poulson said, "Okay, step out of the vehicle. We need to talk some more."

  "Please, sir, it's not far."

  Holm caught movement. Why hadn't Poulson told the kid to keep his hands in sight? His right was down in his seat. He started to lift it, but the passenger grabbed his arm and seethed through his teeth, "Jibriil, god, no!"

  Holm went for her pistol, started shouting, "Don't move! Don't move!" Fumbly with her gloves on. Goddamn it. She stepped backwards. "Don't move! Hands where I can see them! Now!"

  Poulson still didn't quite get it. He'd stepped back and pulled his S&W, but hadn't picked up on why Holm freaked.

  She said, "The driver's got a gun! The driver's got a gun!"

  The driver yanked his arm free and Poulson's eyes went wide.

  She fired. Caught her glove in the slide. Sliced right through. Bullet went ting off the top of the car, then through the window. Thinking, My baby my baby my baby as she stumbled and ended up on the ground. Gun in both hands. She couldn't do that. Needed one for her radio.

  That fast—three seconds? Five? The shots. Six in a row. Poulson taking them standing until the last two punched through his skull. The pink and red mist bloomed and then raced off in the wind.

  Holm grabbed for her radio, fingers numb. "Officer down! Officer down!" Location, unit, all that. Shouting. Keeping her sights trained on the spot that kid would show up if he stepped out of the car. Steady. Hand shaking. Steady.

  Maybe they would leave. Come on. Take off already.

  But then the driver's side door opened, and the driver's head rose into her line of fire, and she squeezed the trigger. Had no idea where the bullet went. She kept squeezing, but the kid was already crouched out of sight.

  She heard screaming from the passenger. He had opened his door, but hadn't gotten out. Hands high. "No, no, let's go now! What are you doing? This is bad, man, it's bad."

  Holm shifted her aim to the passenger, shouted, "Freeze! Out and down on the ground! Now!"

  The passenger ducked into the car.

  She turned to the driver.

  But he'd already found a good angle and popped off three more.

  They were hot shots where her skin had gone hard and cold. Burned. The only good being that they were probably nines, and probably full-jackets, cheap-ass target shooting shit, passing right on through instead of mushrooming, fragmenting, tearing holes like craters in her body.

  But then she figured out where she'd been hit: Leg once. Leg twice. Guts. Guts as in womb.

  She wailed, hand straight to her stomach. Where'd it go in? Where was the blood? Maybe it missed the baby. It had to miss. She felt nauseous. Bile coming up fast. She swallowed it back. Where were the sirens? It was a small town after all. How long had it been? A minute? More?

  She tried to lift her gun. Couldn't even do that. If she strained enough, she could get it up there. Took a shot in the driver's direction. Like it did any good. She scooted back again and the pain turned up the volume. She tried to stand, failed. Tried to open her squad door. The wind took it and flung it, hitting her in the cheek and ripping away skin. Bruised her arm bad. The pistol went flying.

  She picked up the mike and said "Officers down" and then there were a whole bunch of people suddenly. EMTs and officers and deputies, finishing off the kids in the car before turning to save Poulson's life, then Holm's. Then Ray was there, standing over her, holding her hand. Lots of "You'll be okay" and "Just in time" and "The baby's fine".

  But then something jarred her leg, sending a shock all over. She opened her eyes. She'd been dreaming the rescue. Fading out and dreaming her own rescue.

  The driver looked down on her, kicked her leg again. The passenger's voice in the background yelling, "Leave her alone, man. She didn't do anything. Why did you even have a gun?"

  "Cause you never know where your enemies might find you."

  "They were just cops! They were going to let us go!"

  Still staring down at Holm, cheap Hi-Point nine in his grip. "You that stupid, college boy? They weren't going to do shit except take us to jail. We can't let them stop us now. Got to catch that plane."

  "You didn't need a gun. We're dead now. All cops, everywhere. They're going to kill us."

  Holm wanted to say something. Wanted to tell them it was hopeless. They would never get out of town. But something about the driver told her otherwise. He was going to get away with it. Killing Poulson, herself, the baby, and he was going to skate. So unfair.

  Driver lifted his chin. "Ain't going to kill us tonight. Allah's got other plans."

  Holm blinked. The nine was barely a foot away from
her face.

  She thought she heard the blast…

  Then saw a beautiful baby girl, hair in barrettes, wearing a yellow and white spring dress. Taking her first steps in a field of green, her daddy helping her stand, mommy cheering her on. What a smile. The best smile she would ever see.

  And then the sound of a Korean coupe driving away while sirens wailed closer. The snow scoured away the town's usual assy smell—cow manure, sugar beets, and soybean processing. The snow filled her open mouth. It tasted clean.

  So much snow.

  TWO

  Only four people knew where to find Ray Bleeker when he went ice-fishing, and one of them was dead. His buddy Forrest, who he'd known since his Army days in the Nineties, had died last fall. Cancer. Guy was only forty-eight and had seen it coming for a year. Their last fishing trip, seven months before he died, Forrest told Bleeker it was going to happen. Hard to believe, the guy still in fighting shape by then, if a little more tired and a little more bald thanks to the chemo. He'd told Bleeker that he would like his ashes spread in the lake where they fished, but on the condition that he wait until it was frozen over.

  So that's what Bleeker was up to the night of the blizzard. Forrest's widow was supposed to come with, but by then she'd already met a new guy and her kids were sick and, you know, "How about you take his ashes and do it yourself? I've had five months to mourn him, and it's time to move on."

  Fine.

  The lake was seventy miles northeast. The weather sucked, but Bleeker needed this. Needed to get away from the heat at home, still living with the wife he'd already asked for a divorce. He'd only told her about Cindy Holm and the baby not even a month ago. Cindy had kind of forced his hand. But if that's what it took, then there you go. He was ready to make a break and start over again.

  He hooked up Forrest's ice-fishing shack, now his, to the back of his 1996 Buick Roadmaster. What a car. It could tow an elephant. He'd only put eighty-four thousand miles on it in fourteen years. Looked as clean as the day he'd bought it.