Boise Longpig Hunting Club, Book 1 by Nick Kolakowski

Author:Nick Kolakowski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

Part III:

My Own Private Idaho

I.

With a bag that stank of mildew over my head, and my hands cuffed behind my back, my options had narrowed to controlling my breathing and trying to hear as much as possible. Tires hummed on a highway. Someone coughed to my left. Brakes squealed as we slowed for an exit.

You can figure out how to save them, I thought. You can buy yourself time. There’s always a chance. Right until the end, there’s always a chance.

My heartbeat slowed. I reviewed those final moments in the field, when rough hands snatched away my rifle and ammo. Squinting against the blinding headlights, I caught a glimpse of masked men in combat gear muscling Janine and Frankie into separate vehicles. No tattoos, no badges, no dog tags, no identifying marks on any of them. My rage was a live thing, ready to kill, and I thrashed against those hands holding my arms until my head exploded with pain and the lights went out.

My daughter was in Montana. Whatever happened here, she would live.

Wouldn’t she?

A heavy operation like this would have no problem executing a kid. I had seen it dozens of times in Iraq. There is a breed of hard men who can pull the trigger on anyone if the mission demands it.

Against the blackness of the hood, I saw scenes from Baghdad. Kicking in doors of empty warehouses to find setups for jihad TV: cloth backdrops dark with Arabic script, crumpled tarps spattered with blood, camera tripods and bright lights positioned to capture every drop of righteous gore. Having your head sawed off on YouTube is a horrible way to die.

Stop drifting off, I thought. Keep your head clear.

The truck stopped. I heard the muffled squeal of brakes as other vehicles halted around us. Strong hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me through an open door. Whispered conversation and the click of metal. I smelled a menthol cigarette. My feet touched gravel, and someone shoved me forward so hard I almost lost my balance.

The cool night air transitioned to a warmer space. A door slammed, and our boots echoed off wood and concrete. The hands pushed me into a hard, uncomfortable chair.

Before I took another breath, my hood whipped away. I blinked rapidly, trying to absorb as many details as possible—dark-oak walls lined with mounted deer and elk heads; a marble fireplace, the mantel heavy with framed daguerreotypes of settlers in wide hats and frocks; and in one corner, an enormous stuffed bear, paws raised in attack. A fat corgi trundled past, sniffing the floorboards as it disappeared through an open doorway to my left.

Not exactly the torture chamber I was expecting.

I tried turning my head to better see the man behind me. “Where am I?” I asked.

“Silence,” he said. It was a voice I recognized but couldn’t quite place.

Into the doorway stepped a middle-aged man: gray hair shaped by an expensive cut, sharp cheekbones, and the sort of gaze that coolly evaluates your worth. His leathery complexion suggested years spent under harsh sunlight.

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