The Calling: chapter 1

The cabin lay at the bottom of a valley, surrounded by oaks and pine trees and dense brush. Thin wisps of smoke wafted from the chimney, but the shack appeared dark on the inside.  The men stayed out of sight.  They parked the SUV on the dirt road, maybe a quarter of a mile away from the valley’s rim.  The forest, once alive with chirping birds and scampering wildlife, fell silent as the two intruders faced each other.

“One more word and I will knock your teeth in.”  Chest out, shoulders back, and fists clinched, Toby Macklin, without provocation, without fear, and without much common sense, stepped in to Cort’s personal space.  “I promise you.  Come on.  Say something.”

The bull of a man wore a blue hooded sweatshirt over a gray T-shirt. The sleeves were pushed up to expose his veiny and muscular forearms. His right forearm displayed, in greenish blue ink, the word T-Mack, the moniker he gave himself during his Arena football days.  So convinced of his impending route to athletic fame and fortune, he licensed the word so that, when he hit it big, he could market the name and sell beer, detergent, or cars in commercials. Up to this point, however, he would have made a better spokesman for steroids.  The Arena league went bottom up two years after he signed.  So here he was.

The top of Nathan Cort’s head almost cleared the physically imposing Macklin’s massive shoulders, though fear wasn’t the reason he stayed silent.  If you knew Cort, you would know that this isn’t the first time someone has had strong negative feelings about him.
You could say he was used to it.

Keeping eye contact, he made a show holding out his empty hands as he casually reached into the right pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a pack of smokes.  Cort hadn’t smoked in fifteen years.  He always kept a pack on him as a prop, something to do with his hands to look preoccupied.  He needed his hands elevated and brought to the center of his body mass.

As he, with two fingers, fished a cigarette from the beaten pack, he glance down at the manila file folder that Toby threw to the ground moments before.  He bought the cig and the hand with the pack up to his lips.

“Calm down, Toby,” Cort said flatly. 

Before he finished saying “Toby”, a furious roundhouse punch was on its way.  With his hands already up, he dropped his cigs.  He stepped back from the blow, so the big fist passed him, then he shot his arm out and latched onto T-Mack’s wrist, yanking him off-balance in the direction of the swing.  With Macklin’s weight on his front foot and Cort pivoting around to his back but still gripping the wrist with this right, Nathan punched the back of the big man’s shoulder with the flat of his left hand and drove him, face-first, into a tree.  Maintaining the pressure, Cort had the choice of breaking his arm at the elbow or shoulder.

“Listen, the old man asked me to do this as a favor.  I am in no mood.”  Cort whispered, “You read that file?”  Nathan didn’t let him answer.  “Says he’s a former green beret sniper.”

“Says he’s sixty.” Toby groaned.  “Peeing my pants, I am so scared.”

“Only means he’s survived more than a few scrapes.”  The lack of respect ate at Cort in a big way.  “You walk down there, right now, like this?  Go ahead, let him blow your head off so I can smile for the first time in six hours.”

“Let . . . Go.”  T-Mack strained under Nathan’s grip.

“Pick up the file.”  Cort released him.  “Don’t forget my cigarettes.”

He led Macklin farther into the trees.  They needed a route into the valley with more cover.  The darkening of the northern Michigan sky couldn‘t arrive too soon for his liking.  And if Toby could somehow not stomp through the woods like an elephant in heat, that would help matters as well.  Slowly his mind turned to the task at hand.

Cort had the contents of the file memorized. The relevant facts surfaced in his mind. Lloyd Henderson. Two tours in Viet Nam. Ranked an expert with a rifle or edged weapon. Thirty-three confirmed kills in the bush. Honorable discharge in 1976. The file ended abruptly with brief descriptions of post-military employment. A stint of factory work. Security guard position at a Kmart.

The rest was not in the folder, but Cort could fill in the blanks himself. This man came home as a hero, with exceptional but impractical peacetime skills, gained from a place that granted him responsibility, respect, and reward, to live out his years in a very different world. A warrior without a war.

He could, to a certain degree, sympathize. Having some of the same training, he had often felt out of place in the private sector, but he knew that war never really went away. He had the foreign bank accounts to prove it.

According to the file, the old man, out of the goodness of his heart, let the former sniper and his daughter lay low at the cabin while some issues Henderson had with some unfriendly people cooled.  Then, communications had suddenly been cut off.  Emails were not returned.  Care packages were left untouched at the monthly drop site.  Old man Jordan worried that they were found.  But there was also the issue of Henderson’s sanity.

It had been a month or so since Jordan’s last contact with his rather deadly tenant.  In their last communication, Jordan said he felt a change in Lloyd. An indescribable change. He feared for the girl’s safety.

Cort had his suspicions but kept them to himself.  Macklin simply looked at this as more dirty work. Take out the trash and be home in time to work out. Build up his pecks. Do some squats. Flex in front of the mirror.

“You awake?”

Cort snapped to. “Almost time.” He was really just stalling. Trying to put some pieces together, he fell into the quiet again for another ten minutes.

Macklin pulled his Beretta from his shoulder holster. He handled it like a kid with a new toy, pulled back the slide, ejected the magazine, and slammed it back home. Cort’s SIG had not left his hip holster, underneath his jacket, since he put it there and it would not touch it until he needed it.  Cort looked daggers at him for the racket he caused.  “Shhh.”

They walked around the outer rim of the valley until Nathan found a path down that provided some cover. Even then, as they descended, they were careful where they stepped and mindful of their visibility. The growing darkness shielded them only to a point. Weaving in and out of the pine trees, they moved as quickly as they could without making too much noise.

Cort then noticed a slight glow from inside the cabin. Candles, or possibly just the flame from the fireplace. He held his arm up to signal T-Mack to stop. No shadows or evidence of movement around the light. Had their presence been detected?

They continued their descent.

“I think he knows we are here,” Cort whispered as they moved.

“What? How is that?”

“Something doesn’t seem right,” he said as they stepped closer to the cabin.  He looked up at a sky that was not so dark as it was gray. The ground was a carpet of leaves, twigs and pine needles over damp dirt. And the wooden shack sat silent.

As they continued their approach, Nathan instructed, “Cover the front door. Do not enter. I am going around to check the windows. Have your flashlight ready but don‘t use it til you need it.”  Cort shed his jacket and set it on the ground where he stood.

“OK, Dad,” T-Mack breathed. “You gonna cut my veggies for me too?”

Cort did not give him a second glance as he headed for the west side of the cabin, holding his SIG in his right hand and pulling his maglite from the holder on his belt with his left.

All he could think about was that Henderson somehow had the drop on them. That he somewhere had a trap set. Worse yet, he had absolutely no basis for this feeling. It was pure instinct. He hated that.

The window on the west side of the dwelling was cracked and dirty. With the sleeve of his coat, he wiped a thin stripe in the dirty glass. Cort wanted to avoid bringing his face into view from within the home as much as he could so he peeked from an angle. It was, as he predicted, a one-room cabin. Looking into the back portion of the building, the faint glow from the fireplace revealed what he thought was the foot of a bed and bookcase. Through squinted eyes, he concentrated on the mass of darkness in the far corner of the shack. Where are you? What have you done with the girl?

Suddenly, Cort’s eye caught the flash of light from the opposite side of the room. He ducked down instantly and popped up at the other side of the window sill. The glow of the fireplace reflected off from the metal door knob and the flash came from someone turning it. Macklin.

He was just about to give T-Mack an attitude adjustment when he noticed something about the door knob. The knob had a line attached to it that ran up the side of the door.

After quickly holstering his weapon, Cort bolted from the window. He almost lost his footing as he charged around the corner of the building. “No, Macklin!,” he said extending his voice above a whisper.

T-Mack, standing on the front porch, just sneered and pressed on the door. His gun at the ready.

Cort kept coming. From four yards away, he left his feet. He hit Macklin high and the force of impact carried both of them off the porch and clear of the shotgun blast. Large and small bits of wood exploded from the center of the door. The obliterated cabin door barely hung on its hinges.

They landed hard, Cort on top of T-Mack, in some high brush growing next to the cabin. Macklin’s gun came loose from his grip and disappeared into the bush. Nathan instinctually drew his weapon while rolling onto his back. He trained the sight on the jagged remnants of the front door, waiting for Henderson for come barreling out.

Cort, through years of training, knew how to control his breathing in high stress situations. Much of the time, his heart rate barely quickened. This was the case as he kept his weapon raised and stared at the door. His hearing became more acute. He mentally sorted all the sounds that his ears picked up. The flapping wings of birds above, spooked by the noise and sudden movement. Rustling brush and cursing of T-Mack as he, on his hands and knees, frantically searched the ground for his lost weapon. What he didn’t pick up was movement within the cabin or behind him, footsteps, or the distinctive sounds of the metal parts of a rifle sliding into place.

He slowly sat up.  His SIG scanned the area for targets. He bent his knees and vaulted himself to his feet with a free hand. His steps were purposeful and swift. Nathan stopped short of the door and motioned for Macklin to be still with a violent waving motion of his left hand, like he was shooing a fly. Elbow-deep in the tangled thicket, the big man fell silent.

Going through a door was a tricky exercise in any tactical situation. More commonly, he was protected by the element of surprise. The stupid ape called Macklin ruined that.

He had to choose between aggression and patience. Knowing that Henderson, and his sniper school training would have the upper hand in a waiting game, the mercenary adjusted his grip on his weapon slightly and bolted forward.

Cort pulled up just short of the entrance. Jutting his head in and out of the doorway with quick thrusts, peeking between the shattered pieces of wood that used to be the front door, he finally noticed the chair, nailed to the floor, 6 feet away inside. A twelve gauge shotgun was mounted upside down on the seat, secured by duct tape and propped up with a block of wood. He had seen this set-up before. Fishing line or wire or any sort of cord would be wrapped around the trigger and run across the threshold, creating a tripwire.

With an increased burst of strength courteously of the adrenaline pumping through his body, Cort batted the wrecked door out of his way and immediately scanned the dimly lit room with his SIG and flashlight leading the way, all the while careful to avoid more tripwires. His movements were fluid, almost graceful, as he twisted and spun his body left and right to check the corners of the room with his beam. Satisfied, he turned toward the bed in the back of the room.

As he approached through the shadows, the lump on the bed took shape. From a lump to a figure. From a figure to a body. Cort feared the worst. The Girl.




With darkness crowding in, T-Mack found it increasingly difficult to locate his black gun in the bushes. His fingers dug at the earth underneath, pulling up weeds and roots, but no weapon. He felt safer with his weapon and he didn’t want Cort to see the clear panic in his face. He mentally chided himself for letting that remain so obvious.

Maddening thoughts flitted in and out of his mind. Jordan led him to believe that he was in charge of the operation. Cort was mere back-up. . . . . The old man had his trust in him . . . . but this was no way to keep it. The man he rode in with was some sort of ringer or something. . . . The way he moved. . .

Toby rubbed the sweat from his neck as bugs and mosquitoes gnawed at his flesh.

His fingers finally wrapped around something familiar. He pulled his beretta out of the weeds. He had the urge to kiss it. Instead, still on his knees, he petted it firmly, knocking the vines and dirt off from the weapon.

He would use it to get the truth out of Cort. That is, he would have, if he had seen the flash of metal a little sooner.

Toby barely had time to cry out.




Cort peeled the blood-soaked sheet away from the body. The blood had almost congealed so it was thick and sticky, like jelly, and made a sickening sound as the sheet was removed. The beam of his flashlight revealed a new laceration with every sweep. The eyes had been cut. A cheek had been punctured. The abdomen and the groin were attacked with equal ferocity. Pants pulled down around the knees. No shoes.

Nathan barely recognized Lloyd Henderson.

The gore of the scene didn’t shock him.  From various skirmishes overseas and at home, he had learned of the harshness and cruelty the world could dole out. The difference here was that Henderson was far from a helpless man. Lloyd looked to have been ravaged almost systematically, following the standard kill zones of the human body.  But then suddenly, the wounds became personal.  Henderson was butchered.  Cort guessed a six inch blade.

The inspection of the body was interrupted by sounds of struggle outside. Instinctually, his hand went to the holster on his hip. In less than three seconds, he had his gun drawn and covering the entrance. The air, slightly more chilled than when they first arrived, felt like electricity coursing over his skin.

Cort didn’t like the games being played. Someone had the jump on him. The thought that he had no idea what he was up against bothered him to no end.

He released the two-handed grip on his SIG long enough to grab his flashlight again from his belt. He held the light inverted, in his left hand, like he would a dagger, and rested the left wrist on top of the wrist of his gun hand. From the door way of the cabin, he swept from left to right with his gun and light until the beam rested on the bulk of Macklin’s massive torso which sprouted up out of the weeds like a mountain.

As Cort approached, he noted that Macklin was lying on his back, arms flung outward. His eyes rolled up toward his eye brows, like he was trying to spot something on his own forehead. Toby’s jaw was agape and wet with fresh blood. Usher lowered the beam two more inches to reveal that T-Mack’s throat had been flayed open from ear to ear. The front of his T-shirt, as revealed in the beam of his flashlight, looked like it was affixed with a brilliant red bib as the blood soaked into the fabric, turning it a darker shade of gray as the beam swept away, back toward the face.

Upon closer inspection, his beam of light fell onto the blade that still dug into the bloody mess of Toby’s destroyed throat. Holding the other end of the knife was four small crimson fingers and a thumb. Cort’s eyes widened as he witnessed the fingers twitch ever so slightly and subtly adjust their grip.

The attacker, pinned underneath, shifted suddenly and a mud-caked head peeked out from under Macklin’s dormant torso. In a surreal jolt out of the darkness, from the head grew a slender neck.  Then narrow shoulders.  A female’s physique.

Macklin’s body shuttered from the furious squirming of his assailant beneath him.

“Stop. Do not move,” Nathan commanded. With his weapon clutched again with two hands, his maglite getting caught in the middle of his grip in the process, he stepped slowly forward. “You won’t be harmed. Stop!”

A sick wail came from her mouth as the struggling intensified. Not words, but desperate sounds that made Cort want to cover his ears and move back. But he couldn’t. “Nobody will hurt you any more. . . . Just stop . . . I promise.”

He said those words, not knowing or caring how he would honor them. In his world, promises ran cheap and those who foolishly put value in them didn’t stand a chance but he had to do his best to convince her.

She continued to sob as she planted a hand on the ground for leverage while she waved the knife in the air, angrily stabbing it forward with blood-stained fingers, then slicing at the air in a frantic warning to him to stay back. The girl shrieked as she pulled herself slowly out of the flukish trap, dirt darkening her jeans and over-sized flannel shirt.

With her screams unrelenting, Cort decided to try a different tactic. He pulled his weapon down and smoothly placed it back into its holster. He kept the beam on her, still confused by the surreal situation. He held his hands outward. “You will be ok. Trust me. It’s ok.”

Although she was still waving the knife, Cort noticed her movements and her body relax slightly. Her legs, below the knee, were still pinned underneath. She held herself up with her other arm.

He aimed the light at her face, but still kept the blade in sight. She stared back with two very blue eyes. Her hair was blonde or light brown, though streaked with mud, tiny leaves, and sticks. Her teeth clenched in the struggle.

In the next few moments, Nathan studied her face, taking note of her delicate nose and strong chin. Those eyes. He imagined her clean of mud with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. There was an odd familiarity in her features that struck him hard. Deja’vu was too corny of a way to describe it. But there was something . . . something there.

He knew that attempting to place that “something” was a silly and fruitless exercise in this situation. She was, after all, threatening him with a deadly weapon. Confronted with a knife in the hands of someone like Henderson, Cort would have responded by calmly and cleanly putting a bullet between their eyes and then continued this pithy reflection at a later date.

But no, Usher stood in front of her, weapon holstered, staring at her hair, trying to fit her neatly into a file in his memory bank to access later and stop the churning of his gut.  Jordan needs her alive. That lone thought reassured him that he was handling the situation properly.

Suddenly, a flash of light and loud boom cut through the night, snapping him out of his trance instantly. In the seconds that it took for him to lose concentration and ponder her identity, she raised and fired Macklin’s lost beretta.

Instinctually, Cort’s hand moved to his holster like a bolt of lightning jolted through his right arm. He immediately took two steps backward while bringing his weapon up. The recoil of her first shot with the black gun knocked her onto her back. As her legs twisted free from Toby’s weight, Nathan saw her raise the gun again, this time holding it with both hands.

His draw easily beat hers, but he could not fire. Cort guessed that the first bullet screamed off high and to the right. He knew that at this range she would not miss again, especially with her body steadied by the ground. He still could not return fire.

“STOP!” he yelled. Still not believing what was happening or what he was about to do, he brought his left hand up and slowly lowered his SIG.

T-Mack’s beretta shook in her hands. Her expression, cold, hard, and determined, fluttered in confusion. It was clear that Nathan’s actions were not what she expected. She uttered her first words to him, “Drop it.”

Cort had never relinquished his weapon in his life, but found himself lowering at the knees slowly. When his hand touched the ground, he let go of his gun and rose without it, left with only his flashlight and immediately feeling naked.

“Over there.” The girl gestured by waving the gun, still clutched with both hands, to her right.

When Cort reached a suitable distance from his weapon, she carefully made it to her feet. He guessed her to be about 5 foot 6 inches tall.

“Don’t. . . .don’t follow me,” she said in nervous monotone. She stepped away and gingerly grabbed a beat-up back pack that must have been flung aside during her struggle with T-Mack.

The girl disappeared into the darkness.