The Nightmare Thief

One of the young men from the Hummer, who was wearing a Dean Martin–style hat and a sweatshirt with grier printed on the back, wandered near the trees, unzipped his pants, and relieved himself.

“Weekend church retreat?” Jo said.

Von smiled. It looked robotic. “Twenty-first-birthday party. Daddy’s picking up the tab.”

Gabe took the jumper cables. His face was flat and his eyes alert. Jo got in the cab, fired up the engine, and maneuvered the truck grille to grille with the Hummer. Gabe raised the hood.

It took only a minute to get the Hummer started. The starter ground for a few seconds and then the big engine gunned to life, harsh and whiny in the mountain air.

The green-faced young man climbed to his feet. Swerving back across the clearing, he opened one of the Hummer’s doors and grabbed a water bottle. He sauntered over to Autumn and nuzzled her neck.

She pushed him away.

“God, Dustin. You smell like puke.” Gabe glanced inside the open door of the Hummer. Jo saw it too: a gleaming silver handgun with a telescopic sight.

Von said, “It’s a replica.”

The man in the Edge Adventures cap wiped his palm on his jeans and extended his hand. “Kyle Ritter. Don’t worry none about the guns. They’re for show.”

Gabe smiled, as robotically as Von had. “Just wondering what sort of birthday party you’re celebrating.”

Von took a business card from his shirt pocket. “Edge Adventures. The ultimate in urban reality games.”

Dustin walked over, water bottle hanging from his hand. “Yeah, we’re federal agents, guarding our prisoner. See?”

He opened the front door of the Hummer. A rifle was propped on the seat. Jo recognized the curved ammunition clip and tall front sight on the stubby barrel. It was an AK-47.

The girl whose feet were protruding from the Hummer sat up. “Badass. We are badasses.”

She pitched back on the seat again.

Jo checked the jumper leads. The Hummer’s engine was gunning. “Think you’re all set.”

Gabe disconnected the cables from the pickup’s battery. Jo caught his eye. He was wearing The Look.

Not his laid-back all-is-well look. The other one. It set Jo’s nerves on edge.

He slammed the hood of the pickup. Casually, he said, “Let’s roll.”

Von stuffed the rag in his pocket, his eyes on Gabe. “The weapons are decommissioned.” He gestured at Peach Fuzz. “Friedrich’s an ex-cop, and we have former military on staff. Everything’s cool.”

“Great.”

Gabe leaned into the crew cab and put the cables away. Under his breath he said, “Bullshit.”

He glanced at Ritter. “His gun’s patently a toy, something the guy picked up at a Battlestar Galactica convention. But the others are working firearms.”

Behind him, one of the girls turned up the music and began dancing. Ritter slammed the hood of the Hummer. Von clapped his hands. “Everybody, let’s go.”

Gabe glanced at them edgeways. “I’ve been on one of these role-playing weekends. In Finland, with a bunch of think-tank guys. Executives playing Cold War. One side gets captured by a Russian tank, then out pop the 'Soviet’ invaders—a bunch of Finnish lingerie models in Red Army hats. They had real Kalashnikovs, but it was obvious at a glance they’d been deactivated. The barrels were plugged. The firing pins had been removed. Colored tags were hanging from their muzzles to identify them as 'safe,’ ” he said. “Whatever this game is, it’s a bad one.”

“Let’s go.”

Jo was planning to drive straight down the mountain to the sheriff’s station. When she got there she’d tell the deputies about this drunken rodeo.

Behind her, Dustin stood by the door of the Hummer. “Lark, where’s Peyton?”

They looked around. The blonde in raspberry velour had wandered into the trees.

“Peyton,” Lark called.

Dustin shouted, “Mackie, get back here. We got boot camp. And after that, you got escaped felons to hunt.”

He reached into the Hummer and picked up the AK-47 from the front seat. “Peyton, come back before I come after you.”

He slung the strap over one shoulder like he was Rambo. The muzzle began to come up.

Gabe jumped at him. “Don’t.” He got his hand on the barrel and pushed it down. “Aim the barrel downrange. Never aim it at anybody.”

Dustin spun away. “What’s your problem? The gun’s fake. Fake.”

He ostentatiously swept the rifle in an arc, aimed it at the trees, and pulled the trigger.

The rifle fired. Four shots in a close burst, the sound cracking the air. Orange flame spit from the barrel, cartridge casings ejected, and the rounds hit the trunk of a pine. One two three four, splintering the wood in a rising progression.

The girls screamed. For the time it took to blink, Jo stood shocked. Then she yelled, “Get down,” and dived to the ground behind the pickup.

Gabe lunged at Dustin, twisted the rifle from Dustin’s grip, and shoved Dustin away from him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dustin stared at the rifle with horror. “Jesus, what—? That thing . . .”

Peyton ran into the clearing. “What was that?”

Autumn clenched her fists in front of her mouth. Her eyes looked like silver dollars. Dustin gazed at her, baffled and terrified.

For a moment, the echo of gunfire stank around the clearing. Ritter looked stunned but hyperalert, as if ready to jump—in what direction, Jo couldn’t tell. Von, his face white, raised his hands calmingly.

“Sorry. It was supposed to be a surprise. My fault,” he said.

Gabe spun on him. “Surprise?”

“Live-fire exercises when we get to the assault training course.” He tried to smile. “That shouldn’t a happened.”

Autumn raised both hands and said, “That’s it. I’m out.”

She stalked toward the back of the Hummer. “This entire thing is screwed. Where’s my phone? I’m calling my dad.”

Von turned. “No.”