20. Huxley
20
HUXLEY
The gears of Al Mitchell’s truck grind under my hands, each shift harsh and unyielding, contrasting sharply with the smooth transitions of Chase’s SUV and even the more familiar rattle of my brother’s truck back at Seeley Lake. This old beast growls with reluctant power, its dashboard lit by the faint glow of twilight that seeps through the dust-streaked windshield.
I maneuver the truck, feeling like I was thirteen and wrestling with the steering wheel of my old man’s ancient Ford during a stormy spring flood. The tires had kicked up wild arcs of water as the riverbanks swelled and blurred into the road. Since Dad wasn’t around, Mom became my driving instructor back then. She would give me a pat on the back when I managed not to stall. That was the first time I felt the thrill of taming something so raw and relentless, a thrill that now, years later, courses through me as I steer Al’s truck closer to Lakefall Valley.
We cruise through the neighborhood at a pace mimicking the tired return of farmers at day’s end. As we round a curve beside a narrow creek, we come upon a house nestled between thickets of wild shrubbery. A familiar pickup is parked casually under a sprawling oak in the front yard, its presence as unremarkable as the chirping crickets that fill the air.
“Looks like the same vehicle that popped up on that CCTV,” Chase notes, referencing the grainy footage we had scrutinized back in Bozeman—a nondescript vehicle weaving through the streets near Fabian’s home.
We drive past without a second glance from any curious onlookers, then stop discreetly a few yards beyond the bend. With the sun disappearing below the horizon, darkness cloaks our movements as we exit the vehicle and tread softly. We find refuge behind a thick wall of bushes, then peer through the green hue of night vision binoculars. What we typically call NODs, or Night Observation Devices. The scene before us gradually comes into focus.
Not long after, the thief kid emerges stealthily from the back door of the creek house. He’s met by a figure whose presence sends tension through the air. The man’s features remain a blur, his hair concealed under a beanie, his frame obscured by heavy layers that make him appear more imposing. The silhouette could belong to the deputy of Blackwater, but it’s a half-guess at best.
“What are the odds these are our culprits? One hefty, one slight—just like the dirt prints,” Chase murmurs.
The kid parts ways with the shadowy figure, clutching a package likely filled with food under one arm and a blanket draped over the other.
We move silently back to Al’s truck. I toss the keys to Chase, who steers it in the opposite direction. I know there’s a bridge further down this road that crosses the creek and loops back toward the direction the kid headed.
“It could be food and a blanket for little Kayla,” I speculate aloud, trying to piece together the fragments of our case. The girl could be holed up wherever this kid was going.
As we round the bend from another approach, the kid comes back into view, his gait unhurried, unsuspecting of our watchful eyes. He’s heading toward another modest house, almost swallowed by the surrounding pines. Then, something catches my eye—a flicker of yellow light. Subtle at first, it grows steadily, casting a glow against the twilight. The kid’s startled reaction confirms our suspicions. This has to be his destination.
“Jesus, someone’s in the attic!” My breath catches as the yellow light bursts into a voracious fire, clawing its way up the wooden siding with terrifying speed. We press the gas, edging closer to get a better look.
The kid whirls around, eyes locking onto us for a split second. Then, as quickly as he spotted us, he vanishes into the underbrush, his phone aglow as he alerts his accomplice.
Out of nowhere, the unmistakable crack of gunfire shatters the stillness of the night. It’s coming from our right, at some distance. Chase slams the truck into reverse, his movements precise under pressure. He maneuvers us behind the scant protection offered by a cluster of trees. Once secured, he readies his rifle, affixing the night vision scope with practiced hands.
“Can you see them?” I scan the shadow-draped landscape through my NOD, the night vision enhancement aiding our search without piercing through solid barriers. We are effectively blind beyond these obstacles, our visibility dependent on the adversary making a visible move.
Chase’s response comes through clenched teeth. “I’ll find them.”
Almost on cue, a bullet shears the air, missing our makeshift shelter by mere inches, sending a jarring clang against the truck’s frame.
“There! House across the creek, on the balcony,” Chase announces, his eye glued to the scope, tracking the source of the gunfire.
But it’s another sight that captures my full attention. A small figure trapped in the burning attic window. “It’s her! It’s Kayla!” I yell.
“Go! I’ve got this covered!” Chase bellows, readying himself to return fire.
“Kayla!” Her name rips from my throat as I sprint toward the house, using an old tractor as my shield from the spray of bullets.
Her scream cuts the night, sharp and desperate. Kayla’s life is on the line, the fire her executioner. Chase keeps our pursuers at bay, giving me the precious seconds I need. I reach the front door, heart pounding. The ground floor is mercifully untouched by flames, but the smoke is a blinding, choking veil.
“Chase! Call 911!” I command over the phone.
“Radio. The enemies seem to have retreated, heard a few vehicles leaving the area. They knew they wouldn’t be able to hold once the cavalry arrives.”
“Okay. When you’re sure it’s safe, call Savannah!” My orders are sharp.
I barrel up the stairs into the attic through heat that fights like a living thing.
And there, in the middle of the maelstrom, is Kayla. Terrified, tiny, and alive.
I ground myself, refusing to let the haunting visions of Operation Jaguar Strike blind me. It was a time when deadly heat and tragedy converged, a moment that changed my life forever. But this is the present, the here and now, and a child’s life depends on me.
“Kayla, stay there. I’m coming!” I shout.
“Please…” Her voice is a whisper against the roar.
The attic is an inferno with flames that claw and leap with feral intensity. The structure groans and spits, the wooden beams crackling like the bones of the house itself giving way under the assault. Kayla is there, huddled in the corner, her wide eyes reflecting the blaze that rages around her.
“Please help me…” A feather of sound, nearly lost in the cacophony of destruction.
I lunge toward her, feeling the intense heat lash my face. With a desperate heave, I drag Kayla into the scant shelter of my body, pressing her head against my chest and covering her with my jacket. It’s wool, and I hope it’ll provide her with some protection against the fire.
The smoke roils around us. With Kayla encased in my arms, I dodge a falling beam, feeling its searing kiss graze my arm as we pass. Another chunk of the ceiling succumbs. The exit seems an eternity away through the blinding, choking smoke.
“Hold on, Kayla!” I command, more for my sake than hers. Her tiny hands clutch at me, her trust in me complete and absolute at this moment. Her body trembles, not just from the heat but from the overwhelming terror of a child facing something too large, too fierce to understand.
Another beam collapses, and Kayla whimpers, her face buried against me, crying into the fabric of my clothes. My lungs scream for air as we navigate the gauntlet.
Then, at last, the night air hits us, a sweet, cold slap of reality. We’re out.
The house continues to roar behind us, but Kayla is safe within my arms, her breaths coming in shuddering gasps against my neck.
Her trust in me, a man who was a stranger just days before, is a weight and a privilege.
“You okay, Kayla?” My voice is a calm murmur. Her fingers cling to me. “We’re safe now, okay?” I tell her, trying to ease her shaking form.
Her eyes find mine, a silent search for reassurance. “I know you,” she whispers, recognition dawning.
“Yeah, you do. I’m Huxley, remember? From Savannah’s place. Are you hurt anywhere?” I scan her for injuries, my hands gentle but efficient.
She shakes her head, a birdlike gesture. No injuries visible, but she’s shivering, shock setting in.
A paramedic, her eyes kind but urgent, steps in to help, but Kayla recoils, unwilling to let go of me.
“Just a sec,” I tell the paramedic, buying time.
Kayla’s confession comes out in a rush, guilt heavy in her voice. “I didn’t mean for the fire… I just wanted some light. And then… sparks.”
I envelop her in reassurance. “You did good. You helped me find you, okay? None of this is your fault.”
Her eyes hold mine, a mix of hope and fear. “Can I go home now? Can I see my dad?”
Chase steps closer, his voice steady. “Your dad and Savannah are on their way. They’ll meet us at the hospital.”
Her eyes, large in her soot-streaked face, move from him to me. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I reaffirm. “Let the paramedics help you now, Kayla. I’ll be right here.”
Her grip on me eases as she allows herself to be moved to the stretcher, surrounded by a team ready to take care of her.
Now, the attention pivots to me. I stand slightly disoriented, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, revealing a throbbing pain that claims my awareness.
“You okay, Comet? Talk to me, buddy,” Chase asks, studying me.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Hands guide me to sit on the bumper of the ambulance as a paramedic kneels in front of me.
“Your jacket really did a good job protectin’ the little one, huh?” he remarks, his tone light but his eyes assessing. “And this shirt of yours. Good thing it ain’t synthetic, or it might’ve melted right onto your skin. That would’ve been a real mess, I can tell ya.” Then he spreads a cooling ointment on my burns.
“I guess,” I comment as I try to hold my wince.
“In saying that, you’ll need to get these seen to at the hospital.” He continues to apply the ointment. “You were lucky, but we still need to make sure there aren’t deeper burns or other injuries that aren’t visible yet.”
As the ambulance doors close behind us, Kayla’s eyes fix on my hands. “You got hurt.”
I need to keep her mind off the pain, the fear. “You like dogs?” I ask, offering a distraction.
A cautious nod is her reply.
I hand her the keychain—a miniature version of Savannah’s loyal border collie. I’ve carried it with me since I first left the farm to join the Navy. Mom must’ve slipped it into my bag back then.
“It’s Ranger,” I say.
Her spirits seem to lift a bit as a small smile touches her lips. “When can I see Daddy?”
“He’s on his way, Kayla. Him and Savannah, they’re both coming,” I assure her as the ambulance doors close behind us, the sirens wailing into the night.
Kayla clings to the keychain, a small token of the normalcy she’s desperate to return to. She presses it against her chest, perhaps as a silent thank you or a sign of trust in a night that’s tested us all.