Chapter 16
Chapter 16
L anding in Freetown, I exited the plane and was met by the muffled silence of fresh snow. Eddie met us and drove us back to the house where everything I needed sat waiting in the basement. I punched in my code, L-O-V-E-S-H-O-W-S-U-P, and only when my fingers had punched Enter and the door swung open did I listen to myself say the words. The reminders were everywhere. I couldn’t escape them. I walked into my vault, my safe room, and sat at a table. Staring at the weapons of our warfare. Most everything in there breathed fire and rained down terror on those who would inflict horror. Because I didn’t know what we’d need, I pulled NVDs, two thermal scopes and viewers, a Benelli M4, a suppressed 300 Blackout, and Jolene, my .300 Win Mag. I then grabbed enough magazines and ammunition to unload hell on whoever held Miriam, Ruth, and Sadie. Finally, I lifted my Sig 220. The last time I’d carried it had been in the tunnels with Bones. I closed my eyes, press-checked the muzzle, dropped the magazine, and allowed my index finger to tell me it was loaded to capacity, then reinserted it. But when I opened my eyes and stared down the sights, something caught my attention. Something I’d missed when I last cleaned it. Blood. I tried to rub it off with my thumb, but it had married to the metal. I held it in my hands, remembering. After I found Bones, I’d attempted to carry him. My shoulder under his. Arm around his waist, hand tugging on his belt. When I did, his blood had drained out his side and down mine, where it came to cover the rear sights.
I dropped the magazine, cycled the slide, and cleared the chamber. I’d never ventured out that door without the Sig Bones had given me, but I would tonight. I wasn’t going to clean it, and because I wasn’t going to clean it, the blood remained. That meant if I carried it with me, every time I stared down the sights, I’d see the reminder that I’d failed Bones. Which would not help me rescue Aaron’s girls. I shook my head. I felt like more was being stripped away, and I didn’t like it. I returned the battle-tested pistol to my safe when something else caught my eye that I’d not seen. Which was strange because it was orange.
Tucked in the back of my safe, hidden from view, sat a new orange Pelican case. One I’d not seen prior to my hasty departure to find Bones, so I lifted it out and set it on the table. Turning it in my hands, I saw the box was identical to Bones’s iconic box he’d carried through all the years I’d known him. The box that had carried all he held dear: his personal Sig 220, flashlight, pocketknife, and various other odds and ends, not to mention the ever-present really good bottle of wine. Tied to the handle was a tag, written in Bones’s nearly indecipherable handwriting: “Bishop.” I sat back and stared. Bones used my real name when he wanted to get my attention. And he only used my last name when he really wanted to get my attention.
I clicked open the box and raised the lid, where I found a card sitting on top. It read:
Murph,
Merry Christmas. Before you open the contents of this box, the three gifts held within need explanation. First, when I first gave you the venerable Sig 220 now so many years ago, I did so for several reasons. I knew it would go “boom” when needed, which it has. It is supremely reliable and has certainly earned a place of honor. I also liked the .45 ACP as a cartridge and bullet with which to defend yourself and others. Both the pistol and its round are battle-tested and proven. And I certainly don’t want to get hit with one again. But over the three decades we’ve been doing this thing called rescue, companies have made significant improvements to the 9mm, which has now been transformed into a formidable defensive and offensive cartridge. In many ways, superior to the venerable .45. You know this as well as I, as you’ve grown comfortable with the Glock universe. So with that in mind I’ve included the enclosed. It has been made for you by the custom shop of CZ USA. They wanted to express their gratitude for your work in bringing home one of their own. Now, before you ask, yes, I’m a fan. I have often carried one similar to this when in foreign theaters and .45 ammunition has been difficult to commandeer. I’m old school and an old dog, but having said that, if there’s any handgun on planet earth that’s been more battle-tested than our Sig, it may well be this one. You will find when you look below this card, there are two. Identical. Suggesting that the folks who sent them were doubly grateful. One carries your name, the other carries mine. I look forward to carrying mine alongside you. As with every weapon, I hope you never need it, but when you do, and my guess is that you will if you do this for more than about five minutes, I pray it does what it was designed to do—and does it every time.
Second, when you were young and I met you at the diner, I passed to you a coin. Something I’d carried in my pocket inscribed with eleven words as a constant reminder of why I do what I do. Since then, you’ve carried it in yours, but the years have worn the inscription and made it difficult to read. I guess that’s what happens when you bump up against bullets. Maybe the same can be said of you and me. But if there’s one thing you and I cannot suffer, it’s blurred vision. We need to see clearly. Without obstruction. The moment we blur the lines, we lose. We lose our edge. Our conviction. And possibly even our life. So I submit this chain and freshly minted medallion as a concise refresher that will hang around your neck and dangle over your heart. Because it’s our hearts that need to hear, that need to be reminded of what our minds take for granted.
Third, I submit this box. In Bones’s world, everyone should have one. I don’t know how people make it through this life without an indestructible, watertight box to keep stuff in. I mean, seriously. How do you protect what’s dear? I’ve never figured that out. At any rate, here it is. Merry Christmas. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. The bottle. I guess that makes four. Take Summer on a date. Lord knows she’s earned it. Enjoy.
Your partner and brother in arms and in all things good,
Bones
I set the card down and read it again. Then a third time. I needed to hear his voice. Dangling the chain over my hand, I read the inscription. Clear. Deep grooves. Made of bronze. Bones liked bronze because it could pass through fire and come out the other side refined. Which was how he looked at us. Passing through fire.
I lifted the bottle and set it on the table. A dusty bottle of Deerfield Ranch Cabernet. Next, I studied the two handguns. A matched pair of CZ 9mms from their custom shop. The word Murph had been laser cut into the slide of the first, and Bones into the second. Murph and Bones.
Never to work side by side again.
In all my life, all the rescues, all the confrontations with bad guys, in the thousands of places I’d carried a handgun, I wanted to think I’d never taken this thing for granted. It was a tool. That’s all. A well-crafted tool that could blow fire and deal mayhem when needed. It wasn’t a toy. Wasn’t something to be romanced through video games or talked about ad nauseum via chat on some forum. It had one purpose. To stop bad men from hurting me or someone I loved. Period. If they died in the process, that was their problem. The old adage “God made all men, but Sam Colt made them equal” had merit. I’d known guys who were gun nerds, and I was not one of them. Guys who collected for the sake of how it looked on their wall. How it added to their collection. How it contributed to their cocktail conversation or how they thought it improved their status in others’ eyes. I didn’t view this thing as something to be collected. I viewed it like I would a spoon. Or a shovel. Or a hoe. A particular instrument designed for a particular purpose. I knew full well what it was capable of and what I was capable of with it. I also knew that in the annals of handgun history, few were more storied than the CZ staring back at me. Maybe the 1911, and certainly my Sig 220, but while both had seen massive civilian and military adoption within the United States since their development, the CZ had seen much greater use worldwide.
I also knew that if Bones had given it to me, he’d had a reason.
As the pain of that realization kicked me in the gut, I hefted the new CZ, dropped the magazine, cycled the slide, press-checked it for confirmation that it was empty, then dug through Bones’s holster bag where I found two thigh holsters custom fitted for the CZ. I ran my belt through the loops of the holster, strapped it to my thigh, and began loading magazines. I would not be wise to take an untested firearm into a situation where I needed it. In my experience, the two worst sounds in the world were “boom” when you were expecting “click” and “click” when you were expecting “boom.” Walking into our underground range, I pulled on earmuffs and slowly emptied a magazine on paper targets seven yards downrange, focusing on my front sight and trigger reset. I was amazed at how well it cycled, recoiled into my hand, and grouped on paper. After the first magazine, I emptied a second. Then a third. And somewhere in between my eyes and the target, the slideshow continued.