The Colt is heavy in my hands, and my forearms are trembling as I take aim at the target thirty meters away. It's small, smaller than an average coffee cup, and I squeeze the trigger on my 1911, satisfied when I hear a ping and the target spins. I feel someone's presence behind me and I take off my earphones, turning around to see Jackson standing there, a Glock strapped to his thigh. “Nice shot.”

“Guess I can still shoot,” I agree, turning back and making another shot, another ping. “What brings you out here?”

“Every time I visit the farm I come back here to get some shooting in,” Jackson says, pausing while I make my last shot of this clip. “Our spot in Baton Rouge doesn't have the space, and I hate going to the local gun club.”

“Why?” I ask, stepping back and offering the firing line to Jackson. He nods and steps forward, pulling his Glock with a decent draw and firing quickly. He's got youth, reflexes, and a good eye, and hits four out of five shots before hitting the fifth target with a sixth shot. “Not bad.”

“Thanks. The draw's one thing I can work on at home,” he says, stepping to the side. “Katrina's news bring you out here?”

“A little,” I admit, replacing my clip and taking my stance again. I've been shooting for over an hour, and don't have the speed or endurance to replicate what Jackson just did, but my five measured shots all hit their targets even if it takes twice as long for me to do it. “I've also been coming out here at least twice a week since I started the kidney treatments. If I can’t fight anymore, I can at least still shoot.”

“Andrea told me how well you're running, I doubt you've lost all your fighting skills,” Jackson replies, firing the rest of his clip in measured shots, hitting six of the remaining nine shots before he's empty. “Damn, always screw up when I take it slow.”

“That's what she said,” I joke, and Jackson turns, his mouth agape. “What? I do have a sense of humor. It is not the best, but I do have one.”

“It's just rare to see it,” he says, popping out his clip and slapping a new one home. “You ready to shoot again?”

“No, I've put two hundred rounds down range today,” I say, rubbing my right wrist.

“Okay,” Jackson says, turning and firing his next clip empty, his accuracy going to hell as he starts to rush at the end. “Fuck.”

“So why don't you like the local gun club?” I ask again as Jackson reloads. I know his problem, his breathing is off, and he's trying to muscle his shots. “Relax, let the pistol rest in your hands. I bet you fire better when you’re tired.”

Jackson pauses, and nods. “You're right. As for the gun club, I feel like going there is listening to a bunch of fakes who talk a lot of shit, but if the shit really hit the fan...”

“They would probably stand there frozen, pissing down their legs in fear,” I finish for him. Jackson nods and I give him a tight smile. “One of the things the Special Forces taught me is that you really can’t predict how someone is going to react under fire until it happens. My first SF team leader was a first lieutenant, and, you would have thought he was going to be Rambo. His officer evals prior to joining the team were glowing. And in training, he was all that and more.”

“But when you guys got under fire?” Jackson asks, and I shrug. “How bad was it?”

“Three out of seven guys in the team were dead within five minutes. He had a breakdown, sobbing and begging for someone to shoot him. Last I heard before I left the service, he was polishing a staff desk at recruiting command in western Oregon.”

Jackson hums and turns back to the targets, raising his pistol. “And what do you think of us?”

I wait for him to finish his clip before answering. “I think you all have spirit. I have seen you all fight, or at least try to. But it’s not enough. Not this time.”

“This Isis that bad?” he asks, taking a deep breath. “Badder than you?”

“Maybe. I need to make a few phone calls. Would you mind holding off on your shooting until tomorrow? I don’t want to make this call inside.”

Jackson considers, then nods. “Yeah. Don't take too long, okay? You've got some willing troops, but we could use a little advice from our leader.”

“I’m not the leader, Jackson,” I say with a small shake of my head. “I’m just trying to make sure you all live through this.”

“Maybe. But you have a role in this family, too,” Jackson says, clearing and holstering his Glock. He looks around at the twinkling shells on the ground, and bites his lip, knowing one of Carson's primary rules. “You want me to police up the brass?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I reassure him.

Jackson leaves and I take out my cell phone, pulling up my secondary phone book. There's some numbers in here I haven't called in years, I wonder if some of them are dead. Considering who these people are, it's a distinct possibility. I pull up one I know is alive, since I got a e-card from him at Christmas. The phone rings, and is picked up quickly. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” I reply, reassured. While the first officer I ever worked with in the Special Forces was a complete imbecile, not all of them were, and the best that I worked with was Major Gerald Munchak. Cool under fire, a true soldier's soldier, after retiring he went into the private security business. Like many of those who took advantage of the contracts that popped up after the second Iraq War, he knows as much about the shady side of the mercenary game as the legit 'security consultant' side. “Is this a bad time?”

“For you, Sergeant Black?” the Major asks, as usual referring to me by rank. He only uses my first name when he's really putting business aside and is talking to me man-to-man, something rare with him. “Never. How goes it wherever you are?”

“I think you probably can make a good guess as to where I am, sir. You always had good S-2 on the fly. I can use some of that dope if you are willing to share,” I say, amazed as always at how quickly some of the old military lingo comes back into my speech. “What do you say, sir?”

“I say God damn, good to hear from you,” the Major replies. “So is your line secure?”

“It's my personal cell phone, and I'm standing in the middle of a field that's a couple hundred yards from anything. Good enough?”

“I'd say so. So what do you want to know?”

“Need to know about my ex-boss. And Isis Bardot.” There's a whistle on the other end, and I nod in agreement. “Yes sir, I know. But I suspect she just put down two people connected to some members of my fa... the group I’m working with.”

“You mean when she put two through the chests of Samuel and Theresa Grammercy?” the Major says. “The same Samuel Grammercy that was going to testify against your ex-boss, and is the father of one of the members of your little group?”

“Seems I've been lazy,” I grumble to myself, and the Major hums. “Fuck. So what do I do?”

“Don't feel too bad, Sergeant,” the Major says at first, “the info I got was all rumor, and not through anything you've done. Friends who know friends who know people who have talked. But there's breadcrumbs out there. As for what to do, if I were you, I'd disappear. There could be more than just Isis Bardot coming after you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Peter DeLaCoeur wants you dead. All of you. Specifically, the names listed were you, Katrina Grammercy, Jackson DeLaCoeur, Andrea DeLaCoeur, Carson and Melissa Sands, and someone named Andrea Hart, although that may have been a screwup on an alias.”

Fear grips my stomach as I shake my head. “Not a screwup, sir.”

“Who is she?”

“A precious little girl who is just past nine months old,” I whisper, looking back toward the main house. I can't see it from here, but I can see the top of the barn, peaceful against the afternoon sky. “Anyone else?”

“The open contract said 'and others', with a price on each head. Congratulations, Sergeant. You're part of one of the top ten richest contracts in America right now.”

“Shit,” I mutter, thoughts swirling through my head. “Any word if anyone other than Isis has taken it up?”

“Haven't heard, but with the amount of money being floated, Peter's going to get someone who's going to bite. Maybe not as good as Isis, but good enough to cause you headaches. Then again, if word gets out Isis is taking the contracts, a lot of people will peel off. Nobody really likes working with that untrustworthy bitch. Like I said Sergeant, it might be time to disappear.”

I shake my head, standing tall. “Can't do that, sir. Not this time.”

“The baby?”

“Among others,” I answer. “It's not my group anymore. Maybe I’m just being a fool, but to me... they’re my family.”

“Roger that, Sergeant. Okay. Well, I'll keep my ear to the ground, I'm not interested in taking this sort of contract, especially within the United States. Business is too good being one of the good guys. Or I guess you could say being one of the not so-bad-guys.”

“Hooah, sir. Wish I'd learned that a long time ago. Okay, I'll be in touch.”

“Take care, Sergeant Black.”

Major Munchak hangs up on his end, and I put my phone away. I know what my first panicked reaction is, to scamper back to the house like a scared rabbit. Instead, I fall back on my training, on a lifetime of habits that have allowed me to keep most of my blood in my body while those around me are losing theirs. I kneel down and pick up the burlap bag I brought, and start picking up the spent shell casings around me. I just hope that before the brass is all picked up I can get my damn head right, and I can be able to protect this family.