“You already know you shouldn’t have gone alone.”
“I know.”
“I don’t have to tell you what you risked.”
“Your life,” she choked out. “And everyone else’s, too.”
“You’ve been scolded already. No need to add to your misery. You learned your lesson. And some more besides, I’ll wager.”
Relief flooded her veins. Her legs wobbled. It was more than she’d expected—or deserved. “So, we’re good?”
“We’re good.”
“I want to be like you,” she blurted.
He looked at her.
“I want to be a warrior.”
“You already are.”
She snorted.
“I saw you. I saw what you did to Sutter.” He scratched the stubble along his jaw, something like admiration in his eyes. “Being a warrior starts here and here.” He touched his head, then his chest. “You’ve already got that in spades. You need to learn the tricks of the trade.”
She kicked at another stray chunk of asphalt, this one large as a dinner plate. Potholes were everywhere.
“I’m not any good at talking about…things.”
She smirked. “You mean feelings?”
“Yeah, those.” He grimaced like he’d swallowed something bitter. “But if you want to fight, come to me.”
“Are you still willing to teach me?”
“If you want to learn.”
Her face brightened. Hope bright and fierce in her chest. “I do.”
“No more skipping our sessions. Not for any reason.”
She beamed. “Done.”
He handed her the empty water bottle, which she’d sanitize and refill with clean water for the next work crew. After scanning both sides of the road, he turned back toward the chainsaw.
“What are you doing? And why?”
“What do you want to know?”
She spread both arms wide. “Everything.”
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but he was Wolverine, so he had to maintain his grim, fierce persona at all times.
“Travel—including military transportation—depends on roads, assuming the General doesn’t have Chinooks at his disposal. We have ATVs, bikes, a few motorcycles, horses, and snowmobiles. They don’t. They need roads. We’re creating as many obstacles along the roads as we can.”
He pointed. “We blocked off all four roads leading in and out of town—Snow, Lemon, and Hummingbird Lane. Except for M139—Old 31. I suspect the General will roll in via the highway, since it’s cleared. That way, we can concentrate the bulk of our forces on a few defensive positions instead of spreading ourselves thin defending a dozen or more locations.”
Quinn nodded.
“If he’s coming in, we want him to come in where it benefits us most. The north blockade, where we have the most defenses and fighters.”
“That makes sense.”
“And then, of course, we have our goodies.”
Her eyes went big. “Show me.”
Liam grabbed his carbine leaning against a nearby log and led her along the road to the first felled tree. Lowering the M4, he crouched and pointed.
A clear fishing line about ankle high stretched across the road, tied between two trees on either side. The wire was affixed to a tin can—inside it lay a grenade.
It was the size of an apple. Death in a little green globe.
“This M67 grenade is attached where the line meets the tree, so the blast is directed to the kill zone. It’s also tougher to spot.” He pointed to the fishing line. “Ankle-high is fine, as the grenade will explode up and out.”
Her adrenaline spiked. “How do you know it won’t take out a friendly?”
“Good question. We’ll have OPs—listening and observation posts—scattered around the perimeter to monitor for intrusions by foot. Our forward observers will alert us to anyone heading our way—friendlies or hostiles. Snipers positioned up the tree line have eyes on the road. We can stop any friendlies before they reach this point.”
“One reason we’re under orders not to leave Fall Creek.”
“Correct.” He rose and strode back toward the chainsaw, his neck on a swivel.
She hurried to catch up with him; every step was painful.
“How are the foxholes coming?” he asked.
“Got out of digging duty.” She waggled her bandaged hand at him and made a face, then grimaced at the pain. “We used the backhoe. The rest is by hand.”