Chapter 8: The Price of Truth
The interior of the maintenance shed smelled of warm motor oil, welding slag, and instant coffee. Overhead, a web of heavy-duty chains and hoists hung from rusted steel girders, casting long, twisting shadows across the concrete floor. In the center of the room, a scarred wooden workbench had been hastily cleared and covered with clean blue surgical drapes, illuminated by a high-intensity mechanic's trouble light dangling on a greasy cord.
A thin, nervous-looking woman in her thirties with short-cropped blonde hair and faded scrubs stood waiting, a metal instrument tray clinking softly in her hands. This was Doc Miller, formerly of the Albuquerque trauma center before a bad prescription-pad habit and a dangerous boyfriend had driven her off the grid and into Preacher’s underground network.
"Get him on the table," Doc Miller commanded, her eyes sharp and devoid of fear as she assessed Cale’s pale, sweat-slicked face. "And cut that shirt away completely. Don't pull the fabric; the fibers are glued to the wound by dried blood."
Jack used his hunting knife to slice the remaining flannel away from Cale’s shoulder, revealing the ugly, jagged entrance wound where the bullet had torn through muscle and missed the collarbone by less than an inch.
Maya stood in the corner of the room, her back pressed against a stack of spare tire rims. She still held the tattered leather vest with both arms, her knuckles white. Preacher walked over to her, pulling a wooden crate out from under a workbench and setting it down.
"Sit down, little bird," Preacher said, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who looked like an executioner. "Doc knows her business. Your old man’s tough. He survived the salt flats; a little federal lead isn't going to put him in the dirt."
Maya sat down slowly, her eyes wide as she watched Doc Miller pick up a pair of surgical forceps and begin probing the wound. Cale groaned, his body arching off the table in a spasm of agonizing pain before falling limp again.
Jack stepped away from the table, wiping blood from his calloused hands with a dirty shop rag. He walked over to Preacher, who was leaning against a stack of oil drums, rolling a thin cigarette with yellowed fingers.
"How long before the heat tracks us here?" Jack asked, keeping his voice low so the child wouldn't hear.
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Preacher struck a wooden match against his boot heel, lighting the paper before blowing out a thin stream of blue smoke. "Satellite ping off your license plate hit a toll plaza sixty miles north about twenty minutes after you left the oasis. They know you're heading south. If they have chopper support out of Albuquerque, they could be sweeping these canyons by dawn."
"Then we don't have much time," Jack said, his jaw clenching. "Once Cale is stable, we need to extract the microfilm from the vest and get it to the contact in Denver before these bastards bury us all in an unmarked grave."
