or survival.
Hunter had plenty of gold on hand, leftover payments from his days in the United American Armed Forces. In fact, harvesting the hay wasn't necessary at all-but that was the beauty of it. For the first time since she'd known him, Hunter was actually doing something he didn't have to do.
And that made all the difference.
She smiled and waved to the three militiamen who arrived in their Chevy pickup a few minutes later. They graciously accepted a thermos of coffee from her, each man trying his best to avoid staring down the front of her plunging nightgown. With a tip of their militia caps they walked out into the field, had a brief conversation with Hunter, and soon enough were wielding large wooden rakes and spreading the hay out so it could dry properly.
If the weather stayed good and all the hay was cut and spread on this day, then it could be bundled and stored and sold anytime after that.
The job was done by four that afternoon.
62
The work had gone surprisingly smoothly-all three of Hunter's fields were cut and raked and bundled with daylight to spare. The only glitch developed when Hunter tried to pay the three militiamen at the end of the workday. All three adamantly refused any money. Still a novice concerning the customs of his neighbors, Hunter quickly realized that the trio was almost insulted when he tried to push a bag of silver on them.
It was Dominique who saved the day, suggesting that as a return gesture for their help they all gather down on the west beach and steam some clams. This they heartily agreed to do. A quick call down to the village brought the militiamen's girlfriends and two cases of ice-cold, newly bottled locally brewed beer.
By the time the sun began to set over Cape Cod Bay, an old-fashioned New England clambake was in full swing.
They all ate and drank and ate some more. When the sun finally dropped down into the bay, its fading light reflected off the warm water to give the illusion that the sky near the horizon was aflame.
Hunter sat on the beach with Dominique and watched the unusual natural display.
" 'Sky on Fire,' " he whispered, almost to himself. "If I died tomorrow, at least I'd go knowing that I was happy just living in this place .. ."
She looked deep in his eyes and smiled.
"Me, too," she said.
63
Chapter Twelve
Washington, DC
"I guess we were kidding ourselves," General Jones was saying as he uncapped his third beer of the evening. "I guess what we thought was peace was actually the calm before the storm."
Jones was sitting in the back room of a musty bar located near the edge of Georgetown. At the table with him was millionaire Soldier-of-Fortune Mike Fitzgerald, Captain Crunch O'Malley, and Yaz. In front of them were a gaggle of beer bottles, some empty, some half filled, some still waiting to be opened.
"Are we sure that this isn't just an isolated incident?" Crunch asked. "I mean, just because a bunch of bandits rough up a tiny village way the hell up in Nova Scotia doesn't mean the end of the world is coming."
"I'm convinced there's more to it," Yaz replied quickly. "I saw that village and it wasn't just 'roughed up.' It was leveled. I mean, absolutely destroyed.
There wasn't anything over three feet tall left standing. IVe been in combat.
I've seen the results of war. But I've never seen anything as completely devastated as that place."
"Plus there's the added problem that they-whoever they are-hit so close to the Kejimkujik prison," Fitzgerald added.
Jones wiped away the overflow of foam from his beer glass and then took a long swig.
"Well, believe it or not, that might have been a coincidence," he said, grimacing at the taste of the sour beer. "As 64
it turns out, just before I left to come here, I got a report that said while the main attack on Yarmouth was going on, a bunch of odd-looking characters were spotted about fifteen miles to the east, at a place named Barren Lake."
"Barren Lake?" Yaz asked. "I went fishing there once.
Hunter had plenty of gold on hand, leftover payments from his days in the United American Armed Forces. In fact, harvesting the hay wasn't necessary at all-but that was the beauty of it. For the first time since she'd known him, Hunter was actually doing something he didn't have to do.
And that made all the difference.
She smiled and waved to the three militiamen who arrived in their Chevy pickup a few minutes later. They graciously accepted a thermos of coffee from her, each man trying his best to avoid staring down the front of her plunging nightgown. With a tip of their militia caps they walked out into the field, had a brief conversation with Hunter, and soon enough were wielding large wooden rakes and spreading the hay out so it could dry properly.
If the weather stayed good and all the hay was cut and spread on this day, then it could be bundled and stored and sold anytime after that.
The job was done by four that afternoon.
62
The work had gone surprisingly smoothly-all three of Hunter's fields were cut and raked and bundled with daylight to spare. The only glitch developed when Hunter tried to pay the three militiamen at the end of the workday. All three adamantly refused any money. Still a novice concerning the customs of his neighbors, Hunter quickly realized that the trio was almost insulted when he tried to push a bag of silver on them.
It was Dominique who saved the day, suggesting that as a return gesture for their help they all gather down on the west beach and steam some clams. This they heartily agreed to do. A quick call down to the village brought the militiamen's girlfriends and two cases of ice-cold, newly bottled locally brewed beer.
By the time the sun began to set over Cape Cod Bay, an old-fashioned New England clambake was in full swing.
They all ate and drank and ate some more. When the sun finally dropped down into the bay, its fading light reflected off the warm water to give the illusion that the sky near the horizon was aflame.
Hunter sat on the beach with Dominique and watched the unusual natural display.
" 'Sky on Fire,' " he whispered, almost to himself. "If I died tomorrow, at least I'd go knowing that I was happy just living in this place .. ."
She looked deep in his eyes and smiled.
"Me, too," she said.
63
Chapter Twelve
Washington, DC
"I guess we were kidding ourselves," General Jones was saying as he uncapped his third beer of the evening. "I guess what we thought was peace was actually the calm before the storm."
Jones was sitting in the back room of a musty bar located near the edge of Georgetown. At the table with him was millionaire Soldier-of-Fortune Mike Fitzgerald, Captain Crunch O'Malley, and Yaz. In front of them were a gaggle of beer bottles, some empty, some half filled, some still waiting to be opened.
"Are we sure that this isn't just an isolated incident?" Crunch asked. "I mean, just because a bunch of bandits rough up a tiny village way the hell up in Nova Scotia doesn't mean the end of the world is coming."
"I'm convinced there's more to it," Yaz replied quickly. "I saw that village and it wasn't just 'roughed up.' It was leveled. I mean, absolutely destroyed.
There wasn't anything over three feet tall left standing. IVe been in combat.
I've seen the results of war. But I've never seen anything as completely devastated as that place."
"Plus there's the added problem that they-whoever they are-hit so close to the Kejimkujik prison," Fitzgerald added.
Jones wiped away the overflow of foam from his beer glass and then took a long swig.
"Well, believe it or not, that might have been a coincidence," he said, grimacing at the taste of the sour beer. "As 64
it turns out, just before I left to come here, I got a report that said while the main attack on Yarmouth was going on, a bunch of odd-looking characters were spotted about fifteen miles to the east, at a place named Barren Lake."
"Barren Lake?" Yaz asked. "I went fishing there once.
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