The Falling Away Read Online Free
and knocking him to his knees. Quickly he spun and aimed at Anorexic Guy, who was trying to dig into his backpack for something, and squeezed the trigger again. Anorexic Guy fell and went still.
Biker Beard was still on his knees, running his hands over his chest as he crouched in the snow, an unformed question on his lips, a look on his face that said the preceding events hadnât happened as heâd planned.
Dylan knew how that went.
âYou hit?â Dylan called to Webb, watching as Biker Beard finally slumped to his side in the snow.
âI . . . yeah. I think so.â
Dylan glanced at Webb, who was cradling his right arm. A bright bloom of blood appeared at the shoulder, turning a spot of Webbâs blue coat a wet purple.
âOkay. Just kick that guyâs gun awayâdonât pick it up, but kick it away.â
Webb did as instructed, holding his injured arm against his chest, then looked at Dylan again, waiting for new instructions. Evidently Webb wasnât much into talking after being shot.
âGo back to the truck,â Dylan instructed.
âWhat about the money?â
Surprise, surprise , Joniâs voice said. Guy gets shot, heâs still worried about the money .
But the question was still there: what about the money? There really wasnât a right answer; he knew this scenario was going to be bad news for him and Webbâeven if Webb didnât bleed to deathâwhatever he did. He could leave the money, walk away, and pretend this never happened. Trouble was, border patrol or drug runners or Indians from the Fort Belknap Reservation would likely stumble on the money and drugs . . . and none of them would just leave it sitting there. Krunk wouldnât likely buy the story if he said they left everything, because Krunk would always be convinced that Dylan himself had hinked the deal. What was that old line?
Thereâs no honor among thieves , Joniâs voice said.
Or among drug mules , he answered.
No, the better option was to take the cash and drugs.
âYou just get in the truck,â he finally said. âIâll take care of it.â He took two steps forward, struggling as his left leg threatened to give, and pushed Anorexic Guyâs motionless body off the backpack.
Told you this was a stupid idea .
âWell, Joni,â he said aloud, âIâm a magnet for stupid ideas.â
4
After the IED in Iraq, after the months of rehab and pain, after dozens of therapy sessions talking about PTSD and feelings of helplessness, Dylan discovered the old saying was true: you canât go home again.
They cut him loose from the VA hospital in Sheridan, even booked him a flight home to Billings. Heâd expected a car ride, maybe even a bus ticket, since he was only a few hours away from Billings, so the flight was something of a surprise. Just one of the many benefits of having your leg mangled in Iraq.
He hadnât spoken to his parents, hadnât spoken to anyone on the Crow rez, really, since . . . since Joni. Hadnât even spoken to the therapist about Joni, even though sheâd asked him several times. Joni was off-limits to the outside world; the only place he could discuss her was inside his own mind. That was the one place, at least, he could still control. The outside world was filled with too many people wanting to help and diagnose and absolve you of your regret and guilt.
But he needed to carry his regret and guilt; no one else could carry it for him.
The VA hospital had wanted to inform his family of his discharges: his honorable discharge from the army as a wounded vet, and then, months later, his unceremonious discharge from VA care at the hospital. But he wouldnât allow it. How could he? Your family and your heritage were vital components of your very essence as an Apsáalooke; by forsaking Joni, heâd forsaken a part of who he was. How could he expect his parents, his friends, his fellow members of
Biker Beard was still on his knees, running his hands over his chest as he crouched in the snow, an unformed question on his lips, a look on his face that said the preceding events hadnât happened as heâd planned.
Dylan knew how that went.
âYou hit?â Dylan called to Webb, watching as Biker Beard finally slumped to his side in the snow.
âI . . . yeah. I think so.â
Dylan glanced at Webb, who was cradling his right arm. A bright bloom of blood appeared at the shoulder, turning a spot of Webbâs blue coat a wet purple.
âOkay. Just kick that guyâs gun awayâdonât pick it up, but kick it away.â
Webb did as instructed, holding his injured arm against his chest, then looked at Dylan again, waiting for new instructions. Evidently Webb wasnât much into talking after being shot.
âGo back to the truck,â Dylan instructed.
âWhat about the money?â
Surprise, surprise , Joniâs voice said. Guy gets shot, heâs still worried about the money .
But the question was still there: what about the money? There really wasnât a right answer; he knew this scenario was going to be bad news for him and Webbâeven if Webb didnât bleed to deathâwhatever he did. He could leave the money, walk away, and pretend this never happened. Trouble was, border patrol or drug runners or Indians from the Fort Belknap Reservation would likely stumble on the money and drugs . . . and none of them would just leave it sitting there. Krunk wouldnât likely buy the story if he said they left everything, because Krunk would always be convinced that Dylan himself had hinked the deal. What was that old line?
Thereâs no honor among thieves , Joniâs voice said.
Or among drug mules , he answered.
No, the better option was to take the cash and drugs.
âYou just get in the truck,â he finally said. âIâll take care of it.â He took two steps forward, struggling as his left leg threatened to give, and pushed Anorexic Guyâs motionless body off the backpack.
Told you this was a stupid idea .
âWell, Joni,â he said aloud, âIâm a magnet for stupid ideas.â
4
After the IED in Iraq, after the months of rehab and pain, after dozens of therapy sessions talking about PTSD and feelings of helplessness, Dylan discovered the old saying was true: you canât go home again.
They cut him loose from the VA hospital in Sheridan, even booked him a flight home to Billings. Heâd expected a car ride, maybe even a bus ticket, since he was only a few hours away from Billings, so the flight was something of a surprise. Just one of the many benefits of having your leg mangled in Iraq.
He hadnât spoken to his parents, hadnât spoken to anyone on the Crow rez, really, since . . . since Joni. Hadnât even spoken to the therapist about Joni, even though sheâd asked him several times. Joni was off-limits to the outside world; the only place he could discuss her was inside his own mind. That was the one place, at least, he could still control. The outside world was filled with too many people wanting to help and diagnose and absolve you of your regret and guilt.
But he needed to carry his regret and guilt; no one else could carry it for him.
The VA hospital had wanted to inform his family of his discharges: his honorable discharge from the army as a wounded vet, and then, months later, his unceremonious discharge from VA care at the hospital. But he wouldnât allow it. How could he? Your family and your heritage were vital components of your very essence as an Apsáalooke; by forsaking Joni, heâd forsaken a part of who he was. How could he expect his parents, his friends, his fellow members of
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