Page 119 of The Triangle

There is no way for this to end well. No matter what version of it runs through my head, they all end with at least one of us dead. I can’t see a way around it.

I take a step away from Alec. Back in the direction from which we just came. We could just turn around now. Alec and I could march back, get in my Range Rover and drive the fuck out of here. We could leave Christine with Lars, assume that’s what they wanted all along, and he and I could go back into the world together. Maybe we could start our own thing. Our own, new business, or…

Or maybe we could split apart. Go our separate ways. And then what? Spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? I mean, shit, I figure we’ll be doing that no matter what unless we kill everybody who threatens us. Or get killed ourselves.

He’s right. There is no happy ending.

But still…

I turn back to face Alec. He bows his head and looks at me with an almost devilish gaze. I put my face in his face. I put my hands on his bare shoulders. I turn him around. He lets me.

And when his back is to me, I let my hands slide down between his shoulder blades and with my fingers, I trace the lines of the triangle. He tenses. I keep tracing. His head falls back and he looks up at the sky. Just like he did the first time I ever touched it. Actually, I don’t know if his eyes are open or not, but his face is turned up and his shoulders drop.

I finish tracing the lines of the pattern on his back, let my hands drop from his skin, and stand there. Waiting. Waiting to see what happens next.

He doesn’t turn around, and after a moment his head lowers back down again, he grabs his rifle up, racks it, and says, “Right then.”

And before I know it, he’s marching straight into the direction the GPS is telling us Christine is waiting.

And he’s firing the rifle wildly as he goes.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE - ALEC

We get the word “berserk” from the Norse berserkers. Warriors who were purported to have fought in a trance-like state in which they would eschew mail armor. Wild men. Crazy people. Men possessed. An army of Hulks marching unflinchingly in the direction of battle.

Naaiers must have been a sight to see.

No value in pretending we’re not here. The whole point is to fokken make ourselves known. More than anything, what I want right now is answers. I want to know what the fok has been going on under my nose and how the hell I missed it. That’s what I want. And I plan to get what I want.

“Lars!” I shout, marching into the clearing, firing my weapon as I do. “Lars! Come out now, bru! It’s been fun, man, but playtime is over!”

I’m sweeping the rifle, making sure that if anyone tries to pop up and take a shot that there’s a fair chance they’ll get a belly-full of hot metal first.

And that’s when I look over and see the laaitie Solomon. Dead. Brains well more outside his body than they were the last time I saw him. Damn, man. God damn it, Lars. Was that really necessary? The kid was so nervous when we spoke on the flight over. So concerned he wasn’t doing right.

That’s all a lad like that ever wants. To do right. To please someone and feel like he’s loved and appreciated. That’s all most everyone ever wants. To feel a part of something.

I told him that he had a family now. Shit. But it wasn’t a lie. I just failed to consider that some families have a great lot more dysfunction than others.

“Lars!” I scream as I continue firing around in a circle. I fire and fire and fire, until…

There’s no fire left.

Throwing the empty rifle down on the ground, I plop down as well. Just sit square on my ass on the cold ground. And wait.

After a moment, Lars comes popping out from behind a tree that I’ve definitely marked up with my wanton shooting. He points a pistol at me.

“Hey, bru,” he says.

“Bru,” I say in return. “I get you?”

He glances quickly over his body and says, “Don’t think so, man. Good one, though. Nice try.”

I don’t see Christine. I know she must be here, but I can’t spot her. I have a fleeting panic that perhaps Lars threw her over the falls or something equally dramatic.

“Ask you something, bru?” I say.

Lars eyes me carefully and says, “Yeah. Go on.”