Red for Death

T.B. rubbed his hands together, feeling the cold air cut through the layers of his clothing like the sharp bite of a blade, his energy slowly returning as the tension in his body began to shift, his face still taut with the lingering effects of the earlier argument. "Alright, Anderson," he said, his voice rough but with a hint of purpose. "I've changed my mind. Let's go save Ms. Layla Smith."

Anderson's expression remained flat, as if nothing T.B. had said had truly registered, his eyes focused on the horizon, watching the treeline where shadows seemed to move in slow, deliberate sweeps as though the landscape itself were watching, waiting. "No," he replied, his voice even, steady, unshaken. "Not you. I'm going alone."

T.B.'s brow furrowed as his earlier surge of enthusiasm quickly deflated, like a balloon pricked by a sharp needle, his hands instinctively curling into fists at his sides before he forced them open again, his movements tight, controlled, as though struggling to grasp the understanding that wasn't there, yet. "What? You just said we had to save her," T.B. pressed, his voice edged with disbelief, as though the statement didn't quite sit right in the world he had just stepped into.

"I did not mean that," Anderson countered, his words slow, deliberate, each syllable falling into place with the rhythm of a well-rehearsed mantra. "I said I don't know how to use a pistol, so I need you to teach me how to use this Glock 17. Then, you'll give me your gun, and I'll go. You—" he paused, his gaze sweeping toward the wilderness around them, the land vast and unyielding, "—will find a way to call for reinforcements. You know the area better than I do. You'll find a signal point faster."

T.B. hesitated, his expression hardening, his jaw clenching as though the words had been a bitter pill too difficult to swallow, his instincts screaming at him to protest, to refuse, yet something in Anderson's calm, almost detached demeanor told him the decision had already been made, and no amount of pushing would change it. "Anderson… I don't like this," T.B. muttered, his voice quieter now, though the underlying edge of concern remained, the protective instincts of a man who had lived on the edge for too long unwilling to let go, even if the situation was beyond his control.

Anderson turned to him slowly, his face unreadable, eyes dark pools that betrayed nothing of the turmoil that might have existed within, his voice carrying a sharpness that cut through the air like a blade through silk. "T.B., listen. If we split up, our chances of survival increase. I won't engage the assassin—just pressure him, make him feel like he's being hunted. That's all."

T.B. took a deep breath, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but he didn't lash out. Instead, he recognized the weight of Anderson's words and the cold precision with which they were delivered. The calculations, the strategy—it was all laid out like a map in front of him, one that he had no choice but to follow if he wanted any chance of survival. "You're not trying to rescue her," T.B. said slowly, his voice thoughtful, realization sinking in like the inevitable collapse of a crumbling wall. "You just want to keep the bastard running."

Anderson nodded once, his eyes unwavering, the faintest hint of something darker dancing behind the cool, controlled exterior. "Yes."

T.B. looked out into the dense woods, his gaze lingering on the shifting shadows, feeling the weight of the decision settle heavily between them. "He's not going to be running forever," T.B. muttered, his voice low but tinged with an unspoken truth that neither of them could escape. "You can't track him. Not like this."

Anderson's lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, the expression barely there but cutting through the tension with a subtle grace. "I don't need to."

T.B. blinked, the words washing over him like cold water. "What?" he asked, confusion flickering in his eyes, his brows furrowed, a mixture of surprise and skepticism overtaking him for the briefest of moments.

Anderson, ever the thinker, ever the strategist, leaned in slightly, his voice carrying an almost chilling calm as he laid the pieces of the puzzle bare. "He passed us seventy miles in a day. He could've kept going, but he stopped. Why?"

T.B. narrowed his eyes, the answer dawning on him like a slowly rising tide. "To set a trap."

Anderson nodded, the motion small but decisive. "Yes. But why stop at all? He had three escape routes, but realistically, only two. One, he could escape on foot or by vehicle. Two, someone could pick him up."

T.B.'s face darkened as the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. "That means he has accomplices."

"Exactly," Anderson responded, his voice as sharp as ever, the wheels turning in his head faster than T.B. could keep up. "He was dropped off at a starting point. That's where he hid his gear, set his trap, and waited for us. His ride out won't show up while there's a threat, but it'll come once the coast is clear. That's where Layla Smith will die—at his extraction point." Anderson's voice held the weight of a truth so cold, so final, that it felt as if the ground beneath them had suddenly turned to ice, cracking with the force of his words.

T.B. clenched his jaw, the bitter taste of anger rising in his throat as the grim reality of the situation settled like a fog, thick and suffocating. "The out-of-fuel Toyota Hilux," he muttered, his eyes locked onto Anderson, his voice low, laced with frustration and determination.

Anderson nodded, his gaze never wavering, as though the truth were already laid bare for him, clear as day. "Upstream. I don't need to track anything. I already know where he's going."

T.B. stared at him for a long moment, his body stiffening, his eyes searching Anderson's face for any hint of hesitation, any sign that this wasn't the cold, calculated truth that it seemed to be. But there was nothing—just the same unflinching determination that had always marked Anderson as someone who could take the world apart piece by piece, if given enough time. Finally, with a heavy sigh, T.B. muttered, "Alright. I'll teach you."

He pulled the Glock 17 from his waistband, the smooth metal reflecting the dim light like a predator's tooth. His movements were sharp, practiced, each action fluid and purposeful, the weight of the weapon in his hands as natural as breathing. His thumb pressed the magazine release, catching the empty clip in his other hand with ease, and then, with a quick motion, he pulled back the slide. A single bullet ejected, falling to the dirt with a soft thud.

Anderson watched, his gaze unwavering, absorbing every detail. He was a student now—silent, calculating, intent on mastering this necessary evil.

T.B. bent down, picked up the bullet, and slipped it back into the magazine before tucking it into his pocket with a grunt, then stood, his eyes locking onto Anderson's. "Anderson. Pay attention. Training started at the moment I drew the gun out, not now." His voice was low, firm, like a command he expected to be followed without question.

Anderson nodded, not a hint of resistance in his posture.

T.B. turned, his face hardening into a mask of focused intensity as he began to explain. "First lesson—never stand iand hold your gun barrenl direct to any person, even if you know it's empty." He spoke with the confidence of someone who had seen too much violence, too many men who had made the mistake of thinking weapons were simply tools. "Always treat a firearm as if it's loaded. Always. You might shot some innocent man by accident."

Anderson's response was a simple nod, but in his mind, the gears were turning. He'd heard this before—on a YouTube and Tik Tok video, in some website, from friends—but the words were different now. They carried weight, like stones sinking deep into the water, leaving ripples that would be felt for a long time.

T.B. lifted the Glock again, his movements sharp, precise. "Your dominant eye. Sight. Barrel tip. Target. Keep four points in a straight line. Finger on the trigger. Curl the knuckle. That's it." His instructions were brief, direct, but every word dripped with the knowledge of a man who had lived through hell and back, someone who didn't have time for niceties.

Anderson's mind raced as he processed the information, his hands moving on their own, testing the weight of the gun, adjusting his grip as though he could feel the power of the weapon sink into his own veins. "Reloading?" he asked, his voice steady but with a hint of curiosity that betrayed his desire for mastery.

T.B. clicked the magazine back into place, his eyes never leaving Anderson's. "First round, you load it manually. After that, the Glock 17 self-loads with blowback. Empty the clip, swap the magazine, press the release, and you're locked and loaded again." His voice was sharp, a touch impatient as though he were walking through this for the thousandth time, each motion etched into his muscle memory.

Anderson nodded, more focused now than ever, feeling the weight of the gun in his hands and the responsibility it represented. "No safety red dot on this pistol, isn't it?"

T.B. scoffed, a brief, sharp laugh escaping him as though the question itself were absurd. "You meant saety lock of a pistol? No. The Glock 17 doesn't have one." He met Anderson's gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though daring him to question further. "Some guns have a red dot. Red means ready. 'Red for death.' This one? It's got three internal safeties, all automatic. You don't need to worry about them."

Anderson turned the gun over in his hands, testing the trigger, dry-firing with a quick squeeze. The click echoed in the silence like the sharp crack of a whip. "It feels… too light."

"It's mostly polymer. Only the slide and barrel are metal," T.B. said dismissively, as if the weight of the gun were irrelevant compared to the weight of its purpose.

Anderson tested the trigger again, feeling the slight give before it clicked. "So, if it jams?"

T.B. shrugged, his face impassive, like a man who had come to terms with the inevitability of chaos. "Point it at the ground. Pull the slide back to eject the jammed round. Repeat until the gun chamber is clear. Then, reload and keep going."

Anderson met his eyes, his expression darkening.

"Anderson. Remember. Never—never—put your finger on the trigger unless you're ready to kill. That's all."

"That's all. So I can go. Goodbye T.B."

T.B. nodded once, sharp and final, as though the matter were closed.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, as Anderson slowly tucked the Glock back into his waistband, feeling the cold, weightless presence of death pressing against his side. He turned and walked against the stream.

T.B. just stood still, watching the back of a crazy man. He couldn't say anything else. Perhaps, he had nothing to say.

Suddenly.

"T.B. You forgot to give me the magazine and the last bullet."

T.B. took the magazine of the Glock out of his pocket. He pulled the last bullet from his other pocket and loaded it into the magazine then threw them to Anderson.

And then, just as T.B. turned away, Anderson reached out, catching the magazine T.B. tossed toward him, his hand moving with the precision of someone who had already memorized the rhythm of this deadly dance. He loaded the magazine into the Glock, hearing the metal click into place like a promise sealed in blood, the finality of it settling into his bones.

Without another word, Anderson turned and walked into the darkness, the world around him swallowing his form whole as though the night itself were conspiring to erase him from existence.

T.B. watched him go, his posture rigid, the weight of something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach. Then, with a muttered curse, he shook his head and said softly under his breath, "You fucking stubborn."