Fipps had finally gotten control of the M1117, not that it much mattered.
Jackson had never looked more pleased with himself, and Elliott found himself wondering how it was even possible to so intensely hate someone he’d only known a week or so. Couldn’t this scumbag ever just go away?
He stood behind Shavian, leering, pressing the barrel of her own rifle against the small of her back. Roger was staring hard at him.
Higgins had fixed Jackson with a fierce, unwavering glare, his grey eyes like a frozen lake. Jackson could not meet that gaze.
For just a moment the rumbling engine of the M1117 was the only noise as it rumbled over bodies in the garage; Jackson seemed to either not notice or not care that not everyone was there, and that some of the missing folks were in a large vehicle nearby bulldozing the enemy.
McNabb held up his hands in a pacifying gesture towards Jackson. “Jackson, what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice calm, slow.
“It’s called payback, General,” he snapped. “I’ve had just about enough of the sanctimonious bullshit from these idiotic clowns.”
“Hey!” Elliott said indignantly. “We are not sanctimonious!”
Jackson blinked at her. “That’s what you had a problem with?”
“Shut it, Jackson.”
Jackson nudged Shavian with the rifle, and she swayed a little, biting her lip and snarling.
“That’ll be about enough of that kind of talk, you little geek,” Jackson. “Not polite.”
Elliott glared.
“See,” Jackson went on, “that quack seems to be very interested in little Red here, so I figure I can give her right back to him. Might get something out of it.” With the hand not holding the rifle he rubbed his fingers together in the universal hand sign for ‘moolah.’ “Well, something besides the gratification of seeing you all suffer.” He smiled unpleasantly.
McNabb, who apparently either did not know Jackson well enough or had staggering depths of faith in the goodness of man, shook his head at Jackson and tried. To his credit, Elliott thought, he genuinely tried. “Son, I suggest you put that pea shooter down and step away from the girl. No one here is just going to let you take her.” He had changed his tone; only slightly cajoling now, an authority had crept into his voice. He had the cadence of an old Midwest farmer scolding his son who’d just skipped his chores to meet a girl in the barn- he was trying to make Jackson identify with him, to make him respond on some psychological level to his voice. He was good.
Unfortunately, Jackson was beyond responding to a father figure.
“No you’re not going to let me. No one lets me here. I’m making the rules. Rule number one: I’m walking out of here with this girl and giving her back the doc, pretty much right now.”