The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) by Shea Berkley Page A

you.”
    “That’s okay. I’m not a dog person.”
    “I’m setting up the supplies. Got a flashlight and extra batteries and this,” Grandpa says, grabbing a huge, weird-looking shotgun made of heavy plastic and metal. “Now this is what I’m talking about. She’s pretty, isn’t she?” He rubs the barrel as if it were a living thing.
    Grandpa’s snapped. He’s out to kill something I suspect is already dead. I shake my head. “I can’t shoot anyone. What if I accidentally kill somebody?”
    He laughs, and the sound isn’t pleasant. “Boy, you need a lesson in guns. This,” he says, holding out the gun, “is a 40mm riot gun. It shoots out these, along with other things.”
    He tosses me a small, heavy square. I catch it in my hands and test its weight.
    He smiles. “Bean bags will give a guy one heck of a kick in the pants.”
    “Where’d you get it?”
    “Got a friend who’s into non-lethal force. I use these to scare away wild dogs, wolves, and the occasional black bear.”
    I jump into the hole and give the bean bag back. He hands me the launcher. The plastic grip feels cool beneath my fingers, yet there’s a heaviness to this weapon that doesn’t feel right. I try to concentrate as Grandpa shows me how to load the bag and explains the mechanics of shooting.
    I shake my head as I study the big gun. The unsettling feeling that’s crept over me won’t go away. “I don’t know. It still looks like it can do some serious damage.”
    He claps me on the shoulder. “Let me tell you something. This great country of ours was founded on our right to bear arms. To defend our families and homes. To provide food. A gun is a tool. It’s not evil. Only the intent of the one holding it has that distinction.”
    I understand what he’s saying, but it’s something else that’s bothering me. The launcher still feels threatening. The forest tilts and spins as I stare at it. I quickly lean the gun against the side of the foxhole. As soon as I do, the world rights itself.
    I’ve gotten into a few fights, but they were all fist fights. Guns seem a bit extreme. I look over at Grandpa, unsure how to deal with this.
    He vaults out of the hole and heads to his ATV. He brings back a small case and hands it to me. “Put this in the corner.”
    I take it and read the box. US Army MREs. I put them where he tells me, and no sooner than I do, he hands me something else. Bottled water. I put the big bottles beside the MREs. When I turn back, he’s holding out some binoculars.
    “Go easy with these, boy. They’re expensive.”
    I put them to my eyes and fiddle with the knobs. They aren’t binoculars—they’re night vision goggles.
    “A man needs to take care of his tools as carefully as himself,” he says, while scrounging near the ATV. “Remember that.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Night has found the woods. Pretty soon it’ll be pitch black. Grandpa’s face is shadowed, as if he applied a coating of combat grease to every hollow. I put the goggles with the rest of the supplies, and when I turn around, he’s there again, handing me not one, but two rifles.
    The cold iron blisters my fingers, and I hiss at the pain. These have nothing to do with non-lethal force. A wave of nausea passes over me, and I dump the guns near the rest of his supplies and try to ignore the throbbing in my hands. I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.
    This is not the simple wait and see Grandpa had led me to believe.
    He’s back at the ATV shoving boxes of ammo in his pockets. After hiding the ATV in a cluster of bushes, he grabs a blanket and trots back. As nimble as a twenty-five-year-old, he jumps in the foxhole and begins spreading out what I now see is actually a camouflaged tarp.
    Excitement rolls off him. The old guy is really getting into this—maybe flashing on some war memories. I hope not. When it comes to people, I like them whole and bullet-free.
    I slide my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. “Grandpa,” I say