He ignored the expletive-laden tirade from Rusty Kaminski and looked desperately around for a likely landing place.
"They won't come down here, not once they've spotted us," he said.
Rusty pointed down Main Street. "The school. They'll come down on the sports field. We'd better get over there or we'll lose the town before the fight's begun."
Devon ran across to the Toyota they'd been using, shouting to two of the defenders to follow him.
"Waydon!" Rusty called to the deputy who was watching the helicopter open mouthed. "Get the rest together and follow us. We gotta contain them!"
Devon turned the ignition and put the Toyota into drive as soon as he heard the doors shut behind him. Aside from Kaminski and himself, three sat on the back seat: Deputy Duck Dale, Gil Summers and Elwood Miller. Devon glanced at them through the rear-view mirror—two old men and a former salesman. And they were all that stood between Hope and defeat.
"I can't believe they've got a chopper!" Kaminski was saying, as he pushed shells into the magazine tube of his shotgun, struggling to keep it on his lap as Devon flattened the gas pedal to the floor.
Devon caught sight of Gil nodding on the back seat. "We thought all aircraft had been destroyed, either in the air or on the ground. Clearly they kept some in reserve."
"Or they got lucky and found a working one," Devon said. "Remember, they use old Land Rovers because they're primitive enough to resist whatever they did to all the other cars and electronics."
"Well, that was a Huey. An old one. Civilian. " Kaminski said. "Just be grateful it ain't the gunship variant or we'd be dead already."
Devon shook his head as he pulled the car into the lot in front of the Water & Sewage District building. He watched the chopper coming down on the sports field, which was on a slight rise ahead of them. "They sure were well prepared. But we've got to stop them here. Come on!"
He got out of the car and checked his G17. "How many could there be in the chopper?"
"Up to a dozen," Kaminski said, hefting his shotgun. "We better hope we can keep them holed up until we get backup."
Devon nodded, gestured at the others and led them along the sidewalk toward the road that ran in front of the school. It had turned chilly and drizzle was in the air, but he didn't feel it. His mind, which had seemed to be all over the place in recent weeks, had coalesced into the laser focus of a predator. He could hear the boots of the others behind him, but he didn't wait for them—they couldn't afford to go at the pace of the slowest.
"C'mon Devon, is that the best you can do?"
It was Duck Dale. He accelerated past Devon, across the road and up the bank that the sports field was built on. Devon felt the draught of the whirring chopper blades, cool on his bare head as he struggled up behind Dale.
"Duck, what do you see?" he called as he neared the top.
Dale glanced down. "It's landed. They're just gettin' out now. What do we do? Shoot?"
Devon threw himself onto the grass bank and peered through the chain-link fence as the cold and wet penetrated his jeans. "I don't think we've got a choice."
It was hopeless. They might get a couple, but he'd counted an even dozen so far and they'd soon enough work out where Devon and Duck were. And then it'd all be over.
But, whether it was hopeless for the two of them or not, the town was lost if the invaders were allowed to disperse. Twelve soldiers with automatic weapons were plenty to subdue a city when its protectors were a couple of miles away guarding a bridge they'd never intended to cross.
"Fire at will, Duck."
Dale raised his hunting rifle to his shoulder. "Like shootin' fish in a barrel. And it's DD, okay? Duck's a stoopid name."
He sighted, pulled the trigger and a soldier dropped. Devon poked his Glock through a gap in the fence and put two shots into the mass of uniforms that were running around like an ant hill poked with a stick.
Dammit, they were good. Only three were down before they'd formed up, using the landing skids and skin of the fuselage for cover before the earth in front of Devon exploded.
"No fair!" Duck called out above the percussive barrage.
"Can you work your way around? Outflank them?"
Duck nodded, then looked down the bank to see Gil, Kaminski and Elwood arrive at the bottom. "Stay there, we're gonna run ’round the side, see if we can surprise 'em!"
The farmer's red face sighed at the prospect of being asked to run farther, but he followed Duck as he jogged along the bottom of the back, skirting the playing field. Kaminski looked up the slope at Devon and, receiving a brief nod, jogged after the others.
"Dammit!" Devon hissed as Gil joined him.
The chopper's blades were still turning slowly, but he could see a detachment of soldiers running across the sports field toward the school.
"The children have gone haven't they?" Gil asked.
"Yeah. The only people in there now are the sick we didn't want to risk moving, and the nursing staff. They're probably just running for cover."
Another burst of fire from the chopper forced Devon and Gil to drop their heads.
To their right, he heard the crack, crack of Duck's weapon. He risked a look over the embankment as the soldiers adjusted to the new angle of fire. "Come on, we need to get into the school."
Devon chewed on grass as he slipped backward down the grass bank, accompanied by the multiple pops of the helicopter crew returning fire on Duck, Rusty and Elwood. It would be a matter of minutes before they found a way to outflank their attackers, so Devon accelerated along the edge of the sports field and then turned a right angle toward the school buildings. The sound of Gil's panting fell behind and was swallowed up by the patta-patta of automatic fire.
As he rounded the edge of the playing field, he spotted the soldiers running across the gap between the back of the seating and the series of single-story buildings that had hosted the cafeteria and hospital in this re-formed city. Throwing caution to the wind, Devon cut across the gap and flung himself against the whitewashed outer wall before inching his way past the painted image of a prowling tiger.
He peeked around the corner of the building just as the last of the soldiers went in through the main door. Muffled, echoing cries of alarm escaped through the door until it swung closed and Devon backed up, scampering along the outside wall until he came to the back entrance to the kitchen. Gil was nowhere to be seen, but the exchange of fire on the playing field below went up a notch. Perhaps Waydon had finally arrived with backup. Or maybe the helicopter crew had cornered Duck and Elwood …
But he couldn't think about that. Right now, he didn't know what he planned, but he had to get eyes on the soldiers, so he slipped through the empty kitchen, boots slapping on the polished floor before making his way along deserted corridors painted in primary colors and adorned with crudely painted renditions of jungle animals.
He could hear shouts and barked commands bouncing along the corridor. They were inside the gym. Doctor Pishar's voice rose above the others before being abruptly silenced.
Devon cursed before flipping the magazine out of his handgun and finding only five rounds. He reloaded, heart thumping an accompaniment to the distant sounds of gunfire outside. Then he crept, bowed low, gun to his chin, along a row of lockers and toward the gym. There was a guard on the rear door, but it was open and he could see Pishar, his face bloodied as he was held tight by a man in a black mask. Both were watching someone or something Devon couldn't see.
A sudden bang! and cries filled the room. The guard near Devon winced and put his hand to his mouth. Pishar's brown skin seemed to pale, and then he roared with rage. A man stepped into view, drew back his arm and swung his fist, connecting so perfectly that Devon could see the shower of blood from twenty yards away.
Then a cry went up, and the leader turned, again looking at something out of sight. "Put your weapon down, or I shoot everyone! Start with this šašo," he called out in what sounded to Devon like an Eastern European accent. The man�
��tall, solidly built and with huge hands that gripped a massive bronze handgun—brought his weapon up against the head of Pishar, who struggled in vain against the iron grip of the guard holding him.
Devon heard the mumbling of someone speaking off-stage.
The big man laughed. "No, I do not believe you shoot my man. But you know I shoot him." He pushed the nose of the gun into Pishar's cheek, forcing the doctor's head back so far it looked as though it was in danger of snapping off.
"I give you three. Then he dies. Then you die. Tri. Dva. Jed …"
He heard someone shout, "Okay!" He recognized the voice.
A wide smile that reminded Devon of a great white shark broke across the leader's face. "Dobrý. Good," he said, releasing Pishar who stumbled backwards with his guard. "Now, come over here and introduce yourself like a man. I am Captain Mäsiar."
And into view walked Gil Summers.
Chapter 18: Sacrificial
Hickman leaned on the hood of a red Honda Accord, scanning left and right through his binoculars. Nothing had happened since Gert had taken half the men from the barricade—and one of the two machine guns— back toward Hope. They both knew he'd be too late, but there was no point in sitting here like children on a sandcastle when the tide was flowing behind them.
On the other hand, if they abandoned the bridge entirely, then they might be playing into Crawford's hands. That might have been his plan all along. Hick had pretended he wanted to go back with Bekmann, but he hadn't resisted the Dutchman's insistence that he stay here for when Crawford made his move.
So, with two dozen others on this side of the bridge, and another fifty or so behind the second barricade on the other side, he waited.
"Here, I made you a coffee." A hand appeared by his side and deposited a steaming paper cup on the metal paintwork.
"Thanks, Lynda." He put the binoculars down and sipped at the coffee. "You look tired."
She blushed and shook her head. "Maybe, but I think it's more a lack of time to fix my face. Just doesn't seem to matter anymore."
"Well, I guess we've all got different priorities now."
"I don't know about that," she said, looking out at the south highway with its parked truck. "You got Sam out of the way, and I reckon she's the only person you truly care about."
…aside from yourself. Those were the unspoken words Strickland had left off the sentence. "You sent Jack and …"
"Molly."
"Yeah, Molly. You sent them off with the convoy to Springs. Why didn't you go? No one would've blamed you."
He held the cup to his face, breathing in the rich and bitter aroma.
She glanced back at him "Oh, Paul. I thought you'd be grateful for my support. I'm still your deputy, you know. If anything happens to you …"
He swallowed too fast and spat a mouthful across the hood of the car. "Jeez, Lynda," he said, wiping his mouth as she burst into laughter. "You're supposed to keep that sort of political ambition to yourself!"
"No, I don't want your job. But he does," she said gesturing at the distant group of trucks where Crawford's men were gathered. "That's if Ward didn't nick an artery."
Hick lifted the binoculars to his eyes again. "We should be so lucky. But I don't reckon that snake in the grass has any blood in his veins."
"For all we know, Hope could be under his control already."
"Maybe, but this bit of Hope ain't gonna yield while there's any bullets left or anyone alive to fire them."
She put her hand on his arm. "Brave words, Paul. Just don't forget that not everyone here signed up to die for the sake of McGill Bridge."
He felt the pressure ease as she moved away. Damn her. She was like a particularly annoying Jiminy Cricket. As far as he was concerned, he would never surrender to John Crawford. There were some battles he was not prepared to lose.
"Hick!"
A voice called from behind. He spun around to see a man pointing up at the sky. A chopper flew low between their position and the mountains, heading south. It was probably in range of the M-249, but only just, and they didn't have the ammunition to waste on a likely vain attempt to bring it down.
So, he watched and raged against his impotence as it hugged the horizon before settling down behind the parked Army trucks. He'd had a forlorn hope that Devon and the small force he'd left in Hope might be able to bring it down, but now he was left with nothing to do but wait for the shoe to drop.
A Land Rover emerged from the enemy camp, driving around the abandoned truck that Hick had attacked a couple of hours ago before coming to a halt a hundred yards from the barricade. Lynda Strickland moved into place alongside him, attracted by the first sign of activity.
Crawford was on the front seat next to a black masked driver. He got down holding a white flag in his hand. Idiot, Hickman thought, raising his Glock and sighting along the short barrel. He'd probably miss with his first shot, but he'd get the SOB before he could get back behind cover. And then a third figure climbed out of the car. Bloodied, disheveled and stumbling, he came to stand in front of Crawford.
"Gil!" Lynda hissed.
Hickman groaned. "Oh, for the love of G—"
"We've got to help him!"
"No, we don't," Hick snapped. "He's gone and gotten himself caught and for once I ain't inclined to save him. Come back here!"
Strickland had pushed through the gap between the Honda and the next car and strode toward the Land Rover. And Paul Hickman found himself following her, cursing as he went. Because if there was one thing he hated more than being in mortal danger, it was others knowing more than he did.
"What in the name of all that's holy has happened to you?"
Gil Summers tried to smile as Hickman stopped a few yards away, standing beside Lynda Strickland. His mouth curled just a little before he winced and put his hand to his jaw.
"Looks like they beat you up real good," Hick said, his eyes flicking to meet those of Crawford. What did he see there? Regret? Shock? Fear? Surely he knew the level of brutality his organization was used to. These were the sorts of monsters who chopped the foot off a young man because he'd stolen a can of beans. Or whatever. Brutes, either way.
"I was a fool, Paul."
"Tell me something I didn't know. What did you do?"
Summers shook his head sadly. "I thought I could find a peaceful way out for us all. I thought the soldiers from the helicopter had run to the school to shelter from attack. I didn't realize it was their plan all along."
"You see," Crawford said, eyes glinting, "we've taken the school gym, so we have all your sick and infirm as hostages."
Gil sighed. "You have to clear the bridge, hand over your weapons and surrender, or they'll kill them. They shot Wally McBride right in front of me. You remember him, don't you?"
Hick did. McBride was a diabetic veteran of the first Iraq War. He was also a drunk who'd done nothing to look after his ailing body and so it had begun to shut down, piece by piece. He was a stubborn fool, but he was their stubborn fool and Hick added him to the list of reasons why he'd kill Crawford.
"It is regrettable that anyone should have to die," Crawford said. "But Captain Mäsiar is … how shall I put it? … very committed to our cause and he will do whatever it takes to see Hope come under our control."
Hick looked at Summers and saw that he believed what Crawford was saying about this man.
"You have an hour to dismantle your pathetic barricades and retreat from the bridge. You will leave your weapons and surrender into our hands peacefully."
"Or what? What's this Captain 'Messier' gonna do? "
"He will execute your sick one by one."
He held out his hand and the guard holding on to Summers handed over a walkie-talkie.
"Captain Mäsiar, do you receive? Over."
After a static filled moment, a deep Slavic voice responded. "This is Mäsiar."
"This is General Crawford. What is your status?"
"We are secure."
Crawford waited fo
r a moment, as if expecting the man to elaborate. When he heard nothing but static, he continued, "How many hostages, Captain?"
"Twenty-four."
"Then I suggest a demonstration of our determination might be in order."
"Clarify."
Crawford glanced at Hickman, holding his gaze while he spoke. "Kill one."
Hick could hear words barked in a foreign language full of sharp consonants and the sound of a scuffle.
Mäsiar's voice crackled over the radio. "Speak your name. Speak!"
Hick's blood froze in his veins as he recognized the shaking voice that responded. "Jenson … Jenson B … Bowie."
Still Crawford's eyes remained locked with Hick's.
"Go ahead, Captain."
"You son of a b—"
Hick leaped forward, but the guard holding Summers brought his gun up and Hick stopped. There was a single crack, and Hick braced for pain, but a Slavic voice calmly said, "It is done," over the radio. In the background, folk were crying and screaming.
His head swimming, Hick stepped back to where Lynda Strickland stood sobbing. She put her arms around his shoulders, but he didn't want comfort and he wasn't going to offer it to anyone else.
He looked across at Crawford. "Jenson Bowie was a fine young man, a good young man. I am neither of those, and I swear to you in front of everyone here that you will die for what you have done, if it's the last thing I ever do."
The words came out like bullets from lips he could barely move. Never had he felt rage like it and he saw, with the tiniest hint of satisfaction, a flicker of fear on Crawford's face. He wondered whether Crawford had ever seen death up close. One day he would, Hick promised himself.
After a moment of silence, Crawford pushed Gil Summers back into the Land Rover, using him as cover from Hick's anger, and the vehicle reversed before swinging around.
Hick held on to Linda, his rage breaking like a wave, and turned to go, when a movement caught his eye. The Land Rover had reached the truck that the mortars had hidden behind and, suddenly, the door flew open and Gil Summers fell sideways onto the asphalt. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and began running toward them.
The Last City (Book 3): Last Stand Page 15