by Powers, AJ
Wonderful, Hagan thought sardonically.
“Don’t be late,” Wilford said, all but kicking Hagan out of the car.
Hagan got out of the car and gave a lighthearted salute to the Marine as Bennett backed away, quickly speeding toward the road. With the sun starting to dip below the horizon, Hagan double-timed it to the barn and hopped on the ATV, heading away from the road and into the trees at the back of the farm.
Having expected to be out late, Hagan had stashed his NODs in the under-the-seat compartment of the ATV. He put them on and, as the sun traded places with the moon, he drove with ease back to the safehouse in the middle of the woods. Hagan parked the ATV beneath a rock overhang and then covered it with military netting and pine boughs. He then hiked a few hundred yards to the mailbox, a term he and Solomon gave to an old deer stand that was there long before they moved in. It gave them an elevated view of the surrounding area. The mailbox also gave them a very narrow view of the safe house to observe before moving in. It was part of the operational security that both men took before ever going inside.
Hagan studied the small cabin through his night vision goggles, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Solomon still wasn’t back from his trip. That was no surprise. He usually stayed the night.
Despite being cold, hungry, and a little woozy from the blood loss in his arm, Hagan stayed at his post for the better part of thirty minutes, watching for anything out of the ordinary. All was clear, and soon, he was tromping the final quarter mile through the snow to his home. To his bed. He wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next twenty-four hours. But by the time he got a fire going, patched his arm and scrounged up some dinner, he’d be lucky to get an hour or two of shuteye before heading back to the farmhouse to meet Aileen’s men.
Chapter 15
Hagan had been awake for six hours already, and the sun hadn’t even climbed above the horizon, yet. Still wet and cold from the ATV ride back to the barn, he twisted at knobs on the dash of the old station wagon, willing for the vents to expel some heat.
“I told you, it don’t work,” the driver said.
Hagan sighed. His body trembled as his cold, wet clothing clung heavily to his skin, infusing its bitter chill into his bones.
“Besides, we’re here,” the driver added.
The car slowed and turned into a dark parking lot, away from the few working lights illuminating the road in the pre-dawn hours. The old hatchback rocked and jolted as the wheels struggled to overcome the massive cracks and potholes running the stretch of their path. Pulling up to a small warehouse, the driver jerked the wheel and pulled into a parking spot next to an old dumpster. Without saying a word, he killed the engine and got out of the car, heading straight for a set of green double doors on the building in front of them. Hagan reluctantly followed the man, a fresh wave of chills rippling through his body as he hurried through the icy rain and over to the doors. The man pounded on the door with his fist, and, moments later, a loud, metallic clank was heard on the other side. The right door whooshed open, the hinges crying out their protest as a big, bearded man cradling a Mossberg shotgun waved them inside. Like the car, the inside of the building wasn’t warm, but Hagan was at least out of the wind and rain, taking the edge off his tremors.
Shotgun Man led Hagan to a large, poorly lit room at the back of the building where a few men were loading some crates onto a box truck. Hagan glanced around the cavernous room, observing hundreds of other crates, boxes, barrels and even a couple forklifts. He strained his eyes and read the word OMNI-TEK stenciled across one of the crates queued to be loaded onto the truck. Omni-Tek was the only company owned by the Apollo group that kept its original name after Alexandria was founded. Being one of America’s leading plastics and composite manufacturers, Omni-Tek was once Apollo’s most profitable companies prior to the war. And now they designed and developed parts that were used in all of Alexandria’s industry; from vehicles to weaponry, food packaging to computer parts, Omni-Tek had a hand in just about everything produced in the territory. But why would Aileen or any of her allies go through the trouble to steal cell phone cases and PVC pipe fittings?
“Typhon, I presume?” a man with a strong Irish accent asked as he stepped out of a manager’s office. Hagan turned and faced the man who was walking toward him, his hand already sticking out. “Carrick’s the name,” he said, gripping Hagan’s hand firmly.
Carrick looked to be about Hagan’s age. He was tall, lean and had strawberry-blond hair. His skin was pale, and he was missing a front tooth. Even in the dark lighting, Hagan could see energy and excitement in the man’s blue eyes as he grinned, finally releasing Hagan’s grip.
“Good to meet you, Carrick,” Hagan replied blearily.
The man nodded, sizing up the stranger in front of him. “I see it’s still bucketing down out there,” he said, handing Hagan a mesh bag of clothing. “Here. These should warm ya up a bit.”
Hagan took the clothes from the man and looked around. “Is there a place I can change?”
“Aye,” the man said. “There are some jacks past the shelves over there,” he said, nodding to the far end of the warehouse. “Get yourself dressed and then grab some coffee in the break room. We leave in ten.”
Hagan walked around a series of shelves that nearly went up to the ceiling and made a beeline for the bathrooms near the edge of the warehouse. He eagerly traded out his sopping wet clothing for the uniform Carrick had given him, reveling in the dry fabric as it laid across his skin. After buttoning up the coveralls, Hagan threw on the coat and pulled the hat down on his head. Leaving his clothes on the floor, Hagan moseyed over to the small break room next to the manager’s office and poured the biggest, blackest cup of coffee he’d ever had. With warm, dry clothes on his back, and the caffeine starting to attack his nervous system, Hagan was feeling like a new man as he returned to the warehouse.
Carrick pulled down the door on the back of the truck and latched it up. He spoke a few words to one of the men that had been loading the truck then gave him a slap on the shoulder before moving over to Hagan. “Waking up a bit, I see,” he said with a grin.
Hagan lifted the cup of coffee. “Yeah. Feeling a hell of a lot better, now. This stuff could wake the dead.”
Carrick laughed. “Aye. I don’t make any of that piss water most people drink. If it don’t look like motor oil, I ain’t drinking it.”
Hagan took a long pull on the black liquid and nodded his approval for the man’s appreciation for strong coffee.
“All right, lad, we best be going now,” Carrick said before turning his attention to a man stacking boxes onto a pallet a few feet away. “Let my sister know we’re moving out.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, dropping everything he was doing to head to the manager’s office.
“Your sister?” Hagan asked as they walked to the truck.
“Aye,” the man said. “I do believe you’ve met.”
“Aileen?”
The man dipped his chin.
Carrick and Hagan hopped into the cab of the box truck and Carrick cranked the key that was already hanging from the ignition. The motor turned and sputtered, finally belching to life after a few seconds. Carrick gave the engine a few revs, trying to hurry along the slow warmup of the diesel engine.
The truck lurched out into the rain and sleet and Carrick took a hard turn down the narrow street. Hagan felt the tires slip beneath them, but Carrick didn’t seem fazed. Instead, the man continued to work through the gears as if it was a dry, summer day, the speedometer quickly climbing to 50.
“So, how come Aileen doesn’t have the accent?” Hagan asked.
The man chuckled. “Oh, it’s there, lad. She just hides it well. She fancies herself as a natural born American, so she quickly learned to speak the way you bucks do. But trust me, if you get that gingernut ragin’ pretty good, it’ll come out like she never left Dublin. Give it time, you’ll hear it for yourself.”
Hagan cracked a smile. “Yeah.
I’ve heard about her temper.”
“Aye,” Carrick said before returning his focus to the road. He lifted his boot off the gas and let the truck gradually slow as they approached a checkpoint. Hagan tensed up. “Easy, lad. We’ve got paperwork that will get us through. And these fellas almost never bother to inspect our cargo given our documents are signed by the office of the Secretary of Commerce.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure every one of these guys have memorized my face by now,” Hagan said apprehensively.
Carrick shrugged. “Just pretend to be sleepin’. They probably won’t even bother to give ya a second glance.”
Hagan dropped his face into the crook of his arm and pressed up against the window. He tried to look as natural as he could, but despite all the black op missions he’d been involved in during his years with the Ground Division, he’d never once feigned sleep passing through a checkpoint.
As Carrick began downshifting and applying the brakes, he said, “Just in case these fellas make a complete haymes of things, you’ll find some help beneath the seats.”
“Understood,” Hagan said, not opening his eyes.
The truck wrenched to a stop and Carrick rolled down the window.
“Papers,” a man’s voice said. There was a pause then he heard the man speak again. “He all right?”
“Aye. A little too slow gettin’ to the coffee pot this morning. And no time for a second brew.”
The guard groaned out a chuckle.
Hagan listened intently as Carrick continued to make small talk with the guard while retrieving the paperwork. He analyzed every word the man said, searching for the slightest hint of fear, doubt, anxiety, or disbelief… Any tells that could indicate the guard suspected something was amiss.
“This weather’s just brutal, ain’t it?” Carrick said.
There was silence for a moment, then, “Yeah. Glad I’m out of here in twenty.” There was a beeping sound from a tablet device—Hagan assumed the QR code on the paperwork was being scanned for authentication. A moment passed, then there was a click. Then the sound of a pen scribbling on a piece of paper attached to a metal clipboard. “All right. You’re good to go,” the guard said. “Keep it slow. It’s supposed to start icing over in the next few hours.”
“Aye. Appreciate the tip, lad.”
Hagan heard the window roll up and the gears grind as Carrick shifted into gear. The truck rocked forward and Hagan waited until they were in fifth gear before pulling out of his artificial slumber.
“What’d I say, lad? Piece of piss.”
“How’d you forge the papers?”
“Forge?” Carrick laughed. “We’re a legitimate shipping company. One of few authorized to travel outside the borders.”
“So, this is a sanctioned trip?”
“Aye. We usually head to the Texas Alliance once a month to make a delivery. Usually bring back a few goodies as well.”
“So, you just toss a few extra boxes in the back whenever you get an order?”
The man nodded.
“Smart.”
“It’s a pretty good racket that has done us well over the past few years.”
Hagan’s head began to stir with questions about Aileen and her brother. Every country had criminal enterprises, but one thing Hagan had noticed over his years in the service was that the more tyrannical the government, the more people like Aileen and Carrick stuck to the shadows. Yet, both of them worked legitimate businesses inside Alexandria, leveraging them as a means to expand their empire, even using privileges granted by the regime to make their side work more profitable. It was ballsy, Hagan admitted. In America, mob bosses with a body count as high as Gettysburg typically got life in jail. In Alexandria, such activities would likely result in a horrible, grisly death for not just the guilty parties, but their families as well.
Hagan suspected something was off about Carrick and Aileen. Very few people would be willing to risk so much just to pad their bank accounts or have access to a little bit of contraband. The realization that he knew so little about this organization made him nervous. But his drive to complete the job that brought him to Alexandria allowed him to shrug off the mystery. For now.
As the day progressed, the road conditions worsened, forcing Carrick to keep his foot from being too heavy on the gas. The men kept the conversation superficial, reminiscing about life in America prior to the war. Of course, Carrick was a big Red Sox fan, and Hagan, a Cincinnati fan. Hagan enjoyed being able to talk about such things again with a stranger. To be able to talk about things as trivial as professional sports and not have to explain what it was like to be in the stands when a batter cracked one out of the stadium in the bottom of the ninth. Or to laugh about the ten-dollar price tag on a beer that no one batted an eye at. At times during the drive, Hagan almost felt like he was back in America, again. But as they approached another checkpoint, the fantasy world dissipated.
They passed through four additional checkpoints after that, each one as easy as the first. Once the guards confirmed that the shipping order came from the Secretary of Commerce, they didn’t need to see any more. Delaying a shipment from the Department of Commerce without legitimate cause would create a lot of headaches for those men—most of whom were only hoplites because that’s what they were told they would be. Hagan suspected if they didn’t have a damn good reason to search the cargo, they would wave them through as soon as the authorization code popped up on their tablet screens. And, so far, Hagan’s suspicions were proving true.
By midafternoon the weather cleared up and the roads dried. The further south they traveled, the more the temperature reading on the dash climbed. They were a few miles from the border now, and Hagan sensed Carrick’s tension.
“The border checkpoint is a whole different beast, brother. We have a guard on payroll, but it’s a crapshoot what post he’s stationed at. Keep your guard up.”
With his senses heightened, Hagan kept his eyes locked onto the checkpoint facility up ahead until it was time for him to go back to sleep. As the truck slowed, he heard a sigh of relief come from Carrick.
“What is it?” Hagan asked, keeping his eyes shut and his face pressed into his arm.
“Me boy’s inspecting the transports today. We’re as good as cleared.”
Hagan felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders loosen as the truck eased to a stop. He kept his eyes closed and pretended to sleep.
“Afternoon, Carrick,” the guard outside the door said.
“Hey, Grayson. We’ve fallin’ a little bit behind today, so, if ya don’t mind lettin’ us through in a jif, I’d be grateful.”
There was palpable silence. “Listen, uh, I know I normally swing that kind of stuff for you guys, but I can’t do that today.”
“What’ya mean you can’t do that for me today?” Carrick asked, his tone falling somewhere between angst and ire.
“There was an incident on the river a week or two back… Well, anyway, the Council has ordered all cargo in and out to be verified before passing through.”
Hagan peeked an eye open, seeing another guard approach from the front.
This is bad.
“Ramirez and I are just gonna poke around in the back for a minute and make sure everything’s squared away, then you can be on your way.”
There was a long pause, then a nervous laugh from Carrick. “All right, lad, but if they get heated back in the Acropolis over this shipment being late, I’m dragging your name into it.”
“It’ll… It’ll take just a minute,” Grayson said worriedly.
Carrick killed the engine before tapping Hagan on the arm. Hagan responded with a weary groan.
“Hmmm?”
“Need to get the cargo inspected. Back in a minute. No worries,” Carrick said calmly. “I swear, I’m thinking of firing the poor lad,” Carrick said to Grayson as he hopped down from the truck. “He’s the absolute worst company to keep on a long drive.”
At the sound of Carrick’s door slamming shut, Hagan�
�s heart began to pound like the reports of 20mm AA guns in the distance. He speculated what kind of firepower lay beneath his seat and questioned when exactly to reach for it. He’d just met Carrick a few hours ago. Hagan didn’t know what the man was thinking like he would have if it had been Solomon behind the wheel. He couldn’t read the hidden meaning behind Carrick’s last words to him before dropping down from the cab. Did he want Hagan to sit tight and stay calm? Or was he warning Hagan that things were about to go kinetic?
Hagan was preparing for the latter.
Squinting his eyes open again, this time a little wider, Hagan took in more of the scene in front of him. There were multiple targets on the other side of the dirty windshield, each one in various stages of readiness. Some acted as if the truck was yet another boring task to complete at the end of a very long, tiring shift, while others held their guns in a quick-fire position, as if expecting for a small army to leap out of the back.
Hagan startled at the sound of the door rolling up. The cab rocked and swayed as at least one of the men climbed inside the back to inspect the cargo, making sure there were no discrepancies between the paperwork and the inventory. Hagan knew there was. Carrick wouldn’t have been so relieved to see his insider approaching the truck otherwise. Not that it did him any good, now.
Hagan’s eyes were fully opened now, though he still remained motionless. He slowly scanned the area, assessing and prioritizing the threats around him. He heard some of the crates in the back shifting around, the sounds causing his muscles to tighten. He saw the man—Carrick’s man—through the side mirror, his eyes glued to a tablet in his hands as the other man rooted around the back. He heard muffled voices but couldn’t discern what was being said. The man in the back of the truck would yell something, and then Grayson would yell something back as he flicked a finger across the screen. Hagan then heard a large, wooden crate being dragged across the floor, then, suddenly, there was silence.