THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three, commencing assault.”

  “Copy, Liberty Three. Let me know when you’ve reached the house.”

  “Roger.”

  Staccato gunfire erupted in the distance, rising in tempo as Eli smiled.

  “Brown’s squad is tearing up their eastern flank. They’ll have to pull people away to stop him. It’s now or never, Paul!” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I want you moving on the house in thirty seconds. Get everyone briefed and ready.”

  “All right. Let’s do this,” said Hillebrand, rising to a crouch.

  While Hillebrand briefed his men and picked one to fire from the opposite corner of the barn, Eli jogged over to the guy with the automatic rifle.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Bob Harper,” said the stocky, goateed soldier, resisting Eli’s attempts to physically lift him off the ground.

  “Get up, Harper. If I’m standing, you’re standing.”

  Harper got up slowly, kneeling and looking nervously past Eli at the splintered siding.

  “You and I have a critical job. Your squad leader is taking the rest of the squad forward while we suppress the house. Reload your weapon and listen up.”

  Twenty seconds later, Eli and Harper lay behind the foundation at the corner of the barn, side by side with Eli closest to the barn. Two spare rifles sat propped against the side of the barn within reach of the edge. Paul Hillebrand crouched directly behind Harper’s feet, holding a radio and his rifle.

  “Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three. We’re approaching breach positions,” his earpiece announced.

  “Get moving!” Eli yelled over his shoulder, waiting for Hillebrand’s voice over the radio.

  “Liberty One. Breach. Breach. Breach!”

  Eli scrambled to his feet and kneeled next to the corner, feeling Harper pressed against his left arm. He leaned left and braced his rifle against the fragmented corner, quickly finding the bullet-riddled gray siding through his red dot sight. He caught the top of a Kevlar helmet as the gunner swung the smoking barrel in his direction. Eli’s rifle bucked against the chewed wood, unleashing a steady burst of automatic fire. He released the trigger, adjusted his aim and fired again, repeating this until the firing bolt locked back. At some point during the fusillade, the rifle above the porch disappeared.

  He let the rifle drop in its sling and grabbed one of the spares, putting it into action against the gun position inside the sliding door. Hillebrand’s squad stumbled across the patio, knocking plastic furniture out of the way to reach the porch. After several trigger pulls, he noticed his hands and the rifle were coated red. Eli looked over his shoulder to see Harper twitching on the ground, a thick stream of blood pumping out of his neck onto the barn. A bullet snapped through the wood next to his head, forcing him back. He’d have to watch this one from a distance. The sight of a Kevlar helmet in the house didn’t bode well for Hillebrand’s men.

  ***

  The intensity of fire directed at his sandbag position had taken on a surreal, almost nonthreatening quality for Ryan. Pressing his automatic rifle down into a small gap between sandbags and burying his face into the ACOG scope, he presented little target area for the attackers to hit. Combined with his Enhanced Combat Helmet, eighteen inches of packed dirt and reinforced sheet metal continued to protect him from the barrage of projectiles.

  He fired a long burst at a target he’d been dueling with since the start of the attack; his only goal at this point was to prevent the man from taking aimed shots into the house. Several tightly spaced .223 bullets had done the trick so far. He loaded a new magazine and searched for fresh targets. Movement in his left-side peripheral field drew his attention, along with his point of aim, to the barn. He didn’t have time to analyze the scene. Dirt exploded in his face, and he pressed the trigger, focused on the two men leaning around the corner. Ryan started to shift his aim to the group of men that appeared behind the shooters, but never lined up a shot. Bullets hissed and popped around his head, one striking his helmet and knocking him off the chair.

  Unable to stand, he grabbed the flimsy chair and tried to pull himself upright, but didn’t gain any momentum. Hell-bent on putting the gun back into action, Ryan crawled against the sandbags and used the rifle to prop himself high enough to reach his hand over the top of the sandbags. He dug his hand into the splintered wood and pulled his body up. A bullet grazed his hand, burning like fire, but he held tight and heaved himself upright. The men headed toward the house were here for one purpose, and it was his job to stop them. Cresting the top of the windowsill, another bullet hit his helmet, snapping his head sideways. He braced the rifle against the top of the sandbags and pushed up on his good leg, giving him a view directly below.

  Three men lay sprawled across the patio, one of them sliding face down off one of the white Adirondack chairs, leaving a thick, dark red streak. He caught the last man in the group rushing up the wraparound stairs leading into the covered porch. Without thinking, he fired the entire magazine into the shingles directly below him.

  Chapter 39

  EVENT +75:29

  Limerick, Maine

  Alex rolled on the hardwood floor, clutching his stomach. Unable to breathe from the 2,800-foot-per-second punch to his gut, he lay there mustering the will to move. He had to move. He tried to call out for Kate, but couldn’t expel enough air to form words. The sandbags had been shredded; most of the dark brown dirt poured onto the floor below the window or scattered across the room. Judging by the fact that he was still alive, he guessed a .308 or similar caliber had done the damage. Anything less would have been stopped by the barrier, anything more would have penetrated the Dragon Skin armor.

  “Alex!” a panicked voice cried.

  A pair of hands pulled him onto his back, and he stared up at Kate. A wild look crossed her dirt-covered face. Blood streamed down her right earlobe onto her cheek.

  “You’re fine,” she said, peeling his hands off his stomach. “Thank God.”

  “They’re coming!” yelled Ed.

  Bullets punctured the wall connected to the kitchen, spraying them with chunks of drywall and passing overhead with the telltale snaps signifying a near miss. He managed to flip into the prone position, lying next to Kate, who had flattened herself in response to the automatic gunfire. Alex glanced at the window behind them. They had to get out of this room. Kate read his look and started to crawl toward the demolished sandbags. He grabbed her arm and mouthed “no,” surprised to hear faint words. Alex pulled her close and strained to speak.

  “You have to stop them from getting in the mudroom,” he croaked. “Not from here. Go fast.”

  She dragged him through the doorway into the kitchen, leaving him behind the safe box before disappearing into the mudroom amidst exploding drywall. His first instinct was to check on his dad. He didn’t see the familiar eight point woodland camouflage Marine Corps cap poking up behind the half wall separating the two rooms. He turned his attention to the backyard, just in time to see Ed push the kitchen table out of the way and throw himself behind the kitchen counter, the sandbags behind him finally collapsing from the concentrated stream of gunfire fired from the patio. Beyond Ed’s darting figure, he saw the screen porch door crash inward.

  Forcing himself to react, Alex raised his rifle and fired at the first figure to enter the porch, knocking him back. A concentrated burst of fire struck the corner of the safe box, one round hitting the rifle’s side-mounted Surefire light and shattering it. Knocked off target, Alex pressed the rifle into the sandbags and pressed the trigger, firing two hasty rounds into the patio before expending his magazine.

  A mass of camouflaged men barreled through the patio door firing, giving him a fraction of a second to make a decision that might decide their fate: Draw his pistol or reload the rifle. Habit brought his hand to one of his rifle magazine pouches, but survival instinct kept it moving to his drop holster. He didn’t have time to reload before they fil
led the room. Sticking the pistol past the obliterated sandbag corner, he tracked the first man entering the house and fired repeatedly, acknowledging the fact that he couldn’t win this gunfight. Two men breached the shattered sliding door before clouds of drywall dust and bullets rained down on the men still bottlenecked on the porch.

  Ryan is still in the fight!

  A distant, crunching explosion rattled the house, triggering a long-forgotten, frightening memory. A few more shots locked the pistol slide back, once again presenting Alex with a miserably lopsided decision. Not much of a decision, really. One way or the other, he was as good as dead.

  ***

  Eli peeked around the corner and watched the remains of Hillebrand’s squad charge up the porch stairs, firing at the sandbag wall just inside the house. A figure darted across the kitchen, barely visible through the shower of dirt and debris, seeking refuge from the onslaught. Scanning the far right ground-floor windows over his rifle, he didn’t see the shooter using the M14. He was glad to see that gun out of commission. One pop from a .308—end of story. He turned in time to see men pile through the screen door, screaming and shooting like marauders. That should do it. Movement above the porch caught his attention, and the men inside the screened porch vanished in an explosive storm of gray drywall powder.

  Frozen by the sudden, unexplained annihilation of Hillebrand’s squad, the sound of automatic gunfire pounded Eli’s ears and jarred him into action. He lifted his rifle barrel and sighted in on the man leaning out of the window. A booming explosion shook the ground and knocked the red dot off target as he pressed the trigger, sending a short burst of automatic fire high and to the right of the window. He didn’t bother readjusting his aim for another burst, instead opting to dive behind the barn and take cover behind the foundation. Bullets ripped through the barn, some passing inches over his back. When the incoming fire stopped, he crawled back to the corner of the barn and grabbed his radio. The not-so-distant explosion meant one thing—time to “get the fuck out of Dodge.”

  ***

  Ed crawled around the kitchen island, ignoring the shards of glass and ceramics that dug into his hands. He prayed that the sandbags protecting his family hadn’t disintegrated under the intense gunfire. The floor shook from a boom, which he could barely differentiate from the rifle fire inside the house. Rounding the island on his hands and knees, he emerged in time to see Alex charge into the open and throw his pistol. Ed poked his head above the granite and witnessed one of the most bizarre moments of his life. The pistol bounced off the furthest man’s head, knocking him off balance as he climbed over the toppled sandbags and dropping him to the floor.

  Alex collided with the second intruder, knocking him against the kitchen table. The two men grappled and slammed each other against the column at the edge of the hall wall, stumbling toward the safe box. Movement on the floor caught Ed’s eye; the man on the other side of the table kicked one of the chairs out of the way and grabbed the table. Having left his rifle behind, and carrying no other weapons, Ed felt helpless—until he saw the barrel of Samantha’s shotgun sticking up behind the sandbags. He sprinted forward and reached inside, trying not to expose his body to the gunfire still penetrating the walls.

  “Sam, I need the shotgun!”

  “It’s ready to fire!” screamed Samantha.

  The warm barrel pressed into the palm of his hand, and he pulled it over the side. Without hesitating, he shouldered the 12-gauge shotgun and fired around the sandbags, knocking the man down. Ed racked the slide and fired under the table, shredding the table legs and splattering the half wall with bright red gore. Three additional 12-guage blasts stopped all movement and groaning on the porch.

  One more.

  He shifted the smoking barrel toward the desperate hand-to-hand battle on the floor fifteen feet away, but saw no way to shoot the insane-looking redhead without hitting Alex. Screw it. He’d put the gun right up against the dude’s head. Ed stood up and was immediately struck in the right hip by a bullet passing through the kitchen cabinets.

  ***

  Alex grabbed both of the redheaded attacker’s wrists, trying to keep him from grabbing the pistol on his thigh or the loaded rifle hanging across his chest. One fact became obvious as soon as they tumbled to the floor in the kitchen. He couldn’t beat this guy in a straight grapple. Red was either too strong, or Alex was too tired. Either way, the result would be the same. Afraid to release either wrist, he held tight and tried to roll on top of his growling assailant. No good. Bullets continued to splinter the wooden trim and shatter plates in the kitchen as they lay on their sides kicking at each other.

  His grip on the man’s right hand slipped, changing the melee’s dynamic in an instant. Red struck his face with the bottom of a closed fist and rolled on top of him, pinning him to the floor. Unable to effectively block the torrent of punches directed at his face, Alex pushed upward with his right hand and twisted his hips. The desperate attempt to turn the tables failed miserably, and Alex lost his grip on the man’s left hand. It was time to even the odds.

  Alex jammed his right hand under the rifles pressed between their chests and dug between Red’s legs. Squeezing and twisting what he could grab through the camouflage trousers, Alex shot his head forward and caught Red’s nose with his forehead. Red screamed and pushed away, breaking Alex’s death grip on his crotch. Blood pouring from his nose, Red rose to one knee and fumbled for his pistol. Alex kicked his raised knee from the ground, knocking him backward against the basement door and scrambling after him.

  Alex slammed him into the door, pinning both hands against the bullet-riddled wood. He was back where he started, holding both wrists in a struggle he couldn’t win. Except this time Red held a semiautomatic pistol in his right hand. A quick knee to Red’s already obliterated groin yielded nothing but a snarl and a return knee, which Alex deflected by turning his hip. Red’s strength surged, pulling him toward the foyer hallway. He couldn’t go to the floor again, not with a pistol in Red’s hand. A bullet penetrated the door a few inches from their heads, causing their eyes to dart to the hole.

  That might work.

  “Mom! Shoot the door! Shoot the door!” he screamed past Red’s left ear.

  They shifted a few more inches toward the foyer opening.

  “Shoot the fucking door, Mom!” he yelled and buried his head under Red’s chin.

  Two rapid blasts scattered slivers of wood over their shoulders. A sharp sting bit into his right shin as Red’s body shuddered and weakened. Alex let go of Red’s left wrist and wrenched the pistol free with both hands, throwing himself behind the safe box as bullets continued to plow through the house. Red stumbled a few feet away from the ragged, bloodstained door and dropped to his knees, staring blankly at the mass of dead men in front of him. His right hand drifted slowly to his rifle while his gaze shifted to Alex’s outstretched, pistol-bearing hand.

  Click.

  The pistol dry-fired. Red’s fingers seized the rifle’s grip as Alex frantically racked the slide and checked the safety. A single hole appeared in Red’s chest, followed by the distinctive boom of a .308 caliber rifle. Tim Fletcher’s M14 rifle barrel protruded from the bullet-peppered half wall. Red stumbled into the foyer and crashed face first into the wall, leaving a thick red trail as he slid to the floor beyond Ed Walker. His neighbor lay flat on his back, bloody hands pressed into his right hip. Ed looked at Alex and winked. Seeing Ed reminded him of Charlie, whom he’d last glimpsed at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “I’ve been better!” responded Tim, peeking out far enough for Alex to see the brim of his camouflage hat.

  “Ryan! Send your status.”

  “I can’t talk now,” Ryan responded, followed by a long burst of automatic fire.

  “I want you out of sight. The backyard threat has been neutralized,” said Alex.

  “Copy.”

  “Kate, anything?’

  The mudroom exploded in gunfire before she
responded.

  ***

  “We’re almost in,” Eli heard through the earpiece and scowled at the radio, like it was defective.

  “Liberty Three, I don’t think you appreciate what I just said. McCulver reported two armored tactical vehicles headed your way. That’s too much firepower. Pull your men out and head to the secondary extract point.”

  “They can’t get the vehicles into the compound, Eli, and it’ll take them at least five minutes to work their way through the trees. I have seven guys ready to breach. If the initial breach fails, I’ll pull them out. If it succeeds, we’ll sweep through the house and be on our way to the secondary extract before they reach the eastern tree line. We won’t get another chance like this,” said Brown.

  Eli hesitated. Any chance to properly avenge his brother and nephew was worth losing a few more men. Regardless of the final outcome, he’d spin this in his favor, explaining the drastic loss of life as irrefutable evidence that the government had planted secret agents and platoon-sized kill teams among their own citizens. Of course, his militia had emerged victorious, and anyone that wanted proof could take a trip over to Gelder Pond to see for themselves, and be graciously shuttled over by one of his own members. Word about this attack would travel far and wide. The further, the better. He just needed to make sure he survived to spread the good word.

  “Liberty Three, this is Liberty Actual. Proceed with the attack. Watch the second floor. You have one shooter armed with an automatic rifle in the northwest corner, out.”

  Chapter 40

  EVENT +75:31

  Limerick, Maine

  Kate fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position lying on the wet tile floor. Razor-sharp pieces of porcelain and glass dug into her knees and thighs, rendering the effort pointless. At least the fragments hadn’t spilled the entire length of the mudroom. Her elbows rested in a thick puddle spreading from the entryway into the mudroom. She braced her rifle against the doorframe, using the wooden trim to shield her left shoulder and part of her face from the mudroom door. This was the best she could do to protect herself, and judging by the holes in the trim above her head, it wasn’t much. Oh yes—sandbags protected her feet.