Outlaws of the Midwest | Book 3 | Havoc Endures

by Hunt, Jack

  Laughter erupted as he was quickly restrained by muscle on either side of him.

  “I told you not to get too close,” Santiago said. “He’s a wild one!”

  More chuckles and then his world snapped into view. He was surrounded by Santiago, and six of his cronies.

  It was the vibration of the vehicle he felt first, then his peripheral vision took in the sight of the city. He was in the back of an M35 Deuce and a Half, a green canvas stretching overhead, a wide opening at the rear letting in cold air.

  The smell of diesel made him want to gag.

  Miles bounced in his seat as he looked across at Santiago.

  His hands were bound in front of him as were his ankles.

  “Missed me,” Santiago said with a smile, referring to the knife he’d thrown earlier. “You really shouldn’t have come back for him, Miles. But I want you to know that I understand. I have to say I admire your spunk, that kind of…” he sucked air between his teeth, “we’re all in this together, leave no man behind attitude.” His eyes flashed, amused. “At one time I used to believe in that — you know, when I was serving this country but not now.” He rolled his bottom lip in as he looked out. “Now it’s a matter of weighing the pros and cons.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?” Miles replied.

  Santiago pursed his lips as he threw Miles a sideways glance. “I grew up in this city. St. Louis. ‘The Lou – The Gateway to the West.’” He chuckled then wore this serious expression. “As a kid, I wanted nothing more than to serve my country. Wear that uniform with pride. Defend the home of the brave.” He chuckled as he looked back at him. “I used to think that there was nothing more admirable than dying with your boots on for your country. I mean, what higher calling can there be than to lay down your life for strangers, right? Except, you learn fast that all you are is a number, an expendable commodity that is bought and sold for pennies on the dollar.” He wagged a finger. “Oh, they put a good chunk of cash into training your ass, and if you survive, you get to live out your remaining days listening to chumps thank you for your service. But trust me, that shit gets old real fast. I mean really, what does that even mean? ‘Thank you for your service?’ Do I look like a servant? Do any of us?” He laughed. “I mean let’s cut the crap, there isn’t one single guy I knew who got into the military to serve. They wanted to shoot shit up, crack a few heads, and get paid to do it. But have you seen the paychecks?” He shook his head, a look of disgust. “There are assholes who make three, four, maybe five times what we did, and they never once had to risk their lives and then there is us, putting our neck on the line every day, bombs flying overhead, bullets snapping past our faces. Well, you saw it, you must have when you went to the front lines. There is nothing quite like witnessing death and then coming home and hearing… ‘Thank you for your service.’ It was a slap in my face every time I heard it. I wanted to reach across and strangle them. Strangers have no idea but they continue to repeat the same pat phrase as if it somehow makes it all worthwhile.” He snorted. “You said I live for the applause but that’s where you are wrong, Miles. I don’t give a shit about the praise of men. Not one fucking iota! You know why? Because the applause doesn’t pay bills, the applause doesn’t put food on the table, the applause doesn’t do shit.” He paused, sneering. It was clear he was holding on to some deep-seated anger. “If it did, you wouldn’t see so many homeless vets lining the streets. Not that it matters now. No, if anyone can be accused of living for the applause it’s you, my friend.” He narrowed his eyes at him. “Because, damn, that’s the only reason I can see why you’ve done what you’ve done. I mean, it sure isn’t for a fucking Medal of Valor or that Hallmark bullshit, soldiers, welcome home. Oh… how that is quickly forgotten once you strip out of the uniform.” He leaned forward but not close enough that Miles could head butt him.

  “So, tell me, Miles, as someone who never served in the military but only ran with militia, was it worth it? Why did you risk your life for these people? Strangers who don’t add a dollar to your bottom line?” He paused. “Look around you. They’re not here to help you now. All that work to get Gunnar, and for what?” He stared intently and sniffed the air. “For me it’s simple. I’m all about the green, well…” he laughed, looking at the others, “the gold now but you get the point. You see when all is said and done, and the smoke has cleared, I’ll—”

  “Be dead,” Miles interrupted him. Santiago stared back, shaking his head and tutting.

  “Maybe,” he nodded, “but not by your hand, and not today.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Not today,” he said again with a confident smile.

  It didn’t take them long to reach where they were heading. Miles figured he was being transported to Chicago, to be hand-delivered to Yong for the bounty on his head, but that wasn’t what fate had in mind. The ground beneath the truck changed in sound from firm to almost hollow and his eye caught the sight of water. The vehicle slalomed around charred steel bones, the remnants of front line war. He recalled this place, it was the same bridge he and Demar had been ambushed on, the same place he’d saved his life. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Santiago didn’t say anything, he simply stared at him as if trying to read his mind.

  The truck came to an abrupt halt and a smile formed.

  “Here we are, ground zero,” he said. “Everyone out.”

  One by one they climbed out.

  A hard wind lashed at his clothes as a second truck rolled up behind them. He was led to the edge where Santiago was leaning over a black steel railing and looking off to his right. “There are a lot of bridges up and down this Mississippi River but none like Eads. Do you know this is the oldest bridge across this river? I’m talking over 145 years old. Can you imagine what stories it could tell if it could speak? This used to be the symbol of St. Louis until they erected the Gateway Arch. Thirteen million dollars, and what purpose does it serve? Nothing. Nada. It’s brash. Ugly. An eyesore. Now that, Miles, is people living for the applause. No, this bridge. That has a purpose. It’s strong. Consistent. Timeless. I like to think I’m like that. I’m the bridge, and you’re the Arch.” He chuckled as if finding something funny in his own words. “The archer. The irony. Which reminds me, what was the deal with that symbol of yours? Hmm?” He shook his head and continued as if he really wasn’t interested in knowing. “Anyway. Yong wanted you hung from this bridge as a warning to everyone. But I came to learn your mother was hung, right?”

  Miles said nothing.

  “I mean, call me sentimental but that just doesn’t sit right with me. No. A man like you deserves to be treated better.” He nodded. “After all you’ve done. Saving Jo Greene. Wow, that was a big one. Man, you should have heard what Yong had to say about that. You really threw a wrench in the works. Then wiping out Jefferies.” He rocked his head back and forth. “I probably would have done that myself eventually. Fucking hated that weasel.” He breathed in deeply, turning away from the railing and beckoning for them to bring out the rope.

  “You ever done bungee jumping, Miles?”

  His pals snickered.

  “In Iraq, one of the forms of torture is to handcuff, blindfold and hang a man upside down by his ankles while his interrogators kick, whip, and beat him. I’m not going to do that. Don’t worry. I mean, there is nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know,” he said looking at him. “I know you think Grady was a friend, a close brother, an ally, but did you know he was also a snitch? One of Morgan’s inside men?” Miles’ brow furrowed. “Oh, you didn’t know that?” He laughed. “Don’t worry, he didn’t know I knew. Yeah, like I said, you shouldn’t have come back. Wrap his feet.”

  They forced him to the ground and tied the rope around his ankles.

  While they tightened the knot, Santiago took out a stubby cigar from his top pocket and lit it. “Now you’re probably wondering how long a man can last hanging upside down. It varies. Heck, there have been people known to last over 24 hours. Ca
n you believe that? You know, people stuck in caves and all. But don’t worry, you probably won’t last that long. There is a good chance you will lose consciousness after twenty minutes. Temporary loss of vision happens to some people, and then eventually you die. Asphyxiation,” he said. “Upside down, the lungs will be squished by your liver and intestines. Then of course there is the rupturing of blood vessels which could lead to a brain hemorrhage, or if you’re one of the lucky ones, maybe your heart will fail. Anyway, that’s usually what happens. Now, a strong, healthy man like you. I think you can last a while. Hell, you already have, right,” he said, slapping his shoulder as they brought him upright. “You know, Miles, I really wanted to spend more time with you, pick your brain, it seems such a shame to let a guy of your potential go to waste. If you’d only run into me before Gunnar, maybe things would have been different.” He gave a pained expression and shrugged. “Oh well, the paths we travel on. Put him over! Let’s go, we are burning daylight here.”

  As they went to lift him, Santiago stopped them, raising a finger. “Oh Miles, before you go, it nearly slipped my mind. Silly me. August wanted me to pass on a message to you.”

  “Yeah, about Scarlett?”

  He figured August wanted to dig the knife in before he died.

  “Who?”

  “Forget it,” Miles muttered.

  Then it dawned on Santiago. “Oh, you mean that beauty he shot on the roof. No, from what I remember I didn’t hear her say anything except… no before he shot her. No, August wanted me to tell you that he looks forward to killing your father.”

  Miles frowned. “What?”

  “Your father. Grant Arrington. That is him, right?”

  “He’s already dead.”

  Santiago bristled and looked at the others. “I could have sworn he said that he was still alive.” He got closer to Miles, an amused smile flickering. “Yeah, it seems someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut. He’s living north of here. Banged up. In bad shape. Certainly not capable of walking, or running, but alive. Yeah, seems Demar left him for dead, except he wasn’t — dead, that is!”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Nope. No bullshit, my friend. I lied earlier. Well, I didn’t tell the whole truth. August plans to make a pit stop in the town of Hannibal. Seems word has spread and others are looking to collect.” He patted him on the chest and smiled. “Take care now.” And with a jerk of his head, four of his guys lifted Miles as he thrashed around. It wasn’t fear he felt, but anger in that moment as they slipped his body backward over the edge and sent him hurtling toward the water.

  8

  St Louis, Missouri

  The whiplash was brutal. Unlike a bungee jumping cord that was made from elastic and designed to absorb shock, the rope around his ankles wasn’t. His descent was more akin to Nagol, the crazy land-diving made famous by the inhabitants of Pentecost Island. They would jump from a platform 100 feet in the air with nothing but vines attached to their ankles.

  Eads Bridge was close to that height, coming in at roughly 88 feet.

  The drop was survivable but painful.

  Unlike him, the intention of the inhabitants wasn’t to make jumpers hang upside down until they died.

  The rope made a snapping sound as it catapulted his body back up again before dropping him in agonizing fashion. Miles came to a stop around thirty feet above the water’s surface. Almost instantly he felt blood rush to his head making him dizzy. Swaying back and forth, he felt like the heavy weight of a pendulum, at the mercy of the hard wind.

  This was where they would leave him dangling for all to see, not a symbol of St. Louis but a warning to those who went against the PLA. Far above he could hear laughter. “How’s the view down there?” Santiago shouted. With his ankles and hands bound, there was nothing he could do to get out of this. He figured Santiago would eventually cut the rope and he would fall into a watery grave, but that would have been too easy. He wanted him to suffer, Yong wanted the world to see what became of those who rebelled.

  Hanging like a piñata beaten by the wind, all he could do was wait for the inevitable. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes nor did he feel any fear. His thoughts circled back to what Santiago had said about his father. Was he really alive or was it just added torture? If he wasn’t in that body bag they brought him, who was? He recalled he never saw his father’s body, only the bag zipped up.

  Miles engaged his core to try and do an upside-down crunch. As his hands were bound in front of him, if he could reach his ankles, maybe he could loosen the rope. Bending up, he saw faces looking down. Someone fired a gun.

  “Oh, no, no. No cheating,” Santiago said. “I’ll put you out of your misery before you have a chance to get free.”

  Relaxing his body, he sank back into the pressure as his liver and intestines bore down on his lungs, and blood pumped loudly in his ears. Swaying there, time seemed to slow. Five minutes felt like twenty, ten, like forty. He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed before he heard it. The sound of blood pumping got louder until it almost mimicked the thump of rotor blades, steady, rhythmic, getting louder.

  And louder.

  And louder.

  That wasn’t his blood.

  As his body twisted like a ring on the end of a piece of string, forced around by the wind, he noticed a dark blip on the horizon getting larger the closer it got. His body turned again, and he saw another, this one was even nearer.

  He blinked hard and squinted, and that’s when he recognized it.

  A helicopter.

  Two of them heading his way, one from the north, the other from the south.

  Tex? A sudden barrage of heavy gunfire like a Gatling gun unleashing its rounds erupted high above as the metallic wasp zoomed over the bridge, and an explosion followed causing the beams to shake, and his body to sway.

  Santiago picked himself up off the ground, spitting dirt as he scrambled for the remaining truck to collect an M4. The other vehicle was in flames, turned on its side, the driver dead, multiple men squirming around in agony, and blood trailing away. He bellowed out orders to the few who’d survived and told them to return fire. At first, he’d thought the helicopters approaching were PLA, they’d seen a few pass overhead on their way to the bridge without issue, and while the equipment might have been Chinese the occupants weren’t.

  Before they had a chance to recover, the second helicopter buzzed in from the south laying down some serious firepower. A line of bullets spat and tore up the concrete, pinged off metal, and peppered the engine of the only truck that could get them out of there.

  He lifted the M4 and sent back a rapid three-round burst but no sooner had he done that than the other bird had circled back around and was chewing up the terrain and forcing them to go for cover.

  Santiago cursed loudly, his back against the truck as he surveyed the air. A moment of hesitation and then he bolted across to the railing to finish off Miles.

  If he was going down, he wasn’t leaving without that asshole.

  Forget waiting for his heart to give out, or the blood to make him go unconscious, he was going to fill his body with lead.

  The trouble was, reaching the railing wasn’t the hard part, exposing his back to the helicopters to squeeze off a few rounds was. The birds in the sky made it near impossible. The two gunners weren’t letting up. As one disappeared overhead, the other was in its shadow, peppering the ground, tearing up vehicles littering the bridge and forcing them back behind cover. He dropped behind the concrete barrier, hands clutching his rifle to his chest, before firing a few rounds back.

  Taking a quick moment to look over the bridge, Santiago managed to fire off two rounds but with the sudden and constant barrage of gunfire and explosions on the bridge, getting a clean shot impossible.

  The wind from the low-flying helicopters whipped dirt into the air, making it too difficult to see. Instead, Santiago decided to make a mad dash for the truck. He knew if they waited any longer it would be rendered useless a
nd unless they jumped to the water, there would be no chance of getting off that bridge alive.

  Santiago cried out to his men to cover him as he zigzagged his way over and hopped into the driver’s side. A few clambered into the back. Aaron, his closest friend, got in the passenger side and he floored it, swerving to avoid debris and barreling his way to the western side.

  Bullets had snapped past his head, and Miles was damn sure one of them would hit him. It was a chaotic scene, chunks of concrete spilling over, a few small pieces hitting his boots on the way down. The water below rippled as one of the helicopters began to descend. He could hear yelling but couldn’t make out what was being said or who was saying it.

  The rotor draft burst outward, wrinkling his jacket and pants as it got closer.

  That’s when he saw him.

  Snow.

  He was in the open door of the helicopter, yelling at him.

  He had an idea of what they were attempting to do but the chopper couldn’t get close enough without risking the rope getting caught up in the blades. Instead, the helicopter banked a little. In an instant, Snow dove out, slamming into the rope high above him as the bird flew a short distance away.

  “Miles. I’ve got to cut it!” he shouted.

  He didn’t wait for him to acknowledge.

  That was the last thing he heard before he felt the rope around his ankles go limp and the surface of the water rushed up to meet him. If it had been an Olympic dive, he would have scored a zero. His body went from thirty feet above the surface to ten feet below the water in seconds. Snow wasn’t far behind him.

  Deep below the water, he turned to see Snow swimming toward him, a knife in his mouth. He got behind Miles and swam up to the surface. As they breached the top, both of them gasped loudly. The wind of the helicopter descending stole their breath. As quick as lightning Snow cut the rope around his wrists, then got behind him to drag him over to the helicopter. A moment later he was hauled inside, and the restraints around his ankles were freed as the bird hovered.