by Hunt, Jack
All the while gunfire continued high above.
In between sucking air, Miles said, “Get me up.”
Tex gave a thumbs-up and the bird lifted until it was high above the bridge. Tex brought it around and gave them a bird’s-eye view of the carnage. Vehicles burning, smoke drifting, bodies everywhere, and a single truck blazing a path toward the city.
The chirp and crack of gunfire dominated as the gunner in the other helicopter finished those remaining on the bridge.
There was only one thing on his mind right then.
Santiago.
He wasn’t getting away. Not this time.
The helicopter traversed the skyline, quickly closing the distance between them and the truck swerving and slaloming its way around the steel graveyard. “Give me that,” Miles said, pointing to one of the guys holding an RPG. “Tex, get ahead of him and bring it down. Snow, lay down gunfire and stop that vehicle.”
Snow nodded, got back on the turret, and unleashed a furious number of bullets, killing several of the men riding in the back even as the truck’s driver tried to avoid the attack, swerving erratically.
The truck had nearly made it to the safety of the other side when it succumbed to the barrage of gunfire.
Rounds bit into the ground behind the vehicle, chasing it as they got closer until multiple bullets tore apart the tires causing it to swerve and then flip. The crash was violent. It landed hard, a squeal of metal like the worst car wreck in history. The truck blurred in Miles’ vision as they shot past it and blood continued to drain back to his feet.
Tex circled around and made a descent toward the black smoke. He banked and brought the helicopter to where Miles was facing the mouth of the bridge and the flipped truck. It took a moment to see the occupants struggling to get out and escape the flames licking around the engine.
Miles squinted into the darkness of smoke until he spotted Santiago, his head emerging from the passenger side, climbing out. The draft of the rotors pushed back the smoke, making it easier to see him. He could see the panic in Santiago’s eyes as he raised a forearm and tried to see.
That’s when he locked eyes with him.
Miles brought up the RPG and aimed.
Fear of the rawest kind gripped Santiago, a momentary scramble to try and get the rest of his body out, but it was too late. Miles squeezed the trigger, and the rocket exploded out, leaving a stream of smoke behind as it barreled toward the truck.
The explosion sent a backwash of air toward the helicopter and despite Tex’s yelling to pull out, Miles told him to wait. He had to see that Santiago was dead before they left. Five, maybe ten seconds passed before the smoke cleared and he saw only the fragments of what Santiago was wearing, the rest was gone, nothing but chunks of metal, glass, and body parts scattered.
“Didn’t miss that time, did I, asshole!” Miles said, tossing Santiago’s previous words back at him.
9
St. Louis, Missouri
In a two-story vinyl sided home located in Orchard Farm, a tiny community just north of St. Louis, Gunnar was getting some well-deserved rest. His forearm was hooked up to an IV drip that was being used to detoxify his body and allow him to heal. Whatever they’d pumped into him, it had taken one hell of a toll on his system.
When Miles arrived a few hours later, he’d found him asleep.
After he discussed his plans with Tex and Snow to head to Hannibal to search for his father, Snow had told him to give it some time, allow his own body to heal from the strenuous position he’d been put in, but time wasn’t on his side, especially if August knew where his father was.
“Who owns this place?” Miles asked, his eyes roaming the country-style kitchen with a clunky stove, an oak table, and chairs, and warped hardwood flooring.
“An old friend,” Snow replied, pouring out cold iced tea into a glass then handing it to him. He took a sip, its sweet and natural taste bringing alive his taste buds before he downed it in one gulp. He set the glass on the table and his gaze roamed the distressed white wood cupboards and granite counter. On the walls were photos of a family. There was an embroidered image of a house on the wall, with the words: Lord Bless This Home above it.
“Tell me this friend of yours has been properly vetted as I don’t think I can handle any more surprises for one day.”
Snow patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all good, my friend, you should rest. You’re safe here.” He glanced at Tex who had his feet up and was chopping the end off one of his cigars. He gave a nod of confirmation.
“Go wash off your war paint, kid. We got this,” Tex said.
Miles gave a slow nod, feeling exhaustion wash over him like a wave. In his haste to return, he’d blocked out the pain he was feeling. His bones ached, and it felt like he’d torn a ligament in one of his legs as he had to hobble to get into the house.
Since Gunnar’s disappearance, he’d had little to no sleep while trying to track him down. They’d followed several leads, some of which led them to Chicago and back again until Arianna got in touch and told them where he was.
Miles closed the door to the bathroom and pressed his back to it, taking a moment to close his eyes and experience some form of peace.
Peace was hard to find.
After spending twenty minutes in the bathroom with a bowl of hot water and a soft hand towel, he felt cleaner, more like himself. He wiped a hand across a steamed-up mirror, then clutched either side of the sink and looked at the red in his eyes. A lack of sleep was catching up with him. He knew if he put his head down he might not wake up for several days. Just a little longer, he told himself.
A combination of exhaustion, adrenaline leaving his body, and loss hit him all at once. A flood of emotions overwhelmed him and he felt himself break. Several tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them away. He’d become so used to hiding that part of himself. The thought that his father was alive seemed almost too much to bear. It raised so many questions. Five years. How could he be alive and not have returned? How could he have put him and his mother through this? He wanted to believe it was true, he really did, but dwelling on it was too painful. It was easier to think that he was dead but what if he wasn’t?
What if Santiago was telling the truth?
Stripped to just his camo tactical pants and boots, he ran a hand over the scars on his chest, then across the thick black hair on his face. He opened the medicine cabinet in front of him and fished out a small pair of scissors and began to hack away at the unruly mess. Once he had it chopped to a reasonable level, he lathered up the stubble with soap and used a switchblade to clear away months of hard growth.
When he was done he couldn’t recognize the stranger in the mirror.
He hadn’t seen his face without hair in such a long time. He looked several years younger but the corners of his eyes still bore the signs of aging. Miles stared at the reflection, taking a measure of who he’d become. A man — wiser than before but still able to lose sight of those he could trust. Had Santiago been right about Grady? He never struck him as being a PLA sympathizer or even having a reason to side with the enemy. No, he refused to believe that. Why would anyone willingly risk their life for another if they were working both sides? Something about that story didn’t add up.
After drying his face, he exited and made his way down a narrow corridor. There were three bedrooms in the house, two were in use by militia, guys looking to catch a few winks before they were back in the thick of it.
Like most, they had no difficulty falling asleep at the drop of a hat. It was often how they had to operate. A few hours here, a few minutes there.
Opening the door to the third room, he quietly entered, peering at Gunnar asleep.
Inside the room was a single bed, a small side table covered with a white doily, and a vase of yellow wildflowers. In the corner, a brown sofa chair, and off to the side of the room, a mahogany dresser with a large mirror. The flooring was scuffed rosewood, and the whole room had a musty smell to it like
clothes with mothballs. Miles dragged over a chair and sank into it, his shoulders dropping, having a chance to relax for the first time since stepping off that helicopter. He remained there staring for a moment, sunlight bathing his face through the thin drapes as he waited for Gunnar to wake.
In the light of day, he could finally see the wounds to his body. A gray blanket was pulled up to the lower half of Gunnar’s chest, covering most of the welts but leaving enough to show the beating they’d given him. It was intense. His skin was a million shades of purple and his chest and arms covered in black circular marks, indicative of cigar burns. They’d no doubt tortured him trying to extract information on the whereabouts of the resistance.
Whether they’d gotten anything was a foregone conclusion. No.
Miles exhaled hard and rolled his neck around on his shoulder to work out the tension before setting his chin on his hand and resting his elbow on the arm of the chair.
His eyelids soon grew heavy and it wasn’t long before he drifted into a deep sleep.
Dreams were plagued by nightmares, a recurring series of killing PLA, or hearing his mother scream and being unable to do anything. When his eyes snapped open and he bolted upright in his seat, sweating, breathing heavily, Gunnar was awake.
“A nightmare?” he asked.
Miles nodded. “Always the same.”
“If it’s any consolation, mine aren’t any better.” He smiled at him. “Good to see you, kid.”
“You too.”
“Your friend Snow told me what you did. That was a big risk. Thank you.”
“I guess we’re even, right?”
He grinned. “Yeah.” He breathed in deeply and grimaced.
“Here.” Miles leaned forward and collected some painkillers off the table and shook two pills into his hand. He gave him a glass of water and Gunnar tossed them back and chugged the water down.
“So… what have I missed?”
“Oh you know, murder, brutality, a rescue of the president’s daughter. All run-of-the-mill stuff.” He stopped and looked at him with a smile before taking a serious tone and bringing him up to speed. “Scarlett is dead. August killed her.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miles. I know she meant a lot to you.”
“Yeah, well, at least we know where he is and who he’s working for.”
Gunnar exhaled hard. “It was bound to happen.”
“Only because that asshole lied to him. Morgan,” he said. He got up out of his seat and hobbled over to the window to look out.
“Yeah, well, I can’t wait to have words with him.”
“He’s dead.” Miles cast a glance over his shoulder.
“You?”
He nodded. “For my mother’s death, for what he did to August, and for Scarlett, and you.” He drew in a sharp breath. “And for every resident of Camdenton that suffered under his hand.” Miles walked back to the chair and took a seat, leaning forward, his hands clasped together.
“The president’s daughter?” Gunnar asked. “What’s the deal there?”
“Do you remember telling me the PLA had plans for Chicago? I believe she was meant to be part of it, a way for them to avoid being wiped out by our military.”
Gunnar groaned as he shuffled to sit up in the bed. Miles was quick to help, propping up some pillows behind him. He thanked him before Miles retook his seat.
“So you saw Yong?” Miles asked.
“Briefly before they laid a beating on me and then handed me over to Santiago. Which reminds me. Is he dead?”
“If he isn’t, he’s rocket proof.” He chuckled for a moment then his expression changed. “Santiago told me my father is alive.” He looked at Gunnar to gauge his response.
He had a deadpan expression. “And you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I thought Grady was on our side but Santiago said he was in cahoots with Morgan.” He shook his head. “If that’s true, I nearly died coming back for his lying ass.”
“Where did he say your father is?”
“The town of Hannibal. No specific address. Just said that’s where he is.” He nodded and blew out his cheeks.
“And you’re planning on going, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“It could be a trap.”
“I don’t see why. He never expected me to survive the bridge incident. Hell, even I didn’t think I’d make it. Not unless he was doing it as a form of mental torture in which case, I’d lose a few hours, a day at the most. But if he’s right, I must see him, and I have to get to him before August does.”
“And what of August?”
“He needs to know I didn’t kill Demar.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, but how do I explain that to him?”
“You tell him I killed him,” Gunnar said without missing a beat.
Miles snorted. “Okay, right.” He lifted his eyes and met Gunnar’s with a look of amusement. There was no smirk, just a serious expression. Miles was quick to clarify. “He shot himself, Gunnar. I was there.”
“You were outside.”
Miles leaned forward. “He had a gun in his hand. I saw it.” Gunnar stared hard at him and Miles’ brow furrowed. “No. No, I was the only one there.”
“No you weren’t,” Gunnar said. “I followed you. I heard you speaking with him. After you left, I killed him then made it look like it was him.”
“But I was there.”
“And you didn’t stay long.”
Miles sank back in his chair with an incredulous expression. “No.”
He couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. He racked his mind thinking about that day. Gunnar continued to nod, confirming it was true.
“Why?” He waited for an answer but Gunnar didn’t need to give him one. There were many reasons why. The man had gotten between him and Arianna, and he’d betrayed the resistance, and had been behind the death of Miles’ mother. And that was just to name a few of the things they knew. After hearing that his father was alive, he had to wonder what else Demar had kept from him.
Miles got up from his seat and went to the window. Outside, Snow was sitting on the porch steps, talking with a couple of the other militia. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was irrelevant.”
He spun around. “Irrelevant? August believes I killed him.”
“Morgan made it look that way. There would have been no stopping that from happening. You were already a target after the incident in the square.”
“But you never said anything.”
“Would it have changed anything?”
Miles couldn’t believe he’d been lied to again, but this time it was by his closest friend, his only ally in this war. If he couldn’t trust him, who could he trust? Miles stood there for a moment or two then walked out of the room, leaving the door open. “Miles! Miles!” He exited the house and hobbled straight past Snow.
“Miles?” Snow asked.
He never replied but continued walking, no direction in mind, he just needed to be away from him, from the lies, from it all.
10
General Yong
Chicago, Illinois
The fifteen-ton Z-8L transport helicopter hovered high above Butler Field, its rotors whipping the air and creating ripples on the water of Monroe Harbor. Once used for concerts and festivals, the field in the heart of the Chicago Loop was ground zero for the arrival of Ju Han, the commander of the People’s Liberation Army.
The Z-8L was a beast often used for transporting heavy armored vehicles and amphibious landings. It was wide enough to carry a Bobcat all-terrain assault vehicle inside the cabin, and equipped with radar warning receivers and infrared decoys.
The bird was accompanied by four Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters.
General Wang Yong watched the approach from the ground, surrounded by numerous troops. As the buzzing bird made its final descent he marched away from a convoy of trucks towar
d the field. It didn’t matter how many times he met with his commander, he always felt a nervous twinge in the pit of his stomach.
Yong’s heart sped up as wind from the rotors ruffled his uniform. So much was riding on the arrival of the commander, and with all that had occurred in the Midwest over the past year, both good and bad, he couldn’t help but think they hadn’t done enough. Around him, soldiers snapped to attention as the bird came to rest and the doors were opened by two soldiers.
The commander stepped out in full regalia, striding away from the helicopter at a crouch. Unlike most Chinese soldiers, he was small but overweight, he’d always reminded Yong of the North Korean leader, with a round face that hid his neck, tight black hair, and thick black-rimmed glasses. Despite his appearance, he carried himself with a confidence born out of over a decade of leading the PLA. What he lacked in physical attributes he made up for it in leadership.
Yong and the other four generals, along with the rest of the troops, offered back a rigid salute as he drew near.
“Welcome, commander.”
“At ease. Walk with me.”
He stepped out from the line of troops and accompanied him on their walk to the Humvee. From there he would be taken to Willis Tower, the tallest building in Chicago and the main hub of their operations.
Although Yong felt confident now that the commander was here, his knowledge of what the resistance had managed to achieve over the past year brought with it a weight, a weight he’d have to unload on the commander once he asked for an update.
Yong was in line to take over from the commander when America was taken. Failure to succeed wasn’t an option and that’s why he’d taken every measure to ensure their plans went off without a hitch. Unfortunately, he hadn’t banked on the Hunter, or militia being such a thorn in his side. The resilience of the American people was something he felt the PLA had seriously underestimated. Sure, they had struck first and done so in devastating fashion allowing them to get a foothold in the nation, but keeping it was a challenge.