by Tate, Harley
Apart from the putrid odor, nothing appeared disturbed. Racks full of everything from energy bars to lanterns to every kind of climbing rope still sat full and welcoming. Cases of freeze-dried camping food and the fuel to reheat them greeted him at the end of the aisle.
But that smell could only come from one thing: a body. It didn’t make sense.
Colt walked down the aisle, rolling his feet with every step to keep his sound to a minimum. His pistol led the way, straight out in front of him, ready to fire. Every three steps, he swept the area, panning from left to right and back again.
With so much stock and so many places to hide, he would never be able to clear the store. Finding the source of the stench would have to do. He inhaled. It was stronger in the back.
After looping around the main aisle, Colt re-approached the rear of the store. A customer service bay for returns and questions sat behind the sales floor and Colt crept toward it. The smell intensified.
With his back close to the wall, Colt eased inside the space, skirting the counter as he squinted into the dark. No windows adorned the back area and the light from the main floor barely reached inside. He would need to use a flashlight.
Colt pulled out a little LED number he’d pocketed at the office supply store and held it in his left hand, bracing his pistol still gripped in his right. He clicked the little light on and swept the area. Empty.
Advancing toward the counter, he stayed close to the wall. Ten steps and he cleared the counter. Five more and he froze.
Three bodies sagged against the interior wall of the counter, leaning against each other like a decomposing family portrait. A father, a mother, and a child who couldn’t have been older than Dani.
All shot in the head and dead at least a week.
Colt swallowed. What would make them choose this path? He glanced up. They were rotting inside a store that held everything they needed. Boots, tents, camp stoves, and food. Three people could survive for a year on just the supplies filling the store. Why would they do this?
He stepped closer and crouched to examine their bodies. The skin around the bullet holes sagged from decay, but Colt could still make out the stippling around the entry wounds. Close range. Personal.
Colt turned his attention to the floor around them. He frowned and peered around their folded hands.
No gun.
Either someone else took advantage of the situation and pilfered the necessary weapon, or these people didn’t take the easy way out. They were murdered.
Colt stood up, hand pinching the back of his neck on reflex. Who would kill a family of shopkeepers but not raid the store?
He dropped his hand. Someone who would be back. If they hadn’t had time to clear the place out or they needed more equipment to do the job right, then taking out the family first might be the easiest way. Leaving the bodies to stink up the place would keep interlopers out.
No one but a man used to gutting it out like Colt would even step inside. The locals? Not unless some militia lurked in the town, keeping a low profile. The motorcycle club was a contender.
Colt backed up, handgun ready, before stepping around the counter and onto the sales floor. What did the store have that would be so important?
Camping gear. Backpacks. Fuel and portable stoves. Everything a group would need to survive in the wilderness or a town without power.
Not just anyone could have killed those people. A wife and husband and their daughter? No way. It took callous planning and a disregard for human life. It was one thing to neutralize a threat. That’s what Colt had done with the men in the street. He’d saved Dani from a fate he refused to imagine.
Colt paused. Dani.
If a secret force was building in the town, she would be in danger. He still didn’t know what to make of her mother showing up looking every bit the model parent or the military carting them all off to the college campus. None of it made sense.
He felt like he had all the pieces of a puzzle staring him in the face, but he couldn’t make sense of it because they were all upside down. But he knew Dani needed protection, maybe now more than ever.
Protection was something Colt could do no matter what. He strode into the store and headed straight for the boots. If he was going to scout out the National Guard and find out Dani’s situation, he needed gear and supplies.
He slipped his dress shoes and nasty socks off his feet and wiggled his toes. Foot health was one of the most overlooked things in the field, but it could mean the difference between life and death. If blisters popped or skin rubbed raw, infection could set in.
So far, he’d avoided the worst of it, but his feet would thank him for the breathable wool socks he slipped on and the sturdy boots.
After dealing with his feet, Colt headed to backpacks, picking out two packs: a large bug-out one he could fill with all the gear he needed to live on his own, and a tight day pack for critical items that wouldn’t weigh him down in a fight.
As he picked them up to walk away, Colt paused. Dani should have one, too. If there was even a chance she would need it, he should make it now, not later. Grabbing a smaller women’s pack, he headed to the next department, ever vigilant for any noise inside the store.
So far, he’d been lucky. The light from the windows gave him enough visibility and he could ease through the store without alerting anyone outside. For all intents and purposes the place still looked locked and empty. It was only the back door that showed signs of Colt’s presence, and not many people had a reason to enter the loading area.
Colt walked through the store on a mission, assembling everything in systematic, orderly fashion. Although taking his time meant he wouldn’t be ready to hit the college-turned-military base until late, it was necessary. He needed to be ready.
Two hours later, he had three bags packed with a litany of items: sleeping bags, inflatable sleeping pads, a camp stove and fuel, freeze dried food, water filtration, first aid, bandanas and hats and extra socks and clothes, and a million other little things. He’d even changed into tactical gear, ditching the jeans for black cargo pants and the cotton T-shirt for a wicking fabric.
With a little preparation, he would be ready for a reconnaissance mission and possible extraction. All he had to do was find Dani first.
After hoisting his main pack onto his back, Colt added Dani’s to his front and slung the little pack over his left arm. He had to be carrying a hundred pounds. Ultra-lighting, he wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. He could make it to Dani’s apartment, recuperate, and make a plan.
Colt lumbered toward the back door, adjusting the straps of the packs as he walked. At the broken door he hoisted himself through the opening, crab-walking through the remnants of the glass.
As he eased into the midday sun, movement caught his eye. A blur more than anything, at the edge of the building. He dropped the day bag, eased Dani’s off his chest, and crouched behind it. The M-4 was strapped to his pack, lashed down with bungee cords. He would get it if he could.
First, he pulled his handgun out of its holster and felt to ensure the hunting knife he’d picked up in the store sat secure against his ankle. He waited for two minutes, scanning his field of view for movement. Nothing.
Maybe it had been a stray dog or a cat on the prowl, but Colt didn’t think so. His hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his heart thudded like it did just before a conflict. Someone was out there. Waiting.
As he saw it, there were two options: retreat back into the store and wait the threat out, or go on the offensive. He’d already taken hours inside the store preparing. Dani could be on a truck halfway to Seattle by now. Or she could be hurt. Afraid.
Colt unclipped the waist strap of his pack and slid it to the ground behind him. He pulled the M-4 free and slung it over his shoulder where he could grab it in an instant. Colt wasn’t a hiding sort of man. If someone out there wanted a fight, that’s exactly what they would get.
Chapter Nineteen
COLT
&nb
sp; Big Sky Sporting Goods
Eugene, Oregon
11:00 a.m.
Colt side-stepped down the three stairs, his back scraping against the stuccoed wall as he went. Although he couldn’t see anyone, standing against the beige wall of a building dressed in all black made him jumpy as hell. He needed cover and he needed it now.
Too bad there wasn’t a tree or bush line easily accessible. Urban warfare was the worst. Colt crept to the corner of the building, constantly scanning his sightline for any movement. As he paused, shoulder an inch from the edge, a sound made him freeze.
Footsteps.
They were soft, intended to be silent, but Colt still picked them up. If it had been later, he could have used the sun to his advantage, scoping out shadows on the ground. But it seemed nothing was on his side except skill.
He took a few calming breaths and bent to the ground. The first two broken chunks of asphalt he found were too small, but the third had just the right heft and weight. With a strong hook, Colt tossed the rock well clear of the building.
The footsteps stopped, shuffled. Voices. They were in the alley to the side of the building. Colt thought about what he’d seen. Two dumpsters. A side door. Thirty feet to the main street.
He needed more of a diversion. He rushed back to the landing and unzipped the main compartment of Dani’s pack. The store didn’t carry handguns, but it did sell flares, so he’d stocked her pack. Colt pulled out the bright red flare gun and loaded it.
Sure, he could race back inside, try to fortify the door or find the stairwell that led to the roof and attempt to cherry pick off the assailants, but the likelihood of success was low. By then, they would be expecting him or already be inside the store.
The only thing Colt had going for him was surprise and the balls to take a risk. He cocked the flare gun and held it in his left hand while he positioned the M-4 in his right.
A deep breath later, he was good to go.
Easing the flare gun around the corner, Colt fired. The flare whooshed out of the chamber and Colt followed right behind. As he came out into the open the flare lit up the street, blazing bright red as it sailed straight for two men in army fatigues.
They shouted and ducked, jumping out of the way of the flare as it headed straight for them. Colt had a chance to take them out, but he hesitated. The army was after him? He began to lower the M-4 when one of them spotted him and opened fire. The shots went wide, hitting the pavement a few feet to Colt’s left.
“Hey, I’m a friendly! Don’t shoot!” Colt began to raise the M-4 above his head when the one on the right dropped to one knee. He was going to shoot Colt while he held the rifle in the air.
Shit. They obviously weren’t interested in a friendly chat. Was this about the man he’d disarmed earlier or the one he’d saved Dani from? He didn’t know and in that moment, couldn’t care. No one was taking him out.
Colt dropped to the ground and rolled as a three-round burst landed in the spot he’d just been. He spun around to his chest and took aim. Three rounds, straight shot, right into the firing man’s chest. One thing air marshals excelled at was hitting their targets. The soldier who’d shot at Colt didn’t stand a chance. He crumpled to the ground.
Colt swung the rifle in the direction of the other man. He’d ducked out of the way, hiding behind a dumpster while Colt fired, but he hadn’t done a good enough job. Colt fell to the ground, sighted his target and fired. The bullets pierced the soldier’s leg exposed in the strip of space between the dumpster bottom and the ground.
Two down, more to go.
With a deep breath, Colt ran for the nearest dumpster. It was reckless, but so was lying on the ground with no cover. He couldn’t retreat. Not now.
The metal side of the dumpster singed his skin as Colt slammed into it. The sun beat down on him from above, and although it was only March, Colt’s shirt dripped in sweat.
The contents of the dumpster reeked, the smell overpowering his senses as he sucked in much-needed air. One soldier lay where he fell, bleeding out onto the asphalt. The other moaned and groaned from behind the second dumpster. Colt hadn’t killed him. How many more were there?
He scanned the tops of the buildings. Empty. The rest of the alley, too. As he wiped at the sweat dripping into his eyes, an engine’s rumble caught his ear.
The wounded soldier called out. “Over here, man!”
Colt could only handle so many at once. He eased back against the wall of the building, wedging tight between the brick and the dumpster. He caught sight of a pickup truck coasting up to the alley. It stopped on the street, side windows of the cabin just in view. Colt could make out the driver, but the rear doors were too tinted to see. The most it could hold was five, maybe six.
He could handle six.
Putting all his strength in to the effort, Colt shoved the dumpster. It rocked on its wheels but didn’t move. He shoved again and it rolled an inch. It was enough.
He stuck the barrel of the M-4 through the gap and took aim at the window. Plink, plink, plink. The first shot sent a hole through the rear window, the second broke it, and the third landed square in the chest of the passenger. He didn’t stand a chance.
The truck accelerated in an instant, charging into the alley like a bull in a china shop. It careened to a stop beside the wounded man. Colt took aim again. Firing into the windshield, he didn’t stop until the entire thing shattered.
When he stopped firing, everything fell silent. Had he done it? Were they dead?
A volley of shots peppered the dumpster in response and Colt wedged tighter against the brick wall. He hid his feet behind the wheels, but it wasn’t perfect. A good shot and he’d go down.
He needed to stop them. For all he knew guys were running away that very second, trying to get back to the unit. If they made it, a full-on manhunt would ensure. He’d be worse off than Harrison Ford in The Fugitive.
If he didn’t neutralize the threat, he would never fulfill his promise to keep Dani safe. The more he thought about that girl, the more he couldn’t leave her.
He pulled the flare gun out of a pocket on his pants and loaded another flare. They didn’t have the best accuracy, but he had to try. With a steady grip, he fired at the now-gaping windshield. The flare arced in the air, cruising toward the truck in slow-motion.
As someone shouted, the flare cruised through the opening and landed inside the vehicle. Within a minute, a fire bloomed inside the truck, flames spreading higher and higher across the fabric seats. More shouts erupted.
In the chaos, Colt had his chance. He rushed forward, slinging the M-4 behind him in favor of his Sig. While someone inside the truck batted at the flames, Colt advanced.
Twenty feet, then fifteen, then ten. He raced around the side of the dumpster to the wounded man. He lay on the ground, legs sprawled out in front of him, eyes vacant. In the scuffle, he’d bled out. Colt turned toward the truck, ducking to keep below the front grille.
Chaos raged inside, flames licking the roof. The door on the other side flew open and a hacking, coughing soldier tumbled out. The only one left.
Colt closed the distance in seconds and kicked the man in the ribs. He fell to his knees and Colt kicked him again.
Clutching his stomach, the soldier rolled over. Colt pointed the Sig right in his face. “Tell me why.”
Coughing, the soldier shook his head.
Colt leaned closer. “Tell me why or I shoot you in the head.”
The soldier doubled over, retching onto the ground. Colt took aim, but the man held up a hand and tried to speak.
“W-we—” He erupted into another fit of hacking and Colt leaned closer.
He never saw the knife coming.
The blade sliced through his pants and straight into his quadriceps, driving deep into the muscle. Colt reacted on instinct and the soldier collapsed on the ground, a single bullet in his head.
Damn it.
As the soldier’s hand slipped off the knife hilt, Colt staggered back.
He surveyed the scene, pain blurring his vision.
Bodies everywhere.
Truck burning.
The smell of melting plastic and warping metal assaulted his nostrils and Colt spun around. He limped to the body of the soldier beside the dumpster. He leaned over the man and pulled up his shirt. Grunting against the pain, Colt unbuckled the rigger’s belt and tugged it loose from the dead man’s utility pants. The body flopped as he tugged, arms flailing about like a puppet on strings.
Sweat dripped off Colt’s nose and his vision dimmed. He needed a damn tourniquet. At last, the belt gave way and he stumbled to the dumpster. Wrapping the belt around his thigh, a few inches above the knife that still stuck out of his leg, Colt cinched it so tight he cried out.
Only then did he remove the knife.
He leaned against the dumpster, fighting to stay conscious. As the moment of vertigo passed, he hobbled over to the other man on the ground and ripped off his belt as well. After making it back to the packs, Colt ripped into his and dug out the first aid kit and a bandana.
With his teeth locked together, he tore his pants wide enough to inspect the wound. A two-inch-long gash. Deep and still bleeding. He poured antiseptic on it and followed with gauze and the bandana. Only then did he apply the second belt, cinching it directly over the wound. It wouldn’t seal it shut, but the double tourniquet would keep him from bleeding out before he got it closed.
As he zipped up his backpack, a huge boom erupted from the alley. A fireball rose in the air, followed by billowing smoke. The truck had exploded.
It was time to go. Colt eased his backpack onto his shoulders and grabbed the day pack as well. Dani’s would have to stay behind. Putting as little pressure as feasible on his wounded leg, Colt stopped at each soldier, relieving the dead bodies of their weapons, radios, and ammo. He tossed all but one radio inside the burning truck and walked away.
A single man stood outside what used to be a bookstore, staring at him. From the pallor of his cheeks and the way his clothes hung his frame, the man looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. He didn’t say a word.