The Day After Never (Book 1): Blood Honor

by Russell Blake

  He was back across the street in moments, with the gun shouldered and the ammunition case in his left hand, and he inched along the street until he was near the jail across the plaza from the courthouse. The building was scorched from where the cartel had torched the building; the windows were missing and the interior black as death. Lucas made his way to the rear of the jail on the side hidden from the guards and entered through the back exit, whose heavy steel door stood ajar.

  A maintenance ladder led to the roof, and five minutes later he’d prepared his spot: the M240B waited on its bipod, barrel angled toward the stars, and the belt of ammunition was locked and loaded into place. He checked the time and returned to the ladder, his pulse pounding in his ears, and descended to the ground floor.

  If he was successful, they’d never know what hit them. After some persuasion, the thug had told him that at least half the cartel’s foot soldiers were partying in the courthouse, enjoying the free alcohol and drugs that were their reward for their raid on the town. The celebrants numbered over a hundred, and Lucas’s mouth twisted into an ugly grin. He would bring the hurt to them in a way they’d never imagined, and would either succeed or die trying.

  And he didn’t plan on dying tonight.

  Not when there was work to do.

  Chapter 31

  Eddie, one of the pair of guards chartered with staying sober and keeping the fiesta at the courthouse safe – from what, he didn’t know, since nobody in their right mind would have tried anything in the heart of the cartel’s stronghold – looked up from his cards as a tall figure in a cowboy hat materialized out of the darkness to his right.

  He dropped the straight he was trying for and reached for his AK. “What the hell you think you–”

  Lucas’s Kimber roared. The first hollow point caught Eddie in the base of the throat, expanded as it passed through his body, and took his life with it when it exited the back of his neck, leaving a wound the size of an orange. His partner was raising his gun when Lucas’s second round punched through his nose and blew the rear of his skull across the pavement.

  Lucas accelerated to a flat-out run and covered the twenty yards to the front entrance of the courthouse in Olympic speed. His bet that with the music blaring, the cartel vermin wouldn’t hear his shots paid off, and he pulled one of the tall wooden front doors open and tossed in two of the grenades, one after the other. He didn’t pause to view the reaction of the drunken crowd, instead pouring on the steam and making for the jail as the cartel members registered the armed grenades and fought to make it through the exit before they blew.

  He was rounding the front of the jail when the grenades detonated, and picked up his pace. In twenty more seconds Lucas was on the roof, and at the M240B moments later, sighting down at the courthouse as the surviving cartel killers stumbled from the building, some with weapons in hand sweeping the plaza for a target, others wounded and streaming blood, several missing limbs.

  The gun’s percussive blasts lit the night, and Lucas cut down the survivors without mercy. Rounds from the gunmen below blew chunks of mortar from the roof lip around him, but backlit by the blaze from the courthouse and mostly blind in the darkness, they had no chance of hitting him.

  When he’d slain the first group, he waited for more to tumble from the building, and mowed them down with the systematic precision of a machine, in his imagination seeing his friends in Loving meeting their fate at these animals’ hands. His jaw set, he fired in economic bursts, wasting no ammunition, wanting every shot to count.

  The flow of cartel members slowed after the first minute, but Lucas remained until the last shell casing flew in an arc and joined its fellows on the roof. He rose and, with a final glance at the bodies littering the plaza, ran for the roof exit, the revenge part of his plan having played out better than he’d thought possible.

  He made it to the ground floor and out the back door, and jogged through an access way before hanging a left at the old water department building. By the time any of the rest of the cartel scum had a chance to arrive at the courthouse, he would be blocks away, riding Gunner toward his second objective of the night – the hospital on the other side of town, where according to the thug’s final words, the cartel kept its captives.

  The explosions and shooting would attract most of the remaining Locos, who would be trying to assess the threat while he was heading to the last place they would expect. He tried to imagine the thinking of the surviving scum. Most of their criminal clique had just been annihilated in minutes by faceless enemies of unknown strength and origin, who’d then vanished like ghosts; that it was only one man would never occur to them. Like most cowards and bullies, they would seek solace in their numbers, which would draw most of them away from the hospital, making his job easier and his getaway more likely. They’d be panicked, many of them high, drunk, or both, groggy from sleep, and limited in their response because of the dark. It would take them time to rally, to get organized, and even assuming they eventually did, they’d have no idea how to direct their response.

  The taking of life was nothing to delight in, but in spite of himself, Lucas felt righteous. The Locos were hardened killers who would have cut out his heart and eaten it in front of him without hesitation. Ridding this small patch of the planet of their kind was justified, and the population would be the better for it. Perhaps they’d see just how pathetic these thugs were and finish the job. Either way, the cartel’s power had been gutted, and they would now be fair game for stronger predators, the smoldering crater that had been their headquarters proof of their inability to defend themselves.

  His thoughts shifted to the coming hurdle – getting in and out of the hospital with Sierra, assuming she was there. The man he’d questioned had said that much of the facility was in ruins, and that it would be obvious which section was in use. It was possible he’d lied, but Lucas didn’t think so. Either way, he’d find out soon enough.

  He pushed Gunner hard, galloping through the dark streets, and saw no one during the mile and a half ride. As he neared the facility, he spotted the glow of a torch in one of the windows and slowed, Gunner’s labored breathing from the exertion clearly conveying that he couldn’t keep up the pace.

  Lucas dismounted and tied Gunner to a tree. The horse gulped from one of the five-gallon containers, and Lucas thought about how best to gain entry to the hospital. A frontal assault would be suicide now that the cartel knew it was under attack, so stealth was the best option. But how to manage it? If he had been guarding the place, he would have been on the roof with his rifle, waiting to tag anything that moved toward the hospital. That was the natural reaction, even for dullards like the Locos. So how to get inside without being cut down?

  An idea occurred to him, and he nodded in the gloom. It might work. Worst case, he’d waste some time. After all, if his guess about how the cartel was reacting was correct, he had some to spare.

  Lucas removed his compass and eyed the luminescent hands. He adjusted the strap of his M4 and set off to see if he could locate a manhole cover – the way in would be through the sewer, assuming the pipes were large enough to fit through, which he thought likely given the size of the facility.

  Two blocks away he found what he was looking for and used a piece of rebar he’d scrounged as he’d passed an empty lot to lift the heavy iron disk. He slid the cover to the side and lowered himself down the rungs built into the side of the shaft until he was standing in the storm drain. The odor was musty and dank, any sewage stink long since washed away by five seasons of rain.

  He powered the monocle on and studied the compass. The passage ran beneath the street, and he set off toward the large intersection that connected to the hospital’s approach. A block later he arrived at a junction and veered left, which if he’d reckoned correctly, would lead to the outlets for the hospital – and his way in.

  Rats scuttled away as he walked, his footsteps spongy in the layer of muck collected in the base of the tunnel, and he calculated the distance
he had traveled since turning, counting each step under his breath. He reached where he believed the hospital grounds began, but saw nothing but dark passage stretching ahead. Maybe he’d gotten it wrong, and the hospital dumped out into a different artery?

  He continued, his breathing as measured as his strides, and fifty yards further spotted a shaft leading up. Lucas peered upward and saw a series of openings – smaller pipes that would spill downward if there were any fluid in them. He climbed a corroded metal ladder until he reached another manhole cover, and using all his muscle, managed to raise it enough to inch it aside. Once a gap had opened, he gripped the rim with both hands and pushed as hard as he could. The disk scraped across cement, leaving open air above.

  Lucas heaved himself out of the shaft and found himself in a large pump room. He scanned the walls with the monocle and spied a door, and then paused to unstrap the M4. The handle offered no resistance, and he stepped into a wide hall whose walls were moldy from disuse.

  At the end of the corridor he reached a stairway that led up, and he took the steps cautiously, wary of making a slip that would alert any guards to his presence. At the first floor he paused, looking around for stairs leading to a second floor, and realized that the hospital was only a single level there, making his search both harder and easier.

  Lucas eased the door open and regarded his surroundings through the scope, crouched low in case anyone fired at him. He was rewarded by an empty hall, patient room doors stretching along either side. Seeing nobody, he moved down the corridor, peering through the doorways at empty rooms. As he neared the lobby area, he came to a closed door – one with a bolt mounted crookedly on the outside. His pulse quickened and he continued to the lobby. Outside, two gunmen were talking in hushed tones. A radio clipped to one of their belts occasionally squawked with static, followed by alarmed shouting.

  He debated gunning them down where they stood with one sustained burst, but thought better of it. Best would be to slip out undetected. The goons would think she was still there until they checked on her, at which point he’d have a head start – since they wouldn’t know where she was or which route she had taken.

  Lucas slowly backtracked until he reached the door and, shouldering his M4, slid the bolt to the side. When he stepped into the room, he heard a gasp from the far side of the room.

  Sierra was staring in his direction, her eyes searching for the intruder. He realized that she couldn’t see him, and took a few steps forward before whispering to her.

  “Sierra, it’s Lucas. Can you walk?”

  “Lucas?” she whispered back.

  “I saved you. And I found Eve.”

  “You what–”

  He moved closer and shushed her. “Can you walk?”

  “Barely.”

  He looked her over. She’d been given some cargo shorts and a T-shirt that were both too large. “Do you have any shoes?”

  “Over in the corner. My boots.”

  He retrieved them and handed them to her. “Put them on. You can tie the laces later.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Later.”

  She nodded and slipped on her boots, her face pained as she struggled with the right one a bit. Lucas helped her and then leaned into her. “Take my arm. We need to go. Stay on my left side – I need my right hand for my rifle.”

  “Okay. I can’t see anything.”

  “I know. Just grab my arm. I’ll do the rest.”

  She did as instructed and he led her to the door. Once through, he closed it softly and slid the bolt back into place. “What now?” she asked.

  “This way,” he said, leading her down the hall.

  Static sounded from inside the hospital and a light bounced off the wall behind them. Lucas pushed her toward one of the empty rooms and murmured, “Stay here. Don’t make a sound.”

  “Wait. Don’t go,” she said, panicked.

  The light bobbed as someone approached, and he squeezed her hand to reassure her before pulling away.

  He moved across the hall to another open doorway and waited, hunting knife clutched in his free hand. He set the NV monocle down and held his breath as someone rounded the corner and stopped at the locked door. Nothing happened for a long beat, and then a radio crackled. Lucas’s grip tightened on the knife as the footsteps continued toward him, and then they stopped no more than three feet from where he stood.

  The radio screeched and a disembodied voice called some names, advising them to seal off the two roads out of town. A bead of sweat trickled from Lucas’s hairline, down over his eyebrow, and into his eye. He blinked the sting away, and a rustle emanated from the room where Sierra was hiding.

  The man moved toward Sierra’s room and Lucas lunged out of his doorway, closing the distance between them in two strides. The guard spun, but not fast enough, and Lucas sank his knife into the man’s neck and sliced up with a brutal thrust. The guard’s scream was a muted burble as his hands flew to the wound and he twisted away. His AK hit the linoleum floor with a crash, and then Lucas was on him, reaching for the knife to finish the job. But the man evaded him and struggled to break free, knocking them both backward against the wall. Lucas grabbed the man’s head and twisted with everything he had; the guard’s neck snapped and he went limp, limbs twitching as he dropped.

  “Lucas?” Sierra whispered, terrified.

  “Hang on,” he said, and went to retrieve the monocle. When he returned, more lights were approaching from outside. He unclipped the radio from the dead guard’s belt, twisted the volume down, and slipped it into his plate holder pouch with the last grenade, and then unstrapped his M4, flipped the selector switch from safe to three-round burst, and stepped to where the Kalashnikov lay. “You know how to use an AK?” he hissed.

  “I can figure it out.”

  He scooped up the rifle. “Come on. They’ll be here any second. We need to get to the end of the hall.”

  She emerged from the room and bent to pick up the flashlight. Lucas shook his head.

  “Switch it off.”

  She did as asked, and then running boots approached from the lobby. Lucas pointed at the stairwell door. “It’s steel. Wait for me there.” He handed her the NV monocle and the rifle. “Safety’s on the side. Look through that end of the goggles. Now run.”

  Sierra didn’t have to be told twice and made for the door as Lucas steadied his M4, gazing through its night vision scope as the gunmen neared.

  Chapter 32

  The guards must have sensed danger because they stopped short of the hallway, their light beams bouncing like oversized fireflies against the wall. Lucas waited, finger on the trigger guard, aware that every passing second increased the likelihood of reinforcements arriving. The beams grew stronger and his finger eased over the trigger. With the dead shooter on the floor, there was no hoping that the guards wouldn’t be ready for a fight, so there was no reason to hold his fire.

  A figure stepped into the corridor and Lucas loosed a burst. The cartel gunman was wearing a plate carrier, but Lucas was crouched and had deliberately aimed low in case the shooter had body armor. His rounds slammed into the man’s pelvis, and the guard screamed in agony as he fell backward. Lucas fired again, finishing the gunman, and waited for the second to show himself.

  He didn’t have long to wait. An AK reached around the corner and opened fire on full auto, showering the hall with bullets – a classic amateur move known as “spray and pray.” Lucas ducked back, but not before a ricochet grazed his right shoulder, burning like a hot brand. He sucked breath through his teeth with a hiss but kept his focus – he could tend to the wound later, assuming he was alive.

  The shooter exhausted his magazine and ejected it with a snap, and Lucas made his move. He charged down the hall and threw himself onto the ground, rolling as he cleared the wall, and fired at the gunman, who was fumbling another magazine into place. Lucas’s M4 barked death, burst after burst. Three rounds caught the man in the thighs and he pitched forward, dropping
his gun as he tried to stop his fall with his hands. Lucas fired again and liquefied his face, killing the gunman before he hit the ground.

  More flashlights bounced toward the lobby from outside, and Lucas drove himself to his feet and sprinted back down the hall, hurtling over the nearest corpse without hesitation. He was at the steel door in seconds, where Sierra greeted him with the barrel of the AK.

  “Lower that before you blow my head off,” he said.

  Lucas ejected his spent magazine, tucked it into a pocket of his plate carrier, and slapped a fresh one home. He chambered a round and held out his hand to her. “Give me the NV scope.”

  Sierra handed the monocle to him, and he shouldered his M4, wincing at the pain radiating from his wound. Ignoring the burn, he grabbed her hand and led her down the stairs, aware that he only had moments before the gunmen were on top of them.

  They ran down the basement hall and he swung open the pump room door. Footsteps pounded from the stairwell – at least three pursuers, judging by the sound. He slammed the door and twisted the lock, but didn’t kid himself that it would buy him much time. They would just shoot it off. But seconds counted, and it was worth a try.

  “What now?” Sierra whispered.

  He slid the monocle into his belly pouch beside the radio, freed his penlight and switched it on, and directed the beam at the open manhole. “We go down.”

  She eyed the opening and nodded.

  “Can you make it with your leg?” Lucas asked.