The day passed quietly, with Lucas snatching sleep in one- and two-hour bursts. Once it was dark again, they rode back to their observation spot and Lucas briefed Sierra on his plan.
“There are only two guards outside the building where Tim’s being kept. If I can take them out silently, I can find him, detonate a grenade, and we can slip away in the chaos. By the time they figure out one of the boys is gone, we’ll be in the clear.”
“Won’t the grenade lead them straight to you? Why alert anyone if you don’t have to?”
“I may not have to set it off, depending on how the sleeping quarters are set up. But I’m assuming that they’re all in one big room, in which case the others will see me. Like I explained earlier, there’s no chance that the boys will stay quiet once I leave with Tim. I want things confused for as long as possible. So yes, I’m drawing attention – but by the same token, the kids will be terrified and the Crew distrustful of anything they say, which buys us time.” He paused. “Hopefully enough to get a good head start.”
Lightning veined the sky and a peal of thunder rumbled several seconds later. Lucas eyed the sky.
“Smells like rain’s coming. That could work in our favor. I need you to wait here with the horses. Under no circumstances move, or leave, unless I’m not back by morning. Promise me you’ll do that, Sierra. Please. If you want to see Tim alive, you have to do as I ask.”
“I promise.”
“Good.”
She looked into his eyes. “So you’re going?”
“Not yet. I’m going to wait until they’re nearing the end of the first watch shift. The guards will be tired by then. And if we’re lucky, it’ll rain by then, which will serve as cover for me.”
“How long?”
“Just before midnight.”
They settled in for the wait, and the hours crawled by. Lucas’s wish for rain was rewarded when a cloudburst sent sheets of water blowing across the cane fields, dropping visibility to a matter of yards. At eleven thirty he removed his crossbow and four quarrels from his saddlebag and handed Sierra his M4. She took it wordlessly, and he strapped his night vision monocle into place and switched it on.
“You’re not going to need your rifle?” she asked.
“No. Whole point to this is to get in and get out silently.”
“What if you have to shoot it out?”
“Doesn’t matter what I’m armed with at that point, Sierra. There are way more of them than me. This isn’t that kind of plan.”
Worry crossed her face. “Are you sure?”
He leaned into her and kissed her on the lips. When he drew back, her eyes were moist. He flipped the monocle down so it was in his field of vision and turned from her, whispering as he did, “Don’t worry. I can do this.”
She watched him cock the crossbow and load a quarrel, and then he disappeared into the rain, his boots leaving puddles in his wake.
Lucas darted to the gap in the fence and slid through it, thankful that his bet that the Crew had been too slothful to fix it had proved a safe one. He leapt to his feet, the rain rinsing the mud from his clothes, and crept along the row until he reached the opening that would take him to the next channel. He repeated the process until the rum factory loomed above him in the darkness, the rain now lessening to a steady drizzle.
He’d noted the guards had bolted the access doors to the sleeping quarters the prior night, and was guessing that they were less to prevent intruders from penetrating than a precaution against the slaves trying to escape. That impression was confirmed when he spied the first guard standing in the shelter of an overhang and turned toward the building rather than the fields.
Lucas spotted the second guard at the far corner of the building, seated on a crate, a rain parka draped over his torso and his gun in his lap. This man was looking out at the field, making him the first target for Lucas’s crossbow. Lucas edged along the row until he figured he was no more than twenty yards from the guard, and then parted the cane until he could see him through the haze of precipitation.
The thwack of the bow discharging was masked by the curtain of sugar cane. The quarrel drove home through the guard’s chest, and he slumped forward as he clutched at the shaft with dying hands. Lucas waited a few beats before cocking and loading another bolt, and when he was sure the guard he’d shot was dead, he retreated to where the first guard was standing, as yet unaware of his companion’s demise.
Lucas stepped from the nearby gap and crept along the cane until he was close enough to be confident of a head shot and loosed the bolt. The quarrel skewered the man’s skull through his temples, and he dropped like a building in free fall, his AK-47 clattering beside him.
Lucas was in motion before the guard hit the ground, sprinting through the rain, thankful for the cover of darkness and the storm. Just as he reached the dead man, the sky brightened with a flash of lightning, and his ears popped from the explosion of thunder that immediately followed. He froze at the sound and then drew the crossbow and fitted a bolt in place before heading for the door.
He worked the bolt free and grimaced at the loud scrape it made. He repeated the maneuver with the second bolt at eye level with the same result and then pulled the door open, unsure what he would find inside.
A corridor led into the building, flanked by industrial metal doors on either side of the long passage. Lucas took a tentative step over the threshold, dripping water as he went, and approached the first door. He reached down and twisted the corroded lever handle and swung the door inward, leading with the crossbow, and gagged at the odor of human waste: he’d stumbled across what passed for the latrine – holes cut in the floor – the area foul beyond comprehension.
He was turning away when a flashlight beam struck his monocle from the end of the hall, blinding him.
A voice called out, “Freeze.”
Lucas blinked away stars and debated reaching for the Kimber at his hip or firing the crossbow blindly at the voice, but decided not to when he heard multiple sets of boots rushing toward him.
“You go for the pistol, I’ll blow your balls off,” another voice warned, and Lucas stood motionless, obviously outnumbered.
A truncheon slammed against the side of his head, knocking the monocle ajar, and strong hands wrenched the crossbow from his grasp as his knees buckled. He felt his Kimber being removed from the hip holster, and then the original speaker was standing over him.
“Take him to the solitary cell,” the man ordered. Lucas winced in pain as a pair of men hauled him to his feet and frisked him, taking his knife, grenade, and flak jacket. They handcuffed his hands behind his back and then half dragged him down the hall, stumbling and disoriented. At the end of the corridor they stopped and threw him into a room with a barred window, the glass gone, the air putrid and stifling. The men stood aside and a tall figure entered, his tattooed face and shaved head identifying him as Crew.
“Where’s the woman? Sierra,” he demanded.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We know you’re after the boy. Where is she?”
“Boy? What are you talking about? I was after rum.”
The man moved so fast Lucas was unprepared for the kick to his ribs. He grunted at the pain but made no other sound, and the man stood back and studied him before turning and making for the door.
“You’ll wish you’d told me,” the man said quietly, and then the steel door slammed shut behind him, echoing off the walls with the finality of a gunshot. Lucas pulled himself to a sitting position, leaning against one of the rough brick walls, his mind working furiously as he waited for his captors to reappear, this time prepared to interrogate him in earnest. He had no illusions that he wouldn’t be subjected to the tortures of the damned, and mentally steeled himself for the ordeal to come, cursing silently that having survived everything that life had thrown at him, he would meet his end at the Crew’s hands over a fight that wasn’t even really his.
Lucas closed his eyes and pra
yed that Sierra would honor her promise, and when he didn’t show come morning, would abandon her reckless crusade, but he knew her too well – this would be the end, not only for Lucas but for her, and likely her son as well.
Chapter 39
The mountains around the second geothermal plant were white with fresh snow as Duke, Aaron, Arnold, and Craig made their way up a trail to the valley where the hamlet and the hot springs that hosted the plant were located. Three-quarters of the way into their trip, a storm had blown through and dropped over a foot of snow, the relentless blizzard assailing them as they’d hunkered down overnight. Now, on the last day of their trek, the going was slow and treacherous, and what should have been a four-hour ride had taken most of the day.
“Don’t want to be on this trail after dark,” Arnold said, looking to his left where a ravine dropped to the silver rush of a swollen creek below.
“Shouldn’t be too much farther,” Craig assured him from his position in the lead.
“So we spend the night here and then head back in the morning?” Aaron asked.
“Assuming we make it,” Duke grumbled, unhappy at having to slog through the snow rather than enjoying the warmth of his new home in Pagosa Springs, a fire crackling in the hearth.
An arctic wind off the mountain carried with it a mist of snow, the tail end of the storm lingering like a bad taste. Craig braced himself against the onslaught, the cold burning his exposed cheeks, a bandana tied over his nose and mouth like an old Western bandit to shield them from the worst of it.
“This sucks,” Duke added as he lowered his head, his eyes slits, his appendages freezing in spite of the extra layers he’d donned. He’d spent too much time in the Texas sun – the cold affected Aaron and him more than the pair from Shangri-La, who were accustomed to the vicious winters of the New Mexico mountains.
“No country for old men,” Aaron joked, his voice deadpan.
“Who you calling old?” Duke snapped.
“If the shoe fits is all I’m saying.”
The snowfall intensified as they climbed the grade, and at times the sky was white, visibility down to nothing, which slowed them further. When the storm remnant passed, it left the landscape covered and the trail even more treacherous. The horses picked carefully along, their footing unsure in the slippery coating.
Arnold never stopped scanning the pine trees around them, his AR-15 in hand out of habit. They had no idea what they were walking into, although Craig had guessed that the plant would be deserted, the systems mothballed just prior to the collapse, based on the reports he’d discovered in a work journal of one of the engineers at the Pagosa Springs plant. Still, that was just a hunch, and Arnold was naturally cautious and refused to let his guard down, even for an instant.
Dusk was an hour away when they rounded the final bend. Arnold spurred his horse forward, pulled even with Craig, and whispered to him, “Hold up. I saw something move on our right.”
The group stopped, and Arnold swung down from his horse and handed Craig the reins. “Stay here,” he said, and disappeared into the trees. The valley with the plant and a scattering of houses still lay at least a quarter mile ahead.
Arnold plowed through the calf-high snow, weaving among the conifers as he pushed toward whatever had drawn his eye. When he reached a small clearing, he spied a young man digging in the snow with a hoe. Arnold took in his appearance – wild hair, ragged and torn clothing – and stepped from the tree line, rifle trained on him.
The man looked up with an expression of shock and stood motionless as Arnold drew near, his eyes wide. When Arnold was no more than fifteen feet away, the young man spoke in a low voice.
“I haven’t got anything worth killing me over.”
Arnold gave a half shrug. “Wasn’t planning on killing anybody today. What are you doing out here?”
“Trying to salvage what’s left of our vegetable garden. We have a bunch of crops planted and didn’t expect a freeze so soon. Thought we had a few more weeks, at least.”
“You live here?”
“That’s right.” The man studied Arnold. “Why? You sound surprised.”
“I am. It’s just that we thought…nobody would be here.”
“Yeah, well, my family and I live here. In peace, until recently.”
Arnold tilted his head at the last words. “Yeah? What happened?”
“You headed into town? You’ll see soon enough.” The man frowned. “You’re going to need that rifle. I’d just turn around if I was you.”
“Why?”
“Two months ago a gang of scavengers showed up. Meaner than dirt and violent. They camped out at the hot springs and terrorized us into doing their hunting and fishing for them.” The man paused and looked away. “And I’ve got three sisters. Youngest is only eleven.”
“Oh.”
He ground the toe of his boot absently in the dirt. “Yeah, it’s been bad.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
“And go where? Besides, they said they’d kill us. I believe them. They’re animals.”
“Just you and your family…and them?”
“That’s right.”
“Whereabouts do they stay? The scavengers, I mean.”
“There’s some kind of generator building by the springs. They took it over because it’s always warm inside.”
Arnold cursed. “Think you could describe the layout for me?”
“Why? What’s it to you, anyway?”
“We need to get some parts from the generator.”
“For what?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“Taking them on is a death sentence, stranger. I’d get out of here while you can.”
“I don’t know about that. I had two sisters myself before the collapse. Hate to think they’d have been fair game to a bunch of miscreants if they’d survived.”
“You hard of hearing? There’s ten of them, and one of you.”
“Not really. More like four.” Arnold studied the man. “What’s your name?”
“Sal.”
“You must know the layout like the back of your hand, right?”
Sal nodded. “Of course.”
“You’d be better off without your unwanted guests?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Here’s what I propose. You tell me everything you know about the plant – the approach, their habits, their weapons. In exchange, we clear them out for good.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trick?”
“What kind? We’re on the side of a mountain, and you’re rooting around for turnips. What do you think I’d be tricking you out of?”
Sal leaned against the hoe, considering Arnold’s hard expression and obvious familiarity with his weapon. “First thing you have to know is that you have no chance until nightfall.” He continued speaking for five minutes. Arnold interrupted him several times, but Sal proved thorough in his descriptions, anticipating most of Arnold’s questions. When the young man finished, Arnold regarded him with a half smile.
“One last question, Sal,” he said.
“Yeah? What?”
Arnold studied the young man’s lean form and angry eyes.
“How are you with a gun?”
Chapter 40
The cell door opened and Lucas looked up, the blood now dried on the side of his face. A powerfully built man with gray hair cropped close to his skull stepped into the cell and closed the door behind him. Lucas regarded him, pausing at his face, which was unblemished by the prison ink the Crew members sported. The man nodded as he approached Lucas and stood just out of reach of his legs, obviously reading the intent in Lucas’s eyes and avoiding the sweep kick he’d planned.
“Doesn’t look very comfortable,” the man noted, eyeing Lucas evenly.
Lucas stared vacantly at him.
The man smiled. “We know you’re Sierra’s accomplice. We know this because we expected you, and you didn’t disappoint. But the question is, where is she? A
nd who are you?” Zach paused. “Although the latter isn’t of that much interest.”
“I told the other guy I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I heard.” Zach appraised Lucas, taking his time. “Have you ever been waterboarded? Probably not, I’ll guess. I hear it’s the closest to dying you can get. You basically drown – your body goes into panic mode and your lungs fill with fluid. Again and again and again. Like an unending hell.”
Lucas remained silent.
“The problem is that torture rarely generates reliable information. That’s a problem the unsophisticated ignore at their peril. Don’t get me wrong – it’s certainly cathartic for all involved, but in my experience a tortured man will say anything to make it stop, invent anything, confess anything. Not that inconvenient facts will stop the Crew from doing it, mind you. They tend to be a hammer that sees all problems as nails.”
“You’re not Crew?”
“No.”
“But you’re working with them.”
Zach crouched down and eyed Lucas, maintaining a safe distance. Lucas could see the man was seasoned, his eyes cold.
“I know all about your Shangri-La. About the vaccine. About Sierra’s son. I know it all.”
Lucas’s expression remained neutral. “Then why question me?”
“I need to know where she is.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about. I told the other goon, too. I was after rum.”
“You carry a Kimber and killed two guards with a crossbow, and you expect anyone to buy that ridiculous excuse? Maybe I give you too much credit for intelligence.”
Lucas went to a peaceful place in his mind, anticipating the pain that was to come. Zach seemed to intuit what he was doing, and his voice changed from hard to reasonable.
“Everything you think you know is a lie.” He spoke the words slowly, as though revealing a great secret. “You see things as black and white. The Crew is bad. Your leader, Elliot, is good.” Zach smiled at the flicker in Lucas’s eyes. “Yes, that’s right, I know all about Elliot. I’m sure you see this as a struggle between ultimate good and ultimate evil. Don’t get me wrong – the Crew is without a doubt a bunch of thugs and sadists and as evil as the devil himself. But they’re just a cog in a larger machine. They’re meaningless in the scheme of things.” Zach paused. “Am I getting through to you?”
The Day After Never Bundle (First 4 novels) Page 92