by Justin Bell
Rhonda pressed the accelerator to the floor and let the RV cruise up to sixty, angling it on 67 and following the route north.
Greer leaned back on the rear seat, resting his AK-12 back against the wall of the RV.
“You keep hassling me about my history, man,” Angel said, leaning forward, pressing his elbows onto his knees. “You never say nothing about your own. What’s your story, huh? How you end up here?”
Greer smiled underneath his closed eyes, the nagging burn in his chest settling somewhat as he tried to rest his eyes.
“I mean, come on. You were in redneckville, Colorado. How a black dude like you end up in charge of a town like that?”
Greer outright laughed at this, an abrupt bark that turned Winnie’s head and stabbed a quick sting in the deep muscle of his chest.
“I’d like to think it’s because I was the best man for the job.” he said, finally opening his eyes.
Angel shrugged. “Is that how the world works?”
“Fair point.”
Greer closed his eyes again, letting the rocking of the RV’s garbage suspension jostle him in his seat.
“I was a foster kid,” he said. “Adopted by a couple of those ‘rednecks’ you were talking about.” He opened his eyes and sat upright. “They lived in Brisbee…for generations. I think they were in their fifties or sixties when they adopted me, or at least when it became official.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen. In and out of juvie most of my teenage years. Dangerously close to getting hooked up with the wrong crowd. If they hadn’t brought me to Brisbee, I might have been your cellmate.”
“Funny guy.”
“The town embraced me. Well, most of them. The Cavendish clan wanted nothing to do with the little black kid, and there were a few others in town, but by and large everyone treated me as the new kid, not the new black kid.”
Angel nodded. “Didn’t have to worry about that much in San Diego, hermano. I fit right in there. So how’d you get from new kid to sheriff?”
The RV lumbered to the right and maneuvered a sharp, darting turn—as much as was possible in a large metal box—and Greer locked his hand onto an armrest to avoid spilling out. As he regained his balance he saw that Winnie, Max, and Brad were all looking in his direction, expecting a reply.
“I don’t know, exactly. Thirty years goes by in a blur. Met a girl and got married. She happened to be the town clerk and after some encouragement from her, I joined up as a deputy and did pretty well for a while, especially because the incumbent sheriff was a desk jockey. Ran for sheriff twice, got beat pretty good the first time, but I managed a pretty big murder bust shortly after the election. Sheriff that beat me out died in office, the rest is history.”
Max and Winnie turned back around and Brad gazed out the window.
“Sorry if my life story is so dull, looky-loo’s,” Greer snorted.
“Eh, I was expecting something juicier,” Max replied.
“No kidding,” said Winnie. “Couldn’t you have made up something?”
“Tough crowd.”
They rode in silence for a few moments before Greer turned back to Angel. “So I gave you my story, what’s yours?”
Angel chuckled. “I thought you knew it already, smart guy. Seemed that way before.”
Greer shrugged. “I’ve seen some things that made me question my original judgement. I reserve the right to change my mind, don’t I?”
“I suppose if a stubborn ole cop can change his mind, anyone can.”
“Point taken, Menendez, point taken. So spill it.”
“Hold up,” Rhonda said from the front seat. Greer had lost track of time but they’d seemed to have been riding for a while without much incident. Had that changed?
“What’s up, Rhonda?” Greer asked, moving from the rear of the RV up towards the front.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Rhonda said. “I’m seeing lots of lights in the distance here. Starting to see some stacked up cars, too. Where are we, Phil?”
Phil traced his finger down the map. “We shifted onto 24 a few miles back. Peoria is up that way. I think we’re coming up close to the junction of 74.”
“Max, check west. Winnie, take a look east. What do you guys see?” Phil folded up the map and checked out his own window as Rhonda slowed the RV and eased it to the right shoulder.
“Lights. Lots of lights. Some of them are flashing blue. I think there are police here.” Max was up on his knees, looking out the window, his hands pressed to the opaque surface.
“Yeah, same here,” Winnie replied, turning and looking. “I see lights near the road and lights up higher. Like at the top of some kind of structure.”
“Fence,” Brad interjected, looking over Max’s shoulder. “It looks like a big fence.”
“A fence?” Angel asked, moving to a spot where he could see. They all soaked it in, looking at the display ahead of them, a horizon of flat plains and the grouped collection of lights of the small city of Peoria. But more startling were the staggered vehicles and scattered illumination of the strange structures flanking the city lined up along Interstate 74. The structures themselves didn’t go on forever; they went on for a short distance in either direction. But even beyond those structures, the trademark flashing blue lights of police vehicles continued for as far as Max and Winnie’s eyes could see all up and down the interstate.
“What are they doing?” asked Greer, stepping up to look through the windshield.
“Judging by the stacked up cars all along the entrance, they’re stopping people. Not letting them through.” Phil looked back at the atlas. “I can see a few other back roads we can try, but most of them, at some point, intersect with 74.”
“They’ve created a perimeter around Chicago,” said Winnie. “Are they keeping people out?”
“Or keeping them in?” Rhonda asked.
“So what do we do?” asked Brad.
Rhonda sat for a moment, her arms resting on the steering wheel, looking out through the windshield. “We need to figure out how to get through. If Lydia’s there, we’re going to find her, roadblock or no roadblock.”
Phil nodded in the passenger seat though he wondered how they were going to get around the latest obstacle.
***
Even at Ellington Field, Ricky Orosco thought he could feel the heat of southeast Texas stinging his bare arms. After three weeks of steady, unyielding fires, Texas City and its surrounding areas were a blackened wasteland, written off by the state and the nation. HazMat crews cordoned off a fifty-kilometer radius around the most devastated region and labeled it a disaster area, but FEMA never arrived, the National Guard had long since left, and from what Orosco could tell, everyone was waiting for the earth’s crust to separate and draw the remains down into its core, never to be seen again.
Whatever remained of Galveston had broken up and gone deep into the Gulf of Mexico. He’d heard rumors that some overhead surveillance had confirmed that the island city simply no longer existed and now looked like little more than a blight against the pale blue ocean, a huge oil spill, discolored and offensive to the eye. His home. The only home he’d known. His wife. His only child. His boy. They were the ones who occupied his thoughts every moment of every day. Truth was, he’d lost his brother, both parents, and at least three cousins when Galveston was more or less wiped off the face of the map with a suitcase nuke, but it was his baby boy and his wife that drove him so close to the edge day in and day out.
Orosco kept himself sane by focusing on the important things. Focusing on working towards finding out who had done these terrible things and exposing them.
Or killing them.
He’d leaned towards the killing part, but if the rumors were true, North Korea had orchestrated the whole thing, and realistically, travelling across the Pacific and single-handedly putting a bullet in Kim Jong Un was probably not feasible. Agent Liu had given him a new lease on life though. Liu was convinced, and had the evidence to
back it up, that domestic terrorists had operated in conjunction with the People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea. Operatives from right within the United States had opened gaps in the border, had relaxed security, and had helped usher in the end of American civilization as everyone had known it.
What they didn’t know at this point was…why?
And what did the Mexican cartels have to do with it?
That was another variable, and Orosco’s new mission. Cartel activity had gone quiet in the weeks leading up to the detonations and escalated a thousand-fold afterwards. After Galveston was destroyed, Las Balas—a ruthless Mexican cartel from Reynosa, Mexico—had made their move. It was a swift and calculated move, a series of orchestrated infiltrations that told Orosco they had been planning for this event. How was that possible?
Regardless, his latest intel was telling him that the cartel was moving a huge truckload of weapons into southern Texas—coming right into Houston, in fact—and if the cartel started setting up shop in one of America’s largest remaining cities, then Orosco wasn’t sure what might fall next. Was this the cartel’s payment for their assistance in breaking down borders for North Korean terrorists? Or was this stage two in a calculated takeover of southern assets of the United States?
Orosco wasn’t sure, and neither was his boss at the FBI, but the FBI had so many big things to worry about, he gave Orosco lip service and signed most anything put in front of him. The FBI agent had called in some favors with a handful of close friends, and he’d assembled a task force at the last minute to jump on the intel and take the fight to the cartel before they could hope to establish a foothold.
He stood in Ellington Field, watching the task force put together a convoy and wondered for a moment if he was doing the right thing. The FBI was being pulled in so many directions, and so many Americans needed so much help. Should he be devoting precious resources to intel from sources on the ground in Houston that might or might not be credible? How far could he lean on the informants?
The funny thing about terrorists dealing near death blows to so much of the country was that it had a tendency to raise the ire of even the criminal element, and suddenly they became very friendly to law enforcement. Turns out, criminals feel threatened by global nuclear terror just as much as anyone else. It also didn’t help that these criminals tried going to their original sources to refresh their illicit meds only to find out that apparently the supply chain had shifted. The cartels weren’t bringing in drugs anymore but were apparently bringing in something completely different.
Orosco watched as a group of men in tactical gear threw backpacks and canvas bags into an armored personnel carrier.
“You have faith in this intel?”
Orosco turned and nodded towards Agent Vasily. “I think so. Tough to tell, but if nothing else, these attacks have given even the scumbags a sense of patriotism.”
“Always a silver lining, eh, Ricky?”
Orosco’s face twisted. “Gotta cling to whatever we can, right?”
Vasily nodded, patting Orosco on the shoulder. Agents throughout the FBI knew what had happened to his family, but nobody mentioned it. It was one of those things that everyone felt for, and most of them wondered how he kept showing up at work every day, but they knew everyone expressed their grief differently.
So as long as Orosco didn’t talk about it, neither did they. Such was the world of the masculine FBI field agents. Like the others around the armored vehicle, both Vasily and Orosco wore dark olive green uniforms with green tactical vests, the letters “FBI” in reverse stencil on their chests. Each of them carried Kevlar helmets with night vision gear, tactically modified M4A1 Carbine automatics, complete with underslung laser sights, side-mounted tactical flashlights, and an ACOG optic scope. Looking at the load out, an observer never would have guessed that the world was crumbling apart around them and that resources were at a premium. Orosco remained shocked that the fuel requisition for the Cyclone LAV armored assault vehicle had gone through. Once he’d gotten the signature on that form, he’d moved the operation before anyone caught it and pulled back approval.
Orosco walked across the tarmac of one of Ellington Field’s landing strips and for a moment glanced over towards the modified AugustaWestland AW139 transport helicopter. It was painted jet black, equipped with a pair of hellfire rocket launchers, and at one point had been used in combined FBI and SWAT operations. He’d considered, just for a moment, asking for the use of that work of art for this cartel op, but he’d wanted to keep it enough on the down low that he’d decided not to push his luck.
“Sure you don’t want to take Black Beauty?” Lieutenant Harris asked as Orosco strode past. Harris was a full time helicopter pilot and one of the braniacs behind developing the modified AW139. Orosco did want to…he just didn’t think he could.
“Next time, Lieut, okay?”
Harris nodded. “She’ll be ready for you.”
Orosco slowed his stride and reached into his back pocket before he got too close to the cluster of tactical operatives waiting for him. He pulled what looked like an ordinary smart phone out of his pocket, but he knew it was something a little more. Something he’d been working on with an FBI data analyst who had worked as an app developer before deciding to get into law enforcement.
The phone looked like a normal phone, dark colored, polished metal, and rectangular, but the back of the phone bulged with an enhanced sim card modification wedged into the battery compartment. Orosco thumbed the phone and held his fingerprint to unlock it, making one last check of the home screen to verify that there were no notifications.
There weren’t. Things were still quiet, at least for now.
But the quiet made him uneasy. He and his analyst friend had worked the modifications up alongside CBP Agent Brandon Liu, and they’d shipped him one of the phones a short while afterward. They’d received a pair of messages from Liu that seemed to indicate that he had received it, but then everything had gone quiet. Orosco checked several times a day on the off chance that Liu had felt talkative again, but the screen had remained notification free every time.
He decided that he’d go ahead and send a message to Liu later that night, depending on what they discovered with the cartel. Maybe that would loosen him up a little.
Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he completed his walk to the Cyclone and nodded to Vasily who was gathering the troops.
“Are we ready for this?” Orosco asked as he approached. “Ready to take a stand against those who would do us harm?”
Everyone around the group nodded.
“We have reason to believe that elements of the Las Balas Cartel may have been affiliated with the folks that decided the United States should no longer exist. We have intel telling us that an arms shipment is arriving tomorrow morning at 0200. You all have the location, you all have all the intel that I have.”
Everyone nodded.
“This is a volunteer mission. I have clearance and authorization from FBI command who answers direct to the D.O.D., but this mission is off spec and off the books, and you have to be prepared for that. Are you all still with me?”
Once again, the entire team nodded and affirmed that they were with him.
“Then boys and girls, let’s load ’er up. We move now and move fast!”
The shuffle of boots on pavement and cloth uniforms rustling signaled the team straightening up and charging into the loading compartment of the LAV. Orosco stood for a moment, forcing the image of his wife and his child out of his mind and replacing it with the faces of the men and women in the vehicle that stood before him. There were eight of them total, and their lives were in his hands. There was nothing he could do about the family and friends he’d lost in Galveston, but he could make sure his team got back to their friends and family, and he’d do everything in his power to do that. But first and foremost came the cartel, and the good guys were going to take the fight to them for the first time in three weeks.
He was read
y.
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Orosco tried hard not to glance out the left window of the LAV as it barreled down the road towards south Houston. They headed south with the left window facing east towards Texas City and whatever was left of Galveston, neither of which he had any desire to look at as he was trying to ramp himself up for the mission. The V8 turbo charged diesel roared underneath them, and with most of the money invested in the LAV being dedicated to armor and protection, the ride felt rough, with each pothole and shift in paved surface vibrating through the thinly-cushioned seats.
As Orosco sat on one of the rear benches, the LAV eased up a long and gradual slope, then coasted to a steady stop, the diesel throttling, then rattling off to silence. He moved from the bench and crouch walked up towards the front two seats where Lamar and Jarvish sat. Lamar was the LAV driver and Jarvish was the spotter, though when the time came, both of them would be expected to pick up weapons and pitch in.
“Is that them?” Orosco asked as he looked out the windshield. They parked up at the top of a ridge, off the main path of traffic, the road to their left winding down towards the distribution center. From their vantage point they could look down on the building and front parking lot and make out a little of what was going on below.
There was a long, eighteen-wheel semi parked in the lot at an angle, the back doors open and an electric loading platform winding down towards the pavement. A group of dark-colored cars all sat to the left of the semi, parked at the bottom of an embankment, and there were figures milling about along the vehicles and the semi as well.
Orosco let his eyes wander around the perimeter and verified that a chain link fence surrounded the property though the main entrance coming in from the south sat open.
Jarvish lowered his binoculars.
“Yeah, looks like them,” he said. “Rough count is twelve. All of ’em are armed.”