“A hard reboot to level the playing field,” he mumbled, letting the data points swirl around in his brain. He wasn’t privy to his buyer’s entire plan but figured there was another phase of the project yet to reveal itself. Something that would justify the astronomical expenditures needed to get to this point.
Only the beginning, he thought, knowing that whatever was next would now begin in the shadows of escalating chaos. It might take days, or years, but something else was coming.
He wondered if anyone out there was paying attention. Had they put any of the pieces together before Trident detonated? If not, then it was possible now that the entire planet was without power, without communications, and without leadership thanks to Trident’s ingenious engineering. It was precisely what his wealthy, anonymous buyer had demanded when he first contracted Hansen to build the doomsday weapon.
Hansen wasn’t proud of what he’d been paid to do, but then again, he really didn’t give a shit. His massive payday would allow him to live like a king on a small, tropical island somewhere, where the drinks are plentiful and cheap, and so too are the native girls. That much cash would buy a lot of booze and pussy. A welcome reward for all his hard work and genius.
Of course, given his current predicament, maybe death would find him before the willing fingers of the young island girls.
Time to focus, he decided. If he was right about Trident’s delivery, then the ship wasn’t at sea since the red rain was designed to affect major landmasses only and not the oceans of the world. That meant the ship must have been inland—probably floating in a bay or inlet—most likely somewhere along the East Coast or in the Gulf of Mexico where the EMPs could still reach. The West Coast, Europe, and Africa would have required a much longer sailing time and he was sure that hadn’t happened.
Had he been topside when Trident ignited, he would’ve experienced its powerful release like most everyone else on the planet. However, since he was stuffed inside the belly of the beast, surrounded by walls of steel, he was, in effect, trapped inside a giant Faraday cage, protected from Trident’s effects.
Then his brain shifted, taking him down a new path of enlightenment. He wondered if the entire ordeal with Carlos Santiago was not what it appeared to be.
If not, then what was it?
Some type of elaborate ruse or misdirection?
Or was it a test of some kind?
Maybe it was nothing more than a careless mistake, or a drug lord’s mental malfunction?
He didn’t know if Jigsaw changed his mind, or decided to just walk away. The later of the two seemed unlikely since the drug lord’s reputation as a merciless tyrant wouldn’t have let that happen. Jigsaw would’ve lined him up in front of a firing squad and gladly given the order to shoot. Or simply pulled a knife and slit his throat.
No, the kingpin didn’t walk away, he decided. Didn’t make sense. Not after the man’s hyper focus during the interrogation on all things Trident. Jigsaw was clearly after something, probing about every aspect of its funding, delivery, and intent.
But now that Hansen thought about it, Jigsaw didn’t ask all the questions. There was one he skipped—the most important one—who hired him to build and unleash the red rain?
Did Jigsaw not want to know?
Is that why he didn’t ask?
Or was he told not to ask? If told not to ask, then Jigsaw must be working for someone else. That idea had merit. Someone else was calling the shots. It would explain some of the strange turns of events.
Then again, someone might have paid Jigsaw off, instructing him to dump his ass down here in the dark to rot. He wondered if the culprit might be the same person who tried to kill him earlier with the drone—the unmanned aerial vehicle that took out his mini-sub shortly after Trident’s initial deployment.
This latest attempt to take him out would result in a slower, more painful death as dehydration stole his last breath away. He admired the plan’s ruthless simplicity, serving as some kind of maniacal entertainment for whomever wanted him dead.
Before the lights went, his eyes had surveyed the towering walls around him, but he didn’t remember seeing any surveillance cameras. Only the cold steel designed to haul two million barrels of oil. He didn’t think anyone was watching.
But there was still one more possibility, a simple explanation—the ship’s power had gone out on its own. Perhaps the recent events had nothing to do with Trident or its payload delivery. Maybe Jigsaw was called away on business and hadn’t abandoned him like he thought.
It was clear he didn’t know the answers or even all the questions, but regardless, he knew he’d never see the fortune he’d so rightly earned unless he could escape the huge metal prison.
It wasn’t going to be easy, not in the dark and not with the walls and deck covered with a slick residue and little in the way of resources around him. If he failed, all they’d find would be his guilt-ridden skeleton, lying exposed for only God to judge when his spiritual essence was reclaimed from above.
The thoughts of God and faith turned his heart soft, realizing this might be the end. It wasn’t how he’d planned to go out, but after what he’d done, most people would say he deserved it.
He knew there was bound to be ongoing collateral damage when all the power grids failed across planet Earth. Each new death would become yet another black checkmark, adding to the long list already covering his soul.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, pulling himself from the depths of remorse. The thoughts of contrition and redemption quickly faded from his brain. “This isn’t you. You’re not a quitter or some pansy-ass. Get a grip, asshole!”
No, he didn’t need salvation. But he did need a miracle if he was going to get out of this cargo hold and go on the offensive against whomever was trying to kill him.
* * *
General Rawlings opened his eyes to find he was trapped inside a shoulder-wrap seatbelt with a Secret Service man lying on top of him. Gravity was tugging at his right side, telling him everything was sideways, including the bucket seat in front of him.
He took a second to fire up his memories, but couldn’t remember anything after the sky lit up and the SUV swerved off the road. Now the transport vehicle was sitting on its side with one of the escort team members on top of him. However, the man wasn’t moving and his face was covered in blood.
Rawlings pushed the man away, toward the seat in front of him. The body slipped down between the front and back seat, landing in a crumpled ball against the door on the right.
The blond-haired driver was slumped over as well, hanging from the seatbelt. Blood was dripping from somewhere along his upper body, landing on the team leader, who was motionless in the front passenger seat—his neck twisted oddly and sloping back.
Nate, realizing he was probably on his own, questioned his decision to convince the driver to break free from the rest of the Raven Rock escort team and change their destination.
At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do after he’d considered all the recent facts. Specifically, the President’s killing spree and the open water meeting with Anderchuck, where the unexpected plane crash of Indigo’s private jet took place.
Something wasn’t right with NSG and the world in general. He could feel it. His gut told him to turn the transport around and head to Lancaster County to meet with Simon Redfall personally, and that’s exactly what he did.
Now he was here—wherever here was.
All he knew for sure was the sun was shining and he was trapped inside a SUV with three dead or unconscious Secret Service agents. That meant the storm clouds were gone and it wasn’t raining for the first time in what seemed like forever. His ears confirmed it—no patter of raindrops hitting the vehicle.
He checked the window on his right, but it wasn’t there. The glass must have shattered during the accident and now only red stalks of wet grass and bush were sticking through it, just beyond his elbow. He looked to the left and saw the way up and out—t
hrough the left passenger door.
He went to move, but the pain in his stomach stopped him. It was worse than before, probably as a result of the crash. The sharpness had given way to a dull pain and it felt wider and longer, if he chose to measure it. He fumbled around for the seatbelt release button and found it. His finger pressed the mechanism, freeing his torso from the clutch of the safety device.
Gravity took him quickly into the swatch of brush waiting for him on the right, landing on his arm. He winced when something sharp tore at the skin on his elbow—probably shards of glass from the missing window.
His left hand latched onto the seat back in front of him, using it as a grab bar to pull himself up. Then he brought his right arm under and through, wedging it around the same edge of the seat. He used it as a leverage point, freeing his left hand again. He continued the process, climbing the cab until he was close enough to grab the door handle on the left side of the SUV. He released it, letting the door sit ajar, but only slightly. Now he needed to figure out a way to keep the door open while freeing his ample body.
The pain in his belly was still nagging at him, but he pushed through the discomfort as he brought his left leg up and kicked at the door. It flew open all the way until its hinges stopped its progress, only to return and slam shut when physics took over.
That plan wasn’t going to work, not unless he was lucky enough to use precisely the right amount of force to make the door stop perfectly at its apex and not recoil on its hinges. The chances of that weren’t likely, he decided.
He unlatched the door handle again, letting the door sit loose while he worked through the problem in his head. He needed something more subtle and more controlled. His hands worked his lower body closer to the door, taking all his strength to hoist his waistline farther up. He wedged his foot in, then pushed his left leg through the opening with the door’s metal frame resting on the side of his calf.
Halfway there, he thought, taking a deep breath to summon his remaining strength.
“Should have done more sit-ups, you fat bastard,” he mumbled, realizing the next part of the escape would be the toughest. “Less time at the bakery and more sweating in the gym,” he said, making a promise to himself to do just that if he made it out of here alive.
His stomach muscles pulled together, allowing him to twist and send the other leg out the door. Then he pushed his backside up and out. So far so good, but now he was out of leverage with his arms fully extended from the edge of the seat.
With half his body hanging out the door, he rolled over, planning to use his legs as a man-sized hook. His feet felt around the outside of the SUV, searching for an edge he could use to create a pivot point, then pull the rest of his heft to safety.
Just then he heard some clatter and felt the SUV sway a bit before a pair of male voices spoke. He froze, breathing hard from all the exertion.
“Sebastian, get dat door. I’ll grab him from dis side.”
“Okay, hang on a sec. Dis tang keeps rockin.”
The door swung open a few seconds later, releasing the gravity-feed pressure on the general’s legs.
“Okay, grab him, Sean.”
A moment later, a pair of hands wrapped around Nate’s elbow and began to pull. “I gotcha, big fella.”
Rawlings didn’t hesitate. He used the muscles in his sagging stomach and aging back to push and contort his way up and out with the help of the Good Samaritans.
A few seconds later, he was free from the wreckage and standing on the ground, feeling relieved and blessed to have survived the accident while the others hadn’t.
He looked up the embankment and saw what looked like a pileup of cars just beyond the edge of the embankment. A silver tractor trailer was lying on its side, with a smattering of cars twisted and lying about. He assumed the other drivers had reacted to the atmospheric event, taking their attention from the road.
Rawlings brought his eyes down to thank the rescuers, but held his tongue when he saw eight men—all dressed in hunting attire and holding AR-15s and shotguns, all trained on him. He raised his arms to surrender.
“Ya lost, General? What da fuck ya doing here?” the taller of the group said, wearing a thin-lipped smile, his eyes focused on the set of stars pinned on the shoulder of the general’s now-bloody uniform. The man swung his head sharply to the side, convincing his shoulder-length black hair to move away from his face and hang down the back of his neck.
Rawlings assumed the mullet-wearing redneck was the leader of the pack and decided to address him in a calm, cool manner.
“Look gentlemen, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
“Too late for dat,” the leader said, swinging his eyes to the man standing next to him. “Search him! Make it quick!”
“We should just string him up, Sean,” another man said. The two of them must have been brothers—their faces were nearly identical except for their facial scars. Possibly even twins.
“Nah. Search him. Let’s see who he be. I wanna know what da fuck he doing way out here in western PA,” Sean said, his mouth foul with bad breath and missing some teeth.
Nate felt a pair of hands come at him from behind, entering his pockets and fishing around. His wallet was pulled from his back pocket and tossed to the leader.
The leader Sean caught it and pried it open with his tattooed fingers. His eyes went wide and his face flushed red as he read the ID aloud.
“General Nathan Henry Rawlings the Third, from Washington, DC. I figured as much.”
“A general from DC?”
“It says here he works for da Defense Department. Dat means he one a dem.”
“Okay, now can we string him up?” the twin asked in a hurried voice.
“Hang on,” Sean said, pulling out a slip of paper from the wallet’s bill compartment. “Well, look at what we have here. Address on Bell Tower Lane.”
“1200 Northwest?” the twin asked.
“Yep. Fucking Pandora. Should’ve known dat bitch threw in with da government. They all in dis together.”
“Time for some payback!”
Sean nodded. “Let’s roll, boys. First stop, Pandora. Then we’ll go deal with her mother-fucking brother. I wanna see da look in his eyes when I bleed his sister, right there in front a him.”
“I thought I was gonna be da one to do her?”
“Not today, brother. They both be mine. I’m gonna enjoy every second of it, too.”
The twin pointed at the general. “What should we do with dis fat piece a shit?”
“Take him with us. He obviously important, so we use him as bait. Get her to come out if we have to. Then we go to Wyatt’s place and burn it to da ground with him in it.”
The men hauled the general up the ridge at gunpoint and onto the roadway, where at least a dozen people were busy tending to the victims of the accident.
The men took Nate past the crowd and to their vehicles. He recognized them—four 1969 International Harvester trucks. His father used to work on similar trucks at his roadside repair shop in Oklahoma where Nate grew up. However, the trucks idling ten feet away from him had been updated with CB radio antennas, black push bars, monster tires, roll bars, off-road lighting, and lift kits.
Then he saw it—on each truck—a Confederate flag painted on the side door.
Shit, hillbillies, not hunters, Nate realized.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wicks crept along in the dark, smoky room and found a light switch on a wall inside Wyatt’s farmhouse and flicked it on. She waited for a light fixture to come to life, but it never did. She toggled the switch two more times, hoping it might work. But it didn’t.
“Wyatt?” she yelled, her hands fumbling along the wall in the dark.
A few minutes earlier, she’d found a blood trail out back and it led through the back door of the house. She’d followed it inside and found herself in the kitchen, where she was now. Some strange things happened when she’d first entered the room, but she decided to ignore th
em, thinking her eyes and feet were playing tricks on her. It wasn’t every day she felt like she was floating a foot off the ground.
She looked ahead but couldn’t see much, not with the smoldering fire along the front of the collapsed house filling the inside with smoke. Her lungs were having trouble taking in air. There wasn’t much heat, though, so she figured the fire wasn’t too close. But she needed to hurry, regardless.
Cough. Cough. Cough.
She waited for her breath to recover. Then she called out, again. “Wyatt? It’s me, Tally! Are you in here? Wyatt?”
There was no response from the darkness. She followed the blood trail as it turned a corner, seeing a light at the end of what she thought was a hallway. She wasn’t sure if a light was on in the house, or if the light was coming from outside. Regardless, it was shining through the swirling smoke creeping along the ceiling in front of her.
Cough. Cough.
Wicks took a few moments to search her memory and consider the layout. She’d only been inside Wyatt’s place once before, but thought she recognized her location. If she remembered correctly, the master bedroom—Wyatt’s room—was at the far end, just past the stairs leading down to the basement. The blood trail headed in that direction.
Her feet took her forward as her lungs complained.
“Come on, bro! . . . cough . . . talk to me! . . . cough, cough . . . Where are you?” she yelled in a breathy voice, gasping for air between the phrases. She paused to listen, but didn’t get an answer, so she kept moving.
“Wyatt? Where are you?” she called out when she made it to middle of the hallway.
Just then she heard a faint male voice.
“Down here.”
“Wyatt? Is that you?”
“Tally?”
“Yes, it’s me! I’m coming for ya!” she said as another cough bent her over. She fought it off and moved another three steps forward.
“I’m in the basement,” he said.
Her chest was hurting, but not nearly as bad as her eyes were burning. Everything was turning a smoky gray and swirling in front of her, making it difficult to make out shapes and locations.
Redfall: Freedom Fighters (American Prepper Series Book 2) Page 12