Dead Reckoning (911 Book 3)

by Grace Hamilton

  Sara’s heart was near its bursting point, too. She’d never felt such a wave of respect directed at her as she was from these brave people, and through Sara on to her father. This would be the first big battle of many, and she knew it would absolutely shape the rest of the war to come. Even if Parker couldn’t be rescued, and was already dead, she’d vowed to herself as they set out that she’d be fighting for him—that this battle would be fought in his honor.

  And if they could take a federal prison like the facility at Terre Haute, it would send a shockwave across the country to all the other resistance cells. A message that the Council and their cronies might have the firepower, but they didn’t have the stomachs to defend their cancerous regime.

  Look at what Lieutenant Solon had shown them about the mindset of the enemy. He’d been so sure that execution by his despotic leaders for his failure awaited him back at Terre Haute—so sure that he’d killed himself in an explosion of C4. If Lieutenant Solon was an example of the caliber of leaders the Council could muster up, Sara reasoned that their victory was not only likely, but assured. And, in turn, she’d been sure to share that sentiment with those traveling at her side.

  The firetruck’s engine was loud, and carried on the still night air. At this point, however, there were enough wooded areas between them and the prison site, situated on a curve of the Wabash, to shield them from discovery. Their route had been well laid out in advance. During the course of their recon missions, the scout observer teams had cut through wire fences and left unobtrusive logger flagging to help guide the way.

  Sara’s nerves were taut, but the brisk pace of the walk helped smooth her emotions. Ava, silent, walked easily beside her. Glancing to her friend, Sara felt another sudden rush of gratitude for Ava’s support, which she hadn’t yet been able to put it into words and wasn’t even sure how to express. Their bond had become so strong, her depth of gratitude for this friendship surpassed words.

  Ava had believed in her when she hadn’t believed in herself, and her ridiculous story of the fire-breathing unicorns in that dumb game had crystalized important things for Sara. Ava’s infectious exuberance masked someone who thought deeply. If, after all that thinking, Ava came out of it backing Sara to the nth degree, Sara could rest assured that the course of action she’d set ARM on was the right course of action. It might not be the best course of action, but Sara was convinced it was the right one.

  And Sara wasn’t the only one who was convinced.

  Before they’d left Forest Glade, Margret had taken Sara to one side to speak to her alone in the kitchen. Margret had made sweet tea and liberated some Maryland cookies from the store for the occasion. “Last packet,” she’d said with a smile and a wink. They’d eaten companionably for a time, until, like a flicked switch, the mood around them changed to something more somber, more dangerous.

  “You’ve done well,” the older woman had said at last. “I see so much of me in you, Sara. You’re a leader, but more than that, you have the strongest moral compass I have seen in many years.”

  Sara had felt herself blush, and looked away. “I only want to do what’s right for those people.”

  “I know. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

  Sara had shifted forward in her seat. Intent. Engaged.

  “It’s about what follows.”

  Sara had tried not to look confused.

  She’d answered, “Well, I assume we’ll follow the plan. Move from here. Find a new base. Continue a guerilla war against the Council and their FEMA cronies.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  The confusion in Sara’s mind had doubled. “Me?”

  “Yes, Sara. You.”

  “But…”

  “Some people are not going to come back from this mission. Good people. Christ, I might not come back…”

  “Don’t talk like that, Margie…”

  “I need to, Sara, because even if I do come back, I want you to take over as cell commander.”

  Sara had felt frozen, hearing that. “Me…? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious of anything in my life. The way you spoke at the meeting, you not only changed minds, but you inspired and fired imaginations. They’re following you now, not me.”

  Sara had put down her cup, stunned. “I’m in my twenties, Margie; I’ve never led so much as a… a softball team. I’m a follower. Not a leader.”

  “Not anymore. Not even close.”

  Margret rose from her seat, then, and came around to Sara. She’d held her tight and close, and kissed the top of her head. “Sara, you are remarkable. Whatever happens tomorrow, don’t ever forget that. Your daddy is going to be beside himself with pride when he finds out what you’ve done—”

  Ava nudged her arm, bringing her back to the darkness. “Hey, you’re quiet. What’s up?”

  Sara snapped back into herself with a sigh, leaving the kitchen, the sweet tea, the cookies, and Margret’s bombshell behind.

  “Oh, you know, just thinking about stuff.”

  There was a pause, and Ava asked more quietly, “Parker?”

  “Something like that,” Sara lied, not wanting to talk yet to anyone about what Margret had said.

  “Okay,” Ava answered, but there was a tinge of suspicion in the word.

  It’s okay, Sara thought, I’ll tell you soon, Ava; you have a right to know, but I haven’t even found the words I need to convince myself. I need to understand all this myself, first. She felt in the pocket of her parka, the envelope Margret had given her rustling a little in her fingers. Margret had told Sara before she’d left the kitchen that the letter would explain to the ARM leaders what her wishes were concerning Sara, if Margret didn’t return. If Margret did return, she’d tell them all anyway, but the letter was just a contingency plan, just in case.

  Sara had dared not open it, and had simply slipped it into the inside pocket of her parka and gone directly to the substation to join the crew finishing the firetruck conversion. And now, not knowing what would befall any of them, she wished she was better at separating her feelings from the cold, hard pragmatism she’d need for battle.

  Three miles from the prison, they parked the firetruck on a secluded dirt track overhung with purple blooming black ash. The ARM fighters congregated in small groups, eating chocolate and drinking from canteens. The march from the substation hadn’t been a difficult one, but it had been nineteen miles in just under nine hours, including a one-hour break after ten miles. Not everyone in the fighting group was in top physical condition—but what they lacked in fitness, they more than made up for in determination.

  Parker had a phrase for these people, Sara remembered suddenly as she looked around. Salt of the Earth, he would have called them, and Sara couldn’t agree more.

  “Penny for them.” Ava appeared from behind the armored firetruck, pouring the last few Skittles from a packet into her mouth.

  “Well, seeing as no one is going to be making Skittles for a while, not until the factories come back online, I was thinking what a shame it would be if that was the last packet of Skittles in the U.S.”

  Ava gave Sara a rainbow smile and reached into her pocket. She pulled out another packet of Skittles and threw it to Sara, who caught the pack awkwardly. “Last but one, kemosabe. Last but one. Enjoy.”

  Sara laughed, split the packet open, and chewed the sweet candies gratefully. A good sugar rush was just what she needed right now. She wanted to be hyped and ready for whatever followed.

  Two of the advance observer scouts returned to meet them at the predetermined rendezvous point. Cally Swanson and Riley Michelson had appeared from the darkness to be greeted like heroes. Riley was Crow’s wild-haired, long-limbed son, and Cally his girlfriend and fellow wild child. They had volunteered for the scouting mission without a second thought and had brought back more valuable information than Sara would have dreamed to get.

  “We can’t be sure of the numbers inside the prison,” C
ally began, “but at shift changes, we saw forty to fifty corrections officers go in, and roughly the same number exit. The towers with the big machine guns have two officers in them at all times. Mostly, they’re smoking or playing cards; they’re not the most alert sentries.”

  Sara considered the news, and then spoke. “Once we’re through the gate and into the quad, the towers can be taken out by the main wall door teams, and then we can get ourselves inside.” There was general agreement from Margret and the others.

  “Hold on,” said Riley, raising his hand and passing his fingers through his unruly hair. “There’s a smaller prison camp next to the main prison. It was used for low-security prisoners before the EMP.”

  Sara nodded. “Yeah, Ava and I saw it. It was abandoned.”

  Riley shook his head. “Not anymore. There’s a platoon of eighty FEMA troops stationed there now. They’ve got two truck-mounted M240s, and a big ol’ M939 5-ton truck. Six-wheeler. Looks like it’s packed with equipment and ammo.”

  Sara paused, flicking her eyes at Margret, who looked back at her. This was Sara’s call.

  The presence of the FEMA platoon changed the complexion of the operation completely, though. What would Parker have done? The answer to that was clear enough. For a start, he wouldn’t give up, not now that we’ve come this far with the armored firetruck, the F-250, and nearly two hundred resistance fighters.

  Knowing that was some comfort.

  Sara felt like she needed time to figure things out all over again, but time wasn’t something she had in huge supply. If they waited another night to plan a more thorough assault, how many people—innocent people—would die inside the jail? And the information Cally and Riley had relayed hadn’t made for happy listening, that was a given—but what had been an ever-greater discomfort for Sara was Margret deferring to her on the matter of how they should respond to the news of the FEMA reinforcements. Sara hadn’t expected to be pushed into a leadership dilemma so soon, but Margret was showing the other fighters, especially Crow Michelson, that she had complete trust in Jim Parker’s girl.

  Realizing that, and knowing she had to either embrace the trust or refuse it, Sara made up her mind and spoke, trying hard to keep her indecision from spilling out. “We should split our forces,” she determined, “but not attack the FEMA troops directly. We should put our IEDs outside the gates to the camp, and when we begin the assault on the main prison, a small force should explode them as the FEMA forces come out. Once we’ve knocked out their F-250s, we should be able to take them out with ground fire and the machine gun on our F-250.”

  Without discussion, Margret agreed, and added that she would lead the forces against the FEMA troops, and that Sara, Ava, and Crow would lead the assault on the main prison.

  Sara didn’t know if Margret was testing her. Perhaps the older woman was waiting to see if Sara would argue with a perfectly good plan just for the sake of it, thus showing Margret’s assessment of Sara’s abilities to be wide of the mark. A test to see if Sara would show that her new leadership role had made her overconfident and rash. But Sara had known immediately—instinctively—that Margret’s idea was sensible and logical. Sara, Ava, and Crow would be better suited to the blunt-force attack on the gates while Margret’s wilier tactical abilities would suit engagement with the FEMA forces. Sara would have been a fool to argue with the set-up, and the small smile Sara saw flicker briefly across the older woman’s face told her that she’d also made an accurate assessment of Margret’s motivation.

  Sara gathered the ARM fighters in a rough semicircle around the armored firetruck. The mood among the fighters was tense, but they were clearly ready for action. Sara explained the new information and the unexpected presence of the FEMA forces. She explained the two halves of the plan—the main attack on the prison gates, and the “wait and see” attack on the FEMA troops. No one asked questions; they all listened with rapt attention as Sara spoke. There were no dissenters, and no sense that there was a better way of freeing the people being held within the prison with the resources that they had.

  In their bright, attentive eyes, Sara saw people who were ready to fight, and ready to die if need be, to bloody the nose of the Council and take the first step toward revolution.

  Seeing that without any doubt, Sara stopped momentarily, listening to the fighters’ breathing on the chill air, the rustle of their clothes in the slow breeze, the gentle shuffling of their feet in the dirt. The sense of expectation was palpable. They were a wind-up toy ready to go, and it was Sara who had wound them up. The resistance was hanging on Sara’s command, waiting for her word.

  They were the detonation, she realized, and she was the spark.

  Sara felt herself swelling with the responsibility, growing more confident with her obligation to these people. And in her mind, she imagined Parker urging her on, and grew from that image, as well.

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “We’re doing this. Let’s roll.”

  15

  Rodgers and Castillo came for Parker at 11 p.m.

  Parker had been lying on his bunk, furiously going over the possibilities of engaging Kleet and his gang members in some action to break out of the prison. Of course, they could all end up getting shot and burned like the resistance fighters, but what was the alternative? Wait calmly until the Council was ready to kill him? If Sara had died for anything, it was the dream of excising the cancer at the heart of this new government.

  Parker stood as Castillo came into the room, Rodgers covering him with his Beretta M9 9 mm semiautomatic.

  “Wrists,” barked Castillo, and so Parker offered his wrists to be cuffed. Castillo also had ankle chains, which he fitted to Parker’s legs while Rodgers pointed the gun at the center of Parker’s forehead.

  “I sure hope I don’t sneeze,” Rodgers said mock cheerfully. “Brains are so difficult to get off blankets.”

  At least I have brains to shoot out, you bald-headed fuck, Parker would have liked to have said, but didn’t want to risk losing his free-association privileges for nothing more than a satisfying insult. He needed continued access to Kleet. That was way more important than resorting to bad-mouthing this inconsequential piece of shit. For a second, Parker reveled in his renewed ability to feel and project anger. He had spent so long feeling nothing that any emotion felt like progress.

  It was something to hold onto.

  The two corrections officers marched Parker through the prison to the interrogation room with the one-way mirror, where Spencer had shown him the pictures of Sara.

  The warden himself was already waiting at the table, kicked back in the chair with his feet up and smoking a fat cigar, flicking ash onto the floor. What looked to be the same U.S. Marshal as before, with his MP7 held across his chest, was stationed in the corner of the room, staring unblinkingly, as if he hadn’t moved since the last time Parker had been there. As Parker was brought in and shackled to the restraining bar, Warden Spencer welcomed him like an old friend returning from exile.

  “Jimbob, Jimbob! How great to see you again. Your face is looking good—apart from that heinous fucking eye socket of course—but otherwise Calhoun has done an outstanding job. Sit down, boy, sit down.”

  Parker sat, not bothering to say anything in return.

  Spencer watched him in silence for one full minute. All that could be heard in the room was the low rattle of Spencer’s breathing and the hum of the electrics in the strip light. There was a constant flicker in their intensity that Parker assumed could be attributed to the poor standard of generators the Council had supplied to the prison. They’d have to be old and primitive to still work post-EMP. Parker noticed that new wiring was running across the ceiling, held in place by crude cuts of gaffer tape. This is how the world will be for many years to come, he thought. Jury rigged.

  Spencer inhaled and exhaled loudly, with unnecessary drama, as if waiting him out.

  It’s not like I’m going anywhere, Parker thought. It’s not like the evil fuck doesn’t already
have my attention.

  “Smart guy like you, Parker, what would you do in my place, eh? If we swapped places? And it was you holding me here. What would you do?”

  “If I’d had your daughter murdered, you mean?”

  Spencer puffed on his cigar and moved his hands expansively. “No, no. Generally, I mean. You’re the guy in charge, and I’m the terrorist—what would you do if you were me?”

  Parker sneered at him, leaning back. “I’d have held a trial.”

  Spencer laughed himself near onto the floor until the sound turned into an amused and breathless cough. Catching his breath, he thumped the table and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Boy, you are one hilarious son-bitch, you know that?”

  Parker stared back at him. “Remove these cuffs and I’ll show you how amusing I can be.”

  Meeting his gaze, Spencer’s face turned to stone, his eyes narrowing into little crystals of dark menace. “Parker, has it not occurred to you why you haven’t already been hung from a flagpole with your innards fluttering in the fucking wind?” He almost screamed the last two words, dots of spittle spraying from his lips. Parker saw the U.S. Marshal flinch.

  “It had crossed my mind, yes.”

  “Good, Jimbob, good. First of all, it was just for fun. Keeping you alive. I couldn’t get here. Business elsewhere too important for me to come back. And I so wanted to be the guy who ended Jimbob Parker. Make it personal.”

  Parker licked his dry lips. Was this it? Had Spencer called him here for a good old-fashioned bad guy gloating session before murdering him?

  “So I asked Rayleigh, my deputy, to have some amusement with you while I was away. Some fun. Just some needles and junkie juice. For… old time’s sake.”

  Parker thought about the weeks of nihilistic ambivalence he’d suffered under the needle. The pull of oblivion, the warm dislocation—addicted again to the fruit of the poppy, all as a holding pattern of amusement while they waited for Spencer to return to dispense the coup de grâce. If Parker had ever needed evidence of the moral vacuum at the center of the Council’s takeover of the U.S., man alive, here was the cherry on top of the shit-cake.