They’d discussed a frontal assault but had discarded the idea – too many of the scavengers slept well away from that area. The rear entrance made the most sense, although it involved more risk. If the cold from the outside alerted anyone, they’d be in a drawn-out gun battle, and that didn’t work in their favor, given the two-to-one odds.
Arnold led the pair of traders around the building, sticking to the trees in case anyone was paying attention inside. When they reached the back, Arnold nodded to Duke and tried the doorknob.
It turned soundlessly, and he switched his AR-15 to burst mode, took a deep breath, and cracked the door open just wide enough to slip through.
Aaron followed him in, and Duke brought up the rear. They found themselves in a small utility room, as Sal had described. Reassured the young man hadn’t led them astray, they crossed the room with cautious steps, and Arnold pointed to the door that opened onto the main pump area, where the scavengers slept on bedrolls, warmed by the steam from the hot springs.
“Ready to do this?” Arnold whispered.
Aaron nodded, his expression determined, and Duke did the same.
“I’ll open the door. Aaron, you go in low and move right. Duke, I’ll go next, and you cover us from here. The wall should stop any rounds. Fire when you acquire targets.”
“Be careful not to shoot us in the back,” Aaron said.
“Don’t put ideas in my head,” Duke whispered.
Arnold reached for the lever and Aaron got into position, ready to enter the room in a crouch. Arnold closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then twisted the handle and pushed the door wide.
A jumble of metal pipes rose from the floor and twisted to one of the walls, and Aaron crept into the room, leading with his rifle. Arnold was halfway through the door when a warning cry sounded from the far side of the space, and then the still of the night exploded with shots as Arnold and Aaron engaged.
The sleeping men scrambled for their weapons while Arnold’s first two bursts slammed into the shooter by the front door who’d fired at them, knocking him against the wall and shattering the ceramic plate in his flak jacket. He slid down the wall, leaving a red streak, his eyes wide in shock. Aaron blasted at his companion, who’d thrown himself to the ground in order to make a more difficult target, but his rounds missed and ricocheted off the cement floor, spraying chunks of concrete into the air as they whined past the gunman.
Three of the other scavengers opened up with their weapons, and Duke’s rifle barked three-round bursts from the doorway. One caught a crouching shooter in the upper chest and throat, blowing him backward. Aaron cried out in pain from Duke’s right, and Duke stitched three bursts into the shooter Aaron had been trying to hit.
Arnold darted behind the pipes and ducked around to unleash a barrage of fire at the scavengers. His rounds found home more often than not, cutting the legs from under one gunman and shredding through the torso of another. Slugs pinged off the pipes and snapped past his head, and he emptied his magazine into the remaining men, who’d taken cover using the bodies of the fallen to block his fire.
He ejected the magazine and slapped another into place as Duke continued drilling the scavengers whenever one showed himself in the gloom, and Arnold heard the breech of the trader’s AR-15 lock open as he ran out of rounds. Two of the scavengers took the opportunity during the lull to make for the front entrance and rushed through the door, only to be shot to pieces by Craig and Sal when they emerged.
Duke and Arnold mopped up the remaining scavengers in thirty more seconds, and then the shooting stopped, all the scavengers neutralized. Arnold rose from his position behind the snarl of pipes and slowly walked into the main area. The floor was slick with bright red blood. One of the scavengers moaned and reached for his dropped weapon with a trembling hand, and Arnold finished him with a burst to the head.
Arnold moved from body to body, confirming that each was dead, and was at the last corpse when Duke’s voice hissed from across the room.
“Aaron’s hit bad.”
“Damn,” Arnold said, his face grim. He turned and made for Duke, who was kneeling beside Aaron. The younger man’s flak jacket was soaked crimson, and Aaron gasped for air as blood pooled beneath him. At least two rounds had penetrated his body armor…and his lungs.
Aaron grabbed Duke’s hand, clutched it weakly, and tried to raise his head. Duke inched closer. “No. Don’t try to move.”
“This…this is…it…” Aaron managed, and then let out a long groan and shuddered before lying still, pinpoint pupils locked on the ceiling as though it hid a secret only he could see.
Duke’s shoulders heaved and he reached forward to close his friend’s eyes. Arnold left him to his grief and walked to the front entrance to let Craig and Sal know it was all clear.
“Don’t shoot. It’s over. They’re dead,” he yelled through the door, and then stepped back, knowing that nerves could do strange things in battle and not wanting to get hit by inadvertent friendly fire.
Craig entered first and Sal trailed him in, pistol pointed at the ground. Arnold held out his hand for the weapon, and Sal nodded numbly and gave it to him before approaching one of the dead and spitting on his face.
“His name was Zeke. He…my youngest sister will be glad he’s dead.”
“No loss to the world that any of them is gone, sounds like,” Arnold said.
“No.”
“Aaron!” Craig exclaimed when he saw Duke by Aaron’s body and rushed to him. Duke looked up with red eyes and shook his head.
“He didn’t make it.”
“Oh…God, Duke. I’m sorry.”
Duke didn’t answer and, after a long pause, pushed himself to his feet and turned to Arnold. “Let’s get what we’re after and get out.”
“You can stay with us for the night, if you want,” Sal offered. “There’s a house next door that’s still got its roof. Might not be too bad if you start a fire.”
Arnold nodded. “Thanks, that’s mighty kind of you, but we’re not going to want to spend any more time here than we have to.” He looked to Duke. “We’ll bury Aaron in the morning before we leave.”
Duke shook his head. “No. I’ll do it now. No reason he should lie out all night. You don’t need me anymore. Craig can get his precious parts and I’ll take care of it.” Duke made for the back door.
“Where are you going?” Arnold asked.
“To get a shovel.”
“Ground’s hard as brick,” Sal said.
“I need the exercise.”
Sal nodded. “I’ve got a pick. I’ll help.”
The men left Craig and Arnold to scrounge for the pumps Craig needed, and returned shortly to haul Aaron outside. It took the engineer a half hour to remove the pumps and seals, and he carried them to his horse. The snow flurry had ended, but the air pricked his skin like needles. Arnold joined him and gestured to where Sal and Duke were finishing up Aaron’s grave. They walked over and Duke said a prayer, choking on the last words and barely managing an amen.
They hung their heads in silence for several moments, and then Arnold looked to Sal. “Where’s your place?”
“On the edge of town.”
He led them a few hundred yards from the plant to a cracker-box home that appeared to be barely standing. A young woman with a frightened face peered out from inside; when she saw Sal, she burst from the doorway and ran to hug him.
“You’re okay!” she said, and then stared fearfully at the strangers.
“I am. And they’re history,” Sal said. “These are the men I told you about. Duke, Arnold, Craig, this is Liza, my oldest sister.” Two more faces peeked from the doorway. “That’s Cody, and the youngest there is Cas.”
Arnold touched Sal’s arm, and Liza released her brother. Arnold led him a few feet away and spoke in a low voice. “We have a nice setup where we are. Power. Water. Well defended. If you’re of a mind, you and your sisters are welcome to join us.”
“We…tha
t’s a hell of an offer,” Sal said, and then frowned. “But we don’t have any horses.”
“Don’t the scavengers?”
“Oh. Right. Sure they do.”
“Then they’re yours now. So are their weapons and ammo. That should give you a good start on a new life – you’ll have something to trade for anything you need.”
“I have to talk to my sisters, but they’ll do whatever I decide,” he said. “How far is it?”
“Four days’ ride.”
“And you’re sure it’s safe?” Sal gestured at the plant. “Nobody like that bunch there?”
Arnold gave Sal a reassuring grin. “If there was, I’d have personally blown their head off.”
Sal nodded and offered his hand to shake. “Then consider us in.”
Chapter 42
Lucas stirred when he heard the bolt on the door screech open and prepared for the ordeal to come. He’d always known the risk he was taking, and now it was time to pay the piper – in blood. That Tim would wind up dying horribly was an abomination, but it was too late now to do anything. He knew that he and the boy would be killed whether or not he gave them what they wanted, so there was no point in doing anything but tuning out and seeking refuge in the deepest recesses of his mind, where nothing could reach him.
The door opened and Lucas looked up. An older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and a gray shirt covered in blood stepped in. A satchel hung from his shoulder, and he clutched a holstered gun in one hand and a key in his other. He hurried to Lucas and knelt beside him.
“Lean forward. I’m going to uncuff you,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Whitely. I’m one of the rebels fighting the Crew. From Lubbock. I was tight with Jacob and Eddie.”
The right cuff snapped open, and Whitely went to work on the left. When it dropped on the floor, Lucas flexed his fingers, trying to coax the circulation back. Whitely grabbed one of his arms and helped him to his feet, and then handed him the holstered gun.
Lucas’s eyes widened when he saw that it was his Kimber. Whitely reached beneath his loose shirt, removed Lucas’s big Bowie knife, and gave it to him. “Sorry I couldn’t get your night vision gear, but it’s broken, so wouldn’t do you a lot of good.”
Lucas strapped on his pistol and checked the magazine – full, he could tell from the weight. He verified that a round was chambered and then slid his belt through the slots in the knife sheath and buckled it.
Whitely looked over his shoulder at the door. “Hurry up. We need to get out of here. They’ll be coming for you any minute.”
Lucas eyed him suspiciously. “How are Jacob and Eddie doing?”
“They…they didn’t make it. I’m sorry. Nothing I could do to save them.”
Lucas nodded and followed Whitely to the door. Whitely poked his head out, cast his eyes about, and then took off down the hall toward the rear of the building. Lucas took in the blood-covered form of a guard on the floor and kicked the man as hard as he could, verifying that he was dead. Satisfied, he trotted to where Whitely was waiting.
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m going to lead you to one of the loading docks. They expect you to go out the north dock. You’re going to go out a different one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I convinced them that the only way we’d find Sierra was to break you out and then follow you to her.”
Realization lit Lucas’s eyes. “They think you’re working with them. This is all part of a ruse.”
“Correct. What they don’t know is that I actually am with the rebels, that it’s not just a cover story.”
“Won’t it be hard on you when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to?”
Whitely shook his head. “Things never go as planned. Entropy and chaos. Not my fault.” He stopped and peered around a corner, and then took off again. When they reached another steel door at the end of the corridor, Whitely grimaced. “Besides, you’re going to conk me on the head with your gun, so it’ll look like you overpowered me once we were at the loading dock. That way it will seem like I was out cold and had no idea you were going to double-cross me.”
Lucas nodded. “Dangerous game.”
“I’ll have the wound to back my story.”
“What about the boy? I’m not leaving without him.”
Whitely pushed the door open and motioned for Lucas to follow. “I didn’t think you would.”
“You killed the guard?”
“No. That was faked.”
Lucas nodded again. “I could tell. He’d been dead for more than a few minutes.”
“You actually killed him – he was the first man you shot.”
“Don’t suppose you have my crossbow, do you?”
“Negative. Just be glad they went for my idea. Otherwise they’d be slicing and dicing you and the boy as we speak.”
Whitely led Lucas across a warehouse filled with plastic crates containing rum bottles. He pointed to one of the roll-up doors. “That’s where you’re supposed to duck out. They’ve got a party in place to track you.” Whitely turned and pointed to the far end of the warehouse. “Go out through that door, make for the south end of the fields, and you’ll avoid them completely.”
“And the boy?”
Whitely indicated a stack of crates. “He’s behind those. I had to tie him up to make sure he didn’t run off. He’s scared and doesn’t trust anyone – for good reason.”
A thought occurred to Lucas, and he unbuckled his belt and slid off his sheath and holster. He withdrew the blade and closely examined the leather of the sheath, feeling with his fingers along the inside as far as he could, and then repeated the inspection on the holster. When he was done, he nodded. “Eve had a tracking chip on her.”
“You should check the boy, too, just in case.”
“I plan to.”
Lucas crossed to the crates and looked behind them. Tim was on the floor, his hands bound behind him along with his ankles, clearly terrified. Lucas crouched down and whispered to the boy.
“Your mom sent me. My name’s Lucas. I’m here to get you out of here.” He studied the boy. “Understand?”
Tim nodded, though his eyes were still distrustful. Lucas saw the look and leaned in closer. “Look, you have to stay quiet or we’re both dead. Your mom’s waiting not far from here. Do what I say, and you’ll be with her within an hour. Make a sound and you screw the whole thing up.”
“What’s her name?” Tim asked.
Lucas smiled. “Sierra.”
“How do you know her?”
“I rescued her from the Crew, same as I’m doing with you.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You own her?”
Lucas shook his head. “More like she owns me. It’s complicated. But no. We’re all free. Nobody owns anybody.”
Tim grappled with the explanation and nodded again. Lucas withdrew his Bowie knife and severed his bindings with the razor-sharp edge, and then sheathed it and lifted Tim to his feet. The boy couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds, and Lucas frowned at the mistreatment that would result in a boy his size being so thin.
Lucas did a methodical search of the child’s clothes and reassured himself that there was no obvious tracking device, and then turned to Whitely and pulled his Kimber free. Whitely’s eyes tracked it and he winced. “I suppose you have to make it convincing. Let’s go over to the loading dock so there’s no mistaking you clobbered me as I was leading you out.”
“Fair enough.”
The older man walked to the door. “Good luck, Lucas.”
“Same to you. Turn around and close your eyes.”
Whitely did as instructed, and Lucas clubbed him in the side of the head with the butt of the Kimber. Whitely dropped heavily to the floor, and Lucas caught him before his head could strike the ground. He set him down gently and leaned down to check his pulse, and then straightened and held out his free hand to Tim, eyeing his homemade sandals.
“Gonna have to get you some boots,” Lucas said, and Tim reluctantly took his hand. “Remember. Not a sound.”
And then they were running for the door, Tim’s small feet pattering on the concrete at twice the rate of Lucas’s, the area so dark they could barely see except for the glow of ghostly light drifting from the high windows.
Chapter 43
Outside the plant, Lucas pulled Tim along toward the far left cane field, his eyes adjusting to the dark as they ran. The ground was soft and spongy from the rain, which had abated at some point during the night, but distant pulses of lightning foretold more downpours to come.
They paused at the first gap in the tall sugar cane, and Lucas whispered to the boy, “You know these fields pretty well?”
Tim nodded.
“Get us to the fence the fastest you can. They’re waiting for us over there,” Lucas said, indicating the field to their right. “So we need to go the opposite direction.”
“Okay. This way.”
Now it was Tim’s turn to lead Lucas, who wasn’t thrilled with the idea of his life being in the hands of a ten-year-old. They stayed low as they ran, the ground giving beneath their feet, and Lucas silently damned the rain for creating an environment where their tracks would be obvious. His only hope was that it started pouring again before the Crew picked up the scent, because otherwise they’d be in a race that they couldn’t win.
Tim directed them through a gap and they jogged along another row of cane. Lucas checked over his shoulder periodically to ensure they weren’t being followed, though the loss of the night vision monocle had eliminated an important edge he’d counted on having when they escaped.
His plan in tatters, he allowed a child to pull him through the night, praying that the boy knew what he was doing – because Lucas could only play it by ear now. They reached another gap and Tim didn’t hesitate, dodging through it and continuing in a westerly direction, away from the area where the Crew lay in wait.
They reached the fence and Tim stopped, panting from exertion, and looked up at Lucas. Lucas peered in the gloom at the barbed wire and spotted a fence post where the steel was wrapped around the wooden pole. He moved to the support and pushed against it with his foot, and it gave a few inches. He kicked it, and it shifted again. As he’d hoped, the post was driven straight into the mushy ground, with no concrete base to stabilize it. He stepped nearer and heaved at it, working it back and forth as he lifted, and after an agonizing few seconds the wood stake slid from the soil with a sucking sound.
The Day After Never (Book 4): Retribution Page 22