by Ryan Schow
The former hitman and new head of The Ophidian Horde sat comfortably at his desk deep inside the half-destroyed Sutter Medical building reading his Bible under the light of an open window. A knock at the door pulled him from this brief utopia, but he didn’t stop reading until he’d finished his passage. After that, he closed the book and said, “Come in.”
Gunderson, his chief enforcer, entered with a black garbage bag in hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Chandler Diggs and his boys learned of a community meeting in Balboa Hollow—it’s just above the park on 8th and Fulton—”
“I’m familiar with the area,” he said, his eyes dipping to the bag he had in hand. “I don’t know this Chandler Diggs though.”
“He’s a convert. Goes by the name Blood Pig.”
The hitman gave a nod of recognition, allowing Gunderson to continue. “They were slaughtered a few days back. A former soldier of his went looking for them. Found a massacre.”
“A massacre? Who’d they find, besides Blood Pig?”
“There was a community meeting. I sent Chandler and his men to handle it, per your orders.”
“So the community killed them?”
“That’s what’s unsettling, sir. Everyone’s dead. Chandler, his men, fifty or sixty members of the community. It’s a blood bath.”
“Where at?”
“Frank McCoppin Elementary, on 6th and Balboa.”
The hitman frowned, truly disturbed. He went to Frank McCoppin as a kid. Before he became…what he became…he was just a boy and that school held many fine memories for him.
“Who did this? And why wasn’t I told you were moving on the elementary school?”
“You said handle it, sir. So I handled it. From this point forward, I’ll be sure to apprise you of all movements in detail. We’ve got several more planned over the next few days, but…”
“But what?”
“This one gives me pause,” Gunderson said.
“Stop sounding so formal for Christ’s sake. I’m not going to shoot you for lack of manners or an improper usage of the English language.” Then: “What’s in the bag?”
Gunderson sat the bag on a chair facing the hitman’s desk, reached inside, fidgeted a little, then hauled out a decapitated head by the nostrils, almost like it was a bowling ball and not attached to a body a few days ago.
“What does that say? On his head? Indigo?” He studied the head, then looked up and said, “What the hell is ‘Indigo?’”
“We think it’s a name,” Gunderson replied, “but it could be a new faction, too.”
“So they cut his head off?”
“I cut his head off.”
“Why would you do that?”
“His body was turned into a pin cushion in the worst way. Besides, it was easier to bring him to you like this rather than drag back an entire body. I can retrieve the rest of him if you want.”
“No, but I do want you to go back and burn the bodies. All of them. Burn the school down, too.”
“There are houses all around the school, sir.”
“And if they burn?” the former hitman asked, raising his voice, perturbed. “If this whole city burns? What will be the difference from now?”
Gunderson lowered his head, humbled.
“You did good, Gunderson,” he said, his calm returning. “I see now that I was right about you. You’re going to make a fine enforcer.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Reaching his hand out, he said, “Let me have him.”
Pulling his fingers out of Blood Pig’s nostrils, he handed the head over, setting it on the desk on the bloody flat of the cut-off neck.
“Not on the desk,” he said, sliding the Bible over. “Use a coaster.”
Hesitating, Gunderson set the man’s head down on the Bible, steadying it, then standing back while the hitman looked it over.
The self-appointed leader of The Ophidian Horde turned the head so he was eye to eye with it. Then: “This Indigo, whatever it is…a gang, a person…whatever, apparently this was some form of retaliation.”
“We believe so, too.”
“Gunderson, your first order of business on this sad day is to find out who or what Indigo is, and then report back. I’d like to head up the matter myself when the time comes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Making a fist and popping his knuckles, he looked at his chief enforcer with the deadest of gazes and said, “We’re literally going to rip the spine out of this Indigo thing and hang it from the nearest lamppost so people know who we are, and what we’re capable of.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Good,” he said. “Now get on it.”
END OF BOOK 2
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Day of the Attack. Corpus Christi, TX.
First Lieutenant Jagger Justus and Second Lieutenant Camila Cardoza checked into the Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, otherwise known as NAS Corpus Christi, for advance flight training. The two marines were bunking in separate quarters, but Jagger knew Camila wished they were bunking together. She’d always been a touch sweet on him, which she made no bones about, even though he was eight years her senior and married with two boys.
Camila once told him that as early as fifteen, she’d been attracted to older men, her father’s best friend specifically. She’d said, “You’re not that old, and I’m not that young…” to which he always replied, “I’m too married for you. This has nothing to do with age.”
Jagger settled into his quarters, having laid down for only a few minutes before Camila came knocking on his door.
He opened his eyes, drew a breath. “Come in,” he said, stretched out on his bunk, fingers laced behind his head. He’d been hoping for a little shut eye, a power nap at best.
The twenty-five year old Guatemalan firecracker stepped inside his quarters and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a sit down at either the Oasis Tavern, Circle R Mexican or the Boardwalk Café.” She was in fatigues and a green t-shirt. The t-shirt was too tight, as usual. She wasn’t a busty woman, but the girl knew the effect her body had on a man and wasn’t afraid to boast.
He looked away, even though it was clear she preferred he didn’t. He wasn’t about to be rude or send the wrong message.
“I’m down for the Oasis, so long as you have some dignity about yourself in there. You know that place can draw an unsavory crowd.”
“That was last time,” she said. “Besides, I have you to protect me, so...”
Sitting up, planting both feet on the ground, he said, “Like you can’t protect yourself.” She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, coupled with a sly, sexy smile. Looking away, he said, “I’ll find us a ride.”
“Did I ever tell you how much I adore your resourcefulness?” she teased.
There was something about her accent that complimented her look, giving off the impression that she was an innocent twenty-something when really she could go toe to toe with guys twice her size. She’d say it was because she had brothers. The truth was, this slender little fighting machine had been doing kickboxing since she was six.
Rolling his eyes, he said, “C’mon Cardoza, we just got here.” He didn’t mind the subtle flirtation here and there, but lately she’d been pouring it on.
“What?” she asked, feigning virtue. “I’m just excited to earn my hours, aren’t you? I mean, what’s sexier than Tilt Rotor training in Texas? Meet you back here in ten?”
“So I’m arranging the ride?” he asked.
“Didn’t we already talk about this?” she said on the way out, giving him a wink and leaving the door open.
He stood and shut the door, wondering how the hell she could go from steadfast to flirty then back to professional, all in under a minute. What drove a woman like Camila was a mystery for sure, one that left him wondering why she’d been so forward lately. He knew Camila left her boyfriend last month, but he didn’t know why. Jagger suspected he’d cheated, but Camila never let
on. Twice this past week he found her crying. Once he made the mistake of hugging her at her most vulnerable point. The way she settled into him was too comfortable. It made it easy to see himself being with a woman like her, but he wouldn’t act on it. He couldn’t. Now, contemplating the idea of throwing back drinks with her several states away from home, he longed to be back with Lenna and the boys.
Drawing out a long sigh, he stretched, then jumped on the phone and arranged a vehicle. Deep down he was attracted to his co-pilot, to the way she pined after him, to the way she looked at him and tried to get with him in spite of his commitment to Lenna. He hated admitting this to himself, but it was true. Still, he sought to live a upright life, even though she’d somehow turned this into a flirtationship she often said she enjoyed.
There was more though. More truth to her behavior than he wanted to acknowledge. She’d do anything he wanted her to do, no matter what, when or where—he needed only say the word. He would never say that word…
The knock on his door startled him out of his reverie and he brought himself to attention. He pulled open the door and there she was.
“You get us a ride, Lt?”
“Sure did.”
Moments later their ride arrived. Jagger was handed the keys to a Jeep, but he looked at Camila and asked if she wanted to drive.
“You should drive me,” she said. “I’m a traditionalist.”
A half-hearted laugh escaped him and he said, “Yeah, right,” which caused her to blush a little and bat her eyelashes at him.
She really was very cute, completely disarming.
They drove off base to the Oasis Tavern, pulled up two stools and ordered drinks. The atmosphere was on the dim side, the county music upbeat but not too rowdy, the crowd surprisingly well behaved. There were only about a dozen patrons, most of them hardened men, but not rough looking. He and Camila were on their third drink when the peninsula was first bombed.
“Did you hear that?” Jagger asked. He was looking over at Camila and straining to hear above the din of a Chris Stapleton country song.
A second, third and fourth concussion sounded, sending tremors through the ground and startling them all. Camila’s eyes widened with concern.
“Turn the music down!” Jagger told the bartender. “Everyone be quiet!”
The mood of the bar shifted on a dime. A look of alarm broke over the surface of the bartender’s otherwise neutral face as he killed the music. Everyone sat on edge, silent, listening intently.
When the next bomb hit, Jagger kicked off his stool and was first out the door with his Camila on his heels. Everyone else poured out after them and in seconds all eyes were locked on the horizon.
“My God,” Jagger heard himself say as several columns of smoke rose into the clear blue sky. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, moving toward their ride, he said, “C’mon Cardoza!”
They jumped into the Jeep they’d borrowed and raced up NAS Drive toward what looked like a slew of explosions. A fleet of drones zipped overhead, causing them both to look up.
“Are those ours?” Camila asked loudly.
“Not sure,” he answered over the heady reverberation of the engine.
Jagger blew past a row of crappy looking restaurants and used car dealerships, past a storage lot and half a dozen low-slung buildings you’d never see in Architectural Digest, unless they had the Trailer Park Edition. Twice they roared past slower vehicles on the wrong side of the road causing Camila to stop breathing as she grabbed ahold of something, anything.
When they approached NAS’s front gate, he told Camila to hold on. Never even touching the brakes, he swung into oncoming traffic and bypassed the base’s gate shack completely. Minutes later the NEX gas station was hit. It went up in a series of explosions that sent fire and rolling smoke into the sky.
The concussion waves rocked their Jeep on its springs. More drones flew by, breaking formation a second later. Artillery fire from further out sliced through the air, wobbling and then downing several drones.
“There must be thirty of them!” Camila screamed, leaning forward and peering up through the dusty windshield.
“Keep it together, Cardoza!” he said, his own teeth set on edge.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked, glaring at him.
He had to admit, the woman was pretty chill under fire. Was he though? They were finding out by the second.
By the time Lexington Blvd dead-ended at Ocean Blvd, the Navy Marine Corps Relief Society building had been leveled, as well as the Naval Exchange, the Post Office and the Navy Legal Assistance Office.
A quick flick of the eyes into his rear view mirror showed him a drone bearing down on them. He jerked the wheel at the last minute, causing the tires to screech and yelp in protest. The inside tires lifted off the ground putting them on two wheels and slightly out of control. Gritting his teeth, Jagger held on. A line of gunfire pocked the road in front of them, spitting up bits of asphalt and gravel as the drone rocketed overhead. He ripped the wheel back around and managed to keep them from toppling over.
“Did that thing just shoot at us?!” Camila screamed, obviously shaken. Jagger was too rattled to tell her that luck alone just saved their lives.
With the exploding sounds of violence and warfare upon them, Jagger pushed the Jeep harder, forcing himself not to rationalize what was going on, to just move. He kept his foot on the gas. He drew a hard left on Ocean, the back end breaking loose in a baying squeal. They shot past a pair of Tilt-Rotor Valor’s sitting on the tarmac in smoking ruin before veering too quickly into Hangar 46. Jagger flew into the hangar, stood on the brakes and slid sideways to a stop.
They were now in the heart of the defensive operation.
At least two dozen men were moving about the hangar with purpose, although it would look like frenzy to any civilian. Jagger made a beeline to the man in charge, stood at attention until he was acknowledged.
“Were in the shit here soldier,” the CO said, not looking up, but clearly acknowledging Jagger.
“What just hit us, sir?” Jagger asked.
Irritated eyes looked up at him. They saw him, then they glancing over at Camila where they remained a second too long. “You tell me, son.”
“They sure as hell aren’t ours,” Jagger spat.
A nearby explosion shook the ground, causing everyone to pause. Turning back to Jagger with a worried glance, he said, “Who are you, soldier?”
“First Lieutenant Jagger Justus and Second Lieutenant Camila Cardoza. Just arrived for advanced training on the Tilt-Rotors, but we’re useful wherever you need us.”
“Marines,” he said, not any way, just…non-committal.
“Where do you need us?” Jagger said.
“Are you as good with a gun as you are with a helo?”
“We’re Marines,” Camila replied in response, her voice surprisingly sturdy in spite of the unfolding chaos. “We’re good at everything.”
Appraising her with the eyes of a man out of his depth, he nodded then said, “Let’s hope to God you’re right because this is way beyond FUBAR.”
“Sure looks that way,” Camila replied.
The day burned off and night settled in, a cool breeze gusting off the water. The drones were impossible to see in the dark, but they seemed to have retreated, for now. Reinforcements arrived and the second shift relieved the first. Rather than grabbing a hot meal and a warm bed, they were given sandwiches some of the staff made from the evacuated Subway on E. Street next to the Fitness Express and the E. Street Gym.
Jagger and Camila put a foot-long sandwich down in nothing flat, both exhausted from the fight. Bellies full, eyelids bobbing, they both grabbed fifteen minutes shut-eye against the hanger wall before heading back into the hot zone. Those fifteen minutes stretched on. Jagger simply shut his eyes; Camila leaned against him and she winked out, too.
When Jagger woke, it was to someone yelling at him to get up, that they were needed on the M249 SAW, a light belt-fed machine gun.
His eyes opened as Camila was lifting her head off his shoulder. He looked up, saw a man looking down on them, his eyes shot through with worry. Camila moved off Jagger and they both stood, groggy and heavy in the lid. Somehow they managed to sleep through the night, a surprise to them both.
“Did you hear me?” the man asked.
“Yeah,” Jagger said. “We heard you.”
He turned and headed out.
“When the hell did they get one of those?” she asked, referring to the M249 SAW.
Jagger shrugged his shoulders.
“I thought us sleeping together would’ve been more eventful than that,” Camila murmured.
“Stow it, Cardoza,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“They’re hitting everything,” Jagger heard someone telling the CO at the hub. Jagger and Camila were heading toward the guns when a young kid with a buzzed head pulled up next to them and said, “You were on the fifties yesterday, right?”
“We were,” Jagger said.
“You as good on the SAW?” he asked.
“Let’s hope,” Jagger replied, stifling a yawn.
“I’m the runner,” he said. He’d be running them the ammo belts to them.
“Don’t get shot out there,” Camila said.
“Try not to fall asleep,” the kid replied, to which both of them gave affirmative nods.
“You okay, Lt?” Camila asked, her eyes as heavy looking as his felt.
“Peachy, you?”
“I have to admit,” she said, keeping up in spite of him having six inches of height on her and longer legs, “all jokes aside, I was pretty cozy back there.”
“A little too cozy for the middle of a war zone,” he said.
“Says who?”
He let out a short, low laugh and said, “Shooting or feeding?”
“You shoot, I’ll feed,” she said with a tone. He looked at her and she gave him a suggestive wink.
“Really?” he asked.
Now out in the open where a veritable war was underway, they sprinted to the gun, and straight into the middle of hell. Behind them, their runner kept pace with the ammo belts. Turning from ill-timed seductress back to a hardened Marine, Camila grabbed the disintegrating feed strips and loaded the first belt into the feed tray.