Hansen turned his head and told his tongue to answer, but it couldn’t. Not with a stale stickiness coating its surface. Instead, his chest brought up a series of coughs, making his shoulders lurch as the dry force expelled from his lungs in a rapid fire succession.
“You okay, buddy?” the voice asked from somewhere in the darkness.
Hansen coughed again and again, unable to control his respiratory system or the dizziness waging war inside his skull.
“Hang in there, pal. Don’t give up. You have to fight. My knee is starting to throb and that usually means rain is on its way.”
Hansen groaned, unable to form any words through his chapped and sticky lips. His teeth felt like they were loosening in their sockets, making it clear he needed water and food. Otherwise the reaper would soon appear to collect him.
All he could do was lie there, weak and helpless, waiting for death to arrive as the life force within drained away with each beat of his heart. The lonely seconds turned into minutes, before a half hour passed—a grueling thirty minutes of pain, dryness, and coughing.
Just when his eyes began to fade, a roll of thunder echoed in the distance, giving his will to live a boost. He listened for another clap and it came. Then another and another, each time the rumble grew in length and intensity.
It wasn’t long before the brewing storm found its way to him and the heavens opened, answering his prayers. Salvation started as a trickle outside, but rose into a steady downpour that began to drip through the gaps in the ceiling. He craned and twisted his neck as the drops found his face, hoping they would find his tongue. They did, making their way into his throat. Hansen drank all he could, filling his belly with sip after sip.
The wind outside grew and started to pound at the structure he was in. A minute later, two pieces of the wall tore away on his right, and so did another section along the top. More light was leaking in now, revealing a towering canopy of trees above. The structure he was in was just large enough to contain the cot and a shit-covered bucket, leaving little room to breathe. The walls and ceiling had been constructed using a combination of bamboo framing and interwoven palm leaves. He was in some kind of jungle hut or prison cell, which explained the humidity and the smell of rotting wood and feces.
“Fuck me,” he mumbled, his vocal cords coming alive.
The voice next to him spoke again. “Sounds like you’re doing better over there. I told you the rain would come. You okay?”
Hansen’s mouth and lips no longer felt like bales of cotton, but it was still a struggle to speak. “Not really, but at least I’m not gonna die of thirst. Not yet anyway.”
“Take it slow and let your body adjust. My name’s Crosby, by the way.”
“I’m Hansen. Thanks for the warning. Where are we?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I figure its somewhere west of St. Bluffs Island. I was a little over a hundred nautical from there when my boat was boarded and I was detained.”
“By who?”
“Cubans, based on the dialect. I’m a linguistics professor at the University of Miami, so I’ve heard my share of Caribbean Spanish. Plus one of them mentioned a crisis in Havana earlier.”
“What happened in Havana?” Hansen asked, remembering the last minute coordinate change for one of his drones.
“Not sure. Something about red rain, but that can’t be right. I probably translated it wrong.”
Hansen expected that answer, knowing that Trident was unleashed over the island’s seaport. Trident was originally designed for deployment over major land masses only; however, a last minute directive from his buyer had added the seaport to the list. Hansen didn’t know why it was the only island targeted across the planet, but it really didn’t matter to him. The buyer was calling the shots and for the extra money he was promised, it was worth the last minute logistical headache.
Hansen needed to change Crosby’s line of thinking away from Trident. “How long have you been here?”
“Couple of weeks, I think.”
“So they do feed us.”
“Eventually. Though I wouldn’t call it food. It’s more like baby food paste.”
“Do you know what they want from us?”
“Everything and anything. Whatever you have they can sell or ransom.”
“Interesting. So they’re businessmen.”
“Sure, I guess you could call them that.”
“Excellent.” Hansen added, “I can work with that.”
“Though planning or patience isn’t part of their skill set. Just look at how they treat their inventory.”
“Then we’ll have to work fast.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I can negotiate for our release, do you think you can translate well enough to get my points across?”
“I think so. What do you have in mind?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wyatt Wickie stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the master bedroom of the main house on his property, wiping the remnants of shaving cream with a towel from his chin after a quick set of swipes with a razor. He wondered when more of his facial hair might start to come in, filling in the rest of his planned goatee.
Two of his men were six months younger than him, but able to grow full beards. He thought it made them look more imposing and wanted the same for himself. Being a late bloomer physically was always something that caused him worry, but he decided not to dwell on it anymore today. There were more important items to deal with.
Tally had ignored his warnings the night before and the putrid rain was still falling outside, covering his two hundred and twelve acres of Pennsylvania farmland in a sludgy red. He’d spent his half of his grandparents’ stockpile of American Silver Eagles on the rolling hills he called Jericho in honor of the old TV series, and now it was being covered in a stench that made him puke. Every cell in his body knew the government was behind the weather, and even if it didn’t smell like ass outside, he’d still be on edge from that fact alone.
The compound’s ham radio had been busy with increased chatter in recent days, particularly two of the designated prepper frequencies: Green Mountain S1 and Prepper Net. Everyone was theorizing as to the origin and purpose of the unusual weather blanketing the countryside, but nobody really knew anything. It was all conjecture, invigorated by mounting paranoia and hatred for those in Washington. Not that he could blame any of his fellow operators, but the endless crowing and false reports were tiresome.
A triple knock came at the door. A gruff male voice from the other side said, “Wyatt, I need to talk with you. I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but it’s urgent.”
Wyatt turned and walked into the bedroom while slipping on a pale green t-shirt. He sat on the end of the bed and faced the door, grabbing his steel-toed, snake-proof camo boots and a fresh tuck of wool socks stuffed inside.
He began putting them on. “Come in.”
The knob turned and in walked TJ Heller, aka Moose—a bulky twenty-three-year-old former University of Iowa wrestler with a square flattop haircut and tattoos covering his powerful forearms and thick neck.
“Sorry to bother you, Wyatt, but we have a problem.”
“You mean something other than the endless rain, the government, the NSA, and my stubborn sister?”
He nodded. “UPS is here.”
“Yeah, so? Deal with it.”
“But we didn’t order anything.”
He stared at Moose, wondering why he was being bothered with such a mundane issue. “Then tell the driver he has the wrong address. How hard is that?”
“But he’s not at the wrong address. He showed me the shipping manifest. Oh, and there’s not just one driver, there’s four. Someone sent us four vans full of stuff.”
“Who did?”
“Devil Dog Supply.”
“The tactical place?”
“Yeah, and I think they must have sent us their entire inventory. There’s hundreds of boxes of ammo, guns, and tactical gear. Some of it is Class
III.”
“You opened them already?”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“Fully Autos?”
“Yeah, and a full line of suppressors. But that’s not all. Wait till you see some of this stuff.”
“None of this makes any sense.”
Moose smiled, giving Wyatt an excited look, like he’d just hit the lottery. “I know. It’s insane.”
“Was it sent COD?”
“No. The lead brownie said it’s just a drop-off. No money is due.”
Wyatt shook his head, wondering what the hell was going on. Part of him was curious to see what else was in the delivery, but the other part was worried this was some kind of setup.
“Tell everyone to hold on. I’ll be down in a minute. Something ain’t right here.”
* * *
Nighthawk field commander Bruce Tanner heard his cell phone chime from inside the front pocket of his all-black tactical uniform that featured an NSG patch on the shoulder and his last name embroidered in gold thread above the front pocket. He pulled the device out and looked at the shiny screen.
A yellow hyper-notice symbol was being shown in the icon bar across at the top of the display, and it contained the number three superimposed over top. He used several twips of his fingers to control the device, opening the colorful message window. Three delivery notices scrolled into view—all of them were for the same order and all of them for Devil Dog Supply, the brainchild of a group of six former jarheads, two of whom had been deployed with the CEO of Nighthawk Services Group in Afghanistan.
“It’s about damn time,” he said, smiling for the first time today. He wondered what had taken UPS so long to bring their resupply of guns, gear, and other more exotic weaponry, including a brand new precision-guided firearm he was itching to try.
He’d finally been promoted to commander of Unit PA-1 two weeks earlier, after Mitch Stanton retired, and was anxious for his first assignment. The supplies were now a week overdue, making his handler in the company’s DC headquarters furious.
Devil Dog Supply was under exclusive contract as the primary vendor for Nighthawk Services’ numerous tactical units spread across the country. As far as he knew, Devil Dog had never been late with any NSG shipment. Tanner figured the strange weather outside was wreaking havoc with deliveries across the country, not just the one designated for their unit stationed in Wilmington, PA.
He opened the door to his office and stepped into the main area of the warehouse. He’d expected to see stacks of containers and his squad of twenty-five battle-tested mercenaries tearing into them to uncover their contents. But he didn’t. Instead, his men were loosely interspersed with the seven NSG vehicles and other support gear, looking bored and talking in casual groups of two or three.
“Where are they?” he asked the room in a stern voice.
Every man who was talking stopped. All heads tuned in his direction.
“Where are what, boss?” Larry Fritz answered, standing more at attention when he locked eyes with Tanner. The thirty-two-year-old former Army Sergeant and Tanner’s second–in-command looked confused.
“The shipment,” Tanner snapped, holding his cell phone up to make a point. “A second ago, I received notice it was just delivered.”
“Here?” Fritz asked, glancing around the warehouse.
“Yes, here.”
Fritz shook his head and looked at a few of the other men gathering near him. Nobody else in the room said anything.
“Nobody seen nothing, boss,” Fritz said. “I guess that means our last two RAUF rounds for the fifty are gonna have to do?”
“Fuck!” Tanner said, fuming. He’d probably be blamed for this failure if he called in yet another problem this month to HQ. Peebles’ bar fight didn’t go over well last Monday, getting the hand-to-hand specialist canned and arrested by the local LEOs, and Tanner reprimanded.
Failure to control the team was the official wording placed in his jacket, though no commander, not even his former, could have stopped what happened. Peebles was a sneaky, determined little bastard and when he got any idea in his head, nobody could stop him.
Regardless, Tanner couldn’t take the chance, not before his first-ever mission as commander. His company creds were razor thin already, and he was desperate to earn a win. Granted, it would be a small victory, but a win nonetheless. He decided his unit should show initiative and handle the problem on their own and not involve HQ.
“Fritz, get on the horn right now with Devil Dog and get me the tracking info!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Simon waited at the bottom of the stairs until the conversation between Tally and her crew calmed a bit, then walked toward the source of the voices, stopping at the swinging door he assumed led into the kitchen. He yawned loudly, hoping to warn the kids he was coming through. His arms began to stretch on their own, but stopped when the right side of his ribs sent a flash of pain to his brain, reminding him of their soreness. He put his arms down and let the pain subside, then pushed the door open and went inside.
The kitchen was much larger than Simon expected. Everywhere he looked, restaurant quality stainless steel appliances stared back at him with Jenn-Air nameplates on each. High quality stuff, he mused, realizing someone had spent a bundle on the build-out.
To the right was a side-by-side double oven topped by an eight-burner gas range with three quart-sized pans boiling away. A six-foot-wide hood hovered above the range, venting steam through the first-floor ceiling with an eight inch pipe.
Simon turned his head and saw two large sinks filled with sudsy water on the left, huddled next to a massive refrigerator along the far wall. But what was most impressive were the two ten-foot-wide picture windows, giving an endless view of the farmland outside. Too bad it was still overcast and raining red; otherwise, the view would have been spectacular.
He counted eight kids in the room, four of them standing in the kitchen, working, while the other half sat leisurely at a rectangular table in front of the windows. Its lengthy wooden top stretched in front of the glass from end to end, providing space for at least a dozen.
Tally sat facing him, her back to the window. To her right was G, and to her left Dre, each drinking a glass of milk. There was also another girl seated at the table—a pretty redhead like Tally, though she looked to be about five years younger. Her eyes were a stunning shade of aqua blue, but they only glanced at Simon for a second before turning away. Her arms were covering a hardback book with a bookmark hanging from the top of the pages.
All the other heads turned in his direction when the swing door retracted after his entrance, creaking on its hinges.
“Wow, you could feed an army in here. This kitchen is huge,” he said, wanting to act like he hadn’t heard any of their conversation.
“Good morning, Red,” Tally replied.
“Hey, Wicks,” Simon answered, yawning again, this time for real. “Something smells good. I’m starving.”
“Breakfast ended an hour ago,” the tallest of the boys said, stirring one of the boiling pots with a wooden spoon. His voice was deep and to the point, making Simon realize the good-looking six-footer was Slayer.
“Let me introduce you to the team,” Tally said, gesturing around the room. “On dishes from left to right, we have Dixie and Jazz.”
Simon made eye contact with the girls and nodded, giving them a casual smile. They grinned at him and held a lingering stare for a bit before returning their focus to the sudsy water.
Dixie was clearly the older of the two. Her Scandinavian looks matched the sweet voice Simon had heard earlier—blonde, cute, and slender-tall, standing in a pair of black tights tucked under a lacy white summer dress. Her hair was done up nicely with a sweeping feathered look and hung halfway down her back, partially covering a black blazer with zippered pockets. Her black boots rose up just past her skinny ankles and were in stark contrast to her perfectly white teeth and rosy cheeks full of makeup.
Simon didn’t
know much about fashion, but certainly didn’t expect a former homeless girl turned prepper to be wearing something straight out of a woman’s style magazine. He’d seen plenty of them before, lying on the coffee table at home, back when he was still living with Tessa. When his wife wasn’t looking, he’d thumb through them, searching for something pretty to order for her birthday. Tessa loved surprises and he enjoyed surprising her—a match made in heaven, at least until the body parts started flying when her assault rifle tore into them.
It was possible Dixie had decided to dress up for the unexpected house guest, but little did she know, he could care less. Substance over form was how Simon judged people, even his late wife. He’d first met Tessa at a Laundromat, seeing her without makeup or anything resembling designer clothes. Raw beauty is what captured his heart, not a matching ensemble of vanity items.
Jazz, on the other hand, was clearly a tomboy and dressed in tattered work jeans, an oversized, faded red sweatshirt, and a stained red ball cap embroidered with the white letter P on the front. Simon wondered if the P stood for Pandora, or the Philadelphia Phillies baseball team.
The brunette’s abundant freckles were unencumbered by blush or eyeliner, and her hair was tucked loosely under the hat. She brushed a collection of dark strands away from her face and neck, making them land on the tops of her noticeably round shoulders.
All on one motion, Jazz grabbed one of the knives sitting in a loose pile on the counter next to the sink, spun around, and unleashed an overhand knife throw. The blade sailed across the kitchen and hit something that Simon couldn’t see from his position. He couldn’t believe it when none of the other kids flinched or seemed to notice.
Simon leaned around Slayer to see her target—a dart board with three knives sticking out of it. All of them within inches of the bull’s-eye.
Tally pointed at the boys in front of the stove. “And the two boys—”
“Men!” Slayer snapped, interrupting Tally. “Well, one of us at least.”
“Excuse me, men . . . are Slayer and Diesel. They handle all the cooking around here, among other, more manly chores.”
Redfall: Fight for Survival (American Prepper Series Book 1) Page 13