Horn brought a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the door to Meg’s left. “They’re sleeping.”
Meg nodded and patted him on his good arm. “Goodnight, Big Horn.”
“Night, Little Meg.”
She smiled again and crutched through the door Horn had opened. On the landing outside Building 1, a lonely Marine stood guard. Two others patrolled between the other facilities, and two more manned the machine gun behind sand bags in the center of the lawn. It was a far cry from what Meg had seen when she was first brought here. The door clicked shut behind her as she hopped into the cool night.
“Ma’am,” the Marine said with a nod of his helmet.
“Evening,” Meg replied, then corrected herself. “I mean, good morning.”
He grinned and strolled to the other side of the landing to scope the tree line. Across the lawn, past the machine gun nest, several figures stood outside the barracks, while another sat in a wheelchair. Tendrils of cigarette smoke trickled into the air.
Alex Riley. You little shit.
She started hopping down the steps when the door opened behind her. A woman wearing a dress shirt and slacks stepped outside. She smiled at Meg, then closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Exhaling, she said, “Never thought I would be so happy to breathe fresh air again.”
The Marine lowered his rifle and held up a gloved hand. “Secretary Ringgold, ma’am, I would encourage you to return to your quarters where it’s safe.”
The woman regarded the Marine with another smile. “I’m sure a few minutes to enjoy the peaceful night won’t get me killed. You’ll keep watch, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Meg paused at the stairs. It wasn’t every day she had an opportunity to speak to the Secretary of State. Riley’s lecture could wait.
“I’m Meg Pratt,” she said, cupping a crutch under her armpit and offering her hand. “Excuse me for asking, but have you been out there?”
Ringgold took her hand and shook it with a powerful grip. Her smile twisted as if she was in pain. “I was at Raven Rock Mountain Complex since the outbreak started in April. Seems like I was in that tomb for years.”
She loosened her grip and regarded Meg’s crutches. “How about you?”
“I was trapped in New York. Master Sergeant Beckham and his men pulled me from a tunnel.”
“Beckham is quite the hero.”
Meg nodded enthusiastically. “Every member of Team Ghost is.”
Ringgold didn’t nod back, but her kind eyes told Meg she agreed.
“So, Beckham found you hiding in a tunnel?”
“Not by choice.” Meg looked skyward to study the dazzling sky and creamy Milky Way. The beauty was a respite from the memories.
“You don’t need to tell me,” Ringgold said.
Meg shook her head. “No it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. I feel damn lucky to be alive. The Variants dragged me down there. That’s where they nest. Where they feed.”
The Marine glanced over at Meg with an arched brow, then strolled to the other side of the landing.
“I’m sorry,” Ringgold said. “I hope Dr. Lovato and her colleague know what they’re doing. From what I understand, it sounds like we have less than a month to take back the world before it’s too late.”
“I hope so too, but I believe in Dr. Lovato, just like I believe in Team Ghost.”
Across the lawn, the cigarette smoke had ceased and one of the soldiers was leaning next to Riley’s chair. Meg squinted and crutched a pace forward. If she didn’t know better, it looked like the man was helping Riley remove one of his casts. But that couldn’t be right. He still had weeks left in them. Plus, they were on the freaking steps, not in the medical ward.
“Madame Secretary, if you’ll excuse me,” Meg said.
“Certainly.”
“It was wonderful speaking with you,” Meg said. She crutched over to the steps and carefully worked her way down each one. When she got to the grass she hopped like there was a Variant chasing her. As she moved closer, she saw it was Chow next to the chair.
“Alex T. Riley,” she said, in a voice just shy of a shout. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Both Delta Operators looked up in surprise. Riley grimaced and exhaled a breath.
“What are you doing out here, Meg?”
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Riley had cut into the cast covering his right leg. She took another step closer, nearly tripping from the shock. “What the hell am I doing out here? What the hell are you doing?”
Riley looked up at Chow for support.
“Don’t look to him for an answer. You’re a grown man. Tell me what the hell you’re thinking, trying to remove your casts three weeks early. Do you realize how much permanent damage you could cause by taking them off before your bones have knit?”
Riley’s blue eyes shifted back to Meg. There was sadness there—sadness, and guilt. The same thing she saw when she looked in the mirror.
“I want to help my brothers. I want to fight again,” Riley said.
“You’re not going to be good to anyone if you can’t fucking walk. Do you even know what happens if you take those off early?”
Chow still hadn’t said a word. He backed away when Meg shot him a glare. Then she crutched her way up the stairs and stopped a foot in front of Riley, her gaze locked with his. She leaned down, using his chair to steady herself. Every inch closer, his blue eyes brightened. And every inch closer, she felt something she kept suppressing. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself, she couldn’t keep burying her feelings for him.
Shame washed them away, and she stopped herself from kissing him on the lips. Instead, she pecked his cheek.
“I need you to be smart, Alex. If you promise, then I promise to help you.”
Riley slowly nodded, and his breath came out in a tiny puff.
She hovered over his chair, ignoring the burn of her legs and the fluttering in her stomach. “You have to promise something else, too.”
Riley kept nodding.
“Promise me you will teach me how to shoot that.” She lowered her gaze to the pistol tucked into his chair by his waistline.
“Okay,” Riley replied. “I promise.”
Meg pushed herself off the chair and put weight on both of her feet. She tried to hide the pain in her face, but couldn’t hold back the tears that streaked down her face.
“We’re going to make it through this together,” Meg said, confidently. “We’re going to survive.”
-6-
A cool breeze drifted through the open windows of Tower 4. Fitz removed his helmet and ran a hand through his shaggy auburn hair. It hadn’t been this long since he was in high school. He took a seat on the stool nestled against the wall and rested his body.
You can relax, just for a few minutes.
Fitz covered his mouth, suppressing a deep yawn. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t let the thought of sleep slip into his thoughts. It wouldn’t take much to drift off.
“I need a Red Bull and a massage,” Fitz muttered. He rubbed at his eyes, then put his helmet back on. His entire body ached. His neck and back were tight with tension, and the knot in his right thigh was getting worse. Using his thumb, he dug at the ball.
He glanced at his watch. Three more hours left in his shift. Then he could finally sleep. Fitz rested his back against the wall and stared out over the water. A helicopter patrolled the bay, the searchlight dancing over the dark water.
The cool breeze rustled through his uniform as he sat there. He closed his eyes and rubbed his lids again. It felt good, so good he convinced himself to keep them closed for a few minutes.
Just a few...
Sleep came before Fitz could fend it off—a sleep so deep he didn’t even realize he was dreaming.
Sand. There was so much fucking sand. It drifted toward the eastern edge of Fallujah in a solid wall of tan grit. Fitz was camped out in a prone position on the roof of a four-story
building with his spotter, Private First Class Don Garland, lying to his left.
“Better clench your ass, we’re about to get nailed,” Garland whispered.
Fitz grinned and tightened his goggles. Then he moved the bipod on his MK11 so the muzzle was angled at a rooftop six structures away. He’d thought he saw a glimmer of movement, but when he narrowed in with the crosshairs, it was just a flapping tarp.
The storm rolled into the city a few beats later, and sand blasted Fitz’s fatigues. Garland wasn’t lying when he told him to tighten his ass. The sand got into everything: boots, ears, even ass cracks.
A quarter mile to the south, First and Second Platoon worked their way through the city clearing buildings one by one. The men were almost to what Fitz called Shitter’s Corner. Most of Fallujah smelled like raw sewage, but it was worse there.
Fitz couldn’t even see the street now. The storm had kicked up a cloud that filled the entire city. He pressed his eye against the scope of his MK11, cursing the blasted heat and the sting of grit on his sweaty skin.
Despite the sand storm, today was calmer than normal. No Marines had died, and it was already four in the afternoon. A PFC had been shot in the leg a few hours earlier, but he would survive.
The roar of the storm grew and Fitz braced himself, clenching every muscle he could. Sand gusted over the roof, pecking at his uniform and rifle. He kept his eye pressed against the scope, scanning for targets. The tarp he had seen earlier tore off the roof and sailed away in the wind.
Fitz batted sweat away from his eye when he heard the cough of diesel engines. The mechanized unit had finally reached the street below. Above the growl of the storm and the hum of idle engines came the unmistakable crack of an AK-47. Fitz’s senses snapped to full alert as his earpiece hissed to life with the voice of the Platoon Sergeant.
“Medic! We got sniper fire!”
“Anyone see the shooter?” This voice was cool and calm. Fitz knew right away it was the LT.
“Negative, we can’t see shit down here!”
Fitz focused on his breathing. He couldn’t let his heart rate escalate. It would mess up any potential shot.
In and out. In and out. You got this, Fitz.
He searched the rooftops frantically as another crack sounded in the distance.
“You got anything, Garland?” Fitz whispered.
“I can’t even see five feet in front of me.”
A voice rang in Fitz’s earpiece, and he winced at the report of another casualty. Two Marines down.
The lieutenant’s voice, weakened by static and the piercing whistle of the wind, came back online. “Anyone have a target?”
“Saw a shot come from the second floor. Al Shifa Hospital,” said the platoon daddy.
“Light that fucking building up,” the lieutenant replied.
“Roger.”
Fitz trained his MK11 in the general direction of the hospital. Through the curtain of sand, he glimpsed the third floor. From his vantage, there were four oval windows.
Another crack sounded, and sure enough, the flash of a muzzle fired from the fourth window on the second floor. “Medic!” came a voice in Fitz’s earpiece. He held in a breath, zoomed in, adjusted for distance and wind, then waited for a clear shot.
“Somebody take out that fucking sniper!” the platoon sergeant growled.
“I don’t see jack shit,” Garland whispered.
Fitz ignored his spotter and the frantic chatter over the comms. He counted to ten in his head. It always helped calm him, but three Marines were already dying or dead, and this time, the numbers did little to relieve the spike of adrenaline rushing through him.
Just one clear shot. Just one clear...
As if in answer, movement in the middle window filled his scope. Past the grit and sand, in a moment of clarity, he made the insurgent sniper holding an AK-47. The scarf had fallen from the shooter’s face, and instead of the bearded man he’d expected, Fitz saw the youthful face of an Iraqi woman. She could have been an innocent teenager.
Only she wasn’t innocent. She had murdered his brothers.
The wind settled then, and the gusting sand with it, like divine intervention. “Forgive me, Lord,” Fitz said. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit her in the forehead, blood exploding from the exit wound and painting the hospital room crimson as she tumbled backward. The wind picked up again and sand shifted in front of his view. He lost sight of the window a second later.
“Enemy is down,” Fitz said over the comms.
Garland brought his spotter’s back to his eye. “Shit man, you got him? I didn’t even—”
“Her,” Fitz replied, hoping the hiss of wind would hide the regret in his voice. He wasn’t used to killing women, but she was the enemy. As much as he tried to tell himself that, he still couldn’t quite come to terms with the fact he had just killed a woman. She had been someone’s daughter, possibly a wife or a mother.
She would have killed you if she had the chance.
The storm blew out of Fallujah and the mechanized unit lurched forward. Fitz drew in a breath that tasted like sand. Before he could exhale, a flurry of small arms fire rang out down the street. The heavy crack of a Dragunov followed.
Fitz knew by the echo of the shot that the sniper was too far for him to hit. He did a quick scan of the rooftops just to make sure, then said, “We need to move. Get back to the street and work our way ahead of the platoon.”
“We got another sniper,” the Platoon Sergeant said over the comm.
There were other responses. Something about an ambush and a potential suicide bomber. Each transmission made Fitz’s heart rate spike even higher.
He pushed himself to his knees and backed away from the ledge on all fours. Garland picked up his rifle and followed suit. They entered the dusty building the way they had come out and loped down the stairway. When they hit the street, Fitz ran from vehicle to vehicle, stopping when he got to the command Humvee. The platoon sergeant was crouched behind the bumper.
“Fitz, what the hell are you doing? You’re supposed to be in position,” the man snarled. The bulky Marine spat a chunk of chewing tobacco on the street.
“I couldn’t see shit up there. Garland and I need to get ahead of the platoon.”
A second crack sounded, and the comms flared with the report of another Marine down.
Small arms fire broke over the cough of the diesel engines. The Platoon Sergeant dragged a sleeve across his face, and stared for a moment like he didn’t know what to do.
“Sergeant, we got to move,” Fitz insisted. “I have to get back out there and cover the Marines in the street.”
The platoon sergeant said something into his headset. He scrambled to the side of the bumper and motioned at two Marines hiding in the entrance of a building. “Walters, Duffy. I want you to escort Fitz and Garland to a new position.”
Walters and Duffy were both privates. Fitz hardly knew them, but Duffy had a reputation for shooting anything and everything that moved. Fitz didn’t like that. The Marine was a liability, but he didn’t have time to protest. They darted across the street in combat intervals, taking an alleyway that opened into a ghetto. Fitz called this place the Orphan Zone.
The shelled out buildings here were far from abandoned. Clothes and towels hung from balconies. Fitz glimpsed several kids looking through the iron bars. They melted back into their homes when they saw the Marines.
“Eyes up,” Fitz said.
They ran into a second alleyway that curved between the structures until they came to another street. Fitz stopped at the sidewalk to search for contacts. The pop of insurgent gunfire echoed through the city.
Another transmission crackled over the comms; another brother had been lost. Heart pounding, Fitz resisted the urge to run out into the middle of the road. He had to do something, and he had to do it soon. Halfway down the street stood a five-story hotel. It was the tallest structure in the area, and would have a view of the street where the armored convoy
was pinned down.
“There,” Fitz said when the other Marines caught up. “Cover me.”
Garland mumbled a protest that Fitz ignored. He took off across the street like he was running in a sprint relay, nearly stumbling from the momentum. He made it across without a single shot being fired. The insurgents were too busy tearing the rest of the platoon apart.
Across the road, Fitz slammed his back against a wall and motioned for the others to follow. Garland came first, then Walters and Duffy. They crouched in the entrance to the hotel.
“I’ll take point,” Duffy said.
“No,” Fitz replied forcefully. “Garland has point. You take rear guard. Walters stay close to me. Let’s move.”
Catching his breath, Fitz waited for Garland to proceed. He slung his rifle and drew his Beretta M9. Then he put a hand on the back of Garland’s armor and followed him into the empty lobby. Bullet casings, trash, and splattered fruit littered the floor. Dusty tables and chairs decorated the small space. They cleared the room with a quick sweep and proceeded to a narrow set of stairs.
The suffocating heat grew worse as they made their way to the second level. Garland and Walters took turns checking rooms while Fitz and Duffy held security in the hall. By the time they cleared the second and third floors, another Marine had been shot outside and the LT still wasn’t any closer to identifying where the shots were coming from. A battle was raging in the streets, and Fitz still hadn’t made it to the top of the decaying hotel.
“Duffy, Walters, clear the fourth floor. Garland, you’re with me,” Fitz said. He knew it wasn’t the best idea to split up, especially if there were insurgents hiding out in the building, but they had little choice.
At the fifth floor, sunlight streamed through a partially boarded-up window on the right wall of the hallway. Fitz flashed an advance signal. Garland slowly walked across the creaky floor. There were two doors on each side, and Garland stopped at the first one on the left.
Fitz took up position on the other side and nodded at Garland. The freckled Marine nodded back, grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and swung the door open.
A draft of rot assaulted Fitz’s nostrils. He choked back bile as he swept his pistol left to right, confirming nobody was hiding in the corners. Besides a soiled mattress lying on its side, the room was empty. The door across the hall led to an identical scene. When they reached the second door on the left, Fitz had them hold up. He thought he heard coughing. They waited several seconds before the sound came again.
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