“Unknown, Colonel.”
Orlov couldn’t believe it. They had one job to do and they’d failed. “Find them! Now!”
“Yes sir,” the soldier replied, his team breaking into a sprint off the stage.
CHAPTER 7
Bunker kept to the shadows along the alley wall, mixing in a combination of short sprints as he advanced toward his destination. Visibility was poor, maybe twenty yards at best, with the storm’s vengeance smacking him in the face.
The combination of rain and wind chilled his skin with a shivering sting. He considered pulling a shirt from his pack for warmth, but knew the solution wouldn’t last. Eventually, the garment would be soaked like the rest of his outfit. A wet shirt would lead to hypothermia five times faster than going without, especially around his core.
Yet avoiding wet clothing wasn’t the only reason. He didn’t want to give his final ensemble away. Right now, the Russians were looking for a shirtless, tattooed man with slicked-back hair. He needed their attention focused on that description. Otherwise, they’d turn their retaliation against the town, and that was something he couldn’t let happen. He needed them to stay locked and loaded on him—the lone perpetrator.
Despite the cold, he was thankful for the squall because it gave him cover against his eventual pursuers. It would also challenge the skills of the Aerostat operators, making the high-definition cameras difficult to use.
When he made it to the end of the second alley and peered around the corner, he saw the first sign of resistance: two squads of troops, maybe fifty yards away, locked in a dead sprint—headed his way.
He kept his profile thin, his mind crunching the facts in an instant. Not only was their direction of travel on an intercept course to his position, they were also following the shortest path to the center of town—the latter being the most likely destination, he decided.
The General must have called in reinforcements, Bunker thought. He figured their attention was still on the church, working to contain the scene.
The fast rope allowed him to escape quickly before they could surround the building. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the General ordered a search of its interior, only to realize their containment plan had failed.
Bunker dropped back from the corner and ducked behind the same dumpster he’d used earlier. He didn’t see any rats this time, but the pebble he’d removed from his sock was still where he’d tossed it. Only now it was swimming in a puddle of water.
The unmistakable sound of boots pounding at the pavement grew louder. So did the rattle of gear. He kept his shoulder against the wall, giving him a thin, vertical view behind the dumpster.
In truth, hearing the stampede race past the entrance would have been sufficient, but something inside needed to witness it. He wasn’t sure why, but the feeling was there nonetheless, keeping his eyes glued and heart thumping.
Bunker waited, counting the seconds. He figured if the number ten arrived before he saw a blur of movement fly past, then the troops knew his location and had slowed their approach in advance of an ambush.
Eight seconds later, the throng of soldiers zoomed past the alley with feet churning. When the parade was over, Bunker slipped out from his hiding place.
“Zeke and Rico better be in position,” he mumbled, continuing his stealthy trek to the main entrance.
* * *
Colonel Orlov used his hands to separate the thicket of soldiers blocking his path in the hallway of the church.
“Make a hole,” he said in Russian, working his way through the men and gear. They parted, albeit slower than he would have preferred.
Orlov was impressed with the building’s stout architecture, its walls holding firm despite the damage unleashed by his men. He’d seen his share of structures crumble after similar assaults, but this building had been designed with longevity in mind.
When he arrived at the drinking fountain, one of his men appeared, standing at attention in the rear hallway.
Orlov didn’t have time for formalities, not with the General demanding results. “Report, Sergeant.”
“We searched the building, Colonel, but we didn’t locate the target,” the man said, his words crisp and assertive, not wasting a second. “But we found this on the catwalk.” The Sergeant gave him a handheld radio. “Must have dropped it when we opened fire.”
“Then he wasn’t working alone,” Orlov said, turning the unit on. It was still functional, with a generous amount of battery life remaining. He inspected the other settings. “Looks like someone was kind enough to enter the encryption code for us.”
Orlov flipped the power switch off and gave it back to the Sergeant. “Get this to communications. I want viable intel by sundown. Make it happen.”
“Yes sir.”
Orlov turned to the rest of the men standing near. “Let’s move out. Search the area. I want him found!”
* * *
Bunker crept forward in the rain, keeping his eyes locked on the main checkpoint fifty yards away. He settled in behind the hood of the Honda Pilot he’d passed earlier on his way into town. It was still parked next to the sidewalk. Another useless relic of civilization after the EMP.
The guards at the gate looked miserable, even in their rain gear. He didn’t blame them. Guard duty was grunt work, literally. Nobody wanted it, at least not any of the men he’d ever served with. With everything happening in town, he was sure the soldiers were itching to go join the search for him, each soldier wanting to get some.
Bunker was happy to see that their pair of all-terrain Russian GAZ Tigrs hadn’t moved. They were adjacent to each other and sitting at slightly opposing angles, their hoods pointing the way to the main gate.
He turned his attention to the right, scanning the second story of the town’s museum. Something in the center window caught his eye—the front sight of a rifle barrel. It was aimed at the checkpoint. The sheer, green-colored drapes around the window kept most of the weapon and its shooter hidden. If Bunker didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, it would have been difficult to spot.
A moment later, the top half of a head appeared. It was Zeke. He sent a subtle head nod Bunker’s way, then pointed to the roof.
Bunker let his eyes drift up, where he noticed another rifle, this one sticking through the spokes of the wagon wheel built into the roofline. Rico finally showed himself, though it was only a sliver of his head peering through the wood.
Thank God architects love their Western themes, Bunker thought. Plenty of cover.
It appeared Rico had a tarp of some kind draped over his head and his rifle. It looked to be dark-colored and probably made of vinyl.
“Must have found it in the museum,” Bunker mumbled, holding up a closed fist to tell his snipers to hold fire until he gave them the signal.
He took a minute to study every aspect of the scene in front of him, looking for anything unexpected on the ground or in the air. All was as expected—except, of course, for the rainwater forming tiny rivers across the pavement.
Thus far, the deputies had followed the script to the letter, using their stolen Russian uniforms to get into position. He assumed Russell was hiding nearby with the grenades—the final piece of the escape plan.
Bunker checked his six, looking for threats approaching from behind. All he saw was the downpour from the sky. However, it wouldn’t be long before this area was crawling with search teams.
At least the Aerostat was no longer floating above the city. Its handlers must have finally decided to stow it until the storm passed, a wise safety precaution given the tremendous cost of the onboard equipment.
It’s now or never, Bunker thought, preparing his legs for the sprint that would come next. He made eye contact with Zeke and Rico, then gave them the signal he was about to move.
Bunker ran for the Russian trucks.
Zeke and Rico opened fire on the main gate from the museum.
Bunker didn’t need them to be accurate, just to keep the guards busy
with cover fire.
While the firefight continued, Bunker found the door handle on the driver’s side of the closest truck, its front wheels aimed at the main gate. He opened the door, tossed in his pack, and crawled in, keeping low as he slinked his ass into the seat.
After his feet found the pedals, his hand went for the ignition button. Just like with American-made military Humvees, the Russian transports didn’t require a key.
Bunker pressed it, firing the engine into a roar. He put the truck into drive and jammed on the gas. The tires spun on the wet payment, but finally gained traction and sent him forward in a lurch.
Right on cue, Rico and Zeke disengaged their triggers. Hopefully they bugged out as planned, not waiting around to see if he was successful. Russell would need their protection now, if the next phase of the escape was going to succeed.
When Bunker made it to the guard shack, all he could see through the raindrops were boots and legs diving out of the way. He let out an invigorating scream as the front grille smashed into the one-man building. Wood and metal blew apart, pieces bouncing off the windshield. He didn’t know if the tall man was inside the shack or not, but he didn’t give a fuck.
“Die motherfucker!” he screamed as the vehicle continued its rampage, plowing through the rest of the guard station. When the hood smashed into the security arm protecting the entrance, it disintegrated, splinters of red and white colored wood shooting everywhere.
Bunker continued with the gas pedal floored, mowing down the rest of the wooden barricades. Seconds later, he was outside the wire and speeding down the center of the two-lane highway with a fist pump in the air.
An explosion rocked the guard station behind him, bringing his eyes to the rearview mirror. The second Gaz Tigr was now airborne, flipping end over end in a tumble of billowing fire.
“Attaboy, Russell. Right down the pipe,” he said, thinking about the man’s minor league baseball career. Sure, baseballs didn’t weigh nearly as much as a grenade, but having an accurate throwing arm was still a huge asset.
Two more explosions hit the checkpoint, only they didn’t include flames. One after another, the shrapnel from the fragmentation grenades tore up more of the station.
“That should get their attention,” Bunker said, regripping the steering wheel. If his friends stuck to the plan, all three of them were now in the wind. They had better be, since the General would be redirecting his troops to the front gate.
All that remained was to finish baiting the trap.
CHAPTER 8
Bunker turned the windshield wipers off and enjoyed the sun as it broke through the storm clouds. The rain had finished its purification, giving everyone and everything a sudden, welcoming reprieve. It was a strange sensation, but he felt as though he’d just been reborn, his sins washed away with the dust across the land.
There’s something uniquely special about the minutes following a heavy downpour. The crispness of the clean mountain air invades your senses with a sense of awe, demonstrating once and for all that Mother Nature is all-powerful and in complete control. She is a fickle, unstoppable mistress who takes her job seriously, cleansing some while punishing others, depending on where you stand.
Despite the magnificence of her power, he questioned if the sudden storm was more than that, the rain appearing just when it was needed most. Maybe none of it was random. Maybe there was intelligent thought behind it. Maybe, just maybe, Mother Nature had stepped in and helped the innocents of Clearwater.
After more thought, Bunker decided the answer was yes. Mother Nature had come to the rescue because of the good people in Clearwater. Not because of him. She would certainly never go out of her way to help his sorry ass.
But then again, maybe that’s exactly what happened. Almost as if she had taken notice of him, directing her purity of spirit in his direction.
He blinked a few times, trying to focus the swirling inconsistencies in his brain. The paradox was difficult to unravel, but there was meaning in it all. Somewhere. He was certain of it.
Sure, he was being sentimental, almost spiritual, but it didn’t change the splendor of the moment, filling his heart with a sense of wonder.
Or was it relief?
Shit. He couldn’t decide.
“Come on, Jack, get a grip,” he mumbled, washing the conflicting emotions from his heart. “This is far from over.”
He took his foot off the accelerator and turned the wheel to the right, taking the truck off the highway in a downhill pitch. The uneven terrain hit the tires hard, but it was softer than it would have been if the rain hadn’t thundered through the area. Even so, the suspension on the Russian vehicle wasn’t any better than the US Humvees. Neither was built with the comfort of the occupants in mind.
“Almost done, Jack. Just see it through,” he muttered after a bump sent his head smashing into the top of the cab.
He’d taken a beating, much like the truck he was piloting across the uneven countryside, but a righteous man ignores the pain and presses on. There was no other choice. Time was precious and it had to be dead-nuts perfect.
The Russians were now primed for the hunt. Hopefully, they’d come in full force because of the brutality he’d shown in public. It was a savage, embellished act to be sure, but dropping the woman’s body from the bell tower was a necessity. His identity was now cemented into their minds, turning their hearts black with revenge. Exactly what he wanted.
Bunker figured the troops were now swarming the main gate to investigate his fiery escape. If they bought the evidence, then they should follow the trail he’d left, hopefully calling in the tanks from the roadblock Burt had spoken about.
The tracks in the mud would help them follow his lead. The trail was clear and identifiable, carving a path that a monkey could follow. Even a blood-thirsty Russian commander couldn’t miss them, keeping the focus solely on Bunker and away from the town.
So far, so good, he thought, but he needed to keep enflaming the General’s rage. The best way to that was to build frustration, and nothing accomplishes that goal better than a dead-end trip into the forest.
Little did the Russians know, Bunker’s secret weapons were not advanced weapons or explosives. They were a four-legged creature named Tango, a little boy with freckles, an obnoxious meth cook who produced more sweat than work, a smelly mechanic, and a beautiful Deputy Sheriff whose cat had just starved to death.
Bunker laughed, thinking of the tactical books he’d read over the years. None of them had those types of secret weapons listed. He was in new, uncharted territory, making it up as he went, pulling from every minute of every fight he’d ever been in—both in the military and on the streets.
Somehow, over the years, he’d gotten away from his love of reading. It first started after he enlisted for the Marine Corps. Each year he was required to read three books from the Commandant’s Reading List. Most of the titles had something to do with military history or life as a grunt, but a few were more science fiction in nature.
His favorite was a novel called Starship Troopers, by Robert A. Heinlein. The 1959 masterpiece laid the groundwork for what space warriors would have to do to claim their rightful place as citizens. He remembered how that futuristic theory hit home and reinforced the teachings of his deceased father.
Bunker was certain that in all of recorded history, there was no previous reference to such an odd combination as Tango, Jeffrey, Albert, Burt, and Daisy.
But those same pages might soon need to be amended with their names added, if he could somehow pull this off.
* * *
Stephanie opened the side door of the Land Rover she’d driven and got out, wishing Burt hadn’t added the extra steel. Bunker wanted the protection, but it seemed unnecessary. In fact, if the weight hadn’t been added to both vehicles, they would have arrived at the clearing much sooner.
She’d never been to Patterson’s Meadow before. Deep down, she wished that fact had continued, questioning her recent decision to volunte
er.
There was something about this place that gave her the creeps. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew what it wasn’t—the endless trees surrounding the horseshoe-shaped field. Nor was it the muddy grass that sat in the middle.
Everyone knew that low spots collect water when it rains. They turn into a swampy mush, swallowing nearly everything that crosses their path. Nothing new about that, especially in Colorado. God knew Jeffrey had brought plenty of mud into the house over the years, making laundry day twice as hard as it used to be.
At least the truck she’d driven was able to plow through the muck without much issue, though the engine did whine in protest when the mud swarmed its tires.
Right then, out of nowhere, the skin across her neck tingled with a crackling static. It felt like danger was closing in. The strange sensation made her look up. That’s when she saw them—a flock of vultures, circling overhead in silence. The scavengers were huge and black, with wing spans that seemed to stretch out for miles.
Their instincts must have led them here, banking high above, knowing that death was coming. She could sense their ravenous thoughts as they studied the stupid humans below.
That’s what she and her friends were—stupid humans, brought here by another stupid human who claimed to have a plan. A plan that reminded her of the parable David versus Goliath, except this wasn’t some religious fable from the Book of Samuel, detailing an impossible battle from days long past. This was real and happening in her own backyard.
It had started with an alluring drifter named Jack Bunker. A man with serious flaws wrapped inside a hypnotic personality. A man with skills that had been inextricably fused with his own obvious defects. A man who believed in doing the right thing, yet he had no connection to God—or anyone, for that matter.
None of it was logical, yet somehow it made perfect sense. His presence here was meant to be, as if fate, or perhaps a higher power, had stepped in and brought him to a town in need.
At first, she thought he’d been sent to Clearwater just for her—a woman in desperate need of saving—but she’d come to realize that was blatantly narrow-minded. And flat-out wrong.
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