by Sawyer, JT
Until Morning Comes
A Carlie Simmons Post-Apocalyptic Thriller
By
JT Sawyer
Copyright
Copyright 2014 by JT Sawyer
No part of this book may be transmitted in any form whether electronic, recording, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction and the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, incidents, or events is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Editing provided by Emily Nemchick
Thank you for your interest in this book. You can get updates on future releases and my free, non-fiction survival eBooks by signing up at the JTSawyer website.
This book is dedicated to the warriors of the special operations and personal protection community who face danger each day for our country—America’s finest sons and daughters.
Terms Found in the Book
PPD Personal Protection Detail
POTUS President of the United States
MP-7 Submachine gun used by Secret Service agents. Often two are carried in shoulder holsters beneath their dress coats during public functions.
Chapter 1
Sunday, 1100 Hours, Sonoran Desert, Southwest of Tucson
“Out of ammo,” Carlie Simmons shouted as she bolted behind a cement barricade to begin a tactical reload of her Sig-Sauer P229 pistol. Gerald, her partner and an older operator, ran ahead of her, his weapon sending a hail of rounds downrange to its intended target.
After releasing the slide and racking a new round, Carlie resumed her position, weaving past Gerald into the doorway of a two-story house. As she entered the bullet-riddled dwelling, she deftly placed two shots into the heads of the terrorists on the staircase and another volley into a semi-hidden figure crouching behind a civilian in a distant archway. As she and Gerald wound through the upper levels of the dilapidated shoot-house, they dispatched the rest of the cardboard hostiles with three seconds to spare on the timer.
An overhead buzzer shrieked out the end time and both of them holstered their weapons. After returning to the ground floor, Carlie removed her hat long enough to shake a piece of loose brass from her blond ponytail. She removed her ear protection and stepped out into the already intense heat of the desert sun, the sunlight shining across her athletic figure.
“Not bad—not bad at all,” said Gerald, who had turned and pointed back to the overhead monitor with her score. “You’ve got the edge in the competition and on the street, alright,” he said with a doting grin.
Carlie was at once pleased and disappointed to hear his compliment. “I got one round a little off-center on that last headshot. It could’ve been better,” Carlie said, resting her hands on her nylon ballistic belt.
“Out of thirty-nine rounds fired, and all of ’em right in the kill zone, you have to complain about a micrometer of difference with one shot that only you would notice and that wouldn’t have any bearing on dropping a bad guy,” he said, shaking his head. “I know I demand perfection but don’t be that hard on yourself.”
“Yeah, well, it matters to me, especially if I’m going to make the next cut of applicants for the D.C. position.”
“You’ve got the highest scores in today’s inter-agency surgical shooting match so far, as well as the best in our Southwest agency’s track record. You’re the only one who’s going to lose sleep tonight,” said Gerald, who had seventeen years more experience than her.
A voice came over the speaker from the range master. “Final round commencing.”
They put their ear protection back in place and moved over to the shade of a cottonwood tree behind the range master’s elevated observation platform. The two agents who stepped forward at the white starting line were from the Drug Enforcement Agency and had grimy, dust-covered clothes compared to the neat appearance of Carlie and Gerald, who were clad in their agency’s typical attire of button-down shirts, suit coats, and creased pants.
“I heard those guys just got off a week-long deployment south of the border and raced here for the competition—I mean ‘inter-agency training,’” said Gerald, shaking his head at the raggedy appearance of the two men.
“Hell, they look that grungy all the time, even off duty, for crying out loud,” Carlie said. She looked over at the lithe figure of the nearest DEA shooter named Shane, whose tactical vest bore the handwritten saying “caballero” in red ink.
She glanced around at the other two-man teams standing on either side of her—shooters from the U.S. Marshals, FBI Hostage Rescue, NSA, and the U.S. Border Patrol’s Tactical Division. The Southwest bureau chief for the Secret Service had spearheaded this bi-annual training event to foster inter-agency cooperation and information sharing on counter-terrorism techniques. For Carlie, it was another excuse to be on the range honing her pistol-craft and to learn from veteran operators. Though she got her share of looks from the alpha-dogs beside her, the fact that she was the only female field agent in the Southwest branch never bothered her. Carlie’s considerable physical prowess and skill under fire had earned her a place of respect within the small circle of elite operators that she had come to think of as brothers. Growing up as an army brat with three competitive brothers made her feel at home in the company of such men.
The final match finished and the two DEA agents went back to their table to strip off their gear and wait for the final scores. Carlie strode over and stood under their shade canopy.
Shane Colter, a senior DEA agent with a scruffy beard, looked up from his gear bag. “Carlie, Carlie, you look so spiffy in those city slicker clothes. Doesn’t your agency ever let you slip out of that snazzy suit into something practical for a few hours at the range?”
“If there’s anyone who should worry about their clothes, it’d be you two. Whew,” she said, waving her hand before her, “even the ravens are afraid to fly overhead.”
“This is what happens when you have a real job working in the field busting bad guys instead of sitting in air-conditioned coffee shops babysitting the president’s daughter,” said Matias, a wiry agent of Panamanian descent who was Shane’s second-in-command.
Carlie looked back at the range and then returned her eyes to Shane. “Not a bad bit of plinking, fellas,” she said.
“Yeah, well, Navy SEAL training, you know,” said Shane.
“Wow—you were in the SEALs?” she said with wide eyes while putting her hand over her mouth. “Why, I had no idea—oh wait, yeah I did, because of those other 79 times you told me and that cool tactical watch you’re wearing.”
Shane chuckled while placing a fresh magazine in his Glock 17 and reholstering it on his belt. Then he peeled off his leather gloves, which revealed his thick hands and scarred knuckles.
“You oughta come out with us sometime,” he said. “I mean, along the border to see what real runnin’ and gunnin’ looks like. I bet you’d get a taste for that life and want to jump ship to our kick-ass agency. There are no fancy suits to be worn in our unit, either,” he said, smacking his palm against his filthy vest.
“No thanks. I’m three months away from a potential position with the Counter-Assault Unit in D.C. Then I can be out of this blast furnace. Gerald’s been preparing me and says I have a good shot at making the next batch of applicants.”
Shane looked up at the protective gaze of the older man, who was examining him from a distance. “Gerald’s the guy to take you to the Promised Land, that’s for sure. He’s a helluva mentor from what I’ve heard but do you really think they’re gonna let a 007 muchacha like you out of your cu
rrent gig with the president’s daughter? I mean, she’ll probably be on campus for another three years or more.”
Carlie thrust her hands on her hips and tilted her chin up slightly. “D.C. is calling and my record here on that security detail will only serve to further those ends. If everything goes according to plan, I should be headed east by Christmas.”
“Well, don’t forget the wild bunch ‘down under’ when you’re gone. And when the time comes to sail on, I’ll take you out for a steak dinner to celebrate.”
“You eat meat? I thought you were a vegetarian.”
“Ouch, that hurt my feelings. Now I’m gonna have to make you pay the tab.”
Carlie had taken Shane up on an offer to go out for dinner two months previously but knew she better not pursue things further after that first encounter. He was just out of a recent divorce and she found it necessary to squelch her budding interest early on rather than risk a relationship that could potentially conflict with her career goals. There would be time for longer-lasting romantic involvements elsewhere once she was assigned to D.C. and could unwind more. Nothing was going to interfere with her personal goal of being assigned to the detail of the president.
Carlie flung her hair back with a smile as she walked away. “Better keep practicing if you want to beat me.”
The range-master, a gray-haired man in a Stetson, moved down from his observation platform with the results. After reading the scores, he leaned back and retrieved a six-pack of Heineken from a red cooler and handed it to Carlie and Gerald. “Secret Service cleans up again.”
Carlie held up the unopened bottle and nodded to the other teams, noticing Shane slowly shaking his head as a faint grin widened out from beneath his mirrored sunglasses.
The range master stepped into the circle of agents. “Last group out locks up the place. I’m headin’ out early. There’s supposed to be a decent storm coming in from Baja tonight so don’t dally here too long or you’ll need a kayak to float out of this canyon.”
Chapter 2
After the match, Carlie drove her agency-issued black Suburban back to Tucson with Gerald riding shotgun. The air-conditioning was cranked up to level four and Carlie was still wrestling with the discomfort of her button-up shirt sticking to the leather seat.
“Gonna be another scorcher today,” mumbled Gerald while checking his texts. “108 degrees is the forecast, I heard.”
“Yeah, but at least it will cool off to a frigid 90 degrees tonight,” Carlie chuckled while turning the radio dial. “Have you heard who won the Diamondbacks game last night?”
“Nope—is that a baseball or a hockey team?” chided Gerald. “You know me, when I’m home, which is almost never, I spend time with my two grandkids. I ain’t got time to follow sports or anything else.”
Carlie and Gerald had only worked together for the past year and she looked upon him as a close mentor. Most agents who worked the personal protection details of the president, vice-president, and their families were assigned to one person’s detail and stayed with them for three years or until a transfer to another assignment came in. She had been with the Tucson office for one year, coinciding with the arrival of President Huntington’s daughter, Eliza, coming to the University of Arizona. During that time, Gerald had shown her the ropes and really taken her under his wing, passing along his decades of fieldwork around the globe in his work with two former presidents.
At thirty-one, Carlie was the first female field agent to be appointed to the Southwest Division of the Secret Service. Despite the sentiment in the department that she was hired to fill a minority quota, she had achieved the highest field operative and aptitude scores in recent years. Prior to getting hired for the Personal Protective Detail section, she had worked the standard six years in investigations that all Secret Service agents had to undergo prior to applying for protection. Before that she had served four years in Army Intelligence as a Russian linguist. This still got her the occasional assignment within the Secret Service to work as an interpreter for visiting Russian dignitaries coming to the West Coast.
While Carlie was going on about which team won the last Diamondbacks game, the barely audible voice of the radio announcer pierced through their conversation with news of a rash of violent attacks that had happened in the southeastern U.S. the previous night.
“Sounds like another new street drug is being circulated,” said Gerald. “Reminds me of the time when I was working a detail in Europe for Bush. We had a bunch of crazed protesters hopped up on PCP. Man, I swear we must have kept the pepper-spray companies in business that week.”
No matter what the topic, Gerald always had a personal anecdote to share and Carlie just sat forward in rapt attention. She reflected on what Gerald had said to her a year ago upon accepting her field position in personal protection. “Though it’s seldom spoken about between agents, just remember that every day you are expendable and the sand in your hourglass will only be yours again when you retire—if you retire.”
Those words had hit home last month when she was briefly assigned to a protective detail for a former vice-president’s visit to Brazil. She rubbed her right shoulder, where she was still nursing a knife wound that she had received after disarming an attacker. One of several attackers whose faces she tried to blot out of her mind.
Chapter 3
After the training event, Shane and his team of six men flew in their helicopter back to the DEA tactical operations center in downtown Tucson to do their after-action report from their recent deployment to Mexico. After serving two years in the Navy SEALs, Shane was forced to leave due to a severe shoulder injury from a night jump in Afghanistan. After months recuperating, a friend told him about a position with the DEA. Six years later, and with countless drug interdiction operations under his belt, he was tasked with heading up his own unit.
Shane’s desert camouflage shirt and pants bore a medley of dirt and sweat from the training event at the range that morning. His weathered face contrasted sharply with his black scruff, which had thin wisps of bleached hair from too much time under open skies.
The debriefs were always done informally around the gear table in the armory where they could field-strip their weapons, perform maintenance on their gear, and resupply before heading home. Shane had even snuck in an ice-cold twelve-pack of beer so they could partake of what he called “post-mission urban hydration protocols.” Everyone knew having alcohol in a federal building was a hefty violation on Shane’s shoulders but the simple act only made the men lift their bottles higher to him during their silent toast.
“I know we already hashed some of this out on the trip back through Arizona, but was there any more follow-up on the ultralight plane routes used by the cartels on the Indian reservations?” said Matias. He was stripping his M4 and peering down through the barrel.
“You heard the commander of the federales down there and what our boss here said. They’ve got our intel on the situation and will take ‘operable action’ against any border threats.”
“Which means nobody wants to step on toes and piss off D.C. unless there’s 100% confirmation of a threat, and even then, they’re going to bury their heads in the sand and point fingers after the fact,” said Rory, a young operator with sandy-blond hair and bear-like hands.
Shane leaned over the table and took a swig of beer while several droplets of condensation dripped onto his dusty boot. “Our job was just to identify the dope-running corridors used by the ultralights and relay that back to the State Department. Their boys on the ground will now have to work with the federales and our border patrol units to expand on any security risks.”
Matias rolled his eyes. “This is just like last summer all over again when we provided solid intel on that cartel working the canyons ten miles north of our border and the State guys later denied knowing jack-shit about it because El Presidente was making an important PR trip to Washington.”
“Sometimes these operations down south don’t feel too much different than
missions I did in Afghanistan. It’s another region of the globe but the same dictators slinging around their profiteering agendas,” said Rory.
Shane finished the last of his beer and slammed the container on the table. “I’d love to solve the rest of this world’s problems but I could sure use a cold shower and a slab of pizza in my gut so I declare this official meetin’ over. Let’s rendezvous in sixty minutes at Cheese Fiend’s Pizzeria on Speedway and finish this shift in style. Matias is buying,” he said, looking at his friend with a grin.
“Not likely, amigo. I got two kids going into college in Phoenix, remember. Rory’s got my vote. All he has to worry about is that flea-bitten alley cat he has at home, so he’s got plenty of dineros to blow on his friends.”
Chapter 4
It seems like Jared Sweinhart had spent most of his life jogging—or more like sprinting. He had just returned from a morning run through the upscale neighborhood in north-central Tucson. The place comprised of million-dollar homes with their Spanish tile roofs, luxurious watered lawns, and gated perimeters. Just the kind Jared like to case to determine which would provide the highest yield of stolen goods with the least amount of trouble.
Jared had only been in the Southwest for three weeks after fleeing his hometown of New Orleans in search of more fertile ground where he could start over as a thief and con-man. Before that, he had gone by Michael, Tony, Donovan, and numerous other aliases, moving from city to city during the past eleven years, not counting a three-year stint in prison in Pensacola, Florida. His father, a habitual street hustler, who had died in a craps-game gone bad in some dank alley, had always told him that to stay put too long, anywhere, would be certain death.
His plan was to selectively pilfer a few trendy homes in Tucson, fence the goods across the border in Mexico, and then make his way up to Phoenix for a while before heading to Vegas. That’s how it always worked—do a circuit of three cities, never staying longer than four weeks. This provided three weeks to recon the most worthwhile homes, a week to do the deed, move the stolen items, spend time with a few fine ladies, and then toss his valuables in his weathered Tommy Hilfiger daypack and be on his way to the next city.