She placed his hands inside hers. “That’s cause it’s only the size of a cherry right now.”
He laughed and smiled at her, moving his hand across her stomach. “Wait, what was that?”
She swatted at him. “That was my stomach, dummy.”
“You sure? Felt something there.”
She pulled away from him with an amused dirty look. Then she remembered what prompted this conversation. “You promise me nothing happened between you and that woman?”
“Gwen, please. Nothing happened. We had a few drinks. She and I are a team.” She held her head back, judging his truthfulness. His face looked innocent and she knew he didn’t have the wherewithal to lie to her that well.
“I believe you,” she said, burying herself in his chest. His warmth and body made her feel secure. A rock that she knew would be there for her, and now, her child as well.
“Steele,” shouted a man from across the way. The shouting ruptured their moment. Mark tensed as if he were about to fight. His arms went tight around her as if he feared he may never hold her again.
“Right here,” he called back. The words echoed in his chest. Bedford came running up, his black leather MC vest blowing out as he ran. The short gray-haired man stopped. Mark kept her close to his body but loosened his grip.
“I’m going to be a dad,” Mark said to him, but his smile faded as he saw the look on Bedford’s face.
“That’s great, man, but we have a problem,” he said. Bedford nodded a black and gray goatee to her. “Congrats, ma’am,” he said in hurried respect.
“Thanks,” Gwen said. She held Mark’s waist with both her arms.
“Thunder can’t handle it? I need some time alone with Gwen. We’re going to have a baby!” Mark exclaimed.
Bedford shook his head vigorously. “Nah. He wants you there.”
“Come on. It can’t be that bad?”
Bedford leaned in closer and whispered. “Armed men are at the gate, and they are asking for you by name.”
Mark exhaled loudly. “Damn.” He stared at the ground for a second. “I’m sorry, babe. We’ll celebrate later. Can you get Ahmed to the lighthouse? I don’t know who the fuck is up there, but they should have warned us. Send Kevin to me.”
She nodded. “I will.” Turning to leave, he stopped her and laid an alcohol-tinged kiss right on her lips.
“Love you.” He grinned and took off with Bedford.
“You need to brush your teeth, and I love you too,” she yelled after him. She ran for the tents.
“Ahmed. Kevin,” she shouted. Ahmed was out of the tent in seconds, gun in hand. Kevin was a few seconds behind him.
“What’s up?” Ahmed asked. He scratched his fuzzy-haired skull, scanning the ring of cars.
“Men have come to the camp. Mark wants you in the lighthouse to cover him.” Kevin’s features relaxed, relieved to not have been the one selected to run up dozens of stairs to the top.
“Kevin, come with me to the gate,” she said. She moved fast over the enclosure for the entrance. The tall man jogged to keep up.
She looked up at him. “I told him.”
Kevin smiled back at her. “He was happy, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but,” she stopped herself.
“But what?” he asked as they ran.
“Nothing.” But what if I am not ready for this?
STEELE
Little Sable Point, MI
Members of the leather-clad Red Stripes lined the backs of the pickups that sealed off the de facto entrance of Little Sable Point to the rest of the world. Interspersed among them were Steele’s Little Sable volunteers. Margie knelt next to orange-headed Max, who looked like he had already peed his pants. Bald Larry and fat Hank were down the line. Trent’s eye was behind his scope, mossy oak camouflage ball cap on his skull, and Old Bengy used a tailgate to line up his shot with his M1 Garand. Would they even fight if it came to it? Steele pushed the thought from his mind. I may have to do all the shooting.
Thunder crouched low, his gut hanging between his legs, walking behind them, trying to keep his girth from being exposed to potential gunfire.
Steele ran bent at the waist and took cover behind the engine block of a white pickup truck next to Thunder. Engine blocks and wheel wells would stop most rounds. Most rounds.
The heavyset gray-bearded man struggled to kneel on his left leg. When he finally got himself lowered to the ground, he grimaced at Steele. “Don’t bend like they used to.”
“I know what you mean,” Steele said. He had suffered his fair share of injury in his lifetime. Between high-school and college sports to training injuries he had received while with the Division, he was no novice to parts of his body not functioning like they used to. Even when injuries to your knees, shoulders, or back healed, they were a little less functional than they used to be, and it took a little bit longer to recover each time.
Thunder laughed. “You better enjoy it while you got it because before you know it, you’re old and fat like me.”
Steele smiled. “I’ll remember that. What we got?” Steele whispered. He didn’t know why he was whispering. The outsiders would never hear them.
“Looks like two trucks, about eight or nine men. There are two in the beds of each truck with high-powered rifles pointed our way.”
Steele flexed his scar-tissued scalp. “You think they know how to use them?”
The older man glanced behind him. “Wouldn’t want to risk it. Even pieces of shit get lucky sometimes.”
“I’d prefer not taking another shot to the head either.” He gave Thunder a smile while his gut churned at the nauseating thought.
Steele nodded to Trent. “You wanna get up in the lighthouse with Ahmed. I want you focused on the guys in the pickup truck beds. They’re the biggest threat.”
Trent nodded. “That won’t be a problem.” He hustled away with a bend in his back and a deer hunting rifle in one hand.
“Mark Steele,” came a shout from the other side.
Steele looked up at the lighthouse, giving Trent a minute to join Ahmed at the top. They better be in place or I may as well be naked out there.
“Mark Steele,” boomed the voice again. Steele ignored the man, letting him holler longer.
He tried to see Trent above but had no vantage. His gut feeling told him that they were ready though. He looked down the line. His volunteers that could hardly hit an unmoving target hid crouched down, an assortment of guns pointed outward. Trust. Can you trust the greenest of the green?
Steele grabbed Thunder’s shoulder, getting close to the big biker.
“If this doesn’t go right, make sure to put them all down. No one can escape.”
Thunder’s eyes sparkled beneath his red bandana and bushy gray eyebrows. “Won’t be a problem. If they run, we’ll mount up and ride them down.”
Steele nodded. “Oh, and did I tell you? I’m going to be a dad.” Before Thunder could respond, Steele rose up, slinging his carbine downward before standing fully upright.
On the sand swept sidewalk that led to the lighthouse stood a man about thirty yards from where Steele stood. From a distance, he appeared to be Steele’s beefier cousin with one distinction: he had curly hair. This man had the same darkish blond hair, brownish-blond beard, large frame, and a strong stance. He looked about the same age as Steele.
For a moment, Steele thought he recognized the man. Where do I know you? Not from home. Not from town. His mind zipped over how he might know people still in Michigan after he hadn’t lived there for years. High-school football? He vaguely remembered going toe to toe with a vicious offensive guard twelve years back in the state finals of the high-school football championship. The opposing team had been full of Dutch giants. Their names were too long for the backs of their jerseys, and they were tough as nails.
“I’m Steele,” he said loud enough for the man to hear.
“I’m Peter,” the man shouted. “We can meet in the middle. All the shouting gets on my ner
ves.”
Steele looked down at Thunder. The older man nodded. “Make sure none of our shooters hit me if things go south.”
Thunder snorted. “Why ask me to do the impossible?”
Steele hopped the hood of the pickup, sliding across and landing on his feet. He trekked downrange feeling that someone, anyone, was going to put a bullet in his front or back or both. It was as if he walked into a two-sided firing range and all sights were on him.
The two men closed in on one another like they were about to drawdown in a Old West gunfight at high noon. They stopped, giving each other a good five yards. Definitely could be my cousin. I’m going to feel bad if I have to kill him. If things get dicey, I’ll quick draw the Beretta and fire from the hip. Three rounds to the chest and I’ll rush him. Get in close and use his body as cover. I’ll take him to the ground and hope that nobody from his side can shoot worth a damn.
Peter wore dirty jeans, tan boots, and a heavy navy-colored fleece that was probably hiding even more size underneath. His eyes weighed Steele up and down. Steele hadn’t had time to throw on his vest and felt bare without his other gear. He let his M4 lay across his chest diagonally with his hand resting on the stock and his index finger laying flat above the trigger.
Peter’s features were calm or perhaps unimpressed by the man before him. He looked as if he had already known everything about Steele down to the scar on his head. Scoped rifles pointed in their direction from the beds of the pickups. Men knelt on the ground next to open doors, using them as concealment.
“You Mark Steele?” Peter kept his chin upright as if he held some sort of high rank. Taking the initiative in a negotiation had its advantages and disadvantages. Steele was learning what type of man Peter was as he spoke. Steele tilted his head, half-considering the people behind him.
“Some call me that.”
Peter’s brow creased a bit. “I came here to speak with this man. So if you aren’t him, I’d prefer not to waste my time,” Peter said, looking at the encampment over Steele’s shoulder.
“You can speak to me,” Steele said with a nod.
“So this is it? We’ve been looking for you, but now that we’ve found you, I’ll say I expected more.”
Steele was silent, not taking the bait for conflict.
Peter eyed him for a moment. “I come on the behalf of the pastor, the blessed leader of the Chosen people. He wishes to meet with you and discuss terms for our communities.” The pastor is the leader of the Chosen.
“This pastor guy, why didn’t he come himself? We could have made our terms here and now.”
Peter didn’t hesitate. “The pastor will have you meet him on his terms.” A command?
“Why should I?” Steele said. He knew why, but he wanted the man to spell it out.
“We have a man that belongs to your group. He goes by the name Pagan.” Peter’s face twisted with the word Pagan as if it soured in his mouth as he said it. “He’s our hostage to ensure you act in good faith.”
Steele adjusted his weight through his legs. The act of setting himself up nonchalantly for a strike gave him confidence. He knew Peter had the edge. It was time to chip away at it. “Show me good faith. Give me proof of life or he’s as good as dead to us.”
Peter, a man that was used to having his commands followed, grew agitated by Steele’s demand. He clenched a fist before he spoke. “He’s safe at our facility.”
“Let me see him. Take me to your facility.”
Peter shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
Steele cocked his head to the side curious. “Peter, you came here talking about good faith. Where’s yours? Bring Pagan back here and show him to me.”
Peter snorted. “So you can ambush us and take him back? I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw ya.”
Then you’re smarter than you look. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because you don’t have a choice if you want him back.” He nodded at Little Sable Point. “I can tell right now by the look of your camp, you won’t stand a chance against us,” Peter said, his face growing red in anger.
Steele knew they had the men to annihilate his group. The Chosen knew where Steele’s group resided. The Chosen could be down the road in less than an hour with God knows how many men. Steele’s ten and Thunder’s thirty-three, if Thunder decided to stick around, wouldn’t have a chance.
Steele squinted his eyes. “You know you look familiar,” he said, scratching his beard with his support hand.
“I didn’t come here to play games,” Peter said. “Will you meet our terms?”
“You play ball for Hudsonville Reformed?” Steele asked.
Confusion settled on Peter’s face. “Um.” He paused, uncomfortable with the situation. He looked back over his shoulder at his men. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“State Finals, 2003?” Steele inquired.
“Yeah, we lost in overtime. I played pulling guard.”
Steele smiled. “I was a middle linebacker on Bloomfield.”
A grin slowly crawled onto Peter’s face. He snorted a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. You played ball for Bloomfield?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You had that running back that ran all over us for four quarters, and we still took you to overtime.”
“You remember that goal-line stand?” Steele asked, letting himself smile.
“How could I forget? We ran a double trap to the right. I pulled along with our center, Danny Vanholden. He kicked the corner out. But when I hit the hole, this tough bastard was already there, and that bastard was you.”
“I think you gave me a concussion on the hit,” Steele laughed.
Peter grinned. “It was a trench war. We dug our feet through the turf, but it seemed that you kept getting more and more help, and by the time the whistle was blown, the pile was on the ground and we were short. One more inch.”
“I’ll never forget it,” Steele said.
“How could you? Overtime. Final seconds. An inch and the game was ours.”
“But the inch was ours,” Steele said with a sad smile.
“Yeah.” Peter’s eyes drooped downcast. Those days seemed like ages ago, where young men could battle on a football field and live instead of warring against one another on the battlefield to survive. No one would play that again. Not their kids. Not anyone.
Steele stuck out his hand. “I’ll meet with the pastor. If he has hard-nosed guys like you on his side, I’m sure we can work this thing out.”
Steele slung his carbine to his back and Peter grinned. Relief crossed his features. “I’m sure we can.” He took Steele’s hand in his. His palms were like steaks. Both groups let themselves relax.
One of Peter’s men stood up from behind cover and brought his shotgun upright against his shoulder, the muzzle pointed in the air and a smile on his lips.
A crack echoed through the air. It shattered the peaceful sound of the lake and trees. Everything stopped. Gunfire will freeze some men; it will cause others to take cover. If a man’s training is right, it will throw him into action. It took fractions of a second before anyone recognized what had happened. After a second, Peter’s eyes went wide and he tensed. Neurons fired in each man’s brain to the stimulus of danger. Steele’s reaction to the boom was a fraction of a second faster like he was hot off the line in the championship game.
Steele crushed Peter’s hand and yanked Peter’s arm past him. He offset himself at the same time. He chopped the side of his hand into the back of Peter’s neck as he brought the bigger man to the ground. The shock of the strike to Peter’s neck stunned him, making his body go limp. Steele landed on top of the motionless man.
Bullets whizzed overhead and Steele used his body to cover Peter’s. Peter’s head rolled to the side, unresponsive.
“What the fuck!” Steele screamed at the top his lungs. The ting of bullets entering and exiting the vehicles combined with the whistle of bullets sailing overhead. Everyone shot. He crawled in the middle, wrestling his M4
off his back while trying to stay low enough to not catch a round through his elbow as he reached.
A lone young Chosen man crouched behind a door. This barely mustached man struggled with his magazine, unable to reload his gun. Steele lined up his red dot on the man’s hip. He squeezed a round through his pelvic girdle. The man collapsed back on his side. He turned his head away and screamed in pain. It was high-pitched and an awful mix when combined with the gunshots. The Chosen leaned on a single elbow, crying in pain while trying to seat his magazine. Steele put three rounds into this torso. Tap. Tap. Tap. The man laid down as if he had grown tired and was ready for bed and stopped moving. Steele scanned their vehicles. Not one of the Chosen was upright, but the bullets kept flying.
“Cease fire,” he yelled behind him. After a minute, the firing slowed and stopped.
Thunder’s angry voice rose roughly above. “Cease fire,” he screamed repeatedly.
Should I even stand up? A woman broke from the barricaded entrance and sprinted for him.
Using his gun as a crutch, Steele stood up. “Mark, Jesus,” Gwen yelled at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” he yelled.
Her hands searched his body for wounds.
“I’m fine,” he said gruffer than he wanted. “What the hell just happened?” he shouted over her head at the barricade.
“I don’t know. All of a sudden, everyone was shooting. I told them to stop, but no one could hear me over the gunfire,” Gwen said.
Steele surveyed the pastor’s men dying in bubbling puddles of their own blood. The Red Stripes and volunteers from Little Sable Point came out from their barricade. A quiet murmur leaked from their ranks. It was like a car accident they couldn’t take their eyes from, except they were the ones that had caused it. Larry looked sorry. Margie could only stare, an arm wrapped around Max. Max’s eyes were almost as wide as his head. Hank looked away and Gregor’s face lacked remorse. People covered their mouths and shook their heads in disgust.
Steele watched blood pump out of the nearest Chosen man’s body with the last beats of his heart. Anger welled up inside him.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 96