Defiance: Judgment Day (The Defending Home Series Book 3)

by William H. Weber

  The sheriff had told him about the death of ‘Hey-zeus,’ how the two men had been making the rounds through a suburban neighborhood to the south. How they had entered a home, searching for insurgents and contraband, and been ambushed. Other groups of deputies had also been out performing the same mission, each of them paired up with a cartel enforcer and several of them coming under fire. Fernando was having difficulty believing that Randy had survived without so much as a scratch. Even more suspicious was that he had not managed to kill a single insurgent. A dead body might have been enough to prove the sheriff’s story. Short of that, he had to take his word for it, something a man like Fernando was loath to do.

  This was precisely what Randy had feared—entangling himself with the resistance movement and drawing Fernando’s suspicions. Now he had to prove himself or end up suffering a fate similar to Mayor Reid.

  “I’m starting to question your loyalty, Sheriff Gaines,” the boss said sharply. A half-dozen cartel men moved in behind the sheriff.

  Sweating profusely, Randy was about to respond when a messenger came out of the darkness and whispered into Fernando’s ear. The boss’ expression soured and so too did Randy’s confidence.

  “I’ve just received some troubling news,” he said. “Captain Lee is on his way back from Mexico empty-handed. It seems the resistance leader is more slippery than we anticipated.” Fernando drew in a deep breath. “It also seems one of our water convoys was attacked. By whom, we aren’t sure, although we have our suspicions.”

  Randy wondered if they believed it was Dale. The prospect was outlandish—a lone man in the desert destroying an entire convoy.

  “Someone from Encendido must have warned them the convoy was leaving town,” Fernando said, his voice thick with accusation. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. That calm, controlled demeanor he’d displayed a moment ago was slipping away. “It appears we have a traitor in our midst.” Fernando locked eyes with the enforcers standing next to Randy. They grabbed him by the arms in a powerful grip.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Randy protested. “It wasn’t me,” he shrieked. And for once he was telling the truth.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” Fernando replied indifferently.

  “I swear I had nothing to do with it.” There was a pleading quality in Randy’s voice, like a child, begging not to be spanked.

  “You’re not convincing me, Sheriff.”

  “Look, when I was out there with Jesus, we got some information. Stuff I came here directly to tell you.”

  “Is that right?” Fernando was checking his nails.

  “Sure. First off, Dale isn’t their leader. It’s a woman named Nobel. She and a handful of others are holed up somewhere south of town, must have escaped from the college. You get her and the whole resistance will crumble.”

  Fernando looked interested. “Nobel, eh?”

  Randy nodded. Torn as he was about betraying the resistance, his motto had always been, first and foremost, to protect his own skin. It was also a calculated give, intended to hand Fernando a resistance leader who was practically obsolete. Yes, he had given her up, but he had also greatly exaggerated her importance. The resistance was fractured and ineffective. Handing them Nobel, he hoped, would prove his loyalty without fatally crippling the other side. A more honorable man might have stayed tight-lipped and taken one for the team.

  Fernando waved a hand and his enforcers released Randy’s arms. The sheriff fixed his disheveled shirt as Fernando described the intel they had extracted from prisoners captured after the college battle.

  “I guess not everything is looking so dour. We’ve discovered the presence of a small US military outpost thirty miles northwest of here. A captured biker from the Bandidos told our interrogators his gang passed by them on their way to Encendido. I’ve already dispatched a team to go check it out. As you know, Encendido is only the opening stage in the larger plan to reclaim what is rightfully ours. This outpost may be nothing more than an anomaly, since our intelligence suggests that much of the US armed forces has collapsed, opening the way to Mexican annexation. We tested this by crossing the border without any sign of mobilization. Once this town has finally been subdued, the rest will be ours for the taking.”

  Chapter 27

  Dale

  Zulu was exactly as Privates Carmichael and Burrows had described it, an interstate truck stop converted into an improvised forward operating base. Heavy machine-gun emplacements were perched on various rooftops, offering a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of fire. Moreover, spotting approaching enemies was made easier by the flatness of the surrounding geography. But for all the heavy firepower, Dale was surprised there weren’t walls of any kind. He wondered if that had been a tactical decision dictated by the lack of earth movers and the monumental amount of work it would take.

  He also had to admit it stung a little to be handing over what he believed was water from his own aquifer to a group of soldiers who, after everything he had gone through, might refuse to help him. But in the end, choosing between aiding US soldiers or aiding the cartel was not much of a choice at all.

  They pulled into the parking lot, the big guns trained on them the whole time. From below, more soldiers approached, greeting their comrades with the kind of abusive litany common to bands of brothers throughout the ages. Dale disembarked and went over to introduce himself.

  A Latino First Sergeant named Mendez was laying into both privates.

  “No word in two days is not acceptable, gentlemen,” Mendez growled, hovering over them. He was well over six feet tall with a heavy round frame and a large, oval head. Sweat tumbled down his face like lines of code from The Matrix. “You failed to report in on three separate occasions. You are our eyes and ears out there. Do you like playing games with the lives of your fellow soldiers? Is that it?”

  “No, sir,” they said, physically shrinking from Mendez’s assault.

  The First Sergeant slowly turned to Dale, who wondered if he was about to get more of the same.

  Mendez gave him a cursory glance. “And who might you be?”

  “He flanked a group of cartel―” Private Burrows began.

  Mendez swung back, piercing Burrows with that same frightening glare. “I didn’t ask you, now did I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir, what?”

  “No, sir, you didn’t.”

  When Mendez finally returned he said, “Great, now where were we?”

  “Name’s Dale Hardy,” Dale said, extending a hand. The two men shook. He explained what had taken place near the border and the urgency with which he needed to speak with Major Gruber. But pressing as it was, there was something else he needed to do first.

  “Do you have a shortwave I can use?”

  From there, Dale was led into what was once a convenience store. There he met Private Vega, who showed him to the equipment. Dale sat down, dialed in the frequency and spoke into the mic. He was calling Nobel’s headquarters at the college, using the last known frequency.

  “What’s wrong?” Vega asked, standing behind him.

  “No one’s answering.” He did not want to jump to conclusions. He tried Zach’s headquarters at the old Baptist church and got the same eerie silence.

  “Maybe they changed frequency,” Vega offered, trying to be helpful.

  “I imagine you’ve been scanning the airwaves,” Dale said.

  “Of course. Most of it’s scared and lonely folks reaching out for help. You’d never guess how much some would give just to hear a human voice on the line. I may not be allowed to reach out, but I do pray for each and every one of them.”

  “Under the circumstances, I suppose that’s the best you can do,” Dale suggested. “Have you heard anything coming from the Encendido area?”

  “Oh, the activity largely disappeared these last few days. That is, except for…”

  Dale was hanging off his every word. “Except for what?”

  “Well, the few frequenc
ies I’ve been listening to are mostly gibberish.”

  “Gibberish?”

  Vega seemed to be struggling to find the words. “I mean, I hear voices, but it’s as though they’re speaking another language.”

  “Could it be Brazilian Portuguese?”

  “I do hear some of that, but no, it’s something else. It almost sounds like Sitting Bull’s talking to relatives or something. I don’t know.”

  For a moment, Dale was perplexed. “Let me listen,” he said.

  Private Vega dialed in and sure enough, there it was. But it wasn’t Sioux he was hearing, it sounded more like Navajo.

  Dale pressed the mic to his lips and hit the actuator and then stopped. “I don’t think I should be doing this.”

  Vega sat down next to him. “I don’t understand.”

  “If what we’re hearing really is coming from inside Encendido, then it may mean the cartel has forced the resistance movement underground.”

  “They’re talking in code,” Vega said, the light going on behind his eyes.

  “Maybe. Do you have anyone on base who speaks Navajo?” Anywhere else, it might seem like a strange request, but not in Arizona.

  Vega scratched his head. “I believe Private Ahiga is half Navajo.”

  “Half is better than nothing. Do me a favor and tell him we need his help ASAP.”

  Private Vega got on the walkie and radioed for Ahiga to double-time it to the comms room.

  Three minutes later he arrived, a short, but handsome man with olive skin and fine features. Panting, he asked, “The heck is so urgent?”

  Dale explained as succinctly as possible. “How well can you speak Navajo?”

  Ahiga took a noticeable step backwards. “Oh, geez, it’s been a while. As a child I spoke it with my grandparents.”

  Dale held up the mic. “I’ll tell you what to say. Just do your best.”

  Reluctantly, Private Ahiga took the mic and waited.

  “Who am I speaking to?” Dale said, waiting for Ahiga to translate and transmit the message.

  Seconds went by before a response came back.

  “He says his name is Skinwalker.” Ahiga explained he was likely using it as a code name since it was from Navajo folklore.

  “Are you in Encendido?”

  Ahiga nodded. “He says yes.”

  “Tell them this is Dale Hardy and that I was taken by the Brigade, but managed to escape.”

  “He says many here will be happy to hear that.”

  Dale smiled. There was so much he wanted to know and so little time. “What is the state of the resistance?”

  “He says the cartel and the Brigade have nearly shattered it. They attacked each of the strongholds. Nobel and the others fled. Zach and others have begun striking back, but that may only worsen the retribution.”

  Dale’s spirits couldn’t be any lower. “Ask him about Brooke and Sandy.”

  “He says they’re safe, for now. Brooke was rescued by Keith and Randy.”

  “Randy?” Dale said in disbelief. “He’s switched sides?”

  “Skinwalker believes so, but says it’s impossible to say for sure. He and Keith continue to act as double agents.”

  Relieved as he was, it sounded to Dale as though the situation in town was so much worse than he’d previously imagined.

  “He tells me there’s more you must know,” Private Ahiga said.

  Dale nodded, wondering how things could get any worse. “Go on.”

  “Nobel and several others, including Betty Wilcox, Walter and Ann, were picked up on a raid of the landfill area they were using as a new base. Says they are slated for imminent public execution.”

  The news was worse than he’d thought. If the cartel wasn’t stopped, then soon everyone Dale knew and loved would be dead.

  He turned to Private Vega, a look of cold determination in his eyes. “I need to speak with Major Gruber right away.”

  Chapter 28

  Brooke

  Brooke, Caleb and Duke were on the roof of the now-derelict Encendido fire station, splicing wires in an attempt to run current from a bank of three car batteries to the old ACA Allertor 125 air-raid siren.

  For a long time, the twenty-foot-tall siren had been a source of embarrassment for residents. Over the years, several petitions had even been levied to have it torn down. To Brooke, the giant yellow bullhorn always reminded her of something from Dr. Seuss. Hard to imagine it might one day save the town. Of course, Caleb wasn’t buying her plan, nor was he a fan of Brooke’s mission to end the suffering in town. Folks were starving, their mouths parched with thirst, and all the cartel seemed to do was make things worse. At some point, it had stopped being about individual rights and had become a fight for survival.

  The fire station overlooked the north end of Memorial Park and Brooke stared out across the parched and dying field toward the scaffolding at the other end.

  Thankfully, the weapon caches had each been unearthed and taken care of—an arduous job, but one that had enabled her to reach out to many of the townspeople struggling through hardships day in, day out. It had turned her into something of a politician, offering food and water wherever she could. She also recognized it was something her father would not have approved of. Better to teach a man how to fish, he would tell her, than training them to wait for a handout. Philosophically, this was where the two of them split, much like the wires from the control panel Caleb was slicing apart.

  Philanthropy aside, there was a grave new urgency to the task at hand, one Brooke was now painfully aware of. News of Nobel’s capture had circulated quickly around town. Like Brooke, many of Nobel’s agents had been out trying to revitalize the resistance network when it had happened. And yet, even so, half a dozen high-value targets had been snagged by the Brigade when they’d swooped down on the landfill. It was such an unlikely place to set up camp, Brooke found it hard to believe that someone hadn’t tipped them off. The list of suspects was long and though she didn’t claim to know a lot about running a resistance movement, she also knew this was the unfortunate way people learned. They made mistakes, maybe even got sloppy. Lessons for the next generation.

  For her, the lesson here was about compartmentalization. No one individual should ever know enough to undo the movement if they were captured. She had sat before an interrogator and anyone who thought they could hold out while watching their fingernails being pulled out was living in a dream world. Almost everyone talked. The problem wasn’t that so much. It was whether the person spewing their guts was simply making things up so the pain would stop.

  Caleb put a hand on her shoulder, causing Brooke to shudder. Seated next to her, Duke set a paw on her lap.

  “You all right?” Caleb asked, pausing in the act of twisting a pair of wires together.

  She ran her hand through Duke’s thick fur. “Yeah, I’m just worried.”

  He went back to what he was doing. “You’re starting to question your plan?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe. People are dying every day, many of them for no good reason. I just don’t want to risk making things worse.”

  “Things can’t get any worse,” Caleb reminded her.

  “Tell that to Nobel and the others.”

  He remained quiet and she couldn’t blame him. If the rumors were true, Nobel, Walter, Ann, and Betty, along with two others, were set to hang sometime tomorrow.

  “I’m gonna head inside and get something to drink,” she said, hoping that might clear her head. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Brooke opened the roof door and descended the steps to the top floor, Duke following close behind. Although the firemen were gone, that did not mean the building was empty. Three families were living downstairs. She searched inside her knapsack she had set on a stool and grabbed half a dozen bottles of water and several cans of meat and vegetables. How she missed the real stuff they had once grown in her backyard. If there had been any benefit to the plague, it was a return t
o much simpler times. She hoped one day she might get back there.

  She descended two more levels before she saw the Wiley family—David and his wife Sally, along with their children, seven-year-old Brianna and ten-year-old Jacob. They sat around the table, not speaking. As strange a sight as it might have seemed three months ago, Brooke’s travels through town had shown her how perfectly common this had become. Kids didn’t fight or cry out. Voices never rose above a whisper. And the reason was simple. With an enemy patrolling the streets, you never wanted to attract attention to yourself.

  Brooke dug into her knapsack and fished out two bottles of water, which she handed to them. David received them gratefully.

  “Bless you,” he said, opening one and giving his kids a sip.

  She handed them two cans of ham and one can of veggies. “Hide these,” she told them. “Along with everything else I’ve given you.” David nodded, flinching with the sound of gunfire in the distance. It was then followed by a loud explosion before growing silent once again. Duke let out a whine and Brooke reassured him by petting the top of his head. That same pattern of random fighting had been playing out over and over these last twenty-four hours. The Wileys didn’t understand what was going on, but Brooke did.

  Zach and Caesar, with a dozen Rangers and bikers between them, were lashing out against the cartel in the only way they knew how: by engaging in hit-and-run tactics. Brooke felt they were wasting their time, sacrificing men and ammunition without any clear objective other than revenge. But more than that, they were failing to win the hearts and minds of the civilians in town. Even at her young age, she was beginning to understand that brains would be what dug them out of this situation, not only brawn. A reckoning was coming. She could feel it building in the air, like an electrical storm approaching on the horizon. And her gut told her that Judgment Day was closer than any of them expected.

  Chapter 29

  Dale