He stayed on his feet long enough for Keira to follow with Owen, probably seeing it as her duty to tend to the inevitable injury his hasty descent promised. By the time his bruised body skidded to a rest at the bottom of the draw, she and Owen had made it halfway down. They both fell and slid into a thick stand of bushes shortly after that, scratching their faces and generally guaranteeing she wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of the morning.
All she could do was point at one of the five-gallon cans, which had come to a stop behind a tree trunk halfway down the side of the draw. It took him close to twenty minutes to claw his way up to jar it loose, and when it toppled down the hill, it nearly bowled over their son, who was holding a compress bandage against his hand from a persistently bleeding scratch.
He thought the morning couldn’t get any worse until the first Marines started to arrive, and not the occasional jogger Quinn had led them to expect. Diesel engines roared above them all morning at random intervals. The spur they had chosen off the main ridgeline had been wide enough to accommodate vehicles, a fact they should have recognized by the tire tracks in the dirt running along the ridge. Voices could be heard over the vehicles, and occasionally they caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off a tactical vehicle’s ballistic glass. Instead of a quiet camping experience, they’d spent most of the day cowering in fear underneath a hastily tied camouflage shelter, jumping at every noise above them.
“I’m not sure we can do this for too long,” said Keira, rubbing her face.
Already? They’d barely crossed the twelve-hour point—half of that spent asleep.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” said Nathan, sliding under the tarp next to Owen, who was now sandwiched between the two of them.
He wrapped an arm around them.
“I bet David gets everything squared away by tonight,” said Nathan, pressing his head into Owen’s. “We’ll be fine, buddy.”
His son nodded and grabbed his hand. Keira reached over and took both of their hands.
“It will be fine,” she said. “If David doesn’t show up tonight, I think we turn ourselves in to the first group of Marines on the trail. Maybe we’re better off in Marine custody, or whatever they have. They could get ahold of your dad, and he could figure out how to help us.”
Nathan met her gaze over the top of Owen’s matted hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a gamble. We could get lucky with a sympathetic Marine, or we could end up being escorted right out of the front gate by security with no means of transportation or a way to call anyone without—”
“I’m sure they’d let us borrow a phone to call a taxi,” she said. “We have enough cash to get to LA.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know, but I do know we can’t camp out on base indefinitely. Not drinking MRE coffee,” she said, offering a faint smile.
“You aren’t kidding,” said Nathan. “What do you think, Owen? Can you hang out here eating MREs for a little while longer?”
“I’m fine, Dad. This isn’t so bad.”
“Better than school?” asked Nathan.
Owen shook his head. “I wish I was sitting in class right now.”
“Me, too,” said Nathan.
“You’d rather be sitting in class?” asked Keira.
Owen laughed. “I think he meant me, Mom.”
“Hopefully, we’ll have you back in school before they let you out for summer break,” said Nathan.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” said Owen. “This feels kind of permanent.”
“Staying out here? This isn’t permanent.”
“But we can’t go back to our house,” he said.
Keira wiped her moist eyes with the back of her hand. He felt the same deep hopelessness that he knew his wife and Owen were feeling. Their lives would never be the same. Above them, a diesel engine rumbled, getting louder until a tactical vehicle raced passed them on the trail leading to North Range Road.
“Maybe we should move to another spot tonight,” said Nathan. “Somewhere a little less busy. I think we might be able to see the ocean from the northern side, across the main trail.”
“We can’t go anywhere until David shows up. He won’t know where to look for us,” said Keira. “And, sweetie, we’ll find a new house—in a state where you can take a thirty-minute shower or own a pool.”
“I don’t want a new house,” said Owen.
“Neither do we,” said Keira. “But sometimes things work out for the best.”
Nathan appreciated that she didn’t blame him for their predicament, especially in front of Owen. Actually, her philosophical approach to the entire situation was starting to make more sense to him. Their fate was sealed when he drove into the beach community at Del Mar. Maybe everything did work out for the best, and this was the best they could expect for now.
CHAPTER 59
David Quinn pulled his Jeep Wrangler out of the barracks parking lot at Camp Las Pulgas in search of his new friends. He couldn’t spot the green Jeep Cherokee that had followed him out of Mainside. He suspected Cerberus had attached a tracking device to the Wrangler after he gave the first team the slip. Now that he was back in the jeep, they could back off.
He accelerated onto Basilone Road, continuing the trip toward San Mateo. A minute into the ride, Quinn gripped the newly activated satphone lying on the passenger seat and pressed “Send.” He’d already preprogrammed his father’s number. The phone rang several times before his dad answered.
“Aurelio’s Pizza,” said his father. “Pickup or delivery?”
“I wouldn’t eat that shitty pizza if it was free.”
“Good to hear your voice, David,” said his father. “Sorry I went dark. I saw you called a few times, but I had to solidify my vanishing act. Sounds like you’re in a car?”
“I’m on Pendleton,” he said. “Trying to do my job as Captain Quinn while managing the rest of this shit.”
“Has this vehicle been out of your sight?”
“Yes. I swapped cars this morning, just to throw them off a bit. I have a few new friends on base.”
“Of course you do,” said his dad. “I need you to pull over and step out of the car before you say another word. You have to assume you’re being tracked and that they’ve bugged your vehicle.”
“Copy that,” said Quinn, slowing the jeep immediately. He pulled onto the shoulder of the road and hopped out. “I’m good now,” he said, taking a few steps into the scrub beyond the packed dirt.
“The police issued a warrant for Nathan’s arrest. Have you seen that?”
“Alison called me with the news. The cop-killer thing has to be bullshit.”
“I agree,” said his dad, “but either way, expect a real shit storm on base if they figure out you brought Fisher onboard.”
“It won’t take them long to connect those dots. The wife didn’t have ID, so Base Access had to run a DMV check.”
“Shit. The provost is probably all over your battalion by now. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do. If you have to return to battalion, keep a low profile.”
“I need to head back there right now,” said Quinn. “I have a few things cooking up.”
“Drive around a little, if possible. Give me a little time to work my contacts. How are Nathan and his family holding up?”
“They were fine when I left them last night. I have them stashed somewhere safe.”
“How safe?”
“The only thing they have to worry about are rattlesnakes and tarantulas.”
“Good call. I’ll pass that along to his dad. I wish I had more to tell you right now, but this Cerberus group is wrapped tight. I have a few people digging deeper. People I trust—though I’m not so sure who I can completely trust at this point. The secession issue is a high-stakes game that Sentinel and their cronies can’t afford to lose. They’ll stop at nothing to remove any impediment to whatever their sick endgame might be. You’re one of those impediments now,” said his dad
. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“I’m not,” said Quinn. “Nathan and his family would be dead by now if I hadn’t stumbled into the middle of this. I plan to see this through to the end, wherever that leads.”
“I wish Nathan’s parents could hear you say that. They got lucky with you.”
“Nathan isn’t exactly helpless,” said Quinn. “He’s a bit of a soup sandwich in general, but he held his own last night. First time firing an MP-20, he put close to thirty rounds into an area the size of a beach ball. Punched his rounds right through an armored windshield and took out the driver. I have Marines that can’t fire their rifles that well.”
“Can I let you in on a little secret?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course not,” replied his dad. “Nathan Fisher shot a two forty-eight during an unofficial qualifying round during his senior year in high school. I was there. Best I’ve ever fired was a two forty-five.”
“Two thirty-six for me,” said Quinn. “Going on nine years.”
“You need to do something about that problem.”
Quinn laughed. “If I get out of this without going to Leavenworth, I’ll make that my career goal.”
“We’re coming up on two minutes,” said his dad. “How many phones did you buy?”
“I maxed out one of my credit cards. Figured there was no reason to limit myself to cash. They know where to find me.”
“Keep the calls under a minute next time,” said his dad. “If they catch a whiff of this one, they’ll intensify their filter efforts at the ground stations. I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow unless anything drastic changes on your end. Good to go?”
“Good to go, Dad. Be careful.”
“Back at you.”
Quinn powered down the satphone, folded the antenna, and slipped it into his cargo pocket. Unlike cellular phones, a satphone would not receive calls without a deployed antenna. It required a direct connection with a satellite, which was initiated by the user. Of course, the next time he used the phone, his new friends might be listening, but he still had a few uses for the phone that didn’t require sharing sensitive information. It would especially come in handy with the provost marshal crawling around Second Battalion.
He glanced south on Basilone Road without seeing any cars. The Cerberus team had stopped following him, which confirmed that his jeep was being tracked. To the north, a pair of tan, armored, light-tactical vehicles approached, spiking his heart rate. Shit. Provost security? As he walked briskly back to his jeep, the AL-TACs approached close enough for him to see the battalion markings: “1/1.” First Battalion, First Marines out of Camp Horno, a few miles down the road. He reached his jeep as they sped past, kicking up dust from the road.
He took his father’s advice and stayed away from his battalion area for an additional twenty minutes, driving past San Mateo and stopping in one of the San Onofre housing areas to gather his thoughts. First things first. He needed to figure out if it was at all safe to head back to San Mateo. He dialed Staff Sergeant Emilio Cantrell’s phone.
“Cantrell,” the Marine answered.
“Staff Sergeant, this is Captain Quinn,” he said. “Don’t say my name or act like I’m on the phone—and assume we’re not the only ones on the line.”
“The platoon shack is clear of unwanted guests,” said Cantrell. “What’chu get yourself into, Captain?”
“It’s all good, Staff Sergeant. I promise. I’m on the right side of this.”
“I never doubted you weren’t, sir,” said Cantrell. “Figured something was up with that little mission you gave me.”
While Quinn was on the other side of the base, Cantrell had run a countersurveillance operation targeting the Cluster B barracks in San Mateo. Quinn billed it as a practice mission, but made sure Cantrell understood there was more to it than met the eye, and that his Marines needed to stay clear of any identified targets.
“So it went well?” asked Quinn.
“I’d say so.”
“Good. Because I have another mission for you. I’ll give you the details when I get back,” said Quinn. “This one builds on the last one, and if you did your job right, it should be a piece of cake.”
“Aww, shit,” said Cantrell. “This is gonna be good.”
“This one might get a little hairy, but I hear you like ’em like that, Staff Sergeant.”
“Captain’s on a roll!” said Cantrell. “Wait till I tell my wife. She’ll tear your arm out and beat you over the head with it.”
“I wasn’t talking about your wife,” said Quinn. “But if the shoe fits …”
“All right. I give up, sir,” said Cantrell. “Company area is clear. I’d stay away from battalion HQ, and your office—obviously.”
“See you in about five,” said Quinn. “Pop open the back door for me. And thank you, Staff Sergeant. The weirdest shit ever went down last night. I need someone to cover my back until I get it squared away.”
“We got your back, Captain.”
“I can’t tell you how much that means to me right now.”
Quinn disconnected the call, then rubbed his face and yawned. He was running on fumes, with no rest in sight.
CHAPTER 60
Quinn parked his jeep on the far side of the Cluster A barracks and walked through the barracks’ open quad area to reach Second Battalion’s working area. At two-thirty in the afternoon, the quad was a ghost town. The sparse, concrete-paved area would start to come alive around four, when Marines began to trickle in from each of the regiment’s four battalions. By five, the space would be mobbed. Music from dozens of radios competing with the chaotic nonsense that occupied bored twentysomething Marines living too close together. The place could also get a little rough, routinely producing black eyes, nasty scrapes, and the occasional fracture for the corpsman to examine in the morning.
He crossed a service road beyond the barracks, emptying into one of the battalion’s back parking lots. The headquarters building was well out of sight, on the other side of the sprawling collection of one-story structures housing the day-to-day garrison activities of Second Battalion, Fourth Marines. Quinn stopped a few rows into the lot, studying the vehicles near the long redbrick building. He had to be careful. The provost marshal had savvy career investigators at his disposal. This wasn’t the first time they’d dealt with sly Marines trying to protect their own.
The back door to the Enhanced Counterinsurgency Platoon’s shack opened far enough to expose Cantrell’s smiling black face. He nodded once and gave him a thumbs-up. Quinn pulled the brim of his utility cover down a bit and jogged for the door, hoping to remain undetected. Cantrell opened it wide when he arrived, locking it after him.
“Cloak-and-dagger shit,” said Cantrell. “Love it.”
“Real-life shit,” said Quinn, clasping his hand. “Thank you. Seriously. You got the photos?”
“I got the whole operation charted out, with high-res photos,” said Cantrell, motioning for him to check out the desk.
Quinn walked over to the broad, metal-constructed government behemoth and examined Cantrell’s sketch. He’d created a top-down view of the Cluster B barracks, with each of the surveillance targets’ locations marked and labeled to correspond with a data sheet. Pictures of the targets had been paper-clipped to each sheet, underneath a brief vehicle and personnel description.
“Who helped you draw this?”
“Drew it myself,” said Cantrell. “Was about to break out the crayons.”
“Might have looked better,” he said, popping his shoulder with the back of his fist. “This is perfect. Only four targets?”
“Four that we found.”
“And you still have eyes on each one?”
“Nobody canceled the op, as far as I knew,” said Cantrell, winking.
“Perfect. Here’s the straight scoop, Staff Sergeant,” said Quinn. “A friend of mine got mixed up in something nasty. Let’s call it a case of mistaken identity. I helped him
out, and now I have the same problem as my friend. That’s all I’m going to say, for your safety.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I am worried about you, and everyone involved in the op. This is serious shit. The surveillance targets you’ve been watching are very serious shit.”
“NCIS?” asked Cantrell.
Quinn shook his head. “They’re very bad news. That’s all I’m going to say. They’re watching Cluster B barracks because I hid my wife in one of the empty rooms last night. She panicked and called me this morning, alerting them to her location. She immediately moved to a backup location in the same building, and has been hiding there all day. That’s how serious this is.”
“They were gonna fuck up your wife?”
“Or worse.”
“We gotta take these clowns down,” said the staff sergeant. “The platoon can do it quiet like.”
“No way,” said Quinn. “We’re talking trained professionals.”
“And we’re not?”
“I have complete faith in the platoon’s abilities, but pitting one group of professional killing machines against another is a recipe for disaster,” said Quinn. “This is my fight.”
“Your fight is our fight. Semper fi.”
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record,” replied Quinn. “Here’s what you can do for me. I need you to handpick a team to extract my wife from her barracks room.”
“Where is she located?”
“Building two, facing south,” said Quinn, pointing at the building on his sketch.
“Looks like we’ll have to take this car out of the equation.”
“I have a less hazardous way to get them out of the way,” said Quinn.
“That doesn’t sound like much fun, sir.” His platoon sergeant sounded sincerely bummed.
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 25