“Got it,” Barnes said. “And thanks.”
Beckham patted the driver door and hurried back to the pickup. The three vehicles backed out one by one. Barnes reversed over the fresh sod, kicking up grass and dirt. The jeep was the first to pull out, and as they peeled away, Kate held up a hand and waved to Ringgold. She returned the gesture.
The convoy rolled through the residential neighborhood at a low speed. There wasn’t a single vehicle on the road. Street lamps illuminated the pre-fab houses. She’d visited dozens of SZTs across the United States, and all of them looked basically the same. This was the America she had fought to bring back from the brink of destruction. Mailboxes in front yards. A barking dog. The scent of freshly cut grass. Families eating dinner together.
Beckham took a right at the next street, and she watched the silhouette of the truck vanish into the darkness.
“Good luck, Captain,” Ringgold whispered. She looked back out the window at the last block of houses. When she was a kid, she had ridden her bike to rich neighborhoods at night to look in windows from the sidewalk and see what other families had. Sometimes she would pretend she lived in one of those nice houses.
Growing up in the projects hadn’t been easy, but seeing what was possible had motivated Ringgold to fight her way out of the poverty and violence. Looking in from the outside had always filled her with hope.
She clung to that hope now. It was the only thing keeping her going.
Beckham drove the truck into a cornfield for cover. He hadn’t seen a single headlight on the road, but he didn’t want to leave the pickup in plain sight.
He killed the engine and scanned the woods across the road. A tower jutted out of the canopy in the distance. That was their target.
“Coast looks clear,” Ellis said.
“Can’t always believe your eyes.”
Beckham picked up his rifle and used the scope to scan the area. Beside him, Ellis cleared his throat.
“I’d like a gun, please. I know you have plenty to spare.”
Beckham lowered his rifle to study the man. When they’d first met, Ellis had been a timid, annoying scientist Beckham had to babysit. He was still annoying, of course, but he had also earned Beckham’s respect. Ellis had stepped up, time and again, to save lives. Now he might just be a key player in saving their forces in Europe.
Beckham wasn’t the same man he’d been back then, either. In his current state, he might actually be less of a threat than Ellis. He handed over an M9 pistol, and to Beckham’s surprise, the doctor pulled back the slide to chamber a round.
“I’ve been practicing,” he said with a shrug.
“Okay, Doc, listen very closely. We get in, you send your messages, and then we book it.”
“Got it.”
“Stay behind me at all times.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t shoot anyone unless I give the order.”
Ellis raised an eyebrow. “Reed, believe it or not, I can handle myself. Can we get moving?”
Beckham reached into his vest pocket where he kept the two most precious things he owned. The first was a picture of his mom. He pulled it out, kissed the plastic sleeve, and replaced it. The other was the ring Horn had given him. He was beginning to think that the perfect moment to propose would never come.
A breeze whipped through his hair as he quietly shut the truck door. The black fleece jacket and the bulletproof vest he wore over the top kept out most of the chill, but the temperature was plummeting. It wouldn’t be long before winter hit Plum Island.
“Behind me. Back to back. Eyes out to either side and on our six,” Beckham reminded him.
“Six is behind us, right?” When Beckham looked back at him in dismay, Ellis just grinned. He raised the M9, and together they moved out.
Beckham crossed to the other side of the road. The tower was supposed to be guarded by a sentry, but most of the men had been reassigned to more vulnerable areas. He couldn’t see any vehicles or soldiers outside.
After flashing an advance signal, Beckham tucked the butt of his gun under his left shoulder and gripped the trigger guard with his index finger. He propped the rifle up on his prosthetic hand.
Don’t think of Kate. Don’t think of Fitz. Don’t think of Horn or his girls. Don’t think of President Ringgold. Don’t think of anything but completing this mission.
Tonight the aches and pains of his many injuries were buried by a rush of adrenaline. Beckham was back from retirement. He still didn’t feel a hundred percent—not even fifty percent—but he was back in his element, a soldier on a mission.
He stopped to scope the road, then moved at a hunch and raked the crosshairs in an arc from nine o’clock to three o’clock. The darkness, the chill of the air, the buzz of bugs, and the uncertainty of their mission transported him back to the night he had led Team Ghost to Building 8. If he could have only known the monsters they would face beneath the research facility…
A crunch came from under his blade, snapping him back to the present. He stepped out of the bed of leaves, cleared the road one last time, then moved to the shoulder. Ellis’s footsteps behind him indicated the doctor was moving as instructed. Beckham glanced back and had to smile when he saw Ellis roving the path behind them with his M9 at the ready. They moved down into the ditch and up into the fort of trees.
Beckham put his back up against the trunk of a tree and leaned to the right to check for contacts through the wall of branches. He still saw no sign of a sentry around the fenced-in tower.
Pushing his scope to eye level, Beckham continued into the thick foliage. Snags pulled on his fleece, and his blade threatened to tangle in the weeds and vines as he made his way forward. He hugged the trunks for protection, moving from base to base and staying out of the open as much as possible.
When he reached the clearing, he crouched and zoomed in on the concrete box of a building. It was small, with only a single control room. A lawn of overgrown grass separated the woods and the gate outside the tower.
Ellis knelt behind him, keeping low. Beckham let out an icy breath and went to signal an advance when he saw a puff of smoke. The scent of a cigarette hit his nose a moment later.
“Down,” he whispered.
Ellis flattened his body on the ground next to Beckham.
“We got one contact,” Beckham whispered. “You stay here.”
He crawled through the grass—something he hadn’t tried since losing his hand and part of his leg. It was a lot harder than it used to be. Another cloud of smoke swirled into the air, and Beckham got up and ran for the fence instead.
When he reached it he slung the rifle over his back and grabbed the bolt cutters from his pack. The cutters slipped off the lock, and he had to try again to position them. Without the strength of both hands, he couldn’t get the jaws to bite down hard enough.
Beckham closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control his frustration. Exhaling, he waved Ellis for help. The doctor ran across the field and took over with the cutters while Beckham grabbed his M4 and centered the muzzle on the corner where he’d seen the smoke.
Ellis broke through the lock and held out a hand to prevent the chain from clanking. Beckham squeezed past him. He angled his M4 up a ladder leading to the tower and then approached the side of the building. Hugging the wall, he raised his rifle. The smoke was gone, but there was a zipping sound coming from around the corner.
Beckham moved into position and centered his gun at the sentry, who was standing with his back turned to the building. An arc of steaming liquid hit the ground a few feet away.
“Pull up your pants and put your hands on your head,” Beckham said.
The guard looked over his shoulder, then stumbled as he tried to run.
“Take it easy,” Beckham said.
The moonlight illuminated the familiar face of an older Marine with crow’s feet and graying facial hair. Beckham remembered him from the embassy building the day of the town hall meeting. The respect he had show
n then made it very difficult to do what Beckham needed to do.
“You the only one here?”
“Yes. What is this?” the Marine asked, pulling his trousers up and doing his belt.
“Don’t ask questions, just do as I say. Put your hands on your head and don’t move. You have a key to the building?”
The Marine nodded.
“Good. Hand it over.”
“Captain, I—”
“Just do it,” Beckham said.
The Marine raised his hands.
“What’s your name?” Beckham asked.
“Huxley,” the Marine replied.
“Alright, Huxley. Keys. Now.”
He locked eyes with Beckham and said, “There’s something you should know, Captain.”
Beckham didn’t have time to chat. “I’m sorry,” he said. In a swift motion, he stepped forward and butted the Marine in the side of the head with his M4. Huxley crashed to the ground, unconscious.
“Ellis,” Beckham whispered.
The doctor came around the corner and stared at the Marine.
“Little help, please,” Beckham said.
He handed Ellis a zip tie. Ellis grabbed the Marine’s hands and bound them together while Beckham worked on his feet. When they had finished, Beckham apologized a second time before he dug through Huxley’s pockets for the keys. He gave them to Ellis.
He approached the door with his gun shouldered and glanced up at the tower that was going to get their message to Europe. Clouds rolled across the dark sky, but he saw no sign of the Little Birds or other aircraft. The road was still empty.
Beckham took a step back as Ellis unlocked the door. He nodded, and the doctor pushed the steel door open. Beckham burst into the dimly lit control room, raking his gun over the sparsely furnished space. A bank of lights overhead flickered on, spreading a glow over a comms station on the left wall and a table littered with magazines and empty coffee cups on the right. Two chairs faced a computer monitor in the center of the room.
There was no one else here. Huxley hadn’t lied after all.
“Clear,” Beckham said. “Move your ass, Ellis.”
The doctor ran, not to the radio but to the computer station, and pulled something from his backpack. While Ellis typed at the keyboard, Beckham shut the door. The windowless room was humid despite the chill outside.
“What are you doing, Doc?”
Ellis inserted a flash drive into the computer. “Uploading a report and relaying a message to my European counterparts. They’re working with the EUF. I’ll record the video for General Nixon, too.”
“Maybe I should do the talking when it comes to General Nixon.”
“What, you don’t think he’ll take me seriously? I’ve got a science hat.” He turned slightly with a smug grin and pointed at his NASA cap. Then he reached up to reposition the webcam so it centered on him.
“This is an urgent message from Doctor Pat Ellis of Plum Island, asking you to abort Operation Reach. My partner, Doctor Kate Lovato, and I have discovered that the juvenile Variants in Europe respond to radioactive isotopes differently than those in the US. Instead of compromising their flesh, it mutates them…”
Beckham crossed the room and left Ellis to continue his report. He put his ear against the door to listen, but it was difficult to hear over Ellis spewing rapid-fire jargon in the background. He unlocked the door and slowly opened it, raising his weapon.
Nothing stirred in the lawn or the road beyond. Beckham walked outside and checked on Huxley. The man was still lying in the dirt, unconscious.
“Sorry, brother,” Beckham whispered. He lowered his rifle and walked back around the corner. A faint crunching noise made him pause. His eyes flitted from the sky to the road and finally to the cornfield. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear the hum of vehicles on the gravel road on the other side of the crops.
“Shit.” Beckham hurried back into the building. “Ellis, hurry the hell up. We got company.”
“Just about done.”
Ellis had finished recording his video but was now busy typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Uploading the data! Get over here if you’re going to record the video to General Nixon.”
Beckham looked back outside when he heard diesel engines. He scanned the road from left to right.
Ellis turned from the station. “What the hell is that?”
“Trouble!” Beckham yelled back. He ducked down into a crouch and directed his gun toward the field of corn stalks.
“On second thought, you go ahead and record that video to General Nixon,” Beckham said. “And do it fast!”
He slowly backpedaled into the room with his weapon covering the road and the crops. The blurred vision in his right eye made it hard to judge distances. He blinked, trying to focus, and all at once three Humvees exploded out of the field and tore onto the gravel road. A chunk of ice formed in Beckham’s guts. They were cut off from their truck.
Ellis continued talking into the cam, turning to look over his shoulder every few seconds.
“We’re out of time!” Beckham shouted.
“Done. The videos and the report are uploading. They will send as soon as they finish.”
Beckham grabbed the doctor by his arm and pulled him outside. They couldn’t stay here to make sure the videos were sent. They had to run for the woods and find a way to the Animal Disease Center buildings on foot. And with no way to radio Horn, they were on their own.
A bullet hit the door as they bolted out of the building.
“Stay down!” Beckham said. He stopped to fire at the lead Humvee. His gun slipped on his prosthetic hand, but he recovered and squeezed off a burst. The bullets punched through the hood and windshield, making the driver swerve before the gunner in the turret could fire.
Ellis raised his pistol, but Beckham yanked him out of the line of fire. They made it another couple of yards before a pair of Little Birds swooped over the trees to the east. He turned back to the control room, but a stream of gunfire was chewing up the door and concrete walls, forcing Beckham and Ellis to their stomachs. The rounds came from all directions. They were completely surrounded.
Beckham gasped for air. He couldn’t seem to get enough. His vision seemed to be getting worse, and his aching muscles tightened around his chest.
He spat out a curse. This was not the way Reed Beckham—Delta Force Operator, former leader of Team Ghost, and, God willing, future husband and father—would die. He heaved himself to his knees and then stood, rifle raised.
“Get back inside!” Beckham yelled. He squeezed off a shot that hit the gunner in the turret of the lead Humvee. With a pang of guilt, he watched the man slump into the vehicle. The other two turrets opened up with the 240s, rounds kicking up dirt in a wide circle around Beckham and Ellis.
These guys were either terrible shots or else their orders were to capture and not kill. That told Beckham someone wanted them alive. He would use that to his advantage. He shifted his muzzle to the sky to fire on the Little Birds as they came around for another pass. The bullets pinged off the side of the closest chopper, forcing the pilots to pull away.
“You want some too?” Beckham shouted. He fired off another shot that hit the second bird in the windshield. Then he pivoted and sent three more bursts at the closest Humvee. Rounds shattered the driver’s windshield. The internal machine inside him flipped his senses to full alert, and his weapon became another appendage, like his prosthetics.
His aim was true.
He was a Delta Operator again.
A flurry of shots answered his own, one of them hitting him in his blade. He bit his lip as he went down and hit the dirt.
Motherfuckers, Beckham thought. He spat and pushed himself up on his good knee.
“Come on!” he yelled as he fired on the Humvee to the left. Another gunner fell. Ellis joined in, the pop-pop of his pistol cracking next to Beckham.
“I said to get clear!”
“You
need my help!”
Beckham gritted his teeth and swallowed a mixture of saliva and blood. He pulled out his empty magazine and palmed another into the gun.
The soldiers opened their doors and hid behind them.
Beckham couldn’t tell if they were Rayburn’s men or Wood’s, but at this point it didn’t matter. He would kill every single last one of them.
Ellis hit one of the men in the boot. He crashed to the ground and Beckham shot him in the torso as he attempted to crawl back to safety.
The helicopters flew back around the building. The wind from their blades slammed into Beckham and Ellis. One of them descended toward the open field while the other laid down covering fire. Beckham raised his M4 at a sniper clipped to the side of the bird.
He squeezed off a shot the same second the sniper fired. The enemy round zipped into his prosthetic hand, blowing it to pieces and sending his M4 cartwheeling away.
A piece of shrapnel grazed his temple. He winced and reached for his .45. Pulling it from the holster, he then struggled to cock the hammer and raise the gun.
“Fuck you!” Beckham yelled. He fired a shot that streaked into the heavens. His next went wide, but Ellis managed a shot that hit the sniper in the chest. The man dropped his rifle and went limp in his straps.
Beckham trained his .45 on the windshield of the Little Bird, a much easier target. The pilot pulled away before he could fire, but the second bird hovered.
Rounds tore up the ground around Beckham. One whizzed past his ear.
“I’m out!” Ellis yelled.
“Then fucking run!”
Beckham squeezed off rounds three and four at the chopper. He aimed at the bird, then the Humvees. The soldiers were standing now, and they approached with their rifles shouldered.
“Give up, Captain!”
Beckham roved his gun toward the voice. It sounded familiar. He’d heard it taunting him in his dreams…but no, this wasn’t Colonel Wood.
It was his little brother, the madman who planned to destroy the world.
The Extinction Cycle (Book 6): Extinction Aftermath Page 29