Hines collapsed to his knees a few feet away, groaning in pain.
Raven suddenly understood what had happened and how devious the trap had been. The shooter had ambushed Beedie and Hines, taken Hines hostage, and used him as bait. It was smart, really smart.
“Any last words, injun?” the man said.
“What were you, Delta Force, SEAL? Green Beret?”
“Don’t matter now. All that matters is this gun to your head.”
Raven had to keep the guy talking to give Creek a chance.
“You said on the road you killed those people because they got in your way,” he said.
“That’s right, and since this is the second time you’ve gotten in my way, I’m going to make sure you feel it.”
A growl came from above, and the man jerked the gun away to look for the source of the noise. Raven wasted no time turning and slamming into the guy. He glimpsed Creek standing on top of the rocks, teeth bared and saliva dripping from his mouth.
Raven wrestled the man to the ground, and Creek leapt on top of the pile. The shooter screamed in pain from the dog’s ferocious bites. While his dog worked on subduing their chase, Raven worked on getting the gun. He finally pulled it from the man’s grip and stood, pointing the gun down.
Relentless, Creek continued to tear at the guy’s neck. Raven let his dog have a few extra seconds before calling him off.
The question about the toughest, smartest, most lethal dogs had always been a matter of heated debate when Raven was in the Marines. Some people preferred German Shepherds, while others were partial to Rottweilers, Dobermans, or the Belgian Malinois. But for Raven’s money, there was nothing more fearsome than a pissed off fully grown Akita.
It was nearing three in the morning and Albert, Corporal Van Dyke, and Sergeant Flint were still sneaking into the city. Albert hadn’t yet fired his rifle, but Van Dyke and Flint were already a good way through their first magazines.
They were making their way toward an apartment building towering in the distance. The entire fifteen-story structure had been burned to a crisp, leaving behind charcoaled scree and debris at the bottom. It wasn’t hard to see what started the fire weeks ago. Helicopter rotors stuck out from the top of the tower. Without a fire department to combat the blaze, it had torched much of the surrounding area. Albert’s boots left tracks in the ashen carpet covering the street.
Flint led the small team through an alleyway to avoid any contacts. The next street appeared empty. Most of the remaining residents were fast asleep, but it was the late-night prowlers that posed a threat.
They moved down another road clogged with stalled vehicles. At one point someone had attempted to push a few of them to the side, but had just ended up blocking the sidewalk instead. A charcoaled police cruiser was just ahead. Bullet holes riddled the side of the vehicle, and a skeleton was slumped next to the car, nothing but blackened bones.
That was the second police officer’s corpse Albert had seen tonight. After a short prayer for his brother in blue, he moved his finger along the trigger guard. Whoever had killed that cop might still be in the neighborhood. They needed to find his sister—and fast.
Flint picked up the pace on the next street. He flashed hand signals, and the men fanned out in combat intervals, moving at a hunch and hugging the storefronts. Albert was growing more anxious with every step. What if Jacqueline wasn’t there? What if something had happened to her already? It was a risk Albert had understood before setting out. He knew the journey could end with failure, even with his own death, but it was a risk he didn’t regret taking.
A distant scream filled the night, stopping the men and sending them all crouching for cover. Albert searched the apartment building on the left side of the street. Hundreds of windows, some of them shattered, were directly overhead. In one of them, he saw a face looking down at him—a small one, perhaps just a child. By the time he brought his rifle up to zoom in with the scope, the person was gone.
The scream didn’t come again. The city of Charlotte, once the financial center of the Southeast, was shrouded in silence. The lack of noise chilled Albert to the bone. Gone were the sounds of human engineering: cars, sirens, televisions, cell phones. It was like a time machine had transported Albert into a bygone era.
Flashing another hand signal, Flint snapped Albert from his trance. They were coming up on a large, gated park. Another fire, still raging nearby, cast a glow over the area, illuminating hundreds of trees, a playground with slides and swings, and a cluster of gardens built around a central fountain. Albert did a quick scan for contacts and then joined Flint by a shrub that shielded their position. Van Dyke held security on the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder and whispering for them to hurry the hell up.
Flint held the map for Albert to see. “We’re about two blocks away from your sister’s apartment.”
Albert nodded.
“When was the last time you were here?” Flint asked.
“Uh,” Albert muttered, “I’ve never actually visited her here before.”
Van Dyke flipped up his NVGs and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “So you and your sister are real close, huh?”
The corporal snapped his goggles back into place. He didn’t say another word, but judging by his tone, Albert could tell he was annoyed. Flint looked over his shoulder at them again, likely thinking the same thing. Captain Harris had sent them out into a warzone to find the sister Albert had never even bothered to visit.
The thought made Albert feel nauseous. His guts dropped farther when a shout rang out. Instinct took over, and he brought his rifle up at a man standing at the street corner on the east end of the park.
“What we got here?” the man yelled. “Nice hardware.”
Five more shadowed figures strolled out onto the sidewalk and into the street, their bodies like green aliens in Albert’s optics. He scrutinized them in the seconds it took the group to walk out into the open, his police training kicking in. All six were carrying weapons, from baseball bats to a shotgun. Most of them were Latino and sported multiple gang tattoos, including the five-point crown symbol of the Latin Kings.
“Back up, bro,” Van Dyke said, directing his M4 at the man who had spoken.
Several of the gang members pointed flashlights at Albert, Flint, and Van Dyke. Albert continued scanning them, prioritizing who appeared to be the biggest threat. Five of the men were thin and muscular, but the guy carrying the baseball bat had tree trunk legs and a massive gut.
“Lower your fucking lights and get the hell out of here,” Flint ordered. He moved his barrel from face to face. “Don’t test me.”
It took only a moment to see who the leader was. A Latino man with a Mohawk and neck tattoos strode forward with a machete in hand, his jeans hanging low and a gray sweatshirt tight across his muscular chest.
“Yo, you guys look like GI fucking Joe!” he said.
The other men laughed in sync.
“More like a bunch of terminators!” the fat man with the bat chuckled.
“Shut the fuck up and back up, or I’ll shoot your little pecker off,” Flint said.
Albert almost let out a sigh. Clearly Flint and Van Dyke weren’t trained on winning the hearts and minds of the population. But it wasn’t like these guys were the average civilian. Latin Kings were known for their brutality, just like MS-13, and the leader of this group was holding one of their weapons of choice, a sharp machete.
He took another step forward, twirling the weapon. His pants sagged farther down his butt, but he didn’t bother pulling them up.
Flint pushed the barrel of his M4 in the man’s direction, the red dot sight hitting him just below the belt.
“I said back the fuck off,” Flint said.
The Latino man’s eyes flitted down at the marker on his crotch. “All right, all right,” he snarled. “But you and your GI Joes are in Latin King territory now, so you best watch your backs.”
Flint and Van Dyke were slowly backpedaling. “
Let’s go, Randall,” Flint said.
Albert didn’t need to be persuaded. They all kept their guns shouldered, red dot sights flitting from chest to chest, ready to pull the trigger if the gang members so much as moved another inch. The leader watched them, nostrils flared like a raging bull, veins popping out on his muscular arms as he gripped the machete.
It was obvious the guy was waiting for the right moment to send his posse at the trio, but doing so would be suicide. They had automatic M4s, and these guys only had a shotgun and couple of pistols. As long as everyone stayed cool, they’d all make it out of the park.
A few steps later, a guttural crack sounded, and Van Dyke yelled out in pain.
Albert saw a flash of motion in his peripheral vision. Someone had flanked them. Another man with a baseball bat hit Van Dyke a second time in the back. The corporal crashed to his knees. Flint spun and pumped three holes into the attacker’s chest, and then one in the head for good measure.
“Rear guard!” he yelled at Albert.
Albert was already moving. He fired a three-round burst into a man lunging forward with a knife, scoring shots to chest and gut. The gangbanger crumpled to the ground, blood gushing onto the road. Three more came at Albert, and Flint took two of them down with quick bursts.
The suppressed fire was answered by the boom of a shotgun. Flint cried out in pain and hit the ground not far from where Van Dyke was still gasping for air.
Albert roved his rifle toward the shooter and fired directly into the man’s face, blowing out an eyeball and sending a round up his nostril. The corpse fell to the ground, leaving only two gangbangers standing, including the man with the Mohawk.
The second guy took off running, but the leader screamed in rage and ran at Albert with his machete raised and a flashlight directed at his optics. The bright light blinded Albert for a moment. He pushed his night vision goggles up and fired blindly, holding the trigger down and spraying in the direction of the light.
A scream followed and Albert backed away, blinking. When his vision finally returned, the gang leader was striding toward Albert, gripping a wound with one hand and swinging his machete with the other.
Albert brought his rifle up and parried the machete attack. The clang echoed over the groans of the dying men around them.
The leader had lost his flashlight, leaving them in almost complete darkness. Albert didn’t dare reach up and pull his NVGs down, so instead he backed away and listened for footsteps. The move likely saved his life, as he felt the machete slash the air where he’d been standing. He swung the rifle again but missed.
Another slash came, this one scoring a line of fire down his right arm. This time when Albert swung his weapon, he caught the man in the face with the butt of the rifle. He flipped his NVGs back into position to see the leader sprawled on the ground, a mouthful of teeth on the concrete next to his shattered face.
Albert breathed heavily as he scanned the other fallen gang members. The violence had driven the air from his lungs. It was the first time Albert had ever killed anyone, and he felt like he was going to puke.
The fat man reached for his baseball bat and Albert raised his rifle.
“Don’t!” Albert shouted.
The man gripped the bat and pushed himself up.
“Drop it!” Albert yelled, louder.
The man staggered forward, and then fell backward as gunshots riddled his gut and chest.
Albert lowered his rifle, seeing Flint had been the one to fire. The sergeant’s hand was slick with blood. He reached back down and gripped his side where some of the shotgun pellets must have penetrated his vest.
“You hurt, Corporal?” Flint asked.
“I’m fine,” Van Dyke said. “Just winded.”
Flint nodded and pulled his hand away to have a look at his side. Albert tried to help, but the sergeant waved him away.
“Just a flesh wound,” Flint grumbled. “Come on, let’s go find your sister and get the hell out of this shithole.”
GENERAL DAN FENIX was freezing his ass off. Morning was still hours away, and it was cold as hell. He’d had to leave his camp, his dying men, and the rest of the beer. To make things even worse, he was now lost in the goddamn woods with Doc Rollins.
Their escape didn’t matter if he and Rollins didn’t find shelter soon. Otherwise, they were going to end up as icicles.
The howl of a wolf sang through the forest. Fenix raised his M4, and Rollins brought his weapon up a moment later. The guns moved in opposite directions to search for the beast.
The sound faded into the night, leaving the two men in silence and shivering in their coats.
“You sure you don’t got a cigarette, Doc?” Fenix asked.
“Carson had us hand in all of our reserves this morning.”
Fenix thought of his right-hand man, the guy that had given his life to protect Fenix. He could clearly picture the dozen sharp spears of wood sticking out of Carson’s back.
“Fucking A,” Fenix said, his teeth chattering. “What a c-clusterfuck.”
He hoped some of his men had survived the attack, but he had his doubts. For all he knew, Rollins and him were all that was left of their camp. There was only one way forward. He had to reach the closest Sons of Liberty outpost before he froze to death. Or got his balls eaten by a wolf.
“Come on, Doc,” he grumbled.
They continued north through the forest, following the compass Fenix always carried with him. It was five miles to the shack where two of his sentries were posted. They were equipped with a working radio that would allow Fenix to contact his men in the other camps scattered across Colorado.
Now if he could just find his way back to the road…
Another howl sounded in the distance, but Fenix didn’t stop this time. He pressed onward, his aging joints creaking like the canopy of pine trees overhead. The thought of a cigarette and warm coffee kept him moving as the temperature continued to drop. Rollins shivered behind him, his rifle shaking in his grip. For October, it was an unusually cold night in Colorado. A storm front had moved in, bringing with it freezing temperatures and the threat of snow. Fenix spotted heavy clouds rolling toward the moon. The last thing he wanted was to be caught out here in a snowstorm.
After another hour of heading north, he finally came up on a hill overlooking a country road. The sight of asphalt filled him with relief. He crouched next to a tree and aimed his rifle at a single car parked in the middle of the road. Rollins stopped on the ridgeline a few feet away from Fenix.
“Looks clear,” the doctor said.
Fenix held up a hand. “Hold on, Doc.”
He focused on the car. It wasn’t as good as a cabin, but it was shelter from the wind and cold. Maybe they could hunker down for a few hours until dawn. Fenix moved to scope the rear of the vehicle. He cursed when he saw the shattered windows. It wasn’t going to keep them warm or protected.
After another scan for contacts, Fenix waved Rollins onward. They carefully made their way down the side of the hill and moved onto the shoulder of the road.
Rollins took to the right side and Fenix moved to the left. They walked for another half hour, maybe longer. A snowflake fluttered onto his face, stinging his cheek. Looking up through his stolen NVGs, he saw a sky full of flakes, like green confetti coming down at a New Year’s party. A long green streak of light flared across the horizon. At first he thought it was a shooting star, but then he heard the unmistakable bark of an M240 gun. Tracer rounds ripped through the darkness.
“Down, down!” Fenix yelled. He bolted across the road and hid with Rollins near the base of a tree at the edge of the woods.
“Who’s shooting at us now?” Rollins asked.
Peeking around the tree, Fenix spotted the outline of a helicopter hovering over the forest to the west. The tracer rounds were centered on a hilltop position, which at least meant the bastards weren’t firing on his sentry post. According to his map, the post was tucked in a ravine.
Was this the he
licopter gunship that had attacked his camp earlier come back after refueling, or was this a new one?
He moved cautiously out onto the street, brought up the rifle to his NVGs, and zoomed in on the helicopter. It was a mile away, maybe more.
“Come on, Doc,” Fenix said.
Rollins reluctantly moved back into the road. They kept to the shoulder as they walked toward the battle, which lay between them and the sentry post. Ahead, the asphalt snaked around a corner that was blocked by more trees. Hills and snowy peaks protruded above the pines.
The snow picked up as the two men walked with their rifles aimed at the chopper. Flakes fluttered in front of his sights, and Fenix reached up to brush off the scope and his NVGs every few steps.
Over the din of automatic gunfire, he heard the faint rattle of an engine. He halted and then took a knee when he realized it was moving in their direction. The tracer rounds changed trajectory. One of them streaked down the road and hit a tree behind them.
“Shit!” Fenix yelled. He dove for cover just as a trio of pickup trucks rounded the corner ahead.
Fenix crawled behind a tree and was preparing his rifle when he saw men in black fatigues were firing from the beds of the pickup trucks at the chopper.
“Fuck yes! We got reinforcements, Doc!” he said.
“You sure those are our guys?”
Fenix wasn’t sure. In fact, it didn’t make much sense that they would run into the Sons of Liberty out here in the ass end of nowhere. But who else could they be? It had to be his men coming to rescue him, right?
“Give them some covering fire!” Fenix shouted. He pushed himself up and, using the tree for cover, roved his barrel at the helo. The suppressed crack of his rifle joined the chorus of war.
He held the trigger down with glee—sending rounds downrange was one hell of a feeling when you had your enemy in your sights, especially when the enemy wasn’t firing back at you.
Smooth as shit, baby, Fenix mused.
He fired burst after burst, more rounds cutting through the darkness. The bird pulled up, but the door gunner continued firing, relentless. Flames burst from the pickup in the back of the column, the gas tank igniting and sending the men in the bed cartwheeling away in a brilliant flash.
Trackers 3: The Storm (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller) Page 13