“Kirkus and his men are here,” Margaret said from the doorway.
“Let ‘em in,” Lindsey said.
The sound of boots slapping on tile echoed from the hallway. John Kirkus stepped into the room and took off his fancy white cowboy hat.
“Afternoon,” he said politely. Two bulky men followed him inside, both of them dressed in winter coats and jeans. Raven had expected the survivalists to be wearing tactical gear, but maybe they were trying to blend in.
“Welcome, and thanks for coming,” Lindsey said. “We have very little time before tomorrow’s drop-off, so I’m going to get started right away.” She looked to Raven.
“She means I’m going to get started,” he said, cracking half a smile to lessen the tension. His stomach growled, but not from hunger. His nerves were tight. He still wasn’t used to leading. “I’ll start with explaining our updated defenses.”
Raven picked up the red marker and pointed at the map. “I’ve added militia to our roadblocks on Highway 34 and Highway 36. Both are areas we could see an attack if things don’t go to plan. Or if Thompson decides to attack us anyways.”
Raven looked up to make sure everyone was paying attention. “Knowing what I do about Thompson, my guess is that he will try to sneak into town, which is why I’ve also assigned extra people to the two roadblocks on Highway 7. We have two people posted at the Crow’s Nest at all times as an early warning system. On top of that, patrols will be combing the boundaries of the town constantly.”
He placed the marker down and walked around the table to the dry-erase board, which was covered with shift schedules and other non-classified info.
“We currently have over a hundred men and women capable of putting up a fight if it comes down to it. We’ve spread them out the best we can,” Raven continued.
“That’s a lot of boots on the ground,” Kirkus said. “Impressive.”
“It’s a start, but it’s nowhere near enough to keep us safe on all sides. That’s why I recently started a first response team. Think Special Forces or SWAT. The ten men and women in this room are part of that team. We’ve distributed the few two-way radios we have to them, and they all have access to some sort of a vehicle.”
Kirkus stroked his thick white mustache. “We have a similar force. Consists of me, my friend Jack, and my brother, Lane.” He jerked his chin at the two men standing next to him.
Raven grinned. “Good to have you here, Jack and Lane.” He had been wary of the survivalists at first, but after they’d helped save Creek, he was ready to go to war with these men.
You might end up doing just that.
“All right, so you’re probably all wondering how we’re going to deal with Sheriff Thompson tomorrow,” Raven said.
The room went dead quiet, and he breathed in through his nose, still wondering if his plan was going to get him chewed out. The last thing he wanted was for these people to lose their trust in him after how hard he’d fought to gain it.
But he had to trust himself, too. This will work, Raven thought. It has to work.
“We’re going to bring them Jason Cole tomorrow, like Thompson wants, and we’re going to bring them the first shipment of food and supplies,” he said.
“What?” Lindsey cried, shooting him a serious side-eye. “I thought you said we weren’t going to do that.”
“No way,” said the mayor. “We can’t give Thompson what he’s asking for. Doing so will result in countless deaths in Estes Park. We need our medicine and every pound of food.”
Detective Ryburn lowered his head and sighed. “She’s right. I love Chief Colton, but we have mouths to feed. And Jason Cole can’t go free after what he did.”
Raven nodded at them in turn. “I understand—but if we don’t do this drop tomorrow, we won’t just lose Colton. We will end up going to war, which will result in far more death and suffering. That’s why we need to gain Thompson’s trust first. Make him think we’re already beaten. Once he lowers his guard, I plan to strike him where it counts and get our food and supplies back.”
A few of the militia exchanged glances, and the mayor looked over at Lindsey, checking her reaction. The detective’s expression was closed off, and Raven worried that she might not back his play.
“Don’t worry, we’re going to get everything we give them back, plus some. You’ll see,” Raven said. “You just have to trust me.”
_____
Sandra Spears wasn’t sure what the hell her brother was up to, but she trusted he was going to do the right thing with Sheriff Thompson. For now, her focus was on keeping her patients alive—including Creek. Neither Raven nor Allie would forgive her if she didn’t ensure the dog’s full recovery.
She walked through the hospital with a lantern to check on Creek, Teddy, and Allie before the next surgery. She was tired.
No. Exhausted.
The last time she had slept a full night through had been over a week ago. And that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Especially not tonight. After she finished her rounds, she was headed back into the operating room, which seemed to be a revolving door.
They had put Creek into Teddy’s room, since they were running out of space. Teddy’s parents were fine with it, and it helped Sandra focus on her work knowing Allie, Creek, and Teddy were all in the same place. When she got to the room, she slowly opened the door and roved the light over the space. Creek was sleeping peacefully in the small bed they had made for him in the corner, his face protected by the cone. Allie was on the floor beside him, curled up in a sleeping bag and holding the dog’s front right paw in her hand.
The sight melted her heart.
“Nurse Spears?” Teddy called out.
Sandra quietly made her way over to his bedside and whispered, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he said, matching her whisper. “How are you?”
She smiled. “I’m good. Just checking on you guys.”
“When can I get out of here? I really want to go home. I miss my dog.”
“Soon. I promise. We just need to make sure you’re healed, and it looks like you pretty much are.”
Teddy smiled, but his hand went instinctively to the stump of his arm. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”
She leaned in to hug the boy.
“Mom, is that you?”
Sandra pulled away to see that Allie was now awake. Creek sat up too. He tried to paw at his face, but the cone stopped him.
“Go back to sleep, sweetie,” Sandra said. Her eyes flitted to motion outside the open doorway. Doctor Newton stood there, already dressed in scrubs and gown for the surgery.
“We’re almost ready,” he said.
“I’ll be right there,” Sandra said.
She bent down to kiss Allie and pat Creek on his head.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she said. “Sleep well.”
Allie placed her head back on the pillow and watched Sandra leave. After closing the door, Sandra made her way down the hallway. Inside the first room was Martha Kohler, the doctor who had been rescued from the road to Estes Park. She was still recovering from the nearly fatal attack on the road, but she was doing much better.
In the operating room, Doctor Duffy was fully suited up and ready to begin. The other nurse on duty and Doctor Newton were preparing in the clean room. On the operating table was John Palmer, the firefighter and volunteer officer who had been shot at a roadblock. They had already amputated his left arm at his elbow, and now they were preparing to cut off his right arm up to his shoulder.
Infection had set in, even with the medical supplies dropped off by the federal government. Sandra eyed the plastic buckets on the floor next to the table, and the hacksaw on the metal stand. This had once been a modern hospital, but now it looked like something from World War I.
“Turn on the generator,” Newton said.
Sandra flipped the switch, and the lights inside the operating room flickered on. They were running low on fuel, bu
t they had no choice but to use it in this situation. She swallowed as she approached Palmer. He was awake and watching the medical staff, his eyes anxious.
“There’s no other option?” he asked.
Newton shook his head. “I’m sorry, but if we don’t do this now, you’re not going to survive.”
Palmer sucked in a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sandra said.
His eyes shifted to her. “No. No it’s not.”
She wanted to say something reassuring, but he was right. How the hell was he going to get by even if the surgery saved his life? A man without arms was practically helpless to defend himself and his family. She wasn’t even sure Raven could protect her and Allie now, with the threats coming at Estes Park from nearly every direction.
_____
Colton knew he was dreaming, but he was unable to wake from the nightmare. Like always, the dream was so vivid that he could swear it was real. This time, it was a memory of his time in Kandahar, Afghanistan. It had been June of 2009, seven days after they’d touched down at the airfield. He and three other soldiers had been stationed at Checkpoint 14.
“Contacts!” shouted PFC Jay Reddker.
Colton wiped the sweat from his forehead and grabbed a pair of binoculars from the private. “Four contacts,” he said, zooming in on a black Toyota pickup.
PFC Jacob Smith roved the M40 slightly to the right, the muzzle locking on the rusted hood of the truck. He spat on the ground and looked up for orders.
“Hold your fire,” Colton said.
He centered the binoculars on the driver. A middle-aged man with tanned skin and a full beard. In the passenger side sat an elderly woman with a scarf covering most of her face. There were two figures in the back seat, small enough to be children.
Goddammit, Colton thought. Were they Taliban? Sometimes the insurgents brought civilians along with them on suicide runs. Locals rarely ended up on this road unless they were lost, and this guy didn’t look lost at all. He looked determined.
Colton snagged the bullhorn from the pile of sandbags and signaled the driver of a Humvee parked outside the gate. The soldier in the turret nodded and readied the M240.
Bringing the bullhorn to his mouth, Colton said, “Stop and shut off your engine!” Speaking in Dari was difficult, but after repeating the same phrase hundreds of times, it had gotten easier.
The truck continued to race down the frontage road, dust swirling behind in the trail of their exhaust. Colton put their distance at a little over one thousand meters. Every weapon at Checkpoint 14 was centered on the truck. If the driver hadn’t seen the firepower yet, he couldn’t miss it now. There were also half a dozen signs in various languages along the dual fences. There was no way his presence here was an accident.
Colton checked the man again with his binoculars. Cold eyes stared back.
Those eyes were desperate—and filled with rage.
“Stop and shut off your engine!” Colton repeated when the truck was at five hundred meters. He’d hoped the show of firepower would deter the driver, but instead of slowing or turning around, the truck picked up speed.
Colton spoke in Pashto just to make sure. “Stop your truck!”
“Not listening, Sarge,” Reddker said. “Want us to light ‘em up?” There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that disgusted Colton. He held up a hand and said, “Hold your goddamn fire.”
Reddker and half of the men in Colton’s unit were too young to understand death. They didn’t get that once you pulled the trigger, you couldn’t take it back.
Squinting into the blazing sunlight, Colton confirmed the pickup wasn’t going to stop. The truck had passed the three-hundred-meter mark. On the other side of the fence were four F-16s waiting to be fueled by a tanker on the tarmac. The driver swerved toward them, and it was then Colton realized the pickup wasn’t heading for their checkpoint after all.
“Open fire!” Colton yelled. “Raptor 2, get after ‘em!”
The Humvee squealed onto the road, tires burning rubber as Reddker’s M240 barked to life. Tracer rounds tore into the sand on the left side of the road, blanketing the truck with grit. Sweat poured down Colton’s head as he watched the driver spin the wheel and veer off the road toward the jets.
A siren screamed in the distance, and the airfield came alive with movement. Humvees, armored vehicles, and fire trucks scrambled across the tarmac. But they were too far away. The only people who could stop the truck were Colton and his men.
Reddker continued firing, shells ejecting from the big gun and smoke swirling from the red-hot muzzle. He was hitting everything but the truck, rounds slamming into concrete and punching through dirt.
Colton pushed his M4 to his eyes and zoomed in with the advanced combat optical gun sight. A tiny face was pressed against the back window of the cab. Dark eyes, wide and innocent, stared back at him.
My God, Colton thought. The girl couldn’t be older than six or seven. Nearly choking on adrenaline, he aimed for the tires.
A barrage of 7.62 mm rounds battered the bed of the truck as Reddker finally found his target. The Toyota jerked to the right, breaking through the first barricade and dragging a fence panel under the carriage.
Raptor 2, the Humvee Colton had ordered into the fight, pulled off the road and smashed through the fence one hundred meters to the west. Colton focused his crosshairs on the pickup that bobbed up and down in his gun sights. He saw the young girl’s face again just before it vanished from sight as another salvo of rounds punched through the passenger door of the truck.
Somehow, the pickup was still moving. It slammed through the second fence and made a run for the F-16s. Reddker held his fire, out of range now, but Raptor 2 was unloading with everything they had. Three other Humvees were closing in behind the jets, a fire truck on their six.
Colton hurried over to his own Humvee. “Reddker, on me. Everyone else stay here!”
The private hopped into the passenger seat, breathing heavily, a grin on his face.
“I think I got one of ‘em, Sarge!”
“There are kids in that truck,” Colton growled.
Reddker looked at the truck, the grin fading. “Oh, shit. I didn’t see…”
The clatter of metal snapped Colton awake. He sat up in his bed, forgetting where he was for a moment. The bars of his cell reminded him he was still in the jail in Fort Collins. A wave of anxiety tore through him when he also remembered that, in a few hours, his friends in Estes Park were due to barter with Thompson’s people in exchange for his life.
The door at the end of the hallway opened, and a strangled voice called out. “Please...please let me go.”
Colton moved over to the bars. In the glow of a torch, he saw three figures moving down the hallway to his right. Two guards carried a man under his armpits, his legs dragging across the ground. He was hurt, and hurt bad.
They pulled him past Colton’s cell before he could get a look at the man’s face. They stopped at the next cell, unlocked the door, and tossed the man inside.
The guards paused in front of Colton’s bars. The man with the torch held it up, revealing the bearded faces of Thompson’s men. These weren’t the hard Russians that Thompson usually brought out. These were just grunts.
The one on the left had his hair neatly parted on the side, an odd look for a man with an AR-15 slung over a shoulder. The guy on the right wore a black baseball cap and glasses. Both of them smelled like they hadn’t showered since the bombs dropped.
“Tomorrow’s a big day for you, Chief,” the man with the cap said.
Side-Part pulled out his knife and clicked the blade against the metal bar several times. “Hear that, Drew?” he said, looking at his buddy with a grin.
“That’s the tick-tock of the clock, Chief,” Drew said, taking over. “In the morning we’ll find out if you get to live, or if I get to carve you up.”
The men both laughed and walked away, but Colton remained s
tanding, his heart still pounding from his dream and the fate that awaited him.
Down the hall, the guards opened the door. It clicked shut behind them. Colton gritted his teeth and squeezed the bars until his knuckles popped. He stood there, staring into the darkness, the anger eating at his insides.
In the past, his wife or his best friend would have been able to talk him out of the darkness, but tonight Colton was alone. Jake was dead, and Kelly might as well have been a million miles away. If he fell back asleep in this state of mind, he would just dream again of the girl he couldn’t save in Afghanistan, or Melissa Stone, or...
“Marcus?” called a voice.
Colton loosened his grip on the bars. Was he hearing things?
The voice came again, but it was so muffled he could barely make it out.
“Marcus, it’s me. Clint.”
Colton let go of the bars. It couldn’t be. Clint Bailey was dead. They had dragged him out of here and killed him.
This had to be one of Thompson’s tricks.
Clint spoke again, clearer this time.
“They’re going to kill you tomorrow,” he rasped. “If you have a chance to run, do it.”
4
CHARLIZE BOARDED THE Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter at dawn. There hadn’t been much time, but she had put on light makeup and brushed her short hair into a style that looked somewhat respectable. Her outfit—black slacks and blazer with a white blouse—was clean and neatly pressed.
She took a seat next to Colonel Mark Raymond as the pilots prepared to take off. Today was one of the most important days in the history of the United States—it was the day the Chinese landed on American soil. The Founding Fathers would be rolling in their graves. But what choice did they have? The help from China would save countless American lives.
Trackers 4: The Damned (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series) Page 4