He palmed a new mag home and aimed at the trees, waiting for the next flash. It came a second later, and he squeezed the trigger. Something stung his shoulder, jerking him to the right, as he fired off a shot. He grunted in pain, then found his target again and fired two bursts into the bushes where the sniper lay.
Pain ripped up his arm and neck. The bullet had missed his ballistic vest and cut right through his flesh. He could feel the blood flowing. His first thought was of Kelly and Risa, but he didn’t have time to worry about what they would do without him. His priority was saving them.
Pushing the butt back into position, he squeezed off another barrage of shots at the incoming convoy. An old tow truck with a cow guard was screeching toward what was left of their blockade of vehicles. It hit the flaming mini-van and pickup truck with such force they skidded into the ditch, providing a window for Thompson’s trucks to drive through.
“Fire,” Colton yelled. “Keep firing!”
He waited several seconds, and then nodded at Lindsey. She pulled out her flare gun and aimed it at the ditch to the right of the destroyed vehicle wall, and Colton aimed his flare gun at the left.
The trucks squeezed through the smoldering gap in the vehicles, and then stopped to let their soldiers out. This was it; if they made it through the barrier Colton was holding, then they would be able to drive right into town.
He squeezed off his flare, sending it streaking into the ditch, where it caught fire on the pool of gasoline. The men jumping out of the trucks screamed in horror, several of them going up in flames as the fire spread across the road.
“Don’t let up!” Colton yelled. He tossed the flare gun aside and brought his AR-15 back up to fire. The flames provided plenty of light to find his targets by, and he took down hostiles with quick squeezes.
All around him, his people killed to protect their loved ones. War brought out the rawest emotions, and Colton saw it happening all around him. The screaming, the distorted faces, the rage-filled eyes of people who had never harmed a fly.
It was then he realized he was screaming too as he cut down the burning men trying to take his town.
He changed his magazine and raised the gun again when a raucous blast sounded from the east. The ground rumbled under his boots. For the third time in as many minutes, his heart skipped a beat. He bent down behind the barrier and caught Lindsey’s gaze. Then he turned back to Estes Park, where a massive explosion had erupted in the center of town. A second blast quickly followed, sending flames catapulting into the air.
The mortar barrage had started.
Colton pulled out his radio. “Raven, where the fuck are you?” he shouted over the din. Gunfire drowned out the response, and he pushed the radio up to his ringing ear, grimacing in pain from his shoulder.
“We’re almost back to town, Chief,” came Raven’s reply. “I’m tracking Fenix and his men right now. That mortar fire is coming from somewhere on Prospect Mountain.”
“Hurry and find them!” Colton yelled into the receiver. Then he opened a channel to Ryburn. “Make sure everyone is hunkered down and hold the line there at all costs.”
“I will, Chief.”
Colton transmitted a final message to Officer Matthew, who was in charge of the two roadblocks at Highway 7, telling him to abandon the posts and head for Prospect Mountain. Then he looked back at the next roadblock a half mile away. Several figures were already running toward his position.
He snorted when he saw them. They were supposed to stay put. And where the hell was John Kirkus and his men? Colton looked down Mall Road and saw nothing.
He came back up on one knee to continue firing at the survivors holding position behind the first wave of parked vehicles. Another set of lights flipped on around the corner up Highway 36, as Thompson deployed another wave.
Shit, shit, shit. We’re going to be overrun.
“No,” Colton said. “Hold them here!”
Empty shell casings rained down on the pavement, and more civilians fell to the ground as the second wave of vehicles drove toward their position. Tom Feagen raised his shotgun to fire and took a bullet to the leg. He screamed in pain and fell to the ground, gripping his thigh and screeching in agony.
As more of his fellow townsfolk dropped, Colton pulled out his radio and turned to the channel he’d been using to communicate with Charlize Montgomery’s people.
“Secretary Montgomery, this is Chief of Police Marcus Colton. If you’re listening, the Sons of Liberty and Sheriff Thompson are slaughtering civilians in Estes Park, Colorado. We need help!”
Colton nearly dropped the radio as he went to put it back in the pouch. Once it was secure, he placed a hand on his wounded shoulder and scanned the battlefield.
Lindsey was still firing, raking the barrel back and forth and taking hostiles down like a veteran combat soldier. Colton did his best to ignore the explosions coming from the town, and aimed for the metal armor covering the turret on one of the new pickup trucks driving toward their flaming wall of bodies and vehicles.
He took his time to line up the sights and finished off his magazine. The gunner slumped out of the bed and hit the pavement. A second man jumped up to take his place, but Lindsey took him down with a shot to the head.
After ten minutes of fighting, Colton and his captain found themselves side by side. He looked over, trying to focus past the stars in his vision. Rex Stone was still in action, as were three other men to his right, but their numbers were thinning by the minute, and Kirkus and his men still weren’t here yet.
“Fall back,” Colton said. “I’ll hold them here.”
“Hell no,” Lindsey said.
“Get these people out of here!” Colton shouted.
She looked at him, her face distorting into a mask of fear and sadness. Gunfire suddenly came from Mall Road, and Colton turned to see a group of men on horseback and an old black Chevy car clanking along the road. Four old-school snowmobiles followed the hillbilly convoy. Two dirt bikes also sped over the snowy asphalt.
“Kirkus!” she shouted.
Colton almost smiled, but a round zipped over his head and he grimaced instead. He rose to his feet, aimed at Thompson’s vehicles, and squeezed the trigger again. More rounds narrowly missed his face, but he remained standing, undeterred.
Another bark of an M240 came from the timber to the left of the road, far behind the dying flames. The sight seized the air from Colton’s lungs.
Tracer rounds spat out of the trees and cut into Kirkus’s men, knocking them down like bowling balls. The spray hit the Chevy next, punching through the old metal. The snowmobiles swerved to avoid the gunfire, and both drivers on the bikes lost control.
Colton watched as a man with a white cowboy hat climbed off his fallen horse and stood to fire a long rifle at the M240 in the trees. It was Kirkus, and his aim was true. He killed the gunners and limped over to the roadblock with several of his surviving fighters right behind him.
“Sorry we’re late,” Kirkus said, wincing in pain.
“You’re hurt,” Colton said.
Kirkus glanced over at Colton. “You’re hit too, Chief.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You got a plan?” Kirkus asked.
Colton was trying to devise one in his mind, but all he could focus on was the mortar rounds raining down into his town. Buildings burned around town hall, and several houses in the residential areas were flickering plumes of orange.
He could only hope Raven found Fenix and stopped him before the Nazi bastards took out the high school.
Thompson’s second wave of trucks made it through the barrier, and Colton did the only thing he could do.
“Retreat to the next barrier!” he shouted. “Everyone, fall back!”
Feagen yelled out for help as the militia soldiers began to run. Colton, Rex, and Lindsey provided a wave of covering fire as the first group escaped down the road.
She looked over at him between bursts. “We can’t leave Feagen.”
“Go!” she shouted.
Colton ran over to Feagen’s position and bent down to help him up. Rounds zipped all around them, but somehow Colton managed to escape with the man leaning on his left side as a crutch.
“Thank you,” Feagen panted.
_____
Fenix brought his binoculars up to watch a mortar shell explode in the middle of the intersection at Elkhorn Avenue and Riverside Drive. Several civilians cartwheeled through the air like miniature rag dolls.
He let the binos hang around his neck, and clapped at the sight of burning buildings below. From his vantage point on the tramway station cresting Prospect Mountain, he had a gorgeous view of the battlefield.
So far, everything was going as planned.
The military had passed the town by after checking out the fake location Miles had given his captors. He could still remember the young man’s leg snapping.
“It’s your duty as a soldier of the Sons of Liberty,” Fenix had said right before stomping on Miles’s leg and then leaving him behind.
He wasn’t sure what had happened to Miles, but the kid had done his duty. Now that bitch Charlize Montgomery wouldn’t have any idea what SOL was doing, and by the time she did, Fenix would be long gone.
Until then, he was going to have some more fun. His field mortar crew wasn’t far. They were using the Chinese-built Type 87 mortars. He didn’t like Chinese built products, but these were going to go to a good use.
A shell thumped away from the field on the western slope of the mountain and into the town, at targets his spotters had identified with their scopes. Most of the targets were high value targets, like snipers, or nests where militia soldiers were hunkered down. After all, Fenix had promised Thompson he wouldn’t destroy the town.
But that didn’t mean all the rounds hit their targets.
Fenix laughed as a house exploded south of Elkhorn Avenue. Another shell took out the top of a building, eliminating another potential hostile for Thompson to deal with once he broke through the barriers on Highway 36. It wouldn’t be long now. The sheriff was using the weapons Fenix had loaned him from raids on the Chinese convoys: twin M240s, an RPG launcher, and grenades. But Fenix and his men still had plenty of toys to play with.
“Horton, you got a SITREP?” he shouted.
Another shell curved overhead and into town, destroying a building on Big Horn Drive in a spray of metal, glass, and wood.
Fenix clapped again. “Nice shot!”
Sergeant Horton jogged over from the railing, where he was supervising the mortar crew. He made his way past the corpses of the dead Estes Park militia soldiers that had been posted on the tramway lookout. The bodies were riddled with bullets.
“Big mistake on their part,” Fenix muttered to himself. Leaving only two men as lookouts had been a devastating error by the chief that would cost him the town. The two spotters could have warned Colton, but Fenix and his men had cut them down before they could get off a flare.
Fenix turned back to the railing to look out over Lake Estes, which was now more of a puddle, the majority of the water having flowed down Highway 34. The ambush had cost Thompson his first wave of vehicles and bought the Estes Park militia extra time to fortify their defenses on Highway 36—and apparently lay another trap.
The gas-soaked ditches framing the highway were still burning below, having already taken out the second wave of Thompson’s trucks. The third wave was slowly making their way toward the barrier that was being abandoned by the militia soldiers.
“Colton’s not as dumb as I thought,” Fenix said to Horton.
Horton shrugged. “Thompson’s not going to like taking this many losses, but we will take this town.”
“Bring up the M240s, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Two teams of Brandenburger Commandos lugged crates out of the trucks parked behind the tramway shops, and moved them over to the railings overlooking the eastern side of the town. Fenix instructed them where to put the big guns after scanning the battlefield a third time. He brought his pocket watch up as the men worked.
It was going on nine o’clock, and he wanted to be out of here in an hour. After they finished with the mortar and M240 fire, his mission would be complete. He could then return to his silo for a good night’s sleep. At this rate, he’d be there shortly after midnight.
“Hurry that shit up!” he growled.
He gripped the railing with his gloved hands and studied the fight on Highway 36. The Estes Park militia had retreated to a second roadblock, and Thompson’s vehicles were preparing to maneuver out of the flames to pursue them. Mortar fire continued to pound the town square, destroying buildings and blowing hunks of concrete out of the street.
“We’ve got contacts on the northern slope!” someone suddenly shouted.
Fenix leaned over the railing to see a dozen silhouettes making their way up the mountain.
“Take them out,” Fenix said, pointing.
The M240 gunners moved the guns, and Fenix clamped his hands over his ears. The cry of the gun rattled his body as the men unleashed a volley of 7.62 mm rounds into the trees below. Adjusting the spray, the soldiers found human targets, coating the slope with steaming blood.
Fenix raised his M4 and picked off several of the stragglers, the gunfire ringing in his ears. When it ceased, the gunners moved the M240s back into position and waited for his order to fire again.
Bringing up his binoculars, Fenix checked the roadblock on Highway 36 again, using the moonlight and glow of the flames for light. He had wanted to wait for the team to abandon the second barrier, but Colton’s forces were still holding their ground and looked pretty well dug in.
“Fuck it,” Fenix snarled. “Open fire.”
“That’s too far, sir,” Horton said.
“I gave you an order.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Fenix clamped his hands back over his ears and scanned the sky for any sign of the military, but the cloudless sky was still void of any blinking craft. A mortar round arched overhead like a shooting star moving in slow motion. It slammed into a house on the north side of town, blowing the roof into splinters.
He let his binoculars hang from his neck and looked out over the landscape with grim satisfaction. The snow-brushed town almost looked like something from a Christmas card—aside from the burning buildings, of course.
But they could pass for Christmas lights, he thought with a smile.
21
RAVEN COULD FEEL his pulse beating in his neck. The mortar barrage coupled with the explosions from RPGs and the bark of M240 gunfire brought him back to the chaotic mission behind enemy lines in North Korea, where a raid to save two American girls had ended in a bloodbath.
But this was America, home of democracy, and the brave. It wasn’t some foreign authoritarian regime.
How could any of this be real?
He focused on the patrols and troops holding sentry around the mortar crew launching rounds into Estes Park. He and Dale had abandoned their horses and were hiding behind the thick trunk of a ponderosa, their night vision goggles allowing them to see without being spotted. There were ten soldiers on patrol, another ten in the mortar firing area, and more on the platform above.
“Where’s our backup?” Dale asked quietly.
“I don’t think they made it,” Raven said. He looked up at the area where the M240s had been positioned a few minutes earlier. The guns were now out of sight and firing somewhere to the east.
“It’s just us,” Raven said.
“Us against twenty heavily-armed Nazi soldiers?”
“We have Creek,” Raven said. That didn’t seem to inspire confidence in Dale, who looked over at the dog sitting calmly on his haunches.
“We have no choice, brother,” Raven said. “Sarah is probably up here.”
Dale swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I had a good run in this life. Let’
s go kill us some Nazi pig-fuckers.”
“That’s the spirit,” Raven replied. “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings...or something like that.”
The line got a grin from Dale, but Raven remained stone-faced. He too was prepared to die for those he loved.
“You go north and I’ll go south. Creek will hunt with me. We’ll meet back in the middle and then work our way up to the tram to take out those guns. Use your blade until we’re spotted,” Raven said.
Dale reached out with a gloved hand. “Good luck, Raven. It’s been an honor.”
Something about the other man’s words seemed so final, and as Raven looked back out at the enemy they were facing, he realized it was likely this would be the last time the two men would shake hands.
“Honor is mine, brother,” Raven said, gripping Dale’s hand firmly.
Dale let go and began to creep around the base of the tree. Raven drew in a breath, thinking of Sandra and Allie, and then of Lindsey and Colton. Their lives all depended on his actions.
Light as a feather, he thought. The stimulant he had taken a few minutes earlier was starting to kick in, and he indeed felt light. But more importantly, his brain was clear. He was in tune with nature. He motioned for Creek and rose into a hunch. Adrenaline warmed his veins as Raven moved away from the tree, separating from Dale.
There were four Nazi commandos patrolling under the tramway concrete platforms to the south. They were setting off again to comb the area. Those were his targets. Each wore black tactical gear with facemasks, and carried M4 rifles.
Raven had his own M4 slung over his back, looted from the dead Nazi back at Lily Lake. He moved cautiously through the fence of aspen trees jutting out of the slope. He brushed against snow-covered boulders as he passed, and he stayed close to them just in case he needed to duck for cover. Creek had already vanished, hunting solo in the frozen terrain.
The group of soldiers began to move into a thick area of ponderosas, and Raven stopped to aim his crossbow at the Nazi holding rear guard, and squeezed off an arrow that thumped through his neck. The man dropped his rifle in the snow and fell to his knees while the other three men continued walking in the opposite direction.
Trackers 4: The Damned (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series) Page 24