Rueben called out, “Red Circle,” then pulled his pistol out. Once the group surrounded Rueben and Chad, Rueben pointed his pistol at him and shot him in the heart. He stood there and watched Rueben put his pistol away before he fell down and died.
“I see ten less of you than what I sent out yesterday. I can only assume they’re dead. Blood in, blood out.”
THE END OF BOOK ONE
COMING SOON: BOOK TWO DEADFALL
READ SAMPLES OF BOOKS BY L. DOUGLAS HOGAN
ORDER BLOOD CORPS
PROLOGUE
Spring 2036
Evening Hours
Blake was running as fast as she could; her heart was pounding, her abdominal muscles were cramping, and she knew she couldn’t slow her pace without the risk of consequence. She could smell the dank air that seemed to permeate the building and heard the sounds of crunching glass and debris beneath her feet as she ran.
The sun barely gave off its light as it dipped below the horizon, making it all the more difficult for Blake to see the obstacles before her. The adrenaline that coursed through her veins brought with it attuned hearing, dilated pupils, and speed. Not only was she acutely aware of her immediate environment and self-being, but she was also fixated on the chase.
The added adrenaline made it possible for her to keep up with the man she was chasing. She seemed to always be lagging just one room behind the man, who was also running as fast as he could. No sooner than he busted through one door into a strange room, he seemed to be charging into the next room. The man zigzagged around and over obstacles as he ran through what used to be personnel offices for the old factory building. Desks and cabinets seemed to pose him little to no difficulty. On some occasions he would grab a bookshelf or cabinet as he ran by it, only to throw it onto the floor behind him in a futile attempt to stop his armed pursuer. These obstacles had no real effect on Blake. She was a hardened active-duty Marine when the Flip went down nearly three years ago, so for her to jump over a cabinet or dash around a bookshelf was typical of the obstacle courses she was already accustomed to.
The man Blake was chasing was also a hardened combat veteran. He had been serving in the US Army as a computer programmer before being shipped to Iran to fight in the Jihadi Wars. He did that for a period of two years; then the Flip happened. Normally, he wouldn’t run, but Blake’s reputation preceded her. He was caught off guard when Blake took chase. Having set his rifle down to relieve his bladder, Blake had waited for the perfect moment to introduce herself.
One hour prior
“Ty Dodds,” a feminine voice called out from behind him. He froze in his position and gave a moment to recollect the location of his rifle. He had set it against the wall some ten feet between him and the voice to his rear.
“It depends on who’s asking,” he replied.
“I was hoping you’d play nice, but since that’s not an option, I’m going to have to get rough.”
Ty looked over his shoulder and saw a redheaded lady with a small olive drab assault rig on her back. He gave her a quick study and could see that she was positioned with her left side towards him, with her right side facing away at a thirty-degree angle. The woman had a stiletto blade in her left hand and an empty sheath on her right leg. Her right hand was behind her and her feet were spread about shoulder width apart.
I can take her, he thought. She’s only armed with a knife.
The redhead’s name was Blake Cassidy. She had played an incremental, yet important role, in the final Days of the Tyrant, a term coined by the new American President, John James. She was well armed for this particular bounty. Unknown to Ty, she had an underarm holster that was hidden out of sight, fitted for a Glock model 22. That model shot a .40-caliber round and was paired with a fifteen-round magazine, which she had loaded with armor-piercing rounds. It was a heavy pistol, too heavy to leave holstered for a run of any length. Just above either ankle, she had an eleven-inch stiletto knife. On her right leg, she kept it sheathed on the outside of her pant leg; but on the left, she had one concealed beneath. Except, on this occasion, her pistol was tightly gripped in her right hand and concealed behind her back. The knife that was normally sheathed on her right leg was on display for Ty Dodds to see in her left hand.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Blake said.
“Do you, now?” he replied as he zipped his pants and turned to face her. His eyes were locked onto hers as he awaited her response. He was confident that he had the upper hand.
“Yep… You’re thinking I think I can take her. She’s only armed with a stiletto.”
“You’re pretty good at that, miss…”
Ty purposefully didn’t finish his statement. He was soliciting the woman for a name.
“Cassidy,” she answered. “Blake Cassidy.”
The man’s face went flush. He could feel adrenaline surge through his veins. He knew the name. Every sketchy character in the land knew the name Cassidy.
The world had changed dramatically in the last three years. The changes were global and it meant a change in lifestyle for every living person. For Blake Cassidy, it meant taking up a job to earn a living. The year 2036 was like a hi-tech version of the Old West. Automobiles and horseback were two common modes of transportation. Paper money was a thing of the past. Currency was again being coined, as the original US Constitution had called for. To acquire a gold bit, one had to perform specific duties to earn one. The only other options were to steal or kill for gold bits. That was the route Ty Dodds chose; unfortunately for him, he was now the prey for one experienced bounty hunter.
At this point, Ty had two options. He was not always good at making wise decisions, but this choice could end badly no matter which decision he made. He had the option to reach for the gun, which was his first choice. He saw she was armed with a blade, but knew she was too sneaky to come at him with only a blade, which caused him to re-examine her posture and the placement of her right hand. He now knew she was most likely armed with a pistol. The knife was a mere distraction, most likely to taunt him into making a bold move that would heighten the sensation of the capture. He glanced at the rifle, which was close, but not close enough. Ty looked at Blake and back at the rifle. When he looked back at her the second time, she was smirking, as if to say please go for the rifle. When he didn’t, Blake knew she wasn’t going to get what she was hoping for.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re worth more alive. Back it up about three feet,” she commanded, pulling her right hand out from behind her back to reveal her Glock. Ty backed up, raising his hands into the air, and Blake followed him in a forward motion until she came to his rifle. When she stooped down to pick it up, he ran into an open door that was near his position on the side of the factory.
“Wonderful,” Blake said to herself as she gave chase.
It would be dark soon and Blake knew that if she couldn’t catch Ty fast, he would most likely get away. She spent the next hour slowly searching the interior of the factory. He was nowhere to be found. Just as she was about to give up the search, a large grain hopper on wheels rolled towards her at a very fast rate of speed. She could see Ty looking around the hopper as he shoved it at her. She shot one round off, towards his leg, before she was smashed between the wall and the metallic bin. The round clearly missed, as the bin hit her arm, offsetting her aim. The man didn’t stay to continue his assault, but instead ran towards the exit. She pushed the hopper away and gave chase.
A Few Minutes Later
Ty was cutting through offices and dashing over desks in a futile attempt to lose Blake, but she was tight on his trail. The exit was now a few feet away. The door was wide open and all Ty had to do was run a few more feet and he would again be outside, where he planned on performing a disappearing act. The sun had set and the outside world seemed to beckon to Ty. As he drew closer to the exit, the air freshened and he could feel himself drawn to it, like a moth is drawn to a flame. Just as he met the threshold of the door in a dead sprint, Ty’s face caught t
he back side of a shovel. A loud clank could clearly be heard by Blake, who was not twenty feet away from Ty’s unconscious body. When she finally caught up, Tori Cunningham was standing over him, with shovel in hand.
“That counts as my catch,” Blake said.
“How do you figure? You were in there for an hour with him. He nearly got away and probably would have if I hadn’t been here.”
“He’s bleeding,” Blake said, throwing her hands up into the air. “I never realized that when we started taking on bounty hunts, the rabbit hole would take us this deep. I mean, how much crazier is this going to get?”
“I don’t know, but c’mon, you gotta admit… this was kind of a fun change of pace.”
“Well, the bounty said ALIVE. He’s bleeding, so…”
“Cute… since we’re probably not going to collect on this one, I’d say we’re good,” Tori said, grabbing Ty’s leg and giving him a pull. Blake grabbed the other leg and together they pulled him a block down the road, where they latched him onto a motorcycle and hog-tied him.
“Do you think he’s gonna be upset when he wakes up on the back of a motorcycle that a woman is driving?” Tori asked.
“Probably so, but we’ll fill him in when he wakes up.”
Tori smiled back at Blake, and each of them rode off on their respective motorcycles, with Ty Dobbs in tow.
ORDER ACTS OF DEFIANCE
PROLOGUE
Over the past several decades, American tax dollars had been funding an ever-increasing amount of welfare programs. The programs continued to grow with the population, as did the tax dollar, so that they could be sustained.
By 2031, more than half of all Americans were dependent upon state and federal programs for food, water, housing, and utilities. With the ever-increasing number of people dependent upon these nanny programs, it became impossible for politicians who disagreed with them to win elections. Once more than half of all voters were dependent upon them, they became slaves to the party that promoted them.
With the southern border of the United States unsecure, wave after wave of undocumented aliens flooded into the system. These, too, became recipients of the welfare programs.
Mexicans, fleeing their homeland to find a means of survival, were not the only people crossing the border. For years, Islamic extremists, also known as jihadists, crossed with them.
These jihadists saw a weakness to exploit in the now fiscally destroyed America. Taking advantage of the opportunity, they waged their war on American soil, blending back into society after each attack. Political correctness became America’s worst enemy; refusing refuge for undocumented aliens meant giving way to Islamic extremism.
With law enforcement’s hands being tied from their efforts to profile, terrorism existed in and among the people of the United States.
When the people saw the government’s inaction, they rose to the occasion to take matters into their own hands. They were quickly labeled as domestic terrorists by their own government and were soon a means to bring about more executive action by the President.
Cursive was removed from the educational curriculum, rendering most Americans with the inability to read the US Constitution, a document written in cursive. Legislation against gun manufacturers and ammunition manufacturers had put them out of business. The First Amendment freedom of expression was redefined as hate speech and punishable by law. Cameras and recording devices blanketed every city block, under the guise of protection, crippling the Fourth Amendment right to privacy.
With the Middle East Jihadist War in full swing, President Adalyn Baker called home America’s armed forces. Street violence was escalating, joblessness was well over ninety percent, and Lady Liberty was taking her last breath.
Before the Flip
Murphysboro, Illinois, Friday, July 11, 2031
Stephen was sitting at the right end of the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, flipping through the channels with his TV remote in hand. Realizing his work boots were still on, he pulled his foot in to release the bootlaces, which had firmly been tied into place that morning. Years of tightly fastening his bootlaces around his ankles had caused a very distinct indentation around both of his legs, just above the ankles and under his calves. He was reminded of his service to country every time he took his work boots off. He was self-aware of the appearance and always felt insecure about the funny-looking formation. A shower was most definitely in order, but he had a tendency to relax for a few minutes before jumping into the tub.
“Steve!” his wife, Sam, said, walking into the front room as she covered her nose and mouth and added, “Don’t you smell that?” referring to the pungent odor of Stephen’s smelly work socks and boots that were still fresh from his hot summer factory job.
Stephen just smiled at her before pulling his socks off and wadding them each into a ball-shaped mass.
“Don’t you dare!” she said, ducking back into the corridor and heading towards the kitchen. She made it two steps before she felt one of them hit her in the small of her back. “You’re disgusting,” she jokingly said, kicking it back into the front room.
Stephen feigned throwing the other sock at her. She kept flinching in anticipation of getting hit with another dirty sock. She wanted to run away, but was enjoying the playtime. Grossed out by the dirty sock she had kicked back into the front room, she cupped her nose shut and picked the sock up in a pinching motion with her index finger and thumb.
“If you come at me with that sock, you’re going to get this one in your face,” he warned.
Sam kept inching toward Stephen with her back toward him, hoping not to get a sock in the face. In one fluid motion, Stephen reached out to grab Sam from behind.
She screamed.
Stephen pulled her onto the couch with him. Instead of following through on his threat to shove a smelly sock in her face, he cuddled with her.
“What’s for dinner, babe?” Stephen asked, making munching sounds in her ear.
“Potatoes au gratin.”
“Argh, we had that yesterday,” he said, letting go of her.
Sam rolled over on the couch to face Stephen. “I know, but they’re not letting us pick out the goods anymore. We get whatever they give us.”
“How did it even get this bad? I mean, I know how it did, but it’s just stupid that we let it get this bad.”
Sam stroked Stephen’s hair. “Hon, you work fifty-six hours a week at the government’s wheat plant, not counting your Guard duty, and we’re barely making it, but we are. As long as we have each other, we’re going to be okay.”
Sam looked deep into Stephen’s eyes and saw his concern. She loved rubbing her hands across his military-style high and tight. “I’m doing everything I can to get a job that can help pitch in around here.”
Stephen pulled Sam in close to his chest and nestled his face in her hair. “You’re doing everything I need from you already. If we can’t make it off of two government incomes, we probably won’t be able to make it off of three.”
Stephen enjoyed having Sam at home as a housewife, but never restricted her to that lifestyle. But he always made it known to her that it was preferred over her leaving home to work. Their daughter, Evan, was in second grade, and Stephen felt it was difficult enough scouring through her homework to make sure the government-provided propaganda wasn’t going against their family values. With Sam working, it would mean both Stephen and Sam would be too tired to assume the responsibility of proofing the homework.
“So how did it go down today at the food lines?” Stephen asked.
“Same as usual, only this time, they handed me yesterday’s dinner. Actually, they didn’t have the usual assembly-line structure they used to have when they bagged our goods.”
“If I wasn’t working for the Guard, we probably wouldn’t be eating at all.”
“Hon, your commitment to God and country paid off. We are much better off than they are,” Sam said, raising the blinds to let the hot summer sun flood int
o the room.
Standing outside, mobs of people assembled themselves outside of the government buildings, hoping to fill their empty bags with food handouts. Many of them were holding signs expressing what used to be a protected first amendment freedom of expression. Those rights had been unconstitutionally abolished when crowds were randomly being arrested under the guise of unrest.
Stephen and Sam were looking out of the window when several black armored government trucks pulled in. The mobs of people broke up, many of them disappearing between the buildings, but others were caught by the police and handcuffed; each of them were forced into the back of windowless trucks, where they were whisked away.
“They were peacefully protesting,” he said with frustration apparent in his voice.
“Honestly, I can’t remember a time when the police weren’t breaking up peaceful protests,” she countered.
“I do. It was before the Muslims got their jihad. Every time a crowd grew large enough to draw media attention, some extremist would blow himself up or send a brainwashed Muslimah to do the dirty work.”
“I can’t remember the last time I saw any media coverage on it.”
“That’s because the government’s been in bed with the media since the Clintons.”
Their conversation was interrupted when the news channel’s coverage of the Jihadist War switched from an imbedded reporter in Iran to a cameraman’s view of a podium. Centered on the podium was the Seal of the President of the United States. Sam saw it first. Tapping Stephen on the shoulder, she said, “Hon, look.”
“What now, more executive orders?”
“Shhh,” Sam said, interrupting Stephen. “President Baker’s coming out.”
It wasn’t like Sam to shush Stephen. She was a very timid wife, despite her fun-natured personality. It took Stephen by surprise when it happened. He was still tired from his long shift, so he snapped back uncharacteristically.
After The Pulse (Book 1): Homestead Page 19