The obvious solution was to leave Clay’s body and run. And that’s what Victoria was planning to do when two Strykers arrived. She knew that because Radic was monitoring the radio and could hear an officer giving orders. One of which was to secure the factory building. Things were not going well.
They had an emergency escape plan. It consisted of the climbing rope inside Clay’s backpack. But the sniper’s building was higher than theirs, which meant he could shoot down at them as they tried to retrieve the rope and do so without showing anything more than his head. And even if they managed to rappel down the opposite side of the building, the Union soldiers would be waiting below.
Worse yet was the fact that she and Radic had been forced to take cover behind the boxy structure that housed the top of the stairwell. The side opposite the door. So to go through the door, and take their chances on the stairwell, they’d have to expose themselves to the sniper.
Suddenly, Victoria heard a noise, and smoke billowed all around. A grenade! Union troops were on the roof! Well, smoke cut two ways. “Come on,” Victoria said. “It’s now or never!”
Both Victoria and Radic opened fire as they rounded a corner, and entered the smoke. But there were no shouts or screams. And when Victoria tried to pull on the doorknob, there was no give. Somebody was holding on to it from inside! “Drop your weapons,” a muffled voice demanded. “And put your hands on your heads!”
Fuck that. Victoria backed away. The sniper’s rifle was slung across her back, and the carbine was leveled at the metal fire door. The Union soldiers would come out. And when they did, she would . . .
• • •
The breeze that blew the smoke away came from the north. That gave the sniper the opportunity he needed. His name was Thomas Penny, and he was a Confederate deserter. He had the woman in his crosshairs. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.
• • •
What felt like a blow from a sledgehammer hit Victoria from behind and turned her around. It wasn’t until she hit the roof that the truth dawned on her. She’d been shot! No, she thought to herself, other people get shot. Not me. Not here. Not now.
But when Victoria tried to rise, she saw the blood and knew the truth. Gunshots rang out as Union soldiers burst out onto the roof, and Radic took a bullet in his right leg. He went down hard. Victoria heard a familiar voice. “Gomez! Have you got him? Good! Well done.”
A man knelt next to her. “This one’s alive, Major . . . But just barely.”
That was when her sister Robin appeared. The dark gray sky served as a backdrop, and she looked just like their mother. A look of shock appeared on Robin’s face. “Victoria? Is that you?”
Victoria coughed. Something warm dribbled down her chin. Her voice was hoarse. “I won . . . He hates you.”
Robin was removing a battle dressing from a pocket on her tac vest. “I know that,” she said softly. “You’re the one he loves.”
Victoria felt dizzy. It was difficult to see. “Yes, he does, because I’m a good girl.”
“You’re the one,” Robin agreed. “The only one.”
Victoria tried to speak. “Tell him . . . Tell him . . .” Then the darkness rose to envelop Victoria, and the pain disappeared.
• • •
“She’s gone,” Sergeant Dean said as he felt for a pulse. “Who was she?”
“She was a soldier,” Mac answered, as tears ran down her cheeks. “And my sister. Please make sure that they take good care of her body. I need to check on the rest of the platoon.” And with that, she left.
• • •
As the rain fell, it dug little holes in the loose earth, turned it into the consistency of brown gravy, and made puddles wherever the ground was low. The sun was little more than a yellow smear up above the clouds—and a bitter wind skittered through the trees, looking for something to kill.
The graveyard was a temporary affair. A vacant lot where Confederate soldiers were buried until the war ended, and their remains could be sent home. There were no headstones, no crosses, no Stars of David. Just three-foot-tall metal stakes bearing bar-coded stickers.
There were mourners sometimes. But not often. In most cases, the only people present were the minister who had volunteered to say a few words and a couple of gravediggers, both of whom were holding their hats.
But in this case there was a mourner. Well, not a mourner, Mac decided. But a witness. So she was standing there, listening to the minister talk, when a person appeared at her side. Atkins perhaps. With an incoming call of some sort.
But when Mac turned to look, she saw a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a trench coat. His hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched against the cold. Two SUVs and people in dark clothing were visible in the distance. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This must be very difficult.”
“It should be,” Mac replied. “But it isn’t. My sister was a bitch. You’re here. Since when?”
“Since the beginning of the operation,” Sloan replied.
“I see.”
“I wish we could go somewhere. I wish we could talk. There’s so much to say.”
“I would like that.”
Sloan removed the hat, let some raindrops hit his face, and put it back on. Their eyes met. “You’re very beautiful. I think about you all the time.”
“And I think about you. Be careful, Mr. President . . . And thank you for coming. It means a lot.”
Sloan tipped his hat. “We’ll meet again, Robin . . . Watch your six.”
And then he walked away. There was moisture on Mac’s cheeks as she watched them lower the coffin into the ground. Some of it was rain, and some of it wasn’t. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The guns were calling.
William C. Dietz is the New York Times bestselling author of more than forty novels, some of which have been translated into German, Russian, and Japanese. His works include the America Rising novels, the Legion of the Damned® novels, and the Mutant Files series. He grew up in the Seattle area, served as a medic with the Navy and Marine Corps, graduated from the University of Washington, and has been employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, and television news writer, director, and producer. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Dietz served as director of public relations and marketing for an international telephone company. He and his wife live near Gig Harbor, Washington.
Visit him online at williamcdietz.com, facebook.com/WilliamCDietz, and twitter.com/WCDietz.
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Seek and Destroy Page 31