Divided We Fall (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Book 6)

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Divided We Fall (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Book 6) Page 17

by W. J. Lundy


  The fat man coughed then grinned. “Well, hell; it is the Army! I was in the Corps myself—”

  “Chuck was Special Forces, Recon Marine,” Scratchy said excitedly.

  Chuck grinned and nodded at Scratchy. “So, what brings you up to my place?” the fat man asked.

  “Like I said, I’m here to see Mr. Cloud. I have word from his son.”

  The fat man coughed and spit at his feet then looked back at Brad. “Well… you may as well give the information to me then; the man you’re looking for isn’t here. I live up here with my friends. Cloud isn’t here no more. If he comes back, I’ll pass it on to him.”

  “Looks like you all had some trouble. I saw the bodies,” Brad said.

  Chuck nodded. “Yeah, bunch of guys come up here and attacked the gates. We took ’em out though; killed ’em right in their trucks,” Chuck said, pointing at the disabled vehicles. “We tracked them into town… ran into some of the infected… had to turn back, haven’t heard from ’em since.”

  Brad watched the expression of Scratchy and Bandana as Chuck told his story. Bandana looked off into the trees avoiding eye contact, while Scratchy smiled showing rotten teeth, his dirt-caked fingernails continuing to dig at his lice-infested beard.

  “You were attacked?” Brad asked. “You know where they came from?”

  Chuck nodded and coughed. “Yup, two days ago. And nope, probably one of the groups down the mountain; lots of bad folks down that way,” Chuck said, getting a giggle from Scratchy.

  “Mind if we go up and take a look at the house?” Brad asked.

  “And what exactly would you be looking for?”

  “Just quick look around, see if there’s anything we might be able to do for you. I have a convoy of trucks down on the road, food, water, supplies, ammo… things to help you out. Medicine for that leg,” Brad bluffed.

  Chuck used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Well… I guess a look around won’t hurt,” he said. “Go on and open the gate.”

  The fat man stepped back while Scratchy snaked a chain around the rail and Bandana pulled the gate open. Brad turned while waving the others forward; he moved around the gate then stopped at the front. Chelsea passed through the entrance behind him, squeezing around the men; Scratchy reached out and touched her hair. Chelsea spun quickly, catching Scratchy in the teeth with the buttstock of her rifle. The man’s lower jaw seemed to explode with blood as the man tumbled back. The rest of Chuck’s group burst into sadistic laughter at the display.

  “Hell, she’s a feisty one,” Bandana chuckled as Scratchy writhed on the ground clutching his jaw.

  Joey rushed up behind Chelsea. Moving through the gate, he pressed his elbow deep into Bandana’s diaphragm, causing the man to gasp as he leaned back against the railing. “She’s a Marine and you better treat her like it.” He scowled, his eyes cutting into Bandana.

  Bandana chuckled nervously while trying to back away.

  “Okay, enough of that. Bo didn’t mean nothing by any of it,” Chuck shouted over the others. “Let us move this conversation up to the house, so I can see what you all got to offer me.” Chuck turned away from the group and began limping back up the narrow driveway. Brad waited for the others to move out before he stepped ahead. Two of Chuck’s men lingered by the gate, holding off so they could fall in behind Brad.

  Joey moved close to Brad and spoke softly, “What you doing, bro? This group ain’t right; we should be turning back.”

  Brad turned his head so that he was looking at Joey but speaking into the open mic. “Hey, we’ll just move up to the house and take a look around. I’m sure Turner is someplace close if we need him. He’ll know he can’t just walk up the driveway.”

  Joey caught the change in the infliction of Brad’s voice and pursed his lips in recognition. “I gotcha, bro. Just stay loose; something ain’t right.”

  The road wound up the hill to a regal log cabin; beyond that stood farm buildings typical of any place Brad had seen in the Midwest. The place fit the surroundings, but the men occupying it did not belong. A flagstone walkway led up to a long covered front porch that ran the length of the cabin. Brad saw Chuck already at the railing. A man beside him moved up the steps and dropped heavily into a porch swing. At one end of the porch was a pile of broken furniture and suitcases full of spilled luggage and belongings. Brad turned the corner and walked up on to the porch; he stopped short of the last step and examined the pile.

  “What’s all of this? Are those children’s clothes?” Brad asked.

  Standing near a hand-carved door, Chuck paused and looked back. “Oh, that stuff. Yeah, place is full of it; we cleared it all out to make room. Ain’t no women and kids here so not much point in holding onto such things.” Chuck pushed in the door, allowing his guards to enter first, then waved a hand at Brad and ushered his group inside.

  They entered a large formal family room. Expensive furniture was awkwardly arranged around a large wooden coffee table that had food cans and dirty dishes scattered across it. Chuck pointed to a high-backed chair and asked Brad to sit. Brad moved into the room; he paused to look around while Joey stepped just inside the door and moved to the right, taking up a position with his back to the wall. Cole moved just past him and stopped. After Brad watched his men settle in, he continued to the chair and sat, Chelsea stopping just behind him. Brad saw she held her weapon at the ready.

  The living room opened into a kitchen that featured a long wooden lunch counter and bar near the hallway leading further into the cabin. Brad spotted a tall and dark mustached man leaning against a column, a rifle resting in his hands. The man did not move—he just watched. Chuck walked around the table and dropped into an overstuffed leather sofa. He dug through a pile of blankets and removed a half-filled bottle of bourbon; Chuck then removed the cap and took a long pull. He went to pass the bottle to Brad.

  “Sorry, I’m on duty,” said Brad, putting up a hand and waving it off. “So Chuck, you didn’t tell me how you acquired this property.”

  The fat man’s mouth went tight; he turned and passed the bottle to a man who had stopped just by his shoulder behind the sofa. “Huh?” Chuck coughed into his sleeve then spit onto the hardwood floor between his scuffed and worn leather boots. “It’s a family place,” Chuck said.

  Brad looked at the man over Chuck’s shoulder; he held a large nickel-plated revolver in crossed arms, a finger on the trigger. The man did not move his head, but his eyes continuously shifted between Joey and Cole. The man at the counter seemed less interested; he moved, sat on a stool at the lunch counter, and placed his rifle across its surface to light a cigarette.

  “I was told I could meet a man here; his name is Dan Cloud. How do you know him?” Brad asked.

  Chuck shifted uncomfortably. “My uncle.”

  “And he just left?” Brad asked. “Did he say where he was going?”

  Chuck shook his head. “Nope, just left. Listen… these supplies you got, are they close?” Chuck asked, his tone changing.

  A gunshot came from outside, followed quickly by another, then rapid-fire blasts from a shotgun. Chuck’s guards ran to the window; the man at the lunch counter jumped to his feet and rushed forward. Brad gripped his rifle and pushed back away from the chair.

  “What the hell is this?” Chuck yelled, staggering to his feet. “Is this you?” he asked, pointing a finger at Brad.

  Chelsea moved over to Brad with her rifle at the ready, Joey and Cole immediately doing the same. The guards were looking out the windows, searching for targets, not seeming to take the soldiers in the room as a threat. Brad grabbed the radio; as soon as he cleared the channel, he heard Turner’s panicked voice. “Three-One, Three-one, are you in contact? Over!”

  Brad clicked the mic. “Negative, three-zero, it’s not us.”

  Brad looked at Chuck; the man turned away then looked back. “It’s probably the same attackers. They’re back!” Chuck said.

  A front window exploded, knocking back the must
ached man and leaving a dark hole seeping blood from his chest. The second guard knelt in front of the window and fired his shotgun, racking off rounds. Joey moved away from the wall and grunted, “To hell with this.” He leveled his rifle and shot the man with the nickel-plated revolver then turned and killed another guard against the far wall. He walked back to the center of the room, rushing at a dazed and confused Chuck. Joey stopped and pivoted hard, clubbing the man in the head with the stock of his rifle, knocking him unconscious. “We ain’t got time to mess around with this fat bastard. If whoever out there is against him, then I’m on their side.”

  Joey turned away from Chuck and ran to the door; he flung it open and dropped against the open door frame, firing in the direction of the gate. Cole looked at Brad for instructions. “Go… backup Villegas,” Brad said.

  Brad walked toward the body of Chuck and flipped the man over to his belly. Ripping a long piece of fabric from the man’s shirt, he bound his wrists then rolled him to his back. He told Chelsea to watch him then he grabbed the radio and said, “Three-Zero, we need you.”

  He turned and ran to the porch; Chuck’s men were dead at the bottom of the stairs, more near the gates. Brad saw Scratchy running for a tree line; a loud gunshot echoed and Scratchy slumped heavily to the ground. Cole and Joey stood close to one another, walking the drive while kicking dead bodies. “Where are the shooters?” Brad asked, searching the distant tree lines and shadows.

  “I don’t know, but they ain’t shooting at us,” Joey said.

  The gunfire stopped, all of Chuck’s men lay dead on the ground or bleeding out. Brad joined Joey and Cole in the driveway. He could not see anything; whoever did the shooting was a pro.

  “There,” Joey said, pointing. In the distance, from between the barns, two men walked toward them with their arms held over their heads.

  Chapter 25

  The two men walked down from the barns, the sun to their backs causing Brad to squint into the light. His radio squawked; Brad quickly grabbed it. “Get up here, the farm is clear,” he said then dropped the hand set. He kept his eyes on the men. One, carrying a heavy barreled scoped rifle, appeared to be in his mid to late sixties. A faded, olive green cap with a black Marine Corps logo stamped on it covered his head, and he wore a dark, tiger-striped parka. The man next to him was younger and stockier; he wore blue jeans with a camouflage shirt and had a rifle slung over one shoulder and a club in his right hand.

  “I should have shot you down just for consorting with those scumbags,” the man said, stepping closer. “But seeing as you captured their attention for me, I’ll give you a moment to explain yourselves.”

  Brad watched as the square-jawed man walked into view; he immediately picked up the resemblance to Colonel Cloud. “Dan Cloud?” he asked.

  The man paused and looked at Brad. “Say again?”

  “Are you Dan Cloud? I have a message from your son.”

  “James? He’s alive?”

  Brad nodded his head and searched his breast pocket for the envelope. He quickly retrieved it and crossed the open space to hand it to the old man. He tore the end from the envelope then read the handwritten note. He turned his back to Brad while he finished then looked back. “Is he safe?”

  Brad clenched his jaw. “He was the last time I saw him, sir. He has things to take care of, then he will be joining us here.”

  The man nodded. “I understand.” Dan looked toward the cabin and stepped off heading to the porch. The younger man moved closer to Brad and extended his hand. “I’m Joe-Mac. Sorry about him; it’s been a long couple days,” he said.

  “What happened here?” Brad asked.

  Joe looked around, and then up at the cabin, taking in the broken windows and debris on the porch before looking back at the bodies in the yard. “They came a couple days ago, asking to trade, but obviously looking to steal from us. We ran them off… chased them into town. Dan thought we had them beat, that we would never see them up here again, but they came back. They led some of those infected things up here with ’em.

  “We’ve been hiding out up in the hills, waiting for our chance. Guess when you all came along it was the perfect distraction to start something,” Joe-Mac said.

  “Is there anyone else? The colonel said his wife and daughter would be here.”

  Joe-Mac smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir, Dan had them all relocate up the mountain to the lake. There are five families with us.”

  A man’s scream from inside the cabin took Brad’s attention; he turned in time to see Dan dragging Chuck through the front door and down the porch steps by his bad leg. Chelsea was following close behind with wide eyes. Dan dragged the fat man to the center of the drive then dropped his leg. He reached down and grabbed him by the back of the shirt.

  Joey walked forward and looked down at him. “So… you say you’re a Marine, huh?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m one of you guys. What the hell, man?” Chuck whined.

  “You don’t look like a Marine,” Joey said.

  Dan circled around him then squared his feet. He pulled his knife and poked at the leg wound, causing Chuck to scream. “Let me introduce myself; I’m retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Dan Cloud.”

  Chuck opened his mouth to speak but Dan held up a hand to silence him. “I think you lied to those people to get them to follow your sorry ass.” Dan paused and looked up at Joey next to him. He turned and watched Chelsea move down the porch steps; she walked to Chuck and stopped just feet from his head. Dan saw their nametapes. “Now these two individuals here… they are Marines; you are not.”

  Chuck whined and went to speak again; Dan turned to Joey and said, “Corporal, gag the prisoner.”

  Joey grinned. “Roger that, Master Guns.”

  The young Marine lunged forward and dropped a knee to Chuck’s chest, pressing him tight to the ground. Chuck squirmed and yelled, protesting while trying to roll away before Chelsea dropped down to assist. Joey pulled a roll of dark green tape and quickly wrapped it around Chuck’s head, pulling back the skin of his abundant cheeks, leaving his mouth agape. Chuck wiggled a hand loose; it fell to his hip then came back up holding a small buck knife. He swung it up at Joey, who quickly arched back, the blade cutting the front of his uniform shirt. Chelsea reached out and caught Chuck’s wrist. She twisted it, but the man fought her so she twisted it more and plunged it down, watching the blade sink into the fat man’s chest.

  Chelsea quickly released the handle and backed away. Joey stood up pulling away his uniform blouse, seeing the thin cut through the fabric that barely missed his skin. Chuck squirmed and twisted, squealing through the gag; his blood-soaked hand slipped on the blade while trying to remove it from his chest. Joey stepped ahead, leaned over Chuck, and shouted, “Callate el osico gordota… You cut my damn shirt!”

  Dan looked at the bleeding man with disgust, and then glanced over at Brad. “You have a medic?”

  Brad shook his head. “No, he isn’t with us.”

  Dan nodded. “Neither do I.” The old Marine turned away from the prisoner and walked closer to Brad. “My son… he said you have more friendlies to bring in. I can’t give you the coordinates to the lake. You need to do it soon; it’s two days to get there and I want to get moving.”

  Brad looked at him. “Sir, you could give me the lake co-ords and I’ll have the refugees flown directly there.”

  Dan shook his head. “Nope, James said to keep the location secret, so it’s this way or not at all.”

  They heard commotion at the gate and saw the rest of the men walking up the driveway. Turner was double-timing it to get to the front. He stopped and looked down at the prisoner—no longer moaning and kicking—then up at Brad. “Everything okay here?” he asked.

  “It is now,” Brad said.

  He dropped his pack, fished out the satellite phone, and dialed the number. Instead of reaching a person, he locked onto an automated voice message system. Brad left a coded message that told Cloud everything was okay and to send the r
est of the people. He disconnected the phone and removed the battery before storing it in his pack.

  “Now what?” Joe-Mac asked.

  “Now we wait,” Brad said.

  Chapter 26

  Hunched into a jump seat at the rear of the aircraft, Sean sat wearing a mask. He breathed in pure oxygen, which pushed the nitrogen from his blood. A single red bulb sat just above his head, a weak source of light in the blackened-out aircraft cabin. Brooks and Cloud were next to him. They wore black jumpsuits and parachutes like his, heavy gear bags at their feet. This would be Cloud’s first high-altitude jump on a real mission. The colonel assured Sean he was qualified, and Sean hoped he was telling the truth because if the colonel burned into the side of the mountain, the mission would be scrapped and all of their asses would be in the wind.

  Sean’s team was going in ahead of the Ranger elements. They needed to clear the rear access to the bunkers, a secret approach only used when traveling to the remote airfields and maintenance roads. Cloud said the doors were an afterthought in the Mountain’s construction design and only lightly monitored—possibly not monitored at all as the Mountain’s operational manning rates dwindled. Desertion was a problem at the military site; with the Mountain being in such close proximity to a safe area in Colorado Springs, many of the bunker’s inhabitants had chosen to flee.

  The unguarded rear lock required dual authentication to open before they would be able to enter the maintenance locker. From there, it would be a short walk to a control room. Cloud would unsecure the magnetic locks on the blast gate, allowing the Rangers access to the Mountain. The only unknown was whether or not Cloud’s credentials still work.

  When the colonel dropped communications with the general, they turned off the aircraft’s transponders and killed the comms uplinks. He hoped the general would believe they were all dead in a crash when they did not check in and the plane failed to return to base. With things more important happening, the hope was the general would fail to update a dead man’s security access.

 

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