The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  "Perfect,” Alston wheezed.

  He turned to 13. "Ma’am, I need you and Mr. Huntley to follow Sgt. Garza. You’ll be safer in there.”

  "Sounds good to me," said Huntley’s voice as he reappeared behind the altar. He wiped his hands on his jeans. His shirt had been spotted by rain and he had a thoroughly disgusted look on his face. He gave Alston a long look before he put his arm around 13 and helped her limp to where Garza stood waiting at the door to the vestry.

  Alston muffled another cough on his forearm and winced at the pain in his throat. Damn it all. He turned back to face the large wooden doors at the front of the church. He glanced back to the altar and saw one large, golden candelabra standing next to the altar. Another had been knocked over and lay on the floor, halfway up the steps. Alston walked over to that one, mindful of the blasphemous muddy prints he left on the blue carpeting.

  He picked up the candelabra, tested its weight, and went back to the main doors to wedge it against the handles. Alston shoved the heavy doors to test their strength and nodded in satisfaction.

  The fast-approaching storm was almost on top of them. Thunder rattled the church again. He heard the hanging light fixtures jingle and looked up. The vaulted ceiling was probably two floors up and looked like the underside of a boat. The ribs and beams that held up the roof were fully exposed.

  Alston shifted his gaze when lightning strobed through the stained glass windows on either side of the aisle. More windows on the second level. He turned in a circle and faced the main doors again. There was a small balcony above those heavy oak doors. The perfect spot for a sniper hide. He found a stairwell off to the side of the main entrance that led up to the balcony overlooking the nave and went up.

  From his perch, he could hear banging and scraping noises coming from the far side of the church—Deuce and Zuka were hard at work, securing the exits. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat, he leaned his rifle against the wooden railing and let his knees sag until most of his weight was carried by the rail. It felt good to relax, even for a moment. He needed to catch his breath—every time he tried to suck down air, it felt like he was doing so through a wet sponge.

  He could see every square inch of the building from his location. Behind him, he found stained glass rosettes—circular windows with the individual panes of the window shaped to form petals in a delicate pattern. He peered through the dark colors and could just make out the street below. Lightning crackled and the world went bright pink. Thundered erupted right overhead as soon as he’d seen the pink light. That was close.

  As he listened to his own breath rattling in his lungs, he wondered if this would be the last thunderstorm he would ever hear.

  The stained glass window on the right was about 3 feet in diameter and didn’t appear to open. The one on the left was the same size, but unlike its partner, had a small latch at the top and a tarnished brass hinge on either side of the circle. He unlocked the latch and slowly pushed at the bottom of the window outward. The top part creaked and moved in toward his face. The sound of the storm bombarded his ears almost as much as the ozone smell that assaulted his nose. Through the top half of the window, he could see in the dim light, rivers of rain washing down into the trash-clogged gutters.

  He frowned. It was terrible exposure—anyone from the street could look up and see right in through the odd window gap. Not so good for a sniper, but it was the best that he had. He lay down on the floor and rested his rifle on the lip of the circular window, struggling not to cough. If he made himself as small a target as possible, he figured that the dark interior of the church would at least offer him some protection from people on the street. He peered left and right, up and down the street and realized he had a pretty good angle of fire no matter where he looked. There was no way anyone coming to the front door would be able to sneak up on them.

  He coughed, a disturbing wetness in his chest. When his coughing spasm subsided enough that he could breathe, he keyed his radio and tried to speak slow and steady. Maybe if he remained calm he wouldn’t cough as much. “Zuka,” he said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Grab whatever supplies you need and get up to the balcony at the front of the church. You’re overwatch."

  “Hooah,” replied Zuka.

  "Rear emergency exit is secure," said Deuce’s voice.

  "Vestry window is barred. There’s no other exit back here," reported Garza.

  “Any exits on the east side?" asked Alston.

  "Negative—just an emergency fire exit back here behind the altar and the window in the priest’s vestry,” said Gunny Morin’s voice.

  Alston dropped his head to his arms, hoping if he closed his eyes, his vision would clear when he opened them. “All right,” he breathed. “We got the front door secure. Everyone take up positions along the windows and stay out of sight. Keep a close eye, people. We have to assume the Russians are gonna send someone after us.” He paused, eyes still closed, trying to focus on steady breathing. So far so good. “Garza, you got eyes on the foot mobile you spotted earlier?"

  "Wait one," replied Garza. Alston heard footsteps behind him down in the church as his men moved to their new positions.

  "Yeah, I got him. Guy’s moved to the north side of the building now. I can’t believe he’s still standing out there in that storm. I’m looking out the window here about halfway down the north side.”

  Alston opened his eyes and trained his rifle as far north as he could. “I got nothing. What’s he doing?”

  “He's taking shelter from the rain on the other side of the street. Next to the drugstore.”

  Alston nodded. The man was either clever or lucky. He had moved in at just the right angle to avoid being seen from the sniper position. The only way he would’ve seen the intruder was if he’d stuck his head out the circular window and potentially become target practice. Definitely not an option. Uneven footsteps announced Zuka’s arrival on the balcony.

  "Nice set up, sir," said Zuka as he settled in.

  "You got a good field of view up and down the street, but watch the sharp angles—our guy is just out of sight to the right," said Alston.

  "Yep," said Zuka, assessing the situation. "This other one open?" he asked, pointing to second window.

  "Negative, just this one." Alston struggled to his feet and wiped his clammy hands on his pants. He shouldered his rifle with a sigh and walked over to the balcony railing. Now they had the building secure.

  We’re gonna need food and water. If they remained in the church for any length of time, even overnight, the supplies that they had seen in the abandoned buildings around them would come in handy. Alston drummed his fingers on the wooden rail. He hoped to live long enough to need to worry about food and water.

  He couldn’t shake the itch between his shoulder blades. He often felt it in bad situations. Something wasn’t right. Besides the fact that he’d probably contracted the damn super flu. “How’s our friend?”

  "Looks like he's checking out the church, sir. Got his collar pulled up. I see him reaching behind his back…”

  "Weapon!" announced Deuce. "He's got a weapon, I have eyes on."

  “Dude just drew a pistol," confirmed Garza. "He's making his way to the front of the building.”

  "I got visual," whispered Zuka’s voice. "Eyes on the weapon," he reported. “Coming up to the front door.”

  Alston's mind raced with possibilities. Zuka, with a few pounds of pressure from his index finger, could fire one shot and drop the intruder in the street. But that would leave a noisy, bloody mess. Proof that they were in town and it would be hard to miss. No. He had to have a better plan. They needed silence and they needed concealment most of all.

  "Garza, Deuce, front door, pronto.”

  Alston raced down the balcony stairwell and stood before the massive, wooden front doors. He could hear a relentless hammering on the roof—a real gully-washer in progress. The sound echoed through the empty church like gunfire.

  Garza and Deuce
took positions on either side of the doors, weapons up and ready. Alston removed the heavy candelabra and quietly set it against the wall behind Garza. He took two steps back and hid in the stairwell that led up to the balcony.

  "He's at the front door," warned Zuka. "I hear the door opening. He’s inside the building.”

  “Roger that,” whispered Alston from the stairwell’s shadows. He watched as Deuce and Garza looked at him for visual confirmation. He held up three fingers— on the count of three. He heard someone fumble with the handle on the other side of the oak doors. One door shook. The latch depressed. They heard an audible click and one of the heavy doors swung into the church, inch by inch.

  Shit, Alston thought to himself. With the fever making it harder and harder to concentrate, he hadn't thought to see which way the doors opened. Garza was completely taken out of the equation, blocked by the door.

  A shadow formed on the blue carpeted floor and he heard water dripping off the intruder’s clothes. Thunder roared overhead again as the man took two hesitant steps into the building, his gun pointed forward in a two-handed grip favored by law enforcement. Alston frowned. The intruder had training.

  Deuce arched an eyebrow: Is this guy a cop or a Russian?

  Alston gave a tiny shake of his head, indicating Deuce should remain in position. He brought his own weapon up to his shoulder and took aim at the man's body. Alston waited for one more step. He tensed himself and emerged from the shadows.

  "That's far enough, mister. Put your weapon down. Slowly, please… Hands in the air where I can see them.”

  The man froze. He slowly turned his head to look at Alston. His eyes bulged wide and the pistol lowered to point at the floor. "Jesus! Where the hell did you come from?”

  "Those’ll be the last words you ever say if you don't put your gun on the ground, right now,” Alston’s words boomed and echoed through the church and had the desired effect. The man slowly squatted, lowering the pistol to the ground. He then raised his hands above his head before standing.

  "Deuce," Alston commanded.

  The big Ranger stepped out of the shadows behind the man, and quickly grasped both of his hands, drawing them down to the small of his back before slapping on a cable-tie. He brought his weapon back around his shoulder and pointed it at the floor between the man's feet.

  "Who… Who are you guys? Where'd you come from?" he stammered at Deuce.

  "Hell," growled Deuce. He stepped back and leaned on a pew. His weapon never stirred more than a few inches from the stranger’s body.

  “You picked the wrong day to come in for a prayer," said Alston as he shut the heavy wooden door behind their captive. He replaced the candelabra. "Front door secure," he reported over the radio.

  Alston immediately gestured for the prisoner to follow him and sat him down in the last row of pews. He was grateful to sit—the spots were returning to his vision. It wouldn’t do to pass out now. He crossed his arms over his M4 as it dangled from the combat harness on his chest. "Now," he said after waiting for a clap of thunder to subside. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

  "I could ask the same thing of you."

  Alston sighed and with an effort, didn’t cough. He caught Deuce’s eye and gestured with a finger toward their prisoner. Deuce stepped forward and casually punched their captive in the face.

  The man cursed and rubbed his cheek on his shoulder. He struggled to sit up, then said through clenched teeth and bleeding lips, “What the fuck was that for? Why are you treating me like some—”

  “I think you’re a Russian," said Alston in a calm voice. “That’s the only reason I can think of why somebody dressed as a civilian would come slinking around the church that we just happened to occupy minutes earlier.” He racked the slide on the stranger’s pistol and noticed a round in the chamber.

  “I’m not Russian,” the man said.

  “Drop the act—you may have the accent but you’re no townie.”

  “I grew up here—”

  Alston signaled Deuce, who moved forward and prepared to hit the man again.

  “All right, all right!” he protested. Deuce paused. “I’m CIA—we’re on the same team.” The man glared at Alston. “But I did grow up here.”

  Alston snorted. “Right.” He casually sighted down the pistol, aiming just a few feet away from the stranger’s face. He motioned for Deuce to continue.

  “No! Stop!” The prisoner glanced at Deuce. “Look, I’ll prove it—your name is Captain Derek Alston, you’re with the 3rd Battalion, 75th Rangers,” said the prisoner. “You were assigned to recover the Source and after the Russians took delivery of him in Iowa, you’ve been tracking him across the country. You rescued him from Lumford, South Carolina and were shot down—”

  Alston froze and held up his hand to pause Deuce in his advance. "How the hell do you know all that, mister?”

  "Your friend there, judging by his size, must be Deuce. Corporal Daniel Donovan. Heavy weapons specialist.” He shot an angry look at Deuce. “Not very friendly."

  Deuce smiled and cracked his knuckles. “Captain asked you a question.”

  Alston didn’t like how much the man knew. He glanced toward the front doors. Was this a trap? Was he stalling in order to buy time for reinforcements to encircle the church?

  The would-be CIA man smirked. "I told you—I work for the CIA. Langley got word that the Source was at some Russian airbase in South Carolina.” He shrugged, an awkward movement with both hands secured behind his back. “They sent me here to meet you.”

  “What—you mean you’ve been tracking us? Halfway across the country?” asked Alston. “We’ve had no comms with HQ since we left and you're telling me that somehow, in the middle of the boonies, you’ve been able to follow us?"

  “I call bullshit,” grumbled Deuce.

  “I’m inclined to agree, corporal,” replied Alston.

  “Can I hit ‘im some more, sir?”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” the CIA-man said quickly, “just ask me.” His eyes locked on the barrel of his pistol, still in Alston’s hands.

  “All right, for starters, what's your name?"

  "Clifford Mosby,” the answer came without hesitation. “I grew up in this town."

  “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that—”

  “Ask Father Martin, then. He’s got to be around here somewhere—he’ll back up my story.”

  Alston looked at Deuce, then back to Mosby. “Your priest is dead.”

  “What?”

  “We removed his body when we came in here. I’m sorry.”

  Mosby looked down at the floor for a moment. “He was a crotchety old bastard, but I didn’t think…damn.”

  Alston cleared his throat. “What’re you doing lurking around out there in this storm?”

  “Making sure you’re who I thought you were…are,” Mosby said. “And delaying coming in here.” He spat on the floor. "I hate this church."

  "Why's that?" growled Deuce.

  Mosby grimaced. "Long story. Look, can you take these damn zip ties off me? I’m starting to lose circulation in my fingers." He looked from Alston to Deuce. “We’re on the same side, remember?”

  Alston clenched his jaw and gave a curt nod. Deuce stepped forward, spun the CIA agent around, and sliced the zip ties from his wrists.

  “Oh, that's better," he sighed. "Now, where is he?"

  "Where's who?" asked Alston.

  The agent rolled his eyes. "Really? The Source. The guy at least three different governments are hunting. The guy you went to South Carolina to rescue and dragged out of that Russian prison."

  Alston sighed and stood, sliding his rifle over his shoulder. There was no way the Russians could have known everything Mosby had related. He had to be legit. "Follow me, he’s back there with—"

  “Shit!” hissed Mosby. He ducked behind Alston as 13 appeared from the vestry and limped to the altar. Alston glanced at her, illuminated by lightning flashes through the stained glass window.
She looked more like an angel than someone that would cause a trained CIA agent to hide behind another man.

  "Seriously? You brought her?"

  13 rummaged around the altar for a moment, then Huntley’s voice from the vestry called her back. Alston looked over his shoulder at the her as she peered around the darkened church. 13 accepted a bottle of water from one of the Marines at the altar and shuffled back into the vestry. The door closed behind her as another clap of thunder rattled the church.

  Alston chuckled. “I have to admit, I wasn't thrilled when Huntley came out and demanded to rescue her as well…but I didn't have that reaction."

  "That woman works for the enemy."

  Alston raised an eyebrow and looked at Mosby. "I don't think she's Russian," said Alston. “Maybe Norwegian or something.”

  "The enemy we're fighting does not know national borders. Forget about Russians and Chinese and North Koreans. The enemy we’re fighting is an international conglomerate—a syndicate.”

  Alston slowly lowered himself into the pew. He wiped the sweat from his brow and noticed how his hand trembled. To cover the fever-shakes, he unstrapped his helmet and removed the armor from his head, basking in the coolness that kissed the back of his neck. "So," he sighed, "should I break out the tinfoil hats now or…?"

  Mosby sat down cautiously in the pew behind him. He leaned forward and rested his arms on Alston's seat. "I know, I thought it was a joke when I first heard it, too. Believe me, the United States government takes this group very, very seriously."

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Why exactly would the government worry about them? Are they the Illuminati or something?"

  Mosby tensed. "Something like that. Look," the agent said, as he scratched his injured cheek. "These people are the ones that orchestrated the attack on Atlanta."

  That got Alston's attention. He half-turned in his seat and stared at the agent. “Want to run that by me again?"

  A crooked smile appeared on Mosby’s face. Alston noticed for the first time the man looked like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life. Black eyes, a nasty bruise around his throat Who the hell is this guy?