He was going to be a liability.
“Listen up,” Pete shouted to be heard over the din. “We shouldn’t be here. We’re not on vacation. David Clyde is not Santa Claus. Keep your shit together. Don’t eat too much, and hit the stims. Hard. I want everyone wide awake and ready to rumble.”
Chapter 3
Pete must have gotten through to Sadler because less than fifteen minutes had passed before he showed up and said it was time to leave. “Superintendent Latoa is having Clyde brought to our vehicles.”
The same giant guard from earlier arrived as well, pushing a cart full of gear.
“The Army left this for us,” Sadler said, looking like a kid with the best candy on the playground. “Latest in nanotech clothing. Weighs almost nothing and will keep you warm or cold, depending on what you need.”
Ryan leaned close to Pete. “I’d rather have the armored stuff.”
“I hear you,” Pete responded. It was something, but was it the right something? Staying warm was great, but if they met resistance along the way, bulletproof would be better than weatherproof.
“Why did I let Sadler talk us into leaving our combat helmets at the base?” Pete said.
“Because every once in a while, everyone gets to be stupid.”
The men changed quickly in the dining hall and stowed their regular uniforms in their packs. Then Pete led the men out of the prison at a jog—giving no thought to whether Sadler was keeping up or not. He and Sadler had the only keys to the armory, such as it was, and he wanted a rifle in his hands before David Clyde was brought outside.
When he turned and glanced back at his men, he was surprised to see Sadler only a couple of feet behind him. “You take the left, I’ll take the right,” Pete muttered.
Sadler nodded and they each climbed aboard a PM. Pete went straight to the steel locker at the back of the vehicle and opened it. Ryan had followed him on board, so he passed his friend a few of the rifles, and carried the rest of them out himself.
Back in the parking area, he handed the weapons to the men, who started taking the weapons through their paces, ejecting clips and then slamming them home and checking the safety mechanisms, making sure they didn’t stick.
It wasn’t the first time they’d had these weapons out, but they didn’t use them often. And they’d each gone through training that said that any time you got a new weapon in your hands, you checked to make sure it was in good working order. It could save your life. Not checking could take you right out of the game.
For his part, Pete felt only marginally better with the antique M4 in his hands. Why the hell hadn’t the Army left their weapons as well? Laser-guided smart rifles called X5s, but referred to by the men as MOPSS, which stood for My Own Personal Strawberry Shower. They packed a punch and were deadly accurate, and once the shooting started… strawberry showers.
Pete could only dream of having access to that kind of power. Chances of the National Guard ever seeing weaponry like that—even on loan—were slim. Military spending, once the behemoth of the government budget, had been shrinking year by year as the national debt soared. Half the time, even the real soldiers had old, possibly defective gear.
The National Guard? Well, they didn’t exactly count, did they?
He grunted and chided himself for thinking of anyone as “real” soldiers. The situation he and his crew were in was as real as it got, and made them just as important as anyone in the Army. If they failed at their mission, there would be repercussions.
The sun had set now, though the brightness of the prison lights gave a false sense of day. The mountain peaks were no longer visible, but the swirl of snow flurries dancing through the air told him the storm he’d predicted was offering them an appetizer. Once, after a flood in Arkansas, he’d been digging through the mud for bodies, and had thought it must be the longest day of his life. This day was now winning the crown for that achievement, and it wasn’t over yet. Hadn’t even really started. It wouldn’t be over until Clyde had been handed over to the warden of Mueller Maximum Security and they’d made it back to Anchorage.
Once he was on that military plane and back to the real world, he’d be able to breathe again. Maybe even sleep. And after that first sleep, he’d have another—one that hopefully lasted twelve to fourteen hours. When he woke up, he’d think about his future and what he wanted it to look like.
Whether he wanted situations like this one to be a part of it anymore.
The door to the parking area opened, and Superintendent Latoa, along with four guards, exited through it. Clyde walked in the middle of their tight group. He was chained, hands to shuffling feet, and he’d also been gagged. Maybe Latoa had finally woken up to the reality of the man he’d been housing in his prison. Or maybe Sadler had finally pulled his head out of his ass and had a good idea.
“We’ll take the lead,” Sadler said to Pete. “Clyde will be in your vehicle.”
“Yes, sir.” Pete could have predicted it, if he’d thought about it. Clyde had already run roughshod over Sadler, verbally, and the captain wouldn’t want to risk further humiliation. Especially in front of a bigger audience. “Make sure Lark is on your PM, not mine,” Pete added. “The man has a grudge.”
“Well deserved,” Sadler said. “Lost one of his kids in the Chicago bombing. Actually, it might be fun to give Lark a little free rein. We could see Clyde finished off right here and skip the long drive to Mueller.”
Though Pete would have liked nothing better than to see this assignment come to an end, he wasn’t the kind of man to get involved in what amounted to a lynching. He didn’t care a rat’s whisker about Clyde. Clyde could rot, burn, be torn to bits, and it wouldn’t cause him a second thought. Some people weren’t worth the air they breathed.
It was Lark and the other men Pete was worried about. While the act of slaughtering Clyde might satisfy Lark’s desire for vengeance, the aftermath of giving in to one’s most primal self might irreparably scar the man’s spirit. Or worse, turn him into the kind of man he’d just murdered.
The way Sadler was watching him, almost salivating, told Pete that Sadler thought he was actually considering the idea.
“It’s a good fantasy, sir. But that’s all it is,” he said, and walked over to where Clyde waited.
“Heads up!” Ryan shouted.
Pete’s gaze scanned over the people around him, looking for whoever had moved, and then he saw him. One of the guards had yanked his gun from the holster.
“What are you doing?” Latoa snapped.
“Stand down!” Pete yelled, jerking his own gun up and aiming it at the guard.
“This fucker killed my parents,” the guard said. He raised his gun slowly, leveling it at Clyde.
“Drop it!” Pete and Sadler said at the same time.
Sadler was fumbling with his rifle, but Pete already had the nose of his pointed right at the guard’s knee. Easiest, quickest, and least deadly way to take someone out. A bullet through the knee and he’d forget all about shooting the prisoner.
“No one fires,” Pete said, knowing the men would follow orders. “Drop it,” he said to the guard. “You don’t want to die here.”
But he did. Pete saw it in his eyes. Determination. Loss of hope. He was going to shoot Clyde, and he didn’t care what happened afterward. Right, knee might not work then.
Without stopping to think about it, Pete adjusted his aim up a bit, pulled the trigger, and hit the man in the shoulder. The guard spun with the force of impact, the gun sailing out of his hand, and landed in a heap on the ground. He immediately began writhing in pain.
There were so many nerves in the shoulder. After a shot taken from this distance, Pete wondered if the guy would ever use his arm again. But he hadn’t had a choice. A shot to the knee would have left that gun in the man’s hand.
“I’ll leave you to deal with this situation, Superintendent,” Sadler said. “We’re on a deadline.”
For once, Pete was glad Sadler was a lazy turd. There w
as nothing Sadler hated more than paperwork, and this incident would require plenty.
“Let’s get moving,” Pete said.
He took Clyde by the arm and led him toward the second PM. Much to his disgust, Clyde gave him a knowing wink—one that made Pete want to cuff him upside his head, though he didn’t. Clyde wanted him to react, and Pete wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He kept moving the prisoner toward the vehicle at a pace where he could walk without getting tripped up by the chains.
When they got to the steps, though, he shoved the guy, allowing him to stumble a bit on the first stair. Far as he could see, Clyde had earned that. But it was all he was going to allow himself to do.
Inside the PM, two long benches faced one another. Pete took the first spot, directly behind the driver, and seated Clyde on his right. Then he nodded to Ryan, who was waiting at the door, and the other men began to board.
Osborn was second to get in. Pete wished he’d wound up with Sadler. He was too new to be involved in this mission and, judging by his over-wide eyes, had hit the stims harder than necessary. Not usually one for prayer, Pete cast one thought into the ether: Whoever’s out there, if you give two shits about humanity, let us finish this job without complications so we can go home.
“We’re squared away, Lieu,” said Yu, who was driving this time.
“Then let’s get rolling,” Pete replied. “Keep a little space between us and PM1 in case the road gets slippery.”
Yu put the vehicle in gear and pulled out right after PM1. Moments later, the vehicle in front of them started to rock side to side. Pete jumped up and got closer to the windshield, bracing his own feet against the floor of their now-shivering bus.
“It’s another aftershock, Lieu,” Yu said.
What else can go wrong?
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Olowe said. “Something’s going on with the prisoner.”
Pete turned around, his eyes finding the man they were meant to be transporting. Sweat was pouring from Clyde’s head, and his eyes were filled with panic. He jerked and hitched like he was choking behind the gag. Pete staggered over, fighting the unpredictable sway caused by the aftershock, reached behind Clyde’s head, and released the gag.
Clyde drew in a huge breath and coughed.
The ground became still once more, and their convoy of two picked up speed.
“Thank you,” Clyde said, once he’d stopped coughing. “I’m prone to panic attacks.”
Pete couldn’t remember having read or been told that. A proper briefing would have been helpful. Sadler probably knew, but had failed to share the information.
“So long as you keep your mouth shut, I’ll leave the gag off,” Pete said.
“You’re too kind. I’ll make sure it’s fast for you,” Clyde said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ryan spat.
Pete shot his friend a look, warning him not to engage.
“It’s a great irony,” Clyde said, as Pete moved to put the gag back on.
“What is?” Pete wished he was less rattled, because if he’d been less rattled, he wouldn’t have asked. But the words just slipped out. The habit of asking for clarification when someone said something vague.
“All the work I’ve done to bring about the end of civilization, and it seems that if I had only waited, Mother Nature would have done it for me.”
Suppressing a growl, Pete shoved the gag into Clyde’s mouth, then joined the Velcro tabs at the back. Tighter than necessary, but it was clear the whole panic/choking/gagging thing had been an act. Lesson learned.
Clyde could choke to death on this glorified bus for all Pete cared.
“Do you think he’s right, Lieu?” Osborn asked from the other end of the bench.
“Shut your pie hole, Osborn,” Ryan said, saving Pete from doing it.
Too soon they were rolling through darkness and lightly falling snow, the storm starting to make itself felt. And it was starting to seem like they might be the last people alive. If road conditions were perfect, the drive from Anchorage Correctional to Mueller Max would take somewhere between an hour and twenty and an hour and a half. At the moment, the conditions weren’t bad, but how long would they stay that way? Ten minutes later, the storm hadn’t gotten any worse.
Pete started to think that they might just make their deadline.
After about an hour had gone by, he got up and asked Yu how he was doing.
“Great, Lieu,” Yu said. “These bitches have all-wheel drive and tires with deep tread. Snow is barely touching them.”
“Good man.” Pete clapped him on the shoulder.
“I am going to have to stop soon to take a piss, though,” Yu said, looking sorry. “The stims—”
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” Pete said. “Radio PM1 and ask for a stop. Might as well do it now.”
Yu followed orders, making the call to PM1, and the vehicles rolled to a stop.
“Anyone who has to go, go now,” Pete said.
“Or forever hold your pee!” Olowe shouted, and some of the men laughed.
The last thing Pete noticed before Yu opened the door to step outside and all hell broke loose was Clyde’s satisfied expression. He looked like a man who’d arrived right on time to catch the last flight of the day.
Chapter 4
The door opened, Yu’s foot landed on the first of two steps, Pete saw Clyde, oozing gratification, and something went bang, then boom, then ka-pow, like Pete had found himself written into a graphic novel. PM1 jumped off the ground like an excited puppy and lost its footing when it landed. Yu slipped on the second step and fell to his hands and knees in the dusting of snow on the road.
In the glare from the explosion, Pete saw the other vehicle land, more on its left wheels than its right, hover at an impossible cant and then, with horrible inevitability, tip fully onto its left side. The undercarriage was engulfed in flames.
“Go, go, go!” Pete shouted as he grabbed his M4.
He gave Yu a hand up as he jumped past him, scanning the surroundings for the source of the threat. The explosion had dazzled his eyes, though, and he couldn’t see much.
I’m a sitting duck out here, he realized, shouting at himself to move before he was shot.
But nothing happened.
He slung his rifle over his back and made his way cautiously toward PM1. No bullet found him. No rocket-propelled grenade came to take out PM2. Judging by the hole in the ground, someone had been there earlier and placed an explosive on their route. They’d just been unlucky enough to actually hit it.
It was slow going as he made his way to the front of PM1. The vehicle had landed at an angle that forced him into the ditch beside the road. He heard Yu curse behind him but didn’t look back. Instead, he focused on placing his feet carefully in the slippery muck that had collected in the ditch.
When he finally got to the front of the vehicle, he sidestepped along the grill. Once he was far enough from the heat generated by the fire, he climbed the hood and hoisted himself to a standing position. The door had already been knocked askew by the explosion, saving him the trouble of kicking it in.
Lark’s head popped out of the opening just as Yu arrived beside Pete. Pete wondered why more of the men from PM2 hadn’t caught up to him yet. Then he wondered whether any of the others were even coming.
“What’s the situation down there?” he shouted at Lark.
“Scrapes and bruises,” Lark said. “Maybe a concussion or two. No broken bones. One dead.”
“Who is it?” Pete felt mean, low and mean, when he hoped it was Sadler.
“It was Sing, sir,” Lark said sadly. “He was driving.”
Pete bent over to look inside. The driver’s seat was painted red with blood. Wherever the wounds had been, one of them must have been arterial.
Then a couple of gunshots sounded out. Not from anywhere outside. Not from the sloped walls of the pass through the foothills, and not from another vehicle behind them.
They wer
e coming from inside PM2.
“Shit.” Pete jumped down without care for sprained ankles or broken bones, landed cleanly, and hurried through the sucking mess in the ditch, hard and fast, breathing like he was running at a full sprint.
Had one of the men decided to throw it all away and shoot Clyde? He could hear the angry shouts of men, muffled, coming from inside PM2, and more gunshots.
“Yu!” Pete hollered, readying his rifle as he ran. “Stay here. Get everyone out of PM1. Eyes peeled. We don’t know if this was it, or there’s more coming.”
A burst of flame shot out at him as he rounded the back end of PM1 and he jerked away, nearly falling on his ass. Part of him knew he was moving quickly, or at least as quickly as possible given the conditions, but the other part felt like he was caught in a slow-motion scene. Each step seemed to take minutes instead of seconds.
He reached PM2 as Ryan, face bloodied from a cut over his eyebrow, came boiling out the door with his hands around Private Osborn’s throat, followed by the rest of the men from PM1, who stationed themselves at regular intervals and scanned their surroundings for threats.
“Ryan, stop!” Pete yelled, but his friend kept doing what he’d been doing—which looked like trying to kill Osborn. “O’Connell! Stop it! That is an order, soldier!”
Osborn was kicking and flailing, his bright blue eyes begging Pete for help.
Hand still squeezing Osborn’s throat, Ryan twisted his neck to look at Pete. “This little fucker was working with Clyde. He shot Zabinski before we understood what was going on.”
While Pete absorbed this new information, Ryan managed to crush Osborn’s throat with his bare hands. Face purple and tongue lolling, Osborn finally grew still, that pleading expression frozen on his face forever. Pete was sure the grotesque crunching sound would stick with him for a long time. Ryan got to his feet and spit on Osborn, then kicked snow and soot into his dead face for good measure.
Stone Cold Fear | Book 1 | Powerless Page 3