Inside the SUV, a woman screamed.
“Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Holy shit,” Daniel muttered in disbelief. Looking over at Paul, he saw the teenager’s face had turned pale in the realization of what he’d done.
Standing up, Daniel grabbed the young man’s arm. “You did the right thing,” he said, staring intently into Paul’s eyes. Nodding with finality, he added, “Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Knowing he couldn’t lead the people in the SUV in the direction of Serafina and the girls, he darted forward, leading Paul across the intersection and onto Embarcadero Road, heading east, towards the bay.
They were on the run again, and their legs were already spent.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Palo Alto, California
When Lizette’s mouth fell open in shock, time stood still.
Confusion grabbed hold of the Scorpion’s mind, leaving her unable to recognize what had just happened. Sitting in the back row of the SUV, she hadn’t heard the arrow when it embedded itself in her partner’s side. Realizing that something was wrong, she leaned forward and looked more closely at Lizette, her eyes landed on the shaft of the arrow protruding from the woman’s ribs.
‘That can’t be…’ she thought immediately. ‘An arrow? Who the fuck is running around with a bow and arrow?!’
All of this passed through her mind as her eyes made their way up to her lover’s face.
When their eyes met, Samantha not only knew it was serious, but that it was really, really bad. In the years they’d known each other, she’d seen all sorts of emotions in the woman’s eyes: anger, happiness, mischief, seriousness, lust, intensity, relaxation, disgust, and much more had been shared between them.
She’d even seen sadness in Lizette’s eyes once, when the two of them found a small poodle that had been left inside a car, abandoned during the outbreak. The dog had died, its small body left stiff and dry, stuck to the seat of the car in the sweltering internal heat of the vehicle. When tears formed in Lizette's eyes, Samantha had assumed that she’d been seeing things. When the woman brought up one of her thin, delicate hands to wipe away the moisture, she realized her lover had shared a new emotion with her.
This was like that, but different.
It seemed like time stood still as fear washed over the shock in the woman’s eyes, making her seem even younger; a scared girl, wondering if something could take away the unexpected emotion.
Correction: not something, someone.
Her voice trembled as she called out to the Scorpion.
“Sammie….”
She fell forward limply, not trying to catch herself as she fell. Her chest and face slapped against the pavement with a soft smacking sound.
The Scorpion screamed.
“Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!”
Clint was next to Lizette in an instant, reaching down to gently pull on the young woman’s shoulder, turning her over. The Scorpion rushed out of the SUV, shoving Clint aside as she crouched down next to Lizette.
“Baby!” she cried, bringing her hand to the woman’s face. Lizette’s eyes were glazed over, the skin of her face clammy to Samantha’s touch.
“Hurts…” Lizette managed, coughing up blood. It ran down the side of her face, pooling underneath her head.
Looking down at where the arrow remained in Lizette’s side, the Scorpion felt something else new: Helplessness.
She knew she couldn’t remove the arrow without doing more damage, but she also knew the arrow was hurting the woman she loved more than anything in the world.
Somewhere nearby, a gun was being fired repeatedly.
She ignored it, caring about nothing more than the sight of her beautiful, wonderful, loving partner.
“I….” she began. Unable to find words to follow, she settled on, “I’m sorry, baby.”
Lizette coughed again, spitting out an obscene amount of blood.
Her eyes met Samantha’s again. “L-l-love….you….”
Then she was gone.
Gone before Samantha could respond, before she could tell her that she loved her, too, before she could say that no one had ever, ever meant more to her than she had.
The Scorpion collapsed, burying her head against her mate’s chest. She sobbed silently, grabbing some of the woman’s hair and bringing it to her nose so that she could enjoy her scent once more.
Remaining silent, Clint and Mario stood by her side, their guns drawn as they watched for threats.
After several long moments, the Scorpion rose from where she knelt. When her eyes met theirs, they saw something they were much more familiar and comfortable with.
Fury.
“New plan.” She stated, her voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “We find the person who did this, and we make them FUCKING PAY!” she screamed.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
Redwood City, California
Steve Sommer lit another cigarette as he sat on the roof of the medical building, looking out over the city and the bay. Sitting atop one of the metal boxes that housed the ventilation fans, he enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face and the distinctively cleaner air he breathed in between puffs.
Next to him, Hank leaned over as he spoke. “You know, Steve, I’ve got a little something special to celebrate when we’re done.”
Sommer looked over at the man skeptically. Raising his chin, he asked, “Whaddaya got?”
Hank smiled as he reached into an inside pocket on his leather vest. When he withdrew his hand, he held two Cuban cigars. Separating them, he passed one over to the other man.
Sommer nodded appreciatively as he accepted it. Examining the long, tightly rolled tube of tobacco, he said. “Romeo and Juliet, nice.”
“Yeah,” Hank replied, holding the one he held up to admire it. “Those dirty fuckers do know how to do one thing right.”
“Fuckin’ commies,” Sommer said, shaking his head. Looking over at his longtime friend, he held up the cigar. “I’m gonna hold on to this for now.”
“I know. We’re not done yet.”
“Exactly.”
“Sucks about Randall,” Hank began carefully.
“Yeah,” Sommer replied, stuffing the cigar into the front pocket of his shirt. “He was a risk, though. Sometimes those ‘things’ turn quickly, sometimes it takes a while for them to turn. Can’t take that risk.” He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled, then went on. “Once I saw that bridge had been knocked out, I decided to remove the risk.” Turning to look at Hank, he said, “Honestly, I was thinking of sending you with him to cover the bridge, just in case he turned. You’d be able to put him down, then cover the crossing.”
Disappointed, Hank nodded but said nothing.
Sommer nudged him with his elbow. “Hey, I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I want you here for this. We’ll take care of it together. It’ll be epic.”
Looking over at the gear they’d brought, Hank smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too.” After a moment, he added, “By now, Trent and Graham should be in position, too.”
The two men sat in silence for a bit, before Sommer stood up.
“Gotta take a leak.”
Turning away, he walked over to a spot on the other side of where the stairs opened out onto the roof. On a whim, he walked over to the edge and looked down at the parking lot. Five stories below, a BMW 7-series sedan with giant tires and rims, pitch black windows, and a deep purple glitter paint finish sat parked close to the building.
Grinning, he pulled out his penis and began urinating off the side of the building, trying to aim his stream at the car.
“Fucking niggers,” he muttered, leaning back in an effort to get a better trajectory.
He’d managed to splatter the vehicle a few times when he heard a low humming sound.
“Steve!! Get back here!”
“Dammit!” he muttered, forcing his bladder to hold what was left before stuffing his penis back into his pants.
Turning back to where he’d been standing he saw Hank pointing off to the south.
At the horizon.
Rushing forward, he ran to where his friend was and stopped, skidding slightly on the small pebbles that covered the rooftop. Looking at the skyline, he saw a massive grey military aircraft was inbound, headed on a trajectory that would take it directly in front of them on its way to San Francisco International Airport.
“Fucking perfect,” he said aloud, smiling as he nodded.
“You called it, boss,” Hank said, watching the aircraft as well.
“It’s go time,” Sommer said, reaching down for the weapon he’d brought with him. Pointing at Hank’s identical one, he asked, “You remember what I showed you?”
Bending down to grab the weapon, Hank smiled even more broadly. “Definitely. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
Sommer grabbed the weapon, using his strength to hoist the 34-pound unit up onto his shoulder. Composed of a five-foot long green cylinder with a footlong square attached near one end, the FIM-92 Stinger Missile was both lightweight and highly effective at taking down aircraft.
Especially one as big and as slow as the one inbound.
Unfolding the Identify Friend or Foe (IFF) transponder (which he’d disabled), he lowered the sighting device into position, then moved the weapon on his shoulder slightly, finding a comfortable spot for it.
Nearly ready to fire, he looked over at Hank. The man had mimicked his movements and was ready for the go ahead.
“Alright,” Sommer began, “when the aircraft is even with the Dumbarton, pull the trigger.”
“Got it.”
“When the pilots see your missile inbound, they’ll deploy flares, trying to draw it away. They’ll be surprised by the attack, so they’ll instinctively use all the flares they’ve got.” Smiling, he added: “That’s when I’ll launch mine.”
“Fuckin’ brilliant, man.” Hank said, shaking his head.
“Damn straight. Alright, let’s do this.”
Sommer reached down and grabbed a Battery Coolant Unit (BCU) and slapped it into the gripstock. With the BCU inserted, he’d only have 45-seconds to fire the unit, but it didn’t matter.
They wouldn’t need half that.
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
Over Central California
“Alright, folks, time to wake up,” Tech Sergeant Andrews said through the speakers in their ears. “We’re about thirty minutes out. Let’s make sure things are fully secured and stowed for landing.”
Standing wearily on tired legs, Andrews held onto the tether overhead as he looked down at them. Glad that they were finally arriving after spending over 13 hours on a mission that was supposed to take eight, he smiled, feeling relieved.
Looking up at the man, Reed felt a little guilty at being better rested than the others were, but knew there was little that he could have done to help with the refueling effort the men had endured at Creech Air Force Base.
“Roger that,” Sergeant Mason replied, reaching up and rubbing his eyes with one hand.
On the other side of Reed, McGhee tried to stretch, leaning side to side in his seat, his face grimacing as he tried to get his muscles to relax.
Looking at either man, Reed saw the fatigue on their faces. When they finally climbed into the aircraft after completing the refueling effort, all three of them had looked nearly dead on their feet and stunk of jet fuel. The bone-weariness hadn’t gone away, and neither had the smell.
A shower would be greatly beneficial, not only for them, but for those around them.
Reed looked across to where Steight remained secured in her crate and found the dog looking at him with hopeful eyes.
“Not much longer, Steight. Hang in there,” he said, smiling.
“Damn, I’m tired,” McGhee said, distracting Reed, The big man shook his head. “It’s gonna feel good to be on the ground a bit,” he said, nodding.
“Yeah,” Reed replied, feeling the aircraft begin to descend, “but it might not be long. Probably not more than a few hours. Too much on the line.” Leaning over, he looked out the window. San Jose was directly below them. Ahead, he could see the sparkling reflection of the bay. “But yeah, it’ll definitely feel good while it lasts.”
“Definitely,” McGhee said, nodding.
Looking back at Steight, Reed noticed one of the straps that secured her crate to the deck had come loose. The dog looked at the strap then at him.
Had she been trying to tell him?
“Shit,” he began, leaning forward. He tried to reach the strap, but it was just out of reach. Frustrated, he moved to undo his harness. He didn’t want the crate coming loose during the landing.
“Let me get it, Doc,” McGhee said, reaching out to stop him. Grinning, he added, “Gives me an excuse to stretch my legs.”
In the cockpit, First Lieutenant Knight keyed the mic as he spoke to the control tower at San Francisco International. “San Francisco Control, this is Eagle One Three Five, over.”
“Eagle One Three Five, this is San Francisco Control, read you Lima Charlie, over.”
Lieutenant Knight smiled, breathing a small sigh of relief. As an admittedly new pilot, he was nervous about literally everything. The term ‘Lima Charlie’ meant ‘Loud & Clear’, so at least communications wouldn’t be an issue during their landing.
Keying the mic again, he continued the communications routine. “San Francisco Control, this is Eagle One Three Five on fly heading two eight four magnetic, two nine eight true, over.”
The response was near immediate: “Eagle One Three Five, hold you on two eight four magnetic, two nine eight true. You are clear - ”
The remainder of the response was overpowered by a high pitched sound in the cockpit.
In the seat next to him, Captain Quinn shouted, “Missile inbound!!”
Quinn yanked the controls to the right, banking the aircraft as hard as the airframe could handle as Knight froze in his seat.
‘Missile? What?’ his mind asked, racing. ‘That’s….impossible.’
McGhee had just finished reattaching the clamp that secured Steight’s carrier to the deck of the aircraft, and was looking back to give Reed a thumbs up, when the warning alarm sounded throughout the aircraft.
“What the - ”
The aircraft banked hard, placing strain on every strap and harness that held objects, people, and, in this case, a dog, in place.
McGhee had nothing.
Before he could finish his sentence, before he could even attempt to grab hold of something, his body was thrown upwards and away.
Reed and Mason watched as he flew across the open space of the cabin and crashed into the far wall, breaking his neck. Dying on impact, his dead body remained against the opposite wall, suspended by the G-forces created by the aircraft’s radical maneuver.
Reed’s eyes met the lifeless ones of the man who had not only trained him, but had become his friend.
‘Not again,’ he thought, as his arms grasped the straps of his harness.
“Hold on!!”
Broken from his momentary paralysis, Knight grabbed hold of the armrests on his seat as Quinn banked hard and reduced airspeed.
Popping sounds came from either side of the aircraft as each bank of sixteen launchers shot out pyrophoric flares in intervals: four shots on each side, then a pause, then four more shots on each side, until all thirty-two flares had been deployed. The flares, composed of iron platelets coated with ultrafine aluminum, ignited instantly upon contact with the air, burning at thousands of degrees as they fell away from the aircraft, leaving smoke trails behind them. By turning away and reducing speed, the hope was that the inbound missile would lock onto the hotter heat signature.
The system, combined with the perfectly executed maneuver, worked perfectly, drawing the missile in. Even so, when the missile’s warhead detonated, the annular-blast fragmentation pattern sent shrapnel flying outward in a circular pattern.
Knowing thi
s would be the case, Quinn banked hard back to the left and increased speed, attempting to put more space between the big aircraft and the blast.
Moving into the path of the second missile.
Quinn saw it at the last possible second and acted reflexively, turning back away from it just before impact.
Though the maneuver lessened the damage, it wasn’t enough.
The missile impacted just forward of the aircraft’s port side engines, its fragmentation warhead ripping a gaping hole in the plane’s left side. Tech Sergeant Andrews, seated just aft of the pilots, was killed instantly as one of the steel rods that shot outward from the warhead tore through his ribcage and lodged in his heart.
Other rods from the warhead tore apart the aircraft’s port engines as they were ingested into the huge turbofans, shredding them. The inner engine sputtered and cut out, sending a thick black cloud of smoke from its exhaust as it choked. The outer engine exploded, tearing itself and the rest of the wing away from the aircraft.
With all things considered, Captain Quinn’s efforts lessened the damage the aircraft would take and likely saved the lives of Reed and Mason.
In the cockpit, First Lieutenant Knight struggled to help as Quinn barked out orders. With minimal familiarity with the aircraft, he found it difficult to find the controls the Major called out. Taking advantage of what he did know, he quickly pressed the button to lower the flaps on the wings. Within seconds, the panel showed that the flaps on the starboard wing lowered and locked into position. The light for the port wing flickered, indicating a short in what remained of the port wing.
“What else?” he asked.
“Hold on!” Quinn called out as he focused on trying to maintain control of the aircraft. There was no doubt that they were going down, but how that unfolded would be up to him. If he could slow their airspeed while managing to minimize their angle of impact, they had a chance at surviving.
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 64