by Kyla Stone
Time for a new plan.
He fed five shells into the mag tube from the bottom, his hands trembling against his will, making him clumsy and slow, then dumped the remaining shells into his cargo pocket. He pushed off the safety.
“I hear something,” Dakota said.
He couldn’t hear anything through his earplugs other than the boom of gunfire and the crash and thud of the Shepherds bashing through the back door. They’d be inside within seconds.
A dull, distant roar sounded from somewhere, but he didn’t have time to consider the source.
The back door collapsed beneath the onslaught, and the first intruder shouldered inside. With the stock firm against his shoulder, Logan ducked low and peered around the corner, aimed at the first moving object he saw, and squeezed the trigger.
The first man’s thigh exploded in a spray of red. He staggered back, falling into the man behind him, who struggled to throw him off. Logan unleashed three shots on them both, pumping the action as quickly as he could.
Boom. Boom. Boom. The sound was deafening in the narrow confines of the cabin. He had his earplugs in, but the blasts still rang in his ears. The third man ducked into a bedroom, but not before Logan sent two rounds into his back.
Logan shifted for the fourth man, who raced down the hallway toward him, firing wildly. Logan darted back behind the fridge, crouching as he pumped the action, his heart jackhammering against his ribs.
The fourth man rounded the corner of the kitchen, M4 aimed slightly above Logan’s head.
Logan squeezed the trigger.
Nothing.
The Shepherd smiled.
Logan threw himself forward and jammed the barrel of the shotgun into the shepherd’s crotch. The man grunted, stumbling as he squeezed the trigger, a half-dozen shots zipping over Logan’s head and slamming into the upper cabinets ten feet behind him.
The Shepherd regained his footing. The M4’s muzzle swung toward Logan’s face, less than six feet away. Logan’s heart contracted. This was it, then. This was—
The crack of a gunshot resounded, booming through the small room. The man’s head snapped back. He crumpled to the floor.
Logan stared at the man’s bloodied body, stunned.
Across the living room, Dakota crouched behind the side of the couch closest to the wall, her forearms braced against the arm of the sofa, her Springfield in both hands.
She rose and tucked the pistol in her holster. “That was the last round.”
With the empty shotgun, he nudged the mangled body of the Shepherd who’d gotten the drop on him. He couldn’t quite believe he was still alive. “Thanks for saving my ass.”
“You’re welcome.” She managed a weary smile that pierced him to his very soul. “Hurry up and get us a few of those M4s.”
He bent and grabbed the carbine from the closest dead man’s hands, checked the magazine. It was empty. He swore and threw it aside.
Heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway.
“More coming!” Dakota cried.
Too late to go for the other carbines in the hallway. Back to the shotgun.
He fished more shotgun shells out of his pocket and tried to load it as quickly as humanly possible. His fingers were trembling with nerves. The first shell clattered to the floor. He fed the second correctly.
Before he could chamber it, four more Shepherds burst from the hallway, M4s bristling.
64
Logan
“Nobody move!” one of the Shepherds shouted.
Logan froze.
Behind him, Dakota expelled a sharp breath.
A bulky, bearded Hispanic man shouldered into the room behind the four men. “Hands up!” he barked. “On your knees!”
Slowly, Logan and Dakota raised their hands as one of the Shepherds relieved them of their weapons—including Logan’s knife, which he tossed across the room—and swiftly patted them both down. He forced them to their knees, cuffing Logan painfully upside the head as he did so.
Logan glared up at them.
Dakota’s expression tightened in a rictus of hatred. “Abel Flemmings.”
The man’s mouth creased into a facsimile of a smile, all white teeth and gleaming malice. “Ah, Sister Dakota. How we’ve missed you.”
“Screw you.”
“Still as sweet, I see. I swear I never knew what Maddox saw in you.” Abel shouldered his carbine and turned to a tall, slim Caucasian Shepherd with an acne-scarred face. “Let Reuben know we’ve got them. There’s one more hidden somewhere. Find him and kill him, along with this one.” He gestured to Dakota. “The girl, we’re saving for Maddox.”
Logan gathered his strength, every muscle tensing, readying himself. If he could draw their attention to him, maybe Dakota could find a way to escape.
It was a snowball’s chance in hell, but if it was a chance at all, he’d take it.
He leapt to his feet and launched himself at the nearest Shepherd, a muscular, bald black man. Action beat reaction every time. They weren’t expecting an attack from an unarmed man.
By the time their brains registered the fact that he’d moved, he’d already seized the bald man’s head in a vice-grip. He jerked it in one direction, then violently back again with a sickening twist. There was a hiss and a snap, and the man went limp and dropped heavily to the floor.
“What the—” Abel cried.
Growling, Logan whipped around and lunged for the next Shepherd. The Shepherd staggered back, nearly tripping over a chair leg to avoid the blow, his gun swinging around but not fast enough.
Logan went in low like a battering ram, tackling the man, bashing his head so viciously against the floor, the guy was unconscious before he knew what was happening.
“Stop, or she dies!” Abel screamed, his face purpling with rage.
Abel’s pistol was unholstered and pressed against Dakota’s forehead.
“Don’t listen to him!” Dakota cried. “Do it!”
Logan released the man’s deadweight and clambered slowly to his feet, his legs lead, dread squeezing the air from his lungs. “No.”
“On your knees!”
Logan sank obediently to his knees, despair rising up inside him.
The remaining two Shepherds kept their weapons trained on him.
Abel pivoted, took two swift strides, and jammed the pistol against Logan’s temple, a deranged look in those small, beady eyes. He wanted to kill Logan. He was going to do it.
Logan refused to close his eyes or to cower. He stared back at death with all the fury he could muster.
This couldn’t be the end. Not after everything they’d survived, everything they’d bled and fought for. They’d outlived a freaking nuclear bomb—now these scumbags were the victors?
He refused to accept it.
But it didn’t matter. Death didn’t give a damn what you did or didn’t accept, what you wanted or desired or despised. It came as much for the undeserving as it did for the deserving.
Logan deserved it as much as anyone. After everything—Tomás, the bomb, the radiation, the gangs—it was finally here for him.
Abel sneered. “Time to die, you—”
A cacophony of bullets exploded around them. The two Shepherds collapsed. Blood sprayed everywhere. Screams and shouts echoed from outside the cabin.
Abel half-turned, gaping, a look of astonishment on his broad, flat face.
A second later, his head exploded.
Stunned, Logan dropped to the kitchen floor, his hands over his head. He could only hope Dakota had managed to do the same.
The shots had come from outside the cabin. What the hell was going on?
Heavy footsteps stomped down the hallway toward them.
Instinctively, Logan twisted onto his belly and army-crawled through dust and splattered blood, clambering over the bald man he’d killed, heading toward the cabinet.
The Glock. If he could reach the gun…
He jerked open the wooden door and fumbled for the pistol tucked ins
ide the holster duct-taped to the cabinet ceiling. He flipped onto his back, ignoring the jolt of pain, finger already on the trigger as he aimed—
“Don’t shoot!” Julio shouted from the attic above them. “Friendlies on their way!”
Logan hesitated. He removed his finger from the trigger just as Archer Collier lumbered into the kitchen, a semiautomatic rifle cradled in his huge arms.
Jake, Zander, and Haasi crowded in behind him, all armed.
“Hey!” Zander’s face went slack when he saw Logan’s Glock aimed straight at them. “We’re the good guys.”
Logan just stared at them, his brain unable to process how quickly everything had changed. Ten seconds ago, he’d believed he was a goner.
Now, four dead men lay at his feet, and he was surrounded by allies.
“Dakota?” he asked.
“I’m here,” she said in a strained voice. “I’m okay.”
The adrenaline leaked away, leaving him dizzy with exhaustion. He bent at the waist and dry-heaved, spittle trailing from his lips.
Archer glanced around, grimacing as he took in the bodies and the bullet-riddled cabin. Splinters of wood and shards of glass and ceramic crunched beneath his boots.
He gave a resigned shake of his head. “Well, hell. Ezra’s gonna be pissed about the mess, that’s for sure.”
65
Shay
“Talk to me,” Shay said. “Distract me.”
She and Hawthorne were waiting in the American Airlines’ Admirals lounge for Hawthorne’s uncle, General Pierce, to get out of a meeting. The general had asked them to meet him, sounding strained and more worried than usual.
As if there wasn’t plenty to worry about already.
Several soldiers in ACUs and military buzz-cuts hurried past their lounge chairs, gesturing emphatically to each other. Dozens of official-looking people in stuffy-looking suits strode back and forth, hurrying from one crisis to the next.
It was far more chaotic today than usual, and that was saying something.
Hawthorne squeezed her hand and gave her a mischievous grin. “I can think of a few distractions, but I’m not sure that’s what you mean.”
Heat rose up her throat and bloomed in her cheeks. The memory of their last kiss tingled on her lips. “I’m not against public displays of affection, but um, maybe not here.”
He gave a hearty laugh. “Also noted. I’ll definitely remember that later. I guess for now I’ll have to resort to boring methods of distraction.”
“Nothing about you is boring,” she said, her whole face burning.
“I sure hope not.” He winked at her. He shifted in his seat, dug around in his pocket with his free hand, and pulled out a package of bubble gum. “Before I forget.”
“Thank you. Bubble gum is my favorite.” She released his hand to take the package and open it. She pulled out a stick and stuffed the rest in her pocket for later.
Hawthorne tapped his temple. “I know. I remember these things.”
“Storing up brownie points?”
“Whatever works.”
“Oh, it’s working.” She popped a stick in her mouth and relished the burst of fresh, fruity strawberry-banana-punch flavor. “What I meant was, tell me about what you’re doing. Tell me we’ve caught these scumbags, or are about to. Is it really Iran who did this to us?”
“I wish I had better news.” His eyes dimmed as he sat back in his seat. “The short answer is we don’t know yet. Some things are classified and well above my paygrade, but I can tell you the FBI has been scouring that van in Chicago, the one with the bomb that didn’t go off. They’re taking it apart piece by piece. They found sand and shell fragments lodged in the tire tread and the wheel wells.”
Shay’s eyes widened. “Shell fragments? Like seashells?”
He nodded.
“That sounds like Florida.”
“Yeah. Florida or Alabama, along the gulf coast. The tech guys said it was a shell from some kind of blue crab found only on the panhandle, or something. Anyway, the van was registered to a vehicle rental company out of Panama City that turned out to be a shell company.” He shot her another wry, tired grin. “No pun intended.”
She rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
“Sorry, can’t help myself.” He cleared his throat and grew serious. “Our tech experts did their thing. We know the shell company is registered to a shipping corporation based in Malta, with strong ties to Japan and China. They’ve also contracted with Russia, Ukraine, and the Middle East.”
“Including Iran?”
“A little, but not as much as Russia and Ukraine.”
She chewed her gum thoughtfully. “So maybe it isn’t Iran.”
“We’re working on it. But nothing is as it seems. On the global stage, with nations vying for power and dominance and America at her weakest, the stakes couldn’t be higher, and our allies smile at us with knives held behind their backs.
“These are new wars like we’ve never seen. Proxy wars and shadow armies, where the invasion is through cyber attacks, data breaches, and information warfare, all seeded with propaganda, subversion, and misdirection.”
“A nation can lose a war before she even knows she’s in one,” Shay said.
“Exactly.” Hawthorne nodded. “We’ll get to the truth. The real truth. We have to. And then we’ll nail them—hopefully with a nuclear missile.” He rubbed his head absently with his free hand, looking tired but determined. “Everyone’s working together on this—ATF, CIA, FBI, Homeland. We’re the best in the world for a reason.”
The door to the conference room opened and several middle-aged men and women strode out, hurriedly shuffling papers, murmuring to each other or staring angrily down at their tablets, all of them hollow-eyed and exhausted. Several assistants scurried after them.
These people were sheltered from the worst of it—the administrators and officers, liaisons and planners. They all boasted important titles: disaster relief coordinators, community response teams, public assistance directors, hazard mitigation, unmet needs, recovery logistics.
How many times had they visited the mobile medical tents or set foot outside the base? Since Governor Blake had ordered everyone but essential personnel into the FEMA camps, maybe there wasn’t anyone out there anyway.
Maybe Miami was a ghost town of radiation, rubble, and roaming gangs.
She hated thinking like that—like a cynical pessimist. Everyone here was working their butts off to save Miami and every other struggling city.
Miami would get back on her feet, just like America would.
They had to.
66
Dakota
Jake wiped sweat and specks of blood from his face. “Well, that was one hell of a fight.”
Dakota recovered her pistol from the dead Shepherd. With shaking fingers, she reloaded her magazine from the extra 9mm rounds hidden in the cabinet. She hated to be weaponless for even a second.
She spun in a slow circle, sucking in ragged breaths and gripping the handgun so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers. One, two, three. Breathe.
She hardly recognized the cabin. Her only home had become a war zone. Dust and debris mingled with splatters and puddles of blood like red paint, bullet holes pockmarking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Spent shell casings were scattered everywhere.
Her gaze lowered to the bodies. She toed the inert form of Abel Bowers. He lay contorted on his side, legs and arms splayed awkwardly, his dead eyes wide open. “Is it over?”
“It’s over,” Archer said. “I promise.”
“What about the soldiers outside? What about—”
“We got them.” Haasi raised her crossbow triumphantly. “They’re all dead. The dirtbags never saw us coming.”
“Did you check all the bodies to make sure they’re dead?” Logan picked up one of the dead Shepherds’ carbines, checked to make sure it was loaded, and moved to the front living room window. He peered out at the storm outside, still on alert.
“It was a pleasure killing Maddox Cage, I’ll say that,” Archer said.
Dakota turned to him, her heart surging. “Are you sure you killed him? You sure it was Maddox? It’s dark, and with the storm—”
“Damn sure,” Archer said. “Drilled a bullet through his deranged skull at twenty yards.”
Maddox Cage was dead. He was finally dead.
Dakota closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for the relief to thrum through her veins, for the knowing to settle deep in her bones, for it to be real.
It didn’t come. All she felt was exhaustion, every inch of her body aching, the tension still like a knot in her belly. Maybe it would come later.
Or maybe he would always haunt her, even in death.
“I want to see,” she said, whirling toward the door. Everything lurched and she lost her balance, almost stumbling. She righted herself. “I want to put another damn bullet in him just to make sure.”
Haasi reached out and pushed down Dakota’s pistol so it was aimed at the floor. “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “You will. But maybe you should rest a minute, first. You’re not looking so good.”
Her ears were ringing. She tasted acid on the back of her tongue. Her pulse wouldn’t stop thudding against her throat. She nodded dully and leaned against the nearest wall.
She kept feeling like she was missing something important, like her brain was too muddled to think clearly. “Julio?” she croaked. “Where’s Julio?”
“Right here.” Julio clattered down the attic stairs, shell-shocked and covered in dust, but alive. A round had skimmed his right ear, lopping off a quarter-inch of flesh. Blood dripped down the side of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt, but he insisted he was fine.
“I can fix that right up.” Haasi looked around. “Where’s Ezra? And Eden?”
“Safe in the shed,” Logan said. “I made sure of it.”