There was an awkward hesitation. “Uh, his whereabouts are currently unknown. MPs are scouring the base for him, sir.”
Did Ames send his goons after Defina? The implications detonated through Ryan like a fission reaction, problems begetting more problems, melting his patience. “When 3B checks in, instruct Tompkins to call me at this number,” he said, his tone underscoring the urgency of the order. Then he hung up and unlocked the door to his apartment.
His bloodshot eyes wandered from the shoeless entryway to Sybil’s journal sitting on the coffee table. The quiet pressed against him, intensifying as he entered the bathroom. Memories of Franny’s dripping wet body curled his lips into an expectant grin. If all went according to plan, she would be home tonight.
Home? A thought began whispering in the back of his mind, replete with images of flowers. And chapels. And rings.
“You’re an idiot,” he told the reflection in the mirror.
Ryan endured a room-temperature shower, nicked his face four times while shaving, then caught himself smiling at the family of toothbrushes now nestled inside his Army mug.
After brushing his teeth, he trudged into the bedroom and pulled on a fresh charcoal service uniform. Ryan wrestled with the tie, then as he fastened his belt, his phone rang. He answered, grunting, “Andrews.”
“Sergeant Tompkins, calling as ordered, sir.” The team leader detailed his lack of progress in recovering Bradley Webber.
“I got a hold of some satellite footage,” Ryan lied. “There’s been some activity at a quarry fifteen klicks from your original position. I’m forwarding the coordinates. And Sergeant, you report directly to me until you hear from Captain Defina.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan sent the coordinates and ended the call. After pulling on his shoes, he made his way through the narrow hallway. He halted near the galley-style kitchen, brow crinkling at the syringes roosting atop his Formica countertop.
His head jerked toward the living room.
Then Ryan’s puzzled brown eyes trailed upward from the barrel of the handgun to the smug, crooked-toothed sneer of an Asian man.
167
District Three, Washington, D.C.
BRADLEY DIDN’T HAVE time to worry about his bleeding thigh. Believing that the best first aid was putting bullets downrange, he hobbled toward a cement column and returned fire.
The lone shooter was two hundred yards away, hunkered on the roof of a fast-food restaurant whose windows had been boarded-up long before the electromagnetic pulse. A vast, empty parking lot surrounded the structure, dappled with miniature ponds and fountains of weeds that spewed from cracks in the asphalt.
Another shower of rounds spattered against the column of the parking garage. Particles chipped and drifted like falling snow.
“Get to the extraction point on time,” Bradley muttered, curbing his natural inclination to hunt down that bastard.
Jaw grinding against the throb of his injured thigh, he limped through the shadows of the garage, using vehicles as crutches. A bungling climb over the wall and an excruciating, hundred-yard stagger sent his heart rate soaring. Pain pumped through his veins, adding to the layer of sweat that blanketed his body.
When he reached the safety of a two-story, Colonial-style house, he cleared each room then settled in an upstairs bedroom with a view of the boarded-up restaurant. While the Russian darted between the castlelike teeth in the roof’s façade, Bradley sat down amongst torn clothing and broken toys to inspect his injured leg.
The damage looked more like a knife wound than a gunshot. A crescent-shaped laceration sliced through denim and flesh, creating a bloody trapdoor so dark it appeared black. He tore open his jeans and surmised that a ricocheting bullet fragment had burrowed into his outer thigh.
Bradley downed three Motrin then removed his multi-tool from his rucksack. He swabbed the metal with an antiseptic wipe; then drawing and holding a deep breath, he nosed the pliers into the wound. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His teeth gnashed as the narrow steel tip locked onto the twisted hunk of lead.
He pulled it free, and a fiery sensation shot up his thigh, along his spine, and ignited a wave of light-headedness. The pliers slipped from his trembling hand, and the bloody hunk of lead landed atop a coloring book. Struggling to calm his heart rate and respiration, Bradley glanced toward the restaurant. The Russian had abdicated the rooftop and was now crouching at the southeast corner of the building.
Bradley cleansed his wound, ripped open a packet of QuikClot, and dumped the powder into the gash.
Thank God, it missed major arteries and nerves, he thought as he bandaged his thigh.
Propping a hand against the wall, he stood using only his right leg. Gingerly, he applied pressure to the left, and although it hurt like hell, it was able to bear weight.
The Russian was boldly crossing Georgia Avenue, a six-lane road with an intermittent grass median. Bradley readied his inherited M4 and shot through the window. The rounds sailed wide.
Are the rifle’s sights out of whack? he wondered. Or am I too unsteady?
Curiously, the Russian was using his handgun for suppressive fire as he ran for cover. Was he out of rifle rounds? It seemed likely, based on the number of magazines carried by his comrades. If so, Bradley would have a huge advantage. Rifles were accurate for hundreds of yards; handguns, just a fraction of that.
He glanced at his bandage, pleased it was still white; then scanned the debris that blanketed the room. Bradley set up a decoy using a teddy bear with a human-sized head, then gimped downstairs to the opposite side of the house.
He had barely gotten into position when a flurry of lead pelted the bear. Bradley spied the shooter’s forearms protruding from the corner of a house across the street and took aim.
The burst of slugs severed the Russian’s left forearm, just above the wrist, and a piercing moan wafted across the street.
The barrel of the handgun angled toward Bradley.
No muzzle flash. No booming report.
A jam? Or is he out of ammo?
Bradley squeezed off several rounds that went unanswered.
Satisfied the man no longer posed a threat, he limped from the house, groaning with each step. He kept to the wooded areas, moving due west, and after a mile, blood began to seep through the bandage. Could he hold out for five more miles?
He checked his watch. Team 3B would raid the quarry an hour from now. He was cutting it tight.
Something whooshed past Bradley’s head. His first impression was that of a dive-bombing bird; then he heard the thonk of a knife blade stabbing a tree trunk.
He turned, raising his rifle.
The Russian kicked it from his hand and pounced, knocking Bradley off-balance. He landed on his back, his sidearm gouging into his backbone, the enemy on top of him.
The man had tied off his amputated stump with a wire tourniquet. The Russian’s elbow plunged into Bradley’s throat, an iron first pounded his face, and he gasped for air, gagging on his own blood.
168
District Eight, Colorado
FEARING REPRISALS OVER the fertilizer explosion that had killed six peacekeepers, Martha Bratton and Mary McCauley had migrated north to Lamar, Colorado, in search of second cousins who had either perished or moved on. Instead, they had stumbled upon a family of patriots, nearly a hundred in number, who were disrupting enemy supply lines, stealing vehicles and weaponry, and sabotaging outposts.
The band of irregulars was led by a man affectionately called Colonel Pastor, whose ability to wreak havoc was surpassed only by his capacity for kindness. He was an unlikely warrior with observant dark eyes, weathered skin, and a disarming gentleness better suited to his calling as pastor of the Cimarron Church of God.
Martha had been shocked to hear him speak of Sybil Ludington and Izzy Bissel, two children whose unflappable courage had inspired him to take up arms and fight for freedom. When she shared her own encounter with the youngsters, a childlike smile of wonder h
ad deepened the creases in Colonel Pastor’s aging, leathery skin. Then he had said, “The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”
While Martha fought alongside Peter Muhlenberg, Mary doted on the irregulars with the love of a grandmother, maintaining their camp, cooking, purifying water, tending to injuries, and packing magazines with ammunition.
Two days ago, Colonel Pastor’s civilian army had driven west along the Arkansas River to Pueblo and set up a base camp just south of District Eight. Scouts had ventured farther north and made contact with residents, who had eagerly sketched maps and supplied details about the strengths and vulnerabilities of the peacekeepers.
That intelligence prompted Martha, along with four dozen battle-tested irregulars, to sneak into District Eight. The peacekeepers’ armory was in the valley below them, hidden inside an old stone church a mile south of the hospital that housed UW Headquarters.
Pointing toward the roiling pillar of black smoke that bisected the dreary overcast sky, Colonel Pastor said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the fuse has been lit.” He offered a brief prayer then gave the signal for Ready! Aim!
Stolen Chinese-made rifles peeked from behind trees, through bushes, over rocks, and between blades of grass. Each irregular had an assigned target, based on marksmanship and experience. Martha’s sights were on a short, burly man in the bell tower. Back turned toward her, he foolishly watched trucks speed toward the blaze, a hotel that served as troop barracks.
Then Colonel Pastor shouted, “Fire!”
169
District Six, Texas
IT FELT LIKE A FASTBALL slamming into his hip, a sharp stinging pain that resonated like the peal of a bell. In slow motion, flakes of plastic spurted amidst a cloud of aerosolized blood.
Woody’s body listed backward, nearly bumping Kyle off the all-terrain vehicle, then a fearful clarity cut through the haze of confusion. A bullet had bored into Woody’s stomach and punched through his lower back before deflecting off Kyle’s satellite phone.
Woody slumped forward. Kyle slung an arm around his chest to keep him from falling, pivoted on the seat, and with a mighty heave, dragged the injured man onto his lap.
He could feel Woody’s chest deflating as his breathing grew shallower, could feel his heartbeat growing weaker. Blood saturated Kyle’s clothing and dampened his skin like a scarlet badge of blame.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said aloud, fully aware Woody couldn’t hear him. “Just hang on.”
Peter brought the ATV to a skidding stop outside the emergency room. Kyle and Gary carried Woody inside and placed him on a gurney, spawning a cyclone of activity. Bodies shuffled alongside the mobile patient, a nurse with IV fluids, two others announcing vital signs, a doctor calling out orders, their words muffled by the residual hum of the grenade. Kyle watched the controlled chaos disappear behind a set of double doors then bowed his head.
“We don’t have time to be kicking ourselves,” Gary said. “The peacekeepers are coming for us.”
Kyle gave a resigned nod then rubbed a bloody hand across his shirt before extending it to Peter. “Thanks for saving our lives.”
Pride glinted in the boy’s dark eyes as he shook Kyle’s hand. “Told you I’m not too young.”
“I stand corrected. Peter Francisco, you are a One Man Army!”
“And I’ll be fighting beside you when the peacekeepers show up—”
“No, Son.” Kyle rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re going to smuggle my family out of the district. Whatever it takes, you get them to Langden Air Force Base.”
Disappointment extinguished the boy’s enthusiasm. “But, I proved myself, Governor. Why are you still treating me like a kid?”
“Peter, my family is the most important thing to me. And I am entrusting you with their safety.” He let the words hang for a beat then added, “Will you do this for me?”
Peter’s glance volleyed between Kyle and Gary. “O-o-o-h-ka-a-ay. I’ll have to hot-wire Mr. Rigby’s old Chevy and steal some fuel.”
As the kid sprinted away, Gary muttered, “I didn’t hear that,” then he turned toward Kyle. “Can you get ahold of Andrews? Get him to redirect the TEradS? Send reinforcements?”
Kyle winced as though the question pierced flesh. “The round that nailed Woody. It took out the satphone.”
Gary’s lips rolled inward into a colorless line. “Figures. Now that the airwaves have been liberated, we’ve got no phone ... Well, we can’t make our stand here. We can’t have peacekeepers chucking grenades through windows, killing patients and medical personnel.”
“I know. After I talk to Jessie, I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s station.”
His wife was waiting inside his dimly lit basement office, and upon seeing his blood-soaked clothes, her expression vaulted from concern to horror. “Oh my God!”
“I’m fine.” Kyle extended his palms to forestall an emotional outburst, then his arms widened, welcoming her into his embrace.
She ran to him, and his broken promise stoked the fires of regret.
It’s my fault, he thought. I suggested the shoot and scoot; I should’ve been the one to get shot.
Impaled by Jessie’s probing gaze, Kyle shed the paralysis of guilt for a fast dance of lies. “Listen, I managed to get ahold of Ryan and ... And Abby ... She needs you. Out at Langden.”
“Why? Was she hurt? Oh God ... How bad?”
Her voice trailed into a sob; and he held her tighter, simultaneously berating himself for inflicting pain and assuring himself he had no other choice.
“Abby’s stubborn,” he whispered. “Like you. She’ll pull through. Hug her; kiss her for me. Tell her I love her.” Then his lips claimed Jessie’s with a melancholy tenderness that came from knowing this was likely their last kiss.
170
District Three, Washington, D.C.
THOUGHTS JUMBLED FROM unrelenting blows to the face, Bradley groped for the tactical folding knife in his front pocket. His fingers felt numb and prickly, a consequence of the kick that had hurtled his rifle into the brush. Blood was streaming from his nose and trickling down the back of his throat, clogging his airway, which was compressed beneath the Russian’s elbow.
He managed to flick open the blade, then a muted crack triggered a blinding pain behind his eyes. Writhing and bucking, energized by pure anger, Bradley drove the honed steel knife through the Russian’s temple. The pressure on his throat subsided, and a warm sticky river flowed down his forearm. Gulping mouthfuls of air, he shoved the dead man aside.
Bradley’s left eye was swollen; his nose, most likely broken; and he pulled himself upright, spitting mouthfuls of blood onto the ground, amazed that the crimson puddles contained no teeth.
With a boot braced atop the Russian’s skull, he tugged and wiggled his knife.
Even dead, the bastard is still fighting me, he thought, prying the blade loose.
After retrieving his rifle, he limped onward with one good leg, keeping watch with one good eye, and reached the quarry just before 0900 hours. He hobbled into the larger of two buildings, a garage with a line of steel columns down the center.
Bradley transferred Abby’s lock of braided hair from his pocket to his rucksack then he peeled off his jeans and the bandage.
From a rusty cabinet, he retrieved his hidden TEradS uniform; then defying his aching body, he dressed. He cut a hole through his left pant leg, drenched it with the blood Ryan had drawn, and squeezed the remainder onto his nose, letting it dribble onto his jacket.
He tucked the collapsible pouch into the torn inner lining of his rucksack along with the Russian satellite phone and Ames’ hard drive. Bradley doused his bloodied jeans and the bandage with acid from an old car battery; then he threw them into the muddy water at the bottom of the quarry, along with the handguns, rifles, and ammunition he’d commandeered from the Russians.
Back inside the garage, he scattered the contents of his rucksack onto the floor to create the illusion it had been searched, then kn
eeling with his back against a support column, he tightened a pair of flex-cuffs around his ankles.
Bradley threaded a clean piece of fabric between his swollen lips, and tied the gag at the back of his head. He checked the time.
His team was late. Good luck or bad? he asked himself as he bound his wrists behind the column. Although their tardiness had allowed Bradley to dispose of evidence and set the scene, if the enemy happened along, the delay could ultimately cost him his life.
171
District Three, Washington, D.C.
PRIOR TO DEPARTING Langden Air Force Base, Abby had contemplated her own mortality and entrusted Captain Andrews with soul-baring farewell letters for her parents and Bradley. At the time, she estimated her chance of survival at fifty-fifty. After noticing the additional sniper teams to the north, south, and east, this operation had devolved into a one-way mission, and she vowed that her final shot would not be a miss.
Unlike the snipers atop the Climate Change Museum, the others were armed with CS/LR4s, antipersonnel weapons with an effective range of six hundred meters. That meant the pair on the roof of the Capitol Building, over a mile away, were of minimal concern—relative to the teams stationed atop the National Gallery of Art and the Air and Space Museum.
Abby prowled along Independence Avenue to Route 1 and approached the Climate Change Museum from the west, exploiting the snipers’ blind spots and avoiding the peacekeepers who were roving the National Mall. She crept between two steel cargo containers, long since looted of anything valuable, then wriggled past a stairwell door hanging like a loose tooth.
The ground floor of the Climate Change Museum was littered with skids of soupy drywall and a sour, mongrel odor—mold, sawdust, and an anonymous cast of chemicals. At its center, a pyramidal skylight illuminated a set of U-shaped stairs. A series of transom windows girded the ceiling, a dashed line of light eight feet above the floor.
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