The rustling of footsteps caught their attention as Rivett and McCurry approached their rendezvous spot tucked away from the crowd among the trees and bushes.
“Hey, we’ve hit the jackpot.” Rivett approached with a big smile.
“It’s a gold mine,” McCurry confirmed.
“Southeast of here, across a bridge, over the highway, past a bunch of buildings, there’s a parking lot full of cars and people.”
“It’s like some kind of party down there,” McCurry interrupted Rivett. “A lot of people looking to score drugs. We’ve got over seventeen hundred for our stash.”
“People are coming and going out of the place. We even saw a couple of media trucks.” Rivett’s smile widened and his eyes gleamed as he got back to his point. “Anyway, FedAPS is NOT, say again, NOT restricting access. That’s the place to steal a car and slip under FedAPS radar.”
“There’s no FedAPS in the area?” Edwards asked, enticed by the prospective.
“None,” Rivett confirmed.
“Seriously, it’s like a tailgate party down there. Some prime targets for resources. Show them what you got,” McCurry said, nodding towards Rivett.
With a big smile on his face, Rivett reached into his newly acquired backpack and pulled out an Arizona license plate.
“Hey there. Did you get a good nap in?” Jacob asked, doubting she had.
“No,” Hannah moaned. She shuffled over to the sofa and plopped down next to Jacob. The news was playing on the television. “Any new news?”
“Governor Wilmore’s declared a state of emergency. She’s officially given President Tang control of Southern California. Tang gave a press conference, citing some precedence and authorizing General Mythers to use the power and authority of the federal government to reestablish order. Mythers, in turn, has declared a state of emergency in Arizona.”
“Arizona?” Hannah immediately tensed.
“Yeah, he said it had to do with the wildfires. The governor of Arizona says he wants help fighting the fire, but is complaining that FedAPS is usurping local and state authorities in the process.”
Hannah looked at Jacob’s cell phone sitting on the coffee table. Having thrown hers into a trash bin in San Diego, she now fought the temptation to use his to call her parents in Scottsdale, Arizona.
“Are you still worried FedAPS could be behind all this?”
“I don’t know.” Hannah rubbed her temples in frustration. “From what I saw, FedAPS had to have let that riot happen, at the very least.”
“Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Jacob apologized, “but that sounds crazy. They are the Federal Agency of Public Safety, after all.”
“I’m telling you they were nowhere to be seen, and that was after they limited the presence of local police in the area. The network is flat-out lying about the murder of Cuppell and the Marines instigating violence,” Hannah insisted. “I saw it myself. Then, for FedAPS to show up right when they did, then only arrest Marines? And no one is interested in the truth? No one cares what really happened?”
“Maybe that’s the Marines’ motive for attacking FedAPS forces at Camp Pendleton?”
“Maybe. It all makes my head hurt,” Hannah moaned and buried her face in her hands. “How do we know who to believe? Who to trust?” Hannah raised her head and looked at Jacob for some kind of answer, knowing he had none.
“I don’t know,” Jacob admitted. “Look, so far, you’ve had good instincts. If this is a conspiracy, it’s a good call not going to your parents’. You know, get to your aunt’s house, and get that footage to another network in Salt Lake City. At least you will have protected yourself if there is some kind of conspiracy. Worst-case scenario, FedAPS has nothing to do with it, and you’ll have a scoop on your network trying to sensationalize Cuppell’s murder.”
“What if I’m endangering my aunt?” Hannah vented.
“Well–” Jacob paused, trying to figure out an alternative solution “–my parents aren’t due back for another five days. If you want, you can hide out here until then. They probably won’t mind if you want to stay longer than that.”
“No.” Hannah sighed. “As much as part of me would like to, we know that’s no solution. Thanks though. Really, I do appreciate it.” She looked him in the eyes and took hold of his hand. “I’m just scared and having second thoughts.”
“I understand.” Jacob failed in his attempt at a brave smile. “Let’s get a solid night’s sleep. First thing in the morning, we’ll head out to Salt Lake City.”
Bella didn’t want to open her eyes for what felt like a long time. Not that she dreaded what she’d see, but because she was worn out from two days of drugs, sex, and rioting. Finally, she opened her eyes. Piker was still there, sound asleep. She gently laid her hand upon his head and admired his tattooed, muscular torso.
“You’re perfect,” she whispered. He was very different from all the hard-talking college-boy activists. After she’d shot the Marine at the protest, he’d grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into a black sea of WAR protesters.
“You’re one badass bitch,” he told her with a smile. At that moment, Bella fell in love with him.
He then led her to an empty parking garage, where he introduced her to some other activists. When Piker informed them of what she had done, they praised her courage. They applauded her desire for justice. More than accepted, Bella felt she belonged. Unlike the whiny, self-pretentious college progressives, these people didn’t just talk, they acted upon their righteous anger with violence. With Piker, she burned and pillaged throughout San Diego’s business district. After consummating their hatred for everything American, she went back with him to his tent in Peace Village.
She sat up, bumping her head into the top of the tent, which was barely big enough for two people. She found her T-shirt and slipped it on. She crawled halfway out the tent door, looking for the backpack she’d left just outside the door. Hoping to clean herself up a bit and brush her teeth, she wanted to look and smell pleasing to Piker when he woke up.
Not finding her pack, she crawled out farther, then stood up, pulling the T-shirt down low. She looked around; her pack was not there. Other than the clothes she’d brought into the tent, everything she had was gone, even the nine-millimeter pistol she’d killed with the day before.
“What kind of asshole steals somebody’s backpack?” she indignantly cried. “That’s fucked up!”
“Where the hell is Frunze?” Alex “Captain” Rykov checked the time. It was twenty till five. He was anxious to leave. Before the protest started, Rykov had staged his team’s getaway van in a large parking lot to the east of Balboa Park, with easy access to the interstate. Lax FedAPS enforcement had allowed the parking lot to evolve into something of a tailgate party for wannabe radicals.
San Diego had been Rykov’s most successful demonstration yet. Between their pay and looted cash from the riot, his team had acquired just over forty thousand dollars. So an hour earlier, when he’d received word to be out of the area by 5 p.m., he was happy to hit the road. Anticipating a fast getaway, Rykov parked the van near the lot’s exit so the large crowd wouldn’t be a problem. Provided, that is, they left before the crackdown.
A fifth-generation American socialist, Alex Rykov had enthusiastically enlisted in the resistance movement at the age of seventeen, when George R. Clark was elected president. He attended meetings and demonstrations throughout the northeastern United States. When the People’s Republic of China invaded, he believed revolution was inevitable. So his resistance evolved from political to militant. Rykov suffered through six years of American military victories and Clark’s rising popularity. It was a dark time for the socialist. He’d even considered following his parents in migrating to South America. But then Clark died. The war effort stagnated under the weak leadership of President Harmon. Once more American counterculture was on the rise, and old America was on the decline. With the resurgence of progressivism came the election of Benedict Tang as
president. However, for Rykov and others, Tang was a means, not an end. There was still much of old America left to destroy.
Rykov, having proved his commitment and value, experienced his skyrocketing. He now commanded his own crew and was among a few dozen leaders given advance notification of FedAPS’s impending crackdown on the protesters. This allowed Rykov and his crew to stage a quick getaway outside the reach of government authority.
“I just saw him a little while ago,” Kalin lamely answered.
“Get the last of the gear loaded and start the van. We leave in less than five with or without Frunze.” Rykov walked around to the other side of the van and quickly spotted Frunze fifty yards away. The tall, gangly man sporting a bright pink mohawk wore a big smile as he talked to a female activist.
“Milt! Get your ass over here now, or we’re cutting you out!” Rykov yelled.
“Aye aye, Captain,” Milton Frunze insolently replied and rolled his eyes. It was all for show, trying to look cool for the girl. Inwardly, however, he took heed. With forty thousand dollars in the van, he had no intention of being cut out. The tall social justice warrior skirted off in awkward leaps and bounds as he dodged his way through the crowd towards his van.
It was a simple enough plan. Head east to the parking lot Rivett and McCurry had come across earlier to find a vehicle they could steal. Descending a hill into the parking lot, they could see that the cars nearest to them were, literally, in the middle of a party. The less radically inclined demonstrators found the parking lot to be a nicer, cleaner place to drink and do drugs than Peace Village after a week of campers. A fast exit looked impossible. However, the far end of the parking lot offered a better getaway with its proximity to the highway and a much smaller crowd to drive through.
The five of them had nearly crossed the entire parking lot when a bright pink mohawk bobbing through the sparse crowd caught their attention. The lanky anarchist stopped in front of a black full-size van with three other dingy-looking WAR activists loading coolers into it.
“That’s our target,” Edwards called to the others in a low voice.
“It’s made to order.” Rivett smiled.
“Yeah, it is,” Harris agreed. “I’m calling the asshole with the mohawk.”
“Fine,” Edwards acceded. “I’ll take the dude in the trench coat talking on his cell phone.”
“I’ll take the one on the left, and you get behind the wheel,” Rivett told McCurry.
“Use knives. Don’t use the nine mil unless absolutely necessary,” Edwards said to Harris, who carried the pistol he’d acquired earlier. “Move fast, hard, and lethal. We take the bodies with us.”
Mackenzie was appalled. In her mind, Harris was savage, but not the others.
Surely Ethan doesn’t mean they’re going to kill these people, she thought.
“What if we get pulled over?” Rivett asked.
“If we don’t leave bodies behind, we might get lucky, and no one will notice. It’ll buy us more time, and we’ll get a chance to search the bodies,” Edwards reasoned. “Either way if the authorities try to pull us over, we’ve got a fight on our hands.”
Rivett nodded his agreement. “Let’s do it.”
Rykov, not reaching his contact in Los Angeles, disconnected the call in frustration. He kept getting voicemail, and he didn’t need to leave another message. Finished loading the van, Frunze and Kalin now stood waiting for instructions. From the corner of his eye, Rykov noticed a group of radicals approaching him.
They’re probably looking for a ride out of here. Well, they’re out of luck if they’re counting on me to help, Rykov assumed. He turned around and put his phone up to his ear as if he were still talking.
However, he noticed Frunze looking directly at the approaching cadre. Frunze, you fucking idiot. If you brought these people here, I’ll fucking kill you. Although his back was turned, Rykov watched the group’s shadows and could tell they were still approaching.
“Hey, what up, brother,” Frunze called out. Rykov cringed. He turned around to tell Frunze to get in the van and start it up. Something about the way the scar-faced radical looked at Frunze sent up a red flag in Rykov’s mind. Before he could say anything, Rykov noticed the tall blond one walking right up to him.
“Do I know you?” Rykov asked, hoping to buy time to figure out what was going on. With the setting sun in his eyes, Rykov noticed too late, the tall man was not raising his hand to wave, but to plunge a knife into his neck. By the time it fully registered in his mind, the blade was already plunged down next to his clavicle. Before Rykov could cry out, the tall man plunged the knife again into his neck. Then again, this time under his ear and sliced across his throat. Rykov fell to his knees, trying to speak, but only spitting out blood in silence.
Mackenzie prided herself on being tough. Like many Americans of her generation, she had endured trials and pains that at times she thought would crush her. Yet she had survived and grew stronger. She now hoped, with Ethan in her life, it was the end of a dark, brutal period. They could be normal people, with a normal, pleasant life. That vision was destroyed the moment Edwards killed Alex Rykov. She turned her head to see Harris bury his knife into the lower abdomen of the man with the pink mohawk. The lanky victim looked dazed and confused as Harris embraced him, slicing his knife upwards, pushing him into the van’s open side door.
Edwards casually hauled Rykov’s body into the van, then found the keys in Rykov’s coat pocket. He tossed them to McCurry, who started the van’s engine. As well, Rivett tossed in the body of the third radical as if it were a bag of dirty laundry.
A part of Mackenzie’s mind told her to get in the van. Another voice in her head told her to run in the opposite direction as far as she could. Her body didn’t respond.
Edwards, noticing Mackenzie was in shock, jumped out of the van and guided her to the front passenger seat of the van.
“It’s okay.” Edwards spoke gently. “Let’s get in the van. We’ve got to go.”
He jumped through the side door and slammed it shut. “Hit it,” he ordered. In a quick, but calm manner, McCurry drove out of the parking lot. Within a few turns they were on a highway headed north.
“That was too fucking easy,” Harris said in the back of the van. Rivett crawled up and knelt between the two front seats.
“Look for I-8 and head east,” he directed. Mackenzie heard moaning in the back of the van.
Perhaps Ethan didn’t kill him after all, she thought with a sense of relief. She spun around in her seat to see what she hoped. Instantly, she regretted her decision. Staring right at her were the pale, dead eyes of the man in the trench coat.
“Please,” the pink-haired man whimpered. Mackenzie looked at him as he failed to contain his intestines. Sickened, Mackenzie immediately spun back around in her seat and was overwhelmed with nausea.
“There, see! I-8 East,” Rivett directed McCurry.
Mackenzie sat back up and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She heard more whimpering from the back. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Fucking kill that piece of shit,” Edwards ordered Harris. “You know where we’re going?” he asked Rivett.
“Yeah. We’re heading east on I-8.”
“Good. How long until we can dump the bodies?”
“Oh,” Rivett casually said, “it’ll be a while till we get up in the hills and away from the city.”
“Mackenzie, are you all right?” Edwards asked.
Mackenzie didn’t respond, but stared out the passenger window.
“I think she’s a little overwhelmed,” Rivett answered quietly, not wanting to embarrass her.
“Hang in there, Mackenzie. You’ve got this.” Edwards tried to comfort her.
Having lived through years of war and the death of a loved one, this was the first time she had personally experienced such violence. She thought she had understood it, but now she struggled to accept it.
Putting his nervous energy to constructive use, FedAPS Agent Upjohn r
echecked all his spare magazines, smacking the back of each one against his left palm to ensure all the cartridges were aligned. FedAPS Sergeant Miller smiled at the rookie’s jitters. He remembered feeling the same way nearly ten years before, but it was a different situation. Then, Miller had served in the California Militia during the war’s Mexico Campaign.
He hated what the rioters were doing, and he looked forward to taking them down. But he had no expectations that tonight’s mission would be anywhere as intense as the war.
“Upjohn, you ready to kick the hell out of the protesters?” Miller kindly teased the nineteen-year-old.
“You bet, Sarge. I only wish we’d get a chance to crack some Marine Corps skulls,” Upjohn enthusiastically answered back.
Miller clamped his jaw tightly. The news of the Marine Corps’ treason and attack on a FedAPS unit was hurtful to him. In Mexico, his unit had done some joint operations with the Marines. Like most in his unit, he had nothing but respect and admiration for them. The events of the last twenty-four hours were still difficult for him to digest.
“Don’t wish too hard, son.” Miller sighed. “It might just come true.”
“Fine by me, Sergeant.” Upjohn’s exuberance found a vent. “I’d rather go after a bunch of traitors than people just trying to stand up for what they think is right.”
Tempted to roll his eyes, Miller kept his composure. “Yeah, yeah. I know what the captain said, but remember, a lot of those protesters are professional anarchists. Not only are they destroying property, they’ve attacked and killed our fellow agents.”
“Roger that, Sergeant. I’ll show them no mercy.”
“Attaboy.” Miller smiled.
I got a fucking right to be angry, Bella Bradford told herself. Life is so fucking unfair.
After waking up to find her backpack–containing her toothbrush, drugs, and the stolen nine-millimeter pistol–gone, her day had only gotten worse. The Peace Village Café, as the protesters called it, had been shut down that afternoon while she’d slept. Angry that there was no one there to feed her, she returned to Piker’s tent for another night of rioting. However, he was gone. Heartbroken, she attached herself to a group headed into the downtown district. They did not get far before they found their access blocked by a line of FedAPS agents armed with riot shields and batons.
The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 33