by David Spell
Singleton directed them to a large oval table where they seated themselves. McCain removed his body armor, standing it and his rifle against the wall. As Chuck got comfortable in the padded leather chair, Gray leaned over to him.
“Agent McCain, I heard a rumor that a friend of mine works with you. He and I were on a team together.”
Chuck glanced at the Marine’s uniform, noticing the gold jump wings with the gold MARSOC eagle pinned above them.
“Might be,” the CDC officer answered. “What’s his name?”
“Fleming. Andy Fleming. He the left the Corps for personal reasons but then I heard a while later that he’d signed on with CDC Enforcement.”
McCain smiled. “Andy’s one of my team leaders. We were lucky to get him.”
The Marine nodded but Chuck could see the question in his eyes. If a world-class operator like Fleming was just a team leader, who are you, Mr. McCain?
One of the major’s security detail brought in bottles of water for each of them and then stepped out, closing the door behind him. Chuck glimpsed Scotty, Tim, and Tom talking to the two young airmen, probably probing them for information on the amenities and the security of the base. McCain examined the major. A pair of flight wings were sewn on the left side and her name was on the right of her flight suit. The only other markings were the cloth gold leaf clusters signifying her rank attached to her shoulders. Singleton’s eyes were intelligent and, while respectful, she didn’t appear overawed by the appearance of a retired admiral who now held a high position in the CIA.
“So, Admiral, how can we help you?”
“Major, what I’m going to tell you is not classified but I would ask for yours and the gunnery sergeant’s discretion about who you share the information with. We’ve got a Mexican cartel that’s moved in and established a foothold in Buckhead. They used the governmental breakdown that we’ve experienced to slide in and take over a five or six block radius, although that seems to be increasing every week. With the power and communications grids down, not many people know what’s happening.”
Williams gave them all the information he had. While the major’s face remained impassive, the Marine was clearly skeptical. Two hundred cartel soldiers on American soil? Taking over a large chunk of one of Atlanta’s nicest areas? McCain could see that Gray wasn’t buying. Not yet, anyway.
The admiral pulled out his phone and showed the two videos, narrating as Singleton and Gray watched. “One of those girls the SEALs rescued spoke Spanish and confirmed what was in a letter that we recovered from one of the dead gangsters. They were driving to Mexico to get reinforcements. What you also need to know is that this gang has also somehow managed to get their hands on a quantity of the zombie virus. That’s why Agent McCain and his men will have a leading role in this mission.
“The President has ordered me to execute an operation to eliminate the cartel presence on American soil, recover the zombie virus, and rescue the women who are being held as sex slaves.” Williams locked eyes with the major and the gunnery sergeant. “Notice that I didn’t say ‘arrest.’
“The President views this as a foreign invasion. He’s not prepared to call it an act of war yet because he believes that the cartel is acting on their own and doesn’t represent the government of Mexico. However, he wants to send a strong message to the other cartels, the Mexican government, and anyone else who might want to take advantage of us that that would be a very bad idea.”
The Marine’s eyes hardened as he watched the videos, Chuck noticed. Whatever doubts he had harbored were gone and the gunnery sergeant appeared ready to do what Marines do best: go to war.
The major’s expression remained neutral but she nodded and placed her hands flat on the table. “So what do you need from us, Admiral?”
CHAPTER NINE
Heading Out
Buckhead, Atlanta, Monday, 1730 hours
Antonio Corona stood on the sidewalk in front of his building, waiting for Jorge and the patrol to return. His security team stood off to the side, smoking and talking quietly. Corona was leaning towards calling the high-rise El Palacio de Corona. That just sounded good, the way that it rolled off of the tongue. This was a luxury apartment building, better than anything in Mexico, and he liked the idea of having his name on it. Of course, he would also eventually rename this section of the city, as well. Maybe East Tijuana?
His thoughts were interrupted as the three-vehicle caravan passed through the roadblock on the corner and drove towards him, stopping in the street. His soldiers in the back of the pickups were subdued. Quintero was riding shotgun in the van and his expression showed that it had not been an easy mission. Jorge’s door was open before the vehicle stopped and he slowly approached the cartel leader.
“We lost more men, señor. Boxer and one of the black gangsters were killed. I never got his name. Lobo is wounded and I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
Tony the Tiger felt his anger rising. They had lost almost fifteen men in the last week. Their eight-man patrol was killed the past Wednesday when the traitorous maintenance man had tried to flee. They had lost Mario on Saturday when they had attacked the church. On a scavenging raid Sunday, Gordo had taken a bullet to the head, killing him instantly. Jose had also been wounded on that mission, dying later in the day.
If his math was correct, his force was down to one hundred and seventy-two. Minus the six who were away seeking reinforcements from his uncle, there were a hundred and sixty-six soldiers. He couldn’t afford to keep losing men but that was the cost of taking new territory.
Corona had ordered Quintero to start pushing their patrols further out. They needed food and supplies, but more importantly, he wanted to establish a larger foothold in the city. On the plus side, his teams were consistently finding quantities of goods in the neighborhoods surrounding Buckhead. The downside was that many of those neighborhoods contained pockets of armed survivors who were not afraid to use their firearms.
“What happened?” Antonio asked, trying to keep his voice under control.
His lieutenant sighed. “We found a really nice neighborhood just a few miles from here, Jefe. The place where rich people live. The houses are huge, mansions. We had to kill some zombies but we found a lot of food, good booze, expensive jewelry, and some guns.
“In the middle of the neighborhood was this big building, like a country club. It’s where the swimming pool and tennis courts are. They had boarded up the windows and there were some cars parked outside. When we went to break in, the people inside started shooting at us. They had holes cut in the walls to fire out of. Lobo got hit in the leg and went down. Boxer ran to grab him and got shot in the face.
“We all started shooting at the building and the people inside quit firing. A few of the guys managed to get to Boxer and Lobo and drag them back to the vehicles. One of the black guys was giving covering fire, but somebody inside shot him in the chest.”
Antonio was furious, cursing loudly and kicking the passenger door of the van. “What did you do to the scum inside? Did you kill them all?”
Quintero hesitated before answering. “Señor, we started our raid with ten men. After the shooting we were down to seven. I don’t know how many people are inside that country club but we’re fortunate to only lose three. I knew you wouldn’t want me to lose any more of our soldiers so I gave the order to leave.”
Corona kicked the door of the van again and then again, leaving a large dent in the metal. The gang members paused from unloading the bodies of their comrades and the supplies that they had stolen, listening to the confrontation between the two top cartel leaders. Turning back to his lieutenant, Antonio said, loud enough so that all the raiders could hear him, “Take as many men as you need and kill them all! Everyone! Burn that building to the ground if you have to, but I want them all dead! Is that clear?”
Jorge smiled grimly. “Si, señor. Do you want us to go now or first thing tomorrow? It’ll be dark soon and it might be good to let the men unwind a l
ittle tonight.”
Tony the Tiger nodded, looking around at the dejected and angry gang members. “Of course. They worked hard today. Tonight, let them drink and enjoy our lady guests, but tomorrow, go make an example of those gringos.”
Centers for Disease Control Compound, East of Atlanta, Monday, 2300 hours
Beth and Chuck were lying on the floor of the CDC’s office, their breathing slowly returning to normal. They didn’t have a bed but they had been given a room to themselves. An unzipped sleeping bag was spread out on the floor and another covered them.
Thirty minutes earlier, McCain had presented his wife with the wedding band that Diya had given him for Beth. The set had been one of the few things that he had not lost when he left his backpack behind, the small box tucked into one of the agent’s cargo pockets. The young woman’s eyes had gotten large with surprise, she had squealed, and thrown herself into his arms. He gently placed the diamond-encrusted ring on her finger and allowed Elizabeth to place the plain gold band on his. She had then pushed her husband to the floor and showed him how much she appreciated the beautiful gift.
“When are you leaving?” Elizabeth asked softly, her head resting against his chest.
“If the other security team coming to guard this place gets here Wednesday morning like they’re supposed to, we’ll fly out after lunch. We’ll finalize our plan out at Dobbins, train for a week, and then execute the mission. I don’t foresee being gone any longer than two weeks.”
McCain could sense his wife’s unease at their upcoming separation. “Are you sure I can’t come with you?” she asked softly, her fingers touching his face gently.
“No, I really need you here. In fact, what would you think about me assigning you to the security team on a part-time basis?”
“Really?” she asked, surprise in her voice.
“Sure, if you’d be up for it. You were quite the warrior princess on our fun run through the forest with hundreds of Zs chasing us. Even though the admiral has some people coming to keep this place safe, every gun counts in a crisis and you’ll do fine.
“I also spoke to Dr. Martin. He’s in charge of the facility as well as the scientists and could use some help in the office. The CDC has lost so many of their support staff and I know you have a background in admin work. Didn’t you tell me that one of your jobs was assistant to the president of the technical college?”
“Yes and I enjoyed it, but I don’t know anything about diseases or scientific research. Do you think I’ll really be able to help?”
“When I mentioned it to the good doctor, his eyes lit up and he couldn’t say ‘yes’ fast enough. If you’re willing to dive in, working with Dr. Martin would be your primary job, but you’d pull a few security shifts, as well.”
“I see what you’re doing, Mr. McCain.” Her fingers were now touching the various scars on his face. “You’re trying to keep me busy so I won’t worry about you.”
He smiled. “No fooling you. But, everybody here does have to work. That’s the only way this place can continue to function. According to the admiral, though, things are starting to get back to normal in a lot of areas. After we deal with this situation in Buckhead, my guys and I will go back to eliminating the infected. The boss estimates another three months and the infrastructure should be up and running so people can go back home and start acting normal again. We can move into our house and try to figure out what normal means.”
“That’ll be nice and I can’t wait to set up house with you. I’ll be happy to help out here wherever they need me. What’s this scar?” she asked, her hand rubbing an old injury inside his hairline.
“That was from my very first pro fight,” he chuckled. “Big Bubba Brown.”
“Wait, Bubba? That was his name?”
“That was what he called himself. I never got his first name. He looked liked a Bubba, too. He was six foot four, two hundred and sixty-five pounds, had a beer gut, a shaved head, and he loved to fight. His primary job was as a bouncer at a biker bar, so that tells you how tough he was. He’d already had four pro fights but had only won two of them.
“He outweighed me by almost thirty pounds and he’d never been knocked out. When the referee said ‘fight,’ we both rushed out and immediately clashed heads. Bubba’s mainly a standup fighter, like me, and real aggressive. Both of our heads busted open and we were bleeding like stuck pigs. Twenty seconds after the fight started, the ref called in the doctor to check both of us.
“Thankfully, the doc was easily intimidated and Bubba and I both threatened to beat him up if he stopped the fight. I could only see out of my left eye, with the blood flowing down into my right one. The great thing about Bubba, though, was that he was right in front of me. The bad thing was that he had a jaw like granite. I hit him with bomb after bomb and he just smiled at me.
“He was landing some pretty good shots of his own and the crowd was loving it. Two big, bloody heavyweights slugging it out. Between rounds my trainer told me to quit hitting him in the head. ‘All you’re gonna do is break your hands. Hit him in the body and you’ll stop this guy next round.’
“So that’s what I did. I threw a few jabs to get his guard up and then started ripping into his body. A few kicks, some knees, a lot of hooks and uppercuts, and three minutes later, Bubba went down and the referee waved it off. We both ended up at the same hospital later to get sewn up, and then we went out for a few beers.”
“I’ll never understand that,” Beth said, shaking her head. “You guys try to kill each other and then go have a drink later?”
“That’s the fight game. Some fighters took it personally. For me it was just an outlet for my martial arts and I earned some extra money.”
“Are you going to fight any more, when things do get back to normal?”
“I doubt it. It’s a young man’s game and I haven’t been able to train for months. I’ll keep working out, maybe do some sparring in the gym, maybe coach a little.”
After a moment, Elizabeth spoke again, her voice hesitant. “If I’m working with Dr. Martin, does that mean I’m going to be around Dr. Edwards?”
“Probably. Nicole has a team of researchers that she supervises and she reports to Dr. Martin. Why?”
“I saw her earlier as I was walking around. I smiled and nodded at her but she turned away and pretended like she didn’t see me.”
McCain chuckled. “I can’t believe I didn’t pick up the vibe that she had a crush on me. I guess I should feel flattered.”
“Well, don’t feel too flattered, Mr. McCain. I guess it’s good that I’m always armed now. At least I can protect myself if she tries to stab me in the back.”
Buckhead, Atlanta, Tuesday, 1100 hours
A van and two SUVs parked one street over from the clubhouse in the Chastain Country Club Community. Twenty soldiers exited the vehicles, four of them carrying gas cans. The smart thing would have been to attack the survivors before the sun came up, but that thought had never even occurred to Jorge Quintero.
He’d had several shots of tequila and a few beers the previous night before forcing himself on one of their female “guests.” She had resisted as he raped her, so he had beaten her in a drunken rage, transferring his anger from the deaths of his men earlier in the day onto her. The woman’s cries only intensified his violence and a minute later, her nude, bloody, lifeless body lay at his feet. Jorge had given the corpse a final kick, gotten dressed, and left the ninth floor prison, ordering two of his men to dispose of the dead girl.
Still slightly hung over, Quintero led the cartel soldiers towards the rear of the large white clubhouse, built to look like a southern plantation home. As they circled behind another mansion, abandoned like the rest of the rich neighborhood, they could see their target. The swimming pool and tennis courts were behind the clubhouse, creating obstacles the gangsters would have to go around to get into position to exact their vengeance.
The group of thugs paused, bunched together as they surveyed the scene. They had
no concept of noise discipline, their voices carrying across the still morning. Movement on the roof of the building got Quintero’s attention. A man and a woman, both with long guns across their legs, were seated in folding chairs on a small section of the flat roof. The chairs were back-to-back so the couple could survey the entire area around them.
The slim white man turned towards the gang’s position, saying something to the woman. Everything began to come unraveled as the female sentry ran to a spot on the roof and shouted an alarm. The male sentry quickly knelt, bringing up a scoped, bolt-action rifle.
“¡Vamonos! Mátalos!” Jorge ordered. “Let’s go! Kill them all!”
A shot rang out from the roof and a gangster from MS-13 collapsed next to Jorge, a large red spot spreading over the center of the man’s white t-shirt. The criminals started sprinting towards the clubhouse, firing from the hip. The man’s next shot missed, but his third pull of the trigger dropped a Mexican, the bullet hitting the skinny gang member just above the belt, doubling him over as he fell onto his face.
Quintero fired a long burst at the gunman’s position, most of the rounds missing, but one managing to find the male sentry’s head, killing him instantly. The cartel members were running, shooting, and screaming profanities in Spanish and English, the latter by the four black American gang members, wanting revenge for their friend’s death from the previous day.
Return fire quickly came from the defenders inside the clubhouse, bullets coming through the gun slits that had been cut in the walls or the plywood that covered the windows. The woman on the roof stood in the open, firing an AK-47. Another cartel soldier, Chi Chi, screamed as a round hit him in the right shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to the asphalt. A Black Mafia Family member, T-Man, Jorge remembered, grunted as an AK round found his sternum, taking him out of the fight and out of this world.