by Kyla Stone
They stood in the semi-darkness of the abandoned house where Liam had stashed Luther several days ago. It was a two-story colonial with a vaulted ceiling and dusty pictures of kids on the walls.
Someone had ransacked the house long ago—cupboard doors hanging open, the fridge emptied, cushions shredded, mattresses dumped off beds and clothes strewn from tossed dressers.
It stank almost as bad as Luther did. Liam fought the urge to gag.
Earlier that night, he had dropped in on Evelyn and Travis. He’d held L.J., carrying him around on his hip while L.J. laughed and laughed. He had Jessa’s honey-brown skin and Lincoln’s arresting gray-blue eyes. The same as Liam’s own.
The last vestiges of his sickness and lethargy had disappeared. With Molly’s home remedies, Evelyn’s medical expertise, and Hannah’s generous donation of breast milk, L.J. had transformed into a healthy, cheerful baby.
Liam longed to be with them, not in this stinking hovel.
Luther inhaled another bite and spoke around it. “I want to do something to make up for…for before. Tell me what to do.”
Liam eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t trust this man. He loathed him. And yet, he required him.
Liam had experience running case agents, or confidential informants. The most reliable CIs did it for God or country. Less reliable were paid operatives. Because their allegiance was to money, they were easier to turn if discovered.
What was Luther’s motivation? To look himself in the eye in the mirror? That wouldn’t last long. His motivation was his father. And saving his own skin.
Liam said, “I want you to join General Sinclair.”
Luther choked and almost spit out the cornbread. He swallowed and wiped his dirty face with the back of his hand. “What did you say?”
“I need a spy.”
Luther gaped at him.
“You’re it.”
He didn’t know enough about the General or his tactics. That needed to change. Immediately. Liam needed actionable intelligence.
If Luther did his job, he could become a major asset. If he turned on them, the damage he could inflict would be moderate. It was worth the risk.
“I—I can’t. I’m not—” Luther sputtered.
“You were Sutter’s right-hand man, correct?”
“After Desoto’s death, yeah. You could say that.”
“Sutter is your way in. I need eyes on the inside. I need intel. If you present yourself to General Sinclair and offer information, he’ll take you in. He needs updated intelligence, too. Boots on the ground. Even if Sutter gave him information before he died, the General won’t know whether that intel is still valid. You can give him that vital information.”
“Umm—”
“Hopefully, Sutter mentioned you before he died. In that case, you’ll be a shoo-in. If not, you’ll just have to make sure you sell your story.”
“What story?”
“That you escaped our custody. You want revenge for the murder of your compatriots, just like Sutter did.”
Luther looked like he was having a tough time breathing properly. “What exactly do you want me to do as a…a spy?”
Liam grimaced in irritation. “Did you not just hear me? “I have a list of intel I want, plus what disinformation I need you to disseminate.” He held out a handheld radio. “If you’re out of range or lose access, I’ll have my scouts check Trailer World off M-139. There’s a bright blue mailbox shaped like a dolphin. You can’t miss it. Pass any messages that way, but don’t use names. Use a code. We’ll figure that out now.”
“I don’t know—”
“I thought you were here to redeem yourself.”
“I am.”
“Then this is how you do it.”
Luther wiped and folded the square of aluminum with great care and handed it to Liam. At least he was neat. “And if the General catches me?”
“Don’t let him catch you.”
“But if—”
“Then I hope you’ve made things right with Jesus. I won’t be able to help you.”
Luther opened his mouth, closed it. Blinked and scratched his beard again. He stared at him numbly. He looked terrified, a deer trapped in the headlights.
Liam’s gaze softened. He understood the role of a handler—he also understood the danger he was sending Luther into. If Luther were discovered, the General would kill him, after torturing him for information. “I know this is a huge ask.”
Luther sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself. He straightened his slumped shoulders. And reached for the radio. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Leave at first light.”
“I won’t let you down,” Luther said.
“I believe you.”
Hopefully, Liam hadn’t just made a huge mistake.
20
The General
Day One Hundred and Eight
“Where’s my cognac?” the General demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Baxter said, ducking his head. “I asked around. There’s none left.”
John Baxter was a timid man with an elongated neck and wet, meek eyes like a turtle; he ducked into his shell at the slightest sign of trouble.
“Unacceptable.” He hauled himself up from the luxurious sofa facing the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows overlooking Lake Michigan. The lavish king-size bed was comfortable, though the thousand square foot suite had remained distinctly chilly without electricity.
It wasn’t the Ritz Carlton penthouse, but the opulent suite was far better than most accommodations he’d endured during his years in the military.
The Boulevard Inn was a quaint seven-story hotel boasting covered terraces, marble floors, rich walnut accents, and most importantly, splendid views of Silver Beach and Lake Michigan beyond.
The hotel’s walls were thick concrete that offered considerable protection from small-arms fire. Even without electricity, the building was warmer than a camp. Nights still dipped into freezing temperatures. None of his troops had winter gear, and many lacked the skills to hunt or fish.
He wasn’t facing an army. He didn’t need to worry about drones, air raids, artillery, or missiles.
If their enemy had these capabilities, he’d go to the field and limit exposure from air and drone observation and EMCON output.
Of course, garrisoning at the hotel left them open to surveillance, intelligence gathering, and sniper attacks or car bombings. Opposing forces could sneak closer than the General liked.
He didn’t have enough men to secure the surrounding buildings.
However, his troops had secured the perimeter, fortified the building, and conducted roving patrols.
The hotel would serve their purpose just fine. Besides, he didn’t intend to stay long.
He’d planned to be in Winter Haven by now, surrounded by the old comforts—heat, electricity, and hot water.
The thought rankled him. He was a patient man, but he enjoyed his creature comforts.
His mouth watered. He drooled at the thought of a bottle of premium aged wine. It wasn’t cognac, but at this point, he’d take anything.
“Go find me something to drink,” he ordered Baxter.
Southwest Michigan was wine country. The climate along the coast of Lake Michigan was perfect for varietals like Pinot Grigio, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Franc. A decade ago, he’d spent a drunken weekend with a stunning call girl visiting the local wineries of Tabor Hill in Buchanan and Julian Winery in Paw Paw.
There had to be something. Damn Baxter to hell if he didn’t bring back a bottle with a high alcohol content in the next ten minutes.
“I thought you wanted to work on chapter five of your memoirs—”
“I said go!”
The man practically bowed, then scurried from the room. The General’s bodyguards let him pass without shifting out of his way or the slightest change in their stony expressions.
Baxter bowled into Gibbs as the ex-soldier swept into the suite. Gibbs’ granite face revealed no hint of
irritation as Baxter blabbered a hurried apology and disappeared down the hallway.
Gibbs shut the door behind him and stepped into the room. He folded his hands behind his back. “Still no response from Fall Creek, sir.”
The General cursed.
Fall Creek’s twenty-four-hour deadline had come and gone. They had not offered a broken and subdued Liam Coleman in cuffs like a sacrificial lamb.
Indignation burned through him. He’d hoped to do this the easy way. Roll in like a conquering hero after defeating the nihilist gang plaguing the town.
They’d have to give up one citizen. So what? People died all the time. They would’ve gotten over it.
The townspeople were obstinate, short-sighted fools.
So be it. They’d chosen their fate.
He had delayed immediate retaliation for two reasons. First, during his illustrious career, he had learned a few tricks from the best interrogation specialists in the CIA.
Fear had a way of escalating and intensifying the desired results. The anticipation of the punishment was often worse than the pain itself.
Let them wait. Let them stew in the juices of their terror. Tremble in fear and dread. A living nightmare without end.
It would be a fate more terrible than death.
Second, he wanted the self-sufficient enclave of Winter Haven, and needed it preserved. There was something—rather, someone—he needed within that town.
He hesitated to rain fire upon their heads until he’d secured what he wanted.
Then, and only then, would Fall Creek experience the true force of his wrath.
“What’s our next move?” Gibbs asked. “Why haven’t we hit them yet?”
With the full might of the Michigan National Guard, the General could take Fall Creek within minutes, if not outright destroy it.
But the governor had hamstrung him. He had a fraction of the men, weapons, and ammo he wanted. That needed to change.
Ignoring Gibbs, he pulled the satellite phone from his pocket and dialed the governor. Henry Duffield picked up.
“What is the status on Poe?” Governor Duffield shouted. “His criminal army breached the Indiana border!”
“I’m aware,” the General said smoothly. “I will deal with it.”
Illinois’ pathetic lack of a military presence was the only reason that Poe was roaming about the country with such ease.
Within a week of the Collapse, the feds had abandoned Chicago and pulled the entire state’s National Guardsmen, transferring them to New York City and Washington, D.C.
Illinois was ripe for the taking.
And Poe had taken it all.
“They’ve overrun Gary—”
“Who cares about Gary, Indiana? Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”
The governor was consumed with apprehension and plagued by doubt and uncertainty.
The coward didn’t have the fortitude for what the job required.
The General scowled at the phone. “If you want me to handle Poe, you need to provide me with the proper men and equipment. Like I have said repeatedly—”
“Do you understand what I’m dealing with here? Only a fifty percent muster for the National Guard, and they’re deserting like flies! Every unit is operating at well below adequate personnel. I have an entire state in chaos! We’re about to lose Detroit to gang warfare. I cannot afford to recall a single soldier.”
“There are units equipped with the weapons systems I need. The 147th Aviation Regiment has more Black Hawks. The 110th Attack Wing in Battle Creek has drones—”
“Drones! You want drones? The EMP grounded half of them. They weren’t hardened adequately. No one knew exactly how a powerful EMP would impact sensitive equipment. The army deemed all functioning tech essential and sent it overseas. Besides, the federal government requisitioned those regiments the day after the EMP. I had no choice but to send them to D.C. No choice!”
“If you had listened to me from the beginning—”
“No, you listen!” The governor’s voice went low and hard. “Listen to me closely. I have already given you everything I have. There is nothing else. You must make do. You said you could produce results. Now do it!”
“I will give you the results you desire,” the General said woodenly. Inwardly, he was fuming. Though he despised the governor, he needed him—for now. “Give me three days.”
The General strode to the credenza and tossed the sat phone on the sleek quartz top, though he was tempted to hurl it through the plate-glass window. He inhaled a deep breath, reeling in his fury.
His knee joints creaked. The blank black eye of the oversized flat-screen television reflected his own image back at him. White hair. Lined face. Hard gaze.
He still had five hundred troops at his disposal, a battery of M2s and M60s, and a limited supply of artillery. He had the Black Hawk.
He was General Sinclair—he would get the job done by any means necessary.
Gibbs cleared his throat. “Sir.”
The General swung around to face him. “Yes?”
“Two things. First, a man named James Luther is here to see you. Claims he was Mattias Sutter’s righthand man and the only surviving member of the militia stationed in Fall Creek. Says he’s got information you’d like to hear.”
The General frowned. A fortunate turn of events, if it were true. Sutter had mentioned a man named Luther. With Sutter gone, he needed eyes and ears on Fall Creek. “I’ll meet with him. The second thing?”
“Bruce caught two guardsmen attempting to sneak out of the service entrance. Deserters. Claimed they wanted to get back home to take care of their families.”
Outrage flared through him. No one deserted his army. No one. Whatever desertion issues were plaguing the governor wouldn’t be a problem for his troops—he’d make sure of it.
“Then they shall be court-martialed. A few will turn to several, which will become a mass exodus. If everyone left their posts to be with their families, we wouldn’t have anyone left to defend this country!”
Gibbs stared straight ahead, expressionless. “Sir. They’re being detained in the kitchen freezer.”
He cocked his grizzled brows. “The freezer?”
“No windows, only one steel door. Impossible to break out of.”
“Have I told you I like how you think?”
“A few times.” Gibbs remained expressionless. He was a practical, emotionless, get-the-job-done type of man. No family, no emotional ties to weaken him.
The General appreciated that in a soldier.
“As I recall, desertion carries a maximum punishment of dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, and confinement of five years. However, for desertion during a time of war, the death penalty may be applied at the discretion of the court-martial. We are at war, Gibbs. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“On numerous fronts, sir.”
The General snorted. If he only knew how true his words were. Only the top echelon knew the true state of the world. With the abrupt dearth of mass communication, the government had kept it under wraps.
For how much longer, though? That was the million-dollar question.
“Bring me to the deserters,” the General said.
Gibbs’ mouth twitched—the only sign that he approved of the decision.
He held the door open for the General. Eight of his bodyguards fell into lockstep, two in front, two behind, four flanking him.
They wore dark camo uniforms with chest rigs, tactical gear, and black helmets. Long guns slung over their chests on two-point slings, various knives affixed to their belts, and pistols in thigh, ankle, and waist holsters.
Baxter met them in the hallway, flushed and out of breath. He held up a lukewarm Coors Light. “I confiscated this from one of the soldiers—”
“Put it in the room. And bring your notebook. I want you to record this. It’s going to be…interesting.”
Baxter bobbed his head. “Sir.”
21
Day One Hundred and Eight
Gibbs took the lead, followed by the General.
The door slammed behind them as Baxter scurried to catch up, clutching the brown leather notebook with archival-quality paper in his long slender fingers.
He’d chosen Baxter’s flowery but exacting script to dictate the events of America’s fall—and eventual revival.
Whether that was ten years from now, or fifty, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. The victors wrote history. The General intended to be one of them.
This book—this version of history—would become his legacy. He was certain of it.
The General followed Gibbs through the labyrinthine hotel. Pity the elevators didn’t work; they had to take the stairs.
The stairwell was pitch black. Gibbs flicked on a flashlight. By the time they reached the ground floor, the General was sucking air through his teeth.
They passed through several large convention halls. The carpet was a ghastly flowery print. Picture windows along one wall featured slivers of blue—Lake Michigan a vivid cobalt against the horizon of heavy gray clouds.
The professional kitchen was the size of a house. Dust filmed the once-gleaming stainless-steel counters, cabinets, and oversized appliances. Crates of MREs and other supplies were stacked near the service entrance.
Two guardsmen sat on metal folding chairs before an oversized steel door. A couple of lanterns set on a nearby counter provided light.
The guardsmen stood and saluted as he entered. They wore BDUs and nervous expressions.
“At ease,” the General said.
Gibbs inserted a key in the freezer’s lock, and the door swung open. Inside, the room was a twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle. Sleek metal floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls—emptied except for some cardboard boxes, twist ties, and shredded plastic bags.
Someone had emptied this place in a hurry.
The deserters slumped in folding chairs placed side by side. Handcuffs bound their hands behind them.