by Kyla Stone
27
The General
Day One Hundred and Nine
The General paced the wide expanse of the hotel suite.
Outside his windows, Lake Michigan gleamed a picturesque sapphire blue as the sun set in a fiery explosion of taffy pink, tangerine, and scarlet.
He barely noticed.
Anger radiated through him as he waited for the sat phone to connect.
In one hand, he swirled the Rémy Martin Louis XIII cognac in his crystal snifter. He swished the high-quality brandy in his mouth, relishing the rich, opulent flavors and the faint citrus zest.
Baxter had come through after all. The General didn’t know where he’d procured it; he didn’t care. He only cared that it was his.
The sat phone connected.
The General halted in his pacing, facing the floor-to-ceiling window. The orange glow of the sunset reflected off the glass. Ribbons of vibrant color streaked the clouds. The water rippled like liquid gold.
There was a moment of silence. It was intentional. The man on the other end enjoyed keeping people waiting.
The General didn’t have the patience for mind games. He preferred to orchestrate them himself and loathed when others attempted the ploy. “Don’t waste my time. What the hell are you doing?”
“Be more specific.” The voice was deep and resonant. Persuasive. Though he was essentially no better than a mafia don, the man’s English was perfect—clipped, impatient, implying a smooth, manipulative intelligence.
“Don’t play mind games with me, Poe.”
Alexander Poe gave a humorless chuckle. “At any one time, I’m planning a dozen moves on a dozen different boards.”
“I’ve received multiple reports that you’ve overrun South Bend and Mishawaka and are amassing your men at the Indiana border. Do not think that you can cross into my territory without dire consequences.”
Silence on the other end. “I do not appreciate being threatened.”
“Well, consider this a threat!” the General said.
He hadn’t expected the Syndicate to grow so strong, so quickly. Northern Indiana had been swiftly overrun. He had expected more resistance.
Perhaps he had underestimated the devastating effects of winter upon a weak and helpless population. Disease, hypothermia, and starvation had ravaged the ranks of those who might have fought back.
The General took a long swallow of cognac. It didn’t calm him in the slightest. “Remember who’s in charge here.”
“I remember who my benefactor is. I do not forget. Not for one single second.” Poe spoke evenly, without inflection, and yet the General heard the subtext—a savage resentment behind those few simple words.
The General drained his crystal glass and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.
He had met Poe once at a fancy fundraiser dinner for the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. A mob kingpin, but he was no tracksuit-wearing thug. He was educated and intelligent, poised and graceful as a leopard.
Poe wore expensive name brand suits and drank fine wines. He finagled underhanded financial deals and cut-throat business propositions in elegant restaurants, on high-brow golf courses, and during elite dinner cruises with lobbyists, politicians, and high-ranking city officials.
He smiled and laughed like other men, but unlike other men, his eyes were empty. He was utterly ruthless, with no family, friends, or loyalties. Ambitious and greedy.
Not unlike the General himself.
They both desired the whole world on a platter.
Poe had had the manpower—his Syndicate formed a wide network of thugs, gangsters, and criminals he’d built over two decades ruling the underbelly of crime in Chicago.
But he couldn’t do real damage without upgrading his weaponry.
He needed the keys to the kingdom.
Keys which the General had generously provided him.
For it was the General himself who’d supplied Alexander Poe with the resources he needed to gain control of Chicago. And from there, most of Illinois.
The locations of local armories. Access to certain clandestine storage facilities. Covert military shipments authorized to undisclosed classified recipients.
The Syndicate thugs carried long guns—mostly military-issued M4s—and wore BDUs, the name tapes and patches removed from their uniforms. They looked like soldiers, intentionally preying upon a civilian’s natural inclination to respect and obey American armed forces.
That, too, had been the General’s idea.
It had worked to spectacular effect.
Poe had spread like a cancer throughout the cities and suburbs, and then through the rural towns, sweeping through FEMA camps and exploiting their government-provided resources to feed his growing army.
Whatever he didn’t need, he often burned or killed, leaving large swaths of death and devastation in his wake. And fear.
It was that fear that the General had needed.
It was the fear he’d manufactured, then exploited to serve his own aims.
With the chaos in Illinois at a controlled boil, Governor Duffield and the remnants of the state legislature had capitulated to their own terror. The governor had willingly handed over the reins of power. After all, he who controlled the army held the government by the balls.
Poe had served a valuable purpose. But that purpose was now waning. He would soon outlive his usefulness.
“Byron, you sound upset. Did I piss in your Cheerios?”
The General clenched his jaw, seething. From the beginning, Poe had insisted on calling him Byron rather than by his title, a subtle slight that the General had overlooked.
He regretted that now. The General had Poe handled, but he was not an enemy to underestimate.
“Don’t forget your place,” the General spat.
Poe laughed. “I have many places. My favorite is the top of the dog pile.”
“Do not step foot inside the Michigan border. I gave you the FEMA camps. I gave you Illinois. Hell, I even let you have Indiana—”
“I have enough cornfields already. And I took Illinois and Indiana myself.”
“Do not make light of this!”
A pause. When he spoke, Poe’s voice was silky smooth. “I so enjoy these little chats.”
“I mean it. I can still cut you down to size.”
“Goodbye, Byron.”
“Don’t you dare—!”
Before the General could finish his sentence, Poe hung up on him.
Incensed, the General spun and hurled the sat phone across the room. It struck the wall beside the door and fell to the carpet with a dull thud.
Baxter, who’d been hovering anxiously in the doorway, ducked with a whimpered gasp.
His bodyguards didn’t flinch.
The General longed to strangle Poe’s elegant throat with his bare hands. Or execute him with a well-placed bullet to the skull.
Poe was more than a problem. He was getting out of hand.
The General wasn’t prepared to act yet. There were still moves to make, pieces to adjust. His legacy orchestrated to perfection. He wasn’t ready.
“Sir—” Baxter stammered.
“What do you want?” He spoke between gritted teeth, struggling to maintain his temper. “Can’t you see that I’m busy!”
“Gibbs sent me, sir.”
With great effort, he reined in his emotions. His men should see him as a leader in the utmost control of everything around him—including himself. “Come in.”
Baxter scurried into the room, his head bobbing, eyes darting back and forth like another phone might fly out of nowhere and strike him in the head.
“The assault team is preparing to depart for their mission. They’ve debriefed the new asset—James Luther. They have the intel they need to proceed.”
The General released a tension-filled breath. He placed the empty glass on the marble windowsill and returned his attention to the view outside his suite.
The sun had sunk below the horizon. The
sky took on the hue of a purplish-blue bruise.
Deep shadows stretched across the carpeted floor.
At least there was this.
The General turned to Baxter. “Remember, don’t touch Winter Haven. Make sure they’re discreet.”
Baxter bobbed his head. “Of course.”
The General thought of his daughter. “Tell Gibbs to send them.”
28
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Ten
Hannah awoke to silence.
Her eyes snapped open. She stared straight up into the darkness hovering above her, blinking groggily.
She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stuck her bare feet into the slippers on the floor.
Her heart felt like it was about to pound right out of her chest. Her pulse thudded, her palms damp. She strained her ears, listening.
Sometimes, she woke still imprisoned in Pike’s basement. The terror thick in her throat, clawing at her ribs. The lumpy mattress beneath her, the cold barren walls, the bars over the tiny window.
Trapped.
She wasn’t trapped anymore.
Yet the old fear caught her like a fish on a hook, and she couldn’t escape it.
She blinked again to bring the details of the bedroom into focus. Dresser. Open closet door. Chair in the corner. Nightstand.
She checked the watch on the nightstand beside her pistol. 1:10 a.m.
Movement by the door snagged her eye.
Her heart jerked in her chest.
A white shadow crystalized in the heavy darkness—fuzzy white fur, pricked ears, the long stiff tail.
Ghost crouched at the bedroom door.
Her brain registered his low, barely perceptible growl. A rumble vibrated deep in his chest. She felt it in her own chest cavity. A warning.
The fear wouldn’t dissipate. A dread like worms wriggled in her belly.
The children. She needed to check on the children.
Hannah grasped the Ruger in both hands, flicked off the safety and nestled the butt in the curved palm of her bad hand to steady her aim. Her fingers trembled, but her movements were practiced and efficient. She’d repeated this very act a thousand times.
She padded to the door and slid it open with her foot. It creaked loud in the deafening silence.
Ahead of her, Ghost growled.
Ghost could feel it, too. She might not always trust her own instincts, but she trusted Ghost one hundred percent.
Something was wrong.
The silence was terrifying.
Not daring to speak, she slid through the doorway, the big white dog at her side. His hackles lifted, black lips pulled back from his teeth.
She crept down the hall and pushed open Milo’s door. A small oblong lump beneath a mess of blankets. The black curls on the white pillow, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She checked the window. Locked.
The uneasy feeling grew inside her. The wrongness.
Ghost trotted toward Charlotte’s room. With increasing trepidation, Hannah followed. She sensed her way by memory rather than sight.
Darkness lay over everything, thick as a shroud.
The night was completely still. No refrigerator sounds, no ticking clock.
Her slippered feet padded down the hallway. Ghost’s nails click, click, clicked.
Gun up, she pushed open Charlotte’s door with her shoulder and slipped inside. She took in the dim shapes. Her brain registered each familiar item as something strange and alien.
The crib against the far wall. Closed window covered by curtains. Open closet door. The overstuffed reading chair piled with Charlotte’s favorite stuffed animals.
Ghost trotted to the crib and let out an anxious whine. A sound so loud in the silence that she flinched.
A moment later, she was at the crib.
White sheets. Zoo animal mobile hanging still and silent. Liam’s crooked little hat stuffed into one corner.
It was empty.
Adrenaline turned her veins to ice. Terror clawed at her throat, choked off her breath.
Wildly, she scanned the crib, blinking as if that would bring back the proper image: Charlotte curled into a tiny ball, a halo of fuzzy dark hair, fat little thumb jammed into her rosebud mouth.
Still empty.
She took a single staggering step backward. No, no, no…
And then it hit her.
The memory flooded her mind—earlier that evening, after she’d nursed Charlotte, Evelyn had offered to take the baby for the night to allow Hannah some restful sleep.
In her weary, sleep-deprived state, she’d completely forgotten.
Relieved, she sagged against the crib to catch her breath. Her pulse roared in her ears. For a moment, she’d feared the worst…
Ghost whined again.
Her gaze lowered to her dog. His hackles still raised.
The rapid beat of her heart did not slow. The sour-sick feeling of dread did not dissipate.
It grew stronger.
Ghost turned in a restless circle, snout high, sniffing the air. The Great Pyr stepped in front of her, pushing her with his powerful hindquarters.
She squatted and rested her hand on his side. The deep, unsettling rumble vibrated in the dog’s chest.
The silence pressed in on her. Heavy with foreboding.
Ghost’s head snapped up, ears pricked. His body went stiff, his plumed tail sticking straight back, as if he were preparing to launch at some unseen attacker.
The hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck stood on end.
She felt torn, the precious seconds passing too swiftly, sifting between her fingers. She needed to get to Charlotte. And she needed to radio for help.
Swiftly, she moved back into her bedroom and grabbed the radio on her night table, the solar battery charger beside it. Alarm swelled within her with each step.
“I need Liam,” she said. Her whisper loud as a shout in the eerie quiet. “At the Brooks’ house. Something’s wrong.”
“Copy that,” Reynoso said. “Aid on route. You should wait—”
She couldn’t wait. Every second mattered.
Her chest seized. Instinct screamed at her to MOVE. She set the radio back on the nightstand and turned to Ghost.
Shaken, she placed her bad hand on his spine. She dug her fingers into his thick fur. You know what to do.
Ghost headed for the door. Hannah followed.
She hated leaving her son behind in the empty house. But her instincts warned her that the threat no longer lay within these walls but out there.
It was her other child in danger. Her baby.
Hannah needed to get to Charlotte.
She needed to find her daughter right now.
29
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Ten
Ghost sprinted to the front door, Hannah right behind him. In the dark, she barely avoided skinning her knee on the coffee table.
She didn’t waste time with her coat, pausing only to push on her unlaced boots.
She had Ghost; she had her .45.
She fumbled at the lock with her misshapen hand. Her crooked fingers were clumsier in her fear, but she didn’t dare put down the pistol.
The door opened. Ghost shouldered through. He darted into the night, a hurtling white streak in absolute darkness.
There were no stars. No moon. The clouds thick, black, and heavy.
It was bitterly cold. The frigid air sliced through her flannel pajamas. She inhaled a sharp breath, expelling white clouds, and stumbled after Ghost.
This is crazy, that rational voice whispered in her mind. You’re going to wake up Evelyn, Travis, and the babies, ranting like an insane woman.
But there was Ghost, alert and agitated. And her intuition like a jangling alarm inside her head.
She’d ignored that alarm the night Gavin Pike stopped on the side of the road. The night she’d been stolen from her own life.
She wouldn’t ignore it again.
Hannah reached the Brooks’ front door and paused. Ghost raced around the corner of the house. Once again, she followed his lead.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. Electricity crackled in the frigid air.
She strained her ears for any sound. The squelch of wet, matted grass beneath her boots. The scent of wet earth filled her nostrils. It smelled like rain.
And something else. The whiff of cigarette smoke.
Dread scrabbled up her spine. Hannah hurried to the rear patio and felt her way between the patio furniture. Her boots crunched broken glass.
The slider door was half-open.
Evelyn and Travis were too careful to leave a door unlocked, let alone open.
Someone had broken in. Someone was inside the house.
For an instant, she froze, bracing against a shot of liquid fear. Her scalp tingled. That old familiar darkness descended, stealing her thoughts, blackening her mind, taking her away.
She did not give in to it. She fought against the nothingness with every ounce of her strength. What had once protected her from the worst horrors imaginable now threatened everything she held dear.
Hannah breathed in, breathed out. Cold air stung her cheeks. The heft of the .45 in her hands. Her dog pressed against her thigh, whining, scratching at the door to get in.
Her baby in grave danger. Evelyn and Travis, too.
With tremendous effort, she came back to herself.
Hannah forced the broken slider open.
Ghost leapt through the slider. With a great booming bark that shook the night, he surged inside.
Heart in her throat, Hannah ran after him.
Through the darkened living room. Bumped into the sofa, knocking over an end table. Nearly tripped, but she stumbled to her feet and raced toward the pitch-black hallway.
No thought for stealth. Only speed. Sheer panic drove her on.
Ghost’s savage barking echoed off the hallway walls and rang in her ears. He shot down the hall, a flare of bright white flame, and burst into the doorway to L.J.’s room.
Hannah scrambled into the room, gun up, pulse roaring.