by Kyla Stone
He could hardly admit it, even to himself. How much he missed this part. Working together as a team. Belonging to a brotherhood. Knowing with one hundred percent certainty that your partner had your six, no matter what.
The growl of engines drew closer.
His adrenaline spiked. Liam halted and held up a fist. Swiftly, his team hid themselves as a four-man patrol swept down Lake Boulevard.
The patrol drove two Humvees with turret-mounted M2s and weren’t hard to miss—or evade.
It seemed more like posturing. A warning for desperate citizens to steer clear or face the consequences. These soldiers weren’t here to hand out water bottles and toothbrushes.
Once the patrol passed, Liam’s assault team kept moving.
With the makeshift antennae, Reynoso directed them to the soft target location about eight blocks from the Boulevard Inn. The bulk of the General’s transport and fuel supplies were tucked into the two-story parking garage between a wine store and an auto insurance business.
Four soldiers guarded the entrance, separated into two-man teams. There likely wouldn’t be anyone inside, just the sentries outside along the perimeter. Three males and one female. Two were armed with M60 machine guns and wore body armor with ceramic plates.
The soldiers looked grim, bored, and miserable. Their posture lax, shoulders drooping.
The lack of electricity was taking its toll. The hunger. Constant discomfort and sleep deprivation. Separation from friends and family.
They were soldiers, but they weren’t battle-hardened special operators. Many were probably torn between their duty to country and their responsibilities to loved ones. Each day, they waged an internal battle, a struggle between honor and shame, duty and family.
They didn’t know it, but they were following the orders of a sociopath who didn’t care whether they lived or died, or if their loved ones were safe, sheltered, and fed.
Liam massaged the trigger guard, every muscle taut, his stomach knotted with misgiving.
A fresh surge of loathing struck him. Yet another Sinclair forcing his hand, making him choose between impossible options.
Instead of the peace he longed for, he was going to war.
“Alpha Team Three, this is Alpha One,” Bishop said into his radio. “We’re in position.”
There was no response. They were out of range. Liam looked at his watch. They knew communication was going to be crap, so they’d timed the attack. Any second now.
Several miles away, Hayes led a team to create a diversion. Using a homemade napalm mixture, they’d set a TJ Maxx ablaze. The General’s scouts would send a team to investigate.
Once the unit responded to the diversion, the secondary team would ambush them and pin them down—hopefully, without taking casualties.
In response, the General would send his reaction force, tying them up and wasting precious fuel and ordnance.
Utilizing Michigan’s rolling terrain to their advantage, Hayes had set up an ambush location at a choke point between two exposed hills. They were dug in behind rock and dirt berms to protect them from the M2’s firepower.
The long-range ambush would reduce the Guard’s effectiveness while allowing Team Three to break contact before the soldiers could strike back. It was one of the Taliban’s favorite tactics.
They’d constructed an IED to detonate ahead of the armored vehicle, designed to disable it without killing its occupants. When the guardsmen jumped out of the Humvees to scramble for cover, Hayes’s team would open fire on the vehicles to disable them before making a quick exit.
Team Three would then head back to set up another ambush along M-139 in case Liam or Perez were pursued.
As Hayes engaged the General’s forces outside the city, Liam’s team would eliminate a significant portion of the General’s transports and fuel while Perez’s team targeted the ammo dump site.
Anxiety crackled through him. No plan survived first contact with the enemy. There were a hundred ways this could go sideways, though he’d analyzed each one a dozen times. The stress points and weaknesses.
He’d planned for contingencies. Had back-ups to his back-up plan. Multiple exit strategies.
It still might not be enough.
Liam settled down to wait, the only sound his own shallow breathing. Constantly scanning all sides of their position, checking windows, doors, and rooflines, attuned to the slightest sound, the most imperceptible movement. The telltale glint of a scope.
A minute later, the growl of several engines shattered the still air—the General’s quick reaction force.
Seven Humvees roared north toward Hayes’ team. Thirty seconds later, four more Humvees roared past, loaded with men, weapons, and ammo.
Liam, Bishop, and Reynoso exchanged tense glances.
Liam’s heart rate slowed; his breathing steadied. He was in the zone. This was it. They would only get this one chance to strike first.
They’d better make it count.
Five minutes later, it was go time.
35
Liam
Day One Hundred and Eleven
Using hand motions, Liam directed Reynoso and Bishop to head right to flank their targets and put them in an L-ambush.
They backtracked the way they’d come and circled the targets, coming out to the west of the parking garage.
A second later came the whomp, whomp, whomp of the General’s Black Hawk taking flight in the distance. It was headed north to assist the soldiers Team Three had pinned down.
Hayes would break contact and disappear before the air asset reached them. The Black Hawk would return soon—Liam’s assault teams needed to be long gone by then.
Pressed against the side of a small art museum, Liam tensed, adrenaline spiking. He pulled a flashbang from his chest rig. Removing the safety tape from the pull ring, he gripped the spoon between his right-hand thumb and pointer finger.
The rat-a-tat of gunfire sounded. Simultaneously, a distant explosion shattered the air. Several blocks away, to the northeast. That would be Perez and her team.
The soldiers went rigid. Before they could react, Liam leapt into action.
He yanked the pull ring clear of the device. In one fluid movement, he swung around the corner and tossed the M84 stun grenade toward the first cluster of sentries.
From their opposite flank, Bishop did the same.
Liam turned away, covering his eyes and opening his mouth.
Both flashbangs detonated. The explosive bang slammed into his eardrums. Harsh white light flashed bright against his eyelids.
The soldiers stumbled back, momentarily blinded and disoriented. One screamed, dropping his rifle as he clutched at his face.
They’d come to in ten to fifteen seconds, likely faster.
Sprinting toward the garage, Liam fired once at each soldier’s ceramic-plated body armor. He made certain he didn’t miss.
A round to the chest would drop the guards to the ground and incapacitate them momentarily. It shouldn’t be fatal or cause permanent injury.
He faltered as an electric shock of pain spasmed in his spinal cord, seizing his back. Fear knotted in his chest as he limped through it, forcing his body to its limit and past it.
“Alpha Team One, this is Team Three,” Perez said over Liam’s radio. “We nailed the ammo dump. Blew it sky-high! We even got a few party favors. I’m bringing them to you now. We’re in a five-ton truck filled with ordnance—whatever you do, don’t shoot us!”
Bishop and Reynoso ran in, disarmed the fallen soldiers, and zip-tied their hands and feet before relieving them of their weapons and ammo.
One of the guardsmen was still on his feet. The soldier whipped around. Liam lunged. Before he could get his gun swung around and aimed, Liam reached him.
He glimpsed tufts of brown hair sticking out beneath his helmet. Uneven mustache. Wide, frightened eyes in an oval face. Mid-twenties, if that.
Liam spun the kid around and gripped his neck with his forearm in a chokehold.
The kid’s arms flailed, dropping the carbine, fumbling for a knife at his belt. Liam half turned him and smacked his shoulder against the exterior cement wall of the parking garage.
The soldier lost his grip on the blade. It clattered to the pavement. He tried to claw at Liam’s face. His strength faded fast. In seconds, he was unconscious.
His body sagged. Liam zip-tied him and left him leaning against the wall.
He glanced back at Bishop, who gave him a thumbs up. All hostiles down.
No sooner had they incapacitated the sentries than Perez came roaring around the corner in the stolen 5 x 5, otherwise known as a M923 military cargo truck. Her team had obtained cases of grenades, 7.62 and 5.56 ammunition, and one gorgeous .50 caliber M2.
One case of white phosphorus grenades sat in the front seat in beside her. She patted it. “We got the party favors! Time to blow this joint.”
“I’ll do it,” Liam said. “Cover me.”
“Team Two will cover us from Broad Street.” Perez jumped out and wrestled the M60 from the hands of the unconscious soldier. “Hurry up, old man. We’ve got a minute, tops.”
The 5 x 5 was low on fuel, but they could reach the link up location and switch it out for the Orange Julius they’d hidden in a used car lot. It might be enough to get their goodies home.
Bishop took up position at the entrance to the garage, taking cover across from the gate booth behind one of the massive concrete pillars holding the weight of the second story. Perez and Reynoso gathered the M60s and joined him.
While they provided cover, Liam drove into the parking garage. Inside was dark and heavily shadowed. He drove past the dark humps of parked cars whose owners would never return for them.
Gummy glass shards littered the concrete from the shattered vehicle windows—all of them scavenged. The sharp stink of gasoline fumes from punctured gas tanks stung his nostrils.
He wound through the garage to the open top floor before he reached the long rows of military vehicles. Most of the trucks were packed with supplies.
This was a temporary staging area. The General had likely set his sights on Winter Haven.
Not today. Not tomorrow, either.
Not if Liam had anything to say about it.
He got to work. He drove past each parked Humvee and lightweight tactical all-terrain vehicle and pitched white phosphorus grenades like candy at a parade.
The grenades did not explode. The air reacted to the phosphorus chemicals. It looked like a smoke grenade going off. Then came the fire.
Metal, cloth, and plastic ignited immediately. With 5000 degree heat, the fierce incendiary burned holes through armor.
The vehicles lit up like matchsticks—incredibly hot and incredibly fast. Metal twisted and melted. The crates of supplies went up with a whoosh.
White smoke poured from the fiery vehicles. Liam sped up one row and down the next, hurling grenades as he drove. Five Humvees down. Ten, fifteen.
The vehicles and their contents were rendered unusable. He hated to destroy valuable supplies, but they had no way to capture it for themselves.
“We’ve got company!” Bishop yelled through the radio.
He was out of time.
The tires squealed as Liam swerved, narrowly missing a concrete pillar, and barreled for the exit, ignoring the arrows and “wrong way!” warning signs.
He squinted, the smoky haze pouring into the cramped quarters making it hard to see.
He peeled out of the parking garage, smashing through the closed red and white articulating barrier gate arm, and slammed to a halt.
Perez grinned darkly as she jerked open the door. “That’s gonna bring the cavalry!”
She thrust the big M60 belt-fed machine gun into the back seat and climbed in. Reynoso seized the second one and threw it in as well.
They could already hear soldiers shouting and the rumble of more Humvees heading their way.
Bishop jumped into the front seat. “Go! Go! Go!”
Liam hit the gas. They drove, barreling through the empty streets, buildings rising all around them. Bishop pointed his weapon out the window, checking doorways and rooftops.
“Alpha Two, this is Alpha Team One. Cover us!” Perez called into the radio. “We’re coming your way!”
“Alpha Team One, we’ve got you. They’re coming in at you from Main Street. State Street is clear.”
“Copy that.” Perez dropped the radio in favor of the M60.
More sporadic gunfire. The growl of Humvee engines grew closer.
Liam’s heart bucked in his chest as they whipped left onto State Street, tires squealing. The stink of burnt rubber filled his nostrils.
Bishop tossed a few phosphorus grenades out the window. Behind them, white smoke unfurled, billowing in great clouds to fill the entire street, creating an instant and effective smoke screen to shield their movements.
They got the hell out of Dodge.
36
The General
Day One Hundred and Eleven
Gibbs marched into the General’s suite. “I need to speak to you, sir.”
The General stood facing the wall of windows, his hands clasped behind his back. His bodyguards flanked either side of the doorway. Four more waited outside the door.
Baxter sat at the slim hotel desk in the corner, scribbling away with his delicate handwriting, sweating over chapter seven of the General’s manuscript.
The General breathed deeply, kept his gaze on the horizon line where the water met the blue of the sky, ignoring the hovels and sagging tents littering the beach, his eyes skipping over the dilapidated fishing boats cluttering Lake Michigan.
He was sick of this hotel, sick of MREs. Sick of this town. Fall Creek was a thorn in his side. “How much did we lose?”
“Our ammo, fuel, and transport supplies were attacked, sir. Five transports filled with supplies. Fourteen Humvees destroyed. Half of our ammo supply blown to bits.”
The General whipped around. Anger flared through him like an electrical current. “How did you let this happen?”
Gibbs didn’t flinch. “The fire was a distraction. They had men in wait to ambush the soldiers and draw our attention while they came after our logistics. The guardsmen were hit with flashbangs and knocked unconscious. The assault teams were too fast. By the time we sent a second reaction force, they were gone.”
The General cursed. He almost swiped the half-empty bottle of cognac from the credenza and hurled it at Gibbs. It was far too precious to waste.
“It will take us twice as long to transport our men anywhere. No casualties, but our ammo supply is halved. Fuel is low. For food, we only have a few days’ worth. Even if we move to rations. The men won’t like it, but—”
“Do it! We’ll find more food when we secure Fall Creek.”
Gibbs pursed his lips. “There’s more.”
“Spit it out!”
“Franklin and Jenkins never made it back.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“They did not return. They have not initiated radio contact. We can only assume that they were intercepted and eliminated.”
White-hot anger burned through him. He wanted to murder something—or someone. He couldn’t stand the sight of Gibbs, Baxter, or anyone else.
Baxter never looked up, an intense look on his face. Though the room was distinctly chilly, sweat beaded his forehead. He looked like he was writing for his life.
“When do we go rip them a new one? Sir.” Gibbs’ face was near expressionless, but the General recognized the restrained rage flashing behind his eyes.
The General forced himself to breathe, to maintain control. He longed to release his hounds and let them do what they did best.
He’d prefer to level the town. He’d never even have to step foot within its borders. Hell, with the proper artillery and air support, neither would a single soldier.
They could obliterate it, wipe it right off the map.
He had his progeny to
think of. She was still inside.
“Send them another message,” the General said. “One they will not soon forget.”
“I intend to,” Gibbs said. “This cannot go unanswered.”
“But judiciously. We must limit our use of artillery and mortars. We need to protect Winter Haven. The solar panels, the greenhouses, and the planted fields. When we take over, we’ll use those resources.”
“And the people?”
“Other than my great-granddaughter, I couldn’t care less if they were all slaughtered. But bring Liam Coleman to me. I want to eliminate him personally.”
He didn’t consider the consequences of unleashing the U.S. military on a town of American citizens. He was in charge, now. The governor had given him the authority to make unilateral decisions. Which he damned well would.
Gibbs cleared his throat.
“What is it?”
“The troops—they might balk at engaging noncombatants. Even those sheltering terrorists. They don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Anyone who dares to disobey a direct order will end up like those deserters!”
“My men can do it. They have no such moral qualms.”
The General turned back toward the window and admired the view. “You have an idea?”
He caught Gibbs’ flat smile reflected in the glass. “I know just the thing.”
37
Liam
Day One Hundred and Twelve
Liam stalked the night.
Through his NVGs, the darkness was bathed in varying shades of green. The moon was barely visible, hidden behind a thick scrim of clouds.
It had rained earlier—the road glistened, droplets of rainwater beading the carcasses of dead vehicles. The trees and grass gleamed wetly.
He patrolled M-139 several miles north of the blockade between Fall Creek and St. Joe.