by Kyla Stone
50
Liam
Day One Hundred and Fourteen
Liam couldn’t sleep.
It was 2200 hours. These days, everyone rose with the sunrise, ready to work. After a long day, most folks were in bed by nine and slept like the dead.
Liam had never slept well, his dreams haunted by exploding mortar shells and the screams of his fallen brothers. He didn’t sleep tonight, either.
In the house, everyone else slept—Hannah and Charlotte, Milo and Quinn.
Liam made his way outside, carbine slung over his shoulder. Ghost hobbled to the doorway but refused to leave the house. The dog loved the cold but despised water.
Instinctively, Liam scanned the backyard, checking high and low, listening for anything unusual. There was nothing.
The rain had stopped, the wind dissipating. The night was still and dark but for faint starlight filtering through a scrim of clouds.
In the back yard, a jumble of rain-beaded oak rounds were strewn across the wet grass beside the chopping block which stood to the left of the woodshed. A large splitting maul was embedded deep in the center of the large stump.
He wanted to chop firewood for Hannah, but his injured side still kept him from doing so much of what he wanted. Besides, Evelyn would kill him.
From inside his jacket pocket, his radio crackled to life. “Alpha One, come in.”
His heart rate accelerated. It wasn’t Luther’s scheduled check-in time. Liam hadn’t heard from him since the Black Hawk attack. He hadn’t expected to. It was too risky.
On high alert, he withdrew the radio from his jacket pocket with his left hand; his right hand remained free to reach for his Glock or the long gun if needed.
“Echo Two,” Liam said. “This is Alpha One.”
“I had to sneak from the hotel and steal a bike to get within range,” Luther’s rapid breaths whooshed through the handheld’s speaker. “Almost got caught three times. Nearly pissed my pants.”
“What’s happening? What’s the General’s next play?”
“The men are irate about the helo.” Luther paused, panting. “Liam, they’re going to send in a ground force attack. This is it. The big one.”
Liam’s heart stopped beating. “When?”
“They’re planning to attack at dawn.”
It didn’t matter how much he’d been expecting it. The news struck him like a blow to the solar plexus.
“They’re bringing in everything. The armored vehicles and the M2s. They have mortars and artillery, Liam. He’s sending in a simultaneous tactical team to get the baby. After he obtains the target, the General wants the town destroyed. He is unconcerned with civilian casualties.”
Liam cursed. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. And he’s put a bounty on your head. He claims you have valuable intel on a domestic terrorism cell, but it’s obvious that he wants to kill you himself. The soldier who brings you in alive receives an honorable discharge, along with a month of rations for his or her family.”
Liam closed his eyes. A dark dread unfurled in his chest. Even with the goodies they’d stolen from their raid, they wouldn’t be able to repel such a force. They would be overrun.
“There’s more.”
“Out with it.”
“I found some wine from the Tabor Hill Winery in Stevensville for Baxter to give to the General. I saved another bottle to share with him. He was grateful. Got him drunk enough to loosen his tongue a little. Liam, the General and Poe are on the same side.”
“What?”
“The General siphoned off supplies and resources for Poe all along. He gave him access to National Guard armories, caches to raid, the whole thing. That’s how Poe got so powerful so fast.”
A cold, crystalized anger shot through him. He clenched his fist and resisted the urge to punch the woodpile until his knuckles bloodied.
“General Sinclair has gone rogue. His orders aren’t coming from the governor. At least not the ones pertaining to Fall Creek.”
Liam’s mind whirred, cycling through the ramifications, how he could use it to save his town.
Would the National Guard still attack if the General was no longer at the helm?
Was Liam willing to bet everything on the answer?
Luther said, “All I know is, the orders are coming from him, not from Lansing.”
Liam was tempted to ask if Luther could get close enough to the General to assassinate him, but he checked himself. Such questions conveyed intent and strategy, which he shouldn’t reveal to an informant.
Luther was still an X factor. A wild card. Too unreliable to trust. And yet, much as Liam loathed it, some level of trust was required.
Besides, Luther would never get close to the General, not with two dozen ex-military contractors surrounding him. He wasn’t a soldier. He didn’t have the skill set to assassinate a target.
“There’s no way to defeat the General, Liam. It’s not possible.”
“There’s one way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stay within range,” Liam said. “I need to think. Over and out.”
Liam retrieved his jacket and his carbine, returned to Hannah’s house, and slipped in the back door. Ghost greeted him with a muzzle press to his palm and a chuff from deep in his barrel chest.
The dog trotted after Liam as he checked the windows and doors. He peered into the front yard, examining the empty street, the quiet houses.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Static buzzed inside his skull. Despondent, he sank into the sofa cushions, head in his hands.
Liam was one man. He couldn’t repel an army. Not on multiple fronts with multiple targets.
Before he’d even started, he’d failed.
And yet.
Without the General’s vendetta, the National Guard had little reason to attack Fall Creek. Maybe they would’ve wanted Winter Haven—but without the community’s solar power, it held little value.
Get rid of the General, and Lansing would send someone else, someone who didn’t give a damn about this town, or Charlotte.
This started and ended with General Sinclair.
Take him out and Fall Creek would have a chance. Hannah would have a chance.
But how? With more time, Liam could devise an ambush to lure the General into a trap. Or set up a sniper hide and take him out via a long-distance bullet to the brain.
But from Luther’s intel, he knew the General was careful. He had taken the penthouse suite; the only wall of windows faced Lake Michigan. No tall buildings nearby with rooftops or windows for sniping.
Liam was out of time. Out of options.
There was only one way out.
Something snagged his gaze. The crooked green and gray hat peeked between the sofa cushions.
Liam pulled it out and held it in his hands, turning it over and over, running his calloused fingers over the lumpy knitting.
He had made it for L.J. He’d worn it once within hours of his birth. Liam had kept it to remind him of Jessa and Lincoln, of his dead family and the baby he’d left behind in Chicago.
What had once symbolized his failure had transformed into a gift, a symbol of hope. When Hannah entered his life. When Charlotte came red-faced and bawling into the world.
His thoughts crystalized. What he must do. And how.
The path forward had never been clearer.
The General wanted Liam. He wanted to kill Liam himself, with his own hands. Which meant he would need to get close. Face-to-face close.
Perhaps, close enough to kill.
Doubt and uncertainty needled him. It was a significant risk. The chances of success were slim. The odds of survival non-existent.
Even if Liam could get his hands on the General, he couldn’t fight off the mercenaries who’d unleash hell in revenge.
He didn’t have to.
Getting out wasn’t the important part. Only getting in.
For a second, he considered calling Bishop, organ
izing an assault team. He dismissed the thought. They needed every fighter to defend Fall Creek. Besides, he couldn’t bear the idea of sending his friends into a kill zone with little hope of survival.
Ironically, he had never valued his life as much as he did now. He wanted this life, flawed but beautiful. He wanted to carve out a place in this world with Hannah at the beating center of it.
Only now did he fully understand what he must lose to save them.
Liam called Luther on the radio.
When he picked up, Liam said, “I need you.”
51
Liam
Day One Hundred and Fourteen
Liam geared up.
This mission required speed and agility. He planned to leave his go-bag behind, but he strapped on his chest rig and did a weapons check, counted his ammo and magazines.
He kept his everyday carry case with the folding knife, paracord, tactical pen, and multi-tool in his jacket pocket.
He’d borrowed Hannah’s sewing kit for a couple of last-minute alterations and a couple of items from Reynoso’s home as well. Reynoso didn’t know—he was busy on night patrol.
It was time to go.
Liam had thought out every contingency and back-up plan, every move and countermove until it solidified in his mind.
He was prepared for a one-man war.
Ghost was on his feet, watching him intently with those intelligent brown eyes, ears pricked. He knew something was about to happen.
Liam scratched his floppy ears and rubbed beneath his muzzle. “Take care of them for me.”
Movement in the shadows of the hallway.
Adrenaline shot through him. Liam spun, Glock in hand.
Quinn spoke in the darkness. “It’s me.”
Liam lowered the pistol. “What’d I tell you about sneaking up on people?”
“To get better at it. Looks like I did.”
Her glassy eyes sparkled in the dim moonlight trickling through the living room window. She wore red flannel pajama bottoms, a Metallica T-shirt, and Hannah’s pink slippers. She looked so young.
He holstered his pistol. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.”
“Touché.”
Ghost trotted up to her and sniffed her hand. She scratched him behind his ears. He snorted in pleasure and pressed the top of his head against her thigh.
Her gaze slid from Ghost to his face to the M4 on its sling, the chest rig bristling with gear. “You’re leaving.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“There’s something I have to do.”
“Does Hannah know?”
“She will.”
“Which means she doesn’t know.”
Truth was, he couldn’t bear to tell her. He knew what her reaction would be. He didn’t want to say goodbye. Not that she couldn’t handle it—he couldn’t.
Their last moments together were perfect. He wanted her to remember him like that. He wanted his last memory of her to be that one. The way her hair looked spilling around her shoulders, the depth of her eyes in the firelight, how dark they turned when she kissed him.
“No,” he said. “She doesn’t.”
Quinn stared at him steadily. She wasn’t taking silence for an answer. “Where are you going?”
“To cut the head off the snake.”
“What if there’s more than one head?”
She always was a smart one. Cunning and quick-thinking. It would serve her well.
“I don’t think there is.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“It’s a risk I have to take.”
“You’re going to kill the General.” She said it flatly. A statement, not a question.
“I’m going to try.”
“How are you going to get close to him?”
“Anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”
She snorted. “All the time.”
“As long as this man lives, Hannah and Charlotte will be in danger. For them, I have to do this.”
She took a step forward. The strap of her AR-15 was slung across her shoulder. She practically slept with the thing. “I want to come with you.”
“I have to do this alone.”
She scowled. “I thought you said that lone-wolf stuff was stupid thinking.”
“It is. But in this case, it’s the only way it’ll work. Believe me, I’ve thought it through. This is the only way.”
“That’s why you’re sneaking out. Because Bishop and Hannah won’t agree to it. This isn’t a good idea.”
His stomach somersaulted. “Quinn.”
“Are you coming back?”
His knee-jerk response was an obvious of course, but he hesitated. She wasn’t a little kid. She’d been through too much for him to lie to her. He owed her that much.
“I don’t know,” he said. And then, “Probably not.”
Dismayed, Quinn’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She shook her head fiercely. “No.”
“Yes. I have to. I must.”
She took another step into the dark living room. Even in the moonlight, he could see the anguish contorting her features. “Then let me come with you.”
“Sorry, kid. That won’t work. It has to be me. Me alone.”
She went rigid. “Why not?”
“I’m the only one he won’t kill on sight.”
For a long moment, she didn’t say a word. They stared at each other in the darkness, thinking the things neither of them could say out loud.
“I need you here. She needs you.”
He didn’t need to say who. They both knew.
“Okay, Wolverine,” she said finally. “I trust you. So, okay.”
He blinked, startled at the strength of the emotion surging in his chest. How badly he wanted to stay, to choose a different path.
To watch this sixteen-year-old girl grow into the seasoned warrior she was destined to become.
“Protect her,” Liam said. “Protect them.”
Quinn lifted her chin. “I will.”
52
The General
Day One Hundred and Fourteen
The General stood before the window, spine erect, hands clasped at the small of his back. It was a regal stance. Imposing. Victorious.
An excellent pose for the cover of a bestselling book destined to become a classic.
The Governor of Michigan was dead.
This time tomorrow, the General would have control of Fall Creek. Liam Coleman’s corpse would be strung on a wall. His great-granddaughter would be his to mold.
And the Syndicate would be in his sights.
Because the General had convinced Governor Duffield to defy federal orders and keep their military resources local, Michigan was the only state in the Midwest with an army strong enough to put Poe down.
The Syndicate had done his dirty work for him, as intended. Poe had come to the end of his usefulness.
With Poe gone, Illinois and Indiana would beg Michigan to step in and restore order. Which the General would be happy to do—for a price.
By the time Lauren Eubanks was officially the governor, she’d be on her knees, answering to him.
The General called Poe on his sat phone.
Time to set up the trap he had planned.
Poe didn’t bother to say hello. “I think this will be the last time I accept your call, General.”
The General stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You’ve let a fox into the henhouse, Byron. A fox does what he does.”
“You promised to stay out of Michigan.”
“I don’t recall that little detail.”
“Michigan is mine!” the General snarled. “You have the entire Midwest!”
“Do I? Because I sense that I’ve grown too large for my fishbowl.”
The General ground his teeth. Poe was smarter than the General had given him credit for. He was figuring out the bigger picture.
“Not
so malleable as you first thought, eh? I’m smart. Smarter than you, old man.”
The General simmered with rage. How dare this low-life scumbag insinuate he was anywhere near the General’s intellectual or strategic equal?
Poe was an elegant thug, nothing more.
“You’d be happy if I disappeared, wouldn’t you? I’ve served my purpose. To you. But Byron, I have bigger plans than you could even imagine. This country is ripe for exploitation. If not me, it would be someone else. A dozen warring gangs clashing across the Midwest, slaughtering each other and everyone else. Or an entire region under lock and key, rich in resources for men like me. People are resources. I don’t waste them.”
The General’s lip curled in distaste. Not at Poe’s implications, which the General agreed with, but at his snide, disrespectful tone.
“Don’t forget, I can destroy you. With one order, with one—”
“I’m calling your bluff,” Poe said evenly. “Michigan is mine.”
“You stupid son of a—”
“I adore Michigan,” Poe said with that simpering, indulgent tone, like he was laughing at the General, mocking him. “The fruit belt of the southwest counties along the coast. It’s also some of the best wine country in the nation. I appreciate fine wine, you know. I’ve heard you have similar tastes.”
“Don’t compare yourself to me, you little maggot! You’re nothing but a slumlord, a gangster thug dressing himself up with pretty words, playing at power. You don’t have real power. You’ll never have power—”
“Fear is power,” Poe said. “And right now, you fear me.”
The General gripped the sat phone so hard the plastic shell cracked beneath his fingers. “If you think for one second—”
“I’m coming for your towns, your people. I will subjugate them or kill them. I will take everything that I want and burn what remains.”
“Traitor!” The General seethed, longing to reach through the phone and strangle the mealy little worm. “I’ll kill you! I’ll chop off your—”
“A little birdie informed me that you’re stationed with the bulk of your soldiers outside of a little town just north of Indiana called Fall Creek. A vulnerable position you’ve put yourself in. Easily outmaneuvered and overrun.”