“You didn’t complain last night,” he said, memories skidding dangerously into the present.
“And I wasn’t following orders.”
The moist, earthy smell of rain was saturating the air when he spotted an abandoned, one-story house, a place to weather the storm and rest Abby’s ankle. Bradley would have to clear it room by room, and he debated which posed the greater threat. Lightning? Or a hiding gunman?
He set her down beside a skeletal-looking crepe myrtle tree and said, “I’ll be right back.”
The house had been looted—albeit politely. Kitchen cabinets hung open, the food long gone. Bathroom vanities had been stripped of medications and supplies, but the furnishings were intact; and more importantly, there were no deceased residents.
As he pushed deeper into the house, rain began pounding against the roof. Off the master bedroom he discovered a windowless, walk-in closet with an island and an upholstered bench in the center.
Perfect for light security, he thought, dropping the backpacks onto the floor.
By the time Bradley made it back to Abby, she was drenched. He could feel her shivering as he carried her into the house.
After easing her onto her feet, he browsed the closet with his flashlight, pulled a tracksuit from a hanger, and lobbed it to her. “You need to change out of those wet clothes.”
She grasped the bottom of her T-shirt and raised it half way, baring her midriff. “Turn around.”
“Are you kidding me?” He had already surveyed and memorized every curve of her gorgeous body.
“Commanding officers don’t have clearance.” Abby turned her back to him and peeled off her wet clothing.
Even through the dim light, the sight of her bare skin was wreaking havoc. Bradley’s body was reacting, diverting control away from his brain. They were alone with a king-sized bed fifteen feet away. He would have to report for duty soon. Hell, she had almost died today. What if this was his last chance to make love to her?
She slipped her arms into the jacket, and Bradley grabbed onto the collar, preventing her from lifting it onto her bare shoulders.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he whispered, fingers sensually grazing her back.
Trembling slightly at his touch, she said, “You’re the one who set the ground rules.”
He let go of the jacket and watched her yank it upward. Heat blazed from his cheeks as Gramps’ words rushed back. Who says I’m worried about Abby?
( ( ( 66% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 19G ) ) )
Tuesday, March 4th
133G
JUST AFTER 0700 HOURS, Ryan Andrews’ Ranger team quick-roped from the Blackhawk helicopter, keenly aware that ten Stinger missile launchers remained in enemy hands.
The chilly morning air carried the sweet scent of orange blossoms, and the sky glowed with shades of red and lavender, bathing Haywood Field with a surreal cast.
The Patriot missile battery had been reduced to a grotesque modern sculpture, its missile canisters peeled back like the petals of a jagged metal flower. A shredded landscape trailer stood amidst a carpet of razor-sharp metal; fragments from claymore mines, Stinger missiles, and other weapons.
Someone has already completed our mission, Ryan thought. Shockingly well.
Two dead terrorists had sustained gunshots to the chest, and the absence of blood around the shrapnel wounds suggested the men had died prior to the explosion.
The Rangers ventured into the first hangar. Ancient-looking crop duster planes had been vandalized, tires slashed, fuel and oil lines severed. Eyes burning, Ryan tracked the acrid odor to a mound of U.S. Army ammunition, melted and misshapen by fire. “Hey, DJ, how far are we from Astatula?”
“Four, maybe five klicks. Why? You think it’s the same guys?”
“Probably.” Ryan’s thoughts boomeranged back to DJ’s outrageous accusation. “And just so we’re clear, you’re not hallucinating and seeing desecrated Korans, again, are you?”
The Corporal’s lips tightened into a smug grin. His conniving eyes glistened with too much confidence. “Once the investigation’s complete, we’ll see who’s hallucinating.”
A dire realization rocked Ryan. DJ had been the last man inside that warehouse; and that, combined with his cocksure attitude, left little doubt.
The traitor defiled the Koran himself to implicate and discredit me. Ryan let out a morose chuckle. After all the rules and regulations I’ve broken over the years, I’m gonna end up court-martialed for something I didn’t do.
After clearing the other hangars, the Rangers approached the dead paratroopers who littered the runway.
“U.S. Army BDUs,” Victor mumbled. “They must’ve stolen the uniforms along with the Patriot battery and Stingers.”
“No weapons on them,” Juan added. “Sidearm holsters are empty and Web Gear’s been stripped of mags.”
“I’m betting it all went boom along with the Patriot battery,” Ryan told them.
“Who’s behind this?” DJ demanded.
Ryan traded a knowing glance with Juan and Victor. Feeding DJ disinformation had become their greatest form of entertainment. “We’ve got a black ops team in the area—our own fucking sleeper cell!”
“No, shit. Based out of Camp Sunshine?”
Ryan fought back a deceitful grin. Not only had the idiot fallen for the lie, he was begging for more. “Sorry, DJ. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
The Corporal brushed past him, and they exchanged hate-filled glares, a silent duel, each pining for the other’s demise.
Ryan knew he was mired in an unwinnable situation.
Do I shoot the fucker and spend the rest of my life in jail? Or wait for him to shoot me?
The choice was gut-wrenching and unfair.
A life sentence?
Or a death sentence?
134G
ABBY AWOKE IN AN unfamiliar room, disoriented. Four strangers stared down at her, framed family photographs, people who—in all likelihood—were dead. She shivered, feeling trapped in a twisted version of Goldilocks. Who’s been sleeping in my bed? And wearing my clothes?
Yawning, she sat upright and ran a hand over her ankle. Although the swelling had decreased, it was still shades of purple and red, variegated and angry. Abby eased her foot to the cold tile floor, gingerly applying pressure, and hobbled toward the bay window. Bradley was in the yard sawing a crepe myrtle tree with his KA-BAR knife. The trunk was two inches thick with a V-shaped split at the top.
He’s making a crutch, she thought. For the walk home.
Anxiety churned through her, uncomfortable with lying about her injury and scared of her father learning the truth.
With slow, deliberate steps, she walked back to the master bathroom. Though her T-shirt and cargo pants were still damp, she changed out of the borrowed clothes, which felt even creepier since seeing the family photographs.
Bracing herself for the worst, Abby yanked open the vanity drawer; but her “souvenir” from Haywood Field was still there, exactly where she’d hidden it. While Bradley had been distracted with rigging the C-4, she had helped herself to a real grenade.
I can’t believe he didn’t notice it when he was carrying me, she thought, tucking it into the pocket of her cargo pants. I won’t have that problem today, thanks to that crutch.
Abby peered into the mirror. The downpour had washed the blood from her hair, and she inspected her wound. How did such a tiny cut bleed so much?
Using her fingers, she gently combed her hair, smoothing it to hide her injury, and secured it loosely with an elastic band.
“Don’t put weight on that ankle,” Bradley said, scolding her. He had the tree trunk in one hand, the KA-BAR knife and a roll of duct tape in the other. “Give it time to heal.”
Abby lifted her foot, balancing like a flamingo.
Bradley grabbed a towel from the linen closet, draped it over the V-shaped end of the branch to cushion it, and began wrapping it with tape. “How do you feel? An
y dizziness or blurred vision?”
“I’m fine. Quit fussing over me.”
He handed her the crutch. “Here, give this a try.”
Abby placed it beneath her arm, surprised by the near perfect fit. “How did you know what height to make it?”
Smirking, he tapped his temple and said, “I’ve got all your measurements stored in memory.”
“There’s a phrase a woman never wants to hear from her commanding officer.”
The crutch worked well for the first hour, then part of the “V” snapped from the constant pressure.
Bradley said, “Back to plan B. Rifle up.”
“I don’t want to be carried—”
“And I don’t want to hear it. We need to get home. Your father’s probably freaking out.”
An unwelcome feeling of dread wormed through Abby. “When we get home, let’s not mention my, uh, ... my close call. Please, Bradley, will you do this for me?”
135G
KYLE HAD BEEN AWAKE all night. The thunderstorm had been the most severe he’d ever experienced, and when it ended around one a.m., he reported to overwatch. Alone with his thoughts, a battle raged inside him, fear versus courage, doubt versus faith, loss versus reunion.
He oscillated between worry over Abby and intense guilt over Laura’s death. Bradley’s admonition was now painfully clear. You’re gonna have blood on your hands no matter what you do. Your only choice is whose blood. The cannibals? Or all their future victims?
Kyle wanted to confess that it was his fault, that he had looked the other way, allowing those cannibals to kill again. Would Dave forgive him? Would Abby?
He glanced toward Jessie’s grave, feeling as though he’d let her down again.
At sunrise George relieved him from overwatch. The General’s hand clamped onto Kyle’s shoulder, authoritative and reassuring. “My grandson is keeping her safe. Probably just hunkered down for the night because of the storm.”
Abby and Bradley spending the night together? Maybe this was an excuse for them to be alone. Kyle was surprised to find himself clinging to the possibility.
Twenty minutes later, he and Dave headed north through the earthy, damp smell of the woods to search for Abby and Bradley.
“So my niece is obsessed with the Marine Corps and Snipers,” Dave said, chuckling. “And this Bradley guy is a Marine Corps Sniper. How’s that working for you, Murph?”
“Not well at the moment, but I still have two years to change her mind about enlisting.”
“Hey, you thought it was great when my daughter joined the Navy. What did you say to me? Something about letting Chase live her own life?”
“She wasn’t sixteen,” Kyle said. “And speaking of Chase, do you know where she was when the pulse hit?”
“Stationed aboard the U.S.S. Stellate. So she still has all those modern conveniences. Like food and water.” Dave stared straight ahead, his profile sad but resolute. “I hope to God she’s doling out a serious ass-kicking right now.”
Kyle nodded, contemplating whether the Marine Corps might actually be safer for Abby. “Any word on David Junior?”
The question seemed to deflate Dave. “He, uh, was away at college—NYU. How about you? Heard from your folks? Or Megan?”
Kyle hadn’t allowed himself to think about his sister or his parents much. “I’ve got my hands full with Abby. Everyone else is in God’s hands.”
“You’re doing a better job than I did with Laura.”
Kyle felt the crushing weight of responsibility bearing down again, heavier, more smothering than an hour earlier. “Listen, Dave, there’s something I need—”
He halted abruptly and settled onto the ground. Dave flopped beside him, a man-made earthquake telegraphing their position.
“Quiet,” Kyle whispered. He scanned the forest, sure they were being watched.
Bradley emerged from behind a bush with Abby slumped over his shoulder. Unable to see her face, the warmth drained from Kyle’s body.
As if sensing his anxiety, Bradley returned Abby to her feet. Kyle ran to her and scooped his daughter into a hug, mumbling, “Thank God,” over and over before finally releasing her.
“Uncle Dave?” Abby asked, her voice rising with delight.
Kyle watched uncle and niece embrace; and after making formal introductions, he said, “Bradley, why were you carrying her? You scared the hell out of me.”
The Marine’s evasive hazel eyes deflected the question to Abby.
“Dad, I wasn’t paying attention and ended up hurting my ankle. I fell and got a pretty good knock on the head too. Check it out.” Abby parted her hair, displaying a small cut heavily coated with antibiotic ointment.
“And Superman, here, couldn’t save you?” Dave asked jokingly.
The color receded from Bradley’s face. “I didn’t see it happen, sir,” he said, eyes still locked with Abby’s in an unspoken conversation.
Though Kyle knew there was more to the story, he didn’t press them. His daughter was safe—nothing else mattered. Handing Dave his rifle, he said, “Come on, Abby. I’ll give you a piggyback ride home. Just like when you were little.”
136G
SNIPERS OMID GHORBANI and Hamid Khadem had covered fifty miles on foot, just over half the distance to Haywood Field.
“You’ll have to commandeer resources along the way,” his Captain had said. That advice was proving unrealistic. Americans had little food to pilfer, and functioning vehicles and fuel were virtually nonexistent.
Omid’s feet, blistered and raw from slogging through heavy downpours, protested each step. Wet socks were abrasive sandpaper, burning, chafing, biting at his flesh. His hunger was a leaden anchor that slowed his stride, dulled his reflexes, and numbed his thinking.
“What is that? Near the lake?” asked Hamid.
“A fisherman.” Adrenaline boosted Omid’s energy, masking the pain as he quickened his stride.
The middle-aged American had an untamed wiry beard, brown flecked with premature gray, that stretched upward from his chin toward a blue boonie hat advertising Cabela’s. A green T-shirt and denim shorts called attention to his stooped shoulders and frail legs.
He made several casts, then the graphite fishing pole bent, the line pulled taut. He jerked the rod backward and reeled, again and again, until a fish surfaced, flailing, splashing, creating concentric rings. Omid likened the disturbance to the electromagnetic pulse; the doomed fish to America, still fighting, oblivious of fate.
Elated, the fisherman subdued his hard-won prize, a largemouth bass nearly a foot in length. Hamid raised his rifle, but Omid grabbed the barrel and directed it downward, saying, “Do not broadcast our presence.”
They tailed the man to a decrepit cabin camouflaged by spider webs, air moss, and a greenish coating of mold. A pile of tinder, kindling, and wood sat atop the sandy soil; and with a flick of a lighter, a campfire blazed to life. The man cleaned the fish with a filet knife, using smooth, long strokes, bending the narrow blade, separating flesh from scale.
Omid could hear the bass sizzling and breathed in the aroma, stirring the hunger pains gnawing his stomach. His mouth began to salivate while his mind coveted the precisely honed knife.
“This one is mine,” he whispered to Hamid.
The startled fisherman put up no fight, raising his hands at the sight of their weapons.
Omid seized the filet knife, still covered with blood and scales. “We are hunting American ground forces. They could be black ops, Snipers, Rangers, SEALs, or military Veterans.”
The fisherman backtracked until his posterior pressed against the cabin. To stimulate his memory, Omid pressed the tip of the blade two inches below his Adam’s apple.
“I-I haven’t see-seen anybody.”
Slowly, he applied pressure to the blade, penetrating several layers of skin. “American Soldiers?” he demanded again, his question shrinking along with his patience.
Sweat trickled over the fisherman’s forehead and cheeks as i
f his entire face were crying. “I-I-I swear. You’re the only people I-I’ve seen.”
Omid was certain the man was speaking the truth. No degree of torture could produce the desired information. “I believe you,” he said softly.
The fisherman’s shoulders wilted, and he exhaled with misguided relief. Omid thrust the blade deeper, puncturing his airway. Blood began to trickle into the man’s lungs. A muffled gasp escaped, and he collapsed, clutching his throat, unable to speak, unable to cry out.
Omid nodded courteously. “Thank you for dinner.” Then he and Hamid feasted on the bass while the fisherman drowned in his own blood.
137G
BRADLEY HAD TAKEN A warm shower, washing away perspiration and the smell of gunpowder. The layer of guilt remained. He and Abby had recounted the drama of Haywood Field, except for her close call. She had glossed over it saying, “A savage tried to sneak in behind me, and Bradley shot him.”
Not exactly the whole truth, but it was more than the omission bothering Bradley. His protective inclinations had become an emotional landslide, sweeping away common sense, objectivity, and fairness.
I have to talk her out of enlisting, he thought, pulling on gym shorts and a T-shirt.
Abby was sitting in the lanai, ankle soaking in a bucket of pool water. Kyle and Dave were brainstorming about where to find propane since last night’s dinner had exhausted their tank.
“I remember seeing a campground not far from here,” Dave said. “I can get a tank and be back before dark.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Kyle told him.
Abby pulled her dripping foot from the bucket and walked toward the pool.
“I can go with Dave,” Bradley said as he whisked Abby off her feet. “And you are supposed to stay off that ankle.” He deposited her back onto the double chaise lounge in the corner of the lanai.
Kyle gave an approving nod and said, “No, I’ll go. You’ve got overwatch this afternoon. Until then, keep Abby off that ankle using any means necessary. Duct tape. Glue. Nails—”
“Dad!” Abby shouted.
“Whatever it takes,” Kyle reiterated as the screened-room door slammed behind him.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 140
