Hamid jettisoned the bolt cutters in favor of a butcher knife, and Zaakir expected him to sever the binding on his wrists. Instead, Omid knelt atop his chest, and Hamid began slicing through the gash on his forearm.
“By protecting infidels, you are guilty of apostasy!” Omid shouted. “According to Surah 5:33 of the Noble Koran, those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger will have their hands and feet cut off from opposite sides of the body!”
Writhing and screaming, Zaakir cursed himself.
I should’ve shot Hamid when I had the chance; I should’ve listened to Eliza and left for Tavares; I never should’ve betrayed our guardian angel. He saved us, and I’ve sent death to his doorstep.
162G
BRADLEY, KYLE, AND RYAN walked a mile to the east, out of view of the hospital, before crossing Route 441. The sporadic trickle of refugees was growing steadier, a parade of zombies, most in varying stages of dehydration and starvation.
Scenarios flashed through Bradley’s mind, each more horrifying than the last. Were terrorists using hostages for human shields? For slave labor?
They crept into a strip mall adjacent to the hospital and made their way to the roof. At the western end, a decorative turret—with arched windows and a metal roof—extended ten feet above them.
Bradley locked his hands together, and Ryan lifted a foot into the stirrup. The Ranger’s left foot planted atop Bradley’s shoulder, using him as a human ladder; then he climbed into the tower.
“Can you do that, Old Man?” Ryan called down to Kyle with a ball-busting smile.
He responded with a one-finger salute, dropped the helmets, and struggled to haul himself into the turret.
Bradley handed up his rifle and attempted to scale the wall. Kyle and Ryan latched onto his arms, and as they hoisted him upward, his wound ached like it had been doused with lighter fluid and set ablaze.
Ignoring the pain, Bradley smeared the sweat from his forehead and studied the hospital. The ground fell away from front to rear, revealing a lower level not visible from the street. The back of the property was a construction site enclosed by a chain-link privacy fence that stretched back two hundred yards to a lake or, more accurately, a glorified drainage ditch.
Prior to the EMP, a massive hole had been excavated for an addition that would have jutted from the original building. The savages had removed a huge expanse of glass from the hospital’s second-floor elevator lobby, in perfect alignment with the pit.
A man appeared in the opening, wrists bound, his sneakers peeking over the edge of a dark, wet-looking stain.
An arm streaked past the man’s face.
Blood spurted from his throat.
Then someone shoved him forward, and the body tumbled into the excavated hole, now a mass grave.
“How is this possible?” Kyle slumped onto the floor, face ashen, breathing rapidly, his entire body shaking.
“Slow down,” Ryan said, kneeling beside him. “Breathe slowly.”
Bradley glanced back toward the hospital, and a heaviness permeated his chest. Auschwitz had come to America.
163G
ADAM WALKER WAS IN THE midst of his twentieth mission, copiloting a B-2 bomber. He had departed from McDowell Air Force Base in Kansas hours earlier, tasked with destroying a missile site inside North Korea, but that was about to change.
Most of the traitors within the U.S. military were religious or political zealots, but not Walker. His motives were strictly financial, and he would not be paid in worthless paper. He had negotiated for a thousand pounds of pure gold bullion.
Walker looked at the Pilot beside him, a decent guy, who—under other circumstances—might have been a good friend. He dismissed the thought. He would have plenty of friends tomorrow, after he became rich.
“What the hell is that?” He pointed to nine o’clock on the horizon. As the Pilot turned, Walker drew a Ruger from his holster, a civilian handgun he had smuggled aboard, and fired a bullet into the back of his head. The .22 caliber round had the power to penetrate the skull, but not enough to exit and damage the nearly billion-dollar aircraft.
With the plane on autopilot, Walker began altering the target coordinates. Eighty conventional, 500-pound bombs would soon be raining from the sky, changing the world forever.
164G
RYAN SETTLED ONTO THE turret floor beside Kyle while Bradley added details to his sketch of the death camp.
“This is brilliant,” Ryan said, a hand slapping against his thigh. “They’ve not only stolen pallets of humanitarian aid; they’ve weaponized them.”
“This has to stop,” Kyle muttered.
Ryan felt like an overstretched spring about to snap, emotion and logic tearing him in opposite directions. He wanted to save those civilians as much as Kyle, but an impulsive plan was just a suicide mission. “Without a radio, I’ll have to haul ass back to Camp Sunshine.”
“That’ll take too long,” Kyle said. “Thousands will die. We have to shut it down today. Not a week from now.”
“We?” Ryan started to laugh. “Are you willing to die in there? Leave your daughter on her own?”
Kyle looked to Bradley as if soliciting help. The Sniper was still surveilling and scribbling notations.
“We need to do something,” Kyle said, irritation crinkling his brow. “Warn people? Stop the inbound traffic?”
“What makes you think they’ll believe you?” Ryan asked. “Those flyers filled desperate people with hope. They’re not going to thank you for stripping it away.”
“Then raid the building,” Kyle sputtered. “Don’t you do this shit all the time?”
“With the right intelligence, personnel, and equipment. Kyle, we have no idea how many enemy troops are holed up inside. There are only three of us, and we’re only armed with rifles—”
“Not exactly,” Bradley said, turning around. He knelt across from them, hunched his shoulders, forcing his backpack to slide downward, then dumped the bag.
“Claymores? C-4?” Ryan’s face split into a grin. “Game on, motherfuckers!”
165G
IT WAS NEARLY SIX P.M. when Kyle set out east along Route 441, slinking behind trees, looted businesses, and burned-out gas stations. The sun was drooping toward the horizon, drenching the apocalyptic scene with warm light. In a half hour, darkness would descend and set the plan into motion.
If my feet hold out that long, Kyle thought, cursing the combat boots that were pinching his toes and chafing his ankles. Dressed in Ryan’s uniform, he felt like a fraud, unsure if he could convincingly impersonate an Army Ranger; but Bradley had insisted it was essential. Kyle had to look—and act—like an authority figure.
“Try not to talk too much,” Ryan had told him. “Let the uniform and gear argue your case.”
Swells of refugees were thickening like an inrushing tide. Exhausted and dazed Americans stared straight ahead, propelled and blinded by hope, blissfully unaware that they were on a death march.
Who would have ever thought hope could be so dangerous? Kyle thought. He had experienced it firsthand, back at the Dodge dealership. Hope had seduced him into believing that civilization—life the way it used to be—was waiting behind those walls. It had duped him into imagining his daughter entering that white tent then forced him to contemplate a swan dive into a mass grave. Kyle knew better; he had known since laying eyes on that flyer; and still, he wanted to believe so badly that he only saw what he wanted to see.
He glanced at the innocent faces streaming past him, knowing their fate, yet unable to save them all.
These terrorists are Hitler incarnate, he thought. And they didn’t even have to supply the trains and boxcars.
Although Bradley and Ryan had given emphatic orders—get a mile beyond the facility before stopping traffic—Kyle just couldn’t bear it. At the half-mile mark, he jogged toward Route 441.
Would anyone shoot at him? Given that terrorists were impersonating U.S. Soldiers, there were no guarantees.
He m
ade it to the roadway, hands extended like stop signs. “I’m Staff Sergeant Andrews, and I need you to wait here,” he shouted, mustering his most commanding deep tone. “We’ve had to quarantine a group with a lethal strain of influenza. The situation is under control, but it will take about two hours to sanitize the facility.”
Complaints crashed down like an avalanche.
“Two hours? Are you serious?”
“We’re starving.”
“What about the people in front of us?” an angry voice shouted. “You let them through.”
“They’re being diverted up ahead,” Kyle lied.
“If you’re military, why are you alone?”
Ryan had prepared Kyle for that question. “We’re short-staffed because exposed Soldiers had to be quarantined.”
Blustering gripes traveled backward through the column of refugees. As Kyle fielded questions, two men approached, each with arms thick as paint cans and assault rifles slung over broad muscular shoulders.
Shit! Are they going to confront me? Push past me?
“Sir, I asked you to wait here,” Kyle said, alternating eye contact with each man, attempting to read their intent.
“I’m Lieutenant Dunn, retired Army. This is my friend, Trey Green. We think you’re full of shit, Staff Sergeant.”
166G
FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, Abby scavenged the hillside near her trip wire, selecting twigs, fresh leaves, and pine needles to modify her ghillie suit. Lime green patches of infant leaves had appeared since the rains, claiming territory previously dominated by brown hues. Her camouflage would have to reflect that change in order to slip past Gramps’ watchful eye.
Convinced that she had heard a footstep, Abby raised her rifle. She turned in a slow pirouette, listening intently, eyes scanning for abnormal colors, shapes, or movements. Despite spotting nothing suspicious, the restless, anxious feeling worsened.
Irrational fear began to drive her thoughts. Where is Bradley? And my dad?
What if they were ambushed? Or injured? What if they didn’t make it back?
Abby took a deep breath as if oxygen was the antidote for fear.
Snipers can’t lose control of their emotions, she told herself, or their imaginations.
She spread her ghillie suit like a picnic blanket and bunched it to mimic a human form. After dozens of minute adjustments, she pulled on the suit and began skull dragging.
Fifty yards from her hide, within sight of overwatch, she eyed Gramps as he surveyed the hillside. Although their game would not begin until Uncle Dave relieved him, he was already scrutinizing the landscape using a random, unpredictable pattern. Abby held her breath as if his gaze were a breaking wave, then she released it with a smug sigh. His eyes had passed right over her!
She watched the sun sink, a cosmic ticking clock working against her. She had to make it to her hide—undetected—before the sun dipped below Sugar Lake Road.
I only have a half hour of daylight at best, she thought, but that constraint also provided an advantage. The low angle of sunlight was bathing the hillside with blindingly bright patches and long, deep shadows. Gramps’ eyes would strain to adjust between the extremes, a circumstance she intended to exploit.
Uncle Dave emerged from the screened room en route to overwatch, and Abby grimaced. The nightscope on the M1A had been recharging all day, and he had forgotten to retrieve it. That was going to cost her precious daylight.
No matter what, I can’t rush, she told herself, vowing that halfway undetected was better than getting nailed.
Abby eyed her absent-minded Uncle as he ascended the hill. She estimated holdover and lead, adjusted for wind, temperature, and humidity; then chided herself. Her Uncle would not approve. Then again, he would never know.
As if realizing his blunder, he reversed course, jogging as fast as his old knees could manage.
Abby sensed a flash.
Her eyes jerked toward its origin, and she heard the unmistakable roar of a gunshot.
167G
LIEUTENANT DUNN’S DARK eyes glinted like the tip of a scalpel, slicing through Kyle with surgical precision. The retired Soldier had debunked the quarantine story, so for the second time in fifteen minutes, Kyle had disobeyed orders. He had told Dunn the truth.
“An extermination camp? With a mass grave? That’s even more farfetched than your original line of bullshit,” Dunn told him.
“What kind of scam are you running?” Trey Green asked, thrusting an index finger into Kyle’s face. “Are you trying to steal from these people?”
“I’m outgunned thirty-to-one, and you think I’m here to rob them?” Kyle’s eyes tracked from Green back to Dunn. “I’m trying to save their lives. And yours.”
The Lieutenant rubbed a bear paw of a hand over his beard. “If you’re legitimate, why lie about the influenza quarantine?”
“People have their hopes set on hot meals and showers,” Kyle said, exasperated. “How will they react when I tell them there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? The cover story was designed to keep the messenger from getting shot.”
The two men traded dubious glances, then Dunn took an ominous step closer. “If people are being executed a half mile from here, why don’t we hear gunshots?”
“They’re using knives, so new arrivals aren’t scared away.”
Dunn’s cheeks expanded like a puffer fish, and he expelled an audible breath. Was that a hairline crack in his skepticism? Or was Kyle just seeing what he wanted to see? Again?
Arms barricaded across his chest, Green said, “And how—exactly—is all that changing in two hours?”
“They’re trying to shut it down—”
“They?” the Lieutenant demanded.
“An Army Ranger and a Marine Corps Sniper.”
Dunn jammed a thumb and index finger into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Six men broke their conversational huddle, approaching like a wall of linebackers eager for a sack.
Were they going to pummel him? Or push past, hell-bent on completing their death march?
The men formed a semicircle around him. Kyle felt every muscle clench as if his entire body were cringing.
“Gentlemen, there’s a situation at the refugee camp,” Dunn told them, “and we need to assist the U.S. military by manning a roadblock for the next two hours.”
“Lieutenant, thank you,” Kyle said, offering his hand. “But I have to go. I have to stop the eastbound traffic.”
“Do what you gotta do, Andrews—or whatever your name is. We got this.”
168G
OMID GHORBANI WAS LYING prone amidst oaks, pine trees, and wild brush, surveilling the houses bordering Sugar Lake.
To his right, Hamid Khadem peered through his spotting scope and whispered, “Someone exited the yellow house.”
A dark-haired man carried himself like a black bear awakened prematurely from hibernation. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, as he padded across the street and lumbered up the hillside. Omid’s eyes swept ahead to the man’s projected destination.
An old man with white cropped hair rose from a well-concealed position. Gripping a rifle, he was keeping watch over the landscape across the street, focused and thorough, with the intensity of a wolf on the hunt.
“That hide is well constructed,” Hamid whispered. “But these people are not Soldiers.”
“Friends and family can be useful nonetheless.” He planned his assault like a billiard player, each shot setting up the next. Armed and alert, White Wolf posed the greatest threat, so Omid took aim and split the silence with a single gunshot.
“Through the heart,” Hamid said, his voice trailing into a disappointed hiss. “A slow death would better serve our purpose.”
Black Bear didn’t break stride. Seemingly unsure what had happened, his head swiveled away from Omid toward the wooded hillside across the street. He was looking in the wrong direction, the same direction White Wolf had been intently watching.
Omid acquired his second
target and applied a slow, steady pressure to the trigger. Another blast rumbled over the hillside.
“Through the right arm,” Hamid reported, gleefully. “Just below the shoulder.”
The force of the bullet had spun Black Bear like a top and hurtled him onto the ground. The man stared at the bleeding crater, crying out in pain, disbelief, and panic.
Then an unseen gunman returned fire.
A red haze drifted past Omid’s scope and settled onto his arms like an aerosol mist.
He didn’t have to look.
He knew Hamid had been fatally shot.
And he would be next. I need to move. Fast.
Hugging his rifle tightly against him, Omid rolled laterally and pivoted until his body was parallel with the ridgeline. He rose no more than a shoulder’s width above the ground in his dizzying retreat, making himself a smaller, more challenging target.
Two rotations. Three.
He kept rolling beyond the safety of the hill’s crest.
There really is a Sniper at Sugar Lake, he decided, and thanks to Black Bear, I know where to find him.
169G
CROUCHED BEHIND AN overgrown hedge surrounding the strip mall’s dumpster, Bradley used night vision to watch Ryan approach the massive drainage ditch behind the hospital. Darkness rendered the Ranger invisible to the guards inside the well-lit building, now a twenty-four-hour death camp thanks to the stolen Army generator and diesel tankers.
Ryan waded into the water until only his head jutted above its inky surface. Night vision protruding like a snout, he looked like an alligator on the prowl.
Hopefully the construction scared away any resident gators, Bradley thought, questioning the wisdom of this operation.
He monitored the guards stationed on the perimeter, ready to create a diversion if Ryan was spotted. Three men spanned the property at hundred-yard intervals, statuesque and unblinking. Bradley’s attention returned to the rear sentry, posted where the fence met the drainage ditch.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 145
