THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “Pulling the tree from a different angle,” finished Ed.

  “Elementary, dear Watson. Elementary—in theory,” said Alex.

  Ed smiled for the second time Alex could recall today.

  “We’re gonna make it,” stated Ed, nodding gently.

  “Still have a long way to go—but yes. I don’t see anything stopping us.”

  “I wish I had more of your optimism,” said Ed.

  “I’m just better at ignoring reality,” said Alex, slapping his shoulder lightly.

  Chapter 28

  EVENT +35:47 Hours

  Acton, Maine

  Eli Russell’s feet hit the pavement before the pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Dave Connolly, a grizzly, two-hundred-twenty-pound barrel of a man, rushed toward him.

  “Eli, you don’t want to see this. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise,” he said, holding up two hands.

  “Touch me and I’ll kill you, Dave. Everyone! Out of the fucking way,” he said, parting a crowd of sweaty, MultiCam-clad militia.

  “Who moved the fucking bodies?” he said, addressing Connolly.

  “Nobody moved nothing, Eli. This is how we found ’em.”

  “None of us touched shit,” added the man closest to the pile of bodies.

  “Nobody fucking asked you!” barked Eli, pointing a finger at him. “Get control of your men, or I’ll find someone else to run your squad.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Buddy, move them to the other side of the street, and wait for instructions. No dicking around over there.”

  “Do you want them in formation on the road?” asked Buddy.

  “Just get the fuck out of your commander’s way!” yelled Connolly. “Sorry about that, sir.”

  The gaggle of AR-15-cradling Maine Liberty Militiamen scattered out of Eli’s way, exposing the scene. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, barely visible under a shifting layer of flies. Two of the bodies lay side by side, pulled halfway out of the blood-caked mound of twisted limbs and contorted faces. The sharp smell of feces permeated the humid air. Eli approached his brother’s body. His fists clenched. A faint, gravel boot print appeared on his brother’s right cheek.

  “Nobody touched my brother?” whispered Eli.

  “Nobody. I was with the first group here. Sorry, Eli. I don’t know what to say,” said Connolly.

  “You don’t say another word. That’s what you say,” he whispered, fixated on his baby brother’s gore-covered face.

  Jimmy had been nothing but trouble from an early age, spending a solid chunk of his life locked up in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Eli had spent the same amount of time trying to keep him out. He’d always been a good kid with bad ideas. Really bad ideas—which was why he’d been the perfect choice to run the Milton Mills operation. The militia needed vehicles, lots of vehicles, but they couldn’t go around confiscating them from the constituency. Not yet.

  Selling safe passage across the border to fleeing motorists had been Eli’s brainchild from the beginning, along with a few other flashes of genius. He’d dispatched Jimmy’s special-missions platoon on two missions within hours of the blast.

  First priority was to barricade the crossing at Milton Mills with a skeleton crew. Traffic would be light for most of the morning, as people struggled with the decision to abandon their homes and flee north. The vehicle-snatching operation could afford a short delay while Jimmy personally handled the second task: a series of targeted assassinations focused on the York County sheriffs assigned to patrol western York County townships.

  Three of the deputies had been caught at home, stranded without a vehicle. The fourth died in a gas station ambush, sprawled over a map he’d been examining with three good citizens of West Newfield. Jimmy stuffed the four bodies in the trunk of the cruiser, driving it to one of their secure locations. You never knew when a York County sheriff’s car might come in handy. Jimmy was always thinking, which was why Eli liked having him around. Sometimes that thinking got the better of him, which appeared to be the case today. Or was this something else? He couldn’t tell yet.

  “How many of Jimmy’s platoon were killed?” he said, walking toward the nearest bridge guardrail.

  “Five here. Three on the other side. Two in the middle. One along the riverbank down there,” said Connolly, pointing across the street. “Looks like he was knocked over the side. Eleven in all.”

  “No sign of the twelfth guy? He had six on each bridge. I know that for a fact,” said Eli.

  “We’ve looked everywhere. The twelfth guy could have washed downriver if he went over in the middle of the bridge. River’s pretty high from the rain.”

  “Or he was taken prisoner,” said Eli.

  “Prisoner?”

  “Look around you, Dave. This wasn’t the work of a rival militia group or band of locals. Only a military Special Forces unit could pull this off. They bottled up Jimmy’s people on one bridge somehow and hit them from both ends. Fucking shooting gallery. We’ll probably find the survivor gutted by the side of the road somewhere up the road, tortured to death for every last bit of information about our militia. Jimmy probably gave them a good fight, gave them some wounds to lick. I’d want to know everything about the Maine Liberty Militia too. We’re up against something sinister here, Dave, and the government is behind it. No question.”

  “Shit. Should we even be here?” he asked, glancing around.

  “They’re long gone. In my experience, they shoot and scoot. No way they’d stick around after a gunfight like this. Get your squad to work loading up the bodies in one of the pickup trucks. Not mine. Bring them back to Shapleigh, and take the back roads. We’ll do a proper burial with full honors when I get back. I have a few things—”

  A blaring horn disrupted his sentence, snapping his head toward the bridge. A white sedan crept forward along the bridge, twenty feet from Dave Connolly’s squad of disheveled, pathetic miscreants. Buddy unenthusiastically waved the car off, turning his attention back to a lively conversation among his squad mates. The driver laid on the horn again, this time fully ignored by Connolly’s men. Eli’s right eye twitched once, and he walked calmly over to the mess of men Connolly called a squad.

  Buddy never saw the butt stock that collided against his right cheekbone, shattering half of his face. Mercifully, the trauma caused by the impact switched him off like a light bulb, and he never felt any of the repeated strikes that crushed his head to a pulp between the pavement and the rifle’s composite plastic.

  Eli heard the car shift gears and tear into reverse, squealing its tires. He raised his AR-15 and centered the ACOG scope’s reticle on the driver’s head. Blond hair, woman. He fired methodically, exploding the windshield as he walked across the bridge. The back of the car veered left and hit the guardrail, blocking the road. The engine revved desperately as Eli changed magazines and flipped the selector switch to fully automatic.

  Voices screamed from the car, followed by frantic movement in the back seat. He drew even with the side of the car and fired an extended burst through the rear passenger window, momentarily intensifying the shrieks of panic. He switched back to semiautomatic and fired three rounds at the lowest exposed point along the driver’s right leg, putting an end to the wild engine acceleration. He noticed that the back driver’s-side door was open and listened for several seconds. A low sobbing sound competed with the idling engine. A little hide and seek? Oh, this could be fun.

  “One, two, three. Here I come. She’ll be comin’ around the mountain when she comes,” he said, walking around the hood of the car. “She’ll be comin’ around the—”

  A woman in white shorts and a purple blouse exploded into view, hurling herself over the side of the bridge before he could shoot. By the time he reached the guardrail, her body had been whisked thirty feet downriver by the rushing water. He fired rapidly, using the white geysers of water caused by each projectile to guide his aim, until one of them erupted red. She was done. He turned his at
tention to the car. The few intact windows were splattered red. Perfect. Eli wrenched open the driver’s door and pulled the woman out by her sticky, crimson-matted hair. She spilled onto the street. That should be enough to keep traffic off the bridge.

  Eli Russell stood up and approached Dave Connolly’s squad. “Form them up in two ranks for a promotion ceremony.”

  While Connolly’s men fell into place, Eli changed magazines and shouldered his rifle. He nodded at Connolly and turned to face the squad, noting the look of sheer dread on their faces. He kept searching until he found what he needed.

  “Mr. Connolly. Third man from the right, back row. Who is he?”

  “That’s Jeffrey Brown, sir. One of my best.”

  “He’s just been promoted,” said Eli, drawing his pistol.

  “To what position?” said Connolly.

  “Squad leader,” said Eli, firing a bullet point blank into Connolly’s head. “Eyes forward. Nobody looks at that piece of trash again. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” they yelled in unison.

  “No more happy horseshit in this squad, Mr. Brown. Am I clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” said Brown, staring straight forward at a point in the distance.

  “Front and center, Mr. Brown. This is your squad. Get these bodies loaded up and back to Shapleigh.”

  “Yes, sir. Permission to speak, sir?”

  “Better be good,” growled Eli.

  “Can I assume they go in the river?” said Brown, nodding at his dead squad mates.

  Eli chuckled and patted the young man on the shoulder. “And anyone else that ain’t militia material,” he said. “Get it done, Brown. And get it done fast. The fewer people that see us here, the better.”

  “Yes, sir. No witnesses,” said Brown.

  Eli smiled. “Looks like I picked the right man for the job.”

  Eli cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. A car approached from Foxes Ridge Road.

  “Ambush positions, both sides of the road!” barked Brown.

  When the men didn’t move, he physically pushed half of the remaining ten men to the shoulder of the road next to the shot-up sedan. “Cover and concealment. Lock it down!”

  Eli led the rest of the men to the downslope beyond the opposite shoulder, taking the position closest to the three-way intersection connected to French Street.

  “Wait for my command!” he yelled to Brown, who had his hands full positioning his men.

  A silver SUV careened into view a hundred yards away, squealing its tires.

  “Stand down! Stand down! It’s one of ours,” said Eli, jumping up onto the shoulder.

  Brown followed his lead, waving his arms and rushing into the middle of the road. The right man indeed. By putting himself between the oncoming vehicle and his men, he took the extra step to prevent a blue-on-blue engagement. Eli joined the new squad leader and waited for the SUV to arrive.

  “You have prior military experience, Brown?”

  “Yes, sir. Five years in the army. Went in right after the pandemic. Left as a sergeant,” said Brown. “Heads up, sir.”

  The SUV stopped inches from Eli Russell, but he didn’t flinch or betray any sense of apprehension.

  “Sounds like a perfect match. Connolly never said a word about you being a sergeant. Now I know why. Get your men to work,” he said, returning Brown’s salute.

  Kevin McCulver opened the door and slammed it shut.

  “Something wrong with your fucking radio, son! We almost lit your asses up!”

  “The church is wiped out,” he sputtered with a panicked look.

  “Not here,” spat Eli, grabbing his sleeve and guiding him behind the SUV. “You out of your mind talking about that in front of them?”

  “Sorry, Eli. I’m a little fucking spooked by this. No survivors,” he said, spotting the pile of corpses. “What the fuck? Same thing here?”

  “Get a hold of yourself,” said Eli.

  “Jimmy?”

  Eli shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Eli. We all—”

  “No time for that. We have one guy unaccounted for. Bet he was taken for interrogation.”

  “What?” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Interrogation?”

  “Someone took out Jimmy’s entire platoon simultaneously at both locations. This is hard-core Special Forces work, and the only reason we’d have a Special Forces group operating in the area is if this whole EMP thing was a false flag operation.”

  “The meteorite thing seems pretty real,” Kevin said cautiously. “There’s talk of that all over.”

  “You talk with anyone that saw it?” asked Eli.

  Kevin shook his head. “It’s on the ham radio, and we’ve been getting reports from refugees and the cops.”

  “The U.S. Army has entire divisions dedicated to deception warfare. Psychological Operations—Psyops. Disinformation could be spread by agents on the ground. Ham broadcasts could be transmitted by aircraft. They’ve been softening us up for decades, just waiting for the opportunity to declare martial law. It’s happening, Kevin,” Eli said with conviction. “We need to go to ground and start phase two. Heavy recruitment, by any and all means necessary. I want double the number of people by the end of the week. I don’t care how you get them out to the training compound. We’ve talked about this.”

  “Got it,” said Kevin. “I’ll start spreading the word.”

  “See you back in Shapleigh. Make sure nobody follows you.”

  “Understood.”

  Eli got back in his truck and paused. His driver wore a pained look.

  “What?” Eli shrugged.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Eli,” said the driver, trembling slightly.

  “Just say it, Dan. I’m not in the mood.”

  “One of our patrols just found Jimmy’s son shot dead in front of the East Waterboro Hannigans. Him and a buddy,” said Dan, holding out a quivering radio.

  “They know what happened?” said Eli, using every shred of self-restraint not to yank out his bowie knife and stab Dan through his protruding gut until every ounce of fat and blood spilled out onto the seat.

  “Witnesses say that a group of bicyclists shot them dead and stole their car.”

  “Bikers?”

  “No,” Dan said, slowly shaking his head. “Bicycles. They’re saying it was a bunch of women. Shot Nathan and his friend in cold blood. Left the bikes behind. I’m sorry, Eli, I know that kid meant—”

  “Not another word, Dan. Not unless I ask. Which way did they go with the car?”

  “Route 5 toward Limerick.”

  “Take me to Waterboro first. I want to talk to the witnesses. When I’m done there, we’ll gather some folks and take a little trip out Route 5 and see what we can scare up.”

  PART IV

  “JUST A WALK IN THE PARK”

  Chapter 29

  EVENT +36:17 Hours

  Middlesex Fells Reservation, Stoneham, Massachusetts

  Alex pulled three olive-drab tactical ball caps out of his MOLLE assault pack, and handed one over to Ed.

  “Try it on.”

  “Is this our team ball cap?” Ed quipped, pulling it over his hair.

  “In a way. What do you think, Charlie?”

  Charlie nodded. “I like the subdued American flag patch on the front. Pretty slick.”

  Alex donned one of the caps and stood next to Ed. “What is your first impression?”

  Charlie squinted.

  “Don’t study us. What are you thinking right now?” said Alex.

  “You kinda look like the guys from that old spec ops show. Strike Down?”

  “Strike Back. Great show. Take this and put it on,” said Alex, gripping his weapon and moving next to Charlie.

  “Ed?”

  “Looks like you’re in some kind of a uniform, but not really,” said Ed.

  “Special Forces,” whispered Charlie, straightening himself.

  “Khaki pants, hiking boots, chest rigs, drop holster
s, and long-sleeved, earth-tone shirts. It’s the only way we’ll be able to walk around in broad daylight carrying rifles. I guarantee nobody will bother us looking like this,” said Alex.

  “We’re like the A-Team! Except for his rifle. Goddamn, I wish you didn’t have a .22,” said Charlie.

  “Easily explained. Welcome to Bravo Platoon, 1st Battalion, 3rd Special Forces Operational Group,” said Alex.

  “What’s our mission?” said Ed.

  “Sensitive material recovery at MIT. End of discussion,” said Alex.

  “Where did we come from?”

  “None of your business. HALO jump if pressed,” Alex responded. “The government is taking steps to secure vital technology and research.”

  “Why not have the marines, or whoever is around MIT, do it?” asked Ed.

  “Because it’s too early for the government to determine if military units were involved in the attack. EMP is a trigger event for 3rd SFOG recovery-team deployment.”

  “Nice. So, how are you planning to explain my Ruger?”

  “You don’t get to carry it. You’re the technical liaison, a rare addition to one of these teams. Getting you to MIT is mission critical. Let them wonder why.”

  “What am I?” said Charlie.

  Ed snickered. “You’re Murdoch.”

  “Was that necessary?” said Charlie peevishly.

  “At least you’re not the science geek,” said Ed.

  “Charlie is the sniper. That’s why I had you switch out the EOTech with your thermal scope,” Alex explained.

  “I hope we don’t have to shoot up close or inside. This thing is useless for CQB,” said Charlie.

  Ed looked puzzled. “What’s CQB?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” interjected Alex.

  “Close Quarters Battle, techie,” answered Charlie.

  “I’d watch it. If Alex is the team leader and I’m mission critical—that makes you the expendable one,” said Ed.

  “He sort of has a point.” Alex shrugged, patting Charlie on the arm.

  “Thanks.”

  “Ten minutes,” said Alex, checking his watch.