Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  “And then what? Sweep up after?”

  Bunny shoved his hands into his back pockets. “Hey, if you got something in mind, I’m all ears.”

  “Yeah,” said Top, “I got something in mind.”

  He tapped the fake mole beside his ear and opened the Havoc Team channel. “Pappy to Jackpot, hear this. I need a Q1 unit and combat pack times two. Drop in on the jogging track closest to our suite. Pappy out.”

  Bunny grinned. “Well, shit, Top. Why didn’t you just say it was party time?”

  CHAPTER 154

  I-75 FLORIDA TURNPIKE

  COLUMBIA COUNTY, FLORIDA

  I called Church as soon as I got onto the turnpike. When he answered, I told him where I was going and how I’d gotten that information.

  “I’ll have Scott smooth any legal issues for Ms. McGee-Thompson,” he said. “And Bug can take care of media coverage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What shape are you in?”

  “Vaguely human.”

  “Amusing. It was a serious question.”

  “I know, and that’s about as good an answer as I can give.”

  “And the Darkness?”

  “Sleeping, I hope.”

  There was a considerable silence. “Outlaw,” he said with surprising gentleness, “perhaps it’s time to stand down and let someone else handle this from here on out.”

  “No,” I said. “Screwed up or not, I’ve been making wins during this. I’ve been getting the intel that’s allowed us to see the shape of what Kuga is planning. Call me superstitious, but I need to stay in the game until the final buzzer.”

  “Is that an objective assessment or hubris?”

  “Bit of both, probably,” I admitted. “But it’s what I’m going to do. My question is whether you’re going to lecture or help.”

  Was there a faintness of a sigh on the other end of the call? Not sure.

  He said, “Tell me what you need.”

  “For starters, a full field kit,” I said. “The works. Body armor, a coms unit, an ass-load of weapons, blaster-plasters, Q1 substation and tactical computer, Lightning Bugs, Busy-Bees and Killer Bees, a new Snellig and plenty of Sandman, a Wilson knife—you know the style I like. And anything else you think I could use.”

  “Done. I can have someone meet you with it.”

  “No. I want it waiting for me when I reach LaBorde. Have them drop it off at my dad’s friend’s house. Hap Collins.” I gave him the address.

  “Very well. What else?”

  “Intel on that group the New Founding Fathers. If they have a clubhouse or something, I want to know where. If you can get names and addresses of their leaders and key members, get me that, too. Can you do all that?”

  “Of course,” he said. “What about backup?”

  I hung up on him.

  CHAPTER 155

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  Top and Bunny walked into the administration building as if they had every right to be there. Stealth, they knew, came in a variety of forms, and sometimes brashness was the right method.

  There was no one there, however.

  The assistant was still overseeing the loading of the team’s equipment.

  Bunny carried the camouflaged gear bag Andrea had quietly left for them. He unzipped it, and they strapped on gun belts and shoulder rigs—the former for their Sig Sauers, the latter for the dart guns. Another item in the bag was Bunny’s favorite playtoy, an Atchisson assault shotgun with a thirty-two-round drum magazine. He slapped in the drum and smiled like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Be careful with that, Farm Boy,” said Top.

  “You tell your grandma how to suck eggs?”

  “No, my granny didn’t blow the fuck up when she did.”

  “Yeah. Okay. There’s that,” said Bunny. “Guess I’ll have to shoot them real careful like.”

  Top shook his head, muttering, “‘Shoot them real careful like.’ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  They stuffed their pockets with the small Lightning Bugs and fitted extra magazines into the belt slots and in pouches on chest harnesses. They did not have body armor, and neither wanted to wear the versions available for the Fixers. Wearing suicide vests had little appeal for either of them.

  Bunny stood watch as Top set up the small MindReader Q1 substation, attaching various cables to the desktop computers. MindReader cracked through the sophisticated Pavilion security in under a minute. Top began opening transportation and logistics folders and suddenly froze.

  “Ho-leeeee shit,” he breathed.

  “What is it?” asked Bunny, turning from the window.

  “I know where the last team went and where this one is headed.”

  He turned the monitor so Bunny could see. The big young man leaned down.

  “Going Viral?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  And immediately, Scott Wilson was on the line. “Pappy, we’re seeing the same intel. This is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Excellent work.”

  “The concert’s tonight,” said another voice. Bug.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Top. “Looks like they’re going to Spokane and then fly. I saw them packing parachutes, too. That venue is an open-air stadium. You’d better make sure someone gets control of that airspace and maybe shoots that goddamned plane down.”

  “Count on it.”

  “But this is only the last shipment. Two other teams headed down there days ago. Plenty of time for them to be in place. Not sure what it’s going to take to cancel this thing.”

  “The venue is already in use,” said Wilson. “There have been concerts from non-headliner bands since midnight last night.”

  Bug said, “I’m looking at the venue computers now. Shit, guys, there’s twenty-two thousand people in there right now.”

  “Then do something,” growled Top, “because I’m looking at medical services reports that tell me that more than half of the Fixers sent out have already had the R-33 packets implanted. You need to stop this.”

  Wilson’s voice sounded lost. “I don’t know if we can…”

  “You damn well find a way,” Top snarled and tapped out of the channel.

  He looked up at Bunny.

  “Yeah,” said Bunny, reading the look in his eyes, “let’s rock and roll.”

  CHAPTER 156

  ON THE ROAD

  I was on I-10 with a lot of miles to go. At the last rest stop, I checked on Ghost. His sleep seemed to have changed from the utter slackness of anesthesia to a more normal doze. Bit of a nose whistle. I stroked his fur for a minute and then got back on the road.

  After forty minutes of outlining all the reasons I shouldn’t do it, I summoned the courage and called Junie.

  The phone rang for so long that I thought it would go to voice mail, but then she answered with a cautious, “Hello? Who’s calling?”

  She wouldn’t have recognized the burner’s number.

  “Junie,” I said. “It’s me.”

  And we both began to cry.

  CHAPTER 157

  ON THE ROAD

  It took us a long time to form words.

  I kept telling her I was sorry.

  She kept telling me she loved me.

  Miles blurred.

  “Joe,” she said at last, her voice thick with emotion but clearer than it had been, “I spoke with Mr. Church. He told me about the Darkness and about … Nicodemus.”

  “Christ.”

  “That’s what this is, Joe,” she insisted. “He’s doing this to you.”

  “I … I don’t know, babe. It’s still my head. It’s still me doing all this.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said sharply. “Goddamn it, listen to me. Was it Top’s and Bunny’s fault when Kuga took over their minds with the God Machine and made them kill those people that time? Were they monsters?”

 
“No, but—”

  “So, how is this your fault?”

  I tried to explain. This was a conversation I’d rehearsed a thousand times in my head. But everything that came out of my mouth was either an apology, an explanation for things she already understood, or lines cribbed from old books and movies. I felt like a bad actor reading scripts written for someone else who actually had talent. It was that level of depression where I felt like I was a minor and rather disappointing supporting character in someone else’s story.

  And with all that, Junie was there with me. For me.

  In me.

  I know that some of my colleagues in covert ops don’t understand the connection I have with Junie. Hell, even Top and Bunny were rooting for me to make it work with Violin because she was a fellow soldier and that was a certain kind of family. Junie was an outsider. She walked a peacefuller path and, in her way with FreeTech and her own ideals, likely did more measurable good than a barbarian like me ever could.

  But that’s the nature of love, isn’t it? You don’t have to be cut from the same, or even similar, cloth. You don’t need to compare scars won in combat to share commonality of essential truths.

  Junie had her own scars, and yes, some of them had come through violence. Directly or indirectly, some had been cut into her skin and her soul by Nicodemus and Kuga and Rafael Santoro. It’s sometimes too easy for a soldier to forget that civilians are fighting the war in their own way. It’s easy for a trained fighter to perceive and respect the natural courage of those not in uniform.

  Top was the first to understand this. Then Bunny. I suspect Church knew all along, and that’s probably why he called her to share the truth. He knew what I doubted—that Junie was stronger than I am in some key ways.

  The miles whipped by and the tires hummed on the road, and my woman—my dearest friend—did what I could not do and which none of my armed and battle-hardened soldier brothers could do. She brought me home.

  CHAPTER 158

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  Top tapped his coms unit and spoke to Havoc Team.

  “You all heard?”

  “Hooah,” they said.

  “We can’t let these sons of whores leave,” he said.

  “Hooah.” This time, there was a growl in it.

  “Then here’s what I want each of you to do.” And he told them.

  “Dinosaur balls!” gasped Andrea.

  “Yes,” said Belle, her voice low and without a shred of mercy.

  “Sounds fun, boys,” said Mia.

  “Let’s not be nice about it, either. Combat call signs from here out,” Top said. “And we do this until it’s done.”

  There was no stunned silence as the meaning sank in. Not with them. They gave a last hooah.

  Top turned to Bunny. “You good?”

  The big man from Orange County grinned. “Top, I’ve been doing exactly jack and shit since we came here. I’m so far past good you can’t even see me.”

  Top held out his hand, and Bunny looked down at it. They shook and held the clasp for a long moment before releasing. It had the feeling of a farewell, but that was okay. They’d been through the Valley of the Shadow so many times. If this was the end, then they were both at peace with it.

  “I heard the team plan, but what’s our plan?”

  “Plan? I intend to shoot a lot of motherfuckers. See where that gets us.”

  “Works for me.”

  They grinned at each other like kids about to slash the tires on the school bus.

  They walked outside, bumped fists, and split up. Bunny plunged into the woods, and Top began walking along the path that would take him to the gymnasium.

  CHAPTER 159

  LABORDE, TEXAS

  I reached LaBorde and got lost twice trying to find the place where my dad’s old buddy lived. I’d been there and even had the address, but the GPS in the pickup kept taking me onto dead-end streets.

  Then I saw the house.

  The porch was shaded by old trees, and two older middle-aged guys—one white and one Black—were sitting on the porch. I parked and walked up to the foot of the stairs.

  “Permission to come aboard,” I said.

  “Come on up,” said the white man, and he got up with creaking knees to offer his hand.

  Hap Collins was thin, unshaven, and looked like he’d spent the night getting beaten up behind a bar. There were bruises all over his face, and he had two black eyes and a big piece of bloodstained tape across the bridge of his nose.

  “Jesus,” I said, “what happened to you?”

  “Someone took a serious dislike to him,” said the Black man. “And you can’t fault him for that.”

  Leonard Pine was the same age, with a bit of a beard going gray and a pale cowboy hat that had seen better decades. Like Hap, though, he was on the wiry side of lean and had the kind of calluses on his knuckles and other parts of his hands you only get from hitting heavy bags. Or heavy people.

  “You’re the son,” he said.

  “I’m the son.” We shook.

  “Met your dad a couple of times. Knew his way around a fishing line. We hauled in some bass. Nothing for the record books, but good to eat.” He paused. “Sorry to hear about what happened.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. He told me some tall tales about you two.”

  “If he ever said Hap was good-looking, well hung, or kind to old ladies, then he was lying.”

  “Those three things never came up.”

  “Set a spell,” said Hap, waving to a plastic milk crate on which someone had placed a rather pretty blue pillow. I sat.

  The stories my dad had told me were often long, funny, painful, and insightful. Hap was a bleeding-heart liberal who’d gone to jail rather than Vietnam. Leonard, despite being a gay Black man, was a fiercely devoted Republican. All of which shows you that you can’t go by assumptions. Deep South—the Black guy votes right and likes men; the white guy votes left and isn’t much of a fan of country music.

  When my dad first met them, Hap and Leonard were working in the rose field, cutting long stems for shit wages. But over the years, they’d gone through a number of adventures that—if Dad wasn’t exaggerating—meant that they were serious badasses. Lately, they’d gone into business with Brett, Hap’s wife, and were now officially licensed private investigators. Which, I assumed, was what accounted for Hap’s face.

  They had glasses of iced tea, and Hap went inside and got me one. He also brought out a plate of cookies. Goddamned vanilla wafers.

  “Have one,” said Hap, offering me the plate.

  I smiled. “Thanks, but no.”

  “More for me,” said Leonard and took the plate from Hap. There was a small tug-of-war about, but Leonard won. He smiled as he bit into the first one.

  Seriously, what is it with vanilla wafers? Was Leonard Church’s long-lost son? Was it some kind of cult thing? I had no idea.

  I sipped the tea. It was excellent, with mint leaves floating in it.

  “Got a couple of goody bags someone dropped off for you,” said Leonard. “All kinds of Mission Impossible shit.”

  “Not that we looked,” lied Hap.

  “Hell yes, we looked,” countered Leonard. “Don’t know what half that shit is.”

  “Some of it goes bang,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t blow my dick off, so we’re good.”

  I drank some tea.

  Hap said, “This guy who called me, Mr. Church? He told me to tell you that you should tell us why you’re here.”

  “Did he?”

  “Said that we’re—and I quote—‘family adjacent.’”

  I had to laugh. “Okay. That’s a bigger thing than you know.”

  “But what’s it mean?” asked Leonard.

  I gave them the bones of it. They listened and asked good questions, but we didn’t have any light bulb moments.

  “So, you came all this
way to poke around at the convention center with a bunch of governors people from their own states don’t care about?” asked Leonard.

  “Pretty much.”

  “We’ve heard about those New Founding Fathers,” said Hap. “Not the usual militia crowd. Fewer beer bellies, more military tats. And they are almost genuinely well regulated.”

  “They’re dangerous honky assholes,” observed Pine.

  “They are that, too,” agreed Hap.

  Leonard kicked my foot. “Hey, your truck’s barking.”

  And it was. I went and opened the back and was assaulted by Ghost, who was sore, confused, hungry, and had to poop. Leonard and Hap came down, and I introduced them. Ghost seemed to understand immediately that they were dog people and that treats might be involved.

  Ghost was limping pretty badly, though, so once he was done with his business, I picked him up and carried him into the house. Hap’s idea. My dog met his dog, did the sniffing thing, and then Ghost decided that after his long sleep, he needed a nap.

  “Not to be mean or anything,” said Hap, “but you could use a shower, hoss.”

  “I don’t think I can spare the time.”

  “Four minutes, for the sake of public safety?”

  I relented, realizing that I smelled worse than what Ghost had dropped on the curb. I took the camo pants and black T-shirt from one of the two big black cases. No underwear, so I’d have to go commando, and that irony was not lost on me.

  The shower felt great after fourteen and a half hours in a smoker’s pickup truck. I even used Hap’s deodorant and a little cologne.

  “Hey,” I said, “can I hit you for one more favor?”

  “Not if it involves you eating my vanilla wafers,” said Leonard.

  “There’s so little chance of that.”

  “Shoot,” said Hap.

  “Can I leave my dog here until I get back? He’s in no shape to go with me.”