Slapping the Bronco’s side, the soldier wished them well.
***
Ten minutes after questioning Flores at the gate, Raven was squeezing her small frame from the Bronco’s backseat.
As Daymon retook his place behind the wheel, Wilson asked Raven, “You sure you don’t want a wingman?”
“Positive.”
Duncan said, “Remember, all you have to go on is the Klingon graffiti thing. In my experience, that’s not much of a leg to stand on. Desecrating a park is a jerk move. But I’m afraid it isn’t enough to start a manhunt for these folks and their van. I believe … we all believe that you saw what you saw. However, Riggleman, she’s not going to be as open-minded.”
Standing on the curb, the BERR building looming over her, all Raven could offer up in response was a shrug and a smile.
Duncan said, “If Riggleman wants to talk to one of us, have her call the house sat-phone. I’ll make sure the ringer’s on.”
Raven nodded.
Waving “bye” out his window, Daymon signaled and pulled away from the curb.
After watching the Bronco wheel away to the north, Raven looked up the stairs. Lined up under cover, snaking from the building’s tall double doors, was a line already twenty or thirty people deep.
Figuring each person would take five minutes to plead their case or air their grievance, and that Chief Riggleman would likely need the same to answer and offer solutions, Raven was looking at, maybe, best case scenario, getting her face-to-face sometime between two and three in the afternoon.
Not acceptable considering all she’d seen and learned in the last twenty-four hours.
Offering credits to swap places in line didn’t work.
***
CSPD Officer Upton poked his head from the BERR building at ten sharp. He looked the length of the line that had doubled in size over the ninety minutes Raven had been waiting.
A tick after showing his face, Upton ushered everyone inside on account of the worsening weather.
As Raven filed by Sergeant Upton, careful to not deviate from her place in line, she remembered the admonishment she’d received from the officer last time she was here: You made me look like a fool. Next time you come here you get in line like everyone else. And leave your guns at home. Grayson or not, you pull that crap on me again, I’ll personally take you on a tour of our Spring Creek Juvenile Detention Center.
Currently, the SBR was slung across her back, the Glock was holstered on her hip, and her trusty blade was sheathed on her hip. Ooops.
If the fact she was armed registered with Upton, he didn’t immediately acknowledge it. Instead, he seemed to be ignoring her.
After showing the middle-aged woman at the head of the line where he wanted her to stand, Upton straightened the rest of the line along a wall behind her. Coming back down the line, the sergeant stopped next to Raven. Whispering in her ear, he said, “Chief is expecting you. Come with me.”
Taken entirely by surprise, Raven patted her Glock and tugged on her rifle’s sling. “What about these?”
Acting as if he’d never issued the detention center threat, Upton said, “What about them?”
Feeling the eyes of those still in line boring into her back, Raven followed Upton into the elevator.
Remaining tight-lipped, Upton led Raven out of the elevator on the second floor, down the gray carpeted hall, and to the northeast corner of the building, where he left her standing before the door to Chief Riggleman’s office.
Before Raven could raise a hand to knock, the door swung inward and she was literally face-to-face with Chief Riggleman.
“Come on in, Raven. Make yourself comfortable.”
Raven entered the room, stopped and turned to face the chief.
“Take a seat.”
Both chairs in front of the desk were piled high with papers and manila folders. Looking around the room, Raven saw that the only place to sit was on the Native-American-themed area rug on the floor in front of the desk.
Though Raven was crashing as the others had warned, she said, “I’ll stand. Thanks all the same.”
Chief Riggleman sat on the leather chair behind the desk. Steepling her fingers, she said, “Suit yourself.” She stared at Raven for a long three-count. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“The messages I left on your voicemail?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Even as Raven was thinking, Because I snuck over the wall? she was saying the first thing that came to mind. “The Klingon graffiti?”
“I heard about it. Crazy that your dad, of all people, put that together. Who knew someone took the time to create a fictional alien language? Hell, they even wrote an entire book on it.”
“My dad knew,” Raven said. “He made me watch a couple Star Trek episodes with him.” She made a face. “Not my thing, though.”
“I want to know about this pastry van.”
Word travels fast.
“It’s a pie van,” Raven corrected.
“Pies, pastries … same animal as far as I’m concerned. Spit it out.”
Raven started with the long-range recon from the bus stop on Tejon. She described the bad actors then told the entire story, from soup to nuts, leaving nothing out.
Once Raven had capped off her retelling of the events with a plea for Chief Riggleman to issue an all-points bulletin, she whispered, “Please don’t tell my dad I went outside the wire. If anything comes of this, you go ahead and take all the credit. My guys will be quiet.”
“You mean Duncan, Daymon, and Wilson, right?”
The chief rattling off names of people Raven knew sent a shiver down her spine.
“Let me get this right. There was zero evidence when you all went back to the house?”
Raven nodded.
“And the van was gone?”
Again with the nod.
“If I didn’t know your dad is Cade Grayson, I’d say all this you brought to me is the work of an overactive imagination. Tell you the people you saw have graduated from selling bootleg paint to making moonshine or beer.” She rose from her chair. “But you … you I have to believe.”
Exhaling sharply, Raven asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to put out a BOLO for the people and their van.”
“Bolo?”
“Be on the lookout.”
“Shouldn’t you put a stakeout on the house?”
“Not my jurisdiction. I’ll run it up the chain, though.” Chief Riggleman pushed her chair out of the way, then walked around the desk.
Raven stood her ground. Regarding the chief, who was kind of invading her personal space, she said, “Do you have to tell my dad I went out alone?”
“You did good.” The chief shook her head. “But I’d be derelict of duty if I let it slide. Plus, I’d hate to get on your dad’s bad side. I’ve heard what happens to those who do.”
Raven said nothing, her mouth tightening.
Chief Riggleman went on, saying, “If they haven’t already, the Secret Service are going to put the Antlers on lockdown. I suggest you curl up with a good book and let them do their thing. Let us do our thing. And come this time tomorrow you’ll have one hell of a view of the ceremony from where you and yours are staying.”
Extending a hand, Raven said, “Thanks.” She met the chief’s gaze. Held it as she added, “I don’t blame you for reporting on what I did. It’s the right thing to do.”
Older beyond her years, thought Riggleman. She said, “Now get … before I cite you for bringing weapons into my office.”
Raven didn’t need to be told twice. She let herself out, the possible repercussions from her jaunt outside the wire growing larger with each step she took down the long carpeted hall.
Chapter 69
Cade had slept through dawn and a good chunk of morning. The noise of rain pummeling the skylights had woken him from a deep slumber a few minutes before he heard Griff and Cross coming in through the sliding door.
Good job, he thought. Coming back by way of the east/west-running alley system lessened the chance of them having been followed on the ground. Separately, the mature trees in the backyards, brambles and weeds crushing in on back fences, and the city’s powerlines running parallel to the alley all made it very difficult for someone operating a drone to keep tabs on them.
He also had no doubt the pair, exercising caution, had stashed their bicycles elsewhere and approached the loiter on foot.
Cade stretched and looked around the room. Waking up in his old bed was surreal to say the least. Doing so wearing boots and fully clothed, without Brook by his side was something he could have never envisioned.
“Wyatt … come on down. You gotta see this.”
It was Griff. He sounded like a miner who’d just found the motherlode.
Cade grabbed his M4 off the bed and hustled downstairs.
The three shooters were sitting around the dining room table. Mud was tracked all over the hardwood floors. Combined with the fluids that had leaked from the restless Z, the yellow-green sludge looked a lot like baby shit.
Ignoring the mess, Cade planted his hands on the table. “What’d you get?”
On the table was a hand-drawn map of the target. It was two-by-two and multicolored. In one lower corner was a key to help decipher the many symbols scribbled on it. Beside the map was the satellite image of Target Alpha.
Eyes flitting between the two items, Cade said, “Who’s the artist?”
Cross tapped his chest. “Learned all this at Rowley. Put it to work when I was assigned advance detail. Reports had to be very thorough. For me, this is easier than drafting a long report.”
Tapping the map east of the target buildings, Griff said, “We found a perfect overwatch spot … right here. It’s on an elevated boulevard. Two lanes each way. Southbound lanes are blocked with vehicles. Shooter has clear fields of fire to the target’s east side, the holding pens, and the troop trailers.”
Cade said, “How about the missile battery?”
Griff shook his head. “It’s mostly shielded by the holding pens.” He indicated a red X south of the RQ-9 battery. “This is a vacant gravel lot. The building materials concentrated on the west edge leads us to believe a project got squashed by the outbreak. It’s ringed by chain-link fence. The fence is shored on all sides by Jersey barriers.”
Cade said, “Set Nat up behind one of the Jersey barriers and you’ll kill two birds: Nat has cover and concealment and you get a nice crossfire using minimal assets.”
Cross looked to Griff, then swung his gaze to Cade. “Our first thoughts when we saw the place.”
Wearing a curious expression, Nat said, “How many Zs are hanging around?”
“You sound like Lopez,” noted Cross. “Are you as afraid of the demonios as he is?”
“Not to that level,” Nat said. “Cross is going to be in an elevated position. Me, I’m going to be pretty damn exposed.”
“You might encounter some Zs on your way in,” Griff answered. “Where there’s fresh meat, there’s always biters.”
Cade put his finger on the overwatch spot. “What’s the viaduct look like, Z-wise?”
Cross said, “They’re mostly grabbers reaching out from windows that’re broken out or had been left cracked open. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Nat said, “With no air support or QRF until the battery is nullified, we’re going to be sitting ducks if we are compromised.”
Cade said, “Don’t get compromised.” He paused. “I asked for a couple more shooters and was denied. With four ops happening simultaneously, they say we’re stretched real thin. I need you alone on that lot with your LMG.”
Nat said, “What’s the distance?”
Cross said, “Perfect for suppression and direct fire,” then flipped open a notebook and started rattling off locations and the respective distances to targets.
“Enough chit-chat,” Cade said. “Let’s get into this.” He glanced at his Suunto. “We have six hours until dusk. The quicker we get this drilled down, the more beauty sleep Cross and Griff are going to get.”
Feigning a flip of the hair, Cross said, “This chiseled Adonis doesn’t need any.”
Griff said, “You should see me without the beard.”
Cade regarded the man. “I’m thinking you would look like a ginger Matt Damon.”
Griff shook his head. “Try again.”
With a tilt of his head, Nat guessed, “Ginger Brad Pitt?”
Griff said, “Negative. Strike two,” then shot Cross a challenging look.
Cross unbuckled the chinstrap and removed his helmet. Stroking his chin, he said, “Zach Galifianakis? He’s a ginger. His mug might be pretty if he ever shaved.”
“Too late for that,” Griff said. “He’s zed chow.”
Cade cracked a smile at the thought of a zombie Wolf Pack being led down Rodeo Drive by the comedian. “Enlighten us, Griff. We got work to do.”
Cross started an impromptu drum roll, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.
Nat began to chant. “Spill, spill, spill …”
Totally serious, Griff said, “Hugh Jackman.”
Nat stood up from the table. Doubled over and slapping both hands on his massive thighs, he said, “Ginger Wolverine. That I’d pay big money to see.”
In the worst put-on Australian accent Cade had ever heard, Cross said, “Hey, Bub … you want a taste of me adamantium claws?”
“I can see it,” Cade lied. “Now about these patrol patterns … you have them all timed and noted?”
Red creeping out of his collar, Griff nodded. Flipping open his notebook, he shared his findings.
Antlers Hotel
Raven had been in her room for less than an hour when there came a knock on her door. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt—both two sizes too big for her. Lowering her dad’s copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, she said, “Who is it?”
Expecting Sasha or Peter—maybe even the two of them together—to try to goad her into being social, she instead heard a person in the hall say, “United States Secret Service. Agents Woodson and Lowell.”
Raven said, “One second,” and rolled off her bed.
Opening the door, Raven saw two men in dark suits. Like her dad and the men he worked alongside, these two had no-nonsense gazes that she knew had already sized her up and were on to cataloging the contents of her room. Hard to miss were the flesh-colored ear buds and coiled wires diving under stiffly starched shirt collars.
They were both in their thirties. They were also very fit—former military, no doubt. It was clear these men meant business. If their stoic demeanors and how they carried themselves wasn’t enough of an intimidation factor, they carried compact submachine guns in addition to the pronounced bulges underneath their jackets.
Opening the door fully, Raven made a sweeping motion with one arm.
The blond agent calling himself Woodson, said, “To ensure President Clay’s safety, we will have to secure everyone’s weapons. Yours included.”
Visibly stiffening, Raven said, “The heck you will. I might want to exercise my right to go outside the walls tomorrow. My Golden Ticket is only good for a couple more weeks.”
The dark-haired agent Raven presumed to be Lowell said, “That’s not possible, Miss Grayson. The gates will be closed at dusk tonight. Then for the following twenty-four hours they will remain closed to new arrivals and outside excursions.”
Woodson said, “I understand how being disarmed could be disconcerting—”
Interrupting, Raven said, “Disconcerting is spotting a huge spider on the ceiling directly in line with my face. You disarm me and you might as well strip me naked, too. Because that’s how it feels to me when I don’t have at least a Glock on my hip.”
“Understood,” Lowell said. “I can sympathize. However, even taking into consideration who you are, who your father is—we have no wiggle room on this.”
Raven said, “
I’ll get them back, right? This isn’t the start of the big gun grab, is it?”
As if he’d been a Boy Scout, and old habits remained, Woodson raised his hand. “I promise you’ll all have your weapons returned to you as soon as Marine One is wheels up with President Clay safely aboard.”
In the end, after the agents informed the others and had policed up their weapons, Raven relinquished hers. Though while she did so she was protesting fiercely in her head, she didn’t kill the messenger. She was sure it was exactly how her dad would handle it. Seeing as how she had already stepped in it once, rocking the boat with these two guys would only deepen the hole she’d already dug for herself.
Chapter 70
Portland, Oregon
The sun was to set in Portland at 7:17 p.m. With a dark-gray sky and driving rain working in their favor, Cade decided to have the team roll out a bit early.
With backpacks cinched down tight and rifles strapped to their chests or slung across their backs, one by one, the Pale Riders scaled the fence behind the Grayson home.
In the alley, as Cade was straddling his mountain bike, he took one final, long look at the Craftsman. Stripped of the family photos, it was no longer a home. It was now just a shell of its former self with a certain future: to be beaten down by changing seasons and the relentless march of time.
“Ready to go, boss?” Griff asked. He was straddling Brook’s bike and looking in Cade’s direction.
Covertly wiping a rogue tear, Cade nodded. Saying nothing, he pedaled by Griff, Cross, and Nat. Where the alley spilled onto 48th, he cut a left.
Keeping a few yards of separation, they rolled past Ted and Lisa’s house.
Where the standard poodle’s corpse had been now lay only an elongated skull, some rib bones, and scattered tufts of fur.
The sight caused Cade to recall the Johnny Cash lyric: It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come. Though bereft of Cash’s gravelly delivery, the words bore the same weight, reminding him that all of them were mortal—even the top dogs.
While mostly uneventful, to Cade their ride south through the Woodstock neighborhood was depressing as hell. Once clean and navigable, the streets were now strewn with the remains of twice-dead Zs. At the end of nearly every driveway sat rolling cans spilling forth with putrid bags of trash. Every couple of blocks they came across a citizen lucky enough to have died and stayed that way. Most looked to have either been shot or beaten to death, all no doubt victims of the agelong struggle between the haves and have-nots.
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 36
