by Payne, T. L.
NO SURRENDER
Fall of Houston Series, Book Four
Copyright © 2021 by T. L. Payne
All rights reserved.
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Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design
Edited by Melanie Underwood
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Don’t forget to sign up for my spam-free newsletter at www.tlpayne.com to be among the first to know of new releases, giveaways, and special offers.
Check out other books by T. L. Payne
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Fall of Houston Series
No Way Out
No Other Choice
No Turning Back
No Surrender
No Man’s Land (Pre-Order Now!)
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The Days of Want Series
Turbulent
Hunted
Turmoil
Uprising
Upheaval
Mayhem
Defiance (Coming Summer 2021)
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The Gateway to Chaos Series
Seeking Safety
Seeking Refuge
Seeking Justice
Seeking Hope
Although much of this story takes place in and around southern Louisiana, some aspects and locations have been altered to enhance the story. Many of locations are fictional. Thank you for understanding an author's creative license.
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“Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air - moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh - felt as if it were being exhaled into one's face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing.” — Tom Robbins
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
1. Will
2. Will
3. Will
4. Savanah
5. Savanah
6. Isabella
7. Will
8. Will
9. Walker
10. Savanah
11. Will
12. Isabella
13. Will
14. Will
15. Will
16. Savanah
17. Will
18. Isabella
19. Savanah
20. Will
21. Isabella
22. Savanah
23. Will
24. Savanah
25. Isabella
26. Isabella
27. Will
28. Will
29. Savanah
30. Will
Also by T. L. Payne
About the Author
Prologue
Fort Hood Army Base
Killeen, Texas
Event + Two Months
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Analyst Rachel Stephens once again found herself sitting across the table from Brad Smith. The man was like a bad itch she just couldn’t get rid of. She could think of no one with whom she would less like to be stuck in the apocalypse. And this situation certainly felt apocalyptic. In the two months since enemies of the United States had unleashed their weapons of war upon the nation, Stephens had witnessed the absolute worst things imaginable. She was deeply disturbed by the depths men sank to when faced with starvation and desperation.
When she’d first arrived at Fort Hood Army Base in central Texas after fleeing Houston following the deadly attack on Ellington Field Joint Reserve Base, Stephens had attended every meeting she was allowed and consumed every briefing about the state of the nation with hopes of finding a way of stopping something—anything. The daily reports about the death and destruction as the US military fought to hold off the Chinese incursion on American soil were nothing compared to the toll hunger, violence, injury, and disease were taking on the general population.
A balding man dressed in a wrinkled polo shirt and slacks spoke. “The experts’ projection stating nine out of ten people will die within the first year in a total grid-down scenario appears to be all too accurate. Already, many cities are in ruins due to the looting and fighting over the few precious resources on store shelves and in warehouses. There are horrendous reports of large bands of people roaming the streets going from house to house scavenging, pillaging, and burning people out of their homes.”
Stephens felt sick after each briefing, and once she determined that her expertise was not needed in any of the meetings, she stopped going. What good purpose did they serve? They could prevent none of it. Unless supplies could reach those cities, soon they’d all be wastelands left to a few murderous souls. She’d even at times found herself wondering why the military continued to fight off the Chinese and Russians along its shores. What was left to save at this point? She was feeling despondent. Hopelessness seeped into her every pore which wasn’t in her nature. She’d always looked for a way to make the world a better place. And now, what could she do?
And then word came from the north by way of a single-engine plane, much like the one that had carried her from Houston to Fort Hood. With it came the first glimpse of the kingdom that General Walter Dempsey was creating for himself up in Illinois and the Midwest—everywhere, except Missouri, where somehow they’d managed to hold him back.
What a fool. Did he really think that the Russians and Chinese were going to let him keep it—even run it after they took the country? Stephens set her sights on him—on stopping him. That was something she could do. Not alone, of course, but she had the skill set to gather intelligence on his operation and find its vulnerabilities. If she could convince the commander to give her a team—or two—she could go there and find their supply chain and reroute it to the people who desperately needed it. There was still something she could do. And by hell, she was going to do everything she could—even if it only helped one community survive this damn thing, it would make it all worthwhile.
So, Stephens put her big girl panties back on and strode right into the daily briefing. She slicked her brown hair back and stuck an errant strand into its bun, slid into a chair across from Brad ‘The Cad’, and listened. She’d watch for an opportunity to speak with Waltrip about her plan.
Lieutenant General Robert Waltrip sat at the end of the table, his head buried in papers. The cables from the delegation of United States Congressmen who’d been in El Salvador when the event happened had asked for a report from the front lines.
Front lines? There’d been no lines. It had appeared to be more like a free-for-all for a while. China’s ease at getting the Dongfeng armored vehicles ashore had been a surprise, but the US exploited the vehicles’ weaknesses and shoddy construction, quickly taking out many of them. That led to the discovery of China’s weakness—its corrupted manufacturing system.
“The PLA’s Dongfeng is no match for our new Armored Multipurpose Vehicle. The rumors of the poor-quality construction of the Dongfeng have proven true. There are reports of civilians breaking out the windows with baseball bats.”
“Reports?” Waltrip asked. “Confirmed?”
“Yes, sir.”
It seemed the elite troops were better equipped, but the rest of their force was stuck with faulty equipment and weaponry. Though they did have the advantage of communication and coordination, which the US lacked at the time.
That imbalance left the US at a significant disadvantage until the retaliatory strikes took out the power grids of both the Russian and Chinese and lessened their governments’ effectiveness, inhibiting their communications with their sh
ips at sea. The nuclear strike seemed to have little effect, in Stephens’ view. They would have expected it—prepared for it. But the attack on their satellites had done the trick it seemed—thanks to the newly established Space Force and the secret missions outfitting civilian satellites with military capabilities. Now, they were as hampered communicating with their forces as the US was with its. Otherwise, there would be Russian and Chinese boots trampling on Dempsey’s little kingdom by now. China had relied too heavily on their new naval fleet being able to penetrate and work effectively in and around the gulf coast and in the Atlantic. Now that communications had been cut off, the US saw significant gains in repelling the invasion.
After two months of holding off a complete invasion of the gulf coast, the US military found itself short on fuel, supplies, ammunition, and, most importantly, personnel. They were just spread too thin. Getting supplies to the front lines took too long, and medical help was too far away.
Waltrip ran a hand across the top of his freshly cut salt and pepper hair and glared around the table. “Why are our recruitment goals continually not being met?”
“No one wants to leave their families behind to starve or become victims to bandits,” said a pretty, petite woman seated in the middle of the long conference table. She was dressed in uniform and surprisingly clean and well-groomed, considering their shower regime had been cut back to once per week. “Without a way of assuring people that their kids will not be left orphans in the streets, we can forget about parents.”
“What happened to the draft? Why aren’t we gathering people up and sending them south?” asked the short, stocky man next to her.
She twisted in her seat so that their eyes met. Her head turned slightly in a “you’ve got to be kidding” gesture. Stephens liked her. “First, when they see Humvees and military transport vehicles rolling into town, they run. They hide. We’d have to expend countless hours and manpower going from door to door searching for them and then wrenching them from their crying children’s arms to throw them inside the transport trucks, guard them all the way there to make sure they didn’t desert in order to get back to said children and then threaten to shoot them if they did not fight for the country that had made their children destitute on the streets.” She turned back to face the group. “Is that the draft you were referring to?”
The man huffed as if he disagreed with her assessment of what was occurring.
“Why aren’t these folks going to the shelters we’ve set up?” a middle-aged man dressed in a dingy white button-down shirt asked.
The woman pursed her lips. “They’re scared. People, especially young, strong, and capable men, have been disappearing from those same shelters. Or so the rumors go.” She turned her gaze toward the head of the table. Waltrip’s aide looked up from the pile of papers on the desk in front of him. The woman raised one knowing eyebrow.
She was in the know. She was someone Stephens needed to talk to about Dempsey. Stephens felt encouraged for the first time in weeks. This woman had contacts with people off the base. From her tone and attitude, Stephens felt reasonably confident that she shared her view on how this war could be won. If not, it was likely she could convince her. Dempsey was the key. Stephens was sure of that one thing. He had the supplies and manpower to turn this whole thing around. The report was clear. He’d taken control of all the FEMA supplies in Region Five and commandeered the military in those states to secure them. He’d used Department of Homeland Security personnel to seize food, fuel, medical supplies, and other vital resources from communities under the guise of redistributing it to those who needed it but had instead stuck the supplies into underground warehouses for his own purposes. The news about work camps had disturbed Stephens the most. Citizens were being forced into labor camps to feed themselves and their families. The supplies originally intended for them were instead used to keep them captive. Although the news of forced labor camps where even small children were made to work rocked her to the core, but the thought of people still being alive gave her hope.
Americans were a resilient and patriotic nation. Suppose she could somehow manage to get the resources to care for families. People would step up to fight to protect them. Just as brave men and women had done during all significant conflicts throughout its history, the people of the United States would heed the call and defend their homeland. After—they’d work together to rebuild it. It was as simple and true as that. She just needed to get those resources and get them to the people—how hard could that be? Stephens sighed deeply. She’d need things like weapons, trucks, fuel. She’d also need people—trained and highly skilled people. She lifted her eyes to Waltrip and then to the woman. If it were possible—Stephens would find a way.
She stood and stretched her neck as Waltrip ended the meeting. Brad ‘The Cad’, of course, rushed around the table toward her. She held him off with an upraised palm. “I need to catch her,” she said, pointing to the woman, and she headed toward the door. “Ma’am,” Stephens said as she approached her. She stopped, stepped to one side to let others behind her pass, and turned to face Stephens. She stood five feet nothing in her flat-soled shoes. Dynamite came in small packages, and Stephens hoped she could use this one to blow up Dempsey’s operation.
“I’m Analyst Rachel Stephens,” she said with an outstretched hand. She glanced at the woman's name tape.
Williams. Colonel Williams.
“The analyst Stephens who brought us the encrypted disk from the Chinese consulate in Houston?”
Stephens blinked and bobbed her head once in acknowledgment. This woman was in the know.
“What can I help you with, Analyst Stephens?”
“That was what I wanted to talk to you about, ma’am. I’d like to run something by you that I think you might be able to help me with.” She felt a queasiness in her stomach. She was nervous. Why? The woman just stared at her for a long moment, and Stephens’ uneasiness grew. Was it hope? Was that what she was afraid of now? She hadn’t yet resigned herself to the downfall of the nation or their freedom as a people. No matter how impossible the task ahead may seem, she was determined to pursue it—no matter the risk. And no matter who she had to align herself with.
Brad slid in beside her. She cast him a dirty look, but he pretended to ignore her gesture. Williams checked her watch. It was a classic, timelessly elegant piece and looked antique. “Let’s move this into my office. I have a few moments before my next meeting.”
Stephens stepped around Brad to follow Williams. “I’ll catch you up at lunch.”
Brad huffed and started to follow them through the door.
“Don’t you have a meeting of your own to attend, Mr. Smith?” Williams asked. There was something more than dismissal in her tone. They knew each other. It figured. Brad ‘The Cad’ strikes again.
One
Will
Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana
Event + Two Months
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In the relative silence created by the lack of man-made noise, Will could hear the roar of an engine for several minutes before the all-terrain vehicle and its rider came into view. Will aimed his rifle’s sight on the rider’s torso, his finger moved inside the trigger guard, and he exhaled, ready to take the shot.
“It’s Corey,” Isabella said, lowering the monocular she held to one eye.
Will inhaled, taking in a deep breath, and blew it out. It was no small thing, taking another man’s life. He was grateful he would be able to avoid it this time. In the weeks since arriving in Calcasieu Parish, he’d had been forced to kill at least a half dozen times. Any notion that he’d enjoy life at leisure once he arrived at his sister’s place had quickly been set aside.
The rider stopped the quad in the middle of the road, removed her helmet, and shook her head before pushing a mass of curls from her attractive face. Isabella stood and stepped out from their ground hunting blind. She’d raised her hand to wave Corey over when the shot rang out. Will dove for Isabella, knocking her to
the ground, and the two crawled back to the blind and began scanning the woodline, trying to determine where the shooter was.
“Where’s Corey?” Isabella asked as she peered through the monocular.
Will scanned the gully to the left of the quad. “She made it. She’s in the gully.”
“Found them,” Isabella said. “I’ve got one shooter at our ten o’clock about six hundred yards.”
Will shifted and spotted the shooter right where Isabella had said he was, but he was too concealed for a clean shot, and Will was not about to waste ammunition. He turned his attention back to Corey. She was moving slowly north, doing her best to remain low. As she drew closer to their position and the point where she’d need to leave the ditch, Will called out to her. “Make it quick, Corey. I’ll cover you.” As Corey climbed out, he lifted his AR-15 and fired in the direction of the shooter. In seconds, Corey dove and rolled inside the well-concealed blind.
“A little heads-up would have been nice!” Corey spat as she scrambled to her feet.
“Heads-up? We’ve been sitting here for hours and didn’t know he was there,” Isabella said, helping her brush weeds from her auburn hair.
