The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series

by C. A. Rudolph

  As his wife slid herself into position to rebegin planting seeds, Alan relocated opposite her. “Michelle…where are my parents?”

  Michelle let out a breath, her hands going still beneath a coating of dirt. She gradually shifted weight to her arms to relieve the soreness in her back just as the moment’s burden crash-landed on her shoulders.

  After a time with no response, Alan continued, “We…went there first. The house was…well, destroyed, more or less. Actually, it was downright obliterated; unfit for habitation by a long shot.”

  Michelle bent back and watched him.

  “I assume it must’ve been a beautiful place at one time.”

  “It was,” Michelle added finally, her tone succinct.

  “Thought so, it had all the makings of one. The exterior was badly dilapidated; portions of the roof had either collapsed or were getting ready to. The house looked like it sustained a direct hit by a hurricane and looters had moved in after to have their way with it. The defacement was substantial, like the place had been vandalized over and over by some pissed-off mob with a personal vendetta.” He looked away pensively. “With my safety being the number one priority, as usual, it was decided that I not go inside. Jade went in alone but wasn’t there long. She said it was ransacked, described it by saying it looked like a bomb had gone off. She didn’t find anything except martial law notices, some warrants, and other nastiness not worth mentioning. No traces of anyone, not the girls, you, or my parents.”

  Michelle delayed her reply, her wish being to put Alan’s original question on hold, aware the answer wouldn’t come easily, uncertain as to how he would react to hearing it. “We left there in the late evening on January 15. About a year before,” she said, conveying a look of interest. “How did you know to go there?”

  “You guided me.” Alan slid his hand into a pocket and retrieved two folded-together sheets of paper, and went about unfolding them. He had kept Michelle’s letter on his person since the day he’d found it inside his gun safe at their abandoned home.

  Michelle covered her mouth with a palm, her lower eyelids welling up at seeing her handwriting on display in her husband’s hand. “Is that…the letter I wrote you?”

  Alan nodded. “I’ve reread it a hundred times since I found it; it’s practically memorized.”

  Michelle nodded and sniffled. She reached for the letter and beheld it like a family heirloom. “I remember every word…almost. I was an absolute emotional basket case that day. We were hours from leaving, and it felt horrible. We were saying goodbye to everything we’d ever known and closing a chapter of our lives forever. I was so worried that you’d show up right after we left. I had to let you know what our plans were. I’d only intended to write a few sentences, but it ended up being a lot more than that.” She opened her arms and reached for him. “I’m so glad you found it.”

  Alan took her into his arms. “So am I. Finding it helped me find you.”

  A woman appeared at the edge of the Russells’ driveway and shouted at them from the gate, disrupting their moment. “Hey! Michelle! Alan! Have you seen Emily?”

  Alan drew away and peered at their visitor askance. “That looks like Sarah.”

  “It is Sarah.” Michelle efforted to her feet and waved their family friend in.

  After fighting the gate open, Sarah hustled down the driveway in a swift-paced walk, falling short of a run in appearance, though not by speed. “That gate of yours is a rust-covered piece of shit,” she spat. “Either dispose of the damn thing, or leave it open.”

  “Sounds like reasonable advice,” Michelle said. “Now what’s this about Emily?”

  “She’s been missing all morning,” Sarah said, looking frantic. “Bryan and I have looked all over for her. We’ve checked all her hiding places inside the house and out. We can’t find her anywhere. She’s never done anything like this before, and I’m ready to lose my mind over it.”

  Michelle tried consoling her. “Okay, okay, calm down. Let’s think this through.”

  “What’s there to think through? My daughter is missing.”

  “I know, I heard you. Can you think of anywhere she might be you haven’t checked?”

  “No, Michelle. I told you, we’ve checked everywhere.”

  “Everywhere but the thousand-acre wood, as it were,” Alan heckled.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Alan. I know it’s hard, but now isn’t the time,” Sarah huffed. “She’s not playing hide-and-seek with Grace in the cabin, is she?”

  Michelle shook her head. “No, Grace is sleeping.”

  “And we’ve been gardening,” Alan added, displaying his soiled hands. “Want us to help look for her?”

  Hair between her fingers, Sarah squeezed her head with both hands, her spirits wearing thin. “Yes…of course I do. I just hate asking…”

  “It’s no problem,” Alan said, stepping from the garden into the yard, heading for the porch. “I’ll get a bag packed and do my part. Who else have you told?”

  “No one,” Sarah said. “I haven’t had time. I’ve been too busy looking for Emily. I stopped by the Ackermann farm first since it’s the closest, but those doctors are so damn peculiar. I told them about Emily, and they just stood there and grinned at me like they were stuck on stupid. I told them ‘fuck you very much’ and came here. Then I was going to the Masons, followed by every house in the damn valley.” She exhaled and turned away. “Dammit, I-I don’t have time for this—I have to find her—I have to go.”

  “Sarah, wait. I’ll go with you,” Michelle called, then sprinted to catch up. “Alan, take one of the radios with you before you go. Oh—and let Christian know what’s happening. If he can pry himself away from Grace, he can give us a hand. And be careful.”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter 17

  George Washington National Forest

  Shenandoah County, Virginia

  Sunday, March 6th

  Commotion external to his SUV rousing him, August awoke from a short but much-needed snooze. He yawned and looked to his side mirror in time to see one of the teams under his command returning in the early-morning light.

  He poured himself from his vehicle and strolled lazily to the edge of the rear fender. Two agents, their faces concealed by black Nomex balaclavas, escorted a teenaged girl to the passenger side of the SUV parked behind his. Her wrists were bound behind her back, and a strip of duct tape had been placed over her mouth to keep her quiet.

  Another agent fell in behind, guiding a duo of younger girls with long blond hair to the rear hatch of the SUV parked behind the second. The last masked agent, whose gait and mannerisms gave away his identity, marched with purpose to his vehicle. Another girl, smaller and younger than the others before her, rested fearfully in his arms, her miniature wrists bound by restraints almost too big for them.

  August took note of everything he was seeing, along with every tear and ripped shred of clothing. All the girls were dirty and downtrodden. Some looked as though they’d been dragged through leaves and brush, and the younger ones sobbed and whimpered, unable to wipe their own tears away. He looked away, ashamed, unwilling to witness the looks on their faces.

  The terms of this new operation were more than wearing on him. This hadn’t been what he’d signed up for, and in seeing what his mission was becoming, August was appalled with both himself and his task force, not to mention his department, his agency, and his government—everything and everyone involved in this despicable scandal.

  After securing their prisoners, the agents went about removing their gear and preparing for departure. Agent Gil Norris soon made his approach, removing his helmet, headset and mask.

  “Everything go as planned?” August queried, his tone bearing a hint of contempt.

  Gil pursed his lips and sent a nod. “Yeah, successful. All good. Got in and got out without a single hitch. They…didn’t put up much of a fight, as you might imagine.”

  August held back from expressing his true feelings on the ma
tter, choosing this time to stick with cue card rhetoric. “Well done. HQ will be pleased as pie to hear that. How many did we…acquire?”

  “Four in total, all girls, varying ages. Eldest is around fifteen or so, a little older than specified, but acceptable, nonetheless. Youngest looks to be about four, maybe five years of age.”

  August looked disgusted. “Four or five?”

  “That’s what I said,” Gil spat. “I tried asking her a couple of times, but she wouldn’t answer me. All she said was how bad she hated me and how her dad was going to kill me. Kids are funny.”

  August stewed over the remarks. “Kindergarteners, you mean.”

  “What?” Gil reacted. “Hey, man, don’t play judge advocate with me. I’m not the one who rewrote the terms of the op. This is what HQ wanted, and what HQ wants, it gets. You, me, all of us—we’re just following orders. We’re servants to the cause here.”

  “Don’t preach to me,” growled August. “And the cause is fucked. Every one of us will be the same if we’re not careful.”

  “Careful? August, do us all a favor, man. Take a couple of steps back from this…I don’t know…this self-righteous thing you’re doing. Stop make-believing the mission is personal.”

  August punched his door. “We just kidnapped children, Gil! Children who have brothers, sisters, and parents! We invaded their backyards and shanghaied them! That’s as personal as it gets!”

  Gil set his bump helmet on the SUV’s roof, stunned by the reaction. “Brother, I don’t get you. Granted, none of us knew we would be doing this kind of shit on day one, but this is what it’s become. It’s what the world has become. We have a new enemy now, and it’s not up to us to choose who that enemy is. Christ, man. You of all people should know that. We follow orders. That’s our job; that’s what we get paid to do. It’s not our job to mull things over and think for ourselves, it’s our job to do.”

  “We don’t get paid to do anything,” August thundered. “And you’re right, Gil, but only partially. Every agent, you and I included, has the right to question any order deemed immoral, unethical or—”

  “Unconstitutional?” Gil interrupted. “Come on, man…are you really going to go there with me? August, think, man! There is no Constitution. The clauses within have been rendered moot and unenforceable. There’s no country anymore. Those glory days they wrote songs about…they’re over, brother. What’s left of this nation is being run from the shadows under an emergency executive mandate. I thought you knew that.”

  August puffed out his chest, enraged. “Shove it, Gil. I’ve done nothing but follow orders to the letter my entire career. And the agent standing before you, who outranks you, isn’t in need of lecturing on executive mandates, the terms of martial law, or the chain of command. But I’m beginning to think you might.”

  Gil backed away, holding his hands up. “Okay, okay, calm the hell down. I thought this was just the two of us talking, here. As friends.”

  “You and I have been friends for a long time, but friendships do not supersede authority. And until the day comes when I am no longer your superior, you will not take that tone with me ever again. Is that understood?”

  “Whatever, man, whatever.” Gil retrieved his gear and turned away. “Sorry, I mean yes, sir, sir! You’re off your rocker today. I think you need some space to cool off and work things out. This shit with your wife…it’s getting to you…fucking with your ability to lead whether you realize it or not. If you need me, I’ll be waiting inside my truck like a good, obedient underling. Don’t forget to let us know when it’s time to head for camp.” He got in his SUV and slammed shut his door.

  The other agents, seeing now that the turbulence had come to a close, made their way inside their vehicles as well and prepared for departure. The sounds of the forest took over, drowning out the ambience, excluding the whimpers of four kidnapped young girls.

  August didn’t want to believe this was happening. Thoughts of what his team had done and would likely continue to do for the foreseeable future repulsed him. He deliberated what plausible good could come of this new strategy. He knew its purpose: garnering the undivided attention and enhancing the malleability of their enemies and eventually, with any luck, forcing their surrender. But their enemies weren’t criminal, hostile, or even foreign; they were American citizens—families of men, women, and children.

  He recalled reading Bronson’s pet project for the first time on the day he’d gone to request a transfer. He knew it then as he knew it now—the operation was unsullied, undiluted domestic terrorism. It called for poisoning water and food supplies, sabotaging roads and bridges, setting barbaric booby-traps in the woods. The tactics were intended to go beyond dehumanization; they were designed to irreparably damage lives and commit mass murder. And he had gone along with it.

  They weren’t out to win hearts and minds. They weren’t fighting for peace or prosperity. This wasn’t for the greater good. They were now pilfering living, breathing human beings. Children.

  August recalled his first operation as an immigration and customs enforcement agent. He’d been a member of a twelve-person task force assigned to pursue groups of hostile illegal immigrants engaging in drug smuggling and other underground criminal activity. After months of gathering intel, his team had obtained a warrant, entered a building, and kicked down a door, expecting to find illegal weapons and a meth lab. But what they found instead took his heart for a ride for which he hadn’t prepared.

  On the other side of that door had been a living room, and seated before his team on the ragged, moldy furniture had been the soiled faces of twenty or more young women and girls. Filthy gags had been stuffed in their mouths, and their hands had been bound together and tied to their waists with lamp cord. Shots were fired, and a gun battle had ensued, but August and his team had been well trained and well prepared. They quickly took out the gunmen and moved farther in, clearing the residence in minutes.

  Soon, they’d learned that the faces in the living room hadn’t been alone. Behind every bedroom door, more young girls were found, and in the farthest bedroom to the rear, August discovered two elementary-school-aged girls. Their hands weren’t bound, but they were fully nude, huddled tightly together, writhing, whimpering, and begging for the agents not to hurt them.

  August had immediately lowered his weapon and allowed its sling to let it fall to his side. He’d approached them while speaking softly to them, but hadn’t known the first thing to do. He’d never been trained for anything like this. He’d pulled the blankets from the nearby bed, gone to his knees and carefully, cautiously covered them, concealing their bodies, their innocence, and their indignity from the world.

  “Hey there. My name’s August. I’m a friend,” he’d said. “It’s going to be all right. My associates and I are good guys…we’re here to help you. No one’s going to hurt you anymore. I promise.”

  August gritted his teeth, got inside his vehicle, and started the engine, slamming the door shut so fiercely that the dashboard lights flickered. He tapped the button to roll down his window, but it didn’t work. He tried others and got nothing. He’d evidently broken the door but didn’t care. He only considered one thing in that moment—the feeling he’d had on the day he’d found those two helpless angels. August had felt like a hero that day. He’d learned what it had felt like to protect the innocent, save lives and do the right thing, and how he felt now was the farthest thing from that.

  August wasn’t a good guy anymore. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he’d veered off that path and lost his way. He used to consider himself a patriot. Now he was nothing of the sort. He was an instrument of a government that had transformed him into a human trafficker. He’d become that which he had once fought so righteously against, something he’d always hated. August had become a scourge, and there was no excuse for it, and he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

  Chapter 18

  The cabin

  Trout Run Valley

  Monda
y, March 7th

  Christian sat unusually passive at the kitchen table, staring at the Baofeng radio’s mellow blue illumined screen, his chin resting atop hands balled into slackened fists. His preoccupation and unease had skyrocketed since announcing young Emily Taylor’s disappearance hours ago. Not long after, a blonde woman had come into view atop an ATV, driving like an enraged wildling while declaring that her daughters Alli and Annie were missing. The woman sped off before she could be identified, while hollering her daughters’ names, leaving Michelle to fill in a crowd of confused onlookers as to who she was. Since then, radio chatter had been sporadic, and Christian hadn’t moved so much as an inch while matters grew even worse.

  Whitney Schmidt had reported her daughter, Brooke, unaccounted for. The family had been together almost all morning, moving their possessions from the Masons’, where they’d been living since their home had been burned to the ground, into a vacant residence recently chosen as their own. Brooke had initially been with them, but had stepped away for a few minutes. No one had seen her since.

  The entire valley was on alert now, and several search parties were in the process of assembling. Christian was planning to join and possibly lead one of them, that is, if he could find a way to convince Grace to give him the go-ahead.

  One missing child was nothing short of a major concern, but four missing children reported on the same day mere hours apart from each other was far too coincidental. Christian contemplated the likelihood of what might have happened and who could’ve been responsible for such a thing. So far, he had only come to a pair of plausible conclusions. One of them involved ‘porn stash’ Max, the leader of the taker faction that had invaded the valley months ago and who remained a detainee. His other theory was one he knew was possible; he just didn’t want to believe it was actually true.