“How much fuel do we have left?” Dupree asked.
The main pilot checked the gauges. “Thirty minutes worth, maybe a bit more.”
“And we’re about twenty minutes from Buckley?”
“Yup,” the pilot confirmed.
Dupree cursed. “That’s a small window, and Alex is running out of time.”
“Sir, all due respect, but that kid probably isn’t going to make it no matter what,” McCabe said.
Deep down Dupree knew it was true. He wasn’t ready to give up on Alex, but their primary mission was to locate and evacuate Ty Montgomery from Colorado and return him to the Secretary of Defense.
“Alex said those soldiers loaded the kids into a pickup, right?”
McCabe nodded. “I believe so, sir,”
The Humvees zigzagged around the cars stalled along the highway. There was no sign of a pickup or any kids, which suggested this wasn’t related to their mission. Still, it was their first sighting of any military presence out on the road. To Dupree, it was worth checking out.
“Cut ‘em off,” Dupree said. “We have to make this fast.”
Both pilots turned to look at him like he was crazy.
“That’s an order,” Dupree said. He moved back into the troop hold, adrenaline rocketing through him.
“Locust, get on the M240. The rest of you, lock and load. I want to ask those soldiers some questions and see if they have any info that could lead us to Falcon.”
The fatigue plaguing the Marines seemed to evaporate. They snapped into action, checking their weapons and suits as Locust opened the door. The other Marines crowded around, their weapons cradled and ready.
The Black Hawk shot over a forest spared from the flames, the wind from the rotors whipping the tops of pines like ripples in a pond. Dupree brought the scope of his M4 to his visor. The Humvees trailed a black cloud of exhaust on the off-ramp and turned onto another road that snaked through the forests.
“They have to see us up here,” McCabe said. “Why aren’t they stopping?”
Dupree pushed his scope back to his eye. The Humvees’ turrets were armed with M240s, but he didn’t see anyone manning the weapons. They raced down the road without slowing. A bridge crossed a stream about a mile ahead. From the sky, this tiny sliver of terrain still looked beautiful, but everything down there was likely toxic. Bluffs coated with moss towered over the road on the other side of the bridge. Gangly trees protruded out of the rocks.
The Humvees stopped on the bridge. The doors opened, disgorging soldiers in green CBRN suits.
“Look like they finally got the message,” McCabe said.
Dupree lowered his rifle and turned to the cockpit. “Put us down behind that minivan.”
“Yes, sir,” replied one of the pilots.
“McCabe, Emerson, and Sharps you’re with me,” Dupree said. “Everyone else, you stay in the bird and watch our back.”
McCabe hesitated. “Sir, I got a bad feeling about this. What if those guys are the same ones that took Falcon?”
“I’m hoping they are,” Dupree said.
Sharps chuckled. “Me too. I’ve been itching for some action.”
Dupree shot him a glare. “Goddammit, Sharps, you’re a Marine. A few minutes ago, I was actually thinking about how you were growing up. Do you still not see what the fuck is going on down there?”
The tall Marine glanced outside at the burning skyline and the road dotted with stalled cars.
“That shit down there is our new world,” Dupree said. He let the words sink in and bent down next to Alex as the bird lowered into position. The boy was breathing slowly, lost in a deep sleep. Dupree was relieved to see he wasn’t suffering.
“I’ll be right back, kid,” he whispered. He touched Alex’s arm and then stood. At the door, he chambered a round in his M4 and turned the selector to single shot.
The rotors whipped up ash and dust below, spinning it in all directions. As soon as the wheels touched the ground, Dupree hopped out and ran at a crouch toward a minivan. The Humvees—and the men guarding them—were about three hundred feet away.
Wind from the rotors slammed into Dupree as he jogged away from the bird. McCabe, Sharps, and Emerson followed close behind. They fanned out in combat intervals, their weapons cradled.
“Eyes up,” Dupree said over the comm link. He scanned the bluffs bordering the road and then counted five contacts dressed in ash-caked CBRN suits. They all carried M16s, but one man’s was equipped with a grenade launcher attachment. He stepped away from the group with his weapon lowered toward the concrete.
Dupree motioned for his team to hold security here. He walked out to meet the man with the grenade launcher. They stopped five feet from one another.
“Lieutenant Jeff Dupree with the United States Marine Corps. Identify yourself.”
“I’m Sergeant Jack Smith with the Colorado National Guard.” He looked up at the helicopter, then back at Dupree.
“What are you guys doing out here?”
“Was about to ask you the same question. Sir.”
Dupree didn’t like Smith’s tone, the slight and faintly sarcastic emphasis he’d placed on Sir.
“We were ordered to help evacuate any survivors and bring them to a refugee camp south of Denver,” Smith finally said when Dupree didn’t volunteer any information. “My unit split up about thirty miles west of here a few days ago after we were ambushed by some raiders. Bunch of skinhead fucks.”
“Skinheads?”
“Aryan Brotherhood types,” Smith clarified. “I’ve lost contact with two of my Humvees and a Bradley since the attack.”
Dupree sucked in a breath. He’d fought Taliban forces during the war, but even he was wary of the Aryan Brotherhood.
“We’re on our way back to Denver now,” Smith said. “Got more survivors suffering from radiation poisoning. Anyone out here is probably as good as dead, to be honest, and I fear my lost men are, too.”
Dupree looked over Smith’s shoulder. The other four National Guard soldiers were checking the bluffs. If Smith and his men were trying to trick Dupree, they were doing one hell of a job.
“How many civvies you got?” Dupree asked.
“Six, including a couple kids.”
“Mind if I take a look? We might be able to airlift them out of here, but I don’t have much time. We’re low on fuel.”
Smith gestured with a gloved hand. “Be my guest, sir.”
The distant whoosh of rotors reminded Dupree that he had a half dozen rifles on his back, but that didn’t relieve the anxiety swirling through his body. Even if these soldiers could be trusted—and his gut said they were on the level—his mission was falling apart.
Dupree motioned for McCabe and the other Marines to follow him toward the Humvees. His men kept their rifles cradled, but Dupree knew they were all on high alert. He still hated the idea of shooting Americans, but he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the bastards that ambushed Smith’s unit. Any coward that could do that deserved a round to the skull.
“Eagle 1 and Eagle 2, you got eyes on anything?” Dupree said into his mini-mic.
The pilots responded with a negative. Dupree relaxed slightly but kept his weapon at the ready as he approached the Humvees. Smith opened the back door of the first vehicle and Dupree halted, half expecting someone to pop out and shoot him in the head. But no one inside the first Humvee was going to be shooting anyone.
Two women were slumped against one another in the back seat, their skin red with rashes and shirts covered with vomit. A girl no older than nine was sobbing and clutching a doll to her chest.
“It’s okay,” Dupree said, holding up a hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He slowly backed away and checked the other Humvee. Another woman and two men were resting in the back seat. The man was doubled over in pain, clutching his gut.
“They’re in bad shape, and the roads ahead are going to be blocked once we get close to Denver,” Smith said. “Think you can help get ‘em somewhere
safe?”
“There’s plenty of room on our chopper.”
“Thank you, sir,” Smith said. This time, he sounded sincere.
“All clear down here,” Dupree reported over the comms. “Requesting evacuation for six more civvies.”
“Copy that, sir,” replied one of the pilots.
Dupree motioned for Sharps and Emerson to help him. McCabe stood guard while they helped the guardsman pull the survivors from the Humvees.
“Hurry up,” Dupree ordered the pilots. The bird circled once and then lowered back toward the highway. The two women from the first Humvee were in such bad shape, Sharps and Emerson had to carry them. They moaned as the Marines picked them up and slung them over their shoulders.
Dupree squeezed past and reached out to the girl in the back seat.
“It’s okay, sweetie, we’re going to get you out of here.”
She clutched the doll tighter to her chest with one hand and brushed a hank of brown hair from her face. Several strands of hair came off in her fingers. That made her sob even harder.
Dupree reached inside the truck and grabbed her, repeating, “It’s okay, sweetie.”
The mantra didn’t seem to calm her much. She struggled in his grip as he carried her away from the trucks.
“Good luck!” Dupree said over his shoulder to Smith.
Dupree didn’t like turning his back on anyone with a gun, but he was out of time. He looked skyward as the Black Hawk began to descend.
A hot flash of panic rushed over Dupree when the pilots suddenly halted their descent, hovering overhead. The rotor drafts slammed across the road, wrinkling his suit and whipping the girl’s hair around her head like a halo.
“Sir, we got eyes on a vehicle heading your way through the canyon. Looks like a pickup truck.”
Before he could react, a crack sounded. Locust, who’d been on the heavy gun aboard the chopper, grabbed his gut before plummeting out the open door of the troop hold. He crashed to the concrete ten feet in front of Dupree, screaming all the way down. His bones shattered with a sound like the boom of a shotgun.
“AMBUSH!” McCabe shouted.
Dupree ducked down with the girl as a bullet whizzed past his helmet. He set her gently on the ground and turned to fire his M4 at the guard soldiers. Damn it all to hell. He’d believed they were all right. What the fuck was this country coming to when one soldier couldn’t even trust another?
Just as Dupree centered the muzzle on Smith, the man’s visor exploded outward. The exit wound formed a crater where his nose had been, making it look like he had two mouths. He crashed to the ground in front of the Humvee.
A few feet away, Emerson fell to his knees, gripping his neck. Blood streamed through his fingers and sheeted down his CBRN suit.
All around Dupree, Colorado National Guard soldiers and Marines scrambled for cover. Two of the guardsmen fired M16s at the bluffs.
Smith’s men weren’t con artists leading the ambush after all, Dupree realized. They were caught right in the middle of it, just like the Marines.
Dupree snapped into action. “McCabe, Sharps, covering fire!” He pulled the girl back to the relative safety of the Humvees. “Someone, get on the M240!”
The bark of 7.62 mm rounds sounded a few seconds later, and Dupree caught a glimpse of Snider manning the big gun in the sky. The tracer rounds lanced into the bluffs. Whoever the bastards were, they were dug in. Dupree couldn’t see a single hostile from his position.
He shielded the girl with his body and reached for his rifle. It lay on the ground a foot away. A round ripped through his hand, and he pulled it back like a kid that had touched a hot stove. Blood gushed out of a hole in the center of his knife hand.
Dupree reached for the Beretta M9 on his holster instead. He pulled the pistol with his left hand. The pain in his right was severe, but it was already turning numb. He peeked around the bumper for a target just as the other two guardsmen collapsed to the ground, their bodies riddled with bullet holes.
It was just Dupree, McCabe, and Sharps now. The other two Marines hid behind the Humvee to his right. Sharps was gripping his right shoulder where he had taken a round. Three of the civilians were there, too, eyes all wide with terror.
“Give us covering fire!” Dupree shouted over the comm.
Snider, Runge, and Rodriguez were firing from the open door of the Black Hawk, but it wasn’t enough to deter their attackers. Automatic gunfire replied from the bluffs. Dupree still couldn’t see any of them.
“It’s too hot to land, sir!” yelled one of the pilots.
The other pilot yelled back. “We can’t leave them down there!”
A hard pause passed over the channel that felt like an hour. Dupree raised his M9 and searched for a target. Rounds punched into the concrete, pushing him back.
“Dupree, you got fifteen seconds to get to the troop hold,” one of the pilots said.
Fifteen seconds, Dupree thought. Fifteen seconds stood between life and death. He looked down at the girl. She was staring blankly at nothing, catatonic.
“McCabe, grab this kid and get her to the chopper. Sharps, you and I are going to lay down covering fire.” He pointed his bleeding hand at the other civilians. “You three, run as soon as we start shooting!”
Sharps met his eyes. There was fear in his gaze, but Dupree could see he was prepared to give his life in this moment. Dupree spared a precious second to nod at the young Marine.
“Ooh rah!” Sharps shouted.
Dupree yelled back, “Give these bastards hell!”
The moment Dupree stood to fire, he was hit by a round in the side. The bullet seized the air from his lungs. He grabbed the wound with his bleeding hand. Stars floated before his vision from the intense wave of pain.
Dupree looked up to a rocky outcropping and spotted the shooter. He lifted his M9 in his shaky left hand while the man who’d shot him pulled a magazine from his rifle. He tried to duck down, but there wasn’t cover.
In the stolen moment, Dupree squeezed off three erratic shots. The first streaked into the sky, the second hit the rock in front of the man, and the third hit the tree to his right. Overwhelmed by pain, Dupree fell to one knee and dropped his pistol.
Above, the man stood and aimed his rifle.
So this is it. This is your last moment.
He was never going to see his boys or his ex-wife again. The extra salt on the wound was not knowing if she would even care. He had been a bad husband and a lousy dad, but he had to hope she still loved him to some degree.
To the side of his blurred vision, he saw Sharps running and screaming. The former basketball player was zigzagging like he was about to put up a layup. The fancy moves drew the attention of the man aiming his M4 at Dupree. He shifted the muzzle just as Sharps shouldered his rifle and fired a burst into the man’s chest.
Sharps turned to run again, but he took a round from another shooter on the other side of the bluff. The bullets knocked him to the ground. He pushed himself up, but a second bullet ripped through his back, forcing him to the pavement. Lying flat, he looked over at Dupree wearing a mask of terror. The sniper finished the job with a shot to Sharps’ forehead.
Dupree tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled grunt. He picked up his pistol, stood, and staggered out into the street to distract the remaining snipers. There were two left that Dupree could see.
“Snider, two o’clock,” he gasped into the comm.
Snider directed the M240 fire on a short man perched on a rock to the north of the road. The rounds took off his arm.
Dupree turned slowly, looking for other targets. As he spun, he saw the carnage on the road. Sharps and Emerson were both lying in puddles of blood. The guardsmen were all sprawled out and leaking red. Three of the civilians were also down.
But some of them had escaped.
McCabe carried the little girl to the chopper as the pilots lowered to the ground. Two of the women had managed to limp away under the covering fire from Sn
ider, Rodriguez, and Runge.
“Hurry, sir!” McCabe shouted.
Dupree tried to move toward the Black Hawk, but he only made it one step before he crashed to the ground, his legs giving out.
Over the crack of gunfire, Dupree made out what sounded like an engine. A pickup truck was racing toward the bridge. The men standing in the bed were already firing at the chopper.
“Get out of here,” Dupree said.
“Sir!” McCabe shouted back. “I’m coming, just hold on.”
“No!” Dupree yelled, his voice cracking. “Get Alex and those civilians to safety…”
“We can still—”
“And tell my wife…tell my ex-wife I love her and the boys.”
The chirp and crack of gunfire sounded all around him. A round bit into the ground to his right. He lifted his head to watch the chopper pull away before collapsing to his stomach. Ribbons of red swarmed his vision. Dupree closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Sharps.
At least some of them got away, he thought. Dupree found he was okay with dying, knowing that he’d done his best.
He opened his eyes to watch the Black Hawk traverse the skyline. He took in a breath of air that crackled in his chest. Blurred shapes flickered across his vision.
“Which one of you idiots shot this Humvee?” snarled a voice.
Dupree gripped his pistol and tried to lift it as a pair of boots stopped right in front of him.
The man kicked the gun from Dupree’s grip, then bent down close enough that Dupree could see a squiggly scar on his forehead.
“You killed several of my men…” he said in a smooth, deep voice. He flicked the tag on Dupree’s chest. “Lieutenant Dupree.”
“Who are you?” Dupree managed to whisper.
“Who am I?” The man pointed at his chest and looked back at his men. “Who am I, boys?” He laughed and leaned back down.
“The General of the Sons of Liberty!” The men behind him raised their fists into the air.
“That’s right,” the man said. “I’m General motherfucking Fenix. I’ve been waiting years for something like this to happen. Ever since I got back from that sand trap shithole in the Middle East.” He spread his arms out to point at his men. “We’ve been waiting.”
Trackers Omnibus [Books 1-4] Page 36
