Trackers Omnibus [Books 1-4]

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  “Remember what I told you,” Fenix said. “We’re the resistance now. Our government has betrayed us. The Sons of Liberty are the only thing standing between the foreign invaders and those of us that are still pure.”

  A dozen hands went up in the air in a Nazi salute. The men then moved into position to set up their weapons. Fenix turned back to the view of the road. Two more fire teams were dug in with rifles and explosives on either side of the bridge below.

  They were well-equipped for this battle, but they didn’t have what they needed yet to fight the coming Civil War. That’s what made today’s raid so important. The semi-trailers at the end of the convoy weren’t just carrying boxes of MREs and cans of Dinty Moore beef stew. One of them contained weapons. Heavy weapons he could use to escalate these small raids into very damaging attacks against the traitorous American military and their Chinese allies. Eventually, he would be able to take the fight to the survival centers, and then, after raising a massive army, he could take back the country from President Diego and his bitch, Secretary Montgomery.

  Bringing his scope up, Fenix zoomed in and centered his sights on the two trucks at the front of the convoy. The blades slammed into abandoned cars, sending them skidding into the ditch. Snow puffed into the sky, raining down on the vehicles behind the trucks.

  He moved his sights to the bridge right below their vantage point. There were dozens of vehicles littering the road between the convoy and the bridge, but it wouldn’t take long before the trucks reached it.

  Fenix continued scanning the area, pausing where he had seen his men dig in. They had done a hell of a job camouflaging their position. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there.

  “Get ready,” Horton said, holding up a balled fist.

  The other men were all in position now. A dozen rifle barrels followed the approaching trucks. Fenix centered his sights on the first three Humvees. They were National Guard trucks. The fucking traitors were going to be the first to die. Then he would work on the Chinese, saving them for last. He would show the yellow skins what happened to those that set foot on American soil.

  The screech of metal on metal pulled him back to the road, where the two tractors leading the vehicles continued to slam cars aside. They were almost to the bridge, with only about a dozen more vehicles to clear. Horton kept his hand in the air, and Fenix gripped the stock of his weapon tighter, anxious to open fire.

  Part of him was hoping for a fight, or at least some resistance, although he had a feeling this was going to be a lot like shooting fish in a barrel. He really wasn’t worried about getting hit up here. His only concern was getting out before the Americans or the Chinese sent in reinforcements. Choppers would do a number on his team, but by the time they got here, he would be long gone. Now, if the military sent jets or Chinese fighters, that was another story. It was much harder to hit a fighter jet with an RPG.

  The thought sent a tingle through his nerves. His muscles tightened, and adrenaline emptied into his bloodstream. He inched his finger toward the trigger, keeping the Humvees in his sights.

  The tractors continued toward the bridge, smoke bursting from their exhaust pipes. The blades crunched into metal, sending another pair of vehicles into the ditch. When they got to the bridge, they did exactly what Fenix was hoping for. The truck on the left slammed into a car that skidded across the icy road. It hit the guardrail while the truck on the right plowed into a pickup. The result was a jam of five vehicles clogging the center of the bridge.

  The convoy slowed to a crawl behind the tractors.

  A massive explosion suddenly rocked the center Humvee, sending the truck five feet into the air in a fireball. It came crashing back to the ground, tires blowing out when it landed.

  “Give ’em, hell!” Fenix shouted as Horton dropped his hand, signaling the Sons of Liberty to fire.

  Gunfire lanced away from the cliff, slamming into the other two Humvees. Another explosion blasted the bed of a Chinese pickup truck. The vehicle came crashing down onto the bed of the next truck.

  Chinese and American soldiers piled out of the surviving vehicles and ran for cover. But there was nowhere to go. Another fire-team of SOL soldiers was waiting on the opposite side of the road. They were already standing to fire shouldered weapons at the men, riddling bodies with bullets.

  Several of the smarter Chinese and American soldiers dove under vehicles. Fenix aimed for one of the Humvees, where two grunts had taken refuge. He emptied his magazine into the side of the vehicle, pushing helmets down.

  As he changed his spent mag, he checked the bridge, where his other team was moving in toward the stranded tractors. The one on the right was attempting to back up, but gunfire peppered the windshield, splattering blood on the shattered glass.

  Fenix slammed a fresh magazine home and then directed his barrel at the remaining truck. Holding down the trigger, he painted the passenger door with bullets. The driver continued to reverse across the bridge, heading toward the burning Humvees.

  “Don’t let them escape!” Horton shouted.

  “Give me the RPG!” Fenix yelled back.

  Horton picked the weapon up out of the snow and handed it to Fenix. Hefting the launcher onto his shoulder, he lined up the sights on the truck. A squeeze of the trigger fired a rocket-propelled grenade that streaked toward the vehicle and hit the road to the right of the driver’s door. The explosion slammed into the side of the cab with such force it knocked the entire truck on its side.

  “Nice shot, General,” Horton said.

  He ignored the sergeant and picked his rifle back up, already searching for his next target. This was fun. Another five minutes of gunfire finished off the convoy. Fenix aimed his rifle at the semi-trailers at the end of the line, where the drivers had jumped ship and taken off down the road.

  Gunfire cut the four men down before they could get away.

  The noise faded, leaving only the sporadic crack.

  “That’s the last of ’em,” Horton said. He stood for a better view of the road, and Fenix moved to the edge of the bluff. Smoke drifted across the winter wasteland, and flames ate at the burned hulls of the destroyed trucks.

  Shouting came from the road, and Fenix zoomed in on a trio of his soldiers approaching a pickup truck, where some of the surviving Chinese soldiers were hiding. One of the SOL men lobbed a grenade under the truck, and the three men retreated into the ditch.

  A Chinese soldier crawled out when the explosion rammed the truck. The gas tank went up a second later, creating a massive gout of flame and a plume of smoke. Fenix laughed, but then went silent when he saw a burning Chinese soldier running out of the smoke cloud and away from the destruction. Hands waving in the air, he bolted for the ditch.

  Horton aimed, but Fenix reached out and pushed his barrel down.

  “Let him burn,” Fenix said. “Send in the clean-up crew. It’s on to phase two.”

  “You got it, sir.” Horton relayed the order over the walkie-talkies, and the fire teams began moving below, weapons aimed at the remaining vehicles. From the looks of it, they hadn’t lost a single man.

  The crack of gunfire a moment later changed that.

  Two SOL soldiers dropped to the road, blood splattering the snow. Fenix brought up his rifle and searched for the shooter. He shouted, “Eyes? Who has—”

  Gunfire peppered the side of a truck before he could finish his sentence. He zoomed in on a helmeted head under the truck, the bloody face gone slack in the snow.

  Fenix lowered his rifle, grinning. Served the son of a bitch right.

  “Move in!” he yelled.

  Six of his men jogged toward the trucks. He watched them round up several surviving American soldiers and then surround another truck where two Chinese soldiers surrendered their QBZ-95 rifles. They crawled out from under the back and held their hands in the air.

  Fenix eyed their black rifles on the ground, and then scrutinized their blue camo uniforms and matching helmets. This wasn’t the first ti
me he had seen them up close, but each time it was still a shock to see the foreign fucks on American soil.

  He joined his men on the road and scanned the sky. There was no sign of choppers or fighter jets, but they would have to move quickly to avoid any reinforcements. The distant growl of diesel engines sounded, but those were just the SOL trucks that had been waiting for the ambush to conclude. The pickups stopped near the semi-trailers and men jumped out, preparing to fill them with supplies from the convoy.

  Fenix walked toward the two National Guardsmen and two Chinese soldiers. They were on their knees in the center of the road, hands bound behind their backs with zip ties.

  Fenix strode past them. He would deal with them soon.

  “Jackpot!” someone shouted from the semi-trailers.

  Fenix made his way to the back of the truck, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of their biggest score yet. Crates upon crates of ammo were stacked neatly inside. Two soldiers were already going through the crates as Fenix and Horton approached.

  “Got M240s, RPGs, and some SAWs, but that’s not all,” one of the men said.

  Looking over his shoulder, Horton flashed a rare smile at Fenix. “Christmas has come early, sir. Looks like we got ourselves mortars!”

  Fenix looked inside the truck and examined the weapons with trepidation. The tubes were Chinese-built Type 87 mortars, a battalion-level weapon with a decent range.

  “What the hell are they doing with these bad boys?” Fenix muttered to himself.

  “More evidence the Chinese are here to conquer and not help. What else would they need mortars for?” Horton said.

  Fenix ordered his other men to continue unloading the weapons, and motioned for Horton to follow him. They walked back to the prisoners, and Fenix drew his .357 Magnum.

  The two Americans looked up at him, and his gun, their eyes pleading for mercy. Both men were young, maybe in their late twenties. One was a staff sergeant, and the other was a corporal. Both were blond with blue eyes—good Aryan features.

  Fenix couldn’t tell how old the Chinese men were because they had their heads lowered at the road and hands behind their backs.

  That was good. They knew their place.

  “It’s your lucky day,” Fenix said. He wondered if the Chinese soldiers spoke English, but decided he didn’t care. He aimed the .357 at their helmets and pulled the trigger twice, blowing their brains onto the pavement.

  “As for you two,” Fenix said to the American soldiers, “you get to live.”

  The staff sergeant vomited in the snow, but the corporal just kept staring at Fenix, rage in his eyes. He ignored the man, holstered the pistol, and walked away. He flashed a hand signal to the men at the end of the convoy.

  A shout stopped him as he made his way toward the getaway vehicles.

  “You’re that Nazi prick, aren’t you?”

  Fenix pivoted back to the corporal. He stalked over to the prisoner and bent down to check the man’s name. Mark Sussex.

  “I’m General Dan Fenix,” he said, scowling. “And now that you know who I am, I guess it’s not your lucky day after all.”

  In a swift motion, he drew his pistol, jammed the barrel against Sussex’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered over the road and Fenix stood with a sigh. The staff sergeant screamed and rolled away. He began squirming toward the ditch, his hands still bound behind his back.

  Fenix shook his head. “Just when I try to be nice, people have to be pricks. Sorry, staff sergeant.” He aimed and pulled the trigger three times, shooting the man in the back. Then he opened the cylinder of the revolver and dumped the empty cartridges.

  Horton stood glaring at him, and Fenix looked up as he reloaded.

  “You got a problem, Sergeant?”

  A quick shake of Horton’s head. “No sir.”

  “Then get your ass moving. We have to get out of here before reinforcements come,” Fenix said. “And remember, make it look like someone else did this. We can’t afford to keep painting swastikas on shit, or the military might decide to send more troops out this way.”

  He snapped the cylinder shut and watched as his men loaded the pickup trucks with the new weapons and ammunition. War was swiftly approaching, and now they had the tools to fight it. It was time to water the Tree of Liberty with blood.

  — 13 —

  Teddy’s release from the Estes Park hospital should have been a joyous occasion for Sandra. Instead, she was worried sick about her brother. She was trying to keep it together for Teddy and Allie, but Raven had been missing for several hours.

  She held the boy’s hand as she walked him out of his room and down the hallway. Allie carried Teddy’s belongings, including his stuffed animals.

  “Where is Creek?” Allie asked.

  Sandra couldn’t reply. Her heart was beating so hard she couldn’t speak. Raven and Creek had failed to show up at the checkpoint where Dale was supposed to pick them up, and Colton didn’t have the resources to send out a search party this second. He also didn’t think it was necessary—yet.

  Still, Sandra’s intuition told her something was wrong. Her brother didn’t get lost. Plus, he had been under the weather the past few days. She had tried to talk him out of the hunt but he wouldn’t listen, which was typical for Raven. Stubborn as always.

  Sandra opened the door to the lobby and led the kids out into the waiting area. This was Teddy’s first taste of freedom in months. He let out a happy sigh, and Sandra smiled.

  Outside the glass windows, the sun was setting over the Rocky Mountains. The temperatures would plummet soon, and she didn’t want to think about what would happen if Raven didn’t make it back before then. While he could usually take care of himself, if he was injured or worse…no, she couldn’t think about that.

  Two figures emerged in the parking lot outside, distracting Sandra from her worries. She loosened her grip on Teddy’s hand as his parents, Marie and Michael, approached the building.

  “Don’t forget to come visit,” she said. “Not here, of course, but at Raven’s house. I’m pretty sure you won’t want to come back here for a while, right?”

  “No ma’am,” he said, looking up at her. Then he glanced over to Allie and raised his stump before lowering it, his cheeks firing red. Sandra had seen him do this a few times as he got used to the phantom feelings from the missing limb. He gave Allie a quick hug with his other arm. She giggled and smiled.

  Sandra waved at Marie and Michael Brown as they walked in. “Teddy’s all ready to go,” she said.

  Marie cupped her hands over her face to hide her tears. She lowered her hands and reached out to hug Sandra. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Miss Spears.”

  Michael reached out to shake Sandra’s hand after his wife pulled away. “We can’t thank you enough,” he added.

  “You have a very brave son,” Sandra said. “He’s a fighter.”

  Allie walked over to the doors, looking at something in the parking lot.

  “Mom,” she whispered.

  “One second, sweetie,” Sandra replied.

  She continued going over the medicines they were sending home with Teddy as his parents listened intently. “He needs to take two of these a day, and then one of these before bed. It will help keep any infection from coming back.”

  “Anything else we should be doing?” Marie asked.

  “He still needs plenty of rest and good nutrition to help support his immune system. I’ve spoken to Raven and the chief about extra vegetable rations for him.”

  “Mom,” Allie said again. Sandra looked over at her daughter and saw Allie pointing out the window.

  “Is that Creek?” her daughter asked.

  Sandra’s heart pounded at the sight of the dog. He was limping across the parking lot, blood staining his fur. She waited for Raven to stumble into view, but the Akita was alone.

  ***

  Charlize looked out the window of her hotel room as the sun crested the horizon, spreading its light over
Lower Manhattan. Flakes fluttered from the sky, adding to the foot of snow that already covered New York. Several Chinese snowplows were already clearing the area below, but as for the rest of the city, the residents were out of luck.

  Her thirtieth-floor hotel room provided quite the view of the city. A few people were already on the streets, but the only traffic she saw were vehicles shipped in from other countries or old clunkers that had survived the EMP blast.

  It looked odd seeing the streets so empty. Although New York was one of the few major cities that hadn’t fallen into complete anarchy there were still large pockets of lawlessness and several boroughs that were war zones. Even in the relatively calm areas, like Lower Manhattan, things were far from normal. Most residents hadn’t gone to work in two months, and were relying on food and water from the numerous survival centers set up across the city.

  Rising above the skyline was a beacon of hope—One World Trade Center. At seventeen hundred seventy-six feet, it was one of the tallest buildings in the world. The number wasn’t a coincidence, either. It represented the date of the Declaration of Independence. Seeing the building watching over the city reminded her that Americans never gave up. When terrorists knocked down the Twin Towers, they were rebuilt, bigger and better than before.

  Part of her mission today was to find a place to relocate the White House to. Maybe she was looking at it now. The building was a fortress, and housed the FEMA offices. It was in a good strategic location, too, which made it a top choice on her growing list.

  She finished getting dressed, putting on a pair of black slacks and a plain button-down shirt. Throwing on a coat, she then headed into the hallway, where two Marines were posted. She followed them down to the lobby. Colonel Raymond was already there, waiting with a cup of steaming coffee.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” she said with heartfelt gratitude.

  “No problem.” He handed her the cup carefully, and said, “Did you get some rest last night, ma’am?”