by Ryan Schow
They walked Macy to the couch. Rider got up to make room for her. They laid Macy down on her back. Cincinnati said she was feeling better, although her hearing was only about fifty percent. Still, that was an improvement from before when she wasn’t hearing much of anything.
Cincinnati knelt down next to her daughter and took her pulse.
Everyone looked at her expectantly.
“It’s strong.”
Still no internal bleeding. Well, most likely no internal bleeding. Cincinnati was the ER nurse, not Indigo. She just remembered what her grandpa taught her about dressing field wounds. He was a hunter and an archer, just like her. May God bless and nourish his soul.
To Rider, she said, “How’d you get in here?”
He produced a house key, which baffled her considering she held the only key to the house. Well, her and her father.
“I see you’re doing alright,” he said. “Lots of food, supplies, ammo. You did good, kid.”
“I’d be doing a lot better if you weren’t in my house right now.”
Atlanta, Stanton and Rex were all looking at the guy, wondering if he was going to be trouble. Hagan stepped inside the house and he, too, set eyes on Rider.
“I told you I’d check up on you, but I’m here for other reasons. There’s a place we’ve been preparing. It’s where people can come and stay. A compound of sorts. There’s a doctor, security detail, some food and plenty of room for all of you. Plus this compound comes with something special,” he said, looking right at Indigo.
“Oh and what’s that?”
“Me,” said a voice from behind her.
She turned and saw her mother standing there and damn near broke into tears.
“Mom?”
Her mother pulled her into a hug. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Inside she felt her organs beginning to shake.
This isn’t real, is it?
She drew back from her mother, stared at her and said, “I thought you were dead. I went to your house…”
“You’ve been to the house?” she asked.
“Yes,” she said, so lost in her mother’s eyes, she was sure this was all a dream.
“Did you see Tad?”
Reality set in hard and fast. Indigo couldn’t look into her eyes when she said, “Yes.”
“And?”
“Can we talk about him later? I’m still trying to figure out how you are real, and why you’re here with him.”
“He saved my life,” she said, looking at Rider
“Is this true?” she asked. He gave a humble nod. “Well thank you, Rider.”
“You said you have a doctor?” Hagan asked, looking at Rider and not Cincinnati.
“Yes, we do.”
“And you’re a nurse?” he said, now turning to Cincinnati.
“She is,” Rex said for her. “In the ER.”
“So between the two of you, do you think my mom will be okay?”
“What’s wrong with your mother?” Rider asked. Hagan told him and he said, “It all depends on her injuries.”
“So this doctor you have,” Indigo asked, “is she any good?”
“Sarah’s her name. Doctor Sarah Richards. And yes, she’s good.”
“You trust her?”
“She’s the one who’s been caring for me,” her mother said, catching Indigo’s attention. “So, yes.”
“I think it’s time you and your friends relocate,” Rider said. “Strength in numbers and all that.”
“Where to?”
“City college down on Masonic, on the other side of the Panhandle.”
“We’ve been there,” Stanton said. “Met a guy in an old Chevy truck with an arsenal in the bed.”
“Waylon.”
“Nice guy,” Stanton replied.
“I can go with Hagan,” Rider said, “get his mom and younger brother. But after that, you guys should come with us.”
“I’m going to stay here,” Indigo said. “Just in case my father comes back.”
“Where’s he at?” Indigo’s mother asked.
“San Diego,” Indigo replied. “Sales conference, or something like that.”
“Then I’m staying,” her mother announced. “If that’s okay with you.”
She held her mother’s eyes, then slowly nodded her head and said, “It is.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The former hitman and new head of The Ophidian Horde sat comfortably at his desk deep inside the half-destroyed Sutter Medical building reading his Bible under the light of an open window. A knock at the door pulled him from this brief utopia, but he didn’t stop reading until he’d finished his passage. After that, he closed the book and said, “Come in.”
Gunderson, his chief enforcer, entered with a black garbage bag in hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Chandler Diggs and his boys learned of a community meeting in Balboa Hollow—it’s just above the park on 8th and Fulton—”
“I’m familiar with the area,” he said, his eyes dipping to the bag he had in hand. “I don’t know this Chandler Diggs though.”
“He’s a convert. Goes by the name Blood Pig.”
The hitman gave a nod of recognition, allowing Gunderson to continue. “They were slaughtered a few days back. A former soldier of his went looking for them. Found a massacre.”
“A massacre? Who’d they find, besides Blood Pig?”
“There was a community meeting. I sent Chandler and his men to handle it, per your orders.”
“So the community killed them?”
“That’s what’s unsettling, sir. Everyone’s dead. Chandler, his men, fifty or sixty members of the community. It’s a blood bath.”
“Where at?”
“Frank McCoppin Elementary, on 6th and Balboa.”
The hitman frowned, truly disturbed. He went to Frank McCoppin as a kid. Before he became…what he became…he was just a boy and that school held many fine memories for him.
“Who did this? And why wasn’t I told you were moving on the elementary school?”
“You said handle it, sir. So I handled it. From this point forward, I’ll be sure to apprise you of all movements in detail. We’ve got several more planned over the next few days, but…”
“But what?”
“This one gives me pause,” Gunderson said.
“Stop sounding so formal for Christ’s sake. I’m not going to shoot you for lack of manners or an improper usage of the English language.” Then: “What’s in the bag?”
Gunderson sat the bag on a chair facing the hitman’s desk, reached inside, fidgeted a little, then hauled out a decapitated head by the nostrils, almost like it was a bowling ball and not attached to a body a few days ago.
“What does that say? On his head? Indigo?” He studied the head, then looked up and said, “What the hell is ‘Indigo?’”
“We think it’s a name,” Gunderson replied, “but it could be a new faction, too.”
“So they cut his head off?”
“I cut his head off.”
“Why would you do that?”
“His body was turned into a pin cushion in the worst way. Besides, it was easier to bring him to you like this rather than drag back an entire body. I can retrieve the rest of him if you want.”
“No, but I do want you to go back and burn the bodies. All of them. Burn the school down, too.”
“There are houses all around the school, sir.”
“And if they burn?” the former hitman asked, raising his voice, perturbed. “If this whole city burns? What will be the difference from now?”
Gunderson lowered his head, humbled.
“You did good, Gunderson,” he said, his calm returning. “I see now that I was right about you. You’re going to make a fine enforcer.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Reaching his hand out, he said, “Let me have him.”
Pulling his fingers out of Blood Pig’s nostrils, he handed the head over, setting it on the desk on t
he bloody flat of the cut-off neck.
“Not on the desk,” he said, sliding the Bible over. “Use a coaster.”
Hesitating, Gunderson set the man’s head down on the Bible, steadying it, then standing back while the hitman looked it over.
The self-appointed leader of The Ophidian Horde turned the head so he was eye to eye with it. Then: “This Indigo, whatever it is…a gang, a person…whatever, apparently this was some form of retaliation.”
“We believe so, too.”
“Gunderson, your first order of business on this sad day is to find out who or what Indigo is, and then report back. I’d like to head up the matter myself when the time comes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Making a fist and popping his knuckles, he looked at his chief enforcer with the deadest of gazes and said, “We’re literally going to rip the spine out of this Indigo thing and hang it from the nearest lamppost so people know who we are, and what we’re capable of.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Good,” he said. “Now get on it.”
END OF BOOK 3
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Day of the Attack. Corpus Christi, TX.
First Lieutenant Jagger Justus and Second Lieutenant Camila Cardoza checked into the Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, otherwise known as NAS Corpus Christi, for advance flight training. The two marines were bunking in separate quarters, but Jagger knew Camila wished they were bunking together. She’d always been a touch sweet on him, which she made no bones about, even though he was eight years her senior and married with two boys.
Camila once told him that as early as fifteen, she’d been attracted to older men, her father’s best friend specifically. She’d said, “You’re not that old, and I’m not that young…” to which he always replied, “I’m too married for you. This has nothing to do with age.”
Jagger settled into his quarters, having laid down for only a few minutes before Camila came knocking on his door.
He opened his eyes, drew a breath. “Come in,” he said, stretched out on his bunk, fingers laced behind his head. He’d been hoping for a little shut eye, a power nap at best.
The twenty-five year old Guatemalan firecracker stepped inside his quarters and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a sit down at either the Oasis Tavern, Circle R Mexican or the Boardwalk Café.” She was in fatigues and a green t-shirt. The t-shirt was too tight, as usual. She wasn’t a busty woman, but the girl knew the effect her body had on a man and wasn’t afraid to boast.
He looked away, even though it was clear she preferred he didn’t. He wasn’t about to be rude or send the wrong message.
“I’m down for the Oasis, so long as you have some dignity about yourself in there. You know that place can draw an unsavory crowd.”
“That was last time,” she said. “Besides, I have you to protect me, so...”
Sitting up, planting both feet on the ground, he said, “Like you can’t protect yourself.” She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, coupled with a sly, sexy smile. Looking away, he said, “I’ll find us a ride.”
“Did I ever tell you how much I adore your resourcefulness?” she teased.
There was something about her accent that complimented her look, giving off the impression that she was an innocent twenty-something when really she could go toe to toe with guys twice her size. She’d say it was because she had brothers. The truth was, this slender little fighting machine had been doing kickboxing since she was six.
Rolling his eyes, he said, “C’mon Cardoza, we just got here.” He didn’t mind the subtle flirtation here and there, but lately she’d been pouring it on.
“What?” she asked, feigning virtue. “I’m just excited to earn my hours, aren’t you? I mean, what’s sexier than Tilt Rotor training in Texas? Meet you back here in ten?”
“So I’m arranging the ride?” he asked.
“Didn’t we already talk about this?” she said on the way out, giving him a wink and leaving the door open.
He stood and shut the door, wondering how the hell she could go from steadfast to flirty then back to professional, all in under a minute. What drove a woman like Camila was a mystery for sure, one that left him wondering why she’d been so forward lately. He knew Camila left her boyfriend last month, but he didn’t know why. Jagger suspected he’d cheated, but Camila never let on. Twice this past week he found her crying. Once he made the mistake of hugging her at her most vulnerable point. The way she settled into him was too comfortable. It made it easy to see himself being with a woman like her, but he wouldn’t act on it. He couldn’t. Now, contemplating the idea of throwing back drinks with her several states away from home, he longed to be back with Lenna and the boys.
Drawing out a long sigh, he stretched, then jumped on the phone and arranged a vehicle. Deep down he was attracted to his co-pilot, to the way she pined after him, to the way she looked at him and tried to get with him in spite of his commitment to Lenna. He hated admitting this to himself, but it was true. Still, he sought to live a upright life, even though she’d somehow turned this into a flirtationship she often said she enjoyed.
There was more though. More truth to her behavior than he wanted to acknowledge. She’d do anything he wanted her to do, no matter what, when or where—he needed only say the word. He would never say that word…
The knock on his door startled him out of his reverie and he brought himself to attention. He pulled open the door and there she was.
“You get us a ride, Lt?”
“Sure did.”
Moments later their ride arrived. Jagger was handed the keys to a Jeep, but he looked at Camila and asked if she wanted to drive.
“You should drive me,” she said. “I’m a traditionalist.”
A half-hearted laugh escaped him and he said, “Yeah, right,” which caused her to blush a little and bat her eyelashes at him.
She really was very cute, completely disarming.
They drove off base to the Oasis Tavern, pulled up two stools and ordered drinks. The atmosphere was on the dim side, the county music upbeat but not too rowdy, the crowd surprisingly well behaved. There were only about a dozen patrons, most of them hardened men, but not rough looking. He and Camila were on their third drink when the peninsula was first bombed.
“Did you hear that?” Jagger asked. He was looking over at Camila and straining to hear above the din of a Chris Stapleton country song.
A second, third and fourth concussion sounded, sending tremors through the ground and startling them all. Camila’s eyes widened with concern.
“Turn the music down!” Jagger told the bartender. “Everyone be quiet!”
The mood of the bar shifted on a dime. A look of alarm broke over the surface of the bartender’s otherwise neutral face as he killed the music. Everyone sat on edge, silent, listening intently.
When the next bomb hit, Jagger kicked off his stool and was first out the door with Camila on his heels. Everyone else poured out after them and in seconds all eyes were locked on the horizon.
“My God,” Jagger heard himself say as several columns of smoke rose into the clear blue sky. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, moving toward their ride, he said, “C’mon Cardoza!”
They jumped into the Jeep they’d borrowed and raced up NAS Drive toward what looked like a slew of explosions. A fleet of drones zipped overhead, causing them both to look up.
“Are those ours?” Camila asked loudly.
“Not sure,” he answered over the heady reverberation of the engine.
Jagger blew past a row of crappy looking restaurants and used car dealerships, past a storage lot and half a dozen low-slung buildings you’d never see in Architectural Digest, unless they had the Trailer Park Edition. Twice they roared past slower vehicles on the wrong side of the road causing Camila to stop breathing as she grabbed ahold of something, anything.
When they approached NAS’s front gate, he told Camila to hold on. Never even touching the brakes,
he swung into oncoming traffic and bypassed the base’s gate shack completely. Minutes later the NEX gas station was hit. It went up in a series of explosions that sent fire and rolling smoke into the sky.
The concussion waves rocked their Jeep on its springs. More drones flew by, breaking formation a second later. Artillery fire from further out sliced through the air, wobbling and then downing several drones.
“There must be thirty of them!” Camila screamed, leaning forward and peering up through the dusty windshield.
“Keep it together, Cardoza!” he said, his own teeth set on edge.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked, glaring at him.
He had to admit, the woman was pretty chill under fire. Was he though? They were finding out by the second.
By the time Lexington Blvd dead-ended at Ocean Blvd, the Navy Marine Corps Relief Society building had been leveled, as well as the Naval Exchange, the Post Office and the Navy Legal Assistance Office.
A quick flick of the eyes into his rear view mirror showed him a drone bearing down on them. He jerked the wheel at the last minute, causing the tires to screech and yelp in protest. The inside tires lifted off the ground putting them on two wheels and slightly out of control. Gritting his teeth, Jagger held on. A line of gunfire pocked the road in front of them, spitting up bits of asphalt and gravel as the drone rocketed overhead. He ripped the wheel back around and managed to keep them from toppling over.
“Did that thing just shoot at us?!” Camila screamed, obviously shaken. Jagger was too rattled to tell her that luck alone just saved their lives.
With the exploding sounds of violence and warfare upon them, Jagger pushed the Jeep harder, forcing himself not to rationalize what was going on, to just move. He kept his foot on the gas. He drew a hard left on Ocean, the back end breaking loose in a baying squeal. They shot past a pair of Tilt-Rotor Valor’s sitting on the tarmac in smoking ruin before veering too quickly into Hangar 46. Jagger flew into the hangar, stood on the brakes and slid sideways to a stop.
They were now in the heart of the defensive operation.
At least two dozen men were moving about the hangar with purpose, although it would look like frenzy to any civilian. Jagger made a beeline to the man in charge, stood at attention until he was acknowledged.
