The Eagle's Last Stand

by Gibson Morales

  “Gracias, Hector,” Cecilia said as they walked through a metal detector, then to Dagos and Sledge, “There are too many blood mobs for us to handle. The most we can do is work with the more docile ones and try to bluff against the bigger ones. A whole lot of politics.”

  They passed through a cement walkway, framed by barbed wire and metal bars bent in a triangular pattern, and a second check-point and dog. An asphalt courtyard broadened out before them, full of MRAPs and armored SWAT team vehicles.

  As far as Dagos could tell, this had been an actual police outpost before the war. It was nice to see something still being used for what it had been intended.

  Sledge cocked his head at the handgun holstered on Cecilia's hip. “Men and women like us weren't made for politicking.”

  She shrugged. “We do what we have to. There isn't a local government anymore. Not a real one.”

  “A puppet of the blood mobs?” from Dagos.

  “Yes ma'am.”

  As they crossed the courtyard, Dagos couldn't help but ask. “You've gotten us pretty far in. If we were blood mob spies we could cause a lot of harm. Doesn't that worry you?”

  “Well, we want to let the locals get to know us. We thought about going the authoritarian route. It seemed like the obvious choice under the circumstances. But then people would see us as just another blood mob.”

  “Hearts and minds,” Sledge said.

  “Something like that.”

  They passed another set of guards into a dirty white corridor with halogen lighting. They turned right into a busy hall, whispers stirring in their path, and started up a series of stairs.

  Behind a glass wall were office desks, whiteboards, and explanations from balding men with circles around their eyes, wearing striped dress shirts and suspenders.

  They took another right and Cecilia knocked on the door of a Captain Mitchell Rossy.

  A man in a full SWAT outfit opened the door. He had blond hair with specks of gray and skin slowly succumbing to age. Dagos pegged him to be a few years older than herself.

  “I need to speak with the Captain,” Cecilia said.

  “He's busy,” the guard said dully.

  “With what, exactly?” Sledge snapped. “Considering a damn chopper crashed two hours ago.”

  The SWAT guard narrowed his eyes, obviously not used to anyone questioning him. Dagos fought back a grin. Sledge loved playing this game. Pretending to be a crotchety wild man to an unsuspecting whelp. Then, when the time was right, he'd give them a taste of who he really was.

  But the guard must've had some sense in him. He'd probably been a real SWAT team soldier before the Anunnaki. Because rather than tell Sledge to shut his trap, he studied Dagos's face.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like the Eagle?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that I am the Eagle?” Dagos said, mirroring the expression she'd used on so many morale posters and propaganda videos. A look of determination and hope surviving amid endless strife.

  The officer shifted his shoulders and shook his head as he nudged the door open. “A few years ago, if you told me you were one of the most famous soldiers on the planet, I would've told you to go play Russian roulette. In those few years though, I've been attacked by alien robot dogs roaming the streets, met teenagers from private Beverly Hills academies who formed blood mobs, and watched a freaking Anunnaki mothership crash-land in the middle of the city. I should note that mothership destroyed my favorite steakhouse.” A knowing smile split his face. “Get your asses inside.”

  The officer clapped Cecilia on the shoulder. “I'll take it from here.”

  He shut the door behind them and led them to the oak door across the small room. Another man dressed in a SWAT team uniform stood aside.

  They entered into an office with a single middle-aged, brown-haired man and a common black police uniform. Surprisingly, the SWAT team officer flicked his thumb back. The captain nodded and hurried out of the room. Who kicked his boss out of his own office? Now this guy had Dagos's undivided attention.

  “Pardon the theatrics,” the SWAT team officer said, peeling off his black helmet and setting it on the desk as he pulled himself up a seat. “Now you know my methods for self-preservation. Or one of them. I'm sure as a fellow VIP, you can appreciate that.”

  Dagos couldn't deny that she could. Just revealing herself today the ways she had amounted to breaking more protocols than she cared to count.

  “I'd say he's got a little of Ham in him,” Sledge said.

  “Ham? No thanks. Never liked pork. The name's Mitchell Rossy. Call me Mitch.”

  Dagos and Sledge shook his hand in turn then sat in front of the desk. “Are you truly the Eagle?” he asked.

  “If you're truly the leader of this base.”

  “Fair enough. Let's get right down to it then. I was discussing matters of the blood mobs with my lieutenant before you two showed up, so I hope this is important.”

  Dagos stopped herself from laughing. “A lot more important than blood mobs. Besides, we tangled with them earlier. But one thing at a time. And our priority is the Anunnaki. Can we agree on that?”

  “It's hard to be worried about an alien race who mostly keep to their ship when you've got the worst of humanity on your doorsteps.”

  “I hope you're not referring to the refugees you're feeding,” Sledge said.

  “I'm talking about blood mobs. They—”

  Dagos raised a palm. “Sorry to cut you off, but, like you, we're on the clock. We're trying to save a girl from the Anunnaki. I know the ones here have laid low over the past year. But if we don't save that girl by eighteen hundred hours, there won't be much of a Los Angeles, or any major city, left.”

  Mitch ran his hair back with a gloved hand and groaned. “That sounds awfully familiar to those radio broadcasts I used to hear.”

  “My radio broadcasts worked. People respond quite a bit to fear. Because of those messages, we got the manpower or the funding or the resources to accomplish our objectives. And that's how humanity has survived this far.”

  “Yeah, okay. How do I enter into this? This little girl, is she in Jakarta?”

  The crashed mothership the Anunnaki used as a base.

  “Yes. And we need the West Coast Militia Patrol's help. You see, we were planning a covert operation to infiltrate the Anunnaki's outer lying defenses.”

  “The chopper?”

  Dagos nodded. “Accidents happen, though. And now we're in need of a way to get to the crash site.”

  “So...”

  “So we can retrieve specific gear necessary for mission success.”

  Mitch folded his padded arms over his tactical vest. “Specific gear necessary for mission success?” he mocked. “Where's all that charisma from your speeches, huh?”

  “There's a time for speeches and there's a time for serious talking. We're at the latter,” Dagos said. She couldn't take his bait. She couldn't tell if he didn't believe in her or he simply wanted to get something juicy out of this for himself. The answer would reveal itself soon. It always did. “Is there any way you can secure us an escort to the crash site? Once we're there, we can salvage our gear and finish the rest of our mission.”

  “Where exactly did your chopper hit the ground?”

  “Right outside the Wendenberg building.”

  “That's Komodo turf. No can do. A sudden, open assault would be suicide. And I don't have the resources here. I'd have to convince my superiors at the HQ.”

  Dagos interlinked her fingers. She could bring up the armored vehicles parked outside, but she could guess his response. It was basic tactics. If they moved too many of those out, other blood mobs would smell vulnerability and threaten to overtake this outpost.

  “You could spare two or three vehicles. Get us in, get us out,” Dagos said. “Virtually no risk to this position. We might require some spare troops. Think of it as a show of force.”

  “They say you were in Afghanistan, head-shotting Al-Qaed
a soldiers before you were head-shotting Anunnaki. I always wondered if you guys understood the fatal flaw of battling an enemy with the home field advantage. The flaw of making war in someone else's backyard and trying to figure out all the rules.”

  “Of course we knew that would be an obstacle. We worked around it,” Dagos said, her temper rising.

  “I assume you two are trying to make allies right now. And I'm the first one you came to. Aren't I?”

  “Get to your point, Mitch,” Sledge said, acting the angry man himself rather than letting Dagos slip.

  “My point is that you two can't possibly understand all you're asking me to disrupt with this request. There are delicate dynamics at play here. If I were still just a SWAT soldier, I'd support your cause. Hell, I might join you personally. But I'm in charge of this outpost. I've got to think about more than myself. Those refugees out there would starve without the rations we pass out each week.”

  He laid his hands flat on his desk and frowned. They lapsed into silence with that and Dagos understood this was his final answer.

  10

  As Mitch's bodyguard escorted Dagos and Sledge across the parking lot of armored vehicles, she doubted she'd ever hear from him again. And while she understood his position, she didn't think she'd miss him.

  So, when he called, “One last thing,” she wheeled around faster than in some firefights.

  A key flew at her. She caught it and blinked at him in the second story window.

  “Take Fig all the way down. You might find someone willing to help you. Or rather, they might find you.”

  She jingled the keys. “Who am I looking for?”

  “Like I said, you'll run into them. Hmm, bad choice of words. Well, it's up to you. Look for a warehouse on Fig and Ninth. Tell them Mitch sent you. Better hurry, though. Blood mob hunters will be out in full force soon.

  He had a funny way of helping them.

  “I say we go for it,” Sledge said quietly.

  Dagos waved a thanks to Mitch and to his bodyguard, said, “Show us our ride.”

  Cruising through Los Angeles in an armored car sounded like a much better idea than trekking on foot. Because working cars were rare, driving was asking for trouble. But a military vehicle was like a big warning sign. Most of the MRAPS had mounted machine gun turrets, so Sledge could scare anyone stupid enough to try and screw with them.

  But after they picked up their shotguns from the trash bin, she found the guard leading them away from the MRAPS and SWAT vehicles to another lot. Maybe Mitch figured they needed speed and had reserved a standard police cruiser for them. She'd settle for that.

  Instead, the bodyguard stopped in front of an old Ford pick-up. It looked like it had a skin disease and cracks webbed across the passenger window.

  “This is a joke,” Sledge said, kicking a flat-looking tire. “Tell Mitch that if we die it's his fault.”

  The bodyguard hesitated. “If you're traveling around downtown, you won't find anything better to blend in than this.”

  “Yeah, blend in with those dead bodies in the cars.”

  Dagos bit her lip and opened the driver's door. “Tell Mitch we appreciate it.”

  She hoped she didn't have to take that back.

  The guard scratched his shoulder. “Still, watch out for the blood mob patrols. If you're not quick, you'll hit their rush hour.”

  To Dagos's pleasant surprise, the engine started just fine. Then again, so had the helicopter's.

  They eased past a dozen other worn-down, crapped out vehicles that must've been old drug cars or seized from blood mobs. A man rolled back the gate for them and they were on their way.

  Sledge fiddled with his seat belt. “Damn this thing's itchy.”

  “This can't have any more fleas than that van in Mogadishu. Remember that?”

  “I loved that van. Oh, look a bullet hole in the hood.”

  “Now where's Fig?”

  “He was referring to Figueroa, so I'd say over that way.”

  Since she drove about once a month, she felt a little rusty every time behind the wheel. Fortunately, the roads weren't blocked off at any point. They did navigate past a lot of other randomly-placed cars, though. Some empty, some with people staring out at them, and some with only the remains of drivers.

  As they rolled down Fig, movement caught at the edge of her vision.

  “Blue SUV, eleven'o'clock,” Sledge warned. “One hundred meters.”

  She hit the brakes and killed the engine, deciding their best bet was to try and blend in. Maybe these were the guys Mitch had been referring to. Maybe not. She berated herself for not demanding more information. But she knew how it went. You didn't always play by the rules when it came to law and order. Sometimes you had contacts you weren't supposed to. Contacts you didn't brag about.

  If these guys were worth their salt, they'd spot an out-of-place pick-up on the road. If they couldn't detect something new in their environment, there was no way they'd be able to help get them past a Komodo blockade.

  “They're rolling down their windows,” Sledge said.

  Sometimes he had a bad habit of narrating.

  “I'm not driving. I can see,” Dagos protested, bringing her scarf around her mouth.

  The sight of HK416 assault rifles poking from the vehicle made her stomach clench. If they planned to kill them, it would play out a lot like this.

  The SUV raced toward them on the opposite side of traffic, swerving at all the right places to avoid a collision with the stopped cars. Whoever was driving knew the roads. Whether it was speeding for them or the driver always drove this fast was anybody's guess.

  She took a deep breath, her pulse quickening as the blue vehicle closed the hundred-foot mark.

  Keep on driving, she willed them.

  The driver was still gunning it and she sensed it would go past them. Then it halted to a screech, a mere twenty feet away on the opposite side of traffic. The driver was a thin black man with dreadlocks and a scar running down his cheek. He leveled his HK416 at them and pointed down.

  Carefully, she lowered the window, both her and Sledge with their shotguns aimed right back.

  “Nice afternoon for a drive, huh?” she said.

  “The fuck you wearing that for?” Dreadlocks replied, referring to her scarf. “Take that off or we'll turn you into Swiss cheese.”

  He and the three passengers cracked up at that, relishing in the corny joke.

  Dagos knew this was a power play. Asking them to drop their guns would've gotten neither of them anymore. Telling her to take the scarf off her face though was a subtle way of imposing his will on her. Aware of this, she obliged.

  “I would've asked you to drop your gun,” Sledge whispered to her.

  Dreadlocks stared hard. “You're pretty for an older woman. Pretty women shouldn't be driving around here.”

  “You only think I'm pretty because you see me on TV all the time,” she said, her eye twitching at the “older woman” part.

  “Oh yeah. What channel are you on? The porn channel?”

  The group whooped, but Dagos rolled her eyes. She'd heard a lot worse.

  “I'm the Eagle. Don't you recognize me?”

  Dreadlocks cast his head from side to side. “Bullshit. Come on, what are you doing around here, lady?”

  “A guy named Mitch sent me. Ever heard of him?”

  Resentment flickered in Dreadlocks' eyes. “Mitch? Yeah, I've heard of him.”

  The guns sucked back into the car and the windows rolled up. The vehicle began turning.

  “Get ready,” Dagos said as much to herself as to Sledge, turning on the ignition and putting the pick-up into drive. She hit the gas right as the blue SUV u-turned onto their side.

  “Always ready for punks like this,” Sledge said, twisting around and resting his shotgun on the shoulder of his seat. She curled her arm back and planted hers upside-down over her shoulder.

  “You need training wheels?” Sledge said, referring to him guiding
her blind-fire aim.

  “I'll be okay. It's a shotgun after all.”

  They shared a quick laugh before a burst of gunfire drowned them out. Dagos cursed under her breath, but it might as well have been out loud for as much as she heard over the din of automatic fire from behind. Shards of glass flecked against her shoulder. So much for the back windshield.

  Beside her, Sledge unleashed a flurry of slug shots. She squeezed the trigger and her arm jolted. In her side mirror, the blue SUV jerked to the left.

  More shards of glass sprinkled onto her arms and shoulder. This time from her window. She swerved right, noting the tiny red dots running along her arms. Damn was she going to need the life Conifer or Orun's healing tech.

  “Nine'o'clock,” she cried, plunging her foot on the brake.

  At the same time, she swung her shotgun around in her right arm, hoisting it on the window sill. Dreadlocks' co-pilot didn't expect the maneuver and ducked back in mid-reload as they met side by side. Sledge was too quick. A pink mist exploded from the window and spread over the blue of the SUV.

  Heart pumping in her ears, Dagos forced herself down as it rammed their way and hit the gas. Something thudded under them. Maybe a cone or a body for all she knew. When she raised her head again, the pick-up's front windshield was shattered and an overturned bus lay ahead.

  Her blood froze as she swerved hard. Time slowed as the front headlight collided with the back of the flipped-over bus. The entire truck lurched, the impact sending waves of pain from head to toe. With a raw wrenching noise, the bus ripped a hunk off their hood. But she managed to regain control and veer away before the bus crushed her.

  “You okay?” she asked, hitting fifty on the speedometer.

  “Bastards got me on the shoulder.”

  Dagos glanced to see a trace of red staining his green shirt on his left shoulder. He'd taken a lot worse.

  “So yes.”

  “Screw you. Shit hurts,” Sledge growled. “And how'd you come out unscathed from that hit?”

  A ripple of gunfire silenced them as bullets whizzed past their face. Cloth exploded from Dagos's seat. On pure reflex, she drilled the SUV with a cloud of bullet holes. And still she counted three bad guys, including the driver. Bloodied, but alive. A line of cars wedged between them, bullets ricocheting inside their hollowed frames, and she noticed the constant bounce in their drive. She could only guess how many tires had been knocked out.