He got up and began running.
He was halfway to the structure when they saw him and he heard the engine rev. Dodging around the houses to use them as cover, he headed for the station.
Stumbling into the garage, Parker quickly tried to fortify his position.
Next to the door to the office, there was a Coke machine, and he tipped it over, blocking the entrance. He found a piece of slim metal pipe in a scrap heap and slid it into place on the track rollers to the sliding door, effectively shutting the entrance point down. Working quickly, he gathered quart bottles of 40-weight engine oil and used his knife to slice them open, spreading the viscous contents across the grimy cement floor under each of the two windows. Sliding into the mechanic’s pit built into the garage floor, he tested his fields of fire. It was a good position. Better than he’d had any right to hope for anyway.
Outside, he heard the Stryker pull in to the station’s lot. He knew he was safe enough from the main gun, below the level of the floor as he was. From what he’d seen, this vehicle had the Mk44 Bushmaster II .30 chain gun. It could rain steel death through this building with enough intensity to bring the roof down, but as long as he stayed in the mechanic’s pit, chances were high he’d survive direct fire.
Once the soldiers got inside the garage, however, it would be a different story.
This is how I die, he thought.
He heard the big diesel engine of the Stryker whine as the vehicle crept forward, but there was no call for his surrender.
The .30 opened up at more than one hundred rounds per minute of API—Armor Piercing Incendiary rounds—and the cannon coughed the rounds out in a staccato rhythm. Striking the cinder block construction materials, they blew basketball-sized holes in the walls and tore the steel sliding door apart as if it had been no more than tissue paper. Orange incendiary spray lit up the cavern-like gloom of the garage and the auditory assault of the barrage rang through the building in daisy-chain thunderclaps.
He heard .30 cal. autocannon rounds smashing into the Volkswagen next, ripping it apart in a furious hammering of blows. Glass shattered and the room echoed with destruction as metal tore apart. The incendiary material immediately caught the gas on fire and it went up like a volcano, sending a blast of heat rolling across the nearly demolished shop.
Parker scrunched down against the forward wall of the mechanic pit as steel cyclones ripped through the building. Dust and vaporized chunks of cement filled the air like snow as metal crumpled under the impacts. Fifty-five-gallon drums of industrial lubricant blew apart next, spreading greasy globs of the petroleum product across the space. Load-bearing supports exploded then, and the left side of the building, opposite the office, folded, then collapsed, ripping a section of the roof free like a badly-cut pizza slice.
Shards of construction materials and flakes of metal rained down on the crouching Parker, falling debris dropping in miniature avalanches as displays of motor oil caught fire. The concussion of the big rounds landing and the sonic shock of API rounds streaking by directly overhead reverberated through his body even as he avoided direct contact with the deadly hail of cannon rounds.
He pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and tossed it overhand in a hook shot, seeking to add as much chaos as possible to the situation. He didn’t need to coordinate his actions with a team like his attackers could, and could spray fire at will. Reducing visibility only helped him.
The salvo stretched out forever. A steel girder fell from overhead, landing crossways across the narrow cement trench he crouched in and forming a barrier to catch large sections of the falling roof—Parker couldn’t have gotten luckier with its placement, he realized as soon as more roofing fell down. When the fusillade ended, it took Parker several moments to realize it simply because the ringing in his ears continued to deafen him.
They’re coming.
He threw a second smoke grenade. He popped open the legs on the M249s bipod and settled the weapon into his shoulder, peeking above the pit. He couldn’t see the end of his weapon, the surrounding smoke was so thick. He felt pretty good about his chances of a surprise attack, unless they had anti-personnel grenades.
Suddenly, through the smoke, he heard the Stryker’s V8 Caterpillar C7 engine rev as the driver raised the rpms into the red. It reached a zenith and he heard the tires jerk forward as the vehicle operator threw it into gear.
“Oh shit!” he yelled.
He’d expected a dismount strike, but they’d thrown him one hell of a curveball.
Dragging the M249 back to his body, he dropped down into the pit. Above, he heard the metal sliding door of the garage screech as it ripped free of its moorings and tore apart. The sound of the turbo-charged 7.2L diesel engine thundered into the bay, rolling over debris like a leaf pile. Tires screeched on the cement as the operator locked the brakes and it skidded to a stop.
The infantry fighting vehicle slammed into the burning Volkswagen and sent it skidding into a back wall like a hockey puck. The vehicle’s ruptured gas tank exploded in a second fireball as it rent open and burning fuel spilled out and spread across the floor.
In the next moment, Parker heard men yelling out, and he figured at least a six-man squad had dismounted to make entry. Following the sound of their voices, he popped up and cut loose with the M249, letting off a quick Z-pattern blast and then ducking down. He thought the ambient background IR from the burning materials would easily be too intense for the thermal imager on the vehicle’s RWS optics to pick him out, even if they tried it.
But he didn’t want to push the theory.
Dropping down as much as he could, he realized it was getting almost impossible to breathe. Working quickly as small arms fire erupted overhead, he broke out his stolen protective mask and snugged it into place over his sweat-drenched head. Holding the snout housing the filter seals, he created half an inch of space between his neck and the mask and blew out a breath, clearing the mask of any trapped bad air.
Letting the mask seal then, he was suddenly in a fishbowl world of muffled sound, fighting for each breath in order to fill his burning lungs with enough air to feed his oxygen-starved body. Without looking first, he lifted the M249 over the lip of the pit and cut loose with a long, ragged blast.
This seems like a reasonable time to leave, he thought.
Suddenly, he heard rushing feet moving across the concrete, and he instinctively pressed his back against the wall of the pit. He caught an impression of a figure flying past him off the edge and heard a muffled cry as one of the soldiers fell into the trench. The man moaned, and Parker barely made out his form in the murk and smoke. If he fired into the pit and missed, the rounds could ricochet around like buzz saws, slicing him to pieces.
Shifting his grip on the M249 to his off-hand, he drew his pistol. Smoke swirled around him, cloaking any indication of movement. Men shouted orders through the muffled barriers of their protective masks, but Parker couldn’t make out what they were saying. The man in the pit answered, though, and Parker quickly shuffled forward.
Suddenly, the man was directly before him, and Parker pulled his trigger twice. The pistol kicked in his grip and his rounds slammed into the man’s torso from six inches away. The soldier cried out in surprise and pain, and fell back. Parker dropped the M249 and caught the muzzle of the M4 as the soldier swung it around.
Jumping inside the weapon’s reach, body to body, he shoved his pistol up under the man’s chin and fired again. The smoke swirled and, face-to-face, Parker saw blood splash the eye lenses inside the pro mask the soldier wore, and then the man fell away, and Parker scrambled for the lip of the mechanic’s pit and alligator-crawled over the edge.
Behind him, the Stryker revved up and then pulled into reverse, lurching backward out of the opening in the garage wall. He heard men calling out to each other and realized the squad was strung out inside the chaotic structure; they’d lost unit cohesion. Checking the mental map he held of the building, he began high-crawling toward the back of the gara
ge bay.
The Volkswagon, engulfed in flames, burned and spit out black smoke into the swirling mess of the garage. The heat forced him to divert his path, and he realized the burning car could now be sitting directly in the path of the door he needed to reach. He remembered seeing the back corner of the structure collapse under the onslaught of the .30 cannon, and, instinctively, he turned in that direction.
The voices faded as the men in the infantry squad fell back. He heard someone’s voice yelling, “On line! On line!”
Moments later, five weapons opened up to rake the smoky interior of the building with bullets, their muzzles flaring like matchsticks and backlighting the smoke. Parker pressed his body into the cement, his heart beating hard from fear and exhaustion.
The line of firing weapons broke as some of the soldiers performed magazine changes. Adjusting his current elevation to climb up to where he thought he’d seen an opening would be suicidal, but a wolf caught in a trap would chew off its own leg to get free, Eli had once told him. He couldn’t remember the context of the conversation, but the veteran had always been full of little pearls like that.
Not prepared to chew anything off, he scrambled up the debris pile, relying on speed over subterfuge. His head rammed into something hard and sharp as he moved, and a jolt of pain locked up the muscles of his body for a moment. His scalp split open and rivers of warm, sticky blood gushed over his face, mixing with the dust frosting his head and forming a stiff skim over his skin.
He shuddered hard, disorientated, and his lungs worked to their limit as he fought to feed oxygen to his pounding heart through the filters of the protective mask. Off to his left, one of the soldiers opened fire with his assault rifle. Abruptly, just in time, Parker went over the edge of the rubble pile and tumbled down the hillock of debris. Here, the heavy smoke had risen and, lying on the ground, he saw he was finally outside. Bullets still cracked and whizzed by overhead, so he began crawling through the smoke.
The unforgiving cement scraped the flesh off his knees and elbows as he moved, and he gasped like a fish inside the claustrophobic hood of his mask. From memory, he cut to the right and headed toward the edge of the woods. Reaching the ancient barbwire fence surrounding the lot, he scrambled through the strands and rolled into the cheatgrass.
More men were shouting orders, but the smoke still hung in an impenetrable fog and he felt secure enough to rise to his hands and knees and crawl for the tree line. He already missed the feeling of security that the stolen M249 had provided. He didn’t remember losing it, but it wasn’t worth worrying about; at the moment, he was near desperate to reach the edge of the smoke cloud and strip off his rubber mask.
Exhausted, he crawled over some bushes and found himself in the woods. Tendrils of smoke drifted through the trees, but it was clear enough that he didn’t wait any longer to pull free the mask and gulp in air. He lay panting for a moment, his body drenched in his sweat.
Then, still breathing heavily, he rose and began making his way to the river.
18
The Vineyard
Truesdale stood in the fuel shed with two of his section leaders and counted 55-gallon drums. They were going through gasoline faster than he’d expected, and he was going to have to send out scouting parties if the Church’s network couldn’t establish a black-market source soon.
“Come on,” he grunted to the other two men. “Let’s go check how the ammunition stores are and then we can take a break.”
Sara Parker hadn’t been gone that long, but she’d built up a healthy appetite in him and he couldn’t get her out of his mind. If he couldn’t get her back soon, he’d need to find a replacement.
As they turned to leave, the shed’s door opened and one of the gate guards came in.
“We got visitors,” he said.
Truesdale was instantly on edge. “Who, and how many?”
“Three on horses; Church couriers,” the guard said.
Truesdale frowned, nervous now for a more specific reason than the fact that getting visitors these days was almost never good news. “Do you know them?” he asked.
“I’ve seen the woman before,” the guard said.
“Who is it?”
“Maggie Parker.”
Truesdale swore.
Maggie Parker swung down off her horse. Quarter horses were the most common and popular breed in America, which the two men with her rode, while hers was an Appaloosa—a breed that was independent, intelligent, and a favorite among riders who knew how to handle horses.
“Easy, girl,” she said to the mare. Digging in a pocket, she produced some dried apple and fed it to the horse. Then she looked at her two bodyguards as they dismounted. “Stay sharp,” she told them. She didn’t like Truesdale.
Turning, she saw Truesdale and some of his men approaching, but she ignored him to scan the area, trying to spot Sara. Disappointed, she faced Truesdale as he walked up to her. She didn’t like the man any more than she had Gruber who’d met an untimely death along with Dr. Marr and truthfully, she didn’t feel bad that he was gone. Maggie, like Marr, considered them necessary evils, but she’d grown very distrustful of how much power both men had managed to acquire.
“Maggie,” Truesdale said. The man always seemed to be smirking.
“Hello, Theo,” she said. “I’m bringing the parishes’ news from the head office.”
“Wouldn’t think there’s much left of the head office, what with Marr gone and all,” Truesdale said, and smiled. He lit a cigarette.
Maggie Parker kept her face a careful mask of neutrality. Lorraine Marr had been her world in many ways. She’d loved the woman in a complex combination of both sisterly and motherly affection, and her death had struck Maggie even harder than the break-up of her marriage.
“Dr. Marr was our heart and soul,” she told him. She looked him in the eye. “But her work lives on. There’s still a Church, still a head office, and administration expects the regional sites to continue following instructions. Is that a problem?”
Truesdale looked away from her gaze, suddenly very interested in smoking his cigarette.
“That’s not the problem we have,” he said. His tone was icy.
Maggie was instantly on alert. “Oh yeah? What exactly is our problem?”
Truesdale dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his heel. His smirk was back. “Our problem is your daughter.”
“Sara?”
“She’s working for the Council.”
“Bullshit!” Maggie snapped, glaring at him. There was no way her daughter was involved with the Council.
“I caught her going through my office,” he said. “Next day? She shoots one of my section leaders in the woods and takes off. You want to tell me again that she’s not involved with the Council?”
“Sara’s gone?” Maggie asked.
“That’s what I said,” Truesdale barked. “Keep the fuck up!”
Maggie rammed her hand into his throat, using the space between her first finger and her thumb to strike underneath his Adam’s apple. Truesdale gagged and dropped, both his hands going to his neck in the universal choking sign.
The section leaders standing behind Truesdale looked on in shock for a moment before each of them reached for their rifle slings. Maggie’s bodyguards had no such confusion or hesitation. Their weapons were up and leveled even before Truesdale’s knees hit the grass.
“I pulled that,” Maggie said. “So, get up. You’re fine.”
Red-faced, furious, and frightened, Truesdale stood up slowly. He cleared his throat noisily, and spat. “You got some balls on you, lady,” he coughed. “But we both know that was a cheap shot.”
“This isn’t the fucking UFC,” Maggie told him, meeting his glare without flinching. “There are winners and losers, full stop. Now what’s this bullshit about my daughter working for the Council?”
“Think about it.” He held up his hand when Maggie scowled. “No, I mean it. She fucking killed Dexter—that’s my dead secti
on leader—and ran. And she killed him with a gun. Where’d she get a gun? What do you think? What could Dexter have done that she would have killed him for, but learn the truth?”
“One hears unpleasant rumors, Theo,” Maggie said.
“Dexter didn’t try to rape your daughter,” Truesdale sneered. “He would have had to answer to me and he knew it. He also knew who her mother is.” The look he gave Maggie was pointed. “Either way, even if she’s not Council, she’s in the wind, and if she gets picked up by a patrol, she could talk about this place. We’ve been really lucky dodging the authorities so far; they pull in a disgruntled Church member that could change real fast.”
“Do you know how I met Lorraine?” Maggie asked.
“Dr. Marr?” Truesdale asked, seemingly caught off guard by the topic shift. “No, I don’t.”
“It was at a Farmer’s Market in town.”
“Oh yeah? You lived around here?” His every word was guarded now. In fact, his unease was so palpable it almost made Maggie laugh.
“In a manner of speaking. We have a family cabin near here. We used to come up almost every weekend in the summer. We’d take our vacations here. Hunting season; everything. We even had a Christmas there once.” Maggie felt her throat tighten at the memories, and she clamped down hard on her sentimentality. That had been a different life. A different her.
“So, you ran into her in town?”
“Yeah,” Maggie nodded. “We kept running into each other.” What she didn’t add was that, even as their friendship had grown, she’d kept it secret from her husband because she knew he wouldn’t approve. He didn’t even want to marry in a church and instead, they’d gone to the court house, which had always left a sour taste in her mouth. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter.” Maggie said, her voice curt. “What does matter is that we met because my family had a cabin near the Vineyard. And so—”
911: The Complete Series Page 39
