Rolling Hunger (The Yard Gnome Action Team Book 2)

by RW Krpoun

  Hodges stared at her. “What about this ‘Addison Smith’?”

  “A founding member, with them the entire run.”

  “So not NSA.”

  “No chance. He’s not covert, he’s off the grid. Some fringe group type is my best bet.”

  The researcher shook his head. “Davenport suggested they were a CIA front.”

  “Not likely, sir. Their leader was a Staff Sergeant at the onset of the outbreak and his entire career is accounted for. My thinking is that they got a hint at the safe house and followed it up here.”

  “I should have torched that damned place,” Hodges fumed. “That’s what comes from off-the-cuff operations: there’s no margin for error.” He took a deep breath. “Well, no real harm done. They might have gotten central Minnesota at best, but that is too large of an area to be concerned about. Besides, Wade and his team will deal with them.”

  “That may be the problem, sir. Are you aware of who led District Twelve during the early stages of the crisis?”

  “No.”

  “Doctor Davenport.”

  “That little bastard!” Hodges spat. He frowned at the converted barn that housed their vehicles and the security staff’s quarters. “You think he fed us that information to get revenge upon the mercenaries?”

  “Possibly, sir, but I think that he used them because he could do it without alerting our sources at headquarters. I think he knows who we are and is mounting an off-the-books operation against us.”

  “You think he means to draw our covert security team away, have them off killing mercenaries while a hit team comes after us?”

  “After you, specifically, sir. He came here unexpectedly to see you in person, and at the air strip we lost eyes on him for a few minutes, long enough for a quick final meet with a third party in the area. With you dead the exposure of Outback is inevitable, forcing the rest of us to cut and run.”

  “Get your people ready. Is there anything you need from me?”

  “Recall Wade-we need his firepower; I think the mercs are just an insurance plan for Davenport.”

  “Insurance?”

  “They pulled off some pretty impressive things as Fastbox Two, sir. If Wade comes off second best they could capture data that could lead them here.”

  Hodges hit autodial.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They had had a discussion about it. “If it comes up, you need to,” Bambi insisted. “Anna’s too shook up.”

  “You’re bigger than me,” Sylvia objected. “You’ve probably done it for real.”

  “I haven’t. Besides, you people are famous for it.”

  “You people?”

  “I mean, use the stereotype to your advantage.”

  “That’s Mexicans-I’m Cuban.”

  “No offense, but most non-Hispanic people can’t tell the difference.”

  “Cubans are better-looking, on the average. And we speak better Spanish.”

  “Good point,” the ex-stripper conceded. “But there’s enough pretty Mexican girls to keep it from being a deal-breaker, and you’ll be speaking English. Besides, desert camo isn’t exactly your color.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The uniform isn’t giving you your best effect. Not to any of us, for that matter.”

  “I just don’t look tough.”

  “Don’t try; go with unemotional or crazy, that’s both realistic and intimidating.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, think about it: this guy is from Ohio. He couldn’t tell a Cuban from a Tibetan.”

  “OK, OK,” Sylvia threw up her hands. This is probably profiling, you know.”

  Bambi grinned crookedly. “Yeah, I’ll worry about that right after we get done looting corpses.”

  “Gross.”

  “Brace yourself, its coming. In case you haven’t noticed we’re getting made into ‘one of the guys’,” Bambi made air quotes. “Its started out as just ‘babe, keep an eye on the gear back at home’, and now we’re in camo freezing our butts off in Minnesota. Typical men: smile at ‘em and next thing you know they’ve got a hotel room and a dozen roses.”

  When the phone rang everyone in the back of Gnome-1 jumped. Barton and Schmidt had their wrists flex-cuffed together, their elbows were flex-cuffed to the side of the truck, and their ankles were flex-cuffed together and to the side of the truck. Barton had a strip of duct tape over his mouth for good measure.

  Sighing, Sylvia reached down to the scabbard she had strapped to her right calf and drew the Ka-Bar Becker Tactical Tool she had chosen from the knives taken from the ERF team. It was a long, heavy black knife with a saw edge back, a wire-cutting notch, and instead of a point its end looked like a very sharp chisel.

  Leaning forward she shoved the extremely sharp chisel edge into Schmidt’s crotch with enough force that he hastily squirmed back as far as he could go. “I saw the pictures. Gimme an excuse, cabrone.”

  Holding the sat phone close to his face she hit the speaker button.

  “Yeah?’ Wade did a credible job of sounding at least neutral.

  “Have they showed up yet?” a man asked.

  “No, but we heard trucks, should be any minute.”

  “Abort. Get back here right now.”

  “Abort?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here. Bring your team and get here right now.”

  “OK.” The phone clicked off. “You gonna move that knife?”

  “Yeah.” She stared at him as she clipped the phone to her black tactical vest. “Just not sure in which direction.”

  Bambi was right-undramatic was intimidating.

  “Something’s up-Hodges just called Schmidt and aborted the ambush,” Marv advised JD quietly. “I’m glad Addison thought of leaving Wade in a position to answer the phone.”

  “I’m glad Schmidt didn’t tip our play.”

  “Apparently Sylvia had a knife to his happy place.” The Ranger glanced behind him. He had the Gnomes, faces darkened with shoe polish and all gear snugged down tight, less than a half mile from the farm, coming in from the northwest. “I wonder what spooked him? It isn’t us, because he didn’t know if Wade had made contact yet.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  Franklin Hodges burst through the door of his room and signed into his laptop without bothering to sit down. Bringing up a program he typed in a password and hissed with impatience as the bar crawled across the screen. Finally the screen reported completion and he signed out using a protocol that activated an enhanced hard drive security program. Picking up the control unit from the desktop, he checked its battery level and then clipped it inside the pocket of his brown canvas hunting coat.

  He had his derringer in his pocket; grabbing up his pistol from the nightstand he checked to ensure there was a round in the chamber and dropped it into his other coat pocket. Tucking his memory stick wallet inside his shirt, he slung the strap of his primary go-bag across his chest so the heavy camouflage haversack rested on his left hip.

  He was probably over-reacting but it was better to be safe than sorry. Heading back downstairs, he crossed through what had been the farmhouse’s living room and emerged onto the front porch as a red quad-cab Dodge RAM pickup pulled up, driven by Patrick Lynch, a surly young man who had come to them by way of the African Guerrilla Family and the Oregon prison system. Shelly Horton was riding shotgun, a husky young woman with an artificial left leg, the latter a legacy of an IED in Iraq; Horton had been a member of various militias before coming to the ERF. Neither was what Hodges would call a true believer, but they were the best the security team had and the director was glad to see them.

  Irene vaulted out of the pickup’s cargo bed and came up onto the porch, an assault rifle bobbing on its sling; to maintain their cover the security staff had been careful not to display weapons in the past, but the dynamics of the situation had changed.

  “We’ll get you to Wade’s site,” Irene said bri
skly as she approached. “That should suffice until we sort out what is afoot. I suppose we’re lucky Davenport didn’t just tip off government forces.”

  “Tips and leaks are dangerous things,” Hodges shrugged. “There’s always the danger of a back trace. That little runt has covered his tracks admirably well.”

  There was a noise to his right, to the northeast, and something flashed across their front, just an impression of movement; even as that registered there was a slap of noise as if a giant the size of the Empire State Building had clapped a pair of cymbals with great gusto.

  Franklin realized he was lying on his back, his face stinging and damp across his left cheek; lying on the slowly rotating porch he marveled at how quiet the world was, how still and soundless it all had become. He lay there for some time, how long he couldn’t say, but bells started to ring somewhere and an irregular thumping or banging noise nearby began annoying him.

  Then some of the wonder began to drain away and he realized he was concussed; forcing himself to focus and concentrate he began marshalling his limbs, rolling heavily to his side as thoughts started sorting themselves into coherent wholes. He saw that the red Dodge was still in front of the porch but it was ablaze, the hood blown open and every window a mosaic of fractured safety glass. Lynch and Horton were still inside, slumped and burning. A weapon of some kind, Hodges realized dimly, perhaps a missile of some sort. He absently wiped at his left cheek and was rewarded with a stab of pain which helped clear his thoughts.

  Laboriously struggling to a kneeling position he saw Irene, her mossy oak pattern camouflage jacket blackened across the left side, shoulder, and back, crouched against the north wall of the porch, rifle ready, talking on her headset, a scattering of expended cartridge cases on the plank flooring around her. The security chief jerked her head and drops of blood splattered against the battered farm house siding.

  Hodges suspected that things were not going well. Moving carefully, he crawled to Irene’s side, noting that she was bleeding freely from both nostrils and the skin around her left eye was swelling.

  “Down!” Marv hissed, hitting the deck.

  “What the hell was that?” JD whispered, eyes wide.

  “A light anti-tank missile is my best bet, probably an AT-4, a disposable light anti-armor weapon,” the Ranger whispered back. The Gnomes were just short of the tree line to the west of Pen One. “I’ve fired them. Sounds like the shooting is at the farmhouse.”

  “Who is shooting?” the promoter demanded. “The military?”

  “I doubt it, I checked with the DSR before we left Grand Forks. Look, I’ll take Dyson and Bad Dog and sweep in that direction; you and Bear split up the rest. One group stays in the trees and circles around to the vehicle barn, the other advances between Pen One and Pen Two. Let’s go.”

  “Shit, they’re coming through the house,” Irene gasped, shoving a fresh magazine into her weapon. Inside the farmhouse they could hear muted explosions and small-arms fire. “Those are flash-bangs. We’re about to get caught between a rock and a hard place.”

  Hodges shook his head, trying to reorder his thoughts. He had dug the piece of metal out of his cheek that was the source of the pain, but the wound was still bleeding freely.

  “What about a distraction? Where would we go if I can make a distraction?”

  “South, on foot. I’ve got a smoke grenade to help us get off this porch.” She leaned around the corner and fired twice, ducking back a split second before incoming fire splintered the siding two feet above her head. “What sort of distraction do you have?”

  “Be ready.” Hodges fumbled the control unit out of his pocket, a charcoal black ballistic plastic box the size of a fat pack of cigarettes. He slid up the ‘on’ switch and watched as the green pin light flicked and then glowed brightly. “On three.” He flipped up the protective cover, exposing a recessed button. “One. Two” He pressed the button. “Three.”

  Slipping through the trees as quietly as he could, Dyson noticed a strange odor that rapidly grew stronger, a sort of cross between burnt hair and a chemical spill; glancing back at Marv he tapped his nose. The Ranger mimed firing a rocket launcher, and the Georgian faced front, hands tight on his MP-5.

  There was shooting and muffled explosions coming from inside a building up ahead, probably the farmhouse, and a sporadic exchange of gunfire closer and outside. Who was doing the shooting wasn’t clear, but like Marv Dyson didn’t think it was official forces: too few shooters.

  Which brought up the issue of why terrorist groups would be fighting each other, but by now the Gnome had given up on assigning logic to their enemies’ motivations and actions. If you’re willing to unleash a bioweapon that threatens every Human being on the planet, to include yourself, then by Dyson’s reckoning all bets were off on other motivations.

  The gunfire sharpened his focus and he was on high alert as he stepped around a clump of trees. Twenty feet ahead a burly black man was prone behind a rock firing a rifle at the farmhouse; a young white woman was expertly bandaging the shoulder of a young Asian man who was pale, sweating, and biting on a thick roll of cloth. All three wore aftermarket BDUs in gray and black urban camo, tactical vests, had shaved heads, and were heavily armed.

  The black male rolled onto his side, bringing his rifle around, and without thinking Dyson ripped off two three-round bursts, blasting the man’s skull apart, the sudden sickening splash of blood a stark contrast to the zombies the Georgian was used to shooting. Behind him both Marv and Bad Dog were firing, and the girl and the wounded man were going down, hit repeatedly.

  Trusting the others to cover him Dyson plunged forward and dove behind a decent-sized tree; spotting a figure in black urban camo looking out one of the farmhouse’s windows at him, he fired two bursts. The figure vanished, hit or ducked Dyson couldn’t guess.

  “Evening’s Door,” Marv snarled, turning the woman’s corpse over to get a look at the patch he had seen on her uniform. “These freaks again.”

  “I thought they worked for FASA?” Dyson asked, then fired at movement at another window.

  “They split off, when I’m not certain.” The Ranger checked to ensure that the wounded man was dead. “Bad Dog, move twenty feet east and take cover-I think the Door will be coming back for their buddies.” He keyed up his radio. “Six to all, the other half are Evening’s Door, I say again Evening’s Door. They’re in black and gray camo, weapons free and hot, don’t take any chances. Break, Six to Base, message Two, I say again Message Two, variable is Evening’s Door, I say again Evening’s Door.”

  “Why are we interrupting a terror on terror firefight?” Dyson asked, reloading.

  “Because we have to be sure of Hodges, and it’s too late to change our plan.” The Ranger moved to the black man and quickly patted him down, taking a radio and a notebook from the body. “Shit, they’re after Hodges, too.”

  “They want a bio-whatever?”

  “No, to kill him,” Marv flipped rapidly through the pages of the notebook. “What are the odds they would hit minutes before we did?”

  “Not a coincidence.”

  “FASA, ERF, and the Door all in a small remote area, all knowing Hodges. This is too weird to believe.”

  Dyson cursed as a rifle bullet struck the tree he was behind, and snapped two bursts at the shooter, ripping up the farmhouse’s siding near the porch. “This is getting crazy.”

  Vepr-12 at the ready, Bear raced across the open ground towards the graveled area between the long windowless expanses of Pens One and Two.

  The door in the north end of Pen Two opened and a man in his shirtsleeves leaned out, aiming a stainless steel revolver at the running Gnome. Bear opened fire without thinking, a full auto burst that pock-marked the galvanized tin siding, smashed the small window on the door, and punched the man back into the building before he could get a shot off.

  Someone was firing from the tree line behind him, and as he crossed the last few feet to safety the biker noticed a balding Hi
spanic man slumped to his knees in the doorway of Pen One pawing at two gunshot wounds leaking blood through a festive sweater, a combat shotgun on the ground beside him. Even as he looked someone fired again from the trees and the man’s head sprayed blood and brains.

  Sliding to a knee, his left shoulder pressed against the cold gray tin of Pen Two, Bear motioned for the next Gnome to come on, and moments later Scarface joined him. “Watch the north,” Bear advised him.

  When Sauron joined them Bear moved twenty feet further south, and when Upchuck came across he set Scarface at the corner of Pen Two watching the door of Pen One and Upchuck at the north corner of Pen One watching the door of Pen Two.

  He changed out the drum in his weapon for a full one as Brick and then Chip crossed over. “OK, we’ve got hostiles in both buildings. I’m going to clear Pen One…” Gunfire interrupted him.

  “Situation!” he bellowed.

  “Got one at the north door,” Scarface yelled back, his voice a mixture of fear, anger, and pride. “Armed guy came out shooting, he’s down.”

  “Good work,” Bear advised him. “One less terrorist in the world. Hold your position.” He turned back to Brick and Chip. “I’ll take one guy with me.”

  “I’ll go,” Sauron volunteered.

  “OK. Keep an eye on Pen Two’s door, the tree line, and the end of this runway,” Bear jerked a thumb south. “We still don’t know who the players are, but I’m betting we’re not up against the Little Sisters of Mercy.”

  The man Scarface had shot was wearing a green down jacket that was leaking feathers, a chubby white guy with a surprised look on his pallid face. He had had a semi-auto shotgun and had gotten off a couple shots, but he looked more like a bookkeeper than a terrorist. He was, Bear noted as they eased past, very dead, and the biker reversed his opinion that Marv had expended far too much ammunition in training the Gnomes. In light of the current situation it was clear that they hadn’t wasted a single round, and probably should practice more at the next opportunity.