Captain Lee came closer. Patches of sweat dotted his well-worn desert fatigues. What was missing from his uniform were flags or identifying marks. It reminded Dale of how Vladimir Putin had sent Russian troops into the Crimea in 2014 wearing plain green fatigues to avoid admitting to the world he was up to no good. It was easier to convince a gullible world these were Ukrainian separatists, rather than Russian troops. Dale understood that Captain Lee was playing a similar game. Anyone eyeing the Brigade would assume they were US military, here to impose law and order. Of course, that particular spell would be quickly broken when they opened their mouths, but by then it would be too late. Brooke had thought they were European, had said as much when they were still together in the Humvee. But Dale knew better now.
Lee settled into the chair opposite Dale. “Hard as it may be to believe, I’m a family man just as you are.”
“That is hard to believe.”
“Have you ever been to Africa?” Lee asked, that last word sounding more like ‘Offreekah.’
“Can’t say that I have, although I seen it plenty on television, back when there was such a thing.”
“Before going independent,” Lee began, “many of us were part of a paramilitary group in South Africa called Koevoet. Think of us like Hitler’s brownshirts during the early days of the Second World War, but without the swastikas. Our nickname was ‘the Crowbar’, because we were so good at prying insurgents from the local population. We had a particular expertise, you might say.
“After Apartheid, when the white South African government was chased out of power, our paramilitary group was forced to disband, but what are men possessing a particular set of skills to do when they find themselves out of work? We did what came naturally, of course—we found our way into a relatively obscure little company called Executive Outcomes. I’m guessing you’ve heard of us.”
“Should I have? Executive Outcomes sounds like a bad action movie.”
Lee shifted in his seat, the wood creaking in protest. “Only bad for those standing against us. Soon enough contracts were flowing in from Western corporations with vested interests in the Dark Continent. Companies listed in the S&P 500, names you know well—Chevron, Texaco, Rio Tinto, to name but a few. When the chaos of the region engulfed countries, threatening oil refineries or diamond mines, we were the ones called in to keep the peace. Sometimes that meant guarding infrastructure. But more often, it meant trekking into the bush and finding those who intended to do harm. Then again, some of the best military thinkers say the best defense is a good offense, no?”
Dale shook his head. “I think the best defense is not getting involved in other people’s business.”
Captain Lee seemed to like that. “I’m glad for my bottom line that the world doesn’t work that way, Mr. Hardy, or we would be out of a job. And thankfully for us, Fernando Ortega happened to live in an area of the world heaped in chaos. In a way you might say we were meant for one another.” Lee slid his index finger down the length of his neck and pulled at his sweat-soaked collar. “Although I’m still not used to this dry heat. I’ll take the jungle any day.”
Dale suddenly became aware of the dryness in his own mouth. In the corner, the Ventriloquist spotted his discomfort, relishing in it. Dale squirmed, increasing the delight on both men’s faces. Except, behind his back, they couldn’t see what he was really up to. Working the zip ties that bound his wrists, rubbing back and forth, his skin slippery from perspiration, the sting of flesh as it began to tear.
“Water,” Dale begged, hoping to continue diverting their attention, even though part of him really was desperate for something to drink.
Captain Lee removed the canteen from his utility belt, unscrewed the cap and sloshed the contents around in a cruel teasing gesture. The sick look of pleasure on his face was unmistakable and Dale was beginning to wonder which of these twisted bastards was the biggest sadist in the room.
Lee rose to his feet, jostling the canteen before tilting it back for a long draft. When he was done, he set what was left on the table. “You start playing ball and you can have as much as you want,” he said, before exiting the room and pulling the door closed.
The Ventriloquist moved in, eager, it seemed, to get back to doing what made him happiest in life. He made a little shuffle over to Dale’s left-hand side as though dancing to an inaudible musical track. “Time to spill the beans before I spill your guts,” he said, swiping out with tremendous speed and precision, opening a thin line across Dale’s left cheek.
Dale winced with pain, struggling to free his hands.
“I’m going to work my way down your body,” his interrogator said. “You may think you’re a big man, but I’ll take your manhood if I need to.” As if to prove what he was saying, the Ventriloquist stepped over to the silver tray and removed a two-foot-long metal spike. To Dale’s horror, it looked like something designed to finish his victims off once he had everything he needed.
Without warning, the Ventriloquist came forward and thrust the sharpened end of the spear into Dale’s belly. Dale’s body bent forward, convulsed with pain. When the weapon was removed, it left a dime-sized hole which immediately began to bleed. Dale looked down, waves of excruciating pain thudding in with every beat of his heart. The Ventriloquist thrust again and this time, Dale parried the move with his left hand, his wrists red and bleeding from the act of freeing them. His torturer looked on in astonishment as the fingers of Dale’s right hand closed around his windpipe and crushed it, cutting short the Ventriloquist’s cry for help. At once his panicked hands released the metal spike and went to his throat. But Dale was already there, finishing what he’d begun. Soon, the man’s face went from red to purple, his eyes bloodshot and searching frantically for help that would never come. In a last-ditch effort, he tried to pull Dale’s hands away, but already his strength was fading. He slumped backwards into the chair across from where Dale had sat, his eyes rolled up to whites. A moment later, he was dead.
Dale collapsed onto the floor in agony, thick droplets of blood spilling down his face and his abdomen.
Then came the sound of footsteps approaching and Dale willed himself to his feet. Someone was about to come through that door any second, someone who might be armed and ready to kill. If so, everything Dale had fought for would be lost. He had to make them think that nothing was wrong. The Ventriloquist was sitting with his back to the door. Dale moved his legs together, but the dead man’s head kept falling forward. He grabbed the steel spike off the floor, stuck the sharpened point under the Ventriloquist’s chin and braced the butt against the seat of the chair. It was a gruesome task, but under the circumstances there was little choice.
Dale flung himself back in his own chair, his arms behind his back. He was weaponless and vulnerable, not to mention racked with pain.
The slit opened and a set of eyes looked in. Dale leaned forward, letting saliva spill from his bottom lip. “I’m ready to talk,” he pleaded. “Just stop the pain and I’ll tell you everything you wanna know.”
The eyes flitted down to the man in the chair before the slit closed, followed by the hollow clang of the door being unbolted. Dale sprang to his feet and yanked on the base of the spike, letting the Ventriloquist’s body crumple to the floor. He then stood beside the entrance, the weapon raised over his head. When the door opened, there was a single footstep, followed by an audible gasp. “What the hell?” the man whispered in that strange Afrikaans accent, as Dale charged out from hiding and buried the spike into the man’s heart.
The man’s mouth opened to scream, but only a moan came out before he sank to his knees, Dale still pushing the spike as deep as it would go. From the other room, Captain Lee leaned into the hallway to see what was going on and dropped the mug of coffee in his hand. It landed on the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces at about the same time Lee was reaching for his semi-automatic pistol. He fired down the corridor right as Dale swung back into the room.
Looking down, Dale saw he’d kille
d the driver of the Humvee that had brought them here. He also realized the man had a holstered pistol on his belt. Reaching back into the hallway, he grabbed hold of his ankles and dragged him inside. Captain Lee stayed back and fired again, unsure whether or not Dale was armed. One of the rounds whizzed past Dale’s head and thudded into the wall behind him while another buried itself into the top of the driver’s skull.
Once he had him inside the room, Dale flipped the dead man over and removed his pistol. It was a 7.62mm Tokarev TT-33, a Russian copy of the Colt 1911. Dale racked the slide and grabbed a chrome bone saw off the metal tray. Positioning himself by the doorframe, he held the saw at eye level, using it as a mirror. He fed it into the hallway until he spotted Captain Lee, who immediately fired two shots in his direction. Now that Dale knew he was still there, he dropped into a low position Lee might not be expecting and slid out into the hallway, firing as soon as he was clear. The move surprised Captain Lee, who recoiled and fled. With difficulty, Dale struggled to his feet and gave chase. But there was a problem. If Lee drove off with the Humvee, Dale would effectively be stranded in hostile territory, at least fifty miles from home.
Checking around corners as he went, Dale made it to the front door in just enough time to feel his heart sink into the soles of his feet. It was too late. The Humvee was already peeling away, leaving a billowing cloud of dust in its wake. He wanted to scream and curse at the top of his lungs, but that would require energy and strength, two things in short supply. He had a long trek ahead of him, most of it through enemy territory, and in his current condition, there was no telling whether he would ever make it home.
Chapter 6
Fernando Ortega
A cacophony of gunfire pierced the air as Fernando Ortega stood studying the college sign with contempt. It should have read Encendido Community College in bold black lettering, but it had fallen into disrepair and most of the vowels had either peeled away or been scraped off. He had been surprised to learn that people lived here and even more amazed to learn this eyesore served as the resistance’s main headquarters.
Two squads of Brigade troops maneuvered in their assault on the compound. They’d made short work of the few men and women tasked with keeping watch around the perimeter. Now they were getting ready to do the same thing inside. Tucked in behind the South African mercenary units were a handful of Fernando’s cartel enforcers, circling around the side to breach the sports complex.
Extracting the base’s location had not been easy. Several captured resistance members had done their best to keep its secrets. Only with the right encouragement had the truth finally been revealed. Fernando was determined that no group of gringos would be allowed to murder his son in cold blood and not pay the consequences.
That the townspeople of Encendido were simply defending their land from foreign invaders was an argument he hadn’t even considered. Probably because he had a vastly different view of American history and the prolific expansion of its borders throughout the nineteenth century. As far as he was concerned, those beautiful southern states a stone’s throw from his own native country had been stolen.
Unlike most Americans, Fernando didn’t see the defenders of the Alamo as a band of brave patriots. On the contrary, he saw them as thieves and terrorists and it was his job to do now what his ancestors hadn’t during the 1800s—repatriate all of those Spanish territories stolen from Mexico, beginning with Encendido and Arizona.
Incredible as his plan sounded, it had not been some fanciful idea conjured one dark weekend in a haze of coke and prostitutes. This objective was sanctioned by the highest reaches of the Mexican government, all the way up to President Luis Lopez.
Just as with so many other areas of the world, the swine flu had devastated his country, leaving millions dead, countless others scurrying from the cities, carrying the contagion with them like a swarm of bubonic fleas.
Once the insanity had finally passed many government officials had been little more than worm food, an absence which had left a power vacuum in Mexico much the same way it had in Encendido and thousands of towns just like it. A vacuum that was not filled by the most qualified, but by the most ruthless. President Lopez had been that man and as the deaths had begun to abate, he had approached the cartel with something of a truce. Before the plague, the Mexican government had declared war on the cartels. But as a former criminal himself, Lopez could walk the walk and talk the talk. More than that, he understood the meaning of the words ‘loyalty’ and ‘honor.’ When that sort of man gave you his word, it might as well be etched in stone.
Lopez’s proposal had been simple; instead of waging war against each other, as the two groups had done for years, why not direct their anger toward the true cause of their misfortune, the United States and their centuries of imperialistic foreign policy? With the US in shambles, they might never get a better opportunity. But President Lopez had divulged another reason for involving the cartels. While many regular citizens and military personnel had perished from the flu, many in the cartel had survived, sequestered in safehouses or secret basement lairs stocked with supplies. The occupational hazard they faced hiding from government forces always on the lookout to destroy them required such measures.
The plague had caused a kind of churning of society, allowing the dregs to float to the surface.
It was a story that had played out in nature many times before. Had the asteroid that killed off the dinosaurs sixty-five million years ago not struck, mammals, including ourselves, would not be ruling the planet. The vacuum of destruction had made possible a new hierarchy and now that same awesome force was about to propel Mexico to the top of a dying world.
As an educated man from Yale, Fernando knew this with the same ferocious certainty he knew God had put him here to accomplish this very task.
Next to Fernando stood El Grande, all three hundred and fifty pounds of him, gawking at the precision with which Captain Lee’s men moved. It was a shame the South African commander wasn’t here to see his troops in action.
Scratching the scruff on his chin, Fernando lifted the walkie to his lips. “Teams one through nine, status report.” He was calling on the other units spread throughout Encendido. He’d divided and sent them to hit every resistance hideout in town they knew of.
Four quickly reported back that they were negative for enemy contact. The other five arrived at occupied houses and terminated everyone they encountered. With the eventual death or capture of those trapped inside the college, the town’s pathetic revolt was about to be extinguished once and for all. Anyone who threw their hands up in surrender would be rewarded with a hanging in the town square. The citizens of Encendido were about to learn that Fernando Ortega was not one to be trifled with.
•••
Zach
Although it was difficult to tell from the outside, Encendido Community College was comprised of three main areas.
In the center was the administration building nicknamed the Acropolis. Running across was a perpendicular hallway which housed the registrar and student services department, as well as several faculty offices. Another hallway straight ahead led to classrooms and the school’s library.
To the west, an above-ground tunnel led to the campus’s second structure, the sports center, also known as the Agora. Here there had once been an indoor pool and several gymnasiums. Now it housed the medical clinic.
Toward the east was a staircase and another long corridor which led to Nobel’s main command center in the third structure, known as the Forum.
For Zach, the sprawling campus that had once seemed like an impenetrable fortress was quickly showing its tactical weaknesses. Unlike Dale’s house on Charleston Drive, Nobel and her people had failed to set up proper firing positions, nor had they properly barricaded all of the entrances. Zach understood why, of course. She’d wanted the place to appear deserted from the outside in case the authorities came snooping around. In that sense, he couldn’t blame her, but he sure as hell wanted to. Without sa
ndbags piled around windows or firing holes in the wall, holding this piece of real estate was proving next to impossible.
A mix of Nobel’s men and Bandidos were with Zach in the registrar’s office. The front windows looking out over the campus’ sprawling front lawn and the concrete path that led to the main building had already been shattered by incoming fire. Two bikers flipped a plywood table and pushed it up against the window, leaving a small slit on either side from which they could fire. Shouldering his AR-15, Zach waited between bursts of gunfire to peer out and see if he could get a fix on who exactly was attacking them. He watched well-armed and well trained men in desert fatigues pushing toward the admin building in teams of four. One segment moved forward while others stopped to lay down covering fire.
Bullets riddled the table, sending splinters into the room. Zach ducked down, covering his head. At his side was Dannyboy, still sporting his free-flowing mullet. “More cartel goons?” he asked, sounding confident, maybe even a touch cocky.
“Not this time,” Zach shot back. “We may be in trouble.”
“But how’d they know we was here?”
Zach shook his head. Hell if he knew. He rose and charged out of the registrar’s office and around the corner to the front entrance. There he found both stout wooden doors closed, but not locked. At this point, the school’s nineteen-century architecture was the only reason the enemy hadn’t already made it in. He bolted each of the heavy doors and took immediate notice of the looped door handles. If he could find something sturdy to slide through there, he might just be able to block this access point.
Defiance: Judgment Day (The Defending Home Series Book 3) Page 3
