Bullets snapped overhead before Leeds could respond, forcing him to lie flat. He slithered feetfirst down the rock behind him as the sand around his abandoned spotting scope exploded skyward. The operatives hidden in positions around him fired back on full automatic, turning the hillside into a staccato free-fire zone.
“This is most definitely over. I’m ordering a full withdrawal. Put the Night Raven in a high-altitude circle over the kill zone,” said Leeds. “Shut everything down except for the Raven feed. We need pictures of everything and everyone on the ground. I have no idea who we’re dealing with here.”
“We’ll have to bring the bird in pretty low for that,” said Vega.
“As long as we get clear pictures, I don’t care what happens to the Raven,” said Leeds, activating the tactical net. “Maclean. Kline has been overrun. Keep your team in place on the hill long enough to give us some breathing room. Don’t linger. Use the ATVs to catch up.”
“I got it, sir,” said Maclean. “Where the hell did they come from? I thought Kline cleared the area south of his position.”
“He did. Very carefully,” said Leeds. “See you a few miles due north. We’ll stop and load up the ATVs if we have the time.”
Leeds started down the hill with the surviving snipers, taking it slow enough to stay in control of his descent. He reached the bottom of the hill out of breath, pausing for a moment and turning toward the hill. The rapid automatic fire from the Marines’ M240 machine gun dominated the battle, burst after burst echoing down the hill. One of Maclean’s operators flew backward and rolled halfway down the hill before sliding to a stop in the sand. Leeds was losing too many people.
“Maclean. Pull your team back.”
“We can hold a little longer!”
“You can’t hold them off with that two forty in action,” said Leeds. “Load up and get out of there.”
He didn’t wait to see if Maclean listened. Leeds dropped the scope and sprinted for the van. He reached the oversize all-terrain van as a few of the other vehicles skidded out in the desert sand. Glancing around at their fleet of eight vehicles, he wasn’t sure they’d have enough people left to drive all the SUVs away from the site.
The van door facing the hill swung open and Vega appeared, extending a hand down to Leeds. “I split the Javelin teams between the vehicles when I saw how many you had coming off the hill,” he said.
Leeds could barely talk from the sprint. “Let’s go.”
Vega pulled him inside as the van lurched forward, knocking them both to the metal deck. Lying on his back, he glanced out of the sliding door. Three ATVs raced down the hill after them, and for a split second, Leeds wasn’t sure if the ATVs were friend or foe.
“Who is that?” Leeds asked, pointing at the hill.
Vega slid the door shut. “Maclean.”
Leeds glanced at the technicians seated at their stations. They stared at their screens, pretending not to see him. He pulled himself into the front passenger seat and took several long, deep breaths.
“You know where you’re going?” Leeds asked the driver.
“Heading to the first evasion waypoint.”
Leeds glanced at the windshield HUD, making sure they were headed north. “Vega,” he said, “I want to know if we’re being followed.”
“I’m watching closely,” said his lead tech. “Looks like foot mobiles only at this point, and Maclean took all of the ATVs. I don’t see any way they can catch up with us.”
“This group is full of surprises,” said Leeds, thinking about something Flagg had said: Fisher has more than one guardian angel watching his back. He wasn’t exaggerating. More like an army of guardian angels.
Leeds opened one of the pouches on his vest and removed an encrypted satphone. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Flagg needed to know. He pressed Flagg’s contact icon.
“Yes?” asked Flagg.
“It didn’t work.”
A long silence passed before Flagg spoke.
“How bad is it?”
“Bad. I’m headed north to the first evasion waypoint with all of the vehicles and approximately twenty personnel,” said Leeds, not adding, out of the sixty-one I dragged into the desert.
“I see,” said Flagg. “Continue to follow the waypoints. Observers in Yuma report a flight of three Ospreys readying for immediate departure. You need to be pretty damn close to Route 78 by the time they reach the ambush area.”
“We’ll make it.”
“Part of me hopes you don’t make it, but most of me hopes you do—just to see the look on your face when you hear what we have to do to make this right,” said Flagg, disconnecting the call.
Leeds didn’t like the sound of that at all. It almost made him wish he wouldn’t make it, too.
CHAPTER 83
Quinn kneeled on the rubble-strewn pavement, holding his wife’s body in his arms. He pressed his forehead into her matted hair, crying silently against the side of her face. He didn’t want to believe she was gone. It felt like she’d fallen asleep and he was carrying her to bed. He wanted that to be true so desperately.
“Captain Quinn, I need you to make a decision,” said a serious-looking, bearded Hispanic man wearing a black-and-tan-checked shemagh around his neck. “We can take your wife with us so you can bury her properly. Sorry to push you, but I can’t be here when your Ospreys arrive.”
Quinn turned to look at Staff Sergeant Cantrell and Sergeant Graves, who stood behind him, waiting for him to answer the man. He knew what he wanted to say, and where he wanted to go, but he still had a duty to protect the Marines assigned to what little was left of the convoy. How many Marines were dead because he was protecting Fisher?
He’d failed to protect Alison, who gave her life trying to protect him. All the lives lost, including the one that meant most to him in all the world. All of them gone, and all of them on him. He glanced at Nathan’s son loaded in the back of one of the dune buggies idling on the highway. Another life. On him.
“Sir?” asked Cantrell. “You still with us?”
“What?” asked Quinn, squinting and blinking his eyes to clear his tears. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m here. Still here.”
Cantrell crouched behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Go with them, Captain. Air support is twenty minutes out. We got this.”
“I don’t want to leave you guys,” said Quinn. “Not after I got you into this.”
“Sir,” said Cantrell, looking him straight in the eyes, “this is what we do. What we did here is no different than what we do overseas. Just different bad guys.”
“Gentlemen,” pressed the Hispanic man, who Quinn assumed to be this mystery group’s commander.
“Go with these guys,” said Cantrell. “Take Alison with you. You won’t get a moment of peace with her if you come back with us. You’ll be lucky if they don’t lock you up as soon as we arrive in Yuma. Seriously, sir. I think you can find some closure with these people. A little payback for all of us. I get the impression this won’t be the last time they tangle with the people responsible for this ambush.”
“I don’t know.”
“We’re good here, sir,” said Graves. “Poncho Villa’s crew swept the area for us.”
“I’m just as American as you,” snapped the Hispanic-looking soldier. “Whatever was left of the ambush group fled north across the sand. Probably hit the Coachella Canal Road a few miles north of here and eventually connect with Route 78.”
“Set up observation posts on both hills,” said Quinn.
“We got it,” said Cantrell. “The natives are looking restless. You better get out of here.”
Quinn nodded. “All right. I’ll go with you, but I’m not making any promises about getting involved in your fight.”
“I’m not asking you for anything,” said the man. “You’ve given enough.”
He knew better than to believe that. They’d recruited his wife for a reason, and it likely had something to do with him.
“
What do I call you?” asked Quinn.
The man grinned. “Jose—until I know I can trust you.”
“I don’t think we’ll be spending that much time together.”
“Maybe,” said Jose, his face darkening. “Maybe not.”
CHAPTER 84
Sand pelted Nathan’s face below his night-vision goggles as the dune buggy tore through the sand toward the border. He reached next to him to check his son’s harness strap again, paranoid that the constant jostling might have loosened it. They sat side by side behind Keira and the driver, in raised metal bucket seats bolted to the buggy’s sparse chassis, their only protection from the outside elements provided by steel caging mounted to the squat-roll bar frame. Not exactly a design that inspired confidence. He tugged on the strap, which didn’t budge. Owen wasn’t going anywhere.
“Hold on!” yelled the driver.
Before he could think to respond, the buggy launched over the bank of a dry gulley. Free of the tires’ vibrations against the ground, they sailed peacefully through the air for a few seconds, before slamming to the hard-packed sand on the far side. His wife screamed and clutched the bars in front of her as the buggy picked up speed again, spitting sand skyward in thick plumes behind them.
“Do it again!” yelled his son.
“No! No! Do not do that again!” yelled his wife.
The driver gave her a thumbs-up, but Nathan wasn’t sure what that meant. A couple of seconds later, he found out. They hit a small dune, catapulting the buggy into the air again. His wife didn’t scream this time, even when the vehicle landed on its left tires first, jerking the buggy right.
“Woo hoo!” screamed Owen, as the vehicle settled into the sand and took off again at breakneck speed.
Keira took her left hand off the bar directly in front of her seat long enough to give Owen a shaky thumbs-up.
The driver eased into a turn to avoid a long, narrow hill, which could have been mistaken for a sand dune from a distance. When they passed the smooth, boulder-strewn rise, the landscape opened onto a flat, sandy area pockmarked with dark-green splotches.
Not vegetation. Some kind of billowing, synthetic fabric.
The rest of the dune buggies and ATVs in the convoy spread out and approached the area slowly. As their buggy decelerated, Nathan reached for the rifle strapped to the back of Keira’s seat, ready to release the quick mounts keeping it in place. This was his life now. Grabbing for a rifle at the first hint of abnormal.
“You don’t need that,” said the driver. “We won’t be here long.”
The vehicles stopped, and a few dozen soldiers jumped to the sand from the other vehicles, running toward the billowing green shapes. Parachutes. Nathan had wondered how so many soldiers had reached the highway so quietly.
Within a few minutes, most of the men were headed back carrying overstuffed parachute bags. Four of the soldiers arrived at Nathan’s dune buggy, dropping the heavy bags in the sand behind the vehicle. They went to work immediately, barking orders in Spanish as they strapped the bags inside the wide gear tray attached to the buggy’s rear bumper frame.
He studied them carefully, convinced they were different from the small group that didn’t stray far from “Jose.” The differences were subtle, but potentially important. His family’s safety was in Jose’s hands for now, and Nathan sensed that something was off with these new men.
He’d studied Spanish from elementary school through his senior year in college, and these men spoke a rapid, fluent Spanish that he barely understood. They didn’t use school-taught español. They spoke an authentic, idiomatic version among themselves that made Jose’s quick-paced Spanish sound hopelessly Americano.
That wasn’t the only difference. Jose’s crew carried themselves like the kind of independent special-forces operators you might see on a TV news segment, trekking through the Taliban-controlled hills of Afghanistan. Competent and alert, but marching to a less structured though no less effective beat. These men, though, reminded Nathan of Marines. They moved with the practiced efficiency of a rigorously drilled, cohesive unit. And they carried the same essential gear, without variation. Same rifles, same night-vision goggles. Same boots. Same tactical vests. All gear he didn’t recognize, especially the rifles.
They didn’t directly belong to Jose’s special-operations group. He was willing to bet on it.
When the four men sprinted away, he leaned forward and whispered in Keira’s ear. “Fuerzas especiales—Mexicanos.”
“Probablemente,” replied Keira.
“I speak Spanish,” said the driver. “And this is not a Mexican Special Forces troop.”
“Then what is it?” asked Nathan.
“It’s not a Mexican Special Forces troop, or any unit affiliated with the Mexican government.”
“Right,” muttered Nathan.
It made sense in a big-picture kind of way. The Mexican government stood to gain from California’s secession. They would be able to approach the new California government on an even economic footing with the rest of the states, unburdened by federal trade restrictions. This was bigger news than the Sentinel connection. The parachute landing, if discovered, could ignite a border conflict, drawing everyone’s attention away from the real enemy—the One Nation Coalition.
“Tighten those harnesses,” said the driver. “The ride gets a little rough up ahead.”
“That wasn’t rough before?” asked Keira.
“It gets worse.”
“Where are we going?” asked Nathan.
“You haven’t figured it out yet?” he said.
“We didn’t bring passports,” said Nathan.
“I left mine at home, too,” said the driver, gunning the engine.
They sped ahead of the other vehicles, picking up speed as they crossed the open area. From his seat, Nathan could see the dimly lit navigation console aimed toward the driver, who maneuvered the buggy to keep the course arrow matched to the track arrow, taking them to the next waypoint. They were headed almost due south. Unless the border wall had been breached, Nathan wasn’t sure how they would get through. As promised, the buggy bounced over nasty terrain for a few minutes, before the desert opened wide—revealing the border wall in the distance. The buggy slowed as it approached, but not as much as he expected given their rate of closure with the towering structure.
Several ATVs and buggies passed them as their driver slowed, merging into a single column ahead of them. The wall continued to approach at a crazily rapid pace, as if none of the drivers could see it. Another buggy zipped past, chasing the line, distracting Nathan from the looming disaster ahead. When he turned his head forward again, half of the line had disappeared. Vehicles disappeared one by one, the barren landscape in front of the wall methodically swallowing them.
Their buggy slowed at the last possible moment before dropping below the surface of the desert on a steep decline. The ramp ended abruptly, jolting them against their harnesses, as the ride leveled. Keira turned her head toward the center of the buggy, most likely squeezing her eyes shut. He felt like doing the same. At forty miles per hour, the tunnel redefined claustrophobia. The timber-reinforced walls and ceiling seemed close enough to touch, and the tunnel ahead didn’t look wide enough to pass through.
Nathan closed his eyes and held Owen’s hand, reminding himself how lucky he was to still have his family. A ghastly image flashed through his head, and he squeezed Owen’s hand tighter. Luck had nothing to do with it: a lot of good people died to give him this, and he wouldn’t forget that.
He suspected the CLM wouldn’t let him forget it either.
They had taken a serious risk mounting this rescue operation, committing extensive resources to a gamble that could have backfired in any number of ways. He couldn’t help think that the CLM had higher expectations of him than just giving his testimony regarding the stealth boats near the Del Mar nuclear desalination plant. The information contained in his master’s thesis had barely scratched the surface of what he’d le
arned about the intricacies and vulnerabilities of the Colorado River water-distribution system.
If they wanted his help analyzing the dams and associated infrastructure, he’d have to carefully weigh the implications of his decision against the safety of his family. Family came first, no matter how much he’d like to deliver a toppling blow to the One Nation psychopaths responsible for attacking his family and killing Quinn’s Marines—not to mention Alison Quinn. Nathan had a tough choice ahead of him.
A bump knocked him against the top of his harness, and he opened his eyes in time to see a spray-painted plywood sign zip past them.
“What did that say?” he yelled.
“Bienvenidos a Mexico!” replied the driver.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In no particular order—maybe. Always a conspiracy lurking in my words.
To my readers: Obviously, I wouldn’t be here without you.
To the Thomas & Mercer team: I couldn’t have put Fractured State in better hands!
A special thank-you to my editor, Kjersti Egerdahl, for guiding me gently through the Thomas & Mercer experience. She took my “slightly” different ending in stride! It has been a pleasure, and I look forward to writing more books under her guidance.
Thanks to David Downing for an insightful, humorous, and most important, productive developmental edit. Ivan Kenneally for an incredible copyedit. I accept your changes—all of them! Jacque Ben-Zekry and Sarah Shaw for creating a wonderful family environment for Thomas & Mercer authors. They’re always there for me. Finally, Alan Turkus. I wish him the best with his new career. Thank you for keeping our conversation alive!
Thanks, also, to an incredible author-support group: Russell Blake—I’m drinking margaritas (or straight tequila) with you one of these days, and the first round is on me. Joseph Souza—miss our coffee meet-ups. R. E. McDermott—fellow swabbie and one of the funniest guys I know. Murray McDonald—longtime friend who taught me everything I know about guns and scotch. I meant to say gun control and scotch. Randy Powers for feeding me an endless stream of Internet articles covering the drought in California and our natural-resource challenges. Tom Abraham for our fun conversations about all things writing. Sean Fitzgerald—his contributions are classified. The Pine Cones Writers Den, an extraordinary collection of writers in Maine … miss you all. Theresa Ragan, who has been an inspiration and a fantastic friend. And finally, Blake Crouch—I wish you the continued smashing success you’ve worked so hard to achieve … thank you! This list is really just the tip of the iceberg.
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 34
