The EMP Survivor Series (Book 2): Uncertain World

by Chris Pike

  “You alone?” Cole asked, immediately suspicious of Holly coming here by herself.

  “Yes.”

  “Dillon’s with you, isn’t he.”

  “He’s not, Cole. I’m here by myself.”

  “I know he’s at your ranch.”

  “That he is, but he’s not here with me now. You know he’d never let me see you alone.”

  “Got a point there. Get in here.”

  * * *

  Chandler had used an awning to fling himself onto the first roof. Now covered by his roof-colored tarp, he moved silently up to the best point needed for his sniping position. Cranking his scope up to its highest magnification, he determined the thickness of the glass by observing the window frame. About a half an inch, which meant it was not bulletproof glass, as he had suspected.

  This might just work.

  Chandler silently deployed his spring loaded Grip-pod on his LaRue OBR. He had already decided to use Hornady .308 165 grain Interbond Tactical Application Police (TAP) ammunition for this shot in order to maximize the chance of an effective shot through glass. The rifle was supported in the rear by Chandler’s hand-adjusted bean bag, so only a precise trigger squeeze would be required. Due to the close proximity of the shot, he reduced the magnification to 4X so he could easily track any additional targets that might rush into his field of fire.

  * * *

  Cole opened the door and motioned for Holly to enter. Once she was inside, he grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall, hard.

  She gasped.

  Cole thrust a knee between her legs, making her spread them, and while she was pinned against the wall, he ran his hands along her legs, feeling for any weapons. His hands went to her waist and sides, under her arms, and when he put his hands under her bra, she slapped them away.

  “I’m not letting you feel me up.” Her tone was icy.

  “If I wanted to, I would have,” Cole replied in an equally icy tone.

  Holly let out a breath she had been holding, relieved that Cole hadn’t challenged her.

  He stepped away. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know the name of our child.”

  “Last I recall, you didn’t win the case, and since that was part of the deal, well, you didn’t deliver.”

  “Last I recall, you’re not in jail.”

  “Splitting hairs at this point,” Cole countered. “In case you haven’t noticed I am in jail. The difference is I say who gets locked up and who doesn’t.”

  Holly was innately aware that Cole was standing in a direct line to the café where Chandler was located. If he took a shot now, she’d never know the name of their child. What she did next even shocked her. Holly stepped in front of Cole, positioning herself so Chandler didn’t have a good shot.

  “Cole, this isn’t a neighborly visit. Just tell me and—”

  A strange noise came from the rear of the building.

  “What was that?” Cole asked.

  “Cole!” Holly said. Taking a grave chance, she slapped his face. She had to divert him, knowing it was Dillon who had made the noise.

  Cole grabbed her arm and squeezed tight. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “Tell me. I want to know.”

  He squeezed harder. Through clenched teeth he said in a low voice, “Quiet.”

  * * *

  Dorothy had waited as long as she could for Holly to get Cole’s attention and had given Dillon the signal to proceed. After a quick sight and sound check of the area, Dillon sprinted out of the tree cover and to the back door. Using a towel over the crowbar to muffle the noise, he pried open the door with a deft heave.

  A loose metal plate popped off and clanged to the floor, making a noise not normal for a quiet morning. He hadn’t counted on that contingency.

  Dillon froze. He set the crowbar on the ground just outside the door. If anyone had heard the sound, they’d be listening for it again.

  Carefully, he opened the door further, slid in, and eased the door back into place. He drew his Glock and held it with both hands, pushing his shoulders forward, using the isosceles stance for better recoil control and the ability to shoot on the move.

  The interior was dark. Some light shone in through horizontal rectangles of old style glass bricks dating from the 1950s or earlier. The walls were painted a dull off-white. Decades old pictures of twentieth century city living decorated the walls, along with portraits of once important city officials.

  Sliding his feet inch by agonizing inch, Dillon’s eyes swept over the dark interior. He listened intently for any sign of a hostile.

  To his right was an empty office. Another ten feet there was a hallway running perpendicular to where he stood.

  He crept forward.

  Advancing to the end of one hallway, he jutted his head around the corner, getting a glimpse of the room. Inadequate light from the other end of the hallway supplied a meager amount of illumination. Several cells lined each side of the hallway. Beyond that there was a heavy door with a small window. He repeated the action on the other side of the hallway, which appeared to have a couple of broom closets.

  Scanning the darkened hallway, he saw someone in one of the cells frantically wiggling in place. The woman was standing and seemed to be anchored against the bars. Dillon immediately recognized the slender form with long brown hair, because how could a father not know his own child?

  Cassie, he mouthed. He was overwhelmed with the urge to run to her, open the cell, and whisk her to safety.

  Common sense prevailed.

  Dillon squinted to see what held her and noted zip ties on her ankles, wrists, and mouth. Putting zip ties on Cassie’s mouth indicated Cole was a depraved psychopath capable of unimaginable brutality.

  A taller person, a young man Dillon surmised was Ryan, was also zip tied like Cassie. Ryan shot a confused look at Dillon then looked at Cassie. She tried to say something to Ryan that Dillon couldn’t understand, but whatever it was, it did not calm either of them down. They both continued to struggle against their restraints.

  Dillon quietly eased to the cells holding Cassie and Ryan. He remembered what Chandler had said about traps, and proceeded with deliberate caution.

  The muffled voices from the two kids intensified to the point that Dillon almost shushed them out loud. Cassie kept shaking her head and trying to say something, the meaning lost to the dire situation.

  With his heart pounding, Dillon shuffled forward.

  Something tugged at his cuffs, and he stopped.

  A tripwire.

  He placed one foot over the trip wire and had just lifted the second foot when he was hit in the back by a tremendous force, slamming him into the floor.

  He instinctively put out both hands to break his fall. In the second it took to realize what had happened, searing pain gripped his hands, especially his left one. Both knees had buckled at the forceful impact.

  Dillon was on the floor in push up position, and in incredible pain. He could not see his predicament, and resisted his impulse to scream out loud.

  A voice pierced the silence.

  “Hello, Dumbass! I’m Cleve.” A figure emerged from the darkened corner. Turning up the wick on an old kerosene lantern, he asked, “How do you like our version of Twister?”

  Dillon surveyed damage to his body and what had caused it.

  Shit.

  He had fallen for a sophisticated trap. The tripwire wasn’t the trigger after all. It had been to distract him.

  Dillon now understood that Cassie and Ryan had been trying to warn him of the trap. If only he had listened.

  He quickly assessed his situation. He had been impaled by nails, and his left hand had three nails sticking upward through it. The Glock in his right hand had taken most of the force, although one nail was deeply buried into his thumb muscle. He was not bleeding badly, so no major blood vessels were hit.

  He could still shoot, if he could free his right hand and loosen the Glock from the nails that had penetra
ted the plastic frame.

  Cleve approached Dillon and stepped on his butt like someone would step on a stone to cross a stream. Dillon stiffened his body to keep his pelvis from being impaled by more nails. Standing to the right of Dillon, Cleve used his knife to cut down two seven gallon water jugs that were hanging on ropes. He made a point to hold one of the heavy jugs where Dillon could see it.

  “I was looking for a way to disarm you without killing you. Looks like I nailed it!” Cleve doubled over and laughed at his own joke. “Cole is going to be so happy. By now, you’re probably asking yourself how you ended up on the floor. Well, it’s not smart to underestimate country boys like Cole and me. We knew you’d find the tripwire, so I just waited until you were in position and pulled the release on those water jugs. There was no way you could stay on your feet after getting hit by over a hundred pounds swinging down on your back.” Cleve dropped the jug and used Dillon’s butt as a stepping stone once again to get back on Dillon’s left side.

  Dillon was furious with himself, but knew there was no way he would have spotted that trap. He had failed his part of the rescue, and Holly could be dealing with two murderous men by herself in the next room.

  “Dad!” Cassie cried in muffled frustration through her zip tied mouth.

  “I spent all day hammering nails through plywood,” Cleve said. “Cole said to call him after I softened you up. So I’m gonna have me some fun. Let’s see you stay off the nails after this!” Cleve tensed his muscles, brought his right leg up, preparing to bring all his weight down onto Dillon.

  Dillon took advantage of his only chance. He remembered from his childhood karate training how easy it was to dislocate a knee from the side.

  Just as Cleve thrust his foot down, Dillon pivoted and drove his left foot sideways into Cleve’s left knee, which was currently supporting all of Cleve’s weight.

  Cleve was caught totally by surprise and the force of the hit caused him to buckle. He fell clumsily onto the nail bed and was pierced head to toe. Laying there, impaled, he contorted his face to release a guttural scream.

  Dillon could not let that happen.

  He swung his lower body over on top of Cleve’s, causing Cleve to sink deeper onto the nails. A nail pierced Cleve’s jugular vein, releasing a copious amount of blood.

  Cleve’s eyes fluttered, he took a deep breath, then sank further into the nails, his life fading.

  Looking at his impaled hands, Dillon steeled himself for what he had to do. Using Cleve as a pad, Dillon gritted his teeth and leveraged the weight of his lower body against the nail impaling his right hand. One quick tug and he freed his hand. He flexed it, testing if it was still usable.

  “Ryan, can you shoot this?” Dillon asked, referring to the Glock that had protected his fall.

  “Yes.” The word was muffled.

  “As soon as I free your hands, reach over and take it. You may have to shoot right away if someone comes through the door, so be ready.”

  Still partially impaled and unable to move freely, and with the element of surprise gone, Dillon estimated the probability of a successful shot to free Ryan. Taking the Glock in his wounded hand, he brought it up and aimed carefully at the square tab of the zip tie binding Ryan’s hands. An easy shot under normal conditions, but his punctured thumb muscle had dealt him an additional helping of agony.

  Dillon breathed out and took the shot.

  The shot tore through the square tab, the zip tie fell loose, and the bullet lodged somewhere in the ceiling tiles.

  Ryan was free.

  Dillon passed the gun to Ryan.

  Ryan took the gun and checked the magazine to confirm how much ammo was remaining. Dillon also passed him a pocket knife, so Ryan completed freeing himself while simultaneously watching the door. He held the semi-auto at the ready like he knew what he was doing.

  Tears of frustration streamed down Cassie’s cheeks. Her worry for her dad could hardly be contained.

  Dillon took the knife back from Ryan and asked Cassie to lean as far over as she could so he could cut the zip ties.

  “Cassie, give me a moment. We’ll be alright,” Dillon whispered.

  Dillon sat back and panted heavily, taking a moment to gather his wits.

  With one hand still impaled, Dillon braced himself for what might be the worst pain in his life. Using the power of his legs supported by Cleve’s body, he grasped the fingers of his left hand with his freed right hand and pulled up with everything he had. Cradling his throbbing left hand, Dillon was assaulted by a huge wave of nausea and lightheadedness, somehow managing not to faint.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Cassie asked. “Can I help you?”

  “Just give me a moment.”

  “How did you find us?”

  Dillon held up his hand. “We’ll talk later. Where are the keys to the cells?”

  “They’re on Cleve’s belt, just below his belly.”

  Cassie winced at the sucking sound Cleve’s body made when Dillon pulled him off the nails to get at the keys.

  Grabbing the keys, Dillon tossed them to Cassie. She unlocked the cell and emerged. Heading towards Ryan’s cell, she stopped at the sound of a thud.

  The door from the front office swung open, and Holly was violently pushed inward, being held by her hair from behind. She had obviously been beaten, with one eye starting to swell shut and her split lip dripping blood.

  Dillon had placed the two pistols to be given to Cassie and Ryan in the small of his back, secured by his tightened belt. His still functional right hand moved toward a pistol.

  “Stop moving or she’s dead. I know you’ve got a pistol so throw it down on the floor in front of me.” Cole shoved the deadly end of a pistol against Holly’s temple. He held her by her hair just above the scalp.

  Dillon glanced at Holly. She shook her head in worried consternation with a movement so minor only Dillon noticed it.

  “I won’t ask again,” Cole said.

  Dillon complied by reaching behind his back and pulling out the pistol that was on his left side. With some luck, he might get a chance to pull the remaining pistol if Cole was distracted. He tossed the pistol to the ground.

  “Ryan,” Cole said, “you don’t want me coming in there finding any weapons.”

  Ryan stood up in defiance. “How do you know my name and what do you want with us? I don’t even know you.”

  “But I know you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ryan was perplexed.

  Cole jerked Holly’s head back. “Why don’t you introduce Ryan to his real family?” Releasing her, Cole pushed her head forward hard.

  Holly stumbled.

  “Tell him, Holly. Tell him about our deal,” Cole said, “the one about taking me as your client.”

  Holly swallowed. “He said that if I won the case he’d tell me who our son…” Holly glanced sharply at Ryan, and a brief moment of clarity came to her. The morning light filtered in through the window from the adjourning room, and as she looked at Ryan, she recognized for the first time a resemblance between Cole and Ryan. Those same piercing eyes, the high cheekbones, the way their hair fell over their foreheads. The same broad athletic shoulders and long legs a runner would have. In a slow and deliberate voice she said, “He said he’d tell me who our son was if I won the case.”

  “What? What are you talking about? What does that have to do with anything!” Ryan asked.

  “I was hoping that my son wouldn’t be so dense. Do I need to spell it out for you?” Cole took the tone of a disappointed teacher. “Son, I rescued you. After I found out that you were at the Reynolds’, I came to get you. You’re my flesh and blood. We can own this city, any city. It’s a new world now, and it’s ours for the taking. The only person who could stop me was Dillon, and once I learned he was here with Holly, well, the rest was easy. I knew Holly would come looking for me, and Dillon wouldn’t be far behind.”

  “Have you lost your mind? You beat us up and kidnapped us! No father of mine would d
o that,” Ryan said.

  “Would you have come with me willingly?”

  Ryan only looked at him.

  “Let me spell it out for you, son. Holly’s your mother and I’m your father.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why else would I single you out?” Cole’s face turned angry.

  “I thought it was because of Cassie.” As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Ryan realized what he had said.

  Cole glanced at Dillon then at Cassie. “Cassie Stallman, huh? More like Cassie Stockdale.” Cole laughed. “I see the resemblance now.”

  “Let them go,” Dillon said. “It’s me you want, not them.”

  “Actually, it’s Ryan I want. You other three, not so much. Although it wouldn’t be neighborly of me to kill Ryan’s mother, now would it?” Cole looked at Ryan. “Son, I want you to know I’ve kept up with you all your life. I know when your birthday is, I know you were going to med school at Tulane, and I know it was only a matter of time before you came back here. The Reynolds are such nice people aren’t they?” Cole said mockingly.

  “I don’t care who you say you are,” Ryan said defiantly, “you’re an asshole.”

  Cole opened his mouth to say something when the silence was pierced by four quick pops.

  While Cole’s attention was on Ryan, Holly had pulled the P32 from her bra holster and fired off four shots in quick succession. She did as Chandler had told her to: aim for the chest then for the head. She was momentarily perplexed at the ineffectiveness of the shots. Cole should have gone down, or at least been stunned.

  During a split-second lull in the shooting, Cole took a quick step forward and slapped the P32 to the floor before Holly could adjust her aim upward. He kicked her in the stomach hard enough to knock her against the opposite wall, where she slid to the floor.

  Cole ripped open his loosely buttoned shirt to reveal soft body armor with a chest-sized hard plate in the middle. Holly’s shots all hit the plate, so the blunt trauma was minimized. “You three are dead now for sure!” Cole smiled like the demon he was.