Myrmidon

by David Wellington

  “That was it,” she shouted. “Chapel, we’re going down!”

  “Just get me as close as you can,” he shouted back, though he knew she would do exactly that.

  The drone started slipping out of the air, one of its propellers skipping and stuttering and coughing up smoke. The drone twisted around, trying to capsize itself, but Angel pulled some fancy maneuver and kept it from driving itself right into the ground. Chapel couldn’t do anything but hold on to the nylon loop, his legs swinging out over open air, then bouncing down toward one of the ducted fans so he had to pull his feet back to keep them from being cut off.

  “This isn’t going to be a soft landing,” Angel warned him. “Protect your—­”

  Her voice was cut off as a bullet from below neatly severed one of the wires connected to the drone’s speakers. Chapel grabbed on tight and brought his knees up to his chest, his head down between them as the drone slid at an angle through the air, heading right for the hard-­packed desert soil. He could see the igloos just ahead, well clear of the blinds and the worst of the fighting. He could see—­

  Then he saw nothing, as the drone plowed into the earth. Chapel fought his instincts and let go of the nylon loop, of the fan ducts, of everything. The drone stopped suddenly as it crumpled into the ground, but Chapel kept moving, bouncing off the top of the thing, then coming down hard on his artificial shoulder. He felt the robotic arm take the impact and heard parts of it snap and shatter inside its silicone sleeve, but he was still bouncing, rolling now to hit the ground with his face, then his good arm, then his legs. He slid through the dust, skin burning off his face through pure friction. The pain was incredible, enough to block out the noise of the battle, the agony of his wounds, and all thought whatsoever.

  It took him a while to realize he’d stopped rolling and that the twisting, gut-­churning sensation he felt was just dizziness. To realize he was down on the ground and still alive.

  He lifted his head and saw the igloos right in front of him, their open doorways yawning like dark mouths in the sides of artificial hills.

  He should not have been able to get up after that crash. If he hadn’t landed on his artificial arm, he probably would have broken half the bones in his body. Even with the prosthesis taking the brunt of the impact, he could have internal injuries, massive blood loss from the skin he’d lost, a concussion or a spinal fracture or who knew what.

  He had no choice. He climbed to his feet, a pistol in his good hand, and he ran straight for the igloo where Belcher had gone to ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-­FOUR

  Chapel tried to move his left arm, but the prosthesis just hung there at his side, limp and useless. He could move the fingers a little, but as he tried flexing them to test how well they would grip, he must have pulled a wire loose because they froze up before he could make a fist.

  It didn’t matter. He had his good arm still, and he could walk.

  The door of the igloo stood before him, black as pitch. It would take a second for his eyes to adjust from the light of the desert to the gloom inside. He might not have a full second before he was attacked.

  It didn’t matter.

  He was wounded, badly, and shock could only block out so much of the pain.

  It didn’t matter.

  He stepped inside the igloo and raised the pistol.

  Between the rows of shelves holding the gas shells, Belcher was down on the floor, rooting around in a duffel bag. In his injured hand, between his index finger and thumb, he held something small and square and dark. Chapel squinted, trying to make out details.

  In the split second it took him to realize what was going on, Belcher pulled a fresh cell phone out of the bag. He slid a catch on one end of the phone and a thin, square piece of plastic jumped out. It was identical to the one he held in his other hand.

  A SIM card. Of course. All the phone numbers that triggered the bombs were stored on the card from the phone Chapel had shot with the hunting rifle. Belcher must have recovered the SIM card from that phone—­it looked intact—­and was planning on inserting it into the new phone. As soon as he did, he could start up the new phone, send his text message, and unleash the full stockpile of gas. Just like he’d planned on doing all along.

  “Drop it,” Chapel said, as if he intended for Belcher to just surrender. He lifted his pistol and pointed it at the madman. He was going to shoot Belcher in the heart as soon as he looked up. Belcher was just too dangerous to try to take into custody.

  That was the plan.

  Of course, Chapel had forgotten that Charlie was down here, too. And that in the dim interior of the igloo, even a tattooed giant could hide easily.

  Charlie came at him from between two rows of shelves, his arms up to grab Chapel in a bear hug. All Chapel could see was the skull tattooed on Charlie’s face, his eyes glowing with reflected light inside those inked sockets.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-­FIVE

  Chapel managed to pull the trigger of his pistol before Charlie got to him. He heard Belcher shout in pain, but then thick arms squeezed around Chapel’s shoulders, and Chapel felt like his head was going to pop off as all the blood rushed up into his brain.

  He tried to resist, tried ducking and squirting out from Charlie’s arms like a pumpkin seed between two fingers. Charlie was ready for that and brought his knee up into Chapel’s groin. Pain leapt up Chapel’s spine, and he groaned with it, even as he kept struggling, trying to wriggle free. His good hand seized up, and he couldn’t hold the pistol. It fell to the wooden floor with a clatter.

  Charlie twisted around and ran forward, dragging Chapel with him, smashing him face-­first into the sloped wall of the igloo. A joist hit Chapel hard in his good shoulder, and his arm went numb. Charlie released him for a second, just long enough to grab his head and smash his face into the wall again.

  Chapel’s vision swam with black dots, and his head rang like a poorly made bell. One more hit like that, and he would lose consciousness, and it would be all over. He twisted around to face Charlie just as the neo-­Nazi started reaching for Chapel’s neck. Chapel ducked under the attack and slid free of the follow-­through, but Charlie just whirled around and punched Chapel in the ribs instead. One of those ribs definitely cracked—­Chapel could hear it like a gunshot going off in his chest.

  Chapel swung his good arm as best he could, unable to feel whether it connected or not. Even if it did, Charlie didn’t seem to notice.

  Then Charlie picked him up and slammed him into one of the shelves. All the breath went out of Chapel’s body, and he couldn’t see, couldn’t think. Gas shells wobbled and rocked and fell to bounce off the floor, shells that had probably been sitting there for twenty years gathering dust. None of them went off—­they weren’t designed to explode on impact, not until they were armed. They rolled around on the floor, clattering as they bumped into each other.

  Chapel, dazed and weak, struggled to stay on his feet as he started slipping down the face of the wooden shelving unit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Belcher slot in the SIM card and press the phone’s power button. Belcher was smart enough not to want to talk before he set off the bombs. In a second, there would be a great flash of light and heat, then—­

  Chapel saw Charlie’s fist ball up, saw it come up in the air. He was going to punch Chapel’s lights out, that much was clear. Tattooed across Charlie’s knuckles were the letters S-­K-­I-­N.

  A few feet away, Belcher swiped the screen of the cell phone to start it up.

  A shell rolled against Chapel’s shoe. He saw Charlie coming toward him, taking a step toward him with his fist whistling through the air, looking to put him down for good.

  Chapel kicked the shell straight at Charlie. The giant’s foot came down on top of it, and it rolled underneath his combat boot, throwing him off balance. It wouldn’t take long for the big neo-­Nazi to recover his equilibrium, but, for a split second, h
e was half-­falling.

  Chapel dropped his head and rushed forward, reaching down with his good hand. He grabbed Charlie under the knee and pulled up with all the strength he had left, just like they’d taught him at Ranger school.

  The giant went over backward, his arms spinning out at his sides, trying desperately not to fall. Chapel jumped on top of him, one of his shoes coming down on Charlie’s throat. You could kill someone that way. You could crush their trachea without too much trouble.

  Chapel didn’t have time to think about whether he wanted Charlie to die or not. As soon as the giant was down, his face already turning purple, Chapel whirled to face Belcher.

  The leader of the neo-­Nazis was already tapping in his text message. All he had to do was hit SEND, and it would trigger the bombs.

  Chapel threw himself forward, launching himself airborne so he would collide with Belcher and knock him down. All Belcher would have had to do was roll to the side, even just shuffle over a little, and Chapel’s lunge would be useless.

  But Belcher was too absorbed in the screen of the phone.

  Chapel smashed into him hard enough to make them both gasp in pain. The phone went flying. Kneeling on top of Belcher, Chapel grabbed it when it clattered on the floor. He looked at the screen.

  remember my name

  cancel send

  Chapel wheezed for breath. He pressed cancel, then tore the battery out of the phone, throwing it through the door of the igloo, into the desert sun.

  Belcher stared up at him, eyes ablaze. “You aren’t ATF, are you?” he asked.

  EPILOGUE

  In a very private, very secure room at Fort Carson, Rupert Hollingshead poured two fingers of scotch into a glass, then a rather more generous portion into another. He picked up the second glass and handed it to Chapel.

  Chapel sipped at it to be polite, but he’d always been more of a beer man.

  He was sitting in a wooden chair, facing a broad pane of one-­way glass. On other side of the glass, Terry Belcher sat, facing him, handcuffed to a similar chair. Neither room was designed for comfort or ambience.

  Chapel was in pain from his various injuries, but he would survive. His prosthetic arm was out for repair, so one sleeve of his shirt was pinned up at his side.

  “Angel,” Director Hollingshead said, “what were the final numbers?”

  Angel’s voice on the room’s speakerphone was muted and flat, and not just because it was an old phone. “There were 306 soldiers dead, 167 wounded. On the . . . other side, they’re still identifying remains, but they estimate at least 700 dead. A lot of those deaths were self-­inflicted. Only 32 wounded from Belcher’s army.”

  At least a thousand ­people dead. The sip of scotch turned to pure bile in Chapel’s stomach, and he forced himself to keep down his breakfast.

  “Sir,” he said. “I’m . . . so sorry.”

  Hollingshead sat down on the edge of a wooden table and folded his arms across his chest. He frowned in concentration. “Son, I wasn’t trying to admonish you. Do you know how much higher those numbers would be if Mr. Belcher here had had his way?”

  “I don’t like to think about it, sir.”

  306 dead soldiers—­306 families who expected their fathers, their sisters, their uncles to come home for dinner that night. And the wounded—­Chapel knew what it was like to be wounded in battle . . .

  “You’re a hero,” Hollingshead said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t feel much like one at the moment,” Chapel told him.

  Hollingshead nodded. “I understand. So let’s just say . . . you succeeded in your mission. We’ve recovered all the rifles that Favorov sold to Belcher, every last one. They’ll be quietly destroyed.”

  The rifles. Right. That was what this had all been about. Chapel kind of wanted to laugh. He kind of wanted to cry, too. And he was still feeling nauseous. “I made kind of a mess of it, though. There’s no way this will stay off the evening news. I’m sure Twitter is already on fire with it,” Chapel replied.

  “I suppose so. But your name will stay out of it.”

  That was good. Chapel had no desire for anyone to know his part in what had happened at the Pueblo Depot. He didn’t do the things he’d done for fame or glory. It had been his job. Just as always.

  “As for Mr. Belcher, he’s already indicated he’ll cooperate with us. He happens to have contacts in almost every domestic terrorist organization in the Western states. What he knows will allow us to protect an untold number more American citizens.”

  “Wait,” Chapel said. He looked at Belcher. The maniac was still wearing his denim jacket. His cheek and forehead were bruised—­maybe from when Chapel hit him, maybe from when somebody else did—­but his face was placid, expressionless. “Wait. You’re saying—­he wants to make a deal with us? He wants to give us evidence in exchange for . . . what?”

  “He won’t walk,” Hollingshead assured Chapel. “He’s headed for a supermax prison, and he knows that. For life. That’s all he gets. The alternative was to ship him to a CIA black prison, where he would be held indefinitely without trial.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Chapel muttered.

  “Jim, we’re not going to send him to some country-­club white-­collar jail. Supermax is terrible—­he’ll be in isolation twenty-­three hours a day, he’ll have no access to visitors or the press or anyone but his lawyer, he’ll—­”

  “A lawyer.” Chapel picked up his glass again and drained most of the scotch in one gulp. “Who will pass on every message Belcher gives them to the media. He’ll make sure everybody knows his name, even from prison.” He turned to glare at Hollingshead. “That’s exactly what he wants! He’ll bring down the white-­power movement, and history will remember him for it. That’s what he wants.”

  Hollingshead nodded, slowly. “I know. In my estimation, it’s worth it, for what he can give us. But I knew you might not feel that way.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a pistol. He placed it carefully on the table. “Angel, forgive us, but I need you to switch off your ears now. What I’m about to say can never be recorded or repeated.”

  “Yes, Director,” Angel said, then her voice was replaced by a dial tone.

  Hollingshead pressed a button on the phone, and the noise went away.

  Then he gestured at the pistol. “The door to the next room isn’t locked, son,” he told Chapel. “I won’t try to stop you.”

  Chapel stared up at his boss.

  Hollingshead sighed. “You are a hero, whether you feel like one or not,” he said. “And not for the first time. I can’t give you a medal or a commendation. I can’t recommend you for promotion even if I think that’s what you deserve. But I want you to be rewarded in some way. You were given a terrible job, and you did it exceedingly well. I’m proud of you, son, and I will not judge you in any way for what happens next.”

  Chapel held his gaze for a while. Then he glanced down at the pistol.

  He stood up and went over to the table. Picked up the handgun and stared at it for a while.

  Then he put it back down.

  “I’m not an executioner,” he said.

  “Of course not,” Hollingshead replied.

  “But thanks for the offer,” Chapel told him. “Do you think I could have another drink?”

  “Certainly,” Hollingshead told him, and reached for the bottle.

  They never spoke about that moment again.

  Afghanistan veteran Jim Chapel has been enlisted in a new war.

  This time it’s in his own backyard . . . and even more deadly.

  Read on for an excerpt from David Wellington’s

  Chimera

  Available now in hardcover from William Morrow

  CAMP PUTNAM, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+0:00

  The forest was on fire, and the sky was full of orange smoke. Land mines kept cooking off and
exploding in the distance, making Sergeant Lourdes jump every single time—­and regret it every single time, since it made the barbed wire imbedded in his leg snag and tear some more.

  Sweat poured down his face, chilling instantly in the cool night air. There was blood—­blood everywhere—but he couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think about what had happened to him, about his injuries, about what was going to happen to his family without him. He couldn’t think about how he probably wouldn’t make it to see morning.

  All he could think about was the sentry post, twenty-­five yards away. The cramped little box he’d been stationed in for three years now, the box he’d come to loathe, then tolerate, then start to think of as his home away from home. There was a picture of his baby girl taped to one window. There was a flask of coffee in there and right now he was so thirsty, his mouth felt dry as a bone and—­

  —­and he couldn’t think about that. Because his uniform jacket was in there, too, hanging on the back of his wooden chair. And in the pocket of that jacket was his cell phone, his direct link to his superiors. To the ­people who had to know what had happened. To the ­people who could fix this, who could make everything okay, if he could just tell them.

  Just tell them the fence was down, the perimeter defenses compromised, and the detainees were free.

  Sergeant Brian Lourdes had a pretty good security clearance. Not enough to know why those seven men had been locked away so tight. Not enough to know why they were so dangerous they could never be set free. But enough to know what would happen if they ever did get out. Enough to know it could mean the end of America.

  Of course that was never supposed to happen. When Lourdes first came to the facility in upstate New York, he’d been amazed at the level of security on Camp Putnam. The razor-­wire fences stood twenty feet high, two layers with a fifty-­yard stretch of minefield in between. Twenty men monitored that fence rain or shine, every day of the year. There were more than seven hundred cameras mounted on the fence posts, trained in every direction, watching every corner of that fence that surrounded over a hundred acres of forests and fields.