Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  The amount of gunfire pouring into the structure abated just a bit. Denny pulled his hand back in before he could be seen. He looked down into the cabin. Three more men had been added to the pile. Eight residents invited to his meeting were now dead. He glanced around the room. Only five men were still firing. Both deputies, Anse and two others. The rest were dead or wounded and doing their best to reload weapons.

  "Keep it up! There's only a few of them left out there!" Denny shouted. Anse looked up from the window and saw Denny in the rafter with the mirror. He nodded briefly and fired another round. Deputy Griswold took his place and fired next.

  "Unfortunately, there's only a few of us left in here!" Anse said as he chambered another round into his rifle.

  Griswold grunted as other deputy fell against him and dropped to the floor. "No!" he called out. "Hang on," he said, dropping down to help his fellow officer.

  Denny stuck his hand back up through the roof and saw the orange glow of a torch coming through the woods from the north.

  "Somebody's got a torch—out the north window!" he called out.

  Through a bizarre happenstance, the fighting came to a lull as both sides reloaded and recovered dead and wounded. In that span of relative silence, Anse called out "Got 'im!", his face pressed to the scope on his .308. He pulled the trigger, and the rifle thundered.

  Denny watched as the shadowy figure carrying the torch tumbled to the snow and the torch spun off to the left. It hit the snow and fizzled, extinguished.

  "Nice shot!" Denny called out.

  "NOOO!" rang out in the distance.

  Both sides stopped shooting to listen. Anguished screams of grief echoed through the woods.

  That's Townsen…

  Denny squinted at the mirror shard in his hand, squeezing too hard. He ignored the warm trickle of blood drip down his left arm. He picked out three shapes rushing to the man who'd been shot carrying the torch. Someone shined a flashlight on the body.

  "Oh, my God…" Denny muttered.

  "What is it?" called out Anse.

  Denny stared at the image in the palm of his hand and closed his eyes. A child lay face down in the snow. Jeb was just a teenager—not even a man, killed by his own gym teacher.

  I can't do this…

  "They're falling back!" called out a man from the east window. "I can see them running through the trees! There's only a few of 'em left…"

  In less than twenty minutes it was over. The men inside the cabin heard car doors slam and engines start. No one moved until the sound of the last truck's engine disappeared into the distance and silence descended on the world outside.

  "I don't see anyone," Denny said swiveling the mirror around. "No movement, but there's a lot of bodies out there. It could be a trick…"

  "Why'd they leave?" someone whispered.

  Deputy Griswold leaned against the wall, clutching his shoulder with a bloodied towel. Denny dropped the mirror and lowered himself to the ground. He ignored the pain in his hand and raced over to Griswold.

  "Just relax, I'll find some supplies and get you patched up."

  "Gimme covering fire—I'll check it out," said Anse. Volunteers hobbled to the windows and took up positions. Anse looked at Denny.

  "Go—I'll see to the wounded," Denny said as he picked up a first aid kit from the floor.

  Anse nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. Denny focused on patching up Griswold's wound as best he could, cleansing it with bottled water and applying liberal amounts of hydrogen peroxide before wrapping the shoulder with gauze and tape. It was the best he could do until they could find a doctor.

  Townsen controlled the town which meant he controlled everything in the town—including the pharmacy and Dr. Granger's office. He sat back on his heels, satisfied Griswold wouldn't bleed out and wiped the blood from his hands. Glancing around the room, his eyes came to rest on the pile of bodies in the corner. Wounded men stretched out on the floor, begging for water and help. Denny wondered how many of those would be added to the pile in the next few days as infection set in. The town had been without power and cut off from the outside world for over a month—he had little faith any remaining medical staff would have antibiotics. He looked at his bleeding hand.

  A scratch might be just as lethal as a bullet any more…

  By the time Denny was finished seeing to everyone's wounds, the door opened and Anse staggered back in. He held his rifle in one hand and his other clutched what looked like a coat. He leaned his rifle against the wall, shut the door, and slid to the floor, resting his back against it.

  Anse appeared to have aged ten years. The man's face was speckled with blood and sweat. He had bits of wood chips in his beard and stuck to his knit hat. He took the hat off, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and closed his eyes.

  Denny stepped over to him and squatted. "Anse, you okay?" he asked, putting one hand on his friend's shoulder. "Is anybody alive out there?"

  Anse shook his head and pulled his hands away from his face. "Dead. They're all dead. We made it."

  The survivors inside whooped and hollered in victory.

  "What is it, then?" asked Denny.

  Anse looked up, his face streaked with tears and blood. "That last runner, the one with the torch you spotted? The one I took down?"

  "Yeah…" said Denny.

  "It was Jeb." Anse held up a varsity jacket, stained with dirt and grime, smeared with a patch of bright crimson on the front. A large ragged hole over the heart had been cut out by Anse's bullet. "That's why Townsen packed up and left. I killed his son…"

  Denny squeezed Anse's shoulder as he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He looked around at the survivors. Most of them slumped against walls and stared blankly ahead or looked at shaking hands covered in blood. The injured lay on the floor moaning, clutching sides or legs.

  Deputy Griswold knelt over the body of his fellow officer and closed the man's eyes. He glanced down at the bullet hole in the crown of his own campaign hat, laying at his feet. Griswold sighed and sat heavily, staring at the hat.

  Denny wanted to scream at them. You wanted a war! You wanted a war and now we've got one! Is this what you were so hungry for? Nothing but death and blood…

  Denny looked down at the jacket next to Anse. Nothing but death and blood…

  CHAPTER 34

  Skye, Scotland.

  Uig Harbor.

  THE SMOOTH-PACKED DIRT of the trail along the shallow river felt wonderful. It'd been too long since she'd been out for a run. No worries about operations gone awry, no worries about guards, no worries about being recalled for another mission. No friends, no family, no nothing. Just the path, her feet, the long muscles of her legs, and the delicious burn of the run.

  She focused on her breathing cycle—two long strides, breathe in. Two more strides, breathe out—over and over again until her body switched to automatic pilot. She let her legs lead her along the path north through the pine woods.

  She had to admit, Reginald's private estate still encompassed a lush landscape that made running a sheer joy. The entire peninsula on the west side of the seagull shaped island belonged to the Tillcott family. The trees and game grew thick and plentiful, unlike their counterparts on mainland Scotland.

  She'd long ago memorized the running trails. At the fork around the next bend she would take the left path, leading her further north up the long finger-like peninsula toward her target. Uig Bay.

  Stay on target… Thoughts of the mission at hand reeled her back to reality. It had been a nice escape while it lasted. The five mile run from Reginald's castle up through the tree-capped hills along his private loch had taken her well off his lands. From there she'd stolen a car from a small bed and breakfast nestled in a picturesque glen and driven the remaining ten miles north through the hills. She'd parked the car in a stand of pines sheltering a small loch just south of Uig.

  She paused at the crest of a hill, hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath as she looked back at th
e loch in the distance. She could never get used to calling a loch—to her it was and always would be a sjö.

  She turned and continued down the northern side of the hill. She was on a strict schedule—there was no choice but to complete the mission and return to the castle before anyone grew suspicious. The danger would only continue to grow as she completed her day's task. Setting an explosion to blow using a simple timer was something she could do in her sleep—that wasn't what concerned her.

  What worried her was that she might be found out. Some hiker could find the stolen car before she returned it. The owners of the car might notice it missing and involving the law would invariably lead to disaster.

  Everything had to be timed perfectly. The operation would be the most daring she'd ever pulled off, topping even her last one. A smile creased her face as she thought back to the look on Reginald's face when she'd first proposed the idea. Priceless. She'd allow herself to be captured along with the Source and taken into the heart of Harris's government complex in Denver. From inside the belly of the beast, she could neutralize the Source and cripple their vaccine program at the same time.

  Reginald had called it a master stroke. He'd applauded and when Jayne heard the details, her face had turned almost purple.

  She forced thoughts of Jayne and Reginald from her mind. It was time to focus. She slipped back into her role like putting on a pair of well broken-in jeans. She was deep within enemy territory now—much deeper than when she'd gone to Denver. At least there, the Americans could be relied upon to put her in prison and attempt to interrogate her for the rest of her life. Should she be found out now, Reginald would take great pleasure in executing her in front of his other operatives—after he'd tortured her until she begged him to do it. Treason was one thing Reginald would never tolerate.

  The path rose sharply as she approached the final bend. She glanced at her watch—45 minutes since she'd left the castle. It had taken her 28 minutes to traverse the five miles of hills in order to reach the car. She frowned.

  I used to be able to make that run in 25 minutes.

  She crested the pine-covered hill and a clearing opened up through the trees to the left. Before her stretched the magnificent vista of Uig Harbor.

  The sleepy little town had wrapped itself around the cone-shaped bay more than a dozen centuries ago. Tiny cottages lined the water on the south side. On the north side, most of the buildings were commercial. It was a working town, a fishing town.

  She descended the hill without pause, her long legs chewing up the distance to her target. On the far shore of the narrow bay near the edge of town sat a long, squat building painted glaring white. She wasn't sure what it was, but she knew it was not a residence and figured with the British government's recent quarantine, most people would not be out and about anyway.

  She raced through deserted streets, glancing at darkened shops. 'Closed' signs were plastered on most of the doors. They asked for the prayers of anyone passing by and wished everyone well through the crisis.

  Uig was a close knit little community. She chose her path well—there were only a few streets—but she tried to avoid any with houses. It would not do for someone to see a blonde stranger out for a run just before the explosion.

  She set her face in grim determination and pushed herself harder to allow extra time at the target. If she timed everything right, even if someone reported her presence to Reginald, it would be too late. This was to be her final mission. She would leave the Council's service forever.

  All the years of torture, all the years of punishment, all the years of enslavement to the sadistic Earl Dunkeith would be paid back in spades in the next 24 hours. This day she would at last have revenge for a stolen childhood, murdered parents, and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people.

  As she slowed to a stop, she looked around the corner of her target building to catch her breath. Hands on her knees, out of sight of the casual observer, she smiled.

  The ocean gurgled at the base of the boulder-covered slope only a few feet away. The sounds of nature enveloped her and washed away her fears and worries. Gulls circled overhead and laughed, aaah aaah. The waves lapped against the rocks below and she breathed in the salty air, carried by an invigorating cold breeze off the North Atlantic.

  She cast her eyes out over the gray-green ocean that stretched to the endless horizon. Somewhere out there, Cooper Braaten and his SEALs waited aboard an American submarine. Somewhere out there, death waited for Reginald. She only hoped and prayed she would be there to witness it.

  She clenched her fists to control the pent-up emotion which threatened to distract her. She didn't have time to dwell on the past. She didn't have time to think about how Reginald had stolen her innocence and forced her to do so many vile things—she'd never be able to repent enough.

  With an iron will, she clamped down hard on her fears and worries about abandoning Chad in the wilderness. She knew deep down he was perfectly capable of survival in the wild—he'd been doing just fine on his own in Glacier National Park before the North Koreans had found him.

  She took a calming breath, then broke the lock hanging from the front door of the target building and slipped inside. It turned out to be a pottery warehouse.

  She stepped inside and the movement brought a swirl of dust to her face. She sneezed and felt a quick tinge of guilt—while the rest of the world lay waiting for death at the hands of the Korean Flu, she was immune.

  The Americans had created a successful vaccine for the flu—they'd already begun mass-producing it and given the formula to their allies. The flu had a stranglehold on Europe, it was true, but as she peered in the darkness she realized that like the coming of the dawn, the vaccine would arrive soon. She hoped it was enough.

  She peered through the darkness and silently searched the building to make sure no one was there. The sign on the door said the shop had closed due to the national health emergency and would reopen as soon as possible.

  A layer of dust lay on the ground and equipment—she assumed the Potter had not been in his shop for more than a week at least. If he was still alive, it wasn't likely anyone would visit this place at the end of town any time soon.

  To be on the safe side, she peered through the grimy window and double-checked the street one last time. Deserted. Not a single soul moved outside—not even a parked car on the street. She got to work.

  Searching the rear of the long workshop, she discovered what she needed: several large propane tanks, stored together behind a locked cage marked with flammable liquid warning signs.

  She picked the lock and opened the cage, then found a t-valve and connected the hoses so the tanks could be used in tandem. She peeled up the leggings on her left leg and removed the sliver of sharpened metal she'd affixed into the hollow behind her ankle bone. She carefully used the tip to pry back the fake nails covering her fingertips.

  The gelatinous glue on the back of the miniature explosives pulled on her real fingernails, but she ignored the discomfort and removed all ten nails. Holding the little pieces of aluminum-Teflon nano-thermite in her hand, dropped the expedient knife and she examined her real fingernails. They were discolored and sticky from the special glue she'd used, but she would fix that soon enough.

  Using the glue residue on the back of the nano-thermite slices, she set them up around the propane tanks near the nozzles to cause the maximum damage. Risking a glance out the window one more time, she stepped back and stripped off her front-zip top. She carefully shrugged out of her athletic bra and pulled it over her head, shivering as her exposed flesh met the cold air of the unheated shop.

  She looked down and peeled back the inside of the right cup, exposing a tiny electrical circuit. Removing this circuit, she affixed it to the side of the first propane tank and connected several micro-filament wires to the nano-thermite pieces. Peeling back the cup from the left side, she pulled out another electrical circuit and touched the miniature buttons with the tip of her knife.

 
; The transmitter beeped. She slipped it back into her bra, put the pads where they belonged and pulled the sports bra back overhead. After readjusting herself, she pulled the half-zip top back on and enjoyed the relative warmth it provided. Now decent, she repaired her ponytail and retied her shoes.

  Take no chances.

  She slipped the knife back in its sheath and tucked her suit leg back down to her running shoes. She didn't bother to cover her tracks in the dust as she headed for the door. When the nano-thermite ignited, she expected most of the building would end up in the bay. One more glance out the dirty windows and she slipped out into the cold.

  Acting as if nothing at all was amiss, she got back in to her running stride within seconds. Before long, she headed out of town and back up the hill to the south, toward the waiting car.

  She smiled as she started the engine. She wanted to be there to see the look on his face when he realized 13 was the one who brought him down. 13. She'd always hated that name. A simple number, signifying her rank in the organization.

  It was a brutally effective psychological tool designed to break her spirit. She'd allowed them to do so many things to her body and she'd done so many things to others, both pleasurable and revolting—she knew she could never make amends for the sins she'd committed in the name of Reginald and the Council.

  Fifteen minutes later, she parked the just down the road from the owner's home. Making sure no one was watching, she slipped away into the trees and began the final leg of her run back to the castle.

  From this day forward she would no longer be known as 13. Nor that despicable name Reginald insisted on calling her, Svea. She frowned.

  Svea—a designation, not a name.

  After today, she would be who she always was—the name her parents gave her, the name of her great-grandmother. A strong woman who'd survived World Wars, famine, and the Spanish Flu…