This time only Jason nodded.
“Then go on outside and wait for me.”
“Sir—” the other one began. Cyrus wasn’t much more than nineteen.
“Go on,” Ellers barked.
“Just wonderin’ if it has to be this way. We’ve worked so hard buildin’ up this camp and—”
“Do you want our enemies to win this war? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Cyrus shook his head. “It’s just that those folks are friends of mine, and I don’t . . . ”
Ellers shifted his eyes to Jason. “Do it.”
The man’s arm was around Cyrus’s neck before the kid could react. It took a while for the hold to kill him, and all that time, the boy fought for his life, kicking, struggling as the smell of urine filled the air. When he finally slumped to the ground, Jason picked up the boy’s gun and stuck it into his jeans, then dragged the body out of sight of the door, propping it in the corner.
“Go on, I’ll be out in a moment,” Ellers said.
“Yes, sir,” Jason replied.
When the door closed behind him, his eyes moved back to the body in the corner. “Coward,” he muttered.
He’d planned this moment for almost a year, once he’d realized what it would take. Only a bold move, something no one anticipated, would bring this country to glory. He knew some would fault him down the line, but the rewards would nullify the sacrifices.
Ellers would ignite a conflagration that would roar through the country like a fire through dry timber, cleansing every state, every city. At the very end, once the blood had stopped flowing and the bodies had been buried, America would be free, and they would know that he’d been right. That he, Quinton Ellers, had shown them the way forward, all because he wasn’t afraid.
“God Bless America,” he said, smiling to himself as he shouldered his pack and headed for the door, and his destiny.
The door to the house finally opened and Commander Ellers took a position at the top of the stairs. It was the perfect location—everyone could see him—and Brannon knew he did it on purpose. The man was as much showman as tyrant. The commander wore camo, like the day before, and had his gun in hand. He raised it into the air and fired twice. All movement ceased.
“Good morning, patriots!” he called out, holstering his weapon.
“Good morning, Commander!” the men shouted back.
Ellers’s eyes sought out Brannon, and he felt his hackles rise. “Twenty years ago tomorrow, on April nineteenth, 1995, a true patriot struck a blow that was heard round the world. He taught the traitors that one man could paint the sky red with the blood of his oppressors. That one man could bring a nation to its knees.”
April nineteenth, 1995.
Brannon’s twelfth birthday. He’d been so wired for the party his parents had planned for him, time with his best friends at a paintball range, then pizza, cake, the whole works. Then his father said something bad had happened and it was all cancelled. Brannon couldn’t believe it. Demanded to know exactly why. His parents had left him in the kitchen, went into their room for a private discussion. No voices were raised, but when they came back out his mother was crying.
“I’m so damned sorry this had to happen today,” his father said, clicking on the television. “Or any day, for that matter.”
On Brannon’s twelfth birthday, a white supremacist named Timothy McVeigh had detonated a Ryder truck full of ANFO (ammonium nitrate) outside the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. He’d parked in the drop-off zone for the day-care center.
As Brannon had watched the news reports, he’d been just as stunned as the rest of the world. 168 people dead, many of whom were children, and over 600 wounded. The blast had been felt over fifty miles away.
It was the day Brannon learned that not all of America’s enemies were overseas, that some of them lived right next door. They shared the same restaurants, the same churches, schools and bars. Even if it was homegrown, their hatred was no less fanatic than their counterparts in the Middle East.
He’d never forgotten that day, and every year on his birthday, he’d say a prayer for those who’d lost their lives to a cause that was more butchery than liberty.
Now, listening to this asshole laud McVeigh’s “blow for freedom” made him furious. He bit the inside of his lip, drawing blood, trying to keep from launching himself at Ellers and ripping him apart.
“But today will be just as important as tomorrow. For today, you people will be remembered for your bravery, for your love of your country, for the sacrifice you will be making.”
“What’s he talkin’ about?” someone whispered.
“Today, our enemies will come to this place in an attempt to roust us from our chosen home, but we will not let that happen. For this is New America and here, we are free!”
There were a few cheers, but for the most part the onlookers were confused.
“Is this the way he usually is?” Brannon asked Rafferty.
“Not really. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“You must guard your liberties, your families, your freedom,” Ellers continued, pacing now. “Tomorrow the world will see the truth. I’ll make sure they count you among the most loyal patriots this country has ever known.”
Then Ellers hefted his backpack onto his shoulder and marched right down the center of them. He shook hands with those closest to him, slapping some on the back.
“I don’t get it. What’s he doing?” Rafferty asked.
Once the commander was free of the group, he walked to the front gates and waited as two of his men opened them. He marched out, turned smartly on a heel, and saluted Old Glory. Then he took off down the path, double time, his escorts right behind.
“What the fuck was that?” one man asked.
“Damned if I know,” another responded.
The gates swung closed and then bars were engaged, locking down the compound. Ellers’s message had a finality to it, one that made Brannon shift uncomfortably. As if by instinct, his eyes rose to the towers again. This time they were manned, but the guards were facing inward. As were their weapons.
Now he understood what Ellers had meant.
The bloodbath would start here, but the FBI would have nothing to do with it.
“Oh hell, no!” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brannon was already on the move, even as the first bullets were fired. The realization that Ellers had turned on them came quickly to the others, and they spread out, desperately seeking cover. The few that headed toward the table were cut down after only a couple steps.
Working his way around, he drew closer to one of the armed men, then launched himself across the open space. After a throat punch, he claimed the man’s weapons as the assailant writhed on the ground, trying to breathe. When another turned to fire at him, Brannon dropped and rolled out of the way, bullets pelting the ground next to him. A round went into the side of the building near his ear, scattering splinters. When he found one of the attackers with his back exposed, a single shot to the head ended that threat. He collected the man’s weapon and moved on.
Some of the other men had always confiscated weapons and were fighting back. There were bodies were strewn across the parade now. A few of the braver souls pulled the wounded out of the line of fire, risking death to help their comrades.
Rafferty joined him, blood on the side of his face, and Brannon passed him one of the guns.
“I’m going to check on the women and kids,” Rafferty said breathlessly. “They aren’t armed.”
“Take some men with you. I’ll hold them as long as I can.”
With a nod, Rafferty sprinted in toward the rear of the compound, grabbing a couple men along the way. Brannon turned his attention to the killers, and continued his hunt.
*~*~*
At the first sounds of gu
nfire, Susan and Cait had headed toward the compound as fast as the terrain and mines would allow.
“Is this FBI?” Cait asked as they ran.
“No. They wouldn’t be that stupid.” But Susan dialed her office anyway. “We got a battle going on here. Please tell me it’s not us or some other federal agency.”
“Negative. We’re not onsite yet.”
“Then something has gone massively wrong,” she said, ending the call.
They were some distance from the compound when the north gate burst open and a woman ran toward them. She’d made it only a short distance before a man stepped into the opening and shot her in the back. She fell into the dirt, then tried to crawl away, hand over hand, even as her assailant continued to stalk her. Cait took the kill shot and the man went down.
As they hurried toward the gate, Susan knelt to check on the injured woman. But in that short space of time, the woman’s face had grown slack, her eyes staring at nothing.
“Dammit,” Susan murmured. “What is going on here?”
“How is she?” Cait called out.
She shook her head, rising to her feet. Just inside the gate was chaos, people running in all directions. Screams and gunshots filled the air.
“Ah, hell. How can we tell who’s the enemy, and who isn’t?” Susan asked.
“Welcome to the Middle East, my friend,” Cait said.
They edged inside the gate, trying to make sense of the battle. A man fired at another woman, one shielding a child in her arms. After Cait shot him, Susan claimed his gun.
A quick check proved that the guard who was usually in front of the jail was missing. “I’ll check on the others. You find Brannon.”
Cait nodded. “Watch your back.”
But Susan was already sprinting across the compound, fearing what she’d find inside that building. To her relief, she made it to the jail unscathed and threw the bolt, pulling open the door. “Preston?” she called out. Hopefully he’d have the good sense not to come outside. “It’s Susan.”
“Susan?” Patti called out.
“Stay inside! Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Preston said. Susan took a quick peek to ensure that was the case, then entered. Four confused pairs of eyes watched her every move. They hadn’t been idle; one of the bunks had been disassembled and each hostage held a piece of cypress bed slat for a weapon. The table had been overturned and was being used as a barricade, the commander’s notes spread all over the floor now.
“What the hell is going on?” Keith asked, rising. “Is it the FBI?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.” Waving Preston forward, she handed over the spare weapon she’d confiscated. “I’ll guard the door. We don’t want them to lock you in.”
A scream reached her just as she stepped outside; Maudie and three other women were trapped against the side of one of the small huts with a handful of kids. One woman was frantically trying to dig a hole so they could escape under the fence. Coming closer to them was one of the armed men.
“John Lawson, why are you doing this?” Maudie asked, positioning herself in front of the others.
“It’s the commander’s plan, Maudie. Nothin’ personal.”
“Dead is damned personal, John. You can’t kill your neighbors.”
He raised his weapon, proving he had no problem with that issue.
“Hey!” Susan shouted. As he turned, she shot him, twice, watching as the blood bloomed on his chest. He took a few hesitant steps backward, as if his brain hadn’t quite processed the fact that he was dying. Then he collapsed.
“Come on, over here,” Susan beckoned. “Quickly.”
Maudie herded the frightened children toward her, and once they were inside the jail, Susan took up guard again. When Preston and Keith joined her, she gave them an encouraging nod.
“Brannon and Cait are still alive. Or at least, they were a while back. We’ll get through this,” she said.
“I should have just signed the damned divorce papers,” Keith grumbled.
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Wife wanted a divorce. I wouldn’t give her one, thought maybe we could patch things up. If I had signed the papers, I’d be in Constantinople now. Instead I used that voucher for the tour just to buy time, and now I’m in just another damned war zone.”
“Yeah, except this one is on American soil.”
*~*~*
Cait’s progress had been difficult, and dangerous. Since almost no one knew her, that made her a target for all of them. To keep out of sight, she skirted around the backside of a building, crawling along in the mud, trying to keep from being snagged by the fencing and barbed wire. Eventually she reached a clear view of the flagpole—and what was a killing ground. There were at least ten casualties, most of whom weren’t moving.
Good God, what is Ellers doing?
When she saw Brannon alive and tracking tangos, Cait smiled in relief. As if someone had recognized that this was a mistake, a barrage of bullets came his way from the guard towers, pinning him in place. Edging away from the building, she sprinted for the nearest cover: a raised flower bed made out of cypress timbers. Belatedly, the guard in the right tower saw her and turned his sights in her direction. She actually felt the bullet whiz by her head and threw herself flat on the ground.
“About time, Marine,” Brannon called out. “Thought I was going to have to win this war all on my own.”
Cait snorted and resisted the temptation to flip him off. He pointed at her, then the right tower. She nodded her understanding. Ensuring that she was as unexposed as possible, she began firing on that location. The left tower’s guard immediately responded, slamming bullets into the cypress timbers.
Brannon lined up his shot, took a deep breath, let it out, and then fired the rifle. The sniper’s head exploded, and in near slow motion the body pitched over the side of the left tower and dropped to the ground. When the guard in the other tower reacted, shooting at him, Cait rose and dealt with him. She sent Brannon a thumbs-up and he matched it.
Only a few sporadic shots came now as the battle died down. He waited as she worked her way over to him, covering her as she did. Finally, Cait crouched next to him. Her clothes were muddy, but her eyes were bright.
“It’s good to see you’re in one piece.” He reached over, pulled her closer, and kissed her.
When it ended, she studied him for a moment, no doubt checking for injuries. “Good to see you, too.” Then she looked out at the carnage, the light in her eyes dimming. “What happened here?”
“Ellers went after his own. He made sure they were unarmed, then turned his killers loose.”
“Why?”
“Not sure yet.”
“All clear!” someone shouted. “All clear!”
Brannon cautiously stood, eyes moving across the open area. It was bad, but not as bad as he’d feared. One by one, people came out of hiding. It was then that someone noticed Cait.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded as guns turned in her direction. “You with the feds?”
“She’s with me,” Brannon said. “She was leading the swamp tour. She’s here to get her people.”
“Thought you said she was dead.”
“I said what it took to get inside this compound. You have a problem with that?”
The man gave a gruff shake of the head and slowly lowered his rifle.
Rafferty approached them now and his eyes held a haunted expression that Brannon knew all too well. He’d seen it countless times when he looked in a mirror.
“How’s your family?” he asked.
“Alive, thank God,” the man replied. “Not everyone was so lucky. I still can’t believe Ellers did this. What kind of goddamned madman is he?”
“The motivated kind,” Brannon said. “Most of them are.”
&nb
sp; He handed Cait the rifle. “I’m going to make a run down to the water, see if he’s still there. If he is, I’ll be bringing him back.”
“Naw, he’ll be gone,” Rafferty said. “He gave his orders and bailed on us. Damned bastard.” He hesitated. “That other woman from the tour, the one named Susan. She’s contacting someone to get us help.”
“Good. She has . . . resources.”
The man lowered his voice. “I know she’s FBI. I found her badge in her backpack. I just didn’t tell Ellers that.”
Brannon patted the man’s shoulder. “That was a good call. She’ll make sure your people are well taken care of.”
“God, I hope so.”
Brannon headed out the front gates and down the path toward the water at a quick jog. In his wake he left the dead, the wounded, and the betrayed.
Cait watched him go, knowing that what he was doing was probably a futile gesture.
“Anyone with medical experience, front and center,” Rafferty called out. “Bring the wounded here, even if it’s minor!”
The men and women slowly complied, moving like dazed zombies, their world imploded by the man they’d trusted with their lives. The injured were carried to the front of the compound, laid out in two lines near the flagpole, their blood staining the ground beneath them. Cait, Rafferty, and a man who said he’d been an Army medic worked that line. Some wounds were minor; others were likely to be mortal given the compound’s remote location.
Women slowly reappeared from where they’d been hiding, bringing hot water for cleaning the wounds, bandages, and plenty of tears. Cait held the hand of a young man as he died, remembering a different place and a different young man who had lost his life in the sands of Afghanistan. She shut her eyes, fighting ears. Fighting a darkness that told her it wasn’t worth the struggle.
“Rest in peace,” she whispered, the weight pressing down on her again.
Now she understood why soldiers chose to remain in the battle. It wasn’t only a matter of supporting your team, but often it was the easiest way to let death to stake its claim. Let fate make the next move. In so many ways, she’d been waiting for that moment when the decision was no longer hers.
Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Page 21
