by Greg Dragon
She stayed under as long as she could, then popped up for a breath. More splashes in the water showed they definitely had given up on the idea of arrest, and would be content to kill her.
Kill me for what? Escaping their clutches? It’s proof that genuine law has broken down, to use deadly force against someone who is no threat to them. Ironic, how the worm has turned: Americans frantically trying to make it into Mexico.
One of the bullets poked hot into her calf, its momentum slowed but not stopped by two feet of water. Her lungs burned within her and she kicked off her cheap tennis shoes, all but wrecks now anyway. Another gulp of air and she stripped off the rest of her outer clothes, leaving nothing but bra and panties.
Pushing herself as far as she had ever done, she stayed under until she had to rise, thankfully outside of the circle of the helo’s searchlight. Several deep breaths restored her somewhat, enough for another dozen yards beneath the surface. Then she did it again, and again, in increasing darkness. It appeared they had lost her, or given up.
Coming to the surface to swim, she saw a low bank in front of her, and reached down with her foot to find the river bed. Something sharp stabbed a toe as she tried to get purchase, but she ignored it, just grateful to have made it to the other side. Once she reached the waterline, she stopped to rest, just lying there with her head in the dirt.
Something rustled above her head, and she rolled over to look upward into the faintly dawning sky. The silhouette of a uniformed man with an M16 blocked her view as he bent over to look at her closely. “Hola, Señora. Bienvenidos a México.”
Jill started to cry, whether from joy or grief or just exhaustion, she was not sure. The Spanish she had learned so long ago from her grandmother came back to her, well enough. “Gracias Señor. Solicito asilo en México por favor.”
“Si, bella dama. Ven conmigo.” He held out his hand, and she took it.
Epilogue
Tunja, Colombia
Jill curiously examined the unmarked compound and compared it to the address on the piece of paper the Mexican civil servant had given her. It appeared to be the right place, and she saw several gringo faces behind the fence, along with people of other races. She walked up to the gate and pushed the button on the intercom, and waited.
The Mexican Federales had put her in a holding camp not much different from the one in Iowa, except that in this one, people also got to leave. Buses rolled up every day, names were called, and off they went to some form of resettlement. In her case, they'd sent her here, with a plastic bag of basic supplies and this address.
A man in khakis walked out of a nearby steel-framed building and let her in when she showed him the paper. He read it carefully before handing it back. “Military experience?” he asked as he shut the gate behind her.
“Semper Fi,” she responded, baring her left shoulder.
“Excellent. We need women.” With that cryptic comment he led her into the battered windowless warehouse. Inside, makeshift walls had been erected, reminding her of a temporary barracks on a deployment. People came and went, mostly men, all with the look of warriors.
“What did you do?” the man asked as they threaded their way toward the back.
“3RT. Tactical police and training.”
He grunted, a sound that might have held pleasure. “Doubly excellent. I’m going to make an executive decision and take you straight to The Man.” She could hear the capitals.
He knocked on a nondescript door, and then stuck his head inside. “Sir, I think I got a Class One for you. Jill Repeth. Marine Corps.”
From inside she heard a male voice say, “Excellent.” Apparently that was a buzzword around here. Her escort shoved the door wide open and motioned her to enter the room, and then closed it behind her, leaving her alone with its occupant.
Bright black eyes in a sharp face greeted her, beneath a severe buzz cut on a man shorter than she by at least two inches. His height seemed immaterial, for he filled the room with a presence, a force that told her this was someone to be reckoned with.
He held out his hand with a smile. “Hello, Miss Repeth. I’m Tran Pham Nguyen. You may call me Spooky. I’m putting together a special unit for covert operations within the United States. Interested?”
A slow smile filled Jill’s face. “Oh, yes sir. Yes sir; you bet your ass I am.”
THE END of Reaper's Run.
Please consider leaving a review on Amazon.
READ ON for an excerpt from the next book in the series, Skull's Shadows.
SKULL'S SHADOWS Excerpt
Chapter 1
The worst things in life are never free, thought Alan “Skull” Denham as he watched the two-engine turboprop plane rise into the faint glow of approaching dawn. Though cool in the high desert of southern Arizona, he didn’t feel the chill.
A black ice of loneliness and wrath, a thing he’d fought off with action and hatred, now threatened to consume his being. He’d set those things aside long enough to get Daniel Markis, Larry Nightingale and the others safely away on that plane.
Now, he embraced them. Now, the time had come for retribution.
People who knew the tall thin man might describe him as quietly unsettling. When he did speak, he did so purposefully, often accented by cutting sarcasm that revealed a quick and dangerous mind. Yet, he was neither a clown nor a man to be safely ignored
Even those who knew him well would not have described him as exceptionally philosophical, but they’d have been wrong. Skull often contemplated deep truths about the world and himself. One truth: genuine friendship was so extraordinarily rare it might as well be an apparition, a specter, a ghost. Another truth, one so deep and so hard it felt like a spear though his chest, was that Zeke Johnstone had been his last and truest friend. The depth of the emotion surprised him.
Against his will he relived the events outside Zeke’s Fayetteville, NC home. Members of a secret government conspiracy had murdered Zeke in front of his wife and children. Undoubtedly they’d wanted him alive, to trace him back to the Sosthenes bunker where those infected with the healing Eden Plague hid, but they’d started the shooting.
In the mayhem, a bullet had blown Zeke’s head open.
Skull ground his teeth at the memory and walked back to the SUV. He thought of those men who had killed his friend and caused such pain to Zeke’s family. On Zeke’s orders, Skull, Spooky and Larry had injected the killers with the Plague, in his opinion a grave injustice. The killers had deserved to die.
More like them could be coming after him soon. Their crimes could not go unanswered. He knew his chances of finding the specific men responsible were unlikely, but not impossible. The new INS, Inc. headquarters in Maryland would be a good place to start.
Skull felt the fluttering of dark wings around the edge of his mind and relied upon the old antidote...revenge and death. Many deserved it, cried out for it, and Skull knew he’d been made to fulfill that purpose, an angel of death.
Why else had he been born?
Starting the SUV, he turned north away from the abandoned airfield outside of Tucson. He didn’t fear anyone he might run into; he’d always known that when his time to die came it would be at his own hand, but until then, he didn’t want anyone to interfere with his work. The only work that was ever right. His primary purpose in existing.
So be it, he thought and smiled grimly at the orange light rising over the stark mountains.
Driving just above the speed limit, Skull kept an eye out for anything unusual. His vehicle should be clean and as far he knew no one who might be looking for him had his physical description, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. This thought made him lean back in his seat until he felt the reassuring pressure of the Glock 37 .45 caliber compact pistol concealed at the back of his waist.
The sun rose on a beautiful day, the sky clear over the panoramic mountains. A man could almost forget that the U.S. government had detonated two nuclear weapons on its own soil in the last few days, or that martial
law now oppressed all of America. He wondered what could be happening out in the larger world as he drove north.
South of Phoenix, Skull hit the first checkpoint, obviously a hasty affair with plastic cones and police cars as barriers. He slowly rolled down the window to speak to a policeman who waved him forward.
“How’s it going?” asked Skull with a friendly smile.
“License and registration,” the man answered back without any trace of personality.
“Sure,” said Skull pulling out a California driver’s license with his picture and the name Victor Erickson. He reached for the registration and proof of insurance that matched the false identification.
The policeman examined the documents so closely, Skull wondered if the man could read. Just sound it out, Skull thought helpfully. The big words can be tricky. With iron self control, he kept the thoughts from forming words.
“Where are you headed Mister Erickson?” he finally asked.
“Back to Sacramento,” Skull answered. “Got to be at work on Monday.”
“And what is it you do for work?” the policeman asked, looking skeptical.
“I’m the manager of Prince Lumber and Construction Supply.” Skull felt confident giving these details since he had already paid for the backstopping. If the cop decided to call the company they would verify that Victor Erickson, a tall bald man, worked there and was expected in Monday.
The cop peered at the growing line of traffic behind Skull’s vehicle. “And just what was your purpose in Arizona?”
Skull saw in the line next to him the police had pulled the family out of their station wagon and were searching the vehicle and making them turn out their pockets. If they did that to him, the game could be up given all the weapons in the vehicle. He mentally marked the positions of the policemen. Only the one he was speaking to was paying him any attention.
“Sir? Why were you in Arizona?”
“I’m sorry, officer,” Skull replied with an embarrassed smile. “I was visiting my sick aunt in Sonoma and realized I was supposed to call my wife before I left and didn’t. She gets so pissed when I do that.”
The man seeming to relax a little. “Yeah, mine too.”
“Officer, is there some sort of problem? Is this because of the terrorist attacks?”
“Yeah,” he answered leaning back so he could see the full extent of the forming lines. Now both vehicles on either side of Skull’s were getting tossed. “Martial law, you know. Those damn terrorists. I had friends in Los Angles.”
Skull forced his eyes to get soft and watery. “I had a brother there.” He rubbed his face and looked away. “Haven’t heard from him since...since...well, since then.”
The policeman handed back his identification and papers. “We’ll all get through this. Just stay tough and hang together. The President will give them what they deserve.”
“I sure hope so,” said Skull taking the papers. “You take care.”
“You too,” the policeman answered. “And stay to the north. They’re saying fallout is still drifting east from L.A. Shouldn’t be too dangerous, but even a little radiated rain is bad.”
Indeed it is, thought Skull. It wouldn’t just be radioactive rain; it would be ashes from millions of innocents killed to cover up a lie. Skull was under no illusions what the leaders of the government would do to contain the Eden Plague that threatened to disrupt their comfortable power blocs and politics. He’d seen dozens of examples in his time all over the world. The average Joe thought it couldn’t happen in America, but all it took was a big enough threat. 9/11 had made people so afraid they were begging the government to take their rights in exchange for security. It had taken decades for the feds to back away from knee-jerk reactions to every imagined danger, and now all that progress had been wiped away again.
Skull passed through several more checkpoints, none as thorough or efficient as the first one. These policemen appeared to only be making a show of checking people’s identification and were nearly apologetic for stopping motorists. Fortunately, traffic was light. Most people stayed at home during this time of uncertainly and crisis, heeding the public service announcements.
Needing coffee and food, Skull pulled off at an exit for a large gas station. He noticed an agitated group of people near the pumps. Driving around them slowly, he examined the posted signs: ALL FUEL RATIONED BY ORDER OF THE GOVERNOR. SEE YOUR LOCAL COURTHOUSE FOR RATION CARD.
Skull looked down at his fuel gauge. That could be a problem, he thought. The large SUV still had over a quarter of a tank, but that wouldn’t take him too much further. Maybe he could get into New Mexico. Hopefully the governor there hadn’t enacted similar measures.
Parking in a spot he could see from inside the large convenience store, he grabbed a basket from a stack near the door and started tossing in nuts, jerky, and any other food that would keep for several days. He also pitched in a few packages of flashlight batteries before getting himself an extra-large coffee with double cream and sugar to ward off what would be an inevitable burnt flavor. A couple of irradiated egg and meat sandwiches that had been under heat lamps for who knew how long would serve for breakfast.
Walking over to the checkout, he set his basket and coffee in front of a small round woman with glasses.
“That be all for ya today?” she asked with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place.
“Sure,” he answered. “What’s up with the gas rationing?”
The cashier cackled loudly like a witch from one of the old movies Skull used to watch as a kid. “That just happened this morning. Pissed lots of people off. My manager ain’t too happy either because we have to give gas to police and state officials without charging them. We only get their receipt with a state IOU. Meanwhile, he says we still have to pay all our bills in cash.” She laughed and shook her head while placing his purchases in a bag, clearly enjoying herself.
“Total seems a little high, don’t you think?” Skull said as the numbers rang up.
“Got to charge more, otherwise the hoarders’d buy us out right off and we’d have nothing at all.” Reaching out to take his money, she lowered her voice. “Mark my words, this is all because of something those Jews did in Israel.” Then her smile faltered, as if noticing his bronzed skin for the first time and wondering at his background.
Actually, Apache in his ancestry had bequeathed him the skin color, much more noticeable when he’d gotten sun. “Mazel Tov,” Skull said with a straight face, taking his coffee and bag of food off the counter and walking to the door. He stopped at the sight of the newspaper stand near the exit. The headline read, MILLIONS KILLED IN TERRORIST CULT ATTACKS IN LOS ANGELES AND WEST VIRGINIA. TWELVE STATES DECLARE EMERGENCIES. He read a little further. The article stated that Federal authorities had placed Daniel Markis at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list as the leader of the terrorist group at fault. The article also stated that his group was believed to be responsible for the sinking of the cruise ship Royal Neptune.
Skull knew he shouldn’t be surprised or disgusted, but felt both. So Markis is America’s most wanted man, he thought. Maybe that’ll keep the heat off me. Let self-righteous DJ be the face of his new movement and draw all the attention so I can do what I need to. Leafing through the paper, he didn’t see pictures of any others from the Sosthenes group.
After loading his food and batteries into his pack, Skull sat in the SUV, ate his sandwiches and drank the sweet foul coffee. Watching the angry and growing crowd at the pumps, he decided things were getting a little too unpredictable right there. Better not to get caught up in a violent situation that was bound to attract a law enforcement response.
He hadn’t used the embedded vehicle GPS yet, but now he turned it on. The system wanted a destination, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to type in the INS Inc. facility in Maryland. Instead, he put in Amarillo, Texas, a good waypoint in the right direction. More importantly he set the GPS to avoid traffic jams and freeways. That should help conserve gas and maybe even
get him around most of the checkpoints, even if it did cost him time.
Skull drove the SUV back out onto the interstate and then, at the direction of the GPS, exited six miles north at Camp Verde onto State Route 260 running generally southeast before turning back to the northeast. The two-lane road was nearly deserted except for an occasional pickup truck with a dog in back. The noon sun illuminated orange rock, pale soil, and hardy, stunted plants, all that survived in this unforgiving land.
Skull remembered how much he enjoyed the desert and its pitiless nature, unforgiving of errors or weakness.
Of all the places where he served as a Marine, rugged Afghanistan was the most beautiful, despite all the raghead assholes living there. High mountains, wide-open vistas, and in the north, green fields and swift primordial rivers. Skull had enjoyed watching the landscape from his sniper positions in the downtime between servicing targets.
Afghanistan had been as close to sniper heaven as he’d ever found.
Much like northern Arizona, Skull thought. I would really like to kill someone here. Someone deserving. Someone on the wrong side.
Only problem was, he wasn’t yet sure of the sides. Still, he knew if he just stayed patient, evil would reveal itself.
It always did.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a police car across the road ahead. Skull considered turning around, but they may have already seen him. Running now would be like poon tang to hounds, an admission of guilt. Hoping this checkpoint would be no more difficult to get through than the others, he slowed as he approached the lone cruiser.
A policeman as tall as Skull, but much heavier, exited the driver’s side door, paced by his shorter, younger partner. Both cops rested their hands on their weapons, a sign of the times.
The bigger officer held his free hand up for the SUV to stop. When Skull complied, the cop walked over, followed by the other.
