First Wave Series Box Set (Books 1-3)

by JT Sawyer

  As her mind drifted over memories of her sister, the man on the computer interrupted her reverie. “Satellite retasking is complete,” he said as thermal imaging for Jerome and Sedona rose to prominence. Nikki pulled up a chair and sat down next to him, analyzing the clusters of people in both regions. “They won’t even see us coming, and they won’t stand a chance once the Blackhawks strafe those settlements and Enrique follows in for the slaughter,” she said.

  “Looks like we have a small cluster near Oak Creek, just below us, but hardly any around the town of Jerome,” he said. “But…” the man paused, straining to interpret the images on his screen. “Wait…this can’t be right,” he said, fiddling with the zoom feature. “This can’t be happening—it looks like there’s a large mass of troops on the outskirts of Flagstaff.”

  “What!” said Nikki, slamming her hand on the table. “Are you sure?”

  “There are hundreds of troops and they sure as hell aren’t a part of Enrique’s main force. This puts them about thirty minutes away from here on foot.” The man began zooming in on the images, but just as he was about to scan the mass of people, the screen went blank. “Shit. We’ve lost satellite feed already?” He glanced at the numeric code on the screen. “Our signal was disrupted by someone else.”

  “It has to be Logan—he’s always stepping on my fucking tail. It’s a shame that so much of the government and Logan’s goddamned bio-terrorism unit are still intact.”

  While she was contemplating her next move, a red light went off on the wall next to the elevator. It was connected with a micro-surveillance camera by the doorway that led into the tunnel below. She walked over to her laptop and flipped up the screen, then punched in the security code. Nikki stared down at the image and saw a man with an AK moving through the doorway. The sunlight flooding in through the entrance washed out his facial details.

  Nikki grabbed the walkie-talkie beside the laptop to alert her men. “Echo One, do you copy?”

  “This is Echo One, go ahead,” said the voice.

  “There’s a tango coming in through the tunnel entrance. Head down there and dispatch him immediately and then send word to Enrique to mobilize his army for an attack on the city within the next half hour. There are significant forces massing to the south. I’ll call in the Blackhawks shortly and then…” she paused, thrusting her head forward and squinting at the image of the man on her laptop. His face was filling the screen as he passed by the hidden camera.

  “Now that’s grand. That’s just fucking grand,” she said, smiling. “Why, damn me to hell. Isn’t that ironic—all these months searching the desert and now that pretty boy I’ve been after is gonna climb right into my lap.” Her smile turned into a crooked grin. “Echo One, disregard last order about neutralizing the tango. Move out of the area and join the main fighting force downtown. I repeat, let the tango pass by unharmed. I’ll deal with him myself, is that clear?”

  “Understood. Echo One pulling out.”

  Nikki watched the black-and-white image on the screen of Travis walking past the second security camera as she removed a collapsible baton from her belt.

  “Head topside and scan the area for any more hostiles in the region,” she said to the man on the computer. “I’d like to have some play time with my new friend who’s decided to drop by for a visit.”

  Chapter 9

  The two main battalions from Jerome and Sedona merged into one massive army, moving in from the southwest. Nearly five hundred fighters pushed through the heavily forested region near a large city park, eventually emerging on the cusp of downtown several blocks from the old public library. In the distance they could see the heavily fortified main street that was filled with row upon row of razor wire and stacked vehicles to keep out the thousands of undead who filled the street on the opposite side.

  Atop the dozen or so buildings in the center of downtown were hundreds of bikers who had hastily taken up defensive positions. Three of the tallest buildings had men hovering over belt- fed machine guns, while the rest of the men were armed with various assault rifles. The streets below were flooded with well-equipped thugs stationed around building entrances and staked out behind vehicles for a quarter mile in every direction.

  Enrique, who was manning one of the machine guns on the building, had suspected the attack would come from the south. When his men began shooting, he swung his weapon around and engaged the coming fighters, who took cover behind burnt-out houses and cobblestone walls.

  The war had begun and with it the clash of two bitter armies, with the bikers outnumbering the approaching fighters by three to one. Crawford’s people could do little except take cover from the piercing rounds strafing through the streets and wait for news from their leader about the arrival of air support.

  Chapter 10

  “This is Bulldog One, we are in position,” said Crawford, who was hunkered down next to a van-sized gray boulder. Eighty yards in front of him were the four Blackhawks. The rest of his team was spread out around the edge of the forest, their rifles fixed on the men milling around the helos.

  “Wait until I’ve confirmed that the Blackhawks are disabled and then begin the breach of the downtown perimeter,” he radioed to the company commander of the Winslow fighters who were waiting a few miles away in the forest.

  “Copy that,” said the voice on the other end of his ear mic. Crawford and his small team of snipers had inserted four miles away and met up with Pete, who had led them to the Blackhawks. They needed to remove the pilots and, if necessary, the helos from the equation. After that, a small party of his men were going to blow a hole in the eastern end of the fortified perimeter and unleash the RAMs upon the downtown region. Once the creatures started pouring in, the armed thugs would be occupied long enough for Crawford’s main fighting force to complete their attack from the west.

  Strategic planning always sounded much better on the drawing board, and Crawford knew that there were too many variables and random elements to prevent things from going as smoothly as hoped.

  The sniper team moved as one entity, sneaking up to the edge of the field where Pete and Travis had previously reconnoitered the landing zone. Crawford scanned the meadow through the scope of his Barrett .50 cal rifle, panning over to the edge of the forest around the Blackhawks. “Looks like we’ve got four pilots and four crew members milling about the helos,” he said, panning his rifle beyond the playing field. “There are also about a dozen bikers for security up by the dirt road behind them.”

  “Roger that, sir. That’s my count as well,” said Dane, a tall blond man who was squatting a few feet away from Crawford, staring through the scope atop his MK-12 rifle. Dane was an eight-year army veteran and had originally flown the Bell helicopter that had inserted Pete and Travis earlier. “If we can take out those pilots and the sentries, those Blackhawks can help us turn this battle to our advantage,” he said.

  “Why do you think you’re here, Dane? I sure didn’t bring you for your sense of humor,” said Crawford. “My first choice is to add those cool helos to our collection. My second choice, should the enemy gain the tactical advantage, is to destroy those birds. Now, since you boys are the shit-hot shooters I know you to be, option one is what I’m bettin’ on.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” said Pete.

  “You can keep an eye on the big picture around the meadow. Talk about tunnel vision—well, we’re all gonna have plenty of it, focusing on the little picture through our scopes. If you see any bikers, para-military types, or RAMs in the vicinity, you give me a holler, son.”

  “You got it,” Pete said.

  “Dane, you take half the group and fan out on the western edge of the forest,” said Crawford. “The rest of us will stay here. Once you’re in your pre-assault positions, I’ll give the order and we’ll begin dispatching those sons-a-bitches. After that, Dane, you’ve got your pick of Blackhawks, since you’re the only one here capable of flyin’ the damn things.”

  Crawford’s team spr
ead out around him, adjusting their scopes while Dane took his men and stalked through the woods, darting from boulder to boulder until they were in position.

  As they waited for everyone to get ready, Crawford could hear the sound of automatic-weapon fire coming from downtown. “Shit—the main battle has begun already,” he said, looking out at the meadow. He saw the four pilots rush up to one another in a huddle. One of the pilots began shouting at the other crew members.

  Goddammit—they’re gonna peel out of here, Crawford thought.

  The pilots and crew members bolted for their Blackhawks and began starting their engines.

  “Dane, are you in position yet?”

  “Copy that.”

  “We’ve got no time to waste. Teams one and two: commence removal of the pilots. If the helos get airborne then take ’em out.”

  Within seconds, the crack of high-powered .308 and .50 cal rifles resounded along the edge of the forest. The pilots in the two lead Blackhawks were killed instantly, the rounds piercing through the side windows of their doors. The biker sentries near the forest moved down and began unleashing automatic-weapon fire upon the treeline where they had seen the snipers’ muzzle blasts. This temporarily halted Crawford’s men just long enough for the last two Blackhawks to begin their lift-offs.

  “Dane, concentrate your efforts on the bikers so we can focus on the helos,” snapped Crawford into his mic, while fixing the crosshairs on the ascending Blackhawk. The remaining helo was directly behind the first one, and Crawford’s men couldn’t get a clear shot, so they focused all their firepower on downing the foremost Blackhawk. The engine was pierced by several rounds of .50 cal and then a round pierced the pilot’s chamber. The helo began spiraling towards a row of old-growth trees over the fallen bikers. It smashed into the rocky slope by the road, igniting into a billowing cloud of flame and metal shrapnel.

  The rear Blackhawk had moved over the cusp of the trees. Just as Crawford was fixing his sights, the helo disappeared beyond the forested hillside.

  Chapter 11

  Travis held the Glock extended in front of him as he swept from right to left along the dark corridor whose ceiling was draped with cobwebs. He could hear water dripping from a pipe overhead. A red emergency light was flickering on the wall. He slowed his breathing and strained his ears for any movement coming from the circular chamber ahead where the tunnel ended.

  He moved alongside the smooth brick wall to his right, pausing to scan for shadows or activity. All he could see in the vaulted chamber was an old desk next to a row of oxygen canisters, medical equipment, a laptop, and stacks of food crates covered with clear tarps. On the opposite wall was a set of silver elevator doors and a control panel next to it.

  Travis edged forward and came to the corner where the tunnel joined the chamber. He darted into the room, sweeping to his immediate right. As he entered, he felt a bone-jarring impact across the top of his forearm as a collapsible baton struck, knocking his pistol to the ground. Before he could react, another strike impacted the back of his leg, and he was swept off his feet.

  Instinctively, he rolled backward, coming up into a fighting stance and unslinging the AK. He heard the crack of gunfire as a round shattered the wooden forestock of his rifle, the force causing him to drop the weapon. He pulled his machete out and held it before him, his body turned in a fighting stance. Travis looked up as a woman in black moved forward, remaining just outside the range of his machete. Her lithe figure was backlit by a spotlight on the wall, and he squinted to make out her face. Three parallel scars were evident on the back of her neck and her black hair was held back in a ponytail, revealing muscular shoulders.

  The sinewy figure reholstered her pistol and continued waving the baton in circles. “So, you must be the mighty Travis Combs,” she said in a honey-sweet southern accent. “I was beginning to wonder if you were even real.”

  He studied her footwork and hand movements while steadying his machete. “I’m real, alright—just as my blade is going to feel pretty fucking real as it cleaves your head in two.”

  She kicked the Glock aside and tossed the baton onto the cement floor, pulling out a black Kukri blade from her hip. “Stick fighting weapons are so crude and caveman-like, don’t you think? A blade takes fighting to a whole new level of artistry,” she said, slicing the air swiftly in a figure-of-eight pattern while grinning.

  “I didn’t get a glimpse of your nametag—who the hell are you again?” he said, trying to place the familiar ring of her voice.

  “Why, I’m the new meet-and-greet committee, sugar. Welcome to my lair. I was really hoping you’d bring your pal along on this little trip—you know, James Pearson?”

  “Pearson, eh?” Travis said, looking her over. “So, you’re attracted to the weak and sniveling type?”

  They both began circling, scrutinizing each other’s blade hands. Travis looked up and could make out her glacier-blue eyes and a rose tattoo on her arm. He held the machete in his lead hand, keeping his right hand back for parrying as he had learned during years of combatives training.

  “Logan must think you’re some kinda super-man who can just walk in here by himself and get past me.”

  Travis gave her a puzzled look. Logan—I should’ve known he was somehow tied up in all of this. That explains why Pearson was embedded on the river trip. He refocused his gaze upon the woman before him, studying her contoured face. “I never underestimate an opponent, but in your case, I ain’t too worried. Though, I didn’t figure on the rabble up here being under the clutches of a deranged queen bee.”

  She laughed. “You have no idea who’s been pulling your little puppet strings all these months, even before your quaint river trip began, do you? Did you think that you and Pearson ended up together by accident? Why, if you only knew who was…”

  Before she could finish, Travis lunged forward with an arcing slice to her lead hand, nicking her on the wrist. She deftly sidestepped, catching him across the back, slicing through his vest and grazing his skin.

  “Not bad, army boy,” she said, raising her injured hand up and rolling her tongue over the seeping wound. “I figured you would’ve had some training, though it can’t compare to the meticulous study I’ve done. The killing sciences are my area of specialization—my first love, really.”

  “You don’t seem like the kinda creature that is capable of love. In fact, you don’t seem much different from the undead shitsacks roamin’ the city.”

  “But you certainly are capable of love, aren’t you, Travis?” she said. “With that gorgeous ex-wife and charming son of yours back in Denver. You must miss him so much. It’s a real shame you couldn’t be there to rescue your boy when that city fell,” she said, darting in to strike.

  He jumped back, slamming into the food crates, and then spun off to the left as the tip of her blade struck him across the shoulder blade, leaving a delicate cut that began staining his shirt red. The pain was intense, but her words bit through his flesh even harder, causing his stomach to coil in knots. He strained to control his breathing and force away the images she had conjured.

  “So, you’re a spook with a government database—so what! You don’t know jack shit about me, other than a few bylines from a personnel file,” he said, keeping her occupied with talking as he tried to maneuver over to his pistol, which lay beneath an old desk. Just from the brief passes of her blade, he could tell that she was slightly better than him, and with a pair of closely matched knife-fighters, that usually meant one person would be dead soon and the other horribly maimed. He couldn’t afford to continue this lethal dance, knowing she would snipe him until he was reduced. His best chance for survival was to get to his Glock.

  “Don’t be upset with me, sweetie. Logan’s the one who owes you an explanation on why you’re so far from home. Tell me where Pearson is and I may let you live—though you may have to be spoon-fed for the rest of your days,” she said with a grin.

  The pain from the cuts on his back and shoulder was s
eeping through his concentration as the surge of adrenaline ebbed. His head was cloudy with thoughts of his son, coupled with the eerie familiarity of the woman’s voice. He wondered what Logan’s role was in all of this and how he himself had ended up on his old commander’s radar screen. Travis kept his machete up and took a deep breath, the sweat trickling down his cheek as he moved towards the desk by the elevator doors.

  “Pearson stayed behind in Jerome. He’s a whimpering fool that no one would trust to have on their side in a fight.”

  The woman twirled her Kukri blade in a circle. “A man is known by the company he keeps,” she said with a smirk. “Did Pearson also tell you he was Professor Doomsday who helped us develop the virus? Surely, all these months together, he must have said something about the precious vaccine he had stowed away?”

  “All he said was that he was a scientist who knew how to turn things around and that his handler was going to come for him,” he said, stepping over the baton Nikki had thrown down earlier.

  “Ah, yes, his handler. That clever fellow gave up what little he knew after two days with me. That’s what led us to this town,” she said, sidestepping. “Now, you’ve done the rest for me. Once you and your pathetic band of rump-fed cowpie lovers are dead, I’ll extract Pearson and be on my way. And just in time before winter sets in—I just can’t stand cold weather, ya know.”

  She stopped pacing and began stalking towards him. “Why did Logan think you were going to have the stones to pull off a rescue operation and somehow help Pearson save humanity?”

  What rescue operation? What the hell is this psychotic bitch talking about? I just wanted some R&R on the river with a friend, and now I’m knee-deep in a shitstorm orchestrated by Logan and his fucking D.C. pals.