“We’re in position, Sergeant-Major,” Robertson whispered in his earpiece.
“Status of targets?” He crawled across the dirt and rocks poured in through the collapsed retaining wall before jumping to his feet and closed in on his men. The dog raced ahead and waited by the next opening.
“Still alert on the rooftops. Down in the grass, Priority One has dressed for his funeral and seems to be using original quarry as a punching bag. In the pens, the targets are clustered in four groups.”
Good, let the bastard suffer. Too bad it couldn’t last an eternity. He joined his men bunched up by the second collapse in the wall. Almost an entire section gone. Six whole feet of opportunity—for the bad guys—to pick them off. He eyed the packed dirt and followed it to a wooden board spanning the ditch.
Since someone took the time to roll out the red carpet, they would go in there.
“Any movement in the buildings?”
“Negative,” Robertson reported. “Looks like they’re making it easy for us.”
Yeah, because that’s what assholes did, made it easy to take them out. David waited for his balls to draw up tight or the skin between his shoulder blades to itch. Maybe this wouldn’t be a FUBAR moment. “Vegas. Singleton.”
“Ready.”
The single word shot adrenalin into his body. Muscles warmed, pain disappeared. He stalked to the front of his men and double-checked his M203. “Take ‘em out.”
The dog crouched low. His muscles shuddered as he waited to take off.
The report of two rifles bled into each other until they sounded as one.
“Priority One is down.”
After he slid his optic onto his rifle, David’s heart picked up tempo. The M-4 settled into his arms like a favorite lover. His senses opened, feeding everything to his brain—the lazy path of an incoming fly, the burble of the water in the ditch, and the sweet anticipation in his mouth.
A second duet cracked across the valley. Then a third.
“Quad is clear.”
After two more blended shots, he rushed through the opening. The dog sniffed the air, caught a scent and leapt over the ditch.
“Roofs cleared.”
Wood thudded under his boots and the board bounced as he sprang across the ditch. Ten feet to the parking lot. Thunder rolled over the next volley.
“Galley chickens are running in all directions.” Robertson chuckled.
Gravel crunched under his boots. The dog panted. Seventy yards across the parking lot to the auditorium’s covered entrance.
“More like fish in a net,” Michaelson added his own bastardized cliche.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Vegas and Singleton hustle across the open parking lot, heading for the football field. Sixty yards to go. Thirty-three yards until he could use his grenade launcher. Bullets sprayed asphalt chips at his feet. The dog yipped.
“We’re taking heat,” he spat into his microphone. There were fuckers inside.
“Roger that,” Michaelson returned. “I’ve got movement three up, two left.”
Third floor, second window from the left. David glanced up. The auditorium was one solid wall of red brick. What the hell? Where was the shooter?
“I haven’t got a shot,” Michaelson growled. “The bastard is popping up and down like a weasel.”
“Got him,” Folgers squeaked in the headset.
He felt more than saw the private stop. White light winked from the second floor of the school building. Well, damn, he was looking in the wrong place. A red bead raced across the white stucco.
The weasel popped his head up.
Folgers found the target’s right eye, then his bullet found his skull.
“Game on, Folgers,” Robertson spoke. “Maybe next time you can play with the big boys.”
Folgers grunted.
Fifty yards. He began to breathe through his mouth and sighted the glass front of the auditorium. Another red ball played on the glass ten feet from him.
“Damn it,” Michaelson swore. “The targets are taking hostages.”
“How many are left?” At forty yards, he pulled the trigger of the grenade launcher. He felt the recoil tear the stitches in his shoulder. The dog slowed, keeping pace. Warmth trickled down his chest. With a hollow k-thunk sound, the explosive arced from his weapon. A second one joined it.
“Three.” Robertson shouted. “Fuckers are hiding behind the naked women. I can’t get a lock.”
Faster. He pumped his legs harder. His men drew abreast of him. His round punched the glass and exploded. The second one landed a foot from the box office before going off. Glass bowed, splintering and blowing inward. The deadly slivers left the twisted metal frame dusted with sharp-edged glitter.
“Me neither.” Michaelson’s frustration prowled the space between them. “Come on. Come on, ladies. Get out of the way. Give me a clear shot.”
He didn’t urge them to keep trying. They would. Adjusting his hold on his M-4, he dumped the spent shell and reached into his pocket for another.
Folgers hit the first floor doors of the classroom building. Ray aimed higher, hitting the second story landing. The stuccoed balustrade showered the yellow grass with chunks of plaster and wire mesh.
David pressed against the outside wall and closed his eyes. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of IR goggles right now. He heard his crew fall in beside him, including the dog. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and opened the remains of the door. Metal squealed. He stepped inside, grinding the glass to sand under his boots. Well, it wasn’t as if the assholes didn’t know they’d made the Army’s most wanted list. “We’re entering the classrooms. First floor.”
“Roger that,” Robertson interrupted his humming to answer. “Holy shit!”
He aimed straight then right as he stepped into the hallway. The dog snaked around his legs, sniffed the ground and then the air, then the ground again. Boxes crammed the space, reducing the aisle from six-feet wide to two. They’d stolen all the ready-to-eat meals. God knew where the medicine had gone.
“We’re clear of the bleachers,” Vegas spoke just as a gunshot echoed through his mic.
David’s heart stilled, but his body kept moving to the right and the wing of classrooms. “Report!”
The dog stared at the corridor where Ray and Janovich searched.
The sound of heavy breathing amplified inside his ear.
“That’s right, you beautiful ladies.” Robertson laughed. “You kill the bastards that kept you in there.”
Michaelson chuckled. “You can stop cowering, Vegas and Singleton. The women are taking care of the last three targets.”
He cleared the classroom on the right, while Folger worked on the left side. Only the scent of floor cleaner stirred in the empty space. Where were the desks and chairs?
“Oh! Did you see that?” Robertson gasped and another gunshot rattled the window. “She shot another one.”
“He’s not dead.” Vegas huffed. “She shot his dick off.”
“Damn, remind me not to piss that one off.”
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” Vegas raised his voice on the last word. “Can you put the gun down?”
David finished his sweep of the classrooms. Empty. All of them. “Someone ask them how many bastards there were.”
After meeting with Folger in the corridor, they headed back to the entrance. Ray and Janovich were three-quarters of the way down the hallway. The dog darted ahead before stopping at the last classroom. He laid down on the floor and stared at the door.
“Yes, Ma’am. We’re here to help.” Vegas kept his voice monotone. “Could you give me the weapon? The weapon… Thank you.”
He jogged past the open doors of the rooms his men had already cleared. Beds sat in the center of the rooms. He didn’t want to know what the assholes had done with the blood-stained ropes, chains and belts that lay like dead serpents on the white floor.
“We got a locked one, Sergeant-Major.” Ray stood outside the second to last classro
om on the north side. Behind him, Janovich aimed his M-4 at the faux wooden door.
“There seems to be a consensus that there’s twenty-five bad…” Vegas caught himself, “bad guys.”
David added up the numbers in his head. They’d eliminated thirty-six targets so far. The math was off. Either some had kept hidden or they’d added a few new recruits—bad apples had a way of spoiling the whole bushel.
“Roger that.” They would have to search the rest of the grounds. He glanced at the dog and knew exactly where to start. Nudging Ray to the side, he waited for the other two to take their positions then kicked the door open. His knee twinged at the impact. Girls squealed when the door banged against the wall.
Slim young bodies in adult satin collapsed against the wall. Metal clanked as they slid like beads on a string along the chain that held them in place. They cowered in a heap in the corner farthest from him.
After scanning the empty room, David removed his finger from the trigger and lowered his weapon. “Just hold on girls, and we’ll get you out of here.”
Folgers blushed.
“We’ll finish this floor.” With one shot, Janovich popped the loop bolting the chain to the wall, then turned on his heel and left. Folgers dashed out on his heels.
The girls looked at him, then at the chain, then back at him again. Great. Statues. “Slide the chain off then line up in twos behind me. We’ll remove the handcuffs once we get back to camp.”
The first girl in the line stood frozen. The dog loped into the room and bumped her leg. With his nose, he nudged her hand atop his head. She blinked.
The second one eased the chain from their handcuffs and set her hand on the statue’s back. “It’s a dog!”
“That’s good. Help each other follow the dog. He’s a nice doggie.” The German shepherd accompanied him to the door. The girls shuffled behind him. Pausing, he peered into the hallway. Folgers stood near the exit. He waved the dog onward. “Robertson, radio the convoy. We need transport. At least four trucks and medics wouldn’t hurt either.”
Chapter Eight
What could God have been thinking? Papa Rose threaded the end of the blue rope through the belt loop and drew it tight. He should never be trusted with the lives of innocents. Wasn’t he responsible for the deaths of his own children and step-children? His gut twisted.
Brainiac stood between the back of the empty tanker and the corner of the convenience store. Rain spotted his Navy peacoat, whittling away the ex-sailor’s skinny frame. Water dripped off his nose, ears and hair but he didn’t budge from his post. His finger rested alongside the M-4 cutting across his middle. “Don’t use all my soap now.”
“I won’t.” Jillie, the preteen girl they’d found in the convenience store, shivered fully clothed under the water pouring through the down spout and washed the blood from her hair. “Geez, you’ve already told me twice.”
“Yeah, well.” Brainiac glanced at her before scanning the street. “If you’re like my sister, you don’t always listen.”
“Is she with you? Your sister?”
“Nah.” Brainiac turned his face up the falling rain. “She worked at Burgers in a Basket.”
Brothers. Sisters. Family. Tune them out. Focus on what you’re doing. Papa Rose’s fingers trembled as he looped the ends of the rope over each other. At least, he didn’t have anything to do with the anthrax attack. He tugged on the rope, gathering the waistband of the baggy pants. “Say when.”
The preschooler standing in front of him giggled, wiggled and sucked in his flat stomach. Ribs created waves on his flesh and baby teeth gleamed white in his tan face.
Christ, there wasn’t an ounce of spare meat on the kid. Papa Rose stopped pulling and waited for the little boy to relax. “You’re ticklish, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember your name?” Were your parents one of the slaughtered masses in the convenience store behind them where Falcon scrounged among the remains of the dead, looking for something these two could use? He kept his tongue still. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t interrogate a three-year-old. Hooking the waistband, he tamed the wiggling kid and waited.
“Toby.” The little boy stuck his thumb in his mouth. His cheeks collapsed as he sucked hard on it.
“Nice to meet you, Toby.” Papa Rose quickly knotted the rope, careful to avoid touching his ticklish tummy. “I’m Papa Rose.”
Spittle clung to his thumb when Toby removed it from his mouth with a pop. “That’s a girl’s name.”
He smiled. The stiff muscles tightened across his scalp. People like him didn’t deserve to ever smile again. “Do I look like a girl to you?”
“No.” Toby shook his head. His blue eyes widened. “That’s silly. You’re a boy.”
“That’s right.” He bit his tongue. No way would he say his real name. That man was dead, like the family he murdered. He just had to find someone to take care of these two so he could die like he should have.
Like he deserved.
He scratched his fingers over his bald head, used the furrows of pain to concentrate. These two children deserved better than having him look after them.
A cold wind whistled through the gas pumps, rattling the metal handles in their holders. Shivering, Toby crossed his arms over his chest. His teeth began to chatter.
“Cold, huh?” Papa Rose shrugged out of his jacket. The breeze penetrated his teeshirt and needled his skin.
“Y-yeah.”
He draped it around the child, overlapping the front completely to hold it closed. “That should keep you a little warmer.” With string at a premium, he needed some duct tape. “Hold it closed until I can get you a shirt.”
“‘Kay.” His pink fingers pinched the edges.
“I’ll be right back.” Papa scooted the child between the pump and a brick column holding the awning over their heads. At least the kid would be a little out of the wind. He stepped off the curb and headed toward the Harley parked by the empty fuel tanker. He had a couple extra shirts in his bag. They were clean and he’d make do. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need anything much longer.
Rain pelted his bare head. Cold water sluiced down his neck and snaked down his spine. Fuck, it was cold. He jogged to the motorcycle and yanked on the bungee cords holding his bagful of belongings to the seat. The black hooks clanged against the sides then puddled on the ground.
“Don’t damage the bike, Papa.” Brainiac scanned the rooftops of the buildings across the street.
“Bite me.” Holding the bags to his chest, he eyed the beads of moisture on the leather seat. Maybe he should move the bikes under the shelter of the awning.
Lightning crackled across the sky.
Nah, they needed to be on their way soon. He spun on his heel and nearly tripped over his feet. His heart played his ribs.
Toby stood in the puddle not even a foot away. Water darkened the triple rolled cuffs at his bony ankles. His sandy-hair lay like dried apricots against his skull.
Christ Jesus! “Toby!” he shouted. “Get out of the rain.”
The preschooler’s lower lip shook and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Papa Rose squeezed his eyes closed. Damn him and his temper. If God needed proof that these two shouldn’t have been placed in his care, that should have provided it. He’d made an orphan cry. What kind of low-life did that? He peeked through his lashes.
Toby hunched his shoulders and hung his head.
His silence was a sucker punch to a glass jaw. Fisting the bags in one hand, Papa Rose stepped forward and swept the boy up with the other. “Sorry I yelled at you. I just don’t want you to get sick.”
Thin arms looped around his shoulders. “You still my Papa Rose?”
No! Never! With tears pricking his eyes and nose, he stumbled under the awning. He tightened his grip on the boy. Just to keep him from falling. Nothing else.
“Sure,” he rasped.
Toby laid his head on Papa Rose’s shoulder. “I yike my new papa.”
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Emotion lodged in his throat cutting off his oxygen. Black rimmed his vision. Set the kid down, get on your motorcycle and ride away. Far away. Where you can’t hurt anyone ever again. His feet carried him to the fueling island. The boy’s wet hair soaked through his black teeshirt and warmth thawed the ice around his heart until it cracked. Memories escaped the prison he’d built—wet kisses, sticky hands, even the hardheaded wisdom of his clueless teenage daughter.
Ageless children in glass tombs. His to watch forever, but never to touch again.
Never to tell them that he was sorry.
“You cryin’ Papa?” Toby’s words sealed the cracks with the precision of a laser.
He blinked and his tears disappeared in the water running down his cheeks. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he felt it settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach. “Me? Nah. Why would I when I have you?”
Toby lifted his head and frowned at the ground. “My mama cried lots. It made her not so hungry, sos I eats her food.”
He sank to the concrete island before his legs gave out. Not even the finest medical care had saved his children. Nothing could. The disease had been too new, too unusual. He kissed Toby’s hair then set him on the ground. “I hope you’re not planning to eat my cookies all the time. Cuz, I have to say, I really like cookies.”
“Me, too.” Toby rubbed his belly. “I yike the choc’late chips bestest.”
“Chocolate chip, you say?” Setting his belongings between them, he unknotted the garbage bag. The scent of laundry soap wafted from the darkness. God bless those ladies who’d cleaned his clothes with boiling pool water.
“Yep. Choc’late chip.” The boy craned his neck to peer inside the bag. “I can eat two whole big ‘uns ‘fore my tummy hurts.” He thumped on his hollow stomach.
“That many?” Papa Rose dug out a pair of socks, two empty MRE bags and a flannel teeshirt. Setting the items on the bag, he peeled the jacket off the kid.
“How many do you eats?” Eyes narrowed, Toby spun around as he was unwrapped.
Was the kid worried he was going to steal his cookies? Then again, it wasn’t as farfetched as it should be. Others had stolen far more. “None.”
Redaction: The Meltdown Part II Page 8
