Bloody Eden (Soldiers of New Eden Book 2)

by T. L. Knighton

  A smile crossed her face, her eyes still locked on his. "I told you he was coming," she said.

  The words sent a chill down Conklin's spine. It was an unfamiliar sensation to the man, to say the least. However, part of him actually enjoyed it.

  "How do you figure anyone's coming for you?" She was right, but no need to tip his hand to her.

  The smile grew. "Because he's here."

  Conklin laughed mirthlessly. He felt no humor, but laughing at the bitch made the most sense to him right now. Well that and…

  SLAP!

  Another blow to her already battered and bruised face threw her back to the ground. "No one's here for you. You're going to be here until I get bored with you. You know that?"

  She spit blood onto the floor. "You're going to get bored really soon then, asshole."

  Conklin reached down, grabbing the woman by the throat. He slowly lifted her up, her limbs trying desperately to keep up with him. The defiance in her eyes slowly gave way to fear as she stood on her tip toes.

  There we go. That's better. He smiled. It was the most genuine smile he'd worn in ages. He'd forgotten what being truly happy felt like.

  "Even if Jason Calvin were here, do you think he'd give two shits about you? We've got some of the New Eden's women here. You're just some two-bit wetback whore."

  She spit at him. The bloody saliva splashed against his cheek. He pressed the index and middle finger of his free hand against the wetness, then pulled it away so he could inspect it.

  His smile faded.

  Even he was surprised as he slammed the woman against the brick wall. He squeezed hard against her neck, nearly cutting off her air supply.

  With his free hand, he struggled to remove his belt. Her eyes widened at the realization of what he was doing, her arms fighting with the hand grasping her neck.

  "You…you think…raping me…" she choked out. Her words startled him just enough for him to loosen his grip on her throat. "Such a big man," she said, still struggling to get enough air, "you have to rape a woman to get any?"

  His belt finally free, he let the woman go. He absentmindedly coiled the belt around his hand, the buckle in his palm. "Rape you? What makes you think you're worthy of me even considering raping you?"

  Before she could answer, the thick leather of the belt slammed into her cheek.

  Conklin smiled. Bet that took some of the fire out of her.

  Megan Hernandez's face was away from the man. Slowly she turned until she looked into his eye.

  Terry Conklin saw that he'd been mistaken. The fire wasn't gone in the least. Instead, he'd merely stoked the fire burning within the woman. If he were being honest with himself, he'd admit that the woman's fury would scare the hell out of him if she hadn't been chained.

  "You know you're just getting me excited, right?" he asked smugly.

  "An impotent asshole like you? Color me unimpressed."

  The bitch was mocking him. He'd been mocked enough in his life. He'd seen the looks of his fellow cadets at the Academy. They all mocked him too, though never where he could hear it. He'd worked too hard to be mocked by some Mexican whore.

  The belt seemed to fly out of its own volition. Conklin couldn't remember any thought that would make it fly, though he approved the instant the leather smacked into the woman's face. Over and over again, he repeated the move. Inch by inch she shrunk into herself, trying to get away from the vicious assault.

  No one would look down on him ever again.

  Chapter 15

  Jason sat on the couch. For weeks, he'd been busy focusing on what he needed to do. Now, due to the extra hole he'd developed, he was forced to sit.

  Resting wasn't the issue. Jason intellectually understood that he needed time to heal. While the wound wasn't bad, he needed to be as strong as possible when the time came. Resting would make that happen.

  The problem came about because resting also gave him time to think. Thinking brought about remembering. Remembering was the enemy. Someday, he'd soak in the memories of her. Remember every kiss, every touch, every look. Today, it was just too painful.

  "Hungry?" Rick asked, holding out a sandwich.

  Jason shook his head. He hadn't had an appetite for a while.

  "Sleep any?" his son asked.

  Again, he shook his head. He hadn't really slept much in the past few days either.

  "Want to talk?"

  He thought about it for a moment, then finally shook his head.

  Rick sat down at the end of the couch. "I miss her too."

  He looked at his son. There didn't seem to be any judgment in the younger man's face. It didn't matter. He'd judged himself enough alright.

  "It's more than that."

  "Oh?"

  Jason knew what his son was doing. He was being goaded into talking. He'd been an expert in this kind of thing back in the day. He surprised himself when he said, "So many."

  "So many what?"

  "So many dead. All my fault."

  Rick shrugged. "Are they?"

  "Of course they are. If we'd have pulled off the raid, Conklin wouldn't have the bargaining chips he's got now. We'd have gotten our people back, and we wouldn't have lost so many of our own in the process."

  Rick nodded. "Yep. Agreed on all counts. Still trying to see where that's your fault though."

  "I could have-"

  "Could have what?" Rick asked, interrupting him. "You didn't have command. Yeah, you might have made it work if you'd taken over. Then again, the indecision in the ranks might have killed even more."

  "Don't lecture me," Jason growled. "I was there. I knew we were headed toward disaster."

  "You tell McDaniel?"

  Jason nodded. "Yeah, I told him. Son of a bitch didn't want to listen."

  "Then suck it up, Dad. You're whining now, and you know how you feel about whiners."

  "Yeah, well…it's more than just that."

  Rick nodded. "Mom."

  Jason reluctantly nodded. "It's been easier to keep my mind off it when I'm busy. Sitting here though?"

  "About all you think about, right?"

  "Pretty much. Her and Allison. At least with Allison, I can think about the future."

  "It's not your fault either. You realize that, right?"

  "Yeah, I know. Just can't help but feeling guilty."

  "Dad, they targeted our house. Us, Simon, the rest of the council, there were more rounds that hit near our homes than anywhere else."

  Jason looked up at his son, a new feeling replacing the deep depression. Rage. "What?" he asked, his voice ice cold. It wasn't the voice of a man, but the voice of death.

  Rick nodded. "They were trying to kill all of us. Simon didn't tell you?"

  "Not a word."

  Rick shrugged. "Probably thought you knew."

  Jason nodded slowly.

  "Now you're pissed all over again, aren't you?"

  "Yes," he said simply.

  "Me too. Remember though, we can't be stupid about this, right?"

  "Right."

  "You're going to rest?"

  Jason nodded.

  "You going to do something stupid?"

  He looked at his son. Rick seemed satisfied with whatever answer he found in his eyes since he simply nodded and went off, leaving the sandwich within easy reach.

  No matter what happened, Jason was determined to crush Terry Conklin. Killing him was going to be too simple. He would make the other man suffer, suffer in ways beyond human imagining. Worse, Jason was going to make it a point to enjoy it.

  ** ** **

  It had taken a couple of weeks, but the doctor finally pronounced Jason as fit. Of course, Jason was ready to go ahead with the operation regardless of what the doctor had said.

  They'd checked every single thing time and again. The plan was made and in place. If we're going to blow it, we're going to blow it right here and right now, he thought. Being antsy didn't really help him make smooth decisions. Luckily, Rick, Al, and Yancey kept him grou
nded enough so that the plan seemed workable.

  He looked at the watch on his arm. The second hand spun around flawlessly on the old style wind-up watch. Only a few more, then the fun would begin.

  The second hand hit the twelve at the top of the watch face, but nothing happened. The watches hadn't been synchronized or anything, so he wasn’t overly alarmed until another ten seconds had passed.

  Jason looked back at the man behind him. As he opened his mouth, two explosions, just seconds apart, rocked the men.

  He turned back to look at the barracks. Thick smoke billowed out the doors and windows of the building. The bombs placed under the stairs during the repairs seemed to have done their job just fine.

  "Go," Jason ordered.

  Five men, three women left from the shadow of the alley and crossed the street. Guards stood outside the door. They seemed torn, should they enter the building and try to help, or should they hold their posts. Jason didn't care.

  He raised his rifle, now just a few yards away from them, the suppressor attached to the end of the weapon. Pop. Pop. Pop. Two rounds to the chest, one to the head. The first guard dropped.

  The second guard unslung his rifle as quickly as he could, trying to shoulder it. Three more shots dropped him in his tracks.

  Jason jerked his head toward the doors at the opposite end of the building. A fire team peeled off from the group and headed that way.

  The entry way looked like a typical pre-war door, all glass and brushed aluminum. The glass, shattered by the explosion, littered the ground outside the barracks.

  Despite the missing glass, Jason was forced to open the door due to the bar on the inside people would use to exit. The door open, he held it as the rest of his fire team entered the building.

  The smoke still hung in the air, but was thin enough that Jason could see the stairs were completely wrecked. If the other stairs were in as bad a shape, at least this part of the plan was going like he'd hoped.

  A member of his team pulled the door for the first floor hallway open. No sooner than the door swung clear, a hail of bullets met them.

  A young man whose name Jason couldn't remember fell as a half dozen bullets impacted him, most in the chest.

  Jason ducked along the side, the cinder block walls offering a little protection. He popped around the corner, weapon up, firing a quick series of shots. Before he could see if any landed, more gunfire forced him back for cover.

  "Well, if everything went too smoothly, I'd be paranoid as hell," he muttered. The woman next to him smiled.

  "Bravo team, Alpha team," Jason said into his radio, a microphone hugging his throat.

  "Alpha team, go ahead," the team leader called back.

  "You in position?" The gunfire was chaotic, making it difficult to tell who was shooting from where.

  "Affirmative."

  "Peel two men off, have them hit first floor windows on the North side. I say again, North side. Kill anything that moves. Copy?"

  "Copy. North side windows. Kill 'em all," the man said.

  Jason looked at two of his fire team. They were on the side of the door closest to the door. "You two. You hit the South side. Same deal. Got it?"

  The two men nodded before bolting out the door. Jason swung out and fired three more shots, hitting with this second at least.

  The portions of the blocks beside the door disintegrated as rifle rounds turned them into a fine gray powder. Jason ducked back, a round smacking the far wall. Based on where he'd been standing a moment before, he had no doubt it would have ruined his day.

  Gunfire erupted from upstairs, the rounds splintering the wooden floor.

  "Who the hell armed these assholes?" Jason asked, more to himself than anything. The woman next to him shrugged.

  Another of his people popped around the corner to fire into the hallway. Rounds impacted the man's chest as he dropped his weapon and staggered back.

  Jason pressed the microphone against his throat. "I've got two down. Report?"

  "Bravo team. One KIA, one wounded but still combat effective," the other team leader said.

  A scream from within the hallway drew Jason's attention. He peeked in, immediately drawing fire. He leaned against the wall and tried to replay the image he'd just taken in. Several of the men in the hallway lay face down on the floor, blood pooling beneath what he figured had to be rapidly cooling bodies.

  Jason looked at the woman beside him. "Alright, I'm going to move to the other side. Think you can cover me?"

  "Absolutely," she said confidently.

  He nodded. The woman, her black hair tied in a ponytail, any figure swallowed up by the tactical gear she wore, swung around and pumped rounds into the hallway from her FAL. The thick .308 rounds tearing up the hallway as Jason sprinted to the other side of the door.

  Seeing him safe on the other side, she pulled back to the relative cover of the wall.

  "On three," Jason barked. The woman nodded her understanding.

  He counted slowly. On three, he swung around and began firing, the suppressor completely unnecessary at this point. Jason focused on the front site, settling it on an enemy body, then squeezing the trigger like he'd been taught an eon ago by his old man. Like he'd taught Rick and he planned on teaching Allison someday.

  Beside him, he heard the loud bark of the FAL as it sent its own deadly payload down range.

  On the other side of the hall, he could see the other fire team making headway as well. Soon enough, he thought.

  ** ** **

  Conklin pushed his plate away. Of all the indentures he'd picked up, his cook had to be the best investment so far. Oh, he had someone making sure the bitch didn't try to poison him or anything, but the woman could flat out cook.

  He wiped his mouth, throwing the cloth napkin on the ornate china plate and stood and headed toward his study.

  He entered the room, it's lavish Victorian-like red wallpaper with the gold design had grown on him through the years. The mahogany desk and comfortable leather chair was the reason he'd used this room long enough to let his opinion of the paper change. He settled down in the chair, opening a book. Despite the fact he was reading it, he really didn't like reading Dickens. However, appearances had to be made, so he studied the text.

  Two loud thumps echoed through the town. His windows rattled slightly. It had been cloudy all day, the air hinting of rain coming, but this wasn't thunder. He'd been around too long to think otherwise.

  Slamming the book closed, he got up and headed down the hallway.

  "Simmons!" he bellowed.

  "Sir," A man said, shooting upward as his commander approached.

  "Send a runner. I want to know what the hell just blew up."

  "Yes, sir!" the man said, saluting and running down the stairs.

  Regardless of the causes, Conklin knew he wasn't going to be doing any more reading tonight, which was fine. He wasn't in the mood to listen to Dickens whine about the plight of pathetic losers like them.

  He went into his bedroom. His gun belt lay across the four poster bed. He picked up the polished leather belt, the 1911 nestled snug in its holster, and put it on.

  Carefully, he walked down the hall and down the stairs. When word came in, he needed to look calm and cool, but wanted to be close by to speed up his response.

  Once on the first floor, he walked into the parlor. Along one wall was a bar, the one accommodation he'd insisted on having installed when he took office all those years ago. An officer was expected to entertain, after all.

  He opened a bottle of what had once been twelve year old Jameson, but was now significantly older, and poured a glass. If any of his men did something like this, he knew he'd shoot them himself. However, he was the man calling the shots, so he got all the leeway he wanted.

  Taking a sip of the liquor, he then walked across the room and sat down. Word would be here soon enough. He just had to look like he wasn't concerned for when that moment came.

  He wasn't expecting one of his m
en to enter immediately with Ramirez.

  "Sir," Ramirez said once he saw his commanding officer. "We're under attack."

  "Where," Conklin asked, taking another sip of the whiskey.

  "Barracks."

  Conklin cursed under his breath. So much for a cool facade. "Alright, send the runners. Have them meet us at Rally Point Bravo," he ordered. The runner bolted, years of drilling making his response automatic.

  "Calvin?" Conklin asked once the trooper was gone.

  "Not sure, sir. We got some radio traffic from within the barracks, but no one there really knows who Calvin is."

  "How many."

  "Again, no idea sir. We've gotten conflicting reports. Less than a dozen to an entire company."

  "Survivors?"

  "Yes, sir. They blew the stairs between the first and second floors. The fighting's primarily on the first."

  "What does that tell you?" Conklin asked, putting on his teacher mode.

  "That troop numbers are probably closer to the lower numbers supplied."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "A larger unit would try to enter the building and hit each floor, either coordinated or one at a time."

  "Very good. I think we can safely say it's Calvin, but damned if I can figure out his endgame. Did you take your precautions?"

  Ramirez nodded. "Yes, sir. I took the liberty of increasing security through the city."

  Conklin nodded. Initiative could annoy him, but he tried to not let it show since it had advantages. He especially refused to let it show when it turned out the junior officer who'd shown it had been dead right.

  "Very good. Let's go. I've got a man to destroy."

  ** ** **

  The loud thumps told Rick it had begun. His father was on a different radio frequency, so he had no choice but to go by the explosions. Not that it was a problem or anything.

  "Go," he said into the throat mic.

  In the dark, it was difficult to see what his people were doing. They'd all taken up positions hours earlier, sneaking up on their targets. Now, he just had to wait for the results. Waiting, however, was going to be the worst part.

  One by one, they called in. "Clear" each said, also giving a number which corresponded to a position. Each voice meant another guard with a quick and fatal knife wound. Once all had checked in, he said radioed the word, "Converge."