CHAPTER ELEVEN
Makala was fast asleep out on the sunporch while John dozed in his office, unable to sleep the night after the conversation with Bob and all that had transpired in the previous twenty-four hours, when the phone on his desk rang, startling him awake.
He picked it up before it rang a second time.
“Sir, are you safe?”
It was Kevin Malady.
“Sure, why?”
“Something is up.”
John looked at the old windup clock on his desk; it was nearly two in the morning.
“What?”
“Get your wife, get out of that house now, into the woods, and lie low.”
“What’s going on?” John snapped.
“Get out now. We heard a chopper come in, sound muffled, a special-ops type machine. One of my people on watch with night vision just saw eight people get off at the ball field, and they’re heading your way. I’m getting a team together; they’ll be down there in five minutes. Sir, get out of your house now!”
John put the receiver down, raced into the sunroom, and grabbed Makala by the shoulders, shaking her awake.
“John, what is it?”
He put his hand over her mouth. “We gotta move now,” he whispered, and even as he did so, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement out on the moonlit road. “Now!” he snapped, dragging her out of the bed.
A laser dot suddenly flashed on to the wall just as she stood up, and he shoved her down to the floor. One of the windowpanes shattered, three bullets impacting the wall behind where she had been standing but a few seconds before.
“Down, stay down!”
He pulled her to the doorway into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind them.
Outside? Whoever it was would expect that. Upstairs was the only alternative. Upstairs and hope for enough time for Malady to bring help.
“The stairs quick,” he hissed.
As she started up, he diverted to his office, crouching low, grabbed the Glock off his desk, and turned to follow her.
The explosion of a flashbang in the sunroom blew the door he had just closed open, knocking him off his feet. Stunned, he managed to regain his footing, following her up the stairs to the second floor.
Which way to go? He had thought out so many different scenarios across the last two years, but never this one, to be caught by surprise in their own home in the middle of the night. Jen’s old bedroom? No, too obvious; whoever it was would hit there first. Even as he hesitated, another flashbang blew downstairs.
The attic. It was a dead end, but it might buy a few more minutes of time.
He shoved Makala to the attic steps, following up behind her, moving backward, pistol raised, ready to shoot if closely followed. A third flashbang and then the sound of more glass breaking, several short bursts of gunfire.
Behind him, Makala fumbled with the attic door, finally shoving it open. He came up behind her and tried to close the creaking door as quietly as possible.
Makala started to speak, and he put his hand over her mouth. The house-length attic was dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming in through one window. He inwardly thanked God that Jen had been a pack rat, the attic filled with old trunks, racks of clothes from fifty years ago, long-forgotten family heirlooms. He scanned it, seeing where several old steamer trunks were set against a far wall and motioning for Makala to get behind them. She hesitated, and he shoved her into the dark, musty corner and pushed her down to the floor.
She was beginning to sob, and again he had his hand over her mouth and pressed his lips to her ear.
“Are you hurt?”
“What is happening?”
“Just stay quiet. Help’s coming.”
He could see her pale, frightened features in the moonlight. She was protectively clutching her stomach.
“Baby okay?” he whispered.
“I think so.”
“Matherson!” The voice echoed up from down below. “Only you we want. Come out, hands up, and your wife is okay. It’s just you we want to go with us.”
He looked at her, the offer just a fleeting temptation of a few seconds. They had fired without any warning. Whoever it was undoubtedly had night-vision gear and could have seen she would have been hit. This was not for a capture; this was a raid to kill both of them.
And if this was from Bob Scales, and he survived, he would find a way to ensure his former friend roasted in hell.
“Thirty seconds, Matherson. Just come down with your hands up.”
He knew better than to reply. From down below, he could hear that someone was creeping up the stairs to the second floor. Even before the thirty seconds were up, another flashbang went off, just beneath them, the concussion startling him and Makala, who was unable to suppress a gasp of fear.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She was shaking like a leaf. Seconds later, a long burst of gunfire swept the master bedroom below.
Silence for a moment, and then footsteps creaking along the old wooden floor corridor below.
Three more flashbangs popped off, detonating in the guest rooms and bathroom, dust from the low ceiling of the attic swirling down from the concussions. More gunfire as they swept each room.
“Matherson, you’re cornered. Save your wife and just come down; we know you’re up there.”
Makala reached out to clutch his side, an affirmation that he was not to surrender.
“It’s going to hit hard. Be ready; keep your mouth open,” he whispered.
He heard the door up to the attic creak open, and something arced up into the attic. He crouched down behind the steamer trunk, opening his mouth wide to lessen the impact of the explosion on his eardrums. It detonated with a blinding flash, the shock wave hitting so hard that Makala gasped.
He knew he had but an instant to be ready and was back up, Glock firmly held in both hands, resting on the top of the steamer trunk. Gunfire snapped up from the stairwell. And then the first assailant appeared.
John knew the target would be small, face only, helmet and body armor covering the rest. The man rose halfway up, laser sight flashing along the opposite wall, and then turned toward where John waited thirty feet away.
The laser light sparkled in John’s eyes, nearly blinding him, and he squeezed off shot after shot. One of the 9mm rounds must have hit squarely; the killing shot he anticipated in return was a long burst going up over his head and then stitching across the ceiling as the man he hit tumbled back down the stairs.
He could hear muffled cursing, and then a fusillade of fire erupted, smashing up through the floor of the attic, and started to stitch toward them.
“Curl up on top of the trunk!” John yelled, pushing Makala up as he remained crouched, weapon trained on the stairwell.
How many shots did I fire? he wondered. How many left?
And then he heard it: an explosion of gunfire outside his home. Shouts, curses, more shots, several grenades going off.
He waited for whatever came next. A grenade came up from out of the stairwell. He pulled Makala back down from the trunk and held her tightly. This time, it was fragmentation showering the room with a deadly spray that, if not for the packed trunks, would have surely killed them.
There was more gunfire from outside, several long, sustained bursts, and he waited, the seconds dragging into minutes. Makala was by his side, curled up, sobbing. He did not dare to look over at her for even a second, all attention focused on the staircase. To add to it all, he could smell something burning, and smoke was beginning to curl up from the stairwell.
“John! John and Makala!”
The voice was high-pitched, frantic.
“It’s Grace Freeman! For God’s sake, please answer. Please!”
Long-ago training. They take one of yours, put a gun to their head, and get them to cry out. He didn’t budge.
“The house is burning. My God, sir, where are you?”
He could hear someone running in the corridor downstairs, continuing to shout hi
s name.
There was a pause, and then the stairs up to the attic began to creak. He was still holding the Glock, a weapon where the safety was built into the trigger. Just apply a few extra pounds of pressure, and it would go off again.
A head appeared, hard to distinguish due to the ever-increasing smoke.
“John and Makala?”
“Grace, don’t move,” John hissed, still not sure if she was being pushed forward by an attacker, but he had to take the risk of replying.
She looked his way.
“Are you safe?” he whispered.
“Damn it, sir, this house is burning. We gotta move.” She cried. “We got the place secured. Come on! Come on!”
John reached down, pulling Makala to her feet, Grace coming around to Makala’s side to help.
It was no time for questions as they headed for the stairs. John paused for a second, looking around. He saw an old shirt dangling from a clothes rack, tore it off, and covered Makala’s face, shouting for her to take a deep breath and then hold it.
With Grace leading the way, they fumbled down the stairs. John guided Makala around the body sprawled out by the attic door. A round had caught his would-be assassin just below the nose, and he thought to actually pause to see if the man was still alive. Smoke was pouring out of the master bedroom. Makala was clutching his hand tightly and dragging him along, guided by Grace. With a cold sense that even if the man was alive he would be dead anyhow in a few minutes from that wound, he left the body behind.
Coughing, gasping for air, Grace led them down the steps to the ground floor. The sunroom was engulfed in flames. Grace staggered from the blast of heat, and John, coming behind the two, shoved them forward and out the back door.
“I got them out!” Grace cried, and then she leaned over, retching and gasping for air.
John could hear shouts, and through watery eyes he saw Malady come up, weapon raised. He shoved John to the ground, another of his students shielding Makala with her body and more gently easing her down to the ground.
“Situation?” John gasped, looking up at Kevin.
“At least four got away!” Kevin shouted.
“One dead up on the second floor,” Grace gasped.
“At least three, then.”
Someone had peeled off a parka and was putting it over Makala, crouching down to help shield her. John started to come to his feet, but Kevin snapped for him to stay down; whoever was after him was still out there.
He looked back at the house. An upstairs window burst, flames licking out. All of it was going up. Whoever they were, they must have dropped thermite grenades to set it afire like that. Jen’s house was going … all of it going.
And then the thought hit. Someone was draping a parka over him. He pulled it off, held it to cover his face, and ran back into the burning house, tearing free from someone who was trying to hold him back.
“John!” It was Kevin coming up behind him, trying to pull him back.
“No!” John tore himself free and staggered into the sunroom. Nearly blinded by the smoke, he fumbled about on the windowsill, found what he was looking for, and crouching low, parka held up against the heat, he staggered back out. Once outside, he collapsed into Kevin’s arms.
He clutched Rabs tight to his chest. He would never let Rabs burn like that.
* * *
Sitting in President Hunt’s office, he gratefully took another sip of moonshine and looked over at Makala, who was resting on the sofa, two of the girls she had trained as nurses hovering over her. One of the girls looked back at John and smiled reassuringly.
“She’s okay, and so is the baby.”
He could barely see her smoke-smudged face looking toward him in the blacked-out room, curtains drawn.
She started to cough and then managed to clear her throat. “Moonshine is the last thing you should be drinking now, John Matherson,” she whispered, her voice husky.
“I know.”
“And damn it, if not for the baby, I’d join you,” came her reply.
A burst of gunfire echoed in the distance, and he could tell the difference of who was firing. Sustained bursts versus three-shot replies. Whoever they had cornered next to the cafeteria was firing back like a professional, conserving ammunition.
John stood up and went to the window to at least slip the curtain open to see what was happening, but Kevin reached out and blocked him.
“Their goal, sir, was to kill both of you. You’re staying here until this is over.”
“Those are”—he hesitated for a moment—“my kids out there doing my job.”
“They’re your troops doing the job you trained them for”—Kevin paused to add emphasis to his next word—“sir.”
There was a sudden explosion of gunfire—long, sustained bursts—and regardless of Kevin’s orders, he was not going to cower here, not after what they had done, and he carefully parted the curtain a few inches to look.
He could see the tracers snapping into the side of the cafeteria and what had once been a peaceful outdoor patio. Several dozen students had the area surrounded and were unleashing a fury of fire. One of their targets got up, trying to pull up someone else. John had ordered that if possible take them alive, but the rage unleashed by the assassination attempt could not be contained. In spite of body armor and helmet, their target’s legs and face were nevertheless exposed, and he was finally dropped. The other one, obviously wounded, tried to get up, and another explosion of fire took him down.
More shots continued to pour in until finally the cries went up to cease fire.
John started for the door, but Kevin blocked his way and made it clear by the way he stood in front of John that if need be, he’d physically take him down, something that Kevin was more than capable of doing.
“Let someone report in,” Kevin snapped.
“For once, John,” Makala whispered, “listen to someone else. He’s right.”
John simply nodded and then went over to his wife’s side, sat down on the floor by her side, and took her hand. “Are you really okay?”
“Just some smoke, John, that’s all.”
“The baby?” he asked nervously.
She tried to laugh but started to cough again. “Scared the shit out of the little bugger; he’s been squirming like a kickboxer ever since it started.” She paused. “Our baby is okay.”
She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Why would your friend do this to us?” she asked. “You said he was honorable.”
“I don’t know,” John whispered. “I just don’t know.”
“Matherson.” It was a whisper from the corridor, followed by a knock. He recognized Reverend Black’s voice and started for the door, but Kevin stepped in front of him and opened it, shielding John.
It was indeed Reverend Black, and Kevin let him in.
Black went past John, knelt down by Makala’s side, and, taking her hand, whispered a brief prayer of thanks and then looked back at John.
“I got him on the phone, John. Pick up the line here.”
John nodded. “Did you tell him what happened?”
“I just did as you said—told him it was an emergency and to hold on the line.”
“John, don’t talk to him,” Makala said. “It will tell him you’re alive, and they’ll come back.”
His rage was nearly out of control. Hit him, that was part of it all, but to include his pregnant wife? For that matter, Elizabeth, her baby, and husband could have been in the house as well. The attack was not to just capture him; it was to kill him and anyone with him. He looked at the two girls tending to Makala and then at Kevin.
“As soon as you think it’s safe to move her, take her somewhere secure, and don’t tell me where it is until this is over with.”
She started to protest, but a sharp glance from him stilled her voice.
“It is about you and the baby now, not me,” John said sharply, and she did not reply.
He walked back to the desk and pi
cked up the phone. “General Scales, are you on the line?”
“Yeah, John, what the hell is going on?”
“Perhaps you should tell me exactly what the hell is going on, you son of a bitch.”
“John?”
“Come after me, fine. That’s part of this game you’re playing, and I’ll accept that. But my pregnant wife?”
“John, in the name of God, what is going on up there?”
“You tell me,” John said again, uttering each word slowly and with unrestrained anger.
There was a long pause.
“John, whatever it is, tell me exactly what is going on.”
“Why don’t you come up here yourself and explain it”—he paused—“sir?”
Another long pause.
“John, just tell me, will you?”
“Fine then, play innocent. I trusted you, and less than an hour ago, eight of your storm troopers hit my house. If my people had not spotted them first and reacted, they would have killed my wife and the baby within her, and then me. That’s what happened up here.”
“God in heaven,” Bob whispered.
“Yeah, God in heaven, Bob.”
“Where are you, John?”
“Do you honestly think I’d tell you? Just know that wherever Makala is now, she is safely stashed away.”
There was another tap at the door, the person out in the corridor identifying herself as Grace. Yet again, it was Kevin who answered. He cracked the door open and, recognizing her, let her in.
“Don’t hang up, General Scales. I’ll be back.”
He put the phone down and looked at Grace. Her once beautiful hair was badly scorched, the right side of her face blistered. She tried to talk and began to cough.
“Young lady.” It was Makala. “You get that burn treated right now.”
“In a moment,” Grace replied, and then she looked back at John. “Seven accounted for, sir. We think one slipped through and is heading up toward Lookout Mountain. We’ve got a full platoon tracking him. He’s wounded and trailing blood.”
“Our side?” John asked, suddenly nervous. “How bad?”
She hesitated and then looked over at Kevin, who nodded.
“Five dead, twelve wounded at last count.”
“Who?”
The Final Day Page 21
