Ahead, vacant apartment buildings loomed against the star-studded sky. Images of the slaughter in Vegas flashed through Timothy’s mind. The broken windows and rotting balconies would be perfect places for collaborators or Chimeras to set an ambush.
He steeled himself, studying their surroundings for any sign of motion.
The fear creeping into him now could not hold him back from their mission. Kate had told him that what they were doing could change the tide of the battle when the New Gods launched their attack.
They had to succeed at all costs.
Horn drove past the apartments to a tree-filled neighborhood full of houses. Then he braked to a stop.
“We’re almost there, and we’re going to hoof it the rest of the way,” he said. “Once we’re out, it’s radio silence and quiet. You got that, boys?”
“Yes, Master…” Timothy said. “I mean, Horn.”
“Got it,” Boyd said.
“And Boyd, you got the anthrax, right?” Horn asked.
Boyd patted his pack. “Ready to inject a little pain into that shit.”
“Good. Let’s roll.”
They jumped out of the Humvee, and Horn took point with his M249.
Wind howled over the tall grass. Leaves rustled everywhere Timothy directed his suppressed M4A1. He sniffed the air, trying to detect a hint of the rotten fruit odor from a Variant.
So far, there was nothing. No howls, no claws tapping on the asphalt, no growls.
If he remembered correctly, they just needed to head northwest to a small colony that had been set up in a Houston suburb called The Woodlands. The community had a few nearby parks along with an old golf course that had been turned into a farming operation.
Horn took them toward the remnants of a fence that had once surrounded the safe-zone. Most of the wooden panels and stakes had been torn apart, broken by attacking Variants.
Timothy followed, stepping over a segment of the fallen fence, trying not to cause any noise. His boots landed in mud on the other side with a soft squelch, and he froze, waiting for a reaction.
Horn kept moving between thickets of trees and weeds that rose to shoulder height. The thought of a Variant rocketing toward him beneath the cover of the foliage circled his mind.
He tried to ignore it.
All he could do was keep his senses honed like he had been trained.
Beyond the fallen fence and mud was the golf course that had been turned into a farm. Dense weeds covered it as neglected crops rotted away. Stalks of corn wilted, leaning or folded over. Insects had chewed through much of what hadn’t already died.
Timothy listened for popping joints over the rustle of the vegetation in the breeze.
Horn signaled the path was clear, then took them between the rows of bad produce. A clubhouse loomed at the other end of the field.
Razor wire still topped the roof, along with a couple of empty machine gun nests. The tunnel was supposed to be on the other side of the structure.
Already Timothy could smell the webbing. At least, he hoped it was just the webbing. The odor of decay and death drifted on the breeze as they approached.
They walked cautiously in combat intervals. Horn was the first to get there. He checked the windows, then flashed a signal to move around the building.
Timothy walked at a hunch, following the wall of the clubhouse to a parking lot with six abandoned cars and trucks. Even with his NVGs, he could pick up the glint of moonlight reflecting off the hundreds of bullet casings scattered over the lot.
A major battle had gone down here, and Timothy wondered if any of the two-hundred colonists had survived.
Horn skirted between the vehicles, using them as cover. He waved for Timothy but motioned for Boyd to stay.
Timothy followed, keeping closer now as they approached the rancid odor drifting from the hole. The stench grew so intense it made his eyes water. He fought through it until he reached the lip of the hole.
A glance down revealed the same disgusting sight of red webbing crawling over the walls like tentacles from some earthen kraken. Despite the smell, no creatures emerged from the darkness.
Horn looked back toward the clubhouse and waved for Boyd.
But Boyd was nowhere in sight.
“Where the hell is he?” Horn muttered.
Timothy searched for their comrade, but didn’t see him now either. His heart thumped wildly. Not only was he injured, but Boyd carried the anthrax that was crucial to their mission.
Horn motioned for Timothy and they started to backtrack toward the clubhouse, keeping low.
They were losing time so long as Boyd was missing. They needed to hurry and deploy the anthrax, then make it back to the Humvee so they could return in time to help defend Galveston by sunrise.
A sudden pop of gunfire shattered the eerie quiet.
Timothy flinched at a throaty yell. Boyd.
A Variant answered with a piercing howl that sounded like it was no more than a few hundred yards away.
Timothy tightened his grip on his rifle and searched for the target amid the tall vegetation, his jaw clenched. As he and Horn advanced, Timothy realized he didn’t feel a single hint of fear.
Just anger.
He was so damn sick and tired of the beasts killing his friends. It was his turn to bring fear to the enemy.
***
The drone of the modified Beechcraft King Air 90 filled the spartan cabin as the craft passed over New Mexico.
Despite the cramped confines of the small aircraft, it felt empty to Fitz. Lincoln, Ace, and Mendez were gone, as were so many other former members of Team Ghost.
Fitz couldn’t help but think of Apollo, too. He would have done anything to have the dog with him now. But at least he had Rico and Dohi. Plus, the newest and strangest addition to their team, Corrin, who was shaping up to be their biggest asset.
He felt a twinge of guilt for not being back at Galveston, defending the island with his friends Beckham, Horn, Kate, and Timothy. The troops at Galveston were as prepared as they could be, but Fitz feared they wouldn’t be able to stop the imminent assault.
If the science team and the intel that Corrin had squeezed from their imprisoned Chimera was right, then all hope lay on Team Ghost and taking out the Prophet.
The success of this mission would be like a knife jab into the side of the New Gods, finally killing their leader and liberating hundreds of prisoners in one fell swoop.
He had no illusions that this mission alone would end the war, though. The New Gods were likely already positioning themselves around Texas, and the First Fleet was on a collision course with the Texas beachside base, carrying an army of the abominations.
Even if their mission in Los Alamos ended in victory, would he still have a country to return home to?
All it takes is all you got. Fitz looked at the others, noting their determined expressions. And we still got a lot.
A voice came over the speakers in the cabin. “Five minutes until drop.”
It was Liam Tremblay, the brave Canadian who was one of the few civilians willing to fly out over enemy territory. Fitz felt a little better having the man that Beckham had personally recommended for their HALO drop into Los Alamos.
“This is it, Ghost,” Fitz said to the others, talking loudly to be heard over the hum of the engine noise.
Dohi looked up from sharpening his knife.
“Tonight, we jump into what could be the most important mission of our lives,” Fitz said. “And I couldn’t be prouder to do it with you.”
Rico smiled and Dohi nodded, but Corrin simply looked at the deck.
“I’m talking to you too, Corrin,” Fitz said. “Never thought we’d have a Chimera on our team. But you saved our asses in Seattle, came through for us in Vegas, and you’re our key to success on this mission.”
“You’re one of us now,” Dohi said.
Rico smiled, but Fitz could tell it was forced. She hadn’t seen what Corrin was capable of yet. Soon she would be a
believer.
“I will do anything to destroy the people who took everything from me,” Corrin said in a raspy voice. “I’m with you, my friends. Thank you for placing your faith in me.”
Dohi held up his knife. “Tonight the Prophet will take his last breath, right before I take his head.”
Rico glanced briefly at Fitz. Over the past few days, they had talked about how Dohi was acting differently. Losing Ace had hit him hard, and he still hadn’t mentally recovered from his captivity in the webbing.
All of them had been through a lot.
Hell and back, and now to hell once more.
“Two minutes,” Tremblay reported. “Good luck. I’ll be praying for you all.”
Dohi stood with Corrin. The Chimera strapped himself into the tandem-diving harness with Dohi, then they waddled to the hatch where a lone crew chief waited. Rico and Fitz strode after them, side by side.
The crew chief gave a thumbs-up, then opened the hatch. Wind tore into them as it filled the cabin. Fitz flipped down his night vision goggles.
A green light blinked above the hatch.
“Godspeed, Ghost!” the crew chief yelled.
Dohi jumped out with Corrin, disappearing into the void.
Rico went next. Fitz positioned his blades at the edge, his heavy pack filled with extra water and nutrition for the prisoners weighing him down. At the crew chief’s instruction, he threw himself out. For a moment there was nothing but pure weightlessness, then gravity took hold and he flipped head over blades.
Wind tugged at his ACU, pulling and pushing on his body. He fought his way into a stable falling position with his eyes angled toward the ground and his arms and blades spread outward. Unlike the other team members, he was top heavy thanks to his prosthetics. Without the minute control of flesh-and-blood legs, it made controlling his dive slightly more difficult as he relied more on his arms to navigate the cloudless sky.
He watched both of the infrared tags below him and followed their descent.
The team directed themselves to a clearing in the trees just north of the main cluster of buildings on the Los Alamos campus. He rotated his wrist enough to check his altimeter, waiting for the last possible moment to deploy his chute.
Counting down the seconds, he kept his eyes on the others, all swooping into their final positions.
The ground was now only two-thousand feet below them.
Wait. Wait.
Fifteen-hundred feet.
He spread his arms wider to slow his descent.
Then, one thousand.
Fitz released the pilot chute. A rapid whipping sound followed as the main parachute deployed. The harness tugged against his body as his chute bloomed outward and immediately slowed his descent. He grabbed his toggles and drifted the rest of the way down into the grassy clearing, performing a two-stage flare and then running out the momentum as soon as his blades hit the dirt.
He slowed to a halt, removed his harness, and secured the chute by stuffing it haphazardly back into the deployment bag. Dohi and Rico were finishing up the same thing. They deposited the bags next to tree trunks while Corrin crouched and sniffed the air.
Fitz gave the signal to advance, and Dohi moved up to point position with Corrin. The two expert hunters started the trek through the trees.
Dohi guided them through the trees and then held up a fist. Fitz listened for the sounds of animals or other creatures but heard nothing. If the New Gods were really here, they had likely devoured every living thing in the area.
But Dohi… no Corrin, had heard something.
The Chimera sniffed the air and slowly scanned the forest.
A distant howl rang through the trees.
Fitz and Rico crouched, surveying the green forested scenery for hostiles. He couldn’t tell if the howl was one of the creatures simply on the hunt or if they had been detected.
Another howl answered the first.
Fitz counted the passing seconds, waiting for the smack of sucker lips or the crunch of claws over the pine needles and rock. With the thermal vision, at least they had a better chance of spotting any camouflaged beasts lurking in the dark.
Corrin turned back to Dohi and nodded, then continued prowling through the woods.
The distant rustling of the wind and creaking of branches followed them all the way to the northern edge of the National Laboratory campus. Corrin and Dohi perched behind bushes to observe the area. Fitz used a tree for cover, looking out over the pale shapes of the buildings, warehouses, and parking garages looming over the expansive campus.
From their mission briefing, they had selected several of the larger buildings that were suspected sites for prisoners, and Corrin was pointing right at one of them.
That meant something had piqued his olfactory senses. He made another hand gesture, indicating he detected Variants.
Through a screen of bushes and trees, they could see the edge of a street. Dohi made a path through the foliage and found shelter in the woods adjacent to the roadway. Directly across from them was a tall building with large glass windows and a shorter white building with huge steel doors but no windows. A parking garage was another hundred yards down the street.
Fitz flipped up his NVGs and fished out his binos. A few human guards stood around the entrance to the parking garage, and a group of six Scions marched past them on patrol. They were protecting at least two dozen vehicles, from a handful of military Humvees to pickup trucks with mounted machine guns.
Further down the road were transport trucks, parked under camouflage netting to conceal them from the air. Shapes moved around beside them. Human or Chimera, he couldn’t quite tell from this distance.
Dohi motioned for everyone to get down.
Getting down on his belly, Fitz heard why a few seconds later.
The growl of a helicopter coming to life echoed through the night, followed by the whoosh of rotor blades. Moments later, a Black Hawk rose from between the buildings before accelerating toward the east.
Two civilian AW109s and an AS350 AStar joined it, racing away into the night.
Corrin slowly got up to look at a warehouse across the street he had pointed at earlier.
“The smell is coming from there,” he whispered.
Fitz nodded and prepared to give the advance signal when another rumbling engine sounded. A semi-truck trundled down the street, headlights illuminating the edges of the road.
The team went prone again.
Once it was clear, Fitz gestured to Dohi. The tracker rushed across the street toward the warehouse. He pressed himself against the wall of the facility, following it to a door. Then he looked into a window and turned and motioned for the team to follow.
Fitz and the others joined him, and Dohi opened the door. Fitz moved his finger to the trigger in anticipation of guards.
But they met no resistance as the team entered a vast, empty room reeking of something rancid—something worse even than the gruesome underground hives and web-covered tunnels.
Cages were stacked in columns nearly fifteen-feet high. All appeared empty, though red webbing stretched between them winding between the thin bars.
Fitz roved his rifle back and forth, looking for signs of life. Nothing moved except for the slowly pulsating tendrils of webbing.
Most of the enclosures were no taller or wider than three feet. They appeared much too small for people to fit comfortably inside.
Then again, the New Gods didn’t care about their prisoners’ comforts.
Dohi pointed at the floor of one of the cages. It was covered in what looked like soil, except that it had a pungent, acidic odor.
“Guano,” Dohi whispered.
“Gross,” Rico said quietly. She covered her nose with her sleeve.
Fitz looked around in a mixture of awe and fear.
All these cages, the hundreds of them in this otherwise empty warehouse, were once filled with bats. Mutated creatures like the ones that had plagued the outposts of the Allied States. The odor
of the guano indicated the bats had been here recently.
“Jesus,” Fitz whispered. He knew exactly where these bats were heading.
“Should we warn Galveston?” Dohi asked, sensing his thoughts.
Fitz wasn’t sure. Doing so could jeopardize their mission. If the New Gods intercepted radio activity in Los Alamos, their attempt to incite a covert insurrection would be over before it even began.
For that reason, he shook his head. “They’re ready. They can handle the bats.”
Dohi nodded and started to lead them out of the warehouse back into the cold night on the eastern side of the building. Outside, he crouched behind a line of bushes near a street heading north. Across the way were other buildings and laboratories.
Using his NVGs, Fitz spotted three patrols of soldiers, at least a dozen Scions. Engines rumbled somewhere else in the base. Somehow, Ghost had to get around all of them, identify the prison, recruit their army, and do it all before dawn.
He looked at his watch. They were already behind schedule.
The clock was ticking, and they couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Neither could their friends, family, and countrymen counting on them back in Galveston.
— 22 —
Beckham strode along a steel-panel-bulwarked wall on the west side of the secured island coast. From his vantage point, he could see the sliding gate of the island’s outer walls leading to the old Interstate 45 bridge connecting Galveston to the rest of Texas. The defensive forces had loaded the bridge with explosives earlier to stop a potential attack from that direction.
They would sacrifice the bridge should things get bad, cutting off their only route to the mainland.
But they wouldn’t need it anyways. There was no escape plan. All they could do was fight to the last breath, just like the soldiers at the Alamo.
He shook away the thought.
This would be different than the Alamo. Beckham had faith because they had something the soldiers at the Alamo did not: Team Ghost and Kate’s science team.
Stars studded the blanket of darkness above them, but they were being swallowed by fast-moving clouds. A bank of fog rolled toward them from the east.
Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 122
