by Kyla Stone
They’d never liked each other. Reuben hated how Sister Rosemarie insisted on speaking her mind. He preferred his women quiet, meek, and obedient, just like his father did. And Sister Rosemarie despised Reuben’s brashness and obvious taste for violence.
“We were just leaving,” Maddox said.
“Godspeed,” Sister Rosemarie said quietly, something raw and broken in her voice. “May God show you the right path.”
He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t need a reminder of the heretical doubts she’d tried to implant in his head. He shoved roughly past her, pushing her out of his mind with just as much finality.
He had no need of her anymore.
He followed Reuben out the door. It wasn’t ten in the morning yet and the heat wrapped him in a thick, stifling blanket.
They crossed the main clearing of the River Grass Compound and headed south toward the swamp. A gravel path took them through a thick wooded area of cypress and live oak trees to the restricted zone. Guards patrolled the huge, fenced perimeter of the entire compound, but a second fence enclosed this area, off-limits to anyone but the Chosen.
They approached the entrance. A young Shepherd in his mid-twenties dressed in military fatigues with a wicked-looking M4 slung over his shoulder. He slumped against the fence, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes half-closed with a dazed, sleepy expression.
“You remember Aaron Hill,” Reuben said breezily.
The Shepherd snapped to attention. He lifted his chin and pulled his shoulders back, clearing his throat nervously.
“Wouldn’t take a nap right now if I were you,” Reuben said dryly. “Not when Satan’s minions could attack us at any moment. Can’t have God’s soldiers falling asleep on the job, can we?”
“No, sir!” Aaron had the same medium-brown skin tone, small build, and narrow features as his little sister, Ruth. Aaron still had a slight limp after a run-in a few years back with a mangrove rattler—a venomous water moccasin.
He and Maddox had played together as children, but not for many years. Maddox tried to remember what he was like, but his memories came up empty.
“What’s the penalty for that?” Rueben asked.
“Five lashes to remind us of our sacred duty to the Lord, sir.”
Reuben smirked. “Should we make him pay it?”
“Not now,” Maddox said, already impatient with Reuben’s games.
“Guess you get a pass, soldier. This time.”
Aaron nodded gratefully at Maddox as they passed.
Maddox didn’t bother to nod back. “Where are we going?”
“Just be patient.”
They entered the training arena—several acres studded with fox holes, sandbags, and shredded paper targets tacked to various trees. Maddox glimpsed a few dozen men spread throughout the arena. The sounds of gunfire, grunting, and muffled shouts peppered the air.
“They’re training for combat conditions,” Reuben explained. “They’re practicing short range rifle drills and close-quarters combat drills. Tactical scenarios, ambushes, guerilla warfare. You know the drill.”
“I know the drill.”
“We’ve got to be ready.” Reuben spat on the ground at his feet and wiped sweat from his brow. “They’ll be coming for us soon; you can count on that.”
Maddox didn’t have to ask who was coming for them. It’d been hammered into their brains since they could walk. Those who lived outside the compound walls were wicked, the depraved, demon-possessed enemies plotting their demise. The corrupt, degenerate U.S. government, the pinnacle of unholy Satan’s power, would attempt to destroy the Chosen people of God.
With the Prophet’s plans now in play, it would be sooner rather than later.
They reached the green-painted wood and corrugated metal buildings, all deep in shadow beneath the cover of a cypress dome. The trees protected them from the prying eyes of drones and satellites, if anyone ever cared to take a second look at a million miles of worthless swampland.
Inside the first building, three Shepherds sat before a bank of screens and high-tech electronic equipment. Wires and cords were coiled everywhere, attached to various blinking black boxes.
Maddox raised his brows. “I thought we just used old-fashioned written letters to communicate so we stay completely off the government’s radar.”
“Mostly. But we have other ways.” Reuben gestured at a computer screen featuring what looked like a gameboard of squares labeled with numbers and letters. Some were gray, some were filled in with different colors. “The internet is awesome, isn’t it? You can find anything on it. Literally anything. This is a website for an old board game made in the ‘80s called ‘Acquire.’ A few hundred die-hard fans get on this site and play each other in private games. The goal is building cities and managing stocks or something.”
“It’s actually pretty fun,” said one of the Shepherds at the computer. He was a skinny guy in his thirties with big ears and an acne-scarred face. A tech nerd, not a warrior.
Reuben sneered at him. “It’s not for playing. The square grids and the tiles with different number and letter combinations are freaking perfect for a code. Which is exactly what we did. In the game, the tiles generate randomly to each player, but Tim here hacked the site so we can choose whichever tiles we need to play for different codes. We can communicate with our people on the outside whenever we need to.”
Skinny Guy grinned proudly. “And our enemies are none the wise. Even the FBI and CIA’ll never figure this out.”
“Yeah, okay,” Maddox said, “but where are the guns?”
Reuben led him back into the woods along the gravel road. Outside the armory, several large, heavy-duty cargo trucks with raised suspension, studded tires, and armored sides were lined up in a gravel parking area. Small canons were mounted in the cupolas on top.
Reuben slapped the door frame. “These puppies have enough armor to repel a small army outfitted with RPGs.”
Inside the armory, the walls were lined with shelves boasting an impressive collection of guns: pistols, shotguns, semi-automatic rifles, machine guns, and boxes and boxes of ammo. There were tactical bullet-proof vests, night vision goggles with infrared and thermal imaging, and scopes.
Reuben pointed across the room. “We got ourselves a few stinger missiles a couple of years ago. We can take down a chopper with that beast.”
Maddox whistled. “How’d the Prophet get his hands on hardware like that?”
Reuben shrugged. “He’s the voice of God on Earth. Nothing is out of his reach if God wants him to have it.”
Maddox had his doubts, but he kept them to himself.
Reuben grinned at him. “The real answer? Donors, man. The Prophet’s got believers out among the wicked heretics. Filthy-rich ones that own condos and luxury apartment buildings in Manhattan and Fort Lauderdale—all well clear of the bombs, of course. Whenever we need an influx of cash, they sell a bunch of condos and wire us another million.”
Maddox tried to hide his surprise. He’d had no idea, but it made sense. No one within the compound owned property or held jobs in the outside world, and yet the Prophet never lacked for funds.
Reuben palmed a grenade and grinned. “Feels good to be on God’s side of the war, that’s for sure.”
48
Maddox
Maddox donned a tactical vest, loaded it with preloaded magazines and gear, and selected an M4Al carbine for himself. He activated the optics, brought the carbine to his shoulder, and took a closer look through the telescopic sight of the scope.
The six-pound heft of it felt right in his arms. The specs were nothing to sneeze at: full auto capability at 950 rounds per minute, a muzzle velocity of 2900 feet per second, range of six hundred meters.
“Good choice,” Reuben said.
“I want a team of the best.”
“Don’t worry, man. I’ve got your back. I’ve already assembled us a team of our best killers.”
“I want twenty men.”
“What?�
�� Reuben sputtered. “For an old man and a couple of girls? Are you stupid? They’re non-factors.” His lip curled. “Or maybe you’re just afraid? Maybe you’re not ready for this after all.”
Maddox didn’t react to the insult. “The Prophet trusted me with this task. Me. Those ‘non-factors’ already took out five of ours, in case you forgot.”
“Those guys were young and green.” Reuben waved a dismissive hand. “This time, it’s us. You and me. They’ll never see us coming.”
“Twenty men.”
A shadow crossed Reuben’s face—he didn’t like to be contradicted or told what to do. But Maddox was in charge, not him. He didn’t care who Reuben’s father was, and he didn’t care if Reuben resented him for it.
“Yeah, okay. Fine,” he said finally.
A small smile played across Maddox’s lips. He allowed himself to imagine the victory, the feel of the M4 jittering in his hands, spraying death wherever he chose to aim. “They aren’t harmless. We won’t underestimate them. But I have an idea.”
“Of course, you do!” Reuben said brightly, instantly back to his jovial self. “That’s why you belong among us, cousin.” He raised a hand to slap Maddox’s shoulder again, but Maddox deftly sidestepped the blow.
“I know, cousin.”
“There’s one more thing you need to see.” Reuben narrowed his eyes at Maddox. “You sure you’re ready? You can still change your mind. No shame in it, man.”
The way he said it meant he thought there was tremendous shame in it. Maddox forced himself to match Reuben’s fake smile. “I am.”
“Then what’re we waiting for?”
Maddox followed Reuben deeper into the woods, swatting at mosquitoes. Reuben took him to yet another squat concrete building, one he’d never seen before.
This one was larger than the others. Tall antennas and satellites bristled from the flat tin roof, piercing the leafy tree canopy shielding it from prying eyes. Two armed Shepherds stood motionless on either side of the single door, standing guard.
A short, squat middle-aged man of European descent stood a few feet in front of the building, speaking in low tones with Maddox’s father. Maddox had seen him around the compound the last few years. He was a quiet, withdrawn man who spoke with no one but the Prophet or Solomon Cage.
Abruptly, Reuben seized Maddox’s arm and jerked him behind a thick tree and screen of underbrush. He held a finger to his lips until Maddox nodded, showing he understood. This was a conversation they weren’t supposed to overhear—Reuben’s favorite kind.
That’s our resident nuclear physicist, Franco Sorokin,” Reuben whispered. “Defected from Ukraine or Bosnia or Russia or something. The Prophet’s had him hard at work lately.”
“For what?” Maddox whispered back.
Reuben’s eyes gleamed. “The next stage.”
They waited behind the brush, straining to listen and silently enduring a dozen mosquito bites.
“I’m not finished yet,” Franco said. He had a harsh Eastern European accent, though his English was precise.
“That’s unacceptable!” Solomon Cage said, his voice dripping with the derision Maddox knew so well. “The Prophet has already spoken. It is God’s will. Everything is playing out exactly as planned. It happens in three days, or it’ll be your head to pay.”
Franco Sorokin bobbed his head frantically, his thick glasses slipping down his nose. He nudged them back into place with his thumb. “Okay, yes, of course. I did not mean to cast doubt.”
He mumbled something in a harsh, phlegmy foreign language.
“You better not let the Prophet hear you talk like that,” Maddox’s father snapped.
“Oh, sorry, sorry.” He bobbed his head deeper. “With God’s blessing, it’ll be ready.”
Maddox’s father sneered down at the cowering man. “It’d better be.”
He turned on his heel and stalked down the narrow pathway between the trees, already pulling out his handheld radio to browbeat someone else into submission.
He didn’t see Maddox or Reuben in the shadows.
The nuclear physicist scurried back inside. They waited several beats in silence before moving.
The Shepherds standing guard said nothing when Reuben strode up, Maddox trailing behind him. They didn’t say anything when Reuben hauled open the door and ushered Maddox in, either.
Reuben was the Prophet’s son; no one questioned him. Most of the time, Maddox hated it—once in a while, it worked in his favor.
Inside, the building was lit with harsh fluorescent lighting. A generator hummed. Maddox took it all in, his brain scrambling to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.
His heart jackhammered against his ribs. He wiped his already sweaty palms on his pants. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. It wasn’t this.
“Holy—” he muttered.
“I know, right?” Reuben’s grin widened. “It’s gonna be insane. It’s gonna change everything, man. Absolutely everything.”
49
Logan
“You don’t belong here,” Ezra said.
Logan looked up sharply. “What?”
Ezra Burrows stared at him with those disconcerting sky-blue eyes of his. Wrinkles creased his leathered face like lines in cement. “You heard me.”
Logan wasn’t sure how to respond. “Dakota invited me.”
“Dakota’s a smart, capable girl. But you think you’re smarter, don’t you?”
Logan thrust the shovel into the ground and scooped dirt into the wheelbarrow behind him, grunting with the effort. “I’m not sure what you—”
“You’re after Dakota.”
Heat rushed to his throat, his face. He shifted awkwardly. “Well, I don’t think I’d put it that way.”
In the last six days, it seemed that Logan had made zero headway in winning Ezra over. If anything, he seemed more hostile.
But then Ezra had specifically asked for Logan’s help. Dakota was out patrolling the perimeter of the property, checking for any overlooked deficiencies. Julio was helping her but took a few minutes to check in with Shay and his wife.
Park was preparing a lunch of turtle stew in the cabin. It went slowly because he was one-handed. And Eden was working on memorizing her Morse code stuff after several hours of target practice with the .22 pistol and the shotgun.
After days on end with hardly a minute apart from the group, Ezra finally had Logan alone. Well, now Logan knew why. The old codger wanted to scare him off.
And he didn’t want Dakota around when he did it.
“I see the way you look at her,” Ezra said. “Hungry, like a wolf. You’re gonna use her up and throw her out. That’s exactly what dirtbags like you do.”
Logan shook his head. It wasn’t like that—not at all.
He remembered her kiss, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her eyes. The way his stomach had dropped, filling him with desire.
But not to use her. He simply wanted her. All of her—the good, the bad, everything.
“You may have her fooled, but you don’t fool me, boy.”
Logan went still, the shovel half-raised. His head was spinning. This conversation was getting out of control way too fast. “Just hold on a damn second.”
For the last two hours, Ezra had been impatiently instructing Logan in the art of creating cartridge booby traps. Ezra placed a shotgun cartridge inside a short section of pipe attached to a square piece of board. The pipe’s diameter was just wider than the shell, so it stood on its end, the primer resting on a nail. When the board was placed at the bottom of a knee-deep hole, the pressure of an intruder’s footfall would push the cartridge down onto the nail head, firing the cartridge into his foot.
It was a simple, elegant trap.
They’d built a half-dozen of the things inside the coolness of the cabin, but they needed to place them in the most tactically optimal locations throughout the property. They’d spent the morning afternoon working mostly in silence, digging holes and setting traps.
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Now, they were sweating in a pocket of shade beside the storage shed, damp cloths draped around their necks, keeping hydrated with frequent refills of their water bottles.
“I know exactly what you are.” Ezra pointed his spade at Logan, pinning him with that shrewd, penetrating gaze. “I know your kind.”
For an instant, he thought Ezra was referring to the fact that he was Hispanic. He opened his mouth, about to rip the old man a new one.
“I see that flask you carry around with you.” Ezra scowled. “You’re a good-for-nothin’ drunk.”
Logan’s mouth went dry. Now he understood. “I haven’t—”
“A man who drowns himself in a bottle isn’t worth the air he breathes.”
“I’m done with that.”
“So you’re a liar, too?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Right.” Ezra spat in derision. “You ain’t gonna convince me you’re anything but what you are. Maybe you can hide it. Maybe you think you can deceive Dakota. She’s got a bigger heart than she lets on. That’s her weakness—she cares when she shouldn’t. She lets her emotions blind her to the truth. I may be old, but I’m far from blind.”
Ezra’s words struck him like a blow. He punched the shovel into the ground with a savage thrust, breathing hard. That familiar, sickening shame lurched in his gut. “I would never hurt her.”
“Weak words from a weak man.”
Logan cleared his throat, fighting down his natural inclination to get defensive, to argue, to fight back. This man was important to Dakota. She respected him, loved him like a father.
The last thing Logan wanted was to get between them.
“I know how much you care for her,” he said with measured calm, though his pulse hammered against his throat. “You want to protect her.”
“That girl can protect herself. I taught her how. I taught her everything she knows. I made sure she didn’t need no half-baked, no good man-child to do a job she could do herself.” With his good hand, Ezra mopped his grizzled jaw with a threadbare scrap of an old plaid shirt, folded the creases out of it, and hung it over the wheelbarrow handle. “Hell, she can do better than most men.”
