Edwards kept the front sight of his pistol centered on Gunn’s head as he walked toward the agent. Wounded and bleeding, the FedAPS agent still managed to reach his pistol with his left hand. Without further hesitation, Edwards killed Gunn. Then he walked over to Rivett and knelt beside him.
“Rivett’s alive!” Edwards called out to Harris.
Harris let Edwards deal with the agent. He turned his attention to the vehicles. The black van was done, so was the FedAPS SUV sandwiched in the middle.
Two vehicles. Only three agents? Harris cautiously approached the SUV and found the fourth agent trying to conceal himself behind the tire.
When in doubt, shoot, he recalled his first lesson in the School of Infantry. Harris fired three times, jumped up, and quickly, but cautiously, approached the still body. He found the fourth agent was dead, holding his unfired service pistol. His lower leg was bent midway, obviously broken.
“Rivett’s alive,” Edwards called out.
“They got first aid on their belts,” Harris replied, noticing the black pouch with a red cross on the agent’s gun belt.
“Got it,” Edwards yelled back. “Get that vehicle running. We load up and get the hell outta here!”
Harris stripped off the dead agent’s gear and threw it in the back seat of the SUV, found the keys in the ignition, and started the engine. He whipped the vehicle around and parked next to Rivett and Edwards. Harris jumped out and helped Rivett into the back seat, then collected Gunn’s gear. Edwards sped the short distance to the storefront.
“I’m glad you fucking showed up,” McCurry greeted Edwards and painfully stood up. He’d stuffed two Arizona souvenir T-shirts into his pants, trying to stop the bleeding of his gut wound. Edwards helped him to the vehicle. Then he and Harris went back for food, water, and cigarettes. In less than two minutes they were speeding north down Highway 89.
“Fuck!” Harris quietly cursed after discovering Rivett’s thigh wound.
“Don’t matter anyway.” Rivett weakly smiled. “The other bullet went through the liver. I’m a dead man.”
“Bullshit. You got to get us to your ranch.” Harris regretted sounding naive.
“That ain’t going to happen, Sean,” Rivett mumbled, then exhaled.
“Is this the turn coming up?” Edwards asked, hoping for a confirmation. Without getting one, he took a hard left and sped down a dirt road. “About ten miles?”
“Rivett’s dead,” Harris calmly replied.
They rode in silence as they approached the end of the road. Although McCurry didn’t complain, he looked pained. Edwards slowed down as the road became rougher. Harris kept his concerns to himself. He knew the others had the same fears. How would they find the ranch? How long until McCurry died? How long until they were all dead?
“This is it, the end of the road,” Edwards announced. “Rivett said we’d find a…There! Does that look like a pinyon tree to you?”
“Fucked if I know.” Harris was surprised by the question. “Looks like a big pine.”
“It’s going to have to work.” Edwards threw the SUV into park. “At best, we’ve only got a few hours until someone discovers the gas station,” Edwards continued. “They track the GPS on this vehicle, FedAPS will be all fucking over this place.”
After a couple of minutes of kicking and pulling the damaged back hatch of the SUV, Harris and Edwards popped it. With the pick and shovel from the vehicle’s pioneer kit, they dug a grave for Rivett.
“How you feel, McCurry?” Edwards inquired.
“Good enough not to die here,” McCurry answered with bravado.
Edwards smiled, appreciating the act. They all did. None of them counted on surviving, but they weren’t about to quit.
McCurry used the shovel as a makeshift cane. Edwards and Harris threw on the two small day packs that were part of the FedAPS agents’ kit. Guided by a compass from the pack, they headed northeast, hoping to find Skull Valley.
The nasty feeling in Johnny Sanchez’s stomach intensified when he saw the FedAPS officer. After the last two days, Johnny was apprehensive about meeting Forge in a run-down hotel in Oceanside, California. He feared for his own life. Though his mind was near panic, Sanchez calmly closed the hotel room door.
Pablo, where are you when I need you?
Although mad at Pablo Martel for raiding the FedAPS station and killing the agents, Sanchez wished he had him here to watch his back.
“It’s been a hell of a weekend,” Sanchez apprehensively greeted Victor Forge. Not knowing whether he should smile or appear grim, Sanchez tried to adopt an ambiguous look that could be interpreted either way.
“Yes, it has.” Forge’s demeanor divulged nothing. “Johnny, I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Stewart of the Federal Agency of Public Safety.”
Sanchez had had high expectations for the demonstration. He was supposed to emerge from the violence and destruction as an advocate for peace, a rational voice for the oppressed. He would be a liaison, of sorts, between the people and President Tang. Sanchez envisioned a career of exposing the incompetence and injustices of the old America, while leading the people to the new. Be it institutions or its leaders, he would be the one to tell people what to embrace and what to disregard.
How can President Tang work with ULA if we’re linked to the attack? Sanchez asked himself. Martel knows he fucked up. That’s why he hasn’t return my calls. If I don’t distance myself from Martel, the president will distance himself from me. Then the media will distance itself. Both will look for a new “voice” of the people. I can’t let that happen.
“How do you do, Colonel Stewart?” Sanchez extended his hand; Stewart did not reciprocate. Sanchez reflexively cleared his throat and, uncomfortably, lowered his hand.
“Johnny,” Forge said, “tell us how the attack on the FedAPS station happened.”
“What do you mean?” Sanchez delayed to give himself more time to think of an answer.
“Cut the shit, Sanchez,” Forge charged. “You were to benefit from the press, and your people from the looting. Nowhere in your instructions was anything said about attacking and killing FedAPS officers. So you’d better have a damned good answer as to what the fuck happened.”
Goddamn you, Martel! Sanchez silently cursed, giving in to his fear. You should be here in this piece-of-shit hotel explaining yourself, not me.
“I never sent out orders to attack your station, Colonel.” Sanchez addressed Stewart although the man had not said a word. “But I know who did.”
“Who?” Forge pressed.
“Pablo Martel.” Sanchez gave up his old friend. “He’s more militant than political. I didn’t give him permission to do this. He went rogue on this one.”
Forge and Stewart glanced at each other.
“Listen,” Sanchez said with sudden inspiration, “I can take care of this. I’ll reach out to Martel. Tell him all is forgiven, set up a meeting, deliver him to you.” Sanchez made eye contact with Stewart. “We can brand him as a terrorist, an outlier. That way FedAPS can save face, and the president can save the bridge he’s built with ULA. He’s still in need of dissidents, and I can provide that.”
“Sanchez”–Stewart’s stony expression broke into a slight grin–“I told Mr. Forge nearly the exact same thing. You and Martel are two completely different animals, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Johnny nodded and smiled, sensing relief. “It’s, I don’t know, a matter of upbringing really. Martel’s of the peasant class. Naturally, he thinks like one. They’re emotional, always looking to fight. Like an attack dog, he’s useful until you don’t need him and then–” Sanchez stopped speaking.
Martel emerged from the bathroom doorway. He held a suppressed pistol. For the first time in years, Johnny felt speechless.
“You’re a disloyal piece of shit,” Martel said with disgust. “You think you’re so fucking smart that it makes you stupid. I’m not your dog.”
“Pablo.” Sanchez turned with his hands palms out, in a conciliatory manner.
“I–”
Martel fired a single nine-millimeter round into Sanchez’s stomach.
Johnny looked at his stomach and touched the wound with his hands. At the sight of his own blood, Sanchez dropped to his knees, whimpering.
“You haven’t not fooled Maria either. She knows you’re a fucking cockroach.” Martel stepped closer to Sanchez. He bent down so he could look Johnny in the eye.
“Pablo, please.” Sanchez held up his hand, as if to shield himself from Martel’s gaze. “Listen–”
“Shut up!” Martel smacked him on the head with the barrel of his pistol.
Again, Sanchez whimpered. He raised his hands to defend himself, but too late to do any good.
“You listen! Maria loves me, not you. She’s going to marry me. I will be the father to your baby girl, not you. Your daughter will never know you existed.”
Martel fired another round, this time into Sanchez’s skull.
“Forge, I couldn’t agree with you more.” Stewart smiled with approval. “Martel will make a fine addition to FedAPS’s Elite Guard. Or rather, Captain Gary Perro will.” Stewart handed over new identification and credentials to Martel. “You’ve got a new name, new career, along with a new family.” Stewart’s tone hardened. “Don’t fuck it up like your friend there.” Stewart nodded towards Sanchez’s body. As if in agreement, Sanchez thumped on the floor in death spasms. “Take care of this, Captain Perro.”
“Yes, sir.” Martel liked showing respect when it was given. “I’ll make it look like a drug deal gone bad. He’ll be a martyr this week, forgotten the next.”
“Outstanding, Perro.” Stewart nodded his approval and headed towards the door. “Oh, by the way, I love the nom de guerre. Absolutely brilliant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Perro replied with a smile.
Victor Forge, happy to be breathing, savored the cool night air. Moving fast, he worked to distance himself from the hotel room. Even he, a forty-plus-year veteran of political activism, was impressed with the speed in which power had shifted from Tang to Mythers. He felt tired, too tired to keep pace with the political winds. Thoughts of his Cuban beach house slipped into his mind.
Time to quit, Forge told himself. Quit while I still can.
Trooper Manbrook was not so much surprised as he was angry when he stopped for gas outside Yarnell, Arizona. Several of his colleagues believed the violence would be contained in California; he didn’t. For most of his life, Manbrook watched his country wage a cold war against itself, like a dysfunctional family, abusing and scarring the cultural ties that bound the nation. He thought it logical that Americans would eventually begin severing those ties in national misery.
For the last few days, he’d seen American demonstrators try to destroy San Diego, US Marines attack the government, FedAPS attack the rioters, and the federal government take over Southern California. He thought such an escalation of violence would only result in more violence. Until one side was no longer willing, or able, to fight. So Arizona Trooper Manbrook was not shocked at finding four dead FedAPS officers and two dead civilians at the gas station that morning. Rather, he was angry, and afraid it was just the beginning of more to come.
Hannah never felt more relieved than when Jacob pulled into her aunt Karen’s driveway.
“We made it.” Jacob turned and smiled after shutting off the ignition.
“I hope it’s not too early,” Hannah worried, “or we’re catching her at a bad time.”
“If so, it’s got to be close to the time they’d get up.” Pennell glanced at his watch, just after 6:30 a.m., hoping he was right. It was still dark out, just before sunrise. “We should catch them at home, anyway.”
They walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. Hannah smiled when the front door opened.
“May I help you?” an elderly woman, not her aunt, greeted them with suspicion.
“Hi.” Hannah attempted to sound nonthreatening. “Is this the Kennedy residence?”
Could they have moved, and I didn’t know? Or forgot? she nervously wondered.
“Yes,” the elderly woman hesitantly answered.
“Hi!” Relieved again, Hannah poured on her charm to put the old woman at ease. “I’m Hannah Tse, Dr. and Mrs. Kennedy’s niece.” The old woman continued to stare, so Hannah continued to explain. “My mother is Karen’s sister in Scottsdale, Arizona.”
“Oh yes.” The old woman finally smiled with recognition. “They’ve spoken of you. You’re the reporter in Los Angeles?”
“I’m a journalist intern in San Diego,” Hannah corrected. “This is my friend Jacob Pennell.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The old woman opened the door farther. “Please come in. I’m Rose, the cleaning lady,” the old woman explained. “I’ll let the Dr. and Mrs. Kennedy know you’re here.”
“I’m afraid we’ve shown up unannounced,” Hannah apologized, looking down as she walked through the front door. “We…” She looked up to see a group of men in the foyer. Pennell, watching his step and not where he was going, was grabbed unaware and thrown to the ground. Three of the men proceeded to kick him.
Hannah screamed. The old woman closed and locked the door.
“Where’s the video drive?” the old woman demanded. Hannah handed over her purse. The old woman, Roseline “Rosie” Guerrier, tossed the purse back at Hannah.
“I want the video drive not your fucking purse!”
“Please stop hurting–” Hannah pleaded.
“The drive or he gets balls cut off!” Rosie shouted. Her son, Ricardo, pulled out a knife and began cutting Pennell’s pants off, slicing deeply into the young man’s skin in the process.
“No! No! Please! Give them the video, PLEASE!” Pennell pleaded.
Hannah struggled to control her shaking hands as she dug through her bag. She found the drive and handed it over to Rosie. The old woman smiled.
“There, please let him go,” Hannah pleaded. She looked down at Jacob, with a towel stuffed into his mouth. The castration continued.
“Take her into the bedroom,” Rosie ordered the other four men. “Do what you want with her. Kill her when you’re done! We’ll make this look like a home invasion.”
Rosie walked into the kitchen, stepping over the murdered Dr. and Mrs. Kennedy along the way. The notorious “Drug Queen” of Salt Lake City, and newly recruited FedAPS officer, poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled, then enjoyed watching the smoke curl through the air as she exhaled. She enjoyed cigarettes so much more than the vaping Ricardo and his friends were into.
Rosie was tired, but she felt good. A long night of waiting, with no guaranteed results, had paid off. She’d gotten the video drive. Colonel Stewart would be pleased, and Rosie would get what she wanted, protection from the federal government of the United States of America.
I’ll rule Salt Lake City, Rosie mused. Salt Lake City PD ain’t shit to me now.
“Yes, sir. I wanted to tell you myself.” Stewart fought the temptation to smile. He didn’t want to be too familiar with Mythers. It wasn’t that he feared Mythers, rather he held him in disdain.
Stewart thought of Mythers as a pampered prince, a man who wanted others to bleed doing his dirty work. As for Stewart, he liked to do his own dirty work. In fact, he enjoyed it. The bloodier, the better. Stewart saw those with the means, who hired men like him to do their killing, as weak. Yet he could use them. They were a means to an end. In Mythers’s case, the end wasn’t money, it was power. It was a pathway to attain more power than Stewart had ever thought possible for himself before the creation of the Federal Agency of Public Safety.
Peter Mythers took another minute to look out his office window and savor the moment. The sun was starting to peek over the mountains.
How poetic, Mythers thought. “The dawn of a new era,” he said out loud, feeling impressed with himself. He’d won over Solak. The United States Marine Corps was effectively eliminated, as was most of the United States milit
ary overseas. Martial law was underway in Southern California. The national media was working as his mouthpiece. Soon, he’d have direct control over them, as well. And now, the video drive showing Cuppell’s martyrdom as false was in his hands. Mythers saw the last seventy-two hours as a vindication of his life’s course. Not by luck, fate, nor Divine Providence, but by his own intelligence and cunning. He’d always put himself in the right place at the right time. He made the right decisions and took the right risks.
It’s logical, really, Mythers thought. A product of my superior intelligence, my superior being.
“Well done, Gavin,” Mythers said. “What made you think she would show up at her aunt’s?”
“Just a contingency, sir. I had assets handle all of her extended family, as well as her parents. There’s a couple of cousins still to be dealt with, but I do not foresee that as a problem.”
“You’re not concerned that could cause too much attention?” Mythers asked, leaning back in his chair, smiling.
“No, sir. With most of the family dead, there are fewer people to notice her death. Besides, with all that’s going on in the country right now, who’s going to care? And if someone does, who’s going to listen to them? Now that FedAPS controls the media in this time of crisis.”
“Absolutely brilliant, Gavin. Keep this up, and I’m going to have to promote you to general.” Mythers smiled.
“Excuse me, sir,” Colonel Pankhurst said as she walked into the office after a quick two knocks on the door. “We’ve got a location on the Marines Harris, Edwards, and McCurry,” Pankhurst explained before Mythers could get angry over her interruption.
“Where?” Mythers popped up straight in his chair.
“They shot up a gas station outside Yarnell, Arizona. Four FedAPS agents were killed. Local police have confirmed Harris and McCurry on the store’s CCTV. There was a fourth man with them. As of yet, he’s unidentified.”
“Thank you, Maya. I appreciate you letting me know.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Pankhurst said, and exited the office.
“Good, good,” Mythers said aloud more for his own benefit. “I want you in Arizona ASAP,” Mythers ordered Stewart. “Coordinate with Major General Sieger; he commands the Arizona Division. You are not, I’ll say again, NOT under his chain of command. You’ll coordinate with him but report only to me. I’ll personally let him know to give you whatever assistance you need.” Mythers picked up his phone to make the call to Sieger.
The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 36
