by Kyla Stone
Every muscle taut, Liam waited.
Fear wrenched through him. Not for himself, but for Hannah and Quinn and everyone else. Hot anger underscored his panic. He would kill the General for this.
He pushed it all down, put it in a box. He had to maintain absolute focus to end this threat.
Moments later, the thump thump thump of the rotors grew louder.
“It’s swinging back around,” Bishop said. “Headed right toward us.”
Liam settled the LAW against his shoulder, adjusted his footing, and stepped out from the trees to better sight the helo.
To have a snowball’s chance in hell, he needed it close.
The maximum range was one thousand meters, but in reality, anything further than a couple hundred meters for a moving target halved his odds of a direct hit.
A Black Hawk featured a missile detection system and chaff as a radar countermeasure, but if it flew low enough, a rocket could hit them before they could conduct evasive maneuvers.
He took a knee to stabilize himself and waited for the helo to approach.
Closer, just a little closer.
Luckily, it continued to fly low.
It hadn’t yet focused on either of the school buildings with any determination, but it would now. Liam had to take it out first.
He stilled. Breathed in, breathed out.
The Black Hawk zoomed in low. Three hundred yards away.
Two hundred.
Close enough to make out the pilot, co-pilot and crew chief, along with two soldiers in full battle kits in the cargo compartment, weapons aimed toward the school. Like he’d guessed, they were headed for the building to shred the shooters on the roof—and the M2.
One hundred and fifty yards.
It swung its nose toward the high school, preparing to blast the building.
Liam exhaled, aimed, and fired.
The 66mm twenty-inch-long rocket erupted from the launcher at 475 feet per second.
The missile screamed through the air and struck the Black Hawk’s tail. Shrapnel tore into the spinning rotors. The helo lurched as smoke boiled out from the engine.
Panicked, the pilot cranked the throttle and the powerful bird jolted skyward.
Too late.
The great machine careened sideways, unleashing a terrible metallic screeching. It churned into a violent spin. The rotors thundered as it whirled crazily, then plummeted from the sky.
Liam’s heart stopped. It nearly crashed into the Fall Creek Inn. The old and infirm were huddled within the inner rooms, too weak to make it to the bomb shelters.
Instead, the Black Hawk slammed into the Inn’s parking lot abutting the river. The rotors tore up asphalt as the bird came a sudden jarring halt ten yards from the brick building.
The two fuel tanks ruptured on impact. The helicopter ignited in a fireball. Flames surged forty feet high as black smoke poured from the wreckage.
Liam dropped the spent launcher tube, breathing hard. “What do you see?”
Bishop reached for his binoculars. “No movement.”
“Cover me.” Liam grabbed his carbine and started down the hill, dodging from tree to tree. The M4 pressed to his shoulder, his eyes on the burning wreckage of the helo.
He approached with caution. Smoke stung his nostrils. The stench of melting plastic choked his throat. The heat of the blaze slapped his face as the flames snapped and crackled.
No movement inside the fiery inferno. No survivors.
Liam felt little relief—and zero pleasure. He didn’t relish killing soldiers, but they’d fired on his people. For that, they’d signed their own death warrants.
General Sinclair had forced his hand. Liam hated him for it.
Still, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.
“Alpha One, this is Delta Two,” Reynoso said over the radio. “What the hell happened?”
Liam raised the radio to his lips. “Black Hawk down.”
43
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Distant booms trembled the ceiling. Every time another salvo hit, gasps and screams echoed in the confined underground shelter.
Fortunately, the firepower wasn’t aimed directly at the school. The Black Hawk seemed to be focused elsewhere. For now.
Hannah resisted a shudder.
Dank musty air invaded her nostrils. The concrete walls pressed in, the latticework of pipes snaked along the ceiling ugly and utilitarian.
Two hundred and fifty people crowded into the shelter beneath the high school. Their faces were worn, hollowed out. Soft weeping, murmurs, and the shifting of bodies echoed dully.
Cots, camping chairs, and sleeping bags crammed the room. Metal shelves of supplies—food, water, and blankets—lined one wall.
A dozen makeshift toilet buckets had been designated to one corner where Lee had strung several curtains for privacy. The stench of human excrement permeated the air.
Memories of her underground prison flooded Hannah’s mind, but she fought them down. Once, the claustrophobic underground shelter would have prompted a spiral of panic and terror.
Not this time. There was too much work to do. Too many people who needed her.
Worry for Liam threatened to consume her. He was still out there with Bishop, Reynoso, Perez, and the other warriors defending Fall Creek.
Last she’d heard, he and Bishop had gone after the Black Hawk. David against Goliath.
There was nothing she could do but pray, so she sent up a prayer for Liam’s safety as she walked among the stunned, terrified townspeople, offering blankets and water.
Evelyn and Lee tended to the injured. Several people had been nearly trampled in the mad onrush. A few had sustained ricochet and shrapnel wounds. Those hit with the 70mm rockets hadn’t made it to the shelter.
With a pang, she thought of Molly. Grief crouched at the fringe of her consciousness, but she couldn’t let it in. The sorrow would come later. Right now, she was needed.
Hannah searched for Quinn. The girl huddled in the far corner, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She stared numbly at her hands in her lap, head down, forlorn and grief-stricken.
Jonas had retrieved her rifle for her; it lay at her feet, filmed in dirt and dust. The boy sat on the next cot over, close but not too close, his hands knotted in his lap. He hadn’t let Quinn out of his sight since they’d arrived.
Hannah strode to Quinn and knelt on the hard concrete floor in front of her. Quinn barely registered her presence.
She took Quinn’s limp hands in hers and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
There weren’t enough words in any language to express the enormity of loss they’d all experienced, but especially Quinn. Quinn, who’d lost her mother, her grandfather, and her grandmother in less than four months. And Noah. She’d lost him, too.
Hannah gazed steadily into her anguished, downcast face. “You are not alone. We are right here, and we’re not going anywhere. Do you understand?”
Quinn gave the tiniest jerk of her chin. Tears tracked her soot-stained cheeks.
Hannah’s heart swelled with compassion. She scooted onto the cot and gathered the girl into her arms. With her bad hand, she massaged Quinn’s back. Without realizing it, she hummed “Blackbird” into Quinn’s snarled hair.
Quinn allowed herself to be held. Her shoulders quaked as she wept.
They didn’t speak. There was nothing else worth saying. She held the girl until her wracking sobs finally subsided.
Gently, Hannah tucked the blanket over her shivering form. “Rest now. You need to rest.”
Hannah hated leaving the girl, but there was too much work to be done. She glanced over at Jonas, who nodded wordlessly, already anticipating her question.
He’d stay with Quinn. He’d watch over her.
Before she did anything else, she checked on Charlotte and Milo.
Travis had taken charge of the children separated from their parents. Most of the kids stared blankly,
stunned, or retreated into sleep. A few were awake and alert. Joey, the little boy Quinn had saved, slept on his older brother’s lap.
A few feet away, Milo held Charlotte on a cot, bouncing her on his knee. A couple of kids made silly faces, trying to get her to giggle.
Ghost never strayed more than a few feet from Milo’s side. He snuffled the kids’ faces, serene and patient as they patted his head and fondled his silky ears.
She blinked the sudden wetness from her eyes. Something released inside her chest. The dog seemed to know where she needed him most.
With her kids safe, Hannah busied herself comforting those who needed it.
“Here you go.” Hannah handed Becky Grisone a recycled bottle of sterilized water and a clean folded blanket.
The hair stylist and owner of Tresses Hair Salon slumped on a cot pushed against the wall. She looked up at Hannah with a vacant stare.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Hannah asked.
“My son,” she said. “We got separated. I haven’t been able to find him…”
Hannah gave her an encouraging smile. “We’re making a list of survivors. Remember, there’s also the middle school bomb shelter and the one at town hall. And those who hunkered in their basements. As soon as we know more, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
Stacey hugged the blanket to her chest. “Thank you. For everything.”
She was shaken herself. Devastated, grief-stricken, hounded with worry for Liam and Bishop. She refused to give in to it.
Her family and friends needed her. These people needed her. She would do everything in her power to help them, soothe them, and keep their spirits up.
As a leader, she had a responsibility.
And Hannah had never shirked responsibility in her life.
Hannah moved on to the next traumatized survivor, and the next, offering words of comfort and encouragement.
It was surprising how little it took to ease a stricken heart—a smile, a kind word, a gentle touch. And seeing to their physical needs—a blanket for warmth, a little food, some water.
The gunfire outside the school stilled. Gradually, the fear pervading the shelter dwindled to a low humming dread. The room was tense but quiet, everyone holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
After she’d run out of blankets and water, Hannah made her way across the room to Dave and Annette, who huddled beside the bomb shelter doors.
Both swayed on their feet, utterly exhausted.
Apprehension pushed her heart into her throat. “Have you heard from Liam?”
“I went topside a couple minutes ago to get better radio reception,” Dave said. “Those crazy daredevils did it. They crashed the damn chopper.”
“Oh, thank God,” Annette said.
Relief flooded her, her legs going weak. Hannah closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, releasing some of the tension knotting her insides.
Liam was safe. Bishop was safe. They did it.
“I’ll make the announcement in a minute,” Dave said. “We need to stay down here awhile longer. The reaction teams are clearing the town before they give the all-clear.”
Hannah shivered and hugged herself. “It’s still hard to believe they opened fire on American citizens, even after seeing it with my own eyes.”
“They labeled us terrorists. No evidence required.”
“How many have we lost?” Annette asked.
“Too many.” Dave’s eyes darkened with sorrow. “At least ten, including Molly.”
If Liam hadn’t sounded the alarm, giving them almost five precious minutes of advance warning, how many more might have perished?
The horror seeped in, deep in her bones. Despair was poisonous. She would not give in to it. She refused.
She would cling to hope with her dying breath.
Dave sighed, misery etched into his features. “We won’t know more until we can get out and assess the damage. But I’ve received a report that at least one strike hit Winter Haven’s solar substation. The most crucial hardened electronics were in that building.”
“What does that mean?” Annette asked.
“The substation connects the solar panels in the community. Without it, the solar panels won’t work. We may have lost Winter Haven.”
Annette blanched. “What are we going to do?”
“We don’t need Winter Haven,” Hannah said. “It was always the people that made Fall Creek something special. We have generators and can make our own biofuel. We can survive. We have each other.”
Annette took a shuddering breath. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Speaking of helping each other.” Hannah turned to Dave. “Can you get me Mick Sellers on the radio? And Flynn. I want to speak with them.”
“I’ll try, but with the repeater stations down, we’re struggling to get anyone far from town. They’re out of range.”
Annette grimaced. “We’re chasing our tails with the Alliance. I’m not sure anything will make a difference to them.”
“It has to,” Hannah said fiercely. “They’ve seen a glimpse of what Poe and the Syndicate can do. Now we’re facing a threat from our own military. If they can justify this, what else will they justify? I just pray the Community Alliance will finally see reason and join us. They need to know what happened here. If it can happen to us, it can happen to them.”
“Keep praying,” Dave said. “I fear that’s all we’ve got left.”
44
The General
Day One Hundred and Fourteen
“You’re fired!” Governor Duffield screamed into the sat phone.
With a wince, the General pulled his ear back. “I can explain—”
“I’ve received reports that you’re stuck outside some crappy town thirty miles from where you should be! Poe is amassing in South Bend. South Bend! A stone’s throw from Michigan, and what are you doing? Playing games with my men? Opening fire on American citizens? What the hell are you thinking!”
The General gritted his teeth. Someone in the ranks had snitched on him. The governor must have planted a sat phone or two amongst them to report on the General’s actions.
The man didn’t trust him as completely as the General had anticipated.
He hadn’t gotten to where he was by panicking prematurely. There was always another play. Check wasn’t the end of the game, only a minor setback.
Especially if you were willing to cheat.
With a calm he didn’t feel, he said, “I have evidence that they’re domestic terrorists plotting an anti-government agenda. They’ve already murdered a local politician—”
“I don’t care!” Governor Duffield said. “Those were not your orders! Do you hear me? You are disobeying direct commands!”
The General paced before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Lake Michigan glistened in the afternoon sunlight like a precious jewel. From here, he couldn’t see the tent-and-trash scattered beach or the huddled, dirty masses.
He caught a glimpse of movement in the reflection off the glass. He spun around, heartrate accelerating.
Baxter lurked in the doorway, head bobbing like a metronome, leatherbound notebook in hand. “Do you need me for this, sir?”
This was not a conversation he wished recorded for future generations to examine—not even a meticulously sanitized version.
The General raised his free hand and made a shooing motion.
Baxter slipped through the door. The General signaled to his bodyguards stationed around the suite. He didn’t want them present for this, either.
The men obeyed without a sound.
Seconds later, he had the room to himself.
Governor Duffield continued to scream insults and obscenities through the sat phone.
With growing impatience, the General spoke, modulating his voice so that he didn’t betray his inner fury. “Calm down, Henry.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! I was warned! I was warned and still, I trusted you. How could you do this to m
e?”
“You hired me to be your eyes and ears, and to act according in your interests and to your benefit. Which I am doing.”
“Did you not hear me? I said you’re fired! Relieved of your command. You’re lucky I’m not ordering a court-martial.”
“Henry—”
“Or maybe I should! A court-martial wouldn’t be the worst you deserve!” The governor sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words. “You—you fired upon American citizens! You ordered American soldiers to harm their own people. What the hell were you thinking?”
Instead of answering, the General said, “You should see Osborne. He’ll be in my office. Have a glass of cognac. It’ll do wonders for your mood.”
The General had left his personal assistant, Larry Osborne, in case such a situation arose. Several years ago, the General had pulled some strings to make a certain unsavory arrest disappear.
Osborne was one hundred percent loyal.
More importantly, he was discreet.
“I’m in no mood!” Governor Duffield said.
“Are you sleeping? It sounds like you’re not sleeping well. You need to relax. Opioids are your vice of choice, correct?”
A sharp intake of breath.
Even after he’d been dishonorably discharged, the General had kept tabs. Just like he’d kept tabs on Rosamond.
Information was power. Some things never changed.
“I requested them just for you.”
“If you’re trying to bribe me, you have another thing coming!”
“Another think coming.”
“What?” the governor screeched. His voice edged closer to hysteria. “What the hell are you—”
“The correct term is ‘another think coming.’ It is a common misperception.”
“Don’t patronize me, you conniving ba—”
“I apologize.” The General fought to maintain his control. He despised this whiny, weak little man who’d somehow managed to rise to a position of power he could never earn and would never deserve.
“I am only thinking of your health, Henry. You’re a nervous wreck. If you continue like this, your well-being will suffer.” He spoke soothingly, like one might speak to a wild-eyed horse who must be pacified before coming to heel.
