Taking his cue from Liam, Bishop fired his own warning shot. Boom! A second round splintered the road several feet from the female guardsman.
Shouted curses erupted from the second Humvee as soldiers ducked for cover.
The woman backed against the first Humvee’s door. Her wild gaze swept the barricade—the concrete barriers, the dirt-filled barrels stacked in rows with strategic gun ports, muzzles glinting in the sunlight.
Her weapon wobbled back and forth, seeking the threat but unable to find it.
Mustache aimed his M4 at Reynoso’s head. He shook with rage, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. Yet. “Tell your men to stand down or we’ll fire!”
Sweat dribbled down Liam’s forehead and leaked into his left eyebrow. He didn’t blink but remained focused.
He adjusted the scope and placed the target’s forehead in his sights. The next shot wouldn’t bust up asphalt.
Stay calm. Everyone just needed to calm the hell down.
“That was a warning shot,” Reynoso said. “We have no desire to fight, but we won’t be trampled over, either.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off!” Mustache growled.
“If you had, my snipers would’ve taken you and your men out—before you’d fired up that Ma Deuce. Say what you need to say and leave.”
“Fall Creek is under the control of General Sinclair by state mandate from Governor Duffield. If you refuse to admit us, that’s tantamount to treason. Consequences will be dire. Let us in!”
Reynoso winced but did not back down. They faced each other, not twenty yards apart. Reynoso with no less than four rifles aimed at his chest. The .50 cal locked and loaded, ready to unleash death and destruction.
Fall Creek aimed dozens of weapons at the guardsmen—some they could see, most they couldn’t.
Tension stretched taut, about to snap.
“Hastings,” the female guardsman hissed.
“I will fire!” Mustache—or Hastings—shouted. His hands shook. His eyes still had that hard nervous look, agitated and edgy, the kind of guy who reacted on a hair’s trigger. Things were about to go sideways fast.
“If you fire, so will our snipers,” Reynoso said. “You can’t see them, but they can see you. Are you sure you want to open fire on American citizens? Are you certain you’ll make it out of here? Because you may have enough firepower to overpower us, but I can guarantee that you three won’t be leaving here alive.”
The female guardsman took a hesitant step backward toward the Humvee’s open passenger door. Her steps were jittery, her weapon quaking.
Neither appeared accustomed to highly charged, potential combat situations.
“Hastings,” she said again, louder. “We should go.”
Hastings glared at Reynoso. He didn’t appear to appreciate the art of compromise.
“Go,” Liam muttered under his breath. “Come on, just go.”
His nerves raw, every sense on high alert, he waited, praying the hothead would back down. His scope remained zeroed in on Hastings’ skull, his finger on the trigger, the carbine solid and steady in his hands.
One wrong move, and he’d splatter the soldier’s brains across the cracked pavement.
With a curse, Hastings’ posture deflated. He spun and stalked back to the Humvee, his fellow soldiers covering him.
He motioned to the second vehicle before climbing in and slamming the door.
The Humvees backed up, then made a slow, ponderous U-turn before heading north on M-139.
No one moved until the rumble of the engines had faded into silence.
“They’re gone,” Bishop said on the radio. “Crisis averted. For now, anyway.”
Relief flared through Liam. It would be short-lived. If he knew anything in life, he knew Murphy’s Law.
Things were about to get worse.
Liam stood, wincing at the sting in his side. He shouldered his weapon and keyed the mic. “They’ll be back. Next time, they’ll bring their friends with them.”
12
Liam
Day One Hundred and Five
The next morning, Liam stood before four dozen new recruits.
Every day, more able-bodied townspeople volunteered to defend their homes and everything they loved. Fewer and fewer expected others to do it for them.
He’d brought them to the park by the river, where there was an open grassy area not yet used for crops or livestock. He trained them in smaller groups to ensure there were always security teams and sentries on duty.
As Army Special Forces, he had been one of the first to be inserted behind enemy lines. In Afghanistan, he’d done his share of training local populations to be insurgents fighting the Taliban.
Liam cleared his throat. “Today, we’re going to learn shooting and basic infantry tactics—which your lives depend on.”
Liam spoke simply since he wasn’t addressing trained soldiers accustomed to military jargon. “If the National Guard engages, don’t fire unless it is a last resort. We will not slaughter American servicemen while we have the choice. Not unless it’s saving a life.”
The ragtag group gave grim nods. They wore jeans and work boots, wrinkled jackets and dirty coats, hunting rifles and shotguns slung over their shoulders. Their expressions were anxious but not panicked.
They were bank tellers and teachers, waitresses and construction workers. Mothers and fathers. Neighbors and friends. Regular people who’d found themselves in extraordinary circumstances—and had risen to the occasion.
“The National Guard boasts sophisticated DF—directional finder—equipment that will triangulate automatically and give them our bearings. I don’t know if that equipment was shielded from the EMP. Assume it’s working and keep radio traffic to a minimum and switch frequencies often. Perez is going to provide you with those frequencies, call signs, et cetera.
“When you’re on duty, practice noise discipline. At night, we operate with light discipline. No cigarettes. Limit flashlights. No fires, which can be seen at long distances, especially with NVGs.”