“That you escaped our custody. You want revenge for the murder of your compatriots, just like Sutter did.”
Luther looked like he was having a tough time breathing properly. “What exactly do you want me to do as a…a spy?”
Liam grimaced in irritation. “Did you not just hear me? “I have a list of intel I want, plus what disinformation I need you to disseminate.” He held out a handheld radio. “If you’re out of range or lose access, I’ll have my scouts check Trailer World off M-139. There’s a bright blue mailbox shaped like a dolphin. You can’t miss it. Pass any messages that way, but don’t use names. Use a code. We’ll figure that out now.”
“I don’t know—”
“I thought you were here to redeem yourself.”
“I am.”
“Then this is how you do it.”
Luther wiped and folded the square of aluminum with great care and handed it to Liam. At least he was neat. “And if the General catches me?”
“Don’t let him catch you.”
“But if—”
“Then I hope you’ve made things right with Jesus. I won’t be able to help you.”
Luther opened his mouth, closed it. Blinked and scratched his beard again. He stared at him numbly. He looked terrified, a deer trapped in the headlights.
Liam’s gaze softened. He understood the role of a handler—he also understood the danger he was sending Luther into. If Luther were discovered, the General would kill him, after torturing him for information. “I know this is a huge ask.”
Luther sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself. He straightened his slumped shoulders. And reached for the radio. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Leave at first light.”
“I won’t let you down,” Luther said.
“I believe you.”
Hopefully, Liam hadn’t just made a huge mistake.
20
The General
Day One Hundred and Eight
“Where’s my cognac?” the General demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Baxter said, ducking his head. “I asked around. There’s none left.”
John Baxter was a timid man with an elongated neck and wet, meek eyes like a turtle; he ducked into his shell at the slightest sign of trouble.
“Unacceptable.” He hauled himself up from the luxurious sofa facing the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows overlooking Lake Michigan. The lavish king-size bed was comfortable, though the thousand square foot suite had remained distinctly chilly without electricity.
It wasn’t the Ritz Carlton penthouse, but the opulent suite was far better than most accommodations he’d endured during his years in the military.
The Boulevard Inn was a quaint seven-story hotel boasting covered terraces, marble floors, rich walnut accents, and most importantly, splendid views of Silver Beach and Lake Michigan beyond.
The hotel’s walls were thick concrete that offered considerable protection from small-arms fire. Even without electricity, the building was warmer than a camp. Nights still dipped into freezing temperatures. None of his troops had winter gear, and many lacked the skills to hunt or fish.
He wasn’t facing an army. He didn’t need to worry about drones, air raids, artillery, or missiles.
If their enemy had these capabilities, he’d go to the field and limit exposure from air and drone observation and EMCON output.
Of course, garrisoning at the hotel left them open to surveillance, intelligence gathering, and sniper attacks or car bombings. Opposing forces could sneak closer than the General liked.
He didn’t have enough men to secure the surrounding buildings.
However, his troops had secured the perimeter, fortified the building, and conducted roving patrols.
The hotel would serve their purpose just fine. Besides, he didn’t intend to stay long.
He’d planned to be in Winter Haven by now, surrounded by the old comforts—heat, electricity, and hot water.
The thought rankled him. He was a patient man, but he enjoyed his creature comforts.
His mouth watered. He drooled at the thought of a bottle of premium aged wine. It wasn’t cognac, but at this point, he’d take anything.
“Go find me something to drink,” he ordered Baxter.
Southwest Michigan was wine country. The climate along the coast of Lake Michigan was perfect for varietals like Pinot Grigio, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Franc. A decade ago, he’d spent a drunken weekend with a stunning call girl visiting the local wineries of Tabor Hill in Buchanan and Julian Winery in Paw Paw.
There had to be something. Damn Baxter to hell if he didn’t bring back a bottle with a high alcohol content in the next ten minutes.
“I thought you wanted to work on chapter five of your memoirs—”
“I said go!”
The man practically bowed, then scurried from the room. The General’s bodyguards let him pass without shifting out of his way or the slightest change in their stony expressions.
Baxter bowled into Gibbs as the ex-soldier swept into the suite. Gibbs’ granite face revealed no hint of irritation as Baxter blabbered a hurried apology and disappeared down the hallway.
Gibbs shut the door behind him and stepped into the room. He folded his hands behind his back. “Still no response from Fall Creek, sir.”
The General cursed.
Fall Creek’s twenty-four-hour deadline had come and gone. They had not offered a broken and subdued Liam Coleman in cuffs like a sacrificial lamb.
Indignation burned through him. He’d hoped to do this the easy way. Roll in like a conquering hero after defeating the nihilist gang plaguing the town.
They’d have to give up one citizen. So what? People died all the time. They would’ve gotten over it.
The townspeople were obstinate, short-sighted fools.
So be it. They’d chosen their fate.
He had delayed immediate retaliation for two reasons. First, during his illustrious career, he had learned a few tricks from the best interrogation specialists in the CIA.
Fear had a way of escalating and intensifying the desired results. The anticipation of the punishment was often worse than the pain itself.
Let them wait. Let them stew in the juices of their terror. Tremble in fear and dread. A living nightmare without end.