Liam’s heart bucked in his chest as they whipped left onto State Street, tires squealing. The stink of burnt rubber filled his nostrils.
Bishop tossed a few phosphorus grenades out the window. Behind them, white smoke unfurled, billowing in great clouds to fill the entire street, creating an instant and effective smoke screen to shield their movements.
They got the hell out of Dodge.
36
The General
Day One Hundred and Eleven
Gibbs marched into the General’s suite. “I need to speak to you, sir.”
The General stood facing the wall of windows, his hands clasped behind his back. His bodyguards flanked either side of the doorway. Four more waited outside the door.
Baxter sat at the slim hotel desk in the corner, scribbling away with his delicate handwriting, sweating over chapter seven of the General’s manuscript.
The General breathed deeply, kept his gaze on the horizon line where the water met the blue of the sky, ignoring the hovels and sagging tents littering the beach, his eyes skipping over the dilapidated fishing boats cluttering Lake Michigan.
He was sick of this hotel, sick of MREs. Sick of this town. Fall Creek was a thorn in his side. “How much did we lose?”
“Our ammo, fuel, and transport supplies were attacked, sir. Five transports filled with supplies. Fourteen Humvees destroyed. Half of our ammo supply blown to bits.”
The General whipped around. Anger flared through him like an electrical current. “How did you let this happen?”
Gibbs didn’t flinch. “The fire was a distraction. They had men in wait to ambush the soldiers and draw our attention while they came after our logistics. The guardsmen were hit with flashbangs and knocked unconscious. The assault teams were too fast. By the time we sent a second reaction force, they were gone.”
The General cursed. He almost swiped the half-empty bottle of cognac from the credenza and hurled it at Gibbs. It was far too precious to waste.
“It will take us twice as long to transport our men anywhere. No casualties, but our ammo supply is halved. Fuel is low. For food, we only have a few days’ worth. Even if we move to rations. The men won’t like it, but—”
“Do it! We’ll find more food when we secure Fall Creek.”
Gibbs pursed his lips. “There’s more.”
“Spit it out!”
“Franklin and Jenkins never made it back.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“They did not return. They have not initiated radio contact. We can only assume that they were intercepted and eliminated.”
White-hot anger burned through him. He wanted to murder something—or someone. He couldn’t stand the sight of Gibbs, Baxter, or anyone else.
Baxter never looked up, an intense look on his face. Though the room was distinctly chilly, sweat beaded his forehead. He looked like he was writing for his life.
“When do we go rip them a new one? Sir.” Gibbs’ face was near expressionless, but the General recognized the restrained rage flashing behind his eyes.
The General forced himself to breathe, to maintain control. He longed to release his hounds and let them do what they did best.
He’d prefer to level the town. He’d never even have to step foot within its borders. Hell, with the proper artillery and air support, neither would a single soldier.
They could obliterate it, wipe it right off the map.
He had his progeny to think of. She was still inside.
“Send them another message,” the General said. “One they will not soon forget.”
“I intend to,” Gibbs said. “This cannot go unanswered.”
“But judiciously. We must limit our use of artillery and mortars. We need to protect Winter Haven. The solar panels, the greenhouses, and the planted fields. When we take over, we’ll use those resources.”
“And the people?”
“Other than my great-granddaughter, I couldn’t care less if they were all slaughtered. But bring Liam Coleman to me. I want to eliminate him personally.”
He didn’t consider the consequences of unleashing the U.S. military on a town of American citizens. He was in charge, now. The governor had given him the authority to make unilateral decisions. Which he damned well would.
Gibbs cleared his throat.
“What is it?”
“The troops—they might balk at engaging noncombatants. Even those sheltering terrorists. They don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Anyone who dares to disobey a direct order will end up like those deserters!”
“My men can do it. They have no such moral qualms.”
The General turned back toward the window and admired the view. “You have an idea?”
He caught Gibbs’ flat smile reflected in the glass. “I know just the thing.”
37
Liam
Day One Hundred and Twelve
Liam stalked the night.
Through his NVGs, the darkness was bathed in varying shades of green. The moon was barely visible, hidden behind a thick scrim of clouds.
It had rained earlier—the road glistened, droplets of rainwater beading the carcasses of dead vehicles. The trees and grass gleamed wetly.
He patrolled M-139 several miles north of the blockade between Fall Creek and St. Joe.
Engines were loud and conspicuous after the Collapse; he intended to keep his presence concealed, so he’d biked to Trailer World, parked in an empty bay, and hiked from there.
Yesterday, he’d deployed the M2 atop the high school roof reinforced with sandbags. The building was the town’s last ditch fallback location—Liam wanted it as protected as possible. The M60s they’d stolen from the General were deployed to several hidden ambush sites.
At 2200 hours, he’d relieved Perez of scout duty and offered to take Mike Duncan’s shift as well. He wanted to verify a few weapons caches he’d buried several weeks ago.
Mainly though, he needed to ensure he was in range of Luther’s radio at their prescribed checkin time of 2300 hours. The ruined repeaters had thrown a considerable wrench in his plans.
It had been three days since he’d heard anything from his spy.