Extinction Machine

Chapter Ninety-three

House of Jack Ledger

Near Robinwood, Maryland

Sunday, October 20, 8:19 p.m.

Headlights flashed through the windows and suddenly everyone was instantly on their feet, weapons in hand. Ghost ran growling to the door.

“Ivan,” I said, “take Junie into the basement. Stay there until you hear one of us tell you it’s safe to come out. Everyone else, on the team channel.”

Junie did not argue. She nodded and let Ivan escort her through the cellar door, however she paused in the doorway and gave me a brief, encouraging, radiant smile.

I smiled back, but as I turned away Top was right there. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

“Head’s in the game,” I said quietly.

He said, “Hooah,” just as quietly.

We darkened the lights. Pete and Lydia took up shooters’ positions inside the living room and Sam ran upstairs with his sniper rifle. Top faded back and vanished through the back door. Bunny walked out onto the porch with me, weapons low and out of sight. Just a couple of farm guys coming out to see who was being neighborly. Ghost sat in the shadows behind one of the chairs, invisible and totally alert.

There were three vehicles coming along the road, but I couldn’t see anything past the headlights. Two of them were trucks, but I couldn’t tell much through the glare. As the lead truck reached the entrance to the big turnaround in front of the house, the driver flashed his brights at me. Once, twice, three times. Then the truck turned and I saw what it was.

I heard Bunny say, “Well kiss my ass.”

He was grinning as he stood up.

The lead vehicle was a big, white Mister Softee truck, but I knew that it wasn’t here to sell ice cream to kids. I caught a glimpse of the massive form behind the wheel. The second vehicle was a Ford Explorer—not mine, which would have been destroyed along with everything else at the Warehouse—but one very much like it. There were several figures behind the smoked glass.

When Bunny saw the third vehicle, he nodded and said, “F*ck yeah.”

It was Echo Team’s tactical vehicle, Black Bess.

The door to the Mister Softee truck opened and I saw a mechanical leg step out first. Sleek and alien-looking, but it was definitely local manufacture. It was attached to the formidable figure of Gunnery Sergeant Brick Anderson. Brick looked like the actor Ving Rhames, except for the metal leg and a network of shrapnel scars on his face.

The man who stepped out of Black Bess was Brian Bird—Birddog to everyone. Also tall, but not as overwhelmingly massive as Brick. Few people are. Some rhinos, maybe.

“Oh look, Gunny,” said Birddog, “I believe that’s Captain Ledger, a wanted felon.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” agreed Brick. “We should make sure we lock these here vehicles because we wouldn’t want dangerous firearms and high explosives to fall into the hands of such an enemy of decent society.”

“You two,” I said, “are invited to kiss my ass.”

I reached up to tap my earbud to tell everyone to stand down, then the doors of the Explorer opened. The driver was a man I didn’t know, and he was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black tie.

The man who stepped out of the passenger side of the vehicle. Yeah, I knew him.

He was big and blocky, with bandages on his face and one arm strapped to his body.

Ghost leaped to his feet and began barking.

In my earbud I heard Top gasp. Bunny said, “Jesus Christ.”

The big man looked up at the house. He could not see my shooters at every window, but he had to know they were there.

“Good evening, Captain Ledger,” said Mr. Church. “I’m delighted to see that you’re safe and sound.”

I rushed down off the porch, delighted to see him alive, but with every step I became more intensely worried about the fact that there was no sign at all of Rudy.

Church waited for me. He looked awful. Covered in cuts and scrapes, stitches and bandages. Pain and loss aged him. As I slowed to a walk, he caught my eye, saw me looking past him.

“Dr. Sanchez is alive,” he said.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Alive.

“How is he?” I demanded. “Where is he?”

“The Wilmer Eye Institute at Johns Hopkins.”

“What?”

“We were in a helicopter about fifty feet above the building at the time of the explosion. The pilot lost control of the bird and we went into the bay. The pilot was killed, as were two of the crewmen. Dr. Sanchez was unconscious when we made it to shore. Shrapnel from the blast and structural debris on impact with the water. He sustained some head trauma and a deep laceration across his face. The doctors are optimistic they can save his left eye. The right … well…” Church shook his head.

“God.”

“He has some fractures, cuts, and burns, of course, but they’re secondary.”

I felt stunned. It was like being kicked in the face. On one hand I was overjoyed that Rudy was still alive; but then to hear about him being so savagely injured.

“Will he live?”

“I believe so. It’s too soon to evaluate brain function.”

I closed my eyes.

Church pitched his voice to a confidential one. “I … have not contacted Circe yet. However, Aunt Sallie has agents en route to pick her up and bring her to Johns Hopkins.”

“Did anyone else get out?”

“No. The estimated body count is one hundred and sixty-nine DMS personnel. Seven of the eight FBI agents who came to serve a warrant on you, Captain. Two NSA agents who were with them. Sixteen civilians from the surrounding buildings.”

“Gus?” asked Top.

Church’s face was wooden. “No.”

“Ah, jeez…”

Gus Dietrich had been with Church for years. He was the big man’s personal assistant, bodyguard, aide, and friend. A good friend of mine, too.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Gus was a good man.”

Church’s eyes were black metal orbs. “Gus was family.”

“Yes.”

“They were all family.”

“Yes.”

“And we are going to hunt down the people responsible for this,” he said softly. “We will hunt every last one of them down and we will kill them.”