Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (31 page)

Beckham wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to get a look at the four monitors set up on the wall in front of Davis. The live video feeds were only from the strike teams that had taken off from the
GW
to Atlanta. On the left, two Navy officers sat at a wall of radio equipment, listening for information from the other strike teams.

The room was crowded, and the scent of perspiration drifted in the air. Every hatch was closed, and the ventilation units didn’t seem to be working. The only respite was the view of the ocean outside the porthole windows.

Watching from the safety of the
GW
felt like betraying Fitz, Apollo, and all the men going back out there. Beckham had faith in Fitz, but no matter how good of a shot he was, the sheer number of Variants he would face made success unlikely.

Beckham wasn’t the only nervous soldier in the room. Garcia was fiddling with his broken nose a few feet away, anxious and distraught. He looked a lot like a raccoon with the bruises around his eyes. If it weren’t for the situation, Beckham might have given him shit about it.

The first officer at the radio equipment turned to Davis. “All strike teams have radioed in, ma’am. They’re in position and report no hostiles.”

“Let’s go to Phase 2. Air assets are clear to drop.”

Horn and Chow huddled next to Beckham and Garcia. Tank and Thomas hung back, their arms folded across their uniforms, tattooed crosses showing. Beckham saw there was still a space for another name. Now he knew why Garcia was anxious to see the feeds. The Marine still held onto hope that his man, Stevo, was alive out there.

“I can’t see shit,” Horn said.

“Good,” Chow whispered back. “This is going to be a fucking slaughter.”

Beckham twisted to the side, crunching his brows together. “Keep positive or keep your mouth shut.”

Chow brushed a strand of black hair that had fallen across his forehead. “You got it, Boss.”

There was bitterness in his tone, but Beckham ignored it. He didn’t have time to discipline right now.

The second radio operator said, “A squadron of F-16s just took off from Robbins AFB. They’re on their way to Atlanta, ma’am.”

Davis nodded, and drew in a breath. There was more riding on this operation than promotions and respect. They likely wouldn’t get the opportunity to capture a juvenile Variant twice. And it showed in her strained features. Beckham understood her nerves. If the mission failed, it was on her.

He reminded himself of his own advice to stay positive. One of the teams would surely succeed. Fitz and Apollo
would
succeed. This wasn’t Operation Liberty, a mission planned by a lunatic and where failure seemed to be a sure bet.

A few minutes later the F-18 Super Hornets on the flight deck of the
GW
launched for New York. Beckham couldn’t see them, but he heard each one take off. It felt good knowing they were on their way to support Fitz and Apollo.

Through the wall of sweaty bodies, Beckham finally glimpsed the monitors at the front of the room. The strike teams were all holed up in buildings surrounding Turner Field. It didn’t take long for the F-16s to reach the city. The feeds shook and static hissed from the speakers ten minutes later. On monitor one, a Marine centered his camera on the stadium. Four blips emerged on the horizon. The jets roared over the city, dropping their payloads just above Turner Field.

An orange mushroom blossomed above the stadium, and a deafening explosion blared from the wall-mounted speakers in the CIC. The brilliant flash of light filled the monitors, and when it faded, Turner Field was nothing but a smoking crater. Smoldering debris rimmed the hole, small fires raging across the blast zone. 

If that didn’t get the Variants’ attention, Beckham wasn’t sure what would.

F
itz held onto his helmet as fragments rained from the ceiling of the New York City Public Library. Thud after thud rocked the structure, but it wasn’t the library that was being hit. He looked out the second floor window just as the final F-18 Super Hornet swooped over Grand Central Station.

A boom that rattled Fitz’s bones shook the library, and the metro station vanished in a cloud of smoke in the distance. Fiery orange tendrils reached out and licked the surrounding buildings.

“Radio discipline from here on out. Let’s move,” Fitz said into his headset. He wasn’t going to wait around to see if the decoy drew the monsters from their lairs. If it worked, he would hear them coming anyway.

Apollo ran ahead, his nose sniffing the stairs. The entire building reeked of death and smoke, but a thin layer of dust and ash on the floor told Fitz the Variants hadn’t been here for some time. His blades crunched over shattered glass. The front doors to the main entrance were wide open, charred and burnt from the firebombs that had been dropped during Operation Liberty. Chunks from the massive stone pillars littered the steps where high caliber rounds had chipped away at the historic structure.

It smelled even worse outside. He took in a whiff of a mixture of barbecue, rot, and sour fruit. Hundreds of decaying Variant corpses were sprawled across Bryant Park. They reminded him of the images he’d seen of Pompeii, bodies burned and twisted. Horned claws reached in every direction like tree branches. Fitz considered putting on his gas mask, but opted for pulling his scarf up over his mouth and nose instead. He guided his team across the charred lawn, running between shattered trees and bodies piled on top of one another. 1
^st
Platoon had put up one hell of a fight, but the masses of Variants had overwhelmed them.

A blast rocked the remains of Grand Central Station. Fitz motioned his team into the street without hesitation. He shouldered his suppressed MK11 and took point. The rubber padding he had glued on the bottom of his blades cut down on any noise, as long as he wasn’t moving over glass, and the grips clung to the ash covering the concrete.

He picked up his pace, his muzzle sweeping the road for contacts. Flakes of ash rained across his path like black snow. Above, the sun struggled to peek from the rolling cloud cover.

Apollo was a few feet ahead, sniffing for the scent of Variants. Having the dog was a blessing, but Fitz feared he couldn’t protect him if shit hit the fan. He gritted his teeth and ran for an ambulance at the intersection of 5
^th
and West 42
^nd
Street. Knapp, Craig, and Cooper caught up a moment later. They hunched behind the vehicle and waited for Apollo to give them the all clear.

Several seconds passed. Then a minute. The dog was staring down West 42
^nd
, unmoving. He was so still he could have passed for a statue.

Besides the intermittent explosions from Grand Central Station, the derelict city was silent. No shrieking monsters, no screams of frightened civilians. There wasn’t even a breeze. Sitting in the quiet of the massive city was surreal, like Fitz was alone in the vacuum of outer space.

Apollo came running back to the ambulance with his tail down. Something had him spooked. Adrenaline rushed into Fitz’s system for the first time since they had landed. He got on his belly and crawled for a better view of West 42
^nd
, doing his best not to drag his blades.

Another blast rocked Grand Central Station, and a ball of fire ballooned into the air. A tormented howl that could have been from a dying animal sounded in the distance.

The hair on Fitz’s neck prickled when he saw the pallid, skeletal figures squeezing from the sewer openings. The Variants darted into the streets on all fours, jointed appendages clicking as they raced across the concrete like an army of spiders. In seconds, hundreds of the monsters were exploring the streets.

The decoy had worked.

Fitz slowly crawled back to the other men. The snapping of joints echoed through the street, and he could see in the looks of the three Marines they knew what was coming. Pushing himself up, Fitz slowly made his way around the other side of the ambulance. The metro station entrance was halfway down West 42
^nd
. Several abandoned vehicles littered the road along the way. They could use the cars and trucks for cover.

Fitz signaled for his team to move. Knapp shook his head, wide and panicked eyes pleading for Fitz to reconsider. Craig’s face was a mask of sheer terror.

For a moment Fitz wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t drag them down the street, and he couldn’t sit here either. There wasn’t time to give them a pep talk either. Instead, he pointed at the ground and then slowly dragged a finger across his neck. Next, he pointed at both men in turn as if to say
Stay and you die.

Cooper grinned at that. A few beats later, all three of the Marines were following Fitz and Apollo toward the Bryant Metro Station, an army of monsters hunting the streets behind them.

“O
nly a few minutes, Dr. Lovato,” Captain Klinger said. “She needs her rest.” He finished washing his hands off with a towel and left the room.

Ringgold struggled to open her eyes as Kate approached her bedside. She cracked a smile when she focused on Kate.

“Hi,” Ringgold said, her voice hardly a whisper. “I didn’t think we were going to make it there for a second.”

Kate smiled back and took a seat in the chair next to her bed. “I didn’t either. If it weren’t for Beckham, we wouldn’t have.”

“He saved me again,” Ringgold said. Her voice was stronger now, and her eyes were fully open. Despite the white hospital gown, she still retained her professional poise.

“I suppose I should assign Beckham to my security detail full-time,” Ringgold said with a chuckle.

Kate faked a smile as she remembered what Beckham had said about Brett firing as a result of Beckham’s first shot. They would never know if his theory was right.

“If it weren’t for Beckham, Brett would have shot me in the head,” Ringgold continued. She looked down at the patch covering her collarbone. “One thing’s certain—he had some reasoning ability left before he pulled the trigger, because he shifted his aim from you to me.”

Kate shook her head. She had closed her eyes right before the gunshots.

“Congratulations, Doctor,” Ringgold said.

Kate caught her gaze, heart flipping in her chest. Had she talked Brett out of shooting her, only to have him shoot Ringgold?

“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” Ringgold clarified. “I think that’s why Brett didn’t fire before Beckham came to our rescue.”

Kate sucked in a long breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Waving her good hand, Ringgold said, “I understand. Trust me, I respect your privacy.”

“Thank you,” Kate replied. Her cheeks flushed from the heat of embarrassment.

“Speaking of Beckham, where is he? I’d like to thank him. Again.”

“In the CIC. The strike teams should be on the ground. Operation Condor is underway.”

Ringgold’s smile vanished and she sighed. “So it’s begun? Part of me is glad I’m not up there to see what happens,” she said. There was an uncharacteristic hint of timidity in the words.

Kate understood. She understood better than anyone. She had seen military failure after military failure since the outbreak. It was hard to imagine one of the teams would bring back a live specimen. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Ringgold, recalling the words the President had spoken just yesterday.

“There’s always hope,” Kate said.

Ringgold smiled and nodded. “Damn straight, Doctor.”