The Day After Never - Retribution (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 4) (29 page)

When the Crew guard finished with his report, Zach was already in motion, raising the radio to his lips as he ran. “I’ll be right there. I’m on my way. Over.”

Five Crew gunmen had been sent into the warehouse when it became obvious to Zach that something had gone wrong. And now Whitely’s gamble was unraveling with each second, and Zach had to pick up the pieces or face Snake’s wrath for allowing it. Even though Zach didn’t report to the Crew leader, he recognized the drug-fueled rage with which the man acted out, and he didn’t want to be a target.

Zach arrived at the loading dock door and flipped up his night vision goggles before shouldering through to where the five Crew gunmen had their LED flashlights trained on a prone Whitely.

“What the hell happened?” Zach demanded, each syllable dripping fury.

“I…he…he knocked me…out,” Whitely stammered.

Zach studied the gash on the side of Whitely’s head and the blood that had dried down the side of his face, and nodded. “I can see that. How, exactly, and why?”

“I was showing him to the door, and the next thing, everything went black. I…I’m guessing he didn’t want to take the chance it might have been a setup. I don’t know. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“You have no idea where he went?”

“I told you. I was unconscious until just a few moments ago.” Whitely touched the swelling on the side of his skull and his fingers came away smeared with crimson. “How much blood did I lose? How long have I been out?”

“Not enough to kill you, obviously. As to how long, ten minutes or so.”

“Then he can’t have gotten far. He’s saddled with the kid.”

Zach looked at the gunmen. “I want you to search the exterior of the plant. He must have left a trail. The ground’s mush.” The men stared at him like he was speaking Swedish, and Zach glowered at them. “Did you hear me? Move. They’re getting away.”

The Crew thugs sprang into action and made for the row of doors. Whitely struggled to his feet and swayed unsteadily. Zach shook his head in disgust and barked into his radio, “Get back to the factory. They’re gone. Over.”

“We should mobilize everything we’ve got,” Whitely said.

“We do that, and they’re sure to hear us coming, which defeats the purpose.”

“What about bloodhounds? We can round some up.”

“Again, they’ll give us away. Right now they have a slim lead. If we can find their tracks, we won’t be far behind. We put fifty men on this or get baying dogs into the mix, and we can kiss our chances to hell.”

“I’d say our chances are blown at this point. We should throw everything at them,” Whitely insisted, and then grabbed at the stack of crates for support, overtaken by a bout of sudden dizziness.

“You need to get stitched up,” Zach said, and then his radio chirped. He raised it to his lips. “What is it?” he snapped.

“We found footprints. By the west door. Over.”

“I’ll be there in a second. Over.”

Whitely shuffled toward the sleeping quarters. “I’ll catch up with you. I can have the medic sew me up. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Zach was already running across the warehouse floor, unconcerned whether Whitely lived or died, much less made it into the field. The Illuminati mercenary had his work cut out for him, and a wounded fool was the last thing he needed slowing him down.

“Whatever. Do what you have to do,” Zach said, and pushed open the door at the other end of the warehouse before disappearing into the night.

Whitely wiped his bloody fingers clean on his pants, thankful that the dull ache in his head and the pain lancing from the wound with every move made it easy to stifle the smile that threatened to play across his face.

Now Lucas and his companions were in a footrace, but Zach didn’t know that Lucas understood what he was up against. Whitely saw the man’s face in his mind’s eye and nodded to himself, wincing at the unwise move.

He was glad he wasn’t the one who would have to take on Lucas.

Because judging by his demeanor, many had tried; and even though Zach was a verifiable badass, Lucas radiated menace like few Whitely had ever met.

A Crew guard appeared at the door connecting the warehouse to the factory, and Whitely eyed him with a sour expression. “Get the medic out of bed. Got a job for him. And be quick about it,” he ordered, and the man spun to comply. Whitely was high in the Crew’s hierarchy, and as such to be obeyed unconditionally. At least until word of Lucas and the boy’s escape reached Snake, he reasoned. Then all bets were off.

~ ~ ~

Lucas paused and checked behind him on the trail, where Tango’s and Nugget’s hoofprints stood in stark contrast to the muddy soil around them. He shook his head in frustration and wiped dried blood from his face.

“What is it?” Sierra whispered.

“This isn’t going to work. A toddler could follow this trail.”

“Right, but you said once it rains…”

“You see any rain?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“In the meantime, they can ride their horses as hard as they want, but we can’t. Ours need to make it for weeks – theirs for minutes.”

“So what do we do?”

He indicated an area ahead. “We go into the swamp.”

Tim spoke up. “That’s a bad idea. Quicksand, alligators, snakes…”

“Not sure we have any choice. We stay on the trail, they’ll catch us. Simple.”

“Then what – we ride into the bayou and get stuck in quicksand? Or eaten by an alligator?” Sierra blurted, her voice growing in volume as she spoke.

Lucas shushed her. “Follow me, and keep your voice down. No more talking.”

He pulled on the reins and urged Tango toward the swampland, which crystalized into view as they neared. To Lucas’s relief what he’d thought was marsh appeared to be dry land blanketed with grass and needles from the thousands of bald cypress trees that stretched as far as he could see, bisected by a brook that trailed off into nothingness.

“Let’s try following the creek a ways,” Lucas suggested. “Won’t leave any tracks in the water.”

“What about the alligators?” Sierra asked warily.

“What’s bearing down on us makes alligators the least of our problems, Sierra. Now no more talking. Please,” he said, and spurred Tango forward, the trees rising straight up into the night. Tim raised his head to look at the cloudy sky overhead and then whispered to his mother, his voice so low she could barely hear him.

“Whatever happens, I love you, Mom.”

She swallowed a baseball-sized lump in her throat and hugged him closer. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see. We didn’t come this far to fail.”

Tim nodded in the darkness, not because he believed her, but because it seemed important to her that he did, his life experience during his short stay on the planet having taught him that few things turned out okay, and fewer still that involved the Crew. Every so often one of the boys had tried to escape, and the Crew had delighted in catching them and making a spectacle of their punishment, the abuses so foul just the memory made him squirm.

He sat forward and repeated the only prayer he remembered over and over in his head, hoping that someone was listening and would save them, because sure as sin the Crew was coming for them, and nobody escaped them for long.

Chapter 45

Zach cocked his head and held up a hand to warn his men to remain still, the night quiet around them, the air heavy with approaching rain. His horse shifted beneath him and he patted its neck to settle it and then motioned at where the hoofprints veered from the trail toward the cypress swamp.

“They’re smarter than I thought. The grass will cover their tracks, but they can’t be far.”

Zach led the five Crew fighters off the trail. The surroundings glowed in their night vision goggles, the trees thrusting into the sky like totem poles. He cocked his head again as they approached the forest and whispered to the lead gunman beside him, “Hear that?”

The man shook his head. “No.”

“Splashing. They’re following the creek.”

Zach pointed his horse toward the stream and urged it forward, sure that the riders were just ahead. The Crew gunmen followed, and then he stopped again and listened intently before shaking his head.

“What is it?” the gunman whispered.

“I don’t hear them anymore.”

“Maybe they’re back on dry ground.”

“Maybe,” Zach agreed, his tone betraying his doubt.

Zach spurred the horse on, and as they reached a bend in the creek, the leaves around them began popping, slowly at first and then faster as a cloudburst pelted them with rain. Zach cursed under his breath and then spotted movement ahead – no more than a hundred yards away. He increased his pace, ignoring the sheets of rain as visibility faded, intent on not losing his quarry now that he was close.

The men rode through the trees as the downpour intensified, weapons at the ready, and Zach was at the creek when gunshots stuttered from ahead and the rider beside him jerked in the saddle with a spray of blood and tumbled to the ground.

Shots barked again and Zach’s horse went out from under him. He threw himself to the side as more reports reached him, and then his men were taking evasive action, dismounting and using the narrow trunks for what cover they could.

Zach hit the ground and rolled, his left arm instantly numb from the impact, and then he was returning fire at the shooter he could barely make out with his goggles. Answering fire shredded the leaves around him and he rolled again, taking cover behind a felled tree and using it to stabilize his aim until his arm recovered. He blasted off two bursts at the shooter, and then the rain masked the man for several moments as a curtain of water obstructed his field of view.

When the rain lessened, there was no trace of the gunman. Zach waited, secure that eventually the shooter would have to move, and when he did, Zach would have him in his sights. The men behind him, combat veterans from countless Crew skirmishes, sensed his strategy and held their fire.

Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Nothing could be heard other than the tattoo of the rain. Zach forced himself to be patient, there being no place to go, the confrontation all the evidence he needed that Lucas understood he’d reached the end. Nobody would take on a party of gunmen if they had a choice, which meant he didn’t.

“Unless,” Zach whispered.

Unless he was sacrificing himself to buy Sierra and the boy time to get away.

In which case Zach was playing right into his hands.

Zach was tensing to force himself to his feet when he spotted the movement he’d been waiting for and opened up at the spot, the AK rattling in his hands. His men fired as well, spraying the area with lead, and when no fire answered their volley, Zach leapt up and signaled to his men to advance.

They crept toward the creek, staying low, and were nearly at the water’s edge when a single shot popped from Zach’s left and the man beside him crumpled, half his skull gone. Zach opened fire at the shooter along with the others, the hail of bullets a wall of death that nobody would survive.

When his magazine emptied, Zach jettisoned the spent one and slapped a fresh one into place, and then gestured to his left and zigzagged away, his intent to flank the gunman while he was pinned down by the Crew. No further shots followed Zach’s progress, raising his hope that Lucas had at least been hit, if not killed, by the last barrage.

He adjusted his goggles and searched the trees, and then an AK on full auto chattered behind him, shattering the silence. Zach shook his head at the amateur move – one of his men had lost his nerve and was shooting at ghosts, wasting precious ammo and potentially giving away his location.

Zach couldn’t allow the distraction to diminish his focus, and he continued creeping through the trees, now nearly to where he’d last seen Lucas. He paused behind a trunk, slowing his breathing, and then some primitive part of his brain caught movement to his right and he twisted toward it, gun in hand.

“Drop it,” Whitely called out, his AK pointed at Zach.

Zach grinned and dropped to the ground as though the earth had opened beneath him, firing as he went. Bullets thumped into the cypresses around Whitely, and the older man loosed a volley as he ducked behind a tree, but the shots went high and missed Zach.

Zach continued shooting as he pressed his advantage, and then a familiar voice called out from behind him.

“You heard the man. Drop it,” Lucas said.

Zach twisted with his rifle, and Lucas fired a burst. Zach jerked like he’d touched a high-voltage line and Lucas fired again, liquefying his skull at the close range.

The forest quieted again, and Whitely called out from behind the tree, “Is that it?”

“You can come out.”

“I took care of the others. I figured you could use a hand,” Whitely said, stepping from his hiding place.

“I had them.” Lucas gestured at Whitely with his gun. “No offense, but I’d feel better if you tossed your AK aside.”

Whitely nodded and did as Lucas instructed.

Lucas eyed him. “Pistol, too.”

“Oh, come on,” Whitely protested.

“Humor me.”

Whitely slid his handgun from its hip holster, dropped it by the rifle, and then held his hands out. “Satisfied?”

Lucas nodded and called out over his shoulder, “Sierra? It’s over.”

The rain lessened as a pair of figures approached through the haze, leading two horses – the boy and a slim woman carrying a rifle.

Sierra stopped dead when she saw Whitely, and the blood drained from her face. “You,” she said, and raised her rifle, a look of hatred twisting her features.

Chapter 46

Lucas held out his hand to stop Sierra from gunning Whitely down. “No,” he said. “He’s not with them.”

“The hell he isn’t. Don’t you know who he is?”

Lucas hadn’t told her about his encounter with Whitely, figuring he could recount the story during the weeks they’d be on the trail.

“Sierra…he’s the one who helped me back at the factory. Lower your gun. Now,” Lucas ordered, his voice hard as flint.

She slowly obeyed, her eyes puzzled. “
He
helped you?”