Trackers 3: The Storm (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller) Read online

  “And I’ve fought in them,” Charlize said. “Do not lecture me. I just spent the day in Charlotte witnessing exactly what you’ve just described. They may not be afflicted with cholera, but they have other problems that are just as bad.”

  Price hesitated. She looked to Diego for his opinion. General Thor tapped his pen on his folder, and Colonel Raymond folded his arms across his chest, both of them clearly preparing for a battle between the two cabinet officials. President Diego apparently had the same idea.

  “Everyone, take a break. Secretary Montgomery, a word,” he said.

  Price held Charlize’s gaze for a moment before getting up and leaving. Charlize felt adrenaline flood her system as the room cleared. As soon as the last person left and the door clicked shut, Diego stood and palmed the table.

  “First off, don’t you ever pull a stunt like the one in Charlotte again,” he said sternly. “I didn’t make you Secretary of Defense so you could go on personally motivated rescue missions and put yourself in the line of fire. I need you to help now more than ever to get our SCs under control.” He let out a breath. “Hell, Charlize, you saw firsthand what we’re up against. I need your support.”

  Charlize stiffened in her chair. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s just...”

  “I know you’ve been through a lot after losing your brother, but I won’t put up with insubordination again. I also won’t have you questioning me in front of my cabinet and staff. When you were off playing tourist, the decision was made to start the evacuation in Houston. I’m sorry, but Dr. Price is correct. There is simply nothing further we can do there given the supplies and manpower we have at our disposal. If it comes down to it, I’ll cut the country in half to save those that we can. It’s the burden of leadership in these troubled times, and you share that burden with me now, Charlize.”

  He paused and looked at the ceiling, then back at her. “We’re fighting for the very future of our children, and I need to know you’re on board. Diseases aren’t the only problem. Gangs are infiltrating the SCs. Gangs like MS-13. The Sons of Liberty aren’t the only domestic terrorists out there.”

  Charlize stood to face the president. “I know, sir, and that’s why I went to Charlotte. While Dr. Price looks at numbers in the safety of this bunker, people are dying out there in terrible ways. She may have been in the field when she was younger, but I’ve been in the muck most of my life, and today I saw the horror with my own two eyes. It’s hell out there.”

  She tried to keep her voice measured, but her response grew in pitch and volume until she was nearly shouting, causing Diego to rear back.

  “I’m more determined than ever to help those people and save our country, sir,” Charlize finished, reigning in her temper. “I’m sorry.”

  Diego stroked the scruff on his jaw and scrutinized her for a moment. Then he nodded and said, “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

  “I don’t suppose you want to hear my idea on how we can start moving supplies more efficiently, do you?”

  “I’m all ears,” Diego replied.

  She picked the folder off the table and pulled out a map showing the network of train tracks across the United States.

  “On the flight to Charlotte, I saw trains stranded on the tracks in multiple locations. So far we’ve focused our recovery efforts on moving supplies using the highways, but that’s just slowed us down.”

  “Go on,” Diego said.

  “I was reminded that we had the same logistical issues of moving supplies and people when we were settling the American West as we do now. If we can get the rails working again, we can start moving more supplies as they come in from foreign nations. It’s safer, and more efficient. We won’t need as many soldiers to guard the transports either.”

  Diego studied the map, then looked at her. He cracked a half smile. “Let’s run it by the rest of the team. I don’t know the slightest thing about the rail system, but perhaps there is a way. I’m sure Doctor Lundy will have some insight.”

  A knock sounded on the door and Thor opened it slightly.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but I have some news both you and Secretary Montgomery will want to hear.”

  Charlize waited patiently, lacing her fingers together to keep from tapping the table.

  “We think we may have found Dan Fenix,” Thor said. “I have a team moving in on his location right now.”

  DAN FENIX AWOKE to a hand gripping his shoulder. He swung at the air, and his fist connected with something that felt like bone.

  “Son of a...” someone grumbled.

  In the glow of a candle, Fenix saw a figure staggering away from his bed. Still in the grips of a deep sleep‌—‌and a bit hungover‌—‌he grabbed the Desert Eagle he kept under his pillow and directed it at the figure.

  “Sir, don’t shoot! It’s me, Carson!”

  Fenix slowly lowered the gun and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the light. His skull pounded from a beer-induced headache, and his tired body groaned.

  Carson pulled the ratty drape back from the window and ducked down to look at the sky. “We have to get out of here, sir.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?” Fenix asked. He swung his legs over the bed. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he heard the faint chop of a helo in the distance.

  Carson looked away from the window. “They found us, sir. We have to leave, now!”

  Fenix had slept in his boots just in case something like this happened. He grabbed his rucksack while Carson palmed a magazine into an M4. He tossed the charged gun to Fenix and then grabbed an M4 of his own.

  They left the cabin and stepped out into the chilly night. A second after the freezing air stung his exposed skin, an M240 lit up the skies, sending green tracer rounds into the camp at six hundred rounds per minute. The finger-sized spray punched into the fresh snow, kicking up dirt and pine needles as it carved through the center of the camp.

  Sons of Liberty soldiers bolted for cover, but for one it was too late. Lance Hawkings screamed in pain, both of his muscular arms now nothing more than stumps. His rifle hit the snow, hands and riven stumps still attached where the 7.62 mm rounds had severed muscle and bone.

  Stunned, Fenix stood staring at the silhouette of a Black Hawk descending on his hideout. All around him, soldiers ran out of their cabins. The chopper’s crew chief, clearly an expert on the big gun, cut them down with automatic fire, shredding flesh and painting the fresh snow red.

  It took the spray of bullets slamming the dirt in front of Fenix to snap him into action. He hopped behind a tree just as a dozen rounds bit into the ground where he’d been standing a second earlier. Carson hit the dirt beside him, rolled, and fired his M4 at the bird.

  “Follow me to the trucks!” he yelled.

  Fenix raised his M4 and peered around the tree to aim at the door gunner. Soldiers were already fast-roping from the troop hold as he pulled the trigger. The crew chief cried out as Fenix’s bullets found their mark, and the bark of the M240 went silent. The gunner slumped and fell out of the open door, plummeting past the men on ropes, taking one of them with him. They crashed into the snow, a tangled mess.

  “Fuck you!” Fenix yelled.

  A dozen government soldiers hit the ground a few beats later, night vision goggles snapped into position. Beams from Sons of Liberty flashlights flickered across the camp, trying to track the men.

  The government soldiers strode forward like machines, rifles shouldered, firing with calculated precision. The SOL men, lacking the night vision optics, fell beneath the onslaught.

  Fenix popped off another three shots and took one of the Special Ops soldiers down before Carson yanked on his arm.

  “We have to move, General,” he said.

  The chopper pulled away, but Fenix knew it would be back. The men it had dropped were fanning across the camp, hunting down SOL soldiers.

  Fenix looked over his shoulder as he ran after Carson toward the south side of the camp, where they kept their pickup trucks. The v
ehicles were all stocked with gear and supplies, ready to move at a moment’s notice. They rounded a cabin and dove into the dirt as one of the four trucks exploded. A tire whizzed overhead and smashed into the side of the cabin they just passed. The two SOL soldiers guarding the trucks followed, their smoldering bodies landing in the snow a few feet from Fenix.

  The main storage shed collapsed in a ball of fire. Fenix shielded his face from the wave of heat. Carson pointed at another shed where two more trucks sat idle. He helped Fenix to his feet. He could barely hear or see from the combination of his hangover and the explosions, and he had to lean on Carson as they ran toward the vehicles.

  The battle raged in all directions, but Fenix knew his loyal men stood no chance in these conditions against the better-trained and equipped Special Ops soldiers. Automatic gunfire, explosions, and shouting filled the early morning hours as his men were slaughtered.

  Fenix used to love the din of war, but not when he was losing the battle. He fought against the ringing in his ears and wobbling in his legs as he made a final push to the trucks. They were fifteen, maybe twenty, feet away when Carson yelled, “Get down!”

  Carson tackled him to the ground and shielded Fenix’s body with his own. From the ground, Fenix saw a grenade sail through the air and into the open door of a cabin. He buried his head in the snowy dirt just before the explosion. Shards of wood and hunks of a foundation blew through the air, and the ground rattled Fenix.

  “Get off me,” Fenix tried to say. His ears were ringing so bad he couldn’t even hear his own voice. He yelled again and then pushed Carson off when the man didn’t respond. The soldier’s body crumpled to the ground next to Fenix, blood flowing from his lips, eyes wide and dead. Two dozen shards of wood stuck out of his back like arrows.

  A damn noble act‌—‌and one that surprised Fenix. The Sons of Liberty talked a lot about loyalty, but Carson had proven himself to be a true patriot and martyr to the cause. His sacrifice would not be forgotten. He patted his old friend on the arm and then stumbled away into the darkness, head pounding and vision fading. He almost lost his balance from a wave of dizziness. There was no time to get to the trucks; the soldiers were already on his trail. His only chance of escape was the woods.

  Two other SOL soldiers came running around another cabin.

  “General!” one of them yelled.

  In the flickering glow of light, Fenix saw the features of Aaron Butzen and Rich Blake.

  “This way!” Butzen yelled.

  Fenix took off running for them, thrilled to see two of his best soldiers were still alive. They were bolting for the forest.

  Rich suddenly jerked and his legs gave out. Looking to the right, Fenix saw a salvo of bullets tear into the fallen soldier. Butzen turned to fire off a shot.

  “Run, sir!” he shouted.

  Fenix sprinted past Butzen just as a bullet hit the man in the center of his forehead. He crumpled to the ground in a fetal position.

  Rounds whizzed past Fenix, but he somehow made it into the forest unscathed. The crack of suppressed rifles followed him into the trees, cutting into the bark and branches all around him. He tripped on a log, hit the dirt, and fumbled for his rifle. He couldn’t find the damn thing.

  Pulling out his Desert Eagle instead, he aimed at the shapes of the government bloodhounds moving into the woods. Three men hunted his trail. He’d have to make every shot count, but this wasn’t the place he would stand his ground. He needed to get farther away first.

  Fenix continued onward, pushing past the pain that came with every step. The gunfire seemed to fade behind him, or maybe that was just his hearing. There weren’t many of his men still fighting out there, judging by the sounds.

  “That bitch,” he raged as he moved, thinking of Secretary Montgomery and how sweet it would be when he finally got his revenge. Although that revenge seemed less and less likely as he made his way deeper into the cold darkness of the woods.

  He stopped to catch his breath, and flinched at a voice.

  “Fenix.”

  He whirled with his gun up to see a man looking at him from behind a pine tree. It was too dark to see who it was. Fenix raised his pistol and prepared to blow the guy’s face off. Better safe than sorry.

  “It’s me, General. Doc Rollins.” The man stepped around the trunk of the tree with a shotgun in his hands.

  “Doc,” Fenix said, letting out a huff of cold air. He gestured for the gun, and Rollins handed it over.

  “We have to get out of here.” He turned to run in the other direction, but Fenix halted and looked back to the burning camp. Carson’s body was still back there, and his men were being gunned down like dogs.

  “Those traitor fucks are killing my men,” he snarled. “I’m not runnin’ no more.”

  Fenix pumped a shell into the shotgun and began to jog toward the camp, using the flames to guide him through the forest. He placed the butt of the shotgun in the sweet spot and aimed the barrel at a shadow making its way toward him, pulling the trigger as soon as he saw the soldier was wearing a helmet topped with NVGs. His boys didn’t have fancy optics.

  The boom was louder than Fenix had expected, and the recoil kicked against his shoulder. He quickly roved the barrel toward another shape and fired, just as a spray of bullets punched into the tree to his right.

  Taking a knee, Fenix squeezed off a third shot toward where the muzzle flash had come from. He was rewarded with a wail of pain from the injured soldier he’d just shot.

  Fenix made his way around and crouched down next to the two soldiers. Both were dead. The one on the left was missing part of his face, and the guy on the right had taken the brunt of the blast into a vest that hadn’t saved him.

  “Assholes,” Fenix said. He snatched the night vision goggles off the dead man’s helmet, put them on, and then grabbed one of their M16s. The sporadic crack of automatic gunfire told him a few of his men were still in this fight.

  “I’m coming,” he said quietly.

  Armed with the M16 and renewed determination, he set off in a hunch through the forest, ducking under branches and navigating the trip-me logs. He was three steps from the edge of the forest when a stern voice stopped him.

  “Freeze and put your weapon down.”

  Fenix’s hand twitched toward the trigger, and a suppressed shot cracked behind him, the round hitting the tree to his left.

  “Now!” the soldier shouted.

  Fenix dropped the rifle when he felt a barrel stick him in the back.

  “Put your hands on your head and start walking, you piece of shit,” his captor said.

  Judging by his voice, the man was young, maybe twenty years old. Fenix knew the type. He’d be anxious to make a name for himself. Twenty-five years ago, Fenix had been in the same position. He’d earned his reputation by gutting three soldiers in the Colombian jungle on a mission not that different from this one.

  “Take it easy,” Fenix said. He raised his hands and put them on his head, then began the march back to camp as a prisoner, watching the ground carefully so as to not trip and earn himself a bullet to the back of his head.

  As he walked, he plotted his escape, calculating his chances of taking this guy down before they got back. He put it at forty percent. He could definitely kill the guy, but he would probably get shot in the process, and Doctor Rollins wasn’t around to save him now.

  The Sons of Liberty would survive Fenix, but that was cold comfort. This hideout was just one of many. Several hundred more of his soldiers were spread out across central and southern Colorado. Communication was slow, however, and no one was going to come and help him now. Fenix was on his own.

  A cabin collapsed in the center of camp, sending a mushroom cloud of sparks into the sky. He needed another distraction like that to take his captor down. He slowed his pace even more and waited.

  Two hundred yards from the camp, his boots hit a root and he stumbled. He froze, not daring to move again in case the eager young soldier fired.

&
nbsp; Guttural coughing sounded from behind Fenix. Then a thump, like a body hitting the ground.

  What the hell?

  Fenix slowly turned to see a man towering over the dead soldier that had been leading him back to camp.

  “Got ’em,” came the familiar voice of Doctor Rollins. He held a blade dripping with blood. It gleamed in the light of the raging fires.

  “I’ll be damned, you’re not a coward after all,” Fenix said with a grin. “Nice work, Doc.”

  Sandra Spears was running on pure adrenaline. Since coffee was in short supply, she had taken an Adderall to keep her working through the night. It wasn’t ideal‌—‌nor was it especially safe‌—‌but she needed the energy to help Duffy and Newton keep the medical center running.

  For now, the pill was doing the trick. Her mind felt focused, and she was able to provide care for all of her patients without keeping them waiting for long periods of time. Things were going as smoothly as could be expected in her domain. The main problem tonight was what was happening outside of the medical center.

  Raven had once again defied her. Against both medical advice and her heartfelt pleas, he had left several hours ago to track down the man that had gone on a shooting spree and blown off the top of Raven’s ear. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to work while her brother was hunting someone down. It had become the norm over the past month, and judging from the recent uptick in violence, she had a feeling it wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

  There was nothing she could do for Raven now, but she could at least check on her patients again. She stopped by Teddy’s room first, stopping outside the door to listen to Allie and Teddy. The kids had taken a liking to one another.

  “When do I get to see Creek again?” Teddy said.

  Allie shrugged from the chair next to his bed. “I think he’s out with Uncle Raven.”

  “Doing what?”

  Allie shrugged again.

  “Someday I want to go out on a hunt with them. Maybe I’ll catch the bad guy,” Teddy said. His grin faltered. “A lot of people got hurt today. I saw them bringing in the stretchers.”