Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (57 page)

Cursing silently, he stepped out of the doorway and into a shadow on his left.
 
He flipped the night vision out of his face and blinked.
 
The light blinded him every time it turned on.
 
Once his vision cleared, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the corner where he'd seen the target.

The light winked on and Cooper saw a helmet for a split second before it disappeared back around the corner.
 
He didn't see any night-vision apparatus, so when the light winked off again, he scrambled forward and paused.

It took about 15 seconds, but the light came back on.
 
Cooper waited, sure the defender was getting nervous.
 
As the light switched off, Cooper crossed the hallway and scrambled another 10 yards.
 
He stopped just as the light turned on, and the helmet was there again at the end of the hallway.
 
He heard a muffled shout and saw a shoulder appear.
 

The light blinked out, and he dove across the hallway as gunfire rolled toward him like thunder.
 
Sparks flickered near the spot where he'd just been.
 
Lying prone on the floor, he fired a three-round burst in the direction where he had last seen the helmeted head.
 
No one was there, so his rounds ricocheted off the far wall.
 
More shouting erupted, the voices indistinct.

"Shit," he grunted.
 
There was definitely more than one down there.
 
Staggering to his feet, he called out: "Contact!
 
North hallway!"

"Hang on! I'm almost there,"
replied Charlie.
 
"Don't do anything stupid."

"You know me…"
 
He charged forward as the light winked on again.
 
A surprised guard in an ill-fitting helmet met him at the corner.
 
Cooper fired a three-round burst point blank into the guard's chest and neck.
 
The man went down in a spray of blood.
 

Cooper stepped around the body and knelt.
 
A set a stairs lay before him.
 
He took the winding stone steps two at a time despite the pain in his leg and emerged onto a wide landing.
 
The only light nearby came from his left where twenty feet ahead, a large wooden double door lay shattered on the floor.
 
The doorway beyond opened into what appeared to be the castle's Great Hall.
 

Shit…took a wrong turn somewhere…

A jagged hole perforated the ceiling and a pile of rubble burned near the center of the large room.
 
He crept to the corner of the doorway and noticed that whatever had crashed through the roof had set fire to the biggest wooden table he'd ever seen.
 
Expensive chairs and what looked like crystal goblets lay shattered on the floor.
 
Two tapestries on the far side of the room were partially in flames, hanging from threads as they died.
 
The rest of the room was full of paintings of 18th-century soldiers, statesmen, and wildlife.
 
A roaring fire in a huge 10 foot long fireplace competed against the blistering hot wreckage in the middle of the room.
 
Smoke-filled the upper half of the cavernous ceiling—thick, black and roiling like a living creature.

He glanced around, checking bodies to make sure none moved.
 
It looked like a fancy dinner had been interrupted.
 
He picked out three liveried men, all prone on the floor near serving platters and silver trays.
 
Spilled food and drink made the floor slippery, but he swept the room anyway, crouching painfully as he went until he cleared to the other side.

"Actual, be advised, I have movement in the Great Hall.
 
Part of the drone crashed in there and it looks like somebody's snooping around."

"Overwatch, Actual.
 
That's me—room's clear."

"I found Jax!"
called out Charlie's voice.

"Alive?" asked Cooper, trepidation in his voice as he brought his rifle to bear on the only surviving door in the room.

"Barely—we gotta get him out of here soon or he won't make it.
 
I got patched 'im up as best I can, but he needs EVAC.
 
Now."

Cooper crept toward the door and froze as he heard a voice on the other side.

"This way, my dear.
 
Once we get through the Great Hall, we shall reach the boat dock momentarily."

The door swung away from Cooper's hand before he could react, but his rifle was already on target as Reginald Tillcott, 7
^th
Earl of Dunkeith stepped forward and stopped only when Cooper's rifle pressed against his chest.

"What the bloody hell—"

Jesus Christ, it's him!
 
Cooper froze.
 
The moment of his vengeance was at hand.
 
He was alone, Reginald was right in front of him and his rifle pressed straight into the man's chest.
 
All I have to do is squeeze…

"Another one!" asked Reginald, his voice full of disdain.
 
"Let me guess…'I'm coming with you'," he said, mocking a southern accent.

Brenda's dead…because of you.

"You…" Cooper said through clenched teeth.
 
"You killed her…"

That aristocratic face cracked into a wide smile.
 
The mirth did not reach his eyes, but the man appeared genuinely amused.
 
"My good man, I've killed a great many people in my life—but I take pleasure in knowing I have not personally killed a woman."

"Brenda Alston," Cooper said, his voice cracking, "Major, United States Army.
 
She—" the door opened a fraction of an inch.
 
His eyes saw the movement too late, focused as he was on Reginald's face.
 
When he shifted his attention, he noticed the open maw of a semiautomatic pistol aimed straight at his forehead.

Reginald laughed.
 
He kicked the door open, revealing the pistol attached to the graceful arm of a woman—disheveled and bloody.
 
She jutted her chin out and raised both eyebrows, looking at him as if he was her pool boy and had skipped out on cleaning the pool.

"I do hope you will allow me to make introductions?" Reginald said.
 
"May I present to you Lady Anna-Maria Brunner of Austria..."

"Coop!
 
The fuck is going on?"
Charlie squawked.
 
"Is that him?"

Cooper stared at the woman who held the unwavering gun pointed at his face in a steady hand.
 
Safety's off, she's not gonna blink.
 
Finger's on the trigger—she knows what she's doing.
 
He swiveled his eyes back to Reginald.

"Oh, if you could see your face just now!" he laughed.

"Cooper!
" yelled Charlie.
 

"Actual, be advised, we got a large group of enemy foot mobiles approaching from the town!"

Between the radio chatter in his ear and shifting his attention between the woman with the gun and Reginald, Cooper had time to see the tip of a taser appear to his left.
 
A servant Cooper swore was dead, appeared to be anything but.

Shit.

C
HAPTER
45

Salmon Falls, Idaho.

D
ENNY
WALKED
THE
DESERTED
streets of Salmon Falls.
 
Unarmed, tired, heart-sick of fighting, he walked with a purpose.

I did everything I could.
 
One man can only do so much,
he told himself as he moved past burned, boarded-up shops.
 
Trash littered the sidewalks.
 
Cars—many riddled by bullets—blocked side roads at random.
 
To the south, homes still smoldered.

He accomplished a lot for one man.

Townsen—hapless redneck, blessed by luck to survive the Korean Flu and step into the Russian-caused power vacuum by force of arms, was nothing less than a walking disaster.

Denny clenched his fists as he turned onto Main Street and saw the first spectators.
 
Townsen had forced the whole town to watch Denny's surrender and humiliation.
 
The shamed look on the faces of those he passed told him almost everyone who watched had already given up.

If such is the price of peace, I will pay it,
Denny reminded himself.
 
I just need to get close…just for a second.

Surrender he may but give up, he would never. .

"Sorry, Denny…" a voice across the street called out.

Armed men behind the haggard civilians maintained silent order
 
among the watchers.

"This is sick," muttered someone to his left.
 
A rifle rose and fell with a wet
smack
and a few people gasped.
 
Denny kept walking.

Just let me get close to him…

Tired, hungry faces watched him as he walked toward City Hall.
 
A knot of people had formed on the steps.
 
As he approached, a low murmuring rippled through the crowd.

"There he is!"

"My husband died because of you!" shrieked a woman's voice.

"Damn you!" shouted a man.

Denny clenched his jaw and ignored the accusations.
 
Loyalists surrounded Townsen.
 
He stared straight ahead, focused on the impromptu stage before him.
 
Townsen, flanked by his cronies, smirked down at him from the top step.

A sticky glob slapped Denny's cheek.
 
He wiped his face on his sleeve.
 
It began—the crowd surged forward, full of angry, twisted faces and clawing hands.
 
His clothes twitched and jerked as if alive—something hard hit the back of his arm.
 
Then things rained down on him—rotten fruit, trash, even empty bottles.

Denny ducked the heavier objects he spotted in the air but otherwise ignored the incoming projectiles.
 
Likewise, he ignored the insult, shouts, and punches.
 
He pushed forward, eyes locked on Townsen's sneer, stumbling and staggering under the assault.

Just one second.
 
That's all I ask.
 
Grant me one moment…

Something heavy hit him in the back of the head and Denny fell to his knees.
 
Through the spots flitting across his vision, he saw trash and filth all around him.
 
A booted foot swished past his face and hit his ribs, causing him to cry out in pain.

"Back up!" growled the voice over the crowd.
 
"Back the fuck up!
 
Let him get up!
 
Now!"

Rough hands pulled Denny to his feet.
 
His vision swirled, accompanied by the sting in his throat of rising bile forced up by the kick.
 
A line of guards pushed the rowdier people back and shoved him forward.
 
He stumbled and fell, gasping in pain on City Hall's steps.
 

Townsen's loyalists roared approval.
 
He looked around at the angry faces as he rose and saw a wall of protesters on the other side of men with rifles.
 
The people who'd silently witnessed his approach and injuries now strained to stop the abuse.

Too little, too late, my friends.

A beer bottle struck his lower back with a hollow
thump
and caused him to fall to his knees again.
 
The crowd cheered.

"Stay down, traitor," said Townsen in a strong, clear voice.
 
The crowd fell silent, watching.
 
A few hisses and curses echoed off the buildings but they ceased pelting him with trash.
 
Denny glared up at Townsen through one eye, the other already swollen shut.

He took a deep breath, eye locked on Townsen, and deliberately rose to his feet.
 
You will not hear me beg.

The crowd let out a collective "oooooooooh" and fell silent.
 
Townsen's face darkened, but he kept the sneer plastered in place.

"Let him go!" a low voice shouted down the street.
 
A chorus of rebuke was the only response.

"Hang 'im John!
 
He killed your boy!" someone shouted.

Townsen paled but was quick to regain control.
 
"By rights, I should!" he shouted to the crowd.

His supporters roared.
 
Denny wavered on his feet and begged
Mishe Moneto
for strength.