Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) (29 page)

“It’s like Samantha said. We’d take as many as we could fit in the train. I’d blow the gate, and then your warriors would go in to clear the compound.”

“How do you know that our force would be strong enough?”

“For a head-on assault, it probably wouldn’t be. But coming up from below…” He shrugged. “They won’t be positioned for that. You’ll be coming right in the back door.”

“Even if we push them out, what’s to say they won’t return?”

“Why would they? The world is ripe with more defensible places. Once Mount Weather falls, they won’t bother trying to retake it.”

“And you believe that it could act as our portal to the outside world?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I believe that it could act as your home.”

“Home.” The word seemed to hypnotize her.

“Think about it. Mount Weather is in the middle of nowhere, isolated from the rest of the world and with access to these underground tunnels. It’s the perfect place for your family.”

She closed her eyes and took a long moment to consider his words. When they reopened, they were filled with a fiery determination.

She turned to Korn. “General, prepare your troops. We are going to war.”

Chapter 18  

Rather than clump together, pointing their rifles over the edge of the roof like archers defending a precipice, the cadets spread out. They did this for two reasons. First, there was no good three-person sniper’s perch on the clubhouse rooftop, and second, it gave each of them a feeling of quiet independence, something that was absolutely crucial when making a long-range shot. Bell had opted to lie on top of a large air handling unit. Cobb knelt between two exhaust fans. And Rodriguez crouched behind the small building that housed the staircase landing. All of them had direct lines of sight to the soldiers roughly four hundred yards away.

For a professional shooter, four hundred yards is hardly a challenge. But for three young cadets who had never shot at an unsuspecting opponent, it felt as if they were trying to best Corporal of Horse Craig Harrison’s famed record of more than a mile and a half.

Lieutenant Bell looked down her sights. It was agreed that they would hit the man standing closest to their respective positions. The cadet to the right would hit the man furthest right, and so on. This kept guessing to a minimum, even as the soldiers moved about.

“Ready!” she called, her cheek never lifting from the rifle stock.

Rodriguez and Cobb both tightened.

“Aim… Fire!”

All three cadets fired at once, bullets whizzing through the air to cross the four-hundred-yard fairway in roughly the same number of milliseconds. For a moment, nothing happened. No one fell, clutching their chests, nor did anyone frantically spin in circles, searching for the next muzzle flash. And then, all at once, everything broke loose. Soldiers dove for cover; others rolled behind trees and down into a nearby sand trap. For his part, Ashby had the good sense to run down the fairway, still clutching his precious silver cup.

It took the cadets a moment to accept the impossibility of what they were seeing. Whether they ultimately placed the blame on not first sighting in the weapons, or simply accepted that nerves had gotten the better of them, the result was the same. All three shots had missed.

Rodriguez and Cobb both fired again, but it did little more than help the soldiers to pinpoint their position. Bell was too stunned by their incredible failure to even consider taking a second shot. All she could think was that the blunder had surely cost them their lives. The soldiers were coming. The helicopters were coming. They were all going to die in the next few minutes, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it.

Shaking herself out of the paralysis, she rolled to the edge of the air handling unit and dropped down.

“Quick! Into the clubhouse!”

Rodriguez was closest to the stairs, and he hurried around through the open door. Cobb was the farthest. He pressed up, stumbled, and then fell onto the rooftop gravel. His limbs seemed uncoordinated and heavy, as if his blood had inexplicably been replaced with ice water.

“Come on!” she yelled, waving him on from the doorway.

Cobb managed to make it halfway across the roof before a long string of gunfire sounded from the sky. His body shook from side to side as the SpeedHawk’s M134 minigun riddled him with hundreds of 7.62 mm rounds.

Bell watched in horror as Cobb was literally torn apart. Even his scalp ripped free, flopping onto the rooftop like the pelt of a large rodent. Tears welled up in her eyes as panic and grief overwhelmed her. She found herself unable to move. She could only stare at what was left of Private Cobb’s lifeless body.

Rodriguez called from the stairwell. “Lieutenant! Get in here!”

She shook her head, hoping to clear the confusion. It helped, but only a little. She bit her lip until blood began to spill into her mouth. Still, her feet refused to budge.

“Move, soldier. Now!” The voice was not Rodriguez’s, nor was it her own. As impossible as it was, the voice in her head was that of Marshal Raines.

Bell did as she was told. She raced through the open doorway an instant before bullets tore the door from its hinges.

Rodriguez stood halfway down the staircase, staring up at her.

“Where’s Cobb?”

She raced ahead, pulling him along as she passed.

“We’ve got to get deeper.”

He stumbled after her. “But Cobb—”

“Cobb’s not coming. Run, damn it! Run!”

The radio sounded, and Morant listened as one of his soldiers called for air support.

He keyed the mic. “What’s going on out there?”

“Taking rooftop fire from an unknown number of shooters. Blackbird 1 appears to have driven them down into the clubhouse. Permission to go in and clean things up, over.”

“Granted. Radio when it’s done.”

“Roger, out.”

“Finally, a bit of luck,” said Hood.

Morant’s face hardened. “General, I don’t think you understand the circumstances. We’ve lost seven men that we know of, and another team of four is failing to report. That’s a hell of a long ways from ‘a bit of luck.’”

“And don’t forget about my leg,” Buckey said, obviously attempting to add fuel to the fire.

“I–I understand that we’ve had some setbacks,” stammered Hood. “I only meant that it was good news we can finally remove the threat outside. Once that’s done, we’ll have more men in here where we need them.”

“We wouldn’t need more men if the intel had been solid.”

“What are you talking about? I never—”

“You told us there were a handful of politicians holed up in a bunker. You didn’t say anything about U.S. Marshals protecting it.”

“You think the Marshals are here?” Hood’s mind immediately went back to the attack he ordered on Glynco. Could it be that some had survived and were now working against him?

“Buckey said it was a marshal who shot him. It makes sense that he’s not alone.”

“That’s right,” Buckey said, eyeing the corridor. “It wouldn’t surprise me if this whole place was crawling with them.”

Hood started to offer a defense about how he couldn’t possibly have known, when Morant held up a hand to quiet him.

“Save it, General. Excuses are like outhouses. They’re convenient when things turn to shit, but that doesn’t make them stink any less.”

Hood puffed up. “Do I need to remind you of who’s in charge?”

Morant met his stare. “No, General, you do not.”

As Lieutenant Bell and Corporal Rodriguez raced down the stairs, the walls around them began to disintegrate. The SpeedHawk’s minigun ripped apart wood and sheetrock, collapsing the stairwell in on itself. An eight-inch splinter broke off, stabbing into Rodriguez’s left eye. He screamed, his feet giving way as he stumbled and fell. Bell turned and caught him, nearly tumbling down the stairs in the process.

“My eye!” he screamed. The shard protruded from his face, slick with blood.

“Come on,” she said, slipping an arm under his shoulder. “We’ve got to get down to the basement.”

They staggered down the final flight of stairs, arriving a glass door imprinted with the words “Greenbrier Golf Pro Shop.”

Without releasing Rodriguez, Bell tried the handle.

Locked.

She reared back and smashed through the glass with the butt of her rifle. Reaching through, she unlatched the deadbolt and swung the door open.

The inside of the shop was surprisingly untouched, its walls decorated with autographed photos of famous pros that had played at The Greenbrier. Hundreds of golf clubs stood upright in wooden racks on the floor, and stacks of shirts, ponchos, and hats adorned small display tables throughout. Golf bags, push carts, and other large items were positioned at the back of the store.

Bell hobbled over to the checkout counter and carefully lowered Rodriguez to the floor.

“Lieutenant, you’ve got to help me with this,” he said, reaching for the thick sliver of wood. “I can’t do it on my own.” Rodriguez was clearly trying to keep it together, but he was a broken shoelace away from breaking down.

Bell struggled to even look at his face, let alone help dislodge the shard of wood.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled it toward his face.

“Please, Lieutenant. One good yank and it’s out.”

She swallowed. “Right.” She reached up, gripped the huge splinter, and gave it a slight tug.

Rodriguez screamed like a man on fire.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Please, I’m begging you, pull the damn thing out!”

Gritting her teeth, Bell tried again, this time jerking the shard up and away. It finally pulled free with a wet sucking sound. Blood immediately began pooling in his eye socket, and Rodriguez once again shrieked in pain.

She reached up and snatched a white hand towel from a shelf above the counter. Folding it in half, she pressed it against the bloody hole.

“Hold this over it.”

He pressed it against his eye.

“That hurt like hell,” he said, his voice trembling.

Bell eyed the staircase. “They’ll be coming. We need to get ready.”

Rodriguez raised his rifle and propped it on the counter.

“One eye or not, I can still shoot.”

“Stay here,” she said, standing up and hurrying toward the door.

Instead, he pushed to his feet and followed after her.

“Where are you going?”

“Back up for our packs.”

He grabbed her arm and wheeled her around.

“No! You can’t.”

“Listen, if we can get the Claymores—”

“You’ll never make it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We both know that.”

She bit her lip. “We have to do something. I’m not going down without a fight.”

“I’m not saying we roll over, but leaving this store only ends one way.”

“Okay, so what do you propose?”

Rodriguez looked around the store. There wasn’t much to work with—golf clubs, clothes, a few bags and carts.

He shrugged. “We could pretend to be mannequins.” For a guy with a blood-soaked rag pressed into an empty eye socket, it was a solid attempt at a little humor.

“Or,” she said, “we could try to make things a little more challenging for them.” She grabbed one of the clubs out of the rack and bent it over her knee, twisting it back and forth until the head broke off. She touched the broken tip with her finger. It was jagged and sharp. “Come on. Help me. We can brace these around the store to slow them down.”

Rodriguez was about to point out that a few sharp golf clubs weren’t about to stop a team of hardcore soldiers, but he held his tongue. She needed to do something, and he had nothing better to offer.

“Right,” he said, snatching up one of the clubs.

As they began snapping off the heads, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She continued to look down at the clubs.

“For Cobb.”

“Cobb made his own choices. That wasn’t your fault.”

“No?” she said, looking up as if to challenge him.

“No,” he said, meeting her stare.

She went back to working on the clubs.

“I don’t want to die. Not like him.”