Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series (12 page)

He cranked the police vehicle’s engine. Hot exhaust steamed into the bitter cold air as the car crept along the Stygian city streets with its lights off. Hank stopped in the middle of the street facing the front door of Sanger’s headquarters, his engine idling. The Green Guards hadn’t noticed him in the darkness. They were busy stomping their feet, trying to stay warm and awake.

The cigar tip glowed orange against the truck’s electric lighter as Hank puffed it to life. Smoke swirled about his head as he tied the rope around the steering wheel to keep it steady and put the car in park. The cinder block went onto the gas petal. A few more puffs from the cigar got it hot enough to light the rags.

Morning’s first light peaked over the horizon as Hank got out of the car, faced the headquarters, rendered a one-finger salute, then put the police cruiser in drive.

Tires yelped as the cop car raced to its target. Guards lept aside as the four-wheeled missile crashed through the front doors and into the heart of Sanger’s lair. Flames licked from the ragged hole in the building’s facade. Angry pops and bangs grew more intense as the ammunition and flash-bangs began to cook off. Then the explosions came, blowing out windows and spreading the blaze. A FEMA agent darted from the building and collapsed in the street, aflame from head to foot.

That should keep ‘em busy for a while.

Hank hurried back to the truck and drove out of town, headed for the drive-in. The reaction force that had been waiting to nab him outside the detention center raced passed him on the highway, headed in the opposite direction, racing to their burning command post.

The drive-in soon came into sight. Hank didn’t stop this time. He picked up speed, ramming through the chain-link. He kept going until he reached Gunny and the others. He slammed the brakes, grinding to a halt between them and the guards.

“Get in!” Hank yelled as he jumped from the truck to help the wounded men. Gunny helped, too in spite of the bloody bandage around his leg.

Bullets pinged off the truck from the two remaining guards. Hank pulled his revolver and returned fire. A guard went down.

“We’re in!” Gunny yelled as the widow next to his head shattered under the salvo of incoming lead.

Hank jumped into the driver seat and mashed the gas. Gravel and dirt spewed from the tires as the truck spun around, smashing another hole in the fence on the way out. Tires squealed again as rubber found pavement and the old pickup bolted down the highway away from town.

“Gunny checked the wound on his leg. It was bleeding again. “I popped a stitch.”

“There’s a first aid kit in the duffel.”

Gunny dug through the bag and retrieved the kit. He also found a pistol, which he tucked into his belt. “That’s better.”

“Here.” Hank handed Gunny his revolver. “Reload this while you’re at it.”

“Soon as my fingers start workin’ again.” Gunny held his cold hands to the air vent of the truck’s heater, trying to get feeling back into his frozen digits. “How’d you clear the trap. I thought for sure they’d nail you.”

Hank smiled. “FEMA is gong to need a new headquarters. With any luck, Sanger burned up with it.”

“Where we goin’?” Gunny asked.

Hank swerved onto a back road. “I’m dropping you guys off someplace safe, then I’m going to get Maggie. We’ll figure the rest out after that.”

“Sounds good.” Gunny began to reload Hank’s pistol. “Drop us off at my farm. My truck is there.” He looked at the the two wounded deputies. “I’ll drive these two to the safe house. Once you have Maggie, meet me back at the Tritt Cemetery. I’ll guide you in from there.”

Hank dropped the three men off at Gunny’s place and set out for Maggie as fast as the preacher’s truck could carry him.

He pulled into the frosty yard of the old white farmhouse and climbed from the bullet-riddled truck. “Hello?”

No reply.

“It’s Hank! Anybody home?”

Silence.

Worn boards groaned as Hank climbed the steps onto the front porch. The front door stood ajar. Hank noted the splintered jamb. It had been kicked in.

He pulled his revolver and eased into the open door. The interior was dark, cold, and silent save for the creaking of the floor under Hank’s feet.

“Maggie?” he called out as his eyes struggled to adjust to the gloomy confines of the living room.

“She’s not here,” a familiar voice replied.

Hank’s eyes darted to the couch. A figure was seated there. He stepped closer as detail filled silhouette. It was Finbarr Duncan.

“Where is my granddaughter?” Hank demanded.

“She’s safe,” the mayor replied in a calm voice. “I would never let harm come to her. Like I said, she’s my granddaughter, too, Hank.” Finbarr looked down at Edith’s body lying in a pool of blood. “Her,on the other hand…” He shrugged. “She shouldn’t have resisted.”

Hank raised his pistol and heard the creak of footsteps behind him. He glanced behind him to see two deputies in green armbands with rifles trained on him.

“That was a stupid thing you did this morning, Hank.”

The sheriff smirked. “It was the smartest thing I’ve done in weeks.”

“Where are Gunny and the others you helped escape?”

“Beats me.”

“Interesting choice of words.” It was Finbarr’s turn to smile. The mayor reached into his coat pocket.

Hank’s grip on the revolver tightened.

“Relax, Hank.” Finbarr pulled out a cigarette. “I have orders to take you alive.”

“Orders?”

“Sanger is in the hospital, but still very much alive. Your stunt burnt her up pretty good, though.” He lit the fire stick with an engraved Zippo. “She said she wants you alive. She screamed it, actually. Over and over.” He laughed. “Hating you is probably what’s keeping her alive.”

“What would you ever do without her?”

“This isn’t about Sanger. If it’s not her, it’ll be somebody else just like her. This is about power.” Finbarr held the smoldering cigarette in front of his face. “Do you know how much one of these is worth now? The going rate is a day’s rations. An entire pack will buy a man’s life. Supply and demand.” He dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it into the hard wood under his shoe. “I can get all of them I want. Same goes for food, gasoline, medicine, booze. That’s power. You could have had it, too Hank. All you had to do was play along.”

“You forgot the part about selling your soul. How many people are dead because you
played along
.”

“They would have died anyway. We both know there wasn’t enough food to last until Spring. At least I’m able to make something positive out of it.”

“How many more people will die to keep you in luxury?”

“Life is cheap. It’s the one commodity that gets cheaper as the supply dwindles.”

“Well, it’s been nice catching up with you, Finbarr, but I gotta get going.” Hank cut his eyes toward the footsteps behind him as a deputy approached to within arm’s reach. The other stayed put in the corner of the room. “C’mon guys,” he said to the lawmen. “I trained you better than that. Long rifles are great in the open, but they’re shit in close quarters.”

Hank spun, kicking the nearest deputy in the gut. The officer’s rifle discharged as he flipped over a chair, sending a bullet into the ceiling. Hank ducked as the second deputy sent a slug inches over his head. He swung his pistol around and pumped two rounds into the shooter’s chest. Blood splattered the wall as the Green Guard crashed to the floor.

Finbarr bolted to his feet.

Hank put the revolver to the mayor’s forehead. “How much is
your
life worth, Mayor?”

Finbarr’s eyes glazed with terror.

Hank’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Crack!

The riffle butt slammed into the back of Hank’s head sending him to the floor, unconscious.

The deputy Hank had sent over the chair stood over him, rifle in hand. “You okay, Mayor?”

“Yeah.” Finbarr slumped back onto the couch, wiping the sweat from his pale face.

The deputy put the muzzle of his rifle to Hank’s head.

“No,” Finbarr uttered, “Tie him up. Remember. Sanger wants him alive.”

8

MARTHA

Somewhere in FEMA Region IV

“Eat!” Amber held the steaming MRE pouch out to Martha. “You need your strength.”

The congresswoman shook her head and looked away. Her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the newly implanted chip in her right hand. “I don’t need strength to be executed.” Her hair and clothes were still covered in dried blood and vomit.

“Starving yourself won’t help anything.” Amber pushed the food under Martha’s nose. “Eat.”

“Fine.” Martha grabbed the green metal pouch and took a taste. “Why do you always have to be such a nurse?”

Amber smiled. “It’s in my blood.” She put her meal into the clear plastic bag that came packaged with every MRE and poured a bit of water in, igniting the chemical heater within. In moments her food was smoking hot. She opened it and took a bite. “Not bad.”

Martha made a sour face. “Mine tastes like shit.”

“That’s because I gave you the ham and cheese omelet. Nobody likes that one.”

“How do you know?”

“An Army sergeant I met at the hospital told me. That’s why I got the barbecued pork.”

“And you give me the crappy one.”

“I didn’t think you’d eat it and I wasn’t about to let barbecued pork go to waste.”

Martha laughed so hard, egg chunks spewed from her mouth.

Amber smiled. “That’s better.”

Martha caught her breath. “I forgot how good it feels to smile. Thank you for that.”

“It’s what I do.”

Martha looked around the windowless cell which she guessed to be a converted shipping container. Her eyes settled on the door. A thin streak of sunlight around the frame was the only hint that it was daytime beyond their tiny prison. “How much longer do you think they’ll keep us here?”

“I don’t know. It’s already been over a week.”

“That’s the worst part. Not knowing what’s going to happen or when. If I had some idea, at least I could prepare myself.”

“We have to prepare for the worst.” Amber took Martha’s hand. “But we can still hope for the best.”

“We can try.”

A fist pounded the door. The whole room echoed and shuddered.

The metal entryway swung open.

Freezing air rushed into the cramped space.

Amber and Martha shivered as they shielded their eyes from the harsh sunlight glaring through the portal.

A young Green Guard stood in the opening. He pointed to Amber. “Come with me. Now!”

Martha grabbed Amber’s arm. “Where are you taking her?”

“I said to come with me.”

“No.” Amber wedged herself tightly into a corner.

The guard grabbed Amber’s legs.

“NO!” The young nurse kicked furiously at her captor.

Martha bit him on the arm.

The guard howled in pain and punched Martha in the face. “Bitch!”

Blood streamed from Martha’s nose. “Leave her alone!” She grabbed Amber’s arm, pulling with all her might.

It was no use. The guard dragged Amber, kicking, clawing, and screaming from the cell.

The door slammed shut. The room went silent.

The only sounds Martha heard were Amber’s muffled screams and her own weeping.

9

COLE

Political Detention Facility

Somewhere in FEMA Region IV

Five Minutes Earlier

Cole gagged as he and Alex hefted another body into the pit. The stench of death rising from the monstrous hole was overpowering. This was all a part of Alex’s plan. The man was odd, but resourceful. He bribed their way onto the burial detail with two packs of cigarettes the day before. God only knew where he got them.

Cole spent the night before lying awake, listening to the screams of the fair-haired youngster Foucault’s henchmen dragged from the warehouse several days ago. Foucault kept him alive for hours, taking glee in the teenager’s cries for mercy. Then the boy begged to die. It went on for hours. The moaning. The high-pitched, breathless screams. The begging. Then the screams stopped. Suddenly. Violently. Cole still heard it in his head. He knew he always would. The sounds were locked in his mind, the newest verses in the litany of pain that was his life.

Alex pulled what was left of last night’s victim from the covered bed of a nearby cargo truck. The fair-headed boy was torn to pieces. Cole gagged again.

“You get used to it,” Alex said, grabbing the legs of another corpse and dragging it from the vehicle. “The smell is the worst part.” The remains of a pretty young blonde woman flopped to the ground, her dirty face stared up at him, dead eyes boring into his. She was naked. So were the rest of them.

“Pick up the pace, you two!” A bearded twenty-something Green Guard stood, smoking, near the front of the truck. He was careful to stay close enough that he could monitor the pair as they worked, but far enough away to avoid the sights and smells of the pit.

Cole looked into the mass grave. The dead were piled in it by the hundreds. Arms, legs, and faces jutted from the rotting heap of humanity. “I hope I never get used to this.” He grabbed the girl’s arms and helped Alex get her into the burial trench.

“You will.” Alex reached for another body. An old man, black this time, dried blood caked around a bullet hole in the back of his head. “Burial detail happens twice a month. It’s a shitty job, especially when everybody else gets to take the day off, but at least we get an extra ration.”

“I won’t be hungry.” Cole still fought the urge to vomit as the old man’s remains tumbled into the hole.

“Be patient,” Alex whispered. “We just have to wait for our chance. It’ll come. This is the only way. Trust me.” Alex reached back onto the truck, grabbing a dead arm. He pulled with a grunt. “Gimme a hand here. This one’s heavy.”

Cole grabbed the other arm and heaved. The body didn’t budge.

Both men pulled again. Still nothing.