The Last Peak (Book 2): The Darwin Collapse (31 page)

Mason tugged a laminated map out of a vest pocket and a flashlight from another pocket. He wrapped his fingers around the lens and clicked it on. Dim light escaped from the slits between his fingers. He rotated the map, orienting to it as best he could. They weren’t exactly lost, but they weren’t exactly not lost either. The rat’s maze of alleys they’d traversed over the last hour didn’t have a single street sign. One presumably didn’t move through this section of the city without local knowledge. Most of the alleys didn’t even show up on the map.
 

“What do you reckon, Sarge?” Miro said, leaning over his shoulder and tracing a finger across the map.

“I think we’re somewhere in this area,” he said pointing to the northern edge of the Old Fallujah district. The absence of any major roadways made it likely. “I think we drifted too far south. We gotta backtrack a ways.”

“Dammit,” Miro said before cramming a wad of Red Man Golden Blend inside his cheek. He worked the loose leaf chew to get the juices going. “Chaw?”

Mason dug out a wad and began working it in his mouth. The sharp tobacco tang managed to cut through the ash flavor in his mouth. It was a welcome change. Spit juice dribbled down his throat singing it like liquid fire. That was less welcome.

On the upside, it was a reminder that he was still alive. The challenge now was staying that way.

They both considered the map, and what it would mean to head back in the direction from which they’d come.
 

The air temperature was dropping fast. They were in for a real freezer. Each night when the sun dipped below the horizon, the desert city plummeted into a fierce cold.

Suffice to say, neither man relished the idea of spending the night alone in a city crawling with people that wanted to kill them. Not to mention the fact that they’d assuredly freeze their butts off. And nobody would be getting any much-needed sleep for the exact same reasons.

That was the thing about the shit. It could always get deeper.
 

Mason was thinking through the options when a sound caught his attention. A distinct sound. One that sent a jolt up his spine. Thankfully, a spasm of excitement and not dread as was the usual case.

“Hear that?” he asked Miro.

Miro tilted his head like a dog trying to understand a spoken word.
 

The sound grew louder.

“Hot damn, Sarge! That’s gotta be one of ours!”

Mason stashed the map and flashlight, and then shouldered his rifle. He edged up to the corner of the alley and peeked around. About a block and a half down the street, a humvee hauled ass in their direction.

What the hell was a single humvee doing out on its own?

They waited as it approached. When it closed to within a hundred feet, they stepped out waving their arms wildly.
 

The vehicle skidded to a stop and the driver door flew open. A marine popped up above the door and waved them over.

Mason had seen him before but couldn’t recall his name. Ramirez, maybe.

Miro wrapped an arm around Mason. The two stumbled like a pair of drunks in a three-legged race. They made it to the vehicle and piled in.

“Ramirez, right?” Mason said.

“Yep.”

“What the hell are you doing out here by yourself, Corporal?”

“We were on an evac mission to get you boys and got ambushed. Shit went sideways and I got separated from the rest of the unit.”

“We know the fucking feeling,” Miro said.

“Where were you headed?” Mason asked.

Ramirez pointed down the road. “To Phase Line Fran, I think.”

Sounded like as good a plan as any. In the opening days of the attack, the Army TF 2-7 had secured the highway that bisected Fallujah into northern and southern halves. If they could make it there, they’d be home free.

“Sounds like a plan,” Mason said.

A bullet pinged off the hood grabbing all of their attentions.

Ramirez hit the gas and the four ton vehicle lurched forward. “Overstayed our welcome!”

They roared down the street. Headlights swerved over the dark scene as Ramirez jerked the steering wheel back and forth to avoid obstructions dotting the street. The last thing they wanted was to hit a chunk of concrete, snap a tie rod, and end up plowing into a building. Buildings in Fallujah weren’t the framed drywall constructions common in California. They were thick concrete and smashing into one would more likely end up with you through the windshield than the vehicle through the building.

Ramirez navigated the dangers with skill honed in combat. Mason gripped the seat in front as the hummer went up on two wheels skidding around a huge crater in the center of the road.

The hummer came back around to the center of the street. The headlights lit up a man further down the way. He looked up and froze. Flowing black garments covered him from head to toe. He knelt by the curb on the left side of the road, fiddling with something. Something wasn’t nothing in Fallujah.
 

Not good.

At all.

“Get up in the turret and smoke that fucker!” Mason shouted.

Miro climbed up behind the fifty cal and tried to get into the fight. “It’s jammed up!”

Mason passed Miro’s rifle up to him. He then dropped the window on the driver’s side and got his M16 into the fight. Both of them banged away as they approached but the bouncing, jarring movements of the vehicle threw off their aims again and again.

Now less than a hundred feet away, the man stood and faced them. He held something in his hand.

Mason didn’t have to see it clearly to know that it was a detonator. He lined up a shot and fired just as the hummer bounced to the side.
 

Miss.

They hit a patch of smooth pavement and Mason zeroed the front sight.
 

CRACK. CRACK.

The muj dropped to the ground.

The sides and roof of the hummer pinged with incoming rounds. Mason scanned the buildings as they blurred by but found no targets.

“Slam that pedal down!” he shouted.

Ramirez nodded and the metal beast jerked forward throwing Mason over into the passenger’s side door.

He righted himself and watched in horror as the man he’d dropped rolled over and looked their way just as they passed.

BOOM.

The taste was the weird thing. He took another sip. It burned like vodka but with a harsher bite. Gutter cheap vodka stank to high heaven, but even that swill made this stuff smell like lavender and roses. He should’ve sprung for the good stuff, and anything would’ve been the good stuff relatively speaking. Beth would be back from the bathroom any minute. He had to come up with what to talk about next. First dates sucked as a rule. But this one felt different.

This one felt like forever. To think it would be crazy. To say it would be dating suicide.

Was she feeling the same way?

How could he ask, but not really ask?

Mason hated the artifice of the dating game. That every date was another hand of poker where what you had and what you bluffed were equally important.

He took another sip of the gut-burning swill and then lay back on the sand. The roar of the crashing surf drowned out the throngs of people crowding the beachside restaurants.

Another taste of vodka touched his lips… but the bottle was still in the sand next to him.

How?
 

Pain jolted through Mason’s chest.

Blinking his eyes open was an impossible task. He did it anyway.

The hazy dream dissipated like smoke in the wind. Another hazy dream replaced it. This one immeasurably worse.

The circumstances of the dream crashed together like a falling Jenga tower in reverse. And the result was just as stable. A drop landed on his lips and slipped into his mouth.

He spat out the nasty taste of diesel fuel and blood. Noxious fumes permeated the interior of the humvee. Mason swiped at his eyes and the left one came away clear. Clearer.
 

Shit.

The dream of their first date was better.
 

Their humvee had been hit by an IED at point blank range.
 

Mason oriented himself and realized the vehicle was upside down and he was laying on the roof. He turned and found Ramirez in the front seat. The half of his head that remained wasn’t enough by half.
 

Where was Miro? He’d been up in the turret from what he could remember.

A drop of diesel hit a gash on his cheek. He winced at the sting.
 

He had to get the hell out of there. If the fuel didn’t catch and toast him, muj would show up any minute to pick the carcass clean. Gritting through the pain, he turned around and tried to open the passenger door.
 

Jammed.

He rotated a little further and then slammed a boot into it. The impact sent a thousand stinging ants echoing through his limbs. At least that meant he was alive. The entire concept was beginning to feel less and less like blessing, and more and more like a curse.
 

He kicked again and the door creaked open.
 

After scrambling out, he pulled himself to his feet and shouldered his M16. He stumbled around the wrecked vehicle and found Miro lying on the street. The Texan didn’t appear as beat up as Mason expected.

Then again, he wasn’t moving.
 

Mason knelt down and dug a finger down into Miro’s neck. He felt the carotid still pulsing with its life-sustaining delivery of oxygenated blood.
 

“Got a dip?”

Mason flinched involuntarily at the unexpected sound. “Jesus, Miro! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Not my fault you’re a pussy.”

Mason continued checking him over and, although he found any number of things that would’ve made your average worker skip work and rush to the ER, he didn’t see anything that was going to kill him in the next five minutes.

Anything but staying where they were.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like a shit sandwich.”

“With dijon mustard?”

“We don’t eat that fancy crap in Texas. With barbecue sauce.”

“We have to beat feet, bro. We’re lucky the place isn’t crawling already.”

“Help me up, Sarge.”

Mason wasn’t sure he could get himself back up, much less help someone else. But that wasn’t going to stop him.

He ignored the agony and got them both on their feet. They steadied each other as the street momentarily rolled like the surface of the ocean.

“How’s Ramirez?” Miro asked.

Mason shook his head.

“Dammit,” Miro said in anger before spitting a glob of blood onto the pavement.

They gathered up their gear. Miro took the driver’s service rifle because his was nowhere to be seen. They took a last look at the ruined vehicle and the dead Marine inside.
 

“We’ll come back for you,” Mason said through gritted teeth. The tension in his jaws was just as much a response from the pain as the rage. He grabbed Miro’s vest and pulled him away from the grisly scene. “We have to get down to Phase Line Fran. It shouldn’t be more than a klick away.”

Mason started off walking—limping was more accurate—keeping the rifle butt seated in the hollow of his shoulder. He swept the street and buildings for targets. It was quiet. Too quiet. He glanced up as movement caught his attention. The curtains in a window on the second floor of the building to their right fluttered closed.

They made it another fifty feet and again his attention focused on another darkened window. A silhouette disappeared inside.

“Sarge, you get the feeling we’re being watched?”

“Yep.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep moving.”

The Present Day

Downtown Los Angeles, California

ANTON
verified his instructions were being carried out and then went looking for Mr. Pike. He’d told his bodyguard to wait outside his office. And yet, he was nowhere to be seen. He scratched at the bald, raw patch of skin where a luxurious sideburn used to be. Scratching it sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. And yet it also made it more maddeningly itchy.

Where the hell was Mr. Pike?

He passed one of the faceless, imbecilic hired brutes in the hallway. Anton stopped the man. “You. Find Mr. Pike and send him to my quarters. Remind him that I am not accustomed to waiting.”

“Yes, sir,” the hired hand said and then strode off with purpose.

Anton strode to his chambers, doing his best to remain calm. The events of the day had his already taut nerves overstretched and ready to snap. His daughter thoroughly deserved to be the recipient of his agitation, yet he couldn’t bring himself to take it out on her. For all her faults, she was all that remained in the world of his beloved Katerina. And for that alone, she deserved forgiveness where others would merit punishment.

He opened the door and smiled upon seeing her discarded clothes on the floor leading to the bathroom. She needn’t worry about picking them up herself, after all. They had a maid for that. Even in the new beginning, it was important to remain civilized. The remaining help lived in the lower floors, where the tawdry details of their personal lives were appropriately hidden from view.

As much as Anton abhorred their breathing the same air, he also understood they occupied a necessary position in the scheme of things.
 

He kicked the garments aside and plopped down on the plush red couch. He stared at the enormous canvas on the wall. An abstract piece of swirling, brushed purples and gold hues.
 

Garish. Whimsical.

Repulsive.

His former employer, Gabriel Cruz, may have been the wealthiest man alive, but his tastes were pedestrian. His vision limited. His life meaningless.
 

Anton was far more inclined towards the classical. The ageless. The profound. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to remodel the space to his liking. There would be time for that now that Iridia was safe.