The Final Day (After, #3)(65)

“I remember this place well, from when Mary was laid to rest.”

“It’s the heart of this campus,” John said. “Lot of days, even before the Day, this is where I’d come to pray by myself, to sort things out. A lot of hearts and memories are tied to this place.”

Bob nodded and then simply knelt down, lowered his head, whispered a prayer, made the sign of the cross, and stood back up.

“Pray for me, John.”

And at that moment, John again fully trusted his old commander. Coming to attention, John saluted him, Bob returning the salute and then embracing him. The chapel was now entirely silent; the students who had been working had stopped and were watching them. Though not planned at all, John knew that word of the prayer, salute, and embrace would spread from one end of the campus to the other within minutes, and for the moment, it had defused the potential of a deadly confrontation.

He walked his friend to the outside door where Maury was patiently waiting. Bob offered him a friendly smile, jokingly asking if he could drive the jeep on the way back, and his two friends drove off, Bob at the wheel, tires spinning in the snow.

As he drove off, John made a mental note to immediately call Ernie and tell him to check the camouflage for the antenna array on the roof of his house. No sense in Bob getting wind that they were already working on their own to try to listen in to Bluemont. And with what Bob had just told him, now there was true urgency to that task.

John returned to the chapel alone, sat in the rear pew, lowered his head, and, like Washington at Valley Forge, began to pray while outside snow again began to fall.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Makala was fast asleep out on the sunporch while John dozed in his office, unable to sleep the night after the conversation with Bob and all that had transpired in the previous twenty-four hours, when the phone on his desk rang, startling him awake.

He picked it up before it rang a second time.

“Sir, are you safe?”

It was Kevin Malady.

“Sure, why?”

“Something is up.”

John looked at the old windup clock on his desk; it was nearly two in the morning.

“What?”

“Get your wife, get out of that house now, into the woods, and lie low.”

“What’s going on?” John snapped.

“Get out now. We heard a chopper come in, sound muffled, a special-ops type machine. One of my people on watch with night vision just saw eight people get off at the ball field, and they’re heading your way. I’m getting a team together; they’ll be down there in five minutes. Sir, get out of your house now!”

John put the receiver down, raced into the sunroom, and grabbed Makala by the shoulders, shaking her awake.

“John, what is it?”

He put his hand over her mouth. “We gotta move now,” he whispered, and even as he did so, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement out on the moonlit road. “Now!” he snapped, dragging her out of the bed.

A laser dot suddenly flashed on to the wall just as she stood up, and he shoved her down to the floor. One of the windowpanes shattered, three bullets impacting the wall behind where she had been standing but a few seconds before.

“Down, stay down!”

He pulled her to the doorway into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind them.

Outside? Whoever it was would expect that. Upstairs was the only alternative. Upstairs and hope for enough time for Malady to bring help.

“The stairs quick,” he hissed.

As she started up, he diverted to his office, crouching low, grabbed the Glock off his desk, and turned to follow her.

The explosion of a flashbang in the sunroom blew the door he had just closed open, knocking him off his feet. Stunned, he managed to regain his footing, following her up the stairs to the second floor.

Which way to go? He had thought out so many different scenarios across the last two years, but never this one, to be caught by surprise in their own home in the middle of the night. Jen’s old bedroom? No, too obvious; whoever it was would hit there first. Even as he hesitated, another flashbang blew downstairs.

The attic. It was a dead end, but it might buy a few more minutes of time.

He shoved Makala to the attic steps, following up behind her, moving backward, pistol raised, ready to shoot if closely followed. A third flashbang and then the sound of more glass breaking, several short bursts of gunfire.

Behind him, Makala fumbled with the attic door, finally shoving it open. He came up behind her and tried to close the creaking door as quietly as possible.

Makala started to speak, and he put his hand over her mouth. The house-length attic was dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming in through one window. He inwardly thanked God that Jen had been a pack rat, the attic filled with old trunks, racks of clothes from fifty years ago, long-forgotten family heirlooms. He scanned it, seeing where several old steamer trunks were set against a far wall and motioning for Makala to get behind them. She hesitated, and he shoved her into the dark, musty corner and pushed her down to the floor.

She was beginning to sob, and again he had his hand over her mouth and pressed his lips to her ear.

“Are you hurt?”

“What is happening?”

“Just stay quiet. Help’s coming.”

He could see her pale, frightened features in the moonlight. She was protectively clutching her stomach.