The Final Day (After, #3)(98)

“My name is Captain Dean Hanson—”

The captain’s words were cut short by a scream of panic as he ducked down, falling to his knees, Sergeant Bentley, with an old-style 1911 .45 semiauto standing over him, having discharged the weapon only inches from his head.

“Next one will be to the head in thirty seconds if you don’t answer the general,” Bentley said.

The captain looked up at Bentley, obviously terrified, and then looked to Bob.

And then there was actually a bit of a smile. “Screw you. I know you. You’d never execute one of your own,” he snapped, but his voice was quavering.

Bob glared at him, all around them silent. John took it all in and knew the captain was right. Bob was trying to bluff him, and the captain knew it. Though they had come all this way, that steel barrier blocked them from the answer they sought.

There was only one way out, John realized. He stepped forward and went up to Bentley.

“Give me that pistol!” he snapped.

Bentley looked back to his general, who gave a subtle nod of agreement.

John took the pistol, stepped in front of Hanson, and leveled the weapon straight at his forehead. “Now listen very carefully, you son of a bitch,” John said, his voice icy cold. “My name is John Matherson. For a year, I was military commander of my community down in the mountains of North Carolina. Do you hear me, Dean?”

There was no response.

“I am not part of General Scales’s command. I’m here as a witness to whatever is behind that door. Less than a week after the shit hit the fan and everything went down, I put a bullet into the head of a thieving drug addict in a public execution. Do you hear me?”

Again no response, but he could see the man was looking up at him wide-eyed.

“I’ve personally executed dozens more since then without hesitation. Ten minutes ago, one of your bastards killed one of my closest friends; the blood on me is his blood. Do you read me?”

There was a faint nod.

“I’ve extended your life by two minutes. Maybe the general would not order you shot, but by heaven, I have no such compunctions. I’m giving you thirty seconds to do as the general ordered. If you do not, I will blow your frigging head off and not hesitate. At this moment, I might blow it off anyhow as payback for my friend even after you answer, but your odds are better if you answer. After I shoot you, I’ll single out another and another of the prisoners until someone finally gives the general the answer he wants. Now, Captain Hanson, do you read me?”

He paused and looked around at those gathered and then back at Hanson. “Fifteen seconds!” John snapped.

“John?”

He looked up. It was Scales, who was shaking his head.

“Stay out of it, damn it!” John shouted. “We’ve been through hell for two and a half years, and I want the answers now. Lee didn’t die just for us to stand around like a bunch of assholes in front of a door this bastard can open.”

He looked back at Dean. “Ten seconds … eight seconds!”

Several of the prisoners, obviously terrified, shouted for the captain to relent, one crying out that he knew the answer and would give it.

John could see that the man had lost control, his trousers soaking through.

“Six seconds.” He pressed the cold muzzle of the gun to the captain’s forehead.

“All right! All right!” Dean screamed. “I’ll talk.”

John nodded and stepped back, suddenly feeling completely drained.

“Get him to open the door now,” John commanded. “If he doesn’t open that door in three minutes, bring him back here and I’ll kill him.”

John walked back to Sergeant Bentley, easing the hammer of the .45 down to the safe position. He held the weapon by the muzzle, which was warm, and offered it back to the sergeant, who took it.

Bentley stared him straight in the eyes. “By God, sir, would you have done it?”

“After all we’ve been through?” John said, not answering the question. “And, Sergeant, don’t ever ask me that question again.”

A couple of troopers of Scales’s command dragged Dean up to the door. He fumbled to open the collar of his uniform and drew out several keys on a chain around his neck, muttering that the electronic controls had been shot out. He handed one to a guard accompanying him, explaining that they both had to insert the keys in locks ten feet apart and turn them simultaneously. They did so, and with a metallic hiss, the vast doorway cracked open.

Bob stepped forward. “Hold it there!” he shouted, going up to Hanson’s side. “You got a security detail in there?” he snapped.

A moment of hesitation.

“You play us wrong now and I hand you back to my friend Matherson. Do you have a security detail inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are in first, and order them to stand down. I got a sniper aiming straight at your back. You play us false and you will be the first to die, and I turn those outside over to Matherson and his men. You read me? If the killing is to stop now it is up to you, Captain. I want any security to come out, weapons held overhead, or by God I’ll have an Apache outside this door pouring 30mm and then a Hellfire down inside.”

“It’s over!” Hanson cried.

“Then make sure it is.”

Hanson, shaking and barely able to walk, approached the front of the blast door, which had slid open just a few feet, hands held high over his head.