Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(12)

“I found him laid out beside a dumpster. Stripped of his weapons and stabbed repeatedly with a small knife.”

“The work of this spec ops soldier?”

“I doubt it, sir. It didn’t have the mark of a professional.”

The General shook his head, seething. “Damn it!”

His nephew should’ve been better, done better. He’d carried his mother’s name—a weakened bloodline. The General’s brother never had good taste in women; the caliber of his son reflected that deficiency.

With considerable effort, the General regained control of himself. It served no purpose to allow his men to see his frustration.

They needed a strong, competent leader. Emotion was a tell. A weakness. It drained your power and gave your enemies intel and influence.

He smoothed his expression and dipped his chin at Gibbs. “What took you so long to return? You look like you got run over by a Mack truck.”

“The transport ran out of gas forty miles out. Couldn’t find more to scavenge, as the locals had already emptied the vehicles. It took me awhile, but I obtained a bike and rode the rest of the way, sir.”

“Get some rest. We depart in eight hours.” He shaped his features into a sympathetic expression and placed a hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “That soldier that murdered our people? He’s from Fall Creek. We’ll make damn sure they pay for it.”

Gibbs saluted. “Yes, sir!”

As the man left to grab some grub, the General returned to the folding table and studied the map, tracing potential routes. He was about eighty miles from Fall Creek. Less than a day’s drive by vehicle, even with the wrecked roads.

He tapped his finger at a location in St. Joseph, on Lake Michigan. A hotel located a few blocks from the beach, in the heart of downtown.

He’d always loved the ocean. The Great Lakes were an acceptable second.

The General gestured at one of his bodyguards, a man named Tyler Redding. A big burly guy with acne scars, a misshapen nose, and a chip on his shoulder jogged over. “Sir.”

“Command and control will be here, at the Boulevard Inn. We’re not going in blind. Clear it and the surrounding two blocks, then send scouts to report back to me. We leave at 0700 hours.”

“Sir.” The soldier saluted before marching off.

This time tomorrow, they’d be unloading at the hotel.

Departure couldn’t come fast enough.

Though he wouldn’t roll into town without anticipating resistance. Whoever these people were, they’d defeated Sutter’s militia and his own daughter.

That was surprising—and disconcerting.

But they were no army. If he were fighting in an actual war, the General would’ve had his troops take twenty buildings in town to disperse into smaller elements to guard against air raid attacks.

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t bother.

However, he would still order smaller units to cover fuel depots, munitions storage, and transport. The usual logistics.

He craved a snifter of Hine Antique XO Premier Cru Cognac. Instead, he licked his parched lips and thought again of his dead nephew. His last living family member.

No. Not his last.

In his last conversation with Sutter, his nephew had revealed a juicy little detail.

For the last two days, the General had examined it from every side, searching for cracks or defects and finding none.

“There’s one more thing you should know,” Sutter had said in that sniveling voice. “Rosamond wasn’t interested, but I think you might be. There’s a woman in Fall Creek who claims Gavin Pike was the father of her baby.”

Only one thing held the General back from destroying Fall Creek utterly.

Through his daughter and psychopathic grandson, a part of the General still existed outside himself.

They were both dead. But their seed lived on. His seed lived on.

The General had a great-granddaughter.

And he very much wished to meet her.





Hannah





Day One Hundred and Four





Hannah shivered. It was the second week of April, but the morning temperatures hovered in the low thirties, the sky cloaked in heavy gray clouds.

The wind chill made it feel twenty degrees colder. The frigid breeze scythed through her clothes and chapped her exposed cheeks.

Ahead of her, Ghost growled.

Hannah paused, Milo at her side, holding the jogging stroller handle with her bad hand. With her right hand, she tightened her grip on the .45 in her coat pocket.

For the meeting, she’d chosen Greenway Park, a small park along the riverbank, just past the bridge over Fall Creek.

In summers past, they used the large open area for picnics, soccer games, and kite flying, with live concerts featuring local bands in the evenings.

Snow patches dotted the field. Birds twittered from the naked branches of the trees lining the river. The large pavilion with a black metal roof and open sides loomed ahead of her.

A dark shape stood in the center of the platform, a familiar blue camo backpack slung over his shoulder. The hood of his coat shielded his face, both hands plunged deep into his pockets.

Her pulse quickened. She stiffened.

Milo tugged her coat sleeve. “Who is that?”

She glanced at his cherub face, pointy chin, and big dark eyes; he’d inherited his olive skin from Noah’s Venezuelan heritage. His unruly black curls poked out from beneath his winter hat.