Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(35)

“Yes, sir,” Gibbs said.

He shot a pointed look at Henderson, then Gibbs. “You can slaughter as many terrorists as you like. How does that sound?”

Henderson said, “I’m good with that.”

Gibbs’ mouth twitched. “Satisfactory, sir.”





22





Liam





Day One Hundred and Eight





“I’m in,” Luther said over the radio.

“What do you have?” Liam asked. He’d positioned himself in an empty building five miles north of town, watching M-139. Nothing had moved along the road in the last two hours of his shift.

A light rain misted the air, the evening sky gunmetal gray. Meltwater ran across the roads in streams, sluicing into the ditches.

The temperature was somewhere in the high forties; Liam unzipped his coat. He hadn’t bothered with a hat or gloves.

Luther was late for his check-in. Two hours, to be exact. Liam thought he wouldn’t radio in at all.

“General Sinclair knew my name,” Luther said. “Sutter had mentioned me a few times. You were right. He’d expected to rely on Sutter for intel, so he welcomed me in.”

“How many soldiers?”

“Near as I can gather, Sutter’s numbers were correct. Five hundred National Guard soldiers, plus a couple dozen Blackwater private security types, ex-military. He goes nowhere without them as bodyguards.”

“How many garrisoned at the Boulevard Inn?”

“There are four mobile units. I don’t know their locations. The rest are garrisoned here. We’re bunked four to a room. There’s no power anywhere, but this one at least is clean. Only a handful of corpses to clear. People stayed in these hotels, used the bathrooms one after another until they clogged and overflowed, then just moved on to the next. The stench is terrible—”

“I don’t care about the stink. Give me credible intel.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Liam listened as Luther described the General’s organization, security, and logistics. “They’re waiting for something. I don’t know what. The General calls me in when he needs information, otherwise I’m stuck with the grunts.”

“Draw me a map. Include patrols, shift changes, watches. Everything. Leave it at the drop off location.”

A silence. Static belched from the radio. “I can’t get away that soon—”

“Find a way, Luther.” Liam scowled, out of what little patience he had. “Figure it out.”





23





Hannah





Day One Hundred and Nine





“What do you want?” Flynn’s hostile voice grated through the radio.

“Good morning to you, too.” Hannah stood on her front porch in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a jacket freshly handwashed and dried on the clothesline.

After yesterday’s rain, the weather had cleared. The sun hung like a yellow ball in the cobalt sky. Green shoots poked up everywhere. The cool breeze tickled her cheeks.

Charlotte was inside, taking a rare nap in her crib. Usually, she slept in her stroller or carrier, out and about.

After Hannah had administered Milo’s medication, Milo busied himself cleaning and rebinding Ghost’s leg the way Evelyn had taught him.

“Get on with it,” Flynn said. “I have things to do.”

Hannah pictured him—big as a sequoia tree, a tall burly redhead, all gruff aggression and bristling suspicion.

She pitied Flynn, but he was a bear to deal with. His grief over his wife’s murder at the hands of the militia had oxidized into rage and mistrust. He tried her patience to its limits.

Mick Sellers and Dallas Chapman seemed mild and reasonable in comparison, but they capitulated to Flynn’s more aggressive, demanding nature.

Together, the three led the Community Alliance, a group representing nearby towns who shared security and protection needs.

Hannah tensed. Annoyance prickled across her skin. “We need to work together. We can’t do that without regular communication. If you’d rather not speak with me, I’m happy to talk with Mick.”

“I’ll relay your information,” Flynn said stiffly. “I’m the decision-maker here.”

She bit her lower lip to rein in her frustration. “I’m calling to check in and update you on potential threats, and to let you know we have canceled trade Day until further notice. It’s not safe to travel right now.”

“You’re telling me!” A raw edge in his voice. A hint of genuine fear.

It brought her up short.

“Flynn, did something happen?”

Flynn snorted into the radio.

“Flynn, please. Tell me.”

Silence but for his ragged breathing.

She wanted to throw up her hands, say good riddance, and renounce the whole thing. Another part of her—the stubborn, unrelenting part that didn’t know how to quit, the part that had kept her on her feet and moving through two hundred miles of wilderness, that had survived five years trapped in a basement—that part insisted she try again.

“We’re not your enemy, Flynn. We’re on your side. Now, what happened?”