Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(74)

The General simmered with rage. How dare this low-life scumbag insinuate he was anywhere near the General’s intellectual or strategic equal?

Poe was an elegant thug, nothing more.

“You’d be happy if I disappeared, wouldn’t you? I’ve served my purpose. To you. But Byron, I have bigger plans than you could even imagine. This country is ripe for exploitation. If not me, it would be someone else. A dozen warring gangs clashing across the Midwest, slaughtering each other and everyone else. Or an entire region under lock and key, rich in resources for men like me. People are resources. I don’t waste them.”

The General’s lip curled in distaste. Not at Poe’s implications, which the General agreed with, but at his snide, disrespectful tone.

“Don’t forget, I can destroy you. With one order, with one—”

“I’m calling your bluff,” Poe said evenly. “Michigan is mine.”

“You stupid son of a—”

“I adore Michigan,” Poe said with that simpering, indulgent tone, like he was laughing at the General, mocking him. “The fruit belt of the southwest counties along the coast. It’s also some of the best wine country in the nation. I appreciate fine wine, you know. I’ve heard you have similar tastes.”

“Don’t compare yourself to me, you little maggot! You’re nothing but a slumlord, a gangster thug dressing himself up with pretty words, playing at power. You don’t have real power. You’ll never have power—”

“Fear is power,” Poe said. “And right now, you fear me.”

The General gripped the sat phone so hard the plastic shell cracked beneath his fingers. “If you think for one second—”

“I’m coming for your towns, your people. I will subjugate them or kill them. I will take everything that I want and burn what remains.”

“Traitor!” The General seethed, longing to reach through the phone and strangle the mealy little worm. “I’ll kill you! I’ll chop off your—”

“A little birdie informed me that you’re stationed with the bulk of your soldiers outside of a little town just north of Indiana called Fall Creek. A vulnerable position you’ve put yourself in. Easily outmaneuvered and overrun.”

Liquid fear shot through his veins. He’d lost the Black Hawk. Duffield had never supplied him with the mortars he needed.

He wasn’t ready. To obliterate the Syndicate required subterfuge and deceit, backstabbing Poe when he and his men least expected it.

Poe had backstabbed him first.

“Consider yourself checkmated.”

“I gave you everything! This is how you repay me?”

“This is how you play the game,” Poe said, a sneer in his voice. “And Byron, you’ve been played.”





53





Liam





Day One Hundred and Fifteen





Liam strode down the center of highway M-139.

It was well after midnight. He was fifteen miles north of Fall Creek, on the outskirts of the town of St. Joseph.

He had ridden most of the way via bicycle, then discarded it in an abandoned warehouse.

Now, he walked in the middle of the road with his hands bare at his sides. The M4 was strapped across his chest, his Glock holstered.

He felt vulnerable, exposed, naked.

Still, he walked.

It went against his training, his every instinct.

Fear and doubt gnawed at him, but he marched with purpose.

Night sounds filled the crisp spring air. Insects trilled. Small creatures scurried through the grass. The wind soughed through the trees, the branches thick with fresh green buds.

He tensed as he passed each stalled vehicle along the side of the road. They crouched like slumbering beasts in the darkness. He scanned every direction, anticipating an ambush, but none came.

He walked on.

The tiny knit hat smoldered like a coal in his jacket pocket. Such a tiny thing represented so much. Its presence motivated him, goaded him, drove him onward.

He passed a feed store to his left. An autobody shop on the right. A high-end lighting store. A specialty bakery and nail salon across from a used car lot. Trash skittered across the road.

If he had his Delta unit at his back, he’d have observation teams for intelligence, overwatch to protect him, a reaction force standing by and an Apache or Black Hawk for rapid extraction with a guarded landing zone.

He had none of those things. He was alone.

He was a dead man walking.

That was all right. He accepted it.

He prayed it would be enough. That his sacrifice would be worth it.

He felt eyes on him long before he saw them. Felt their rifles and carbines zeroed in on his chest, his forehead.

He couldn’t see or hear them, but his time in a dozen combat zones from Syria to Afghanistan had taught him well.

He knew when he was being hunted.

His senses on high alert, he scanned left then right, examining the storefronts, the windows and doorways. Still, he didn’t reach for a weapon.

On the roof of the hair salon, moonlight flashed on a scope. A human-shaped shadow ducked from the doorway of the autobody shop. The sounds of muffled, furtive footfalls.

They were here.

They were coming for him.

Four figures darted into the road. They wore BDUs and carried M4s. They shouldered their carbines and rushed him, shouting orders.