NEAR NATCHITOCHES
LOUISIANA
USA
“THERE!” Ibrahim said, pointing through the windshield at an abandoned pickup truck by the side of the road.
Despite warnings from both the government and the wildly popular Jed Jones, there were already significant numbers of people trying to make their way to Texas. Hope—likely misplaced—was forcing them from their homes and onto the road. As he and his man got closer to the state’s border, they saw an increasing number of people walking, riding bicycles, and even a few on horseback. Some had started their journey in family vehicles that had eventually run out of fuel, forcing them to leave them behind.
“Do you want to stop, Feisal?”
It was an excellent question. They were concerned that the Red Cross truck could have been reported overdue and might have become a target for the authorities. Further, it lacked maneuverability and four-wheel drive, which would likely be necessary to navigate the road leading to their target. And, finally, they no longer needed the vehicle’s capacity. All supplies had been left in Mississippi to be used to keep John Alton alive for as long as possible. The only things in the back of the truck now were jerry cans full of diesel and improvised explosives.
“Yes,” Ibrahim said finally. “Stop.”
They pulled to the side of the dark highway and he jumped out. It was the fifth time they’d tried this in the last two hours and thus far they’d been unsuccessful.
Initial indicators were good—the driver’s door was unlocked and the vehicle took the diesel they were carrying. It was the last requirement that had stymied their previous attempts.
Feisal reached around the steering wheel and felt a surge of adrenaline when his fingers found a key still inserted in the ignition. He turned it and, praise Allah, the dashboard lights went on.
It was a late-model vehicle, well cared for based on the condition of the body and interior. The only discernible problem was the fuel gauge that read empty.
“This is it!” he shouted as he ran to the back of the Red Cross truck and opened it. His man came up next to him a moment later, grabbing a container full of diesel and taking it to fill the pickup’s tank. As he did so, Ibrahim began transferring the other jerry cans to the vehicle’s bed. Once fueled and loaded, he went back to the Red Cross truck for two final things. The first was an explosive vest he’d built from materials found at the house in Mississippi. The second was a bomb that would go in the back of the pickup with the spare diesel.
Everything from now until the end of their lives in a few hours would be a game of improvisation. It was impossible to know how either of their martyrdoms would play out, making flexibility key. They had no intelligence regarding the current level of security at the Bryan substation. No idea if the general population had deduced which facility it was and descended on it in search of food, security, and information. In truth, they had no idea if it was all an elaborate trap. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Whatever happened, they would strike one last blow against the Americans and join their comrades in paradise.
Rapp checked his watch, a normally simple act made unwieldy by the head-to-toe body armor he was wearing.
Two a.m.
A quarter mile up the road, Janice Crane was still awake, directing the phony substation repair. Work lights and the flicker of welders reinforced the illusion and provided enough illumination for less precise operations like repositioning equipment and digging trenches for new transmission lines. It was all designed to make the target irresistible, but also had the potential to attract desperate locals. It hadn’t happened yet, but it was a headache that was undoubtedly coming.
Meanwhile, he was entering what felt like hour one hundred of sitting propped against yet another tree.
The wait didn’t leave him with much more to do than think. A little too much, probably. With every sweep of the second hand, he became more convinced that this was a waste of time. That Alton was either dead or had gone to ground in Mexico.
That the little prick had won.
And not just won. Won big. World financial markets were imploding. China was suffering increasing unrest and even riots as the economic growth they relied on collapsed. Latin America had gone into survival mode, taking the body blows that they’d become good at absorbing over the years. Canada was fully focused on disaster relief to the parts of their country that were connected to the US grid and could provide little assistance beyond staging US aircraft. Russia was getting hit much harder than they’d expected as commodity prices collapsed. Other than Africa, which was less closely linked to the US economic engine, Western Europe was probably weathering the storm best. Their situation was still pretty dire, though, and there wasn’t much they could do to help their old ally.
So, where did that leave the country he’d spent his life bleeding for? Fucked, according to the top secret report Irene Kennedy had forwarded him. According to a group of economists that included two Nobel laureates, the United States would be down to about the population of Peru in a year. The middle would empty out, with its surviving citizens huddled in cities near the coasts. Scavenging would be the primary industry—stripping everything that was no longer being used and selling it at bargain basement prices. Cars, furniture, electronics… It’d all be there for the taking. In fact, a number of European agencies were already working with US museums to move out priceless objects before people just started wandering off with them.
Second question: Where did that leave him?
For better or worse, probably fine. He’d spent most of his career operating in violent, collapsing countries. Hell, he’d probably live long enough to see the Washington metro area return to its agricultural roots of a century ago.
Good thing he’d been so halfhearted in putting the brakes on Anna and Scott Coleman’s budding livestock business. Act three of his life was looking like it would be his farmer period.
“We have an incoming vehicle. Southbound on twenty-one. About fifty miles out.”
The voice coming over Rapp’s earpiece was unfamiliar—not one of his people. Probably an Air Force drone operator.
“Can you identify it?” he said over his throat mike.
“Civilian pickup. Arkansas plates. We’re working on getting what information we can.”
It wasn’t the first. There were way too many people on the road chasing the illusion he’d created.
“Roger that. Keep me advised.”
In all likelihood, that would be the end of it. The truck would pass by before the government could find a working computer capable of providing the name of the owner. Rapp crossed his heavily armored arms over an equally well-protected chest and closed his eyes again.
The same voice woke him again about thirty minutes later. “The pickup’s still on course to you. It’s owned by Jason and Cynthia Brixton from Pine Bluff, Arkansas. What records we can access say they’re a family of four—two kids ages eight and nine. We don’t want to get too close with the drone, but there appear to be only two adults in the cab.”
“Is it possible the children are laid out in the backseat?” Rapp said.
“Possible, but we’re betting against it.”
“What about cargo?”
“Five-gallon jerry cans. Quite a few of them, but we can’t get an exact count.”
Normally, that would set off alarm bells—a potential car bomb. But in this environment, carrying extra fuel wasn’t exactly unusual. Still, it was a civilian vehicle driving in their direction with the wrong number of passengers and a bed full of flammable liquid. Not enough to prompt him to drag himself to his feet, but enough to keep him from nodding off again.
“They’ve just turned southeast on twelve-eighty,” the voice said.
Rapp responded immediately. “Repeat that. Confirm that the target has turned southeast on twelve-eighty.”
“Confirmed. It’s heading in your direction.”
And in roughly the opposite direction as before. It was hard to come up with a good reason for anyone to divert onto that relatively minor road unless they had a specific destination in mind.
“How far to the turn that’ll bring them in front of us?”
“Seven miles,” was the response.
“Bruno, you’re on twelve eighty. What are you seeing?”
“Nothing yet, but they should be closing in on my position.”
Rapp stood, using the tree behind to help him overcome the weight of his armor and stiffness in his knees. Bruno McGraw came back on the comm a moment later.
“Two men. The one in the passenger seat is pretty bulky. Can’t tell if it’s clothes or he’s just fat. He does have a pretty impressive beard, though.”
“Suicide vest?” Rapp said, feeling the front of his helmet to ensure that his goggles were still perched there.
“Could be, but it’s impossible to tell.”
Two more miles. In order to get to the substation, they’d have to turn right in two more miles.
He moved through the trees, stopping near the edge of the dirt road just behind the hidden cables snaking across the ground.
“Turn,” he said quietly to himself. “Turn.”
“They’ve diverted off twelve eighty,” the drone operator said after a few more seconds. “Coming in your direction.”
“This could be it,” Rapp said over his comm. “Heads up.”
He could see a map of the area in his mind. After a little less than a mile, they’d come to the dirt road leading to the substation. If they made that turn, there was no longer any question.
“They’re slowing…” the drone operator said excitedly. “That’s it, gentlemen. They’re on the dirt.”
“We’re up,” Rapp said, crouching. He instinctively reached for the Glock strapped to his thigh, but stopped before touching the grip. Instead, he went for a hammer lying on the ground. “Everyone remember the mission. These assholes get taken alive. There are no other considerations.”
The drone operator came on in the midst of Rapp’s men acknowledging the order. “He’s turned his headlights off and we’re estimating his speed at just over twenty miles an hour.”
“Roger that,” Rapp said.
The truck became audible a few seconds later, but he still couldn’t see it. Finally, a vague outline materialized, moving along the road as fast as the surface would bear. Rapp focused on his breathing and got into a position resembling a sprinter crouched in a set of starting blocks. He needed to cover the few feet to the vehicle before the Arabs knew what hit them. As much as he wanted to take them alive, they would be just as anxious to ensure the exact opposite outcome.
Rapp remained absolutely still, knowing he’d be invisible if he did so. The pickup continued to approach, unable to increase its speed in the intentionally roughed-up road, but also unwilling to slow down. It fishtailed slightly when it hit a particularly egregious set of artificial potholes and three seconds later it was in front of him.
The crack of the cargo net activating sounded like a gunshot. If the driver saw it, there was no indication. The truck impacted without so much as a brief flash from the brake lights.
As promised, the net stretched, absorbing much of the force before dragging the vehicle back a few feet. Rapp activated a powerful lamp on his helmet and lunged forward, crossing the short distance to the driver’s door.
The glare off the glass was bad, but not so bad that he couldn’t make out two figures in the front seats. No one was evident in the back, but it was impossible to confirm that was the case with one hundred percent certainty. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t do anything about it.
One of his hands hit the handle of the door at the same time the other swung the hammer into the window. As expected, the door was locked and the glass spiderwebbed but held. He shoved it inward with a gloved hand, but it didn’t come completely free, blocking his access to the lock switches.
Nothing was ever easy.
Rapp threw himself partway through the window frame, squashing down the glass with his armored chest as the driver pounded him with clenched fists. He managed to unlatch the seat belt and a moment later was dragging the man back through the opening.
The passenger was reaching for something in his pocket—hopefully a gun, but Rapp doubted his luck would be that good. He managed to get the driver clear of the vehicle and spun, putting his own body between the terrorist and the vehicle.
The blast lifted him in the air, and he struggled to keep hold of his prisoner, finally losing contact when they slammed into a tree. Rapp was vaguely aware of the stench of diesel and that flames had engulfed one of his arms. Whether it was his left or right, he wasn’t entirely sure. The concepts of direction and gravity became increasingly vague as his eyes tried to focus past the cracks in his goggles.
Somewhere he heard the unmistakable sound of a fire extinguisher, but it wasn’t aimed at him. He was confused as to why for a moment but then remembered. The mission. His survival was irrelevant. The men in the truck were all that mattered.
Something heavy landed on top of him. Another armed body. More shouting. Something about fire. Was he on fire? Oh, shit. That’s right. He was.
Another extinguisher became audible, this time accompanied by the sensation of its contents billowing around him. Then nothing.