Renegade - 13 Read online

  Holding Their Own XIII: Renegade

  By

  Joe Nobody

  Copyright © 2017

  Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by:

  E. T. Ivester

  www.joenobodybooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

  Other Books by Joe Nobody:

  Secession: The Storm

  Secession II: The Flood

  Secession III: The Surge

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode I

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 2

  Apocalypse Trails: Episode 3

  The Archangel Drones

  Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

  The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

  Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

  Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

  Holding Their Own II: The Independents

  Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

  Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

  Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

  Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

  Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

  Holding Their Own VII: The Directives

  Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War

  Holding Their Own X: The Toymaker

  Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds

  Holding Their Own XII: Copperheads

  The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

  Apocalypse Drift

  The Little River Otter

  The Olympus Device: Book One

  The Olympus Device: Book Two

  The Olympus Device: Book Three

  The Ebola Wall

  Prologue

  They rose as one, four whispers of distortion in the grey, pre-dawn light.

  Making no more noise than a bank of fog rolling over cool earth, they flowed down the ridge with fluid, coordinated movements. There was power in the advance, a subtle grace that projected a predator's confidence in its ability to unleash irresistible violence upon its prey.

  Black muzzles swept in precise, effortless arcs while gloved fingers hovered above triggers, coiled for work. They performed as one being, a single entity that promised havoc.

  To their front was a remote farmhouse, a featureless home isolated in the arid plain of the Lone Star nation’s panhandle. The objective. The target. The victims.

  Their choreographed timing gave evidence to years of training, the unit’s meticulous spacing and swift execution indicating skill, practice, experience and leadership. But it was their eyes, empty and fearless, that announced the brotherhood of combat and the cohesion of men who trusted their lives only to each other.

  At 300 meters from the objective, the tight formation dispersed, each of the four assaulters taking a unique vector on the target.

  Only a few minutes had passed before the desired positions were achieved. There was no pause, no hesitation or doubt, and absolutely no presumption of mercy. In unison, the crisp Texas morning was disrupted by the sound of four soft clicks as safeties were disengaged.

  There was no warning, no request for surrender, no demand or negotiation, and no escape.

  The solitary sentry posted on the far side of the driveway never heard the first shot. At 2300 feet per second, the 30-caliber bullet easily outpaced the sound waves generated by the expanding gasses that sent it roaring down the barrel.

  Less than a second passed before the round impacted the target with painstaking precision, the shot nearly decapitating the ill-fated guard. Before his lifeless body crumpled to the ground, an avalanche of pure hell slammed into the ranch house.

  The brick exterior of the home was no match for the volume of deadly lead that shredded the façade. Dozens of bullets ripped through the structure, expertly aimed at a height to find anyone sleeping on beds or couches.

  The interior was instantly transformed into a blizzard of choking, blinding chaos. A cloud of exploding gypsum board, splintered wood, and powdered mortar greeted the few occupants who survived the first moments. The incoming fire was relentless and inescapable.

  Within seconds of the initial volley, the four attackers began working their aim lower, eventually spraying the inside at just a few inches above the foundation. Any occupant who did manage to hug the floor found no refuge.

  In a well-practiced maneuver, the team approached the doors, two at the front, two at the back. A moment later, they were inside.

  The attackers knew the home’s layout and fanned left and right without pause or overlap. For the first time, they spoke, shouts of “Clear!” echoing through the interior, punctuated by single discharges from secondary weapons as each body they encountered received one shot to the head. No prisoners. No witnesses. No survivors.

  Less than 30 seconds after breaching the household, a calm voice drifted through the unit’s earpieces. “Objective identified. Garage.”

  “Acknowledged. On our way,” the responding transmission acknowledged.

  The four-man unit regrouped in the garage, standing over five large, plastic tubs. The leader took a knee, opening each and quickly scanning the contents.

  Just as their intel had predicted, the containers were brimming with cash.

  “Captain, is this all of it?” asked one of the nearby men.

  “Yes, it looks like they kept all of their eggs in one basket. Let’s get it loaded.”

  Another minute passed before the loot was secured in the back of the late model Chevy pickup parked in the driveway. The operation’s timeline was further accelerated when the key to the stolen vehicle was spotted in the ignition.

  “For drug dealers, they sure were a trusting bunch,” commented one of the men.

  “And I was looking forward to practicing my hot-wiring skills,” mumbled another of the team, seemingly disappointed by the discovery.

  “How much do you think is in those tubs?” asked the youngest.

  Shrugging his shoulders, the captain replied, “The boss said there was at least two million. Could be more.”

  “Evidently, marketing homemade meth pays better than working for the Alliance,” chuckled the sniper.

  “For today,” responded the captain, then quickly followed by. “Now, stop chatting like a bunch of school girls and get loaded up.”

  Chapter 1

  Diana toyed with her food, building small designs with the kernels of corn using the tip of her fork.

  Nick, sitting across the table, knew the Alliance's highest elected official well enough to sit quietly and let her think.

  Finally, she completed her maize architectural wonder, positioned her cutlery on her napkin, sighed deeply and peered up at him with sad eyes. “I can't believe it's been four years already,” she began. “It seems like just a few weeks ago, we were struggling to develop a plan where every citizen ate a square meal and had a roof over his head. I thought we would be so much further along the road to recovery by now.”

  Nick, having already guessed the upcoming election was governing her thoughts, tried to be supportive. “You and that wonderful intellect of yours have done more for the people of the Alliance than anyone else. We’ve come a long way … made great progress. You should be proud of your achievements.”

  His words brought a slight upturn to the corners of her mouth, but the smile was obviously forced. “Don't you think you're a little prejudiced when it comes to assessing the results of my term in office?”

  Grunting, the big man nodded his agreement. “Heck yes, I'm prejud
iced. There's no doubt about that. That being said, no one understands the issues facing this fledgling Republic better than you, and no one is better equipped to further the recovery. The people know how you have championed their causes and how much you have sacrificed to serve them. I'm absolutely, without a doubt positive you’ll be reelected if you decide to run.”

  Diana stood abruptly, flattening the folds of her skirt as a subconscious reaction to the compliment. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she cooed.

  Nick understood instantly that she was trying to change the subject. Shaking his head, he said, “We have to talk about this eventually. It's a very important decision for both of our futures. We can't keep putting off this discussion.”

  Picking up her plate, Diana made for the kitchen sink, mumbling sarcastically, “No pressure,” as she rose.

  “I'm sorry,” Nick replied, softening his tone. “Yet, you've been avoiding this topic for weeks, young lady. There is a whole host of prominent citizens waiting for you to announce your candidacy for reelection. It's become difficult for me to focus on the Republic's security issues when the perpetual topic of discussion is what you're going to do. SAINT logistics protocol reviews and scheduling team exercises pale in comparison. All eyes are on you, Diana.”

  “I've made a list of positives and negatives,” she countered, spreading her arms in frustration. “I've tried to approach this choice in an analytical manner. It sure doesn't seem to be helping me commit to a decision, though.”

  Standing, Nick pushed the chair back and moved to her side. Gently, with a hand on each shoulder, he turned Diana to face him.

  Gazing deeply into her eyes, he said, “You know I will support you … 100 percent – no matter what you decide.”

  His words seemed to warm her, but only slightly. The smile that crossed her lips was genuine and fleeting.

  “And what would you and I do if I chose to go back to private life?” she asked. “The day the new leader transitioned into this position, what would we do? How would we make a living? Could we just walk away from a project we have been so invested in? Building the Alliance has become our lives.”

  Sighing, Nick responded, “Oh, there will still be opportunities for us to support the recovery. As for our employment prospects, I don’t think we will have to worry about not having food on our table. There's always work for a man who is willing to stand ready behind the business end of a gun. You could restart your father's church ... or find work as a lobbyist with the new government. You have a lot more friends than you think, Diana. Hell, we might even form a joint venture with Bishop and Terri and see if we can make a go of his ranch. I think you'd look hot in chaps and a 10-gallon hat, by the way.”

  His humor was well-timed, again bringing a smile to her face. Toying with the buttons on his shirt, she met his gaze and provocatively answered, “I have some things in my closet that I think you would find far more attractive than a dusty, old pair of leather chaps and a sweat-soaked hat.”

  While it was Diana who was known far and wide for her deft, political maneuvers and diplomatic skills, Nick wasn't exactly an amateur. Realizing that yet again, she was trying to divert the conversation, he decided to let her off the hook and play along.

  Pulling her close in a gentle embrace, he lowered his head to inhale deeply of her hair's sweet scent. “You know, if you weren’t in office, we would have a lot more time to explore the contents of that closet of yours.”

  Diana instantly relaxed in his arms, apparently more comfortable with the conversation’s new direction. “Yes, you're right. We could also go ahead and execute these wedding plans that I've been working on for months now. As a matter of fact, we've been threatening to get hitched for so long I'm afraid that when the wedding invitations finally arrive, all of our friends are going to think it's a practical joke.”

  “Let's run off to Vegas,” he joked, glad to see her perking up.

  “Vegas doesn't exist anymore,” she bantered.

  “We could book a cruise and have the captain marry us.”

  “There aren't any cruise ships,” she responded, hands moving to her hips in mock frustration.

  “Seriously,” he countered, “Every time we’ve started to tie the knot, something critical has interfered. You know I want to marry you as much as anything. Besides, if I recall correctly, the last time our special day was delayed, it was your decision.”

  “How could we have a wedding when Bishop and Terri were off in Indian territory trying to save the Alliance?” She protested. “In fact, I'd say you were intentionally sending Bishop off on all of those assignments just to avoid getting hitched.”

  “Me?” he replied, trying to feign an offended expression and failing badly as an actor. “As I recall, it was you and Terri who cooked up that scheme for those two to run off to Mexico. Bishop and I didn't want anything to do with it.”

  They both broke out in laughter, both well aware that neither was truly at fault. As soon as the comic relief had bled off, Diana became serious again.

  Staring deeply into Nick’s eyes, she placed a hand on each of his cheeks and declared, “I do love you, Big Guy. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “And you know that I truly love you more than anything, right?”

  “Yes,” she responded in a hush. “And you’re being honest with me … that you’re okay with my job. The pressure? The responsibility? The interference in our lives?”

  “I am,” he answered truthfully. “I think the Alliance needs a leader like you. You’ve proven that to me. Sometimes the job sucks. Sometimes the responsibility pulls us apart. But in the end, I love you more for the reliability and integrity you personify with each passing day.”

  “Then I’m going to throw my hat in the ring tomorrow,” she answered with a passionate intensity. “I just don’t feel like my job is done. I pray that you’ll stay by my side and help me see this through.”

  “I’ve got your back,” he grinned. “Together, we’re an unbeatable team.”

  “I hope so,” she whispered, pulling him tight. “I truly do hope so.”

  There were still a few hours of daylight left as Sheriff Watts steered his cruiser along the dirt lane.

  Parking next to the other two law enforcement vehicles already in the driveway, the lawman was greeted by one of the local deputies.

  “How many?” Watts asked without any pleasantries.

  “Eight dead, sir.”

  “Wounded?”

  “No survivors,” replied the deputy with a slight grimace.

  “Who found them?” the senior officer asked.

  “I did, sir. I was driving down County Road 412 and spotted a large group of buzzards circling in the distance. That’s never a good sign. This is the only home for miles around, and it has been abandoned since before everything went to hell – or so we thought. The birds struck me as odd, so I drove over to check it out and found the deceased.”

  Marching toward the crime scene, Watts continued his inquiry, “Do we know who the victims are?”

  The deputy shook his head, “Only one of them. Burt Irvin, 34 years of age, multiple arrests for various narcotics related charges before the collapse. Served two sentences at Huntsville. I knew Mr. Irvin well. He was a pretty hardcore character, not the type to shy away from a confrontation with anyone. The other seven are John Does at this point in time, sir.”

  Watts stopped to examine the dead sentry, the cadaver’s face expressionless despite the dead man’s head being split nearly in half. It took the experienced sheriff less than two seconds to gaze into the surrounding scrub along the bullet’s likely path. Pointing with an extended finger, he directed, “Have one of your boys search that area to look for a shell casing, deputy. There’s no sign of powder burns on the deceased, and the trajectory indicates that the shooter was some distance away.”

  The sheriff’s attention was then drawn to another deputy who was placing small, numbered plaques on the ground.

&
nbsp; “Your report?” Watts asked.

  “So far, we’ve discovered four clusters of shell casings,” the junior officer stated. “Two in front of the residence, two in back. It looks like they hit the home from four different angles and then executed a breach at both entrances.”

  “Caliber?”

  “Three of the shooters were using 5.56 NATO cartridges. One was armed with a .308 Winchester, sir. In addition, we’ve found seven .45-caliber pistol casings inside the residence. It appears as though each of the deceased inside received a coup de grace in the head once the perpetrators had entered the structure.”

  Rubbing his chin, Watts responded, “Excellent report, Deputy. Thank you.”

  Pivoting smartly, the Alliance’s top law enforcement officer headed for the front door. Once inside, he spent several minutes investigating each body and room.