Edge of Valor

Copyright © 2021 by Kyla Stone All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Cover design by Christian Bentulan

Book formatting by Vellum

First Printed in 2021

ISBN: 978-1-945410-65-9

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Preface

1.  Liam

2.  Liam

3.  Hannah

4.  Quinn

5.  Quinn

6.  Hannah

7.  The General

8.  Hannah

9.  Quinn

10.  Liam

11.  Liam

12.  Liam

13.  Liam

14.  Hannah

15.  Hannah

16.  Liam

17.  Liam

18.  Liam

19.  Liam

20.  The General

21.  The General

22.  Liam

23.  Hannah

24.  Hannah

25.  Quinn

26.  Quinn

27.  The General

28.  Hannah

29.  Hannah

30.  Hannah

31.  Liam

32.  Hannah

33.  Liam

34.  Liam

35.  Liam

36.  The General

37.  Liam

38.  Liam

39.  Quinn

40.  Quinn

41.  Quinn

42.  Liam

43.  Hannah

44.  The General

45.  The General

46.  Quinn

47.  Quinn

48.  Liam

49.  Liam

50.  Liam

51.  Liam

52.  The General

53.  Liam

54.  Quinn

55.  Quinn

56.  Hannah

57.  Liam

58.  Liam

59.  Liam

60.  Hannah

61.  Liam

62.  The General

63.  Liam

64.  Hannah

65.  Quinn

66.  Liam

67.  Quinn

68.  Liam

69.  Quinn

70.  Quinn

71.  Liam

72.  Liam

73.  Liam

74.  Liam

75.  Liam

76.  Hannah

77.  Hannah

78.  Hannah

Untitled

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Also by Kyla Stone

About the Author

Nuclear Dawn Preview

To George Hall, the real-life Liam who sacrificed much to stand in the gap and defend the defenseless.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

LAO TZU

Courage, dear heart.

C.S. LEWIS

PREFACE

Much of this story takes place in Southwest Michigan. For the sake of the story, I have altered certain aspects and taken a few liberties with a real town or two. Thank you in advance for understanding an author’s creative license.

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

The pungent scent of antiseptic burned Liam Coleman’s nostrils.

The pain was worse. Much worse.

He groaned as he sank onto the cot and eased out of his chest rig. Everything hurt. His bruises had bruises.

He placed his Glock 19 and the M4 beside him. His fingers left smears of blood on the white cotton sheets. He needed to clean and reload his weapons.

“You again!” Evelyn Brooks snapped on her latex gloves and rushed to Liam’s side. Her voice was stern, a frown lining her smooth brown skin, but she couldn’t hide the concern in her eyes. “I thought we talked about this.”

He grunted. “Did we? I don’t recall.”

Evelyn checked his distal and pedal pulses. “No fighting. No saving the world until your injuries have healed. Remember that conversation? I believe we’ve had it multiple times.”

“I claim plausible deniability.” He didn’t remind her that she was at Molly’s home when he’d left to rescue Quinn. She had known where he was going.

Judging by her flinty expression, this wasn’t the best time to mention it.

Instead, he grimaced and shied away as she reached for his bloodied shirt to check his gunshot wound. He already knew it had reopened. He already knew it was a problem.

“Liam Coleman, hold still and stop acting like a big baby. I need to examine you.”

Despite the blood-clotting granules and dressings he’d applied in the field, blood leaked down his ribs. His spine felt like he’d been kicked by a horse.

Liam angled his chin at the doorway. “Check her first.”

Sixteen-year-old Quinn Riley limped into the makeshift medical bay formed out of several classrooms at Fall Creek High School. Desks were stacked in one corner, cabinets lining the wall, kerosene lanterns on the counters next to piles of bandages.

Hannah Sheridan held her around the shoulders as she led the girl to the empty cot across from Liam. Ghost trotted beside her, his shoulder pressed against her outer thigh like he was holding her up, too.

As soon as Hannah had settled Quinn onto the cot, Ghost padded across the dingy carpet and pressed his muzzle against Liam’s knee. His long, plumed tail swept the floor.

The Great Pyrenees mountain dog was huge, the size of a small pony, one hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle beneath a coat of thick white fur. He let out an unhappy whimper, as if both chagrined that he’d missed the battle and worried for the welfare of his charges.

It took every ounce of energy Liam had left to raise his hand and pat the Pyr’s massive head. “It’s okay, boy. We made it out okay.”

By the skin of their teeth. But he didn’t say that part aloud.

Ghost pricked his ears and tilted his head, intelligent brown eyes gazing at Liam in a way that implied he didn’t believe Liam for a second.

Evelyn strode across the room to Quinn’s side and bent over her, checking her vital signs with a brisk, detached efficiency. Her training as an ER nurse took over, her face revealing nothing as she assessed the girl’s injuries.

She tsked. “Taking after Liam, I see.”

Quinn didn’t answer. Her head lowered in pain—or shame.

Shen Lee darted into the room, a neat stack of white towels in his arms. Startled, the pediatric nurse shifted his gaze between Quinn and Liam.

They looked like they’d just returned from a battlefield. Which they had.

“What happened—”

“We need more antiseptic,” Evelyn said.

“We’re running out—”

“Then get me salt. And clean water. We need to irrigate and disinfect these wounds.”

She rattled off a list of needed supplies. Lee nodded once and slipped from the doorway.

“And get Bishop,” Liam called after him.

With a wince, he returned his attention to Quinn. Worry slicked his insides. Not for himself, but for the fierce teenage girl he’d pulled from Vortex Headquarters.

Quinn slumped on the cot, her head down, clumps of blue-black hair hanging in her face. Blood caked her torn, dirtied clothes. Her lip was split, the lip ring torn out, blood still dribbling down her chin. And she’d sliced her palm with the knife she’d used to kill Sutter.

She’d gotten the snot beaten out of her, and then some.

“I wouldn’t want to see the other guy,” Hannah said.

Quinn’s narrow shoulders stiffened. “The other guy is dead.”

Hannah and Liam exchanged a grim glance. Her chocolate brown hair was tugged into a practical ponytail. She wore jeans, her big cowboy buckle, and her oversized brown jacket, her pistol’s telltale bulge in the righthand pocket.

To Liam, she was as beautiful as ever.

Hannah didn’t have Charlotte or Milo with her. They must be with Evelyn’s husband, Travis, who’d taken to grand-parenting Liam’s infant nephew, L.J., like a duck to water. The Brooks had taken Hannah’s children under their wing, too.

“Sutter,” Liam said. “Quinn killed Sutter.”

Hannah’s skin paled, her green eyes darkening with concern—and anger. Liam shared her sentiment.

At least Quinn had eliminated the scumbag. Liam had seen Mattias Sutter’s slain corpse at the Vortex warehouse with his own eyes.

Outnumbered, he and Quinn had fought their way out, battling both the half-crazy nihilist gang led by Xander Thorne and a surprise attack by a private paramilitary force.

They were battered and bruised, but they’d survived.

Thanks to the aid of James Luther, who’d provided overwatch and eliminated a team of armed contractors about to overwhelm them.

Luther, the same former militia member who’d set fire to Noah’s home with Milo sleeping inside. The same man who’d turned informant and helped them beat the militia.

Liam despised him, too, but the man had saved their lives. Unsure what to do with Luther, Liam had stashed him in a safe house outside of Fall Creek.

But that was a problem for later. They had more immediate concerns.

Lee returned with a jug of sterilized water, canisters of salt, and a stack of bandages and set them on the counter. He pulled medical supplies from the cabinets that shared space with beakers, petri dishes, and microscopes for science classes. The air smelled of Betadine and bleach.

“Is anything broken?” Hannah asked Evelyn. “Will she be okay?”

“Check her ribs,” Liam said.

Evelyn shot him an exasperated look. “Already done. I am a medical professional, you know.” She finished her examination. “Quinn, you’re extremely lucky. No broken ribs. Several deep bruises and lacerations we’ll need to take care of, though, including that hand.”

Lee brought over the supplies from the counter. He handed Evelyn a water bottle.

“This is a homemade solution of saline,” she said. “We’ll use it to flush your wounds, remove debris and bacteria, and inhibit its growth. Salt draws moisture from bacteria, which destroys it.”

Using a clean nail, she punctured a hole in the container and squeezed, using the narrow stream of saltwater solution to clean the cuts in Quinn’s hand.

Quinn winced.

Evelyn patted Quinn’s shoulder. “You need to rest and recuperate. You understand?”

Dully, Quinn nodded.

“And you,” Evelyn admonished Liam. “For once, you must take it easy—”

A commotion came from the hallway. Voices raised. Rapid footsteps.

Liam’s heart rate spiked. Ignoring the flare of pain, he reached for his Glock.

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

The staccato click, click, click of a cane echoed off the tile floor. “Where is she?”

Lee attempted to block the door. “Molly, you shouldn’t see her like this—”

“Don’t you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do!” Molly snapped. “Try and stop me, see what happens. I guarantee it’ll be over my dead body! Or more accurately, yours!”

Liam let out his breath and released his hold on the Glock.

Molly pushed Lee aside, who threw up his hands in defeat and stepped back. “Yes ma’am.”

The old woman hobbled into the room, cane smacking the floor, sharp blue eyes peering from the wrinkled span of her face.

With an abashed expression, Lee trailed after her.

Molly caught sight of her and blanched. She gave a sharp, startled gasp. “Oh.”

She’d probably planned a royal tongue lashing to put her rebellious granddaughter back in her place. The horrific sight of the beaten, bloodied girl was enough to stay anyone’s tongue with pity. Even Molly’s.

Quinn looked up through the matted locks of her hair. A mix of dread, guilt, and longing tinged her swollen features.

“Gran.” Her face crumpled. “I’m—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

“Hush, child.” Molly’s cane clattered to the floor. She shrugged off the Mossberg 500 shotgun, leaned it against the wall, and shuffled to her granddaughter.

She leaned forward and cupped the girl’s mangled face in her hands with incredible gentleness, as if cradling a fragile baby chick.

Before she could say anything, the hulking form of Atticus Bishop filled the doorway, his billowy afro making him appear even larger. Pastor of Crossway Church on Main Street by day, super soldier by night.

“Where’s my girl?” he boomed.

Three more figures crowded into the room. Dave Farris, the owner of Fall Creek Inn, ham radio aficionado, and town council member, and Jose Reynoso, the newest Fall Creek Police Chief. He was quiet and easy-going, solid as a rock.

Samantha Perez shouldered in behind them, her short black hair pushed behind her ears, an aggrieved scowl on her face. Her law enforcement uniform was wrinkled, and fatigue lined her bronze skin.

For a moment, the medical ward went dead silent as everyone absorbed the shock of Quinn’s condition.

Dave removed his winter cap and twisted it in his hands. His warm smile didn’t fade, though his weathered face lost some color. “We’ve been worried sick for both of you.”

Never one to mince words, Perez flat out asked what everyone was thinking. “What the hell happened?”

In a halting voice, Quinn told them. Her meeting with Xander Thorne and his crazy band of nihilists in the woods. How she’d glimpsed Mattias Sutter. Her rash decision to go after them and kill him herself.

How Sutter had gained the upper hand and outed her, though they’d both ended up in Xander’s makeshift prison cell. The attack on the warehouse.

Their escape as she fought side by side with a killer. How when Sutter had turned on her, she’d stabbed him.

Everyone listened in rapt silence.

“How did you know where to find me?” Quinn asked.

“Milo,” Hannah said.

With a wince, Quinn closed her eyes and nodded.

“You gave me a heart attack,” Molly said. “I could’ve died from worry. You’ve got good people who give a damn. Pardon my French, pastor. Don’t go taking that for granted.”

“I know,” Quinn said through split lips.

Molly jabbed her withered finger at Liam. “That goes for you, too, big soldier.”

Bishop shook his head, guilt in his eyes. “I should have gone with you.”

Liam waved a weary hand. “I asked you to keep them safe. They are. You did everything I needed you to do.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have to go it alone. No soldier should ever be alone. I should’ve had your six.”

Liam shrugged him off. The attention made him uncomfortable. As a Delta Force Operator, he’d had a team of brothers. His army unit always had his back.

In the years since, though…

Before the Collapse, he’d sought isolation, hiding away on his homestead in northern Michigan. It was easier, safer.

And devoid of purpose, joy, or meaning, a voice in his head reminded him.

Here, he’d found all three. Here, he’d found Hannah.

“We made it home. That’s what matters.”

“They’re right,” Evelyn said. “You both have people who care what happens to you. Getting yourself killed in the name of honor doesn’t help anyone.”

She handed clean dressings to Hannah to finish binding Quinn’s palm and returned to Liam’s side. She unbuttoned his shirt and eased him out of it.

Cold air hit his chest, his skin pimpled with goose bumps. Old scars marred his torso—slashes from knives, circular white blemishes from a bullet or two, the raised nubs of shrapnel peppered across his bicep and left upper ribs.

Evelyn told him to lay back as she peeled the pus and blood-soaked bandages from his lower left side.

With a scowl, she pointed at the red pucker of his most recent gunshot wound. “You can die of an infection as easily as the next guy. You must allow yourself to heal. No more heroics.”

“Point taken,” Liam said. “But I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“What does that mean?” Perez asked.

“There’s more.”

“How can there be more?” Dave asked.

Reynoso kept his steady gaze on Liam, already expecting the worst. “Out with it.”

“The Sinclairs,” Liam said. “There’s another one.”

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

Hannah’s heartbeat thudded in her chest, her ears. Trepidation shot through her. “What do you mean?”

“They call him the General,” Quinn said. “Or at least, Sutter did. His name is Byron Sinclair. He’s Rosamond Sinclair’s father. And he knows about us.”

Everyone stared at Quinn in shock.

Her voice shook. “He knows we killed Rosamond.”

Though a propane heater warmed the room, a chill sucked the heat from Hannah’s body. For a second, everything went fuzzy and distant.

She inhaled a sharp breath and forced herself to remain present, to understand what this meant—the threat it presented to her family and her home.

“Can we even trust Sutter?” Reynoso asked.

“Sutter had no reason to lie,” Quinn said. “He was using the information to torture me. He didn’t think I was getting out of that place alive.” She raised her chin. “I did, though.”

Hannah dabbed the crusted blood from the side of Quinn’s face. Her hands trembled; she bit her lip and willed them to steady. She had to think, to remain clear-headed and focused. “What exactly did he say?”

“That the governor of Michigan gave him a small army. He’s supposed to go after some threat in Illinois—”

“Alexander Poe,” Liam said.

“—But he’s coming here first to get his revenge.”

“When?” Reynoso asked.

Quinn kept her gaze on the carpet. “Sutter said a couple of days, but who knows.”

Reynoso cursed.

“Who says we couldn’t try to reason with him?” Lee asked.

“Like how we reasoned with Rosamond?” Perez said. “That worked out so well.”

“Tell him we had nothing to do with his daughter’s death.” Lee flashed a guilty glance at Bishop. “No offense, Pastor. I know it’s a lie, but what else are we going to do?”

“None taken,” Bishop said. “I understand the need for deception when facing an enemy such as this. Except, I doubt it would work. All Southwest Michigan knows Fall Creek defeated the militia and put a stop to Rosamond. It’s no secret.”

Most folks assumed it was Liam who’d committed the act; it was Hannah and Quinn who had confronted the superintendent and come out the victors.

Hannah had seen no reason to correct them. Besides, Quinn had enough on her plate.

“We’re assuming he’s as bad as Rosamond was,” Lee said. “What if that’s a mistake?”

“What if he’s worse?” Bishop said. “Isn’t that more likely?”

Shen Lee hadn’t seen Rosamond for who she truly was. At first, he’d supported the militia, long after he shouldn’t have.

“Every member of that family was poison.” Hannah pinned her gaze on Lee. “Gavin Pike was a murderous psychopath. Julian, a scheming enabler. Rosamond, a selfish, manipulative tyrant.”

“It’s safe to assume that the poisoned apples didn’t fall far from the tree,” Bishop said. “If the General is the tree—”

“—then we’re facing a heap of trouble,” Dave finished, the blood draining from his face.

Hannah kept looking at Lee. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze, his cheeks blooming red.

“We need to assume that he’s as much a threat as Sutter claimed he is,” Liam said. “Until and unless we receive actionable intelligence otherwise, we’re facing the gravest threat to our safety that we have yet encountered.”

Liam waved Evelyn away like an irritating wasp and sat up. Nonplussed, she slapped his hand aside and went back to work abrading his wound.

Hannah’s mind whirred. Her brain kept searching for a different explanation, for a way out. There wasn’t one.

“We thought it was finished with her,” Molly said, the slightest tremble in her voice. “It was supposed to be over.”

“Since the Collapse, nothing has ever been over,” Liam said.

Hannah shivered, suddenly cold. He wasn’t wrong.

Three and a half months ago, an EMP attack devastated the nation. A series of simultaneous, high-altitude nuclear detonations had caused an electromagnetic pulse that destroyed the power grid across most of the continental United States.

It had fried the electronic systems in vehicles, aircraft, laptops and phones, even many newer model generators.

Tens of thousands had died that first day. Cities were deluged with fires, explosions from fallen planes, and massive vehicular collisions.

The weeks that followed had been horrific. The brutal winter had killed millions with hypothermia, starvation, and disease from poor sanitation and tainted water. Hundreds of thousands of medically fragile people perished without access to the machines and critical medications that kept them alive.

And the violence. People murdered each other for a can of beans or a bottle of antibiotics. Gangs and cartels fought for supremacy in the power vacuum left by impotent local and state authorities.

“Evil is difficult to eradicate,” Bishop said. “It sprouts everywhere. You cut off one head, another appears somewhere else. With the collapse of civilization, those with wicked intent have become emboldened. They believe there is nothing to stop them from doing whatever they wish.”

“I’ll stop them,” Liam said.

“What if he comes with hundreds of armed men?” Reynoso asked. “Real soldiers. That’s a far cry from a bloodthirsty band of untrained militia. We’re talking about the military, here. We couldn’t face that.”

“What do we do?” Molly asked. “What’s the game plan?”

“Could we run?” Dave asked. “Gather our people and flee Fall Creek?”

“And go where?” Liam asked.

“The neighboring towns—”

“Would put themselves in his crosshairs,” Bishop finished. “We wouldn’t be safer with them.”

Perez shook her head, dark eyes flashing. “Like they’d even agree to shelter us. I doubt that. Not after the way the Community Alliance abandoned us.”

“Then we go further,” Lee said without conviction. The blood had drained from his face. He looked as sick as Hannah felt.

“With what vehicles?” Hannah asked. “We only have a handful of working trucks, tractors, and ATVs. Not enough for a thousand people.”

“It’s not logistically feasible,” Liam said. “We would run out of fuel and food. We would starve.”

“I’m not leaving,” Molly said. “This is my home. It was my daddy’s home before mine. I spent forty years with my husband in that house. No way I’m giving it up to a bunch of turdballs with guns.”

“Then how can we defend ourselves?” Lee asked.

“How many men?” Bishop rested one hand on the pistol holstered beneath his leather jacket. Like he wanted to confront this new enemy that second. “How well trained? With what weapons? Will they have military gear? The seal of approval from the government? What are we facing here?”

“All questions we needed answers for yesterday,” Liam said.

“When will it end?” Quinn asked.

“When we end it,” Hannah said with more conviction than she felt. “And we will end it.”

Bishop placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hannah’s right. We’ll face this threat together. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Despite her brave words, a frisson of terror raced up her spine. A coldness seeped into her flesh, a coldness she couldn’t shake.

The evil that plagued this town was not yet extinguished.

She couldn’t picture this man as a human being of flesh and blood, but rather a faceless shadow, a monster made of nightmares.

Another Sinclair rising like a ghost from the ashes, threatening everything she held dear. After all they’d been through, after all they’d endured.

With a wince, Liam rose, one hand pressed to his bandaged side.

“Sit back down,” Evelyn ordered.

“No time,” he said between gritted teeth.

Evelyn clapped her hands. “Okay, that’s enough for now. I have two patients who need their rest.”

“Later,” Liam said. “I can’t rest—”

“Today, you are.” Evelyn raised her voice, her jaw set. She was having none of it. “Give your orders to Bishop, or to Reynoso, or Dave, Annette, or Perez. You have a dozen people waiting at your beck and call.”

“Liam,” Hannah said, her throat tight.

Evelyn had cleaned, restitched, and covered his wound, winding a fresh bandage around his torso, but not before Hannah glimpsed the angry red infection flaring from his injury and creeping outward in vivid scarlet and purple streaks.

She tasted the sour acid of fear in the back of her throat. Evelyn wasn’t exaggerating; in this world without ambulances or hospitals, an out-of-control infection spelled disaster.

Liam kept pushing and pushing. Something had to give. Something would break.

She understood why he’d needed to go after the Brooks and then Quinn, but that didn’t mean she didn’t worry. It didn’t mean the potential consequences were less dire.

For a long moment, he looked at her, emotions warring across his rugged face.

A fierce affection squeezed her chest. He might not own the title, but he was their leader. The one they all depended on.

He knew it and bore the burden willingly. It was a burden he couldn’t shed at will. It was in him, a part of him. He wanted to protect them.

That went both ways. They could take care of him, too.

If he learned to let them—to let her.

As if sensing the tension in the room, Ghost lifted his head and gave a low distressed whine. He cocked his ears and chuffed.

“It’s okay, boy,” Hannah soothed. “We’re all in agreement, now. Aren’t we?”

Bishop stepped forward. “Tell me what to do, brother.”

Subdued, Liam sank back onto the cot, scowling. Surrender wasn’t in his nature. “There’s a map of Michigan in my go-bag. Bring it to me. We need to get ready. Right now, we’re blind and vulnerable. We need to send forward observers north to warn us of what’s coming. The defense of Fall Creek starts now.”

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

Q uinn slogged through soggy, half-melted snow. Every movement brought jolts of aches and pains. Her entire body felt bruised.

At the edge of the parking lot, she hesitated. The chilly air pricked her exposed cheeks.

Dense gray clouds roiled across the sky. The temperature hovered in the forties. It was downright balmy after the wind chill in the negative double digits for months on end.

A cold wind whipped at her hair. She wore a coat, her AR-15 slung over her shoulder, one hand thrust in her pocket, fingers closing over her slingshot.

The cuts in her palm throbbed through the bandages, pulsing with her heartbeat, with her grief, regret, and anger.

She wanted to shoot something. Or curl into a ball and weep for a century. Or both.

She stood at the rear of the Crossway Church property. Perched on the corner of Main and Riverside Road, the stone church’s steeple towered above her. Plywood boarded up the shattered stained-glass windows.

Three months ago, she’d staggered from this building drenched in other people’s blood, Milo’s small trembling hand clenched in hers.

Quinn had dragged Milo out of hell itself.

“You can come closer,” a deep voice boomed. “No need to sneak around.”

Quinn flinched. She’d thought she was alone. Some super spy she was.

Several yards from the parking lot, Atticus Bishop knelt beneath a cluster of barren maple trees. Caught in her reverie, she hadn’t noticed his presence.

In front of him, three wooden crosses rose from three mounds of packed dirt—one large, two smaller. Each cross was about three feet tall, constructed of nailed two-by-fours.

Still kneeling, Bishop twisted around to look at her. He hunched his broad shoulders, his face gray with fatigue and sorrow. Two wet tracks traced his cheeks into his bristly beard.

He’d been weeping. Grieving his dead family.

Quinn was a trespasser. She shouldn’t have come.

She swallowed, her mouth dry as a desert. “I wasn’t sneaking.” Though she had. Kind of. “I’ll go—”

“No.” Bishop swiped at his reddened eyes with the back of his arm. His face cleared, and he smiled. “Please. I want you to stay.”

Bishop had never treated her with anything but kindness. She couldn’t say no to him.

She glanced at the crosses again, then nodded numbly.

“Couldn’t keep away, huh?” Bishop meant it as a joke, but it fell flat.

Quinn didn’t know what drew her back to this place, the origin of her nightmares. She had to come, like a moth drawn to a flame.

The scent of fresh paint was unmistakable in the crisp air. Glancing around, she caught sight of several empty cans clustered outside the side door that led to the recently reopened food pantry, along with a stack of two by fours, a bucket of nails, and a paint-splattered canvas tarp.

Rolls of ragged carpet leaned against the outside wall. Bloodstains had leaked through the carpet backing.

Her gaze flicked away, her heartbeat quickening. She hooked her thumb and pointed behind her. “You’re repairing the church.”

Bishop’s forehead wrinkled. “I couldn’t leave it like that. The house of God, a place of refuge. It felt…desecrated. I’m repairing what I can. The people need a place to worship. To heal. I need it, too.”

“Oh.”

“I’m working on plastering the bullet holes. You’re welcome to help if you’d like.”

Her stomach did a sour-sick somersault. She didn’t know about that. Hell, she was pretty sure she never wanted to step inside Crossway again. “Maybe later.”

“I’d like the company. Of course, it’s up to you.”

Much had happened since the massacre. The vivid scenes still echoed in the deepest recesses of her mind—the awful screaming, the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire. The fear like a vise constricting her throat, the taste of terror a copper penny on her tongue.

Ray Shultz and his bulging, half-crazed eyes as he opened fire on the church sanctuary. Billy Carter, psychotic child murderer, killer of Bishop’s family. Octavia, her druggie meth head mother who’d done a single good thing at the end—she’d saved Quinn from Billy.

The slaughter of innocents had set in motion events that had brought the militia, the executions, tyranny, and fear, that had led inexorably to the showdown with Rosamond and the death of Noah.

Quinn met Bishop’s gaze and recognized the shadows of regret and loss in his eyes. He was reliving the same night.

He’d watched them die. The daughters Quinn had failed to save, the wife he couldn’t rescue.

They shared that terrible history. Milo wasn’t old enough to understand the way they did. To live with the nightmares, both sleeping and waking.

Maybe that was why she’d come, driven by the guilt and shame eating at her.

Bishop understood what had happened here. He’d lived it. And he’d loved Noah; he’d lost a friend, too.

Maybe he’d understand about Sutter, too. Why she’d felt driven—compelled—to do what she did. Why she’d had to kill him.

How pain was a thing that burrowed deep inside you. It changed you.

Bishop watched her, head tilted, his jaw working like he wanted to speak but was holding back. Then he turned and faced the crosses.

She stared at the back of his bushy head until her eyes blurred.

It was hard to look at the crosses. So rough and bare. So ugly. They didn’t fit the vibrant people buried beneath them.

Juniper, the tomboy with dirt always under her nails, dressed in jean overalls, her wiry black hair tugged into two buns. And Chloe, sweet, beautiful Chloe. Hers were the cries that still haunted Quinn’s dreams on her worst nights.

She rubbed at her eyebrow ring and looked away. A sharp bitterness welled on her tongue. The wind whistled through the maple trees ringing the parking lot.

This was a mistake. She didn’t know why she’d come, why she’d thought bothering Bishop with her problems would make a difference anyway—

A tree caught her eye. A big tall oak with great spreading arms.

Her stomach wrenched. Her breath caught in her throat. Almost against her will, she drifted toward it.

After all these months, the pink and purple construction paper target Chloe and Juniper had designed was long gone. She could almost hear the squealing laughter and delighted cheers as she’d drawn back her slingshot, released, and hit the bull’s eye.

Quinn knelt at the base of the tree, steadying the AR-15 with one hand. Her boots sank into snow-crusted dirt. Pine needles and dead leaves littered the damp ground. The scent of wet earth filled her nostrils.

With a bare hand, she brushed aside a lump of dirty snow and uncovered a small object—the object she knew she’d find.

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

Q uinn swallowed around the lump in her throat. She palmed the bright blue marble.

It was a cat’s eye. The watery sunlight brought out the depths of rich cobalt blues. The swirls of white and gray like a tiny planet, something deep and rich and alive.

“That was Chloe’s,” Bishop said.

She turned toward him. He still knelt before the crosses several yards away, his expression pained, but there was kindness in his eyes. Compassion and understanding.

It nearly undid her.

“We—we shot these the night of…the night it happened. Chloe said it was her favorite.”

“She used to sleep with that one beneath her pillow.” Bishop’s voice cracked. “She thought her sister was going to borrow it and forget to give it back.”

“I hit the bullseye with this one. She was going to come back for it, and then we got distracted…” She held it out to him, her throat constricting. “You should have it.”

His eyes went glossy. He blinked. A tear trickled down his brown cheek. “You keep it. She adored you, you know. She would’ve wanted you to have it.”

Her fingers closed over the marble. She gripped it tighter than she’d ever held anything in her life, until her nails bit into her palms and the cuts throbbed. The pain kept her from bursting into tears.

Bishop gestured at her to come closer. “It’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

Without thinking, she trudged across the muddy, matted grass and stood beside him, her arms limp at her sides, her swollen face stinging from the cold.

Quinn sucked in a bracing breath, steeling herself. “I know I messed up.”

“I won’t pretend what you did was smart, Quinn. Liam is foolhardy, too, but at least he knows what he’s doing. You’re lucky you’re still alive. And that Liam is alive, too.”

She looked down at the marble and rolled it between her fingers. Guilt scoured her insides. “I know it.”

“Sutter is dead. That nihilistic group is gone. It was reckless, what you did, but God had His eyes on you. He kept you safe.”

Her head lowered. She felt numb, emptied out. Sutter was dead by her hand. She’d killed him, but the risks had been too great.

She could see that now. She’d never be so stupid again.

With all her heart, she longed to save people, not the other way around.

“How do I make it right?”

“Apologize to the people you’ve hurt. And then move on. You have great things ahead of you, Quinn. You’re a fighter. Anyone can see that. You deserve a chance to fight for what you believe in.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I doubt that. You’ll figure it out. You can always ask me for advice.”

Quinn made a face.

“Point taken. Just so you know, if you don’t want to talk to me, you can always talk to God.”

“I bet God hates me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I’ve killed people.” Her mind seared with images of Sutter sinking to his knees, blood gushing from his thigh. Of Rosamond clutching at her blood-soaked throat. “And I’m not sorry.”

Bishop chuckled.

“I’m not.” There was darkness in her heart—the part that wanted to kill and keep killing. Her face burned with shame. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“How can you be a soldier and a pastor? How can you preach love and mercy and then kill people?”

“I fight when I must. When defending the innocent is the right thing to do. In the Old Testament, many of God’s people were warriors, called by God to fight to end tyranny, slavery, and great evil.”

“Oh.”

“People are more than one thing. They carry both good and evil inside them, darkness and light, violence and peace. Mercy and justice.”

Bishop stared at the crosses. “The key is to make sure your cause is righteous. And to keep the darkness from taking over your soul.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Easier said than done on both counts.”

“How do you not give in to it? The anger. The hatred.”

“Find that thing that keeps you human, and hold onto it with all your might. For me, it’s my faith.”

“Okay,” she said in a choked voice. Her split lip hurt, but she kept talking. She needed to get it all out. “I’m still so angry.”

“Be angry. Nothing wrong with angry. But control it, channel it. Use it; don’t let it use you.”

She let that sink in.

“Anger can fuel you. Empower you.”

“Huh.”

“There’s an anger that motivates you, that drives you. That seeks righteous justice. There’s nothing wrong with that anger. But it can turn bitter and toxic. If you’re not careful, it can eat away at the part of you that makes you who you are. That’s the anger you have to watch out for, Quinn. It’s like fire. It both gives life and destroys. How you use it is what matters.”

She nodded, letting that truth sink in deep.

She didn’t want to end up like Xander, a boy consumed by his rage, who’d wanted to destroy everything, to tear down the world.

The fight inside her needed to be controlled. Not diminished, but changed.

Something shifted within her. A release. Like a dam had given way and the darkness inside her had leaked out. Anger still roiled inside her, but it was different now.

It was hard to name or describe, though she felt it.

“I have faith in you, Quinn.”

“You mean that?”

He shot her a broad smile beneath his beard. “Absolutely.”

A great weight inside her chest lifted.

It wasn’t gone completely, but it was a start.

“I doubt Liam feels that way, though.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Bishop rose to his feet, his knees cracking, and brushed off his pant legs. “Talk to him. Shame thrives in secrecy and silence. Talking frees us.”

She kicked at a stray pile of dirt-encrusted snow. “I knew you’d be helpful, Pastor. You should charge a fee.”

“I’ll take some of Molly’s lamb’s ear plants.” Now it was Bishop’s turn to look sheepish. “I’ve run out of, you know, TP.”

Quinn made a face. “And that’s my cue to go.”

“Quinn.” Bishop reached out, took her forearm, and squeezed it. “After everything, it is love that endures. We need people to survive. We need each other. It’s the only thing separating us from the darkness.”

The blue marble pressed against her palm—round, cold, hard. And beautiful. Quinn slipped it into her pocket next to her slingshot. A reminder she didn’t want to forget.

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

Dave’s blue eyes twinkled. “I have a surprise for you.”

“As long as it’s a pleasant surprise.” Hannah adjusted her grip on Charlotte in her carrier. Her daughter kicked her feet and giggled as Dave tickled her toes through her soft-soled shoes. “We could use more of those.”

“Pretty sure you’ll think so. Come round back.”

In his early sixties, Dave’s hair was graying, his face weathered with smile lines.

He owned fifteen rural acres and the Fall Creek Inn. The militia’s fuel stash had allowed the inn’s generator to keep running, so Dave had taken in Fall Creek’s elderly and medically fragile.

Dave was a helper, always putting others first without complaint. He used his ham radio contacts to connect family and friends from across the state and even across the country. He’d also stepped up to fulfill the role of unofficial superintendent now that Rosamond was dead.

Dave led her deeper into his fifteen-acre property. They passed two sheds and a pole barn, then several rows of cherry trees and his grape arbors.

Craning her neck, she gazed up at the huge antenna towering forty feet into the pewter sky. Gray clouds cloaked the horizon like a thick woolen blanket. No wind or snow, but no sun either.

They needed a turn in the weather to plant their seedlings. They had the tractors, biofuel, and the volunteer workforce. Spring needed to make its entrance.

Of course, they had to survive the General first. No sign of his army—yet.

While Dave, Annette, and Hannah focused on logistics such as food, water, power, and fuel, Liam took command of security. Whatever Liam ordered, they did without complaint or question.

Hannah prayed it would be enough to fend off the General.

Doubt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. But for how long? And then what?

Dave led her to the office tacked onto the backside of his detached garage, opened the door, and gestured for her to enter. “I found someone who wants to talk to you.”

Her chest constricted. “Is it—?”

Dave grinned. “You’ll just have to see.”

They entered Dave’s office, a large room filled with shelves of ham equipment—a radio and transceiver, scanners, two-way handhelds, and a couple of desktop computers. Knots of power cables snaked along the floor. A generator hummed in the background.

Cloudy gray light streamed through the single window. A portable propane heater in one corner provided warmth.

Hannah sank into the soft leather chair, one hand clutching Charlotte to her chest as she reached for the mic with the other.

Charlotte bounced in her lap. She grabbed the mic with two chubby hands; her pink mouth opened like she wanted to eat it.

Hannah pushed it out of her reach and swallowed, anticipation fizzing in her belly. “Hello?”

“Hannah?” The voice on the other end was achingly familiar. “Hannah, is that you?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. She closed her eyes, mouth dry, unable to form words. Childhood memories filled her mind: camping, hiking, family dinners, trips to the grocery store. Football games and late-night study sessions.

Dave squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”

His touch brought her back. She opened her eyes and inhaled sharply. Keying the mic, Hannah said, “It’s me.”

Silence on the other end, as if the speaker were as overwhelmed as she was. Not just any speaker—Oliver, her brother. After five horrific years, she was speaking to her brother.

“I can’t believe it,” Oliver sputtered, joy and disbelief in his voice. “We thought…all this time…they told us you were dead…”

“I’m not.”

“I can hear that. I still can’t believe it. Man oh man, this is unbelievable! I can’t wrap my head around it—” A beat of silence. A note of doubt crept into his tone. “How…how do I know it’s really you?”

She leaned forward. Tears sparked in her eyes, her voice husky with emotion. “When I was ten, I found a garter snake in the yard and put it in your bed as revenge. You called me a scaredy cat because I was afraid to jump off the embankment at the lake. I showed you, though. When it was your turn, you screamed like a little girl.”

Merry laughter burst from the mic. “Little sister, it’s good to hear your voice. After everything, the whole world falling apart…I didn’t believe something good could still happen.”

She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. “There’s still good in the world, Oliver. I promise.”

“Damn! How I’ve missed you! If only Mom and Dad could see us. I wish—I wish they’d lived to see this moment.”

She blinked the wetness from her eyes. “Me too.”

For the next hour, they reminisced about their childhood and shared memories of their parents, who hadn’t survived the day of the EMP. They caught up on each other’s lives while Dave sat at the other end of the desk and busied himself repairing a broken receiver.

Hannah gave Oliver the shorthand version of her captivity and escape from Pike. She told him how Liam had found her in the woods and saved her. Charlotte’s birth in a cabin in the middle of a blizzard. How Pike had hunted her. How she and Ghost killed him.

Some parts were painful, but with every word she spoke, it became easier and easier. The act of telling her story was freeing—and powerful—in a way she hadn’t expected.

When she’d finished, Oliver was in tears. So was Dave.

“And Noah?” Oliver asked.

So, she told him about the militia and Noah’s death. It had been almost two months since Noah had died, three months since her return to Fall Creek. She still grieved for him, but in a different way.

She’d come to terms with his actions, both the bad and the good. He had spent his life protecting their son. Though they’d disagreed on the methods, she could forgive him for it.

She did forgive him.

And with that absolution, that small mercy, she could move on.

Next, it was Oliver’s turn. He explained how his fellow Yoopers, natives of the Upper Peninsula, had come together to survive the brutal winter. The EMP had affected the entire United States—sans Hawaii and Alaska—and the lower parts of Canada.

Like the residents of harsh, remote Alaska, Yoopers were tough, independent, and hardy. They had to be; the winters were long and cold, the towns small and scattered amid miles of rugged wilderness.

The Upper Peninsula, or the U.P. as Michiganders called it, hadn’t experienced the same level of anarchy and lawlessness ravaging the rest of the country.

Survival was difficult but possible.

“Things are tough, but I’m making do.” Oliver hesitated. She could almost feel him thinking through the radio, a little tentative; not daring to hope but hoping anyway.

“What is it?”

“There’s room for you here at Mom and Dad’s place. For you and the kids.”

Their parents had owned a farmhouse on thirty acres just outside of Brevort, a tiny town close to Mackinac Bridge separating the upper and lower peninsulas. The property was nestled at the tip of Lake Michigan, surrounded by the Sault Ste. Marie National Forest.

“We can make it here, Hannah. We can.”

Her heart squeezed at the hope in his voice, the eagerness and passion as he spun a vision of a tiny house deep in the woods, of gardens, a well, and prime hunting grounds. Remote and isolated. A safe place sheltered from the world.

“Would you consider coming here?” she asked instead. “To Fall Creek?”

Oliver didn’t answer right away. She could imagine him hunched over his desk, blond brows scrunched in a frown, his lank overgrown hair spilling into his brown eyes as he scratched at his goatee.

She didn’t know whether he still had a goatee—whether he was clean-shaven, or whether he’d given in and grown a mountain-man style beard like their father.

An ache opened deep in her chest. She missed him intensely. She missed her dead parents.

“Someday, maybe,” he said. “There are so few people up here. They know how to live off the land. You know how it is. It’s different. I belong here.”

Hannah bit her lower lip, pushing down her disappointment. “I know. I understand.”

“I’ll keep adding to the supplies, you know, in case you change your mind. You’ll always have a home here.”

“We’re in the same state, but it feels like we’re oceans apart.”

“Just for now. I promise, it won’t be forever. We’ll see each other again. I don’t have a ham radio, but Stanley Barnes does. Remember him?”

“Of course. Cranky old guy who lived at the end of the road since forever, always yelling at us to stay out of his woods or he’d tell Dad to give us a good whipping.”

Oliver laughed. “Yeah, that guy. He’s too old to yell anymore. I’ve been checking in on him. Stay in contact, little sister. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Me either,” she said. “Me either.”

After she’d signed off, Dave handed her a clean handkerchief. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes as Charlotte batted at the white fabric.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Nothing to apologize for. Family means more than it ever has. And it always meant everything. We were just so busy and distracted, some of us forgot.”

She let Charlotte have the handkerchief and rested her hand on Dave’s arm. “And friendship. Yours is priceless. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” Dave shrugged, his weathered cheeks reddening. “Anyway, I’ve got a scheduled radio call with Captain Hamilton. You got time to join in?”

Hannah glanced at her watch. “I promised Molly I’d help transfer some seedlings in her winter garden to the greenhouses, but I have a few minutes before I’ll need to feed and change Charlotte. Travis agreed to watch her. She and L.J. are hitting it off.”

Charlotte often shared a crib with L.J. They were becoming so attached to each other that they slept holding hands or curled into each other like kittens.

Dave tugged at Charlotte’s socks, and she let out a peal of laughter. “As only babies can.”

A few minutes later, Dave had contacted Charlie Hamilton, the captain in charge of the National Guard unit stationed at the Cook Nuclear Power Plant in Stevensville, about fourteen miles west of Fall Creek on Lake Michigan.

Hannah and Dave had organized a couple of food drops to keep the soldiers, the engineers, and their families fed after FEMA discontinued supply deliveries. The engineers kept the plant maintained, so once things got back online, they’d be ready.

Hamilton’s brisk, cheerful voice filled the room. “How’s Fall Creek this morning? By the way, you’re speaking to a newly promoted major.”

“Congratulations, Major Hamilton,” Dave said.

“It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? It’s been a long time coming.” They could hear the grin in his voice. No matter the difficulties arrayed against him, he always maintained a positive, jovial attitude. Hannah liked him. “Now, how’s my favorite Delta?”

“Recovering.” Hannah filled Hamilton in on the craziness of the last few days—including the threat from the General.

“I’ve received standby orders,” Hamilton said. “From the Governor himself. No details. Brass is tight-lipped about everything. Communication is crap.”

“For now, we’re keeping our people within the town’s borders,” Dave said. “If someone can pick up supplies, we can offer some fresh vegetables for the kids, at least.”

“As always, we appreciate your generosity,” Hamilton said. “I’ll send one of my men tomorrow morning. And stay alert. We’ve had reports of large movements south of the Michigan state line. A large group of organized criminals calling themselves the Syndicate, led by a man named Alexander Poe. They’ve amassed a civilian army with military-grade weapons. They’re taking over towns and FEMA shelters, using forced labor, and selling supplies, drugs, and weapons. Rumor has it they’re selling people, too. Women and children.”

Hannah stiffened. “Liam ran into them outside of Champaign.”

“Then you know. They’ve taken over Chicago and most of Illinois. Last night, they breached the Indiana border. A fighting force of over two thousand men poured into Gary. We have reports of dozens of civilian deaths and other atrocities.”

“I caught similar chatter from my contacts this morning,” Dave said. “It’s like a war zone.”

“It’s not like a war zone. It is one.”

Dread scrabbled up the notches of her spine. Via I-94, the city of Gary, Indiana, was less than sixty-five miles from Fall Creek. “You think Poe might invade Michigan?”

“It’s a distinct possibility that we can’t afford to rule out. They may push into Michigan City or head toward Mishawaka.”

“Either city is too close for comfort,” Dave said.

“I agree. Indiana obeyed the President’s edicts and sent their National Guard to aid in the rioting in D.C. They’re vulnerable. Poe is bulldozing through the state with little resistance.”

“Aren’t folks fighting back?” Dave asked.

“They are, but we’re talking small groups and individual homesteads. It happened so fast, the civilians didn’t have time to organize a fighting force. They were taken by surprise.”

“Hot damn,” Dave whispered.

“Take care, Fall Creek,” Hamilton said.

“We will,” Hannah said. “Over and out.”

Hannah and Dave exchanged a heavy glance. Dread curdled in her gut. Threats were closing in from every direction.

War. Tyranny. Human slavery.

How could this be America? How could the tiny town of Fall Creek stand against such evil?

She sensed the danger lurking just outside their line of sight, invisible but ever present, drawing closer and closer, gathering strength and power as it came.

A tsunami of darkness about to crash down upon them, destroying everything in its wake.

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

The General tipped his head back, swallowed the last of the cheap whiskey, and tossed the plastic cup on the concrete floor.

He wanted to wash his mouth out with soap. The whiskey had held none of the complex tableau of rich, dusky flavors of cognac, his beverage of choice. He relished a well-aged cognac rich with spices, leather, citrus, and tannins, like velvet on his tongue.

He glanced at his watch in increasing frustration. He was sick to death of the Fort Custer Training Center in Augusta, Michigan, near Battle Creek.

Fort Custer was the federally owned and state-operated Army National Guard training facility where Governor Duffield had sent him to gather the National Guard to defend Michigan from the Syndicate.

A mere eighty miles from his true destination of Fall Creek.

So close. And yet.

Their departure had been delayed when one of the two Black Hawks requisitioned for the mission broke down. Obtaining the specialized parts in the middle of a worldwide collapse had proved an exercise in frustration and futility.

They were down to one helo.

So be it. They could do plenty of damage with their remaining arsenal.

Five hundred National Guardsmen armed with M4s. Twenty armored Humvees equipped with .50 caliber M2 Browning machine guns, along with additional transport vehicles. Crates of LAW anti-tank rockets and belt-fed machine guns. Modest supplies of mortar and artillery. He’d requested more; the Governor had not yet complied.

No drones, though. Resources were rapidly dwindling: fuel, ammunition, food. Military bases, at least in Michigan, derived their power from civilian power sources. 100% of them were offline.

Communication was failing. Chaos and confusion reigned at every level in the chain of command.

He wasn’t worried. Irritated to all hell, though.

Worse, the paramilitary team he’d sent ahead of him had neither returned nor checked in.

With an irked sigh, he watched the guardsmen organizing the staging area, readying the supplies, and loading them onto the transport vehicles. He kept his own men close.

His most trusted contractors served as his bodyguards. At least ten surrounded him, skilled paramilitary operators dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and chest rigs, outfitted with Berettas and M4s.

He’d recruited them years ago for his private security firm, conducting special operations off the book for the alphabet agencies who wanted plausible deniability. He’d given it to them.

He’d handpicked former military or law enforcement with black marks in their files. He preferred the morally bankrupt.

They made better soldiers and more efficient killers. Zero moral qualms to take into consideration.

The General cracked his swollen knuckles. His arthritis was acting up again. The stale, chilly air gnawed at him, but he refused to shiver or reveal any weakness.

He was no longer young. Pushing seventy-one, he’d always boasted a rugged toughness, his broad chest sagging only in the last few years. Now, his body ached in too many places to mention.

He missed his cushy office next to the Governor’s at the George W. Romney Building on Capital Avenue in Lansing. The overstuffed leather chair, the whirring generators, and his tumbler of favorite cognac. He missed ice.

War was a young man’s game.

He belonged at the top of the food chain, where he could rest and relax in luxurious comfort—not out here in the wild, enduring cold, hunger, and discomfort.

Those behind expansive desks had earned the right to command death with the push of a button.

Only, there were no buttons to push anymore.

Ah, but he’d chosen this, hadn’t he? He’d let his thirst for vengeance and sense of poetic justice lure him from the sumptuous luxuries of the governor’s office. Simple things—ice on command, power at the flick of a switch—represented the new opulence.

For a purpose, he told himself. A little longer, and he’d return victorious, the man responsible for demolishing the Syndicate.

Not only that—he’d consolidate more power and influence than any politician in the Midwest.

Lauren Eubanks, the Secretary of State, had remained behind to whisper in Governor Duffield’s ear and undermine the General at every turn. She disliked him, distrusted his sage advice, and resented his rapid rise to power as the Governor’s trusted military advisor.

A plain woman with a stern, suspicious demeanor, Lauren Eubanks was intelligent and competent. Unusual for a politician, or a woman.

The General hated her.

She was also the next in line of succession if something unfortunate were to happen to the current governor of Michigan, Henry Duffield. A fact never far from the General’s mind—or plans.

He’d left his assistant, Osborne—a sniveling, obsequious little man—behind for a singular purpose.

He’d make his move soon, when the time was right.

Politics was a game of chess: sacrificing pawns, obfuscating with the bishop while invading with the rook for checkmate.

He was the General. The epitome of the behind-the-scenes shadow, the string-puller, the puppet master.

One of his contractors jogged up to him. It was Tyrone Gibbs, one of his best men, the one he’d sent to retrieve Sutter.

In his mid-thirties, he was trim but muscled, not an ounce of fat on him. Loyal, capable, and a talented sharpshooter. Blotches of blood spattered his wrinkled uniform; his brown skin was sheened with sweat beneath a layer of soot and dirt.

Gibbs saluted. “Sir.”

“Status report,” the General barked.

“The nihilist group were untrained, though well-armed. We had them in hand. And then—”

“What the hell happened?”

The tendons on Gibbs’ thick neck stood out like cables. He looked like he wanted to strangle someone. “We had to abort.”

The General’s lip curled in disdain. “You failed?”

Gibbs didn’t answer, but the impotent anger flashing in his dark eyes told the story.

Rage flared through the General, sharp and hot. “Where are the others?”

“Sir, I’m the only one.”

“The only what?”

The man scowled like it hurt him to say it. “The only survivor.”

The General scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

“Sir, a secondary force interfered. A spec ops soldier, it had to be. Had to be someone with considerable combat experience. He was good. Really good. We were focused on servicing our targets, and this guy took advantage of our tunnel vision. He took us by surprise. And he had help. They ambushed us outside Vortex Headquarters. I lost five men in sixty seconds.”

The General glowered at him. “Unacceptable.”

This spec ops soldier couldn’t be the same one Sutter had warned him of: the man who’d murdered the General’s daughter.

But perhaps it was.

It made a terrible sense. How many super soldier vigilantes could be running around Southwest Michigan?

He glared over Gibbs’ shoulder. “Where the hell is Sutter?”

“Dead, sir.”

The General blinked, taken aback. That wasn’t the response he wanted to hear. He needed Sutter for intel on these Fall Creek hooligans. It was the only reason he hadn’t ordered his men to eliminate Sutter, too.

“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.

A fierce affection swelled in her chest. “No one you need to worry about.”

“Can I play on the playground?”

Her gaze strayed to the figure on the platform. He hadn’t moved or registered her presence. He didn’t pose a threat to them, but she remained wary.

It was early in the morning, and no one else was at the park. Few people had time for leisure these days. The trees sighed in the wind. Water lapped along the riverbank.

She released the stroller and squeezed Milo’s hand. “Don’t wander from the playground. Ghost, stay with him.”

Ghost let out a disgruntled whine, like he’d rather remain near Hannah to keep a sharp eye on James Luther. The dog didn’t trust him. Neither did Hannah.

The Great Pyr returned to her side and pushed his head against her thigh, as if that would change her mind. She rubbed his ears with her free hand, crooked fingers scratching just the way he liked. “I’ll be fine. Watch Milo.”

Ghost chuffed unhappily but obeyed, trotting after Milo with a swish of his plumed tail. He still favored his hind leg. He could run, but not like before.

The bite he’d received defending Quinn and Milo from the feral dogs was healing, but he might never regain his full speed or strength.

With one last glance at her son, Hannah turned her focus to Luther.

Half the town wanted him dead. To protect him, Liam had stashed him in one of the abandoned houses outside of town.

She’d sworn she’d kill him herself if he ever set foot in Fall Creek again.

And yet, here he was.

He’d helped rescue Quinn. He’d saved Quinn and Liam during their escape from Vortex.

That was the one and only reason she didn’t shoot him dead where he stood. It was also the reason she’d agreed to meet with him. A onetime courtesy she already regretted.

Anger slashed through her. He was still militia. He always would be.

She pushed the jogging stroller across the bumpy ground and halted ten feet from the stage. Her right hand still in her pocket, fingers curled around cold hard steel. “What do you want?”

Luther hunched his shoulders against the wind and squinted at her. He was tall and skinny, almost gaunt, with sun-weathered features. Though he wasn’t old, his face held a dour, world-weary look.

“My father,” he said. “Is he—is he still alive?”

“We traded with the National Guard stationed at Cook Nuclear. They had medical supplies. I got him a few more oxygen tanks, but they’re running out. There’s no way to manufacture them —not here in the States, anyway.”

She almost apologized but caught herself. The state of the world wasn’t her fault.

She owed this man nothing.

Dave and Annette had moved Luther’s father from the house at Winter Haven to a room at Fall Creek Inn. Dave had organized a rotating group of volunteers to care for the elderly and sick in the community.

She unhooked the radio from her belt and held it out. “Dave’s on the other end. He’s with your father. You can talk to him for five minutes. That’s it. You understand why we can’t bring him to see you—or vice versa.”

The old man was near death. To bring him to the park and expose him to the elements would risk his deteriorating health.

And allowing Luther into town was a bad idea of another sort.

Hannah handed him the radio and then gave him some privacy. Luther loved his father. She couldn’t begrudge him that.

She pushed Charlotte along the sidewalk ringing the field, alternating between watching Milo and Luther, who clutched the radio to his ear and paced the stage in narrow, restless circles.

His mouth moved, but Hannah couldn’t make out his words.

On the playground, Milo and Ghost played their version of tag—Ghost chased the boy while Milo tried to pelt him with snowballs. Ghost’s resounding barks echoed across the water, mingling with Milo’s laughter.

A few snowflakes spiraled from the gunmetal sky. Charlotte giggled and reached out her mittened hands, attempting to grasp the flakes and shove them into her mouth. Liam’s green and gray knit cap rolled down across her forehead, covering her eyes.

Hannah checked to make sure her daughter’s blue snowsuit was snug, her mittens on, socks pulled up beneath her tiny boots.

Her throat constricted. For a brief instant, she was just a normal mother in a normal park, watching her kids enjoy themselves on a normal day.

An instant later, reality invaded. There was nothing normal about life anymore. The .45 she carried was proof of that.

When she returned to Luther, he handed her the radio with a muttered, “Thank you.”

They stood facing each other, Hannah with the stroller on the ground, Luther on the empty stage, thin and miserable, hugging his arms against his narrow ribcage.

His eyes were red-rimmed. He’d been crying. He ducked his head, as if attempting to hide his emotions. As if he were ashamed of himself. “What you’ve done. How you’ve cared for my dad—”

“I said I would.”

“I didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Then…why?”

“I did it for me.”

Luther looked away, blinking hard, his jaw set.

“I told you before. I make a promise, I keep my word. I’m helping a sick old man because it’s the right thing to do, not because you deserve it.”

“I never wanted to be like that, you know. I was an accountant. Can you believe that?”

She stared at him, her heart made of ice that wouldn’t thaw.

He cleared his throat. “The militia was about being stronger, being prepared, being ready if anything ever happened…but some guys, their motto was they didn’t need to prepare if they owned the guns. They could take what they needed. I didn’t agree with that. But Sutter had a way about him. When everyone else was running scared, he had a plan. I…I was drawn to that. I didn’t want to feel afraid or worry about what would happen to my father. One thing led to another.”

Her crooked fingers tightened around the stroller handle. The malformed bones ached in the cold. “I don’t need or want your excuses.”

He nodded, gaze on the water, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched like a man defeated. “Coleman would’ve had me shot. Or hanged. Reynoso, too. Even Bishop, probably. I know it was you. Coleman didn’t execute me because of you.”

She shook her head, said nothing.

“I understand why you hate me. I have nightmares. Of the things we did. That girl, lying there in the snow…the fire…what I did.”

The image of an unconscious Milo trapped in Noah’s house flashed through her mind. The stench of the smoke choking her lungs, the heat of the flames, the blind terror as she raced into the burning house.

“You set fire to the house with my son inside. I don’t need your gratitude, Luther. I don’t need anything from you.”

He flinched like she’d slapped him. His gaze flicked to the playground, toward Milo.

“Don’t look at him,” Hannah said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare!”

He opened his mouth like he was going to argue with her, try to plead his case, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. “I deserve that.”

“Feeling guilty doesn’t make you a good person,” she said. “Your actions do. If you want to be a good person, be one.”

“There’s nothing I can do to earn your forgiveness?”

She barked a sharp laugh. “Forgiveness? Are you serious?”

He stared at her, a haunted look in his eyes. Hungry and desperate.

She gave a weary sigh. “We haven’t killed you. Accept that and be on your way.”

“I owe you. For that. For what you’ve done for my father.” His face twisted like he was fighting back more tears. “Tell me what to do.”

She fought down her anger, irritation, and resentment. Agreeing to meet him had gone against her better instincts.

He was miserable and pitiful. He didn’t deserve her pity.

She felt a tiny iota of something she wished she didn’t.

She met his gaze. “You want redemption?”

“Yes.”

“Earn it.”

“Tell me how.”

Charlotte fussed and whimpered. She was hungry. And too cold. Frustrated, Hannah rocked the stroller back and forth. She had things to do. Better things than this.

They had the General and his army to prepare for.

“It’s time for you to go,” she said.

Luther grimaced. “When he dies, he’ll be alone. My father. I can’t bear the thought of that.”

“He’s not alone. We’ll do the best we can to make sure that he’s comfortable. That’s all I can promise.”

“It’s something. Thank you. Whatever you want. I’ll do it. Just say it. Anything.”

Grudgingly, Hannah relented. “Talk to Liam. Maybe he has something for you. As for me, I never want to see you again.”

It was harsh, but it was the truth.

He nodded, a spark of hope in his haunted eyes. “That’s fair. But I want to. Help, I mean.”

She turned to go. “Milo!”

Luther called after her retreating form. “I’m a different man. I’m better. I can be better.”

Hannah pushed the stroller faster and didn’t answer.

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

“Hey, Wolverine!” Quinn yelled over the rumble of the chainsaw.

Liam switched off the chainsaw and straightened. An eerie silence descended, the birds holding their breath.

Quinn hopped off her bike, flicked the kickstand, and adjusted the rifle slung across her back. She rode her bike everywhere now since Gramps’ bright orange 1978 Ford F150 Super Cab—the Orange Julius—was nearly out of gas.

She tugged the bag of filled water bottles from the handle; her bandaged hand flared with pain. She ignored it. The cuts had stung the entire bike ride. The bruises on her thighs and torso ached, and her face looked like a smashed watermelon. What else was new?

She had a new respect for Hannah, who accomplished more than most people even with a crippled hand. Strength could look like more than one thing.

She hobbled across the road toward Liam, wincing at the fire in her ribs. “I brought you fresh water from our pump. It’s Whitney’s job, but I volunteered.”

Quinn kept her slingshot and a few flechettes in her jacket pocket, but she’d upgraded in weaponry. She took the AR-15 everywhere, the Berretta pistol holstered at her waist, and the karambit blade fit snug at her belt.

She thrust a water bottle at him. “How’s it hanging?”

Liam frowned at her but accepted the water bottle. He took a long swig and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

Above them, sunlight filtered through the latticework of branches. The morning had been frigid, but around noon, the sun peeked through the clouds.

Maybe this arctic winter would finally relinquish its hold on Michigan. Or maybe that was too much to ask.

Jonas Marshall and another volunteer armed with scoped AR-15s kept watch a hundred yards on either end of the road while Liam and Bishop felled sycamore and maple trees with chainsaws.

Several trees already barred the road, interspersed about twenty feet apart.

Thirty yards away, Bishop was busy roping the section of a thick trunk with chains attached to the winch of an old Ford.

She shifted uneasily, glancing from Liam to Bishop, then back toward her bike.

They were alone on the road. She could see the scouts far ahead.

Bishop glanced up from his work, caught sight of her, and flashed a thumbs up.

She knew what he was thinking. This was her chance. Better take it.

She scowled, but he’d already returned to chaining the next tree.

“How’re the ribs?” Liam studied the road, the trees, the houses tucked into the woods, always alert for danger.

Quinn kicked at a chunk of asphalt. “Everything hurts like hell. My bruises have bruises.”

Liam grunted like he knew the feeling.

“Why? How do I look?”

“Like you argued with a rhinoceros and lost.”

She touched her tender split lip, which was starting to scab over. She missed her lip ring. It was somewhere in the cavernous warehouse at Vortex, along with a healthy chunk of her flesh. “Sounds about right.”

“You’re young. You’ll heal.” He shot her a hard glance. “Don’t do anything else that stupid.”

She felt herself shriveling beneath that appraising gaze. Like he’d judged her and found her wanting. After all, he’d had to risk his own life to drag her out of that hell.

That wasn’t how things were supposed to go down.

She swallowed. Half of her wanted to turn and flee. She could spend the rest of her life in her bedroom, curled like a pill bug beneath a pile of blankets. That was normal, right?

Instead, Quinn planted her boots and forced herself to straighten her shoulders.

This was what she’d come for. Bishop had told her she wouldn’t get past this shame worming inside her if she didn’t make this right with Liam.

She couldn’t chicken out now.

“Are you mad at me?”

His brows lifted. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I went off alone. I took things into my own hands. I didn’t tell you about Sutter because I wanted revenge. But I almost got us both killed instead.”

Liam pursed his lips. “That sums it up pretty well.”

Her face burned like hot coals.

“Sutter should have killed you. He was bigger, stronger, more experienced. And mean as a pit viper. You got lucky.”

“I know that.”

“You got mettle, kid, but you have a long way to go.”

“I know that, too.”

He studied her for a long minute.

A pair of robins chirped from a maple tree across the road. Anxiety torqued through her, but she waited, her tongue thick in her mouth.

Finally, he shrugged. “Okay, then.”

“Okay?”

“Yep.”

“That’s it?”

“What else is there?”

“But aren’t you mad at me? Let me have it. I can take it.”

“You already know you shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“I know.”

“I don’t have to tell you what you risked.”

“Your life,” she choked out. “And everyone else’s, too.”

“You’ve been scolded already. No need to add to your misery. You learned your lesson. And some more besides, I’ll wager.”

Relief flooded her veins. Her legs wobbled. It was more than she’d expected—or deserved. “So, we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

“I want to be like you,” she blurted.

He looked at her.

“I want to be a warrior.”

“You already are.”

She snorted.

“I saw you. I saw what you did to Sutter.” He scratched the stubble along his jaw, something like admiration in his eyes. “Being a warrior starts here and here.” He touched his head, then his chest. “You’ve already got that in spades. You need to learn the tricks of the trade.”

She kicked at another stray chunk of asphalt, this one large as a dinner plate. Potholes were everywhere.

“I’m not any good at talking about…things.”

She smirked. “You mean feelings?”

“Yeah, those.” He grimaced like he’d swallowed something bitter. “But if you want to fight, come to me.”

“Are you still willing to teach me?”

“If you want to learn.”

Her face brightened. Hope bright and fierce in her chest. “I do.”

“No more skipping our sessions. Not for any reason.”

She beamed. “Done.”

He handed her the empty water bottle, which she’d sanitize and refill with clean water for the next work crew. After scanning both sides of the road, he turned back toward the chainsaw.

“What are you doing? And why?”

“What do you want to know?”

She spread both arms wide. “Everything.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but he was Wolverine, so he had to maintain his grim, fierce persona at all times.

“Travel—including military transportation—depends on roads, assuming the General doesn’t have Chinooks at his disposal. We have ATVs, bikes, a few motorcycles, horses, and snowmobiles. They don’t. They need roads. We’re creating as many obstacles along the roads as we can.”

He pointed. “We blocked off all four roads leading in and out of town—Snow, Lemon, and Hummingbird Lane. Except for M139—Old 31. I suspect the General will roll in via the highway, since it’s cleared. That way, we can concentrate the bulk of our forces on a few defensive positions instead of spreading ourselves thin defending a dozen or more locations.”

Quinn nodded.

“If he’s coming in, we want him to come in where it benefits us most. The north blockade, where we have the most defenses and fighters.”

“That makes sense.”

“And then, of course, we have our goodies.”

Her eyes went big. “Show me.”

Liam grabbed his carbine leaning against a nearby log and led her along the road to the first felled tree. Lowering the M4, he crouched and pointed.

A clear fishing line about ankle high stretched across the road, tied between two trees on either side. The wire was affixed to a tin can—inside it lay a grenade.

It was the size of an apple. Death in a little green globe.

“This M67 grenade is attached where the line meets the tree, so the blast is directed to the kill zone. It’s also tougher to spot.” He pointed to the fishing line. “Ankle-high is fine, as the grenade will explode up and out.”

Her adrenaline spiked. “How do you know it won’t take out a friendly?”

“Good question. We’ll have OPs—listening and observation posts—scattered around the perimeter to monitor for intrusions by foot. Our forward observers will alert us to anyone heading our way—friendlies or hostiles. Snipers positioned up the tree line have eyes on the road. We can stop any friendlies before they reach this point.”

“One reason we’re under orders not to leave Fall Creek.”

“Correct.” He rose and strode back toward the chainsaw, his neck on a swivel.

She hurried to catch up with him; every step was painful.

“How are the foxholes coming?” he asked.

“Got out of digging duty.” She waggled her bandaged hand at him and made a face, then grimaced at the pain. “We used the backhoe. The rest is by hand.”

For the last two days, they’d been digging holes. Each foxhole was armpit-deep and wide enough for a two-man fighting team. The dug-in fighting positions provided concealment from enemy scouts or drones and protection from enemy fire.

For overhead cover, they’d chopped tree limbs and larger logs, stacked them across the opening like a roof, then shoveled dirt on top and covered it with shrubbery, leaves, and chunks of grassy turf.

“Everyone has blisters, even with gloves, but it’s almost done. The gun ports are pretty cool.”

Yesterday, Liam had the teenagers hammer nails into long two-by-fours, placing the tire-puncturing strips across the road in strategic spots. In addition to filling sandbags, they scavenged for barbed wire and concrete barriers.

On top of that, she’d done her chores for Gran and helped Jamal and Tina install a windmill to the Sanderson’s well. They’d delivered a big diesel generator to the McPherson family on Pine Lane, who had four kids and had taken in three more orphans.

“Keep it up,” Liam said. “Report to Reynoso when you’re finished. When you feel up to it, he’ll put you into watch rotation.”

She could have two broken legs and she still wouldn’t say no. “Oh, I’m up to it!”

“I need to check the status of—”

Static spit from the radio at Liam’s belt. “This is Echo Two for Alpha One!” a frantic voice cried. “We’ve got company!”

10

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

“SITREP!” Liam barked into the radio, asking for a situational report.

Alarmed, Quinn stilled.

Bishop sprinted toward them, weapon in hand.

Static filled the radio. Frustrated, Liam shook it. As if that would help. “Echo Two, do you read me? Come in!”

Jamal had helped them set up repeaters to extend their range. An engineering major, he was a genius with electronics. He and his friend Tina Gundy had a magical touch with anything mechanical.

Together, their tinkering had brought dozens of radios and generators back online. But even with the repeaters, the forward observers were out of range.

Liam had sent out twelve forward observers to cover the major roads within thirty miles north, northwest, and northeast of Fall Creek, with extra attention on the most likely avenue of approach via I-69 South and I-94 West.

Besides the radios, the scouts had flares for a secondary method of communication. Satellite phones were still in existence, but Fall Creek had no such access.

He missed instant communication. Cell phones. GPS. The internet. Decent comms.

Unease slithered beneath his skin, his chest tight. “Echo Two, come in!”

“…Two vehicles,” Echo Two panted through thick static. She sounded like she’d been running hard. Her name was Mara Wright, a woman in her thirties, her blonde hair in a perpetual ponytail, cherub-faced but determined—one of Samantha Perez’s recruits. “Both military Humvees…One outfitted with an M2 Browning .50 cal.”

His stomach plummeted. “Two vehicles?”

“Confirmed.”

“Could be scouts,” Bishop said.

Liam nodded. The General would keep his main force back while he sent forward observers to scout ahead.

At least it meant they didn’t have drones. If they did, the drones would conduct the reconnaissance.

“This is Echo Two. I saw one soldier up close with my binoculars. They’re National Guard.”

“You’re sure?” Liam asked.

“Yes, sir. I served six years with the 1-125th Infantry Battalion Company B in Saginaw. I’m sure.”

Liam swore. He’d still hoped they were the fake soldier variety, like the Syndicate hooligans he’d faced when freeing the Brooks from the FEMA shelter.

No such luck.

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” Bishop glanced at Liam. “What do you want to do?”

“We can’t let them roll in here. On the other hand, they’re American soldiers operating on orders from their superiors. I have zero desire to cause harm, let alone open fire.”

Bishop ran his free hand through his afro, his expression laced with apprehension. “How do you fight enemies you don’t want to kill?”

“Sounds like a bad joke,” Quinn muttered.

Liam keyed the mic. “Where are they now?”

“I-94 at—” The scout’s voice broke off, the radio full of static.

If the General was coming from Lansing, he could have headed north to avoid the mid-sized cities of Battle Creek and Kalamazoo and then moved southwest, hugging Lake Michigan and coming down through Saugatuck and South Haven.

If they remained on I-94, they’d pass through Benton Harbor and St. Joe before taking exit 15 onto M-139, aka Old 31, which would lead them straight through the center of town from the north.

But if the General’s men took exit 41 to M-140 South, they’d follow it southwest and hit Dean’s Hill Road, entering Fall Creek from the bridge at the south end.

Either path took about the same time.

Urgency crackled through him. He needed to know which direction. And he needed to know twenty minutes ago.

“Which way?” he hollered at the radio.

Static hissed back at him.

He nearly hurled the useless thing at the closest tree. “Damn it! Which way?”

“We can’t cover both,” Bishop said. “We don’t have the manpower.”

Bishop was right. He didn’t have the soldiers or comms or a quick reaction force, the area he needed to defend far too spread out. He wished he could set up a perimeter defense covering 360-degrees like the FOBs—Forward Operating Bases—in Afghanistan.

The radio belched.

Liam shoved it against his ear. “Echo Two, come in! Where the hell are they?”

“…Old 31…just past…Trailer World…”

North. They were headed toward the north blockade.

Liam sprinted toward the four-wheeler, Bishop right behind him, barking orders into his radio. Adrenaline surged through him, icing his veins.

The Humvees were twelve minutes from the north blockade. If they took the ATV full throttle, Liam and Bishop were eight minutes away.

“I want to come!” Quinn shouted after them.

“Start the alarm tree!” Bishop said. “Alert Reynoso.”

There wasn’t room on the two-seater ATV, and she couldn’t bike as fast as they could drive. Disappointment crossed her face, but she lifted her chin and gave a resolute nod.

She’d learned her lesson: follow orders, be part of the team, keep everyone alive. She turned toward her bike, pulling a radio from her pocket with her bandaged hand.

“Done!”

“Find Hannah!” Liam called after her.

He wanted them together. Quinn and Hannah made a formidable force.

Fear pushed his heart into his throat. Fear for Hannah and the children. His worry for Hannah was constant. It had nothing to do with her capabilities. It was innate, a part of him. He thought of her with every breath he took.

With every fiber of his being, he longed to run toward her. To protect her with his life. Instead, he headed in the opposite direction.

Defending the town should safeguard Hannah, too.

He prayed it would be true.

The ATV’s engine growled to life. They shoved on their helmets. As usual, Bishop drove and Liam took the rear, M4 in hand, ready to fire.

The ATV jolted across uneven ground, vibrating Liam’s teeth. Pain shot through his ribs and spine like electric shocks.

The ice-damaged roads were pitted and crumbling. With no workers or equipment to patch the asphalt, they would soon become undrivable.

Another problem for another day.

The four-wheeler roared through town, passing shuttered buildings in a blur. Quinn had sounded the alarm—the townspeople vanished into houses and businesses. Downtown was deserted.

Pulse thudding in his ears, Liam scanned the trees and lawns, windows and rooftops, searching for danger.

They arrived at the blockade with three minutes to spare.

Several vehicles faced each other, positioned across the highway to form the barricade. Behind each vehicle stood a row of large dirt-filled barrels to provide cover.

They’d created concertina wire obstacles after stripping barbed wire fencing. They had dragged felled trees across the road to create a Z so vehicles would have to zigzag through it before reaching the barricade.

The defenses weren’t finished. They needed more able bodies, more supplies, more time.

Four guards crouched behind the barricade itself. Eight of their best shooters took up overwatch positions in the two-story buildings along either side of the road.

The rest hid in fortified sniper hides in nearby buildings or crouched in the four newly-dug foxholes.

Without a word, Bishop sprinted across the street to take up a previously scouted sniper position within a large steel building with a green metal roof. In bold yellow lettering, the awning out front offered “Creative Landscaping.”

Liam turned toward the Add-A-Space mini-storage, situated north of the blockade and facing the highway, set fifty yards off the road.

He entered the building using the rear exit, slipping through a steel door they’d pried open last week. He moved at a halting jog, slower than he wanted.

Teeth clenched, he hastened through the shadowed interior, passing hunched desks and office furniture until he reached the stairwell and jogged to the second floor.

He bypassed the CEO’s corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows and selected the break room next door. Cabinets lined one wall, a teal Keurig on the counter, coffee mugs stacked beside it.

His stomach lurched. The reek of stale coffee grounds mixed with something rancid assaulted his nostrils. Someone’s lunch left in a cabinet to rot for three months.

He slid between a couple of round tables with plastic chairs and hurried to the window.

On his previous visit, he and Bishop had lugged several sandbags up the stairs and shoved them against the wall beneath the waist-high window. A metal shelf provided the perfect height to balance the M4.

Since he didn’t have urban hide sniper netting, a loose window screen material suspended with paracord covered the window. The netting hid the sniper’s location without interfering with their ability to see and shoot.

He’d learned the trick years ago from a Fort Benning instructor at the Army’s advanced course for snipers, which he’d taken with Charlie Hamilton.

Liam shrugged the go-bag from his back and did a weapons check. Thirty 5.56mm rounds in the M4, with several spare magazines in his pack.

He wished he had his Remington 700 30-06 for sniping, but the M4 would have to do.

His Glock 19 held seventeen rounds in the upgraded magazine with one in the chamber. In addition, he carried two frag grenades and three flash bangs.

He hoped he didn’t have to fire a single round. Not against American soldiers.

Liam knelt several feet back from the window, set a small beanbag on the shelf, and

shouldered the carbine, steadying it on the beanbag.

Peering through the scope, he zeroed in on the road. He breathed in, breathed out, forced his heart rate to slow. Pushed out the fear and anxiety and pain. Put it in a box. Focus on the task at hand, nothing else.

That familiar cold calm descended over him, his years of training taking over.

Within a minute, the rumble of engines reached him.

11

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

Liam tensed.

The lead Humvee rolled to a stop fifty yards from the blockade. The second vehicle halted twenty yards behind the first. Their engines growled loud in the sudden stillness.

On initial approach, the blockade appeared to be a decent civilian-built roadblock helmed by a couple of watchmen, nothing more.

As long as they kept their fortifications hidden, they’d make the first move and take the opposition by surprise.

Jose Reynoso stepped out from behind the barricade and moved into the center of the road to meet the convoy. He wore his uniform, his Glock holstered at his hip, a department-issued shotgun held low in front of him, loaded with slugs to better stop a vehicle in its tracks.

From his position, Liam couldn’t see the other fighting teams, but he could feel their nerves, sense their fear and apprehension.

For some, it was the first time they’d experienced combat.

Most, though, had fought the militia. They’d received Liam’s truncated training.

No one broke rank. They waited, as prepared as possible, armed and ready for whatever happened next. Willing to defend their town and their loved ones with their lives.

Liam’s chest tightened with an unexpected surge of pride. He refocused on the hostiles approaching his town.

The first guardsman stepped out of his vehicle holding an M4 in the high ready position. He was black, in his mid-twenties, with hard nervous eyes and a pencil-thin mustache.

A second soldier, a short Hispanic woman, exited the other side of the vehicle. The third guardsman—male, chubby—remained in the turret.

Behind them, no one exited the second vehicle. Liam scanned the Humvee’s windows through his scope. Four figures with weapons drawn.

Trepidation torqued through him. He loathed aiming at fellow American soldiers. It went against everything he believed in, everything he was.

And yet, for his friends, for his town—he’d do anything.

The first guardsman appeared to be the ranking officer. He strode forward with far too much swagger and spoke first. “Stand down! This town is under state jurisdiction due to suspicion of harboring domestic terrorists.”

The soldier’s uniform revealed the telltale bulge of body armor. Liam zeroed in his weapon on his skull.

“My name is Jose Reynoso, and I am the acting Fall Creek Police Chief,” Reynoso said loud and slow. “There are no domestic terrorists here.”

The female soldier scanned the buildings on either side of them. Liam remained still in the shadows, the barrel of his carbine well inside the window frame. With the makeshift sniper netting, she wouldn’t be able to detect him.

Liam’s M4 seemed like a child’s toy compared to the 50-caliber beast mounted to the lead Humvee’s turret, which was aimed at the barricade—and the townspeople crouched behind it.

The 84-pound M2 Browning machine gun featured a rate of fire of 450-600 rounds per minute, a maximum effective range of 2,000 yards, and a velocity of almost 3000 feet per second. The Ma Deuce could shred a building with its 5.5-inch-long rounds.

He shifted his scope to the vehicles, searching for weaknesses. The frag grenades wouldn’t damage the first vehicle, which was up-armored, but the second one wasn’t armored.

The HMMWV, or Humvee, was designed primarily for personnel and light cargo transport behind the front lines, not as a fighting vehicle.

Pencil-mustache didn’t take his eyes off Reynoso. “Our records show Briggs is the police chief.”

“He’s dead,” Reynoso said flatly. “If you have a record of the police officers, you’ll see my name. And Officer Hayes and our now full-time officer, Samantha Perez.”

“This town is under our jurisdiction under suspicion of harboring domestic terrorists,” Mustache repeated. “Stand down and let us through.”

“I cannot do that,” Reynoso said. “If you have anything to discuss, we can do it outside town limits. We will even send a delegation to the governor’s office in Lansing to explain our case. But here and now, we do not yield.”

Gun up, Mustache took several lunging steps, closing the distance between himself and the police chief.

Liam’s jaw clenched. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. If he neared Reynoso, Liam couldn’t intervene if things went pear-shaped.

He needed the soldiers to remain where they were.

Liam adjusted his aim, applied pressure to the trigger, and squeezed. The loud crack shattered the air.

Chunks of asphalt exploded five feet in front of Mustache. He leapt back with a curse.

Taking his cue from Liam, Bishop fired his own warning shot. Boom! A second round splintered the road several feet from the female guardsman.

Shouted curses erupted from the second Humvee as soldiers ducked for cover.

The woman backed against the first Humvee’s door. Her wild gaze swept the barricade—the concrete barriers, the dirt-filled barrels stacked in rows with strategic gun ports, muzzles glinting in the sunlight.

Her weapon wobbled back and forth, seeking the threat but unable to find it.

Mustache aimed his M4 at Reynoso’s head. He shook with rage, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. Yet. “Tell your men to stand down or we’ll fire!”

Sweat dribbled down Liam’s forehead and leaked into his left eyebrow. He didn’t blink but remained focused.

He adjusted the scope and placed the target’s forehead in his sights. The next shot wouldn’t bust up asphalt.

Stay calm. Everyone just needed to calm the hell down.

“That was a warning shot,” Reynoso said. “We have no desire to fight, but we won’t be trampled over, either.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off!” Mustache growled.

“If you had, my snipers would’ve taken you and your men out—before you’d fired up that Ma Deuce. Say what you need to say and leave.”

“Fall Creek is under the control of General Sinclair by state mandate from Governor Duffield. If you refuse to admit us, that’s tantamount to treason. Consequences will be dire. Let us in!”

Reynoso winced but did not back down. They faced each other, not twenty yards apart. Reynoso with no less than four rifles aimed at his chest. The .50 cal locked and loaded, ready to unleash death and destruction.

Fall Creek aimed dozens of weapons at the guardsmen—some they could see, most they couldn’t.

Tension stretched taut, about to snap.

“Hastings,” the female guardsman hissed.

“I will fire!” Mustache—or Hastings—shouted. His hands shook. His eyes still had that hard nervous look, agitated and edgy, the kind of guy who reacted on a hair’s trigger. Things were about to go sideways fast.

“If you fire, so will our snipers,” Reynoso said. “You can’t see them, but they can see you. Are you sure you want to open fire on American citizens? Are you certain you’ll make it out of here? Because you may have enough firepower to overpower us, but I can guarantee that you three won’t be leaving here alive.”

The female guardsman took a hesitant step backward toward the Humvee’s open passenger door. Her steps were jittery, her weapon quaking.

Neither appeared accustomed to highly charged, potential combat situations.

“Hastings,” she said again, louder. “We should go.”

Hastings glared at Reynoso. He didn’t appear to appreciate the art of compromise.

“Go,” Liam muttered under his breath. “Come on, just go.”

His nerves raw, every sense on high alert, he waited, praying the hothead would back down. His scope remained zeroed in on Hastings’ skull, his finger on the trigger, the carbine solid and steady in his hands.

One wrong move, and he’d splatter the soldier’s brains across the cracked pavement.

With a curse, Hastings’ posture deflated. He spun and stalked back to the Humvee, his fellow soldiers covering him.

He motioned to the second vehicle before climbing in and slamming the door.

The Humvees backed up, then made a slow, ponderous U-turn before heading north on M-139.

No one moved until the rumble of the engines had faded into silence.

“They’re gone,” Bishop said on the radio. “Crisis averted. For now, anyway.”

Relief flared through Liam. It would be short-lived. If he knew anything in life, he knew Murphy’s Law.

Things were about to get worse.

Liam stood, wincing at the sting in his side. He shouldered his weapon and keyed the mic. “They’ll be back. Next time, they’ll bring their friends with them.”

12

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

The next morning, Liam stood before four dozen new recruits.

Every day, more able-bodied townspeople volunteered to defend their homes and everything they loved. Fewer and fewer expected others to do it for them.

He’d brought them to the park by the river, where there was an open grassy area not yet used for crops or livestock. He trained them in smaller groups to ensure there were always security teams and sentries on duty.

As Army Special Forces, he had been one of the first to be inserted behind enemy lines. In Afghanistan, he’d done his share of training local populations to be insurgents fighting the Taliban.

Liam cleared his throat. “Today, we’re going to learn shooting and basic infantry tactics—which your lives depend on.”

Liam spoke simply since he wasn’t addressing trained soldiers accustomed to military jargon. “If the National Guard engages, don’t fire unless it is a last resort. We will not slaughter American servicemen while we have the choice. Not unless it’s saving a life.”

The ragtag group gave grim nods. They wore jeans and work boots, wrinkled jackets and dirty coats, hunting rifles and shotguns slung over their shoulders. Their expressions were anxious but not panicked.

They were bank tellers and teachers, waitresses and construction workers. Mothers and fathers. Neighbors and friends. Regular people who’d found themselves in extraordinary circumstances—and had risen to the occasion.

“The National Guard boasts sophisticated DF—directional finder—equipment that will triangulate automatically and give them our bearings. I don’t know if that equipment was shielded from the EMP. Assume it’s working and keep radio traffic to a minimum and switch frequencies often. Perez is going to provide you with those frequencies, call signs, et cetera.

“When you’re on duty, practice noise discipline. At night, we operate with light discipline. No cigarettes. Limit flashlights. No fires, which can be seen at long distances, especially with NVGs.”

“It’s in the thirties at night,” Ralph Henderson-Smith said. “We have to stay warm.”

Liam clenched his jaw in frustration. Not at him, but at the situation. “Do what you can. Try to shield the fires from the enemy’s potential line of sight. And do your best to stay in smaller, dispersed groups. Bunching in a tight group means one direct hit kills everything and everyone.”

Their eyes widened at that, but they were listening. It was sinking in.

“Other than the blockade sentries, stay as hidden as possible. If they can find you, they can kill you. We’ll improve our concealment from forward observers and drones.”

He prayed the General didn’t have drones or a Predator.

If they did, Fall Creek’s losses would be immense.

“We know they have armored and aerial assets, so we’re augmenting our base cluster defenses with mobile patrols and concealed fighting positions. You might have noticed all the holes we’ve been digging. A few of you have already spent some time inside one. Those foxholes can save your life.”

Liam glanced at Bishop. “Anything else?”

“I think that covers it for now,” Bishop said.

With a sly grin, Reynoso clapped his hands. “Who wants to shoot things?”

Four dozen new recruits raised their hands.

Reynoso had built a makeshift firing range and set up a dozen targets that varied from five to fifteen yards. Liam had the trainees practice firing while standing, kneeling, single handed, and moving targets. He showed them how to zero their weapons.

Perez taught them to field strip, inspect, and clean their rifles and handguns, while Liam introduced them to the basics of firing and maneuvering, overwatch, and defensive strategies.

Because ammo was critical, the townspeople practiced with unloaded weapons or used Reynoso’s extensive airsoft and BB gun collection to simulate gunfire on the targets.

While they trained, Hayes organized the younger teens who weren’t ready for a watch shift yet and had them scavenge the town, collecting more sandbags and burlap sacks from barns, sheds, and garages.

Little by little, Fall Creek’s defenses were coming together.

13

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

That afternoon, Liam inspected the southern blockade located before the bridge.

Every minute, he scanned his surroundings, listening for any sound out of place, any strange movement or shadow.

The sun warmed his head and shoulders. A brisk breeze rustled the tree branches. The first buds had appeared on a few limbs, a couple sprigs of green poking beneath the matted grass and patches of dirty snow.

The south part of town had seen better days. Bullet holes peppered the vehicles stalled in parking lots. Holes pockmarked the brick facade exteriors of several office buildings. Frag grenades had blown out the windows of Friendly’s Grocery Store, Vinson’s Pharmacy, and the Pizza Palace.

Though volunteers had cleaned up the fragments of shattered glass, melted plastic, and shell casings, the entire block still had the look of a shell-shocked war zone.

So far, everything was normal—the new normal.

Didn’t mean it would stay that way.

To his left, Quinn stood behind the barricade and studied Old 31 with a pair of binoculars. Whitney Blair huddled close to her—pale, scared, and out of place with a shotgun in her hands.

Jonas Marshall checked and rechecked his rifle, wearing a line through clumps of snow with his pacing. Every chance he got, he wandered close to Quinn. As if no one would notice.

Liam made a note to keep an eye on the kid. With those baby-blue eyes and that swooping blond hair, he was too handsome for his own good.

Bishop and a couple dozen townspeople were also on duty. Most hid in buildings and crouched within the foxholes, nothing visible of them but the occasional rifle barrel poking out from the ground. Teams were busy digging more foxholes.

Liam had directed them to build a split parapet foxhole. They’d compacted two large piles of dirt in front of each hole. The dirt afforded considerable frontal protection while allowing for a direct line of fire between the two piles and the flanks.

It took three times the amount of firepower to take a fighting hole with frontal and overhead protection versus an open one.

The fighting holes weren’t as invisible as he wanted, but they were serviceable. It camouflaged them from night vision and anything with infrared capability searching for body heat signatures.

The covered fighting holes should prevent anyone—drone or human—from tagging body heat with infrared tech. Just in case the General had a few tricks up his sleeve.

A few minutes ago, he’d checked in with Reynoso at the northern blockade. The reaction team was also standing by.

Fall Creek was on full alert, but life still continued.

Earlier, Hannah had dropped off a lunch of fresh deer jerky, some canned peaches, and water. Then she was off to plan another town hall meeting with Dave to organize the meal drops for the rotating security teams.

Molly and Annette were busy scheduling volunteers to work the local farms while Evelyn manned the medical bay and Travis held down the fort while wrangling two dozen kids.

Quinn let out a startled grunt.

“What do you see?” Liam asked, his heart rate kicking up a notch.

Quinn handed him the binoculars.

Alarmed, he glassed the area. Movement in the middle of the road. In the distance, a figure appeared, heading toward them.

“What do we do?” Whitney squeaked. “Do I shoot?”

Liam tensed, reaching for the M4, but something stilled his hand. “Wait and watch. Keep behind the barricade.”

They watched the figure approach. The size and gait suggested a male rather than a female. He moved in jerky, shambling movements.

“He’s like a zombie,” Quinn said. “Please tell me our apocalypse hasn’t just shifted to a new level of horror.”

“That’s impossible,” Jonas said, but genuine fear laced his voice.

“Is it, though?” Quinn deadpanned. “These days, nothing would surprise me.”

“That’s Albert Edlin,” Bishop said. “A farmer. He’s hurt.”

Forty yards away, Albert Edlin limped out from behind a stalled blue Toyota. In his seventies, with a bent back and stooped shoulders, he wore dusty jean overalls beneath a ratty red coat.

Liam recognized him as one of the men who’d confronted him at Fall Creek Inn, accusing him of antagonizing the militia.

Corinne Marshall had chewed him out; Edlin had apologized after Liam cut his buddy down to size with a well-timed punch.

For an instant, Liam thought of Rob McPherson, another old man in another town.

Albert Edlin drew closer. He dragged his left foot behind him as he clutched his right arm to his chest. Something about that coat…

Liam squinted, dread coagulating in his gut.

The coat wasn’t red. It was stained with blood.

“Alpha Two is retrieving the old man,” Liam said into his radio. “Provide cover.”

“Copy,” repeated several voices.

“Go get him,” Liam said to Bishop. “We’ll cover you.”

Bishop gestured to Jonas to aid him. The boy slung his rifle across his back as they jogged out onto the road and headed for Edlin. Each got an arm beneath his armpits. They turned and half-carried, half-dragged him behind the blockade.

Liam kept his head on a swivel, checking for the threat they couldn’t see. He motioned to Whitney and Mike Duncan to keep watch while they tended to Edlin, even though two dozen pairs of eyes were already on the road.

Bishop eased Albert Edlin down against a large wooden barrel. Aghast, Quinn and Jonas huddled on either side of him, their faces white.

Edlin took in shallow, rattling gasps. A disconcerting gurgle bubbled up from his chest. Blood leaked from a wound beneath his broken arm. Fresh bruises marred his wrinkled face.

This was no accident. The man had been beaten. More like tortured.

“He needs a hospital,” Jonas said.

Bishop knelt next to Edlin. “We can’t move him. He’s already lost too much blood.”

“Call Lee and Evelyn!” Liam barked. “Get them here now!”

Quinn nodded, already reaching for her radio.

“Why didn’t our scouts warn us?” Jonas asked. “They should have seen him.”

“He turned off Dean’s Hill Road,” Whitney said. “His farm is out on Dean’s Hill, on Range Road. The scouts are further out on Old 31. He’s between us and them.”

Liam retrieved fresh bandages and Quick Clot gauze from the first aid kit in his go-bag and handed them to Bishop.

After unzipping Edlin’s coat and unsnapping his overalls, Bishop tended to the man’s wounds. “Who did this to you?”

“That damn…general.” Blood dribbled from Edlin’s cracked lips. “He sent his goons…they killed Wendy…they killed my wife.”

Liam’s face went hot. A low, terrible fury roiled through him. “How the hell did they get inside the perimeter?”

“Edlin’s farm is outside the town limits,” Bishop said. “Off the major roads. We can’t watch everything.”

As much as he hated it, Bishop was right. Dozens of homesteads and farms sprawled outside Fall Creek itself. The area was too large to protect.

Annette had sent out her teenage runners to warn everyone and suggest they move into the town proper until they could deal with this newest threat.

The farmers were a stubborn bunch; none of them came. Not the Hadleys, Kroger-Myers, the Morrisons, or Chuck Wallace with his hundred acres of vineyards.

There was too much to do to prepare for spring planting. If they didn’t get the farms going, come harvest time, everyone would starve.

They had a point.

“He sent me…as a message…” Edlin mumbled.

“You shouldn’t talk,” Bishop said. “Save your strength.”

Edlin shook his head dully. “I got to…last thing I gotta do.” With a tremendous effort, he raised his head and met Liam’s gaze. “He’s here for you.”

Liam went rigid.

“What do you mean?” Quinn asked in alarm.

“The General says to tell you…to tell you he will spare Fall Creek. But he wants you…” He paused, wheezing, struggling for oxygen. “Twenty-four hours. He’ll give us twenty-four hours to turn you over. Bring you to the Boulevard Inn. If we don’t, he sends in the calvary…five hundred men, a dozen armored vehicles, machine guns...he’s got a Black Hawk, with rockets...”

With growing horror, Liam imagined Fall Creek’s last stand—his friends behind their measly fortifications, trapped and helpless as a volley of targeted artillery came screaming from the sky. They’d be slaughtered in a minute or less.

Quinn straightened and inhaled sharply. She stared at Liam; the blood drained from her face. “Holy mother of—”

“The General said we were terrorists…that we turned against our own government…” Edlin coughed up a mouthful of blood. It leaked down his chin and splattered his gaunt cheeks. “That you murdered his daughter.”

Whitney let out a dismayed whimper. Liam couldn’t take his eyes off Albert Edlin. “What else did he say?”

Edlin’s bruised, shriveled face contorted. He raised his shaky left hand, grasped the lapel of Liam’s jacket, and drew him close. He stank of coppery blood, sour sweat, and impending death.

A blade of fear slid between Liam’s ribs.

He didn’t pull away. “Tell me everything.”

“They shot my wife between the eyes.” His words were gritty and gasping. But his eyes—his rheumy eyes flashed with grief and rage. And hate. “They shot her, Coleman. Because of you. He will raze Fall Creek to the ground…and everyone in it…because of you.”

Spent, Edlin slumped against the barrier. His withered hand fell limp to his side. His papery eyelids fluttered and slipped closed.

Reeling, Liam rocked back on his heels.

The General’s message had come through loud and clear. If he could torture an old farmer, he was capable of anything.

They were facing an enemy with more men and more firepower. This man, this faceless enemy, was worse than Rosamond.

Rosamond had been a knowable quantity. The General, however…

He’d just made this conflict very, very personal.

Dread settled like a stone in his belly.

This was his fault. Instead of safeguarding the people that he loved, he’d put them in the crosshairs. He was only one man. All the training, skills, and expertise paled against an army.

He could not protect them.

He could not save Hannah.

The sound of a distant engine rumbled. Several members of the security team whipped around, facing town as they half-lifted their weapons, nerves raw, tensions high.

It was one of their own.

Evelyn drove toward them, parked behind the bike rack, and leapt off the ATV.

She raced toward the barricade, medical bag in hand. “What happened?”

“It’s too late,” Quinn said, stricken. “He’s dead.”

14

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

“This is some place, right?” Hannah asked Liam.

“It’s like a cave—but not,” Liam said.

Liam and Hannah were at the Salt Cave, a hole-in-the-wall business on the northern outskirts of town, just past Fall Creek Inn along the river, just within the new security perimeter.

Outside, the full moon cast everything in a silvery glow. Cold fog drifted between the buildings and trees, cloaking the world in a sinister white mist.

Inside, two kerosene lanterns shed flickering orange light over a twelve-by-twelve room decorated to look like a cave. The walls were dark and textured with built-in benches.

A fake fireplace in the corner boasted several brick-sized chunks of salt. Globe-shaped pendants—their lightbulbs long dead—hung from each wall. Six inches of coarse, pinkish salt covered the floor.

Liam’s weapons leaned against the faux-cave wall next to his go-bag. Hannah was armed with her trusty Ruger American. Perez stood guard outside in case of trouble.

News had traveled fast along the communication network Dave and Jamal had cobbled together. Within a couple of hours, every citizen of Fall Creek knew of Albert and Wendy Edlin’s grisly murders.

The General’s threat loomed over the town like a brewing hurricane, the ominous storm clouds heavy with the promise of violence.

Hannah felt the seconds and minutes ticking like a time bomb. Only fourteen hours until the deadline. The town had to provide their answer to the General’s demand.

The council would meet tomorrow morning to make their final decision.

Since Edlin’s death, she and Liam had hardly seen each other. Liam had interviewed the scouts for every ounce of intel that he could gather, then spent hours shoring up their defensive lines and working with the snipers.

Hannah had also worked overtime, Charlotte in her carrier as she met with the council and various community groups to calm the people and explain what had happened.

Everyone was alarmed, distraught, and terrified. Hannah couldn’t blame them.

Finally, night fell, and the townspeople retreated to their candle-lit abodes.

Milo and Charlotte were sleeping under Molly’s watchful eye, so Hannah had asked Liam to meet her tonight. He needed to talk, but she didn’t want to press him until he was ready. He’d bring it up on his own terms.

Hannah breathed deeply. “We need more than bullets to keep us alive. I know what we’re facing, but we can’t afford to stop planning for the future. Not even now.”

Liam leaned on the shovel and glared at the salt mounds like they might bite him. “I had no idea what this place was. Figured it was a new age shop that sold lava lamps.”

While the small shop sold Himalayan salt lamps, essential oils, and bath salts, its key feature was a “salt room,” where customers breathed in the healing aerosolized air and dug their feet in the salt, like a sandy beach.

“You ever heard the phrase ‘worth his weight in salt’?” Hannah asked.

“I might have. Never knew what it meant.”

“In ancient Roman times, salt was such a precious commodity that they used it as currency. Slaves were bought and sold with salt. Soldiers were paid in salt. Like then, salt will be in high demand soon. We’re getting a jump on things before everyone else realizes it, too.”

“You read that in one of Molly’s books.”

“I did,” she said. “But Evelyn using that salt solution to clean your wounds reminded me. Salt has so many uses. It inhibits bacteria in wounds, which is becoming more crucial as antibiotics get scarce. The body needs sodium to function. We need salt to preserve meat and fish without refrigeration.

“Somehow, it’s never at the top of people’s usual survival lists. We’ve become so used to its ubiquity that it’s hard to imagine that people could die without it. But who’s manufacturing salt? What will we do once the container in our pantry runs out?”

Liam toed a small mound with his foot. “This doesn’t look like that kind of salt.”

“Pink Himalayan salt is prized for its health and healing properties, but we can use it like regular salt, too.”

Liam made a face. “People put their bare feet in this stuff, you know.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. You see any other mountains of salt lying around?”

“Touché.” Liam thrust the shovel into the salt and dumped a load into the extra-strength trash bag. “Don’t be salty.”

She rolled her eyes. “Really?”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “Humor’s not my forte.”

Her lips twitched. “Clearly.”

His cheeks reddening, he gestured at the room. “So, what’s the plan for all this?”

“We’ll split it amongst ourselves, sell small portions at Trade Day, and keep at least half for the food pantry at Crossway Church to distribute as needed. Tomorrow morning, I’ll get the children and older folks to separate it into small airtight containers.”

“It’s a good thing, giving them something to do.”

“If we all sit around thinking about what’s coming, we’ll go crazy. I know I will.”

For several minutes, they worked in silence. Liam said nothing. Hannah didn’t press him. His shoulders were taut, his entire body thrumming with tension.

When the trash bag was heavy, they tied the top and lifted it into the wheelbarrow, then started work on the second one.

The muscles and tendons in Hannah’s bad hand ached. It took an incredible effort to wrap her warped fingers around the shovel handle. Her hand would never be normal, but with blood, sweat, and tears, she could force the broken parts to bend to her will.

They filled three more bags, stacked them in the wheelbarrow, and hauled them out to the four-wheeler. They loaded both the rack and the trailer on the apple-red 1988 Honda Fourtrax 300. The 4x4 had belonged to Ray Shultz, but they’d redeemed it for good.

Once it was full, they’d bring it back to Molly’s to unload and return for round two.

Liam half-turned away from her, his eyes on the salt. “I should do it. I should turn myself in.”

Hannah stilled. She stared at his back. “No.”

“The town should turn me in.”

“They won’t turn you in.”

“They should.”

“Maybe so, but they won’t.”

He said nothing.

“Liam.”

He turned to face her, his expression bleak. “You have an incredible amount of faith in people.”

“There’s bad in the world. But there’s some good, too. It’s the good I believe in.”

The shadows from the kerosene lanterns wavered across the lines of his rugged face. Even in the low light, he looked exhausted. Shadows beneath his eyes. Tension and worry in every crease of his face.

“They have faith in you, too.”

His broad shoulders slumped, almost as if his body were caving in on itself. “The General has five hundred soldiers. I’m just one man. I’m not some kind of superhero.”

“You’re one of us, now. They won’t give you up, not even to save themselves.”

His face crumpled. Something despondent in his eyes. His stoic toughness faltered.

“I can’t save this town, Hannah.” His voice cracked. “I can’t.”

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. What an incredible burden to bear without breaking.

Her chest constricted, her heart swelling with compassion.

“We’re not asking you to,” she whispered. “Not alone. Not by yourself.”

His Adam’s apple hitched. “If I turn myself in—”

“Even if you turned yourself in, there’s no guarantee he won’t raze the town as soon as he kills you. We were all complicit in overthrowing Rosamond. And besides, there’s Winter Haven. I’m sure he’s already eyeing that prize.”

“I know,” Liam said. “I know.”

The silence stretched between them. What could they do? The question hung in the air, unspoken.

Then Liam said, “We could leave.”

15

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

Hannah stared at Liam, aghast. “What?”

Liam leaned his shovel against the wheelbarrow and spread his hands, palms out as if surrendering himself to the inevitable. “We’re overwhelmed. You know that.”

Her breath fled from her lungs. The room abruptly too small, the cave walls closing in.

She knew it. Of course she did.

Still, to hear him say it aloud somehow made it more real.

He took a step toward her. His face pained, the features she loved so much contorted in anguish. “We cannot win against these people. We’re building mud huts to stand against a tsunami. Like bows and arrows against tanks. What we can do—what we’ve done—it’s not enough. It won’t be enough.”

“What are you saying?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. A great weariness in his bearing, something like defeat in his face. “I have two trucks stashed with a full tank of diesel and two jerrycans of biofuel, plus three days of food and water.”

She blinked, surprised. “You…do?”

“I had supplies pre-positioned within two days of arriving at Fall Creek. I’ve added as I’m able.” His expression hardened. “I have a way out prepped. Should all else fail, I can get you and the children out.”

She stared at him, at a loss for words.

“We could escape the General’s net and head north, bypass Grand Rapids, Kalamazoo, any cities, stick to the lesser roads and make it to the U.P.”

“The U.P.,” she echoed in growing dismay.

“Your brother is right. There are far fewer people. Plenty of land for good hunting and gardening, more lakes for fishing and fresh water.”

Her heart beat faster. Her mouth went dry. “You want to leave.”

“I don’t want to.” He shook his head. His hands opened and closed at his sides, something lost and vulnerable in his gaze. “I fear we need to. You and me, Travis and Evelyn, Milo, the babies. And Ghost.”

He paused as if steeling himself, testing his own resolve. “The journey will be dangerous, but we can take the back roads. We’ll have a couple of shooters and plenty of weapons and ammo.

“We stop at my cabin outside of Traverse City and stock up on supplies. It’s out of the way and likely undiscovered. We can bring another six months of food, seeds, tools, and other essentials with us to Oliver’s place. We could do it, Hannah. It would work.”

The vision shimmered behind her eyes. The reunion with her brother. Her parents’ house in the woods on thirty acres, surrounded by forest and lakes. The barns and outhouses, goats and chickens, and fencing for horses and cows. The flourishing gardens behind the chicken coop, a freshwater creek running the length of the property.

Her parents’ house was situated on the top of a hill at the end of a ten-mile dirt road, isolated—and defensible.

They could be safe. Her children could be safe.

They could make a life there, her and Liam. A life together.

Her eyes burned at the promise of something she so desperately wanted.

“And Quinn and Molly?”

Liam’s features tightened. He dropped his gaze, unable to hide the naked pain in his eyes—or the shame. “There’s no room. We don’t have enough vehicles or fuel.”

“They’re family.”

His mouth thinned into a bloodless line.

“And Bishop?”

He shook his head wordlessly.

“Bishop has been a brother to us. Reynoso and Perez. Dave and Annette. How could we abandon them?”

“If we stay, I cannot promise your safety. Or Milo’s or Charlotte’s.” He grimaced as if the words were bitter on his tongue, as if speaking them aloud was repugnant, antithetical to everything he stood for.

Her voice softened. “You never could.”

He looked tormented, his rugged face gray in the flickering light, his eyes hollowed. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

She fought the urge to fall into his arms. To draw him close and ease his suffering. “These are our people.”

“I know.” His voice was gruff with restrained emotion—frustration, regret, fear. “Trust me, I know. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s foolish to stay. Tactically, our best chance of survival is to retreat. To flee.”

The temptation was almost too strong to resist. A promise of safety, of freedom. Of life.

A promise that didn’t truly exist.

No one could promise anyone’s safety, not even before the Collapse. People died in accidents and car crashes, of heart attacks and strokes. People stole and cheated and murdered.

It was worse, now. They survived on a knife's edge. No safety net. No room for error or self-delusion.

More safe and less safe. That was it.

And even if there was absolute safety—could she leave her community, her home, even to save her children?

Hannah felt torn in two. Conflicted to her core. Her children were her heart and soul. But so was Fall Creek. The people here, the community they’d built—she loved them, too.

Quinn was like a daughter to her; Molly, the grandmother she’d never had. Bishop meant more to her than words could say. Dave and Annette were dear friends.

She loved this place, these people, as much as she loved herself.

If she escaped with Liam and her children, she doomed her friends to certain death. Cursed to live with the insidious, inescapable guilt for the rest of her days.

If she stayed to fight, she placed her children in incredible danger. Liam might die anyway. They all might perish. Odds were, they would.

Damned if you do, Damned if you don’t.

Her ruined hand strayed beneath her coat for the American Ruger .45 holstered at her hip. She always wore her oversized western-style silver buckle so she could rack the slide one-handed.

The Ruger had been a gift from a kind, fierce woman named CiCi. A woman who’d taken in strangers, who had graciously fed and sheltered them in the face of grave danger.

A foolish decision, but also one of mercy, of extraordinary grace.

CiCi’s act of kindness had cost her her life. But it had saved Hannah’s.

She gazed down at the gun, felt the smooth, comforting heft of it. Her crooked fingers curled over the grip. Her misshapen hand—broken and re-broken in that dank prison basement. Once a source of shame and horror, but not anymore.

Her scars no longer a symbol of her weakness, but rather her strength.

Hannah looked up. “I won’t do it. I won’t leave.”

Liam said nothing, only watched her with those sharp, penetrating gray-blue eyes.

“Pike wasn't an anomaly of the universe,” she said. “There are others like him. Inhuman. Those who feed on fear, suffering, and destruction. Those are the wolves the EMP has unleashed. And they’re coming for us. They’re coming for everything good in this world.”

“I know.”

She’d sacrificed too much to get back to this place, to build a home for herself and her children. She wasn’t running now. She wouldn’t run.

She chose love. She chose community. She chose grace.

“These are our people. I won’t turn my back on them. I’ll do everything in my power to save everyone that I can, not just myself or my family.”

Liam gave a resigned sigh. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

She holstered the pistol. “I’m sorry.”

“Never apologize for who you are,” he said, his voice husky.

She blushed. “It’s not enough to survive. I want more. We need more. I want justice. Peace. Freedom. Not just for me, but for others.”

“That’s all, huh?”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “I still want it. I still believe in it.”

“I know you do.”

She took a step closer. They were less than a foot apart. He smelled like clean sweat and wood and something musky and earthen. Her heart thrummed in her chest. Her belly knotted.

The words curdled in her throat. She was afraid to say them out loud, to make them real, but she needed to know. "Will you go?"

"Go where?"

"To your cabin." She swallowed. "Will you take the Brooks and L.J.?"

Liam tilted his head, a complicated expression crossing his features, his eyes dark and hooded, impenetrable. "No."

Relief flooded her, so intense her legs felt weak. “Are you certain? I don’t want you to make a decision because of me—”

“Hannah.” Liam placed his hand over her crippled one. His strong, calloused fingers enveloped hers. Once, she would have flinched away, but she didn't. He could have crushed her bones as easily as crushing an egg. He didn’t. She knew he never would.

Something softened in his gaze. That rugged face, those fierce eyes. She couldn’t look away.

Liam said, “If you stay, I stay.”

16

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

Liam waited.

The seconds ticked by on his mechanical watch. Four hours remained on the General’s deadline.

And then what? that niggling voice whispered in the back of his mind. Then what?

Liam leaned back in the wooden booth of the bar at Fall Creek Inn. As usual, he sat in the furthest position against the wall, no exits at his back. His go-bag leaned against the booth along with his M4. The cleaned, polished Glock sat on the table out of Charlotte’s reach.

His gaze swept over the bar top, stools, and barren shelves, the rear exit, the front door, the empty booths in front of them.

The air smelled like stale beer and pretzels, though they’d consumed the last pretzel months ago. A portable propane heater provided warmth.

Morning sunlight streamed through the grimy, unwashed windows. Unlike many of the businesses in Fall Creek and elsewhere, the Inn still boasted glass windowpanes.

The streets were empty. So was the bar. It was closed during the day but open in the evenings and frequently packed as people sought warmth and companionship.

Dave Farris had procured some of Dominique West’s moonshine, which he traded for the usual beans, bullets, and Band-Aids.

This morning, Dave had called an emergency town hall meeting to discuss the General’s demands—and to vote on whether to turn Liam in.

Reynoso and Bishop were attending, while Perez and Hayes monitored security and patrols. They couldn’t afford to gather everyone in a large group and leave the town unprotected.

Hannah sat across from him, Charlotte on her lap. Though Hannah was a member of the town council, she had excused herself to avoid accusations of bias. Instead, she waited for the results with Liam.

She tossed Ghost a strip of venison jerky, then glanced behind her to check on Milo. The little boy sat at a booth near the door, studiously leaning over a drawing pad, his oval face scrunched in concentration.

For two days, he’d been working on his newest version of Wolverine—featuring Liam’s face.

Hannah’s gaze slid past him to the glass front door. Her frown deepened.

“What?”

She turned back around. “They’re sure taking a long time.”

He forced a wry smile. “They’re voting on whether to shoot me or turn me in first so the General can do it himself.”

“Have a little faith in your fellow man.”

Liam gave a noncommittal grunt.

She rolled her eyes. “We need a distraction.”

He felt lost and unmoored. Despair crept in on him.

He always had backup plans to his backup plans. Contingencies and alternate exit routes mapped out in his head. Not this time.

To go along with the General’s demand meant his own slow and painful death. It might not protect the town, either.

No clear answer presented itself. For the first time, he couldn’t see several moves ahead.

He was blind.

He wasn’t sure why, but he’d decided to submit to the town council. If they turned him in, he would go. If they didn’t, he wouldn’t.

The temptation to save himself never even entered his head.

Hannah was right. Fall Creek had become his home. He didn’t want to abandon them.

And yet, he expected them to betray him. Their children’s lives were on the line. What other response was there?

Hannah could put everything on the line for the greater good, but most people couldn’t.

Most folks worried about putting bread on the table and keeping their loved ones breathing. That was it. He couldn’t blame them, either.

Still, the thought of the town he’d bled and fought for voting for his death twisted his guts. He dreaded the pronouncement he knew was coming.

“Hey.” Hannah studied him, her eyes a brilliant green in the sunlight filtering through the windows. “You okay? How’s your side?”

He winced and touched his dressings beneath his shirt. “I will be. Just need time.”

No amount of time would fix the crushed discs in his spine. Only surgery, and that option was long gone.

Evelyn had examined him this morning after his early training session with Quinn. Evelyn wasn’t happy with him, but then, she seldom was. If she had her way, he’d be bedridden for weeks.

The infection wasn’t spreading; that was the important thing. Pain was something he could live with.

Charlotte giggled. She bounced in Hannah’s lap, gnawing on a colorful teething toy as she cooed and gurgled at Liam.

Tense as he was, he couldn’t help but smile back at her. She wore an airplane onesie beneath a little jean jacket, her knit winter hat tilted over her big blue eyes.

From the floor, Ghost gave an exasperated chuff. Hannah tossed him another piece of venison jerky, which he scarfed down in a single mouthful, then turned his soulful eyes upon her once again, begging for more.

She sighed and tossed him another piece. “You big baby. One more. That’s all.”

“How’s Quinn?” Liam asked in a low voice, slanting his chin at Milo.

“She’s doing better.” Hannah chewed her lower lip. “She thought killing Sutter would fix something inside her. In the end, she realized it wouldn’t. She’s talking about it. That’s a good thing. Her and Milo, though…it’s like she’s afraid to be around him. I’m not sure what to do.”

Milo and Quinn still circled each other like ships passing in the night—both apprehensive, skittish, and hurting.

Liam had no suggestions. He wasn’t good at this stuff. Couldn’t figure out his own crap, let alone anyone else’s.

Hannah studied the yellowed table, frowning. “This world steals their innocence.”

“That’s what it takes to survive.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s the price everyone has to pay,” Liam said.

“I wish I knew it was worth it.”

He understood the darkness. He’d lost himself to it.

A man haunted by his past, by his years overseas, but also everything that had happened since the EMP—the things he’d had to do, the choices he’d made.

He closed his eyes and saw it again. The plummeting plane, the careening wreckage, the dead bodies everywhere.

His brother lying in the street, unmoving. Jessa on the bed, blood staining her legs, her chest, the sheets beneath her.

Save him, Liam. Save my baby…

He forced his eyes open. He had saved L.J. and Jessa’s parents. And Hannah.

It was Hannah who’d brought him back, who’d saved him in return.

Quinn would find her way, too. He would help her as best he could. If he was still around.

“In this world, there’s no choice,” Liam said. “You struggle through and make it to the other side, or you don’t.”

Hannah wiped drool from Charlotte’s chin and nodded. She understood it, too. She’d faced her own demons and come out the other side, stronger and tougher.

“You’re right. As always.”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

“Since we’re still waiting, I could use your help.”

“What do you need?”

She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket, unfolded it, and pushed it across the table. “We have a couple hundred volunteers to help with the spring planting. I have a list. Dave, Annette, and I have organized them into teams and assigned each one a specific farm.

“We need armed patrols with each group to keep watch while people are working. I could use your input on which people to put where, to best use their strengths.”

Liam raised his brows. “I’m impressed.”

“Organization and leadership are key. We have hundreds of seedlings growing in the greenhouses we’ve built. Jamal and Tina have constructed some hydroponics farms with solar grow lights. They can build more with the proper supplies.

“We need PVC pipes, plastic tubing, Styrofoam containers, buckets, and pea gravel. We also need more fencing for the goats, chickens, and cows we want to keep in town. It’s getting harder to source what we need. And of course, it’s impossible to send out scavenging parties with the General breathing down our necks.”

“I’ll make the list, but I need every soul we have to man the perimeter and blockades.”

Hannah sighed. “I figured.”

Liam reached into his pocket and withdrew his everyday carry—a hard-shelled sunglasses case. It contained his multi-tool, stainless steel tactical pen, small LED flashlight, two lighters, a folding knife, lock-pick set, and a handkerchief wound with paracord.

He pulled out the tactical pen, flipped over the paper, and wrote names in his messy scrawl.

“Wow. That’s some handwriting.”

“Beautiful handwriting wasn’t a job requirement for the army.”

“Good thing, too. That looks like a tangle of hair in a shower drain.”

Liam snorted. It was an accurate assessment.

Charlotte attempted to stretch her chubby arms across the table and seize the pen. He pulled it safely back out of her reach. “Not this pen, little one. This beauty is a weapon.”

“What makes it a tactical pen?” Hannah asked. “It looks normal.”

“Ordinary pens are made from flimsy plastic.” Liam balanced it on his palm, then flipped it and gripped it in his fist, the ballpoint facing up, the hard pointed tip facing downward. “This is constructed from military-grade titanium. It has these rigid handles for a superior grip if you need to use it for self-defense. In the hands of the right user, this pointy end can do serious damage. It’s designed to penetrate and injure, to incapacitate.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Now I’m impressed.”

He adjusted his grip from kill-mode to writing mode. “It’s a glass-breaker, too. It’s discreet. I carry it everywhere, including through airport security.”

“Not anymore.”

A pained look crossed his face. “No, not anymore.”

She returned her attention to the list, her brow wrinkling. “We’re building something good here. People depend on us. We have to protect it. We have to.”

Ghost raised his head, ears pricking.

The Great Pyrenees leapt to his feet and let out a booming bark.

17

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

Liam tensed. He snatched the Glock and lowered it beneath the table between his legs, out of sight but ready to use.

Footsteps sounded outside the bar. The bell over the door jangled, and Corinne Marshall strode in, followed by Dave and Annette, and several townspeople.

Molly, Quinn, and Jonas jostled in the back of the small crowd, along with a few local farmers. He recognized Dwayne Lawson and Kale Burrows, two of the men who’d accosted him in this very bar not two months ago.

Evelyn was busy in the medical bay, but Travis was present, baby L.J. balanced on his hip. He gave Liam an encouraging smile.

Everyone crowded into the bar. A sweaty, unwashed scent hit his senses, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

Their faces were thinner, harder. Wrinkled clothing hung from tough, ropy frames. They were armed with shotguns and handguns. Many boasted knives along with the occasional axe.

Satisfied they weren’t a threat, Ghost trotted up to Dave and sniffed his hand. His plumed tail waved in greeting as Dave scratched behind his ears.

Liam rose to meet them, back straight, standing tall despite the pain. He’d meet his fate like a warrior.

Corinne Marshall stepped forward. The owner of the local hardware store, she was in her forties. She wasn’t old, but her skin had been etched by hardship and adversity. Her husband, Wayne, had been killed in the final battle with the militia.

She said, “We’ve decided.”

The bar fell silent. No sounds but for breathing, a shuffling of feet. Everyone watched Liam’s face, their own expressions inscrutable.

He watched them in return, his nerves raw, every muscle tensed. His stomach knotted in trepidation.

It mattered to him. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment. How bitter it would be when they turned on him. E Tu, Brutus?

Corrine stood staring at him with that grief-hardened gaze, not an ounce of pity or softness in her.

“Go ahead, Corinne,” Dave said.

“The General claims he represents Lansing. That Governor Duffield sent him. Yet when we rebuffed his soldiers, he retaliated by murdering two of our own. Two innocent civilians. It is our belief that no legitimate member of the United States military would commit such a heinous act, no matter the uniform he wears or the authority he claims. General Sinclair is the same as Rosamond and Sutter, or worse.”

Corinne’s gaze slipped to Hannah. “We’ve dealt with a tyrant before. It took us too long to recognize the signs. We were complacent until it was too late. We paid a dear price for it, too. But we’ve learned from that mistake, and we won’t make it again.”

Liam stared at her, his mind scrambling to make sense of her words. It wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. He found himself completely unprepared.

Corinne paused. “Fall Creek refuses to submit to his demands.”

Liam gaped at them. “You know what this means. What you’re saying.”

“We’re letting the deadline pass,” Annette said. “We’re not giving you up.”

“You’re one of us, Liam,” Dave said. “No way we’re sending you to your death. Not gonna happen.”

Liam’s face flushed. “This isn’t the militia. The General boasts hundreds of soldiers. We’re outnumbered. Outgunned. We’ll lose. We can’t stand—”

“We know the odds,” Corrine said in a firm voice. “If it comes to it, we’re going to fight. Whatever you need us to do to prepare further, we’ll do it. All of us. Together.”

Hannah grinned for real this time. A flash of beauty, of hope. “Now do you believe it?”

Liam couldn’t answer around the sudden lump in his throat.

18

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

M4 in hand, Liam stood at the window of the historic courthouse and studied Main Street through his night vision goggles, or NVGs.

Everything shimmered in ghostly shades of green. He checked the store fronts, alleys between the buildings, the windows and rooftops, alert for the glimmer of a scope or subtle movement of shadows that didn’t belong.

The night was dark and still. It was 2200 hours, and nothing moved. At least, nothing human.

A couple of raccoons scuttled down the sidewalk in search of trash to raid. To the east, a stray dog slunk around the corner of an apartment building, eyes glowing.

Everything was quiet and appeared normal—the new normal.

The security elements had reported in ten minutes ago. So had the forward observers who were within range.

All quiet on the western front.

The calm before the storm.

“The deadline passed yesterday afternoon,” Annette said from behind him. “Nothing’s happened. Not a peep.”

The last thirty-six hours had been all-hands-on-deck. Every able-bodied citizen manning the blockades, foxholes, sniper hides, and security patrols, leaving their posts only to eat or take a piss.

They’d expected an attack or aggressive reaction. At a minimum, another tortured farmer sent to deliver a malevolent message.

Instead, there was nothing. No message. No response.

The scouts reported zero troop movements at the Boulevard Inn.

Fall Creek found itself trapped in a terrible limbo, cowering from shadows, awaiting an unknown fate from a faceless enemy.

Liam half-turned toward the room. A single kerosene lantern set on conference table cast orange shadows across the council members’ faces.

His gaze swept each person, checking body language, hand placement, facial expressions. Always alert for a threat, even among friends.

Hannah, Dave, Annette, Reynoso, Mike Duncan, Perez, and Bishop were present. Hayes and Darryl Wiggins were on night patrol duty. Weapons leaned against chairs or sat on the table within reach of their owners.

Shadows like bruises rimmed their eyes, their skin gray with fatigue. The intense stress of the last three days alone had worn everyone’s nerves to a razor’s edge.

“Maybe he’s waiting for something. Back up or intel.” Reynoso gave a helpless shrug. “Who knows?”

Bishop rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. “We need actionable intelligence. It feels like we’re blind. I hate this.”

Liam hated it, too. He loathed the anxious, powerless feeling permeating the room, seeping into his pores. He was a man of action, not inertia.

“What will the General do next?” Hannah asked. “How might he choose to attack?”

He shifted his grip on the carbine and scratched at his scalp. He needed a shower. Showers were a once-a-week treat if they were lucky, with washcloth wipe-downs the intermediary method.

He needed sleep, too. He’d survived on about three hours of sleep for the last couple of days.

“We know they have a Black Hawk. And a .50 caliber machine gun will rip through a regular building like paper. Some National Guard regiments are trained in mortars as well.”

“You think the military will use a weapon like that on civilians?” Dave asked, incredulous.

“If they believe we’re domestic terrorists and pose a real and present threat to this country, then yes,” Liam said. “Their intel is erroneous, intentionally manipulated for one man’s gain, but they don’t know that. They’re trained to follow orders.”

Annette blanched. “How do we defend against that?”

“You don’t,” Liam said. “You run. Or you hide. But you better have a damned good hiding spot.”

Annette looked pensive for a moment, then her face brightened. “I might have an idea.”

“Spit it out,” Perez said. “We’re in sore need of ideas.”

“The high school and middle school were built in the early sixties during the Cold War. They both have large fallout shelters in the basement. We’ve been using them for desk storage and janitorial supplies for decades, but we could get a team to clear them out. Would that work?”

Liam mulled it over. “The walls are thick. It would make a defensible fallback position. We would need to sandbag everything, block windows with metal plating, place sandbags on the roof for firing positions.”

“And there’s the historic jail downstairs,” Hannah added. “That concrete is six inches thick at least—and underground. It’s not a huge space—maybe a hundred feet by seventy-five feet? But we can cram a couple hundred people in there. We’ll have to use buckets for toilets. It won’t be pretty, but if it keeps people alive…”

“We need a town-wide alarm system,” Reynoso said. “A signal for folks to retreat if hostiles breach the perimeter.”

Bishop ran a hand through his afro. “Crossway Church’s bell still works. It’s a pain to get up to the steeple, but once it’s ringing, you can hear it throughout town.”

“Good,” Dave said. “That should work.”

Hannah had her notebook out and was scribbling intently, eyes bright. “We’ll designate families for each space and coordinate team leaders, just like we’re doing with the farms. Once that bell rings, people need to move immediately.”

“So, what do we do next?” Annette asked.

As one, all eyes flicked to Liam.

Liam turned from the window. “You won’t like it.”

Dave raised both hands, palms out. “You’re our expert, Liam. We’ll defer to your judgement.”

“We need to be more than ready,” Liam said. “We need to strike first.”

The council members stared at him in shock, faces blank.

“What?” Dave sputtered. “With what army?”

“We don’t wait for the General to make his next move. That gives him too much power.

It makes us reactive instead of proactive. We go after him first. Not a full-frontal assault—we wouldn’t last ten minutes. Guerilla warfare. A coordinated sneak attack on weapons, fuel, and supplies. We’ll only have one shot. He won’t be expecting it. It’s our best—probably only—chance to take him by surprise.”

Perez leaned forward, her black hair slicked behind her ears, her expression intent. “Hell yeah. I’m in.”

“We have no hope of defeating him,” Liam warned her. “But we can make it harder for him. Eliminate or steal resources he’d use against us. Wear him down. Drain and weaken his soldiers as much as we can. Hungry soldiers aren’t so eager to fight.”

Annette looked sick. “That seems risky.”

Liam glanced at Hannah. Her gaze was steady, grim but undaunted. He took strength from her. “Everything we do or don’t do is a risk.”

Perez waved a hand, grimacing. “We’re waiting around to be attacked. It feels like death warmed over. Like we’ve already given up, like we’re just rolling on our backs and showing our bellies.”

“In other words, we agree with Liam,” Reynoso said wryly.

Weary nods around the room. Their faces were grave, expressions bleak but not yet broken.

Liam’s gut knotted. The threats facing Fall Creek loomed over them. The responsibility for their lives was a thousand bricks pressing down on his chest.

“Don’t forget about the Syndicate,” Perez said. “They’re still out there, too.”

Liam clenched his jaw. “I haven’t forgotten. Not for one second.”

With one last glance out the window, Liam headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Bishop asked.

“We’ve got a hell of a lot of work ahead of us. First, there’s someone I need to see.”

19

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

Liam shined the flashlight in James Luther’s face. “Looks like I have a use for you after all.”

Luther scratched his unruly beard, blinking blearily. He was rank. His rumpled clothing stank of sweat and B.O. and other bodily functions. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

“Does that light have to be so bright?”

Liam lowered the flashlight. He’d covered the bulb with a red transparent film to make it less noticeable.

“Thank you,” Luther said. “You have any food? I’ve only had a can of bean sprouts in two days.”

Liam handed him a small package of cornbread wrapped in a square of aluminum foil. “Molly wants the foil back. Can’t waste anything these days.”

He waited with restrained impatience while Luther consumed the cornbread, stuffing it into his mouth and shamelessly licking the crumbs from his fingers.

They stood in the semi-darkness of the abandoned house where Liam had stashed Luther several days ago. It was a two-story colonial with a vaulted ceiling and dusty pictures of kids on the walls.

Someone had ransacked the house long ago—cupboard doors hanging open, the fridge emptied, cushions shredded, mattresses dumped off beds and clothes strewn from tossed dressers.

It stank almost as bad as Luther did. Liam fought the urge to gag.

Earlier that night, he had dropped in on Evelyn and Travis. He’d held L.J., carrying him around on his hip while L.J. laughed and laughed. He had Jessa’s honey-brown skin and Lincoln’s arresting gray-blue eyes. The same as Liam’s own.

The last vestiges of his sickness and lethargy had disappeared. With Molly’s home remedies, Evelyn’s medical expertise, and Hannah’s generous donation of breast milk, L.J. had transformed into a healthy, cheerful baby.

Liam longed to be with them, not in this stinking hovel.

Luther inhaled another bite and spoke around it. “I want to do something to make up for…for before. Tell me what to do.”

Liam eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t trust this man. He loathed him. And yet, he required him.

Liam had experience running case agents, or confidential informants. The most reliable CIs did it for God or country. Less reliable were paid operatives. Because their allegiance was to money, they were easier to turn if discovered.

What was Luther’s motivation? To look himself in the eye in the mirror? That wouldn’t last long. His motivation was his father. And saving his own skin.

Liam said, “I want you to join General Sinclair.”

Luther choked and almost spit out the cornbread. He swallowed and wiped his dirty face with the back of his hand. “What did you say?”

“I need a spy.”

Luther gaped at him.

“You’re it.”

He didn’t know enough about the General or his tactics. That needed to change. Immediately. Liam needed actionable intelligence.

If Luther did his job, he could become a major asset. If he turned on them, the damage he could inflict would be moderate. It was worth the risk.

“I—I can’t. I’m not—” Luther sputtered.

“You were Sutter’s right-hand man, correct?”

“After Desoto’s death, yeah. You could say that.”

“Sutter is your way in. I need eyes on the inside. I need intel. If you present yourself to General Sinclair and offer information, he’ll take you in. He needs updated intelligence, too. Boots on the ground. Even if Sutter gave him information before he died, the General won’t know whether that intel is still valid. You can give him that vital information.”

“Umm—”

“Hopefully, Sutter mentioned you before he died. In that case, you’ll be a shoo-in. If not, you’ll just have to make sure you sell your story.”

“What story?”

“That you escaped our custody. You want revenge for the murder of your compatriots, just like Sutter did.”

Luther looked like he was having a tough time breathing properly. “What exactly do you want me to do as a…a spy?”

Liam grimaced in irritation. “Did you not just hear me? “I have a list of intel I want, plus what disinformation I need you to disseminate.” He held out a handheld radio. “If you’re out of range or lose access, I’ll have my scouts check Trailer World off M-139. There’s a bright blue mailbox shaped like a dolphin. You can’t miss it. Pass any messages that way, but don’t use names. Use a code. We’ll figure that out now.”

“I don’t know—”

“I thought you were here to redeem yourself.”

“I am.”

“Then this is how you do it.”

Luther wiped and folded the square of aluminum with great care and handed it to Liam. At least he was neat. “And if the General catches me?”

“Don’t let him catch you.”

“But if—”

“Then I hope you’ve made things right with Jesus. I won’t be able to help you.”

Luther opened his mouth, closed it. Blinked and scratched his beard again. He stared at him numbly. He looked terrified, a deer trapped in the headlights.

Liam’s gaze softened. He understood the role of a handler—he also understood the danger he was sending Luther into. If Luther were discovered, the General would kill him, after torturing him for information. “I know this is a huge ask.”

Luther sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself. He straightened his slumped shoulders. And reached for the radio. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Leave at first light.”

“I won’t let you down,” Luther said.

“I believe you.”

Hopefully, Liam hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

20

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

“Where’s my cognac?” the General demanded.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Baxter said, ducking his head. “I asked around. There’s none left.”

John Baxter was a timid man with an elongated neck and wet, meek eyes like a turtle; he ducked into his shell at the slightest sign of trouble.

“Unacceptable.” He hauled himself up from the luxurious sofa facing the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows overlooking Lake Michigan. The lavish king-size bed was comfortable, though the thousand square foot suite had remained distinctly chilly without electricity.

It wasn’t the Ritz Carlton penthouse, but the opulent suite was far better than most accommodations he’d endured during his years in the military.

The Boulevard Inn was a quaint seven-story hotel boasting covered terraces, marble floors, rich walnut accents, and most importantly, splendid views of Silver Beach and Lake Michigan beyond.

The hotel’s walls were thick concrete that offered considerable protection from small-arms fire. Even without electricity, the building was warmer than a camp. Nights still dipped into freezing temperatures. None of his troops had winter gear, and many lacked the skills to hunt or fish.

He wasn’t facing an army. He didn’t need to worry about drones, air raids, artillery, or missiles.

If their enemy had these capabilities, he’d go to the field and limit exposure from air and drone observation and EMCON output.

Of course, garrisoning at the hotel left them open to surveillance, intelligence gathering, and sniper attacks or car bombings. Opposing forces could sneak closer than the General liked.

He didn’t have enough men to secure the surrounding buildings.

However, his troops had secured the perimeter, fortified the building, and conducted roving patrols.

The hotel would serve their purpose just fine. Besides, he didn’t intend to stay long.

He’d planned to be in Winter Haven by now, surrounded by the old comforts—heat, electricity, and hot water.

The thought rankled him. He was a patient man, but he enjoyed his creature comforts.

His mouth watered. He drooled at the thought of a bottle of premium aged wine. It wasn’t cognac, but at this point, he’d take anything.

“Go find me something to drink,” he ordered Baxter.

Southwest Michigan was wine country. The climate along the coast of Lake Michigan was perfect for varietals like Pinot Grigio, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Franc. A decade ago, he’d spent a drunken weekend with a stunning call girl visiting the local wineries of Tabor Hill in Buchanan and Julian Winery in Paw Paw.

There had to be something. Damn Baxter to hell if he didn’t bring back a bottle with a high alcohol content in the next ten minutes.

“I thought you wanted to work on chapter five of your memoirs—”

“I said go!”

The man practically bowed, then scurried from the room. The General’s bodyguards let him pass without shifting out of his way or the slightest change in their stony expressions.

Baxter bowled into Gibbs as the ex-soldier swept into the suite. Gibbs’ granite face revealed no hint of irritation as Baxter blabbered a hurried apology and disappeared down the hallway.

Gibbs shut the door behind him and stepped into the room. He folded his hands behind his back. “Still no response from Fall Creek, sir.”

The General cursed.

Fall Creek’s twenty-four-hour deadline had come and gone. They had not offered a broken and subdued Liam Coleman in cuffs like a sacrificial lamb.

Indignation burned through him. He’d hoped to do this the easy way. Roll in like a conquering hero after defeating the nihilist gang plaguing the town.

They’d have to give up one citizen. So what? People died all the time. They would’ve gotten over it.

The townspeople were obstinate, short-sighted fools.

So be it. They’d chosen their fate.

He had delayed immediate retaliation for two reasons. First, during his illustrious career, he had learned a few tricks from the best interrogation specialists in the CIA.

Fear had a way of escalating and intensifying the desired results. The anticipation of the punishment was often worse than the pain itself.

Let them wait. Let them stew in the juices of their terror. Tremble in fear and dread. A living nightmare without end.

It would be a fate more terrible than death.

Second, he wanted the self-sufficient enclave of Winter Haven, and needed it preserved. There was something—rather, someone—he needed within that town.

He hesitated to rain fire upon their heads until he’d secured what he wanted.

Then, and only then, would Fall Creek experience the true force of his wrath.

“What’s our next move?” Gibbs asked. “Why haven’t we hit them yet?”

With the full might of the Michigan National Guard, the General could take Fall Creek within minutes, if not outright destroy it.

But the governor had hamstrung him. He had a fraction of the men, weapons, and ammo he wanted. That needed to change.

Ignoring Gibbs, he pulled the satellite phone from his pocket and dialed the governor. Henry Duffield picked up.

“What is the status on Poe?” Governor Duffield shouted. “His criminal army breached the Indiana border!”

“I’m aware,” the General said smoothly. “I will deal with it.”

Illinois’ pathetic lack of a military presence was the only reason that Poe was roaming about the country with such ease.

Within a week of the Collapse, the feds had abandoned Chicago and pulled the entire state’s National Guardsmen, transferring them to New York City and Washington, D.C.

Illinois was ripe for the taking.

And Poe had taken it all.

“They’ve overrun Gary—”

“Who cares about Gary, Indiana? Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

The governor was consumed with apprehension and plagued by doubt and uncertainty.

The coward didn’t have the fortitude for what the job required.

The General scowled at the phone. “If you want me to handle Poe, you need to provide me with the proper men and equipment. Like I have said repeatedly—”

“Do you understand what I’m dealing with here? Only a fifty percent muster for the National Guard, and they’re deserting like flies! Every unit is operating at well below adequate personnel. I have an entire state in chaos! We’re about to lose Detroit to gang warfare. I cannot afford to recall a single soldier.”

“There are units equipped with the weapons systems I need. The 147th Aviation Regiment has more Black Hawks. The 110th Attack Wing in Battle Creek has drones—”

“Drones! You want drones? The EMP grounded half of them. They weren’t hardened adequately. No one knew exactly how a powerful EMP would impact sensitive equipment. The army deemed all functioning tech essential and sent it overseas. Besides, the federal government requisitioned those regiments the day after the EMP. I had no choice but to send them to D.C. No choice!”

“If you had listened to me from the beginning—”

“No, you listen!” The governor’s voice went low and hard. “Listen to me closely. I have already given you everything I have. There is nothing else. You must make do. You said you could produce results. Now do it!”

“I will give you the results you desire,” the General said woodenly. Inwardly, he was fuming. Though he despised the governor, he needed him—for now. “Give me three days.”

The General strode to the credenza and tossed the sat phone on the sleek quartz top, though he was tempted to hurl it through the plate-glass window. He inhaled a deep breath, reeling in his fury.

His knee joints creaked. The blank black eye of the oversized flat-screen television reflected his own image back at him. White hair. Lined face. Hard gaze.

He still had five hundred troops at his disposal, a battery of M2s and M60s, and a limited supply of artillery. He had the Black Hawk.

He was General Sinclair—he would get the job done by any means necessary.

Gibbs cleared his throat. “Sir.”

The General swung around to face him. “Yes?”

“Two things. First, a man named James Luther is here to see you. Claims he was Mattias Sutter’s righthand man and the only surviving member of the militia stationed in Fall Creek. Says he’s got information you’d like to hear.”

The General frowned. A fortunate turn of events, if it were true. Sutter had mentioned a man named Luther. With Sutter gone, he needed eyes and ears on Fall Creek. “I’ll meet with him. The second thing?”

“Bruce caught two guardsmen attempting to sneak out of the service entrance. Deserters. Claimed they wanted to get back home to take care of their families.”

Outrage flared through him. No one deserted his army. No one. Whatever desertion issues were plaguing the governor wouldn’t be a problem for his troops—he’d make sure of it.

“Then they shall be court-martialed. A few will turn to several, which will become a mass exodus. If everyone left their posts to be with their families, we wouldn’t have anyone left to defend this country!”

Gibbs stared straight ahead, expressionless. “Sir. They’re being detained in the kitchen freezer.”

He cocked his grizzled brows. “The freezer?”

“No windows, only one steel door. Impossible to break out of.”

“Have I told you I like how you think?”

“A few times.” Gibbs remained expressionless. He was a practical, emotionless, get-the-job-done type of man. No family, no emotional ties to weaken him.

The General appreciated that in a soldier.

“As I recall, desertion carries a maximum punishment of dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, and confinement of five years. However, for desertion during a time of war, the death penalty may be applied at the discretion of the court-martial. We are at war, Gibbs. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“On numerous fronts, sir.”

The General snorted. If he only knew how true his words were. Only the top echelon knew the true state of the world. With the abrupt dearth of mass communication, the government had kept it under wraps.

For how much longer, though? That was the million-dollar question.

“Bring me to the deserters,” the General said.

Gibbs’ mouth twitched—the only sign that he approved of the decision.

He held the door open for the General. Eight of his bodyguards fell into lockstep, two in front, two behind, four flanking him.

They wore dark camo uniforms with chest rigs, tactical gear, and black helmets. Long guns slung over their chests on two-point slings, various knives affixed to their belts, and pistols in thigh, ankle, and waist holsters.

Baxter met them in the hallway, flushed and out of breath. He held up a lukewarm Coors Light. “I confiscated this from one of the soldiers—”

“Put it in the room. And bring your notebook. I want you to record this. It’s going to be…interesting.”

Baxter bobbed his head. “Sir.”

21

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

Gibbs took the lead, followed by the General.

The door slammed behind them as Baxter scurried to catch up, clutching the brown leather notebook with archival-quality paper in his long slender fingers.

He’d chosen Baxter’s flowery but exacting script to dictate the events of America’s fall—and eventual revival.

Whether that was ten years from now, or fifty, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. The victors wrote history. The General intended to be one of them.

This book—this version of history—would become his legacy. He was certain of it.

The General followed Gibbs through the labyrinthine hotel. Pity the elevators didn’t work; they had to take the stairs.

The stairwell was pitch black. Gibbs flicked on a flashlight. By the time they reached the ground floor, the General was sucking air through his teeth.

They passed through several large convention halls. The carpet was a ghastly flowery print. Picture windows along one wall featured slivers of blue—Lake Michigan a vivid cobalt against the horizon of heavy gray clouds.

The professional kitchen was the size of a house. Dust filmed the once-gleaming stainless-steel counters, cabinets, and oversized appliances. Crates of MREs and other supplies were stacked near the service entrance.

Two guardsmen sat on metal folding chairs before an oversized steel door. A couple of lanterns set on a nearby counter provided light.

The guardsmen stood and saluted as he entered. They wore BDUs and nervous expressions.

“At ease,” the General said.

Gibbs inserted a key in the freezer’s lock, and the door swung open. Inside, the room was a twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle. Sleek metal floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls—emptied except for some cardboard boxes, twist ties, and shredded plastic bags.

Someone had emptied this place in a hurry.

The deserters slumped in folding chairs placed side by side. Handcuffs bound their hands behind them.

When the General entered, their heads jerked up, their blood-shot eyes widening in shame and terror.

They were young, in their mid-twenties. The first, a wiry guy with a blond mustache. The second one was a sandy-haired girl with acne dotting her chin. She looked like she still belonged in high school.

The stale air reeked of sour sweat and the stomach-churning stench of ammonia. The guy had urinated on himself.

His men settled into relaxed but watchful stances a few feet from the door. Behind them, the two soldiers who’d been guarding the freezer watched in apprehension.

That was fortunate. They could spread the message.

The General drew his pistol. In a loud, commanding voice, he repeated his spiel about the court martial, times of war, the necessity of difficult acts to preserve the nation, yada yada.

Beside him, Baxter recorded his every word.

He allowed himself to wax eloquent, knowing the two guardsmen were his primary audience, not these poor souls before him.

They begged, cried, and made pathetic excuses, but the General barely heard them.

He didn’t relish this. He knew nothing of them, and didn’t want to, either. Neither did he feel guilt over meting out their punishment. Without swift and severe retaliation, more soldiers would disappear.

As far as the General was concerned, the National Guard consisted of warm bodies with guns. Pawns to direct on the chessboard as needed.

He needed soldiers with their heads on straight. He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep them that way.

When it came to getting his hands dirty, he’d never shied from the task.

Some men had scruples. Others were squeamish. People believed they were ‘good,’ though most were anything but.

The General had no such qualms, a character trait which aided him both in warfare and politics. He’d never considered a lack of conscience a flaw. He didn’t consider it one now.

Without hesitating, the General raised his Sig Sauer M18, aimed, and fired twice in quick succession. The concussive bangs exploded in his eardrums.

From short range, the rounds struck their targets, drilling straight between the eyes. The deserters’ heads snapped back. Their bodies went limp.

The scratch of Baxter’s pen on paper filled the room. For a long moment, it was the only sound. His ears rang. He should have worn ear protection.

Calmly, he holstered his weapon. “Keep those cuffs. I’ve got a feeling we’ll need them again.”

“Yes, sir,” Gibbs said.

The General spun on his heels and pointed to the two guardsmen who gaped at him, their expressions stricken. “You two. Clean up this mess and dispose of the corpses. Report to Gibbs when you’re finished. Inform your fellow soldiers that the same fate awaits anyone who even considers desertion.”

They stared at him blankly.

He clapped his hands. “Now!”

They scurried off to find mops, buckets, and a tarp, eager to be out of his reach—and out of sight of their deceased comrades.

He inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder and scanned the kitchen, the rumble of his empty stomach intensifying.

This place could cook a meal fit for a king a hundred times over. With just a little electricity. With on-demand deliveries from across the world—Malaysia, China, Mexico.

All gone now. What a waste.

“I’m starving,” he said. “What’s for lunch? If anyone says another MRE, you’re court-martialed.”

No one laughed at his gallows humor.

Baxter finished writing. He tied the leatherbound notebook with leather ribbons and tucked it into the man-purse slung over his shoulder.

One of the General’s men stepped forward. Ben Henderson was in his early thirties, fit and trim, with a round babyish face but dead-cold eyes that betrayed his true nature. “Sir.”

“What do you want?”

“The men are getting antsy,” Henderson said. “They want to know what happens next. I thought we were getting an entire town with electric power? That’s what you promised.”

Henderson’s attitude bordered on disrespect, but he was a skilled killer and reliable to a fault. With seven of his men eliminated in the Vortex ambush fiasco, the General needed every dependable body he could muster.

“I know what I promised!” the General growled. “Do you have the intestinal fortitude of a gnat? These things take time.”

“I understand.” Henderson grimaced like he didn’t understand in the least. “The generators are out of gas. It’s freezing at night. The toilets are backing up—”

“That’s quite enough!” Henderson was right, in a way. Delays frayed morale. Not to mention how it ate into their limited food stores.

Logistics was a nightmare.

He turned to Gibbs. “I have a task for you. Pick two men to send to Fall Creek tomorrow night. Then, bring this James Luther to me. He’ll give us the intel you need to complete the mission. Once we have the package in hand, we attack.”

“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?”

Finally, he relented. “Last night, we received a dozen refugees fleeing north along US-12 from South Bend. Two were gravely injured from gunshot wounds, and the third died before we could get her to our doctor.”

Hannah’s stomach plummeted. “What?”

“They overran the entire city. A force of thousands, they claimed. They came rolling in with military trucks and military weapons, dressed like soldiers. They killed mostly men. Took the women and kids. Just took ‘em.”

She stared at the house across the street until her eyes blurred. Her crooked fingers tightened around the radio, acid in the back of her throat.

South Bend was a city with a population of about one hundred thousand. Its sister city, Mishawaka, boasted a population of fifty thousand. They were both around thirty miles from Fall Creek, just across the Indiana/Michigan border.

With vehicles, Poe’s army could arrive at their front door in a matter of minutes, not hours or days.

“They shot one guy in the shoulder when he tried to fight back. Forced him to his knees and made him watch while they took his two teenage daughters, tied ‘em up, tossed ‘em in their truck and drove away. Even injured, he still fought. They shot him in the leg and left him to die like an animal.”

Despite the sunny day, an icy chill zipped down her spine. She imagined the scene in her mind’s eye—a father desperate to save his children. The terror and panic, the horror of it.

A beat of silence. “You know anything?” Flynn asked.

“I do. And I’m willing to share that information with you. Quid pro quo. That’s how this should work.”

Flynn mumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

He sounded like it was pulling teeth to respond, but he did. “I—I would appreciate the information.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s the Syndicate.”

“Who?”

“An army of criminals from Chicago. They’re led by Alexander Poe, the kingpin of a Chicago mob who set his sights on controlling Illinois. Apparently, he wants the entire Midwest, too.”

Flynn unleashed a stream of colorful curses. When he’d regained his composure, he said, “How do you know that?”

“Liam had a run-in with them outside of Champaign, Illinois. They’re taking over farms and FEMA camps and forcing people to work as slave labor. They take women and children and sell them. Be very careful.”

Flynn said nothing as he absorbed the information.

“There’s no reason to think they’re going to stop with Indiana.”

“I’m quite aware of that fact.”

“Look, Liam has sent out forward observers to scout our surrounding perimeter. I think it’s a good idea if you do the same.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” he said, but he sounded rattled.

“We can’t. You can’t. That’s the point. You need our help, and we need yours. There’s another threat. A man who calls himself the General—”

A hiss of static. Then, nothing.

“Flynn? Come in.”

Still nothing.

She switched channels and tried Hamilton. He didn’t come in, either. Neither did Liam.

She looked down at the radio. Turned it on and off. Replaced it with a new solar-charged battery. It didn’t help.

The radio was dead.

A growing unease slithered through her. The handheld radios were critical to communication. Without phones, with travel so risky, time-consuming, and costly—radios were everything.

Hannah turned back to the house to gather her children.

She needed to find Liam.

24

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

Hannah biked to the southern blockade.

It felt like it took forever. After Charlotte awoke, she was hungry, so Hannah needed to nurse and burp her, then change her cloth diaper, redress her, and finally strap the baby into the carrier.

Thankfully, Charlotte loved her carrier. She was alert, curious, and wanted to taste and touch everything within reach.

Milo wanted to join in everything, too. He was happy to make himself useful and volunteered to fill the sterilized water bottles from Molly’s well and wrap some venison jerky as a snack for the guards on duty.

He had his own mountain bike. She’d attached the bike trailer to the back so that he could pull supplies behind him. And wherever they went, Ghost followed.

Since she slowed to compensate for Milo’s shorter legs and Ghost’s limp, the ride into town took longer. The cool breeze whipped her hair back from her face. The sun warmed her skin.

As she entered Fall Creek’s once-vibrant downtown, she passed several folks on horseback. A couple of horse-drawn wagons, too. An old diesel tractor hauled a trailer lugging two-by-fours and window frames confiscated from abandoned homes to build more greenhouses.

Most people walked or rode bikes. A few drove ATVs to and from the community gardens, public trash dumps, latrines, and the blockades.

Filled sandbags were piled along the sidewalk, waiting to be distributed to various fighting positions and sniper hides as directed by Liam or Reynoso.

Patsy Snyder had reopened Friendly’s Grocery store as a local trading post for Fall Creek residents, a communal spot to stop in for gossip and socializing. Dave’s bar at the Fall Creek Inn was another hot spot.

Spring was in the air, and despite the looming threats, people were emerging from their winter shelters, stepping blinking into the sunshine.

Everyone dirtier, skinnier, and tougher, but alive.

There was life here.

Where there was life, there was hope.

Hannah clung to that hope as she dismounted and parked her bike next to a concrete barrier. Milo leapt off his bike, hurriedly lowered the kickstand, and ran off to greet Jonas and Whitney, who were both on watch duty. He left the water and snacks in the bike trailer.

“Milo, don’t forget—”

But he was gone. Ghost trotting after him, eager to be adored by the masses. Kicking her fat legs, Charlotte cooed and reached after her big brother.

Hannah patted her head. “He has the memory of a gnat, that one.”

Across the bridge, Old 31 featured a maze of strategically placed vehicles, concertina wire, and concrete barriers. Barbed wire lined the sides of the road to help prevent bad guys from bailing from their vehicles and flanking the barricade on foot.

Two dump trucks placed nose-to-nose blocked the road like a gate. A secondary defense behind the dump trunks composed of stacked dirt-filled barrels provided cover for various fighting positions in case an enemy force breached the trucks.

Perez jogged toward her from the opposite end of the barricade. She wore tan khakis, combat boots, and a hunter green fleece jacket. With her fierce expression, thick muscles, and the Sig Sauer MPX carbine gripped in both hands, she made for an intimidating opponent.

She spat on the ground when Hannah informed her of the news. “They’ve made their bed—now they can lie in it.”

“They’re our neighbors,” Hannah reminded her. “And we could use their help.”

Perez rolled her eyes. “They could use our help, you mean. Face it, we’re on our own, but that doesn’t mean we’re not gonna kick some righteous ass.”

Hannah shot her a tight smile. “At least someone’s optimistic.”

Perez fairly vibrated with combative energy. “Damn straight.”

Liam exited Vinson’s pharmacy across the street, took a moment to scan the area, then approached them. He carried both his M4 across his chest and his Remington 700 slung over his shoulder.

At the sight of him, her stomach fluttered. Ignoring it, Hannah repeated the news and told them what had happened with the radio.

“We’ve got the same problem,” Perez said. “Got reports from the scouts that the General’s men destroyed a couple of our repeater stations. It’s gonna make communicating with our forward observers a real pain.”

“Can we fix them?” Hannah asked.

“Probably not,” Liam said. “It’s too risky. The General will watch the repeaters, ready to spring a trap.”

“At least it’s not all of them,” Perez said. “The ones set up in town are still working—well, most of them. There’s that.”

Liam looked south across the barricade, brow wrinkled, his lips pursed.

Hannah shivered. “Will the Syndicate cross the border?”

Perez shielded her eyes. “I freaking hope not. Like one deadly enemy isn’t enough. We need two, now? I feel like we’re caught in a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.”

“It’s Murphy’s Law,” Liam said. “Anything that can go wrong, will.”

Perez glanced across the street at Jonas, Whitney, and Milo and lowered her voice. “It’s like a hurricane. Or a tornado. You know it’s out there, heading straight toward you, but there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it.”

Hannah watched Liam. A wind gust kicked up a swirl of half-rotted leaves and trash detritus heaped along the curb. It was abruptly ten degrees colder.

Liam didn’t speak. He didn’t take his eyes off the horizon, as if he could see what lay beyond it simply by looking hard enough.

The multitude of enemies amassing against them, just out of sight.

The fate that awaited them all.

25

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

Q uinn bent over the long rows of seedlings inside the greenhouse and groaned.

“I’m the old one in this equation,” Gran said. “If I’m not complaining, why are you?”

Quinn grunted. “Not complaining. Just expressing my feelings.”

“When I was your age—”

“I know, I know. You walked five miles to school uphill both ways. In the snow. Barefoot.”

Gran cackled. “You forgot naked.”

“Uh! Gran! Now I’ve got that mental picture locked in my brain. Thanks so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Gran deadpanned.

Quinn rolled her eyes. At least the swelling had gone down enough to see.

Her AR-15 lay next to her within easy reach. Just like Gran’s Mossberg. They never went anywhere without protection, not even their own backyard.

Though there were now twenty greenhouses scattered throughout town, Gran wanted her own. The enclosed space would keep precious food growing year-round, even during Michigan’s bitter winters.

Quinn and Jonas had made it happen. He hung around a lot. She didn’t dislike it.

Picking a flat, sunny spot, they’d constructed a twelve-by-twenty-four greenhouse using mostly two-by-fours and polyethylene plastic sheeting. They used two layers of the plastic, the inner and outer shells creating an air gap to act as an insulator.

Since they would transfer seedlings soon, they’d planted them in plastic grocery bags hung on poles of PVC pipe. This way, it would be simple to move them without damaging the fragile roots. They’d planted lettuce, Swiss Chard, radishes, potatoes, and broccoli.

Through the greenhouse walls, the sun beat down on her head, warming her back and shoulders beneath her long-sleeved flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. She’d shed her coat for the first time since the Collapse.

The nights were chilly, but the days were warming up. Buds sprouted on the trees. Grass turned green, weeds springing up in the cracks and potholes in the roads. No surprise there.

Quinn stretched, trying not to wince. Her bruises had faded to an ugly yellowish-green. Her cuts had scabbed over.

Her back was stiff. The muscles of her arms and legs—hell, her entire body—ached from her dawn training sessions with Liam. He’d gone easy on her, as they were both still battered from their escape from Vortex.

She’d never been more sore in her life.

But it was a good sore. It meant that she was still here, still alive.

She was getting stronger. She was fighting back.

Liam and Bishop were off somewhere coordinating the town’s defenses. Milo and the babies were with Travis and Annette at the middle school.

Several volunteers taught mathematics alongside survival skills like map-reading, using a compass, and orienteering. Yesterday, they’d worked on reading, writing, and fire starting.

Hannah and Dave were busy in talks with the farmers, discussing boring stuff like production areas per person, crop rotation, irrigation, and preventing pest infestations. Where, how, and when to plant mainstays like potatoes. Et cetera, et cetera.

Gran had gone with her and Dave on most visits, interviewing those with the old knowledge and taking notes, devising planting schedules. Blah, blah, blah.

Hannah had spent hours pouring not only through Gran’s books on the kindle, but also farming, homesteading, and survival books she’d cajoled the teens to collect from the nearest library.

Few people looked to libraries for crucial tips on surviving the apocalypse. It wasn’t just the non-fiction sections they should check, either.

Quinn had an entire list of skills and ideas she’d gleaned from her favorite post-apocalyptic novels crowding her bookshelves.

Namely, how not to die from sheer stupidity.

“Gardening isn’t really my thing, you know,” she said.

“Hogwash.”

Quinn snorted. “You’re delusional, woman. Last week, I killed at least four potato plants with accidental over-watering.”

Her AR in her hands, or her sling shot. Tramping through the woods in search of rabbits or hunting deer with Gramps’ rifle. Standing watch, alert for any threats to her people, ready and willing to fight to the death—that was her wheelhouse.

Even so, Gran made her spend occasional afternoons sticking her hands in the dirt, attempting—and usually failing—to keep the fragile green sprouts alive.

“I suck at this.”

“Knowledge is power,” Gran said. “Especially now. Anywhere you go, whatever happens, you need to know how to survive, how to feed yourself.”

Quinn rocked back on her heels and glared at the dirt beneath her fingernails. “I know how to feed myself. I shot that buck last week, didn’t I? That’s why we’re having venison stew tonight, and we’ve got jerky drying in the solar dehydrator on the back porch.”

She’d field-dressed the deer herself, just like Gramps had taught her, saving the rump for the jerky, which had been both her and Gramps’ favorite. Ghost’s too, apparently.

He kept sniffing around while she applied the black pepper and a bit of Hannah’s pink Himalayan salt. He was so tall, he could easily reach across the table. At every opportunity, he snatched a piece, gobbling it in a single swallow. If they weren’t careful, the dog would eat the whole deer himself.

Quinn had offered him the organs in a big bowl, which he’d slopped up messily with joyous grunts and snorts. She’d never seen a dog slobber so much.

Quinn glanced across the yard at the Orange Julius sitting in the driveway. She missed him. She missed riding in that rickety tin can with Gramps, how it smelled like grease and his favorite pho soup, like Gramps.

Now it just smelled stale.

“Man cannot live by meat alone,” Gran quipped.

Quinn blinked. “Try me.”

“Ever heard of scurvy? You need vegetables. Fruits. Green things! Canned food is already getting scarce.”

“I am sick to death of nasty canned green beans,” she admitted.

Gran had a years’ supplies hidden in her basement behind the secret door. It used to be more. Fact was, they’d shared a lot.

Maybe that was a mistake. In this case, Quinn didn’t think so.

More people alive in their community meant more hands to help with planting and harvesting, chopping wood, digging latrines, scavenging supplies, fixing stuff that broke, making biodiesel fuel, tending to livestock, and running security patrols.

The list went on and on, forever and ever, without end. Hallelujah and amen.

Once upon a time, Quinn had romanticized the lone survivalist making it on her own in a tricked-out cabin deep in the woods.

Reality was far different.

There were aspects of survival she’d never considered until she was forced to live them. The smells. The itchy scalp. The blisters from handwashing your own clothes. The constant gnawing ache of hunger. The fear and stress.

And the spiders. They were everywhere. As soon as humans disappeared from a building, the bugs took over. It was disgusting.

Their new nanny goat ambled around the corner, busily chewing grass. A collar and rope tethered to the house ensured she didn’t wander far.

Because she was white with black splotches, Milo called her Oreo, which just made Quinn hungrier every time she called the damned goat’s name.

Gran glanced over at Oreo and grinned. “Better than a mower.”

A few days ago, they’d visited Mr. Atkinson’s homestead on Snow Road to trade Gran’s jarred peaches for more honey. They’d also traded a bottle of fish antibiotics for a single female goat. Mr. Atkinson’s wife, Sherry, had contracted a bad urinary tract infection.

“You should have traded for that cute black Angus cow,” Quinn said. “I think they would’ve traded half their barn for those antibiotics.”

Gran clucked her tongue. “No reason to take advantage of folks in need. Besides, goats are easier to care for than cows. With a goat, we can still make our own milk, yogurt, and cheese.”

“Mmm, cheese.” Quinn’s mouth watered as she imagined freshly baked bread hot from the woodstove slathered in melting slices of scrumptiousness. “I love you already, little goat.”

“I’ll trade for a billy goat as soon as I can. If we can get a herd going, Ghost will guard them from coyotes and those cursed feral dogs that keep slinking around.”

Quinn glanced at Oreo again, blinking back the sudden wetness in her eyes. The stupid goat made her think of Milo.

She could feel him circling her warily, a satellite always close but maintaining a steady distance. Whenever she tried to approach him, he scampered off like a skittish colt.

She’d hurt him by pushing him away. Now, he was the guarded one.

She’d messed up, but she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

Lately, she’d messed up a lot of things with a lot of people.

Quinn put down the watering can. She blew her too-long bangs out of her eyes. Guilt nibbled at her. She’d made things right with Bishop, Hannah, and Liam.

Gran, though…

She loved Gran with her whole heart, but even at the best of times, the woman was prickly as a thistle. Still, it was time to talk.

26

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

“Gran,” Quinn said.

Gran pretended she hadn’t heard.

Quinn knew she had. “Gran.”

Gran bent and watered the healthy green Swiss Chard leaves growing from the soil in the plastic grocery bag. Her ever-present Mossberg on one side, her cane on the other. “With the weather finally turning, these should be ready to transfer soon.”

“Gran—”

“How are you on feminine hygiene products?”

The question so abrupt that Quinn just looked at her.

“Pads? Tampons?”

“Yeah, Gran, I know. I have some from the store run after the Collapse. As soon as they’re gone, I’ve got the menstrual cup, like you told me. And those washable, reusable absorbent cloths.”

Gran nodded to herself. “Good, good. And birth control?”

Quinn balked. “What?”

Gran shot her a look and waggled her gnarled eyebrows. “I may be a church-going woman, but I’m neither blind nor senile. Girls are going to get into trouble, and there won’t be a thing I can say to stop it. So—”

Quinn sputtered, her face hot. “I’m not—!”

“I’ve seen how that Marshall boy looks at you. Figure it won’t be too long before you notice and start looking back.”

“Jonas doesn’t—”

“You can’t just run down to the pharmacy and pick up birth control pills anymore.”

“I’m aware of that fact.”

“I’ve stockpiled some pills in the basement for you. Spermicide, condoms. They won’t last more than a year or two, though.”

Horrified at the words coming out of Gran’s mouth, Quinn stared at her.

“There aren’t safe herbal alternatives. Some semi-effective natural preventative methods—”

Quinn clapped her hands over her ears. “La, la, la. I can’t hear you!”

Gran talked louder. “Be glad I thought ahead and stocked these for you. Otherwise, you’d be stuck making condoms out of pig intestines.”

Quinn about died right there. “Gran!”

Gran gave a casual shrug. “What? Blood and guts don’t get to you, but the birds and bees do?”

Quinn’s face burned. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. “I’m not gonna do that stuff. Okay? Not for a long, long time.”

Abruptly, Gran turned serious. “This is no time to be bringing a baby into this world. In sub-Saharan Africa, the death rate among women during childbirth is one in sixteen. That’s almost seven percent of all pregnant women. Are you hearing me? That’s where we are now. No prenatal vitamins or check-up visits. No ultrasounds. No C-sections.”

“Hannah—”

“Hannah almost died of pre-eclampsia!”

Quinn set her jaw. A stubborn, boorish part of her wanted to argue just to argue, but she pushed her frustration down. “I have no intention of—”

Gran’s wrinkled face hardened. “You don’t always choose it, girl.”

Chagrined, Quinn’s mouth clamped shut. She knew exactly what Gran meant.

She thought of the horror stories coming out of Illinois; the Syndicate taking over FEMA camps and small towns, stealing and selling girls and women. Her stomach curdled.

Gran pointed at her with her gardening gloves. “You young people think you’re invincible. You’re not. You’re made of meat and bone, like every creature on this cursed earth. You’re not special. You can die just like anybody else.”

Quinn touched the scabbed tear in her lip. Evelyn had stitched it up—painfully, without anesthetic—but it would leave a jagged scar.

Memories of that night flooded back. The pain. The fear.

“I know, Gran. Trust me, I know.”

“Just making sure.”

She took a deep breath, steeled herself. “I’ve been stupid. I know that, too. That’s what I wanted to say. Lying to you was wrong. I’m done with that. I’ll be careful. I’ll be smart. That’s how you and Gramps raised me.”

Gran’s sharp eyes softened. “Contrary to popular opinion, I won’t be around forever. Gotta make sure you know what the heck you’re doing. Can’t have you running around despoiling the Dũng good name.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that!” Quinn muttered.

“It’s the truth. Everyone dies. No way to look at it but head-on.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to talk about it like that.”

Gran shrugged. “I don’t fear death. I know where I’m headed. My life is in the good Lord’s hands. So is yours.”

They worked for a while in comfortable silence. The air was still, the sun almost warm. Birds twittered in the trees. The goat snorted and munched grass, the bell around her collar jingling.

Valkyrie hunted along the edge of the tree line, stalking an unsuspecting chipmunk. Thor and Loki slept on the front porch. Thor wasn’t as fat as he used to be, though he was still fluffy, with thick orange fur.

Gran offered them scraps of table food, but cats were picky. Loki could hunt, though he was lazy. Valkyrie seemed to be keeping all five cats alive with the mice, squirrels, and occasional birds she deposited daily on the back porch. She also kept rodents from infesting the gardens or getting into the basement supplies.

The kitty litter was long gone, but the cats could go outside. Next winter would bring new problems, but they didn’t have to worry about that yet.

“You aren’t painting,” Gran said.

Quinn kept working, said nothing.

“Why not?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “No time.”

“That’s all?”

She couldn’t lie to Gran, so she remained silent.

“I think about those paints that Gramps bought you. How much you put into the murals in your room.”

Quinn’s stomach somersaulted. Gran had never cared about that stuff. Or noticed.

“You should get back to it, is all I’m saying.”

Her charcoal portraits of Noah and baby Charlotte remained half-finished on her dresser. She hadn’t drawn or painted a thing since Noah died. She hadn’t wanted to. It was like something inside her had shriveled and died. Even now, after everything, she wasn’t sure how to get it back.

She finished watering the row and moved to the last one. The watering can was nearly empty. “There are more important things to do.”

“Important is relative. Other things matter, too.” Gran’s mouth worked, her wrinkled brow furrowed like she wanted to say something more but couldn’t get the words out.

Gran hesitated.

Quinn waited.

She squinted at Quinn beneath her wide brim hat, watery blue eyes as sharp and perceptive as ever.

“The world still needs beautiful things,” she said gruffly, like talking about anything that even hinted of sentimentality gave her hives. “For every thousand people who kill and destroy, there’s one gifted enough to create, to make something out of nothing.”

Quinn stared at her, too taken aback to say anything.

The old woman stripped off her gloves, rubbed her hands on her thighs, then sighed. “Think about it. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay, Gran,” Quinn said. What she wanted to say was, I love you, don’t leave me. “I’ll think about it.”

27

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

The General paced the wide expanse of the hotel suite.

Outside his windows, Lake Michigan gleamed a picturesque sapphire blue as the sun set in a fiery explosion of taffy pink, tangerine, and scarlet.

He barely noticed.

Anger radiated through him as he waited for the sat phone to connect.

In one hand, he swirled the Rémy Martin Louis XIII cognac in his crystal snifter. He swished the high-quality brandy in his mouth, relishing the rich, opulent flavors and the faint citrus zest.

Baxter had come through after all. The General didn’t know where he’d procured it; he didn’t care. He only cared that it was his.

The sat phone connected.

The General halted in his pacing, facing the floor-to-ceiling window. The orange glow of the sunset reflected off the glass. Ribbons of vibrant color streaked the clouds. The water rippled like liquid gold.

There was a moment of silence. It was intentional. The man on the other end enjoyed keeping people waiting.

The General didn’t have the patience for mind games. He preferred to orchestrate them himself and loathed when others attempted the ploy. “Don’t waste my time. What the hell are you doing?”

“Be more specific.” The voice was deep and resonant. Persuasive. Though he was essentially no better than a mafia don, the man’s English was perfect—clipped, impatient, implying a smooth, manipulative intelligence.

“Don’t play mind games with me, Poe.”

Alexander Poe gave a humorless chuckle. “At any one time, I’m planning a dozen moves on a dozen different boards.”

“I’ve received multiple reports that you’ve overrun South Bend and Mishawaka and are amassing your men at the Indiana border. Do not think that you can cross into my territory without dire consequences.”

Silence on the other end. “I do not appreciate being threatened.”

“Well, consider this a threat!” the General said.

He hadn’t expected the Syndicate to grow so strong, so quickly. Northern Indiana had been swiftly overrun. He had expected more resistance.

Perhaps he had underestimated the devastating effects of winter upon a weak and helpless population. Disease, hypothermia, and starvation had ravaged the ranks of those who might have fought back.

The General took a long swallow of cognac. It didn’t calm him in the slightest. “Remember who’s in charge here.”

“I remember who my benefactor is. I do not forget. Not for one single second.” Poe spoke evenly, without inflection, and yet the General heard the subtext—a savage resentment behind those few simple words.

The General drained his crystal glass and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.

He had met Poe once at a fancy fundraiser dinner for the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. A mob kingpin, but he was no tracksuit-wearing thug. He was educated and intelligent, poised and graceful as a leopard.

Poe wore expensive name brand suits and drank fine wines. He finagled underhanded financial deals and cut-throat business propositions in elegant restaurants, on high-brow golf courses, and during elite dinner cruises with lobbyists, politicians, and high-ranking city officials.

He smiled and laughed like other men, but unlike other men, his eyes were empty. He was utterly ruthless, with no family, friends, or loyalties. Ambitious and greedy.

Not unlike the General himself.

They both desired the whole world on a platter.

Poe had had the manpower—his Syndicate formed a wide network of thugs, gangsters, and criminals he’d built over two decades ruling the underbelly of crime in Chicago.

But he couldn’t do real damage without upgrading his weaponry.

He needed the keys to the kingdom.

Keys which the General had generously provided him.

For it was the General himself who’d supplied Alexander Poe with the resources he needed to gain control of Chicago. And from there, most of Illinois.

The locations of local armories. Access to certain clandestine storage facilities. Covert military shipments authorized to undisclosed classified recipients.

The Syndicate thugs carried long guns—mostly military-issued M4s—and wore BDUs, the name tapes and patches removed from their uniforms. They looked like soldiers, intentionally preying upon a civilian’s natural inclination to respect and obey American armed forces.

That, too, had been the General’s idea.

It had worked to spectacular effect.

Poe had spread like a cancer throughout the cities and suburbs, and then through the rural towns, sweeping through FEMA camps and exploiting their government-provided resources to feed his growing army.

Whatever he didn’t need, he often burned or killed, leaving large swaths of death and devastation in his wake. And fear.

It was that fear that the General had needed.

It was the fear he’d manufactured, then exploited to serve his own aims.

With the chaos in Illinois at a controlled boil, Governor Duffield and the remnants of the state legislature had capitulated to their own terror. The governor had willingly handed over the reins of power. After all, he who controlled the army held the government by the balls.

Poe had served a valuable purpose. But that purpose was now waning. He would soon outlive his usefulness.

“Byron, you sound upset. Did I piss in your Cheerios?”

The General clenched his jaw, seething. From the beginning, Poe had insisted on calling him Byron rather than by his title, a subtle slight that the General had overlooked.

He regretted that now. The General had Poe handled, but he was not an enemy to underestimate.

“Don’t forget your place,” the General spat.

Poe laughed. “I have many places. My favorite is the top of the dog pile.”

“Do not step foot inside the Michigan border. I gave you the FEMA camps. I gave you Illinois. Hell, I even let you have Indiana—”

“I have enough cornfields already. And I took Illinois and Indiana myself.”

“Do not make light of this!”

A pause. When he spoke, Poe’s voice was silky smooth. “I so enjoy these little chats.”

“I mean it. I can still cut you down to size.”

“Goodbye, Byron.”

“Don’t you dare—!”

Before the General could finish his sentence, Poe hung up on him.

Incensed, the General spun and hurled the sat phone across the room. It struck the wall beside the door and fell to the carpet with a dull thud.

Baxter, who’d been hovering anxiously in the doorway, ducked with a whimpered gasp.

His bodyguards didn’t flinch.

The General longed to strangle Poe’s elegant throat with his bare hands. Or execute him with a well-placed bullet to the skull.

Poe was more than a problem. He was getting out of hand.

The General wasn’t prepared to act yet. There were still moves to make, pieces to adjust. His legacy orchestrated to perfection. He wasn’t ready.

“Sir—” Baxter stammered.

“What do you want?” He spoke between gritted teeth, struggling to maintain his temper. “Can’t you see that I’m busy!”

“Gibbs sent me, sir.”

With great effort, he reined in his emotions. His men should see him as a leader in the utmost control of everything around him—including himself. “Come in.”

Baxter scurried into the room, his head bobbing, eyes darting back and forth like another phone might fly out of nowhere and strike him in the head.

“The assault team is preparing to depart for their mission. They’ve debriefed the new asset—James Luther. They have the intel they need to proceed.”

The General released a tension-filled breath. He placed the empty glass on the marble windowsill and returned his attention to the view outside his suite.

The sun had sunk below the horizon. The sky took on the hue of a purplish-blue bruise.

Deep shadows stretched across the carpeted floor.

At least there was this.

The General turned to Baxter. “Remember, don’t touch Winter Haven. Make sure they’re discreet.”

Baxter bobbed his head. “Of course.”

The General thought of his daughter. “Tell Gibbs to send them.”

28

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

Hannah awoke to silence.

Her eyes snapped open. She stared straight up into the darkness hovering above her, blinking groggily.

She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stuck her bare feet into the slippers on the floor.

Her heart felt like it was about to pound right out of her chest. Her pulse thudded, her palms damp. She strained her ears, listening.

Sometimes, she woke still imprisoned in Pike’s basement. The terror thick in her throat, clawing at her ribs. The lumpy mattress beneath her, the cold barren walls, the bars over the tiny window.

Trapped.

She wasn’t trapped anymore.

Yet the old fear caught her like a fish on a hook, and she couldn’t escape it.

She blinked again to bring the details of the bedroom into focus. Dresser. Open closet door. Chair in the corner. Nightstand.

She checked the watch on the nightstand beside her pistol. 1:10 a.m.

Movement by the door snagged her eye.

Her heart jerked in her chest.

A white shadow crystalized in the heavy darkness—fuzzy white fur, pricked ears, the long stiff tail.

Ghost crouched at the bedroom door.

Her brain registered his low, barely perceptible growl. A rumble vibrated deep in his chest. She felt it in her own chest cavity. A warning.

The fear wouldn’t dissipate. A dread like worms wriggled in her belly.

The children. She needed to check on the children.

Hannah grasped the Ruger in both hands, flicked off the safety and nestled the butt in the curved palm of her bad hand to steady her aim. Her fingers trembled, but her movements were practiced and efficient. She’d repeated this very act a thousand times.

She padded to the door and slid it open with her foot. It creaked loud in the deafening silence.

Ahead of her, Ghost growled.

Ghost could feel it, too. She might not always trust her own instincts, but she trusted Ghost one hundred percent.

Something was wrong.

The silence was terrifying.

Not daring to speak, she slid through the doorway, the big white dog at her side. His hackles lifted, black lips pulled back from his teeth.

She crept down the hall and pushed open Milo’s door. A small oblong lump beneath a mess of blankets. The black curls on the white pillow, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

She checked the window. Locked.

The uneasy feeling grew inside her. The wrongness.

Ghost trotted toward Charlotte’s room. With increasing trepidation, Hannah followed. She sensed her way by memory rather than sight.

Darkness lay over everything, thick as a shroud.

The night was completely still. No refrigerator sounds, no ticking clock.

Her slippered feet padded down the hallway. Ghost’s nails click, click, clicked.

Gun up, she pushed open Charlotte’s door with her shoulder and slipped inside. She took in the dim shapes. Her brain registered each familiar item as something strange and alien.

The crib against the far wall. Closed window covered by curtains. Open closet door. The overstuffed reading chair piled with Charlotte’s favorite stuffed animals.

Ghost trotted to the crib and let out an anxious whine. A sound so loud in the silence that she flinched.

A moment later, she was at the crib.

White sheets. Zoo animal mobile hanging still and silent. Liam’s crooked little hat stuffed into one corner.

It was empty.

Adrenaline turned her veins to ice. Terror clawed at her throat, choked off her breath.

Wildly, she scanned the crib, blinking as if that would bring back the proper image: Charlotte curled into a tiny ball, a halo of fuzzy dark hair, fat little thumb jammed into her rosebud mouth.

Still empty.

She took a single staggering step backward. No, no, no…

And then it hit her.

The memory flooded her mind—earlier that evening, after she’d nursed Charlotte, Evelyn had offered to take the baby for the night to allow Hannah some restful sleep.

In her weary, sleep-deprived state, she’d completely forgotten.

Relieved, she sagged against the crib to catch her breath. Her pulse roared in her ears. For a moment, she’d feared the worst…

Ghost whined again.

Her gaze lowered to her dog. His hackles still raised.

The rapid beat of her heart did not slow. The sour-sick feeling of dread did not dissipate.

It grew stronger.

Ghost turned in a restless circle, snout high, sniffing the air. The Great Pyr stepped in front of her, pushing her with his powerful hindquarters.

She squatted and rested her hand on his side. The deep, unsettling rumble vibrated in the dog’s chest.

The silence pressed in on her. Heavy with foreboding.

Ghost’s head snapped up, ears pricked. His body went stiff, his plumed tail sticking straight back, as if he were preparing to launch at some unseen attacker.

The hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck stood on end.

She felt torn, the precious seconds passing too swiftly, sifting between her fingers. She needed to get to Charlotte. And she needed to radio for help.

Swiftly, she moved back into her bedroom and grabbed the radio on her night table, the solar battery charger beside it. Alarm swelled within her with each step.

“I need Liam,” she said. Her whisper loud as a shout in the eerie quiet. “At the Brooks’ house. Something’s wrong.”

“Copy that,” Reynoso said. “Aid on route. You should wait—”

She couldn’t wait. Every second mattered.

Her chest seized. Instinct screamed at her to MOVE. She set the radio back on the nightstand and turned to Ghost.

Shaken, she placed her bad hand on his spine. She dug her fingers into his thick fur. You know what to do.

Ghost headed for the door. Hannah followed.

She hated leaving her son behind in the empty house. But her instincts warned her that the threat no longer lay within these walls but out there.

It was her other child in danger. Her baby.

Hannah needed to get to Charlotte.

She needed to find her daughter right now.

29

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

Ghost sprinted to the front door, Hannah right behind him. In the dark, she barely avoided skinning her knee on the coffee table.

She didn’t waste time with her coat, pausing only to push on her unlaced boots.

She had Ghost; she had her .45.

She fumbled at the lock with her misshapen hand. Her crooked fingers were clumsier in her fear, but she didn’t dare put down the pistol.

The door opened. Ghost shouldered through. He darted into the night, a hurtling white streak in absolute darkness.

There were no stars. No moon. The clouds thick, black, and heavy.

It was bitterly cold. The frigid air sliced through her flannel pajamas. She inhaled a sharp breath, expelling white clouds, and stumbled after Ghost.

This is crazy, that rational voice whispered in her mind. You’re going to wake up Evelyn, Travis, and the babies, ranting like an insane woman.

But there was Ghost, alert and agitated. And her intuition like a jangling alarm inside her head.

She’d ignored that alarm the night Gavin Pike stopped on the side of the road. The night she’d been stolen from her own life.

She wouldn’t ignore it again.

Hannah reached the Brooks’ front door and paused. Ghost raced around the corner of the house. Once again, she followed his lead.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Electricity crackled in the frigid air.

She strained her ears for any sound. The squelch of wet, matted grass beneath her boots. The scent of wet earth filled her nostrils. It smelled like rain.

And something else. The whiff of cigarette smoke.

Dread scrabbled up her spine. Hannah hurried to the rear patio and felt her way between the patio furniture. Her boots crunched broken glass.

The slider door was half-open.

Evelyn and Travis were too careful to leave a door unlocked, let alone open.

Someone had broken in. Someone was inside the house.

For an instant, she froze, bracing against a shot of liquid fear. Her scalp tingled. That old familiar darkness descended, stealing her thoughts, blackening her mind, taking her away.

She did not give in to it. She fought against the nothingness with every ounce of her strength. What had once protected her from the worst horrors imaginable now threatened everything she held dear.

Hannah breathed in, breathed out. Cold air stung her cheeks. The heft of the .45 in her hands. Her dog pressed against her thigh, whining, scratching at the door to get in.

Her baby in grave danger. Evelyn and Travis, too.

With tremendous effort, she came back to herself.

Hannah forced the broken slider open.

Ghost leapt through the slider. With a great booming bark that shook the night, he surged inside.

Heart in her throat, Hannah ran after him.

Through the darkened living room. Bumped into the sofa, knocking over an end table. Nearly tripped, but she stumbled to her feet and raced toward the pitch-black hallway.

No thought for stealth. Only speed. Sheer panic drove her on.

Ghost’s savage barking echoed off the hallway walls and rang in her ears. He shot down the hall, a flare of bright white flame, and burst into the doorway to L.J.’s room.

Hannah scrambled into the room, gun up, pulse roaring.

Heavy shadows were everywhere. The dark shape of the crib. Window on the far wall. Dresser beside the closet door.

Movement to her left.

The flash of a knife.

A human-shaped shadow lunged out of the darkness.

Hannah’s heart seized. Panic nailed her to the floor.

A flurry of white erupted. Ghost flung himself at the shadow, growling, snarling, jaws snapping with savage fury.

One hundred and forty pounds of solid mass barreled into human flesh, knocking the assailant backward into the crib. Two forms writhing, grappling with each other. A crash and a thud.

The assailant shrieked. The sound cut off abruptly by a wet crunch. Wrenching and tearing. Mangled cries.

Ghost crouched atop the fallen figure, ripping his throat from his body.

From the crib, an infant’s incensed cry rang out. For a second, she thought it was Charlotte. Then she recognized L.J.’s scratchy wail.

She started for the crib, her only thought for her baby.

“Don’t move!” a gravelly voice said.

A second assailant stood in front of the window. A dark hulking figure, dressed in black, his shape bulky with tactical gear.

Ten feet away.

A bundle squirmed in his arms. Charlotte.

The bundle shifted to the left as he adjusted his hold, clutching the child in one arm. Charlotte squealed in protest. The glint of a muzzle barrel rose toward Hannah.

Time slowed.

No time to think. To weigh the pros and cons. Evaluate the risks.

If she didn’t act, she was dead, and Charlotte gone.

She acted.

Hannah lifted the .45 with both hands. Braced the butt with her bad hand. Aimed to the right of center mass, exhaled, and squeezed.

The pistol bucked in her hands. The shot exploded in her ears.

The assailant jerked. He yelled a ragged curse. Charlotte and L.J. screamed louder.

Instinct and training took over. She lowered slightly and fired again.

His body spun to the right. With a thud, the bundle in his arm dropped to the carpeted floor.

Hannah flinched. Her mind screamed in fear and outrage, but she kept her focus. Fired a third time, aiming for his pelvis below his body armor.

He stumbled backward. He lost his footing and smacked into the wall, then sagged beneath the window.

Sounds came from behind her. Muffled and distant. Raised voices, cries of alarm.

Someone shouted something. Words that made no sense. Her ears rang.

Light bobbed along the hallway, bathing the nursery in flaring shadows. Dimly, she sensed Evelyn and Travis crowding into the doorway behind her.

Every fiber of her being longed to rush to her child, but she couldn’t. Not yet. She couldn’t focus on anything but eliminating the threat.

She knew better than to turn her back on a wounded animal. Especially the human kind.

She strode toward the assailant and loomed over him. Blood leaked from his right shoulder. It pooled beneath him from a hole in his groin.

He twisted away from her, cursing and gasping. He crawled, scrabbling along the floor in search of his weapon. It fell when he’d dropped her daughter.

She kicked it away.

He looked up at her, expression twisted in pain and hatred. Coal-black eyes, narrow cheekbones, grizzled beard. “You little b—”

Hannah planted her feet and aimed between his eyes. “No one messes with my family!”

30

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

“Wait!” Liam’s voice thundered through the nursery. He shouldered into the room and sprinted to her side, Bishop right behind him. “Don’t shoot him!”

Hannah hesitated.

Bishop trained his Heckler and Koch .45 with the extended suppression barrel at the assailant.

Liam put a firm hand on her forearm and lowered her pistol. “We need him alive.”

She stood, swaying on her feet. Blinking and uncertain. Her pulse a roar in her ears. “But I have to—”

“I’ll do it, Hannah.” Still holding the Glock, he grasped her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “It’s over. We’ll take it from here.”

She nodded dully. It took three tries to flick on the safety and slip the .45 into her pajama pocket.

Someone had brought in a lantern. Liam? Or Travis? She didn’t know.

“Charlotte and L.J.?” Liam asked tersely.

“L.J.’s fine,” Travis said. “We need to check Charlotte. Hannah saved her from that dirtbag.”

“And Milo?” Liam asked.

“He’s at the house, sleeping.”

“I’ll send Perez over to stay with him.” Bishop unhooked his radio. “Any other assailants?”

“Only two. Ghost got that one,” she said, suddenly lightheaded.

The adrenaline dump seized her. Waves of dizziness washed over her, her legs going weak and rubbery.

Liam and Bishop had things under control. Charlotte. She needed Charlotte.

She staggered across the room and crumpled to her knees. “Charlotte, I’m here. I’m right here, honey.”

The baby waved her chubby arms, screaming and red-faced, her eyes squeezed shut in outrage. No visible wounds, but a rug burn reddened her left cheek.

Hannah couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, her stomach in horrified knots. What if her neck was broken? Or her spine misaligned, her skull bruised, or worse?

“Don’t move her!” Evelyn knelt beside Hannah, dressed in silk pajamas, her black hair in disarray. “Let me check her first.”

Against her every instinct, Hannah sank back as Evelyn examined the baby, monitored her vital signs, and checked for internal injuries.

Travis collected L.J. from the crib and cradled him to his chest, rocking him gently and whispering in his ear. The baby’s desperate cries hushed to hiccupping whimpers.

Liam and Bishop dragged the wounded assailant to the corner and shoved him up against the closet door. After frisking him, Liam knelt while Bishop stood watch at the window.

The assailant whimpered and begged for mercy. Liam offered him none.

“I think that one’s good and dead now, buddy,” Travis said to Ghost.

The dog’s jaws were locked around the neck of the first assailant. Ghost gave a last vicious shake of his head. With a snarl, he released his prey.

The mangled body sprawled between the wall and the crib in the corner.

Ghost clambered off the corpse. His hind leg faltered; he yelped in pain.

He must have reinjured himself in the attack's exertion. Undaunted, he hobbled across the room toward Hannah.

Crouched protectively over Charlotte’s tiny form, Ghost glared at Evelyn. A menacing growl rumbled from his throat. His ears flattened, his jowls pulled back from his wet red fangs.

Evelyn froze, one hand pressed to Charlotte’s chest, Ghost’s jaws inches from her wrist.

In a heartbeat, he could snap her bones to splinters.

The Great Pyrenees was huge in the small dark room, all teeth and claws, his thick fur spattered with blood. He looked wild, half-crazed with bloodlust, like a savage beast from fairy tales, a demon wolf from the underworld.

He was ferocious, acting on instinct to guard his precious charge from all creatures not in his herd.

Hannah stretched out her bad hand and placed it on Ghost’s wet muzzle. His panting breath hot on her palm. Her fingers brushed razor-sharp teeth.

Hannah felt no fear. Not from Ghost. Never from Ghost.

He was her dog, and she was his person.

“Good boy, good boy.” Gently, she closed his jaws with her crooked fingers. “Evelyn’s a friend. You know that, boy. You’re worked up from protecting your people. I get it.”

She stroked the top of his snout. Gradually, his growls subsided. “You did everything right.”

Ghost’s tense, bunched muscles relaxed. His ears pricked as he responded to Hannah’s soothing voice.

“You warned me. You protected us. You did everything perfectly. Just perfect.” He tilted his head so she could rub at the scruff of his throat. “You’ve definitely earned some jerky tonight.”

Ghost plopped onto his haunches and lowered his head to Charlotte. He nosed her tiny scrunched face, then tenderly licked her tears, whining in concern.

Charlotte wept fiercely, but she sensed the big dog above her and reached for him eagerly. She adored Ghost as much as he adored her.

Her tiny hands batted at his bloodied muzzle. The jaws that had ripped out a man’s throat were as harmless to Charlotte as one of her teething toys.

“I’m helping Charlotte, Ghost.” Evelyn kept her voice low and steady. “She’s okay, boy. Thanks to you and your momma. She’s gonna be okay.”

“Are you certain?” Hannah asked in a choked voice.

Evelyn turned her head to meet Hannah’s gaze. She kept her movements slow and cautious. “She’s okay, honey. A contusion on the back of her skull that we’ll watch, but she’s fine.”

“Oh, thank God.” Pure relief flooded her veins. Hannah scooped Charlotte into her arms and held her against her chest. Her daughter’s small shuddering body sank into hers.

Charlotte nestled her head into the crook of Hannah’s neck. Hannah cradled her, rocked back and forth on her knees, and crooned sweet nothings against her soft head.

In the warm embrace of her mother, Charlotte’s wails subsided.

Ghost pressed close, leaning into her side and anxiously snuffling Charlotte’s cheeks like he wasn’t taking Hannah’s word for it; he needed to ensure his people’s well-being for himself.

“We have visitors,” Bishop said. “Friendlies.”

Footsteps pounded outside in the hallway.

Ghost raised his head, ears perked. Instead of growling, he let out a welcoming chuff.

“Who do I need to shoot?” Molly shuffled into the room, limping heavily without her cane, the Mossberg gripped firmly in two wrinkled hands.

Quinn shoved in behind her, holding the AR-15 in the low ready position, her face bone-white with fear and adrenaline. She took in the nursery’s utter disarray. “Is anyone hurt?”

“It’s over,” Hannah said. “We’re okay.”

“Darn it,” Molly said. “I’m always late to the party.”

Evelyn grimaced. “If this is what you people consider a party, I’ll pass on the next invite.”

Molly wore a white long-sleeved nightgown. Quinn wore an oversized Metallica T-shirt and red snowman pajama bottoms. Neither wore coats. Quinn was barefoot, mud and grass caking the bottoms of her feet.

“Ghost’s barking woke us,” Quinn said. “He sounded ready to take down an army.”

Travis gave a tired smile. “Pretty much.”

“Milo,” Hannah said. “Bishop sent Perez over, but I don’t know if she’s there yet. He’s alone in the house—”

Molly pointed the shotgun at the floor. “Say no more. I’m already there.”

As soon as she’d left, Liam did something to the hostile. He shrieked in anguish.

Travis’s face turned ashen. He left the room with L.J., Evelyn on his heels.

“I’ll stay,” Quinn said.

“I need you to help search the area,” Bishop said. “Go with Perez. Now that Milo’s safe, she’ll call in the reaction force to comb the perimeter.”

Quinn made a face like she wanted to protest, but she headed for the door.

Bishop radioed Reynoso. “You better get over here, Chief. We’ve got quite a mess on our hands.”

31

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

“How the hell did these guys get through our perimeter?” Reynoso asked.

“That’s one of the questions this one’s going to answer,” Liam said darkly.

Liam, Bishop, and Reynoso crowded into the nursery. A battery-operated LED lantern hung from a hook by the door provided light. Their pistols were holstered, their long guns stacked against the crib.

Liam held his Gerber MK II tactical knife low at his side.

At the sight of it, the hostile’s eyes widened in fear. Good. Let him piss his pants a little.

By the stench of ammonia in the room, he already had.

It was nearly 0200 hours. They hadn’t bothered to wake the rest of the town council; this was a job for the security force.

Perez had several teams combing Fall Creek in case of a secondary attack. So far, they’d found nothing.

Molly was staying with Milo at Hannah’s house; fortunately, the kid had slept right through the commotion.

Travis and Hannah had settled the babies in the Brooks’ master bedroom, since the nursery was in use for interrogation.

After nursing Charlotte back to sleep, Hannah busied herself in the kitchen, cleaning Ghost with a bucket of fire-warmed water and tending to his injury.

Evelyn and Travis had wrapped the mangled corpse in a tarp and dragged it to the woods behind the property. No one wanted to waste good firewood on burning a body, but they couldn’t leave it for the feral dogs to tear up, either.

Nothing like discovering a severed hand on your back porch with your morning coffee.

As if anyone still had coffee.

Tomorrow, they’d transfer the corpse to the burial pit at the west edge of town, where they’d used a couple of backhoes to dig a hole to bury their dead a safe distance from nearby water sources.

The second hostile would join his partner shortly. But not before Liam got the information he needed.

Liam turned his attention to their prisoner. Outrage thrummed through him. It took incredible self-control to keep himself from tearing this maggot apart with his bare hands.

Forget Ghost. Liam could rip this man’s throat out himself without an iota of remorse.

How close he’d come to losing Charlotte. To losing Hannah.

Jaw clenched, he crouched before the hostile. Bishop and Reynoso stood behind him, watching with hard expressions.

Liam tapped the flat blade of the Gerber against his open palm, the edge glinting. “There’s only one way this ends. How much suffering you endure is up to you.”

“Go to hell!” The hostile still had fire in him, but he was fading. His skin was ashen, the circles beneath his eyes like smudges of charcoal.

They’d tied his ankles with paracord from Liam’s everyday carry case; his hands bound with a pair of Reynoso’s department-issued handcuffs.

His body sported three new holes. One round had torn through the meat of his upper right shoulder. The second buried itself in his upper thigh, missing his femoral artery. The third shot had lodged above his crotch, in his groin.

Hannah had done a damn fine job.

Evelyn had dressed the hostile’s wounds enough to slow the bleeding. She’d used strips cut from a sheet rather than precious bandages, antiseptic, or antibiotics.

“It is my job to heal. To give life, not to take it.” She’d met Liam with a level gaze. “That being said, in times of crisis, we perform triage and focus on the ones we can save. There’s nothing I can do to save this one. Do you understand?”

Liam had nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice lowered. Her eyes sparked with anger—and steel. “You, however, are not bound by that oath.”

Liam estimated the hostile had an hour before it was lights out. He was already dead. He knew it, too.

“Are you going to torture him?” Bishop’s expression was grim, his complexion waxy. He looked physically ill.

Liam glanced up at Bishop. “We know he’s guilty. There’s no question. This is our only opportunity to glean crucial intelligence. You know that.” He raised his voice. “If he tells the truth, I won’t touch him.”

Bishop raked a hand through his afro and gave a resigned sigh. “What I know in my head and what I feel in my heart are two different things. It doesn’t feel right.”

It felt fine to Liam, but he didn’t say so. He gave Bishop an out. “Why don’t you radio Perez and link up with her reaction force? Make sure we’re clear.”

Bishop nodded, relief on his face. He turned on his heel and marched from the room.

Bishop was an honorable man. A better man than Liam. This moment might haunt his nightmares later, but he could live with that. It had to be done to protect the people he loved.

Liam shifted his gaze to Reynoso. “You in or out?”

Reynoso’s bronze skin looked distinctly pale, but he didn’t waver. The man was solid as a rock. “Do what you’ve got to do.”

Liam returned his attention to their prisoner. “Who sent you and why?”

“I’m not telling you anything—”

Liam leaned forward and poked the tip of the knife into the man’s wounded shoulder.

The prisoner howled.

Liam continued with his work. Within a few minutes, the hostile was writhing in agony.

Liam eased back. “Let’s start a little easier, shall we? What’s your name?”

“Jenkins,” the man said.

“That’s better. Who are you?”

“Security contractor.”

Liam nodded. The hostile’s Sig Sauer M17 and M4 carbine were army-issued. He carried himself like former military.

“How did you sneak past the perimeter?”

Jenkins’ mouth pressed into a thin line.

“How did you get in?”

“Go screw yourself.”

Liam went to work again. The prisoner squealed in anguish. Liam worked harder.

“On foot!” Jenkins said. “By bike on Boone Trail. Then we…we hiked in through the woods to avoid the blockades and patrols.”

It made sense. Fall Creek’s security teams had enough warm bodies to watch the roads, which were the most likely entry points. Liam had stationed a few observation posts in the woods, but not enough.

For anyone truly determined, especially on foot—there were a hundred points of entry to breach the perimeter.

“Who sent you?”

Jenkins refused to answer.

Things progressed for several minutes. Finally, he broke. “General Sinclair! It was the General who gave the orders. We’re acting on government authority!”

“To murder children?”

“Not murder. We were supposed to take her and bring her to the General. That’s all.”

“How did you know which house was hers?”

The hostile winced. “The General knew. He had a map of the town and circled the road and the house. Once we penetrated the perimeter, we surveilled the house all afternoon. I saw the woman bring the baby here. We waited until everyone was asleep and in-between patrols. Then we broke in. Get in, get the baby, get out. Those were our orders.”

“There are two babies. You were after them both?”

“Just the girl. Didn’t know there was another kid. Almost grabbed that one by accident. It was the girl he wanted.”

“Why?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

Liam went at him again.

The hostile convulsed like electric volts were shooting through him. When he could speak again, he said, “The kid is related to him! A granddaughter? Great-granddaughter? I don’t know! Hell, it hurts!”

Shaken, Liam sat back. Cold sweat broke out on his brow.

His mind whirled, cycling through the possibilities, the ramifications, what this meant for them, for Fall Creek and for Hannah.

The General knew.

Rosamond hadn’t shown a shred of interest regarding her blood ties to her granddaughter. Evidently, her father felt differently.

That mealworm scumbag Sutter had told the General about Charlotte. Or else Luther had.

Maybe Luther was playing both sides.

If he was, Liam would find him and filet his skin from his skeleton.

“That’s why the General hasn’t attacked yet,” Jenkins wheezed. His eyelids fluttered. His makeshift bandages leaked thick dark blood. A widening puddle stained the carpet beneath him. “Just…waiting on the…kid. He’s gonna blast you terrorists to hell…”

Once he had the intel he needed, Liam gave Jenkins a quick death, as he’d promised.

He stood slowly, back twinging, and wiped his hands on a towel. He cleaned his tactical knife and sheathed it.

Sickened, he turned from the corpse.

He’d done what he had to do. If it meant he kept his loved ones safe, he would let his soul burn for eternity.

“What does this mean?” Reynoso asked, dismayed.

Liam couldn’t answer him. He needed to talk to his spy. He needed information.

He seized the radio, switched to the correct channel, and radioed Luther.

The radio hissed static. There was no answer. It wasn’t their prescribed check-in time. Besides, without the repeater stations, the radio was out of range.

Dread settled in his gut like a block of ice. Liam tried again and again.

Again and again, nothing.

32

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

“It’s not over,” Hannah whispered.

“It is for tonight,” Liam said. “You’re safe now.”

She didn’t feel like it. Try as she might, she couldn’t still the fear pulsing through her. She couldn’t stop trembling.

Reynoso and Perez had conducted a thorough search of Fall Creek, and Liam had ordered increased patrols and twenty-four seven surveillance of Hannah’s house. He refused to leave her side.

Lightning flashed outside the window. A moment later, thunder rumbled.

A storm was coming.

Hannah was back home, Liam with her. They sat on the sofa, Milo and Charlotte asleep in their beds. The fire crackled in the fireplace as orange shadows flickered along the walls.

Ghost stretched out in front of the hearth, alert but rested his head on his front paws, his brown eyes watching their every move. Every so often, he’d nose his injured hind leg and give a plaintive whine.

It was three a.m. Neither she nor Liam had slept.

Anxiety wound a knot in Hannah’s belly and wouldn’t let go. Her mind kept rewinding and replaying the night’s events. “What if I’d missed? What if Charlotte was seriously hurt? What if—”

“You did everything right,” Liam said.

“She could’ve died. L.J., Milo. Evelyn and Travis—”

“They didn’t. You can’t beat yourself up about what might have been.”

She nodded dully.

“You did good,” Liam said, pride in his voice. “The bad guys are dead, and you aren’t. Charlotte is safe. You’re safe.”

“I killed a man tonight.”

“You did what you had to do.”

She stared at the fire. The flickering flames danced and blurred. “I didn’t miss, Liam. I was scared to death, but I didn’t miss.”

Not like before. She remembered the night of the blizzard, trapped in the house with Pike. The confrontation in the hallway when she could’ve shot him dead but missed, her hands shaking with panic, her bad hand unusable.

How much had changed.

She had changed. She was stronger.

Still afraid, but fear wasn’t a lack of courage. True courage was action in the face of fear.

And she’d acted.

“That makes you strong, Hannah.”

She looked at him with burning eyes. “He wants you dead. He wants my baby.”

“He’s not going to get what he wants.”

She shuddered. “This family is poison. It’s like they never die. When Pike was chasing us, that’s how it felt, like he was the devil himself.”

“He wasn’t, though. You killed him. He was a human being, just like General Sinclair. He can be killed.”

Hannah rubbed her crooked fingers. “The evil in that family. Do you think it started with Rosamond’s father? What if it’s a genetic curse passed from generation to generation?”

“We all have choices,” Liam reminded her. “No one is born evil.”

“What if Charlotte has it?”

“She doesn’t. She won’t. You’re raising her with love, kindness, everything good.”

Her chest went tight. Now that the danger was over, she was shaky and weak. The tension and fear crashed down upon her. The stress, the pressure, the exhaustion. She couldn’t get enough oxygen.

“We’ll protect her,” Liam said. “I promise you.”

Lightning flashed. A rumble of thunder trembled the house. The first drops of rain dribbled down the windowpanes. She was suddenly so cold.

Concern flashed in Liam’s eyes. “You’re shaking.”

“I almost lost her, Liam.” A sob escaped her throat. “I came so close—”

“Hey, hey.” He turned toward her on the couch, only a foot away. “Look at me.”

With great effort, she raised her eyes. As he’d done in the nursery, he placed his hands on her shoulders, comforting her. Once, she would have flinched from him in fear, the specter of Pike rising up in her mind. No longer.

“You did it,” Liam said softly. “You kept Charlotte safe. You’re her mother. You protected her.”

She nodded. He was close, so close she could inhale the smell of him, earthy and masculine.

He lifted one hand and brushed her hair back from her face. “I will protect her, I promise you. I will lay down my life for hers.” He hesitated, his eyes dark and bottomless. “I would die for you, Hannah.”

An electric charge shivered through her.

The way he was looking at her. The intensity in those gray-blue eyes. The question waiting there for her to answer.

It felt like the boundaries of their relationship had abruptly shifted. She felt disoriented, dizzy.

The rain fell harder, battering the roof. More thunder pealed.

The fear was there. But so was something else, something stronger.

Hannah placed her bad hand on his arm. Her fingers felt the sinewy strength of his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. The broadness of his chest. That rugged, handsome face.

He glanced down at her hand, looked up at her. Longing in his eyes. The same desire throbbing in her own chest reflected back at her.

Her heart leapt. A tingling warmth started in her belly and spread through her limbs.

Something released inside her. A letting go, an opening up, like a butterfly’s wings unfurling.

“Liam—”

Liam leaned forward and kissed her.

33

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

Liam kissed the woman he loved.

Gently at first, then deeply, fiercely. And then his hands were cupping her face, fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her close.

Liam was a soldier. A tough, battle-scarred warrior. And yet butterflies swarmed in his belly, sparks flaring beneath his skin at her touch.

Together, they had traveled two hundred miles of hostile winter terrain. They’d escaped a madman. They’d made it to Fall Creek and forged a home amid savagery and chaos.

He had cradled her in his arms. She had stripped naked and crawled into bed with him, skin to skin, the heat of her body offering his hypothermic limbs life-sustaining warmth. He’d knelt between her legs and brought her child screaming child into the world.

Nothing had felt this intimate, raw, fragile. Like if he took a wrong step or breathed too soon, the moment would shatter.

They loved each other the way hurt people loved. Cautious, stretching carefully, testing their injured souls, checking to see if their damaged hearts still beat.

He pulled back for a moment, unable to catch his breath. His heart raced, his palms damp.

She looked up at him, those green eyes glinting in the firelight, her gaze frank and steady.

“I have to say something.”

“I’m listening.”

Never had Liam been so acutely aware that tomorrow was promised to no one.

The broken world was closing in on them. Death hovering above their heads, the looming threat of a war they couldn’t win.

Tomorrow, he would take the fight to the General. He might not come back.

And yet. In this moment, none of that mattered. Nothing but Hannah.

“I’m no good at this stuff. I—I love Charlotte like she was my own flesh and blood. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I was hers. And Milo, I care for him, too. He’s smart and brave. And you…” He cleared his throat. “Hannah…”

He’d never felt so nervous and yet so sure in his life. He felt suddenly foolish, way out of his element, but he blundered forward. “I want to be with you. I want to be where you are.”

Hannah’s eyes glistened. “I want to be with you.”

In one fell swoop, she had undone him and knit him back together. She had shown him a glimpse of what a meaningful life could be—what love could be.

It was a painful thing, coming back to life. Like his frozen limbs thawing, prickling and stinging as the numbness withdrew and sharp glorious warmth pressed in.

The pain was worth it.

She was worth everything.

“I mean it.” This time, he did not hesitate. He laid himself bare. “I’m all in, Hannah. Whatever happens next, I need you to know that. You, Milo, Charlotte.” His voice choked. He struggled to continue, to get it out. It was important to say. He needed to say it. “If you will have me.”

She leaned in, her forehead touching his, her green eyes bright. “I will, Liam Coleman. I will have you.”

Just like that, he was rendered speechless. A deep, abiding joy radiated through him. He couldn’t have said anything in that moment, even if he’d wanted to.

With great tenderness, he tucked his hand beneath her chin and tipped her face to his.

Liam couldn’t help himself. He kissed her again.

Hannah’s lips parted. She kissed him back.

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. He kissed her hungrily, deeply. He buried his hands in her hair, breathed in the scent of her. Felt her heart beating hard against his own ribs.

He wasn’t a poet or an orator or one prone to religious experiences, but he’d give anything in the world to remain in this moment forever. Here in this place, here with her. With this beautiful woman he didn’t deserve, but still loved with every beat of his heart.

It was real. The thing he’d yearned for, longed for, all these lonely years.

Liam didn’t know how long they sat there, wrapped in each other, enraptured. He’d never felt so warm. So cherished. So completely loved.

All along, this was where he’d belonged: in Hannah’s arms.

34

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

The next morning, Liam’s assault teams headed to St. Joe.

From Luther’s intel, they knew the General had four units scattered at different locations in the field. The soldiers guarded fuel storage, ammunition dumps, and vehicle staging areas.

They would strike first—hitting soft targets rather than infantry.

Liam took point, his eyes up and out, scanning for threats. Bishop followed, with Reynoso covering their six as rear security. Hayes and Perez led the secondary teams in other parts of the city, while the bulk of their fighting force remained in Fall Creek.

They’ d come prepared. Liam wore his plate carrier body armor beneath his chest rig. Several fragmentation grenades and a few flashbangs nestled in the pouches at his belt.

He had his M4 and the .308 slung across his back for sniper work, along with the Glock and Gerber. Reynoso and Bishop carried the same. Their faces were painted with charcoal, gear taped to reduce noise.

Trash skittered across the road. Two raccoons perched on the lid of a dumpster. Stray dogs lurked in shattered doorways, staring at them with bold aggression.

Liam’s pulse thudded in his ears. Anxiety rippled through him, every sense on full alert. His heart rate kicked at every sound. Enemies lay in wait everywhere.

Other than the shanty tent cities crowding the beachfront, St. Joe was a ghost town. It felt like a corpse—a dead thing crawling with maggots and rats.

St. Joseph, or St. Joe as everyone local called it, had once been a thriving beachfront city with a population of ten thousand before the Collapse. Established in the 1820s, the buildings were historic, constructed of vintage brick and steel.

The businesses and shops had been raided months ago. Most people had migrated to the outskirts, where there were trees for firewood, yards for planting gardens, and farms with crops and livestock.

As they crept through the barren city, they moved from cover point to cover point. Reynoso held a handmade tape measure-and-PVC pipe antenna, searching for the enemy’s location.

The antennae looked like the skeleton of a kid’s homemade kite-building project for the Science Fair, but it worked. Every time they got to a covered point, he took a compass bearing.

From what they’d ascertained, the General’s troops weren’t bothering with EMCON—radio silence. Liam would use that against them.

Military radio traffic data was encrypted. Plus, it automatically switched frequencies at mind-numbing speeds. Luckily, they didn’t need the data itself; they just needed a compass bearing to follow.

Jamal and Dave had put their heads together to build homemade directional antennas made from a tape measure with steel tape, PVC pipe, stainless hose clamps, electrical tape, 50 Ohm coaxial cable, and a receiver with an S-meter to locate directional signals.

Dave already had some directional finder equipment. It was a hobby many ham radio aficionados enjoyed. As Dave proudly informed him, the popular sport was known as Amateur Radio Direction Finding, or ARDF.

Like ham radio, the gear was primitive, and most of it had survived the EMP.

They’d hunted the source of the transmission via triangulation. With the homemade antenna, Reynoso took multiple compass bearings at separate locations along the lines of the transmissions—where the lines crossed on the map pinpointed the location of the unit.

Perez’s team had a similar antenna. They’d tracked down the ammo dump several blocks away on Port Street, and were awaiting the signal.

Three blocks from their target, Liam bladed his body and crept around the corner of a boutique coffee shop, weapon up and scanning as Bishop came out behind him, searching to the left.

Twice, they glimpsed movement on rooftops—overwatch—and took great care to avoid detection. They kept to the shadows, alleys, and doorways.

Like invisible wraiths, they moved past boutique shops, tourist traps, and hotels. A vacation home rental office with a placard in the unshattered window advertised beachfront homes for five hundred bucks a night.

In dripping blue paint, someone had sprayed “Free housing,” followed by expletives, across the glass. Inside the building, it smelled rancid. Like death.

Block by block, they closed in on their target.

The General’s command and control center—the Boulevard Inn—was too well defended to attack. The building was six stories of beige stucco, steel, and glass.

The National Guard had blocked the roads surrounding the hotel. Roving patrols protected the perimeter, with guards posted inside the hotel, fortified entry and exit points, plus two-man sentry teams on each block. According to Luther’s intel, each checkpoint boasted an M60 belt-fed machine gun.

Though the General’s mercenaries were fair game, Liam would not willingly kill an American serviceman or woman. It was the only way he could live with himself. By the expressions on his team’s faces, they felt the same.

With caution, they approached Broad Street, passing cafes, bars, a bank, and a lawyer’s office. The streets were deserted. The streetlights shattered. The air still but for the distant rumble of the Humvee patrol roaming the empty streets.

Stacking up behind the pillar, they moved out, scanning the rooftops, Bishop going left, Liam right, Bishop low, Liam high, with Reynoso guarding their six.

Their every movement was choreographed in perfect concert, three bodies acting as one efficient, lethal organism. His heart pounded, the adrenaline rush pouring through his system, amping every sense. He was in his element.

He could hardly admit it, even to himself. How much he missed this part. Working together as a team. Belonging to a brotherhood. Knowing with one hundred percent certainty that your partner had your six, no matter what.

The growl of engines drew closer.

His adrenaline spiked. Liam halted and held up a fist. Swiftly, his team hid themselves as a four-man patrol swept down Lake Boulevard.

The patrol drove two Humvees with turret-mounted M2s and weren’t hard to miss—or evade.

It seemed more like posturing. A warning for desperate citizens to steer clear or face the consequences. These soldiers weren’t here to hand out water bottles and toothbrushes.

Once the patrol passed, Liam’s assault team kept moving.

With the makeshift antennae, Reynoso directed them to the soft target location about eight blocks from the Boulevard Inn. The bulk of the General’s transport and fuel supplies were tucked into the two-story parking garage between a wine store and an auto insurance business.

Four soldiers guarded the entrance, separated into two-man teams. There likely wouldn’t be anyone inside, just the sentries outside along the perimeter. Three males and one female. Two were armed with M60 machine guns and wore body armor with ceramic plates.

The soldiers looked grim, bored, and miserable. Their posture lax, shoulders drooping.

The lack of electricity was taking its toll. The hunger. Constant discomfort and sleep deprivation. Separation from friends and family.

They were soldiers, but they weren’t battle-hardened special operators. Many were probably torn between their duty to country and their responsibilities to loved ones. Each day, they waged an internal battle, a struggle between honor and shame, duty and family.

They didn’t know it, but they were following the orders of a sociopath who didn’t care whether they lived or died, or if their loved ones were safe, sheltered, and fed.

Liam massaged the trigger guard, every muscle taut, his stomach knotted with misgiving.

A fresh surge of loathing struck him. Yet another Sinclair forcing his hand, making him choose between impossible options.

Instead of the peace he longed for, he was going to war.

“Alpha Team Three, this is Alpha One,” Bishop said into his radio. “We’re in position.”

There was no response. They were out of range. Liam looked at his watch. They knew communication was going to be crap, so they’d timed the attack. Any second now.

Several miles away, Hayes led a team to create a diversion. Using a homemade napalm mixture, they’d set a TJ Maxx ablaze. The General’s scouts would send a team to investigate.

Once the unit responded to the diversion, the secondary team would ambush them and pin them down—hopefully, without taking casualties.

In response, the General would send his reaction force, tying them up and wasting precious fuel and ordnance.

Utilizing Michigan’s rolling terrain to their advantage, Hayes had set up an ambush location at a choke point between two exposed hills. They were dug in behind rock and dirt berms to protect them from the M2’s firepower.

The long-range ambush would reduce the Guard’s effectiveness while allowing Team Three to break contact before the soldiers could strike back. It was one of the Taliban’s favorite tactics.

They’d constructed an IED to detonate ahead of the armored vehicle, designed to disable it without killing its occupants. When the guardsmen jumped out of the Humvees to scramble for cover, Hayes’s team would open fire on the vehicles to disable them before making a quick exit.

Team Three would then head back to set up another ambush along M-139 in case Liam or Perez were pursued.

As Hayes engaged the General’s forces outside the city, Liam’s team would eliminate a significant portion of the General’s transports and fuel while Perez’s team targeted the ammo dump site.

Anxiety crackled through him. No plan survived first contact with the enemy. There were a hundred ways this could go sideways, though he’d analyzed each one a dozen times. The stress points and weaknesses.

He’d planned for contingencies. Had back-ups to his back-up plan. Multiple exit strategies.

It still might not be enough.

Liam settled down to wait, the only sound his own shallow breathing. Constantly scanning all sides of their position, checking windows, doors, and rooflines, attuned to the slightest sound, the most imperceptible movement. The telltale glint of a scope.

A minute later, the growl of several engines shattered the still air—the General’s quick reaction force.

Seven Humvees roared north toward Hayes’ team. Thirty seconds later, four more Humvees roared past, loaded with men, weapons, and ammo.

Liam, Bishop, and Reynoso exchanged tense glances.

Liam’s heart rate slowed; his breathing steadied. He was in the zone. This was it. They would only get this one chance to strike first.

They’d better make it count.

Five minutes later, it was go time.

35

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

Using hand motions, Liam directed Reynoso and Bishop to head right to flank their targets and put them in an L-ambush.

They backtracked the way they’d come and circled the targets, coming out to the west of the parking garage.

A second later came the whomp, whomp, whomp of the General’s Black Hawk taking flight in the distance. It was headed north to assist the soldiers Team Three had pinned down.

Hayes would break contact and disappear before the air asset reached them. The Black Hawk would return soon—Liam’s assault teams needed to be long gone by then.

Pressed against the side of a small art museum, Liam tensed, adrenaline spiking. He pulled a flashbang from his chest rig. Removing the safety tape from the pull ring, he gripped the spoon between his right-hand thumb and pointer finger.

The rat-a-tat of gunfire sounded. Simultaneously, a distant explosion shattered the air. Several blocks away, to the northeast. That would be Perez and her team.

The soldiers went rigid. Before they could react, Liam leapt into action.

He yanked the pull ring clear of the device. In one fluid movement, he swung around the corner and tossed the M84 stun grenade toward the first cluster of sentries.

From their opposite flank, Bishop did the same.

Liam turned away, covering his eyes and opening his mouth.

Both flashbangs detonated. The explosive bang slammed into his eardrums. Harsh white light flashed bright against his eyelids.

The soldiers stumbled back, momentarily blinded and disoriented. One screamed, dropping his rifle as he clutched at his face.

They’d come to in ten to fifteen seconds, likely faster.

Sprinting toward the garage, Liam fired once at each soldier’s ceramic-plated body armor. He made certain he didn’t miss.

A round to the chest would drop the guards to the ground and incapacitate them momentarily. It shouldn’t be fatal or cause permanent injury.

He faltered as an electric shock of pain spasmed in his spinal cord, seizing his back. Fear knotted in his chest as he limped through it, forcing his body to its limit and past it.

“Alpha Team One, this is Team Three,” Perez said over Liam’s radio. “We nailed the ammo dump. Blew it sky-high! We even got a few party favors. I’m bringing them to you now. We’re in a five-ton truck filled with ordnance—whatever you do, don’t shoot us!”

Bishop and Reynoso ran in, disarmed the fallen soldiers, and zip-tied their hands and feet before relieving them of their weapons and ammo.

One of the guardsmen was still on his feet. The soldier whipped around. Liam lunged. Before he could get his gun swung around and aimed, Liam reached him.

He glimpsed tufts of brown hair sticking out beneath his helmet. Uneven mustache. Wide, frightened eyes in an oval face. Mid-twenties, if that.

Liam spun the kid around and gripped his neck with his forearm in a chokehold.

The kid’s arms flailed, dropping the carbine, fumbling for a knife at his belt. Liam half turned him and smacked his shoulder against the exterior cement wall of the parking garage.

The soldier lost his grip on the blade. It clattered to the pavement. He tried to claw at Liam’s face. His strength faded fast. In seconds, he was unconscious.

His body sagged. Liam zip-tied him and left him leaning against the wall.

He glanced back at Bishop, who gave him a thumbs up. All hostiles down.

No sooner had they incapacitated the sentries than Perez came roaring around the corner in the stolen 5 x 5, otherwise known as a M923 military cargo truck. Her team had obtained cases of grenades, 7.62 and 5.56 ammunition, and one gorgeous .50 caliber M2.

One case of white phosphorus grenades sat in the front seat in beside her. She patted it. “We got the party favors! Time to blow this joint.”

“I’ll do it,” Liam said. “Cover me.”

“Team Two will cover us from Broad Street.” Perez jumped out and wrestled the M60 from the hands of the unconscious soldier. “Hurry up, old man. We’ve got a minute, tops.”

The 5 x 5 was low on fuel, but they could reach the link up location and switch it out for the Orange Julius they’d hidden in a used car lot. It might be enough to get their goodies home.

Bishop took up position at the entrance to the garage, taking cover across from the gate booth behind one of the massive concrete pillars holding the weight of the second story. Perez and Reynoso gathered the M60s and joined him.

While they provided cover, Liam drove into the parking garage. Inside was dark and heavily shadowed. He drove past the dark humps of parked cars whose owners would never return for them.

Gummy glass shards littered the concrete from the shattered vehicle windows—all of them scavenged. The sharp stink of gasoline fumes from punctured gas tanks stung his nostrils.

He wound through the garage to the open top floor before he reached the long rows of military vehicles. Most of the trucks were packed with supplies.

This was a temporary staging area. The General had likely set his sights on Winter Haven.

Not today. Not tomorrow, either.

Not if Liam had anything to say about it.

He got to work. He drove past each parked Humvee and lightweight tactical all-terrain vehicle and pitched white phosphorus grenades like candy at a parade.

The grenades did not explode. The air reacted to the phosphorus chemicals. It looked like a smoke grenade going off. Then came the fire.

Metal, cloth, and plastic ignited immediately. With 5000 degree heat, the fierce incendiary burned holes through armor.

The vehicles lit up like matchsticks—incredibly hot and incredibly fast. Metal twisted and melted. The crates of supplies went up with a whoosh.

White smoke poured from the fiery vehicles. Liam sped up one row and down the next, hurling grenades as he drove. Five Humvees down. Ten, fifteen.

The vehicles and their contents were rendered unusable. He hated to destroy valuable supplies, but they had no way to capture it for themselves.

“We’ve got company!” Bishop yelled through the radio.

He was out of time.

The tires squealed as Liam swerved, narrowly missing a concrete pillar, and barreled for the exit, ignoring the arrows and “wrong way!” warning signs.

He squinted, the smoky haze pouring into the cramped quarters making it hard to see.

He peeled out of the parking garage, smashing through the closed red and white articulating barrier gate arm, and slammed to a halt.

Perez grinned darkly as she jerked open the door. “That’s gonna bring the cavalry!”

She thrust the big M60 belt-fed machine gun into the back seat and climbed in. Reynoso seized the second one and threw it in as well.

They could already hear soldiers shouting and the rumble of more Humvees heading their way.

Bishop jumped into the front seat. “Go! Go! Go!”

Liam hit the gas. They drove, barreling through the empty streets, buildings rising all around them. Bishop pointed his weapon out the window, checking doorways and rooftops.

“Alpha Two, this is Alpha Team One. Cover us!” Perez called into the radio. “We’re coming your way!”

“Alpha Team One, we’ve got you. They’re coming in at you from Main Street. State Street is clear.”

“Copy that.” Perez dropped the radio in favor of the M60.

More sporadic gunfire. The growl of Humvee engines grew closer.

Liam’s heart bucked in his chest as they whipped left onto State Street, tires squealing. The stink of burnt rubber filled his nostrils.

Bishop tossed a few phosphorus grenades out the window. Behind them, white smoke unfurled, billowing in great clouds to fill the entire street, creating an instant and effective smoke screen to shield their movements.

They got the hell out of Dodge.

36

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

Gibbs marched into the General’s suite. “I need to speak to you, sir.”

The General stood facing the wall of windows, his hands clasped behind his back. His bodyguards flanked either side of the doorway. Four more waited outside the door.

Baxter sat at the slim hotel desk in the corner, scribbling away with his delicate handwriting, sweating over chapter seven of the General’s manuscript.

The General breathed deeply, kept his gaze on the horizon line where the water met the blue of the sky, ignoring the hovels and sagging tents littering the beach, his eyes skipping over the dilapidated fishing boats cluttering Lake Michigan.

He was sick of this hotel, sick of MREs. Sick of this town. Fall Creek was a thorn in his side. “How much did we lose?”

“Our ammo, fuel, and transport supplies were attacked, sir. Five transports filled with supplies. Fourteen Humvees destroyed. Half of our ammo supply blown to bits.”

The General whipped around. Anger flared through him like an electrical current. “How did you let this happen?”

Gibbs didn’t flinch. “The fire was a distraction. They had men in wait to ambush the soldiers and draw our attention while they came after our logistics. The guardsmen were hit with flashbangs and knocked unconscious. The assault teams were too fast. By the time we sent a second reaction force, they were gone.”

The General cursed. He almost swiped the half-empty bottle of cognac from the credenza and hurled it at Gibbs. It was far too precious to waste.

“It will take us twice as long to transport our men anywhere. No casualties, but our ammo supply is halved. Fuel is low. For food, we only have a few days’ worth. Even if we move to rations. The men won’t like it, but—”

“Do it! We’ll find more food when we secure Fall Creek.”

Gibbs pursed his lips. “There’s more.”

“Spit it out!”

“Franklin and Jenkins never made it back.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“They did not return. They have not initiated radio contact. We can only assume that they were intercepted and eliminated.”

White-hot anger burned through him. He wanted to murder something—or someone. He couldn’t stand the sight of Gibbs, Baxter, or anyone else.

Baxter never looked up, an intense look on his face. Though the room was distinctly chilly, sweat beaded his forehead. He looked like he was writing for his life.

“When do we go rip them a new one? Sir.” Gibbs’ face was near expressionless, but the General recognized the restrained rage flashing behind his eyes.

The General forced himself to breathe, to maintain control. He longed to release his hounds and let them do what they did best.

He’d prefer to level the town. He’d never even have to step foot within its borders. Hell, with the proper artillery and air support, neither would a single soldier.

They could obliterate it, wipe it right off the map.

He had his progeny to think of. She was still inside.

“Send them another message,” the General said. “One they will not soon forget.”

“I intend to,” Gibbs said. “This cannot go unanswered.”

“But judiciously. We must limit our use of artillery and mortars. We need to protect Winter Haven. The solar panels, the greenhouses, and the planted fields. When we take over, we’ll use those resources.”

“And the people?”

“Other than my great-granddaughter, I couldn’t care less if they were all slaughtered. But bring Liam Coleman to me. I want to eliminate him personally.”

He didn’t consider the consequences of unleashing the U.S. military on a town of American citizens. He was in charge, now. The governor had given him the authority to make unilateral decisions. Which he damned well would.

Gibbs cleared his throat.

“What is it?”

“The troops—they might balk at engaging noncombatants. Even those sheltering terrorists. They don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Anyone who dares to disobey a direct order will end up like those deserters!”

“My men can do it. They have no such moral qualms.”

The General turned back toward the window and admired the view. “You have an idea?”

He caught Gibbs’ flat smile reflected in the glass. “I know just the thing.”

37

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE

Liam stalked the night.

Through his NVGs, the darkness was bathed in varying shades of green. The moon was barely visible, hidden behind a thick scrim of clouds.

It had rained earlier—the road glistened, droplets of rainwater beading the carcasses of dead vehicles. The trees and grass gleamed wetly.

He patrolled M-139 several miles north of the blockade between Fall Creek and St. Joe.

Engines were loud and conspicuous after the Collapse; he intended to keep his presence concealed, so he’d biked to Trailer World, parked in an empty bay, and hiked from there.

Yesterday, he’d deployed the M2 atop the high school roof reinforced with sandbags. The building was the town’s last ditch fallback location—Liam wanted it as protected as possible. The M60s they’d stolen from the General were deployed to several hidden ambush sites.

At 2200 hours, he’d relieved Perez of scout duty and offered to take Mike Duncan’s shift as well. He wanted to verify a few weapons caches he’d buried several weeks ago.

Mainly though, he needed to ensure he was in range of Luther’s radio at their prescribed check-in time of 2300 hours. The ruined repeaters had thrown a considerable wrench in his plans.

It had been three days since he’d heard anything from his spy.

Whether Luther was still his asset or had gone rogue was a massive unknown.

Thirty-six hours ago, the would-be kidnappers had invaded Fall Creek’s perimeter. Fourteen hours ago, Liam’s assault teams had sabotaged the General’s transport and supply vehicles.

And still, the scouts had clocked no movement from the General’s soldiers.

He was waiting for something. But what?

Maybe he was playing with them like a cat plays with its dinner before biting off its head. Using psyops—psychological operations—to terrify the town into surrendering before firing a single round.

Liam grew more and more edgy. His nerves were raw. Four hours a sleep a night for the last week. Weariness tugged at him, but he was used to sleep deprivation.

He remained vigilant. Alert and aware. Even wounded, he moved with swift efficiency, light on his feet, as lithe and powerful as a panther.

Through his NVGs, he scanned fields and farmland, pockmarked roads, squat buildings and occasional houses.

Nothing moved. Nothing appeared out of place.

A two-story office complex appeared ahead. He paused along the exterior wall of a flooring store to scan the empty parking lot. The second story north-facing windows would give him a good view of the intersection ahead.

He listened intently. Night sounds filled the air—the cool breeze rustled through matted grass and weeds. Night insects churred.

A rustle as a pair of rats scurried across the road. Their beady eyes glowed, their fur bristling along their hunched backs.

Vermin. They multiplied faster than the corpses could pile up.

Dead bodies brought the rats. Rats brought diseases.

Since they disposed of corpses immediately and regularly checked houses—both occupied and vacant—Fall Creek had remained relatively unscathed.

Outside Fall Creek, it was another story.

According to Dave’s ham contacts, plague was already cropping up in Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, along with tens of thousands of deaths to tuberculosis, cholera, and typhoid.

Several rats scuttled out of sight as Liam approached the rear door of the office complex. With the lock picks in his everyday carry case, he jimmied the lock and crept inside.

The air stank of rotting trash and rancid food. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling and strung sticky and glistening across doorways.

He batted them away as he cut the corner, leading with the M4.

The hallway opened into a larger space, a reception area, a couple of large offices, everything glowing in shades of green—a sprawling desk, a circular table covered in paperwork, notepads, files, and scattered blueprints.

After clearing the building, he headed upstairs and found a window with a solid vantage point of the intersection. He pushed a desk against the base of the window, then slid the window open.

Liam shrugged off his go-bag, leaned it against the wall, and pulled out a tripod mount for the M4. He put the gun to his shoulder and steadied himself against the desk.

Putting his eye to the scope, he turned the focus ring until the trunks of the pines at the edge of the road three hundred yards distant came forward, weirdly lit in the greenish glow of night vision. So close he could almost reach out and touch them.

His heart rate quickened. With the scope, he panned left and right in several great sweeps. The carbine hardly moved.

He half-expected to see something in the lens other than trees, abandoned highway, the humped shapes of stalled vehicles—a figure, a face in the dark, staring back at him with sinister eyes.

There was nothing.

He settled down to watch, periodically checking the radio for Luther’s check-in. 2300 hours came and went. Then midnight.

Every hour, he switched the radio to their private channel and keyed the mic twice, paused, then twice more.

If Luther were available and in range, he would find a secure place to respond.

While he waited, Liam field-stripped his weapons and topped off his magazines. He cleaned the Glock and carbine and examined the contents of his go-bag and everyday carry.

He’d replaced the paracord used to bind the prisoner’s feet, but he was running low on bandages and blood-clotting granules.

When he finished, he repacked each item for ease of access in an emergency. Then he sharpened his Gerber, checking the window every so often.

His thoughts strayed to Hannah.

He had little use for humanity. A few people made the whole thing worth it. And for those people, he would willingly sacrifice everything he had, including his life.

For little Charlotte and L.J. For Travis and Evelyn. Quinn, Milo, and Molly. But first, last, and always—Hannah.

He wished she were here beside him, her warmth, her laughter, those beautiful green eyes he could get lost in.

He missed her with every beat of his heart. In her presence, the nightmares faded. With her, he believed he could be more than a soldier with blood on his hands.

Liam pushed every thought out of his mind and forced himself to rest.

Time passed.

He didn’t sleep but instead allowed himself to drift into a state of half-awareness, stilling his body, aware of his physical senses, alert only to a potential threat.

As the first blush of dawn pinked the sky, he sat up, wide awake.

Liam suppressed his frustration as he flicked up his NVGs and stashed them in his go-bag at his feet. He took out his water bottle and drank before returning it to its proper pouch.

It was past time to go. He’d be late meeting Quinn. He had a full day’s worth of chores, training, and security on the docket. After that, a few stolen minutes with Hannah.

He couldn’t waste another moment on James Luther.

Luther had failed him. Liam should’ve known better than to take a chance on someone like him. He should’ve—

The radio crackled. “This is Echo Three. Alpha One, you there?”

38

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Liam seized the radio. “This is Alpha One. You’re a go.”

“I managed to sneak away,” Luther said. “The soldiers think I’m trying to find a private place to crap. You wouldn’t believe how difficult that is around here.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Well, okay—”

“Why the hell didn’t you warn me?”

“What?”

“The operators the General sent.”

“I didn’t—what operators?”

“Two hostiles breached our perimeter on foot and headed straight for Tanglewood Drive. They knew where Hannah lived. They went after her infant daughter and almost killed Hannah.”

Silence on the radio.

“You didn’t warn us!”

“I didn’t know!”

“I sent you in there to help us, not to give our enemies the coordinates to our destruction!”

More silence. The radio hissed static.

The sunrise ribboned the sky in shades of scarlet, tangerine, and salmon pink.

“I swear, I didn’t know.” Luther sounded pained, his tone contrite.

Liam didn’t care. “How the hell did he know where Hannah lived? I doubt Sutter had the time to give him that little crumb of intel.”

“You told me to give him information if I had to!”

“Not that information.”

“Look,” Luther stammered. “He didn’t tell me what he planned to do. He wanted to know the location of the children to spare them in the event of an attack—”

Liam gave an incredulous snort.

“I know how it sounds, okay?”

“Whose side are you on, Luther?” Liam said in a low, dangerous voice. “Because it certainly doesn’t sound like you’re on ours.”

“I am sorry,” Luther said. “Truly, I am.”

“Be very careful before you make me an enemy.”

“I’ve already caused great harm to Hannah Sheridan’s family. I am incredibly aware of that fact.”

“Are you?”

“Yes! I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them, I swear to you. I nearly killed her son, okay? The whole reason I’m out here is to…I don’t know, make up for it or something. Certainly not to put her in further danger. I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t. Not intentionally. I swear it.”

He sounded remorseful. Liam recalled a comment Quinn had made about Luther: a polite killer was still a killer. She’d made a good point.

Some people used their guilt and good intentions to justify their own atrocities.

Luther was a snake in the grass. A harmless garter or a lethal black mamba—Liam still wasn’t certain.

“Look, you wanted me on the inside,” Luther said. “I had to give him usable intel. I did. I gave you information, too! You know how many men he has, where they’re stationed. I gave you everything I had on the mobile units and the reaction force. You destroyed half our transports and a good chunk of our rations. We’re all hungry and miserable now, thanks to you.”

The sun peaked above the tree line, a fat ball of yellow in a clear blue sky. The clouds had dissipated during the night.

With considerable effort, Liam reined in his fury. What was done was done. Luther was his only connection to General Sinclair. Liam needed him.

He blew out an even breath and steadied his heart rate. “You’ve met him face to face. Describe him.”

“He’s…he’s like Rosamond. I see similar traits. He’s harder than she was. She wanted to be liked. I’m not sure that he cares. He only wants to be remembered. Immortalized in the history books. He’s going to railroad whoever and whatever he needs to in order to achieve his goals. The rank-and-file guardsmen don’t like him, but they obey him.”

“What’s he going to do next?”

“He’s obsessed with legacy. If he thinks Hannah’s baby is his progeny, he’ll keep coming for her. And he’ll keep coming for you. This is a personal vendetta.”

Liam clenched his jaw. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected, but it still chilled him to his core to hear his suspicions confirmed. “I know. What is he going to do?”

“I’m not privy to his plans. He’s very secretive and keeps his private security team close as a buffer between himself and the soldiers—”

“Then become privy.”

“It’s going to take time to get into his good graces,” Luther whined. “I’m trying to befriend a man named Baxter. He’s on the inside. He’s not a soldier. If anyone has a conscience among them, or at least a loose tongue—”

A sound in the background, barely audible.

Liam went rigid. “What is that noise?”

“What?”

Static on the other end.

Then, whump, whump, whump.

Fear lanced through him.

Liam gripped the radio as he leapt to his feet, shouldered his go-bag, and seized the M4.

He sprinted for the stairwell. His spine electric with pain, his side on fire, slowing him down. Too slow.

“Liam, I didn’t know—!” Luther said, his voice pitched in alarm.

Liam was no longer listening. He switched the channel as he skirted desks and cubicles bathed in early morning sunlight and slammed his shoulder into the exit door.

The door banged open. He skidded down the stairs, leaping two and three at a time. Nearly stumbling from the flare of pain.

Then on his feet and running again. Blood rushed in his ears. His heart hammered out of his chest. “Echo Two, come in!”

Only static on the radio.

“Bravo Four! 10-33!”

He was out of range.

He had to get back to Fall Creek. He had to warn them. Liam knew that sound, as familiar to him as his worst nightmare.

A Black Hawk taking flight.

39

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

The church bell tolled.

The sound rang out in the crisp morning air.

Quinn froze.

Jonas’s eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”

Three dozen townspeople looked up in alarm. They stood over rows of plowed earth, hoes and shovels in their hands. Dressed in jeans or overalls, sweatshirts beneath jackets, baseball caps over greasy hair.

A few yards behind them, Ghost lay in a pile of dirt, tongue lolling, tail thumping lazily, like a prince surveying his domain.

The bells.

It took a moment for the clanging to sink into her consciousness. Her brain felt stuffed with cotton, her eyes gritty from exhaustion.

Last night, she’d spent an uneventful four-hour shift on the Snow Road blockade after two hours of hand-to-hand combat and defensive tactic drills conducted by Liam.

Five hours of sleep, and she was up before dawn to train with Liam. He was a no-show, so she’d found Jonas and headed to the high school.

They were transferring the tender seedlings from the greenhouses to the former soccer field they’d cleared and plowed with a diesel tractor that ran on biofuel.

The church bells resounded, peal after peal.

“Quinn!” A few rows ahead of her, Milo was on his knees, digging holes with a trowel. A smear of dirt streaked his forehead. He stared at her, fear contorting his small face. “That’s the alarm!”

“It’s real, isn’t it?” Jonas said. “This is real.”

Liam had insisted the town practice emergency drills each evening at six p.m.

It was not six p.m. It was eight-thirty in the morning.

This was not a drill. The warning was real.

An attack was pending.

Adrenaline shot through her. She leapt to her feet and reached for her rifle. Dirt crusted her knees and the palms of her hands. No time to wipe herself off. No time to do anything but move.

“To the bomb shelters!” she shouted. “Hurry! Go now! Go!”

“Are we under attack?” a middle-aged man cried.

A girl—maybe ten or eleven—started to cry.

Jonas strode across three rows of freshly planted tomatoes, mindful even in his fear not to trample precious food. He grasped the girl’s hand. “What Quinn said! Everyone to the school!”

The bell kept tolling. A crisp, grim warning.

The townspeople jolted into action. They dropped their trowels and shovels and reached for nearby weapons—shotguns and hunting rifles, axes and hatchets.

The copper taste of fear coated her tongue. Dread coagulated in her stomach. The sky was clear in all directions. She couldn’t see a thing.

But something was coming.

“Milo! Come on!”

Milo darted to her side, Ghost right beside him, his hackles raised. Tail stiff, he nudged Milo toward Quinn, herding them both.

Quinn whirled, taking everything in. Chaos reigned in the street in front of the schools. People sprinted from the soccer and football fields, yelling and shouting for their loved ones.

Dozens more streamed down the road from Main Street, others cutting through the alleys between Tresses Hair Salon, Brite Smiles Dental, and a small single-story post office.

At the front door of the school, Hannah and Principal King shouted instructions and directed people through the double doors.

Inside, Evelyn and Lee would move the injured and sick on stretchers from the medical ward to the basement bomb shelter.

In the distance came a low whomp, whomp, whomp.

The rumble of thunder before the storm. The tremor beneath your feet before the earthquake erupted. A terrible portend that promised destruction—and death.

Screams shattered the air. People shouting and crying. Everyone stampeded for the school shelters.

The security teams raced in the opposite direction, running to their fighting positions.

In the middle of the street, someone knocked an elderly man over. A haggard middle-aged couple stopped to help, but the crowd dragged them along.

In their panic, they’d trample each other.

Quinn grabbed Jonas’s arm and pointed. “Help him!”

Without a word, Jonas handed off the kid and sprinted into the oncoming crowd. Ghost bounded around them, barking, nosing them insistently on the sides and thighs as he directed them toward Hannah.

“Quinn!” Dave caught sight of her and gestured for her to run toward the shelter. “Come on!”

But Quinn couldn’t. Not yet.

She turned to Milo and pressed the girl’s hand to his. “Take her! Help her find her mom, okay?”

Nodding solemnly, Milo gripped the older girl’s hand and pulled her toward the high school. Nearly jerked off her feet, she stumbled after him. Ghost bounded beside Milo, barking at him to hurry the hell up.

People streamed into the school. By fives and tens, then more and more. The security teams took up their positions on the roof of the school and hid themselves in fortified windows and doorways.

She should be with them. But she couldn’t, not until she found Gran.

Travis appeared, a baby in each arm. Several ragged children ran behind him, along with a few of the teachers.

Darryl Wiggins, the former banker, was actually useful. He jogged ahead of the children, arms spread wide, pushing folks out of the way to make a path.

Jonas got the old man to his feet and helped him limp across the street. Robert Vinson, the pharmacist, aided a mother with two small children.

The whomping grew louder, joined by the deep growl of an aircraft’s engine. A foreign sound after so many months of empty skies.

Quinn spun and flung up her arm to shield her eyes.

There, in the distance to the northwest. A black speck on the horizon. It grew steadily closer.

A harbinger of death, a great wheeling bird of prey.

The ground tilted beneath her. Her hands went clammy, her mouth bone dry.

Her AR-15 wouldn’t do a thing against an armored helicopter. She had to get these people out of here. She had to get Gran.

Heart in her throat, Quinn kept searching, wildly scanning each familiar face. Not her, not her, not her.

And then there she was. Fifty yards away, Gran hobbled down the middle of the street. She held a little tow-headed toddler, her cane hooked uselessly over one arm.

Two boys no older than ten ran beside her, one dragging a screaming preschooler by the hand, the other clutching Gran’s Mossberg aimed downward, the barrel banging his skinny legs.

Their neighbors. The four orphaned boys that Annette King had taken under her wing after their mother drank contaminated river water. Gran had been showing them how to milk Oreo and make homemade cheese from goat’s milk.

Blind panic gripped Quinn.

Gran wasn’t moving fast enough. She wouldn’t make it.

The helicopter roared closer. Rotors beat the air. The engines growled like a living creature.

A predator on the hunt.

40

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Q uinn started toward them. “Gran!”

The Black Hawk swooped low.

The townspeople shrieked and ducked as the great mechanical beast beat the air above them, casting a menacing shadow.

From the sandbagged rooftops, Fall Creek’s shooters fired at the helo. At least two of the stolen M60 belt-fed machine guns opened fire.

The Black Hawk swerved and kept going. It soared past them to the end of the road before banking sharply and heading back in their direction.

It pitched back and forth, avoiding the small-arms fire, veering to and fro like a dragon. Like some prehistoric monster hunting them, attempting to flush them out like frightened mice.

They hadn’t fired yet. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

Quinn sprinted toward Gran and the kids, running against the flow of frantic people, elbows and knees bumping and banging into her. Her sore muscles ached, her ribs throbbing.

Above her, the Black Hawk leveled out. Then it shot forward a couple hundred yards and hovered over the Clothesline laundromat on the corner. AK and AR rounds pinged against its armored belly.

With a great boom like thunder, its miniguns opened up.

The helo unleashed a stream of firepower and tore into the building. A 70mm rocket streaked through the sky. It exploded and blew off half the roof.

A sound like the fabric of the world ripping apart. The great tearing noise shredded her eardrums.

She reached Gran at the abandoned Schwan’s delivery truck.

Gran had slowed to a shuffle. Her back bent almost double. Without her cane, the toddler’s weight was too much for her old bones.

Quinn held out her hands. “Let me take him!”

Gran thrust the child into her arms.

His name was Joey. He carried a blue stuffed bunny everywhere, but he didn’t have it now. Maybe that explained his screaming.

He was heavy and squirming. His hands and face were sticky with snot and tears. The cuts on her hand stung so badly, she nearly dropped him.

“Get out of here!” Gran wheezed, waving her away.

Ignoring her, Quinn spun to the three boys. “Run! Come on! Run to the school!”

Their eyes wide with shock and fear, they obeyed. Tina Gundy sprinted past. She caught sight of them and slowed, motioning for them to follow her. Together, they ran for the school.

Over downtown, the Black Hawk circled higher to avoid the small-arms fire. Various security teams popped out of hiding to fire up at it with their ARs and AKs. More M60s shattered the air, driving the bird upward.

With a roar, it swung back around, aiming its 7.62mm miniguns to take them out. A brief burst. One of the M60s fell silent.

Their long guns seemed incredibly flimsy in comparison. Like water guns. Children’s toys.

“Go!” Quinn cried. “Go! Go!”

Gran stumbled. Her cane clattered to the asphalt.

“Gran!” Quinn reached for Gran, struggling to maintain her hold on the shrieking toddler. With her free hand, she yanked Gran to her feet. “We have to go!”

They were still a hundred yards from the school.

Gran swayed unsteadily. “You go—”

“I’m not leaving you!”

The Black Hawk turned and swooped back for another lethal run. It headed straight toward them. Incredibly loud, its engines roaring. The rotor wash beat at them with the fury of a mighty wind.

It was so close. Close enough to see the pilot through the windshield. Close enough to make out the twin miniguns swiveling toward them.

“Gran!” Her mouth was open; she was screaming but she couldn’t hear the sounds emanating from her own throat. “Gran!”

The Black Hawk came shrieking toward them, miniguns lighting up.

Time stopped.

Quinn saw everything in terrible slow motion, with technicolor clarity.

The helo fired again and again. It strafed the road, aiming at the remnant of townspeople scrambling to escape. It released salvo after salvo upon U.S. citizens.

Every sound that ever existed sucked into the maw of that roar. A great thundering death bearing down on them.

Quinn swayed, momentarily stunned.

It was like falling into freezing water. The absolute shock of it.

The thud thud thud shook the ground as powerful rounds struck their targets. Concrete sprayed from buildings, bricks flying, chunks of asphalt exploding.

The Schwan’s truck rattled. The pavement seemed to judder beneath her feet. The air itself heaved from the aftershocks.

There was no escaping it.

No time to run. Nowhere to hide.

Something heavy smashed into her. She fell sideways, falling hard to her knees behind the truck. Joey shrieked in startled pain.

Quinn flattened herself against the pavement. The child was still in her arms. Instinctively, she curled herself over his small body, shoving him beneath her chest.

Pebbles and dirt scraped her cheek, her whole body shaking. The rotors thundered. The wind whipped her hair, her clothes.

Debris and dust exploded. Glass, twisted metal, and masonry pelted her body. The grinding, pounding noise vibrated through her bones, through her cells, in her teeth.

The terrible pounding abruptly ceased.

Stunned, she lifted her head, skull throbbing. Her thoughts came frantic and disjointed.

She tasted dust in her mouth. Coppery blood. Her ears rang.

Another thunderous roar. Her chest seized. It wasn’t the helo. The ragged boom of the Browning M2 filled the air as it fired from the school’s rooftop. Reynoso was up there, protecting them.

Heavy rounds exploded as the M2 opened up on the Black Hawk. Tracers streaked through the sky.

The helo spun and flew rapidly south, abandoning its attack.

Beneath her, Joey was shrieking, mouth open in a red circle, face blotchy and red. But alive. Alive and unhurt but for scratches on his hands.

She levered herself to her knees. Her eyes watering, she coughed, desperate to breathe. The dust choked her lungs.

Dust everywhere. Dust on her skin, inside her clothes, gritty in her eyes and mouth, stuck to her tongue.

People coughed, sobbing and screaming. Someone moaned. Shapes on the ground appeared through the haze. Figures moved, struggling to rise. Some didn’t move at all.

“Gran,” she croaked. And then louder, “Gran!”

41

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Somehow, Quinn pulled herself to her feet, pushing against the pavement with her stinging hands, gasping, chest heaving, until she was upright.

The Black Hawk flew several blocks west, driven away by the machine gunfire. The great bird wheeled over Main Street, firing occasional bursts at empty buildings.

She dropped her gaze from the sky to the street. Her rifle had been flung several feet away. It seemed like an impossible distance. Her thoughts came thick and slow.

Jonas was there beside her, dust in his blond hair, streaking his face. She didn’t know how he’d gotten there, hadn’t seen him coming. Maybe he’d been there all along.

She thrust Joey into his arms. Jonas stared at her with a stricken expression. His blue eyes were huge in his face. He mouthed something she couldn’t hear.

“Take him,” she said, her only thought for Gran. Gran who’d pushed her out of the way. Gran who’d taken the hit, not her.

Jonas took the squalling child. “Quinn, we have to go—”

“Not without Gran!” she screamed.

“But Quinn, she’s—”

Quinn didn’t want to listen anymore. Didn’t want to hear what he had to say. The thing she feared in the deepest recesses of her soul. “No!”

She turned, her legs unsteady, and made her way around the delivery truck. Gaping holes punctured the sides and rear, holes that hadn’t been there two minutes ago.

Dread curdled her stomach, her guts turning to water.

Two yards away, a shape lay in the middle of the road. Small and gray. A listless lump shrouded in dust and debris. Gran’s cane rested beside it.

“Gran!” Quinn collapsed on her knees beside her grandmother. Bits of rock and debris dug into her knees.

She blinked grime from her eyes and felt frantically for a pulse. Gran’s wrists as fragile as bird bones, her skin thin and papery.

A thready pulse beat faintly against her fingertips. Gran wasn’t moving. Blood streaked her gray hair. Dirt and soot smudged her face and throat. Her legs twisted beneath her at an impossible angle.

There was more. More damage.

Quinn’s brain skipped away, refusing to see, to know.

“Gran! Answer me!”

Gran coughed weakly. Her eyelids cracked open.

“You’re alive!”

“Quinn…”

“We’ve got to get you out of here!”

“There’s no time…”

“Yes, there is!”

“I need to tell you…”

“We just have to get you to the medical ward. To Evelyn. She’ll fix you. She can fix this. Just hold on—”

“Quinn.”

“I have to get you to the bomb shelter. I can still get you there.”

“Hush, girl…”

Quinn tugged at her arm. “Come on! Get up!”

“Look at me, Quinn.”

Despite her best efforts not to, Quinn looked. Blood everywhere. Shredded clothing. Torn flesh. A glimpse of exposed bone.

A horrified whimper escaped her lips.

“I’m not going anywhere…that monster cut up my legs real good.”

“We’ll fix you. Evelyn can fix you.”

“I don’t feel a thing,” Gran mumbled. “No pain, bless the Lord.”

Quinn’s eyes burned. Tears seared her cheeks.

“Truth be told…thought I’d go out…in a blaze of glory.” Gran coughed up blood. A fine mist sprayed Quinn’s cheek. “Not like…this.”

“Don’t talk, Gran. Save your strength.”

“And here I had an amazing death speech all planned out…but I’m so tired…just tired.”

“No, Gran,” Quinn whimpered. “Please, no.”

Gran stretched out a trembling hand and attempted to wipe the blood away. It smeared Quinn’s face. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Gran.

“Don’t die on me.”

“You just remember…remember…”

Quinn wrapped her hand over Gran’s—weak and quivering, skin and veins stretched over thin bones. “You can’t die on me.”

Gran said something, too soft for Quinn to hear over the ringing in her ears. She bent low, clutching her grandmother’s hand.

“Lot of things to regret in this life…” Gran said. “Never you, girl…not for one second. Never you.”

Gran’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her papery eyelids fluttered.

Her chest hitched, shuddered, and fell still.

“No!” Quinn said. “No, no, no! Gran! Stay with me! No!”

Distant explosions rent the air. Gunfire like fireworks. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Rubble all around her. Fire and death and destruction. And the screaming.

The screaming would not end. It just went on and on until she understood that the scream was inside her own brain and still it would not stop.

Not Gran, not Gran.

This had to be another nightmare. It couldn’t be real.

But it was real. It was real and Gran was gone. The last of her family dead, and Quinn never even said I love you.

She rocked back and forth, weeping, screaming until her voice cracked, her throat raw. Grief and loss rolled over her in immense waves. She was drowning in it.

And then two hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her back. She fought against it, writhing, desperate to stay with Gran, to hold her, to bring her back from wherever she had gone.

Strong arms enveloped her, pulled her close.

Hannah’s voice in her ear, the only thing she could hear over her own stricken screams. “I have you, Quinn. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Jonas was there, too. He’d never left.

Quinn collapsed into them both, allowed those arms to pull her up, to hold her, carrying her to safety.

42

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Liam struggled up the hill, pulling at roots and tree branches.

His heavy go-bag slapped against his back. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. No matter how fast he ran, it wasn’t fast enough.

Fear constricted his chest, his heart tightening like a fist.

The Black Hawk had opened fire, releasing several salvos upon the defenseless townspeople. He had no idea how many casualties. Who they’d lost. Whether Hannah was okay.

The helo concentrated its fury upon downtown Fall Creek, sweeping Main Street, occasionally firing upon empty buildings as it circled out of range of the M60s.

The M2 fired its big gun, keeping the Black Hawk from making another run at the school.

His head on a swivel, Liam sprinted up the hill along a ridgeline south of Winter Haven to the west of town, between the river and the street. The hill was behind the buildings across from the high school—Brite Smiles Dental, the hair salon.

Abruptly, the Ma Deuce fell silent.

“What the hell happened, Delta Two?” Liam said into the radio. “How’d they get so close to the school?”

“The M2 jammed!” Reynoso cried through static. “Checked the ammo belt and got it working for a hot minute. Then the extractor pin broke!”

Liam cursed. That could happen if the ammo belt wasn’t seated properly, or if the gunner hadn’t run the charging handle twice.

Terror lanced through him. The M2 had malfunctioned. It wasn’t coming back online.

Now they only had one chance to take this thing out.

No intelligence. No support personnel. No drones or satellites. No air support. And no one to rescue them if this went pear-shaped.

Hell, it already had.

“Take cover, Delta Two,” he said. “Team Three, on our count, drive that bird toward us.”

“Copy that,” Perez said.

The hostiles would come back. They’d return to hit the school and take out the Ma Deuce, especially now that it was down.

Liam panted, his legs burning, spine like molten lava. The scent of pine needles and cordite filled his nostrils. His boots sank into damp earth.

He reached the predetermined spot where Bishop waited. The location held the high ground with some cover and concealment provided by a cluster of huge walnut trees. It also provided decent fields of fire.

On short notice with limited resources, it’d have to do.

“You brought the fireworks,” Bishop said.

“Let’s hope it works.”

“It’ll work.” Bishop spoke with a confidence Liam didn’t feel. His faith made him an optimist. Liam was far too realistic.

Unzipping the pack, Liam withdrew a two-foot-long, drab olive-colored tube. He pulled the retaining pin, then removed the rear and front caps. As he extended the collapsed tube to its full three-foot length, the front and rear sights popped up.

Along with the M60s and the Browning M2, Perez had managed to steal a single M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon, or LAW, from the General.

A LAW was simple to use—aim and shoot, no guidance systems required. The shoulder-fired missile weapon launched a rocket equipped with an explosive warhead.

It was a single-use weapon. They had one shot.

Several yards away, parallel to his position, Bishop dropped to one knee, shouldered the rifle, and peered through the scope. He’d lay down cover fire while Liam worked the LAW.

Bishop was utterly still but for his mouth, moving silently as he prayed.

Liam pulled the safety forward, arming the LAW. “Going hot.”

The weapon itself had no recoil, but the back blast could severely injure or kill a man. You didn’t want to be caught behind it.

“Area clear,” Bishop said, verifying that he was clear of the dangerous exhaust area.

“Team Three, this is Alpha One,” Liam said into the radio. “Drive that bird this way.”

From their fortified positions within town hall, Perez’s team opened up with their two M60s. Belt-fed machine gunfire splintered the air.

Every muscle taut, Liam waited.

Fear wrenched through him. Not for himself, but for Hannah and Quinn and everyone else. Hot anger underscored his panic. He would kill the General for this.

He pushed it all down, put it in a box. He had to maintain absolute focus to end this threat.

Moments later, the thump thump thump of the rotors grew louder.

“It’s swinging back around,” Bishop said. “Headed right toward us.”

Liam settled the LAW against his shoulder, adjusted his footing, and stepped out from the trees to better sight the helo.

To have a snowball’s chance in hell, he needed it close.

The maximum range was one thousand meters, but in reality, anything further than a couple hundred meters for a moving target halved his odds of a direct hit.

A Black Hawk featured a missile detection system and chaff as a radar countermeasure, but if it flew low enough, a rocket could hit them before they could conduct evasive maneuvers.

He took a knee to stabilize himself and waited for the helo to approach.

Closer, just a little closer.

Luckily, it continued to fly low.

It hadn’t yet focused on either of the school buildings with any determination, but it would now. Liam had to take it out first.

He stilled. Breathed in, breathed out.

The Black Hawk zoomed in low. Three hundred yards away.

Two hundred.

Close enough to make out the pilot, co-pilot and crew chief, along with two soldiers in full battle kits in the cargo compartment, weapons aimed toward the school. Like he’d guessed, they were headed for the building to shred the shooters on the roof—and the M2.

One hundred and fifty yards.

It swung its nose toward the high school, preparing to blast the building.

Liam exhaled, aimed, and fired.

The 66mm twenty-inch-long rocket erupted from the launcher at 475 feet per second.

The missile screamed through the air and struck the Black Hawk’s tail. Shrapnel tore into the spinning rotors. The helo lurched as smoke boiled out from the engine.

Panicked, the pilot cranked the throttle and the powerful bird jolted skyward.

Too late.

The great machine careened sideways, unleashing a terrible metallic screeching. It churned into a violent spin. The rotors thundered as it whirled crazily, then plummeted from the sky.

Liam’s heart stopped. It nearly crashed into the Fall Creek Inn. The old and infirm were huddled within the inner rooms, too weak to make it to the bomb shelters.

Instead, the Black Hawk slammed into the Inn’s parking lot abutting the river. The rotors tore up asphalt as the bird came a sudden jarring halt ten yards from the brick building.

The two fuel tanks ruptured on impact. The helicopter ignited in a fireball. Flames surged forty feet high as black smoke poured from the wreckage.

Liam dropped the spent launcher tube, breathing hard. “What do you see?”

Bishop reached for his binoculars. “No movement.”

“Cover me.” Liam grabbed his carbine and started down the hill, dodging from tree to tree. The M4 pressed to his shoulder, his eyes on the burning wreckage of the helo.

He approached with caution. Smoke stung his nostrils. The stench of melting plastic choked his throat. The heat of the blaze slapped his face as the flames snapped and crackled.

No movement inside the fiery inferno. No survivors.

Liam felt little relief—and zero pleasure. He didn’t relish killing soldiers, but they’d fired on his people. For that, they’d signed their own death warrants.

General Sinclair had forced his hand. Liam hated him for it.

Still, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.

“Alpha One, this is Delta Two,” Reynoso said over the radio. “What the hell happened?”

Liam raised the radio to his lips. “Black Hawk down.”

43

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Distant booms trembled the ceiling. Every time another salvo hit, gasps and screams echoed in the confined underground shelter.

Fortunately, the firepower wasn’t aimed directly at the school. The Black Hawk seemed to be focused elsewhere. For now.

Hannah resisted a shudder.

Dank musty air invaded her nostrils. The concrete walls pressed in, the latticework of pipes snaked along the ceiling ugly and utilitarian.

Two hundred and fifty people crowded into the shelter beneath the high school. Their faces were worn, hollowed out. Soft weeping, murmurs, and the shifting of bodies echoed dully.

Cots, camping chairs, and sleeping bags crammed the room. Metal shelves of supplies—food, water, and blankets—lined one wall.

A dozen makeshift toilet buckets had been designated to one corner where Lee had strung several curtains for privacy. The stench of human excrement permeated the air.

Memories of her underground prison flooded Hannah’s mind, but she fought them down. Once, the claustrophobic underground shelter would have prompted a spiral of panic and terror.

Not this time. There was too much work to do. Too many people who needed her.

Worry for Liam threatened to consume her. He was still out there with Bishop, Reynoso, Perez, and the other warriors defending Fall Creek.

Last she’d heard, he and Bishop had gone after the Black Hawk. David against Goliath.

There was nothing she could do but pray, so she sent up a prayer for Liam’s safety as she walked among the stunned, terrified townspeople, offering blankets and water.

Evelyn and Lee tended to the injured. Several people had been nearly trampled in the mad onrush. A few had sustained ricochet and shrapnel wounds. Those hit with the 70mm rockets hadn’t made it to the shelter.

With a pang, she thought of Molly. Grief crouched at the fringe of her consciousness, but she couldn’t let it in. The sorrow would come later. Right now, she was needed.

Hannah searched for Quinn. The girl huddled in the far corner, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She stared numbly at her hands in her lap, head down, forlorn and grief-stricken.

Jonas had retrieved her rifle for her; it lay at her feet, filmed in dirt and dust. The boy sat on the next cot over, close but not too close, his hands knotted in his lap. He hadn’t let Quinn out of his sight since they’d arrived.

Hannah strode to Quinn and knelt on the hard concrete floor in front of her. Quinn barely registered her presence.

She took Quinn’s limp hands in hers and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

There weren’t enough words in any language to express the enormity of loss they’d all experienced, but especially Quinn. Quinn, who’d lost her mother, her grandfather, and her grandmother in less than four months. And Noah. She’d lost him, too.

Hannah gazed steadily into her anguished, downcast face. “You are not alone. We are right here, and we’re not going anywhere. Do you understand?”

Quinn gave the tiniest jerk of her chin. Tears tracked her soot-stained cheeks.

Hannah’s heart swelled with compassion. She scooted onto the cot and gathered the girl into her arms. With her bad hand, she massaged Quinn’s back. Without realizing it, she hummed “Blackbird” into Quinn’s snarled hair.

Quinn allowed herself to be held. Her shoulders quaked as she wept.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing else worth saying. She held the girl until her wracking sobs finally subsided.

Gently, Hannah tucked the blanket over her shivering form. “Rest now. You need to rest.”

Hannah hated leaving the girl, but there was too much work to be done. She glanced over at Jonas, who nodded wordlessly, already anticipating her question.

He’d stay with Quinn. He’d watch over her.

Before she did anything else, she checked on Charlotte and Milo.

Travis had taken charge of the children separated from their parents. Most of the kids stared blankly, stunned, or retreated into sleep. A few were awake and alert. Joey, the little boy Quinn had saved, slept on his older brother’s lap.

A few feet away, Milo held Charlotte on a cot, bouncing her on his knee. A couple of kids made silly faces, trying to get her to giggle.

Ghost never strayed more than a few feet from Milo’s side. He snuffled the kids’ faces, serene and patient as they patted his head and fondled his silky ears.

She blinked the sudden wetness from her eyes. Something released inside her chest. The dog seemed to know where she needed him most.

With her kids safe, Hannah busied herself comforting those who needed it.

“Here you go.” Hannah handed Becky Grisone a recycled bottle of sterilized water and a clean folded blanket.

The hair stylist and owner of Tresses Hair Salon slumped on a cot pushed against the wall. She looked up at Hannah with a vacant stare.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Hannah asked.

“My son,” she said. “We got separated. I haven’t been able to find him…”

Hannah gave her an encouraging smile. “We’re making a list of survivors. Remember, there’s also the middle school bomb shelter and the one at town hall. And those who hunkered in their basements. As soon as we know more, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Stacey hugged the blanket to her chest. “Thank you. For everything.”

She was shaken herself. Devastated, grief-stricken, hounded with worry for Liam and Bishop. She refused to give in to it.

Her family and friends needed her. These people needed her. She would do everything in her power to help them, soothe them, and keep their spirits up.

As a leader, she had a responsibility.

And Hannah had never shirked responsibility in her life.

Hannah moved on to the next traumatized survivor, and the next, offering words of comfort and encouragement.

It was surprising how little it took to ease a stricken heart—a smile, a kind word, a gentle touch. And seeing to their physical needs—a blanket for warmth, a little food, some water.

The gunfire outside the school stilled. Gradually, the fear pervading the shelter dwindled to a low humming dread. The room was tense but quiet, everyone holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

After she’d run out of blankets and water, Hannah made her way across the room to Dave and Annette, who huddled beside the bomb shelter doors.

Both swayed on their feet, utterly exhausted.

Apprehension pushed her heart into her throat. “Have you heard from Liam?”

“I went topside a couple minutes ago to get better radio reception,” Dave said. “Those crazy daredevils did it. They crashed the damn chopper.”

“Oh, thank God,” Annette said.

Relief flooded her, her legs going weak. Hannah closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, releasing some of the tension knotting her insides.

Liam was safe. Bishop was safe. They did it.

“I’ll make the announcement in a minute,” Dave said. “We need to stay down here awhile longer. The reaction teams are clearing the town before they give the all-clear.”

Hannah shivered and hugged herself. “It’s still hard to believe they opened fire on American citizens, even after seeing it with my own eyes.”

“They labeled us terrorists. No evidence required.”

“How many have we lost?” Annette asked.

“Too many.” Dave’s eyes darkened with sorrow. “At least ten, including Molly.”

If Liam hadn’t sounded the alarm, giving them almost five precious minutes of advance warning, how many more might have perished?

The horror seeped in, deep in her bones. Despair was poisonous. She would not give in to it. She refused.

She would cling to hope with her dying breath.

Dave sighed, misery etched into his features. “We won’t know more until we can get out and assess the damage. But I’ve received a report that at least one strike hit Winter Haven’s solar substation. The most crucial hardened electronics were in that building.”

“What does that mean?” Annette asked.

“The substation connects the solar panels in the community. Without it, the solar panels won’t work. We may have lost Winter Haven.”

Annette blanched. “What are we going to do?”

“We don’t need Winter Haven,” Hannah said. “It was always the people that made Fall Creek something special. We have generators and can make our own biofuel. We can survive. We have each other.”

Annette took a shuddering breath. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Speaking of helping each other.” Hannah turned to Dave. “Can you get me Mick Sellers on the radio? And Flynn. I want to speak with them.”

“I’ll try, but with the repeater stations down, we’re struggling to get anyone far from town. They’re out of range.”

Annette grimaced. “We’re chasing our tails with the Alliance. I’m not sure anything will make a difference to them.”

“It has to,” Hannah said fiercely. “They’ve seen a glimpse of what Poe and the Syndicate can do. Now we’re facing a threat from our own military. If they can justify this, what else will they justify? I just pray the Community Alliance will finally see reason and join us. They need to know what happened here. If it can happen to us, it can happen to them.”

“Keep praying,” Dave said. “I fear that’s all we’ve got left.”

44

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

“You’re fired!” Governor Duffield screamed into the sat phone.

With a wince, the General pulled his ear back. “I can explain—”

“I’ve received reports that you’re stuck outside some crappy town thirty miles from where you should be! Poe is amassing in South Bend. South Bend! A stone’s throw from Michigan, and what are you doing? Playing games with my men? Opening fire on American citizens? What the hell are you thinking!”

The General gritted his teeth. Someone in the ranks had snitched on him. The governor must have planted a sat phone or two amongst them to report on the General’s actions.

The man didn’t trust him as completely as the General had anticipated.

He hadn’t gotten to where he was by panicking prematurely. There was always another play. Check wasn’t the end of the game, only a minor setback.

Especially if you were willing to cheat.

With a calm he didn’t feel, he said, “I have evidence that they’re domestic terrorists plotting an anti-government agenda. They’ve already murdered a local politician—”

“I don’t care!” Governor Duffield said. “Those were not your orders! Do you hear me? You are disobeying direct commands!”

The General paced before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Lake Michigan glistened in the afternoon sunlight like a precious jewel. From here, he couldn’t see the tent-and-trash scattered beach or the huddled, dirty masses.

He caught a glimpse of movement in the reflection off the glass. He spun around, heartrate accelerating.

Baxter lurked in the doorway, head bobbing like a metronome, leatherbound notebook in hand. “Do you need me for this, sir?”

This was not a conversation he wished recorded for future generations to examine—not even a meticulously sanitized version.

The General raised his free hand and made a shooing motion.

Baxter slipped through the door. The General signaled to his bodyguards stationed around the suite. He didn’t want them present for this, either.

The men obeyed without a sound.

Seconds later, he had the room to himself.

Governor Duffield continued to scream insults and obscenities through the sat phone.

With growing impatience, the General spoke, modulating his voice so that he didn’t betray his inner fury. “Calm down, Henry.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! I was warned! I was warned and still, I trusted you. How could you do this to me?”

“You hired me to be your eyes and ears, and to act according in your interests and to your benefit. Which I am doing.”

“Did you not hear me? I said you’re fired! Relieved of your command. You’re lucky I’m not ordering a court-martial.”

“Henry—”

“Or maybe I should! A court-martial wouldn’t be the worst you deserve!” The governor sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words. “You—you fired upon American citizens! You ordered American soldiers to harm their own people. What the hell were you thinking?”

Instead of answering, the General said, “You should see Osborne. He’ll be in my office. Have a glass of cognac. It’ll do wonders for your mood.”

The General had left his personal assistant, Larry Osborne, in case such a situation arose. Several years ago, the General had pulled some strings to make a certain unsavory arrest disappear.

Osborne was one hundred percent loyal.

More importantly, he was discreet.

“I’m in no mood!” Governor Duffield said.

“Are you sleeping? It sounds like you’re not sleeping well. You need to relax. Opioids are your vice of choice, correct?”

A sharp intake of breath.

Even after he’d been dishonorably discharged, the General had kept tabs. Just like he’d kept tabs on Rosamond.

Information was power. Some things never changed.

“I requested them just for you.”

“If you’re trying to bribe me, you have another thing coming!”

“Another think coming.”

“What?” the governor screeched. His voice edged closer to hysteria. “What the hell are you—”

“The correct term is ‘another think coming.’ It is a common misperception.”

“Don’t patronize me, you conniving ba—”

“I apologize.” The General fought to maintain his control. He despised this whiny, weak little man who’d somehow managed to rise to a position of power he could never earn and would never deserve.

“I am only thinking of your health, Henry. You’re a nervous wreck. If you continue like this, your well-being will suffer.” He spoke soothingly, like one might speak to a wild-eyed horse who must be pacified before coming to heel.

Governor Duffield breathed heavily into the sat phone. He was debating with himself. His weakness would win out, his addiction long starved through the Collapse.

He only needed to be coaxed a little further.

The General sweetened his voice, took on an air of contrition and solicitude. “Listen, I’ll leave the guardsmen here under the command of Officer Hastings. You may appoint whomever you wish to take over and conduct your affairs from this point forward.

“I will gather my things and tender my resignation immediately upon my return to Lansing. I will personally deliver the letter to your desk first thing in the morning. Handwritten, of course.”

Silence on the other end.

“The situation is controlled. You’ve won, Governor. I will do exactly as you ask. You’ll have no trouble from me. Consider this a small token of my sincerest apology.”

“Osborne has it, you say?” He sounded mollified—and greedy.

“Osborne is in my office now.”

The General waited patiently as the governor made his way from his office to the General’s.

“Tell Osborne that I said to give you the good stuff. The highest quality. While he’s preparing it, please take a load off and have a drink. I’ve been saving something particularly special.”

Osborne and Duffield spoke for a minute. The General discerned murmuring but not individual words.

Governor Duffield let out an impressed whistle. “Hardy l’ere Lalique Crystal Decanter Cognac? How much is this worth? Five grand?”

“Fifteen, at last count. It is a blend of six eaux-de-vies, a hundred years old. Every swallow is a symphony of apricot, honey, and cinnamon. Truly, a cognac to remember.”

“Ahhh. I haven’t tasted good liquor in…at least two months. Feels like two damn years.”

Not even a thank you. The General said nothing.

He watched the waves rippling the lake and waited for the man to consume the first glass and start in on a second.

The arrogance of such small-minded men. How easily they believed the whole world was owed to them.

They never thought to look the gift horse in the mouth.

45

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

“This changes nothing, Sinclair,” the governor said. “You know that. Your resignation letter on my desk tomorrow morning. After this conversation, I never want to see you or hear from you again.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“You go too far. Men like you—you think you’re ironclad. That the rules don’t apply to you. There are still rules!”

“You hired me to break them,” the General reminded him.

“Only the ones I sanction!” Governor Duffield shouted. He was getting worked up again. That wouldn’t be good for his heart.

The General smiled to himself. “You know, I’ve always despised you, Henry.”

A spluttered cough on the other end. “Excuse me?”

“Such a weak-minded pansy you’ve always been. Always anxious for someone to tell you what to do.”

“You can’t speak to me like that! I’m the—”

“I know exactly who you are. Now let me tell you who I am. I am the man who will regain control of this region instead of cowering in the capital, reacting to crisis after crisis. I am the one who’s going to rule this state, not you. You pathetic miserable worm.”

“How dare you—”

“I will not resign tomorrow or any day. In fact, very soon I’ll be sitting in your chair. I’ll have your job. And I’ll be doing a hell of a lot better at it.”

“You can’t,” the governor sputtered. “You have no authority—”

“But I will. It’s unfortunate that you chose not to trust me. I planned to oust Eubanks first, not you. But you’ve forced my hand. It’s a pity. Things would be easier with you functioning as governor, but we make our own choices. And must live with them.” He paused. “Or not.”

He imagined Governor Duffield standing in the center of his plush office, holding the empty decanter in one hand, staring in growing suspicion and horror at the two melting ice cubes at the bottom of the glass.

Osborne would be in his customary position by the door, not sitting but standing, hands clasped in front of him, his face expressionless as he examined the governor for the first signs.

“How are you feeling, Henry?” the General asked.

A long beat of silence.

“What did you do to me?”

“How’s your throat? Do you feel a bit of a burn? You’re probably feeling nauseous right about now. Some bad stomach cramps. Am I correct?”

A soft clink registered through the phone. Probably the glass slipping from the governor’s fingers and thudding against carpet.

“What did you do to me!”

“Only what I had to do,” the General said smoothly, trying and failing to hide the smile in his voice. “You’re the one who drove me to it. In a way, you’ve brought this upon yourself. If only you’d trusted me. None of this would be happening.”

“I feel…sick.”

“What you are experiencing is acute arsenic poisoning. It is colorless, odorless, and tasteless, which means you would not have noticed it in your drink. I hope you enjoyed every drop of that cognac. While that particular bottle cost me dearly, I consider the after-effects absolutely priceless.”

“You—you—” Henry Duffield croaked.

Another dull thud sounded. Duffield falling to his knees, leaning forward, hunching as wrenching pain seized his stomach.

“You’re experiencing severe gastrointestinal distress, as if someone has sawed through your guts with a dull knife and is now pulling out your entrails, hand over hand. Next comes acute respiratory distress syndrome as your circulatory system collapses, followed by cardiac arrhythmia and an agonizing death within a few hours.”

The governor’s desperate gasps filled his ear.

The General found the harsh rasping sounds incredibly satisfying. He gazed at the smooth peaceful water and wished he could have been present in person.

“You are probably thinking—but can no longer say—that I won’t get away with this. The thing is, I will. Few autopsies are taking place right now. The Collapse has strained local, state, and federal resources beyond the breaking point. You understand. There are some benefits to a nationwide—nay, worldwide—crisis.

“It will appear that you had a heart attack. For those who are aware of your unhealthy addictions, this will not come as a surprise. In fact, a stash of these pills will be discovered in your desk drawer.”

Rattling, choking gasps escaped the sat phone speaker. The governor moaned.

The General smiled.

By the time the Secretary of State was sworn in as the new governor of Michigan, he would have made his move.

The General had back-channel contacts. Friends in high places. The FBI. The CIA. The executive branch. He would get back into their good graces.

In the end, this little blip would be intentionally forgotten, smoothed over, erased from the official narrative. Like governments had chosen to ignore similar atrocities throughout time.

As the Michigan governor’s breath rattled from his lungs, the General hung up the sat phone and returned his attention to the task at hand.

Duffield was out of the way. Fall Creek was within his grasp.

The loss of the Black Hawk was painful and infuriating, but it had done its work. At this point, the townspeople would be turning on each other, consumed by terror and infighting, on the verge of panicked surrender.

His soldiers were hungry. Supplies were low. It didn’t matter. They would fight when the General told them to fight. Even with the ordnance and transportation Liam Coleman had destroyed, they had enough.

Five hundred soldiers. Enough bullets for every citizen in Fall Creek.

Except for his granddaughter. He had big plans for her, just as he’d had big plans for Rosamond. He’d molded her in his own image, but she’d hated him.

He’d never understood why. They were the same. The same ambition, the same thirst for domination. The same bloodline. Iron strength flowing in their veins. Power. Superiority.

Whatever had failed in Rosamond wouldn’t fail again. He would make sure of it.

This child would be different. She would take his name. She would be his own. The woman who gave birth to her would mean nothing.

The girl would be a Sinclair, through and through.

It would take time, but she would outlive him, she would carry on his legacy and see that his name—their name—lived on. No one would remember a dead governor. They would remember the Sinclairs.

This was how dynasties began.

46

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

The attack was over.

It didn’t feel like it. Nothing would be the same again.

The townspeople remained in the bomb shelter overnight. Shell-shocked and numb.

Though Liam and Bishop had eliminated the Black Hawk, they were too frightened to leave, even after the security teams assured them no secondary attack was imminent.

Finally, the people had stumbled from the underground darkness into daylight to take stock of the devastation and number their losses, of which there were many.

The attack had destroyed several buildings. Only a wall or a caved-in roof remained in the rubble. Tresses Hair Salon. The bank. Patsy’s Pizza.

The elementary school was so riddled with holes, it looked like a Swiss cheese sculpture.

Roads bitten to hell. Chunks of concrete and drywall everywhere.

Winter Haven’s precious electricity gone—maybe for good.

Eleven townspeople dead. Four gravely injured.

Quinn knew their names, but the impact of their loss barely registered.

The only person who mattered was Gran.

Quinn rode her bike home with rubbery legs that didn’t belong to her, every movement rote and mechanical.

Her clothes were filthy. Stiff with dried blood. Her skin caked in dust, dirt, and soot. Red flakes beneath her fingernails.

Her numb hands unlocked the front door, fingers fumbling with the key a half-dozen times.

Hannah hadn’t wanted her to go home alone. But she got busy helping everybody else. Slipping away was easy. As easy as it had been when she’d snuck to the warehouse.

Quinn felt no sense of satisfaction. She felt nothing but the Gran-sized hole in her chest.

Inside the house, dust motes spiraled through the shafts of sunlight bathing the wood floors and worn furniture in warm bright light.

The house was chilly; the flames in the woodstove reduced to ashes.

Five cats rushed her with aggrieved yowls, winding around her ankles, gazing up at her with doleful feline expressions. Even Hel, Ruler of the Underworld, who seldom left her perch atop the fridge.

The stench of cat piss assaulted her nostrils. The cats had been inside since yesterday morning. No food, no kitty litter. They’d held it as long as they could, then used the back doormat in the kitchen.

Quinn set her rifle on the kitchen table and refilled their water bowls from a jug sitting on the counter. Hel and Valkyrie squeezed in first, with Loki not far behind.

She threw the soiled mat outside and left the door cracked open so the cats could do their business and find breakfast.

Valkyrie darted outside to hunt. Loki sauntered across the kitchen, pounced on a chair, and hopped onto the table.

Affronted, he sat on his haunches and stared at Quinn with that pointy, cunning face, as if daring her to yell at him.

“Git!”

He let out an incensed yowl, glancing past her as if searching for his real owner.

“I said go!”

He didn’t move, just stared at her as if she’d offended him.

Maybe he expected Gran to come barreling in, waving her cane, shouting that she was gonna skin him alive if he didn’t get his ugly butt off the table.

Quinn didn’t yell. She didn’t do anything.

Loki stayed on the table.

Thor and Odin wandered the house, meowing plaintively, searching for their mistress. They sensed something was off.

“She’s not here,” she said, barbed wire in her throat.

Quinn went to the backyard and drew a bucket from the well, lugged it to the bathroom, and stripped off her soiled clothing. She used a cold washcloth to wipe the grit and blood from her body.

Gran’s blood. She bit back a whimper. Once she’d finished, she dumped the bucket of dirty water and her clothes in the backyard. Clad in her bra and underwear, goose pimples broke out on her skin. She barely noticed.

She’d take care of the clothes later. Maybe she’d bury them. Or burn them.

She would never wear them again.

When she re-entered the house, Thor and Odin were waiting dejectedly by the door. They’d always been the needy ones. The ones Gran loved the most.

Odin waddled over and pressed his furry head against her shin, meowing mournfully like he was begging for a treat. Only it wasn’t a treat he wanted.

A sudden, irrational fury shot through her. “Go away! I can’t help you!”

With startled yowls, both cats scurried for the safety of the sofa. Fat Odin couldn’t fit beneath it but clambered onto the armrest. He settled his furry bulk and offered her a wounded look.

“She’s not here!” Quinn said in a strangled voice. “Can’t you see that? She’s not here!”

She stumbled down the hallway in her underwear to her bedroom and moved to the dresser, pulled out sweatpants and an oversized Lions hoodie, and tugged them on.

The dressings on her right hand had been filthy; she’d thrown them out with her clothes. The scabs needed topical antibiotics and fresh bandages.

The mere thought was overwhelming.

Quinn moved to her bed and lay atop the unmade covers, stiff as a board, arms at her sides, her head full of cotton.

Time passed. She didn’t know how long. She drifted in a dull, numb haze.

47

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

A distant thud sounded. The front door opened and closed.

For a heart-clenching instant, Quinn thought it was Gran.

Reality clobbered her like a sledgehammer to the chest. Gran wasn’t shuffling through the front door because Gran was dead. Dead, dead, dead.

Two sets of footsteps padded through the hallway toward her bedroom. One human, one the click, click, click of paws on hardwood.

She did not lift her head. She did not move or breathe.

“Quinn?” Milo said.

Quinn opened her eyes and stared blindly up at the ceiling.

“Can I come in?”

Her tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of her mouth. Thick and swollen. She couldn’t speak, which meant she couldn’t say no.

Milo took her silence as consent and entered the bedroom. Ghost limped in behind him.

The dog came to the bed and nosed her shoulder, as if reassuring her. When she didn’t respond, he gave a low, sorrowful chuff, then turned a few times in the middle of the room and curled up on the rug.

A second later, the mattress sank. A small warm body clambered into the bed beside her.

Milo lay on his back, his arm touching hers, his feet reaching her shins. He wriggled his stockinged toes and leaned into her. His little kid breath smelled like peanut butter.

She stiffened but couldn’t push him away. Her veins were filled with cement.

Gran was dead. Gran was gone forever. Gran was never coming back.

Quinn’s own mother had abandoned her, betrayed her, failed to love her—but Gran never had. Not for one second.

Gran had been tough and stern, not given to bouts of affection or sentimentality, but Quinn had never doubted that Gran loved her. Never, not once.

And how many times had Quinn told Gran how much she meant to her? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember. That seemed like the worst kind of failure.

Milo took her hand and held it. Small fingers clutched her own. “I miss her. I miss her laugh. I miss her cornbread and how she always gave me extra drizzles of honey. I miss that she taught me things way more interesting than school. Or how she saved all her peanut butter just for me.”

Quinn sucked in a sharp breath. Her chest tightened, and it was hard to breathe. Her eyes hot and stinging. “Me, too.”

“What else do you miss?”

“Lots of things. Everything. Her sarcasm. How she loved those damn cats. How she’d lecture you like she was mad, but you knew she really wasn’t, and she’d probably make you cookies later. How everyone was a little scared of her, even Liam. She was always there, no matter what.”

The pain was a boulder on her chest, threatening to crush her. A tsunami to drown her. A black hole to suck her into nothingness.

“Mom says the people you love who die still live in your heart,” Milo said in a soft voice. “You remember them with other people, to talk about them. That’s what keeps them with you. How they laughed and what they smelled like. How they made you feel. That’s how I remember Dad.”

“That’s…that’s a great idea, Small Fry.”

“You should try it. It helps me. Probably it’ll help you, too.”

“Maybe.”

“Mom says it’s okay to cry. That crying helps to get some of the sadness out so it doesn’t stick inside.”

“What happens if it sticks inside?”

“Your internal organs get all moldy and gross, of course.”

“Of course,” Quinn echoed.

“And some feelings are too big for one person. So you gotta share those, too. That way it’s not so big, when you’re both holding it.”

“You’ve got a pretty smart mom.”

“I know.”

Odin and Thor pushed the bedroom door open with their noses and wandered into the room, looking lost and forlorn. Milo patted the mattress, and both cats leapt onto the bed and curled into furry balls at his feet.

A minute later, Loki and Hel followed suit. They sauntered up to Ghost and nested themselves in his white fur. Gentle purring filled the room.

“Quinn?”

“Yeah, Small Fry?”

“Can we stay here for a while? Like we used to?”

They used to lay like this in the days and nights after the massacre, when the nightmares invaded and all they had was each other. How they’d clung to each other, then.

Milo had needed her so desperately. The truth was, she’d needed him.

He’d brought her back to herself. She’d forgotten that. Forgotten how love was a two-way street and people couldn’t help you if you didn’t let them in, if you didn’t let them come into your messy ugly places and love you back to life.

She’d forgotten. Milo reminded her.

The tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. The trickle became a stream which turned into a waterfall, and then she was weeping, sobbing, shuddering with grief.

Milo wrapped his thin arms around her and held her tight. “It’s okay, Quinn. I’m holding onto it now, too. It’s okay.”

This hole in her heart was too big for her, but together, together they shared it. And somewhere deep inside, she understood that it was enough. It would be enough.

This time, she didn’t run from it. She felt it all, let the pain roll through her in waves.

She wept and Milo held her, and after a while, the waves of sadness relented, rolled back a little. Her tears dried, the great hiccupping sobs subsiding.

She felt the jagged and broken pieces of herself slowly, slowly fitting themselves back together.

Not today, not tomorrow, but they would.

She rubbed the wetness from her eyes and stared blearily at the painted monsters decorating her walls. Every square inch of wall and ceiling covered in bright murals, including her bookcases, desk, and bed. King Kong, Godzilla, the Minotaur. Gremlins and harpies.

Her gaze landed on the unicorn painted across her closet doors. Milo had christened him Jeff the stabby unicorn.

“Milo.”

“Yeah?”

She cleared her throat, struggling to get the words out. “I know I’ve been…I messed up, Small Fry. I wasn’t here for you after…after Noah. You needed me, and I let you down. That wasn’t cool. I’m sorry.”

She felt his shoulders shrug. “I forgive you.”

“That’s it? Seems too easy.”

“What else is there?”

“Like, you aren’t going to hold it over me or make me do your chores for a year?”

“Tempting, but nope.”

Quinn gave a pained snort. “Well…thank you.”

“We can share,” Milo said.

“What do you mean?”

“You need a family, but you don’t have one. I’ll share mine with you. Then we can be brother and sister, for real.”

“You really want that?”

He snuggled into her neck. His mop of unruly curls tickled her cheeks. “More than Christmas. More than peanut butter.”

It was several moments before she trusted her voice enough to speak. Her broken heart pulsed with affection and sadness, love and sorrow. It was almost too much to bear.

Damn, but she loved this kid.

“Okay,” Quinn whispered. Then, louder. “Okay.”

“Pinkie promise?”

Milo held up his pinkie finger. Quinn hooked hers around his smaller one. “Pinkie promise.”

“We’re family now,” Milo said with such sweet confidence that Quinn nearly dissolved into tears again. “My family is your family. Mom and baby Charlotte. And Ghost. Can’t forget Ghost.”

Ten minutes ago, she thought she’d never smile again. Yet amid misery and heartache, she felt it. That spark of joy, a promise of something more.

That no matter how bleak things seemed, tomorrow would be better.

“Do you wanna listen to music? Mom borrowed the iPod, but I got it back.” Milo pulled it out of his pocket and showed it to her. “I even remembered to charge it.”

“Only if it’s not Elvis.”

He grinned. “You can’t fool me. I know it’s your favorite.”

They spent an hour lying next to each other, an earbud for each of them, listening to Aerosmith. U2. Pink Floyd. Journey. The Beatles. And of course, Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender” and “Heartbreak Hotel.”

The songs she’d grown up with, that Gramps had loved. He’d danced with her when she was a little girl, Gran looking on, pretending to disapprove but nodding her head to the tune.

The same songs Hannah had once sung to Milo. The music connected them, a gossamer thread leading them to each other.

By the time the sun had set and darkness crouched outside the windows, Quinn’s tears had dried to salty tracks on her cheeks, and Milo lay curled against her side, breathing contentedly, fast asleep.

48

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

Liam had blood on his hands.

He’d been forced to kill the soldiers manning the helo. The moment they’d fired a shot, they’d become the enemy. They had attacked innocent people. They had killed Molly. For that, they deserved their fiery death.

Fall Creek had eliminated the threat of the Black Hawk, but at great cost. The town was once again reeling, left to pick up the pieces.

It wasn’t over yet.

After another endless day working to solidify their fighting positions, consolidate resources, and take stock of the wreckage, Bishop had forced him to take a break.

Fear, uncertainty, and dread formed a hard knot inside him. A crushing weariness threatened to overwhelm him, but for the moment, the imminent danger had receded.

For a few precious minutes, he was a man, not a soldier.

A man with the woman he loved.

Liam sat on Hannah’s sofa with Charlotte. She smelled clean, of baking soda and lotion. He bobbed his knee and Charlotte giggled, the sound as pure and rich as ringing bells.

Rain drummed the roof. The wind scoured the corners of the house and rattled the tree branches.

Inside, the fire crackled in the living room fireplace. Candles placed around the room scented the air with vanilla and lavender.

Ghost sprawled before the fireplace, panting like he’d spent the day running a marathon, not dozing.

His apparent indolence was misleading. When his people were awake and alert, he rested. When they slept, he came alive, spending the nights patrolling his domain, protecting his herd.

Hannah’s singing drifted from the hallway as she finished up her usual bedtime routine with Milo. Quinn was here, too.

After finding them sleeping in Quinn’s bed, Liam had brought them to Hannah’s house. They awoke just long enough to inhale a supper of potato and carrot soup with the cooked rabbit that Quinn had caught earlier.

Hannah insisted Quinn stay with her. It wasn’t healthy—or safe—to be alone.

Charlotte cooed, grinning. Her chubby arms flailed as she reached for him, grasping for his face. Her crooked knit hat toppled onto the couch cushion, and her chocolate-brown fringe stood up all over her head with static.

It was adorable. She was adorable.

“Too warm for that hat now,” he said. “You’ve grown so much. Guess I’ll have to make you another one. Maybe pink this time? I’ve heard little girls like pink.”

She wrapped her tiny fingers around one thumb, then the other, and looked up at him with wide bright eyes. Her face alight, her whole being radiated joy.

His heart clenched and expanded all in one breath.

If she was safe to grow up, then he’d done his job. If he saved her and her mother. No matter what happened to him. That would be enough.

Charlotte yawned and snuggled against his chest. Her halo of silky dark hair tickled his neck. He leaned back, his spine twinging, but he ignored it as he patted her diapered bottom.

Within a minute, she was asleep.

Hannah padded down the hallway. “They’re both asleep.”

“They’ll probably sleep for twelve hours. Especially Quinn. Don’t let her wake up early for our training session. It can wait. She needs her rest.”

Hannah settled beside him on the couch. Her hair was tugged back in a messy ponytail. Dark circles ringed her eyes, her skin pale.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

“I keep thinking about Molly,” she said, and her face crumpled. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

With Charlotte sleeping against his chest, he drew Hannah to him with his free arm. She sank into his embrace as if she’d always belonged there.

She looked up at him, a wave of grief contorting her features. Tears sparked in her eyes. “After everything, to lose Molly, too. I already miss her so much.”

He felt gut-punched. Like another hole had opened inside him, a wound that would never fully heal. Molly was an incredible fount of knowledge, but more importantly, she’d been a dear friend. He’d come to care deeply for her.

Such a snarky, independent, intelligent woman. The prickly heart of Fall Creek. “It doesn’t feel right without her here.”

“Everything feels…lessened, somehow.”

“I wish I could go back and change things. I could have stopped it, saved them—”

“It’s not your fault. It’s the General who did this,” she said fiercely. “He’s the one who needs to pay.”

Emotion thickened his throat. “I know.”

Hannah was quiet for a minute. The fire popped and sparked. “She died saving Quinn, saving that little boy.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of her,” Liam said gruffly.

“We need to honor her. We have to have a funeral…something.”

“We will, but it’s not safe now.”

“I know. It’s just…hard,” she said. “Poor Quinn. I love that girl like my own heart. I want to hold her and never let go. She has no one left.”

“Yes, she does. She has you. She has us.”

Hannah nodded. “She does.”

“We’ll take care of her.”

“We will.” Hannah wiped away her tears, as if steeling herself for what came next, and took several steadying breaths. “And we’ll start by keeping the General from hurting anyone else. Any updates?”

“Our forward observers report zero movement. The General has his men buttoned up inside that hotel.”

“What will he do next?”

“That was a soft attack to open us up for a ground assault or air raid. He should have sent in ground troops while we were shell-shocked from the rockets. But he didn’t.”

“Why?”

Liam hated admitting his uncertainty. It felt like weakness. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Charlotte?”

He shook his head, weary and frustrated, plagued with doubt and foreboding. “Could be. He’s waiting for something. Or toying with us. Or both. I don’t like it.”

“What about Hamilton? Could he help?”

“The radios are broken. It’s dangerous to travel anywhere outside the perimeter. And he only has thirty men. Besides, he’s under strict orders not to get involved in local disputes.”

“You don’t think he’d bend those orders for us?”

“He’s a good man, but he’s a rule follower. The military demands unconditional obedience to the chain of command for a reason.”

Hannah chewed on her lower lip. “It seems worth it to try.”

“Maybe,” Liam allowed. “We can send a scout tomorrow.”

His back spasmed. He winced, careful not to move so he wouldn’t awaken Charlotte.

Hannah noticed. She pulled away and sat up. “Your back.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can tell it’s hurting you.”

He shot her a disgruntled look, but it was true. There was no use attempting to hide it. She always noticed.

“You need a massage.”

“I’m fine,” he tried again, but it was useless.

When Hannah made up her mind, there was no changing it. Truth was, he wanted her hands kneading the pain from his aching muscles. Her warmth, her closeness, her touch. He wanted her in his arms again.

“I’ll be right back.” She rose and picked up Charlotte, crooning into her seashell-shaped ear so she didn’t awaken, and carried her into the bedroom.

Ghost lifted his head and tracked her every move with his eyes, his tail thumping.

Liam rechecked the house. Ghost leapt to his feet and followed him. Liam patted his head.

All windows and doors were secured and locked. He peered through the kitchen window. Streams of water streaked the glass like tears, distorting his reflected features.

The trees thrashed outside the house. Branches creaked and snapped.

Guards were stationed at the head of Tanglewood Drive. Mobile patrols were on alert. More sentries manned the sniper nests and fighting stations along the perimeter.

The forward observers kept a constant watch, ready to report any suspicious activity at a moment’s notice. Liam couldn’t do anything more that wasn’t already done.

He waited for Hannah.

49

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

Hannah perched on the sofa beside him. An expectant charge in the air, like an electric current between them. She offered him a shy smile. “I guess we’re alone.”

“I guess we are,” he said, his voice suddenly husky.

Hannah leaned in and grazed his mouth with her lips.

His heart rate quickened. Electricity zapped through his entire body.

He kissed her back, fully and deeply, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her close. She put her hands on either side of his head and stroked his scalp.

He could have lost himself in this moment forever.

With a soft, satisfied smile, she sat back and eyed him. “Take off your shirt.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Is that a command?”

She blushed but didn’t drop her gaze. “Priorities, Liam Coleman. I’m supposed to nurse you back to health.”

“By all means.” Liam winced as he moved to remove his shirt. The gunshot wound was healing, the infection gone. It still hurt like a mother, though.

Hannah changed out the bandage for a fresh one, cleaned the wound, and applied tea tree oil as a topical antibiotic. Now that the infection was under control, they’d switched to natural remedies to save their remaining stock for serious cases.

From Molly’s stash of survival books, Hannah had learned about effective natural remedies used for thousands of years. She wrote it all down in her notebook and copied pertinent information for Evelyn and Lee.

“I can do that myself, you know.”

“Not as well as I can.”

From the floor, Ghost chuffed his agreement.

Liam rolled his eyes. “I see I’m outnumbered.”

“I think you’ll always be outnumbered.”

He grunted as Hannah completed her task and eased him onto his stomach on the sofa. Heat from the fireplace warmed his sore, exhausted muscles. The thrumming rain lulled him, weights pulling at his eyelids. He could have slept for a month.

He couldn’t rest, not truly, until he’d eliminated the threat of the General—and Poe.

Hannah scooted beside him and kneaded his shoulders. He relaxed into her. Her hands were strong and supple as she worked, even her injured hand as she eased his knotted muscles and tight discs. The pain receded.

Once Hannah had finished her ministrations, he rose and checked the house, unease crawling beneath his skin as he searched the darkened, rain-drenched street.

Nothing moved. No threats presented themselves.

When he returned, Hannah was standing beside the sofa, her hair down around her shoulders, eyes shining in the firelight.

She ducked her head shyly, glancing at him through her eyelashes. Sorrow in her face, and worry, but something else, a small thing flaring bright and fierce. Hope.

Longing filled him.

You had to seize the moment. You never knew when it would be the last time. To give a hug. To say what you needed to say.

He went to Hannah and took her in his arms. She pressed herself against him and lifted her face to his. He kissed her, hard and hungry.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips.

“I love you,” she whispered back.

Her hands grazed his chest. She kissed him deeper—

“Mom?” A soft voice came from the hallway.

Socked feet padded toward them.

Hannah stepped back, her eyes big and wide and bottomless.

“Can’t sleep,” Milo said, his voice groggy. “Another bad dream.”

With great effort, Liam tore his gaze from Hannah. Milo glanced between them, blinking blearily, tousled black curls standing up all over his head. He wore an oversized men’s shirt that fell to his knees—Noah’s.

He hesitated, a crease between his brows. Like a deer crouched at the edge of the trees, tentative and cautious, unsure if it was safe to approach.

Liam smiled. “Come on over.”

He shuffled into the living room, rubbing his eyes. Hannah opened her arms to him. Liam made room, and the boy squeezed himself between their bodies, wrapped his arms around Hannah’s middle, and buried his face against her stomach.

Over his head, she flashed Liam a sheepish smile, mouthing I’m sorry.

She had nothing to apologize for.

This was family. Parenthood. Love in all its messiness.

“Can you sing me ‘Blackbird’ again?” Milo mumbled into her shirt. “That always helps.”

“Of course, honey.” She took Milo’s hand and led him back toward his bedroom.

“To be continued,” Liam said.

Hannah looked back over her shoulder, rewarding him with a smile that outshone the sun.

50

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

Liam couldn’t sleep.

It was 2200 hours. These days, everyone rose with the sunrise, ready to work. After a long day, most folks were in bed by nine and slept like the dead.

Liam had never slept well, his dreams haunted by exploding mortar shells and the screams of his fallen brothers. He didn’t sleep tonight, either.

In the house, everyone else slept—Hannah and Charlotte, Milo and Quinn.

Liam made his way outside, carbine slung over his shoulder. Ghost hobbled to the doorway but refused to leave the house. The dog loved the cold but despised water.

Instinctively, Liam scanned the backyard, checking high and low, listening for anything unusual. There was nothing.

The rain had stopped, the wind dissipating. The night was still and dark but for faint starlight filtering through a scrim of clouds.

In the back yard, a jumble of rain-beaded oak rounds were strewn across the wet grass beside the chopping block which stood to the left of the woodshed. A large splitting maul was embedded deep in the center of the large stump.

He wanted to chop firewood for Hannah, but his injured side still kept him from doing so much of what he wanted. Besides, Evelyn would kill him.

From inside his jacket pocket, his radio crackled to life. “Alpha One, come in.”

His heart rate accelerated. It wasn’t Luther’s scheduled check-in time. Liam hadn’t heard from him since the Black Hawk attack. He hadn’t expected to. It was too risky.

On high alert, he withdrew the radio from his jacket pocket with his left hand; his right hand remained free to reach for his Glock or the long gun if needed.

“Echo Two,” Liam said. “This is Alpha One.”

“I had to sneak from the hotel and steal a bike to get within range,” Luther’s rapid breaths whooshed through the handheld’s speaker. “Almost got caught three times. Nearly pissed my pants.”

“What’s happening? What’s the General’s next play?”

“The men are irate about the helo.” Luther paused, panting. “Liam, they’re going to send in a ground force attack. This is it. The big one.”

Liam’s heart stopped beating. “When?”

“They’re planning to attack at dawn.”

It didn’t matter how much he’d been expecting it. The news struck him like a blow to the solar plexus.

“They’re bringing in everything. The armored vehicles and the M2s. They have mortars and artillery, Liam. He’s sending in a simultaneous tactical team to get the baby. After he obtains the target, the General wants the town destroyed. He is unconcerned with civilian casualties.”

Liam cursed. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. And he’s put a bounty on your head. He claims you have valuable intel on a domestic terrorism cell, but it’s obvious that he wants to kill you himself. The soldier who brings you in alive receives an honorable discharge, along with a month of rations for his or her family.”

Liam closed his eyes. A dark dread unfurled in his chest. Even with the goodies they’d stolen from their raid, they wouldn’t be able to repel such a force. They would be overrun.

“There’s more.”

“Out with it.”

“I found some wine from the Tabor Hill Winery in Stevensville for Baxter to give to the General. I saved another bottle to share with him. He was grateful. Got him drunk enough to loosen his tongue a little. Liam, the General and Poe are on the same side.”

“What?”

“The General siphoned off supplies and resources for Poe all along. He gave him access to National Guard armories, caches to raid, the whole thing. That’s how Poe got so powerful so fast.”

A cold, crystalized anger shot through him. He clenched his fist and resisted the urge to punch the woodpile until his knuckles bloodied.

“General Sinclair has gone rogue. His orders aren’t coming from the governor. At least not the ones pertaining to Fall Creek.”

Liam’s mind whirred, cycling through the ramifications, how he could use it to save his town.

Would the National Guard still attack if the General was no longer at the helm?

Was Liam willing to bet everything on the answer?

Luther said, “All I know is, the orders are coming from him, not from Lansing.”

Liam was tempted to ask if Luther could get close enough to the General to assassinate him, but he checked himself. Such questions conveyed intent and strategy, which he shouldn’t reveal to an informant.

Luther was still an X factor. A wild card. Too unreliable to trust. And yet, much as Liam loathed it, some level of trust was required.

Besides, Luther would never get close to the General, not with two dozen ex-military contractors surrounding him. He wasn’t a soldier. He didn’t have the skill set to assassinate a target.

“There’s no way to defeat the General, Liam. It’s not possible.”

“There’s one way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stay within range,” Liam said. “I need to think. Over and out.”

Liam retrieved his jacket and his carbine, returned to Hannah’s house, and slipped in the back door. Ghost greeted him with a muzzle press to his palm and a chuff from deep in his barrel chest.

The dog trotted after Liam as he checked the windows and doors. He peered into the front yard, examining the empty street, the quiet houses.

His heart hammered against his ribs. Static buzzed inside his skull. Despondent, he sank into the sofa cushions, head in his hands.

Liam was one man. He couldn’t repel an army. Not on multiple fronts with multiple targets.

Before he’d even started, he’d failed.

And yet.

Without the General’s vendetta, the National Guard had little reason to attack Fall Creek. Maybe they would’ve wanted Winter Haven—but without the community’s solar power, it held little value.

Get rid of the General, and Lansing would send someone else, someone who didn’t give a damn about this town, or Charlotte.

This started and ended with General Sinclair.

Take him out and Fall Creek would have a chance. Hannah would have a chance.

But how? With more time, Liam could devise an ambush to lure the General into a trap. Or set up a sniper hide and take him out via a long-distance bullet to the brain.

But from Luther’s intel, he knew the General was careful. He had taken the penthouse suite; the only wall of windows faced Lake Michigan. No tall buildings nearby with rooftops or windows for sniping.

Liam was out of time. Out of options.

There was only one way out.

Something snagged his gaze. The crooked green and gray hat peeked between the sofa cushions.

Liam pulled it out and held it in his hands, turning it over and over, running his calloused fingers over the lumpy knitting.

He had made it for L.J. He’d worn it once within hours of his birth. Liam had kept it to remind him of Jessa and Lincoln, of his dead family and the baby he’d left behind in Chicago.

What had once symbolized his failure had transformed into a gift, a symbol of hope. When Hannah entered his life. When Charlotte came red-faced and bawling into the world.

His thoughts crystalized. What he must do. And how.

The path forward had never been clearer.

The General wanted Liam. He wanted to kill Liam himself, with his own hands. Which meant he would need to get close. Face-to-face close.

Perhaps, close enough to kill.

Doubt and uncertainty needled him. It was a significant risk. The chances of success were slim. The odds of survival non-existent.

Even if Liam could get his hands on the General, he couldn’t fight off the mercenaries who’d unleash hell in revenge.

He didn’t have to.

Getting out wasn’t the important part. Only getting in.

For a second, he considered calling Bishop, organizing an assault team. He dismissed the thought. They needed every fighter to defend Fall Creek. Besides, he couldn’t bear the idea of sending his friends into a kill zone with little hope of survival.

Ironically, he had never valued his life as much as he did now. He wanted this life, flawed but beautiful. He wanted to carve out a place in this world with Hannah at the beating center of it.

Only now did he fully understand what he must lose to save them.

Liam called Luther on the radio.

When he picked up, Liam said, “I need you.”

51

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

Liam geared up.

This mission required speed and agility. He planned to leave his go-bag behind, but he strapped on his chest rig and did a weapons check, counted his ammo and magazines.

He kept his everyday carry case with the folding knife, paracord, tactical pen, and multi-tool in his jacket pocket.

He’d borrowed Hannah’s sewing kit for a couple of last-minute alterations and a couple of items from Reynoso’s home as well. Reynoso didn’t know—he was busy on night patrol.

It was time to go.

Liam had thought out every contingency and back-up plan, every move and countermove until it solidified in his mind.

He was prepared for a one-man war.

Ghost was on his feet, watching him intently with those intelligent brown eyes, ears pricked. He knew something was about to happen.

Liam scratched his floppy ears and rubbed beneath his muzzle. “Take care of them for me.”

Movement in the shadows of the hallway.

Adrenaline shot through him. Liam spun, Glock in hand.

Quinn spoke in the darkness. “It’s me.”

Liam lowered the pistol. “What’d I tell you about sneaking up on people?”

“To get better at it. Looks like I did.”

Her glassy eyes sparkled in the dim moonlight trickling through the living room window. She wore red flannel pajama bottoms, a Metallica T-shirt, and Hannah’s pink slippers. She looked so young.

He holstered his pistol. “You should be sleeping.”

“So should you.”

“Touché.”

Ghost trotted up to her and sniffed her hand. She scratched him behind his ears. He snorted in pleasure and pressed the top of his head against her thigh.

Her gaze slid from Ghost to his face to the M4 on its sling, the chest rig bristling with gear. “You’re leaving.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“There’s something I have to do.”

“Does Hannah know?”

“She will.”

“Which means she doesn’t know.”

Truth was, he couldn’t bear to tell her. He knew what her reaction would be. He didn’t want to say goodbye. Not that she couldn’t handle it—he couldn’t.

Their last moments together were perfect. He wanted her to remember him like that. He wanted his last memory of her to be that one. The way her hair looked spilling around her shoulders, the depth of her eyes in the firelight, how dark they turned when she kissed him.

“No,” he said. “She doesn’t.”

Quinn stared at him steadily. She wasn’t taking silence for an answer. “Where are you going?”

“To cut the head off the snake.”

“What if there’s more than one head?”

She always was a smart one. Cunning and quick-thinking. It would serve her well.

“I don’t think there is.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“It’s a risk I have to take.”

“You’re going to kill the General.” She said it flatly. A statement, not a question.

“I’m going to try.”

“How are you going to get close to him?”

“Anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

She snorted. “All the time.”

“As long as this man lives, Hannah and Charlotte will be in danger. For them, I have to do this.”

She took a step forward. The strap of her AR-15 was slung across her shoulder. She practically slept with the thing. “I want to come with you.”

“I have to do this alone.”

She scowled. “I thought you said that lone-wolf stuff was stupid thinking.”

“It is. But in this case, it’s the only way it’ll work. Believe me, I’ve thought it through. This is the only way.”

“That’s why you’re sneaking out. Because Bishop and Hannah won’t agree to it. This isn’t a good idea.”

His stomach somersaulted. “Quinn.”

“Are you coming back?”

His knee-jerk response was an obvious of course, but he hesitated. She wasn’t a little kid. She’d been through too much for him to lie to her. He owed her that much.

“I don’t know,” he said. And then, “Probably not.”

Dismayed, Quinn’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She shook her head fiercely. “No.”

“Yes. I have to. I must.”

She took another step into the dark living room. Even in the moonlight, he could see the anguish contorting her features. “Then let me come with you.”

“Sorry, kid. That won’t work. It has to be me. Me alone.”

She went rigid. “Why not?”

“I’m the only one he won’t kill on sight.”

For a long moment, she didn’t say a word. They stared at each other in the darkness, thinking the things neither of them could say out loud.

“I need you here. She needs you.”

He didn’t need to say who. They both knew.

“Okay, Wolverine,” she said finally. “I trust you. So, okay.”

He blinked, startled at the strength of the emotion surging in his chest. How badly he wanted to stay, to choose a different path.

To watch this sixteen-year-old girl grow into the seasoned warrior she was destined to become.

“Protect her,” Liam said. “Protect them.”

Quinn lifted her chin. “I will.”

52

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN

The General stood before the window, spine erect, hands clasped at the small of his back. It was a regal stance. Imposing. Victorious.

An excellent pose for the cover of a bestselling book destined to become a classic.

The Governor of Michigan was dead.

This time tomorrow, the General would have control of Fall Creek. Liam Coleman’s corpse would be strung on a wall. His great-granddaughter would be his to mold.

And the Syndicate would be in his sights.

Because the General had convinced Governor Duffield to defy federal orders and keep their military resources local, Michigan was the only state in the Midwest with an army strong enough to put Poe down.

The Syndicate had done his dirty work for him, as intended. Poe had come to the end of his usefulness.

With Poe gone, Illinois and Indiana would beg Michigan to step in and restore order. Which the General would be happy to do—for a price.

By the time Lauren Eubanks was officially the governor, she’d be on her knees, answering to him.

The General called Poe on his sat phone.

Time to set up the trap he had planned.

Poe didn’t bother to say hello. “I think this will be the last time I accept your call, General.”

The General stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ve let a fox into the henhouse, Byron. A fox does what he does.”

“You promised to stay out of Michigan.”

“I don’t recall that little detail.”

“Michigan is mine!” the General snarled. “You have the entire Midwest!”

“Do I? Because I sense that I’ve grown too large for my fishbowl.”

The General ground his teeth. Poe was smarter than the General had given him credit for. He was figuring out the bigger picture.

“Not so malleable as you first thought, eh? I’m smart. Smarter than you, old man.”

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.

Several flashlights flicked on, beams wavering.

“Get down!”

“On your knees!”

“Don’t move!”

Liam sank to his knees and raised both hands, squinting. Flashlights shone in his eyes. It took everything in him not to seize his M4 and fight back.

Instead, he said, “I surrender.”

All he needed was for some knuckle-dragger to get trigger happy and pop him between the eyes. Lights out. Game over.

A figure stepped forward, silhouetted against the flashlight glare. It took a moment for Liam’s eyes to adjust. The lanky form of James Luther loomed over him.

Luther bent, wrenched the M4 from Liam’s shoulder, and handed it to the soldier behind him. “This is the guy. I told you he’d be here.”

Liam clenched his jaw. His ribs flared. He suspected the pain was just beginning.

“I surrender!” he repeated, louder.

“I bet you do,” a tough female voice said.

“Get some cuffs on him,” one of the soldiers said.

“I’ve got it.” Luther stepped forward, a pair of handcuffs in his hand.

“Make sure you frisk him, first.”

Rough hands grabbed and slapped at him. His Gerber and Glock were confiscated, along with the magazines tucked into his chest rig. They left his jacket intact.

Luther jerked Liam’s arms behind him. Hard metal cuffs clamped his wrists, pinching his flesh.

“You sure it’s him?” a raspy voice said. “Confirm positive I.D. before I call it in.”

Luther circled around to face him. He stared down at Liam, his face impassive. Shadows flickered across his inscrutable expression, shielding his eyes.

His lips curled in a sneer of disdain. “Yeah, it’s him.”

The butt of a carbine swung toward Liam’s face.

His training took over. He leaned backward and shifted so he wouldn’t take the blow straight on.

Then everything faded to black.

54

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Q uinn stared at Reynoso. “What did you just say?”

Reynoso gazed at the council members, his expression grave. “We’re about to be attacked.”

He’d called the council members to the town hall for an emergency meeting. Quinn wasn’t on the council, but Hannah had insisted she come after they’d dropped Milo and Charlotte off at the Brooks’ home.

Besides the council members at the table, a few dozen townspeople sat in the metal folding chairs, tired but alert. Quinn stood near the long rectangular table, far too antsy and amped up to sit still.

The old courthouse was lit with candles and lanterns. The high ceilings arced above them, invisible in the darkness.

Reynoso cleared his throat. “Liam called me. According to his informant, General Sinclair plans to attack Fall Creek at dawn.”

Bishop glanced at his watch. “That’s about five hours.”

Gasps sounded around the room. Stricken faces stared at him, mouths agape.

Quinn’s ribs constricted like a giant hand was squeezing tighter and tighter. The vaulted ceiling was too low, too close, pressing down on her. It was hard to breathe.

Darryl Wiggins blanched. “We’ll be overrun! They’re soldiers! They’ll slaughter us.”

“We’ve prepared for this,” Bishop said in his booming baritone, his voice even but clipped, as if struggling to maintain his temper. “We knew it was coming. Now that the hour is upon us, it’s time to act.”

Wide-eyed, Hannah glanced around the room. “Where is Liam?”

“I thought he was with you,” Dave said.

She shook her head.

All eyes turned to Reynoso.

“He said he had something important to do and signed off before I could ask questions. He hasn’t answered since. I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

The group let that sink in. They stared at each other, anxious and baffled.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Principal King said. “Where would he go? What would he do? We need him here.”

Quinn cleared her throat. “He went after the General.”

Hannah whipped toward her. “What?”

Louder, she repeated it. “He’s going to kill the General.”

“No,” Hannah said, stricken. “No, no, no.”

Bishop looked sick. “Don’t tell me he left by himself.”

Quinn gave a tight nod. “I came out for a drink of water while he was getting ready. I couldn’t stop him. He said he didn’t want anyone else to die.”

“Doesn’t mean he gets to either,” Reynoso muttered.

“He said that if he cut off the head of the snake, the National Guard would think twice before attacking. That we’d have a chance.”

“We have to go after him,” Bishop said. “He goes in there alone, it’s suicide—”

Quinn swallowed. “He left an hour ago. You’re too late.”

Bishop’s face turned ashen. He shook his head, aghast.

They were all thinking the same thing. Liam was a lone man entering the lion’s den. He had little chance of returning.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Principal King asked.

Quinn touched the thick, itchy scab on her lip. She wasn’t ashamed of it. It was a battle scar. A sign to everyone that she’d survived that fight and would survive the next one, too.

She straightened her shoulders and met Hannah’s gaze. “He asked me not to. He said you would try to stop him, that even though it was the right move, you wouldn’t want him to do it.”

“Damn straight we wouldn’t,” Reynoso said.

Emotions flickered across Hannah’s features in rapid succession—fear, worry, trepidation, doubt. Then, something like acceptance.

Hannah took a steadying breath. “When it comes to tactics and strategy, Liam is smarter than all of us put together. We have to trust his decision, even if it…even if…”

Her chin trembled. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what this meant. That Liam was sacrificing himself. That they would never see him again.

At this moment, the General might be torturing the man they owed their lives to. The man Hannah loved.

Quinn blinked back a surge of hot tears. Hell, they all loved Liam. Quinn did. He was freaking Wolverine. Not two weeks ago, he’d risked his hide for a stupid teenager without a second thought.

She’d just lost Gran. The prospect of losing Liam was too terrible to contemplate.

The cavernous room thrummed with strained silence. No one spoke.

Bishop reached across the table and enveloped Hannah’s crooked fingers in his huge ones. “Hannah—”

The uncertainty in her face vanished, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it. But now, we have to be as strong as he is. We have to be smarter and braver than we’ve ever been. If we fail, everyone we love dies.”

Quinn grimaced. “No pressure or anything.”

“Hannah is right,” Bishop said. “We pray Liam accomplishes what he set out to do. And in the meantime, we do what we’ve been trained for.”

Quinn stepped forward. “If this is Fall Creek’s last stand, let it never be said we didn’t go down without one freaking hell of a fight.”

Jonas, who’d been sitting next to his mother, leapt to his feet. “I’m in.”

“Can’t let the young’uns outdo us.” Bishop pushed back his chair, stood, and looked each person in the eye, radiating a quiet, steely confidence. “God be with us.”

Perez shot to her feet. “Let’s go kill some bad guys.”

Hannah stood next. Around the room, everyone followed suit. Dave and Principal King. Reynoso, Perez, and Bishop. Corinne Marshall. Even Wiggins.

Everyone looked scared, gaunt, and grim. But they also looked stronger, tougher.

“What now?” Wiggins asked.

“We sound the church bell alarm,” Reynoso said. “We’re calling everyone in. All hands on deck. Everyone knows what to do and where to go. The noncombatants will head to the bomb shelters again as our last-ditch fallback position. Every able-bodied citizen is to report to their duty stations. We have to protect the north blockade at all costs. Bishop takes south. I take north—”

Reynoso’s radio beeped. Robert Vinson’s voice came through. “This is Echo Four reporting from the Snow Road blockade. We’ve got visitors.”

55

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Q uinn’s adrenaline spiked. She drew her Beretta and held it in the low ready position. Everyone went for their weapons, drawing shotguns and pistols, rifles and revolvers.

“This is Alpha Two,” Bishop said. “Who is it, Echo Four?”

A beat of static. “Mick Sellers, a woman named Dallas Chapman, and a big redhead calling himself Flynn. They’re on horseback. They say they’re Community Alliance representatives, and they need to speak to the town council. It’s urgent.”

“Let them through,” Hannah said.

“They’ve been nothing but trouble!” Corinne said. “We helped them again and again, and they’ve never lifted a finger to aid us! Our people died because they abandoned us against the militia!”

“I’m with her,” Quinn said. “Screw them and the horse they rode in on. Literally, in this case.”

“I know,” Hannah said evenly. “Still, I invited them here. Granted, that was several days ago. But the offer still stands.”

Corrine grimaced but didn’t argue. Quinn bit her tongue. They had too much to do to waste time with these yahoos.

“Let them through,” Bishop said.

“Copy that,” Vinson said over the radio. “Sending them through now.”

A few minutes later, Mick, Flynn, and Dallas entered town hall, escorted by Robert Vinson and Jamal Duncan.

The Fall Creek sentries had divested them of their weapons. The pharmacist carried his hunting rifle slung over his shoulder.

Jamal remained at the door to keep watch while Vinson gestured for their visitors to approach.

Quinn watched them with narrowed, suspicious eyes. She’d heard plenty about these jokers. Liam had always been leery of them. She was, too.

The one called Flynn towered over the other two. A redheaded guy sporting a bushy beard that reached his chest, he looked like a Hell’s Angels biker.

The woman, Dallas Chapman, stood on Mick’s opposite side. She wore hunting camo, her skin a rich brown, her black coils springing from beneath her MSU Spartans winter hat.

Mick Sellers wore a hunter-green parka, jeans, and scuffed work boots. In his mid-seventies, he was still straight-backed, with short silver hair.

Hannah and Dave stepped forward to meet them. Tension crackled in the air. Everyone edgy and itching to get to their duty stations and prepare for the impending attack.

Hannah didn’t waste time on pleasantries or preamble. “It’s after one a.m. What is it?”

“The radios aren’t working,” Flynn said in an accusatory voice, like it was their fault. “We’ve been trying to contact you.”

“Some of the repeater stations are down,” Hannah said. “The General’s soldiers sabotaged them.”

Perez crossed her arms over her chest. “What the hell do you want? Spit it out and leave. We’re a little busy.”

Flynn shifted from foot to foot. He looked shaken. His flustered gaze darted from Perez to Hannah. “That’s what we came to talk to you about.”

“We have news,” Mick said in a strangled voice. Even in the dim light, his face was ashen, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked as if someone had walked over his grave. “In the last hour, we’ve received multiple reports that hundreds of armed men have spilled across the border north of South Bend and are heading inland. They’ve got vehicles, some armored, and plenty of guns. They’re shooting anyone they see.”

Everyone stared at him in shocked silence.

Dallas said, “Poe has just invaded Michigan.”

56

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

“Poe’s headed straight for us,” Mick said.

“We can’t defend ourselves from two opposing forces,” Annette said in a stricken voice. “God help us.”

The townspeople exchanged appalled glances.

Hannah felt it, a low thrumming terror like a scream locked inside, fighting to get out.

Her heart plummeted. Sour-sick acid churned in her belly. The certainty of death bore down on them like a hurtling train.

Whatever their preparations, whatever they’d attempted to avoid this fate—how could it be enough? Would her children die today? Scared, calling for their mothers?

Was Liam already dead? Was that her destiny, too?

Things looked bleak. More like impossible.

“How many?” Reynoso asked.

“Don’t know,” Mick said. “Hard to tell from the reports. Two thousand? Maybe more. They’re coming up on Highway 31. Looks like they’ll hit your blockade south of the bridge then run through Fall Creek before spreading to the northeast and west.”

“Never thought we’d see this in America.” Dallas’s eyes gleamed in the flickering candlelight. “The things he’s doing to women and children. Selling human beings out in the open like that. I don’t know what chance we have against that kind of army. Not much of one, I suspect. But you defeated the militia. You’ve held your own this far.”

“We need your help,” Mick said.

Perez flung up her hands. “Oh, now you want—”

“Samantha.” Bishop’s strident voice cut through her words like a knife through butter. He shot her a stern look. “This is not the time!”

Startled, Perez clamped her mouth shut.

Flynn looked shaken. Something changed in his expression—a glimpse of vulnerability, a break in the hardness. A flicker of shame, maybe even remorse. “You’ve been right all along. Ain’t none of us will be spared from this, even if you’re the town they hit first. We’ve seen firsthand what Poe does. It’s evil…he’s evil.”

Perez stared at him in shock.

Hannah wasn’t surprised. She’d never wavered in the belief that they could unite for a common cause. She’d kept the lines of communication open, and she’d had faith that returning the militia’s stolen supplies was necessary, not only because it was the right thing to do, but for this moment.

Flynn grunted. “What we’re saying is, we want to join forces, if you’ll have us.”

“We will,” Hannah said. “We stand together.”

Mick gave a grim nod. “The Community Alliance has three hundred fighting men and women who’ve volunteered. We’re low on ammo, but we’ve got some. A couple of reloaders have helped. Some are police officers, security, firefighters, former military. Others are hunters and recreational shooters. A few just picked up a gun for the first time, but they’re willing to fight to defend their home.”

Annette sucked in her breath. “Three hundred?”

“Yes,” Mick said. “And all three hundred will fight with you.”

“Poe isn’t the only threat,” Dave said. “A man calling himself the General will attack from the north in only a few hours.”

“We know about the General.” Dallas’s voice darkened. “He sent some of his goons riding in and demanded a quarter of our food as taxes for protection. His lieutenant, Gibbs, claimed they were rooting out local domestic terrorists. I assume that’s you?”

“We wouldn’t roll over and let them execute an innocent man,” Bishop said.

“Rosamond Sinclair is the General’s daughter,” Hannah said. “Mattias Sutter was his nephew.”

Flynn’s thick eyebrows lowered, his eyes narrowing. A look of pure hatred crossed his face. He loathed the militia. Sutter’s men had murdered his wife. “Knew I didn’t like their tone or the look of them. Anyone allied with the militia is an enemy of mine.”

Hannah met his gaze. “This is personal for him. He’s using the National Guard to further his quest for revenge.”

Flynn didn’t look away. “Then we’ll fight him, too.”

Hannah looked around at the small group, fierce pride beating in her chest. They were afraid, yes, but not panicked. Courage in their faces. Grit and strength. Resolve in their eyes.

These weren’t the soft, terrified people of four months ago. They had suffered hunger and the bitter, killing cold. They had endured the tyranny of Rosamond and the cruelty of the militia.

They were not trained or hardened soldiers, but they were survivors. They had suffered and lost, but they were still here.

“Our enemies are just men,” Hannah said with conviction. “Men can be shot and killed. Men can be defeated.”

“Hannah is right,” Bishop said. “God is with us. Whatever your faith, whatever you believe. Whether we stand or fall this day, have faith, my friends. It is the right thing to stand against the darkness spreading across our land. If it is our time to perish, then it is our time. But we will fight for Fall Creek.”

57

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Liam awoke to a bucket of freezing water hurled in his face.

The sudden shock jolted him to sharp, painful consciousness.

“Wakey, wakey,” a male voice rasped.

He sputtered, ice cold water streaming from his mouth, eyes, and nose. His head throbbed like someone had split it open with a maul.

The world was hazy, everything coming back in fits and snatches. Fuzzy shapes hovered over him.

He blinked to clear his blurry vision. Fuzziness solidified into recognizable forms.

“Get up, scumbag.” Two well-armed men dressed in black fatigues bent and hauled him up between them. One big and burly with a bristling auburn beard, the other short and wiry with beady eyes.

Not National Guardsmen.

The General’s minions.

He attempted to stand, bare feet scrabbling for purchase. The bearded one kicked his legs out from under him. Pain spiked through his ankle and shin.

They dragged him to the center of the room and forced him to his knees. The beady-eyed hostile cuffed the sides of his head so hard his ears rang. “Time to pay the piper.”

His head clearing, he took in his surroundings. He knelt in the center of a commercial walk-in freezer. Pipes snaked across the high ceiling. Blank tubes of fluorescent lights overhead, now long dark. Steel walls and bare metal shelving but for a pile of clothing. Hard concrete floor beneath him.

Beyond the freezer through the opened door, Liam glimpsed stainless-steel counters, racks of pots and pans beside a display of butcher knives.

They’d taken him to the Boulevard Inn’s kitchen, located deep in the belly of the building. The faint stench of rotting meat stung his nostrils.

He tried to move his arms but couldn’t. Metal cuffs bit into his wrists, which were bound behind his back. He strained, pulling with all his strength, but there was no give.

With a groan, he slumped back.

Beady Eyes grinned. “I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere, Mr. Coleman.”

Frigid water ran in rivulets down his scarred, bare chest. He shivered violently. Goosebumps peppered his skin.

His clothing had been stripped. He wore only his boxer shorts. His boots were gone, and his socks. He was cold. So damn cold.

Luther rummaged through Liam’s clothing on the shelf. A fourth man stood in the open doorway, legs splayed, both hands on his M4. He was bald, in his late thirties, with acne-scarred skin.

“You find anything else on him?” the bearded guard asked.

Luther held something up. Between his fingers, a tiny key glinted. “He had a handcuff key sewn into his left sock.”

Liam cursed. Anger shot through him like an electrical current, his stomach churning with nausea.

“And a second knife in his boot.”

That wasn’t part of the plan. Though it had gone against his training, he’d been forced to rely on Luther. He’d known better than to trust an informant. And yet, he’d had no choice.

With Luther as an ally, his mission had been a long shot.

Without Luther? What little hope he’d still held drained out of him.

“Traitor,” he spat.

Luther was unperturbed. Ignoring Liam, he pocketed the key and the knife, then combed through the everyday carry case. “A multi-tool, folding knife, pen, lock pick set. Nothing important.”

“I’ll take the multi-tool,” Beady Eyes said. “Could come in handy.”

Luther tossed it to him. “Catch, Dobson.”

The acne-scarred mercenary snickered as he gazed at Liam’s near-naked body in derision. “Don’t think he’s hiding anything else on him.”

Luther leaned against the metal shelves, arms crossed, avoiding Liam’s gaze.

“I made Richards check him. Practically gave him an enema.”

Liam ignored their cruel laughter. He’d been unconscious for that, though he’d endured worse.

Brisk footsteps sounded outside the freezer. Acne-Scars moved aside as an older man strode into the industrial freezer. Authority exuded from his every movement.

He wore black fatigues but no tactical gear. His hair was a shocking white, his hard face lined, but his jaw was still square, his build solid. A sharp intelligence shone in his eyes.

He reminded Liam of a grizzled old bear, long in the tooth but still deadly.

This must be the General, then.

The bodyguards parted for the man and closed ranks around him. Four behind him, two on each side. Several more at the ready outside the steel door.

They exuded the air of ex-military. It was in their posture, the confident way they moved, their attitude. Their eyes were hard and cruel.

General Sinclair halted several feet from Liam. Instead of looking at him, his shrewd gaze roamed the room. “Which one of you brought him in?”

Luther straightened. “I did, sir.”

A slow insidious smile spread across the man’s face. “I am impressed. You came through, Luther. I see I was wise to put my trust in you.” He swept his hand at the armed men ranged behind him. “You’ve earned your place with us.”

“I hope it was worth it,” Liam said.

Emotion flickered in Luther’s eyes. A flare of shame. “I had to do it.”

“Don’t make excuses,” the General said. “Never make an excuse. Do it or don’t. We all have our reasons.”

Luther’s mouth thinned. He gave a single, sharp nod. “Sir.”

The General motioned at Acne-Scars. “Redding, please personally escort Luther’s father from Fall Creek once we’re in. We’ll ensure that he receives the best medical care available. Fort Custer has a medical bay, a surgical theater, the works. It’s reserved for military only, but I can pull the necessary strings.”

Luther’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Thank you, sir.”

The General turned his attention upon Liam. His keen gaze raked over him, assessing him in seconds. “You thought I wouldn’t suspect a trap? All men can be bought. This one just needed a few oxygen tanks.”

Liam ground his teeth so hard, his jaws ached. “Go to hell.”

58

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

The General glared at Liam. “You’re Liam Coleman. Terrorist and murderer.”

Liam resisted the urge to spit on him. While it might feel satisfying in the short term, it would do nothing to further his goals.

Keep the man talking. Draw him closer. Lower his guard.

In his current state, Liam was helpless. At least, with the enemy’s eyes on him. He needed a minute alone. Just sixty seconds.

He wasn’t going to get it.

Thanks to Luther’s betrayal, Liam was going to die here in this room, surrounded by enemies.

He’d come to terms with such a death, but the idea that he would die before he eliminated General Sinclair was repugnant. He refused to accept it.

There had to be a way to turn this around. An angle he hadn’t seen yet.

He would not give up. He couldn’t give up.

“I’m no terrorist,” he said.

“You killed seven of my men at Vortex.”

“Guess your operators aren’t as competent as you think they are.”

Two of the men cursed. The bearded one made a move as if to kick him.

Liam didn’t flinch.

“Stand down, McArthur.” The General turned to Liam. “You murdered two more who came to collect what’s mine. You destroyed my Black Hawk and half my convoy, not to mention a healthy chunk of our ordnance. Fifteen million dollars of priceless government property.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The General narrowed his eyes. “What are you? Navy SEAL? Ranger? Delta?”

“More of a soldier than you are.”

He snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

“I will kill you,” Liam said. “You’re a dead man. You just don’t know it yet.”

The General gave a mirthless laugh. “I think you have things confused. It will be the other way around.”

“You going to kill me while I’m bound and helpless? You think that’s justice? Fight me man to man. Or are you going to have one of your minions do it instead?”

“Oh, I’ll kill you myself. A real man isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. I think we have that in common.”

“We have nothing in common.”

“You have considerable skills. So do I. I assume you’ve killed many men during your years of service. As have I. More than you, I’d wager. The capacity for violence isn’t limited to the young. Some of us have had many, many years to practice.”

Liam glared at him.

The General scowled. “You murdered my daughter in cold blood.”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Liam said. “I am an American citizen and a proud veteran of the armed forces. You’re the one who conducted an air raid on unarmed civilians. Eleven innocent people died. I’d say you’re the murderer.”

“If they’d relinquished you as ordered by their sovereign government, they’d be sitting at their dinner tables, eating apple pie right now. It was their choice to defy the law—and suffer the consequences.”

“It was your choice to open fire, and yours alone. People just want to protect their families and survive. The only one asking for trouble is you. Leave us alone.”

The General snapped his fingers. “Chair.”

Luther slipped out of the industrial freezer and returned a moment later with a metal folding chair. He placed it about six feet from Liam’s position.

The General sat down facing Liam. He had impeccable posture, just like his daughter. He folded his gnarled hands in his lap. “I’ve sent a team to retrieve my great-granddaughter. I will bring her to Lansing with me. I’ve already procured a wet nurse and a nanny. Unlike the rest of you, I will provide her with proper food, medical care, and education. She will outlive me and carry the Sinclair name into the future. It will not end with me, but will go on forever.”

“You’re delusional. She’s not a Sinclair. She never will be.”

“As for the rest of the town—” The General gestured was as though washing his hands of them. “Let me tell you what will happen since you won’t be present to see it. As we speak, my soldiers are preparing for battle. At dawn, they’ll descend upon Fall Creek and shred your flimsy barricades. They will mow down your civilians with targeted artillery. Mortar shells will blast them to pieces. There will be little left to identify the bodies afterward.”

Liam strained against his restraints to no avail. Dread sprouted in the pit of his stomach and formed teeth and claws.

A trim, muscled man strode into the room. His hard gaze zeroed in on Liam. “Why the hell is he still alive?”

“To suffer is good for the soul, Gibbs,” the General said.

“This dirtbag killed Matherson, Thomas, and Garcia!” Gibbs spat.

Hostility vibrated off the General’s men in waves. Hate flashed in their eyes. Liam had eliminated several of their own. They weren’t going to forget it.

They wanted to see him suffer.

If the General didn’t kill him, they certainly would. Slowly and painfully.

“And he will pay for it,” the General said. “But first, he will pay for my daughter.”

“Your daughter was a murderous tyrant,” Liam said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The General smiled, his eyes cold and ruthless. A predator’s eyes. “Within the next six hours, everyone you love will die. They will be afraid. They will suffer. And they will call out your name, and you will not be there to save them.”

He leaned forward, that rictus of a smile fixed upon his face. “You cannot save them.”

59

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Liam trembled with black rage. He loathed this man with every fiber of his being. With great effort, he resisted the urge to launch himself at the General and smash the man’s face in with his head.

The General nodded at Gibbs. The operator stepped forward, quicker than he looked, and threw a savage haymaker punch to Liam’s nose.

Liam fell back, toppling sideways. Pain exploded from his nose and radiated through his cheekbones, his sinuses, and into his skull. He nearly blacked out from the pain.

He struggled to put it in a box, to focus on his mission.

As long as he wasn’t dead, there was still a chance.

“You’ll never get away with this.”

“I already have.”

“You can’t murder an entire town. Not even now. Word will get out. It always gets out. You think most of those five hundred National Guardsmen are sociopaths like you? They’re not. There will be consequences. You will be brought to justice.”

The General gave a hard bark of laughter. “You have no idea what’s happening in the outside world, do you? You know why no one’s coming? Why you haven’t seen any military other than a few scraggly National Guard?”

Liam said nothing. Hot blood leaked from his throbbing nose. It ran down his chin and dripped to his bare chest. A few droplets struck the concrete floor.

The General smiled, like he was enjoying this. “We’re at war. World War III. It’s been going on for months, and no one has any idea.”

A shuffling sound behind him. Low murmuring and wary looks exchanged among the General’s men. Apparently, he hadn’t made his bodyguards privy to the intel.

“China and Russia conspired against us. We didn’t know that at first, of course. They made it look like Iran attacked us. They weren’t supposed to have nukes. They did. The U.S. Army nuked them in retaliation. What do you think the Middle East looks like? They’re one of the few regions worse off than we are, I’ll tell you that.

“Russia and the remains of the U.S. military are engaged in a vicious proxy war over the ashes of the Middle East. The U.N. is impotent. Everyone is terrified either Russia or the U.S. will use nukes again.”

Liam rocked back, reeling. “Why would our own government keep that secret from us?”

“Why, indeed. The President declared martial law and seized federal control of all networks, cell towers, radio—everything. The feds realized that without nationwide communication, social media, or even functioning news outlets, they could keep things under wraps.

“The federal government has never held much faith in its people. The less real information you know, the easier it is to control you. If you tell three hundred and fifty million people their way of life is over, what will they do? How will they respond? Panic. Rioting and looting. Mass casualties. The response will be worse than the event itself.

“You have to string them along, give them hope; only parcel out information in small, palatable pieces. It keeps the populace obedient and subdued while the government deals with the enemies at the gate.

“The world is intricately interconnected,” the General continued. “The U.S. received the brunt of the blast, but the aftershocks wreaked a different devastation. When the EMP took out our grid, our economy collapsed instantaneously. The stock market was obliterated. World markets were crippled with no way to recover.

“It has destabilized the global economy. The UK is in crisis. Even with their electric grid still intact, most developed countries are in a tailspin. Riots and looting. Massive food shortages. Money markets imploding. Inflation rising by twenty percent a month. Banks freezing accounts.”

Liam thought of the repercussions of a crippled America rippling ever outward. The aftershocks unsettling the foundation of the civilized world, causing even more damage.

It was an overwhelming and utterly depressing thought.

“When the lights come back on in America, the entire planet will have realigned itself. What superpower will emerge to dominate the world? China and Russia are both vying for that position. The U.S. is determined to keep that from happening.

“The world has cracked open. Opportunity is everywhere—diamonds lying abandoned in the streets. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together is vying for their piece of the pie. It’s a fascinating time to be alive, isn’t it?”

Liam didn’t answer. The General could be lying through his teeth. Or he could be speaking the absolute truth. It didn’t change their situation.

Fury thrummed through every cell of his body. He imagined all the ways he could kill this man.

He only needed his hands free. He only needed a few precious seconds.

The General steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “All that aside, it doesn’t matter what happens here in this inconsequential little town in this insignificant corner of a trivial state. No one cares. I should say, no one cares right now. In the future, they will. We tear down to rebuild something better and stronger. No one will remember what came before.”

Liam shook his head. Agony spiked through his skull. He tasted coppery blood on his tongue. “This place matters. What happens here matters.”

“When I report tomorrow to the Secretary of Defense that Michigan is in hand and under control, he won’t ask questions. He doesn’t have the time. I could murder all of you, and it wouldn’t matter one little iota.”

The General’s eye twitched. A tightness to his mouth. It was a lie—or a partial lie.

There was still a government operating, however dysfunctional and crippled. There were still rules of operation and lines that a government official could not cross without consequences.

“I doubt that.”

The General sat back with a satisfied smirk. “I’ve just received word that Alexander Poe and his Syndicate army have breached Michigan’s border. They’re swarming across the state line now.”

Liam’s heart stopped. “No.”

“At first, I admit I was quite vexed. However, I’ve reconsidered my position. The Syndicate will attack from the south. We will come from the north and kill two birds with one stone. In the end, who’s to say who killed who?”

His smile took on a ghastly tinge. “What a tragedy it will be. Don’t worry. We will avenge your deaths. We will retaliate with the full might of the Michigan National Guard. Maybe we’ll even immortalize you as tragic victims. That’s the wonderful thing about history. It can be revised with a simple swipe of a pen.”

“You will be held accountable for every evil that you’ve committed.” Liam thought of Bishop. “In this world or the next.”

“Ah, the archaic concept of justice. Of honor, truth, right and wrong.” The General shook his head with an air of annoyance. “It’s tedious. It’s asinine. What matters is power. What matters is who sits on the throne, and who tells the best story. What people believe. Not the truth, but what they’re told. That’s it.”

“You’re wrong.”

The General leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, his head tilted, a hard curious look in his eyes. “Why do you keep fighting? Why do you struggle against impossible odds? It’s pointless.”

“We fight because we have to.”

The General’s gaze hardened. “I’ve known men like you. You have a hard-on for glory, is that it? You believe valor matters. That an honorable death means something. Let me tell you something, soldier to soldier. It doesn’t. It never has.”

Liam squared his shoulders. “I say it does.”

A small man scurried into the room, squeezing between the huge bodyguards. “Um, sir? A quick word.”

His eyes were red-rimmed and wet. His head bobbed, his nervous gaze skimming Liam’s battered form and skittering away.

The General gave an irritated grunt. “As always, your timing is impeccable.”

“General, Lauren Eubanks is on the line, sir.”

The General waved a dismissive hand. “I have no interest in answering.”

“She says it’s urgent. Claims she’s the new governor. Something about Governor Duffield perishing of a heart attack, sir.”

The General hesitated, as if mulling the potential repercussions of ignoring a governor, particularly a new one. “Fine. Let me take care of this. Gibbs, are we ready to attack?”

“The men are ready. There are just a few logistic concerns for you to sign off on.”

The General stood heavily. His knees cracked. He covered up a grimace with a sneer as he turned to Gibbs. “Soften him up. But keep him alive. I’m not finished with him yet.”

The General swept from the room.

Four of the mercenaries closed in, led by Gibbs. Big men, ropy with muscles. Men skilled at winning fights, at breaking bones, at smashing the human body into a bloody pulp.

They were also killers.

Liam braced himself for what was to come.

Gibbs cracked his knuckles and flashed a flat, vicious smile. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you were dead.”

60

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

“Sound the alarm!” Hannah said.

“I’ll do it!” Quinn volunteered.

“Go with her,” Bishop told Jonas. “Then meet us at the south blockade.”

“Everyone to their positions,” Reynoso ordered.

In her haste, Quinn knocked over a metal folding chair as she raced for the exit, Jonas at her side. Everyone was on their feet, reaching for weapons and heading for the front doors.

“Quinn!” Hannah called after her, her throat tight.

For an instant, Quinn paused and looked back.

Affection swelled in her chest for this fierce girl. She wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a woman. A fighter. Her AR-15 slung across her torso, pistol strapped to her side, her expression tough and determined.

Hannah said, “I’m proud of you.”

A flurry of emotions crossed Quinn’s face. She raised her chin and flashed a strained smile.

Then Jonas grabbed her arm, and they sprinted for the double doors, off to do their part to save Fall Creek.

It felt like trying to save the whole damn world. Like trying to hold back the raging sea with a flimsy fishing net.

Reynoso’s radio crackled. “Alpha Two, this is Echo Two.” One of the scouts—Mara Wright. “Bravo One couldn’t reach you. She had to bike three miles before I was in range.”

His expression tense, Reynoso brought the radio to his lips. “Go ahead.”

“Bravo One spotted movement at the Boulevard Inn. The General’s forces are readying transports and gearing up. They’re moving early. They’re coming now!”

Reynoso’s features hardened. “We’ll be ready for them.”

Bishop turned to Reynoso and clasped his forearm. “Godspeed, brother.”

Reynoso nodded “See you on the other side.”

A chill raced up Hannah’s spine. Fear for Liam filled her thoughts. Where was he now? Was he being tortured? Was he already dead?

Anxiety torqued through her. Her good hand strayed to her misshapen fingers. Once, her old destructive fear would’ve taken over, but not anymore.

She was fully present, fully here. Her mind was clear.

As the church bells tolled the call-to-battle alarm, she knew what she needed to do.

Liam’s fate was out of her hands.

For everyone else—what she did now could still make a difference.

She moved for the doors.

“Where are you going?” Bishop asked her.

“To get more help.”

“Hannah, you shouldn’t—”

She touched his arm. “Even with the Community Alliance, I fear it’s not enough. We need help. I have one last idea, but it has to be done in person.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re going to Hamilton.”

She didn’t have to answer; he saw it in her face.

She’d been trying to get ahold of Hamilton for the last three days. With the repeaters out, she hadn’t made contact. Liam had intended to go himself—but the Black Hawk attack had waylaid his plans.

Now, though, they were desperate. Now, they had no choice.

“It’s too dangerous—”

“Every person here is risking their lives. Liam is. You and Quinn. Everyone. I’m no different.”

“I should go with you.”

“You’re needed here. You know you are.”

“God forgive me.” Bishop closed his eyes and sighed. “What route are you taking?”

“I can take Shawnee Road. It’s out of the path of the General. If I take the ATV, I can use the old snowmobile trail to skirt the barricades and traps Liam set on Snow Road.” She hesitated. “I can do this, Bishop.”

Bishop drew her into a quick fierce hug. And then he let her go.

Outside, the chilly air bit at her cheeks. She inhaled sharply. The bracing air crystalized her thoughts, her purpose. The night was dark, the clouds thick and low. No stars anywhere.

She’d left Ghost and her children with Evelyn and Travis, who’d taken them to the high school bomb shelter. It was well defended and the safest place for Charlotte in case the General sent more men after her.

Before she’d left, she asked the question she’d dreaded speaking aloud: “If I don’t return, will you…will you take my kids? Will you keep them safe?”

Evelyn had gripped her bad hand in both of hers. “We will defend them with our own lives.”

Hannah knew it was true. It gave her a measure of peace—and motivation. People depended on her. People she loved.

“You might want the keys,” said a voice behind her.

Hannah spun, her good hand moving toward her holster.

“Woah, there, warrior princess! Stand down.” Perez took the front steps two at a time and halted in front of her. She dangled an ATV key fob from her fingers. “What? You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you?”

“It’s dangerous—”

“Damn straight. Which is why I’m coming. Us girls need to stick together.”

Hannah stared at her. “You okay, Samantha?”

Perez rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You need someone to watch your back. Besides, Liam would kill me if he discovered I let you go into the wolves’ den alone in the middle of the night. And I’d rather stay in his good graces when he gets back.”

“He’s coming back,” Hannah said, wanting it to be true with all her heart.

Perez flashed a maniacal grin. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “He’s Liam freaking Coleman. Damn straight he’s coming back. We just need to concentrate on keeping ourselves upright and breathing.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Where are we headed?”

“The nuclear power plant.”

Her brows lifted. “Huh.”

“Maybe it’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“I love long shots. That’s why I have horrible taste in men.”

Hannah snorted.

Perez palmed the keys and headed for the ATV. “We doing this or what?”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this.”

Hannah settled onto the front seat, Perez squeezing in behind her as they strapped on their helmets.

Hannah started the engine. The headlights flickered on.

Perez drew her pistol, did a quick check, and rested it against her thigh. “I’m shooting anything that moves. You just drive.”

61

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

The mercs knocked Liam to the floor. They took turns punching, kicking, and hitting him, then started over again.

Even with his hands bound, he managed to fight. On his back, he shot out a savage kick and nailed one in the face.

Dobson staggered back, blood streaming from his split lips, and spit out two teeth.

The victory was fleeting. The truth was, he could barely move, let alone fight.

Liam was beaten before he’d started.

Electric pain shot up his spine. The half-healed wound in his side burned like a hot ember. Still woozy from the concussion, they left him a broken and bloody mess.

“The General wants him alive.” Luther sounded distant, like he was underwater. “You better lay off.”

Gibbs directed a savage kick at Liam’s injured ribs. He curled into himself with a groan. “Looks fine to me.”

“What do you think the General will do to you if you accidentally kill him?”

Gibbs swore, but he backed off. “I need some water.”

“I’ve got something better than water,” Luther said. “Besides, Coleman smells rancid. We need a break. Come on.”

Liam’s skull pounded. His ears rang. Dimly, he heard receding footsteps and a door slamming shut.

They’d locked him in. They’d left him alone.

This was his chance.

His temples throbbed, his vision blurred. His tongue thick and swollen in his mouth like some alien thing. Everything hurt.

With incredible effort, Liam rolled onto his side, his cheek scraping rough concrete, and scanned the freezer.

It was devoid of anything he could use as an improvised weapon. The steel shelves were welded to the wall and floor. No furniture, no kitchen utensils or cooking tools.

Nothing but his pile of discarded clothing and the sunglasses case Luther had carelessly left behind.

Liam used his elbows to shove himself into a seated position, then rocked onto his knees. Images swam before his eyes, dimming at the edges.

He was dizzy, disoriented. Everything lurching and jerky.

With a groan, he moved his bound hands under and forward beneath his buttocks, his arms almost yanked out of their sockets. It took several tries. Leaning forward, he folded his legs to get his hands past his feet and in front of him, wincing as sweat broke out on his brow

Gasping from the effort, he maneuvered his bound hands to his lower right side and gingerly peeled the medical tape from the bandage over his ribs.

Adrenaline surged through him. Pain and panic made his fingers fumble. He didn’t know whether he had minutes or seconds.

He was running out of precious time.

Frantic, unable to see what he was doing, his fingers searched for the object he’d hidden within the bandage earlier that night—Reynoso’s handcuff key.

Luther had known about the key sewn into Liam’s sock. The handcuff ploy was part of the plan. Luther’s betrayal was not.

But Liam ensured he had a back-up, one unlikely to be discovered even in a strip-search. The key was the difference between mission success and utter failure.

Mindful of every microscopic movement, Liam pinched the tiny key between his fingers and maneuvered it into the lock.

Don’t drop it. Whatever you do, don’t drop it.

The cuffs bit into his wrist-bones. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Vertigo washed through him.

The cuffs clicked open and clattered to the concrete.

Liam climbed to his feet. He closed his eyes, tamping down the panic surging into his chest, the dizziness.

His legs gave out on him, and he staggered against the shelves, nearly falling. With great effort, he pulled himself up.

The pain was incredible. His spine on fire. His ribs cracked, maybe broken. His entire face felt like someone had shoved it into a blender.

With a moan, he used the shelf to hold himself up and reached for his clothing, hoping, praying, desperate that it was still there. Please, God, please…

There it was. It sat atop his folded jacket next to the sunglasses case—the discarded pen.

Just a pen, not a weapon.

Except it wasn’t. Not in Liam’s hands.

Six and a half inches long, discrete, with a removable cap on each end. One side, a normal ballpoint pen. The other side, a hard tungsten carbide head designed to pierce human flesh with one strike.

He only needed a chance to use it.

62

THE GENERAL

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

The door slammed open.

The General marched into the freezer. He held a silenced Colt 1911 pistol in his hand.

Besides Luther, three of the General’s bodyguards crowded into the room. Dobson and McArthur moved to the right. Luther sidled to the left, standing behind Gibbs.

Behind them, the door remained open.

Outside, Baxter waited nervously—the man was squeamish; he had no stomach for bloodshed.

The General held no such qualms.

Lansing had moved fast. Furious, Lauren Eubanks had called him, demanding answers and insinuating that he might have had a hand in Governor Duffield’s untimely demise.

Luckily, she couldn’t prove any of it.

Governor Duffield hadn’t updated her on the General’s air raid on an American town. The General’s secrets remained safe.

He only needed a little more time.

At this very moment, his troops were headed for Fall Creek. He’d sent them early. Because he could. Because he wanted to see the look in Coleman’s face when he told him.

Gibbs had reported that many of the National Guard had balked at engaging noncombatants. The General had threatened them with a court-martial.

They knew what that meant. He would shoot every one of them in the head before he allowed them to defy orders.

When it came to it, they’d buckle down and obey. Their lives or the lives of strangers; it was no contest.

As soon as the General gave the word, they would descend upon Fall Creek with the fury of a hurricane.

And once it was over, it was over. Feelings would be hurt; outrageous accusations made. If it ever came up in a future congressional hearing, he could blame it on Poe.

In the end, the feds only wanted results. The General would give them those results.

Just as soon as he took care of this little problem.

The General stared at Coleman kneeling on the floor. The prisoner cowered before him, wretched and pathetic, his shoulders hunched, head down in abject misery.

Blood dripped from his hairline. Cuts, scrapes, and old scars marred his bare, muscled chest. The wound in his side leaked red. The tendons in his neck stood out.

He trembled, quaking with terror and dread. A man gripped by the terrible knowledge of imminent death. Finally, he’d revealed himself as the gutless coward that he was. That deep down, all men were.

The General smiled.

All men were made of flesh and blood and bone. All men broke.

The General broke them.

He stepped forward. Raised the pistol.

“Don’t get too close,” Gibbs warned, but the General ignored him.

Dark energy hummed through him. He would relish this moment, would wring every ounce of pleasure from it. “My troops are moving in on Fall Creek right now. Your friends are about to die.”

Coleman said nothing.

“Look at me!”

He wanted to stare into Liam Coleman’s desperate eyes as he squeezed the trigger and fired the kill shot. He wanted the man to know who brought his death. Who wielded ultimate power and meted out ultimate defeat.

He longed to see the despair in his gaze.

The man refused to raise his head.

The General took another step closer. “I said, look at me!”

Still, the man remained motionless.

An unreasoning fury seized the General. He strode forward, intending to press the muzzle against his prisoner’s lowered forehead. “You will obey—!”

General Byron Sinclair never finished his sentence.

Liam Coleman exploded into motion.

The General’s brain barely registered that the prisoner’s hands were no longer bound. The pistol was struck from his startled grip.

Before his bodyguards could react, Liam pounced upon him.

A glint of something small and pointed streaked toward his face. A blur of sharpened steel.

The point pierced the General’s right eyeball. It punctured the cornea, drilling through the lens and plunged deep into the vitreous body.

Agony exploded inside his skull. Searing white-hot pain.

The General howled. Blinded, his hands flailed.

The man still on him, his arm surging forward for a second blow. The savage strike entered the side of the General’s throat.

With incredible speed and precision, the steel point of the tactical pen stabbed deep, gouging through muscle, tendons, and cartilage to rupture the carotid artery.

The General collapsed as if his spine had been ripped out of him. He landed hard on his back. The impact jarred him, knocking the breath from his body.

His one good eye bulged as he gazed unseeing at the ceiling, his vision draped in bright red. He clutched in vain at the liquid gushing from the hole in his neck.

Hot red blood pumped from his body. His lifeblood drained onto the concrete floor.

Dimly, he registered shouting and screaming. Figures bursting into action. Gunshots blasting.

His last coherent thought was one of astonishment. That this could be happening to him. That he wouldn’t get to finish his magnus opus.

That he, too, was made of flesh and blood and bone.

And then darkness claimed him.

63

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Liam rolled off the General’s body.

The dropped pistol glinted. Not two feet away.

In one fluid motion, he grasped it as he rolled. He came up behind the man’s head and shoulders in a crouch.

He lifted the General’s torso. Using the man’s body as a shield, he shoved the barrel of the pistol beneath the man’s armpit. Still alive, the General gasped and twitched. Slippery blood coursed from his throat.

The world slowed.

For half a second, the guards stiffened, stunned. Their brains struggled to comprehend the rapid turnaround of the last second. Their weapons rose, but slowly, too slow.

The difference between action and reaction.

The determination between life and death caught in that frozen fraction of time.

Liam shifted his aim upward and fired a double tap.

Two bullets ripped into Dobson’s unprotected chest. He wasn’t wearing the bulky ceramic plates in his chest rig. With a startled gasp, he dropped.

Liam shifted and squeezed the trigger in rapid succession. McArthur looked down at the new holes in his torso, shocked. His body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Mayhem erupted. Shouts of alarm. Bodies bursting into motion, hands going for weapons, carbine muzzles raising toward him.

Liam spun, searching for his next target.

It happened within the span of a second. Hundredths of a second.

Not seven feet away, Gibbs had a bead on Liam.

No time to react. No time to pull his muzzle to the left and fire.

Gibbs fired first. Three rapid shots. The rounds impacted the General’s chest and vibrated through the dead man’s flesh against Liam’s ribs.

The man filled his vision. The muzzle lifting, aimed toward his head. No way he would miss.

Two blasts.

A stunned look contorted Gibbs’ face. He crumpled.

Behind Gibbs, Luther spun toward the door, Liam’s M4 in his hands. He’d shot Gibbs in the back.

Before Liam could react, Redding pounded through the doorway.

Luther emptied a half-dozen rounds into his face. The man toppled, gurgling and gasping.

Three mercs plunged through the narrow doorway after him, bottlenecking at Redding’s fallen body, shouting in alarm, guns up but not shooting yet. Still in protection mode, not sure what they would find. They didn’t know the General was dead.

Across the room, Luther dropped to one knee and opened fire.

The first man jittered and fell. The second received a zipper of rounds from his crotch to his neck. He crashed backward onto the third hostile. He stumbled, weapon flailing.

Liam drilled two rounds into his skull. The reports exploded in the enclosed room. His ears buzzed.

There were too many hostiles. More swarmed into the kitchen and headed for the freezer. Luther lay down suppressing fire and drove them back.

“I count six more on the opposite end of the kitchen!” Luther said. “They’ve fallen back behind the stairwell!”

A hostile on the floor groaned. Liam swiveled and fired security shots into the heads of the operators on the floor. His slide locked back.

The air stank of blood, urine, and feces. Their bowels had loosened in death.

Liam dropped the spent Colt 1911 and dragged the General’s corpse off himself. With a sideways lurch, he seized a fresh carbine from the still warm but very dead hands of Dobson.

He came up on his knees and pointed the weapon at Luther. “You betrayed me!”

Luther didn’t turn around. He crouched behind the insulated wall. “I did what I had to do!”

Liam clambered to his feet. He staggered to the right of the doorway, seeking cover. He moved sideways, swiveling the carbine, and kept it trained on Luther.

Adrenaline kept him upright, but he was limping. His limbs weren’t working right. The intense pain left him shaken and lightheaded.

He tried to put it in a box and lock it away.

It didn’t work.

He’d reached the limits of human endurance. His tortured body was giving out on him.

His jaw clenched. “I should kill you.”

Luther kept his eyes on the kitchen. He fired rounds to suppress the next wave of hostiles from rushing them. “Gibbs suspected me, sniffed a trap. One of their guys searched you after I did. I knew they would. They were just waiting for me to trip up. I had to do it, act like I was playing both sides for the General.”

“Sounds like you played both sides for real.”

“I left you the tactical pen, didn’t I? No one bothered to inspect it, but I knew what it was. You’re special forces. I had a hunch you had a back-up plan. That you could figure it out.”

Liam stepped back, breathing hard. “A lot riding on a hunch.”

He fired two suppressing shots, then ducked back behind cover. “I got everyone out of the room to give you a shot. I had Baxter contact the General’s people in Lansing, to get the Secretary of State to call him. That was me!”

“You signed your own death warrant. We’re trapped.”

“We’ll find a way,” Luther said.

Several rounds struck the outside wall, hitting steel with a metallic ping. Luther fired and ducked back behind cover.

He dared a glance back at Liam. Something haunted in his eyes. “I’m going to get you out of here. For Hannah.”

Liam’s anger didn’t dissipate, but reason took hold. Luther wasn’t a snitch. Things had gone sideways—as they always did. He’d made the best of it.

Besides, Liam needed him if they were going to have a snowball’s chance in hell.

Maybe he would survive this night, after all.

A flare of hope ignited in Liam’s chest.

64

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

The ATV raced through the countryside, jostling over ruts in the road.

Hannah leaned forward, gripping the handles, her bad hand stiff and awkward. Dark shapes whizzed by. Cold air blasted her face.

They’d taken the off-road trail to get outside the town perimeter before turning onto a rural country road. The headlights bathed the pockmarked pavement in an eerie red glow. Perez had attached a transparent red film over the headlights to keep from attracting the wrong sort of attention. The growl of the engine was enticing enough.

Luckily, it was four in the morning, and most enterprising criminals were sleeping like everyone else. Everyone not intent on invasion.

To their right, two dark shapes appeared on the front porch of a white house thirty yards from the road. Mere shadows in deeper shadows. Hannah barely registered their presence.

Perez fired a warning shot. The shadows retreated into the house.

Then the ATV rocketed past, and they turned west on Shawnee Road, tires squealing, and headed toward Stevensville.

The darkness stretched out forever and ever, without end.

In thirty minutes, they arrived at Cook Nuclear Power Plant.

As before, four armed soldiers stopped them at the front gate. The guards pointed their weapons at them, hostile until Hannah identified themselves and explained their mission.

A female soldier radioed Major Hamilton, and a few minutes later, two soldiers escorted them past the gates. Hannah and Perez approached the makeshift barracks on foot, flanked by guardsmen carrying M4s.

Hannah caught only a glimpse of large concrete buildings clustered behind the tall razor-wired fencing. In the darkness, she couldn’t see the twin concrete cylindrical domes rising above them—the containment facilities for the reactors.

Dozens of RVs crowded the parking lots. Red coals smoldering from a few campfires illuminated the darkness like scattered stars in a galaxy of night.

While the civilian sector was quiet and still, dozens of soldiers were moving about. Dressed in full tactical gear, they carried crates of supplies and canvas duffle bags between several transport vehicles.

Like they were preparing for a mission. Or to ship out.

Their escorts led them into an industrial building, down a long dark hallway, and into a room illuminated by a single electric lamp.

Charlie Hamilton sat before a desk surrounded by crates of weapons and ammo. Several bullet-proof vests were slung over the back of a nearby chair.

He looked up as they entered, his face breaking into a wide smile. Built like a fire hydrant, he was short but brawny. His features were strong—thick brows, large nose, dark eyes. “Hannah. This is a bit of a surprise.”

“I’m sorry to intrude so late—or rather, so early.”

“How’s my favorite Delta? Where is that ugly mug? I’ve missed him.”

She struggled to rein in the sudden surge of emotion. “He’s not here.”

His face fell a little, but he maintained that warm, gregarious smile. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed. Don’t tell him that, though.”

He had an open, honest face. Hannah had liked the former Army Ranger the moment she met him. “Well, what can I do for you?”

She eyed the magazines spread across the desk. He was loading them from several boxes of 5.56 mm ammunition. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“Can’t tell you how much I wish I was.” He scrubbed at his face with the back of his arm. His eyes were bloodshot. “No rest for the weary. We just received marching orders. We’re to link up with General Sinclair to take out a dug-in group of domestic terrorists.”

Hannah’s heart seized. Terrorists. Anger vibrated through her. She could feel Perez shaking at her side.

She placed a restraining hand on the other woman’s arm. They needed to do this very, very carefully. “I thought you weren’t supposed to involve yourselves with local disputes.”

His eyes narrowed. “We’re not. These orders came straight from the top. Brass says to jump, we say how high.”

“Do you know the specific target?” she asked.

He shot her a funny look. “We’ll be debriefed upon arrival. Why do you ask?”

She took a breath, steeling herself. “Major Hamilton, may I speak plainly? It’s important.”

He set down the half-loaded magazine and looked up at her. The jovial tilt to his mouth faded as he sensed the seriousness of their visit. “Of course.”

“If Liam were here, he’d be having this conversation with you. But he’s not. He surrendered himself to General Sinclair’s custody last night.”

Hamilton stared at her. “What?”

“We are those ‘domestic terrorists.’ The entire town of Fall Creek. Women, children, elderly—everyone. And Liam Coleman is General Sinclair’s number one target. An enemy of the state.”

Hamilton pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“That’s because it’s a lie. All of it. A cover up to justify one man’s twisted desire for vengeance.”

Hamilton turned and glanced at the map of Michigan hung on the opposite wall. Small colored pins were stuck in various towns and cities, most of them clustered in Detroit, Kalamazoo, and Grand Rapids.

Hamilton ran a hand through his scruffy, too-long hair. Gray stubble bristled along his jaw. He looked like a man in desperate need of a shower.

Perez started to say something, but Hannah shook her head. Perez shut her mouth and frowned.

“Coleman’s no terrorist,” Hamilton said. “I’ve known him for a decade. He’s a good man. A patriot. He served and sacrificed for this country same as I did.”

“He hasn’t changed. I can promise you that.”

“Have you spoken to the General yourself?” Perez asked, unable to help herself. “Did he give you the orders?”

“No, I haven’t. But they came through the proper channels. I can’t just defy orders from my superiors. It came straight from Lansing.”

“They’re relying on faulty information. The General is unhinged. According to our intelligence, he’s not even a real general. Not anymore. Years ago, he was dishonorably discharged. After the Collapse, Governor Duffield appointed him as his security advisor.”

“You have an inside source?”

Hannah nodded.

“I need to speak to them. Immediately.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t do that. He’s imbedded within the General’s inner circle. Liam was his point of contact, but Liam is in the General’s custody now.”

He paced the narrow room. His mouth pressed into a thin line. “I need to think about this.”

“There’s no time!” Perez said.

Hannah squeezed her arm. With a calmness she didn’t feel, she said, “Right now, a small band of citizens are making their last stand. They don’t expect to live through the night, but they’re fighting anyway, in the desperate hope of protecting what they love most.”

She took a breath. “American soldiers who don’t know any better are about to murder innocent civilians. While the real threat—the Syndicate—threatens us all.”

He stilled. “My orders—”

“You have your orders. You also know what’s right, and what’s wrong.”

He looked straight at her. “What do you want me to do?”

“My people are going to defend themselves. But they’re going to lose. None of us have the connections, clout, or authority to intervene. You do. If we don’t do something, there will be a bloodbath. Good people will die on both sides.”

Perez shrugged Hannah’s hand off her arm. “The Syndicate has crossed the Michigan border.”

Hamilton blanched. “What? We haven’t been informed of this!”

“That’s intentional,” Hannah said. “You can bet the General already knows.”

Hamilton signaled to the soldier waiting beside the door, who nodded and slipped from the room.

Hamilton headed after him. “I’m going to make a couple of calls on the sat phone. I need to verify a few things. If what you’ve just told me is true…” He paused in the doorway. “Stay here. I may need you to relay your intel to brass.”

Hannah nodded. Panic lodged like a stone in her throat, her nerves on edge. What if it was too little, too late? What if no one would listen?

It was the longest five minutes of her life. Neither she nor Perez spoke a word.

Several minutes later, Hamilton ducked back into the room. His expression was grim. “Governor Duffield is dead.”

Hannah gaped at him. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’m figuring it out. Poe is attacking Fall Creek. He’ll reach them in a matter of minutes, if he hasn’t already.”

Hannah’s heart caught in her throat. “We have to do something!”

His expression went steely. “I intend to.”

Hamilton turned and motioned for them to follow him as he headed back toward the door. Outside, a Humvee was running, waiting for them. “You two are coming with me. Tell me everything you know.”

65

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Q uinn knelt in the foxhole, a low ceiling of logs and packed dirt above her head.

She balanced her AR on the tripod, the muzzle aiming through the narrow opening between the ground and overhead cover.

The smell of leaves and pine sap filled her nostrils, the damp soil black and crumbling beneath her fingers.

The foxhole was dug about four feet deep and eight feet wide, large enough for four fighters. Jonas was positioned to her left. She liked him near her. They made an excellent team.

On her right, Bishop crouched next to Robert Vinson, the pharmacist. Bishop operated one of the M60 belt-fed machine guns.

Across the street, in another foxhole, Officer Hayes manned the second one. Only the two M60s remained after the Black Hawk attack. The big .50 caliber M2 wouldn’t operate without a functioning ejector pin. Since they couldn’t order new parts, it was out of commission.

From her position, she had an unobstructed view of the avenue of approach—Old 31.

She’d driven the rural two-lane highway a million times with Gramps in the rattling Orange Julius. It felt bizarre to examine everything in her familiar, regular, boring life through the scope of a rifle.

Bizarre and terrifying.

Bishop thrust a pair of headphones at her. “Ear protection. You’ll need it.”

She shoved them over her ears. Sound went dull and fuzzy. “Thanks.”

“Stay by my side.” Bishop gave her a somber look. “Things are about to go pear-shaped, so we’ve got to stick together.”

She swallowed around the thickness in her throat. “Got it.”

Bishop nodded and turned back to scanning the road through his NVGs.

There weren’t enough NVGs for her. The skilled shooters got them—Bishop, Hayes, Reynoso and Perez. Corinne Marshall was an excellent shot, too.

Quinn studied the night. On the horizon, the faintest gray threaded the darkness. Her eyes burned, but adrenaline-soaked fear kept her alert.

They’d taken their first defensive position outside of town with the bridge at their backs. A hundred yards to her right, the river twisted like a great black serpent, moonlight glinting on dark water. It flowed beneath the bridge and curved into a C behind them, hugging the eastern side of town. Several miles to the south, the dam separated Fall Creek from Lake Chapin.

Ahead and to her left, unkept grassy fields led to the Estates Trailer Park, where she’d once lived in a crappy derelict trailer with Octavia and Ray Shultz.

For a second she imagined artillery fire shredding the crumbling drywall, tearing through mildewing aluminum and decaying wood, stained carpet and tattered furniture, erasing its very existence.

Past the river and the trailer park were scattered homes, farms, and family-owned businesses—a custom cabinet-making shop, a U-Pick farm, a convenience store.

They had created various choke points—a labyrinthine maze of vehicles, massive felled trees, and concertina-wire obstacles. Scattered foxholes and urban sniper hides were placed throughout the area. They had several fallback positions past the bridge in town, where doorways, roofs, and windows had been shored up with sandbags.

Liam had described their tactics as defense-in-depth, and he’d placed the bulk of their fortifications and security teams behind the front line.

The Syndicate would breach their front line more easily, but as they advanced, they would continue to meet resistance—their flanks becoming vulnerable to constant attack from both sides.

As Poe’s army pushed forward, the Fall Creek defenders would fall back to a succession of prepared positions. Bishop planned to exact a high price from the advancing enemy while avoiding the danger of being overrun or outflanked themselves.

That was the plan, anyway.

They had established a similar defense at the northern barricade, where Reynoso led the townspeople against the General’s men.

Corrine Marshall and Whitney were stationed with him, along with Dave Farris, Principal King, Flynn, and dozens of others.

Bishop’s radio spat static. Dave Farris’s voice broke through: “We have eyes on the General’s army. They halted south of the bypass just out of range. They’ve got plenty of guns bigger than I am. But they haven’t fired on us. They haven’t attacked. They’re just waiting.”

Dread scrabbled up her spine. “For what?”

Bishop pressed transmit and echoed her question.

“Guess we’re about to find out,” Dave said soberly.

Quinn’s nerves felt raw, every cell in her body on edge. The waiting was the hardest. She just wanted it to start, for the adrenaline to take over.

The waiting let the doubt worm its way in. Misgivings, apprehension, fear. All the horrible ways to die. All the terrible things that could happen to your loved ones.

Gran’s face flashed in her mind’s eye. Sorrow surged within her but so did the anger. She did not fight it down or pretend it away. She was angry, furious, outraged.

She let it burn through her, energize her, drive every beat of her heart.

She planned to eradicate every fake-soldier Syndicate scumbag that she could.

The Syndicate was like a wart on the butt of the apocalypse. They were evil personified. Madness and destruction and death.

“No pressure,” she said through gritted teeth. “Just saving the world over here. Don’t mind us.”

“What?” Jonas asked.

“Never mind.”

Bishop’s radio beeped. “This is Echo Three,” a female voice said. “We have movement. Dozens of trucks and military vehicles approaching via Old 31. Ten miles out.”

A terrible anticipation gripped her. Her tongue tasted coppery. Her heart beat so loud, it was difficult to hear anything beyond the roar of her pulse.

Endless minutes passed.

The second scout radioed in. “Attack imminent. Five miles to intercept.”

And then she could hear it. The low buzz like a thousand bees. A growing, intensifying rumble like a great beast waking beneath the earth, roaring as it reared its head to devour them.

Everything slowed. Her vision narrowed and crystalized.

Eyes straining, she peered into the darkness.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. Two tiny pinpricks of light.

And then another. And another. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Even more.

They blurred together, amplifying and expanding until it felt like a giant searchlight pinning her in place.

Poe was coming.

66

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

“How many hostiles?” Liam asked in a terse voice.

He was clad in nothing but his underwear, bruised, beaten, and freezing cold. None of it mattered. He was absolutely focused.

“At least seven in the elevator alcove outside the kitchen,” Luther said. “I don’t see anyone in the kitchen itself, but I can’t be certain. The guardsmen are gone. It’s the General’s contractors we have to worry about.”

“Exits?”

“The main one straight ahead. A service entrance to the west. Ah, at our three o’clock. They’ll use it to flank us. But we’re not receiving fire from that direction yet. I don’t see any movement.”

Liam grabbed a spare M4 from a dead bodyguard, examined it—full magazine, locked and loaded—and slung it over his bare shoulder. “Then we need to get there first.”

Luther nodded.

Weapon in hand, Liam stacked up behind him. His thoughts crystallized. His senses bright and sharp, every synapse firing.

Luther knelt in the freezer doorway and fired on full-auto, suppressing the hostiles attempting to burst through the kitchen entrance. He bled off an entire magazine.

Slugs punched through drywall, peppering the metal shelving and cabinets.

A scream as a man was hit.

The hostiles ducked for cover, their return fire going spotty.

Time to move.

Liam limped past Luther into the kitchen, slicing the pie as he went. Cautiously, he stepped over several bodies. The floor beneath them slick with blood.

It was like slogging through molasses. His legs dragged, full of cement. His arms made of lead. His hands trembled as he pressed the carbine to his shoulder.

Luther moved past the threshold, entered the kitchen and swung left, weapon up. Clear.

Liam turned right. He took the corner and swept back to the center of the room. Clear.

At a crouch, they moved forward into the massive kitchen, past shelves and counters, sweeping back and forth. Heart in his throat, he checked left then right, scanning for threats.

The battery-operated lanterns had been knocked to the floor. The watery light reflected off steel, throwing wavering shapes and shadows. His mouth was bone-dry.

Rounds snapped past their heads.

Luther dove behind a stove the size of a steam engine. Liam flung himself after him.

They returned fire. Liam did a tactical reload, ejecting the not-quite-spent magazine and inserting the fresh one into the mag well. Luther lobbed a vicious volley at the bullet-riddled doorway.

A pause in the enemy fire as they reloaded spent magazines. Their opponents had to be running low.

Luther covered Liam as he scurried across several yards of open space. He crawled along a long counter and dove behind a massive refrigerator.

Pain hamstrung him. Every second felt like a minute, his movements slow and sluggish.

Liam checked the service door—now in sight ten yards to his left. He knelt, half turned, and provided cover fire as Luther bent double and sprinted toward him.

A stray round pinged off the top of the fridge.

Liam ducked—

“Behind you!” Luther shouted.

A sense of movement.

Two shadows burst from the service entrance to his left.

Liam dropped onto his back as rounds screamed over his head. Swinging the M4 around, finger already squeezing the trigger. He opened fire on the hostiles attempting to flank him.

The M4 stitched lead up their torsos. Spent brass clattered across the tile floor.

Blood sprayed from the first hostile’s throat. The second toppled but fired as he fell.

Slugs peppered the fridge inches from Liam’s face. Shrapnel shredded his cheek. An intense sting like a thousand needles piercing his flesh.

Alarmed, he climbed to his feet, scanning frantically. He scrambled for cover from the crossfire. They were being fired upon from at least two directions. Maybe three—

Pop! Pop!

A sharp pain in his spine. His legs turned to water. He sagged, flopping against the fridge like a fish out of water.

He twisted, got the carbine up, and aimed for the new threat at his six.

Three yards behind him, to his left, Luther spun on one knee. He fired three-round bursts.

With a scream, a man dressed in black fatigues tumbled from behind a stainless-steel counter. The suppressed pistol slid from his hand.

As he fell, Liam stitched the rest of his magazine into him. The man slumped to the floor.

In the mayhem, a hostile must have escaped the entrance bottleneck unseen. He’d circled around behind them before opening fire.

He was dead now, but he’d done his damage.

Luther fired twice more and scuttled across the open tile. He squatted at Liam’s side, pressing his back against the fridge door, breathing hard. “I’ll cover you! Go!”

But Liam couldn’t go.

His legs would not work. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything from his waist down. Numbness spread like white fire.

“Liam!” Luther cried.

With one hand, Liam fumbled at his back. Warm, sticky liquid smeared his fingers.

He’d been shot.

67

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Q uinn raised the rifle to her shoulder and pressed the stock to her cheek.

Her hands trembled. She willed them to steady. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck.

Hundreds of pairs of headlights barreled closer and closer. Engines gunning. The roar louder and louder.

“God be with us,” Bishop said.

Several dozen belt-fed machine guns opened fire simultaneously. A rapid boom-boom-boom like cracks of thunder. Like the sky itself ripping open.

It was the loudest sound she’d ever heard. Rounds riddled the barricade as the Fall Creek fighters screamed and ducked. Dust rained down. Pings and thuds as bullets impacted all around her.

The main element thrust toward them. A secondary element of about forty vehicles broke off and left the main road, rumbling down the grassy embankment, paralleling the river as they searched for a way to flank them.

Eventually, they’d succeed.

Heart in her throat, chest pounding, she searched for targets.

She found two figures darting between a stalled truck and a minivan on the highway and lined up her sights, aimed and fired.

Missed. Adjusted her aim.

Steady, steady. Aim. Exhale. Squeeze the damn trigger, girl!

This time, the lead figure jerked. She squeezed three rounds in quick succession, and he fell down.

She blinked sweat from her eyes and searched for the next one through her scope. His companion was long gone.

She focused on the muzzle flashes in the gray pre-dawn, took careful aim just below the flash and squeezed the trigger in short bursts.

An enemy muzzle went dark. She searched for her next target.

Every time a figure dropped, five popped up to replace him.

Someone was shouting. A male voice screamed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t take her eyes from the scope or cease firing.

Her magazine ran dry. She ducked down, fumbling to eject the empty one. It dropped to the ground. No time to pick it up. She grabbed a fresh one and slapped it in, charged the bolt.

Up on her knees, searching for the next target, aiming and firing.

Smoke everywhere. Cordite strong in her nostrils. Sweat and blood and fear.

An explosion in the distance. Loud and fiery. A grenade had found its mark. Seconds later, another explosion. Somewhere far off to the west.

It was hard to figure distances and locations with the static inside her head, the dull ringing in her ears.

Even with the ear protection, the thunderous assault stunned her senses.

To the southwest, another firefight erupted from the Fall Creek Estates mobile home park.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted movement.

Units were breaking off and flanking them from the sides. Fire hitting them from the west. Rapid-fire slugs pounded in just over her head, dirt raining down on her.

Something whistled past her. A searing heat kissed the skin of her neck. Eruptions of dirt showered upward. Incoming rounds chewed into the earth all around her.

Quinn fell back, ducking beneath the lip of the foxhole, panting, heart thundering in her ears, everything tinny and far away.

“They’re maneuvering on us!” Bishop said. “They’re trying to put us in a pincer!”

The Syndicate were overwhelming Fall Creek with sheer numbers and force of power.

Rounds struck all around them. The thundering barrage never stopped. It felt like the earth itself quaking beneath her boots.

Someone screamed and went down—Robert Vinson, the pharmacist.

“Fall back!” Bishop shouted. “They’re about to surround us. We’ve got to go!”

“We’re losing!” Jonas said, his voice cracking.

Still crouching, Quinn took a trembling step backward. Her hands felt glued to her rifle. Her foot struck something soft.

Chest heaving, she dared a glance down. She’d tripped over Robert Vinson. A round had caught him in the face.

Acid clawed up the back of her throat; she nearly vomited.

“He’s gone, Quinn!” Bishop seized her arm and shoved her backward, out of the foxhole. “We’ll put ‘em in a chokehold at the bridge. Go! Go!”

“Retreat!” someone screamed. Then others took up the cry. “Retreat! Retreat!”

68

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Liam gasped. “I’m hit.”

Luther backed up to his side. He squatted beside Liam, only half-concealed by the fridge.

A long steel counter next to the fridge separated them from the next aisle. A few counters between them and the opposition bombarding them.

Liam sat, legs splayed in front of him, back against the fridge, M4 in hand. Blood spread dark and thick beneath him.

For a heartbeat, Luther dropped his gaze to Liam. He muttered a curse. His mouth moved, the ringing in Liam’s ears too loud to make out his words.

Fresh gunfire blasted. The fridge rattled, vibrating from the strikes. Just above Luther’s head, a slug pinged off the counter. It ricocheted and punched through the far wall.

Crouching, Luther twisted around. He raised the muzzle of his carbine over the counter and returned fire. Shell casings clattered to the floor. Spent brass rolled against Liam’s useless legs.

The scent of cordite singed his nostrils. Dizziness washed through him. He gripped the M4, told himself to MOVE, DAMN IT.

Nothing happened.

Luther’s body jerked. He might have made a sound; Liam couldn’t hear it.

Luther tumbled back on his knees, chest heaving. The carbine sagged in his hands, his left arm slack.

A hole appeared in his right shoulder, a rip in his jacket beneath his armpit, a few inches to the right.

Not much blood. Blood being a lousy indicator of actual injuries. There were enough tendons, bundles of nerves, and tissue in a man’s shoulder to do plenty of damage.

The real problem was the stuff you couldn’t see—internal organs punctured, intestines shredded, tendons ripped to hell.

“I’m sorry!” Luther said. “Tell my dad—” He gave a sharp shake of his head. Like he wanted to say more but realized there was no time.

This wasn’t the movies. Bad guys didn’t wait for moving speeches.

“Go,” Liam mumbled. “Just go.”

Footsteps pounded. Getting closer.

Liam heard it as if underwater—dim shouting, distant cracks like thunder.

They’d breached the kitchen.

“Don’t—”

Luther didn’t hesitate. Leaping to his feet, he turned to face the onrushing hostiles beyond the counter.

Rifle butt propped against his stomach, firing one-handed, he unleashed a spray of firepower. Rounds exploded from the barrel. With a muzzle velocity of over 2900 feet per second, the slugged ripped through anything in their path.

Distant booms shook the room. The tile floor quaked beneath him.

Liam held the carbine against his shoulder, biceps trembling from the exertion. Finger on the trigger. His muscles straining. The pain hit him in unrelenting waves.

The gunfire ceased. Smoke drifted in the air.

Silence, but for the dull buzzing in his head.

His pulse hammered in his throat. He waited, unable to move, to get up and fight.

He couldn’t see anything beyond his limited line of sight. The bullet-pocked cabinets across the aisle. The steel doors dented and dinged.

Blood rushed in his ears. Dread slicked his insides.

“Luther,” he said hoarsely.

No sound. No response. None that he could hear.

He tugged on the man’s pant leg. Tugged harder. Nothing.

Liam forced himself to wait. He strained to hear, but his senses were muted. Still no sound or movement that he could discern.

When enough time had passed, he moved.

With the fridge as leverage, he managed to scoot sideways. He looked up.

Luther slumped facedown across the counter. Still standing—only because the countertop bore the weight of his listless upper half.

Unconscious or dead? Liam wasn’t sure.

He leaned the carbine against the cabinet within easy reach, then used the counter to pull himself up. From the waist down, he was numb. His legs two sacks of concrete attached to his torso.

Using his upper body strength, muscles straining from the effort, he raised himself far enough to see over the lip and scanned for threats.

The air was hazy with gun smoke. Nothing moved. Amidst the blood and shell casings lay five bullet-riddled bodies.

Luther had killed them.

Didn’t mean more weren’t coming.

Liam turned to Luther. He didn’t have the strength to turn him over. He didn’t have to. The gruesome exit wounds gaping from his lower back told the grim story.

James Luther was dead.

Liam wasn’t. Not yet.

But it was coming for him. He could feel it depleting his strength, leaching his vitality, sapping his lifeblood.

Death marched toward him, determined to take its due.

69

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

“Be careful of tunnel vision!” Bishop said. “Keep moving so they don’t zero in on you!”

Terror filled Quinn. She felt stunned, shell-shocked.

“Quinn!” Bishop whipped around and grabbed her arm. “Are you okay? Are you with me?”

Quinn managed a nod. “Yeah.”

“Retreat!” Jonas yelled.

“Stay close to me!” Bishop pushed her ahead of him, and they broke into a run.

Hayes’ team covered them as they sprinted back the way they’d come, boots pounding across the bridge, a barrage of firepower at their back.

Focus, focus. Jaw clenched, she fled. The explosive rounds screamed overhead, jarring her bones, rattling her teeth. Stay alive!

Her boots slapped pavement, legs like pistons, panting from exertion. Half expecting a bullet to the spine, flinching at every salvo of gunfire.

Someone to her left jerked and fell. Dallas Chapman toppled to the ground. Quinn couldn’t afford to look, couldn’t afford to do anything but run.

The rifle so heavy in her hands. Her biceps ached. It felt like she’d been holding it for hours. It weighed a hundred freaking pounds.

When they reached Friendly’s, Bishop ushered her inside while he spun and knelt in the doorway. Two others stacked up on the opposite side as they laid down covering fire for the first teams to fall back.

Quinn took a concealed fighting position, kneeling behind a pile of sandbags stacked below a window in the employee break room which held a good view of the approach road.

Dawn lit the sky in pale sickly light. The entire world painted in shades of gray. Smoke and dust everywhere, swirling like fog.

Everyone aimed their fire at the bridge. Poe’s trucks kept coming. Those manned with turrets and gunners shredded the barricade, ripping through their defenses, pushing closer and closer.

Three hundred yards away. Then two hundred.

A Fall Creek shooter took out one attacker only to have ten more take his place. They kept coming and coming and coming. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

Automatic fire battered their position. Slugs flew above her head, chewing desks, office chairs, and bookcases to splinters. Plaster and concrete dust swirled thick in the air. It clogged her nostrils, her throat. The entire room flashed like a strobe light.

Her slide locked back. Hurriedly, she stripped the empty magazine and seized a fresh one from her battle pouch, hit the slide release, and sent the bolt home.

Up on her knees, she braced the rifle and peered through the scope for targets.

Movement to her right. Dozens of flashes of muzzle fire.

Horror jolted through her. An enemy element had swum across the river. They swarmed up the bank, using the berm as cover to fire at them on their western flank. Too many to count.

A burst of gunfire peppered the sides and front of the grocery store. She ducked, forced to seek cover. On her knees, gasping, head filled with static.

Behind her, someone screamed. Someone else was crying, begging for mercy.

Bodies on the ground outside. Bodies down inside. The stink of blood mingled with cordite. Dust and plaster coated her tongue, her throat.

It was happening. The worst possible scenario.

The enemy was still a couple hundred yards away, but they couldn’t keep them back for long. They were pinned down. Trapped on multiple sides. No way to fall back further with the enemy flanking them, firing on them from every direction, tightening the noose.

Fall Creek was about to be overrun.

Bishop’s radio crackled. She could barely hear a thing over the roar in her ears, the constant pounding overhead.

A voice broke through the static. “This is Major Charlie Hamilton with the United States Army. Do not fire upon us. I repeat, we’re friendlies! We’re coming up on your six. I repeat, stand down!”

Quinn blinked, stunned and half-deaf. She must not have heard right. Her frantic mind wouldn’t put the words together. Everything jumbled and hazy in her head.

She crouched low behind the sandbags and glanced over at Bishop.

He looked back at her, the same shell-shocked disbelief plastered to his dusty, sweaty face. She couldn’t make out his features but for the whites of his eyes.

“I repeat, we’re friendlies!” Hamilton said. “Confirm!”

As if coming out of a trance, Bishop shuddered. He ducked down from his firing position and went for the radio. “Atticus Bishop here. Copy that! Glad to hear a friendly voice.”

“Take cover! We’re coming through to light these mothers up!”

“Thank God!” Bishop whirled and gestured to Jonas, who crouched behind him. “Send runners! Tell those with radios to pass it on. The Guard is on our side. Everyone take cover!”

Jonas and two others leapt to their feet and took off. Bishop returned to the radio to alert everyone else. “Friendlies on the way! Fire mission inbound!”

A minute later, there was an abrupt pause in the relentless barrage. As if the air itself had inhaled a startled intake of breath.

And then everything exploded.

A cacophony of high-powered firepower ripped through the night. Blast after blast. Rockets screamed overhead. Artillery fire. Louder than she’d ever heard. So loud it thrummed through her cells.

Quinn risked a glance over the sandbags through the window.

From behind them came the roar of a hundred engines. Military vehicles poured into Main Street and gunned toward the bridge.

Armored Humvees and a couple of Bradleys. Gunners behind turret-mounted guns as big as she was, sending blitzes of anti-tank missile fire past them, ripping into the enemy strongholds.

Streams of artillery arced overhead like brilliant shooting stars. Like the most beautiful and lethal fireworks she’d ever seen.

The National Guard.

Fighting for them, not against them.

Salvos screamed overhead. The ground shook as mortars detonated one after another.

A truck exploded. Then another and another.

The enemy scattered like ants before the sudden explosive onslaught.

“They came,” Quinn whispered, dazed, still half in shock. “Hannah did it. Help is here.”

70

QUINN

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

There’s something about the moments after your first battle that they fail to tell you.

You’ve won. The bad guys are defeated. You should feel thrilled, elated, joyous. Everyone around you weak with relief as they lower their weapons, cheering and jubilant.

You stand there, rifle hanging at your side, arms limp, dust caking your face, your mouth, grit in your eyes. Your muscles trembling with exhaustion and nerves. You can’t hear over the ringing inside your head.

Relieved, yes. And more than a little sick.

You lived. God rolled the dice, and you made it. A thousand bullets fired at you, and not one stuck its landing.

The town that you love still stands. The buildings, the roads, the house you grew up in. Still here.

But something is missing.

The adrenaline dump leaves you dizzy, your stomach queasy, and you sink down right there on the curb, blinking up at the sky that you can still see, the clouds and the sun and same old trees, with the breeze that you can still feel.

Because you’re alive. Because you made it.

You search through the crowd and see the people you love and care for, but not the one you most want to see.

Because they’re gone forever.

Because they’re dead.

No matter how much you long for it or how often you dream it. No matter how many times you squeeze that trigger or how many bad guys you put in the ground.

They’re gone, and you can’t bring them back.

There will be other fights. Other battles.

You will lose more people that you love.

That is the truth that roots you in place, that pulses in beat with your heart. No matter how strong you are, no matter what you do.

You can’t stop it.

The Earth spins round and round, and the Sun rises and the Sun sets. And even now there are evil men who plot to tear down everything you will ever build.

It never ends. It’s never over.

And you know, sitting there, dirty and sweaty and spent, that you will not let that fact stop you from trying.

You stood when it was time to stand and you fought when it was time to fight. You were scared to death, but you showed up.

And when your friends need you again, you’ll be there. Every time, you will stand. And you will fight. Even knowing that you may lose everything and everyone.

Because you are a warrior.

It has changed you. Broken you and remade you. You are scarred but not defeated. Wounded but not irreparable.

This you still believe. You must believe.

Through the swirling smoke and dust a figure appears, almost recognizable through the soot and grime on his face, his blond hair gray with dust, his eyes still so blue.

A flash of white teeth as he smiles. Shell-shocked but moving, on his feet.

You know him, this boy. Your friend. Maybe more than that.

Coming toward you. Coming to find you. To bring you back.

You can still go home.

You will live with the nightmares, haunted by blood and the screams of the dying. Both diminished and more than you are, a part of something larger and greater.

You can still go home, warrior.

He holds out his hand.

You hesitate. And then you take it.

71

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

Liam felt himself fading.

He slumped against the fridge. His worthless legs splayed out in front of him, sitting in his own congealing blood. Darkness lurked at the corners of his vision.

The M4 rested in his lap. He’d switched out the spent magazine and inserted the fresh one he’d confiscated from a nearby corpse. Thirty rounds for one last rodeo.

The ringing in his ears had dulled. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? How long did it take for a man’s lifeblood to leak from his broken body?

His thoughts drifted in and out of focus. His consciousness riding the waves of pain and numbness. Gradually, he began to let himself go.

His head leaned back, eyes half closed, staring at nothing. He thought of Hannah. The feel of her in his arms, the softness of her lips. How she tilted her chin and bit her bottom lip; how when she was angry, her eyes sparked a deep emerald green.

How bleak and unfair life could be. And yet, so fierce and wonderful and spectacularly beautiful. How much he would miss.

And yet, he was satisfied. The Sinclairs were dead. Every last one of them.

Footsteps approached from somewhere behind him. Two sets of boots.

Liam stiffened. Instinct took over.

It was in his blood. In his bones. He’d lived as a warrior. He would die like one, too. Hands shaking, he raised his gun one final time.

“Clear,” said a deep baritone voice.

“Damn it,” said another voice. Husky and familiar. “Look at the carnage. He couldn’t have made it…”

“I’ll search the bodies. I’m not leaving until we find him.”

“Roger that.”

It was a mirage. A figment of his dying imagination, his brain so starved of oxygen that his mind was playing tricks on him.

“I’m here.” His throat dry as a desert, swollen tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I’m here.”

Silence. Then, “Coleman?”

Liam’s eyelids fluttered. The gun was too heavy to carry. His eyes were too heavy.

The footsteps drew closer. Two figures rounded the corner in a crouch. Weapons up, scanning back and forth.

One tall, bulky, and black; the other short, broad, and Hispanic. The two prettiest men he’d ever seen.

“There you are!” Bishop said, like he was a recalcitrant child who’d gotten misplaced in a grocery store.

Liam lowered the carbine. “You—came…”

“Leave no one behind,” Bishop said. “You still don’t get it, you stubborn ass. You don’t have to carry this burden alone, brother. You never did.”

Reynoso looked down and saw the blood. The color drained from his face. “Oh, hell.”

“I’m…shot.”

“Clearly.”

Bishop knelt beside Liam and shrugged off his pack. He pulled out a first aid kit and looked Liam over. “Easy now. There’s no exit wound. The bullet’s still in there, messing you up.”

“I think it’s a fragment from a ricochet.” Stars danced in front of his vision. His eyelids fluttered. “Can’t feel my legs…”

Bishop looked up at Reynoso, expression drawn. “It’s a spinal injury. Get a door! We can use it as a backboard.” He turned to Liam. “Stay with me.”

Reynoso got to work on a door outside the kitchen. The Marine practically ripped the thing from its hinges. A minute later, he’d carried it to Liam’s side.

With great care, he and Bishop lifted Liam and placed him on the board. They filled any voids along his back with clothes stolen from the dead contractors. Bishop fashioned a neck brace with pillows from one of the hotel rooms, using duct tape to immobilize his head.

This was combat field medicine. They were in a war zone with few supplies in the middle of an apocalypse. They made do with what they had.

Once they’d stabilized Liam’s spine, Bishop pulled a makeshift IV bag and kit from his pack. Liam recognized the small battery-operated drill for EZ IO—intraosseous infusion.

It was designed to get quick IV access to the venous system through the shin bone. Though it looked hideous, it was perfect for both medics and untrained people to get an IV line going in a hurry.

Liam’s eyes widened. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”

“Enough to know what to do. Used one a couple of times during my tour in Afghanistan. It looks worse than it feels.”

“Says you.”

“Sorry Coleman, this is the only IV we have for lone wolf types.” With that, Bishop felt for the correct location on Liam’s tibia and pressed the drill bit to his flesh. He drilled into the bone, then inserted the needle directly into the bone marrow. He attached the IV bag and secured the tubing.

Liam hissed through his teeth. “Guess it’s a good thing I can’t feel anything.”

“I’ve seen Girl Scouts whine less than you.” Reynoso said. “He’s good. Let’s go.”

“No going into shock and dying on us,” Bishop said. “We came all this way. You know how many people shot at us? It’s been quite the day.”

“Did we—?”

“Win?” Reynoso grinned through the soot streaking his face. “Hell yes, we did.”

“It’s over, brother. It’s over. Your friend Hamilton showed up to save the day. In fact, he sent a few of his own men with us to get you out. They’re clearing the hotel and providing overwatch. Hamilton’s the one who got me this fancy med kit that’s saving your life.”

“Is—”

“Hannah was with Hamilton. She’s fine. And the others, they’re okay.” Bishop winked. “Except for Reynoso, but he’s always been a little cracked in the head.”

Reynoso rolled his eyes. “Less chatting, more moving!”

“On three.” Bishop and Reynoso lifted the board, one hundred percent dead weight.

Bishop grunted. “Ever think about a diet, Coleman?”

“Only fat man in the apocalypse,” Reynoso deadpanned.

Together, they moved from the kitchen into the alcove and started for the stairs.

Liam blinked blearily. “I think I—love you.”

“You hear that?” Bishop said. “He loves us.”

Reynoso smirked. “You’re never gonna live that down, Coleman.”

Through the tremendous pain, Liam felt his lips twitch into a semblance of a smile.

They’d come for him. His people. His brothers. He’d thought he understood it, but it was only now that he truly did. All this time, he’d shouldered the burden alone when he didn’t have to.

He was no longer a man apart.

He wasn’t alone. He never had been.

72

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN

Liam was alive.

Alive, but crippled.

The shrapnel had clipped his spinal cord. He was numb from the waist down. Couldn’t feel a thing. Not his toes, not his shins or knees or anything else. His spine busted, his legs ruined.

Locked in this damn bed, forced to lay still and straight to not further injure his spine. He was hooked to an IV and a catheter, monitored for low blood pressure, respiratory complications, blood clots, and any neurological issues.

“Am I paralyzed?” he asked, just wanting the truth.

“I can’t answer that,” Evelyn said. “It could be spinal shock or transient paralysis. Inflammation can put enormous pressure on your spinal cord. If it’s temporary, it could last for a few hours or a few weeks. Or…”

“Or it’s permanent.”

Evelyn’s gaze softened. She touched his arm. “I’ve found some methylprednisolone for the inflammation, but that’s all we have. I’m sorry.”

After years of his body performing like a well-oiled machine—powerful, efficient, dynamic, capable—he’d finally suffered the consequences of his actions. The punishments his body had endured.

He’d understood the risks. He’d known the crushed discs in his spine would eventually fail him.

His identity was encapsulated in his ability to shoot, to wound, to kill other human beings with precision and accuracy.

He was a soldier.

The sheepdog standing between the wolves and the sheep.

Who was he now? Who could he protect or defend?

And yet. Despite how wrecked he felt, he accepted it. He knew how lucky he was.

He had a steady stream of visitors. Hannah hardly left his side. Bishop took a rotation as well. Quinn, Milo, and Charlotte were often nearby, along with Travis, Evelyn, and little L.J.

And Ghost. The loyal canine kept a constant watch at his bedside during the day, guarding Hannah at night and returning to Liam’s room each morning.

Once upon a time, Liam would’ve shut them out and retreated in isolated misery. Now he was a different man.

He’d learned his lesson the hard way, but he’d learned.

Letting people in didn’t make you weak; it made you stronger.

Even amid the worst of his suffering, he found comfort in their presence. Hannah and Charlotte, L.J. and Milo. Quinn, Bishop, and Ghost. Travis and Evelyn. Reynoso and Perez.

His people. His family.

He needed them more than he needed oxygen. More than he needed anything—even his legs.

73

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE

“I’m broken,” Liam said.

Hannah sat on the cot, her hip resting against his. He couldn’t feel it. “Liam.”

Fear constricted his throat. He’d been dreading this conversation. It had been six days with no feeling, no movement, no nothing.

Liam sat in the same damn bed in the same damn position, his legs lumps of lead.

It was evening. A kerosene lamp glowed on the counter, draping the makeshift hospital room in shades of warm golden light.

“I have to say this,” Liam said in a choked voice. “You aren’t beholden to me. You should be free to…to be happy. I may never walk again, let alone fight or…”

Hannah put a finger to his lips. “Do you think I love you because you can kill a man twenty different ways?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

She took his free hand and slid her crooked fingers between his and squeezed. “I love you, Liam Coleman. I love everything that you are. Everything. I accept it all.”

He glanced down at their linked hands in the lamplight. Looked up and met her steady, unflinching gaze.

Hannah held up her misshapen hand, still holding his own, and said, “Broken doesn’t scare me.”

She laid down then, scooting herself against him on the cramped cot. She nestled her cheek against his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her and drew her close.

Nothing had ever felt more right, more true, in his entire life.

Whatever the future held, whatever joys and sorrows, as long as she was by his side, he would face it with his head held high.

“You’re still here,” Hannah said. “You’re still trying. That’s what matters.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was the men and women who chose to keep going, no matter what catastrophe or torment assailed them. Through the bleak and hopeless nights, the haunting nightmares, through every battering storm.

To show up, to be present and accounted for—to find a reason to smile in the face of despair.

Maybe that man was the real hero.

74

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO

On Liam’s seventh day in the medical ward, his old friend Charlie Hamilton came to see him.

Hamilton didn’t even blink. He was the same gregarious, convivial soldier that he remembered from the spec ops missions they’d shared overseas in Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq.

“I was hoping torture would improve your looks,” Hamilton said with a wide beaming grin. “Hate to be the one to break it to you, but no such luck, my friend.”

Liam grunted. “Sorry I couldn’t oblige you. I had more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Like saving your town? All of Michigan? I know, I know. Some guys are real glory hogs.”

“Did you come here just to insult me?”

Hamilton paced the room like a lion in a cage, all tense, coiled energy. “Much as I detest staring at your ugly mug, I thought you guys deserved an update.”

“It’s about time we got some good news around here,” Bishop said.

Hamilton glanced at Hannah and Bishop, who were seated at either side of Liam. “Glad you two are here to hear this.”

Bishop had cajoled Liam into a game of Monopoly Deal, which he was losing. Badly. Charlotte sat on Hannah’s lap between her arms, trying to grasp the cards in Hannah’s hands to gnaw on them.

“You saved our collective butts,” Bishop said.

Hamilton grinned and hooked a thumb at Hannah. “She’s the one who risked a treacherous Paul Revere midnight ride to get the truth to us. Once I made a couple calls to a few friends in high places, I could confirm her actionable intel.”

Hannah looked at Liam, her lips pursed. “Almost too late.”

“Hell, the only things that get done are in the nick of time.” Hamilton paused in his pacing to rake his eyes over Liam. His gaze snagged on Liam’s immobile legs, two lumps beneath the blanket.

A shadow passed across his face—a flicker of sadness, of regret—and then it was gone. “Lucky this bulldog got to General Sinclair, or this story would’ve had a much different ending.”

“When the National Guard showed up, they didn’t attack,” Bishop said. “If they had, we’d be toast.”

“They didn’t attack because the General never gave the final go-ahead. Turns out Liam had already turned him into a pin cushion. Most of the soldiers were ambivalent. It didn’t feel right to them, either. They were more than relieved to stand down, and then it was a matter of relaying the true state of affairs along the chain of command.”

Hamilton’s unit had joined the battle against the Syndicate and managed to turn the General’s five hundred guardsmen. Together with Fall Creek and the Community Alliance, Hamilton had led them in an organized assault.

Within an hour, they’d routed the Syndicate.

Broken but not destroyed, the remnants of Poe’s army had retreated across the border, fleeing back to Illinois to lick their wounds.

“And Poe?” Hannah asked.

Hamilton resumed pacing. “Half their armored vehicles were ruined. At least four hundred killed by the guardsmen. Crippled as they are, they won’t attempt another attack for a while. I don’t plan to give them another chance.”

“Who’s in charge in Lansing now?” Liam asked.

“Homeland figures that Governor Duffield was murdered. General Sinclair had a hand in it, we’re certain of that. The Secretary of State, Lauren Eubanks, was sworn in last week as the new governor of Michigan.”

Bishop frowned. “Don’t know much about her.”

“Me either. But she’s got great taste in leadership.” He halted at the foot of Liam’s cot, a broad grin splitting his face, and gave a sweeping bow from the waist. “You’re looking at the newly-promoted Lieutenant Colonel and Michigan Task Force Executive Officer.”

Liam managed a smile. “Couldn’t happen to a better guy. Good thing they don’t promote based on looks.”

Hamilton ignored him. “Governor Eubanks, she’s smart. Got a good head on her, from what I can tell. Capable and decisive. And mad as hell about General Sinclair going off the rails. She may even visit Fall Creek to apologize in person, but I get the feeling she’s got a crap-ton on her plate right now, including cleaning up the mess Duffield left behind.”

“We haven’t received any help from the government since the Collapse,” Hannah said. “You think she’ll be different?”

“She told me her priority is guarding the Michigan border and protecting the rural counties so they can get crops planted and start farming. It’s not just empty words, either. She’s putting her money where her mouth is.

“She’s diverting some troops from Detroit from the 1st Battalion, 119th Field Artillery Regiment. They’re MORTEP certified—they’ve got mortars and know how to use them. We’ll have a few hardened drones at our disposal. Mortars and artillery. A half-dozen Black Hawks. The governor ordered me to engage Poe’s forces and eliminate him from the face of the Earth with extreme prejudice.”

Relief flooded Liam. It was the best news he’d heard in a long, long time.

“That’s fantastic,” Hannah said.

“Even better, I’m in command of Southwest Michigan.” He winked at Liam. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of me, gorgeous.”

Liam snorted. “Can’t wait.”

“How does she plan to feed all these soldiers?” Bishop asked.

Hamilton gave a careless shrug. “That’s above my paygrade. But my takeaway is that whatever she does will be fair and reasonable. She passed my B.S. meter. And Liam, you know I’ve got a good one.”

“Since you dish it out so often.”

Hamilton grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

Charlotte stretched for the cards in Hannah’s hands, bouncing and gurgling happily to herself. Hannah tried to raise them out of the baby’s reach, but Charlotte snatched a card and waved it with enthusiasm.

Bishop tried to distract her with one of her colorful, crinkly, and appropriate baby toys, but she ignored him.

Hamilton made a silly face, and she burst into giggles. “See? Even the baby knows how amazing I am.” He glanced at his watch, then examined the cabinet counters crowded with medical supplies, the desks and stacked chairs shoved in the corners. “The new governor’s giving her first State of the State Address. You got a radio nearby?”

“Annette has one in the principal’s office.” Bishop retrieved the emergency wind-up radio and set it on the counter. Hamilton fiddled with the knob.

The emergency broadcast that had looped for the last four months was no longer on repeat. Instead, the new governor’s strong, confident voice filled the room. “…when the government failed you, you worked hard to save yourselves. You’ve made it this far. You’ve survived. Until we get through this, I intend to do everything that I can to support that rugged indefatigable spirit that defines us all as Americans. I will do everything I can to protect you so that you can continue to work hard to farm, fish, hunt, and otherwise feed your families.

“I can promise that I will always be truthful. I won’t lie to you. This crisis will not last a season, or even a year. It will take several years before parts of the power grid are running again or the national supply chain restored. We will pull together. We will endure. And together, we’ll figure it out…”

Once it was over, Hamilton switched it off. “Not bad, right?”

“Still sounds like a politician,” Liam said, not impressed. But then, he despised politicians.

Hamilton beamed at him. “Right you are. But I think we found ourselves a unicorn—a politician who genuinely cares about her constituents. And you know what they say about unicorns.”

Liam rolled his eyes. It was the only part of his body that wasn’t hurt or numb.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton,” Hannah said.

“Please, call me Charlie. You’ve earned it.”

She rewarded him with a radiant smile. “Charlie, then. The General told Liam that the EMP attack started World War III. The world is at war, and our government has kept it from us. Is that true?”

Hamilton cracked his knuckles, not speaking for a moment. “It’s been rumor and hearsay up to this point. Brass has been tightlipped about the whole thing, but it’s finally getting out.”

He sighed. “Here’s what I know. Russia and China colluded to attack us. They had plans to weaken us with the EMP, then put boots on the ground and eradicate our people. Russia just wants us obliterated; China wants to destroy our political power and cripple us for good.

“The entirety of our military assets stationed outside the EMP’s range have converged on the Middle East. We’ve wiped Iran off the map. The entire world has been impacted. No one has officially called it World War III, but a rose is a rose by any other name.”

“Or a steaming pile of cow dung,” Liam said.

“That, too.” He shrugged again. “Sorry I don’t have more details beyond that.”

Hannah shook her head, at a loss for words. For several minutes, no one spoke.

“Are we winning?” Bishop asked.

“We’ll win,” Hamilton said gravely, no joy or satisfaction in his voice, “but at what cost?”

Liam imagined an entire country razed by nuclear warheads—cities reduced to rubble, cars melted, millions of bodies incinerated in an instant. The devastation of a war over America taking place on another continent.

Everywhere, people suffered.

“We’ve already paid,” Liam said.

“Right you are.” Hamilton looked at his watch again. “I’ll check in again soon. Turns out, keeping Michigan from being overrun by hooligans is a full-time job. Who knew?”

Bishop shook Hamilton’s hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Charlie.”

Hamilton nodded. He winked at Charlotte and saluted Liam. “Stay frosty, friends.”

“Always,” Liam said.

Bishop walked the lieutenant colonel out.

After they left, Hannah turned to Liam. “What do you think? About what’s happening out there.”

“It’s the way it’s always been,” he said. “Those with the power vie for more, destroying the innocent in the process. It happens everywhere—Venezuela, Iraq, Syria. Our job is to survive the here and now, to outwit and outlast the enemies at the door, not the ones an ocean away. Our military will deal with them, of that I have no doubt.”

“You’re right.” Hannah leaned in, a fierce intensity in her gaze. “Our world is here. Everything is here. Everything that matters.”

Liam didn’t look away. “I know.”

75

LIAM

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE

That night, Liam slept peacefully for the first time in a decade. No nightmares. No dreams.

On day eight, the pain returned with a vengeance.

Like a thousand needles puncturing his flesh. Molten lava poured into his spine. An ice pick hammered through each vertebra.

On day nine, he could twitch his toes.

On day ten, he could move his ankles.

On day eleven, he could hobble out of bed with the aid of a cane—Molly’s cane.

The pain was a monster—a constant, living thing inside him, eating him alive. His nerves scorched raw. His feet like concrete blocks dragging behind him, incredible effort put into each battered step.

Without access to top-notch x-rays, MRIs, CAT scans, and other tests, Evelyn couldn’t confirm whether his injuries were permanent or whether he might regain significant mobility with months of rehabilitation.

“It’s in God’s hands,” she told him. “And yours. Something tells me that if anyone can recover from this, it’s you.”

Liam damned well planned to try.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and felt the lumpy knitting, closed his fingers around the tiny hat. Thought of his twin brother. And Jessa. How he’d brought his nephew home.

He’d done a few good things with his life. Kept a few promises.

His chest thrummed with the ferocity of his love—and his resolve. He was down, but he wasn’t out.

Not by a long shot.

76

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY

Luther’s father died in his sleep.

Lee had warned Hannah that the time was near. She sat beside the old man’s bedside and held his hand and spoke to him as his weak heart failed and his breathing became more and more labored.

She told him how Fall Creek had been saved, how his son had redeemed himself in the end, sacrificing his life for Liam’s.

James Luther had died a hero.

“I hope he knew I was proud of him,” the old man wheezed.

“I’m sure that he knew,” Hannah said and clasped his trembling hand. “He knew.”

At ten-fifteen p.m. on May 2nd, two weeks after his son, he died at peace, a look of contentment upon his withered face.

Afterward, Hannah called her brother on Dave’s ham radio. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

“It’s good to hear from you, sis,” Oliver said, his voice both close and far away. “It’s funny, I think I missed you more in the last two weeks than the last five years. I guess…I guess I didn’t realize how lonely it gets here, you know?”

“Come to Fall Creek,” she said. “I want you here. I want you to meet my family.”

He hesitated for a moment. She waited, heart in her throat.

“It’s a long journey. It’s dangerous.”

“This place—it’s special. We’re doing more than just surviving. I want that for you, too.”

“Okay,” her brother said. “I’ll come. I’ll come to you.”

Hannah closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude.

“It’ll take me awhile,” he said. “To gather supplies. Scavenge enough gas and plot the safest course.”

“Take your time, Oliver.” She smiled to herself. “We’re not going anywhere.”

77

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE

The next day, they paused in the busyness of spring planting to conduct a funeral for those who had sacrificed their lives for Fall Creek.

James Luther was included among their number. Robert Vinson and Dallas Chapman had given their lives in the final battle. And Molly, who had offered her life to save Quinn and little Joey. They were all heroes.

At the funeral, Hannah sang, pure and clear and euphonious, her voice filling all the empty spaces, rising over the trees and soaring into the sky, up and away toward the heavens.

Bishop spoke words of remembrance, encouragement, and hope. Everyone brought wildflowers to decorate the graves. Quinn painted the crosses in shades of vibrant greens, browns, and blues—flowers and vines and trees and snaking rivers. It was beautiful.

Afterward, they went to Molly’s place and set up camping chairs and folding tables in the backyard, bringing out a smorgasbord of food they’d grown with their own hands.

They had mourned their losses. Now, it was time for gratitude. To give thanks and celebrate life. To appreciate everything—and everyone—they still had.

May was turning out to be lovely. Flowers sprang up everywhere overnight. The fragile, dewy scents of jasmine and lilies infused the warm air. White fluffy clouds drifted across the cobalt blue sky like rafts of cotton candy.

Not everyone could enjoy the festivities. There were still patrols and sentry duty. Two defeated enemies did not guarantee there would not be more.

There would be.

Later, Hannah and Dave would do the circuit and bring everyone plates of cornbread drizzled with honey, Molly’s famous chili, salad with baby tomatoes, and potatoes sprinkled with pink Himalayan salt.

Mick Sellers had found the supplies so Jamal could repair the repeater stations, and they had restored contact with the Community Alliance and the surrounding towns.

Trade Day at the Berrien County Youth Fairgrounds was back on the docket, scheduled for the following Friday. Hannah had a lot of salt to trade.

Rumors were spreading of steam engine trains, pulled from museums, that were running again in Virginia. Nearer to home, Lakeland Hospital had procured an industrial diesel generator, and could power a couple of operating rooms and a few ICU beds.

The waiting list was long, but Hamilton had promised to get Liam on the list to honor his sacrifice for the greater good. He would work on obtaining a slot for Milo to get more meds, too.

In addition, the National Guard had brought in a well-guarded fuel truck to ration gasoline to local law enforcement and medical units. That was Hamilton’s doing, too.

Jamal and Tina had restarted a few of the Winter Haven solar panels. They’d hauled several rusty windmills from farms and wedding barns, restoring them to run a fridge, washing machine, or heater.

They had working farm equipment, generators, additional communications gear.

Even in the midst of sorrow, there was much to be grateful for.

Milo plugged the iPod into an old speaker and cranked up his and Quinn’s favorite rock classics from the 70s and 80s. They played Queen’s “We are the Champions,” Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”

She breathed deeply, letting the music fill her senses, sink into her and swirl through her veins. How she had missed music. Once, it had been a part of her; it would be again.

Across the yard, Bishop held L.J. while Travis cradled a sleeping Charlotte. They were deep in conversation with Dave about their plans to raid the local breweries and wineries for parts to build their own stills.

Dave was after more moonshine, while Bishop wanted Fall Creek in control of their own biofuel. They were meeting with Dominique West, who’d agreed to teach them how to make it themselves.

Hannah surveyed the packed yard. Molly’s goat—now Hannah’s by default—moseyed around, her collar jangling, bleating and chewing grass. Children played tag, chasing each other around clumps of grown-ups chatting and laughing, drinking and eating.

From his kingly throne on the back porch, Ghost gave them a long-suffering look. He yawned, black jowls glistening, then flopped onto his side and stretched leisurely in a puddle of sunlight. With a huff of pleasure, he closed his eyes.

Thor, Odin, and Loki curled up on various parts of his body. For once, Valkyrie wasn’t hunting. She sat primly on one of the patio chairs, her tail twitching as she watched everyone trample her favorite patch of grass.

“What would Molly think of all this?” Hannah asked.

For a second, Quinn stiffened. Then she half-smiled, half-grimaced and rolled her eyes. “She’d yell at everyone to get off her lawn.”

Hannah smiled. After a brief moment, Quinn did, too.

And then they were laughing, the air brighter somehow. Their weary souls a little lighter.

“Here.” Quinn held several packages in her arms, wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper and held together with tiny strips of duct tape.

Quinn looked like a regular teenager—almost. Ripped jeans, black combat boots, a threadbare, oversized AC/DC T-shirt, her black hair streaked with the faintest threads of Windex-blue.

Her AR was slung casually over her shoulder, the karambit at her belt. Her bruises had long faded but for the jagged scar slicing through her lower lip.

Other girls might have felt horror or shame; Quinn wore it like a badge of honor.

She was both different and the same. Quieter, reserved, more mature. A wisdom in her eyes hard-won through adversity.

She thrust a package at Milo. “For you, Small Fry.”

Milo’s face lit up. “I love presents!”

“I had a crazy hunch.”

Milo unwrapped Quinn’s slingshot. Also included was a wrist guard and a baggie of 1/8th steel ammo balls.

Milo’s eyes grew round as golf balls. He jumped up and down, curls bouncing, hooting in excitement. “For me?”

“I don’t see any other snot-nosed kid named Small Fry around here, do you?”

“Nope! Just me!”

“I also found one last jar of crunchy peanut butter behind a bucket of flour down in Gran’s secret lair. I was gonna trade it, but then I thought you might want a bite first—”

“Heck yeah I do!” Milo said.

“Language,” Hannah said, biting back a laugh.

Quinn narrowed her eyes. “No peanut butter for you until you hit the bull’s eye. This slingshot is a weapon. It’ll get you squirrels and birds, and might take out a bad guy’s eyeball if you need it to. It’s important to know how to use it. That means training. I’ll teach you. And I’m keeping the flechettes until you’re ready to use them. To quote a famous philosopher: ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”

“That’s from Spiderman!”

“Superheroes can impart wisdom, too, Small Fry.”

Milo looked up at Hannah with a pleading expression. “Mom? Can I have it? Can she train me to be an awesome slingshot sniper?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll have a revolt on my hands if I say no, so I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Milo gave an enthusiastic fist pump. “Yes!”

Quinn grinned. Her features were tinged with sadness, but a bit of her old spark returned. A light in her eyes that would not be dimmed.

“With Quinn at the helm, what could possibly go wrong?” Liam quipped from behind them. With every step, he leaned on his cane, pain lining his rugged face.

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Is that an approximation of a joke, Wolverine? If so, keep trying.”

Liam hobbled to Hannah’s side. She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned her head against his shoulder.

Milo shoved the slingshot and ammo in his overalls pocket and opened Quinn’s second gift. Inside a simple wooden frame was an exquisitely rendered charcoal drawing of Milo’s father.

Awestruck, Milo held it reverently in both hands, staring at the image of his father like he could drink it up.

Quinn had captured Noah at his best—the tousled dirty-blond hair and chiseled jaw, his eyes twinkling in anticipation as he grinned, believing the world was as good and perfect as he wanted it to be.

Without a word, Milo dashed toward their house to put it in his room, tucked amongst his most valued possessions.

Oreo let out a loud bleat and scampered after him. She was starting to think she was a human child.

“He says thank you.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “Manners. You’d think he’d been raised by wolves.”

“I, um, made this for you, too.” Quinn held out the last gift with a sheepish expression. Two red spots of embarrassment appeared on her cheeks, but she was beaming.

A second drawing. This one an accurate rendering of Charlotte Rose as a newborn—her rosebud lips, apple cheeks, downy skin, and seashell ears.

Quinn had begun the sketch days after Hannah had returned to Fall Creek, when Charlotte was a few weeks old. Already, she’d grown so much.

They’d had nothing by which to remember those early days.

Now, they did.

Emotion swelled in Hannah’s chest. “This is—it’s beautiful, Quinn.”

Quinn blushed.

“You have a gift, Quinn,” Hannah said. “Truly. We need things like this as much as we need bullets and Band-Aids.”

Quinn dug her boot in the grass, suddenly bashful. “Gran said something like that. No one needs charcoal and paper to survive.”

“You’d be surprised,” Liam said.

“I imagine people would trade for drawings of their loved ones,” Hannah said. “Most of us don’t have photos anymore, only memories. And memories fade.”

A shadow flitted behind Liam’s eyes, a reminder of everything he’d lost. “I’ll be your first customer.”

“Deal. But I charge difficult customers extra.” Quinn shot him a devilish grin. “That makes you double the price.”

Liam gave a pained smile. “You strike a hard bargain.”

She grinned back. “It’s the apocalypse. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

78

HANNAH

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE

Hannah watched Milo return to Molly’s yard. He dashed across the porch, leaping over the Great Pyr’s snoring form and disrupting Loki’s nap on Ghost’s rump.

The cat meowed his displeasure before settling back into his nest of fur.

Milo flopped to the porch beside Ghost and scratched his furry head. Without opening his eyes, Ghost whined, his tail thumping in sleepy satisfaction.

Hannah squeezed Liam’s arm. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

Hannah made her way through the throngs of her neighbors and friends and settled on the porch steps next to Milo. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Are we okay?”

Milo scrunched his nose. “What do you mean?”

She leaned over and brushed the unruly mess of curls off his forehead. The structure of his face was changing, lengthening and slimming. A version of Noah’s face emerged beneath her son’s disappearing baby fat.

She still sang him to sleep at night, though sometimes he asked for stories from Quinn or Liam. Liam was surprisingly good at it, his voice deep and resonant. He added descriptive details to imaginary battle scenes that Milo ate up like peanut butter.

“You and me,” she said. “I haven’t spent as much time with you as I’ve wanted to.”

“You’ve been busy saving the world.”

“You are the world. My world.”

She examined his complexion, the rise and fall of his chest, the skin beneath his eyes, always checking for signs of adrenal issues.

His meds would last a few more months. They’d need to find more—or make more.

Always more to do.

“I want to make sure you know that. That you’re okay.”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head and chewed on his bottom lip like he was concentrating. “I’m okay.”

She pulled her son into a hug, breathing in the sweaty little boy scent of him. He wrapped his skinny arms around her neck and hugged her back.

“I told Quinn I would share you,” he whispered into her scalp, his breath hot on her ear. “You can be Mom to all three of us, right?”

A pang struck her. A mix of sadness and joy and fierce pride. “That’s a great idea.”

“Can I tell her we’ve adopted her?”

“Of course. I think you’ll make a fantastic little brother.”

She felt his grin against her cheek. “Challenge accepted. And also, do you think she’d like a snake in her bed?”

“Knowing Quinn, she probably wouldn’t mind a bit.”

Laughing uproariously, Milo peeled away from her and scampered off. He whistled to Ghost. “Come on, boy!”

With an exasperated huff, the Great Pyr lumbered up and shook the cats off him. They scattered with a furious cacophony of feline yowls.

Oblivious to their outraged hisses, Ghost ambled after his boy, his majestic white tail streaming behind him.

He limped. He was still Ghost.

Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” popped up next.

“That’s Quinn’s favorite!” Milo crowed.

“Is not,” Quinn said.

He darted over, grasped her hand, and flashed that infectious grin. “Dance with me! Pulleaaaase?”

Quinn shot Hannah a helpless, tortured look.

Hannah waved her hand. “Have fun.”

“This is not even on the scale of fun!” She rolled her eyes in disgust as only a teenager could. Then she gave a devilish smile, grabbed Milo’s hands, and twirled him round and round, then slow danced with him while he shrieked and dissolved into giggles.

As the King’s crooning voice filled the clearing, Jonas rose and walked across the grass through the ring of camping chairs, toward Quinn and Milo.

His face bright red, he tapped Milo on the shoulder. “May I cut in and have a turn with the lady?”

“Lady?” Quinn sputtered. “What lady?”

Milo stepped back with a gallant flourish. “Of course, good sir!”

Flustered, Quinn’s gaze darted from Jonas to Milo to Jonas. “What are you doing?”

Jonas grinned from ear to ear. “May I have this dance?”

Nonplussed, Quinn mumbled a half-coherent response.

“I think that’s a yes.” Jonas took Quinn’s hand.

For a second, she looked like she might shake off his hand. Or bite him. Instead, her face turned an equally bright shade of red, and she managed a nod.

Jonas fumbled, suddenly nervous, unsure what to do. With a roll of her eyes, Quinn put her hands over his and placed them around her waist. They both grinned like Cheshire cats.

Hannah held back a laugh as they danced, awkward but sweet. This was a good thing. Quinn needed some joy in her life. And Jonas was kind; he would be good for her.

“No way I’m missing out on this.” Reynoso’s eyes flashed with mischief. He spun and searched for someone in the crowd. “Perez?”

Perez crossed her arms over her chest and gave an adamant head shake. “Don’t even think about it.”

Reynoso faltered, looking disappointed. But he recovered quickly. “Bishop!” he yelled over the din of conversation, music, and laughter. “I need you!”

Bishop, who was still deep in conversation with Travis, half-turned. He wore a bright purple Hawaiian shirt covered with yellow pineapples. “What?”

Reynoso grinned and beckoned to Bishop. “Dance with me!”

Bishop handed the baby to Evelyn and winked. “With a proposal like that, how could I resist?”

Everyone laughed as the two burly men danced merrily, goofy as teenagers, knocking into each other and chortling when they stepped on each other’s feet.

When ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” burst from the speakers, others got up as well, including Dave and Annette. They moved to the music, basking in the sunshine and soaking in this rare moment of peace.

Her stomach fluttered. Her heart raced, her mouth dry, but it wasn’t water she craved.

Hannah turned to Liam and held out her hand. He laid Molly’s cane against a nearby camping chair and took a hesitant, cautious step.

And then the hesitation vanished, and he took her in his arms. She melted into him. They shuffled, awkward and clumsy at first, then they found their rhythm. They danced to the sound of Steve Perry’s iconic voice melding with the strumming guitar and lilting piano. I’m forever yours…

Liam took her hand and threaded his strong calloused fingers through her deformed ones. His hand closed over hers and held it. Gently, tenderly.

The song faded, and a familiar tune played next: U2’s “All I Want Is You.”

“Quinn’s grandpa had good taste,” Liam murmured into her hair. “I think he was a secret hopeless romantic.”

She felt herself smiling. “Are you?”

“I am now.”

He held her, and she held him. He was alive. She was alive.

They had more than they could’ve ever asked for.

After a while, Liam took a break and headed to the cooler for a glass of water, limping heavily but on his feet, moving with slow but dogged resolve.

Ghost trotted across the yard and pressed his snout against Liam’s side, his plumed tail gently wagging. They looked so regal, the two of them: wounded warriors. Every inch of them exuding strength, dignity, and valor.

Hannah watched him, the man she loved, something bright and glittering inside her chest. She stood back and surveyed Molly’s yard, taking in these people she loved.

Once, she’d been trapped, isolated, a victim. Now, she was part of a community. A survivor. A leader.

Sometimes the destruction of one thing could become the birth of another thing. New life, starting over, freedom.

In the middle of winter, with the scouring wind and brutal, shocking cold, you believed spring would never come. That spring had never existed in the first place. What else could possibly exist but this vast wasteland of snow and ice and darkness?

But that was a lie. It did exist. And it would come.

The sun returned, and beneath its nourishing warmth, the whole world opened up like a flower reaching for the sky.

You had to endure. You had to hold on. No matter what lay ahead, what challenges and hardships, she knew they would meet them.

They were a family.

They were together.

And, in the end, wasn’t that everything?

Liam glanced back at her over his shoulder. A slow open smile creased his features, his gray-blue eyes shining.

Hannah smiled back. And she lifted her face toward the sun.

I hope you enjoyed Edge of Valor, the epic conclusion to the Edge of Collapse survival series.

To receive an exclusive bonus chapter/epilogue in Hannah and Liam’s story, please join my newsletter. I’ll send the story to my subscribers in the next couple of weeks (to give people time to read Valor). This story is only for my subscribers and won’t be found anywhere else.

As a member, you’ll also receive updates on my newest releases, free audiobooks, and other great info and prizes. I never spam you or email more than once or twice a month. Sign up HERE!

To preorder my next series, Days of Ruin, get it on Amazon HERE.

If you knew the apocalypse was coming, what would you do?

I’ll have more updates on my next series in the next couple of months. Until then, please scroll to the next page for the Author’s Note and a list of my available books. Also, scroll past “About the Author” for a free preview of my completed post-apocalyptic series, Nuclear Dawn.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Endings are bittersweet.

I admit, I shed a tear or two while writing a few scenes, particularly Quinn’s last scene when she fully comprehends what it means to be a warrior—how much it takes from you, how to live with the scars.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the Collapse series. I hope it’s everything you wanted it to be and more than you expected.

I have worried over these characters for a year and a half. They’ve lived in my head and whispered in the back of my mind. It’s hard to leave them, but I feel that it’s the right time.

They’ve overcome so much—I have faith that they can face whatever comes next. I hope that they will live on in your heart the same way that they do mine. The characters may not exist in real life, but the emotions they elicit in us are certainly real.

I appreciate my readers more than I can ever say. I cherish your emails, FB messages, and reviews. It is such a special thing to be able to share the world and characters populating my brain with others who get it and love them as much as I do.

I hope you stick around for my next series. While Hannah and Liam’s story may be over, I’m not finished with the post-apocalyptic worlds that we all love. I can’t wait to create new characters, new journeys, and new end-of-the-world scenarios.

Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to share this world with you.

Until next time, Kyla

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As I finish up this wonderful series, I want to give heartfelt thanks to the behind-the-scenes readers who give early feedback on the raw manuscript.

To my fabulous BETA readers: Fred Oelrich, Lauren Mae Nikkel, Melva Metivier, Wmh Cheryl, Jim Strawn, Sally Shupe, Jenny Avery, Jose Jaime Reynoso, Randy Hasting, Vanessa Mccutcheon, Elaine Bak, and Courtnee McGrew. Your thoughtful critiques and enthusiasm are invaluable.

To Michelle Browne for her line editing skills. Thank you to Joanna Niederer and Annette King for proofreading.

Special thanks to David Kepford for his technical support and excellent advice regarding all things military. It was a blast emailing questions and answers back and forth. I appreciate your patience!

Once again, a heartfelt thank you to George Hall, a real life Special Forces hero who helps me bring the character of Liam to life. Liam would not be who he is without George.

Any errors are my own.

Thank you to our armed forces who put their lives on the line to keep us safe and protect freedom around the world.

To my husband, who takes care of the house, the kids, and the cooking when I’m under the gun with a writing deadline. To my kids, who show me the true meaning of love every day and continually inspire me.

Thanks to God for His many blessings. He is with us even in the darkest times.

And to my loyal readers, whose support and encouragement mean everything to me. Thank you.

ALSO BY KYLA STONE

The Edge of Collapse Post-Apocalyptic Series (EMP):

Chaos Rising: The Prequel

Edge of Collapse

Edge of Madness

Edge of Darkness

Edge of Anarchy

Edge of Defiance

Edge of Survival

Edge of Valor

The Nuclear Dawn Post-Apocalyptic Series (Nuclear Terrorism):

Point of Impact

Fear the Fallout

From the Ashes

Into the Fire

Darkest Night

Nuclear Dawn: The Complete Series Box Set

The Last Sanctuary Post-Apocalyptic Series (Pandemic):

Rising Storm

Falling Stars

Burning Skies

Breaking World

Raging Light

Last Sanctuary: The Complete Series Box Set

No Safe Haven (A post-apocalyptic stand-alone novel):

No Safe Haven

Historical Fantasy:

Labyrinth of Shadows

Contemporary YA:

Beneath the Skin

Before You Break

Audiobooks:

Nuclear Dawn series:

Point of Impact

Fear the Fallout

From the Ashes

Into the Fire

Darkest Night

Edge of Collapse series:

Chaos Rising

Edge of Collapse

Edge of Madness

Edge of Darkness

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I spend my days writing apocalyptic and dystopian fiction novels, exploring all the different ways the world might end.

I love writing stories exploring how ordinary people cope with extraordinary circumstances, especially situations where the normal comforts, conveniences, and rules are stripped away.

My favorite stories to read and write deal with characters struggling with inner demons who learn to face and overcome their fears, launching their transformation into the strong, brave warrior they were meant to become.

Some of my favorite books include The Road, The Passage, Hunger Games, and Ready Player One. My favorite movies are The Lord of the Rings and Gladiator.

Give me a good story in any form and I’m happy.

Oh, and add in a cool fall evening in front of a crackling fire, nestled on the couch with a fuzzy blanket, a book in one hand and a hot mocha latte in the other (or dark chocolate!): that’s my heaven.

I love to hear from my readers! Find my books and chat with me via any of the channels below:

www.KylaStone.com

www.Facebook.com/KylaStoneAuthor

www.Amazon.com/author/KylaStone

Email me at KylaStone@yahoo.com

NUCLEAR DAWN PREVIEW

Dakota Sloane was no stranger to hardship. A born survivor, she’d spent her life waiting for the next calamity, the next disappointment, the next strike from a world intent on breaking her.

But Dakota didn’t break.

She felt close now, though. Her chest tightened as she scanned the street outside the window of the Beer Shack Bar.

A damp rag in one hand, she froze, bent over a yellow table strewn with crumpled napkins and a greasy, half-eaten lunch of twist fries, burgers, and globs of ketchup.

Her gaze locked on a familiar figure striding through the lunchtime crowd strolling along Front Street in Overtown along the outskirts of downtown Miami.

She knew that confident, purposeful walk, the lean, lanky shape of him, sharp as a knife blade. She’d recognize that thin, angular face anywhere, those grim, fevered eyes—the eyes that haunted her nightmares.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

Dakota didn’t believe in coincidences.

If Maddox Cage was in Miami—in this part of Miami—it was for one reason.

He was here for her. For her and Eden.

She’d made it two years and thirteen days. She wasn’t ready yet, hadn’t saved enough. Six more months and her plan would be in place, ready for execution.

Five grand and her little sister. That was all she needed to start a brand-new life a thousand miles away.

Miami was loud and colorful and always moving, made up of a jumble of Cubans, Haitians, Asians, South Americans, and Anglos, an exuberant smorgasbord of cultures, music, food, and art.

Miami was an easy city to get lost in.

But she hadn’t gotten lost enough.

Sweat prickled along her hairline. She took a step back from the window, hoping the sunlight’s glare on the glass would shield her presence.

Maybe he only had a general idea of their location. If he was still searching, if he didn’t already know exactly where she was…

But maybe he wasn’t coming for her first. The thought sent a cold fission of dread through her gut.

He was going after Eden.

She held her breath until he passed—never turning his head to the left or right, eyes fixed straight ahead as he weaved between the pedestrians thronging the sidewalk.

He always had been single-minded, like a dog with a bone.

She should’ve known he wouldn’t let go. Would never let go.

She leaned over the table to get a better view of the street. Maddox Cage paused at the corner and waved down a taxi. Dakota didn’t move until he slipped inside, shut the door, and the car pulled away from the curb.

“Excuse me, Miss,” said a heavy, middle-aged Indian guy at the next booth.

She didn’t know him. The usual regulars haunted their favorite bar stools, but this close to downtown and Miami International, the bar always served a steady stream of tourists and traveling business types.

People liked the Beer Shack’s funky vibe. The bar was lined with kitschy shiny yellow tables and elephant palms in huge ceramic planters adorned with fairy lights.

Famous locations throughout Miami—South Beach, Freedom Tower, the Coral Castle Museum—were immortalized in bottle cap art hung on the faux brick walls.

The radio was always playing a vibrant mix of rumba, salsa, timba. The mix of authentic Cuban fare and classic American selections was damn good, too.

With his sweating mug of Sam Adams, the man gestured toward the flat-screen against the far wall. He was in his fifties and nearly bald, a neatly combed circle of white hair ringing his shiny brown scalp. “Can you turn that up?”

“Sure thing.” She forced herself to move, to go through the motions, even as her mind spun with jostling, frantic thoughts.

She put the Coke glass down on the dirty table she’d been cleaning, leaving the plastic tub and rag behind. She pulled the remote from her moss-green apron and punched up the volume.

The Marlins’ loss recap had been interrupted. The screen showed an aerial shot of Michigan Avenue in Chicago, completely cleared but for a minivan parked on the street.

Several police cars and SWAT vehicles were stationed a safe distance away, three helicopters hovering overhead.

A breathless, wide-eyed news reporter gesticulated wildly about something. She couldn’t make sense of the woman’s jumble of words.

“I live near the west side of Chi-Town. Heading back tomorrow. Crazy, huh?” the guy said.

“What’s all the excitement about?” Dakota asked distractedly, forcing herself to be polite.

A low, frantic buzz filled her head.

Fear was already forming like ice around her heart.

She couldn’t just leave in the middle of her shift. She couldn’t afford to lose another job, but she had to contact Eden, had to figure out what to do.

“Some kind of bomb. Terrorist wackos, looks like. Probably ISIS. But Chicago PD caught it in time. Disarming it now, thank God.”

“Good thing,” she said.

He held his mug toward her. “Fill ’er up, would you?”

She grabbed the mug, refilled it at the bar, and returned it to the customer. He didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were glued to the screen.

Her nerves were stretched taut. Anxiety squeezed her lungs. She needed a break. She needed to reach Eden.

She strode across the room and paused, keeping her back to the empty bar-height table behind her, the glass front door on her left, the bar counter several feet to her right.

The bar wasn’t busy yet. A handful of regulars hunched over their drinks, staring glassily at the second screen hung over the bar, showing the same view of the van in Chicago.

The steady buzz of their conversations was a constant hum in the background: Walter Monroe whining about his ex-wife; Jesse Peretti’s grass kept dying from the increased water restrictions due to the drought; Tamara Santos complaining about more forced overtime.

Mendo Del Rio always brought up politics, especially when he was itching for a fight. The Beer Shack owner and current bartender, Julio de la Peña, had been forced to kick him out several times.

Most of the time, the regulars discussed sports and deep-sea fishing plans, crappy boss problems, and the latest indomitable heat wave.

They were all regular people with regular problems. No one was hunting them.

None of them paid any attention to her.

She jerked her cell out of her cargo pocket—an old model Samsung that barely qualified as a smartphone. It was all she could afford, since she put every extra penny toward her bug out fund.

As she tapped the contacts icon, she kept one anxious eye on the street outside, in case Maddox decided to double back. He was cunning like that.

Wanda Simpson, her sister’s social worker, picked up on the fourth ring.

Dakota didn’t waste time on greetings. “I need to see my sister. Now. Today.”

“Well,” the woman huffed. “I don’t have time for this nonsense today, Ms. Sloane. You know as well as I do that you have court-appointed, supervised visits once a month and no more. Your next visit isn’t for a week—”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“Ms. Sloane, your sister is medically fragile. She needs consistency. The judge, the psychologists, and I all agree that disrupting her carefully maintained routine would be detrimental to her well-being.”

“Which is just shrink-speak for trying to keep me from my sister so you can adopt her out—”

Mrs. Simpson sighed heavily into the phone.

Dakota could hear voices in the background. At the bar, someone turned the TV up even louder. She gritted her teeth, repressing everything she longed to say, pressed the cell to her ear, and turned away from the bar. “Look. It’s an emergency.”

The woman gave another imperious sigh, like she was already patting herself on the back for her boundless, saintly patience. “What kind of emergency, Ms. Sloane?”

Dakota couldn’t tell the social worker who she’d seen or what she feared it meant. She’d never explained what she and her sister had escaped from. To bring Maddox up now would expose them both to questions they wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer.

“I just need to see her, okay?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Frustration bubbled up inside her. She was already doing her best to do everything absolutely right.

First: gain steady employment and stable housing. Second: petition the courts for custody before Eden’s rich, shiny foster parents sank their claws into her permanently and whisked her away with promises of a real family, vacations to the Keys, art and tennis lessons.

Until then, she kept to herself and stayed wary and watchful.

She saved every penny, spending nothing extra on herself other than her sessions three times a week at the gun range off Miami Avenue.

She carefully maintained a low profile—never attracting attention, avoiding conflict, even when she wanted to punch someone in the kidneys.

It was essential to remain under the radar at all times.

In two years, she’d begun to think that they’d escaped the horrors they’d fled, that the past wouldn’t follow them.

But she was dead wrong.

The fragile sense of security she’d built around herself had shattered the moment her gaze snagged on Maddox Cage among the sweating crowds outside the bar windows.

“I’m practically her guardian!” she forced out. “I’ll be ready to petition the court in a few months—”

“It would be foolish to make such an assumption, Ms. Sloane.” Mrs. Simpson sniffed derisively. “It’s not an appropriate—or healthy—frame of mind, especially considering your inability to maintain steady employment, your lack of a G.E.D. or high school diploma, and your…flexible…housing arrangements.”

Dakota could imagine her smug face, her cheap polyester suits, that awful chemical perfume that smelled like burnt rubber. The woman despised Dakota and her “negative influence” over her fifteen-year-old sister.

A helpless fury roiled in her gut. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Gotten a job—”

“Bussing tables hardly qualifies as a job—”

“I have an apartment!”

“In a highly dangerous and questionable neighborhood.”

She and Eden had been separated for almost two years, after they’d been caught sleeping on the sidewalks on Southeast First Street in downtown Miami.

With no parents and no family, the Florida Department of Children and Families—a terrible misnomer of a name if she’d ever heard one—had swallowed them up into its bloated, utterly broken foster care system.

After a slew of disastrous foster placements, Dakota was stuck in a group home for unwanted teens until she’d come of age eighteen months ago.

Her younger sister—beautiful, sweet, traumatized Eden—was placed in a specialized foster home for the medically fragile.

She swallowed back a curse. She couldn’t afford to piss off a woman who still held so much power over her life.

“Please,” she said instead, hating herself for begging, but giving it one last shot. If the woman still refused to help, she’d have to take matters into her own hands.

“You know I can’t do that even if I wanted to, dear,” Mrs. Simpson simpered. “And you know I only have your sister’s best interests at heart…”

Behind Dakota, someone at the bar gasped. Dakota glanced back at the flat-screen. Her arm fell limply to her side. Her fingers barely held onto the phone.

The social worker babbled something, but Dakota wasn’t listening anymore.

She could do nothing but watch the screen in stunned disbelief.

Cold went through Dakota all the way to her bones.

The screen was split now—one side displaying the bomb squad descending on the minivan in Chicago; the other side, a shaky cellphone video of a massive cloud rising into the sky over a city so hazy with smoke, she couldn’t tell which it was.

“...We repeat, we’ve just received reports from outside Washington, D.C. that there has been a massive explosion,” the male reporter said, his voice rising in agitation.

The female reporter tapped her earpiece. “Communication is down in the area, but we’ve received information that a fireball at least a half mile wide has been sighted over Capitol Hill. It appears this is—this is an attack, Gerard. An attack on American soil…”

The first reporter’s face drained of color. “It appears to be a bomb. A nuclear bomb.”

The shot cut to the reporter on the street in Chicago. “We also have an unconfirmed report that the Michigan Avenue bomb is likely an improvised nuclear device, Gerard.”

The newsdesk reporters didn’t speak for a moment, the shock and horror on their faces genuine. So often, the media seemed to feed on manufactured outrage or barely disguised gleeful delight in the “next big thing.”

This, though, was beyond imaginable.

Dakota’s own pulse thudded in her throat. Her chest tightened like some invisible hand was squeezing her heart.

“Ah,” Gerard stammered, “so I’m hearing that we have multiple bombs. Multiple nuclear bombs—at least two. One has detonated in D.C. already. We’ve heard nothing definitive yet from official sources.

“Social media is blowing up with reports of a terrible explosion, though all locations are at least a few miles from the blast. We’ve had zero communication from anyone at the White House or Capitol Hill…Massive casualties must be expected…”

The patrons in the bar—five at the bar itself, three more in the booths—sat staring at the screens, frozen, their mouths agape.

Dread coiled in Dakota’s gut. Slowly, she raised the phone to her ear. “Mrs. Simpson, are you watching the news? Check your phone.”

“Really, Ms. Sloane,” Mrs. Simpson huffed, “I don’t have time for your games today. Some of us have actual work to do—”

“Another bomb!” the female reporter gasped. “We’ve just lost contact with large portions of New York. Hundreds—thousands of reports coming in on Twitter and social media. People reporting a massive mushroom cloud seen from miles away, buildings collapsing, massive fires…” Her voice trailed off in disbelief.

The second reporter gestured at someone offscreen before turning back to the cameras, visibly shaken. “We have a video feed. Please brace yourselves. This is live—”

The aerial shot revealed an enormous pillar of smoke larger than Dakota had ever seen, dwarfing the skyscrapers. She could barely see the skyline through all the smoke and fire.

Dakota took a step back, and then another, until her butt pressed against the lip of the bar table.

Three bombs. Not just bombs. Nukes.

Three targeted cities. New York. Washington D.C. Chicago.

Were there only three? Or were there more?

She thought of Ezra. He’d warned her of something like this.

What was it he always said? That smart terrorists would engage in a coordinated and multi-pronged attack. They would simultaneously attack the infrastructure—the electric grid, import hubs, or several cities—all intended to eviscerate American morale.

Just like this.

Dakota was a pessimist by nature. Experience had taught her that. Life always kicked you when you were already down.

Worst case scenario, more bombs were just waiting to be detonated. Miami wasn’t the largest city in the U.S., but the metropolitan area was home to more than five million people. Seventh largest, her boss had said just last week.

Miami International Airport and the Port of Miami were also major hubs of commerce.

If there were more bombs, Miami was just as likely a target as any other.

An image bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her—a glimpse of a memory she’d shoved down deep. Something darkly, horribly familiar about all of this…

That feeling was in her, a cold dread creeping up her spine, tightening her chest, clawing at her throat. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

She’d learned to recognize it for what it was: a warning.

Dakota had to get out of the city. Right now.

Order the box set and keep reading HERE!

Table of Contents

Full Page Image

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Epigraph

Preface

1. Liam

2. Liam

3. Hannah

4. Quinn

5. Quinn

6. Hannah

7. The General

8. Hannah

9. Quinn

10. Liam

11. Liam

12. Liam

13. Liam

14. Hannah

15. Hannah

16. Liam

17. Liam

18. Liam

19. Liam

20. The General

21. The General

22. Liam

23. Hannah

24. Hannah

25. Quinn

26. Quinn

27. The General

28. Hannah

29. Hannah

30. Hannah

31. Liam

32. Hannah

33. Liam

34. Liam

35. Liam

36. The General

37. Liam

38. Liam

39. Quinn

40. Quinn

41. Quinn

42. Liam

43. Hannah

44. The General

45. The General

46. Quinn

47. Quinn

48. Liam

49. Liam

50. Liam

51. Liam

52. The General

53. Liam

54. Quinn

55. Quinn

56. Hannah

57. Liam

58. Liam

59. Liam

60. Hannah

61. Liam

62. The General

63. Liam

64. Hannah

65. Quinn

66. Liam

67. Quinn

68. Liam

69. Quinn

70. Quinn

71. Liam

72. Liam

73. Liam

74. Liam

75. Liam

76. Hannah

77. Hannah

78. Hannah

Untitled

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Also by Kyla Stone

About the Author

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