The answer was snipers. It was impossible to tell if the sharpshooters were members of the military or civilian resistance fighters. Nor did it matter. A bullet is a bullet. And while most of the projectiles failed to find flesh and bone, they hit the Strykers with enough regularity to keep everyone on edge.
So Mac felt a sense of relief as the column pulled into Sorrento and took possession of an athletic field. The next hour and a half was spent setting up a defensive perimeter, which was reinforced by carefully positioned Strykers and amtracks.
Once that chore was completed, tents were erected to provide shelter for the brigade command post, the first-aid station, and the troops themselves. One of the shelters was assigned to Mac. It served as battalion HQ and a place where Mac could meet with what remained of her command structure.
And finally, after all of the outstanding issues had been discussed if not resolved, the tent was hers to sleep in. But first Mac went over to check in with Walters—and wound up eating an MRE with the CO. Then it was back to the tent for a sponge bath before hitting the rack. The cot wasn’t very comfortable. But Mac was so tired, she could have slept on a sheet of plywood. And that’s where she was, dreaming about a sandy beach, when an enormous weight straddled her.
Mac opened her mouth to scream only to have a wad of fabric shoved into it. A battery-powered night-light was sitting on the storage module near the entrance to the tent. But it was dim. And as Mac looked up, she couldn’t make out a face. A knife cut her tee shirt open. She could smell the man’s sweat as huge hands mauled her breasts. Mac tried to push him off. He chuckled. “No way, whore… We’re gonna have some fun… Then I’m going to cut you.”
Mac recognized the voice. Larry Moody! The same Moody who had forced her down out of the hatch earlier that day. All two hundred pounds of him. The Glock then… It was half-hidden by her pillow and close to her left hand. But that was pinned to the edge of the cot as Moody leaned forward to suck on an exposed nipple. Mac could wrap her fingers around the nine mil’s grip, however. She pulled the trigger three times as Moody bit her.
Moody hadn’t been hit but jerked as if he had and straightened up. Mac saw the glint of polished steel as Moody raised the knife, but that was when light flooded the tent, and a male voice yelled, “Freeze!”
Mac expected Moody to stab her. But, much to her surprise, the ex-convict kept his hands raised. Mac pulled the wad of cloth out of her mouth with her right hand as she brought the Glock up under the medic’s chin. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Get off me, or I will blow your fucking brains out.”
More soldiers had arrived by then, and they took Moody away. Mac pulled a shirt on, sat on the cot, and began to shake uncontrollably. Then the tears came. But they were silent tears because people could hear, and Mac was supposed to be strong.
CHAPTER 3
To a surrounded enemy, you must leave a way of escape.
SORRENTO, LOUISIANA
It was raining, and Mac could hear the pitter-pat of raindrops hitting the tent over her head. More than five hours had passed since Moody’s attack. She was the only patient in the first-aid tent because Colonel Walters had ordered the medical personnel to “… take a break.” Why? Because the Marine wanted to speak with her privately. And, judging from the expression on her face, Walters was angry. “They tell me you’re going to be okay,” Walters said. “And that’s good because it means I’m free to chew you out.”
Mac was confused. “Chew me out? For what?”
“You held out on me,” Walters replied. “Explain this.”
Mac winced as Walters pushed a much-folded piece of paper across the table. It looked as if it had been kept in someone’s pocket. Moody’s pocket? Yes. Now Mac understood. The ex-con had been determined not only to rape and kill her but get paid for it. “I filed a report.”
Walters stared at her. The words were icy. “With whom?”
“With Colonel Russell. He’s the officer I report to.”
“He’s the officer you report to on paper,” Walters replied. “You could have copied me, and you didn’t. Why?”
Mac looked away and back again. “I was afraid that you would give my battalion to someone else and send me north.”
The expression on Colonel Walters’s face softened slightly. “I get that. So, are the accusations true? Did you kill your sister?”
“No, but I was present when she died. There were a lot of witnesses.”
“But your father thinks you pulled the trigger.”
“Yeah, I guess he does.”
Walters frowned. “This is a first so far as I know. And, since there isn’t any precedent to follow, I can handle the situation as I see fit.”
Mac searched the other woman’s face for some sign of what she intended to do. “And?”
“And I need you… But other people may know about the reward and come after you.”
“I know that,” Mac replied. “But they might come after me anywhere, and that includes cities north of the New Mason-Dixon Line. What are you going to do with Moody?”
“I’m going to send his ass up to Leavenworth, where his original sentence will go back into effect. Then they’ll court-martial him all over again,” Walters replied. “We’re leaving in an hour. Do you feel up to it?”
Mac stood. “Yes, ma’am.”
Walters smiled. “Good. So get the hell out of my first-aid tent. The swabbies want it back.”
GRAND CAYMAN ISLAND, THE CARIBBEAN SEA
The clouds had parted, the sun was out, and President Samuel T. Sloan still felt slightly seasick as the landing craft came alongside the tender pier. Grand Cayman had been a regular stop for cruise ships back before the May Day disaster. And untold thousands of tourists had been sent ashore in brightly colored tenders to stroll through Georgetown before going back to their respective ships for dinner.
But rather than the usual mélange of professional greeters, hopeful taxi drivers, and food vendors, a company of Marines was waiting to greet the president as he stepped off the boat and onto the platform. It felt good to stand on something solid and, as the rest of his team disembarked, Sloan paused to look around.
A visitor center was located directly in front of him, and Georgetown lay beyond. Sloan had never had a reason to visit the Cayman Islands but knew they were home to secretive offshore banks. And that was why he was there… To pry the banks open and recover the money that had been stolen from the American people. “Mr. Higgins is here,” a Secret Service agent announced. “He claims that you requested a meeting.”
Sloan was about to reply when a pair of navy F-35 fighters roared overhead. They were flying low, no more than five hundred feet, and going extremely fast. Overlapping booms were heard as the planes broke the sound barrier.
Sloan grinned. “Shock and awe.” That’s what the boys and girls at Fort Knox called it… And if the citizens of Georgetown had been unaware of the invasion before, they sure as hell knew about it now. Sloan turned to find that a portly man in a tropical-weight suit was waiting to speak with him. “Mr. President? I’m your consular agent. My name is Brian Higgins. Welcome to Grand Cayman.”
Sloan had never heard of consular agents until the previous week. That was when Secretary of State George Henderson explained that the Caymans were too small to rate a consulate, much less an embassy. So Higgins had been hired to handle whatever issues might arise. The businessman had a round face, two chins, and a tendency to sweat. After removing a document from an inside pocket, he offered it to Sloan. “My bill,” Higgins explained. “I haven’t been paid since the meteors fell.”