“I think this is the end of the road,” announced Ed.
The Jeep stopped in front of a one-and-a-half-foot-diameter tree trunk raised two feet above the ground—pitched perfectly across the ten-foot-wide dirt path. The top of the tree lay in the calm.
“No problem. We can get this thing out of the way in a couple of minutes unless it’s jammed in the trees on the other side,” said Alex, hopping down from the Jeep.
Charlie winced. “We should have brought my chainsaw.”
“I thought about it. Charlie, keep an eye on the road behind us. Ed, I’ll need your help.”
“Got it covered,” said Charlie, pulling his rifle out of the pile stuffed under the blanket.
Alex walked to the back of the Jeep with Ed and opened the rear gate. He moved the red gas containers and dug underneath the blankets. His hand emerged holding a thick coil of royal blue boating line.
“I just hope it can handle the strain. We’ll have to go really easy.”
They tied the thick rope around the tree at the closest point to the water’s edge.
“We tie the other end to the bumper and ease the Jeep back as far as we can go until the line starts to slip,” said Alex. “You’re driving.”
“I’m always driving,” said Ed.
Ed kept the Jeep’s motion smooth, pulling the tree slowly. The tree resisted initially, as it broke free from the reservoir’s muddy grip. Alex gauged the strain on the line, guiding Ed with hand signals. When they had finished the first round, the tree lay mostly in the road, branches aimed at the Jeep. Ed craned his head into the passenger seat to gauge their effort.
“I still can’t get through without flipping this thing into the reservoir,” he said.
“We’re not done yet. We’ll wrap the line around the thickest tree we can find on the left side of the road—”
“Pulling the tree from a different angle,” finished Ed.
“Elementary, dear Watson. Elementary—in theory,” said Alex.
Ed smiled for the second time Alex could recall today.
“We’re gonna make it,” stated Ed, nodding gently.
“Still have a long way to go—but yes. I don’t see anything stopping us.”
“I wish I had more of your optimism,” said Ed.
“I’m just better at ignoring reality,” said Alex, slapping his shoulder lightly.
Chapter 34
EVENT +35:47 Hours
Acton, Maine
Eli Russell’s feet hit the pavement before the pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Dave Connolly, a grizzly, two-hundred-twenty-pound barrel of a man, rushed toward him.
“Eli, you don’t want to see this. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise,” he said, holding up two hands.
“Touch me and I’ll kill you, Dave. Everyone! Out of the fucking way,” he said, parting a crowd of sweaty, MultiCam-clad militia.
“Who moved the fucking bodies?” he said, addressing Connolly.
“Nobody moved nothing, Eli. This is how we found ’em.”
“None of us touched shit,” added the man closest to the pile of bodies.
“Nobody fucking asked you!” barked Eli, pointing a finger at him. “Get control of your men, or I’ll find someone else to run your squad.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Buddy, move them to the other side of the street, and wait for instructions. No dicking around over there.”
“Do you want them in formation on the road?” asked Buddy.
“Just get the fuck out of your commander’s way!” yelled Connolly. “Sorry about that, sir.”
The gaggle of AR-15-cradling Maine Liberty Militiamen scattered out of Eli’s way, exposing the scene. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, barely visible under a shifting layer of flies. Two of the bodies lay side by side, pulled halfway out of the blood-caked mound of twisted limbs and contorted faces. The sharp smell of feces permeated the humid air. Eli approached his brother’s body. His fists clenched. A faint, gravel boot print appeared on his brother’s right cheek.
“Nobody touched my brother?” whispered Eli.
“Nobody. I was with the first group here. Sorry, Eli. I don’t know what to say,” said Connolly.
“You don’t say another word. That’s what you say,” he whispered, fixated on his baby brother’s gore-covered face.
Jimmy had been nothing but trouble from an early age, spending a solid chunk of his life locked up in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Eli had spent the same amount of time trying to keep him out. He’d always been a good kid with bad ideas. Really bad ideas—which was why he’d been the perfect choice to run the Milton Mills operation. The militia needed vehicles, lots of vehicles, but they couldn’t go around confiscating them from the constituency. Not yet.
Selling safe passage across the border to fleeing motorists had been Eli’s brainchild from the beginning, along with a few other flashes of genius. He’d dispatched Jimmy’s special-missions platoon on two missions within hours of the blast.
First priority was to barricade the crossing at Milton Mills with a skeleton crew. Traffic would be light for most of the morning, as people struggled with the decision to abandon their homes and flee north. The vehicle-snatching operation could afford a short delay while Jimmy personally handled the second task: a series of targeted assassinations focused on the York County sheriffs assigned to patrol western York County townships.
Three of the deputies had been caught at home, stranded without a vehicle. The fourth died in a gas station ambush, sprawled over a map he’d been examining with three good citizens of West Newfield. Jimmy stuffed the four bodies in the trunk of the cruiser, driving it to one of their secure locations. You never knew when a York County sheriff’s car might come in handy. Jimmy was always thinking, which was why Eli liked having him around. Sometimes that thinking got the better of him, which appeared to be the case today. Or was this something else? He couldn’t tell yet.
“How many of Jimmy’s platoon were killed?” he said, walking toward the nearest bridge guardrail.
“Five here. Three on the other side. Two in the middle. One along the riverbank down there,” said Connolly, pointing across the street. “Looks like he was knocked over the side. Eleven in all.”
“No sign of the twelfth guy? He had six on each bridge. I know that for a fact,” said Eli.
“We’ve looked everywhere. The twelfth guy could have washed downriver if he went over in the middle of the bridge. River’s pretty high from the rain.”
“Or he was taken prisoner,” said Eli.
“Prisoner?”
“Look around you, Dave. This wasn’t the work of a rival militia group or band of locals. Only a military Special Forces unit could pull this off. They bottled up Jimmy’s people on one bridge somehow and hit them from both ends. Fucking shooting gallery. We’ll probably find the survivor gutted by the side of the road somewhere up the road, tortured to death for every last bit of information about our militia. Jimmy probably gave them a good fight, gave them some wounds to lick. I’d want to know everything about the Maine Liberty Militia too. We’re up against something sinister here, Dave, and the government is behind it. No question.”
“Shit. Should we even be here?” he asked, glancing around.
“They’re long gone. In my experience, they shoot and scoot. No way they’d stick around after a gunfight like this. Get your squad to work loading up the bodies in one of the pickup trucks. Not mine. Bring them back to Shapleigh, and take the back roads. We’ll do a proper burial with full honors when I get back. I have a few things—”