Davenant had lost any sense of dignity when it came to self-preservation. He didn’t bother to take time to appreciate the General’s garden — lovingly planned by the General’s wife, with the help of a set of landscape gardeners — as he crawled for safety behind the hedge. The bastard with the assault rifle would mow him down if he even showed a tiny part of his autonomy; dear God, how had the simple plan fallen apart so effectively? They’d killed the General’s wife for nothing. Worse, they’d exposed themselves to the police. There would be plenty of physical evidence in the house leading back to them — and it wouldn’t be long after that when the FBI came knocking on his door.
Cursing, he found a gap in the hedge and peered through it. The reinforcements he’d ordered to come and help sanitise the house after they’d killed the General had run right into the prick with the assault rifle. He’d shot out their engines and caused both cars to skid and collide in the middle of the street. It was sheer luck that no one was caught in the crossfire, but even so… it looked as if a team he’d put together for several operations was going to be hacked to pieces on their first joint mission. Remembering why he hated working in teams, he drew his reserve pistol and took careful aim. The enemy holding the assault rifle was probably wearing body armour — even crappy civilian shit would be able to stop a handgun round — but he wasn’t wearing anything covering his face apart from a mask. And Davenant had been handgun champion in his unit before he’d been forced to resign or face a general court-martial. Pointing the pistol, he fired a single shot…
“Blake!”
The shot came out of nowhere. Blake Coleman stumbled against the van and then collapsed, blood pouring from a hole in his neck. The Colonel knew at once that it would be fatal, that there was no way they could save his life unless they could get him to an emergency treatment centre — and there was none within easy reach. Angrily, he fired several shots towards the place where the enemy lurked, but there was no way to know if he’d hit anyone.
Blake’s body thrashed once, and then lay still. His face seemed almost intact, compared to the mess his neck had become, but there was no escaping the grim awareness that he was dead. The Colonel swallowed hard, remembering that Blake had been the first one to accept the danger of getting involved with the underground — he hadn’t deserved to die. And yet there was nothing he could do. They’d been careful to remove everything that might lead back to the survivalists, but the moment the FBI ran Blake’s fingerprints or DNA against the army database they’d know who he’d been. And then…? What would they be able to find from there?
“I’m sorry,” the Colonel said. The sound of sirens began to echo in the distance, coming closer. Someone had finally managed to call the police. “I’m so sorry.”
Grabbing the grenades from the van, he threw them towards where the remaining enemy were hiding. Explosions shattered the General’s shrubbery as the Colonel climbed into the van and barked an order. Packman put the van in gear and they drove away, heading in the opposite direction to the sirens. They’d already planned where they would hide the van, pick up a second vehicle and head down to the farm, precautions that Blake had helped plan. The Colonel swallowed hard, feeling an odd urge to sit down and collapse himself. He’d seen death before — it was one of the risks of military life — but Blake had seemed larger than life. He hadn’t deserved to die.
“Get us to the garage as quick as you can,” he ordered. The van lurched as Packman pushed it right to the limits. How quickly would the police react? What would they be able to draw from security cameras, witnesses and forensic evidence? Would they set up roadblocks…? Or what? “We will not let his death be in vain.”
He looked over at the General. “I’m sorry about your wife, sir,” he said. Mary’s death was still a gaping wound, even though she’d been dead nearly twenty-eight years. The General had had ample reason to expect a long retirement, a chance to write his memoirs, and a quiet death in the arms of his wife. Instead… his life had been torn apart by the aliens. The thought made the Colonel grind his teeth. He’d never hated anyone as much as he did the Snakes, right at that moment.
And words were so inadequate, somehow.
The General looked up at him. His eyes were bitter. The Colonel had seen that expression before, written on the faces of soldiers who’d been pushed beyond their limits, where the only thing keeping them going was sheer determination. And soldiers in a war expected to be hit and to be able to hit back. The General had probably never anticipated that his wife would become a target, or that his peaceful suburban home would become a battleground.
“Who were they?” The General demanded. “What did they want?”
The Colonel hesitated. There was no way to know if the General had one of the alien bugs tracking him, monitoring his every word and motion. To hear Toby tell it, the devices could only be detected when they were active — and removing them was impossible without the right tools. Toby had said that NSA was working on a solution, something that could be deployed in the field, but the handful of technicians involved had refused to give any specific deadline. The Colonel found it hard to blame them. He wouldn’t have wanted to make any promises either.
But the General had a right to know. And besides, the aliens should know that the human race had found a way to put a finger in their eerie bright red eyes.
“They wanted you dead,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Davenant swore under his breath as he heard the sirens getting closer. Any thought of giving chase had to be abandoned. His few surviving men would have to get themselves out of the area, leaving behind too much physical evidence for anyone to ignore. God only knew what team had been covering the General’s ass, but it had done a very competent job and left him holding the bag.
“Get out of here,” he snapped. The bodies would have to be abandoned. They’d be traced, of course; luckily, even if they invoked the Patriot Act, they’d have problems tracking Davenant and the few survivors down by the time they’d escaped and covered their asses. “Move it, now!”
Jumping into the car, he started the engine and drove away from the scene. He’d barely turned the corner when two cop cars went screaming past, sirens blaring. Davenant tensed, preparing to shoot his way out, but the cops ignored him, thankfully heading towards the General’s house. He’d have to give his superiors a call, sooner rather than later. They’d be angry if they heard about it on CNN.
Parking the car beside a family car, Davenant broke in through the window and jump-started the car. It would be reported stolen soon, of course, but by then he would have swapped cars again, and again. By the time he got home, the trail would have been thoroughly obscured. Three cars down the line, he abandoned the last car in a service station and walked down towards a fast food joint, crammed with people. Once inside, he walked into the toilet, removed his suit and changed into a more casual look. Once he had tied his hair back, he looked completely different. A pair of glasses completed the ensemble.
Carrying his old clothes in a rucksack, he walked down until he found an isolated table and opened his briefcase. The briefcase had been provided by his employers, who’d claimed that it could protect anything electronic from the effects of a thumper. Davenant had stuffed a completely clean — and largely untraceable — cell phone inside and, much to his relief, it worked as soon as he switched it on.