“It’s pre-”
Before Hank could finish the sentence, Jake had drawn and leveled the revolver even with his head. The man began stammer. Jake snarled once again, now in complete control of the encounter.
“Damn it, Hank! Is this what it is now? Do I kill you in front of our friends? Do not, nobody, do not move, or I will kill Hank McCaskill right where he stands. Understand?”
The three men nodded.
Jake continued, “I know what you’re thinking, because I’m thinking it too. I can’t kill all three of you.” Jake grasped the radio with his other hand and pressed the button. “Geram, if I shoot, I want you to kill everyone left standing. Except me, don’t kill me.”
“Wilco.”
He could hear Kate screaming in the background of the broadcast.
With his point well made, Jake exhaled deeply and spoke in a more reserved voice. “I’m going to ask each of you to, one at a time, put all of your weapons on the ground in front of you. Then, you’re going to take ten steps back. After that, I’ll have Geram pull ahead. We’ll pat you down and then Hank will get on the tractor and lay those cross ties across the gap. Then, we leave. Once we’re over the gap, you’ll remove the cross ties. We’ll leave your weapons on the bridge and you can come get them after we’re gone. Understood?”
The men quietly nodded and did as was ordered.
Jake radioed Geram and he pulled the Bronco forward. Hank climbed onto the tractor and pushed the creosote railroad ties over the trench. Geram gathered up the men’s weapons and placed them on the front passenger seat of the SUV. Jake followed behind on foot as Geram pulled the Bronco across the trench and onto the bridge beyond.
Jake paused for a moment and turned to face the men. “I’ll always remember this night, Hank. This is the night this town went mad. Not when Sam Coleman murdered Frank and Margaret, it was tonight. You probably hate me right now. You probably want me dead. I want you to know something, I couldn’t’ve pulled that trigger. Geram would’ve killed you, no doubt in my mind, but I couldn’t have done it.”
Jake cleared his throat and continued, “We’re living in a time that’ll be remembered for ages, believe me. How we live, how we treat our neighbors, it’ll all be remembered. We’ve been shoved into a forge, but we’ve a choice; we can melt into something that has no resemblance of who we were, or we can rise up and allow our imperfections to burn off and leave men of substance in its place. It’s our choice.”
As he turned to leave, Hank replied, “Jake, wait.”
He paused and looked back. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry, we’re sorry. That’s all I can say.”
He sighed and said, “It’s alright, I’m sorry to.”
“If you ever – I mean, if things get better and you want to, you still have a home here.”
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I do. We do.”
The other men nodded in agreement.
“Thanks, all of you; maybe one day. By the way, have someone go by Frank’s house and check the closet at the end of the hall. I left it open. I think there may be a few things in there that you’re going to need before this mess is over.”
Ch apter 13
Barrett
Brownsville, Texas
Barrett listened as the sound of the Black Hawk faded into the east. He turned back towards the group. In a way, he thought, it was a joint mission. The twelve member squad was evenly selected from the guardsmen and the SEALs; six of each. The SEALs had the combat experience that was desperately needed, and the guards knew the area better than any. At this point, however, the six operators were probably considered former SEALs by their employer.
Officially, Barrett was the squad leader, but he had deferred many of the leadership roles to Holt, the code name adopted by the young SEAL Lieutenant. Barrett had previously served as a SEAL, but never as a squad leader. To him, the most experienced person should lead. There was no room for ego in the field.
They had been dropped on a small wooded island just north of the intersection of 77 and University Boulevard, in Brownsville. Their mission was to proceed southwest through the UT at Brownsville campus and the Fort Brown Memorial Golf Course, across the Rio Grande and into Matamoros, Mexico. Once in Mexico they would recon de Parque Olimpico; Olympic Park.
Texan predator drones had recently picked up some unusual activity at the park. Semi-trucks had been observed hauling canopied loads into the area. An extensive array of large canvas hangars had begun to appear several days ago. The park more closely resembled the terminal areas of an airport, rather than a public green space.
The trucks’ cargo would remain covered until they pulled under one of the hangars. Once unloaded, the trucks would leave empty. Whatever was being delivered was intended to be hidden from prying eyes.
They spread out among the thicket in a wedge formation and rechecked their gear. Barrett listened for any sounds of movement nearby. The once-bustling city was eerily silent. Occasionally a vehicle could be heard speeding down the highway, most likely a member of the Z-G. Even Mexican nationals were rarely seen north of the border. The cartels had become increasingly violent, and it was not always targeted at the gringos. As bad as it was south of the border, just north of it was far worse. The northern incursion by the cartels had brought with it a scorched earth policy as they plundered the spoils of the American southwest.
After several minutes of uneventful silence, they began to slowly move west to the short causeway that led off the island. They stayed off of the narrow asphalt pavement, preferring the concealment that the shadows afforded. Their night-vision allowed them to move easily through the heavy blanket of darkness that enveloped the city – a symptom of a failed, or rather an abandoned, power grid.
As they left the wooded sanctuary of the island, the backdrop quickly changed to the deserted, low-class suburbs of south Brownsville. The squad navigated the block and took their second left onto East 24th Street.
Barrett was horrified as he looked down the neighborhood street. Brownsville had obviously received the full burden of the violence. Most of the battered homes’ windows and doors were smashed and broken. Several houses had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and an occasional, mangled body lay in a yard or on the sidewalk.
East 24th Street would have been dangerous to traverse had it not been for the numerous vehicles haphazardly abandoned in both lanes. The street had been selected as their route precisely due to the large number of discarded vehicles it contained. It would be impossible for the squad to be overtaken by a fast-moving truck full of banditos along the street.
The bodies of his fellow countrymen particularly disturbed Barrett. The men and women that died in this place died for one reason, they could not afford to flee. As he passed the occasional body, he felt a strong sense of guilt. Perhaps there was more that they should have done. More evacuations, maybe forced evacuations? He did not know the answer. Ultimately, he knew that people were personally responsible for themselves and their families, but no one could have imagined the horrors of the tempest that had rolled across south Texas. Like a dust-bowl sand storm, it had engulfed everything and everyone in its path.
The squad moved with deft precision through the shadows of the vacant ward. Occasional bursts of gunfire and barking dogs interrupted the foreboding silence that surrounded them.
The sheer number of stray dogs was heartbreaking. They were not wild dogs, but collared, starving, house pets that sensed the men’s advances through their territory. Some would growl for a moment before shrinking away. Others would simply rush blindly up to the men, seeking the affection they no longer received from the owners that had turned them loose before retreating northward.