Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (15 page)

“Nice shooting!” Meg yelled.

Riley frowned. “I can’t fucking shoot from this goddamn chair!”

“Calm down, Alex. Sheesh. No wonder your squad mates call you ‘Kid’.”

Riley felt the burn of embarrassment rising in his cheeks. He was acting like a baby, and if it weren’t for Meg, he’d be limping around without his casts, unable to shoot shit. He flicked the safety on and extended the weapon to her.

“Sorry. How about you give it a try?”

Meg eyed the pistol like it was a weapon of mass destruction. That made Riley smile. She was tough as nails, a true firecracker, but when it came to guns she was shy.

“What are you looking at?”

“I just didn’t peg you as one of those liberal anti-gun types.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “I’m not, but I am from New York, remember? I used to see a lot of gunshot wounds. And by a lot, I mean at least one a week. Always seemed so pointless. Until...”

“Until the Variants.”

Meg nodded and took the gun.

“Remember, the muzzle goes downrange,” Riley said, tapping his head as if to remind Meg about the range safety they’d gone over earlier that day. When Meg had the weapon pointed at the targets they’d set up, Riley went through the rest of the steps. “You flick the safety lever up first. Then, when you line up the sights, you just squeeze the trigger. Pretty simple.”

Meg balanced the crutches under her armpits and grimaced when she put weight on both feet. She scrunched up her freckled nose, and her lips twisted to the side in a scowl that showed off her teeth. Even with the pained look on her face, Riley found her absolutely stunning.

“Stop looking at me,” she growled. 

Riley apologized for a second time and shifted his gaze to the empty bottles of Jameson. This time he was the one to grimace. The bottles were a reminder that the soldiers on Plum Island had gone through the entire cache. There wasn’t anything left to drink but Fanta and Smirnoff.

He glanced over at Meg. “When you have a target—”

POP! POP! POP!

Both of the remaining bottles exploded into hundreds of tiny shards.

“Damn, you’re a natural,” Riley said. When he looked at Meg again he expected to see a smile, but she wasn’t looking at the broken bottles. She was staring at the sky.

Meg lowered the pistol and pointed with her other hand, “Those aren’t our choppers, are they?”

Riley heard something louder than any chopper. A blink of an eye later, a squadron of F-18 Super Hornets shot over the island. He watched them fly toward Connecticut, where they vanished in the clouds.

“What the hell?” Meg shouted.

On the horizon to the east, an armada of helicopters raced across the sky. There were two Chinooks, a trio of Blackhawks, and a single Osprey. The most aircraft he had seen since the outbreak started.

“Come here,” Riley said, gesturing for her.

Meg hesitated, still staring at the sky in awe.

“Now!” Riley said. He reached for his pistol and snatched it from Meg’s hands.

“Are those reinforcements?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Alex, what the hell is going on?”

Riley flipped magazines, chambered a round, and flicked the safety on. Then he tucked the weapon in his waistband and gripped the wheels of his chair. “Follow me!”

He wheeled like a madman back to the path wrapping around Building 5. Meg crutched after him. Riley blinked at the afternoon sun, his heart thumping in time with the helicopter rotors overhead.

Riley pushed the wheels harder and faster, the rubber screeching across the pavement. These soldiers weren’t coming to help. They were coming to avenge Colonel Wood. He could feel it in his gut. Beckham had told him to stand down if this moment came, but that was one order Riley couldn’t follow. He couldn’t let them haul Beckham away.

Meg and Riley rounded Building 5 to the sight of the choppers landing on the tarmac. Horn came rushing across the lawn with Chow on his six. They shouldered their rifles and aimed them at the birds.

“Kid, get yer ass over here!” Horn shouted. The words came out garbled from the cigarette wobbling between his lips. He grabbed it and flicked it onto the grass. “Those are General Johnson’s men!”

“Where’s Beckham?” Riley shouted back. He had to reach him before Johnson’s men did. Beckham would take full responsibility for Wood’s death. He’d slip the noose around his own neck if it meant saving Team Ghost. Riley wasn’t going to let that fucking happen.

Horn shook his head and tightened his grip on his M249 SAW, his tattooed forearms flexing. “I don’t know where Beckham is, man. Last time I saw him, he was with Kate.”

The jets performed another flyover, screaming through the low-lying clouds. A wall of wind gusted across the lawn, nearly knocking Meg to the grass.

“What the hell is going on?” she screamed.

Riley pulled his M9 and spat. The F-18s disappeared back into the clouds. When the rumble faded, Riley said, “Get to Building 1, Meg.”

“No way,” she grabbed her knife and pulled it. “I’m staying with you guys.”

Riley felt himself smile. Despite the fact they were vastly outgunned, and they were probably all going to die, all he could think about was how cute Meg was when she was pissed. Going down in a hail of gunfire next to her sure as hell beat getting torn apart by the Variants.

B
eckham stood in the radiant afternoon sun knowing damn well what was about to happen. Although somehow, standing on the landing of Building 1 and watching the aircraft descend upon Plum Island, he couldn’t quite grasp it. Part of him wanted to order his men to fight—part of him wanted to pull the .45 Lieutenant Colonel Jensen had given him and use it on those coming to arrest him. But he knew there was only one option. He would tell General Johnson that Team Ghost had only been following orders, the exact same thing he had cursed Wood’s men for. Fitz, Riley, Horn, Chow—Beckham wouldn’t let his brothers pay.

The range of feelings rushing through him shifted from anger to fear. He wasn’t scared of being taken away and locked in the brig of some Navy Destroyer, or rotting in the darkness. The thing that terrified him most was not being able to protect the people he loved.

At least he wasn’t alone. Secretary Ringgold, Major Smith, Kate, and Ellis stood behind him. All of them shielded their eyes from the sun as the choppers landed on the tarmac. The lawn between the buildings quickly filled with civilian spectators. Red and Donna were there with their son Bo tucked behind them. The boy peered out from between them and pointed at the helicopters.

“Beckham! Where the hell’s your rifle?” a voice shouted.

It was Horn. He was jogging down the walkway with Chow by his side. Riley wheeled his chair as fast as he could with his head tucked down, shaggy blonde hair blowing in the wind. Meg hopped after him with a crazed look in her eyes. Fitz came jogging around the corner of Building 1, MK11 slung over his back, panting like he had just run a half-marathon. Apollo darted after the Marine, his ears perked.

They were all headed right for the steps of Building 1. One by one they surrounded Beckham. Horn and Chow hoisted Riley up the stairs, the kid cursing each step. Fitz grabbed Meg’s crutches and Horn turned to help her. Apollo loped up the steps and sat on his hind legs next to Beckham.

“Beckham, you got a plan?” Major Smith asked. He was twisting his wedding ring around his finger. Lieutenant Colonel Jensen’s death had broken him, and Beckham wasn’t even sure he could count on Smith if he did decide to stand his ground.

Kate brushed up against Beckham and grasped his hand in her own. Everyone was there now. They had all been through so much since the outbreak started. He wasn’t going to put them through anything else. If General Johnson had come to arrest him, then so be it.

“When they come for us, you all stand down,” Beckham said. “You were all following
my
orders.”

“Hell no!” Riley protested.

Beckham glared at him. “That’s an order, kid.”

“Boss, we ain’t letting them take you,” Horn added. He whispered something to Kate about his daughters, and pulled the magazine from his gun to check the rounds.

Chow stepped forward, chewing fiercely on a toothpick. “After all we’ve been through, you’re just going to let them take you? Fuck that!”

“I’m with everyone else,” Fitz said from the side of the landing. He shouldered his MK11 and started picking out targets.

“What are you going to do?” Beckham asked, whirling and pointing at the choppers. A platoon of soldiers decked out in tactical armor spilled out of the Blackhawks and Chinook. “Are we going to fight that army? Team Ghost is not what we used to be!”

Chow stopped chewing on his toothpick, and Riley looked toward the ground. Horn was the only one to stand strong. He held Beckham’s gaze, his eyes smoldering with pain.

“I’m sorry, brother,” Beckham said. He reached for the muzzle of Horn’s SAW and slowly lowered it toward the ground. Beckham scanned his other friends. Kate’s eyes remained resilient, and Secretary Ringgold folded her arms across her chest. Meg had her fingers wrapped around the handle of a knife tucked into her pants, and Riley’s face was ripe with anger. Even Ellis had a look of defiance. All of them were still ready to stand for the man who had saved them. He almost choked on the flood of emotions.

“Let me through,” Secretary Ringgold said. She worked her way through the group and stood to Beckham’s left.

When he finally turned back to the tarmac, three dozen soldiers were marching toward Building 1, their weapons sweeping the base.

“Put your weapons on the fucking ground!” one of them yelled.

The Marines and Rangers who had been patrolling Plum Island slowly lowered their rifles.

Regardless of what was about to happen, the sheer amount of force present was oddly beautiful. For a moment, the show of military muscle provided a glimmer of hope they still had a chance to defeat the Variants.

“I’ll handle this,” Ringgold said. She glanced over at Beckham and smiled. “Hell, I’m about to be sworn in as the President of the United States. That better count for something.”

A
ll it takes is all you got.

Garcia tried his best not to blink. He lay in the mud of a construction site, soaked from head to toe, rain beating down on him and washing away thoughts of the past. Water pooled in his ears and in his boots, but he didn’t dare move. He and Stevo had been on the run for...shit, Garcia wasn’t even sure how long. They had barely escaped with their lives from Turner Field the night before. Tank and Thomas were MIA, and there was a pack of Variants hunting the Variant Hunters through Atlanta. The stakes had been raised now that Garcia carried actual video evidence of the grotesque child Variants, something he wasn’t aware of any other team discovering. He had to keep the package secure and get it back to the
GW
Strike Group safely.

The distant howl of a Variant reminded him that wasn’t going to be easy. Goose bumps prickled up and down Garcia’s arms, the fresh tattoo tingling. He tried not to think the worst, but if he made it out of here, he was going to have to ink another cross on his other arm to fit the names of his fallen brothers.

Tank, you son of a bitch. You and Thomas better be out there.

Garcia blinked and slowly rotated his head for a view of the ten-story skeletal building at the south end of the muddy field. A beast clambered across the steel beams on the fifth floor. It stopped and squatted on the metal. Sheets of rain hammered its withered body, washing away the grime on its glistening flesh. This Variant was starving; Garcia could see the ribs protruding from its chest. He avoided its slitted eyes and looked down, his heart pounding.

Although he was covered in mud, Garcia still felt naked. He was in the open. Plunging into this swamp had been a last resort. They would never have made it across the construction zone, though. He flinched at the hiss of static from his earpiece.

“Hotel One, Fox One. Over.”

The transmission was the first good sign he’d heard all morning. It meant Command hadn’t given up on them. They’d been forced to go silent for hours, and had missed two radio checks. A flicker of hope rose where Garcia used to have a heart. He slowly lifted his helmet and watched the Variant until it finally climbed up the metal beams and disappeared into the guts of the structure.

Think, Garcia. You have to use your fucking head.

He took two seconds to manage his breathing and look for an escape. They were east of the stadium and north of Georgia Ave. Martin Street ran perpendicular, and beyond that was a neighborhood of luxury apartments. If they could get there, they might have a chance to ride it out. Then again, he wasn’t sure what they would find inside.

He tilted his head to the west, where a storm drain beckoned him. He didn’t like the idea of going underground, but the tunnel would reduce the likelihood of an ambush from multiple directions. It would also reduce the chances of finding Tank and Thomas. They could still be alive. Although their radio silence meant they were either pinned down, like he was, or else they were dead.

First Daniels and Morgan in the Keys, now Tank and Thomas. Garcia resisted the urge to punch the mud. His men. His friends. The Variant Hunters were slowly being eradicated.