The McClane Apocalypse Book 4 (38 page)

Doc is going over plans with Derek while Sue
stands patiently beside her husband with their three children.
Reagan is arguing with John. That’s nothing new. She always gets
tense and snippy before he goes out on a run. It’s how she deals
with it. Anger and stress are her go-to emotions. Whatever works
for them, Simon supposes. John allows her to go on another moment
before he snatches her into his arms and hugs her
tightly.

“Simon,” Sam whispers.

She tugs his sleeve, which causes him to pull
away from Paige. He kisses his sister’s freckled forehead and turns
away from her. He tries not to notice that her eyes are bloodshot
and puffy. Talia comes over to comfort Paige and to lead her toward
the front stairs of the house where Gavin awaits them.

“Yeah?” he asks Sam. Instead of answering, she
takes his hand in hers and pulls him to the side of the house where
it is more secluded and private. “What is it?”

“Have your angel?” she inquires with huge,
hopeful eyes.

He offers a pained grin. There are so many
ways he could answer that. But instead, he goes with, “Sure. I’ve
got it.”

She blows out a breath she’d
obviously
been
holding. She’s
wearing a short red jacket to ward off the evening’s chill in the
air. It creates a stark contrast
against
her
pale skin, dark
lips
and black
hair.

He and the others have changed into black or
very dark clothing. He is dressed in black cargo pants, a
long-sleeved, dark navy blue thermal
henley
and black combat boots. His auburn hair is covered with a black
stocking cap. None of them wear coats. Adrenaline will keep them
warm, and a bulky coat could get in the way. His rifle rests
against his back. Two extra mags fill his cargo pockets. A 9 mm
Beretta sits comfortably on his hip. Another two magazines full of
ammo for it reside in his back pocket. His shotgun is in the bed of
the truck. He’s ready. He’s always ready. He may not like killing
people, but over the years he’s learned the necessity of the kill
or be killed mentality. Normally once he’s in the beginning phases
of a
fight,
all he has to do is allow his mind
to wander back to the time when he and Sam had been with his aunt’s
group. It’s enough to quiet his nerves, steady his hand and turn
him into the cold-blooded killer he needs to be. He only wishes
that he’d known what he does now back when he’d first found Sam
hiding in her home.

He joined the other men on the farm today for
a
three-mile
run
after
lunch
to prepare for tonight. They always work out. When
they aren’t laboring on the farm chores, they all work out
together. John says it’s important to stay in top shape. It’s
nothing for them to pump out a few hundred push-ups on any given
day along with hiking, running and chin-ups in the barn. Simon’s
glad he’s become accustomed to their
difficult
forms of exercise over the years. The men had even found free
weights that are now
in
the top of the cattle
barn for working out. When they’d put him and Cory through their
modified version of boot camp, he thought he’d blow a lung. Now
he’s used to hard work, and his body has toned up, filled out and
added bulk muscle which makes him better able to handle most of
what comes their way.

Without asking permission, Simon reaches under
Sam’s short jacket to find the pistol on her hip. He takes it out
of its holster, checks to make sure
a round
awaits her in the chamber, secures the safety again and replaces it
back into the holster. He even takes a second to button the snap
again. He tries not to notice the gentle curve of her hip through
her slim-fitting blue-jeans or the narrowness of her small
waist.

“Don’t take this off at all, not even for a
second,” he orders softly, trying not to frown so hard. It’s
difficult to do so.

“I won’t. I promise,” she says
softly.

When Simon finally meets her eyes, he wishes
he hadn’t left the crowd of the family making their final goodbyes.
He deals with Sam better in crowds. Her long black lashes nearly
touch her eyebrows when she looks up at him.

“Don’t take yours off, either,” she teases
half-heartedly.

Her delicate brows knit together with
stress.

“Don’t worry, Sam,” he tells her.

“How can I not worry?” Sam returns his
question with one of her own. “You’re my best friend,
Simon.”

She’s staring so intently at him that Simon
flinches. Her knowing, intelligent eyes regard him as if she can
read every thought on his mind, every emotion he tries to hide,
every secret he harbors. Simon worries that sometimes the shroud of
guilt he wears where Sam is concerned will be visible like a smudge
of black paint on a white canvas.

“Come back,” she says with a tad more
grit.

Then, without preamble or much apparent
forethought, Sam leans up on tiptoe and places a soft kiss
against
his closed mouth. It lasts less than
two full seconds, but she closes her
eyes-
or
does a long blink. She immediately rocks back down onto her heels.
What the heck? He’s too startled to do anything but stand there
scowling down at her as if she’s gone mad. Then she grabs his hand
again and practically drags him along after her until they are
rejoined with the family.

They are leaving
early
so
that they can pick up more men from
town
and
from the condo community where Paul and his son reside. They have
always helped out when they can and have proven trustworthy and
steady in a gunfight.

Everyone loads into the vehicles, but nobody
speaks. Everyone is silent and reflecting on the mission. He knows
they are thinking about where they will take up
position
, how they will handle their orders that Derek’s
laid out, what they’ll do if it goes south. It’s always like this
before they head out on some dangerous raid or another.

Simon’s mind is buzzing with questions,
however. Why had Sam just done that? Had she just missed his cheek?
That was highly unacceptable behavior. He’ll have to correct her on
it when he gets home tonight. If he gets
home
tonight
.

Chapter Eighteen

Cory

“Son of a bitch!” Cory swears under
his breath.

They shot his fucking
horse! And now Jet is freaked out beneath him and trying hard to
stay upright. Cory vaults from his back, landing on his feet while
returning fire and pulling the horse to the safety of the brick
building’s wall. It’s
dusk,
the sun setting
rapidly
which he’ll use to his
advantage.

“Easy, boy,” he murmurs. “Easy.”

He backs him down the
street a few meters and ties him to a water line coming out of the
wall where he flashes his penlight into the wound. Looks like a
possible .38 shot size. He’s bleeding pretty good and blowing
through his nose in pain and fear. He’s even doing his agitated
prancing in place, although Cory can tell it
pains
him to do so. It
infuriates Cory. However, the stallion is still on his feet. He’s a
warrior through and through. All this horse needs
is
armor befitting
that of a knight’s brave steed. He grabs his medical pouch from his
saddle bag and rips open a gauze patch, pressing down the sticky
edges
against
the stallion’s dark coat. He has one eye on the road and alley
behind him so as not to take on more gunfire while checking his
horse. None comes, which is fortuitous for whoever was shooting at
him.

He’d
been
riding down the street in
a small suburb of Columbus called Powell. It’s a fairly crowded
metropolis, Columbus. He’d arrived in town yesterday and found the
downtown district and the Ohio State University area too crowded
for his taste. There were sections that people had reclaimed and
were working together to survive. Some places were gated off with
fencing, others with vehicles and debris. All of the exclusive
areas were advertised as such with plywood signs tacked up that
suggested people should “keep out” or “stay out.” One such sector
even had razor wire at the top of a chain link fence. Cory
didn’t
need to be told
twice. If they were keeping to themselves, then so
be it. He hadn’t run into trouble with anyone. Until
now.

He is positioned around the
corner of a former mattress retailer. It looks identical to the one
in Clarksville that they’d
looted
a few years ago. Doc had
suggested it since so many children
are
on the farm, and the family seemed
to be
steadily
expanding. They’d also taken a crib mattress for their
neighbors.

Cory grabs two extra mags from his
saddlebag and slings his rifle behind his shoulder. Next he grabs
his nightvision headgear and pulls it on. He clicks off the safety
on his sidearm. He pats Jet’s neck one last time.

“Stay,” he orders Damn Dog. Her
response is a soft mewl, but Cory’s sure she’ll stay put. She seems
to listen well and has turned out to be a good travel mate. She
lowers onto her stomach next to the gelding. He sprints in the
opposite direction of the threat.

The dog had also alerted
him the other day when he’d
been
camped out in the woods below the
city. A group of nomads was moving through. Cory hadn’t troubled
himself with them because it had only been a band of families,
harmless enough as far as he was concerned. They were noisy once
they got closer to his camp, but he’d hidden himself and the dog
and horse by then. They were moving on foot mostly but had four
horses and two gray donkeys which carried two small children each.
Their belongings were packed and tied onto the horses. He hopes
they get to wherever the hell they thought they were
going.

For tonight, though, he
knows that the shots came from across the four lane road that holds
scattered and
abandoned
and a few torched vehicles and a motorcycle on its
side. He’ll flank them quickly and assess the situation. He may not
have gone after or bothered with these people, whoever it is that
had shot at him. That was before they’d
shot
his horse.

Moving surreptitiously
around three different buildings including a taco restaurant, a
lighting supply center, and a smoothie bar, which is enshrouded
almost
completely
with an entanglement of dark vines, Cory comes
out
behind
the area where the three shots originated. The green haze of
his night vision capabilities makes it easy to spot a scurry of
movement inside of a former 24-hour gym. Most of the two story tall
glass windows are gone, broken and shattered. A mini-van is
permanently attached to the gym, bumper to the cement block façade
of the building, having crashed there long ago. One of the men
decides to leave the safe cover of the building to pursue Cory. He
is of average height and build, which makes him smaller than Cory.
The man steps cautiously out the front door, which hangs on its
hinges. He fast walks in the direction they’d fired shots and hit
Cory’s stallion. Not smart.

Cory takes a breath and
shoots his rifle. The man goes down on his knees and lets out a
piercing scream. Cory hits him again in the back. He’s not going to
get back up from that one. The silencer on the end of his rifle has
subdued the sound slightly. Unfortunately, his muzzle flash has
given his position away, so he sprints across the street and ducks
behind the service pump of an abandoned gas station. Two bullets
ping into the side of the smoothie bar, chipping away at brick and
mortar and poison ivy leaves and vines. They
obviously
hadn’t seen him move
to his new spot. A flashlight gives away the second perp as he
swings it frantically left and right trying to
spot
him. Also not
smart.

Cory takes aim again
and
…
pop. A
clean head-shot on number
two,
and the man slumps back into the
dark recesses of the gym below the front knee-high, cut block wall
of the building. Panic quickly sets in on the group in the gym.
There is shouting, the sounds of scampering
feet,
things being run into or
knocked over. A few men even boldly shout expletives out the front
window.

Cory can make out the
entire building, front to back
exit
. There is an alley for deliveries
to the strip mall next to the gym. He has the perfect position to
take out anyone else who comes out. He waits
patiently,
but nothing
happens. Seeing an opportunity, Cory creeps to the rear of the
building and tries the door there. Bingo. Unsecured and unlocked.
Also not too smart. These people have the tactical aptitude of a
toddler.

Moving stealthily through
the back of the gym, passing the doors for the men’s and
women’s
locker
rooms
, Cory peeks around the corner and
doesn’t see anyone. Suddenly out of nowhere one of the men appears
less than a few feet from him to his left. He takes him out quickly
enough, but it alerts the rest of them to his presence in their
building. He ducks behind a short wall of loose weights and a
Nautilus machine for leg exercises, fully expecting a barrage of
bullets. It doesn’t come. They are panicking and scattering again
maybe a hundred feet or so away toward the front of the building. A
single shot, which sounds like a .38, hits the wall very far to his
left. He believes it to have been fired out of frustration. They
are yelling angrily, threatening to take everything he owns and
kill him.