Chapter 10
Margaret felt as if she were trapped in a bad dream. The series of events she had been through in the last twelve years was something one would see in a James Bond movie; the fall of her beloved country, a hostile takeover, a desperate race against the clock to escape a mad man, a shoot-out, evading the authorities, and her hideout being stormed by spooks.
Before the war, Margaret led a relatively quiet life. She had her health, a loving husband, and three wonderful children. She ran a business, a quaint little diner in the middle of Pennsylvania. She was short and thin, unremarkable in appearance, but made up for it with her saucy style and cheeky tongue.
Now here she was on the run from the law and kneeling over an unconscious Bill, a man she had known half her life. Panicking and still reeling from the raid, Margaret took deep breaths to calm her nerves. She opened his shirt and began to perform CPR.
"Stay with me, Bill," she grunted, as she conducted thirty chest compressions. She then opened his mouth and tilted his head back. "After all these years, you finally get what you want, you old pervert," she said. Pinching his nose, she put her mouth to his and exhaled twice. When nothing happened, she repeated thirty more chest compressions. "Darn you, Tex," she muttered; tears streaming down her face. "You're the most stubborn bastard I know. Come on now. Don't die on me."
After Margaret repeated the cycle three more times and nothing happened, she ran to her room and quickly plundered through her belongings for the other cell phone she had purchased from the store. She dumped her bags on the bed and the green disposable device fell to the floor. She picked it up and violently tore at the plastic wrapping. When she couldn't get it open, Margaret swore and grabbed a screwdriver in her nightstand drawer. With shaky hands, she cut the wrapping with the tip of the screwdriver, opened it, and followed the instructions to turn it on.
She then dial *873, the new national emergency service. But then it dawned on her that she was about to expose her location to the GRA. Margaret and Bill were wanted in connection with John. But what else could she do? He had lost so much blood, he was unconscious. Was she supposed to just let him die? It wasn't as if she knew anyone in town. She had no choice but to call an ambulance. Just as she was about to press talk, she heard a male voice in the living room.
"Hello?"
Margaret froze.
"Anyone here? I'm sorry to just walk in, but the door was wide open."
Margaret's heart raced. She didn't recognize the man's voice. Was he a friend of Miles? Had the men that invaded the cabin come back to clean house? Was it the town sheriff? She thought about hiding in the closet until he was gone but decided against it. She needed to give Bill a fighting chance to survive and maybe whoever was out there would be willing to help. She picked up the screwdriver and stuck it in her pocket.
"Hello?" came the man's voice again. "I have an appointment. I'm sorry I'm late. I got lost and... Oh my God! Sir, are you ok? Can you hear me?"
Margaret cautiously made her way down the hall. Keeping a tight grip on the screwdriver in her pocket, she peered around the corner and saw a tall thin Caucasian man in a three-piece tan suit, kneeling over Bill.
"Who are you?" she said.
The man whirled around and stood to his feet. "Um, hello," he said, clearly shaken. "Uh, why is this man lying on the floor? Is he... dead?"
"He's fine," Margaret said defensively. "Again, who are you?"
"Right. Sorry. My name is Dylan, with Milner Insurance. I received a call earlier today about someone wanting to cash in on an insurance policy. And you are?”
Margaret didn't respond. She wasn't sure of what to make of this man. He sure didn't look like a government agent spy, but what did he know about Sasha Hemmingway’s insurance policy?
"What are you talking about?" she said. "Who called you?"
"I spoke to a John Hemingway. Is he your husband?"
If Margaret had to guess, Khalif Miles had impersonated John. He had called the insurance agent to the cabin to make the exchange for the cash.
Dylan turned and observed Bill. "Is this him? Because I have to tell you, he doesn't look so good. Did something happen? Did he try to harm you or something?"
Margaret glanced at Bill's Smith and Wesson 45 on his hip. "He's alive but barely."
"Are you sure? There's blood everywhere? I mean you did a pretty good job elevating his head and cleaning his wound but... What happened?"
Margaret guessed Dylan to be in his early thirties. He was balding and wore dark brown glasses. Momentarily satisfied that he wasn't a spook, she came over to Bill and checked his pulse.
"I need your help, Dylan? My friend needs medical attention."
"Sure," Dylan said, pulling out his phone. "I'll call an ambulance."
Margaret grabbed him by his arm. "No. Please. Don't do that."
Dylan frowned. "Why not?"
"Because... Because... Well, look at him. We can't afford to wait for the ambulance. He needs help now. Where's your nearest pharmacy?"
"Pharmacy? Ma'am this man needs to get to a hospital now or he will bleed out."
"We can't afford to take that risk; no law enforcement or hospitals."
Dylan eyed her suspiciously. "Ma'am, I don't know who you are or what your involvement is in this, but I'm not going to be a part of this. I'm calling JKF."
Margaret had to think fast. If she allowed this man to call the Justice Keeper Forces, she'd be in jail by midnight. She was an accomplice; the getaway driver in a shootout at a checkpoint. She couldn't take that chance; especially not knowing what happened to John and Claire. Panicking, she reached for Bill's 45 and pointed it at the insurance agent.
"Put down the phone, Dylan," she barked.
"Whoa," the young man cried. He ducked and fell to the ground. "Wait, please. Don't shoot me. I have a family."
"Ok, well if you don't do what I say-
"No, no. Please, just let me go. I won't say a word; I swear. Don't hurt me."
"Hey! Relax. I'm not gonna' hurt you if you do what I tell you. By the way, how did you know about me cleaning his wounds and elevating his head?"
"My wife's a registered nurse."
"Good. Ok, this is what we're gonna' do. We have to carry him to your car."
"And go where?"
"You said your wife is a registered nurse, right?"
Dylan's eyes widened and he shook his head furiously. "Oh no, please. That is a bad idea; a very bad idea."
"It's the only option I got right now. We're taking my friend to your house so your wife can fix him up."
"Ma'am, I beg you. Listen to me. I can't do that to her. She will freak out. I finally kicked my gambling habit, and we just got back together after being separated for almost a year. Please don't do this to me."
Margaret clicked the gun. "Well looks like you don't have a choice, now do you? Let's go."
***
Fleeting images of the invasion in Pittsburgh raced through Claire's subconscious. Memories of burning buildings, falling debris, panicked civilians running and trampling over one another, the sounds of explosions, gunfire, and of Rebel American militia shouting through bullhorns, desperate to defend their crumbling strongholds made her writhe with anguish in her sleep.
“This way,” Claire heard a Caucasian man in a suit say to her as they through an abandoned high school.
“Watch out!” she heard Rae, a woman who was Sasha Hemingway's second in command when they were protecting their neighborhood yell. "The roof is caving! Get back!"
Claire watched in horror the roof groan and fall, crushing some of her neighbors. The open sky revealed thousands of paratroopers dropping from large C130 planes. The young woman stood mesmerized by the sight. The unthinkable was finally happening. America was falling and she was witnessing it.
The dream sequence flashed forward to Claire and Margaret on the street, desperately attempting to escape gunfire from an Apache Helicopter. Luckily for them, the night sky was lit up with fire and smoke, making it hard for the chopper to locate them.
"Get down!” a heavyset Turkish man, bleeding from the forehead said as the group of about thirty ran into a small church and hid behind the pews. He whipped an AR Fifteen over his shoulder and looked out the door. “Ok! I’m going to take these bastards down.”
“Are you crazy?” Rae barked to him. “You think that thing is going to take down a warbird armed with Boeing M230 chain guns and Longbow Hellfire air-to-surface missiles? You wouldn’t even put a dent in it.”
“We can’t just do nothing,” the man replied.
“You’ll give away our location, you idiot!” Margaret cried out.
“I’m not going to die in a church,” the man shouted. "I don’t believe in your God.”
"No!” Margaret yelled as the man opened the door and aimed his rifle. “Get down, you fool! You’ll kill us all.”
"Allahu Akbar!” the man screamed and opened fire on the Apache bird circling the sky.
The thwock-thwock-thwock of the whirring blades drew near to the church. Claire's heart melted with fear when she heard the terrifying sound of the Helicopter's M230 began to spin.
"Everybody find cover!" Rae shouted and ducked behind the pulpit.
Bullets ripped the man apart and he was dead before he hit the ground. The chopper sprayed the sanctuary and the lights flickered out. Screams of terror filled the room as windows shattered and large chandeliers fell from the ceiling, crushing several more of her friends.
When the chopper had passed, Rae ordered everyone to follow her through a door behind the pulpit. Several people climbed over Claire, but she clung to the bottom of the pew, trembling.
“CW!" Margaret called out to her. “Where are you?”
Claire was so frightened, she couldn’t speak.
“CW,” Rae said hysterically. “Wake up! We have to move now.”
The helicopter returned and shined its spotlight into the church.
“Come on, CW," Margaret screamed. "Wake up! Hurry before they shoot again.” Then strangely, Margaret's voice was replaced by that of a man’s.
"Wake up!” came the familiar voice of Khalif Miles. “Wake up, Claire!”
The petrified woman gasped and shot up from her slumber. Miles stood over her shaking her.
“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s me. Wake up. I need your help.”
Claire let out a scream and kicked him. “What are you doing?" she hollered. “Get off me!"
Miles backed away. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Still zip-tied at the hands, Claire climbed away from him and rested against a wall.
“It’s alright,” Miles said soothingly. “Just calm down, okay?” He put out his hands which too were zip-tied. “See? I can’t do anything. Just relax."
“You did all but rape me and you want me to just relax?” Claire replied, boiling with rage.
“Well, technically you did give me your consent. But that’s neither here nor there. Right now, we are in danger. If you want to get out of here in one piece, then we’re going to have to help each other.”
“I don’t want anything from you, you bastard. Stay away from me.” Claire glanced around the large room.
"Where’s my father?”
“I don’t know. The men that took us put him on a chopper. That’s the last I saw before I lost consciousness.”
"What is this place?"
"I don’t know,” Miles said. “Tiled floor caked with dry mud, blacked-out windows, beams attached to chains hanging from the ceiling; if I had to guess, I’d say a meatpacking plant used as some kind of black site. Those fading light bulbs hanging from the beams are a nice touch, though. It gives it that interrogation vibe, don’t you think?”
Claire rolled to her knees and attempted to stand, but became lightheaded and stumbled. “Hey!” she belted when Miles attempted to help her. “I said stay away from me.”
“Let me guess,” Miles said. “Dizziness, shortness of breath; little sweat beads starting to form on your skin. It ain’t the moist air. They drugged us with Ketamine. It’s a sedative they use to-
“I know what Ketamine is,” Claire snapped as she struggled to stand. "I am a doctor.”
Miles chortled. “Yeah. I know were a hotshot resident in Pittsburgh, but that ain’t going to help you in here. Whether you want my help or not, I’m the only hope you-
“Wait,” Claire said. She stepped closer to Miles and gaped at him. "How did you know about my residency?”
Miles cocked his head. “Oh, that's right. Your parents never talked about me, did they? I guess I can’t blame your dad. Some things are left better for the dead I suppose."
“Oh my God,” Claire whispered. "I knew I had seen your face before. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out where. Who are you?”
Miles smirked at her. "I'm a ghost from your parents' past. Just let it go. Right now, we need to focus.”
“How do I know you aren’t behind this? How do I know you’re not trying to isolate me and trick me?”
Miles inched closer to her. “Trick you about what? I don’t need to trick you, CW I-
“No!” Claire shouted to him. “Don’t you dare. Only my family calls me by that name. You? You’re a sociopath. This is all you and the Alliance. Tell me where my father is."
“Listen to yourself. They attacked me too. Ok? Those men are not GRA. Somehow, they triangulated your location when John used that burner phone. They must have known I was watching your social media page. They hacked into your account and posted a phonetic alphabet code on your page. I assumed you were attempting to send a message to your Filipino boy toy. It was a genius move. Kill two birds with one stone. They collect on your old man’s bounty and a GRA agent. It’s a good payday."
“And let me guess. You don’t have any idea who they were right?”
“No, but it sounds like John did. I heard him refer to the old dude as Mathis.”
“Mathis?” Claire said. Her hairs stood on end.
Miles narrowed his eyes at her. “Yeah. You know who he is, don't you?"
“My father worked for him. They call themselves the Horsemen of Justice Operations.”
Miles quietly repeated the name and dropped his head. “Crap.”
“Don't tell me you know who they are. If you do tell me. We need to know what we're up against.”
“The Horsemen have been a huge thorn in the side of the Alliance for years. They’ve taken out some of our top guys, stole and copied our best weapons specs, and planted spies in our camps. They’re the real deal. And if they were willing to abduct the daughter of the man they once knew as their best agent, then that can’t be good for any of us.”
Miles made perfect sense, but Claire still didn’t trust him. This man had wreaked havoc in her life and tried to rape her. She wasn’t willing to put anything past him. Still, even if Miles knew who the Horsemen were there would be no way he could know the name of a paranoid spook like Mathis unless he was telling the truth.
Just then, the door burst open and four men with guns came into the room.
"Well, well," one of them said. "Looks like our guests of honor are awake and started the party without us. You know I-
“On the floor, now!" One of the others, a tall, thin Caucasian man interrupted. "Do it now! Move!"
The first man dropped his head and placed his hands on his hips, apparently annoyed at being cut off.
The screaming man jumped at Claire to get back and ordered her to get on the floor. Still weak from the Ketamine, she flinched and fell to the floor.
“On your stomach!” he yelled.
Claire wondered if she was still dreaming. She didn’t know what to make of the situation, but she couldn’t seem to comprehend his orders.
“Hey,” Miles protested. "Leave her alone."
The man turned slugged him in the mouth with the stock of his gun. Miles slumped against the wall and crumbled to the floor.
"You're in my wheelhouse now, boy!" he yelled. He turned to see Claire still on her knees and grabbed her around her throat.
"I told you on your stomach! Did you hear me?" He proceeded to wrap his arm around her neck and put all his weight on top of her.
Claire squirmed and clawed at the floor, digging into the mud.
"Stop resisting!" he shouted in her ear.
"Chase!” the first man said as two more guys entered. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" the man on top of Claire said. "Establishing command."
"First of all, you're an idiot,” the man replied. "Secondly, I'm in charge of the prisoners, not you. Third, does she look like a hostile to you? She’s scared to death. Get off her.”
“First of all, Phil,” Chase said, releasing Claire. “Does your one on one hostage rule book mention anything about blurting out a person’s name in front of the captive? Secondly, you are an idiot, and third, hostiles come in every shape and size.”
Phil, shined a flashlight in Claire’s face. “Yow!” he said. “You ain’t lying about that. Hey there, cutie. He turned to Miles. You’re a lucky man, you know that? Get him up,” he said to the other two men. "Ray wants a mugshot."
"Why does he want to run him through facial recognition software?” Chase said. “That takes the fun out of getting it out of him ourselves.”
“Who knows what that psycho is up to this time? Let’s just get it done.” The men pulled a bleeding Miles to his knees and snapped a picture with their phone. They then carried him out of the room. Phil turned and glanced at Claire.
"Your boyfriend is a killer and a traitor to the United States of America. You do know that right?"
Claire coughed and struggled to catch her breath. "He’s not my boyfriend. He’s crazy. He tried to rape me."
"Don’t worry. He'll get what’s coming to him. You might want to cover your ears." He turned to walk away and then stopped and turned back to her. "Then again you might want to listen and learn. You're next. You’re going to hear a lot of begging and screaming for us to make it stop. And we don’t until we get what we want." With that, the man left the room and locked the door.
***
"How much further, Dylan?" Margaret called out to him from the back seat. Bill's heavy frame laid across the seat with her head in his lap.
The wiry young man peered at her through his rear-view mirror. "We're almost there."
"You said that six minutes," Margaret replied. "My friend's pulse is getting weaker."
"We'd be there by now if you had allowed me to take the main road," Dylan contested.
"And I told you no. I have my reasons."
"But I thought you were trying to save your friend. Route 70 is just ahead. We can get on the exchange and cut our trip by four minutes. Not unless you want him to bleed out on my seat."
"With the way you are driving, he just might. If anything happens to him, I’m holding you personally responsible."
Margaret’s response drew the ire of Dylan and he momentarily found his courage.
"Look here, lady," he said. "I’m not responsible for what happened between you and your friend. If you cared about him, you'd take my advice and get him to a hospital instead of forcing me to ask my wife to patch him up."
"Boy, you sure got a lot of mouth for someone who has a gun in their back."
"Well excuse me for trying to do the right thing."
Margaret pointed Bill's forty-five at Dylan's head. "I might be an old woman, but I won’t hesitate to shoot you in the head. Like I said, if anything happens to him, then you and I are going to have serious problems. Now shut up and step on it, Grandpa."
After about seven more minutes, Dylan turned into a large property with a one-story home on a hill.
"Why do you live so far back in the woods? You don’t strike me as the outdoorsy type. You know what? Never mind. Call your wife and let her know we’re here."
Dylan phoned his wife and instructed her to open the front door.
“Honey, I already told you I don’t have time to explain right now. Please tell me you have everything ready. This guy’s at death’s door… For the last time, we can’t call an ambulance. That’s not an option… Because we can’t… I told you she’s an old friend… I will make this up to you. I swear.”
“Is anyone else home but your wife?” Margaret asked when Dylan hung up the phone. “I don’t like surprises."
The man's jaw tightened and he stared ahead.
“Dylan, he’s fading fast," Margaret said. "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just want my friend to live."
"And what if she can't save him? What if he doesn't make it?"
"Just do the best you can,” Margaret said and opened the door. “Who else is in your home?"
"Just my kids. I have two boys; fourteen and nine.”
“Good. As far as anyone is concerned, we’re just old gambling buddies. You were on your way home from work and I called you in a panic. We’re going to need your older son’s help to get him in the house. Hurry!”
Dylan and his son, a tall lanky kid with auburn short hair struggled to carry a two-hundred-pound unconscious Bill into the house. A youngish looking petite Caucasian woman sporting green sweats waited in her living room behind a gurney. The look on her face told Margaret how furious she was at this intrusion.
“Are you, Angel?” Margaret asked.
“Yeah,” the woman said dismissively as her son and husband laid Bill on the gurney. “What happened?”
“He was stabbed,” Dylan said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Ok,” Angel grumbled. “I have to make sure he’s not in Hemorrhagic shock.”
“What does that mean?” Margaret said.
“It could mean any number of things,” Dylan responded. “He could slip into a coma, his organs could fail, or-
“Dylan,” Angel interrupted, masking her annoyance with a diplomatic tone. “Will you please get me some cotton swabs?”
“Sure,” Dylan said. “But we’ve already stopped the bleeding. Maybe we can call…” He stopped mid-sentence when Angel shot him a look that could kill. The young man cleared his throat and slinked away.
“How long has he been unconscious?” Angel said, peeling back Bill’s eyelids and shining a small flashlight into his eyes.
“From about the time I found him until now, about seventeen minutes,” Margaret said. “Can you save him?”
She had grossly over-estimated Dylan’s wife’s readiness to help. Angel had asked questions about the nature of the stab wound and Margaret's suspicious glares and dismissive replies had unnerved her.
“Why did you bring him here?” Angel said, attaching an iv bag to Bill’s arm. “He needs real medical attention, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m severely understaffed.”
“Please. I had nowhere else to go. You are his only hope.”
“If you want to save this man, he needs to be in a hospital.
“And I already told you that’s not an option right now.”
The woman placed a hand on her hip. “Well, what do you expect me to do?”
“You’re a nurse! Figure it out.”
“Who am I? God? This man has lost a lot of blood and last time I checked I’m not running a blood bank.”
“He’s dying!” Margaret shouted, tears streaming down her cheek. “I’m asking you nicely for the last time to help us or else.”
Angel narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “And what if I say no? What are you going to do about it?”
Dylan’s eyes stretched and he stepped up to calm his wife, but she brushed him away.
“Who do you think you are?” Angel barked to Margaret. “You barge into my home at this time of the night, making demands, and I don’t even know your name. Your friend needs a blood transfusion.”
“And I’m his blood type. You can take my blood. Just help us.” When Angel didn't respond, Margaret turned to Dylan. “Ok, I tried being nice. But now we’re going to do things my way.”
“Is that why you keep reaching in your purse?” Angel asked. “That’s the third time you’ve caressed the barrel of that 45.”
Margaret’s eyes widened and she squeezed the handle of the Smith and Western.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Angel said. “You’re not the only one packing, hon, and believe me. I can draw quicker than you can think.”
Margaret hesitated and glanced at Dylan, who shook his head and shielded his 9-year old son. Suddenly, Angel pulled what appeared to be Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol from her waist and pointed it at Margaret.
The older woman put up her hands and backed away. “Wait a minute, doll. Think about it. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
Angel chortled. “Doll? Don’t let the trophy housewife look fool you. I served my country and will defend my house at all costs.” She clicked her gun. “So why don’t you take your friend and get the hell out of here before I give you something much worse than a stab wound?”
“Easy, sugar,” Margaret said. “At the risk of getting shot, I know a thing or two about the military's mantra. That man on the gurney would never leave anyone behind.”
“Wait,” Dylan chimed in. “This guy is a vet?”
“He was a sergeant in the United States Army until he was injured back in '04.”
Angel’s eyes momentarily softened. “How do I know you’re not just trying to guilt me into helping him?” she said.
“Pull up his right sleeve. You’ll find a tattoo on his upper arm.”
Dylan rolled up Bill’s sleeve and studied the tattoo. “Honey, she’s right. This ink is legit.”
But Angel didn't move. She kept her weapon trained on Margaret and glanced at Bill’s arm and then back at her. “What kind of tattoo is it?”
“I beg your pardon?” Margaret said.
“Angel, what are you doing?” Dylan said. “Put the gun down.”
“You used my love for my country to try and guilt me,” she told Margaret. “So, either you’re telling the truth, or you’re full of it. And if you are a liar, I will hold you here and call JKF to arrest you for whatever sick thing you’ve done to this man. Now tell me the description of the tattoo and what it says under it.”
“It’s an Eagle and U.S. Rifle Army Tattoo. Under it, the name of his division; 36th Infantry Division Airborne.”
Angel leered at Margaret for a moment and then returned her VP9 to her back pocket. “Dylan, get Haseeb on the phone. Tell him to get over here as quickly as he can.”
“Are you sure?” Dylan said. “It’s Friday night and you know how he-
“I don’t care. Tell him to climb off whatever aspiring supermodel he found in a bar and get over here now. And tell him to bring some catheters, about ten collection bags, 2 packs of 250 ml, 4 packs of 350 ml and 4 packs of 450 ml.”
“What does that mean?" Margaret said. "You’ll help us?”
“We don’t leave anyone behind,” Angel said.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”
Angel removed her jacket and began opening Bill’s shirt. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ll do the best I can, but by the time my partner gets here, it could be too late."
“There’s got to be something I can do to help him until he does,” Margaret protested.
“Come over here. I don’t have time to look for my iv stand so you’ll have to hold this bag. It’s a saline solution. It’ll keep him hydrated until we can prepare for a blood transfusion.”
Margaret nodded and put her purse on a chair near her.
"So, where did you serve?”
“3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, 7th Regiment. I was stationed at the Combat Center in Twentynine Palms, CA in 2022 until the Alliance attacked the Combat Center.”
“Oh, my goodness. Was anyone hurt?”
Angel’s eyes watered but she said nothing. “Elevate the bag so that the saline can drip faster."
“And he’ll be alright?” Margaret said, taking the saline solution from Angel.
"Assuming Haseeb cares enough to get here before his organs shut down, it’ll still be a long shot. But we have to try.”
ns 15.158.61.6da2
