Into the Guns (24 page)

The man hesitated, shrugged, and waved it off. “Sure . . . I'll find another one.” Victoria thanked him and returned to the motorcycle. It started with a roar and carried her away from the campus. Feral dogs had been at work, so there weren't any bodies to be seen. Just widely scattered bones and the occasional empty-eyed skull.

Victoria was no stranger to death, but she had no desire to linger as she went looking for a place to make the necessary call. And when a wide-open soccer field appeared, she rode out to the center of it. A spot well away from tall structures and trees—and one that would give her an 80 percent view of the sky. After parking the bike, she got off and removed the phone from her pack.

The call was encrypted and went through without difficulty. That was a matter of luck in large part but not entirely. The New Order had taken control of all but a few of the country's satellites
a month earlier—and was doing everything in its power to disrupt communications up north. That was difficult to do with any precision, but progress was being made. So telephone, TV, and Internet service were extremely spotty outside of the Confederacy.

Mrs. Walters indicated that Victoria's father wasn't available. All Victoria could do was to leave the set on and wait for him to call back. There was food in her knapsack, and Vic took advantage of the opportunity to eat. She was halfway through an apple when the phone rang. “This is Alpha-Four-Niner-Seven.”

“And this is Six,” her father replied. “How's the boondoggle going? Are you ready to come back yet?”

An image of the funeral pyre blipped through Victoria's mind, but she made no mention of it. “Nope, I'm still having fun. And I have news for you.”

Bo Macintyre listened in silence as Victoria told him what she'd learned. Then he spoke. “Sloan's supposed to be dead. So if he's alive, some very influential people are going to fill their pants. Of course, there is the possibility that the real Sloan
is
dead, and some bozo took his place. Time will tell. Can you send me a copy of the flyer?”

Victoria scanned the piece of paper with a hand wand and sent it off. “Got it,” Bo said. “Good work. Next, I want you to head over to Indianapolis, where, according to other intelligence assets, the so-called patriots are going to convene a Third Continental Congress in two days' time. That will provide you with the perfect opportunity to confirm the news regarding Sloan. Plus you'll be able to determine if the gathering is for real and look for potential assets. All sorts of people will show up for the gathering—and some might prove useful in the future. Don't hesitate to buy some loyalty if you need to.”

The call ended shortly thereafter. There weren't any expressions of affection by either party. That was understood, and something
neither one of them needed to verbalize. Victoria finished the apple, tossed the core away, and put the phone back in the pack.

Then it was time to consult a much-folded road map prior to throwing a leg over the bike and taking off. Indianapolis was about 250 miles away—but her immediate objective was to find gas. Had the citizens of Athens left any behind? Probably, but it would take forever to find it. So the most efficient thing to do was to steal what she needed.

Victoria had already done so on two occasions and had a system. The first step was to leave the city via one of the secondary roads that led north. Then, once clear of Athens, Victoria would find a spot where she could hide.

It took half an hour to find the right spot, park, and shut the engine off. That meant it would take a little longer to get going. But the other choice was to let the motor idle and suck gas. So Victoria sat behind a thicket of young hazelnut trees with her eyes on the road.

There was traffic but not much. And when vehicles did pass by, they were generally pickup trucks loaded with people who were armed. They might be farmworkers or paying passengers. It didn't matter. Attacking such a vehicle would be suicidal.

A full hour and a half passed before a likely-looking car appeared. It was an old VW Bug—and coming her way at a relatively low rate of speed. How many people could be in it? Four at the most. But Victoria was hoping for less.

She waited for the car to pass her position before starting the engine. Then she gave chase. Victoria had to keep her right hand on the throttle, so she chose to approach the passenger side of the Bug and fire left-handed. Unfortunately, that would give the driver an opportunity to sideswipe the BMW and send it flying into the ditch.

As Victoria pulled alongside the car, she saw that an elderly
woman was behind the wheel—while a man who might have been her husband sat in the passenger seat. Vic pointed the Glock at him, waggled the barrel, and waited for the VW to slow. It didn't.

The woman with wispy gray hair put her foot down, and the man brought a sawed-off shotgun up off his lap. He was swinging the weapon around when Vic shot him in the head.

As the man slumped forward, the woman threw the wheel over in a desperate attempt to sideswipe the big motorbike. Victoria braked, the V-dub missed, and ran off into the ditch. The car was slumped to the right, which made it hard for the old lady to push the driver's side door up and open. Did she have the shotgun? Would she use it? Maybe, and maybe not. But why take the chance? Victoria stepped up to the door and fired three shots at it. All efforts to escape the Bug stopped. A peek through the window confirmed what Victoria expected. The woman was dead.

Victoria knew she was supposed to feel something, but she didn't. Collateral damage was an inevitable side effect of war. And war was a natural part of being human. Bo Macintyre had taught her that, and he was correct. She forced herself to focus. How long before some locals arrived on the scene? Five minutes? Ten? There was no way to tell.

Victoria returned to the bike and rode it forward. She stopped next to the Beetle and got off. The fuel-transfer kit was stored in the BMW's right-hand pannier. She ran the hose from the motorcycle's tank to the car's tank and began to pump. The gas gurgled as it began to flow. The process seemed to take forever—but all Victoria could do was stand there and wait.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the BMW's tank was full. Victoria hurried to retrieve the transfer kit and stow it away. The bike started with a reassuring roar, and it wasn't until she was half a mile away that Victoria allowed herself a sigh of relief.

The next hour was spent riding north toward Columbus, Ohio. Then as it began to rain, and the light started to fade, it was time to seek cover. Choosing a place to spend the night was part science and part gut instinct. Victoria knew that any house or outbuilding that looked good to her would look good to everyone else and should be avoided.

But old barns, sheds, and looted strip malls were relatively safe places to hole up. The key was to find a spot where she could take the BMW inside and out of sight. So when Victoria spotted the half-burned house, she was quick to turn off the highway and follow a driveway up to an overgrown yard.

The front door was ajar, which allowed Victoria to bump up over a couple of stairs and ride the BMW into a badly trashed living room, where she killed the engine. The next few minutes were spent checking all of the rooms. They were empty.

In keeping with long-established habits, Victoria went about the process of heating water on her Jetboil. Then she poured some of it into a foil pouch filled with dehydrated mac and cheese before making coffee. Once dinner was over, Victoria cleared a place to lie down.

Rather than sleep on the wooden floor, she made a bed out of funky couch cushions—and laid the supercompact Sparks SP1 sleeping bag on top of it. Then, with her water bottle and the Glock close at hand, it was time to remove her boots and slide in. Victoria didn't expect to sleep. So when she awoke to see filtered daylight coming through the shattered windows, it came as a surprise.

Victoria dreaded leaving the bag, and even though she was fully dressed, the cold air made her shiver. She went outside to pee before returning to the house for breakfast. It consisted of instant oatmeal and a packet of Starbucks instant coffee. That was hard to obtain, and she was eternally on the lookout for it. The combination of the two was enough to fill her stomach and make her feel warmer.

Once everything was packed away, Victoria put her one-piece Thermo suit on and rode the motorcycle out through the front door. The highway was covered with a thin layer of mostly undisturbed slush. Occasional snowflakes twirled down out of the lead-gray sky as she cruised along. Victoria knew there would be icy spots—so she was careful to keep the speed down.

Had conditions been better, it would have been possible to reach Indianapolis in three or four hours. But the snow, plus the need to circumvent cities like Columbus, made the trip last longer. Eventually, Victoria found her way onto I-70 just east of Springfield, where she had to share the freeway with pedestrians, fellow bikers, and the occasional bus.

But traffic was light, and that made for an easy ride. There was no sign of military traffic—and Victoria made a mental note to include that observation in her next report.

There was a lot of interesting graffiti, however—much of which was prominently displayed on overpasses. Most of the messages had an anti-Confederate bent. “Down with the New Odor,” was one of them, along with “United We Stand,” and “Free the South!”

That was interesting because the tags seemed to suggest that, despite the way that the Northerners were squabbling among themselves, they had a shared distaste for the Confederacy. Could Sloan, or the person who was pretending to be Sloan, harness that energy? Victoria figured the answer was yes.

Traffic grew worse after the first hour as hundreds of people poured onto the freeway. Some rode and some were on foot. Judging from the flags they carried, most of Victoria's fellow travelers were patriots—and it didn't take a genius to realize that they were headed for the Third Continental Congress in Indianapolis.

Eventually, the snow stopped, and the temperature rose ten degrees. The procession resembled a parade by then—complete
with a bagpiper, a platoon of Civil War reenactors, and a group of high school cheerleaders on a flatbed truck. So when the time came, all Victoria had to do was follow the herd off the freeway, through the streets, and into the Indiana Convention Center's parking lot. The center's modernistic buildings were situated next to Lucas Oil Stadium, and the lights were on! That was nothing less than a miracle in the energy-starved North.

Victoria chained the BMW to a lamppost and joined the swirling crowd. There were dozens of food vendors, and the air was filled with tantalizing odors. Victoria bought a paper plate loaded with grilled sausage, corn bread, and coleslaw—all of which she wolfed down while watching the people around her.

With a full stomach, and the pack on her back, Victoria followed a group of rowdy teens through a maze of tents and into an area where a variety of military vehicles were parked. The menagerie included Humvees, some Bradleys, and a brace of tanks.

Victoria thought she was looking at an element of the Northern army at first. Then she realized that she was surrounded by mercenary units. They had names like the Night Stalkers, the Wolverines, and the Red Ball Express. And, judging from the gear most of them were wearing, they'd been active-duty soldiers or Marines before the shit hit the fan.

Victoria spent the next half hour visiting individual units and chatting them up. Once she told them that she'd been a major in the army, quite a few of the mercs offered to hire her on the spot. It seemed that untrained wannabes were easy to come by, but veterans weren't. And that gave Victoria an excuse to ask lots of questions.

A picture began to emerge. As civil order disintegrated, and military units were fragmented, some soldiers had gone into business for themselves. And with all manner of bandits roaming the
land, there were plenty of customers. They were small towns mostly, which would hire a unit or combination of units to protect them, or to attack a neighboring community.

But the people camped in the parking lot knew that change was in the air. What if the North managed to restore the federal government? It would need to defend itself against warlords
and
the Confederacy. And the new structure wouldn't be able to rebuild the military overnight. It would take time, giving the mercs an opportunity to cash in. All of which presented Victoria with the perfect chance to assess the players and look for the kind of assets the Confederacy could use.

But where to start? The answer presented itself in the form of an ex–cavalry officer named Captain Ross Olson. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair, a boyishly handsome face, and hazel eyes. Olson had put together a company of scouts. They were equipped with dirt bikes, armed rat rods, and a platoon of M1161 Growlers. The unit was too lightly armed to battle a warlord toe-to-toe—but just right for intelligence gathering and lightning-fast raids. That meant that Olson's clients would be likely to employ other mercenary units as well.

After some verbal foreplay, Victoria began to probe. They were standing next to the bus-sized RV that served Olson as a mobile command post, drinking coffee laced with rum. “So, what's your preference?” she inquired. “Are you rooting for the North or the South?”

Olson smiled. “Some of my folks are from the South, and some are from the North, so we swing both ways. It's about the money so far as we're concerned.”

“That's good to hear,” Victoria said. “There are all sorts of opportunities to be had these days.”

“Such as?”

“Things are going to get complicated soon.” Victoria predicted. “I work for a group of people who would like to establish ongoing relationships with outfits like yours.”

Olson took a sip of coffee. “Can you be more explicit?”

“Sure,” Victoria answered. “What if we paid you a fee each month? A retainer, so to speak. In the meantime, you would be free to work for the North.”