After a mile of driving on the forest road, a thought popped into Christian’s head, and he regarded the agent. “What’s the typical inventory for a tactical loadout these days?”
“Pardon me?”
“I was once FPS. My principal station was the Stephenson Depot Emergency Ops facility. I did a stint on the mountain in Area B before my transfer to Camp Bravo, where my position fell under DHS Security.”
August twisted to get a better look at Christian’s face, straining to do so, evidence of pain showing in the squints of his eyes.
“Four men, me and three guys I grew up with, got jobs at FEMA before the shit hit the fan,” Christian went on. “The positions were genuine, but our reasons for being there were fraudulent. We were to infiltrate as deep as we could, gather intel, and report back to our group.” He paused. “Not long after our transfers to Bravo, our covers were outed somehow, and we almost didn’t make it out of there. On the final leg of our escape, we drove into a dead end, and the retrieval team pursuing us blew up the truck we were in. The two with me were killed, and I barely made it out alive. Whatever they hit us with turned that Yukon into a hunk of shredded metal. Any idea what it could have been?”
August’s brow furrowed. “That was you?”
Christian nodded. “Yeah.”
“So you’re the one. The defector who got away. Small world,” August mused. “I remember that day. The whole plantation went on full-scale, goatfucked red alert. All our pins, passwords, log-ins and biometrics got scrambled and scrubbed. Security protocols and heuristics were forced to undergo a thorough overhaul. One of your collaborators was executed on the spot, wasn’t he? Single shot to the back of the head, I believe.”
“I can do without the recap.”
“I’ll digress, then,” August said. “A grenade, if it’s placed right, can tear a truck up pretty good. But that takes MLB pitcher skills, and no one at Bravo has an arm like that. In all probability they hit you with a shoulder-fired AT4. Every vehicle gets outfitted with at least one. It’s standard outside-the-wire complement.”
Christian shook his head, bemused. “What else is considered standard?”
“There really isn’t a standard per se. Armament category and yield, amount and type of provisions are contingent on the mission and the size of the task force.”
“Indulge me.”
“Sure. Why not? A good conversation makes the ride seem faster,” August began. “Each man is assigned an automatic rifle and his choice of sidearm, ten magazines for each and enough rounds to fill them. Add to that six flashbangs, six frag grenades, level three-plus armor plates and a carrier, knee and elbow pads, ballistic helmet, etcetera. The menu is augmented up or down to meet operational guidelines. Each vehicle gets a twelve-gauge, Remington 870 or Mossberg 590 variety, loaded with buckshot, slugs or sabot specialty rounds, a case of ammunition for every caliber on board, one or two shoulder-fired anti-armor weapons, and four to six M18 Claymores or bricks of C-4. And detonators.”
“C-4?”
“It’s probably the most useful thing we carry. You can burn or blow up just about anything with the stuff,” commented August. “Do you think she’s crazy enough to follow through with what she’s planning?”
Christian pushed harder on the accelerator. “Crazy? I don’t know, maybe. Determined? Without question. She’s bent on this now, that much is obvious.”
“Do you know any way of talking her out of it?”
Christian slowly shook his head.
“You might want to find a way, and fast. She’s going to get herself killed. You know that, right?”
Christian didn’t answer.
“Of course you do. Do you think she knows that?” asked August.
“She knows. But I don’t think it matters to her.”
“Why wouldn’t it matter?”
“Because Lauren’s different,” Christian opened with a lurid sigh. “I’ve seen people stare death in the face before. I’ve done it myself, and it’s not something I want to repeat. No matter how tough you are, how much training you’ve had, or how brave you think you are, nothing prepares you for that moment. Lauren is the only person I’ve ever seen stare death in the face without a single dash of fear; and I’m talking absolute zero. Cold as an Antarctic ice ridge. It’s as if she’s okay with it or welcomes it. Like she’s got some pact with death itself, and so long as she doesn’t fear it, she gets to be invincible.”
August tried hard to widen his weary eyes. “No one’s invincible. And having no fear of death won’t keep it at bay. Eventually it comes for everyone. She has access to enough firepower now to do some real damage, which she could potentially bring to bear, but only if she’s smart about it and can find some way to stay alive. One screwup though, one false move, and they will shred her without thinking twice.”
Chapter 39
The cabin
Trout Run Valley
Tuesday, March 15th
Alan awoke at the break of dawn, rubbed his eyes open, and found that he was in bed alone. Confused as to why, he rose, got dressed, and went about his usual early morning routine.
As he made his way to the hall, the smell of coffee brewing lured him toward the kitchen in a trance, where the sight of his wife sitting inertly at the table gave him a start. Michelle was fully dressed, but in the same pants and hoodie she’d worn the day before, and her boots were on and laced, giving off the impression that she’d either slept in her clothes or hadn’t bothered to change. Steam wafted from a hot beverage mug on the table before her, safeguarded by her fingertips.
Hearing his approach, she didn’t move a muscle, only stared out the window into the yard and past. “No one has seen her,” she said in a monotone, “not a one. Not since Saturday. Today is Tuesday.”
Alan eyed her through semi-blurred vision, inching forward gingerly. “Who all have you asked?”
“Everyone.”
“You did all that this morning already?”
“No, only some of
