Avenger (The Bugging Out Series Book 6) Read online

  Avenger

  The Bugging Out Series

  Book Six

  Noah Mann

  Copyright

  © 2016 Noah Mann

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events, locations, or situations is coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Thank You

  About The Author

  Part One

  Discontent

  One

  The body washed ashore sometime in the night as snow blew in from an arctic front battering the coast. While a detail was dragging it up from the surf line they spotted another. Then another. And another.

  “Forty,” Sergeant Lorenzen reported just after dawn broke.

  Standing next to me on the beach road, Captain Angela Schiavo nodded at the grim statistic and watched her second in command hustle back down toward the churning water where a dozen residents of Bandon were dragging and stacking the corpses like wood for the winter.

  Death had come to our town again.

  “The storm got them,” I said, looking through the swirling blizzard to the contradiction before us—the violent Pacific. “Out there.”

  “Who are they?” Schiavo wondered, the rhetorical musing spoken without expectation of any accurate answer.

  “If we’ve pulled forty from the water, there’s at least double that we’ll never find.”

  Schiavo didn’t doubt my estimation. The churning sea had already swallowed those who hadn’t remained afloat long enough to be swept ashore.

  “They had a boat,” Schiavo said. “A big one.”

  A hundred or more passengers. Plus supplies. How large the craft needed to be depended much on how far the unlucky souls had traveled, or planned to travel. The unlikely storm, hammering our town for three days now, had dumped six inches of snow, an uncommon occurrence for the coast this far south. The winds, at times, had reached gale force, heaving huge waves that fought the outflowing current of the Coquille River, threatening to undo the repairs only recently completed to the town’s harbor. Boats that had been refloated and salvaged were thrown against their moorings. It wasn’t the first bout of fierce weather we’d been faced with, but we had, so far, come through it relatively unscathed.

  Relatively...

  Storms weren’t the only events we’d weathered. Difficulties, both large and small, had tested us. Struggles. Sickness. Loss.

  I let my gaze settle on Schiavo. On her profile. She stared out at the raging ocean, the icy blow chapping her cheeks. It seemed to me, though, that she was looking beyond the physical world. Beyond the cold, soaking death washing up on our beach. Thinking not of those who’d left this life out there, but of one who had never arrived.

  Six months it had been since the miscarriage. Since she had lost the baby she and Martin had, unexpectedly, planned to welcome into the world. Hardly two months after we’d driven off the Unified Government forces laying siege to our town, Schiavo had fallen ill. At first there was some fear that the virus released by our enemy had returned. Soon, though, what had truly occurred became apparent.

  She’d never expected to be expecting, I recalled her telling me, standing on this very beach, when Bandon was surrounded. But the sudden loss of her child, of their child, had, nonetheless, stolen something from her. From them. A chance at something new. Something good. Possibly the best thing—new, innocent life.

  “If these people made it, then others did,” Schiavo observed.

  Old life. Survivors of the blight. That was what she was referring to. Others had persevered. Struggled. Lived. Maybe even thrived. In death, be it singular or en masse, one could deduce that there was still life to behold. Still hope.

  Hope...

  “But where the hell did they come from?”

  Her question was obvious. But I wondered if it even mattered.

  “Why would they be out there?” Schiavo wondered, looking to me now. “I mean right out there. There’s no decomposition. They had to drown near here. Near us.”

  I knew what she was suggesting with her question—that the victims of the storm being dragged from the water had intended to travel here.

  “We were their destination,” I said.

  Schiavo nodded.

  “Who knows we’re here, Fletch?”

  Before I had a chance to reply, Sergeant Lorenzen approached, something in hand. More than one something. Wallets. In those, our unspoken suspicions were confirmed.

  “These were on three of the male victims,” he said.

  He held them out. Schiavo and I each took one, unfolding the soaked vestiges of the world long gone. Identification and money, both plastic and paper, had once filled the leather and fabric slots within. And, oddly, some still held onto those reminders of their past lives, just as my Elaine still had her FBI credentials.

  And as Neil, my friend, had retained his passport. A memento of his travels. Of the false life he’d led.

  I forced those thoughts down. In the month after his death, his murder, I’d dwelt on all things related to his life, and to mine, where the two intersected. Every inconsistency vexed me. Every half-truth that I berated myself for not recognizing.

  Then, with help, I stopped. I let go.

  ‘You kill him again and again every moment you obsess over what you didn’t know.’

  That was what Elaine had said to me.

  ‘Remember the life he shared with you, not the one he hid.’

  Her words were wise, and following their directive was not easy, but follow them I did. Despite momentary diversions into wonder about this aspect, or that facet, of the unknown world my friend had inhabited as an intelligence operative, the vast majority of my memories of Neil Moore lived on as snippets of our happy times together. High school. Hunting. Fishing. Friendship.

  “San Diego,” Schiavo said. “Arthur Horton.”

  I had the wallet I’d picked open before me, and was seeing what the captain was.

  “David Juarez,” I read. “San Diego address.”

  “This one has a Utah address,” Lorenzen said, showing the wallet he’d retained. “But I remember this name—Luther Lukins.”

  I recalled it, too. It was unique enough, in a lyrically spoken sort of way, that it was imprinted in my memory the first time I’d heard it. In Skagway.

  “They’re from San Diego,” I said.

  The San Diego survivor colony.
I couldn’t recall how many had been rescued in Skagway along with those from Edmonton and Yuma, in addition to our own friends and loved ones from Bandon. The number was in the hundreds. And now, as it appeared, they were gone. Wiped out while seeking safety. While seeking freedom.

  Schiavo looked out into the storm again, as did Lorenzen and I.

  “I imagine we know where the Unified Government forces redeployed after they left us,” she said.

  “They were running,” Lorenzen said.

  “If they were surrounded like we were, the ocean was their only avenue of retreat,” Schiavo agreed.

  “They have Yuma,” I said, recalling our brief contact via radio with that survivor colony that confirmed a takeover by the Unified Government. “If San Diego is gone, that leaves Edmonton.”

  “We’ve had no contact with them,” Lorenzen said. “Mo and Krista have been trying daily.”

  Private ‘Mo not Morris’ Westin, the garrison’s communications specialist, had recently begun receiving relief in those duties from a likely, and unlikely, source. The time Krista had spent with Micah before the boy’s passing, as well as her use of Del’s radio at my Montana refuge, had afforded her an accelerated lesson in the use of the boy’s communication tools, and the computers used to monitor and control them. In the wake of Neil’s death, and her mother’s quiet, stoic grieving for him, the girl had shifted her focus from artistic endeavors to more technical activities to occupy herself. At twelve years old she’d taken on a role, voluntarily, that those twice her age would struggle with.

  “It could just be distance,” I said. “The radio signal, mountains. A lot could go wrong before they ever hear us.”

  With the Ranger Signal long gone, as were its predecessors which had choked the airwaves, communication by radio was possible again. Short range units had been functioning in our town for months. As for what was working elsewhere...

  “No one’s hearing us,” Schiavo said.

  I knew who she meant. Washington. Or Hawaii. The two places she knew that our government, the rightful government, had been functioning in some capacity. Whether that still held true was beyond our ability to know at the moment.

  “Or they’re just not there to respond,” Lorenzen suggested.

  Whatever the reason, we were, as far as any of us could deduce, on our own.

  The radio on Schiavo’s hip beeped, an alert tone indicating that a communication was waiting. She took it in hand and held it close to her face to shield it from the gusting flurries.

  “This is the captain.”

  “Ma’am, is Fletch with you?”

  It was Westin. A usually calm voice when communicating, his tone on the radio now hinted at some urgency, and that made me turn toward the captain and step close, wanting, needing to hear what was being said.

  “He’s right here,” Schiavo reported.

  “Get him to the hospital,” Westin said. “Fast.”

  My heart sank. The sudden fear that I felt was not a solitary experience. Both Schiavo and Lorenzen eyed me with instant worry.

  “What is it?” Schiavo asked.

  “Neighbors just brought Elaine in,” Westin reported. “Her water broke.”

  Two

  “God, no, it hurts!”

  I held Elaine’s hand and let her bear down upon it as another wave of pain, of agony, washed over her.

  “You’re doing fine,” I told her. “You’re doing so great.”

  Just to my left, Commander Clay Genesee sat on a stool between my wife’s splayed legs, stirrups holding them apart. Across from me, her attention shifting between a trio of monitors registering various vital signs, Grace held Elaine’s other hand. I kept looking to her, to my friend’s widow, soaking in her strength and searching for clues as to just how much danger my wife was in.

  The baby wasn’t due for another three weeks. We’d expected that we would have that time to complete preparations for the child whose conception was a surprise, but not a shock. Having a child, starting a family, was a desire we’d talked about, thought on, but never acted on affirmatively. But, like Martin and Angela’s pregnancy, this reality had come in its own time.

  I only hoped that we would not face the heartbreak which they had.

  “I need you to breathe, Elaine,” Genesee said. “Breathe and don’t push.”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  The cry she let out was a mix of pain and compliance as she resisted the overpowering urge to bear down. To get the child out of her. To end the agony.

  “Grace,” Elaine said, looking up to our friend after a deep breath. “Is the baby all right?”

  The baby...

  In the old world we might have known all there was to know about the child we were about to have. Its gender, genetic abnormalities, anticipated weight. On the Rushmore’s first visit to Bandon, the Navy ship had offloaded a collection of medical supplies to accompany Commander Genesee, including medicines and equipment necessary to handle the expected arrivals of new life. We’d had an ultrasound, several, in fact, but the uncooperative child my wife carried had never allowed a proper vantage to determine its sex. So it was just ‘the baby’. Not ‘him’, or ‘her’.

  “The baby is doing fine,” Grace said, looking away from the monitors and focusing on Elaine. “And you’re doing amazing.”

  It might have been the reassurance, or the bolstering compliment, but at that instant Elaine burst into tears. A brief sobbing, both appreciative and fearful.

  “But it’s early...”

  Grace leaned close, still holding my wife’s hand, and fixed a forceful, certain gaze on her.

  “Your baby is a trooper,” Grace assured her. “Remember the ultrasounds?”

  Elaine nodded, the tears stopped now, just remnants on her cheeks.

  “Doctor Genesee said your little one was a bruiser at thirty-two weeks,” Grace reminded her. “Your due date could be a tad off.”

  Again, Elaine nodded, the words calming her, as did the obvious truth they told. We could have gotten pregnant earlier, throwing off the estimate. And the last ultrasound did show a well-developed child, and a sizeable one at that. Her worry, our worry, could be simply unfounded.

  But she could not relax, nor could I, until we both saw our child, and heard it, and held it, and knew that we’d brought a healthy baby into the world. Into this world that needed it so much.

  “Ahhhhhhhh!”

  A sudden wave of pain ended the calming exchange, Elaine squeezing my hand, and Grace’s, with almost painful force.

  “Okay, Elaine,” Genesee said past the half sheet draped over her knees. “One big push when I tell you, okay?”

  “Okay, okay, okay.”

  My wife breathed, fast and focused, wanting to push, fighting the pain, holding back the irresistible urge until the word was given.

  “Now, Elaine,” Genesee said. “A big push. A big one.”

  Elaine curled forward, her face twisted, Grace and I supporting her as she bore down, muscles contracting, an almost pitiful, exhausted cry slipping past her lips. It was the only sound in the room for a moment until we heard another cry. A tiny, strong, wonderful cry.

  “Ahhhhhh,” Elaine half sighed, half screamed, collapsing back against the raised head of the bed. Grace pulled her hand free of Elaine’s grip and stepped close to Genesee, taking a sterile scissors from a tray of waiting instruments.

  “You did it,” I said, leaning close and planting a kiss on Elaine’s glistening forehead. “You’re amazing.”

  She smiled through tears of exhausted joy, then tried to lift herself to see down between her splayed legs. Something small there was wailing. Our child. Announcing its presence. Out of view.

  “Is everything okay?” Elaine asked, eager but not worried. “Is he...she...okay?”

  There was a metallic snip out of view, the newborn wailing before, during, and after the cutting of its umbilical cord. Its last hard connection to the wonderful mother who had carried it had been severed.


  It...

  I couldn’t continue thinking of our child in that generic way.

  “Clay, what is it?”

  He heard my question, but did not immediately answer. His hands worked, in concert with Grace’s, manipulating, tying, suctioning, cleaning, injecting, and finally wrapping our child out of view. Then, he rose slowly from the stool on which he’d sat, a white bundle in hand. He passed it to Grace, and she came up the side of the birthing bed, placing the tiny new life upon Elaine’s chest.

  “Say hello to your daughter,” Genesee said, allowing a thin but very true smile.

  “Daughter...”

  The word came out mostly as breath, but not because of any surprise, or disappointment. It was simply that we now had more than a ‘child’. We had a daughter. A little girl.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Elaine said, bringing her close to her face and planting a soft kiss on our girl’s forehead.

  I did the same, my cheeks pressed to my wife’s.

  “A little girl,” Elaine said, angling her head to look at me. “A girl.”

  “That’s what all the parts tell me,” Genesee said.

  I looked up to the doctor. To the man who’d come to Bandon not wanting to be in Bandon. A man whose tenure had alternated between contentious and resigned. He’d been aloof. He’d been suspect.

  But he’d slowly become one of us. Within, he longed for the old world. I knew this, though he never talked of the time before the blight tore civilization asunder and defiled the life he’d known. Not when probed directly, nor through innocent conversation. Others, too, had held close what they’d been through. What they lost. People I’d come to know, and to respect. Burke Stovich was one. And I was beginning to suspect that, whether he could imagine it or not, Commander Clay Genesee was another.

  “We’ll get you into a room in a few minutes,” Genesee said, glancing to Grace.

  “It’s already set up,” she told him.

  Genesee gave a small nod, that smile still showing, and left the treatment room which had been turned into a labor and delivery suite.

  “I’m so happy for you both,” Grace said.