Edge of Valor (Edge of Collapse, #7)

by Kyla Stone

“How’s Quinn?” Liam asked in a low voice, slanting his chin at Milo. “She’s doing better.” Hannah chewed her lower lip. “She thought killing Sutter would fix something inside her. In the end, she realized it wouldn’t. She’s talking about it. That’s a good thing. Her and Milo, though…it’s like she’s afraid to be around him. I’m not sure what to do.”

He watched them in return, his nerves raw, every muscle tensed. His stomach knotted in trepidation. It mattered to him. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment. How bitter it would be when they turned on him. Et tu, Brute?

“The General claims he represents Lansing. That Governor Duffield sent him. Yet when we rebuffed his soldiers, he retaliated by murdering two of our own. Two innocent civilians. It is our belief that no legitimate member of the United States military would commit such a heinous act, no matter the uniform he wears or the authority he claims. General Sinclair is the same as Rosamond and Sutter, or worse.” Corinne’s gaze slipped to Hannah. “We’ve dealt with a tyrant before. It took us too long to recognize the signs. We were complacent until it was too late. We paid a dear price for it, too. But we’ve learned from that mistake, and we won’t make it again.”

Corinne paused. “Fall Creek refuses to submit to his demands.” Liam gaped at them. “You know what this means. What you’re saying.” “We’re letting the deadline pass,” Annette said. “We’re not giving you up.” “You’re one of us, Liam,” Dave said. “No way we’re sending you to your death. Not gonna happen.” Liam’s face flushed. “This isn’t the militia. The General boasts hundreds of soldiers. We’re outnumbered. Outgunned. We’ll lose. We can’t stand—” “We know the odds,” Corrine said in a firm voice. “If it comes to it, we’re going to fight. Whatever you need us to do to prepare further, we’ll do it. All of us. Together.”

“We know they have a Black Hawk. And a .50 caliber machine gun will rip through a regular building like paper. Some National Guard regiments are trained in mortars as well.” “You think the military will use a weapon like that on civilians?” Dave asked, incredulous. “If they believe we’re domestic terrorists and pose a real and present threat to this country, then yes,” Liam said. “Their intel is erroneous, intentionally manipulated for one man’s gain, but they don’t know that. They’re trained to follow orders.” Annette blanched. “How do we defend against that?” “You don’t,” Liam said. “You run. Or you hide. But you better have a damned good hiding spot.”

“We need to be more than ready,” Liam said. “We need to strike first.” The council members stared at him in shock, faces blank. “What?” Dave sputtered. “With what army?” “We don’t wait for the General to make his next move. That gives him too much power. It makes us reactive instead of proactive. We go after him first. Not a full-frontal assault—we wouldn’t last ten minutes. Guerilla warfare. A coordinated sneak attack on weapons, fuel, and supplies. We’ll only have one shot. He won’t be expecting it. It’s our best—probably only—chance to take him by surprise.”

The last vestiges of his sickness and lethargy had disappeared. With Molly’s home remedies, Evelyn’s medical expertise, and Hannah’s generous donation of breast milk, L.J. had transformed into a healthy, cheerful baby. Liam longed to be with them, not in this stinking hovel.

Liam eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t trust this man. He loathed him. And yet, he required him. Liam had experience running case agents, or confidential informants. The most reliable CIs did it for God or country. Less reliable were paid operatives. Because their allegiance was to money, they were easier to turn if discovered. What was Luther’s motivation? To look himself in the eye in the mirror? That wouldn’t last long. His motivation was his father. And saving his own skin.

“I thought you were here to redeem yourself.” “I am.” “Then this is how you do it.” Luther wiped and folded the square of aluminum with great care and handed it to Liam. At least he was neat. “And if the General catches me?” “Don’t let him catch you.” “But if—” “Then I hope you’ve made things right with Jesus. I won’t be able to help you.”

Liam’s gaze softened. He understood the role of a handler—he also understood the danger he was sending Luther into. If Luther were discovered, the General would kill him, after torturing him for information. “I know this is a huge ask.”

He wasn’t facing an army. He didn’t need to worry about drones, air raids, artillery, or missiles. If their enemy had these capabilities, he’d go to the field and limit exposure from air and drone observation and EMCON output. Of course, garrisoning at the hotel left them open to surveillance, intelligence gathering, and sniper attacks or car bombings. Opposing forces could sneak closer than the General liked.

Gibbs shut the door behind him and stepped into the room. He folded his hands behind his back. “Still no response from Fall Creek, sir.” The General cursed. Fall Creek’s twenty-four-hour deadline had come and gone. They had not offered a broken and subdued Liam Coleman in cuffs like a sacrificial lamb.

“Two things. First, a man named James Luther is here to see you. Claims he was Mattias Sutter’s righthand man and the only surviving member of the militia stationed in Fall Creek. Says he’s got information you’d like to hear.” The General frowned. A fortunate turn of events, if it were true. Sutter had mentioned a man named Luther. With Sutter gone, he needed eyes and ears on Fall Creek. “I’ll meet with him. The second thing?” “Bruce caught two guardsmen attempting to sneak out of the service entrance. Deserters. Claimed they wanted to get back home to take care of their families.” Outrage flared through him. No one deserted his army. No one. Whatever desertion issues were plaguing the governor wouldn’t be a problem for his troops—he’d make sure of it.

The door slammed behind them as Baxter scurried to catch up, clutching the brown leather notebook with archival-quality paper in his long slender fingers. He’d chosen Baxter’s flowery but exacting script to dictate the events of America’s fall—and eventual revival. Whether that was ten years from now, or fifty, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. The victors wrote history. The General intended to be one of them. This book—this version of history—would become his legacy. He was certain of it.

The General drew his pistol. In a loud, commanding voice, he repeated his spiel about the court martial, times of war, the necessity of difficult acts to preserve the nation, yada yada. Beside him, Baxter recorded his every word. He allowed himself to wax eloquent, knowing the two guardsmen were his primary audience, not these poor souls before him. They begged, cried, and made pathetic excuses, but the General barely heard them. He didn’t relish this. He knew nothing of them, and didn’t want to, either. Neither did he feel guilt over meting out their punishment. Without swift and severe retaliation, more soldiers would disappear. As far as the General was concerned, the National Guard consisted of warm bodies with guns. Pawns to direct on the chessboard as needed.

Without hesitating, the General raised his Sig Sauer M18, aimed, and fired twice in quick succession. The concussive bangs exploded in his eardrums. From short range, the rounds struck their targets, drilling straight between the eyes. The deserters’ heads snapped back. Their bodies went limp.

He inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder and scanned the kitchen, the rumble of his empty stomach intensifying. This place could cook a meal fit for a king a hundred times over. With just a little electricity. With on-demand deliveries from across the world—Malaysia, China, Mexico. All gone now. What a waste.

After yesterday’s rain, the weather had cleared. The sun hung like a yellow ball in the cobalt sky. Green shoots poked up everywhere. The cool breeze tickled her cheeks.

“We’re not your enemy, Flynn. We’re on your side. Now, what happened?” Finally, he relented. “Last night, we received a dozen refugees fleeing north along US-12 from South Bend. Two were gravely injured from gunshot wounds, and the third died before we could get her to our doctor.” Hannah’s stomach plummeted. “What?” “They overran the entire city. A force of thousands, they claimed. They came rolling in with military trucks and military weapons, dressed like soldiers. They killed mostly men. Took the women and kids. Just took ‘em.”

“They shot one guy in the shoulder when he tried to fight back. Forced him to his knees and made him watch while they took his two teenage daughters, tied ‘em up, tossed ‘em in their truck and drove away. Even injured, he still fought. They shot him in the leg and left him to die like an animal.” Despite the sunny day, an icy chill zipped down her spine. She imagined the scene in her mind’s eye—a father desperate to save his children. The terror and panic, the horror of it.

She took a deep breath. “It’s the Syndicate.” “Who?” “An army of criminals from Chicago. They’re led by Alexander Poe, the kingpin of a Chicago mob who set his sights on controlling Illinois. Apparently, he wants the entire Midwest, too.”

Spring was in the air, and despite the looming threats, people were emerging from their winter shelters, stepping blinking into the sunshine. Everyone dirtier, skinnier, and tougher, but alive. There was life here. Where there was life, there was hope.

She’d field-dressed the deer herself, just like Gramps had taught her, saving the rump for the jerky, which had been both her and Gramps’ favorite. Ghost’s too, apparently. He kept sniffing around while she applied the black pepper and a bit of Hannah’s pink Himalayan salt. He was so tall, he could easily reach across the table. At every opportunity, he snatched a piece, gobbling it in a single swallow. If they weren’t careful, the dog would eat the whole deer himself. Quinn had offered him the organs in a big bowl, which he’d slopped up messily with joyous grunts and snorts. She’d never seen a dog slobber so much.

Once upon a time, Quinn had romanticized the lone survivalist making it on her own in a tricked-out cabin deep in the woods. Reality was far different. There were aspects of survival she’d never considered until she was forced to live them. The smells. The itchy scalp. The blisters from handwashing your own clothes. The constant gnawing ache of hunger. The fear and stress.

Gran nodded to herself. “Good, good. And birth control?” Quinn balked. “What?” Gran shot her a look and waggled her gnarled eyebrows. “I may be a church-going woman, but I’m neither blind nor senile. Girls are going to get into trouble, and there won’t be a thing I can say to stop it. So—” Quinn sputtered, her face hot. “I’m not—!” “I’ve seen how that Marshall boy looks at you. Figure it won’t be too long before you notice and start looking back.”

Gran talked louder. “Be glad I thought ahead and stocked these for you. Otherwise, you’d be stuck making condoms out of pig intestines.” Quinn about died right there. “Gran!” Gran gave a casual shrug. “What? Blood and guts don’t get to you, but the birds and bees do?”

Quinn set her jaw. A stubborn, boorish part of her wanted to argue just to argue, but she pushed her frustration down. “I have no intention of—” Gran’s wrinkled face hardened. “You don’t always choose it, girl.” Chagrined, Quinn’s mouth clamped shut. She knew exactly what Gran meant. She thought of the horror stories coming out of Illinois; the Syndicate taking over FEMA camps and small towns, stealing and selling girls and women. Her stomach curdled.

Her charcoal portraits of Noah and baby Charlotte remained half-finished on her dresser. She hadn’t drawn or painted a thing since Noah died. She hadn’t wanted to. It was like something inside her had shriveled and died. Even now, after everything, she wasn’t sure how to get it back.

Poe wore expensive name brand suits and drank fine wines. He finagled underhanded financial deals and cut-throat business propositions in elegant restaurants, on high-brow golf courses, and during elite dinner cruises with lobbyists, politicians, and high-ranking city officials. He smiled and laughed like other men, but unlike other men, his eyes were empty. He was utterly ruthless, with no family, friends, or loyalties. Ambitious and greedy. Not unlike the General himself. They both desired the whole world on a platter. Poe had had the manpower—his Syndicate formed a wide network of thugs, gangsters, and criminals he’d built over two decades ruling the underbelly of crime in Chicago. But he couldn’t do real damage without upgrading his weaponry.

The Syndicate thugs carried long guns—mostly military-issued M4s—and wore BDUs, the name tapes and patches removed from their uniforms. They looked like soldiers, intentionally preying upon a civilian’s natural inclination to respect and obey American armed forces. That, too, had been the General’s idea. It had worked to spectacular effect. Poe had spread like a cancer throughout the cities and suburbs, and then through the rural towns, sweeping through FEMA camps and exploiting their government-provided resources to feed his growing army. Whatever he didn’t need, he often burned or killed, leaving large swaths of death and devastation in his wake. And fear.

She took a single staggering step backward. No, no, no… And then it hit her. The memory flooded her mind—earlier that evening, after she’d nursed Charlotte, Evelyn had offered to take the baby for the night to allow Hannah some restful sleep. In her weary, sleep-deprived state, she’d completely forgotten. Relieved, she sagged against the crib to catch her breath. Her pulse roared in her ears. For a moment, she’d feared the worst… Ghost whined again.

A flurry of white erupted. Ghost flung himself at the shadow, growling, snarling, jaws snapping with savage fury. One hundred and forty pounds of solid mass barreled into human flesh, knocking the assailant backward into the crib. Two forms writhing, grappling with each other. A crash and a thud. The assailant shrieked. The sound cut off abruptly by a wet crunch. Wrenching and tearing. Mangled cries. Ghost crouched atop the fallen figure, ripping his throat from his body.

He twisted away from her, cursing and gasping. He crawled, scrabbling along the floor in search of his weapon. It fell when he’d dropped her daughter. She kicked it away. He looked up at her, expression twisted in pain and hatred. Coal-black eyes, narrow cheekbones, grizzled beard. “You little b—” Hannah planted her feet and aimed between his eyes. “No one messes with my family!”

Ghost clambered off the corpse. His hind leg faltered; he yelped in pain. He must have reinjured himself in the attack's exertion. Undaunted, he hobbled across the room toward Hannah. Crouched protectively over Charlotte’s tiny form, Ghost glared at Evelyn. A menacing growl rumbled from his throat. His ears flattened, his jowls pulled back from his wet red fangs. Evelyn froze, one hand pressed to Charlotte’s chest, Ghost’s jaws inches from her wrist. In a heartbeat, he could snap her bones to splinters. The Great Pyrenees was huge in the small dark room, all teeth and claws, his thick fur spattered with blood. He looked wild, half-crazed with bloodlust, like a savage beast from fairy tales, a demon wolf from the underworld.

Hannah stretched out her bad hand and placed it on Ghost’s wet muzzle. His panting breath hot on her palm. Her fingers brushed razor-sharp teeth. Hannah felt no fear. Not from Ghost. Never from Ghost. He was her dog, and she was his person. “Good boy, good boy.” Gently, she closed his jaws with her crooked fingers. “Evelyn’s a friend. You know that, boy. You’re worked up from protecting your people. I get it.” She stroked the top of his snout. Gradually, his growls subsided. “You did everything right.” Ghost’s tense, bunched muscles relaxed. His ears pricked as he responded to Hannah’s soothing voice.

Ghost plopped onto his haunches and lowered his head to Charlotte. He nosed her tiny scrunched face, then tenderly licked her tears, whining in concern. Charlotte wept fiercely, but she sensed the big dog above her and reached for him eagerly. She adored Ghost as much as he adored her. Her tiny hands batted at his bloodied muzzle. The jaws that had ripped out a man’s throat were as harmless to Charlotte as one of her teething toys.

After nursing Charlotte back to sleep, Hannah busied herself in the kitchen, cleaning Ghost with a bucket of fire-warmed water and tending to his injury. Evelyn and Travis had wrapped the mangled corpse in a tarp and dragged it to the woods behind the property. No one wanted to waste good firewood on burning a body, but they couldn’t leave it for the feral dogs to tear up, either. Nothing like discovering a severed hand on your back porch with your morning coffee. As if anyone still had coffee.

Jaw clenched, he crouched before the hostile. Bishop and Reynoso stood behind him, watching with hard expressions. Liam tapped the flat blade of the Gerber against his open palm, the edge glinting. “There’s only one way this ends. How much suffering you endure is up to you.” “Go to hell!” The hostile still had fire in him, but he was fading. His skin was ashen, the circles beneath his eyes like smudges of charcoal.

Evelyn had dressed the hostile’s wounds enough to slow the bleeding. She’d used strips cut from a sheet rather than precious bandages, antiseptic, or antibiotics. “It is my job to heal. To give life, not to take it.” She’d met Liam with a level gaze. “That being said, in times of crisis, we perform triage and focus on the ones we can save. There’s nothing I can do to save this one. Do you understand?” Liam had nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Her voice lowered. Her eyes sparked with anger—and steel. “You, however, are not bound by that oath.” Liam estimated the hostile had an hour before it was lights out. He was already dead. He knew it, too.

Bishop was an honorable man. A better man than Liam. This moment might haunt his nightmares later, but he could live with that. It had to be done to protect the people he loved.

Shaken, Liam sat back. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. His mind whirled, cycling through the possibilities, the ramifications, what this meant for them, for Fall Creek and for Hannah. The General knew. Rosamond hadn’t shown a shred of interest regarding her blood ties to her granddaughter. Evidently, her father felt differently.

She stared at the fire. The flickering flames danced and blurred. “I didn’t miss, Liam. I was scared to death, but I didn’t miss.” Not like before. She remembered the night of the blizzard, trapped in the house with Pike. The confrontation in the hallway when she could’ve shot him dead but missed, her hands shaking with panic, her bad hand unusable. How much had changed. She had changed. She was stronger. Still afraid, but fear wasn’t a lack of courage. True courage was action in the face of fear. And she’d acted.

Hannah rubbed her crooked fingers. “The evil in that family. Do you think it started with Rosamond’s father? What if it’s a genetic curse passed from generation to generation?” “We all have choices,” Liam reminded her. “No one is born evil.” “What if Charlotte has it?” “She doesn’t. She won’t. You’re raising her with love, kindness, everything good.”

She nodded. He was close, so close she could inhale the smell of him, earthy and masculine. He lifted one hand and brushed her hair back from her face. “I will protect her, I promise you. I will lay down my life for hers.” He hesitated, his eyes dark and bottomless. “I would die for you, Hannah.” An electric charge shivered through her. The way he was looking at her. The intensity in those gray-blue eyes. The question waiting there for her to answer. It felt like the boundaries of their relationship had abruptly shifted. She felt disoriented, dizzy. The rain fell harder, battering the roof. More thunder pealed. The fear was there. But so was something else, something stronger.

Liam was a soldier. A tough, battle-scarred warrior. And yet butterflies swarmed in his belly, sparks flaring beneath his skin at her touch. Together, they had traveled two hundred miles of hostile winter terrain. They’d escaped a madman. They’d made it to Fall Creek and forged a home amid savagery and chaos.

“I’m no good at this stuff. I—I love Charlotte like she was my own flesh and blood. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I was hers. And Milo, I care for him, too. He’s smart and brave. And you…” He cleared his throat. “Hannah…” He’d never felt so nervous and yet so sure in his life. He felt suddenly foolish, way out of his element, but he blundered forward. “I want to be with you. I want to be where you are.”

With great tenderness, he tucked his hand beneath her chin and tipped her face to his. Liam couldn’t help himself. He kissed her again. Hannah’s lips parted. She kissed him back. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. He kissed her hungrily, deeply. He buried his hands in her hair, breathed in the scent of her. Felt her heart beating hard against his own ribs. He wasn’t a poet or an orator or one prone to religious experiences, but he’d give anything in the world to remain in this moment forever. Here in this place, here with her. With this beautiful woman he didn’t deserve, but still loved with every beat of his heart. It was real. The thing he’d yearned for, longed for, all these lonely years.

St. Joseph, or St. Joe as everyone local called it, had once been a thriving beachfront city with a population of ten thousand before the Collapse. Established in the 1820s, the buildings were historic, constructed of vintage brick and steel. The businesses and shops had been raided months ago. Most people had migrated to the outskirts, where there were trees for firewood, yards for planting gardens, and farms with crops and livestock. As they crept through the barren city, they moved from cover point to cover point. Reynoso held a handmade tape measure-and-PVC pipe antenna, searching for the enemy’s location.

Though the General’s mercenaries were fair game, Liam would not willingly kill an American serviceman or woman. It was the only way he could live with himself. By the expressions on his team’s faces, they felt the same.

Stacking up behind the pillar, they moved out, scanning the rooftops, Bishop going left, Liam right, Bishop low, Liam high, with Reynoso guarding their six. Their every movement was choreographed in perfect concert, three bodies acting as one efficient, lethal organism. His heart pounded, the adrenaline rush pouring through his system, amping every sense. He was in his element. He could hardly admit it, even to himself. How much he missed this part. Working together as a team. Belonging to a brotherhood. Knowing with one hundred percent certainty that your partner had your six, no matter what.