Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 39
“You don’t need to scream,” Legion said calmly. He was squatting in front of the man, who was handcuffed to the pipes under a deep sink in the shop’s greasy utility room. They had left the man on the cold, concrete floor for several hours since the club commandeered him, his wife, and their food and radio gear. “The sooner you accept the new reality, the sooner you’ll be able to live a functional life again.”
The middle-aged balding man just glared at Legion in a mixture of fear and anger, not saying anything. He winced and gave a sub-conscious glance at his cuffed arm, which had grown numb hours earlier.
Legion caught the glance. “Let’s not go taking crazy pills,” he said, shutting down any notion of release. “What’s your name?” Silence and lip trembling. After a quick moment, “Alright. You’ll come around. You see—you’re ours, now. It’s real simple. You’ll be our radio-guy, and in exchange—we’ll protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection!” the man screamed in rage.
This caused Trip and Hoosier, who were standing near the door to the room, to bust out laughing. “Obviously not!” Hoosier said sarcastically.
Legion ignored the commentary but was smirking at it while he looked at the captured man. He stood up. “Sorry, Mitch, my knees just aren’t what they used to be,” he said stretching. The man’s eyes grew wide. He recognized his own wallet as Legion pulled it off a shelf and started pulling cards out of it. He tossed them on the floor but stopped when he found the portrait of Mitch Witt and his wife. “Nice!” he said, flipping the picture over to see if anything was on the back.
This made the man start to cry. “Please don’t!” he pled.
“Well, that’s up to you, ain’t it, Mitch?” Legion instructed. “See…you’re gonna cooperate…and be fed and protected…and this will buy—Allison?” he said, squinting as he read the back of the picture. “Yes, Allison. This will buy Allison’s safety.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Right?”
“Y-yes,” the man stammered through tears and the type of bad adrenaline that immense fear brings.
Legion turned to Hoosier. “Get ‘im a blanket, would ya? Floor’s gotta be cold.” He turned, smiling, back to his new slave. “It seems we’ve had a breakthrough, Mitch. Atta boy! I’m gonna get you some chow, and in a while, you’ll get to go set up your new radio shack in the attic.” Legion turned and started to leave as Hoosier was returning with a blanket. “Get him some soup, too,” he ordered.
“C-can I see my wife?” the man hollered to Legion’s back.
“Baby steps, Mitch,” Legion replied without stopping as he and Trip left the man in Hoosier’s care. It’s your own fault for advertising yourself to me with all those damn antennas.
They were transiting through the tipped over racks of parts and tools back toward the door that led into the clubhouse. “Get him up in the attic as soon as Sweet-T and the others have the new generators wired up and moved all the radio junk up there.”
Trip nodded. “The families are going to see ‘im when we drag ‘im up to the attic,” he pointed out to his boss.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” Legion acknowledged. “I’m sure most of them are fully aware of the new situation already. I mean—how many fires did Weasel and his ol’ lady have to move through to get here?”
“True,” Trip said. “But we should know what we’re going to do when someone’s ol’ lady or kid starts to mouth off.”
Legion stopped at the door and turned to his big Enforcer as he caught up. “Simple. Club first. Everyone knows that,” he said, pausing. “If his family has an issue with how we provide, they can leave. But if any brother tries to leave, ‘out bad’ rules will be in effect.”
“Agreed,” Trip said. “But it would still be a good idea to have all the officers on board with this before it happens,” he advised. He changed the topic. “And we’ll probably need to get a few more houses when the other chapters and support clubs start trickling in.”
“Yep, been thinking ‘bout that, too,” Legion agreed. And about how we’re going to get Sticky off that island, he didn’t say.
“Contact,” Conner Moore mumbled to Earl. The former Ranger was watching his buddy’s back, scanning in all directions. The thirty-nine-year-old divorcee was thinking of his kids in Montana—thankful for the first time in his life that they weren’t around.
Conner had jogged all the way from West Seattle to Earl’s Des Moines house with only two small breaks. He knew after the big one that his buddy would wait for him. He “Ranger-ed Up” like he did when he was in the Army, thankful he’d quit smoking five years previously. When he arrived a few hours earlier, Earl was in disbelief at the picture of the devastation that Conner painted. After a nap, he joined Earl on one last preparatory detail. He had no intention of trying to get to Tacoma. One look at the dark fist in the sky told him his life was tethered to his Army-brother’s for the foreseeable future.
“One male, one female, approaching from the PCH,” he said, referring to the Pacific Coast Highway to the east. The two men were topping off every jug and water bottle they could fit into their pull-cart. They were at Safeway just a couple of blocks from Earl’s house. Earl knew the big commercial structure would still have plenty of water pressure left in its plumbing and that he could access the outside spigot with his little sillcock key.
“Let me know if I need to stop,” Earl said. He knew Conner’s experience and fully trusted him to be scanning for threats, but he didn’t want to stop draining water from the building. I want to get back and keep preparing for the late-night departure.
“What’s up, guys?” they heard the female say as they approached.
“Hey,” Conner said in a voice that was a half-octave lower than normal. The natural comedian wanted to be all-business with his voice. He continued to scan in all directions one last time, lest these two be the distraction for the real threat. Despite the recent weather, his jacket was unzipped and ready to provide quick access to his holster.
“Could we possibly purchase or trade something for water?” the pretty but disheveled female asked.
Conner moved around Earl and the cart to have a better position in front of his partner. “Is it just the two of you?” he asked bluntly. He could see the girl’s wheels spinning behind her eyes. Both were in dirty but nice clothes and had luggage, hers being a duffel bag.
“Yes,” she said.
Conner did one last scan in all directions, moving his eyes in sectors and looking for anything that seemed like an ambush. “Looks clear,” he said to Earl. “I think they’re alone.”
Might as well get rid of these two, Earl thought as he shut off the spigot and pulled the key out. He turned and faced Carmen Martinez and Stuart Schwartz.
He looked Carmen and Schwartz over for a good ten seconds before saying anything. “Alright. Get your bottles out.” He pulled the sillcock key back out of his pocket and inserted it back onto the recessed valve-stem in the wall fitting.
“That’s it?” he asked when the lady handed him a pair of the small disposable water bottles. He was all business and his serious tone shocked her.
The man piped up, trying to help his partner. “Look, sir, we don’t want any trouble. We’re just thirsty. We don’t have much to offer…”
“First off,” Earl replied, “I was an NCO. Don’t ever call me sir again. Secondly, I wasn’t scoffing at you. Sorry if that’s how it sounded. That’s just not a lot of container.” He paused for a second, looking back and forth at the odd couple. “Where are you two headed?”
“Olympia,” Carmen said. It was obvious to Earl she was lying.
“Olympia,” Earl repeated incredulously. We’re done, he thought. Move along. “Yeah. Okay. Olympia. Good luck,” he said, as he turned around to fill his own jug again.
“Wait,” she exclaimed. “Okay… Look, we just don’t know you guys. Alright?” She appeared and sounded sincere.
“Lady, if we wanted anything you have, it would already be ours,” Conner said. “But…we get it. You can’t be too careful. Go wait by the corner while we talk.” After the pair had moved to the corner of the building, he kept his eyes scanning while he addressed Earl quietly. “Thoughts?”
Earl had never been a very religious man, preferring to go fly-fishing on Sunday mornings over listening to lectures on morality from flawed men. But as the world had continued to digress in the years prior to the hammer falling, he had started reading his Bible again. As he aged, he found himself yearning for answers. He knew there was no way the universe was random. Choosing to believe there was a loving God, he knew the top two Commandments were to love God and to love one’s neighbors as he loved himself.
“Let’s hook ‘em up. Soon the world will be full of a-holes. Let’s try to keep the non-a-holes alive, if we can.” Lord, I hope you remember this deed on my Judgement Day…
Conner waved the pair back over. “Tell you what,” he said. “We know you two aren’t your average scumbags. We’re willing to sell you a water-filtering straw and four one-liter sports-bottles, filled, for a fair price. Say… sixty bucks?”
“Sixty bucks!” Schwartz started.
“Deal. Pay him,” Carmen stated to Schwartz. “But I want our little bottles filled, too,” she said to Conner.
“Agreed,” he replied. He detected an annoyed look on the man’s face.
“May I ask why you’re being so generous?” Schwartz asked sarcastically as he pulled money from his pocket.
Earl had heard enough. We’re trying to help you, you little pip-squeak! “Mister, you may not realize this yet…” He paused to look the man over. He was obviously not going to make it long in this world without some help from On High. “But everything is a resource. Water bottles. This little tool. Your shoes.” He pointed at Schwartz’s filthy expensive loafers. “If it has value, you can’t expect it for free. Not anymore. Not in this world.” Don’t you realize that I don’t need your cash?
He topped off their bottles, and Conner retrieved the rest of the items from the cart. Schwartz kept his mouth shut while Carmen retrieved the items from Conner. They turned south and started to move away, saying nothing else.
Help them, Earl heard his inner thoughts say. “Listen,” he stated. The man and woman stopped and looked back. “I don’t know where you’re headed. But you’re going to want to upgrade your clothing. And find yourself some leaf-bags. You can turn them into a poncho or collect some rain to drink.” He watched the pair nod and continue south.
They spent the next several minutes filling jugs, but the pressure started to die off. It was taking a long time. Earl decided they were done. “Let’s roll,” he said, mimicking the saying made famous on September 11th, 2001.
The two men kept their heads swiveling on the trip back to Earl’s house. “What made you say yes to helping them?” Conner finally asked. “It’s not like the money will be worth anything in a week.”
“I know…” Earl said, not knowing exactly how to say what he felt. “I guess…I guess I just don’t want the rest of my human interactions to always be like when we were in Ramadi—constantly worried about people’s motives. We both know what’s coming.” He went silent for another minute as they walked. “I don’t want to harden my heart permanently,” he concluded.
The normally talkative Conner was quiet but finally acknowledged his pal’s rationalization. “I get that.” After another ten steps and a left turn onto Earl’s street, he asked, “What should we do with the cash?”
“We’ll pool together every dollar we got. I want all of us, especially the kids, to keep some cash on them. If they get separated or someone gets the drop on us, that cash might just buy them out of a pickle.”
7
Crossroads.
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 18 Days.
The hot-iron brand sizzled for almost two seconds against the back of the man’s neck, just under his hairline. “Tu coraje no sera olvidado,” Reynaldo told his companion. Your courage will not be forgotten. “Gracias, hermano.”
“Para el futuro,” came his soldier’s reply, through a painful grunt and clenched teeth.
Reynaldo Hernandez insisted on doing this task himself. It was all part of a plan. He motioned for the orderly to tend to the burn with a head nod. As the woman with the burn cream and sterile dressing moved in to do her job, the soldier started to stand up. Rey looked down at the brand, staring at the burnt skin on it for a moment before tossing it back down into the farmhouse’s fireplace.
“Jefe, los autobuses estan listos.”
Rey looked at the messenger and acknowledged him with a nod, which sent him on his way. The busses are ready. Good. We’ll get those moving at first light. Need to keep the humanitarian mission moving forward.
If there was one eventuality that Rey had prepared for, it was this one. This would be the thing that locked his place in la familia into permanency. There was a point in the cartel in which a man knew he no longer had to look over his shoulder, wondering when betrayal would come like a shadow at dusk, snuffing out life without warning. Once the upper echelon was reached, everyone in it died all at once—or not at all.
Rey was a master of winning hearts and minds, having been implementing the infrastructure for it in the Mendoza Cartel’s North American market for the last four years. So many American movies and TV shows portrayed the cartel leaders as mega-wealthy buffoons with a mansion full of bikini-clad models. Extravagance had its place, but much of that money went into preparing for the future. His cartel alone had over 300 million dollars—almost all of it originated by American drug usage.
His cartel’s warriors had performed flawlessly, standing up Mar de Paz services within days of the disaster. They had established a protected bus service, and now that two-thirds of Wave One’s supplies and men were on location, he’d get started on Operation Trueno. While he did that, the ships would return to Mexico and load up for Wave Two. The beauty of the Mar de Paz’s—the Peaceful Sea—mission was that it enabled them to sail right past the US Navy on a legitimate humanitarian mission.
The young, plain-looking orderly finished putting the dressing on the neck of the men who had been branded. “Vete,” Rey said, ordering her to leave. She was fortunate for her plain looks, which enabled her to be…less desirable for some of the prettier lines of work. Rey took the brand back out of the fire.
“Hermanos, no te pedire que hagas algo que no hare,” Rey said, handing one of the two men the brand. I will never ask you to do something I won’t do. He unbuttoned his sky-blue business shirt, revealing a muscular, smooth chest under a simple gold necklace and crucifix. He slapped the spot over his heart, looking at his soldier, readying himself. The cartel member did as commanded and plunged the humanoid-shaped figure onto his boss’s chest, sending smoke into the air for all to smell.
The man pulled the iron off his boss, looking at him in admiration. “Doy gracias a Dios que eres neustro lider,” the man said. He thanked God that Rey was their leader.
Rey pulled both soldiers into his space and embraced them as if he were their father. Heal, he whispered to them. I will let you know when it is time to go. With that, the two men left the leader alone in his farmhouse office.
The day before Rey arrived, his local cartel branch secured several facilities near Ferndale, Washington. In addition to the arrival pier at the Alcoa plant, they commandeered two large farms and a church just a couple of miles east on Mountain View Road. This enabled Rey to house his army and their equipment while he brought everyone up to speed on the game plan. He had several operations planned, and all were important. Some were large in scale, such as the one with the large satellite photo of the Monroe Correctional Facility taped to the dry-erase board. Others required small units, operating independently. For these missions, he chose only former special forces operators.
He was extremely proud of his army, but he genuinely loved his special operators. All, like he, were true believers in their mission. And they were diverse—mostly from Mexico, but from a variety of other countries, too—a true grab-bag of races and languages.
As the fresh burn on his chest began to welt and weep, he picked up a sharpie and went back to the large photo on the board. There was a lot of work to do. We must drive home the importance of laying low and providing aid to the locals while we gather intel! Winning hearts and minds is the key! Invading the United States, while insane for even Rey to say aloud, was exactly what they were doing, albeit in an incognito fashion. To do so this far away from Mexico could prove to be either the most brilliant or fast-losing war strategy in modern times. Southern California had been so inundated with cartel in the two decades before this, that when the time was right, the entire West Coast would fall. Rey was operating not just on ambition, but on faith. Our time has arrived.
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 19 Days.
“Jerry, is the CP ready?” Josh asked the Communications Lead.
“Yes,” he told the group assembled in front of him. “I’ve made this as simple as possible.” Josh was wrapping up a pre-mission brief. Its purpose was to ensure everyone knew the game plan. He had two regrets regarding this operation. One was that there was no time to get the cooperating groups there to hear the plan in first person. The other was that he had to do all the planning from maps. There was no time to scout from the woods, and they would’ve been too obvious going out there by vehicle. At least our maps have contour lines.
Jerry pointed to the dry-erase board he’d brought down to the rifle line. “Memorize this list of code words. These are your waypoints. Call these in to indicate a position as you pass it or a task as you accomplish it. You’ll notice they’re alphabetical to make it easier to memorize. I went with TV shows for pneumonics, but you’ll still need to memorize the location or task the hard way.” Jerry saw the forty-one people start to scan the board. “Questions?”
