Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: California

Nung was gone. Gang could wither on the vine and therefore be taken out of play. His enemies thought they could outmaneuver him. No. He was too cunning for them, able to see through their subterfuge and more than willing to act decisively.

By first light today, Deng and Kao would be dead. He would need replacements for them on the Ruling Committee. He would have to give his enemies a place at the table. Yes, it was wise to give them a spokesman. Now he would have to redouble his Lion Guardsman, as many of his secret enemies would yearn even more to assassinate him.

Am I acting wisely? The restlessness stirred in his heart. They burned Marshal Nung. If they hadn’t burned him, I might have missed the clue .

“Your hatred foiled you, Kao. You should have kept to your charts and battle maps.”

Paul Kavanagh helped Romo sit on a large rock. The assassin’s left arm was in a sling. A bullet had torn muscle and put the man into a state of shock.

Neither of them wore body armor anymore, having shed it long ago. Both were battered, Romo more so.

Paul grunted as he sat on the ground, putting his back against the rock. He unclipped a canteen, unscrewed the cap and took two swallows of water. He held it out to his blood brother.

Romo gripped the canteen and drank greedily. The assassin gasped and handed the empty canteen back.

“What…” Romo licked his lips. “Where are the others?”

Paul closed his eyes. The others were dead, including Donovan. Getting out of the bunker and then the compound…Donovan had remained behind with a heavy machine gun, covering their escape. The Green Beret had been shot in the leg and he’d realized he had been as good as dead.

“I’m too old for this,” Paul said.

“Si.”

Paul checked his watch. They didn’t have much time left. He forced himself up and gripped Romo’s good arm.

“Leave me,” the assassin said. “I’m too tired.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Paul dragged Romo to his feet.

They walked until nightfall, and they reached the rendezvous area. Paul clicked the communicator, and it guided him to a hidden drone.

“Do you believe that?” Paul asked, staring at the tiny aircraft.

Romo was feverish, and although he had his eyes open, he likely didn’t see anything.

Paul guided Romo inside, buckled in and the portal snapped shut. Ten second later, the ultra-stealth drone buzzed into life and lifted.

“Looks like we’re going home,” Paul said.

Romo muttered, shaking his head.

“What did you say?” Paul asked.

“I have no home. I am a man adrift.”

“You’re my blood brother, amigo. I’m going to introduce you to my wife and son. You’re always going to be welcome in my home.”

Juan Romo let his head slump back as he closed his eyes.

Feeling his pulse—it was beating strong—Paul decided not to worry about the assassin right now. Against all odds, he was alive. He was going home and he would go AWOL if they didn’t let him see his wife. Had this stunt slowed the Chinese advance? He didn’t know. He’d find out soon enough.

Paul Kavanagh made himself comfortable, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Several days later it ended where it had begun, with Colonel Peng of the Fifth Transport Division. He was tired from endless weeks of work. There was a lull right now with the change of command, so he had taken the opportunity to use his special pass.

The lovely Donna Cruz had sent him a written message. It was just like her to pen this little love note. She was a romantic girl, and her ass was so delicious. Peng had been thinking about it ever since the last time they had made love.

It was true it had been a crudely written note, at least in terms of penmanship. She had also written it in Spanish. It would have been too much to expect her to write with Chinese characters. This was a land of barbarians, after all, even if very beautiful and sexual barbarians.

Peng turned the wheel of his jeep and entered the Coco Hotel parking lot. Vines snaked up the posts at the head of each parking space. A few of the vines displayed beautiful purple flowers.

She had mailed him the card-key and said she would be ready for him at 11:00 AM sharp. Smiling, Peng eased his jeep into a slot, shut off the engine and picked up his box of chocolates. Inside was a thousand pesos. He knew she still suffered from the abortion. Maybe he shouldn’t have forced it on her. Guilt had driven him. If Donna had a child, Peng knew he would feel compelled to help raise it. He could barely afford Donna and continue to send his own mother enough money. If he also had to support a child—no, it would be too much.

Colonel Peng shook his head. The chocolates and money would help Donna forget. And she would help him forget the endless weeks of drudgery.

Clutching the box to his chest, Peng hurried up the stairs to Room 14. He knocked and waited, but no one answered.

Was she out somewhere?

Peng looked around at the neat little homes and tall trees. This was a suburb of Mexico City, and looked like a nice residential area. Maybe Donna was visiting a friend. He shrugged, dug out the card-key and slid it into the slot. While clutching the box with his arm, he twisted the door-handle and opened it.

“Hello,” he said, in Chinese.

It was dark in here, hard to see. Ah, he heard the shower. She must be cleaning herself for him.

Grinning, Peng stepped into the room, tossed the chocolates onto the bed and heard the heavy door whomp shut behind him. He turned toward the bathroom and took two steps before stopping in surprise.

“Oh,” he said in Chinese. “I’m sorry. D-Do I have the wrong room?”

An old Mexican man sat in a chair watching him. The man frowned and seemed angry.

Colonel Peng took a step back. Why hadn’t the man said something when he’d first entered?

“Who are you?” the man asked in atrocious Chinese.

“I’m Colonel Peng,” he said, attempting Spanish. “Do you know Donna Cruz?”

The old man nodded. “She is my daughter.”

Peng blinked and then it came to him. Relief flooded his chest. “Oh, you’re her father. Yes, I’ve sent you—”

Colonel Peng’s mouth dropped open as speech failed him. The old Mexican—Mr. Cruz—aimed a gun at him. This was illegal. Mexicans weren’t supposed to have guns.

“You must put that away,” Peng said in Chinese.

A terrible light now shined in Mr. Cruz’s eyes. He struggled upright to a standing position. It appeared as if his knees troubled him.

“Is Donna in the shower?” Peng asked.

The gun barked four loud reports, with flashes belching from the barrel each time. Bullets slammed into Peng until he found himself lying on the carpet. The world spun crazily and narrowed to a tight focus. Peng saw as from a great distance Mr. Cruz standing over him. The old man pointed the gun at his face.

“No,” Peng whispered.

He didn’t hear the sound, but he saw the final muzzle flash. It was the last thing Colonel Peng of the Fifth Transport Division saw before he died.

Three days later, near noon, Stan climbed out of his Behemoth and noticed a terrible black cloud over LA. It seemed gray now rather than black. That was something, at least. The fires were dying out, often because of a lack of fuel. Perhaps the flies would die soon too.

From the top hatch of the tank, he surveyed the enemy lines. He saw a great trench in the rubble, with coils of razor wire before it. The Chinese had put that up yesterday with huge, bulldozer-like machines. He could see machine gun emplacements. Many of those were fake, meant to draw American fire.