Уильям Дитц: Battle Hymn

Mac didn’t wait to see what would happen next. She whirled and ran to the bedroom. “Sam! Get up! Put some clothes on… The house is under attack.”

Sloan sat up and yawned. “What did you say?”

“I said get your butt out of bed… Put your clothes on. The house is under attack.”

Mac’s suitcase was sitting on a stand. Old habits die hard, and the Glock was there. After grabbing it, Mac cursed herself for not bringing a spare magazine.

Sloan was holding a remote. He pressed a button. “Don’t worry, hon… Help is on the way.”

Mac glanced his way as both of them got dressed. “From where? From here ? They killed the agent who was on the front deck. I watched it go down.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. Get some shoes on… We’re going outside.”

Sloan hurried to obey and was right behind Mac as she led him into the hall, and from there to a guest room. Not just any guest room, but the one with the French door that opened out onto a walkway and the trees beyond. Maybe they could clear the house and hide while they waited for help to come.

But no sooner had they entered the room than Mac heard a key turn in the lock, and the door swung open. A man was silhouetted against the porch light. He was dressed in TAC gear. The Glock was up. Mac fired the moment the red dot settled on its target. The man jerked as a 9mm round smashed through his skull and blew some of his brains out the other side. A pistol clattered on wood as he collapsed.

“That will bring the rest of them,” Mac predicted. “Quick! Grab the gun… I’ll take his night-vision gear.”

Mac was disappointed to discover that the dead intruder was female. She’d been hoping to score a TAC vest for Sloan. She ripped the woman’s night-vision gear off, and was about to take her radio, when a bullet slapped the side of the house. “Get back!” Mac ordered. And she followed Sloan in.

But as they entered the kitchen–living room, a man threw himself against the French doors that opened out onto the deck. They parted, and the intruder stumbled as he burst into the room. Sloan shot him, realized that the black man was wearing body armor, and fired again. The second bullet did the job. The third was by way of insurance. The would-be assassin lay facedown on the floor.

Someone hammered on the kitchen door. “It’s me! George Owen! They shot me!”

Mac went to look through the peephole, saw the caretaker, and jerked the door open. Owen stepped to one side so that another man could shoot her. He was no more than four feet away. Mac felt the small-caliber bullet hit her left arm, and brought the Glock up, knowing it wouldn’t arrive in time. So she fired early, and saw the 9mm slug smash her assailant’s left knee into a bloody pulp. He screamed as he fell and dropped his pistol to grab what hurt. Mac shot the bastard again . In the head this time.

Glass shattered as a flashbang grenade sailed in from the front deck and went off. Mac’s ears were ringing, and she couldn’t see a damned thing, as she brought the Glock around. “Hit the floor!” she yelled, and hoped that Sloan would react quickly enough as she began to fire.

“I think you hit him!” Sloan yelled, as Mac sensed that someone was behind her. She was just beginning to turn when something hard hit her head. Mac fell, and was staring upwards, as her eyesight returned. “Daddy? Is that you ?”

“Damned right it’s me,” Bo replied. “But I ain’t your daddy. My daughter is dead.”

Sloan could see again. He raised his pistol only to feel something hard jab the back of his neck. “Drop it,” Owen growled, and Sloan was forced to comply. There was a clatter as the .22 hit the floor.

“Good work, Posey,” Bo said as he turned back toward Mac. “Now comes the fun part,” he said. “This is for Victoria.” Bo fired. Mac felt the bullet punch a hole in her right thigh. It hurt like hell. Had he missed her head? No. Bo Macintyre wanted to see his daughter suffer.

Sloan was at least a head taller than the man named Posey, and a lot younger. He threw himself backward and heard a pop as the other man’s gun went off. Posey was struggling to breathe as Sloan rolled off him. Could he dispose of Posey and deal with Bo? That seemed unlikely. But all Sloan could do was try. He wrapped his fingers around the other man’s neck and proceeded to bang his head against the wood floor.

Mac saw Bo point his pistol at Sloan’s back and managed to roll into him. Bo kept his feet, but his shot went wild. The .22 came around to point at her . Mac had seen the angry face before. When she was a little girl. When she was bad.

“This one is for Kathy,” Bo said, as his finger tightened on the trigger. Bo seemed to flinch as a .22 caliber bullet struck his temple. A look of surprise appeared on his face. Then his knees gave way, and he crumpled to the floor.

Sloan was on his feet and marching across the room as he fired Posey’s weapon. “This is for Mac, you asshole… And this one is for the POWs in Mexico… And this one is for me !”

When the Ruger wouldn’t fire anymore, Sloan replaced it with Bo’s. And that’s where they found him, crouched in a pool of Mac’s blood, his aim shifting from door to door as the first member of the quick-response team entered the room and froze. “Give me the code,” Sloan grated.

“America Rising.”

Sloan placed the pistol on the floor. “Get a medic… And I mean now !”

Mac tried to protest, tried to say that she could walk, but the blackness took her down.

THE FARM, NEAR OMAHA, NEBRASKA

Thunder rolled across the land. Not the sound of artillery, though; this was different, and a harbinger of rain. It started gently. Then it fell more insistently. Tapping at first, as if checking to see what the roof was made of, before morphing into a downpour.

Mac savored the sound of it and the warmth of the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders. She was sitting on the spacious porch of the home where Sloan had grown up. The place the press often referred to as “the farm.” It had become their retreat. The place they could go to get away from Fort Knox and all of the complexities there, many of which stemmed from the coming election and Sloan’s first run for office.

Three painful weeks had passed since the assassination attempt on Bowtie Island. Small though it was, the .22 caliber bullet fired from Bo’s pistol had severed Mac’s femoral artery and almost killed her. Two surgeries later, she was still recovering and grateful to be alive. Grateful, and a bit guilty, because she had survived when so many had died. Some at her hand, some in her arms, and thousands upon thousands in battles she had no knowledge of.

Most of them were good people. Better people. All because of what? Destiny? Or just plain luck? Yes, Mac thought. Luck. Nothing else can account for it.

The screen door slammed. Sloan appeared. He held a steaming mug in each hand. “Here it is,” he said. “Just what the doctor ordered. Instant Starbucks.”

“Oh my God,” Mac said. “Is it my birthday?”

“No, but you’ve been a good girl and deserve a reward.” Sloan put his coffee down before leaning in to kiss her. The usual spark jumped the gap. Many things were wrong with the world… But one thing felt right. And, for that, Mac was grateful.

William C. Dietzis the New York Times bestselling author of more than forty novels, some of which have been translated into German, Russian, and Japanese. His works include the America Rising novels, the Legion of the Damned® novels, and the Mutant Files series. He grew up in the Seattle area, served as a medic with the Navy and Marine Corps, graduated from the University of Washington, and has been employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, and television news writer, director, and producer. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Dietz served as director of public relations and marketing for an international telephone company. He and his wife live near Gig Harbor, Washington.