An Undeclared War (Countdown to Armageddon Book 4) Read online

  And already barking orders.

  “Randy, get that box of ammo out of the garage and throw it in the back seat.”

  “Robbie, get those two gun cases from the back of your closet. We’ll need them. Take every weapon you have, fellas.”

  Scott, putting on his shoes, yelled to John, “John, do you have any triple A batteries that survived the EMP?”

  “Kitchen, top drawer to the right of the sink.”

  In two minutes flat they were in John’s squad car, hauling ass toward the compound.

  The cavalry was on its way.

  -2-

  In the compound not far from Junction, Texas, a fierce battle was raging.

  Tony Pike had made good on his promise to come back with a vengeance. He rounded up reinforcements, made sure they were well armed, and made sure to attack during daylight this time.

  His logic was that a daytime attack would catch his prey off guard. And it worked. They were caught with their proverbial pants down. All of them, including Tom, was convinced that the assault would come during the hours of darkness, like the first two attacks.

  Pike, therefore, had the initial advantage. And although ground is always easier to defend than to capture, the element of surprise evened the odds somewhat.

  Linda and Tom retook the same positions on the north side of the house they had during the second attack. In the previous encounter, they drew no fire. Instead, they took careful aim at two point men who were looking for a weakness in their perimeter. And they shot them dead, forcing Pike and his bunch to abandon the fight and withdraw. Licking their wounds for another day.

  This time Linda and Tom weren’t so lucky. Both upstairs windows were being peppered with bullets.

  Tom was on the radio, trying to keep everybody calm.

  “Okay, remember to stay away from the firing ports unless you’re ready to take a shot. Peek out, spot your target, then get back down. Picture that target in your mind, and get ready to shoot at that spot. Then raise up, rest the rifle on the bottom of the firing port, and take your shot. Then duck back down again and repeat the process.”

  The firing ports were slots, about ten inches wide and four inches high, that were cut into sheets of thick plywood to form barricades. Five sheets of plywood surrounded the exterior walls on both floors of the house, although only the upstairs windows were equipped with firing ports.

  Tom rose up, just in time to see a man taking a shot at him from the corn field. He was hiding behind the Bobcat Tom had used a few days before when he’d posted a warning sign in the north end of the field.

  The sign had said, “GO BACK OR DIE!”

  Obviously they chose to ignore it.

  Therefore, as far as Tom was concerned, they chose to die. And he would try his best to accommodate them.

  Most of the windows were broken out by now by incoming bullets, except for a few shards still stuck in the frames. The missing glass made it much easier for Tom to see his target, in the distant field a hundred yards away.

  He rested the hand guard of his AR-15 rifle on the bottom of the firing port and sighted it in on the spot where he’d seen the head pop up from behind the Bobcat.

  And he waited.

  He remained calm, knowing the slightest twitch can ruin a shot. The pad of his shooting finger rested on the trigger, ready to fire.

  The man behind the Bobcat came into view, and was aiming at one of the downstairs windows. Tom eased the trigger back and felt the jolt of his weapon as the man’s head exploded before him. He saw a pink cloud burst out from the back of the shooter’s head, and he fell back to the ground.

  At almost the same instant, another shooter’s bullet found one of the shards of glass in Tom’s broken window. The glass exploded, peppering the right side of Tom’s face.

  He pulled back and dropped down again to regroup.

  Tom could feel that several slivers of glass had penetrated his skin, and felt warm blood trickling out of a couple of them.

  But he wasn’t upset, and he didn’t curse either the pain or his bad luck. In fact, he considered himself lucky

  despite the wound. If his right eye hadn’t been firmly seated against his rifle’s scope, he likely would have lost use of it.

  He had the sense the shot came from the right, in the area to the east of the fence. It was the area they considered to be their front yard.

  He shifted position and then quickly popped up. He scanned the area and didn’t see anything, and dropped down again.

  There was gunfire coming from another bedroom in the front of the house. It was Joyce.

  Tom got back on the radio.

  “Joyce, do you need help?”

  Hannah was there with Joyce, feeding her ammunition. Joyce was too busy to answer, so Hannah did for her.

  “Tom, there are at least three of them on the front of the house. Joyce shot one, but we keep hearing bullets hitting the bricks outside and the plywood downstairs.”

  It was obvious the front of the house was taking the brunt of the attack. Linda called Tom, “Tom, can you cover this side if I move to the front to help Joyce?”

  “Yes. Go.”

  Linda had only fired her weapon a couple of times. The targets were moving too fast for her to get a bead on. Still, she kept the invaders’ heads low and made them rush their shots. Even though she was terrified and her hands were shaking, she was contributing to the effort.

  She went up, took two quick shots in the general direction she’d last seen her target, then low crawled to the front of the house to help Joyce.

  Jordan was on the radio now.

  “Mom… Tom… there’s nobody on this side of the house at all. Do you want me to come and help?”

  “No, baby. Keep an eye out. They may shift over to your side at any time.”

  Zachary had no weapon, but was tasked to keep an eye on the fourth side of the house. It was the side that opened into the compound itself. The group considered it the least likely to be attacked, since there were four black labs and a hound dog patrolling the yard.

  And the dogs weren’t very happy about all the shooting going on. Duke and Duchess, especially, were running back and forth along the fence line, barking ferociously.

  It was as though they were saying, “Come on in, you bastards. We dare you.”

  -3-

  On their way up the mountain, the gang of four San Antonio police officers were fit to be tied. They were speeding as fast as they could on an Interstate 10 littered with hundreds of abandoned cars.

  It was not unlike a skier barreling down a slalom course, bobbing and weaving around obstacles. The best speed they could muster was seventy miles an hour in stretches, and at that speed they were more than an hour away.

  Robbie was on the squad car’s radio, calling in to dispatch. And forgetting all semblance of protocol or radio discipline.

  “Julie, are you on duty?”

  “Uh, yes. Is that you, Charlie six one?”

  “Yes. Is the chief in?”

  “He’s on his way to city hall. He’s in his unit. Switch to tac three.”

  He changed the channel on the radio.

  “Chief Martinez, this is Charlie six one.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Chief, you know I don’t ask for much. The compound north of the city is under assault. That’s where Castro’s and Harter’s families are holding out. We’re heading that way now.”

  If Robbie was expecting to be chastised or ordered back, he underestimated the chief.

  Martinez, in a calm voice, simply asked, “What can we do to help?”

  “Not much, Chief. Except we’re all scheduled to be back at work tomorrow. We might not be.”

  “Who’s in the car with you, Robbie?”

  “Castro, Harter and Rhodes.”

  “Just do what you need to do, and get back when you can. And Robbie…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You guys be careful. I want you all back, ready for duty, when your bus
iness is settled.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robbie switched back to channel one, just in time to hear the chief switch over and call in to dispatch.

  “Dispatch, this is Abel One.”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  Show Castro, Harter, Rhodes and Benton on special assignment, by my order, until further notice.”

  “10-4.”

  John Castro said, to no one in particular, “Don’t you guys read anything into this, but I love that man.”

  -4-

  “Tom! Mom! They’re shooting at the dogs! They shot old Blue!”

  Sure enough, Tom and Linda could hear a mournful howl coming from the center of the compound.

  There are few things that make an old Texan more angry than someone abusing his dog. Especially a dog like old Blue, who’d been a constant and faithful companion for twelve years.

  Tom rested his rifle barrel on the bottom ledge of the firing port and aimed it in the general direction of the north wall. He knew that in order for Zachary to see somebody shooting over the fence at the dogs, the shooter had to be on that wall and at least fifty yards from the back of the house.

  So identifying the general location of the shooter was a piece of cake.

  The next part wasn’t quite so easy.

  But dammit, they were shooting innocent and helpless dogs. And some things were just unforgiveable to an old Texas rancher like Tom.

  So he threw caution to the wind and lifted his head, knowing full well he was now vulnerable to being shot. He hurried, but did not rush his shot. As a lifelong hunter, he knew there was a major difference between the two.

  Luckily, his target was already in his sights. He eyed the scope, adjusted his aim, and squeezed the trigger.

  Scratch one bad guy. He saw the bullet make contact, knocking the man and his ladder backwards, and tumbling out of sight on the far side of the fence.

  He left the rifle in the window, but scanned the right side of the field before he dropped back down.

  He saw another man running from the area where he’d just shot the man off the ladder. Possibly an accomplice holding the ladder for the dead man.

  He was presently in the open, running for cover behind the Bobcat.

  Tom knew he’d been exposed for far too long. But this was too good a target to pass up. As a bullet slammed into the plywood above him from an unknown shooter, he lined up on the running man, leading him just a bit. Then he squeezed the trigger and put a round right through the runner’s heart.

  The man fell face first into the dirt. He’d never run again.

  Tom ducked out of sight. He had no idea where the bullet had been fired from. It had missed his head by mere inches. He was lucky.

  He might not be so lucky next time. So he’d try a new tactic.

  The most logical firing position for his shooter was behind the Bobcat. If that’s where the shooter was, he’d stay there, rather than risk exposing himself to run to a less safe place. The body of the Bobcat, after all was thick steel plate. It was as good a place to be during a shootout as any other.

  Linda hadn’t taken a shot in three or four minutes, since she moved to the front of the house to help Joyce.

  Tom, on the other hand, had just taken out two bad guys from his window.

  He figured that if the shooter behind the Bobcat had any sense at all, he had his weapon trained on Tom’s window, waiting for Tom’s head to come back into view.

  Tom liked to tell people that he was smarter than the average bear. And whether he was or not, he was definitely good at keeping his cool under pressure. It had always been that way, going back to when he shot a buck at four hundred eighty yards at age ten.

  It came in handy nine years later, too, in Vietnam. He never talked about those days. They were like a bad dream he just wanted to forget. But he came home with a purple heart and a bronze star. He was one of Vietnam’s silent heroes. The things he saw and did there would go with him to his grave. The only important thing, he once said when pressed, was that he survived. In the end, that was all every soldier in Vietnam wanted to accomplish.

  Now he was bloodied, and had probably just lost his beloved hound dog. But he was still confident he could win this battle of wits.

  He knew the shooter could see the muzzle of his AR-15, propped up in the shooting port. He probably has his sights trained on it.

  So Tom would use that to his advantage.

  He pushed it a little farther forward, until the top of the scope made contact with the top of the shooting port. Then he shoved it just enough to wedge it into place.

  Once sure it wouldn’t fall out, he reached over and took Scott’s rifle. Scott hadn’t taken it with him when he went to San Antonio to deliver medicine to his friend John. It was now an extra weapon, and Tom had it close by in case his own gun jammed.

  But now he had a different plan for it.

  He took Scott’s rifle and low crawled out of the bedroom he was in, and into the one Linda had occupied a few minutes before.

  Instead of cozying up to the firing port, though, he stood along the bedroom wall.

  Using the wall as support, he raised the weapon and looked through his scope, through the firing port six feet away. He was trying to zero in on the Bobcat, and he knew that from the center of the darkened room he would not be seen by the shooter.

  The only thing that came into view was the dirt of the corn field.

  The angle was wrong. He had to get lower.

  With his feet firmly planted and his back flat against the wall, he slowly bent his knees, sliding down the wall a few inches at a time.

  Then suddenly, the Bobcat came into view.

  He was squatting now. It would be an awkward shot, but a clean one. He could plainly see the top third of the shooter’s head, taking aim with an AK-47 in the direction of the other window.

  He used the wall to help steady him, wrapped the rifle’s strap around his right arm, and took aim.

  Two deep breaths. He held the third one, then slowly released it. At the same time, he pulled gently back on the trigger with the soft pad of his index finger.

  He felt the kick of the rifle at the same time he saw a pink puff of brain matter blowing out the back of the shooter’s head.

  Scratch another bad guy.

  But Tom had no chance to celebrate his kill. As he quickly searched the area through the tiny gun port, Hannah suddenly started screaming bloody murder in the next room.

  -5-

  Linda was quickly becoming a warrior. She knew she needed to run to Hannah’s aid, but fired three quick shots in the direction of the aggressors outside first. Just to make sure they kept their heads down while she went to help.

  Tom, bypassing the radio, yelled out, “Do you need me in there?”

  It would have been easy for him to bolt to the other room. But as he scanned the area on the east side of the corn field, he saw a brief glimmer of light coming from the thick shrubbery. It was the sun reflecting off something shiny… a weapon, or a belt buckle. Maybe some eyeglasses.

  What it was didn’t really matter much. The brief flash of light had given away two more aggressors, hiding in the shrubs, firing at the front of the house.

  He could run to help if he was needed.

  But he could do much more good here.

  Linda yelled back, “No, Tom! Stay where you are!”

  There was something in her voice that Tom couldn’t put his finger on. It might have been panic or fear. But it sounded more like sorrow.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  When Linda ran into the room and looked at Joyce, cradled in Hannah’s arms, she knew there was nothing she could do.

  Joyce, like the others, had been trained to minimize her presence in the shooter’s port. To only rise up briefly to find her target. Then to rise up a second time to take the target out.

  And Joyce heeded that advice well. She wasn’t shot because she stayed too long in the port.

  She was s
hot because one of the bastards scored a lucky shot. The bullet came flying through just as she rose to take her shot.

  Joyce died instantly. It was mercifully quick. As she lay in Hannah’s arms, Hannah looked to Linda in agony. Hannah was a trained midwife. She’d seen tragic death before when childbirth occasionally went horribly wrong. But this was the first time a friend ever died in her arms.

  Linda raised her weapon to the firing port, as much angry as sad. She fired three more shots in the general direction of the unseen shooters. Then she ducked down again and put a hand on Joyce’s bloody face.

  She closed Joyce’s eyelids, very tenderly, although surely knowing she was beyond pain.

  Jordan’s frantic voice came over the radio.

  “What’s going on in there? Is everybody okay?”

  Linda calmly responded.

  “It’s Joyce. She’s dead.”

  It was said. No other words were needed.

  Tom cursed and swore a renewed vengeance on the attackers outside. Jordan threw his radio across the room, then raised up and fired blindly into the woods several times, although there were still no targets on his side of the house.

  Zachary, still watching the back of the house, sat in stunned silence.

  Sara, manning the base radio and security monitors from the basement, began to sob. And the children with her, seeking shelter from the chaos, took her cue and wept openly.

  But there was little time for mourning while the battle still raged.

  Linda went back up to quickly scan the area out front, but saw no targets.

  Jordan also quickly went up, and was ducking down again when he caught a glimpse of movement. He quickly rose again to see three men running across the open field, in a wild attempt to make it to the house.

  He quickly fired and clipped one of them just above the right knee, sending him reeling. He ducked back down.

  The other two made it to the house. Their wounded comrade, writhing in the dirt fifty yards from the house, was a sitting duck.

  Any other time, Jordan would have had some serious reservations about firing a second shot into a wounded man.