The Battle: Alone: Book 4 Read online

  By the time they retired, they generally knew people from all walks of life, in a lot of different places.

  Some of them powerful places.

  And those same people, who’d gone to the colonels when strings needed to be pulled or pressure needed to be applied, were beholden to the colonels for reciprocation.

  Because backs didn’t scratch themselves.

  Not all retired colonels called in favors from former contractors or colleagues.

  But enough of them did to make it an accepted practice in Washington, as well as corporate America.

  Captain Swain was in the 8th Army’s Contracts Division. As a captain, he didn’t yet have the pull to curry favor with the big contractors. But later on he would.

  His intent, once he made it to the top of the food chain, was to let multi-million dollar contracts hang in limbo for months while prospective bidders wined and dined him.

  Eventually one of them would get so hungry, so desperate for the contract, that they’d appeal to him off the record and ask what it would take to seal the deal.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” he’d tell them. “I just want you to remember this day. And remember that I am your friend.”

  That was all it would take. A hand would be shaken, a firm would be awarded a contract worth millions, and at the same time would be placed neatly into Swain’s back pocket.

  Of course, ten years later when Swain was newly retired from the military and looking for a cushy job, there was no guarantee that the company would remember their friendship. People retire in the civilian sector too, and they move on to other companies.

  And there was nothing in writing to prove a handshake deal was ever done.

  That was why Captain Swain would put several companies in his back pocket. So even if some of them pretended they never knew him, he’d still have options to choose from.

  It was a secret system that had been going on for generations. It was how many military officers hung up their uniforms one day and became the CEOs of big corporations the very next day.

  Even if they had no clue about what their new corporation did.

  Ironically, even though Captain Swain was as corrupt as could be, that wasn’t what brought about his downfall.

  What toppled Swain was his temper, and his stupidity.

  He’d had several affairs before and during his Army days. He was a handsome man who carried himself well, and women flocked to him.

  He made a point to avoid married women because such relationships almost always led to drama. And besides, he was a man who enjoyed being out in public with a beautiful woman on his arm.

  And he couldn’t do that with someone else’s wife.

  At least, not without risking his career.

  For the Army was old fashioned, in that it considered affairs of the heart to be Army business. Adultery was still a court-martial offense, and a career killer.

  Swain had been able to fend off admiring wives of other officers and stick to women who were single and therefore legal to hunt.

  Until Rebecca White came along. Rebecca was married, but was too beautiful to pass up.

  She was married to the deputy post commander, a lieutenant colonel who was a stickler for protocol. He demanded every little bit of respect due him, and wouldn’t hesitate to berate any one of his soldiers for the slightest indiscretion.

  He was also a very jealous and suspicious sort.

  That part of him was driven by a wife who’d tired of an impotent man, and who’d gone elsewhere to satisfy her needs and desires.

  Several times.

  Swain was the latest in a long line of lovers. But he was her last.

  In a nutshell, the suspicious husband came home early to find Swain in the throes of passion with his wife, who was screaming things the husband had never heard before.

  And that was disrespectful on so many levels.

  He interrupted the session and kicked Swain out of his house. And if he’d left it at that, he’d likely still be alive.

  But as Swain was walking out, he told him he was finished.

  “Kiss the Army goodbye, asshole,” Lt. Col. White had said. “Adultery is still worth three to five. And I’ll make sure you serve every day of it.”

  Swain returned twenty minutes later with a handgun and blew away not only the deputy commander, but the wife as well.

  As he stood and watched her bleed out, he told her, “You weren’t that good anyway.”

  Lt. Col. White was wrong. Swain didn’t serve three to five for adultery. The Judge Advocate General saw no need to try him for adultery when they’d already sentenced him to two consecutive life terms for murder.

  And Swain got the last laugh. Two years later he was a free man, sprung from Leavenworth prison when the world fell into chaos.

  Now, he didn’t need no stinkin’ Army. And he didn’t need no stinkin’ CEO job.

  Because now he was writing his own ticket. He was king of the world.

  In the master bedroom of the farmhouse, lying on the bed which once belonged to Karen and Tommy, Swain studied the ceiling fan slowly turning above his head.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Lindsey, sir.”

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and Dave’s oldest daughter, now sixteen years old, walked in carrying a serving tray.

  “Here’s your dinner, sir.”

  “Just put it on the table.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lindsey.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m welcome, sir.”

  “You’re welcome sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No thank you. You may go.”

  Lindsey turned to leave, but he stopped her in the doorway.

  “Lindsey?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The ceiling fan is dusty. Please tell your mother and your Aunt Karen I want it cleaned tomorrow while I’m meeting with the troops.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell them.”

  “And Lindsey, you’re turning into a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Someday you’ll be mine. Not yet, for you’re still forbidden fruit. But someday, mark my words, I’ll make you my wife.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond, so she remained silent.

  “Doesn’t that make you happy, Lindsey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all. You may go.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 7

  Dave referred to the Rand McNally road atlas he’d brought with him to find his way to Kansas City. By now it had been rained on twice and leafed through numerous times, and was a bit tattered around the edges.

  Some of the pages were missing now, since he’d run out of toilet paper on his journey and had to make due until he could find another roll.

  He wasn’t smart enough to pack enough toilet paper. But at least he was smart enough to tear out pages of the atlas he’d never need.

  So the page showing the area west and north of Kansas City was still there.

  He’d passed signs on his way to the farm that pointed off to the north and said,

  DUGAN 10 MILES

  A quick look at his map confirmed his suspicions. That Dugan was the nearest town of any size in the area.

  Now Dave had another dilemma.

  As though he didn’t have enough already.

  He needed to visit the town of Dugan. For several reasons. First and foremost, to see if there was any semblance of law enforcement still there. He needed reinforcements. He could go it alone if he had to. He was quite willing to do so, and quite confident he’d win the battle. Because he had right and justice on his side.

  On the other hand, he was outnumbered and outgunned. And not by just a little bit.

  Extra bodies could help him even the odds.

  If they were available. And if they were willing.

&
nbsp; He’d also need extra ammunition. He’d brought just enough to protect himself along the way north, and to protect his family on the way south.

  He hadn’t planned on needing enough rounds to get through what could turn into several firefights.

  His latest problem, as he saw it, was how to get to Dugan.

  It was too far to walk. Yes, he could hike ten miles in three or four hours. And he could scout out the town to make sure it wasn’t overrun with outlaws, then make his way into the town to search for a police chief or a sheriff’s office to ask for help.

  And if help wasn’t available, he could hike the ten miles back to where he’d left the Explorer. That would eat up a whole day and leave him utterly exhausted.

  Or… he could take a big risk. He could drive the big SUV to Dugan and pray that nobody saw him. Knowing that he’d be easy prey for any man with a rifle and a steady aim.

  And if he died, so would die any chance of his family ever being rescued.

  He sat under a shade tree, eating an MRE and drinking bottles of water, weighing each option.

  Finally, he came up with a third plan.

  He spent a good part of the night wondering if Tommy had ever gone through with his plans to dig a tunnel from his farm to the woods which surrounded it.

  To do so would have been a massive undertaking. But Tommy Spencer owned his own business. Farming was more a hobby than a livelihood. He was a builder by trade and a good one. His construction business had built some of the most popular housing developments in west Kansas City.

  There were several perks to being the owner of a successful construction business. Besides, of course, that the pay was good and allowed him the money to fund his lifestyle and prepping efforts.

  As the owner, he had managers and supervisors beneath him… underlings that could do most of his tasks almost as well as he could.

  So he could therefore set his own schedule. He could take a week off here and a short vacation there without being docked pay or worrying about the business going south.

  And that meant he could take time off for other things as well.

  Like, for example, he could take off for a few days or weeks to take care of a project such as digging a three hundred yard access tunnel.

  Another benefit to being the owner of a construction company was the ability to divert workers, equipment and materials for such a project if he felt it was too big to handle alone.

  Knowing Tommy like he did, though, Dave thought that he would want to keep the tunnel hush-hush and would therefore do all the work himself.

  Of course, there might not even be a tunnel. Tommy might have weighed his options and determined it wouldn’t be feasible.

  The single conversation they’d had about a possible tunnel had taken place more than three years before. And although Dave wracked his brain trying to remember, he could recall no other conversations where Karen or Tommy had mentioned the progress of a tunnel project. Never a word on how it was going or when it was to be finished or how it would look.

  Or, more importantly, where Dave could find it if he ever had to use it to rescue his family.

  Dave hadn’t seen any sign of Karen or of Tommy. He was assuming that they were still alive and were also being held captive.

  But what if that weren’t the case?

  If they were alive, and there was a tunnel, wouldn’t they have used it to escape? Since they didn’t, did that mean no tunnel existed?

  Or did it mean something else? Did it mean that Karen and Tommy got away, but the escape of the others was foiled? And if that was the case, why weren’t Karen and Tommy standing by Dave’s side, joining his team and helping to formulate a rescue plan?

  Perhaps they were killed while trying to escape. And the bad guys discovered the tunnel and sealed it.

  Or maybe Dave was putting way too much thought into this, and there never was a tunnel to begin with.

  He was burning daylight. He needed to get moving. He’d hike back to the farm, using the woods as cover, and would look for the tunnel’s exit in the woods near the farm.

  After dark, he’d hike back to the Explorer, and drive it closer to Dugan using the darkness to cover his progress.

  And tomorrow he’d visit Dugan, to see whether there was help available.

  To see if there were reinforcements.

  Or to see if he was, once again, alone.

  Chapter 8

  John Swain missed his days in the Army. In his mind, he was a good officer and a good soldier. Had he not lost his temper and killed two people, he’d have still been on active duty. Still wielding power to coerce others to do his bidding.

  Still using the Uniform Code of Military Justice to enforce discipline. To make others respect him. Or at least to pretend to, whether they liked him or not.

  He’d always loved that aspect of military life. Even someone who despised him personally had to call him sir. Had to salute him when he walked past. Had to kiss his ass.

  He’d written up his subordinates several times for insubordination or disrespect.

  A couple of his lieutenants took to calling him “Captain LOR,” the military acronym for “Letter of Reprimand,” due to his frequent use of the pen to solve disciplinary problems.

  They called him that behind his back, of course. But word got around and Swain filed charges against them. “Conduct Unbecoming an Officer,” he’d claimed.

  The Judge Advocate General would have none of it.

  “You don’t need to be ruining these men’s careers because you’ve been given a nickname you don’t like. I can assure you, Captain Swain, that you’ve been called names far worse. As have I. And I’m sure you’ve used some not-so-flattering terms to refer to your own superiors a time or two.”

  “But they can’t get away with this. They have to be punished.”

  In the end, the JAG gave both lieutenants a slap on the wrist of sorts, verbal admonishments. Nothing written to tarnish their records, nothing that would harm their careers or chances for further promotions.

  For lack of a better terms, they both got their asses chewed.

  And Captain Swain stewed.

  For that wasn’t good enough.

  Captain Swain carried grudges far longer than most men, and he swore to himself he’d get even.

  Six months later, Military Police received an anonymous tip and searched the car of Lieutenant Michael Holliday. They found four grams of crack cocaine stashed beneath the driver’s seat. In half gram baggies, ready for distribution.

  Swain had taken a big risk, carrying the drugs under the car mat in his own car for several days, until Lieutenant Holliday was finally careless enough to leave his vehicle unlocked while swilling beers at the Officer’s Club one night.

  Possession of crack cocaine in any amount on a federal military installation is a Class A felony. Quantities over one gram, or crack that is split up into weighed portions, constitutes intent to distribute charges. Recommended punishments according to the Manual for Courts Martial ranged from ten years to life.

  Lt. Holliday was lucky. He only received forty years.

  The other lieutenant, Marty Garcia, got off even easier. Swain simply started rumors around the O’Club that Garcia was sleeping with another officer’s wife.

  The other officer had a reputation for being terribly jealous.

  And he just happened to run the assignments section.

  Garcia was shipped off to a dead-end assignment in Fort Bliss, Texas several weeks later. There was nothing wrong with Fort Bliss, if you didn’t mind hot summers, bitter winters, and absolutely no chance for advancement.

  Garcia minded all those things, and took it personally. He grew into a malcontent and received three DUI convictions within fifteen months.

  The third one came after Garcia ran a stop sign and left a six year old boy paralyzed for the rest of his life.

  The irony of the whole situation was that Garcia and Holliday were both sent to Ft. Leavenworth, it being the only s
tateside military prison for felons.

  And not long after, convicted double murderer John Swain joined them.

  Swain greeted them both as old friends. There was absolutely no reason either of them had to know that Swain had set them up.

  Stripped of their military ranks, they were of equal stature in Leavenworth, and eventually became friends.

  Sort of.

  John Swain wasn’t one to kiss anybody’s ass. In his mind he was still superior to both of the men, despite the fact that the bars were now missing from his shirt collars.

  Garcia and Holliday didn’t care. They had nothing to prove. If it would keep the peace in prison, they’d let Swain be the boss.

  After the prison break, the three stuck together and stumbled across a farmhouse a few miles away from a little Podunk town called Dugan.

  They were followed by four grunts. Former enlisted men, then convicts, then escaped convicts, they latched on to the three former officers because they thought they would lead them to freedom.

  And in a way they did. With Swain in charge, the group assaulted Karen and Tommy Spencer’s farm and claimed it as their own. Tommy was killed, as well as the couple’s daughter. Karen and her boys were taken hostage, as well as a couple of neighbors, and her sister and two daughters who’d joined her the day of the blackout.

  Now, life at the farm had settled into a peaceful routine of sorts. Swain still ran the joint like a five-star general. Garcia and Holliday were still his underlings. The number of former enlisted men grew to eight as other escapees stumbled upon the farm and were absorbed into the group. They were joined by six other marauders who’d come to rob the place after the lights went out and wound up staying instead.

  Karen was severely wounded in the firefight which claimed the life of her husband and daughter. She somehow managed to survive, thanks in large part to the efforts of her sister Sarah, who nursed her back to health over several months.

  But one knee was totally shot, and she needed crutches to get around.

  Sarah and the girls could have escaped several times. And they’d have taken Karen’s sons with them.

  Except they couldn’t leave Karen behind. Sarah knew that Swain would be so furious he’d likely punish Karen for their escape with a bullet to her head.