Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

Cross said, his voice cracking from panic. “What the hell are we going to do?”

“Shut up!” Hayes shouted. “Control, did you copy? They’ve made it through the interior fence.”

“Yes, I—oh, shit, Hayes, look out! Incoming!”

Hayes saw the smoke trail on the monitor a half second before the RPG slammed into the gatehouse. The blast threw them both back. Hayes fell into the weapons rack and dropped to the floor, ears ringing. Smoke filled the small space, and a high-pitched ringing reverberated in his ears, drowning out everything else.

He looked around for Cross, and spotted him face down on the floor. Forgetting everything else, Hayes rolled him onto his side. Blood streamed down Cross’s face from a gash on his forehead, but his eyes were open, and he was breathing.

Hayes pulled his partner to his feet, looking for his weapon at the same time. He didn’t hear the second RPG whistling through the air.

It sailed through the hole the first one created and exploded.

Chapter Forty-One

Connor leaned against the front of the Tahoe, watching the explosive ordnance disposal team as they wrapped up their examination of the truck. The area around the semi had been cleared for almost an entire block while the EOD team went through the painfully long process of clearing the trailer. Connor had worked with several of these explosives teams over the years, and they all had one thing in common: they were never in a hurry.

The stillness of the city around them made the scene that much more intense. It was like they’d become the stars of their own post-apocalyptic movie, where the entire world had gone dark and they were the only survivors. Connor kept expecting packs of wild zombies to come racing around the corner of the building, snarling and screaming.

“Told you they weren’t going to find anything,” Connor said to Thompson, who stood next to him, arms crossed, also watching.

“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry, right?” Thompson checked his phone again, then shook his head. “Can you believe this?” He held up the cell phone, pointing to the screen. “Still no signal.”

Connor couldn’t help but grin. “It’s truly the end of days.”

“You got that right.” Thompson looked back over his shoulder. “I do kind of feel bad for the guy. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time.”

A group of military investigators and FBI agents were still questioning the driver. They’d been grilling him for the better part of twenty minutes and had all gotten the same information as before. He was just a regular guy, trying to deliver his load without getting arrested for being slightly over the legal amount of hours he’s allowed to drive in a day.

“I don’t—” Connor started, then stopped short as a Black Hawk helicopter appeared over one of the short buildings, breaking the eerie silence. It rotated above the pavement and set down a hundred meters north of the truck, rocking slightly on its landing gear as the engines pitched down. The side cargo compartment doors slid back, and eight men in multicam fatigues climbed out. They were all armed with M4s, body armor, and helmets with radio headsets and throat mics. None of their uniforms had markings.

Two of the soldiers moved toward Thompson and Connor. Connor recognized the lead soldier as one of the men who’d helped him and Annie at the warehouse with Wagner. The other soldiers remained near the Black Hawk, obviously looking for threats.

“What’s happened?” Thompson asked.

The lead soldier scanned their surroundings, obviously ensuring no one else was within earshot, then leaned close and spoke in low tones. “Someone’s attacking the West Point Mint. Twenty heavily armed suspects, military types with RPGs and high-caliber automatic weaponry. It should be coming through the wire here pretty shortly.”

Thompson spared the group of FBI agents and military officers a quick glance, then nodded toward the Black Hawk. “Then we don’t have any time to waste. This place is locked down tighter than a drum. Let’s go.”

Connor pulled himself into the Black Hawk’s passenger compartment and found a seat near the center of the compartment. He secured his harness while the rest of the team filed in. The engines began spinning up before the last man was seated, and they were lifting off before they’d even completely closed the doors.

“What’s wrong?” Thompson asked, leaning forward in his seat across from Connor.

Connor’s jaw was clenched. “I hate flying in these things.”

Thompson waved a dismissive hand at him. “It’ll be fine. These guys are pros.”

Thompson grabbed a headset hanging from a clip above him and slipped it on, then motioned for Connor to do the same. The headphones muffled the roar of the engines and rotor blades, and when Thompson spoke, his voice came through with a slightly mechanical tone. “How far till we get signal?”

“About ten miles,” the pilot responded. “Damn power outage hit all of Manhattan and most of the surrounding boroughs. Cell towers are down on the island.”

“I’m going to want a connection to the Bunker as soon as we’re clear.”

“Copy that.”

Thompson gave Connor a wave, then jabbed a thumb at the lead soldier who’d brought them aboard. “Connor Sloane, this is Chris Jenkins. He runs one of our tac teams. Connor is a former SF turned spook turned greenhorn for us.”

Jenkins extended his hand. “You’re the missing nuke guy, eh?”

Connor grinned, shaking the offered hand. “That’s the rumor.”

“I hear you handle yourself fairly well.”

Connor wondered who would have described him that way. The only person that had seen him truly operate had been Annie. “Eight years, First Battalion, Third Special Forces. I hope ‘fairly well’ is a compliment.”

Jenkins nodded. “Ten years, Third Battalion of the Tenth. When Annie says something positive about a person’s operational skills, they’re significantly above par. Just don’t tell her I said anything. Trust me, if there’s anything you don’t want to see, it’s a pissed-off Black Widow. She’s the type to leave scorpions in your bedsheets.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Connor said, turning to