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

when it was never even the endgame. Now the military are out of position, Hakimi’s rolling into DC, and we’re here.”

Fires burned from the detached guard building and from obvious rocket attacks to the main building. Both loading bay doors on the south side of the building had been blown away, and a U-Haul truck was backed up to one of the ramps. Several figures dressed in black BDUs were engaged with groups of state police, who were pinned down behind their patrol cars on the complex’s access road. The main gate stood open, and holes had been cut into the exterior and interior fences.

Two off-road pickup trucks were parked in the grass just outside the fence line. Beside them, a group of armed figures were exchanging gunfire with police taking cover behind the lodge. A barrage of heavy machine-gun fire from a gun mounted in the back of one of the pickups chewed through the lodge’s wooden siding, sending the officers on the other side running. The line of bullets ripped through the front end of a police car parked too far out. The windshield exploded in a mist of glass.

A chorus of metallic thunks echoed throughout the Black Hawk’s compartment. The window next to Connor cracked, creating a spider web of lines across its surface. The chopper banked hard, alarms ringing.

“Son of a bitch!” the pilot shouted.

Connor grabbed the seat in front of him, gritting his teeth, trying to keep his balance. The M4 hanging from a combat sling around his shoulder banged against the partition.

The world outside rotated as they banked around the complex, moving to the north. Connor pressed his hand to the window, steadying himself, and caught a glimpse of a lone helicopter sitting on the parking lot to the south of the main building. The doors on the white Agusta 109 stood open, its pilot sitting at the controls.

Several hostiles were moving away from the building, engaging the officers near the gatehouse. The officers were outmanned and almost certainly outgunned. When you were engaging military-grade weapons with ordinary sidearms, it didn’t matter how much courage and tenacity you had, there wasn’t any coming out on top of that contest.

“We’ve got to push them back,” Connor said, fingers wrapping around the M4’s grip.

He braced himself against the seat and pulled the door open. Sparks erupted from a panel above him. He leveled his carbine, sights on the fleeing hostiles, and fired. He took controlled shots, two here, three there, trying to slow their approach to the chopper.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Thompson said, sliding across the back bench and bringing up his own rifle.

One of Connor’s rounds caught a man on the back of the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. He hit the ground face first and didn’t move. The next man slowed, bringing up his rifle and firing up at Connor and the Black Hawk. Bullets stitched across the outside of the chopper, but Connor didn’t bother to duck. He just shifted fire and put three into the man’s chest, dropping him instantly.

“Put us down!” Connor shouted over his shoulder. “Get us on the ground now!”

“I don’t see a good spot to put down,” the pilot argued.

Connor checked out both sides of the aircraft. “Put us down on the far side of the lodge. There to the south where the cop cars are.”

The Black Hawk banked sharply, engines roaring. Connor held on tight as the ground turned and tilted around him. Thirty seconds later the aircraft jolted slightly as its wheels touched down.

Connor bolted from the chopper without waiting for it to settle. He pulled his M4 tight into his shoulder as he crossed the grassy lot to where the officers were hunkered down behind the corner of the lodge.

Two New York State police officers backed away from the edge as Connor approached. He didn’t bother to hold out ID. He jabbed a thumb at the chopper and the tactical team coming up behind him. “Connor Sloane, Homeland Security! What’s your situation?”

A burst of fire chewed through the grass a meter away, sending plumes of dirt and gravel spraying.

“Mike Duncan, State Police. We’ve got units here and to the east,” one of the officers said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got our SRT team en route—should be here in about ten minutes. How’d you guys get here so quick?”

“Long story.”

The Black Hawk lifted into the air, kicking up a torrent of wind. Connor hunched over, blocking his face from the violent gusts. He moved up to the edge of the building and peered around the corner. The blades on the transport copter were starting to spin up.

“They’re not going to be here in ten minutes,” he said.

“They’re falling back to the truck!” a male voice shouted through Duncan’s lapel mic. “I think the U-Haul is getting ready to roll!”

The officer backtracked around the building. “Do we have spike strips down? We need spike strips.”

Connor pulled his M4 up and leaned around the corner. The engines on the Agusta 109 helicopter were spinning up, the whine increasing as the blades spun faster and faster. Five men dressed in black BDUs, armed with FN SCAR rifles, jumped down from the loading dock and hurried across the pavement toward the helicopter. They all wore balaclavas and tactical vests.

Pros, Connor thought.

The machine gun from the pickup rattled off another stream of bullets. They smashed through the lodge’s wooden exterior and shattered windows. A few rounds went straight through and out the other side, plinking off the patrol cars behind it.

“We need to take out that machine gun,” Connor said. He looked over the two officers. One just had his service pistol, but Duncan had a slightly modified M4. “How good are you with that thing?”

Duncan shrugged. “Twenty years infantry, five with the State Police.”

“Good. You’re with me. Thompson, you too. We’re going to have to move fast. I’m going first, you two follow me out, focus your fire on the gunner. He’ll probably track me