Desolation

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tuesday, November 12

Driftwood Key

They say it’s always darkest before the dawn, and the families who’d finally found their way home to Driftwood Key were prepared to put the pains they’d suffered over the last few weeks behind them. Even with Peter and Jimmy on the mend, Hank hoped to bring everyone together for breakfast that morning to create a routine, some semblance of normalcy, during a catastrophic event that would become increasingly difficult to survive.

He took on the leadership role not unlike the coach of a high school football team would. He had to rally his team to do more than play a game on a crisp, fall Friday night under the lights. He had to convince his charges they could survive the chilly days that had been thrust upon them courtesy of nuclear winter. As they settled in for a breakfast of oatmeal, unusual for the Florida Keys at any time of year, Hank laid out the roles for each member of his team.

“Jimmy, you’re healing up nicely,” said Hank as he passed a bowl of sugar toward the young man who was the last to be seated. Jimmy said good morning to everyone and smiled at Hank.

“Peter and I were just talkin’ about it,” he said in a loud whisper as he took his first bite of sugar-coated oatmeal. Phoebe had warned everyone that oatmeal and Cream of Wheat would become a staple of their morning meals. She and Sonny had purchased as much as they could find in those days leading up to the collapse. The two healthy breakfast foods were also easy to prepare when power was scarce.

“He’s about a couple of days behind me in terms of recovery,” added Peter in order to allow Jimmy to slowly eat his oatmeal. His throat was still sore from the ordeal whereas Peter’s had substantially recovered, as had his strength. “Whadya think, Jimmy?”

“Crazy as this sounds, I want to get back into the water to practice holding my breath,” he replied. “The doctor couldn’t really tell me if I had lung damage. The only way I know how to find out is to test them.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Let’s not, son. Okay? You don’t need to do any skin diving right now.”

“Mom, I’ve already been challenging myself while lying in bed. I’m up to six minutes.”

His mother playfully swatted him on the shoulder and the back of the head with both hands. “Don’t stress me out!”

“Okay! Okay! I was better off swimming with the sharks.”

“Sharks?” asked Tucker. “I didn’t know …” His voice trailed off.

“I saw one, I think,” Jimmy answered. “We have them, but they don’t bother anyone. And who knows, I could have imagined it. I was getting kinda loopy out there.”

Hank stepped in because he wanted everyone to look forward, not back. “So here’s what I was thinking. Mike and Jessica will continue their duties working with the sheriff’s department. Officially, they’ve been assigned Marathon and the surrounding Keys from Seven Mile Bridge to Lower Matecumbe Key. As we all know, their focus will be on our protection and acquiring supplies for us.”

Mike interrupted. “The sheriff’s office is in disarray, and I’m continuing to receive information about their activities in Key West. It’s simply a matter of time before Lindsey and the MCSO SWAT team moves up Seven Mile to knock on the doors of our neighbors.”

“And maybe us,” added Hank. “Erin and I have a plan, as we’ve discussed, to rally people opposed to Lindsey’s activities. Our efforts will begin today with Mrs. Morton, who can tell us what our options are. Also, we’ll be touching base with the mayor, business owners in Marathon, and friends of our family. The goal is to push back against Lindsey. If we can’t stop her, then at least we can confine her confiscations to the Lower Keys and Key West.”

“What do you want us to do, Dad?” asked Lacey.

“Well, I’d like to divide the rest of you into two groups. Sonny, Phoebe, and Jimmy will do what they’ve always done for Driftwood Key. Jimmy’s fishing duties will wait until we feel he’s close to one hundred percent. When he does resume fishing, it will be on the buddy system. Nobody leaves the key alone. No exceptions.”

“Okay,” Peter confirmed. “Can I assume Lacey, Tucker, and I will handle security and fill in as needed elsewhere. I’m not much for fishing, but I can work with Jimmy when the time comes.”

“Just like the old days, right?” said Jimmy with a grin. He offered his fist to Peter, who bumped it in return.

“Yep. I’ll drink beer while you reel ’em in.”

Jimmy shrugged and grinned. The two friends were reliving their glory days growing up on Driftwood Key.

Hank rolled his eyes and shook his head disapprovingly. He had two teenagers on his hands once again.

Tucker spoke up. “Uncle Mike, would you or Aunt Jess have some time to show me how to use all the weapons? I kinda learned on the fly, if you know what I mean.”

Mike glanced at Lacey, who nodded her approval. “Over the last few weeks, he’s been forced to grow up. I never thought he’d learn to fire weapons before he got his driver’s license, but that’s what we have to do. Honestly, I could use a refresher course, too.”

“Same,” added Peter.

Mike patted Jessica on the arm, who nodded. “Deal. However, dry fire only. We can’t risk attracting attention, and we certainly can’t afford to burn through our ammo. It’s not like we can run out and buy more. That said, I will try to procure more from the MCSO supply depot in Key West if I go that way.”

“Aren’t you planning to stick around here?” asked Sonny.

“Absolutely, unless the sheriff sends someone to bring me to his office or something,” replied Mike. “What I don’t want is him coming this way nosing around. I don’t know how long Jess and I can keep up this charade.”

“Hopefully, long enough for Hank to work his magic on the other residents of Marathon and then Islamorada,” interjected Erin. She glanced around the table. Everyone had finished their oatmeal, so she turned to Hank. “We should get going. It’ll be a full day.”

“I want both of you carrying weapons,” said Mike with an authoritative tone. In matters of security, Hank would always defer to his brother. “Handguns with backup magazines are mandatory. Also, at least one long gun. A shotgun would be best.”

Sonny spoke up for the first time. “Hank, Jimmy and I can do some fishing today. Close to the shore, of course.”

“That would be great if Phoebe agrees,” said Hank. “Just keep your eyes open.”

Everyone confirmed what their roles were and set out for the day. In Key West, another group was about to take on a job they never imagined doing on American soil.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Tuesday, November 12

Key West

Sergeant Jorge Rivera was an eleven-year veteran of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department. He’d always been loyal to Sheriff Jock and had even petitioned his fellow officers on the force to support Lindsey during her first mayoral campaign. When the sheriff sat down with Lindsey to discuss the mechanics for executing the raids, Rivera was a logical choice to lead the members of the SWAT team. They were perfectly suited to breach the buildings that were to be raided that day.

Their first early morning stop would be a brazen raid upon a local restaurant supply store just a quarter mile away from the U.S. Coast Guard facility on Whiting Avenue. Despite the standoff between the Helton administration and Mayor Lindsey, as the hurricane approached, the USCG facility had been ordered to bug out. A small contingent of base police was left behind to guard the base and would be witness to the activities.

Sergeant Rivera did not expect to run into any meaningful opposition as he conducted his raids. Between the earlier unrest and the hurricane, all of the businesses had shuttered their doors and windows to protect their inventory. Except for a few notable, national companies like Publix, Winn-Dixie, and Walgreens, the businesses were owned by locals.

The omissions on his lengthy list were obvious to Rivera, who was keenly aware of the political affiliations of most business owners in the Lower Keys and Key West, his district. The restaurant supply store’s owners had been a vocal opponent of Lindsey’s policies, and therefore it came as no surprise they’d be targeted first.

Sergeant Rivera addressed his team leaders, all chosen because of their loyalty to him and Sheriff Jock. Loyalty secured by promises of receiving a greater portion of the seized goods than ordinary citizens.

“We’ve prepared for this, and it’s time to execute. Team A will hit the front entrance and clear the building. Once the all clear is received, team B will position our box trucks at their loading docks while team C takes up perimeter security. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” the three team leaders replied in unison.

Sergeant Rivera continued. “Team A, once the perimeter is secured, we’ll move on to the next location, where two more teams are at the ready. This will be a systematic, efficient sequence of raids designed to catch these people off guard. The idea is to avoid confrontation and an escalation of hostilities.”

During the prior two days, the sheriff’s office sent out deputies with iPads to photograph the perimeter of each target building and its surroundings. The computer tablet was then given to Sergeant Rivera, who intended to study it as he moved from one raid to another. His breach team would be under his direct command while the teams assigned to emptying out the businesses and perimeter security were left on their own.

Rather than undertaking the raids at night, Sergeant Rivera wanted the benefit of the minimal daylight nuclear winter afforded him. He expected each location would draw curious onlookers, and he wanted his perimeter security teams to be able to make adjustments if something went awry.

The team leaders rejoined their groups, and Sergeant Rivera spoke into the microphone of his encrypted two-way radio. “All teams are confirmed ready. Shock and awe, people. Team A, hit it!”

Years ago, the U.S. government had begun selling off its decommissioned military vehicles. Monroe County had purchased four urban assault vehicles that had never been used except in training exercises. Team A now operated three of them to undertake the initial breaches of the buildings. The fourth remained at the administration building together with a sizable security contingent. Lindsey wanted her castle protected.

The urban assault vehicles raced toward the one-story structure at a fairly high rate of speed. At that hour of the morning, very few people were awake, but the hyped-up drivers were at their highest state of awareness.

After skidding to a stop, three men emptied out of the rear of the vehicles and approached the front entrance. The breach team was made up of SWAT team members and firefighters experienced in extraction methods.

Three SWAT team members with automatic weapons arrived at the plywood-covered plate-glass doors and windows facing the parking lots. The firefighters used cordless saws and their Halligan tools to cut through the plywood. A Halligan was a steel tool used by firefighters and law enforcement when forcible entry was required in an emergency. One of the most important fire rescue tools, it had a two-prong fork used as a claw on one end and a combination spike-duckbill on the other.

With incredible efficiency, the firefighters on team A removed all the sheets of plywood that had been installed to protect the building from the storm and looters. Seconds later, without regard to the damage they were causing, they broke out the panes of glass, allowing the SWAT team members easy access.

Illuminated flashlights sent beams of light dancing throughout the interior of the building. The law enforcement officers called out to anyone stowed away inside, warning them to show themselves or risk getting shot. In less than five minutes, team A had breached the largest restaurant supply store in Key West and gave the all-clear announcement.

Pleased with himself, Sergeant Rivera ordered the other teams to move in, and with the efficiency of a swarm of locusts in a wheat field, they stripped the business of anything left of value.

A large crowd of onlookers gathered at the first target and each location thereafter to beg for a handout or to enter the buildings after the MCSO teams pulled out. They were emaciated and suffering from illness brought on by the lack of nutrition. Their dark, sullen eyes told the story. They were days away from starving to death after running out of their own food supplies.

Sergeant Rivera tried to put the images out of his mind. Their desperation emboldened him to move on to the next target on the list. And the next. And the next. By the time they reached Gordon Food Service on Roosevelt Boulevard, word of the raids had spread throughout Key West. At each stop, the crowds not only became larger, but some also cheered on the SWAT teams.

Thrilled at the success of his raids, Sergeant Rivera and his three armored assault vehicles rolled into Conch Plaza to enter the Gordon Food Service Store. What they encountered was more than resistance. It was a full-frontal assault by the owners and their hired guns.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tuesday, November 12

Tarpon Harbour Apartments

Marathon

Don Wallace and his wife had managed the Tarpon Harbour Apartments for more than ten years. Like so many other Keys residents, the Wallaces either came to the island chain in search of a Margaritaville lifestyle, or they were hiding from a past they didn’t want exposed. The Florida Keys had many transients in search of a new life, and the Wallaces fell under that category.

Wallace lived in the manager’s apartment located on the property on the Atlantic Ocean side of Marathon. They were friendly with all of their tenants and spent a considerable amount of time organizing community events for the one-hundred-and-seven-unit complex.

On this day, the meeting at the complex’s clubhouse wasn’t set to beach music and free margaritas. It was about survival of the fittest.

Wallace had approached several of the men and women at Tarpon Harbour who’d run out of food. They reached an agreement, one that was born out of instinct. They refused to die and decided to band together to take what they could not buy—fresh water and food.

Several tenants had young children who were suffering. Wellness checks on the tenants in residence began to produce dead bodies daily. Wallace and the tenants began breaking into nearby homes and businesses, taking anything edible and distributing the food products to those in need within the apartment community.

On a few occasions during these home invasions, they were met with a homeowner and a rifle barrel. This prompted the band of burglars to locate weapons of their own. At first, they used aluminum baseball bats and claw hammers to subdue their victims. With each successful nightly set of break-ins, they not only scored food but also guns.

None of the men owned weapons of their own, and very few had ever fired a gun. However, they were prepared to do what it took to continue to feed their families and those in the apartment complex.

Wallace called the group together. What started as a close-knit band of six burglars had now expanded to a dozen. Eight of them were armed with multiple guns. They gathered in the teal-colored clubhouse overlooking the pool, which remained filled with sand and debris following the hurricane. Wallace had only had enough time to cover the windows with plywood and had been unable to put away the lounge chairs that had lined both sides of the pool. The group was talking among themselves as Wallace called them to attention.

“Okay, listen up. We’ve now confirmed that the sheriff’s department has pulled virtually all of their manpower to Key West. From what we’ve been told by a firefighter who left to join the sheriff’s department, the mayor has ordered raids of businesses in Key West and Stock Island. This firefighter friend of mine says the plan is to redistribute the food and supplies to residents.”

“How does that help us?” asked one of the men who stood in the back of the open space.

“I don’t think it does, for now, anyway,” replied Wallace. He ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “According to my buddy, they plan on moving up the Keys until they’ve emptied every place that would have stockpiles of supplies. I think we need to change our tactics before they hit Marathon.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked one of the three women who were a part of the group.

“Well, so far we’ve focused on residences nearby. Mainly, this is because we can hit them and run back to the apartments before we’re seen. I think we need to identify the locations in Marathon that would give us the greatest opportunities and get what we can before the mayor beats us to the punch.”

Wallace pulled out a tourist map of Marathon and spread it on a banquet table in front of him. The group walked up to the table to get a better look at the markings and Post-it Note flags he’d used to identify certain properties in Marathon.

“We don’t have a lot of time if I understand my friend correctly, so we need to hit our most lucrative opportunities first,” Wallace began to explain. He tapped his fingers on the map over Marathon High School. “When this whole mess started, the county maintenance people put heavy-duty chains and padlocks on all the exterior doors to prevent entry.”

“Do we have bolt cutters strong enough to cut through the chain?” one of the group asked.

“No, but I do have an alternative way into the school,” replied Wallace. He stood away from the table and studied the people he would rely upon to break in. “At the food service entrance between the classroom buildings and the community college, there are three roll-up doors that allow delivery trucks to back up to a loading dock.”

“We won’t be able to open them from the outside,” opined one of the men. “I doubt we can even pry them open.”

Wallace scowled at the man for interrupting him. “There’s another way. You might remember that they were doing some construction work at the school. In the utility yard where the roll-up doors are located, there is a Cat backhoe parked near the roof overhang. We need someone to climb up the backhoe boom, jump onto the roof, and break through the windows into the building. Once inside, you should be able to manually roll up the steel doors from inside.”

He studied the faces of the group, hoping for a volunteer. Wallace couldn’t do it himself because he had bad knees.

“I’ve done it before,” said a young man as he raised his hand. “I mean, I was a teenager foolin’ around, but I did it.”

“That makes you an expert in my book,” said Wallace with a smile. Then he laid out the rest of the plan. “There’s a long concrete wall dividing the loading dock from Sombrero Beach Road. We can hide our trucks behind there while we load up. We can even make several trips if need be.”

One of the women spoke up. “I think it’s a good idea. As soon as it’s dark, let’s do it.”

Wallace took a deep breath. “I want to do it right now, in the daytime, and here’s why. Headlights at night draw attention. Plus, if we are noticed, we can’t see anyone sneaking up on us. During the day, with our weapons, we can warn off anyone who tries to interfere. We can’t be surprised.”

“That’s true,” said one of the group. “Let them see us. It’s not like they can call the cops. Right?”

“Some people have two-way radios,” interjected another.

“Man, they’re not gonna rat us out. They’ll probably just hang around ’til we leave, hoping for a few crumbs.”

Wallace liked the fact the group seemed to be in near unanimity with his approach. “Listen, there’s no time like the present. Let’s get our trucks together and check our fuel levels. I know it’s only a couple of miles, but I don’t want any hiccups. Also, bring your weapons and flashlights. We’ll leave from here in an hour.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tuesday, November 12

Morton Street

Grassy Key

Marathon

The Morton family compound jutted into the Gulf from Grassy Key on the eastern side of Marathon. Several properties had been held by the family on Morton Street since Marathon was developed in the early 1900s. The Mediterranean-inspired homes were set in lush, mature tropical vegetation. Each of the three homes had its own jetty projecting out into the water to create a safe space for their boats to dock.

When they arrived, they were surprised to see Commissioner Bud Marino and the other two district commissioners referenced in their conversation at the hospital the other day. They stood on the terrazzo-covered entry leading inside Cheryl Morton’s home. The elderly woman stood just inside the doorway and was greeting the commissioners as Hank brought the car to a stop on the driveway.

Marino broke away from the group to hustle to Hank’s truck. He opened the door for Erin and spoke to both of them as Hank came around the front bumper.

“I know you’re surprised to see me here,” he began. He glanced over his shoulder to determine whether they were being observed by their hostess. She’d escorted the other two commissioners inside and left the front door slightly ajar.

“Those two, also,” said Hank. “Is this an ambush?”

Marino laughed. “No, of course not. Unless you get caught up in friendly fire. Listen, Hank. This may be presumptuous of me, but I felt compelled to move this thing along a little bit. I have news for you both, if you don’t mind waiting until we get inside.”

Erin and Hank looked at one another. They shrugged, and Hank said, “Lead the way.”

Minutes later, everyone had exchanged pleasantries and got comfortable in Mrs. Morton’s spacious living room, which overlooked her private beach. Hank was impressed.

“Let me bring Erin and Hank up to speed,” began Marino. “Late yesterday afternoon, Sheriff Daly pulled virtually all of the sheriff’s deputies assigned to Islamorada and Key Largo. They, along with several firefighters from our largest fire station, were ordered to report to Key West. The wife of one of the firefighters, who is a paramedic, rode with her husband from Islamorada. She returned just after midnight and pounded on my door, waking me up.

“This morning, Lindsey has Jock sending teams into food warehouses and grocery stores throughout Key West with the intention of emptying them all. Now, as we all know, this was not altogether unexpected. That said, I didn’t expect them to act so quickly after the hurricane.”

One of the other two commissioners spoke up. “Down our way, we’ve still got people wandering the streets whose homes were destroyed. I would’ve thought Lindsey would have more compassion than that.”

“She’s a vile woman,” said Mrs. Morton. “She never should’ve been put into office in the first place. We’re stuck with her, for now.”

“I presume you know that’s why we’re here,” said Erin.

“Yes. Before I begin, just so you know, I didn’t vote for your boss either.”

Erin laughed. “Understood. Half of America didn’t. It’s a funny thing about elections. Those who are placed into the highest positions of power automatically assume they have some kind of mandate from the people to implement their policies. They lose sight of the fact that half of the voters cast their ballot for the other guy.”

“I’ll try to bite my tongue when it comes to Carter Helton out of respect,” said Mrs. Morton.

Erin studied the matriarch of the Morton family, who’d been a fixture in the Keys for more than a century. She seemed like a take-no-prisoners adversary, which was exactly whom Hank needed in his corner to remove Lindsey from office.

“I’m glad we see eye to eye on this mayor,” said Erin. “Is there anything in the county’s governing documents that allows for her to be removed from office?”

“Not at the county level, no,” replied Mrs. Morton. “Florida laws governing recall must have been elected to a governing body of a municipality or a chartered county. There are twenty chartered counties in Florida; however, Monroe County isn’t one of them.

“She is subject to recall under state law if she’s served at least a quarter of her term in office, which she has. The next criteria relates to the grounds for the recall. They include, among other things, malfeasance, some permanent disability, conviction of a felony, drunkenness, and the two catchalls—neglect of duty and incompetence.”

“I believe we could make a case for two or three of those,” added Marino as he made eye contact with each of the attendees.

Hank leaned forward from the sofa he shared with Erin. “Suppose we make this argument to the residents of the Keys, then what?”

Mrs. Morton grimaced. “It’s a time-consuming process that certainly works against what you intend to do. You’ve got thirty days to gather the requisite signatures. Then the county clerk has a right to confirm them before turning the petition over to the supervisor of elections. Lindsey has the right to issue a statement of defense, followed by a formal recall petition and so on, including a special election. It’s meant to require a somewhat lengthy period of time to prevent political lynchings and rash decisions.”

Erin took a deep breath and sighed. “Is it possible to obtain a court order to force her to step down due to one of the criteria you listed? Perhaps the mayor pro tem, albeit an ally of the mayor’s, would be a little less zealous or heavy-handed.”

Mrs. Morton shook her head from side to side as she spoke. “The problem you have is that both the president’s declaration of martial law and the mayor’s own executive orders have suspended the Bill of Rights, including access to the courts. The streets may be lawless right now, but the halls of justice reek of tyranny.”

“There has to be a way,” said Hank under his breath.

“The quickest and most expeditious method is to force her resignation,” said Mrs. Morton. “I can find nothing under state law or the governing documents of the Monroe County Board of County Commissioners that prevents the BOCC from calling a special meeting for this purpose. Her executive orders don’t override the functions of the BOCC, even under these disastrous circumstances.”

Marino perked up. “We could call an emergency meeting of the BOCC. The three of us could force her out and select a new mayor.”

“We could also select another mayor pro tem,” added one of the other commissioners.

“You’d have to show cause, in my humble opinion,” interjected Mrs. Morton. “State law may require it, and certainly the will of the people would have to support it. Otherwise, the change might be seen as illegitimate, and you’d face an angry mob on every street corner. In other words, you might make matters worse.”

“And we have the issue of Jock Daly,” added Marino. “He’s rumored to be more than a loyal servant of the mayor’s office. He’s much closer to Lindsey than we realize. We’d better have the people on our side, or we’ll see what martial law looks like.”

“All or nothing, right?” asked Hank.

“That’s correct,” replied Mrs. Morton.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Tuesday, November 12

Key West

Sergeant Rivera led the caravan of SWAT vehicles into Conch Plaza’s parking lot. A handful of stalled vehicles were scattered about. The Starbucks had been looted, and a tent city had been built in the tree-covered drive-through using tarps and four-by-eight sheets of corrugated steel that had been dislodged during the storm. As the assault vehicles entered the shopping center, out of curiosity the homeless residents followed them toward Gordon Food Service.

All of the other stores in the strip shopping center had been looted, including Bealls Outlet. The windows had been broken out, and the store appeared to have been ravaged. As Rivera’s vehicle slowly rolled past, he became puzzled as to how the clothing and home décor store could have been thoroughly looted, yet the adjacent grocery store had not.

Sergeant Rivera, whose mother lived nearby, had visited Gordon’s often to purchase groceries for his elderly mother. When the nation began to collapse following the nuclear attacks, he’d insisted his mother move into his home near the sheriff’s department. He’d packed her most beloved belongings and food the day of the move. He hadn’t returned since.

Gordon’s was boarded up, but something bothered him about its appearance. There was no evidence that anyone had tried to loot the business, a rarity in Key West. Virtually every storefront was scarred by some effort to enter it.

The store’s steel roll-up doors were one reason it hadn’t been breached. The other might have been the vehicles tightly parked together under the canopy covering the portico entrance. A desperate looter might’ve attempted to gain entry by driving their vehicle into the steel doors, but the cars were arranged in such a way to prevent it.

Sergeant Rivera shrugged and shook off the strange feeling that had overcome him. It had been a safe and successful day thus far. He was certain Sheriff Jock and the mayor would be patting him on the back when he made his report.

All the trucks parked, and their occupants spilled out onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to the portico-covered driveway. Sergeant Rivera began to bark out his instructions to team A as well as B and C, which had rejoined them for this target.

“All right. Firefighters, you’re up. Get us through these damn doors!”

The three men approached the easily identifiable roll-up doors. The interlocking galvanized steel slats rode upon heavy-gauge steel channel guides on both the inside and outside of the door frame. To gain access, they used a K-12 Fire Rescue Saw with a twelve-inch saw blade. The men traded turns to cut through the steel using several different angles and techniques. The high-torque engine squealed as it tore through the steel quickly.

After several minutes, an entry point the size of a small door frame had been opened up to allow the SWAT team members inside to clear the building, which was the size of a Trader Joe’s grocery store. The six deputies had been inside the building for nearly two minutes when shots rang out.

“Team A, report!” shouted Sergeant Rivera.

The deputies shouted over one another.

“We’re taking on fire!”

“They’re on the catwalk above the registers!”

“No, at the rear—arrrrggggh!”

Automatic gunfire continued to explode inside the enclosed building. Suddenly, the other two roll-up doors began to slowly open. They were being pulled upward manually by a chain just inside the door. Sergeant Rivera drew his service weapon and ordered the firefighter members of team A to grab rifles out of the assault vehicles.

Rivera shouted into his two-way radio, “Team B! Team C! Report to the front entrance. Now!”

The commotion was beginning to draw a crowd as over two dozen curious bystanders crowded around the assault vehicles to watch. They pushed forward until they were near the canopy and the parked cars. Sergeant Rivera, focused on his team trapped inside, didn’t notice the spectators behind him.

Two members of team A emerged from the side entries. As they walked backwards, they were firing wildly inside the dark store in an effort to provide cover for their SWAT team partners to escape.

“Deploying smoke!” a man shouted from inside the store.

“Roger that!” another shouted back.

The sounds of smoke canisters striking the polished concrete floor of Gordon’s could be heard. Smoke began to billow through the entrances.

Rivera shouted into his microphone, “Abort! Abort!”

More gunfire, this time sending bullets sailing through the smoke-filled entrance and striking eight people who’d pushed their way toward the front entrance to get a better view.

Rivera continued to call out to his team to abort the mission. He yelled at the bystanders to fall back. He tried to call to the members of teams B and C to stand down, who, in the chaos, began to open fire as well. Soon, bullets were flying in and out of the entrance to the grocery store with neither side capable of seeing their targets due to the smoky conditions.

Several members of Sergeant Rivera’s breach teams were wounded or killed. The same was true of more than a dozen civilians who got in the way of the barrage of bullets. Rivera called all of his breach teams to the scene. The rest hid behind their Level III bulletproof shields to move in formation as they reentered the building.

A gun battle raged for an hour or more as the sheriff’s deputies fought the owners of the business and their hired guards. When it was over, seven deputies had died and another five were wounded. All of the guards and owners of the business were killed. The civilians who’d exposed themselves to the carnage suffered as well. Eleven died and nine suffered life-threatening wounds.

Sergeant Rivera had secured the food and supplies, but they came with a high cost.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tuesday, November 12

Driftwood Key

After Jessica got called away to help a wounded fisherman, Mike spent some time with Peter, Lacey, and Tucker with the newly acquired weapons he’d retrieved from the supply depot at the sheriff’s office. Only a couple were department issue. The rest were confiscations that wouldn’t be missed considering the state of confusion the department was operating under.

Tucker was especially attuned to Mike’s instructions. Both Lacey and Peter had been weapons trained by their law-enforcement uncle while growing up, but Tucker had never been exposed to guns until the apocalypse. He soaked in the information that Mike imparted on the group and, at times, asked poignant questions that caught the seasoned LEO off guard.

“Do you carry your sidearm with a bullet in the chamber? Couldn’t that second it takes to rack a round make all the difference between living or dying?”

Mike glanced at the adults and smiled. In his mind, he was telling them—“Don’t worry about the kid. He gets it.”

“That’s a great question, Tucker. For me, I keep a round chambered. Here’s the way I look at it. What are the chances that the second it takes to rack it will get you killed or hurt versus the likelihood of an accident because you’re carrying a chambered round in the weapon strapped to your hip?

“Here’s another way of putting it. If you’re in a situation where you don’t even have an extra second to move your hand, you’re probably in real trouble anyway. Most self-defense scenarios don’t play out that way, especially if you have good situational awareness.

“So, to answer your questions, I do keep a round chambered, but I’ve trained with weapons my entire adult life. For you, I don’t think you should carry a weapon that is locked and loaded. What you need to focus on is your situational awareness.”

Peter chimed in, “I think I’ll follow that advice, too. As for situational awareness, it saved my ass more than once since my experience in Abu Dhabi. I learned constantly being aware of my surroundings was important for my personal security, especially now.”

“Peter’s right,” said Mike. “Since this all went down, I keep reminding myself of a quote from that famous general Jim Mad Dog Mattis. He advised his Marines who were in Iraq at the time to be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet. I’ve adopted that as my motto for when I have to deal with suspects in my job. I wish I’d applied it to Patrick Hollister. I’d be able to run more than twenty yards without getting winded.”

Tucker was about to ask another question when Mike’s two-way radio squawked to life.

“Sanchez for Albright. Over.” Mike and the deputies assigned to his substation had agreed to dispense with the formalities on their radio calls. He was recognized as their supervisor, but none of them used their ranks when interacting with one another.

“Go ahead, Sanchez.”

“A woman came into the substation claiming to have seen several pickup trucks approach the loading docks at the high school. She thought one of them, a teenager, was climbing on top of a backhoe parked near the building.”

“Roger that,” said Mike. He’d laid down a single law with his deputies when he gathered them together for the first time. The buddy system was always in effect. “I’m 10-53.” He was en route to the station.

“Do you think they’re breaking in?” asked Peter.

“Probably gonna try. I went by the high school the other day, and the buildings looked secure. But you know kids.” Mike laughed as he mussed Tucker’s uncharacteristically long hair.

Don Wallace was the group’s field general. Everyone looked up to him, and he relished the opportunity to feel important once again. In his prior career, he’d operated a large road-construction business. During its heyday, he’d had multiple contracts with the state of Ohio, building new highways and resurfacing old ones. Then a period of hyperinflation hit America, causing building material prices to skyrocket. At the same time, the labor market became tight, and he was having difficulty keeping employees, much less hiring new ones. After making several large draws that included work that was yet to be completed, Wallace’s house of cards collapsed. He allowed the business to close its doors. He liquidated his equipment and kept the advance payments he’d received from the state. Before he could be investigated and prosecuted, he and his wife slipped away and landed in the Florida Keys.

The glass breakage was sure to draw attention, but it was necessary. The young man who had volunteered to climb the boom of the backhoe and jump over to the suspended roof covering the loading dock did so with ease. Seconds after breaking through, he dove in head-first, his legs languishing half in and half out for a brief moment as if he were diving into a swimming pool.

“You two, cover that entrance. I need two more on the other side. If anyone from the neighborhood approaches, make sure they see your rifles. Don’t get into conversations with them. The idea is to scare ’em off. Got it?”

With a quick nod, the four took off to man their posts. Wallace had plenty of people with him to locate the food storage within the high school and to load the trucks. What he didn’t need was an audience.

“The rest of you, come with me. Let’s move quickly through the building and locate what we need. Don’t waste time unnecessarily searching through cabinets and desk drawers. This is a high school, not a jewelry store. Understand?”

The men and women agreed. A minute later, they were pacing in front of the roll-up doors, waiting for one of them to open. Wallace was growing frustrated. All the man had to do was come directly to the floor below him. How could he get lost?

“Hey, are you guys out there?” the man shouted from the center door.

Wallace rolled his eyes. Yes, moron. “Yeah, what’s the problem?”

“The doors are run by a motor. There’s no power. I’ve tried all the switches.”

Wallace shook his head in disbelief. He should’ve sent in a second man with this guy. He nervously looked around. Standing on the platform of the loading dock exposed them to onlookers from the adjacent neighborhood.

“Disengage the locking mechanism,” ordered Wallace. “Think of how you manually open your garage door. There won’t be a rip cord, but somewhere near the motor or the guides, you’ll find a locking bar.”

After a minute, Wallace was about to ask the guy if he was doing anything when a series of loud metallic bangs could be heard. The door shook and rattled, startling the group who were waiting to enter. Then a slight gap appeared at the bottom. The man’s fingers protruded from underneath.

“Hey, can you guys gimme a hand?”

The twenty-foot-tall steel panel door was heavy and required five men to lift it. Once it created an opening of four feet, a pallet was retrieved from near a dumpster to wedge under the door.

“All right, people. Let’s split into two groups. Food service is most likely on the main level. Half of you head to the right, and we’ll take the left side. Let’s go!”

They broke off from one another, flashlights dancing around the hallways, entering the building as they searched for the storerooms. It took a couple of minutes to find what they were looking for.

“Bingo!” Wallace shouted. He thought he was a winner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tuesday, November 12

Marathon

Hank and Erin left Mrs. Morton’s home encouraged by the support shown by the three county commissioners but wary of whether the group could pull off what amounted to a coup d’état. Lindsey had allies throughout the county, some of whom were likely being compensated through her confiscation program.

The additional complicating factor was Lindsey’s relationship to the sheriff. Jock’s actions indicated he was in lockstep with her plans, and that didn’t bode well. When a state’s national guard was preoccupied with societal unrest in major cities like Miami and Tampa-St. Petersburg, a county sheriff’s department was tantamount to an army.

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” began Hank in a defeatist tone. “My guess is Lindsey’s been planning something like these confiscations since the president declared martial law. Obviously, Key West was the first likely target. However, it won’t be long before Sheriff Jock will have his deputies heading up Seven Mile Bridge.”

Erin patted Hank on the leg. “You’ve made some powerful friends. As I said, you definitely impressed Commissioner Marino at the hospital the other day. So much so, he stuck his neck out and approached the other commissioners.”

“What I don’t understand is why doesn’t Marino carry the torch. He’s obviously ready to make a move on Lindsey.”

Erin was quick to reply. “He needs a political outsider who’s known in the community. The Albright name obviously is respected in the Keys.”

“Maybe. I’m just not so sure to what extent our family is that well known on the other keys. We’ve had very little to do with Key West. Folks in Islamorada know us, but not so much in Key Largo.”

“That’s where networking and the other commissioners come in,” said Erin encouragingly. “You should solidify your support in the areas you know best. Show the other two commissioners this move is viable. Then let the mayor and sheriff hang themselves. Heavy-handed approaches to governing never work regardless of which side you’re on. Eventually, the people turn on tyrants. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Hank until he suddenly leaned forward in his seat and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. He pointed through the windshield. “Hey, that looked like Mike’s truck with his emergency lights on. He turned by the Winn-Dixie.”

“I saw him, too. He was in a hurry, wasn’t he?”

“Hold on. Let’s see what’s going on.” Hank accelerated and raced past the International House of Pancakes, which was in the process of being looted. He glanced over at the restaurant and simply shook his head as he focused on finding his brother.

“I’ve got two armed men with weapons at low ready near the utility yard,” said Deputy Sanchez, who’d turned in his seat to remove the shotguns from the roof-mounted gun racks. “How do you wanna approach this?”

Mike pointed through the windshield. “They’ve seen us. What happens next is on them.”

Mike raced into the high school parking lot, which was shared with the Florida Keys Community College. The two men retreated behind the wall, but Mike caught a glimpse of another man milling about at the other end. He, too, abruptly disappeared.

The first entrance to the parking lot had been blocked with a stalled car, so Mike drove past it, skidding to a stop on the sand-covered road at the next entry. He sat there for a moment while Sanchez racked rounds into the shotguns.

“That damn wall has our view blocked,” Mike complained.

“We have to separate, Mike. Each of us will approach from a different end and converge on them in the middle.”

“We need backup!” Mike was still agitated. He was trying to police Marathon with four deputies, one of whom was on Lower Matecumbe Key, and the other two had just gotten off of their shift.

Suddenly, one of the gunmen poked his rifle around the block wall and fired toward the truck. The bullets missed to the right, kicking up sand and asphalt as they skipped past.

“That’s it! Idiots!” Mike exited the truck, and Sanchez followed his lead. Each ran in opposite directions to take up positions behind parked vehicles that afforded them a view of the utility yard. Sanchez ran in a low crouch until he reached a green power transformer adjacent to the building. He’d arrived undetected. Mike wasn’t as fortunate.

Still easily winded due to his lung injury, he had to slow down as he reached a viburnum hedgerow that separated the utility yard from the school entrance. He was well concealed, but he had little in the way of ballistic protection. Just as he reached the hedges, bullets sailed over his head and ripped through the foliage. The gunmen had no way of knowing precisely where he was located, but they certainly had him pinned down.

Mike dared not shoot back. He remained in a low crouch, hidden from his assailants. He thought for a moment. These shooters weren’t disciplined nor were they trained. He keyed the mic on his radio and whispered to Sanchez, “Fire on them. But be ready for them to fire back. I need you to draw their attention.”

“Roger,” Sanchez responded. Seconds later, the boom of his shotgun filled the air as he broke cover and quickly unloaded on a vehicle parked near the utility yard entrance. The windshield exploded as the pellets struck the truck. Then he shot again, purposefully aiming toward the end of the stucco retaining wall. Hunks of stucco and the underlying foam were torn away from the wall.

“Inside!” shouted one of the men. “Fall back and get inside! Now!”

Mike could hear their hurried footsteps as the shooters found their way to the concrete stairs leading to the loading dock. He peeked through a thin section of the viburnum hedge to get a better look.

Just as he stood to round the hedges and enter the utility yard, he heard a vehicle approaching from the main highway. He raised his shotgun and turned toward the sound, prepared to shoot. He slowly lowered his rifle and exhaled as he recognized the Suburban he’d obtained from the impound vehicle lot. The driver’s side window was rolled down, and Hank shot him a concerned look.

Mike began waving his arm at Hank, directing him away from the scene. Shots rang out again as two of the gunmen began firing upon his position from the windows above the loading dock roof. Mike swung around and dropped to a knee. He was approximately two hundred feet away from the shooter, not optimal range for a shotgun, but close enough to cause serious injury.

He fired. The double-aught buckshot reached its target, blasting through the partially broken glass and striking the two men who foolishly failed to take cover. Both screamed in agony as they were knocked backwards. Mike had no way of knowing whether they were killed, but they certainly didn’t fire back.

He rushed across the parking lot, glancing up at the building as he went. He noticed Sanchez break cover and run toward the stucco wall to get closer to the loading docks. He reached the Suburban just as Hank and Erin exited, weapons in hand.

“You two need to get back in the truck,” Mike said angrily.

“Not gonna happen,” Hank shot back. “What can we do to back you up?”

Mike brusquely grabbed his brother by the arm and led him around the truck to get them out of the open. He looked at Erin and then addressed Hank.

“These guys mean business. They fired on us first, Hank. That means they’re stupid. Stupid is dangerous. You follow?”

“Yeah, I follow. And I’m not gonna let you take them on alone. I, um, we can handle ourselves.”

Mike looked over the hood of the Suburban and confirmed Sanchez was in position. He shook his head but then came to the realization he and Sanchez were greatly outnumbered. He assessed their choice of weapons. Hank had a shotgun, and Erin was holding an AR-15. Both had their handguns tucked into paddle holsters at their waists. Erin even had a backup magazine in her jeans’ back pocket.

“Geez, Hank. Are you sure about this?”

Before Hank could answer, another gunman showed up at the upper windows and fired toward Sanchez.

“Yes. Now, what do you want us to do?”

“Okay, Sanchez and I have to flush them out,” he began. He turned toward the building and gestured as he spoke. “I need you and Erin to take up positions on each end of that stucco wall. If they come toward you, and they’re armed, then you shoot them. Understand? None of this hands-up-or-I’ll-shoot nonsense. If they’re armed, shoot them.”

“No problem,” said Erin. Her look of determination gave Mike a comfort level to proceed.

“Agreed,” added Hank.

Mike whispered into his radio, “We’ve got backup. We’re moving.”

Sanchez readied his rifle and leaned around the corner of the wall, focusing on any movement in the broken window. He responded, “Move!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tuesday, November 12

Marathon High School

Mike and Deputy Sanchez worked together now. With Hank and Erin ensuring nobody else entered the building after they did, the trained law enforcement officers could feel comfortable they wouldn’t get trapped. There were four pickup trucks backed up to the loading dock. Mike checked their exhaust pipes to confirm they were still warm from being recently driven. He expected there could be as many as eight armed gunmen inside, plus the two who were likely wounded from his shotgun blast.

He led Sanchez into the spacious receiving room. They both walked in a low crouch, separating once they were inside so as not to present their attackers with a single target. It was oddly quiet. Mike expected to be fired upon as soon as their silhouettes appeared inside the building, but they found themselves alone. There were no whispers or muffled coughs. No footsteps echoing across the concrete floor. The loading docks were devoid of human activity other than Mike and his deputy.

Mike motioned for Sanchez to walk along the perimeter walls of the intake room. He did the same, constantly checking on his partner as they encircled the space that led to a single set of double doors in the center of the back wall.

The fixed door latches had been opened, resulting in the spring-assisted door being left slightly ajar. Mike dropped to a knee and cradled his shotgun with his right arm. Using his left, he slowly pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. He held his breath, assuming a barrage of gunfire would be thrown in their direction.

Nothing.

Great, he thought to himself. Now these guys had found some discipline. Mike knew the dynamics had changed. He put his game face on and made a decision to head toward his left down the corridor. To his right was the community college, and to his recollection, it did not have a full cafeteria like the high school did. Its portion of the storage warehouse was probably dedicated to sanitation supplies and the like.

He whispered across the door opening to his partner. He pointed his hand down the left corridor. “Sanchez, take the lead. I’ll cover our back.”

Mike pressed the button on the tactical flashlight mounted to the Mossberg 590’s Picatinny rail system. He swept the barrel of his shotgun up and down the hallway. Satisfied the corridor was clear, he moved to the right and once again pointed left, indicating Sanchez should get started.

The two men walked in tandem. Sanchez concentrated on the upcoming door openings in the hallway. Mike walked backwards, focusing on their rear while periodically swinging around to check his deputy’s progress.

Sanchez had been trained in search techniques by the sheriff’s department. In fact, he was one of the better deputies at the MCSO. Mike was lucky the man lived in Marathon, making him a logical addition to the newly formed substation.

They moved quickly along the painted block wall until they reached the first doorway. With their backs flattened near the door opening, they focused their hearing on any sounds indicating movement in the room. They shared a nod, and Sanchez led the way inside, moving to the right while Mike slid along the wall to the left.

While being cautious, they wanted to hit the rooms aggressively with the intention of startling any of the gunmen lying in wait. Tensions were high as their flashlights illuminated the space, searching for a target. Several cubicles were located in the center of the room, providing ample cover for the gunmen. Mike dropped to a knee and swept the flashlight underneath the partitions, which were three inches above the concrete floor.

Satisfied there wasn’t anyone hiding in the cubicles, he motioned to Sanchez to move quickly along the outer walls. Just as they’d done in the spacious loading dock area, they kept their backs against the perimeter of the room, their eyes darting around the space in front of them as well as back to the door through which they’d entered.

After clearing the first room, they carefully reentered the hallway to move on to a room down the hall to the right. A large set of double steel doors were closed, unlike the next door in the hallway to the left, which was open.

Mike could’ve easily assumed this room was unoccupied, but he left nothing to chance. After he and Sanchez were in position, he slowly turned the knob and pushed it open. This open area had windows on the back side, and just enough ambient light was available for him to get a good look at the layout.

The perimeter walls were lined with cubicles, all of which contained a rolling office chair and a desktop computer. In the center, there were half a dozen utility tables with folding chairs around them. The space could’ve been used as a meeting room or even a break room for the cafeteria and loading dock employees. The sheer amount of clutter and furniture in the room gave him pause.

Mike stepped through the doorway first, attempting to lead by example. Sanchez immediately followed and moved to the right as before. Suddenly, there was a muzzle flash, and several bullets stitched the wall to Mike’s left. He dropped to a knee and held his position. He racked a round and fired in the direction of the muzzle flash. The shooter fell in a heap.

Another gunman was in the opposite corner of the room, hiding behind some boxes. He shot in the deputy’s direction. However, his bullets were deflected by the metal folding chairs around the tables. Sanchez didn’t hesitate to return fire directly into the stack of boxes. Some of the buckshot made it through, injuring the gunman. When he fell into the open, Sanchez pulled his service weapon from his utility belt and shot him again.

Mike and Sanchez quickly approached the two bodies sprawled out on the tiled floor. Blood splatter covered their clothing and the walls behind them. The holes in their chests and throats were all the evidence Mike needed to confirm their deaths.

“They look like soccer dads, not gangbangers,” quipped Sanchez.

Mike kept an eye on the door and responded, “Everybody’s a banger in the apocalypse.”

“Four?” asked Sanchez as he led the way back into the hallway.

Mike whispered his response. “We’ve still got work to do.”

They cleared two more rooms and made their way to the end of the corridor, where two double doors were propped open with cases of bottled water. They had to be extremely careful now, as the gunfire just gave away their approach.

Mike’s flashlight illuminated the sizeable storage room that rose two stories to an open-beam ceiling. The interior was filled with steel shelving full of dry goods and pallets of boxes. Above their heads, a catwalk filled with boxes extended around the second level.

This was the high school’s storage area and the prize the intruders sought. The numerous obstructions and the potential for gunmen having the high ground would make this a difficult space to clear. Mike took a deep breath and contemplated his best approach. The large size of the warehouse coupled with the amount of shelving in the center made splitting up unwise.

He also wanted to limit the ingress and egress to the room. Mike leaned into Sanchez and whispered his instructions. “Help me with these cases of water. I wanna seal off this exit, or at least make it difficult for them to come in or out.”

He and Sanchez worked in near silence as one lifted the water and the other slowly closed the door. This also served to make the room darker, a benefit for the trained law enforcement officers. The two men slid along the wall and dropped into a crouch, using the minimal light to get a feel for the space. Mike’s eyes darted around the room in search of light sources. Closing the double doors to the corridor limited their visibility of the lower level, but the catwalk’s details had appeared.

“I see a doorway above this one. It’s producing the most light, probably from the windows overlooking the loading docks. There has to be an exit into the high school opposite this one. There are a couple of skylights on the back side of the roof, but I’m guessing they’re covered in soot because they don’t allow much light in.”

Sanchez continually scanned the perimeter. “They’re here, Mike. I can feel them.”

“Me too. Let me take the lead, and you watch our backs. Let’s make our way to the staircase leading to the upper level. I’d feel better if we got eyes on the two who were shooting at us from the windows. Plus, I’d rather have the high ground myself.”

Sanchez tapped the detective-turned-substation-commander on the shoulder. The two men, separated by a few feet, moved along the wall, keeping their bodies as low to the ground as possible. Just as they reached the staircase, the sound of gunfire outside the building stopped them dead in their tracks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tuesday, November 12

Marathon High School

For a split second, it wasn’t clear who was more surprised to encounter a man with a gun—Don Wallace as he raced along the viburnum hedge in his attempt to escape, or Hank Albright, who heard the man’s footsteps crunching through the dead zoysia grass.

Hank turned the corner and abandoned his cover behind the stucco wall just as Wallace appeared at the end of the hedgerow. Hank’s sudden appearance startled the left-handed Wallace, who tried to point his handgun in Hank’s direction. His nervous trigger finger fired into the ground beside his feet and then wildly to the right, ricocheting off the school’s flagpole with a loud ping.

Hank didn’t hesitate. He’d already racked a birdshot shell into his marine shotgun and fired at Wallace. The birdshot was designed to wound any would-be attacker before the second shell full of double-aught buckshot finished the job.

However, at a range of just forty feet, the birdshot caused significant harm to the man. Wallace’s right shoulder was ripped open, leaving tendons and muscle dangling from where his bicep once was. He spun around and landed on his knees, frozen in that position until he fell onto the sandy soil.

He was not dead. Hank carefully approached the man with his shotgun pointed at his chest. Wallace’s chest rose and fell as he gasped for air. Several pellets had torn through his clothing and hit his chest. Yet he still held his weapon in his left hand. He was about to raise it to shoot at Hank when more gunfire emanated from the breezeway connecting the warehouse building to the high school.

Two more men were racing in Hank’s direction, carrying handguns. Both were shooting at him, spraying bullets over his head and into the ground on both sides. Hank quickly backpedaled to get cover behind the stucco wall. He frantically searched for Erin, looking behind him toward the other end of the wall, but she was gone.

“Shit!” he whispered loudly to himself.

He was concerned for her safety and had no idea where she went. He intently listened for the approaching gunmen to gauge their location. He dared not look around the wall, as they might shoot him.

Then a single gunshot broke his concentration, followed by an explosion. This was followed by another a few seconds later. Then another coming from the other side of the utility wall. He put two and two together. Erin was shooting out their tires, eliminating their means to escape.

Hank shouldered the shotgun and pulled his handgun. He dropped to a knee and readied his weapon. Mike had always advised him to keep his body low to the ground to create a smaller target and because nervous, untrained shooters had a tendency to fire over the heads of their targets.

Without looking for a target, Hank quickly stretched his hand around the edge of the wall and fired in the direction of the man he’d shot earlier. If Erin was approaching, he wanted to distract the two gunmen.

They fired back at him, embedding several rounds in the top of the stucco wall. They missed their target. Erin did not.

The men’s gunshots gave her a point of reference to release several rounds from the AR-15 into the viburnum hedge. Two of the NATO 5.56 rounds found their mark, striking the gunmen in some manner.

Hank holstered his handgun and racked another shell into his shotgun. He didn’t hesitate to swing around the wall and immediately shoot toward Wallace’s location. The shot hit Wallace and another man who was kneeling on the ground next to him. The man’s body was flung backwards as blood and flesh flew across the dying grass.

The third man began running back toward the breezeway, half turning and firing his handgun toward Hank. The bullets missed badly and shredded the hedges. Hank rushed toward the man until he planted his feet and unleashed two rounds out of his shotgun in rapid succession. Both blasts tore through his shoulders and back, killing him instantly.

“Hank!” shouted Erin, who rushed around the hedges with the barrel of her rifle pointed toward the two men left bleeding in the grass.

“I’m good,” he replied. He walked back slowly, racking another round in his shotgun while keeping a leery eye on the breezeway. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Are they …” Her voice trailed off.

Hank turned to kick their bodies. Neither of the dead men responded. Then, in unison, he and Erin picked up their weapons and tossed them into the shrubs.

“Did you disable their trucks?” he asked.

She glanced toward the loading docks and nodded. “What should we do?”

Hank looked around. A crowd of residents had gathered, remaining safely across Sombrero Beach Road to watch the action. Most were tucked behind the pilings of the colorful homes that faced the man-made canal. Others peered through their upper-level windows, watching the spectacle unfold. Hank focused his attention back on the task at hand.

“Let’s do what Mike told us. We gotta trust his abilities on the inside.”

Mike desperately wanted to leave the building to help his brother, but when the barrage of gunfire rang out, the remaining gunmen panicked. They began to fire their weapons indiscriminately throughout the warehouse. Containers of liquid were punctured. Bags of flour were torn open by the bullets spreading a cloud of white into the air. Canned goods were knocked off shelves, clanking to the floor, making it difficult to differentiate between the sound of their shell cartridges plinking to the concrete and a can of vegetables being knocked off a shelf.

While Mike was ready to dispatch the gunmen, he also wanted to stop the wasteful destruction of food. He used their panicked firing against them by identifying their locations in the near darkness.

One of the shooters was on the catwalk near the single door leading to the upstairs hallway. Mike slapped Sanchez on the leg and took off toward the stairway leading up a level while the panicked shooters continued to fire in all directions without any identifiable target.

Walking silently on the concrete and wood steps, they made their way up to the catwalk. Keeping their bodies close to the shelving attached to the outer walls of the room, they moved rapidly at a low crouch toward the gunman on the upper level, who was now leaning over the rail in search of a target.

All of a sudden, several shots broke the silence. Mike immediately spotted the source through the muzzle flash. The man on the catwalk fell to his knees and began shouting.

“That’s me you shot at, dumbass!”

“Sorry. I didn’t know.”

Mike took advantage of the confusion and moved deftly along the catwalk to get into position. As soon as the gunman on the upper level stood upright, Mike shot him without hesitation. He rushed toward the body and fired another round from his service weapon into the man’s chest.

Below, there were panicked shouts coming from the two remaining gunmen. They fired into the ceiling, knocking out one of the skylights. Then their heavy footsteps could be heard running away from Mike’s position.

Mike searched for the sliver of daylight coming from the exit door on the opposite side of the building. He had a clear shot at the door. He held his breath, trained his weapon on the exit leading to the breezeway, and waited.

It took just seconds for him to find his target. The men ran side by side and slammed into the doors simultaneously. The moment the panic bars were hit with their hands to open the double doors, Mike fired in rapid succession, sending round after round into their bodies until they crashed through the doors and landed facedown on the concrete sidewalk. Their motionless bodies lay half in and half out of the doorway. Dead.

Any return fire never materialized, so Mike and Sanchez cleared the second floor of the building. When they returned to the catwalk, they could see Hank standing over the two gunmen with his shotgun pointed at their heads. Mike finally exhaled and holstered his sidearm. He cradled his shotgun and turned to Sanchez.

“What’s your body count?”

Sanchez thought for a brief moment. “Three up here. Three down there. Those two in the doorway. Plus whatever happened outside. It’s possible we missed somebody.”

Mike chuckled. “I dare them to stick their heads out of whatever hole they crawled into.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Tuesday, November 12

Marathon High School

Mike and Sanchez joined Hank on the sidewalk, where he continued to stand over the dead men. He cradled the shotgun in his arms and wiped the sweat off his brow. Hank had been through a gunfight before and knew what to expect. He silently said a prayer thanking God for keeping his family safe once again.

He turned his attention to Mike and Sanchez, who squinted to allow their eyes to adjust to the daylight. “You guys good?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, mindlessly kicking the legs of the two dead men bleeding on the pavement between them. He half-waved to Erin, who stood over the other three dead men. Her head was on a swivel, looking between the hedges toward the loading dock and across the street toward the crowd of people who’d accumulated in the street. “What’s all that?” He pointed toward the onlookers.

“We made plenty of noise, I guess,” replied Hank. “Erin shot out their tires, by the way. If there are any stragglers, they’re walking home.”

“There might be, but I believe they’re long gone,” said Mike. “Plus, we have a few dead guys inside. Did they give you any trouble?” His face showed his concern for the onlookers, who were inching closer.

“No, they stayed hidden behind pilings and cars. I doubt they want any piece of this.” Hank pointed the barrel of his shotgun toward the two dead men.

Mike took a few steps toward where Erin stood. He studied the crowd, who continued to inch closer. He estimated there were more than a dozen of them. He turned to address his deputy.

“Sanchez, go to my truck and grab a couple of rolls of crime scene tape. I’m not sure it’ll keep them out, but we gotta try something.”

“Do you think they’re gonna rush us?” asked Hank.

“The building. They want what’s inside as much as these guys. Only, they aren’t willing to die for it.” Mike paused and then added as he unconsciously raised the barrel of his shotgun slightly, “I hope.”

“Is it full?” asked Hank.

“Pretty much. These morons shot it up, but there are a lot of nonperishables inside.”

Sanchez returned with the yellow and black tape containing the lettering CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. Mike instructed him to cordon off both entrances to the utility yard in front of the loading dock and from the hedgerow to the entrance to the high school.

“You know what,” began Hank. “Let me go talk to them.”

Hank wandered away from Mike and Sanchez to join Erin.

“Is it over?” she asked.

“Yeah. However, we need to make sure these people don’t do anything stupid. Wanna help me?”

She nodded and lowered her weapon so as not to appear to be a threat. Erin was aware that the mere appearance of an AR-15 sent some people screaming into the night. They walked side by side toward the crowd, causing some to react by backing up several paces. Hank noticed this first and began to speak as he approached. His goal was to satisfy the curious and to warn them against interfering.

“Hi, folks! My name is Hank Albright, and this is Erin Bergmann. If you have a moment, let me bring you up to speed on what just happened.”

Erin made eye contact and gave him a reassuring smile. Hank nodded his appreciation. What he was about to say would spread around Marathon faster than the Coconut Telegraph could be printed.

“Don’t you own the inn on Driftwood Key?” asked one woman.

“That’s right. And my friend, Erin, is the United States Secretary of Agriculture. She’s here to help us through this mess.”

“What happened over there?” asked a man in the front of the group.

Hank glanced over his shoulder and then explained. He chose his words carefully in order to send a very clear message. “Those armed gunmen thought they were entitled to something they weren’t. Many in our community are suffering. They’re sick, hungry, and thirsty. But that doesn’t give a few the right to load up in their trucks, arm themselves with guns, and break into a place like the high school to steal. My brother and his loyal deputy took decisive action to protect this food for everyone in Marathon, not just a handful who thought they could take it by force. They paid the ultimate price for their rash decision and brazen attempts to kill two members of our law enforcement.”

A shy woman at the rear of the group pushed her way to the front. “There have been people breaking into our homes at night. They carried guns and threatened to kill us if we tried to stop them. They robbed my sister’s house across the canal. She was hiding in a closet and overheard them say they were from the Tarpon Harbour apartments.”

Erin addressed her. “Thank you for this information, ma’am. We’ll provide it to the detective and his deputies. Does anyone else know anything about these break-ins?”

Suddenly, several people in the crowd began to relay what they’d heard and experienced. The home invasions had a chilling effect on everyone in the adjoining neighborhoods, who were just trying to survive. Their plight was made all the more difficult by the brazen robberies.

Hank and Erin listened intently to their stories, mentally taking notes to share with Mike. As the conversation died down, one man was bold enough to ask what was on most of their minds.

“Hey, is there any food in there?” he asked.

“How about fresh water?” chimed in another.

Hank wasn’t sure how to answer the questions. He presumed to know why they were asking. “Well, we were a little busy, as you can imagine, to take inventory. After the deputy secures the building, I’m sure some kind of inventory will be taken. Technically, it’s the property of the county, so I’m not sure—”

“It sure would help those of us who had our food stolen by those thieves!” a man in the back shouted.

“Can’t argue with that!” added another.

Hank began to wonder if the crowd was going to remain friendly. They might not have been armed, but they outnumbered them by six to one. So to pacify them, he lied. He stuck his neck out and made a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

“I’m going to propose we create a food bank for the residents of Marathon, starting with the food storage held in the high school. We also need to set up some type of barter market or exchange location. You know, someone who might have too much bleach can trade a bottle for someone who has some extra canned goods. It’s being done up north and can be done here also.”

“That’s a great idea, Hank!” shouted a woman who stood off to the side.

“We’ve all talked about it, but nobody does anything. Thank you, sir!” said a man in the crowd.

Erin chimed in, “We will contact your mayor about a possible location. Maybe we can do it here at the high school or through the churches. It’s not such a great idea to be out in this air, you know.”

The onlookers were enthusiastically on board with the proposal.

“Let’s do it. I have fish to trade in exchange for stuff.”

“Same here!”

“When will it start?”

Hank leaned into Erin and whispered in a sarcastic tone, “We’re all in now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Tuesday, November 12

Administration Building

Key West

Lindsey had just received a briefing from her mayor pro tem and Sheriff Jock. She dismissed her staff and loyalists but asked Jock to remain behind. Once her office suite had been cleared, she pulled a bottle of scotch out of her desk drawer and poured them both drinks in Dixie cups intended for the pitcher of water on her credenza.

“Why do you look so pissy, Jock? I consider this a good start. Not great, but good.”

“I lost deputies today.” His tone was solemn. He threw back the scotch and poured himself another. He paced the floor as he spoke. “Sure, we had a good run on the most valuable location on our target list, but obviously we were done after the Gordon’s debacle.”

Lindsey wasn’t much for consoling the men in her life. In her mind, emotional men were weak. She used their weakness to lead them to do her bidding. Jock Daly was no different. She’d kept him on a tight leash for years, and she didn’t need him to get soft on her now.

She walked around her desk to rub his shoulders. He closed his eyes, and the tension was immediately released from his body. She spoke in soft tones as she tried to lift his spirits.

“Your teams had no way of knowing those guys were locked up in that building. From what your sergeant said in the debrief, they were pros. Ex-LEOs or even military. It could’ve been much worse.”

Jock nodded but still lamented the death of his men. “It’s gonna make it difficult to keep our deputies interested in the raids.”

Lindsey rolled her eyes behind his back. “Here’s what you have to remind them of. A large portion of the food we secure will go to their families. They are being rewarded with the gift of life. Is it risky? Damn straight. Will they die if they don’t take the risk? Sooner or later, yes.”

“I know. I’ll make sure that’s drilled into the new teams tomorrow morning before they start again. It’s gonna be a bigger challenge, you know. The word spread throughout Key West. Now, you have business owners redoubling their efforts to secure their buildings. Those with guns are marching up and down the sidewalks, threatening to shoot anyone who comes close. There’s an angry mob outside demanding to know what happens to the food that’s being confiscated.”

Lindsey returned to her desk and plopped into her chair with a full cup of scotch. She took a sip while studying her sheriff and occasional lover.

“Jock, you might have to make examples of a few people. Do you follow me?”

“Do you want me to shoot the doughnut shop owner?” he said with a hint of snark.

Lindsey didn’t appreciate the retort but admired his spunk. At least he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself any longer. “No, not necessarily. Your rules of engagement should remain the same. Return fire when fired upon. If someone tries to shoot one of your people, shoot to kill, and then leave the body for everyone to see. I think that’ll tamp down any resistance.”

“There were quite a few civilians killed in the gun battle at Gordon’s.”

Lindsey smirked. “They should’ve stayed the hell out of the way, then. Listen, Jock. There’s gonna be collateral damage in all of this. You understand that, right? It’s unavoidable. If word spreads through the town like you said, maybe part of that message will be to avoid getting involved.”

“I get it. We’ll see how tomorrow goes. However, I get the sense your constituents are rippin’ pissed at what happened at Gordon’s today.”

“They’ll get over it when we start handing out rations in a week or so.”

The sheriff wandered to the window and looked over the crowd of people who were huddled outside the administration building. They were animated. Agitated. Some were distraught.

“I hope we can make it until then,” he mumbled as he finished his second drink.

“We’ll be fine. If they make trouble, clamp down. Got it?” Lindsey was ready to move on to the rumors she’d heard from Marathon.

“Are you going to send someone up to Marathon High School to find out what happened today? My staff was told there was a shoot-out between some of your people and armed gunmen who broke into the high school.”

Jock didn’t have anyone to spare to investigate the shooting. He was going on what he’d heard through the rumor mill. “All we know so far is that a group of men and women, maybe eight to ten in total, broke into the high school warehouse to steal food. Mike Albright, who’s in charge of the substation up there, responded with a deputy. They surprised the burglars, and that’s when the shooting began. From what I’m told, all of those involved in the break-in were killed.”

Lindsey was both perplexed and curious. “By two men? Detective Albright and a single deputy?” She reached for the bottle of scotch to pour herself another drink and made a mental note to add a state-run ABC liquor store to tomorrow’s raid list.

Jock responded as she retrieved the bottle, “Well, no. Actually, they had some help. Apparently, Hank Albright showed up at the scene with a woman. I think her name was Bergmann, or something like that. My source said she claimed to be some kind of Washington bigwig.”

The blood flowed out of the mayor’s face as it turned ashen white. She slammed the bottle of scotch on her desk and immediately stood up. “Erin Bergmann? Secretary of Agriculture for that scumbag Helton?”

Jock shrugged. He had no idea who the Secretary of Agriculture was and what she’d be doing in the Keys. All he knew was the information genuinely struck a nerve with Lindsey.

“I can find out—” he began to respond before she cut him off.

“Listen to me, Jock. You send someone you trust to Marathon and find out what the hell is going on up there. Confirm whether she’s in my county. She could be working with President Helton to come after me.”

“Come on, Lindsey. You’re just being paranoid.”

Her face turned from white with fear to red rage. She slammed the palm of her hand on her desk, causing the Dixie cup half full of scotch to jump slightly.

“I’m not messing around. Find out if this is true and where this woman is staying. Was she with Hank? Why is she here? Who has been in contact with her? Everything!”