Myrmidon

CHAPTER THIRTY

Down in the street, a line of tanks and Stryker vehicles advanced over the shell-pocked asphalt. Behind the vehicles, a whole parade’s worth of infantrymen were moving as fast as they could, keeping their heads down and covering every building with their weapons. Chapel kept low, so they wouldn’t see him. Maybe Angel had warned them he was up on top of the building, but maybe not—they might shoot him as soon as he popped his head over the edge of the roof.

Over by the igloos, Belcher’s men were ready and waiting. They’d gathered behind their blinds, and although they couldn’t stand up for long against the combined might headed their way, they didn’t need to. They were simply the bait for Belcher’s trap. He’d thrown away the lives of every one of his private army just to get the soldiers into the bottleneck of the administrative buildings.

Chapel crawled to the edge of the rooftop closest to the igloos, being very careful not to give away his position. An apocalyptic battle was about to begin, and he didn’t want to be the first casualty.

From where he lay on the hot tar paper, he could just see Belcher, several hundred yards away. The leader was at the back of his neo-Nazi troops, standing between two of the igloos, where he was essentially immune to artillery strikes. Standing next to him was Charlie, the tattooed giant. The two of them were talking with their heads down. Charlie made some kind of expansive gesture that Chapel couldn’t quite make out, then Belcher reached into a pocket of his denim jacket.

And took out a cell phone.

This was it, then. This was the moment when Belcher felt that he’d seen the whites of the army’s eyes. This was his Bunker Hill moment. He was about to unleash the mustard gas and end his fifteen-year plan.

Chapel was far too far away to stop him. He’d failed.

Unless…

Belcher took a few steps forward, past the cover of the igloos. He shouted something at his troops. Some motivational comment, some last encouragement, perhaps. The wind took the words before Chapel could hear them.

Belcher lifted the phone so he could see its screen. His index finger moved toward the screen, as he started to tap in the text message that would detonate his bombs.

Chapel brought the hunting rifle’s scope to his eye. Zoomed in perfectly.

Chapel was no sniper. He was a good shot with a pistol or an assault rifle, but he had never been a marksman. But he would only get one shot, and it was going to have to count.

Belcher tapped the screen once. Twice. Through the rifle’s scope, Chapel could see Belcher squint at the screen. He hesitated before he lifted his finger again. Was he doubting what he was about to do?

No. He lifted his finger. Started moving it toward the screen.

Chapel held his breath. Lined up his shot. Squeezed the trigger.

The cell phone, and Belcher’s ring finger, disappeared in a red mist. Through the scope, Chapel could see Belcher scream though he heard nothing.

Chapel could hardly believe it.

It had worked.

Belcher was the only one who could set off the bombs and the plume of mustard gas. The only way he could do that was with his cell phone. Somehow, Chapel had made the shot of his life and saved the day.

He set the hunting rifle down next to him on the roof. Breathed deeply the unpoisoned air. He could stop, now. He could lie there and wait for evac, for Angel to send a stretcher to take him to a medic. The army would mop up the neo-Nazis and either shoot Belcher or take him into custody. It was all over, all complete—

Except down by the igloos, it didn’t look that way at all. Belcher wasn’t shaking his fist at the sky. He hadn’t dropped to his knees in a posture of defeat.

No. Charlie was in front of him, shielding Belcher with his tattooed body. But Belcher was moving, running now—headed straight for one of the igloos.

What the hell was Belcher up to?

Shit, Chapel thought. He thought he knew.

The maniac wasn’t done. He had some kind of contingency plan. Of course he had a contingency plan—he’d been waiting for this day for fifteen years. There was no chance he would let Chapel steal his apotheosis so easily. Maybe he would just go in the igloo and set off one of the bombs directly—maybe that would be enough. Even if only one igloo’s worth of gas shells was detonated, the resulting cloud of poison gas would still wipe out his neo-Nazis and a big chunk of the United States Army forces. Or maybe Belcher had some way to set them all off that didn’t require a cell phone.

Chapel had to stop him. He grabbed the hunting rifle and started lining up a second shot.

But his first shot had given away his position. Down behind their blinds, the entire army of neo-Nazis turned their gazes upward and saw him on the rooftop and started firing back.