Page 83 of Beyond Redemption

“That was close,” I said with a nervous laugh. “But they weren’t aiming for us.”

“I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”

I offered an apologetic smile. “We have to keep going. Ready?”

She nodded.

I eased us back into motion and pushed to finish the climb, keeping her just ahead of me as we closed the last stretch.

Finally at the top, I let my bag fall to the wood plank flooring and gestured for Abby to do the same. The ladder opened onto a narrow walkway circling a small, enclosed room, the outer edge lined with nearly chest-high metal—waist-high for the men or women taller than me— and nothing but open air beyond it. A .50 cal was fixed to the tower mount, manned just minutes ago but was now empty, the weapon angled toward the north but unattended. A smear of blood marked the edge of the railing, dark and fresh. Kansas’s binos hung from a nail next to the stain.

I picked them up, scanning the compound as I stepped into position. Even with smaller units to test the militia’s response, the Carlisis had come in harder than Marcel had expected. Various vehicles had breached the outer fence line, two already disabled, one burning near the first gate, flames licking up the side and throwing thick black smoke into the air. The enemy moved through the gaps in tight formation, advancing in short, controlled pushes, covering each other as they closed distance. They weren’t rushing blindly; they were taking ground. I moved my line of sight, and my chest tightened. Marcel’s men were holding the line, but it was costing them.

I tracked movement along the barrier where Thomas had gone. A second later, he popped into view, rushing toward and then crouching behind a concrete slab, leaning out just enough to send measured bursts downrange. Naomi held to his left, lower, tighter to cover, while Ibarra had shifted farther right, using the corner of a vehicle to create a cross angle. Their targetswere chosen deliberately, laying down cover for a small section of the perimeter.

It didn’t take long to see why. Zeke was already moving to a fast-spreading blaze, dragging a hose toward a burning vehicle near the gate. Taylor and Tyler came in from the east at a run, cutting through the yard as soon as the call hit, hurdling and vaulting debris without slowing as they headed straight for Zeke. They took the line without hesitation, falling into position with coordination that only came from years of experience. Water cut through the flames in hard, sweeping arcs, steam rolling up on contact. Thomas and the others adjusted around them, reconfiguring their lines to keep pressure off the firefighters as they worked.

A round struck the tower railing, just inches from my hand. I dropped back, the impact sending a rattle through the metal that traveled straight up my arm. The sound came a fraction later, a sharp crack cutting through to my bones.

They had eyes on the tower.

“You might want to keep your head down unless you’re volunteering as target practice,” a woman said, keeping low as she came around the corner. Her cheek and fatigues were smeared with blood.

I crouched and reached for my bag, already going for the med kit, but she caught the motion and kneeled, reaching for my arm.

“Save it.” She glanced down at the drying stains across her chest and sleeves, chewing the pink wad of gum in her mouth. “Not mine. My gunner’s. Took him down the back way,” she said, gesturing to the space behind her. “Easier when you’re wearing a six-foot-two meathead as a backpack.”

I must’ve hesitated, because she made a face, half-offended I didn’t follow. “He’ll live.”

“You’re Kansas Marcel, right?” I asked after a beat.

“Affirmative,” she said, blowing a quick, pink bubble. “You two here for moral support, or you plan on aiming those things at Vito Corleone down there?”

I looked down at my rifle and then across at Abby. She was kneeling with her back braced against the tower, her expression tightening as she watched Kansas, trying to reconcile her flippant tone with the chaos below. Abby stared at her in disbelief a second longer before looking down at the sidearm I’d given her, holding it close to her chest.

“Still okay?” I asked her.

Abby nodded in quick movements.

“You’re only here until there’s a breach, and then you’ll go back to the bunker and tell them if anyone but us tries to enter, to fall back to the tunnels.”

“I know,” she said, nodding again.

I reorientated, lowering my profile, using the base of the .50 cal for partial cover as I recalculated. Staying in place offered sightlines, but it also made me a target. Moving wasn’t an option; I’d lose the vantage. With stray rounds hitting the tower, I wasn’t sure it would be safe to send Abby down once the fences were penetrated.

The .50 cal sat where Kansas’s gunner had left it, already angled toward the source, belt-fed and ready. It was bigger than anything I’d handled firsthand, but the setup was intuitive enough, mounted and built to hold a line.

I stepped in, hands finding the grips, making a quick correction to the angle. The first burst kicked through the mount, heavier than a rifle but steady, the recoil absorbed into the frame as I drove rounds out toward the advancing line.

“Stay put,” I called back to Abby between bursts, not looking back.

I fired again, shorter this time, controlled, tracking movement instead of chasing it, forcing them to slow, to take cover, to think twice about pushing any closer.

I leaned in, picking off Carlisis men advancing just beyond the fence. Below, someone shouted for suppression. Another voice answered. The compound responded, pressure intensifying along the line where hostiles were pushing hardest.

Something detonated near the main gate. The impact punched through the yard a heartbeat before the shock hit the tower, shuddering the structure hard enough to knock me off balance. My hand slipped on the grip, my boot scraping across the metal floor before I caught myself against the railing.

Debris lifted then fell, dust filling the space between us and them until everything beyond a certain distance blurred into movement and shadow. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, blinked the grit away, and forced my focus through it.