Annette sucked in her breath. “Three hundred?”
“Yes,” Mick said. “And all three hundred will fight with you.”
“Poe isn’t the only threat,” Dave said. “A man calling himself the General will attack from the north in only a few hours.”
“We know about the General.” Dallas’s voice darkened. “He sent some of his goons riding in and demanded a quarter of our food as taxes for protection. His lieutenant, Gibbs, claimed they were rooting out local domestic terrorists. I assume that’s you?”
“We wouldn’t roll over and let them execute an innocent man,” Bishop said.
“Rosamond Sinclair is the General’s daughter,” Hannah said. “Mattias Sutter was his nephew.”
Flynn’s thick eyebrows lowered, his eyes narrowing. A look of pure hatred crossed his face. He loathed the militia. Sutter’s men had murdered his wife. “Knew I didn’t like their tone or the look of them. Anyone allied with the militia is an enemy of mine.”
Hannah met his gaze. “This is personal for him. He’s using the National Guard to further his quest for revenge.”
Flynn didn’t look away. “Then we’ll fight him, too.”
Hannah looked around at the small group, fierce pride beating in her chest. They were afraid, yes, but not panicked. Courage in their faces. Grit and strength. Resolve in their eyes.
These weren’t the soft, terrified people of four months ago. They had suffered hunger and the bitter, killing cold. They had endured the tyranny of Rosamond and the cruelty of the militia.
They were not trained or hardened soldiers, but they were survivors. They had suffered and lost, but they were still here.
“Our enemies are just men,” Hannah said with conviction. “Men can be shot and killed. Men can be defeated.”
“Hannah is right,” Bishop said. “God is with us. Whatever your faith, whatever you believe. Whether we stand or fall this day, have faith, my friends. It is the right thing to stand against the darkness spreading across our land. If it is our time to perish, then it is our time. But we will fight for Fall Creek.”
57
Liam
Day One Hundred and Fifteen
Liam awoke to a bucket of freezing water hurled in his face.
The sudden shock jolted him to sharp, painful consciousness.
“Wakey, wakey,” a male voice rasped.
He sputtered, ice cold water streaming from his mouth, eyes, and nose. His head throbbed like someone had split it open with a maul.
The world was hazy, everything coming back in fits and snatches. Fuzzy shapes hovered over him.
He blinked to clear his blurry vision. Fuzziness solidified into recognizable forms.
“Get up, scumbag.” Two well-armed men dressed in black fatigues bent and hauled him up between them. One big and burly with a bristling auburn beard, the other short and wiry with beady eyes.
Not National Guardsmen.
The General’s minions.
He attempted to stand, bare feet scrabbling for purchase. The bearded one kicked his legs out from under him. Pain spiked through his ankle and shin.
They dragged him to the center of the room and forced him to his knees. The beady-eyed hostile cuffed the sides of his head so hard his ears rang. “Time to pay the piper.”
His head clearing, he took in his surroundings. He knelt in the center of a commercial walk-in freezer. Pipes snaked across the high ceiling. Blank tubes of fluorescent lights overhead, now long dark. Steel walls and bare metal shelving but for a pile of clothing. Hard concrete floor beneath him.
Beyond the freezer through the opened door, Liam glimpsed stainless-steel counters, racks of pots and pans beside a display of butcher knives.
They’d taken him to the Boulevard Inn’s kitchen, located deep in the belly of the building. The faint stench of rotting meat stung his nostrils.
He tried to move his arms but couldn’t. Metal cuffs bit into his wrists, which were bound behind his back. He strained, pulling with all his strength, but there was no give.
With a groan, he slumped back.
Beady Eyes grinned. “I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere, Mr. Coleman.”
Frigid water ran in rivulets down his scarred, bare chest. He shivered violently. Goosebumps peppered his skin.
His clothing had been stripped. He wore only his boxer shorts. His boots were gone, and his socks. He was cold. So damn cold.
Luther rummaged through Liam’s clothing on the shelf. A fourth man stood in the open doorway, legs splayed, both hands on his M4. He was bald, in his late thirties, with acne-scarred skin.