Free Toward the Brink (Book 3) by Craig A. McDonough Page B

was far from pleasant.
    “That’s who I used to drive for—back in the states, of course.” David spoke up. He’d been brought along because he had once driven the interstate coaches. Margaret wasn’t too pleased that her husband of nearly thirty years was about to put himself in harm’s way. He was a good man and she knew it, but he was no Charles Black—and she’d told him that before she had hugged and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Deep down, Margaret—like the other women—understood that this might very well be the case.
    Mulhaven picked out a bus at the rear of the parking lot. The ones closer to the entrance had suffered damage from vandalism or foamer attacks, and a few had even been rolled. Mulhaven didn’t like the looks of these buses with the dark tinted windows; he thought about the foamers and their dislike for daylight. They had to hole up somewhere to wait it out—maybe the inside of a bus.
    Mulhaven had this thought on his mind as Chess stopped next to the Greyhound—too close.
    “Stay in the truck, Dave, just stay in the truck. Back it up a little, Chess.”
    “What? What’s wrong for—”
    “We’re too damn close, and if we have to make a fast turn, we can’t.”
    Chess didn’t like to be told what to do by anyone, but after the slaughter at the airport less than twelve hours ago, he appreciated Mulhaven’s position. He didn’t want to become foamer takeout, either.
    He spun the wheels in a haze of blue smoke. Whether he was trying to impress someone or just didn’t think foamers would use the inside of the Greyhound bus for shelter, it didn’t matter. Mulhaven lifted his head and rolled his eyes, but didn’t say a word—there was no point.
    “All right, Chess, you and your men come with me. David, turn this thing around and keep the engine running, okay?”
    Mulhaven and Chess slipped out the front and the others eased out the back while David scooted behind the wheel.
    “The rear’s yours, Johnny,” Chess said in a low, subdued tone to one of the soldiers who accompanied them. Mulhaven was pleased, and he also noted how the other men scanned their flanks. Good. They knew their job.
    “Keep a watch on those buses over there.” Mulhaven indicated to his left while they crept up to the bus door.
    “How do we open this?” Chess referred to the pneumatic doors of the bus.
    Mulhaven stood erect and relaxed visibly.
    The doors, the damn doors, of course! Foamers can’t—
    A hiss of compressed air interrupted Mulhaven’s thoughts. The Greyhound’s door sprang open and a pair of heavy feet clomped down the metal steps.
    Chess raised his M4, flicked the selector to burst, and eased his finger onto the trigger.
    “Where the hell did you people—”
    “Hold your fire!” Mulhaven forced the muzzle of Chess’s carbine away, but he wasn’t able to prevent him from firing.
    “Holy shit! Are you fuckin’ crazy?” the occupant of the Greyhound called.
    Chess swiveled his head toward Mulhaven. If looks could kill, Mulhaven would have been a dead man.
    “Easy soldier, easy!” Mulhaven yelled. “Foamers don’t talk—he’s alive. Look!”
    Chess glared at Mulhaven a moment before he shifted his gaze to the man in the doorway of the bus. Three bullet holes in the roof above him showed how close he’d come to meeting his maker.
    “Sorry, mister, please forgive my friend here. We had a close call with the foamers last night, and we’re all a bit jumpy,” Mulhaven said. The truth was, Chess was trigger happy. The other men were edgy, but until they were sure of the target, they didn’t fire. Mulhaven thought this was how Chess had gotten to be the one in charge of the group—or at least their mouthpiece. Shoot first and ask questions later was his axiom. The other soldiers followed or avoided argument, lest they catch one of his bullets in the back.
    The man in the Greyhound descended the steps almost casually. Now that he was certain he wasn’t about to be