Free Myrmidon by David Wellington Page B

obstacle. When the army arrived to retake the Pueblo Depot, they would find the truck sitting there on its rims, blocking the gate. It would take a real effort to tow it out of the way, especially if the tow truck was under heavy fire the whole time.
    â€œWe walk from here,” Belcher said. He jumped down from the driver’s seat and ran around to Chapel’s side to help him out of the car. Belcher kept a pistol in his hand the whole time as he gestured for Chapel to move forward, into the base.
    He saw more bodies as he walked in, and bloodstains across the concrete. Up ahead, Belcher’s private army were moving through a cluster of small buildings, checking every angle, breaching every door to make sure they’d gotten all of the base’s soldiers. Belcher prodded Chapel down a wide thoroughfare with disused barracks buildings on either side. Before they’d gotten very far, though, he grabbed Chapel’s shoulder to make him stop. Andre and a skinhead in a black polo shirt came running up, dragging another man between them. The man was balding, maybe fifty years old, wearing a short-­sleeved button-­down shirt and chinos. He didn’t look like a soldier, in other words. He was weeping openly as he was pushed forward to fall on his knees in front of Belcher.
    â€œPlease,” he begged. “Please.” He couldn’t seem to say anything else.
    Andre smacked him across the back of the head, and he shut up. “We found him in one of the civvy warehouses, hiding under a forklift.” Andre laughed. “Picked the wrong day to do inventory, huh?”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Belcher asked the man.
    The balding man was too scared to answer. He put his hands together like he was praying and stared up at Belcher with hopeful eyes.
    Chapel had to do something. “Come on, Belcher, he’s nothing to you. Let him go.”
    â€œHe’s in my way,” Belcher said, and pressed the barrel of his pistol against the man’s forehead. “That’s reason enough. I’m on too tight a timeline for any kind of distractions.”
    â€œYou said you needed witnesses,” Chapel pleaded.
    â€œI’ve already got you.” He pulled the trigger. Chapel had seen enough men die in his lifetime. He turned his head and didn’t look as the body fell to the concrete.
    â€œCome on,” Belcher said when it was done. “I want you to see something real special.” He grabbed Chapel’s shoulder and shoved him hard to get him moving again.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    S poradic gunfire made Chapel jump as he was herded through the base. He didn’t know if the neo-­Nazis were shooting at anyone or just firing their guns in celebration. They lacked the discipline of real soldiers, but Belcher didn’t seem to mind that they were wasting ammo and making way too much noise as they laughed and whooped with success. Maybe he figured they deserved to have a little fun since they were all going to die in an hour or so.
    None of them looked scared. None of them showed even an iota of regret. “What about their families?” Chapel asked, when none of them were in earshot. No women had come along for this particular bloodbath. “What about their wives?”
    â€œThe women who were dumb enough to marry skinheads and white-­power assholes?” Belcher asked, quietly. “They’re still back in Kendred, armed to the teeth. When the ATF or the army or whoever shows up to investigate, they’ll have a nasty surprise waiting for them. Those women are just as ready to die as their men.”
    â€œWhat about all those kids you showed me?”
    â€œThey’re being herded into an underground bunker where they’ll be safe. Those kids still have a chance, if they can get away from their parents. The state will have to take care of ’em,” Belcher told him. “Find them nice new homes. Find them families who