Flames From the Ashes by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Westerns, Men's Adventure
ISBN: 9780759269156
Publisher: E-reads/E-rights
Published: 2011-05-14T17:07:35+00:00

187 Seventeen

Silence had held over the immediate area for a good fifteen minutes. Ben Raines took the handset from his ear and peered thoughtfully at the patch of blue sky visible through the rubble-guarded entrance to the vault where they had taken shelter. The news he had received appeared to have energized him.

“Looks like we can get out of here soon. Estimates are we have pacified about two-thirds of the triangle. I have to tell you,” he went on, grumping at the circumstances that had put them there, “I feel like an idiot, sitting it out in here while everyone else does the fighting.”

“Look at it this way, General “Jersey appealed. “It gave you a chance to test your theory that the Rebel army would function equally well without you.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me, Jersey,” Ben growled. “Dammit” he exploded a second later, “I’m getting to sound like an old fogey. All right, they clobbered my bodyguard platoon and had us pinned down here. Nothing we could do about that. Too many reinforcements coming in for the blackshirts. So why am I so pissed?” Ben gave a lopsided grin and came to his feet. “Let’s pull up stakes and go find someplace where there’s still some action.”

Cooper made it to the top of the ramp of dirt and debris that led to the breech in the wall. His head had barely cleared the opening in the three foot thick slab of

188 concrete and rebar when he dropped flat, mouth open in shock.

“Holy shit, there’s about five hundred screaming Nazis out there.”

“What? Let me see,” Ben demanded.

He crept up the incline on hands and knees. Slowly he raised his head for a clear sight. Ben’s eyes widened as he took in the swarming scene in the parking lot. More blackshirts had somehow gotten in behind the Rebel advance into the Cheyenne triangle. Now they boiled over from the streets and the interstate onto the cracked and frost-heaved blacktop of the parking lot. Quickly, Ben lowered his head.

Not fast enough, he discovered when a shout roused the milling Nazis outside the bank vault. “Over there, I just saw something move.”

“A rag,” some unseen blackshirt ventured. “Or a wild

“No. It looked like a head, with a helmet on it.”

“A dead guy?” a distinctly Boston accent asked.

“No, it moved, I tell you. I’m gonna go see.”

“We’ll cover you,” his fellow Nazis offered.

Bootsteps crunched over long-ago-broken glass and the crisp weeds of summer, to grow louder as they approached the cavelike opening into the vault. Ben eased his Thompson into position, then thought better of it. He slid the Desert Eagle .50 caliber out of his holster and thumb-slipped the safety. A head, shoulders, and torso flashed through his field of view too quickly to make note of characteristics. Then disembodied camo-covered legs filled the space. Ben tensed.

Bent low, the young Nazi peered into the rent in the vault wall. His eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to yell. “By god, there’s someone here, all ri -“

Ben’s .

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