Honor Road Jason Ross (any book recommendations .TXT) 📖

got blown up by an IED—the eyes swimming in loss. The chin quivering. The cheeks so slack that they drooped.

“My big sister was the only mother I had left. I can’t lose you, too.”

Mat’s stomach churned with ice. He couldn’t face this right now. This talk had gotten out of hand. He was too tired, and the mission was spinning out of control. The big mission—protecting the town—had become like trying to rub off beach sand with hands covered in sunscreen. Every move made a bigger mess.

Mat flanked the threat. “I want you to start sleeping at Gladys‘ house when I am out on night maneuvers.”

“That’s most nights,” William barked.

“It’ll be good for you. And safer.” Get used to it.

William wore the same eyes that day in the clinic when his sister died. But this time, the kid’s eyes went hard.

He’d seen this a lot on deployment in the Middle East. Arabs were a romantic people, and they ran around in the flush of romance over every-damned-thing. Love, food, friendship, religion. But, if you hit them hard enough, the romance compressed to flint; dense, dumb and razor-sharp.

Mat stood, carried his dish to the bucket on the kitchen counter, and went to get his four and a half hours of sleep. He forgot his water again.

The unresolved conflict with William felt like a threat, and no matter which direction Mat pointed his rifle, this one came from his six.

Town Jail

McKenzie, Tennessee

Sheriff Morgan conducted the interrogations of two of the three rat leaders.

The snatch and grabs had gone easy enough—no casualties and nothing more than minor scuffles. Unlike Afghans, who bunkered inside walled compounds to prevent incursions, the rats lived like bags blown by a storm. Mat’s assault teams marched into the camps, guns out, shuffled through the tents, and took HVTs into custody. No fuss. No muss.

One of the men fingered by Jared turned out to be little more than a bully with violent tendencies. So far, that’d landed him temporarily atop the hierarchy of his camp.

“I’m not too worried about that one,” Sheriff Morgan told Mat. “I think we can take a page from the old cop playbook with a strip and dump.”

“What’s that?”

The sheriff smiled. “Guys like this tend to make enemies out of followers. They survive through brute force. When I started in law enforcement in the 80s in Louisville, his type led local gangs. If we couldn’t get enough for a conviction, we’d hold them for two days, strip them naked, and dump them in their territory. One of their lieutenants always went for a shot at the title; sure as the Tin Man has a sheet metal dong.”

“And the second guy? The men in his tent could almost be considered a security detail; four armed dudes watching over their primary.”

“Cordell is his name.”

Mat nodded.

“He’s too dangerous to release,” the sheriff agreed. “He’s got the making of a post-apocalyptic warlord. We’ll keep in him here, and may he rot in peace.”

“You got room for about 6,000 more in those cells?”

“I don’t think any of the refugees would complain about three hots and a cot. For now, shooting at ‘em or poking them with your greased javelins is the best idea we got. Do you want to join me for the conversation with this last guy?”

Mat nodded. This last guy defied post-apocalyptic stereotypes.

Dr. Abraham Hauser had given them his name straightaway, despite being restrained in flex-cuffs. He even spoke to them with the old kind of respect toward law enforcement.

Mat recalled Jared’s description of Hauser: “You don’t have to worry about that sheep Hauser and his crew,” Jared had said. “They’ve got a snowball's chance in hell of mounting an attack on your town. He’s got them building utopia in the forest. He wouldn’t let any of his people participate in the run on your convoy. He told them they wouldn’t be welcome back if they went with me.”

Tonight, Mat sat across from Hauser, at a picnic table in the atrium of McKenzie city hall. In front of each man was a half a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of room temperature tea. Sheriff Morgan had asked Mat to take lead on this interrogation. Morgan sat in a folding chair off to the side, watching.

Mat ate his sandwich, sipped his tea, and looked for an opening.

Finally Hauser spoke. “I don’t believe I’ve committed any crimes, officers. I have family back at the camp.”

Mat replied. “I’m not a police officer.” He had declined Morgan’s offer to deputize him. It felt too much like agreeing to a permanent thing. “You’re not under arrest. My name is Mat Best. I’m in charge of town security. We’re trying to figure out how much of a threat you and your camp pose.”

“We aren’t a threat to anyone.”

Mat offered a grim smile. “Being within walking distance of McKenzie makes you a threat.”

“We haven’t attacked you,“ Hauser said. “And we could just as easily be an asset as a threat.”

“Do you deny that some of the food your people are eating is stolen?” Mat pushed back to get the measure of the man.

“Scavenged, certainly,“ said Hauser. “Our campfire council made it clear to all our people that stealing from occupied structures will get them shunned.” It was a technical answer, but it made sense. This guy couldn’t deny his followers the chance to catch and eat loose pigs in the forest, even if the pigs had come from an illegal attack.

Mat changed direction. “Tell me more about your camp and its council. Have a bite of your sandwich first.”

Hauser looked to be in his late sixties; white, wispy hair, bespectacled and trim. While Hauser ate the sandwich, savoring each bite, he talked about Creek Camp.

After his wife died four years earlier, Hauser sold his medical practice in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and moved to Bowling Green, Kentucky to be close to his daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter. When the American economy collapsed, Hauser convinced his daughter and son-in-law to pack their emergency supplies