Extermination

“You must bid higher than your opponent. The opening bid is one-fifth of your nation’s population. Those willing to sacrifice the most people will survive total extinction. Those willing to resist will be completely exterminated.”

Bezoar smiled, though there was no mirth or warmth in it. “Have a nice day, sir.”

The video ended.

Brognola felt as if he had to scrub himself down. He’d only been watching for ten minutes, but the horror carried the weight of hours. He set down the small smartphone, plucked out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“They either have someone inside Homeland Security or they have good spies. Given the aerial footage…” the President began. He rested a hand on Brognola’s shoulder. “Stony Man is our only option. Bezoar is insane, asking for me to kill one in five people.”

The smartphone beeped. The two men looked at it.

It was a text message.

“France has a bid to kill one of every two of its citizens. Make up your mind quickly.”

The Oval Office fell silent as the specter of doom hung over the big Fed and the leader of the free world.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

One of the things that Trooper Eugene Robespierre liked about the state he’d sworn to protect was that all of Iowa felt like a small town. He was one of less than four hundred state troopers who saw to the safety of the roads and supplemented local law enforcement. His Ford Crown Victoria was fifty miles out of Lansing, the end of Iowa Highway 9 and this current leg of his patrol. In Lansing he’d spell himself for the night before returning to the District 10 barracks back on Oelwein. This was a once-a-month roll for Robespierre, mainly because this corner of Iowa was quiet. The road twisted and bent to find the path of least resistance between the rippling hills and strips of farmland.

“Unit 327, Unit 327, call in,” his radio chirped.

Robespierre picked up the receiver. “I’m here, Janice. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a call from the Allamakee Sheriff’s Department about a problem in the town of Albion,” the dispatcher, Janice Clayton, told him.

“Problem?” Robespierre asked.

“It seems like there’s a riot in Albion,” Clayton said.

Robespierre had never been near Albion, a quiet little stretch of farmland that had never boasted more than six hundred souls. The town had been so peaceful, the only reason he knew anything about it was that his best friend had been born and raised there, and railed about how absolutely boring the place had been.

“Riot,” he repeated. He was already turning back to the west. The computer beside him in the squad car was already determining the best route to Albion by GPS. From what Robespierre remembered, Albion was a place where everyone was well fed. It wasn’t in the cornfields of central Iowa, but this area still had pockets of farmland between rows of trees and the rolling hills. Some were conventional crop fields, but a few orchards were sprinkled here and there. Even as he gunned the engine, racing toward Albion, he noticed that something akin to a tornado had landed by the roadside.

He stomped on the brakes, skidding to a halt beside a fruit stand that had been assaulted. Broken, half-eaten fruit was scattered everywhere, and there were bodies littered among the mushy remains. Robespierre pulled his radio.

“Dispatch, we’ve got eight casualties at roadside, by marker 12,” the trooper called. He hit the dash computer, transmitting his GPS position to the barracks.

“We’re aware of them. All were announced DOA by the local sheriffs’ deputies,” Clayton replied.

“He left the bodies out here?” Robespierre asked, sliding out from behind the wheel to get a closer look. It might have been a trick of the light, or smears of mashed fruit, but a couple of the corpses on the ground looked as if bites had been taken out of them. Another body lay just outside the carnage of twisted corpses and pulped food. The man had been wearing flannel, the front of his shirt hanging in ragged strips where it had been torn by the unmistakable violence of a twelve-gauge shotgun. Unlike some of the others lying amid the ruins and carcasses, his face was fully visible. There was no apparent reason as to why he had been shot, except for the fact that his belly was distended to the point where shirt buttons around his stomach had popped off.

“The hell?” Robespierre muttered, hoping someone was out there who could give him an answer.

“Robey, you need to get to town,” Clayton replied. “The deputies are in deep shit. They need backup now!”