Outlaws of the Midwest | Book 2 | Panic Ensues Read online

  PANIC ENSUES

  Outlaws of the Midwest Book Two

  Jack Hunt

  Direct Response Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 by Jack Hunt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Panic Ensues: Outlaws of the Midwest Book 2 is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Jack Hunt

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  Outlaws of the Midwest series

  Chaos Erupts

  Panic Ensues

  Book 3 coming soon

  The Cyber Apocalypse series

  As Our World Ends

  As Our World Falls

  As Our World Burns

  The Agora Virus series

  Phobia

  Anxiety

  Strain

  The War Buds series

  War Buds 1

  War Buds 2

  War Buds 3

  Camp Zero series

  State of Panic

  State of Shock

  State of Decay

  Renegades series

  The Renegades

  The Renegades Book 2: Aftermath

  The Renegades Book 3: Fortress

  The Renegades Book 4: Colony

  The Renegades Book 5: United

  The Wild Ones Duology

  The Wild Ones Book 1

  The Wild Ones Book 2

  The EMP Survival series

  Days of Panic

  Days of Chaos

  Days of Danger

  Days of Terror

  Against All Odds Duology

  As We Fall

  As We Break

  The Amygdala Syndrome Duology

  Unstable

  Unhinged

  Survival Rules series

  Rules of Survival

  Rules of Conflict

  Rules of Darkness

  Rules of Engagement

  Lone Survivor series

  All That Remains

  All That Survives

  All That Escapes

  All That Rises

  Mavericks series

  Mavericks: Hunters Moon

  Time Agents series

  Killing Time

  Single Novels

  Blackout

  Defiant

  Darkest Hour

  Final Impact

  The Year Without Summer

  The Last Storm

  The Last Magician

  The Lookout

  Class of 1989

  For my Family

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Plea

  Readers Team

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Santiago Cruz

  Present day

  It was to be the most important gathering since the attack on America. Five years in the making, a monumental task under the dire circumstances. The conclave had drawn in militia leaders from the 12 states of the Midwest to Springfield, Missouri — one of the remaining warring cities of the south. A little after eight that evening the event would be held at Pythian Castle, a 100-year-old landmark not far from Glenstone Avenue.

  The sole purpose of the collective was for sharing intel and discussing the destabilizing of the People’s Liberation Army.

  And destabilize it had.

  Riding on a wave of success from rebel attacks, and news of offshore military advancement, hope had again risen in the hearts of the brave.

  And in one fell swoop, he would crush it.

  Enjoying a stubby Cohiba, and lost in thoughts of yesterday, Santiago Cruz had forgotten what he was holding. Seeing the last of them enter the building brought his attention back to the C4 detonator. He shifted the smoky brown stick to the corner of his mouth and gave a wry smile.

  This would be a beautiful payday.

  One second he was staring at a piece of history through his binoculars, and the next an overwhelming gray-black blossom of concrete and debris showering down. The eruption sent a shock wave of compacted air that radiated outward causing windows in nearby businesses and parked vehicles to shatter under the pressure. Those nearest the plastic explosives would have been obliterated instantly, further out, flesh would have been torn from bone, and bone ripped from tendons as the devastating pressure stripped everything in its path.

  One explosion was all it took.

  What a sight.

  Supporting walls, pillars, and the roof ballooned outward causing the ceiling to collapse as a thunderous wave of destruction spread throughout the surrounding area.

  Santiago squinted at his work of art. For that’s what it was — art — his handiwork, his painting on the canvas of America.

  A hard breeze stirred a pillar of smoke that spiraled upward appearing like a tornado as the dust cloud projected wider over the collapsed building.

  The second detonation that followed only added to the shock and wonder as he beheld tongues of fire within the blackest of smoke, illuminating the ruins.

  If it wasn’t for simultaneous explosions that occurred elsewhere throughout the city, it might have attracted more attention from warring Americans, hell-bent on preserving their community.

  Like Kansas City, St. Louis, Columbia, and many of the larger cities, Springfield remained one of the last footholds in the state of Missouri. While smaller towns were easier to wipe out or control, residents of Springfield had done a tremendous job of pushing back the PLA.

  It wasn’t skill but a numbers game as thousands took up arms, dug in deep, blocked off roads, and gave only Americans access. It was the reason the militia had chosen the city over a more obscure and probably safer urban locale for their all-so-secretive parley.

  And to give them credit, they might have gotten away with it had Santiago not been hired. His career as a gun-for-hire to the highest bidder had started long before this war. As a former Marine Special Operator with the Marine Raiders, an elite unit that operated behind enemy lines, he was more than comfortable operating in the shadows. After getting out, he’d offered his unique set of
services as a private military contractor — mercenary to some — mostly working out of the country in hellish places.

  His in-the-trenches experience as a private sector soldier had taken him from Yemen to Ukraine to Nigeria, fighting for America alongside people who weren’t even from the States.

  For the longest time, he had done America’s bleeding in the worst shitholes of the planet just so they could turn around and deny his existence if a mission was politically sensitive or risky.

  Yes, his was the hard road.

  He’d handled the questionable and took on the risk that came with working off a black budget that most fat cats in Congress didn’t even know about.

  He did their dirty work while they turned a blind eye.

  But not anymore.

  He chuckled at the thought of how many wars he’d started for profit, preying on the weak, and dishing out threats. If only Americans knew. In many ways he lived above the law, unregulated, untouchable, shit, a modern-day outlaw changing war and world order all for the right price. He didn’t care about the who, how, or why, only the dollars building in his bank account.

  By forty-eight he’d come so close to retirement and getting out of the game — and then this happened. Now he was back in the thick of it, working for a new master with an offer of exceptional treatment at a time when money meant nothing.

  But that wasn’t really why he agreed. Oh no, he had acquired an unusual taste for the blood, and there wasn’t much better than seeing the red, white, and blue bleed.

  Watching the arrogant fall was a reward in itself.

  He lowered the binoculars and rose, striding confidently toward the noise and confusion. He turned to his group of ten, a ragtag team made up of different nationalities, military background, and experience, and gestured for them to go ahead and finish anyone who had survived.

  Santiago lifted the SR-3, a Russian compact assault rifle that he’d recently obtained as a part of a payday for the last batch of renegades he’d retired. He couldn’t remember their names even if he wanted to, they all blurred together, looked the same, only the faces changed. Some hero. Some outlaw. Some militant trying to inspire. Good luck with that.

  He got off on taking out those who thought they were untouchable.

  It was a challenge he couldn’t resist.

  That’s what made him an invaluable resource to the PLA.

  Forget collaborators, who were the PLA’s puppets, he was a new weapon in the war against the resistance, a Trojan horse that brought only death.

  He’d lost count of how many Americans he’d wiped out over the past year. All he knew was he answered to no one except the generals and Commander Han, a man whom he’d only met once.

  As Santiago strode through the gray cloud, his dark poncho flapping in the breeze behind him, his face hidden behind a black-and-white skull hockey mask, his appearance was every bit a part of his attempt at striking fear into the hearts of those he would kill.

  The chorus of gunfire echoed, his men finishing the stragglers who resisted.

  His purpose that evening wasn’t to interrogate but to strike back and send a message to every militia group throughout the Midwest — the era of the resistance was over.

  Emerging through smoke, a force to be reckoned with, he ambled up the stone staircase toward a wounded militia member. He was on his knees, his face half melted from the flames. Santiago could smell the familiar stench of burning flesh as he got closer. One of his guys loomed over him, barrel pointed at his head. “Says he’s Duke Banning.”

  Santiago swung his rifle behind him and set one foot on a step and leaned toward him, setting his forearm on his knee as he got closer. He pulled out from his pocket a photo to compare. It was hard to tell with the way his face had melted.

  “Please. Help me,” Banning said.

  “Oh, I’m not here to help.”

  “Then who are you?” the dying man muttered.

  “Who am I?” He cocked his head and stared him in the eyes while placing both hands on the man’s bloodied face.

  “Death,” Santiago replied before jamming his thumbs into the man’s eye sockets. Blood streamed down his cheeks as his screams cut through the night.

  1

  Sheng Lun

  Lincoln, Missouri

  The gunshot startled Sheng Lun.

  Almost dropping his gun, he whirled around, rifle at the ready, heart beating a mile a minute, only to face his fellow soldiers, yukking it up at his expense.

  “Sheng. The enemy is attacking!” Lu Han said sarcastically, staggering back and reenacting him fumbling with his rifle. The others roared with laughter. They knew he was wet behind the ears and they’d taken every chance to remind him. God, he was sick of him, sick of them, and sick of this war.

  “Screw you!”

  More laughter followed.

  The truth was he wasn’t meant to be here but he was forced into it, a slave to a war he didn’t want, fighting a people he didn’t have a problem with in the first place. Technically, he shouldn’t have been there as mandatory military service hadn’t been enforced since 1949. However, it was the obligation of every Chinese citizen to register to be drafted. Failure to do so only brought shame to the family. He could still recall arguing with his father at the age of eighteen when he took him to register for the draft.

  “Sheng, it’s the rules. I don’t make them.”

  “They are archaic!” he’d replied.

  “I don’t disagree with you but it’s our duty.”

  “No, it’s our duty to defend and resist invasion. America didn’t invade us.”

  He recalled his father going quiet and letting out a sigh then retelling him the story of his grandfather and what happened to him. Even though registering at the age of eighteen didn’t mean they would end up joining, many who avoided registering were punished and shunned by Beijing authorities.

  “Listen, Sheng, it is what it is. Don’t dishonor me.”

  Dishonor. He snorted at the thought of it. That’s what it came down to in the end. A cycle of bullshit. Simply put, it meant they cared more about how the rest of society looked upon them than standing up for their own beliefs and values.

  His generation was different. Before the war, a shift had occurred. Many of them wanted to break out of the tradition, walk away from duty, rules, and everything that it meant. Of course, he admired those who chose to join but forcing people just seemed wrong.

  Unfortunately, his family was on the bottom rung in his country, poor, and left to scrounge for scraps through working in the Beijing factories. As internal migrant workers, they were the scum on the bottom of China’s boot. No state benefits. No protection. Poor working conditions, forced overtime, denial of social security rights, and screwed in every way through employment contracts.

  What little his family brought in they’d used to pay bills and buy food, leaving only a small amount to put toward his education. His parents had wanted something better for him, a better life, away from the sweatshops, away from the seventy-hour work weeks, and cramped dormitories.

  He was nearly there, close to leaving for Hong Kong and achieving an education in the high-tech industry. Close to a career that would have made his parents proud, a career that would have given them a better life in their old age.

  That all came to a grinding halt when China declared war upon America.

  Sheng shook his head, the memories fading.

  The laughter from his fellow soldiers subsided as Lu Han ordered Sheng to get back to work. He wasn’t his superior but with a father who was, he liked to think he was in charge.

  Standing guard at the door of a general store in the heart of Lincoln, Sheng turned away from the group of five. They were sitting around a table playing cards, knocking back local moonshine from large mason jars, and doing anything but what they were meant to.

  That was left to the grunts, the ones who didn’t speak up, the ones who followed orders, the ones who didn’t have a daddy in a position of p
ower.

  For him it was just another kick to the gut.

  The generals of the PLA had ordered platoons to checkpoints on most of the major arteries throughout the counties surrounding a town called Camdenton.

  He’d been assigned to Lincoln, a small town north of Warsaw, a blip on the map in Benton County. Their task was to watch over the area, neutralize threats and bring in anyone who knew anything about “the Hunter.”

  Over a month ago, there had been a massive attack, the largest seen in some time, and rumors were swirling that generals throughout the twelve states were nervous that a revolution was in the works.

  “You know he’ll keep doing it until you stop reacting,” Feng Chow said. He was leaning up against the wall and smoking a cigarette. He took out his pack of smokes and offered him one. Sheng declined with a wave of the hand.

  “He’s an asshole just like his father,” Sheng said.

  “Don’t say that too loud.” Feng blew out a cloud of smoke and waved it away as he wedged his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and adjusted his grip on the rifle.

  “I don’t care. If he keeps pushing, I’m going to…”

  “Going to what?” Feng interrupted him.

  There was a beat, silence stretched.

  Sheng shook his head and sighed as he looked out.

  “You think the rumors are true about the Hunter?” he asked.

  “The Ghost?” Feng laughed. “No. He’s a man. They say they have a name for him now, that a friend of his gave him up. It was only a matter of time. Eventually, they will all fall. That’s why we will win this war.”