Dusk of Humanity : (Book 1 in the Dusk of Humanity Series) Read online

  ***

  As Sloan waited for her flight to board, she decided a quick call home wouldn’t hurt. Her sister’s cell didn’t get much signal while working cattle in Montana, so she called the house phone. It rang five times before the answering machine picked up.

  “Hey, Brit. It’s Sloan. I’m going to be…” Sloan paused. She had no idea where she would be after departing Fort Hood; the location was confidential. “I’m going to be away until Monday and I’m not sure I’ll have service. I thought it best I’d let you know in case you called or something…”

  Sloan hung up. Why did she even bother when she hadn’t spoken with Britney in weeks? It wasn’t like her sister called much anyway, and when she did, Sloan spent most of the call on Facetime with the kids.

  Brit still hadn’t gotten over Sloan’s abandonment, which had left her to run the family ranch alone after their father died. Sloan tried to explain to Brit over the years that she had to leave. After their mother passed, she dreamed of one day becoming a surgeon with the ability to save those that no one else could. A surgeon who could do the impossible and save people with inoperable cancer like the one that took their mother.

  It wasn’t like Brit hadn’t planned on returning to the ranch anyway. She had only gone away to college to study business so she could be better equipped to take over the family business when Dad retired. From a bystander’s perspective, it appeared her life worked out well nonetheless. She married a fellow rancher who lived down the road. They combined their lands and cattle and grew an impressive business together. Plus, they had three adorable children. Brit had accomplished everything she ever dreamed of and then some. Sloan wished her big sister would one day find it in her heart to forgive her.

  “We will now begin boarding flight 872 to Fort Hood, Texas,” a woman said over the intercom. “First class will board first.”

  Sloan checked her ticket one last time. She was shocked when she opened the envelope on her walk home to find a first-class ticket. She thought for sure she would be stuck in coach in the worst possible seat available.

  The woman at the counter checked her ticket and ushered her down the walkway. Each step Sloan took towards the plane sent her heart racing. She hated to fly. Chief McClain said it was because Sloan disliked anything where she was not in control; Sloan thought it was more that she disliked the idea of soaring above the ground at thirty-five thousand feet without a backup plan if the engines decided to stop mid-air.

  A flight attendant escorted Sloan to her seat and offered her a beverage. She ordered a shot of the strongest Bacardi they had available. The woman brought her two and kept them coming until Sloan could fall into a blissful slumber.

  She was awakened sometime later by the same flight attendant to inform her they had landed. Sloan slipped the woman a twenty for the attentive drink service as she disembarked.

  The only instructions given for after her flight were to locate the pick-up area and wait for an escort. There were no other details except for he or she would be military—which, in Fort Hood, did nothing to help.

  “Dr. Egan?” A clean shaved man dressed in Army camouflage approached. “I’m Private Jones. I’m to escort you to Fort Hood.”

  He reached for Sloan’s suitcase, but she pulled it out of his grasp. “Thank you, Private. I can manage.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His jaw clenched. “This way, please.”

  Sloan followed the young man out a side service entrance to a parked military-grade Humvee. Two additional soldiers waited; one in the driver’s seat, the other in the back.

  “Ma’am.” Private Jones held the rear door open. “I’ll take your luggage now, if you don’t mind.”

  A slight chill prickled her skin though the September air was unusually hot for this time of year.

  “Ma’am,” Jones said again. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Though I feel as if I should ask for identification of some sort from you gentlemen.”

  The soldier in the back pulled out a slip of paper from one of his many pockets. “This is a copy of your orders, given to us by our commanding officer.”

  Sloan took the piece of paper. It was an exact replica of the notices she’d received. “And how did you know my face without asking for my ID?”

  Jones glanced towards the driver, who handed him a folder, who passed it to Sloan. “We have files on each of the attendees.”

  She flipped through the papers which contained a picture and more information on her life than her own sister knew. “It’s thorough; I’ll give the government that.”

  “If you would please, Dr. Egan.” Jones ushered Sloan into the truck. “All other attendees flew this morning to The Bunker for the meet and greet and to get settled. The last flight, which was to depart at three, has been put on hold until your arrival.”

  Sloan leveraged the grab handle and hoisted herself into the massive vehicle. “The last flight? I assumed personnel who worked at…The Bunker?”

  The man next to her nodded.

  “Those who worked there would have free range to come and go as they please.”

  “No, ma’am. As The Bunker is a top-secret facility, access is limited,” the driver said.

  “If access is limited, why are they having a grand opening, so to speak?”

  “That, ma’am,” Jones said, “is above our pay-grade.”

  ***

  The hour plus drive to Fort Hood was a quiet one. The soldiers, who grew weary of Sloan’s questions after the first ten minutes, turned their focus outward. With a gun in hand, the men, aside from the driver, gazed out the window as if some unknown assailant would appear at any moment and attack. Even when they reached the confines of their base, the soldiers did not relax. If possible, they appeared more on guard.

  They parked in front of a small unmarked building. Jones hopped out of the truck and held Sloan’s door. The other, who sat next to her but never introduced himself, grabbed her bag.

  Private Jones led Sloan inside to a small waiting area which consisted of an old brown couch, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a TV tuned to Fox News, volume muted. “Please do not leave this building. Major Archer will arrive shortly to retrieve you. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

  Before she had a chance to thank the man, he was out the door and she was alone. She retrieved her cell phone from her messenger bag and sent a text to Chief McClain to let him know she had arrived. She also sent a message to her sister, reminding Brit she would be out of town for the next few days.

  Before she had a chance to check her email, a text from Beatrice came through. Cordon just informed me he would be taking over your patients the next few days! How could you not have told me you were going out of town????

  Sloan had been so distracted by the Chief and then Cordon’s behavior that she had forgotten to mention her sudden departure to Beatrice. There were very few lies her friend would believe so Sloan settled on the most logical. There was a last-minute cancellation for a surgical conference the Chief had me wait-listed for.

  She copied the message and sent it to Terence. Sloan wouldn’t put it past Beatrice to stop the Chief and talk his ear off about Sloan’s whereabouts.

  Beatrice messaged back: Must be nice. Hope you’re somewhere sunny. Text me when you have a minute. I have some juicy news… The message went on for the length of Sloan’s screen.

  Not bothering to read the extent of the gossip, she sent a text back and let Beatrice know she had to run and returned to checking her email. There were no new messages, which was unusual. Either it was a slow day at the hospital, or the more likely reason: McClain had spread the word Sloan was out of town and not to be disturbed.

  With her phone back in her bag, Sloan turned her attention to the news. She caught the tail-end of a headline that read something about a virus, which wasn’t too much of a concern in her eyes. Every year there was always talk about viruses; most didn’t cause too much damage and only needed to run their course, but they were news
nonetheless.

  Several anchors were deep in discussion—about what, she couldn’t decipher—and the remote was nowhere in sight. A video of a man who displayed symptoms similar to those of the man brought into the ER this morning played in the background. Sloan stood to turn up the sound on the TV itself when the screen went black.

  “News,” a man said. “Can’t believe a damn thing those bastards say. Always blowing shit way out of proportion.”

  Sloan pivoted around. “Do you know what they were discussing?”

  “Nothing that pertains to us.” He crossed the room. “Lee Archer, but everybody calls me Archer. You must be Dr. Sloan Egan.”

  She shook the man’s hand. “I am.”

  “Glad you could make it, Dr. Egan.”

  He wasn’t quite what she expected. With his light brown crew-cut hair, green eyes, and fair skin, he looked more like a movie version of a soldier than the men who escorted her from the airport. “Please, call me Sloan.”

  “This the only bag you brought?” He motioned to her small carry-on.

  “That and the one I’m holding.” She patted the bag slung across her chest.

  “You know there’s a cocktail party the last night?”

  “I’m aware and packed for the occasion.”

  “That must be one hell of a dress.”

  Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what that means.”

  A mischievous grin spread across Archer’s face. “To fit a dress into that tiny suitcase, it must be short. Short equals hot which makes it one hell of a dress.”

  Sloan stood there flabbergasted at the borderline inappropriate remark. If this was the standard set for employee behavior within The Bunker, this weekend would be more dreadful than she’d imagined.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When Lee Archer received word he was to escort the prominent surgeon Dr. Sloan Egan to The Bunker, he’d pictured a stuffy woman with glasses and unkempt hair pulled back into a messy bun. It was the M.O. of most the surgeons he knew. Maybe not the stuffy part, but the messy hair in a bun—dead ringer. There wasn’t much time for primping when you were in the field.

  What he found was a petite redhead rocking a pair of tight jeans and a fitted black t-shirt. She looked more as if she belonged on a TV drama than in an operating room.

  “I think your logic is a bit skewed,” Sloan said. “I preferred not to mess with a garment bag for a weekend trip. My respectable length dress rolled up quite nicely and fit in my carry-on without trouble.”

  Archer couldn’t tell if she was annoyed by his comment or if she was screwing with him. “It was a joke. A poorly executed one at that, but a joke.”

  “I see.” Sloan lifted the handle of her bag. “Shall we get going? The men who fetched me from the airport insinuated my tardiness has held up the final transport to The Bunker.”

  The grin plastered across Archer’s face slipped. It was rare for a woman to be immune to his charms. And yet, Sloan hadn’t even cracked a smile when he teased her about the dress. “I’ll need your phone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Archer held out his hand. “Your phone. Please. No attendee is allowed to keep on their person any sort of electronic device that can connect to the internet as The Bunker is a top-secret facility.”

  “I won’t be allowed to check my messages or emails for the entirety of the weekend?”

  “Think of it as a paid vacation.”

  Sloan reached into her bag and handed Archer the phone. “I haven’t been on vacation since I was a child.”

  “Are you shitting me? What kind of person doesn’t go on vacation?”

  Sloan scrunched her nose. “The work I do is extremely important. If I go on vacation, patients die.”

  Archer snatched her suitcase out of her hand and headed out of the room. Private Jones held the door for them. “I’m not saying it isn’t, but there’s a whole big world out there just waiting to be explored.”

  “Mr. Archer—” Sloan hurried after him, her short legs struggling to keep up with his long strides.

  “Archer, not Mr. Archer. Just Archer. Do I look like a ‘Mr.’ to you?”

  “Archer.” The informality bit at her tongue. “I’m quite capable of carrying my own luggage.”

  He spun around so fast she almost walked right into him. “Did I say anything about you not being capable of carrying your own luggage?”

  “N-no,” she stuttered.

  “I’m from the south and my mama raised me to be a gentleman. Open doors, carry bags, say please and thank you, the whole nine yards. Private Jones, where is our lovely Dr. Egan from?”

  “Montana, sir. Raised on a cattle ranch. Father spent his entire life on the farm. Mother was a homemaker.”

  “I bet growing up in rural country such as that, your parents taught you when someone does something nice, in return, you thank them.”

  Sloan straightened. “My apologies. Though unnecessary and outdated, thank you, Mr. Archer for carrying my bag.”

  Archer jumped into the waiting Jeep. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Sloan took a seat in the back and remained quiet.

  Ten minutes later they’d reached the runway and Archer was out of the jeep, ready to board the C-27J Spartan—a two-prop tactical aircraft used to transport troops and supplies to airfields with a short runway.

  “Ma’am, you all right?” Private Jones asked. “Do I need to call a medic?”

  Archer did an about-face.

  Sloan was still in the jeep, pale and motionless, staring at the bird. “We’re flying in that?”

  Hadn’t she just got off a plane hours ago? How could she possibly be scared of this old thing? “We are. Is there a problem?”

  “It’s rusted.”

  Archer leaned against the gray structure. Civilians. “Nah. A few bumps and bruises, that’s all. You got nothing to worry about with Baby Herc, here, he may be seasoned but this aircraft is a bad-ass.”

  “A bad-ass built by the lowest bidder,” she mumbled.

  “You seem like a rational person. You must realize it’s more likely you’d die in a car crash than a plane crash. Right?”

  Sloan threw back her shoulders, slide out of the jeep and stomped up the ramp. “I know the odds.”

  Archer followed and folded down a couple of the inward facing seats which were nothing more than red slings that hung from the padded wall of the aircraft. “Go ahead and strap in. This baby has a bit of kick when it takes off.”

  From the row of seats opposite of Sloan, Archer watched in amusement as she strapped not only the lap belt but the harness as well and pulled them tight, close to the point of cutting off circulation.

  Archer buckled his lap belt while Private Jones and a few other soldiers boarded and took a seat together near the butt of the plane. When everyone was settled, Archer motioned to the cockpit. The back hatch was closed and the engine roared to life.

  “You ready?” he asked Sloan.

  She didn’t respond, eyes wide as she stared out the window while the plane prepared for take-off.

  Archer loved the sound of Baby Herc’s engine. Almost every mission he’d been on had started on one of these babies. There was something about it that kicked his adrenaline into high gear.

  Once in the air, Archer leaned back and closed his eyes. It had been a long few weeks preparing for this weekend and his sleep had been cut in half.

  A little over an hour into his nap, Sloan broke the silence. “You fly on this type of aircraft much?”

  Archer yawned and opened his eyes. If he wasn’t such a light sleeper he probably would have ignored her. “I’m an Army Ranger. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been on a plane like this.”

  The plane jerked and Archer saw Sloan’s grip tighten on the seat. Appeared the woman was afraid to fly but didn’t want to admit it. That could make this flight a hell of a lot more interesting.

  “How long is the flight?” Sloan grimaced.

  “That’s
classified.”

  “I can tell time, Archer. Even make an educated guess about how long we’ve been in the air.”

  Archer clasped his hands and laid them in his lap. She made it way too easy for him to rile her up. “Why is it important for you to know when we’ll arrive?”

  “When you travel, don’t you know what time you’ll reach your destination?”

  He did, but he was starting to enjoy pushing her buttons. “Depends on why I’m traveling.”

  She stared at him, mouth slack. He would bet not many people challenged the great Sloan Egan.

  “You’re a control freak, aren’t you, Slash?”

  Sloan’s gaze flicked upward. “Don’t call me Slash.”

  “You’re a surgeon, right? That’s what you do, cut people open.”

  “I create precise incisions in which I’m able to operate in the least invasive way possible. By definition, ‘slash’ is the opposite of what I do.”

  “It’s ironic and a pretty damn good nickname. What do you think, boys?”

  The men snickered. Sloan glared and they quickly snapped their attention elsewhere.

  Archer opened his mouth to say something inappropriate but decided it best if he held his tongue. “Anyway, back to my earlier comment on being a control freak.”

  The plane hit a touch of turbulence and Sloan’s grip tightened more. “I do not have an issue with control.”

  “You don’t like to fly. From what I know about psychology, the underlying issue with fear of flying is a fear of being out of control.”

  “I don’t have a fear of flying,” Sloan said sharply.

  What was the point of denying it? “Is that so?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  “Good to know. So you’re okay with the way we have to get to The Bunker.”

  “Flying there? I’m on the plane, aren’t I?”

  Archer snorted. “We are flying to the location, obviously. But therein lies the problem. There’s no runway.”

  Her right eye twitched. “What do mean? Where will the plane land?”