The interior of the CH-47 thundered with the rhythmic chop of its rotors — a deep, pulsing vibration that you could feel through your ribs and teeth. The red interior lights cast everyone in shades of shadow and blood, faces pale and tight with exhaustion.
The civilians clung to the safety harnesses or gripped the nearest handholds, their eyes wide as the helicopter jolted through rough air. For most of them, it was the first time they'd ever been in a military bird — and certainly not under these circumstances. The sound, the motion, the sheer violence of the machine seemed to unnerve them.
At the front, close to the cockpit, Price and his team sat strapped in, weapons secured. They spoke little — just short exchanges over the coms, their tone calm and clipped. Professionals in their element.
Further back, near the ramp, Reacher sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, gaze fixed on the metal floor. Finlay sat opposite him, his suit jacket long gone, shirt sleeves rolled up and streaked with grime. Roscoe was beside him, one hand gripping the cargo strap, the other resting near her holstered sidearm.
She studied Reacher for a long moment before breaking the silence.
"You're thinking about Margrave, aren't you?"
Reacher didn't look up immediately. His eyes stayed on the floor, the faint reflection of red light glinting off the bruises on his knuckles.
Finlay let out a tired breath. "What's there to think about anymore? The world's falling apart, Reacher. The dead are walking, cities are burning. Drugs, weapons, counterfeit cash — none of that means anything now."
For a moment, the only response was the low hum of the engines and the rattle of loose gear. Then Reacher looked up, his voice steady but low enough that only the two of them could hear.
"They killed my brother."
Finlay glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between disbelief and pity. "Whoever they were, they're probably long gone. Or dead like everyone else."
Reacher leaned back slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Maybe. But until I know they're all dead — every last one of them — I won't stop."
The words hung in the cabin, heavy even over the roar of the rotors. Roscoe exchanged a look with Finlay but said nothing.
At the front, Price's voice came over the intercom — calm, authoritative. "Ten minutes to landing. Everyone stay seated and secure. Once we're down, everyone watch your steps. Understood?"
A few nervous nods and quiet acknowledgments followed from the civilians.
Reacher said nothing more. He just stared out the small round window beside him, watching the dark landscape pass below — miles of ruined city and scorched boulevard's .
The CH-47 descended in a storm of dust and debris, the thunder of its rotors beating against the earth around them. The helicopter touched down where a luxury resort once stood. Now, it was a fortress.
As the landing gear struck the ground with a heavy thud, Price unbuckled his harness and stood, bracing himself against the cabin wall as the aircraft rocked slightly. He gave a short nod toward his team.
"On me."
Ghost, Soap, and Gaz followed without a word — weapons slung, movements steady despite the vibration and noise. They made their way from the front of the aircraft toward the rear ramp, boots thudding on metal.
When the ramp lowered, cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of oil, dust, and burning fuel. Price was the first to step off, scanning the area as the rotor wash kicked up dirt around him.
Behind them, the others began to disembark — Reacher, tall and silent, followed by Roscoe and Finlay. Then came the remaining officers, firefighters, and the handful of civilians they'd rescued. They blinked against the fading rays of daylight — some shielding their eyes, others staring in quiet disbelief.
What had once been a resort sprawled before them, stripped of any trace of leisure. The manicured lawns were gone, replaced by rows of military tents. To their left, several large pyres built from stacked tree trunks stood in an open area. Shipping containers formed towering walls around the compound, stacked two high — a makeshift fortress in a world gone mad.
Further a crane loomed over the far side of the compound, its arm swinging slowly as it lowered another massive container into place, sealing the perimeter.
To their right, near the old tennis courts, a construction site buzzed with movement. Engineers in fatigues worked, welding and reinforcing steel frameworks.
The helicopter settled into idle behind them, its engines winding down. Nearby, armored vehicles, Humvees, military and civilian trucks, and two tanks sat parked in neat rows.
A squad of soldiers was already waiting near the edge of the landing zone, weapons slung but ready. One of them raised a hand and signaled them forward.
"This way!" he shouted over the dying roar of the rotors.
Price gave a short nod, motioning for the civilians to follow. The group began to move — slowly, some still glancing around in awe at the sheer scale of the operation.
Reacher took it all in silently — the logistics, the defenses, the discipline. His eyes lingered on the walls, the guards. For all its order, there was no mistaking what this place was.
A stronghold.
A reminder that the world outside those containers was no longer the same as the one before.
As they approached the waiting soldiers, Price adjusted his vest and looked back at the civilians, his voice firm but calm.
"Stay close, keep calm, and follow instructions. We'll get you processed and settled."
The civilians nodded, uneasy but trusting the authority in his tone.
From the head of the group, the same soldier from earlier stepped forward and saluted sharply. "Captain Price, sir. Major Griggs is waiting for you inside the command building."
Price returned the nod. "We'll be on our way."
He turned to his team, his tone all business once more. " You heard the man— let's move."
Then they started walking toward the command building .
As the civilians began to move off toward the waiting soldiers, one of the uniformed men stepped forward, intercepting Reacher with a quick gesture.
"Sir," the soldier said, his voice steady but cautious. "I'm gonna have to ask you to hand over the weapons before you proceed."
Reacher stopped. For a moment, he just looked at the man — silent, unreadable. The soldier shifted slightly under the weight of that stare, his hand hovering awkwardly near his vest.
"Standard procedure," the soldier added quickly. "They'll be logged and stored in the armory."
Reacher's gaze flicked to the man's nametag, then down to the M4 slung across his chest — immaculate, untouched by dust or blood. He said nothing for several long seconds, then finally gave a single slow nod.
"Fine," he said simply.
One by one, he handed over the rifle, the shotgun, then the handgun — movements calm, deliberate. The soldier exhaled slightly, accepting the weapons with visible relief.
"Appreciate it, sir," he muttered, stepping back as Reacher moved past him without another word.
Roscoe gave a small, amused smile as she fell in beside him. "You really enjoy making people nervous, don't you?"
Reacher glanced at her. "I don't try to."
Finlay, walking just behind them, adjusted his glasses and looked around the compound. "Well, whatever this place used to be, it's not a resort anymore," he said dryly. "Looks more like a forward operating base."
"Feels like one," Roscoe agreed, her eyes tracing the walls of stacked containers. "Hard to believe this was once the kind of place people came to relax."
Reacher's gaze swept across the compound — the soldiers patrolling the perimeter, the clang of metal as welders sealed new containers into place, the constant distant hum of generators. "They've done a good job," he said finally. "Tight defenses. Controlled access. They'll hold."
Finlay gave a small grunt. "Hold against what? The dead or the living?"
Reacher didn't answer right away. His eyes followed a small convoy of supply trucks moving toward the far end of the compound, escorted by armed soldiers. "Both," he said quietly.
As they reached the path leading toward the hotel complex, Price and his team were already a few steps ahead.
For a brief moment, Roscoe glanced back at the landing zone — the helicopter now just a silhouette against the orange sky, the world outside those walls lost to dusk.
"Guess this is our home for now," she murmured.
Reacher said nothing, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed fixed on the compound's gate — the only way in or out.
·······
Price and his team moved across the compound toward the command building. The path wound between rows of supply tents and fuel drums, soldiers passing by with crates and weapon cases. The air smelled faintly of diesel and metal.
Soap walked a half-step behind Price, his rifle resting across his chest. "That bloke back there," he said, meaning Reacher. "Bit sharp for a civvy, don't you think?"
Gaz grinned faintly beneath his helmet. "'Bit sharp'? He read us like a bloody field report, mate. Routes, kills, even our entry point — all from a glance."
"Not bad," Ghost added quietly, his voice low behind the mask. "That kind of observation doesn't come from police training. Comes from something else."
Price gave a small hum of agreement as they approached the golf club's steps. "His posture, tone, how he sized us up , he's seen his share of military life, that's for sure."
Soap glanced at Price. "Think he's special forces?"
"Doubt it," Price said. "But he's trained. Ex-military, most likely. Someone who knows how to keep his head when things go sideways."
They reached the doors of the command building . Two guards stepped aside as Price and his team entered, the hum of a generator greeting them from inside. Soldiers moved between them with purpose, voices clipped and focused.
As Price and his team entered the command room, Griggs looked up and gave them a brief nod.
"Captain Price," he said, voice deep and carrying easily through the room. "Judging by the fact that you came in on the bird, I take it the op was a success?"
Price stepped forward, returning the nod. "Affirmative. Multiple precincts cleared. We've secured weapons, gear, and ammo. Enough to outfit a platoon — or arm a small town."
Griggs' gaze flicked toward the landing zone visible through the reinforced windows. "And I saw you brought back survivors. Civilians?"
Price nodded once. "Yes, sir. Few police officers, firemen, and civilians. Among them — someone with… remarkable observation skills. Picked up more in a few seconds than most scouts could in ten minutes."
Griggs gave a low hum, lips twitching into the faintest smile. "That so? Well, we'll come back to that later." His tone shifted, more serious. "Right now, we've got to discuss Dobbins."
Price's expression hardened slightly. "Still not sure I agree with you having to go there yourself. Too many variables. If things go sideways, it'll be one hell of a mess to pull you out."
Griggs straightened, a faint grin crossing his face. "Appreciate the concern, Captain, but this morning I made contact with the soldiers at Dobbins Air Base — weak signal, but solid enough. They were still holding the line. I went out there personally under escort."
That caught Soap's attention. " So what's the situation there?"
Griggs nodded. "The situation was tense — no clear command structure left, leadership scattered, and morale hanging by a thread. But once I made it clear Fort Ironwood was reorganizing under a central command, they stood down and agreed to integrate. They needed direction. We gave them that."
Price folded his arms, listening. "And they'll stay put?"
"For now," Griggs said, tone shifting back to business. "They'll hold Dobbins and maintain control of the base until relocation orders come through. We'll supply them from here — fuel, ammo, medical — whatever they need to stay operational. Fort Ironwood will oversee all field coordination."
Gaz gave a short nod. "That'll give us a secure fallback line if things in Atlanta were to go bad."
"Exactly," Griggs replied. "Dobbins becomes the forward strongpoint. It'll be our bridgehead for whatever comes next."
Price's jaw eased, though his tone remained measured. "Still, while it increases our capabilities, it was a hell of a risk, Major"
Griggs allowed himself a faint, knowing smile. "Rangers lead the way, Captain. I don't plan on changing that now."
Then he folded his arms, his expression hardening. "Now, with that out of the way, there's another subject that needs to be addressed. While we were on our assignments, there's been some development at the high school — the one Lieutenant Mercer was sent to check."
Price's brow furrowed. "What kind of development?"
Griggs exhaled through his nose. "From the information we've received, insurgents managed to infiltrate the safe zone and started a riot."
Soap let out a dry laugh and shook his head. "That's just bloody perfect."
Gaz muttered under his breath, leaning back slightly. "Can't leave people alone for five minutes without them tearing each other apart."
Ghost tilted his head, voice low and flat. "Figures. You give people walls and food, they still find a way to burn it all down."
Price's jaw tightened. "Anything else?"
Griggs nodded grimly. "We got an update not long ago — all that commotion attracted walkers. They've managed to hold their ground for now, but the high school's turning out to be a poor defensive position with their current numbers."
He tapped a folder on the table, the map of the city spread beneath it. "We'll have to accelerate the operation at the walled community. Begin relocating the personnel and civilians from the high school to the new perimeter as soon as possible."
Price leaned over the table, studying the marked zones in silence for a moment. The lines of supply, the choke points, the exposed routes — all risks flashing through his head. Then he straightened.
"Understood," he said finally. "We'll make it happen."
··········
Inside the hotel, the air felt almost surreal. The wide marble floors, soft lighting, and faint scent of stale air were ghosts of a luxury that no longer existed. The resort lobby was mostly intact. It could almost have been peaceful, if not for the soldiers standing at every corner.
Finlay gave a small, tired laugh as he looked around. "Vacation at a resort," he muttered. "Always figured if I ever made it to one of these places, I'd at least get a drink with an umbrella in it."
Roscoe smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah, shame about the whole end-of-the-world thing. Really kills the mood."
Reacher said nothing, just scanned the lobby with that calm, assessing look of his — noting exits, guard placements, the direction of the stairs. His silence said enough.
A corporal stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "We've got a mess hall set up on the if anyone's hungry. Hot food, fresh water." He paused, glancing over the group of survivors. "Those who'd rather rest, we've got temporary quarters upstairs."
A few of the civilians murmured their thanks and followed the soldier toward the dining area. Others — too shaken or too exhausted — opted for rest. Reacher, Finlay, and Roscoe were among them.
Another soldier, younger, checked the list on his clipboard. " With this many people coming in, space is tight. You three'll need to share a suite — Room 214. Top of the stairs, left wing."
Finlay gave a small, resigned grunt. "Just like the old days," he said dryly. "Only this time, no warrant, no stakeout."
Roscoe rolled her eyes but managed a smile. "Beats sleeping in a squad car."
Reacher just nodded once and took the keycard from the soldier's hand.
The suite had clearly once been one of the resort's finer rooms — large, but stripped of luxury. The curtains were half-drawn, sunlight falling across two queen-size beds and a couch pushed against the wall. The minibar was empty, the television dark. A faint hum from the generator outside broke the silence.
Finlay dropped his jacket onto one of the beds and sat heavily. "Guess this is home for now."
Roscoe leaned against the frame of the door, staring at the room that they've been given. "Home," she repeated quietly. "That's one word for it."
Reacher stood near the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes still moving — as if even now he was measuring distances, exits, and angles. Always calculating. Always ready.
After few moments he walked to the window, overlooking the compound below. From here, the entire fortress stretched out before him — the wall of shipping containers, the parked vehicles, the soldiers moving with quiet precision. Beyond the walls, a thick forrest surrounded the compound, with enough space between them that would allow the sentries to spot any approaching threat.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Finlay and Roscoe joined him at the window, their reflections faint in the glass. For a moment, none of them spoke. The distant echo of metal striking metal filled the silence.
Finlay finally broke it, voice low. "Little over a month ago, we were chasing down a killers in Margrave. Paperwork, stakeouts, bad coffee." He gave a dry laugh and shook his head. "Now look at us."
Roscoe crossed her arms, her gaze following a patrol moving along the perimeter. "Now it's the dead walking around out there. The world flipped itself upside down overnight."
Reacher didn't look away from the view. "World didn't change," he said quietly. "It just showed what it really is when the rules stopped mattering."
Finlay exhaled through his nose, leaning one hand against the window frame. "You think it ever goes back? Order, law, all of it?"
Reacher shook his head once. "No. Not like before. Best we can do now is survive long enough to see what comes after."
Outside, a searchlight swept across the compound walls as night began to fall. The three of them stood there in silence, the weight of everything pressing down — what they'd lost, what they'd seen, what might come next.