by Paul Heatley
Ben opens the door. “I was just wondering to what I owe this unexpected pleasure,” he says, playing it cool.
“Can I come in?” Jake says. He wears an overcoat, both hands plunged deep into the pockets, protection against the cold.
Ben steps aside. Jake strides through, the bottom of his coat flapping. Ben hesitates once he’s inside, checks the road for anyone else, for suspicious cars, then closes the door. He turns.
Ben hears something; then he’s flung back against the door. He’s been hit in the chest. He looks down. He’s bleeding. He looks up. Jake is holding a smoking gun.
“We’ve come too far now,” Jake says, “for it to be screwed up by a dirty operative like you.”
Ben coughs blood. It tastes thick in his throat. He knows this isn’t good. He goes limp, slides down the door. He lands on his backside, then rolls over. He lets his eyes close, lies very still. Holds his breath.
Jake comes closer, crouches down beside him. Shakes him. “Who’s your friend, Ben?” he says. “Who are you working with? Where is he?” He shakes Ben harder. Ben keeps his eyes closed, stays as limp as he can. It’s not hard to do. Even now, playing dead, he can feel death creeping up on him. He hasn’t got much longer left.
“Shit,” Jake says. He stands. Pulls out his phone, dials a number. “It’s done,” he says, speaking into the phone. “No, I didn’t get a name. He wouldn’t talk. Look, don’t worry about it. It’s only supposed to be one other guy; we can deal with it. Listen, it’s done, there’s no point getting worked up over how it happened. We don’t have time for this.” He hangs up the phone. Ben can feel him looking down at him.
Finally, he leaves the house. The door remains open. Jake isn’t done here.
Ben knows he doesn’t have much time. He doesn’t try to get up. With what little strength he has left, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone. Brings it up to his face. He’s able to open one eye. He types a message, hits send, then closes his eye.
60
Tom attacks.
The four on guard duty aren’t expecting him. They aren’t watching. They’ve gotten lax as the night has worn on.
It’s like in the bar. Tom wears the night-vision goggles. He blinds them first, throwing in a flash grenade. While they stumble, covering their eyes, crying out, he takes them out with the M4 Carbine. One fell swoop, four down. The guards are dead, headshots all.
Tom tears off the goggles, runs in low, ducking beneath the windows. The door to the cabin bursts open. Harry is in the entrance, armed. The gun swings from side to side, searching him out. Tom can hear him cursing. “Come on, motherfucker! Show yourself, you stinking son of a bitch!”
Tom surprises him from the side, slams the butt of the gun into his stomach. Harry keels over; the gun goes off, blasts through his own foot. He screams, stumbles from the steps. His fall ends with him lying flat on his back, looking up. Tom pulls out his Beretta, shoots him twice through the face.
Into the cabin. The lighting in here is dim, but everything is clear.
A banshee shrieks. Tom turns. The wife, Linda, she charges him, eyes wild, hair flying out behind her. There’s a knife in her hand, raised, for him.
Behind her, a shout. Michael. “Linda, no –!”
Tom catches her as she reaches him, has to drop the Beretta to do so. She’s too close; he needs both hands. Reaches up as the knife is arcing down. He grabs her wrists, twists her arms, steps to the side. Drives the knife into her stomach. Her own hands are still wrapped around it. She falls silent with a gulp, looks down as her blood comes spilling out. She falls to her knees, then drops to her side.
Before she hits the ground, Michael is charging. There is a gun in his hand, but it’s forgotten in his fury. He slams into Tom with all of his weight, knocks him off balance, down to the ground. He drops the gun as they land. It skitters across the floor. He punches Tom across the face. The back of Tom’s head hits the floorboards, dazes him. He comes around as Michael wraps his hands around his throat. He’s spitting words as he does so, cursing him for what he has done to his wife, his friends, his men.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Michael says, saliva flecking his teeth and lips. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”
Tom grabs his hands, stops him from setting the choke in fully. Michael battles against him.
“This is for them,” Michael says, leaning down, putting all his strength, all his weight into strangling Tom. “This is for all of them – this is for Peter and Ronald and –”
Tom grabs his thumbs. Michael feels something change and falls suddenly silent. “They were easy,” Tom says. “You were all too easy.” He snaps his thumbs.
Michael rears back, hands high, thumbs bent back at unnatural angles. Tom gets a boot up, kicks him back, off him. He gets to his feet, pulls out his KA-BAR, spins it in his hand.
Michael shuffles back across the floor, holding up one useless hand. “No,” he says, “no, please, no, back off, no!”
Tom grabs him by the front of his shirt, drags him up to his feet. “You’re the first one who’s begged,” he says. “Aren’t you supposed to be the leader?”
Michael’s mouth clamps shut.
“Did Anthony beg? Did Alejandra? Would it have made a difference?”
Michael closes his eyes.
Tom sticks the knife into his gut. Michael’s eyes shoot open. Tom tears the knife upward, spills his guts. Tom drops him onto the floor, in front of his dead wife. Michael isn’t dead yet, but it won’t take long. He tries reaching out for Linda, but he doesn’t have the strength.
Tom gathers up his things. He leaves the cabin. Behind him, as he goes, he can hear Michael crying.
61
Despite the discomfort of the chair she’s bound to, and the gag in her mouth, which dries out her throat and her lips, Beth manages to fall asleep.
When she wakes, someone is untying her. “Tom?” she says.
Mary, one of the maids, looks at her, raises an eyebrow.
“Mary!” Beth coughs, clears her throat, swallows down the little spit in her mouth. “Do you have any water?”
Mary finishes untying her, then goes to her trolley. She takes a bottle of water from it, hands it over. She says, while Beth gulps it down, “There was a phone call came for you.”
Water spills from Beth’s mouth, down the front of her blouse. “What?”
“Told me you were in here. He said to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t come back to untie you himself, but he had to leave.” Mary gives her a wry look.
“Oh,” Beth says. “Did he, um, did he say anything else?”
Mary ignores the question. “You know we’re not supposed to do anything with the guests,” she says. “And specially not anything like … well, whatever this was.”
Beth opens her mouth, but says nothing. Mary has a kinky idea in her mind, and she won’t be swayed from it.
“I won’t tell Mr. Cooper about it,” Mary says. Mr. Cooper is their boss, the owner of the motel. “Just consider yourself lucky I’m the one answered the phone. Don’t let nothin’ like this happen again, Beth, y’hear me? You ain’t gonna get so lucky twice, I’ll bet.”
Beth nods, thanks her, leaves the room. Stumbles outside into the early morning sunshine. She finishes off the bottle of water, feeling sore and tired still from sleeping all night in the chair. She heads home. She knows by now that Tom will have left town. She knows she will never see him again.
62
It’s Saturday morning. Seth Goldberg gets out of the shower, dries, combs his hair, gets dressed and goes downstairs. His wife and his daughters are in the kitchen, at the table, waiting for him.
The girls are happy to see him. They’ve missed him while he’s been in Washington. Abigail has told him they tried to stay up for his return last night, but tiredness got the better of them. They smile up at him as he enters the kitchen, joins them at the table.
“Morning,” he says, then kisses them each on the cheek.
“Mor
ning, Daddy,” they each say after their kiss, the younger echoing the older.
The girls wear matching peach-colored dresses. Seth is in his black suit. Abigail wears her sky-blue dress. Seth smiles at it. “My favorite,” he says.
She smiles back, tinged with sadness. He knows why. She’s worried about him. Worried about them all. “I thought you’d appreciate it,” she says.
“I certainly do,” Seth says. To the girls, “Doesn’t Mommy look like the most beautiful woman in all the world?”
“Always!” Deborah says. Danielle giggles.
They have breakfast. The girls, as ever, lean forward over their plates, are careful not to get crumbs on themselves. Seth notices Danielle is getting better at staying clean. When they finish eating, this time he doesn’t have to wipe her face clean, pick the detritus from her hair.
Abigail clears the table, places the dishes in the sink. “Shall we go?” she says.
They gather themselves up and leave the house. The agents assigned to watch them are patiently waiting. They know the routine. They’ve been expecting this. They speak into their wrists as Seth and Abigail strap their children into their seats.
The reporters parked across the street have been expecting them, too. Seth can hear the snapping of their cameras. They’ll follow them, but the bodyguards make sure they keep their distance. At a glance, Seth notices there are more there now than there used to be. The further along his clean energy bill gets, the more everyone wants to take his picture.
They pull away, following the agent car in the lead, boxed in by another behind them. They make their way to synagogue, to Shabbat; No doubt the crowds will be waiting there, too. To take his picture, to congratulate him, to encourage him, or else to call him the devil.
The same routine.
The synagogue.
Every week.
Every Saturday morning.
Senator Seth Goldberg and his family leave their home, leave their neighborhood, unaware that they are marked for death in less than two hours.
63
Tom is in Dallas. After he’d finished with the Right Arm, he found a message on the burner phone from Ben. It had one word.
Shot.
After that was a sequence of letters and numbers. Tom knew what they were. He had been in the army long enough to recognize a set of coordinates at a glance.
Tom didn’t go straight to them. He went to Ben’s house first. He wasn’t there long. He parked down the road, out of view, looked through binoculars. The house was being watched. The men in the cars, trying to look nondescript, had the obvious bearing of agents, just like Ben the first time Tom saw him. They were waiting for him, for Tom. The house did not look like a crime scene. It looked like it always did.
Ben, Tom knew, was more than likely dead.
He didn’t stay in the neighborhood. He’s destroyed the burner phone that had Ben’s number, disposed of it. He’s memorized the coordinates and looked them up.
A warehouse, downtown.
He’s on his way.
64
“So Carly’s dead, huh?” Chuck says, gearing up.
“We think so,” Jake says. “There’s no sign of her at home.”
“Shame,” Chuck says, though he doesn’t look particularly perturbed. “She was a fine piece of ass.”
“I’ll be sure to eulogize her thusly,” Jake says.
They’re in the warehouse. The mercs are getting ready. Their arms are bare and adorned with fake tattoos, Nazi imagery. There are swastikas and some of the more subtle images and numbers, too.
The van is loaded. Jake has looked into the back of it. Felt himself shudder. Couldn’t help it. The mercs are surprisingly cool about the whole situation despite the fact that if this thing were to go boom, it would wipe out the whole district. Of course, they’ve been living with it, sleeping near it, for the last couple of weeks. Jake knows he couldn’t. Jake doesn’t want to be near it right now. He shouldn’t be. It was never in the plan. The stuff with Ben has changed things. He’s here with a couple of other agents, men he can trust, men who have also been recruited by Eric, who know what’s going down.
Chuck straps body armor across his chest. “So the Right Arm, you’re saying they’re dead now?”
“Most of them,” Jake says. They’ve been aware of what was happening in the area, in Harrow, though they didn’t understand it. A gang war? Internal strife? They’ve been waiting for it to calm down. Now, so close to their plan coming to fruition, Jake sent one of their agents around town, to search them out. He came up empty-handed. The ones supposed to still be alive, he couldn’t find them.
Jake can’t shake the feeling it has something to do with Ben’s mysterious friend.
He’s done his own research. He looked into the unofficial undercover, into Anthony Rollins. Found out all about his brother, Tom. Ex-army. Ex-CIA. Currently wanted for going AWOL. Whereabouts unknown. It might be nothing, it could be something. Jake has circulated this information, in either case.
“So, you gonna set up some new patsies, or what?” Chuck says.
“No time,” Jake says. “But it doesn’t matter. This will work in our favor. They were all gonna get wiped out anyway, once the finger of blame settled on them. This way, we’ve already got the bodies and saved ourselves a firefight to get them.”
Chuck grins. “So long as it all works out, huh?”
“We’ve planned too long and too hard to be derailed now.”
“What about Ben’s mystery friend? You think he’s gonna come find us?”
“Waste anyone approaching you on sight,” Jake says. “Old, young, cop – I don’t give a shit. If there’s a risk of you being exposed, of the alarm going up, of anyone trying to stop you, blast the fuckers.”
Chuck’s grin broadens. “You ain’t gotta tell me twice, boss man.” He pats the assault rifle across his chest.
“Well,” Jake says, “you certainly look like you’re going to enjoy yourself.”
“If you ain’t happy in your work, you’re in the wrong line. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Chuck’s men, standing nearby, similarly strapped and armored, laugh and grunt their agreement.
Jake is pleased he has men of his own standing nearby. Here, alone, he’d feel outnumbered, uncomfortable. He has three inside the warehouse with him, another two outside, on the roof, keeping guard.
Jake checks his watch. “Then I won’t keep you,” he says. “It’s time to go. This is where we say goodbye. I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”
“Sure you don’t wanna give us an escort? Make sure we get there nice and safe?” There is a joking tone to Chuck’s words, something of a taunt to them. Like he thinks it’s a joke they might need babying.
“Can’t be seen anywhere near you, not when you’re getting close to the target,” Jake says, not rising to the mockery, pretending like he hasn’t picked up on it.
“Please yourself,” Chuck says. “Enjoy the fireworks on the six o’clock news.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll make the midday news flash,” Jake says, stepping back, giving Chuck some space.
Chuck turns to his men. “All right, boys, showtime! Al, Jimmy, Pat – in the van. Dix, in the car, with me.” He pounds the side of his fist against the van. The van filled with explosives. Jake tries not to flinch, though he can’t help the grimace that forces its way onto his face. “Let’s go!”
The one called Dix goes to the warehouse door, pulls the chain to roll it up and open. Al, Jimmy, and Pat get in the van, all of them up front. Al drives. Chuck gets into the car behind them. They pull forward. Jake watches them go, a swelling in his chest, an increasing of the butterflies in his stomach. This is it. It’s like Christmas. So long planning and preparing, feeling like the day will never arrive, and now it’s finally here.
The van is outside. It’s on its way. Chuck stops the car so Dix can get in. He leaves the warehouse door wide open. They’ve left other items scattered around the warehouse, furthe
r proof that the Right Arm Of The Republic is responsible for what is about to happen, for the thousands of people about to lose their lives.
Jake turns to his men, ready to tell them to move, it’s time to go.
A shot rings out.
Jake spins around, looks to the van. It veers to the side, hits the chain-link fence enclosing the warehouse. Stops. Another shot. Jake hears glass shattering. He pulls out his gun, runs to the open door, remaining in cover. He sees the passenger door of the van open, one of Chuck’s men jumping out, pulling up his assault rifle. Before he gets a grip on it, there’s another shot. His head snaps to the side; there’s a spray of blood. He hits the ground.
“Shit!” Jake can’t see the shooter, where he’s firing from.
Chuck pulls the car to the back of the van, for cover. He and Dix jump out, duck low, get to the back of the car. He shouts to Jake, “Give us cover! We’ll get to the van. You make sure we get out of here!”
Jake nods, looks out, still can’t see anyone. He starts shooting blindly into the distance.
One of his men, on the other side of the open door, calls over, “Where are we firing, sir?”
“Anywhere!” Jake says. “Just fucking shoot!”
Jake’s men open fire too, bullets going in all directions. Jake prays one of them is heading the right way, prays harder that it finds its mark. He notices the men he had outside, the ones keeping watch, they’re not shooting.
Chuck and Dix make it to the van. They roughly drag out the bodies of their dead comrades, get in. The van jerks, spins its wheels as it twists to the side, getting out of the fence. Jake keeps shooting. The sniper isn’t firing back. Wherever he is, someone must be firing in the right direction, pinning him down.
The van is free. It gets away. It’s heading down the road. He prepares to pull back, into cover, to tell his men to do the same. They need to get out of here.