The guard made a spur-of-the-moment decision to reach for his sidearm, a decision that halved the number of armed guards on that particular transport as Andy reached the driver’s window, assessed the situation, and fired three shots through the window at the guard before his handgun could clear its holster. The driver reacted predictably, grabbing his ears in response to the intense noise, his eyes shuttling from the guard to the source of his demise.
“Your hands drop below your eyeballs, you don’t go home tonight. We clear?” Andy’s voice was clear but detached as he struggled mightily to rein in his emotions. This was hardly the first life he had taken, but every one hollowed him out. It felt like he was selling a piece of his soul to pull the trigger. The driver’s wild eyes and obvious terror indicated he had gotten the message.
John pounded his fist on the door. “Open up, dickhead, before I shoot this door open!” The door hissed, then opened. John motioned to the petrified driver with the muzzle of his rifle. “Out.” No sooner had the driver dismounted than John dropped his rifle to hang on its sling, shoved the driver roughly against the side of the bus, disarmed him, zip-tied his hands behind his back, and shoved a cloth sack over his head.
He looked to Randall, careful not to use names. “Stuff this guy in the back of the Jeep. We’ll take him back and pump him for info, see if it matches what the other agent told us.” He then shook the driver to get his attention. “I swear if you piss in the back while we’re driving, I will personally tie a rope around your neck and drag you where we’re going.” He then shoved him into Randall’s open hands, who led him off to the Jeep.
Kevin pulled up closer in the Ford Econoline and angled his head out the window to shout to John, “Other van will be here in five or less. Lookouts all report we’re clean.”
John nodded, five minutes to pickup and no hostiles inbound. They had pulled the op off perfectly. He entered the bus as Andy followed closely with two pairs of bolt cutters. They sheared the lock and entered the prisoner compartment. They were faced with two dozen adults, in orange jumpsuits, with their hands cuffed to eyebolts on the floor in front of them. The garb was that of a common criminal, but the eyes that greeted him were a mixture of scared and angry. These people were outraged at what had been done to them, and were trying to figure out where John and Andy fit in.
“Everyone, listen up. I am going to cut you loose from your restraints, and I am offering you a chance to get off this bus and find your freedom. If you come with us, you will be fugitives. If you stay and wait for the agents who will come to find their property and captives, you will be slaves. The choice is yours,” John stated.
Andy and John efficiently cut the chains securing the two halves of each pair of handcuffs together, thereby releasing them from the floor. As they passed, each person made their way off the bus. John noted some were obviously waiting for a spouse on the same bus. He was relieved they had not been separated, but he worried about where the children these people might have had ended up. That would have to be addressed between him and Mark when they got back to the compound. When John and Andy got to the back of the bus and freed their last captive, they noted with satisfaction that not a single person opted to stay. People unwilling to give up their rights and property were apparently people unwilling to place themselves back into bondage without a fight.
Andy stepped off the bus first and readied a Molotov cocktail as John dismounted too. John just saw the second van pulling up to load the last of the freed captives when Andy hurled the flaming device into the bus to set it ablaze. John signaled to Kevin.
Kevin grinned, he had rehearsed this with John a few times to make it believable. John had insisted it also be suitably gory. Kevin keyed the mic, with the antennas aimed back toward the detention camp.
Shorts sat up so abruptly he thought he might have injured his back when the screaming sound shrieked from his radio. He thought it was a malfunction until he realized the sound was a human voice screaming.
“Help! HELP! They’re burning us! We’re on fire!” the voice wavered.
Shorts snatched the radio and keyed up. “Report, who is this? What’s going on?”
“They shot my guard and took the prisoners! Now they’re burning the bus! I can’t get out! I’m on fire!” And the radio went silent. Shorts nearly lost control of his bowels and bladder. Someone had just hijacked his prison transport and burned his guards alive. And every other person in the camp within twenty feet of a radio just heard it.
John and Andy rode with Randall back to the compound in the Jeep. John’s mood was jovial, what most would consider odd in other company considering they had just committed a dozen felonies, killed a man, burned a bus to the ground, and had a hostage rolling around in the back of the Jeep. Having a dark sense of humor was a common coping mechanism among a certain sort of person, like military veterans and first responders. “Those guys back at the camp are probably trying to figure out whether to pee their pants or crap their shorts right about now,” John said with a smile.
Andy nodded his head somberly, not relishing the task ahead of them. Their last captive had met his end after an hour-long interrogation that included several broken fingers and waterboarding.
When John unholstered his pistol and shot the man in the head, Andy’s shock was obvious. “Andy, he knew who we are. He knew where we are. His life would have endangered all of us.”
Andy could not argue with John’s simple rationale, but he was not accustomed to shooting an unarmed man with his hands tied to a chair. Mark was in the TOC when John and Andy stepped out of the shop. He regarded John with a look. “Mark, I need a shovel, if you have one handy.”
“For what?” Mark asked.
“To bury that body. I couldn’t let him live, but I don’t have to let him rot aboveground either,” John said simply.
Everyone in attendance struggled mightily to rectify the kind of man who killed an unarmed person then wanted to give him some semblance of a decent burial. John walked out back, prepared to undertake that task alone, when Andy and Randall walked up.
“Many hands make light work,” Randall started.
“I appreciate it, guys, but you don’t have to do this. My responsibility,” John offered, trying to spare the two of them the unpleasantness that lay ahead. They responded by kicking the ends of their shovels into the dirt, and the three dug in silence.
Andy wondered how many more holes were going to get dug before this was over. He also wondered if he would be digging a hole for a friend. He couldn’t decide if John was genuinely capable of reading his mind or just his face when he answered Andy’s fears.
John whispered, careful not to let the bound agent hear him, “Don’t worry, we’ll pull over someplace on the way back to the compound and sweat this dipshit then let him loose. He doesn’t know where the compound is, and he’s too damned freaked out not to spill his guts.”
Andy breathed a sigh of relief.
A Growing Pack
The rest of the day was spent hacksawing the handcuffs off the prisoners and debriefing them. John was concerned that in a group of this many people, certainly some of them had to have children. He couldn’t imagine the anxiety these people must feel having their families separated. He took a personal hand in talking to as many of them as he could, wanting to hear their stories and accumulate more intel.
“The agents kicked our door in, held us at gunpoint. They handcuffed us right in front of our son, then marched us out the front door. One of the agents grabbed him by the arm when he tried to run after us. I saw a van with DCFS on the side of it. Some woman took my eight-year-old boy after he had just watched his parents being carted off in handcuffs.”
“They shot my dog. He was an old thing, never hurt a fly, but he sure did bark a lot. He was standing by the front door with his hackles up, barking like crazy. That agent knocked the door in, took one look at him, and shot him right there on the spot. I just reacted. I rushed towards him ’cause he was hurt and crying. They
shot me too then, left me there bleeding while one of them kicked my dying dog. Sons of bitches shot that little Jack Russell like he was gonna do something besides snarl at them, and he never meant anyone any harm.”
“The state took my fosters a few years ago. I had two boys who came to live with us because their mom was a dope head. These poor kids came to us with nothing but a garbage bag with a couple of days’ clothes in them. They weren’t even washed. I brought those boys into my home with my wife, and we made them family. They spent four years with us, great grades in school, good well-mannered kids who would’ve never had a chance if they’d stayed with their momma. Then when we ran into that trouble with our registration paperwork, state said the serial on one of my forms wasn’t clear. They claimed I was trying to cheat the registry, so they sent DCFS by to take my boys. All because some shithead paper pusher didn’t think my handwriting was up to his standards. Then a couple of days ago these four gestapo assholes show up, shove me and the missus to the ground, and haul us off to prison like criminals. Getting to be I don’t even recognize my own country anymore.”
“I don’t care what they say, I wasn’t giving up my damned guns. I fought in Desert Storm, Somalia, and went back to Iraq AGAIN, all so my own government can tell me I can’t be trusted with a couple of scary black rifles! Hell, what do they think we were shooting while we were over there?! So yeah, I told them to fuck off. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather I was so shocked when they showed up, blew my lock off the front door, and hauled me out.”
“My husband didn’t make it. He was…a lot like you guys, I guess. We always joked he was a gundamentalist. He just believed in individual rights and the Constitution. He didn’t think the government had any business telling good people what they could do on a daily basis. That day, I was in the back room when they knocked our door in. He kept carrying his handgun concealed, even after the state took away everyone’s concealed-carry permits. Even after they passed a law making all handguns almost impossible to own. He always said, ‘I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six.’ When they kicked in our front door, he didn’t know they were feds, he just saw a guy with a rifle storming into his home, and he shot the guy. The next one through the door shot him dead. I came around the corner just in time to see him fall, and I went running to him when another agent knocked me to the ground. They were tying my hands behind my back while my husband died ten feet away, and I couldn’t even reach him, those bastards.”
Vicky and Rachel worked mightily to serve up a decent meal to everyone. Several of the ladies, fresh out of handcuffs, quietly walked into the kitchen and offered their help, which was welcome. Soon, a half dozen women in orange jumpsuits and the two unofficial den mothers of the Minutemen were whipping a simple but filling meal up for everyone while Kevin worked out sleeping arrangements for their new guests.
Mark offered his help, but was more in the way than a help with this many capable cooks in the kitchen. He found Andy instead. “Where’s John?”
“He’s out back, Mark. And before you go out there, he’s shook up, man. All this talk of people’s spouses getting shot and kids getting taken has him in the kind of mood that makes a man skin someone alive and roll them in salt. I don’t know whether to tell you he’s mad or just plain upset about all of this. I know how he feels. What I’ve heard this afternoon is almost worse than I imagined,” Andy replied, the fatigue in his voice evident and overwhelming.
Mark knew what he meant. He had been almost unable to keep his head above water, swimming in the grief of these people and imagining how many more had already been captured and shipped out to Angola. How many lives had been shattered by this agency and the government’s crusade to stomp on the rights of good people? How many lives had been lost? How many families torn apart? Mark nodded his head, steeled himself, and walked out the back door.
John heard the back door, but did not turn to greet his guest. He was fighting hard to will the tears away. All he could think about was his own wife being killed, or his daughter being taken. The thought, just the possibility, was eating him. He was also convinced, for possibly the first time since he had shot that first agent in his doorway, that he was right to do what he had done. If he hadn’t, he would be with these people, his wife in handcuffs, his child taken from him, or, worse, one of them dead. He was still pondering this as a cigar entered his peripheral vision.
“I come bearing gifts,” Mark offered, trying to lighten an impossibly heavy mood.
John accepted the cigar and reached to his pocket for his cutter and torch. He clipped the end of the cigar off for an easy draw, toasted the foot for a few seconds, then started a slow and steady draw to finish lighting his cigar. The chore taken care of, he offered his tools to Mark, who accepted them. The two men sat on the porch and smoked in silence for a few minutes before Mark started. “John, I’ve already had more than half these people ask if they can join our cause. They are angry as hell. I can’t decide if their motives are revenge or wanting to put things right.”
“What does it matter?” John replied, deadpan. “Motivation is a private thing. It’s what fuels your engine. What matters is what you do with that fuel. If they want to throw in with us and shut these bastards down for good, I’m happy to have them.”
Mark nodded. “Well, Kevin has been on the radios and the drone footage since you guys got back. He said he’s seen no less than two dozen agents walk out. Apparently, that transmission Kevin put out impersonating an agent lit on fire was convincing enough. They can’t have more than thirty people in there, based on what we can tell. With what we have on hand, plus these folks, I think we can make a run at the camp.”
“Good. ’Cause right now, I want to bathe in the bastards’ blood who did this. Did you hear some of these people? Shot their dogs. Shot their HUSBANDS. Beat up their kids. Mark, this isn’t just a three-letter agency run amok, this is full-scale NAZI SHIT right here. And it’s our government. OUR OWN GOVERNMENT! I’m so fucking ashamed to have ever fought for this country under that flag I’m sick to my stomach.” John’s anguish poured out of him.
“Then let’s get a plan together, and let’s end this. After that, we’ll figure out our next move,” Mark said confidently.
“Mark, our next move after we hit the camp is to find these kids. I don’t know how yet, I don’t know what resources we can leverage, but we have to get these people their kids back. If it was George, what the hell would you do?” John asked.
Mark blinked and nodded. The thought had crossed his mind; what would he do if his wife and child had been taken from him? After having his own door kicked in by these agents, he had a little more insight into John and his mind, his reactions, and his anger. Mark was beginning to feel pretty damned angry himself.
“Right now, Mark, we need to get our shit together and hit that camp. The longer those walls stand, the longer those men are there, the greater chance they will either get the reinforcements they’ve been begging for or decide to come in here with everything they have left and burn us down. Burying that agent only stopped them from confirming what they suspect. It does not stop them from coming to their own conclusions,” John explained.
Mark looked at him. “Then let’s get going. We had eight guys, you included, before today. I figure we’re closer to thirty now, including the people you freed. They aren’t soldiers, but they are willing, and it seems every last one of them is a hard-core gun-rights activist and well trained with firearms. At this point, that’s who the agency is rounding up. All the casual gun owners surrendered years ago, all that’s left is people like you.”
“No, Mark, not people like me. They’re angry and scared, and sure, they know how to shoot, but they aren’t like me. I’m the guy who’s been offing government employees like there’s no bag limit and it’s open season. I’m not sure I can depend on these people to put foot to ass when the time comes,” John said, openly voicing his fears. He well knew there was a lot of difference between punching hole
s in paper at the range and walking into a government facility with the intention of killing every breathing person. A month ago, he would have doubted his own ability to follow through with that course of action. Today, he doubted everyone else’s.
“Well, John, you need the extra hands no matter how low their manpower is. I would venture a guess that you can leverage their anger to motivate them. Lord knows, you and I have had our disagreements, but you’ve been right every step of the way. I am putting my faith in you to know what the right way to get this done is,” Mark said evenly. “When?”
Such a simple question, if only simple on the face of it. John knew the answer had to be the next evening. Darkness gave them an advantage, as long as the agents didn’t have night-vision equipment. Nighttime, when the agents were hopefully mostly asleep, gave them the advantage. And the sooner they finished this, the less the chance their cell would be found and torn apart. “Tomorrow night, and we have a shitload of work to get done between now and then.”
Mark nodded. “Tell me where you need me, and maybe I can keep from pissing you off so bad you try to kill me.” He said it in jest, but there was a little truth in every joke.
John looked to Mark. “I’ll do my best, Mark. Just try to keep in mind, once we start this, this is not a democracy. We do not vote on what happens, whether or not someone dies; we do not debate. I intend to release any prisoners we find, annihilate that camp, and kill every living person in it. I am not going to take prisoners or make arrests or bargain or negotiate. We are going to be the right hand of vengeance, and all of them must die. We clear?”
Mark’s head nodded as he held John’s gaze. “I hear you.”
“Good,” John replied. “Then let’s go figure out who’s in this fight, and who needs to be moved to a safe house, and let’s do that right now. Because everyone left in this house once we start laying plans is in it whether they like it or not. I have to know who’s got teeth and who doesn’t.”
American Insurgent Page 18