American Terrorist Trilogy

by Jeffrey Poston

  Marcus replaced the old tabletop phone’s receiver in the cradle and turned to leave. He almost walked right into a man who had magically appeared in the space behind him. He’d been scanning the small room for any sign of surveillance, but he hadn’t seen anyone enter or leave the lobby. Now this man appeared as if from thin air.

  He wore jeans and a black turtleneck sweater under a lightweight windbreaker. He’s crazy, Marcus thought, because it’s damned cold outside. The temperature was in the low thirties, but the wind was screaming through the city, making it seem much colder. The man wore a black head glove and his eyes were hidden behind stylish, teardrop-shaped black shades.

  “Hello, Marcus,” the man said. He pulled his shades off and revealed emotionless black eyes that stabbed right into Marcus’s soul. Despite the heavy overcoat Marcus wore, he felt a chill slide up his spine. The intruder took a step forward, intimately into his personal bubble, and Marcus bit down on his bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

  The man said, “My name is August Spoke. What say you and I take a little ride?”

  The question was asked in a gentle way, and Marcus Aurelio was just entertaining the thought of running when he looked past the man and saw a sight that completely deflated his tiny balloon of hope. The sight told him in no uncertain terms that fleeing would be a futile gesture. Two more men—each a bigger man than he and August Spoke combined—hovered in the doorway. He realized at that moment, he was going to die.

  For a moment, Marcus entertained the emotion of disbelief. It seemed utterly impossible anyone could have followed him or otherwise tracked him through the seedy part of DC.

  Agent Spoke put his arm around Marcus’s shoulder and guided him toward the door. “Why don’t we begin our discussion with who you were just talking to on the phone?”

  Chapter 6

  1805 hours MST Thursday

  Albuquerque, NM

  Carl Johnson knew someday he’d have to face a situation where his previous ordinary life would clash with his new extraordinary existence. He figured he’d run into his friends from his previous life and would have to deal with how they would react to the news stories painting him—correctly—as a terrorist. He’d often wondered if they would avoid him or treat him like a leper, not knowing how to deal with the new Carl Johnson.

  He particularly wondered how Randal Cunningham—his best friend of twenty-five years—would react. Would the man hug him or would he steer his kids and grandkids away from him? They’d known each other’s children almost since the kids were born. They’d used each other as emergency contacts over the years. They’d taken each other’s kids to the emergency room when one or the other was out of town on business trips. They’d practically raised each other’s kids, and he loved that man’s children and grandchildren like they were his own.

  As it turned out, it was not the potentially awkward reunion with former friends that highlighted the severe contrast between the old Carl Johnson and the new. Instead, the evening he returned to Albuquerque, he found himself quite unexpectedly involved with a completely unknown person.

  A month ago he wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—gotten involved. Now, he was different. He was a badass, but not because of any special training, unless one called being tortured by the government a form of special training. He was no longer just a guy.

  He was an old guy by badass standards, approaching fifty-four years of age. He was five-eight, one-sixty, and though he was very fit for his age, he hadn’t had a fist fight in almost twenty years. He could still count all his rumbles in his entire life on one hand.

  Until last month, he was just a guy. Not a big guy. Not a tough guy. Not a hoodlum. Not a thug. Not someone you’d tell your kids not to talk to if you met him on the street. Definitely, not someone you thought might shoot you or cut your throat if given sufficient reason.

  Now, Carl was that guy.

  He sat in the hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Old Town, sipping his lemon water and waiting for his dinner to be delivered. He had been contemplating the reasoning behind the Melissa Mallory kidnapping and the involvement of high-ranking military personnel—US or Mexican, or both—when the young woman he was destined to help, the woman who was to bridge the expanse between the old and new Carl Johnson, walked into the dining room.

  The place was less of a restaurant and more of a bar. The bar had an informal dining room attached to it. It was the kind of place where you could enjoy happy hour and go into the next room and choose from a limited number of dinner entrées when you’re done partying. Flat screen TVs were mounted high on the walls around the room, but the volume of each TV was turned down.

  CNN was playing snippets of the president’s speech in front of Congress. Shirley Mallory had left her stricken daughter at the Las Cruces hospital, flown across the country, and given her well-advertised speech to Congress; all in the space of ten hours. Carl neither knew nor cared about the subject of that speech. He’d never been much interested in politics beyond voting. In fact, he’d voted Republican this time only because a woman candidate was different. Just like he’d voted for the black Democrat.

  Different had to be better, right?

  Carl’s attention from the TV was diverted as soon as his destiny entered the restaurant. She was a striking young woman. He quickly realized she had the same effect on the other dozen patrons. She removed her knee-length black leather coat in the archway between the foyer and the dining room and handed it to the hostess to hang up. From his table across the room, Carl watched her walk across the room. She was stunningly attractive, maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty, maybe thirty-five. She had mocha-caramel skin and her face was framed by jet-black, shoulder-length, straight hair. She had an exotic-looking, narrow face and full lips adorned with glossy, cherry-red lipstick. She had high cheekbones, lovely hazel eyes, and a narrow nose.

  Carl made eye contact with her and smiled. When she smiled back at him, her whole face lit up like he was the most wonderful sight she had seen all day. Her smile was dazzling and revealed a full set of perfect white teeth. He instantly forgot she had to be at least twenty years younger than he, maybe more.

  She hesitated like she was going to change course to visit his table—or maybe that was just his imagination because that’s what he wanted to happen—and he had half-risen from his seat, when her friends in the corner near the fireplace called to her. She turned partly away, gave her three girlfriends the same radiant smile she had just given him, and headed to their table. Even as she moved away, she cast him another glance and a shy smile. He interpreted it as an invitation, so he continued rising from his chair with the intent of going over to introduce himself.

  As his gaze danced down and back up over her lithe figure, he thought she could be the poster girl for the ITBC—what a previous girlfriend had announced was the Itty Bitty Titty Committee—but he wasn’t at all discouraged. She was slender and petite, and she wore a very short black mini-skirt. In her five-inch black heels, she looked about as tall as he was. The young woman wore a sleeveless brown leopard pattern silk blouse. Her mini-skirt was tight on her round but narrow butt and revealed strong legs with toned thighs and well-defined calf muscles. Her black handbag was one of those stylish things she probably bought on Fifth Avenue in New York City.

  He examined her profile and backside as she sauntered over to join her friends. He had just taken his first step in her direction when he heard the foyer door slam open accompanied by lewd comments. The unseen hostess squealed and three hoodlums strutted into the dining room. All three were big guys and each one outweighed Carl easily by fifty pounds.

  The alpha dog of the clan seemed to be the black guy with the massive chest and even more massive gut. He was short, barely five and a half feet tall, but his biceps were huge; as thick as Carl’s thighs. His accomplices were white and Hispanic and equally massive, though taller than alpha dog.

  The black guy said, “Where’d that faggot go?”

  The woman Carl had been just
about to chat with looked toward the archway, as did everyone else in the dining room, including Carl. Alpha dog made eye contact with the woman and the three young men gangsta-walked toward her.

  Carl froze, then slowly returned to his seat.

  No way. No fucking way she’s a dude!

  She gasped. “Oh-my-god!” Her voice was husky and sensuously deep—too soft and tender for a guy, but deep for a girl. He checked her out again as the hoodlums went over to her, but he still couldn’t see it. Maybe the boy had surgery or something, but he sure looked like a girl to Carl. Maybe the thugs knew him. Otherwise, he couldn’t imagine how they would see through his appearance.

  He thought about helping her when the guys started pushing her around, but decided not to get involved. A strong genetic distaste somehow hard-wired into his DNA told him that a man—even a feminine man or a gay man—should be able to stand up for himself. That thought was so tightly woven into Carl’s gut reaction, he didn’t feel any sympathy as the boy-girl tried to evade the three bullies, each one of which more than doubled her weight.

  The three men surrounded her while her three dinner friends cowered behind their table. One had the presence of mind to work on her cell phone, presumably calling for emergency help.

  The white guy said something about her “fake-ass hair” and grabbed her hair and yanked. But the hair wasn’t fake, and his tug sent the boy-girl tumbling face down on top of the nearest table. As she sprawled across the top of the table, the Hispanic guy stepped behind her and grabbed her hips, then mimed like he was butt-fucking her. Then the black guy pulled her upright by the arm and ripped her mini-skirt off.

  She wore a pink thong and her tight, slender butt was as perfect as Carl had ever seen on a woman. But when she snatched at her skirt, she briefly faced Carl and all doubt vanished.

  The girl was packing a bulge inside her thong.

  The black guy held the skirt high with his left hand and when the boy-girl reached for it, the hoodlum punched him hard in the belly. His breath erupted with an abbreviated scream and he doubled over, both arms folded across his stomach. He took a step backward and wobbled on his stilettos for a second, then folded right down on his butt and rolled onto his side. He gasped in pain, mouth wide open, trying to get air, and tucked his knees up to his chest in the fetal position.

  If the bullies had stopped right then and left, Carl would have done nothing. They’d had their fun. But they didn’t stop. The black guy kicked the boy-girl in the back and the white guy kicked him in the butt. The Hispanic guy hauled his leg back like he was going to kick a field goal. He was aiming for his face and looked like he was getting ready to put his full two-hundred-plus pounds into the kick.

  Carl jumped up and pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster under the windbreaker he wore. It was an unwieldy weapon with the attached suppressor, but he aimed quickly. He gave no shouts or threats or warnings. Carl simply and calmly pulled the trigger.

  The boy-girl’s three girlfriends—if they were, in fact, girls—had all screamed in anticipation of that final kick, so no one heard the suppressed gunshot. Everyone just saw the man tumble sideways right before his foot made contact with the fallen boy-girl’s face. The bully’s kick missed and he fell dead.

  His accomplices both exclaimed, “What the fuck?”

  The white guy was the first to see Carl’s gun and he hollered, “Oh shit!” and ran for the door. Carl gave him no warning either. He didn’t shout any cop phrases like “Freeze!” or “Stop right there!” or “Show me your hands!” He had no witty retorts for the fleeing hoodlum. The man got only two steps toward the archway when Carl shot him high in the back, between his shoulders. The bullet’s impact knocked the man off-balance and he bounced off one side of the archway leading to the hostess station. He landed face-up with his eyes wide open, but he lay motionless.

  Even before the second bully hit the floor, Carl had his Glock aimed solidly between the eyes of the black guy, but the man wasn’t intimidated. Carl noticed his eyes were slightly glazed and thought maybe he was too high to realize he should be afraid.

  “You a faggot too?” Alpha Dog leered.

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? Because I’m a man with a gun,” Carl said. He felt an abrupt rush of anger wash over him as he spoke.

  “Well, whatchu gon’ do, bitch?” the guy said, taking a step toward Carl. “It’s easy to shoot a man in the back. You got the balls to do me face-to-face?”

  Carl pulled the trigger. It wasn’t like in the movies where the bad guy’s body gets launched backward by the impact of the shot. The bullet didn’t blast out the backside of his skull and splatter gore everywhere. The bullet entered the man’s brainpan and stayed put. Alpha Dog’s head snapped back and he folded to the floor right where he’d stood.

  Carl packed his gun away and looked around. Everyone was stunned. They stared at him like he was the monster. Many took a step back like he was more dangerous than the hoodlum guys, which was arguably true.

  Carl pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his water glass free of fingerprints. Next, he wiped his utensils and the back of his chair and any other surface at his table that he had touched. While it was true that after saving the president’s daughter, Shirley Mallory directed the FBI to put a do not detain notation in his file, the cops he figured were on their way to the restaurant by now, likely wouldn’t know about that notation until they got him downtown and booked him. The best option was not to be there when they showed up and not to leave any obvious evidence of his involvement. Besides, if he was in jail for a day or two, he couldn’t get to his business in Mexico.

  He started to leave, then noticed one of the boy-girl’s girlfriends was kneeling beside him. He was still writhing on the floor, gasping, not able to get air. The guy had hit him hard, and Carl knew he could suffocate if he didn’t stop panicking. The girlfriend just started crying and clearly didn’t know what to do.

  Carl made a snap decision, knowing he had maybe two minutes before cops swarmed the restaurant and cordoned off the immediate area. Shots had been fired, so the cops would show up with SWAT. He couldn’t be inside that cordon when it closed.

  He stepped over to the boy-girl and raised him upright by his shoulders. He slapped at Carl weakly, but Carl just hugged his head against his left shoulder. He whispered to him, “You’re safe. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” He tilted the man’s face toward the ceiling and told him to try to breathe through his nose with quick shallow breaths.

  The boy-girl’s eyes were wild and full of fear the way a person would be when they think they are dying. But when Carl just smiled at him and said he would be alright in a minute, that he just had the wind knocked out of him, he calmed down a bit. He closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate on breathing, and Carl saw he had perfectly applied makeup. His long eyelashes were real, not fake.

  He tried to breathe like Carl had told him to, though Carl figured there might still be the danger of serious internal injury. Alpha Dog had put a lot of power into his punch. Still, when he opened his eyes, Carl wanted him to see confidence in his eyes to help him get past the panic.

  The boy-girl grabbed Carl’s arm and shoulder, and Carl held him tight, then pressed his right hand firmly just below his sternum. His stomach muscles fluttered with spasms, but after a few seconds of gentle massage he started breathing slower and slightly deeper.

  Carl felt like he was out of time.

  He looked at the girlfriend, wanting to give her instructions, but she was useless. She just knelt there, still sobbing. Neither of her other two friends had shaken themselves free of their shock, either. So Carl made another snap decision. He had to take the young man with him.

  He told the girlfriend to grab his skirt and get his coat and follow him outside, but the girlfriend didn’t move. Carl guided the injured boy-girl’s right arm around his neck and picked him up—he couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-ten—and carried him out of the restaurant. He got him into the passenge
r seat of his old SUV, still naked from the waist down except for the pink thong. Carl didn’t bother with the seat belt. He slammed the door and ran around to the driver side, jumped behind the wheel, and got the old SUV started.

  His unintended passenger leaned forward in the seat and rocked forward and back, clutching his stomach and moaning. Carl heard him gasping as he struggled to breathe and cry at the same time.

  Already, he could hear multiple sirens approaching and he knew every on-duty cop in the city would be converging on Old Town. Several cops and an entire SWAT team had lost their lives in Carl’s private war against the FBI a week ago, and every cop in the state knew who he was. His picture was burned into their memories, and he couldn’t risk taking the chance that one of them wouldn’t shoot him on sight.

  Oops, sorry, Madam President. He had a gun and we forgot you told us not to arrest him.

  Carl burned rubber getting out of the parking lot. He knew all the side streets and alleys leading into and out of Old Town, so he made his way quickly to Central without passing any cops, then headed west until he arrived at his rundown motel. He parked in front of the door and scanned the area until he was sure no one was giving him any undue attention. He carried the boy-girl into his room.

  He was still struggling to breathe, though he wasn’t gasping as much. He laid him gently on the bed on his back and pulled the threadbare blanket over him. The slender young man rolled onto his side and curled up again, clutching his stomach. He moaned and sucked in air. Carl stroked his cheek and smoothed his hair away from his face.

  “I know it hurts, but you’ll be okay in a while. I’m going to get some ice for the bruising,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Eyes closed, the boy-girl just nodded.