Hatred in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I just bet it would. But . . . a few stitches and a couple of day’s rest and you’ll be fine. Then you’ll start hunting me, revenge on your mind. I hope you won’t find me, for if you do, I’ll kill you. Keep that in mind.”

  Ben turned and walked out of the old house. He got in his car and drove away. He knew where Anna was being held—at least up to the time he’d grabbed Barbara. He felt sure they would have moved her by now.

  But he’d find her. Sooner or later. And if she had been harmed or was dead—he had to consider that possibility—he would see that the government of Osterman and Millard was destroyed . . . forever.

  “Any word from Ben?” Cecil asked.

  “Not directly,” the officer in charge of that section of communications replied. “But we intercepted a message from the capital concerning a wild shoot-out at one of their safe houses and the kidnapping of a senior member of the FPPS.”

  “That’s Ben. He’s OK, and on the warpath. How many FPPS agents were killed?”

  “Five.”

  Cecil smiled. “You watch the toll start to climb now. Ben is just beginning to get wound up. Any mention of Anna?”

  “No, sir. Not a word.”

  “If one hair on that girl’s head is out of place, Ben will start killing every member of Osterman’s cabinet and inner circle he can get into gunsights.”

  “Yes, sir. You can count on that.”

  Cecil left the communications room attached to the SUSA’s capital building in Base Camp One and stopped to chat with Ben’s team, who were standing out in the hall. Colonel Buddy Raines, Ben’s son, was standing with them.

  “There isn’t much I can tell you, gang,” he said. “Ben’s alive and kicking some socialist ass. That’s about it.”

  “Mister President,” Buddy said. “I have a question, if I may be permitted.” He always addressed Cecil formally when around others. Alone, it was “Uncle Cece,” which caused some raised eyebrows when those unfamiliar with the relationship were nearby. Buddy was white and Cecil was black. Ben always found that amusing. “I have studied socialism thoroughly, and what is being practiced outside our borders is not pure socialism. Exactly, what is it?”

  Cecil laughed, not at Buddy but at his seriousness. Buddy was a very serious young man, and highly intelligent. Cecil also knew he would not take the laughter the wrong way. “Bud, you’re right. It isn’t pure socialism. But it’s so close to socialism that’s how we refer to it. It’s, well, Big Brotherism, I guess you could call it.”

  “It’s a very unappealing form of government,” Buddy replied.

  “It sucks,” Jersey said.

  Buddy looked at her and blinked a couple of times. “Well, yes. I suppose that might be one of the cruder ways of describing it. But I cannot envision President Jefferys lecturing a high school civics class and describing the USA’s form of government as one that ‘sucks.’ ”

  Cecil smiled. “Perhaps not, Bud. But that pretty well sums it up. Look, gang, if I hear anything about Ben you people will be the first to know, OK?”

  Cecil nodded his head to a chorus of “Yes, sirs,” and walked off up the hallway, his security people ahead and behind him. He did not appear to be overly worried about his longtime friend, but Buddy and Ben’s team knew that was an act. Cecil was plenty worried, and Ben was just a part of why. Federal troops were being moved into staging areas about a hundred miles north of the borders of the SUSA, and war was imminent. Of the five stages of alert, one through five, the SUSA was at four. Factories were working around the clock producing weapons, ammo, uniforms, canned foods, medical supplies, and all the hundreds of other things—large and small—needed for war.

  Cecil had abruptly canceled the planned rescue of President Altman. Buddy and his special ops people were needed here in the SUSA.

  Watching Cecil walk away, Cooper, Ben’s driver, said, “Colonel, we’d appreciate a bump if you hear anything about your father.”

  “You know I will, Cooper,” Buddy replied. “But all we can do now is pray.”

  “You’d better pray for the souls of the FPPS people holding Anna,” Beth, the team’s statistician remarked. “ ’Cause if they get in the Boss’s way, they’re dead.”

  Ben knew there was little point in heading for the safe house Barbara had told him about. The FPPS would have moved Anna the instant they learned Barbara had been taken.

  Barbara had told him about other safe houses, as had Sandi. He felt sure the places Sandi had told him about would be nothing more than set ups, with dozens of FPPS agents waiting for him to show.

  Ben drove for more than an hour, staying on the back roads, until coming to an abandoned grain elevator with a small open-front storage shed in the rear. He backed the car into the shed and parked. He would grab some sleep and resume the hunt in a few hours. Barbara would get free of the heavy tape that bound her, but it would take hours for her to do so, and another several hours for her to hike out of that area.

  Half naked, Ben thought with a smile.

  Ben knew he could not continue driving his sedan. Sandi would have called vehicle description and license number in first thing. So he had to ditch this car and get another. But the car had served its initial purpose: it had gotten him and his gear across the border and into enemy territory.

  Ben yawned as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He would worry about the small stuff when he woke up. Now, he needed sleep.

  He awakened just a few minutes before the first touches of silver tinted the eastern sky. He closed his hand around the butt of his pistol and then sat in the car for a moment before moving anything but his eyes. He could neither hear nor see anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Ben got out of the car and stretched until his joints popped and his muscles lost their crampy feeling. He walked around for a bit and began to feel better.

  He had not heard any vehicles pass on the old road in front of the long-deserted elevator.

  Ben made his way through the piles of trash and rubble, keeping behind the old elevator. He sat for several moments behind good cover, glancing up and down the old road. Nothing. He longed for a cup of coffee. He settled for a smoke.

  “Time to get going,” he muttered, making his way back to his car.

  Ben pulled out and headed back to the capital. He figured that would be the last place they would look for him. It was also where Anna was being held. He was sure of that. Where in the city or outlying area was something he would have to find out, and quickly. Time was running out.

  He parked his car at a supermarket and walked around the lot looking for a car with the keys in it. No luck.

  He walked around for a few more minutes, then returned to his own car and drove off. “I’ll just take my chances,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll be looking for me right in the middle of the lion’s den.”

  He encountered no trouble of any kind as he drove around the city. Much to his surprise, none of the police he drove past gave him so much as a second glance. It was difficult for him to believe that Sandi had not called in the vehicle description, but she apparently had not. And Barbara had never gotten a good look at the vehicle, or any other kind of look, for that matter—except for the very dark interior of the trunk.

  He had memorized the streets and numbers of the safe houses Barbara had told him about, and had driven by each one before noon. The house where Anna had been held looked deserted, but Ben decided he would pay it a visit that night anyway. Anna might have left some kind of message scrawled somewhere . . . if it had been at all possible for her to do so.

  It was certainly worth a look.

  Ben drove to a part of the city that had not been rebuilt. He knew that from studying intelligence reports, and from computer printouts he had gathered during the seventy-two hours Cecil had promised Osterman.

  He pulled inside the garage of what remained of an old car dealership and parked. He got out and walked around, stretching his legs. He would start his prowling at dark.

  “Hang o
n, Baby,” he whispered in the silence of the old garage. “I’ll find you.” He paused and added, “With God’s help.”

  Then Ben Raines, commanding general of the most powerful and feared army in the world, knelt down and prayed.

  Eighteen

  Ben lucked out at the first safe house he entered. He had parked several blocks away and walked down an alley to reach the house. A couple of dogs barked at him during his walk, and that was all. He encountered no human foot traffic. Using a small flashlight, Ben prowled the rooms of the safe house and found the room where he was sure Anna had been held. Anna favored black, crew neck T-shirts, and Ben found one in her size under the bed. He inspected the room and the bathroom, but could find nothing else. He was just about to give up when he lifted the lid on the commode tank and looked inside. Nothing. Then he noticed printing on the inside of the lid. Anna’s printing. It was the name of a town about fifty miles north of the capital. Ben replaced the lid and exited the house, walking back to his car, smiling.

  “OK, Baby,” he muttered. “I’m on my way.”

  He pointed the nose of his car north and drove the speed limit whenever he could on the beat up old highway. Usually he was at least twenty mph below the posted limit. The roads outside the SUSA were in terrible shape. The democrat/socialist government of the USA had not gotten around to fixing the highways; they were too busy making certain everyone consumed the right amount of orange juice, listened to the right TV programs, read the right books and magazines (one hundred percent absolutely positively politically correct, of course), telling people Don’t smoke cigarettes or we’ll put you in jail, don’t even think about owning a gun (you might shoot some poor criminal who turned to crime because the coach wouldn’t let him play or the prettiest girl in school wouldn’t date him, or his Corn Flakes were too soggy), and for heaven’s sake, don’t have too much fat in your diets . . . among many other very important things. Roads could wait: the people didn’t need to go anywhere, anyway. There was too much work to do at home. “We must all work very hard to make sure that everyone has the same material blessings as everyone else. Fifty percent of your income is not too much to pay in taxes. Unfair? Silly you! For goodness sake, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you understand that under the New Democracy of the USA no one shall be rich and no one shall be poor. We’re all equal. There now, isn’t that simply wonderful? Of course, it is. The government says it is, so it must be, because your government is always right. Do not question your government—ever.

  It wasn’t exactly socialism. It was almost socialism. It damn sure wasn’t anything even close to the government in the SUSA, thank God.

  Ben reached the small town north of the new capital of the USA and pulled over alongside a closed service station. He had no idea where Anna was being held. She was here, but where? How to find her?

  That problem was solved when a highway patrol car suddenly pulled in beside Ben, its headlights out, two uniformed men in the unit. They made it very clear immediately that they were not there to inquire about Ben’s health.

  “You in the car,” the man on the passenger side said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ben was growing very weary of the arrogance of the new breed of police officer in the USA, all trained and, according to Sandi and Barbara, all connected directly to the FPPS . . . especially the state police. He would play their game, at least for a little while, see where it took him.

  “Sorry, officer. I was on my way to Wabash and took the wrong turn and ended up here. Decided to get some rest.”

  “Yeah? Get out of the damn car!”

  That did it. “Oh, I sure will, officer,” Ben said through gritted teeth. Authorities in the SUSA were nothing like this arrogant trash. Ben picked up the 9mm spitter with his right hand and stepped out of the car. He stuck the machine pistol in the face of the state cop on the passenger side.

  “Say please,” Ben told him. “And your asshole buddy better keep his hands on the steering wheel, or you won’t have a face.”

  The cop paled; Ben could see that much in the dim light. “Take it easy, buddy. Ah, please.”

  “That’s better. What happened to the good cops who used to patrol the highways?” When there was no immediate response, Ben said, “Answer the damn question!”

  “They all resigned,” the man behind the wheel said. “Or got fired when they wouldn’t pledge loyalty to the FPPS and the new democracy. For God’s sake, take it easy with that weapon, mister. Please?”

  “You know who I am?”

  “No, sir,” the man on the passenger side said. “But I can tell you that you are in one hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh? I’m in a lot of trouble? You real sure of that, Bubba?”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Frank,” the driver pleaded nervously. “For once in your life, please shut that goddamn trap of yours.”

  “You’d better listen to your partner, Frank,” Ben told him. “He’s trying to save your ass.”

  “I guess,” Frank said.

  “I want some information, boys,” Ben said. “And you’re going to give it to me. Aren’t you?”

  “Whatever you want, mister,” Frank replied. “You got it.” He sighed audibly. “Isn’t that right, Roger?”

  “You betcha!” his partner quickly agreed. “What is it you want?”

  “I’m looking for the safe house occupied by the FPPS, and you’re going to take me to it.”

  “You can go right straight to hell,” Roger told him. “I ain’t telling you jack-shit.”

  “Oh, I think at least one of you will,” Ben said. “As a matter of fact, I’d bet on it.” He lowered the muzzle of the spitter and gave Roger a burst to his knees. The working of the bolt on the silenced spitter could not be heard twenty feet away. Roger screamed once and then passed out, slumping over to his right and falling on his partner.

  “Oh my God, mister!” Frank yelled, panic in his voice. “Oh, Jesus Christ!”

  “Now, then, Frank, ole’ buddy,” Ben said. “Are you going to tell me where that safe house is? Or better yet, why don’t you show me?” Ben jammed the muzzle of the spitter into Frank’s crotch and grinned at him. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Frank? I sure do.” He pulled Frank’s pistol from leather and stuck it behind his own belt.

  Frank rolled his eyes and groaned. “Oh, my God!” He nodded his head vigorously. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. You bet I do. Please don’t pull that trigger. I’m begging you, mister. Don’t pull that trigger.”

  “Get out of your unit and keep your hands away from your side. Take the keys out of the ignition first and hand them to me. That’s a good boy. You’re doing just fine. Now walk over to my car and get in behind the wheel.”

  Standing outside the car, Frank asked, “What about Roger? He’ll bleed to death.”

  “That’s Roger’s problem, Frank. It isn’t wise to get lippy with a man who is holding a gun on you.”

  “No, sir.”

  When both of them were in the car, Frank asked, “Now what?”

  “Now you drive me to the safe house. And don’t tell me you don’t know where it is. This is too small a town, and you new breed of state boys are asshole buddies with the FPPS. ”

  “I’m in trouble if I take you there, mister.”

  “You’re dead if you don’t.”

  “That doesn’t leave me much choice, does it?”

  “The way I look at it, it doesn’t leave you any . . . unless you’re a fool.”

  “One thing I’m not. Well . . .” He cranked the engine. “I don’t much like the new state police, anyway. Some folks love us, some hate us. Others just put up with us ’cause they like the New Democracy.”

  “And you?”

  Frank put the car in gear and pulled out. “Money and power, mister. It’s just as simple as that. Nobody gives us any lip.” He glanced at Ben and smiled. “Well, almost nobody.”

  “Drive, Frank.”

  “Who are you?”

/>   “My name isn’t important.” He reached over and removed the handcuffs from Frank’s belt holder. “You just take me to that safe house and you’ll be out of this game. And alive,” Ben added.

  “And out of a job.”

  Frank drove in silence for a couple of blocks. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but there are a lot of FPPS agents in that house. They’ll kill you.”

  “Or I’ll kill them. But thanks for telling me. It shows that you’re not a one hundred percent supporter of the USA’s New Democracy.”

  “Are you kidding, mister? It’s damn near communism. Or what I think communism is. I hate it.”

  “But you work for the FPPS.”

  “It’s a job, that’s all. Good jobs just aren’t that easy to find. Especially ones that don’t take half of what you make in taxes.”

  “FPPS people and those who are connected to them get tax breaks?”

  “Oh, you bet we do. And so do people in the army. But we’re not supposed to say anything about it. It isn’t right, though. Fair, I mean. But what the hell is fair now?”

  “I live in Northern California, Frank. It’s very isolated up there. We don’t know much about what’s taking place on the outside.”

  “War is what’s going to happen, mister. Between us and the SUSA. And it’s going to be a bad one. It’s going to tear this country apart.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about the SUSA and Ben Raines. None of it good.”

  “Everything I’ve heard is good! If they’d have me I’d move to the SUSA tonight.” He chuckled, but it held a sour note. “And after tonight, I’d better find me a hole. ’Cause I’m gonna be in deep shit, and out of a job.”

  “Well, head on down to the SUSA, Frank. Level with them about who you are, and what you did up here.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said sarcastically. “Let me tell you something. You don’t understand about that nation. That’s a tough bunch of people down there. They’ve fought all over the world and they don’t lose fights. They learn I worked for the FPPS, hell, they’d shoot me on the spot.”