by D W Bell
The compound had been basically deserted since the news junket for the pastor’s passing, just basic cleaning staff and minimal security, but new converts had just arrived at Boudreaux’s invitation. Fifty-four lovely young ladies of very specific genetic value.
Building blueprints were easy enough to find for assault planning, John had even found a topographical map of the lushly landscaped grounds, but the best intelligence had come from the old pastor himself.
For a man who styled himself as “just a poor country preacher” the pastor lived in remarkable wealth and comfort. Technically, the compound was a nonprofit retreat for use by the church in its missionary and rehabilitation work, but John was sure no repentant sinners had ever set foot in the White Lion’s lair. And there were videos.
Like a blast from the past, the pastor gave tours of the main house and grounds as renovations and amenities were added over the years. Progressively older and plumper, the happy hypocrite gave in-depth, behind-the-scenes tours of the grounds and amenities on the previously uncirculated promotional materials. Such commercials were good for the 501c fraud. John didn’t know the connection, but it was almost as if the pastor was helping to plan the assault from the grave.
It had all started when Smith had stumbled upon the pastor’s much ridiculed and embarrassing rap video that had gone viral on the internet. The mystery of YouTube algorithms, perhaps influenced by the vengeful ghost of the old man, had provided the rest of the digital information from there. From hell’s heart I stab at thee.
Sifting through all the data, John figured the women would be housed either in the servant’s quarters, provided the staff had been cut since the preacher’s untimely death, or the massive prayer palace, a huge dome at the center of the estate modeled after the Pantheon in Rome, complete with oculus. The only seat a throne-like chair directly under the skylight.
When asked why he needed such a large prayer hall the pastor would often reply that he and the Lord had “big talks.” The cleaning staff figured the hole over the pastor’s chair was to let all the hot air out.
As with any plan, the in and out was the conundrum. The entire compound, all 667 acres (just over one square mile, the pastor had insisted an extra acre be added to alter the unfortunate measurement of the survey and the numeric connotations of the original parcel of land), was surrounded by walls to rival Jericho with only one armored gate breaching the smooth, impenetrable barrier. Master Fu said he had everything under control, so John busied himself memorizing the property layout by scrutinizing the serendipitous treasure trove of digital data.
Scaling the walls, although tall, was truly no issue for him, but he was puzzling over how they would get a bunch of women, of unknown physical aptitude and ability, out of the compound and safely spirited away once they found them. John was still trying to see the bigger picture when Master Fu summoned him from the doorway, “Gear up, John. We’re going.”
“Yes, sir.” Smith tucked the Glock 19 into his BDUs at the small of his back, buckled his plate carrier over his shoulders, checked the magazine of his MP5, and stepped out into the common room. He was surprised to see a group of nine bearded men in worn battle fatigues poring over the large map of the compound with Master Fu, silently pointing and nodding. Their camo prints were faded, their old boots were scuffed and looked as if they had the dust of far-off battlefields caked in the treads, but the rifles slung across their backs were new. The AK-308s, the latest and greatest from the legacy of Colonel Kalashnikov, fired 7.62×51 NATO for greater power and penetration. The freshly machined prototypes looked well-oiled and clean with bayonets fixed. Unsheathed and gleaming.
“Who are these guys?” John was used to being kept in dark about the rotating cast of characters and walk-on cameos by now, so he just asked and waited.
With a final nod to the one who pointed the most authoritatively, probably the little group’s leader, Master Fu answered, “These men are monks. Brothers of a small Serbian Orthodox sect who call themselves The Voice of God. As enticing and interesting as I am sure that sounds, it is best not to ask too many questions. Father Dmitri and his brothers have taken a vow of silence, so it would just frustrate all involved. But we understand each other. Don’t we, cousin?” Father Dmitri gave a stern nod in assent, never looking up from the blueprints and drawings before him.
“What are they here for?” John waited patiently again.
“Bait. Just like you.”
―
“Any hits on the trot line? Did our old catfish take the bait?” Boudreaux reclined reading in bed dressed in brocade slippers and Hefner-esque red pajamas, his work done for the day.
She answered half-dressed, straddling the chasm between two worlds, caught mid-change between fantasy and reality, between deception and truth, “It appears so. Sensors have reported some drone activity that may herald the imminent arrival of your guests at the ranch.” Lilith finished disrobing and donned the attire Boudreaux required.
“Splendid. I was beginning to think the old codger had somehow caught on to us.”
“No, sir. You are the master of deception.”
Boudreaux placed his book on the adjacent nightstand and met Lilith’s eyes with a knowing gaze over the upper rims of his reading glasses, “I like to think so, my dear, but it is your performance that is truly inspiring. Just masterful manipulation. Masterful!”
“I exist to serve, sir.”
“Don’t we all.” Boudreaux sighed with bewilderment then leeringly admired her form in the negligee he had requested, “Come, dear one. Sit on daddy’s lap and let us speak of more pressing matters. It seems you have been a very naughty girl.”
―
The monks had arrived in their own transports, so that part of the mission was covered. The three gutted 15-passenger vans were comically conspicuous. The obviously armored four-wheel drive, blazing white Ford E-350s looked like off-duty SWAT trucks, or the cash transports of a third-rate armored car company, gun ports and all.
To their credit, the monks had made a modest effort at disguise with magnetic signs posted on both sides of the hulking beasts: Uncle Istvan’s Traditional Music and Folk Dancing, complete with a high-kicking cartoon Cossack. John laughed at the absurdity of it, how did the brothers successfully procure these custom behemoths while still observing their unbroken vow of silence? I guess one can order anything on the internet these days. John would have gone a different way with the color, maybe a bitchin’ 70’s-style mural on the side. It would have made the huge, domed skylights the brothers had ordered look less out of place, but the way in which a man customizes his vehicles is a very personal thing. Who was John to judge?
His own vehicle, donated by the wealthy prepper who had graciously provided the rendezvous point as well as the post-mission safe house, the one he was chauffeuring Master Fu in, was a more reasonably civilian Ford F-150, but no less conspicuous. At least the supercharged 4x4 Raptor was black. Subtle.
Master Fu got John up to speed on the way. “Drone reconnaissance monitored the arrival of one of the church’s charter buses a few days ago and confirmed a small increase in security personnel on the grounds, but nothing our quiet friends can’t handle.”
“So we’re really just gonna drive in, have the Serbs shoot up the place, pick up the girls, and bounce to the safe house?”
“Something like that. You were expecting something else?”
“I don’t know. Just feels like we need more.”
“What? Like close air support?
“Fuck yeah! I knew you had something up your sleeve.”
“Oh, right! The deus ex machine is gonna clank right over and swoop in to our rescue with a squadron of A-10 Warthogs and an AC-130 gunship sortie. Maybe schedule a shiatsu for the ride home. Hang on, let me call my congressman and get that rolling. Maybe they’ll burn red, white, and blue smoke trails behind them and blast Whitney Houston’s rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’, because ‘Murica!”
John felt stupid f
or even thinking it, and Master Fu nailed it home, “No, moron. We’re just gonna drive in, shoot up the place, pick up the girls, and burn out. That’s the plan.” John focused his eyes back on the road and sulked in silence. Master Fu grinned mockingly and touched the switch to activate the driver’s seat massage function, “There. At least there’s that. Feel better?” The old man couldn’t suppress a cackle, “Who needs air support? We’ve got adjustable lumbar support!”
“I hate you.”
“Good. Then my current incarnation on this plane has not been a wasted one.”
Chapter 32
Boudreaux was in a mood. Betrayal was his joy, his very essence, but he found it tedious when employed by others. Insurrections against him seemed comically playful, seductive even, until he realized the rebellious truly didn’t want to play with him anymore.
That bit hurt his feelings, such that they were. A personal affront. Perhaps a tonifying drink in his favorite antique balloon chair while watching Master Fu get spanked for his little tantrum would serve to lift his spirits. Couldn’t hurt. The medicine he favored was a cure for those beset by the throes of melancholia, and a guard against it for those who were not.
The devilish director had ordered the chair and side table moved into the drone control room, directly in front of the screens. The space looked a bit like NASA’s Mission Control in Houston, but the rows of technicians and operators were tiered to save space. The darkened atmosphere was kept quite cool to combat the heat produced by all the churning and whirring technology, but Boudreaux was quite comfortable. His was the cheery warmth of anticipation.
Lost in the scrolling data displayed on the massive screens as all systems ran through their individual pre-op checks, Boudreaux languidly extended his empty chalice beyond the boundary of his little bubble chair expecting it to be refilled. Perturbed at the speed of service, he craned his neck around the edge of the chair and observed the graduated gallery of disembodied, panic-stricken faces lit from beneath by their individual monitors, unsure of what to do.
With a bemused sigh he laughed at himself a little. Truly a creature of habit. He had forgotten he was roughing it sans assistant for this evolution. Boudreaux rose and walked to the ever-present cart to refresh himself, waving his arms with growing humor, “Sorry! Keep your seats, boys. I’m just here for the show. Keep to your work. Ya’ll don’t pay no mind to little ol’ me. I can manage.” Absinthe always made him more reasonable. When not entertaining a client or a victim, Boudreaux preferred the company of the green fairy.
The clink of the stopper being pulled from the crystal decanter was soon followed by the resumption of the arrhythmic clacking of keystrokes. Each party was back in their comfort zone, and the momentary indignity was forgotten. Boudreaux didn’t truck with any fountains, spoons, or sugar. It was truly unlike him to forgo the theatrics of the traditional ritual, but he preferred to commune with the spirit in its rawest form. A splash of cool, pure water and it was done. Just enough to spark the magic of the louche. He returned to his seat with the goblet of murky opalescence and settled in for the song and dance.
―
“No party dress for this performance?” John eyed Master Fu’s tactical attire. Old school tiger-stripe fatigues. You don’t see those around much anymore.
“I felt this was more suited to the task at hand.” It was if both men had been observing their own impromptu vows of silence as their little convoy blazed through the empty movie set back-deserts and miraculously irrigated false farmland of Southern California.
As if on cue, the walled oasis, looking like a lush-green mirage of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, sprang into view.
“Modest little place.”
“Cozy.”
Smith spoke softly into his throat mic announcing their imminent arrival on station and received a series of clicks in return confirming that the silent monks were ready.
“All set.” John shifted in his seat and adjusted any straps and buckles of his gear that had shifted in transport as they traveled and turned off the highway and on to the compound’s private drive, the long strip of blacktop that lead to the only entrance and exit of the fortified estate. At the end of the road, shimmering in the desert heat, the ornate but armored gate began to open, revealing a glimpse of the lush little Eden inside. The spider inviting the flies into his parlor. “Shit.”
―
“Robert.”
“Yes, sir?” The drone pilot with Bob emblazoned on his name badge looked up from his controls.
“Let’s have you and William…” Boudreaux paused to consult the fairy in his glass as he constructed the scene in his head and decided to go with it, “Yes. When you boys peel off from your flyover go ahead and pop chaff and flares for our guests. That should make for a nice visual, don’t you think? Sort of a tickertape parade and fireworks to honor the arrival of our beloved Master Fu.”
“Certainly, sir. An enlightened choice.” The man nodded at the other pilot with Bill on his nametag and returned to his controls.
“Excellent.” Boudreaux was going to enjoy this.
―
“Shit!” The expletive was the only word that would come when the air exploded with silver threads and white-hot flares as two large drones buzzed the four-car convoy as it raced for the gate. There is often eloquence in brevity, and the repetition of the word—with feeling—was the most insightful statement John could manage.
Master Fu growled, “We’re late. Should have been on the road with the girls before they got here. You drive like old lady.” The angry old man retrieved his shotgun, checked the magazine, and chambered a round while activating his own throat mic, “They have us marked. Ground forces won’t be far behind. Circle the wagons as soon as we are inside the walls, as we discussed. Utilize the gate as a choke point.” The only response was the expected series of clicks.
Comforted by the stern commands, John was back in the game, he even chuckled a little at the thought of Master Fu discussing anything with the silent Father. “How many do you think Boudreaux will send?”
“All of them, I hope.” Master Fu laughed a little too heartily for John’s liking.
―
“Magnificent. Spot on. Perfectly timed, gentlemen.” Boudreaux really was pleased with the performance of the drones. But the attaboys just made everyone nervous. The mysterious man was only rarely complimentary, and never effusive.
The affirmations were made truly frightening as they were delivered with a slight slur, something none of the technicians had ever heard from the slight man before. “ETA on the main assault force?” Boudreaux stood and stepped a little too carefully towards the bar cart, as if he were having difficulty with the basic balancing act that is walking.
“About five minutes, sir.” A few worried glances were exchanged among the technicians as the director fumbled briefly with the crystal stopper of his personal stash.
“Splendid!” Boudreaux’s voice was now overly loud and borderline terrifying as evidence of impaired control. “Once more to the lobby for concessions before the show starts.” The unpredictable man turned to return to his seat but spun back to grab the bottle and take it with him. He hummed “Let’s all go to the lobby” from the old movie days as he stepped jauntily across the room. “I don’t want to miss anything,” he said as he placed the bottle next to his chair and gave his audience a wink.
Dear God, they must have all thought. The little devil’s drunk.
―
Off-road tires roared along the asphalt as the four vehicles of the rescue team entered the compound and screamed as they braked and began to maneuver. Father Dmitri was out of his van almost before it slowed down and was precisely directing the placement of the vehicles.
“What’s he doing?” John was confused as to why the vans were being parked facing the open gate, equidistant apart, rather than broadside and tight for cover.
“Parking the cars. Looks like the valet is on smoke break.” Master Fu nodded to the emp
ty guardhouse. “The Father and his men are responsible for gate security while we find the ladies, and ground transport exfil once we have found them. How they satisfy my requirements are at their discretion, but these vans do look promising.”
Satisfied with the positioning of his vans, the martial monk smiled and made some odd stabbing gestures towards the ground with both hands as he trotted towards the vehicles. The other brothers reacted instantly to the strange command gesture.
The passenger and driver-side doors of each van was opened and the custom elongated piston-hinges released allowing the armored panels to swing out and down from the lifted truck, slamming spikes into the ground to hold them steady. The big vans and their armored doors now formed a low wall, complete with windows to fire from, with both cover and concealment to move from position to position if needed.
“What the fuck?!” John marveled at the ingenuity of it and doubled over laughing when a brother monk popped up from each of the domed skylights… manning a turret-mounted minigun. He threw his hands up in consternation and yelled at Father Dmitri, “Are you the fucking Serbian Batman, or something?”
The moment of levity was shattered by three staccato clicks of the prearranged signal sounding in everyone’s earpiece. Incoming.
The clicks were punctuated by a menacing, turbine-esque whining call to prayer as the miniguns spun up and brrrt to life. The Voice of God began to speak, stopping another drone flyover by nearly sawing both enemy surveillance units in half and sending them crashing into the meticulously landscaped flowerbeds of the false Eden.
―