Total Mayhem

by John Gilstrap

  Jonathan imagined himself as the attackers and visualized what he would do. Given the layout of the building, there was really only one play in the playbook. “Walter, get in here,” he commanded. “Be ready for the flashbang.”

  As if on cue, the whole structure seemed to bounce with the detonation of a nonlethal grenade called a flashbang. Over the course of a couple of milliseconds, the grenade produced a million-candle-power flash and a 140-decibel boom. Used by SWAT teams around the world, it’s a device designed to disorient hostage takers and give the invaders an edge.

  Except when you know it’s coming.

  When the invaders got to the threshold, Walter tried to defend himself, but he was rattled, and they took him out with a double-tap to the head.

  Jonathan, Gail, and Boxers all fired on the shooter simultaneously and dropped him. Ditto the second guy in their stack.

  The combined pounding of the flashbang and the rifle fire left Jonathan’s head feeling as if it had been stuffed with cotton. Even for an experienced professional, the overwhelming violence and noise could be disorienting, but the fight was not yet over.

  Jonathan spun on his own axis to confront the attack that he knew had to be coming from the black side—the rear of the structure.

  This time, the attacker made a critical error. As he pulled the pin on his flashbang and prepared to throw it through the door of the back porch, he exposed his head and shoulders above the wainscoting of the low porch wall. Boxers blasted him through the forehead, and he fumbled the grenade, dropping it at his own knees. When it blew, the second guy in their stack jumped back and up, creating a target for Jonathan.

  Three shots. Two to the vest and one to the chin.

  Silence.

  Jonathan scanned the room. Walter lay dead on the floor, his blood trail combining with that of the dickheads who shot him. Ray and Gail both held aim at the door to the computer room, while Jonathan and Boxers held the rear.

  “We’ll clear first,” Gail said. “What’s your name again?” she asked the man with the gun next to her.

  He looked rattled. “Um, Ray.”

  “We need to check to see if we killed them all. Are you up for it?”

  He nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I’m up for it.”

  Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. She spoke the same words he would have. He turned away and refocused on his sector of the fight. He listened as she advanced on the door, and in his mind, he watched her pie the corner, her rifle up and ready.

  “Clear!” Gail called from the other room. No imminent hazard to worry about.

  “Let’s move,” Jonathan said to Big Guy. They advanced in unison, in a carefully orchestrated and frequently practiced sequence of movements designed to spot and neutralize any hazards they encountered. Rifles up and ready at their shoulders, safeties off, fingers outside the trigger guard, they approached the door to the porch.

  A thirty-second search proved the porch to be clear.

  After a search of the exterior perimeter, Jonathan proclaimed the scene to be secure. Ray’s two companions at the gate lay where they fell. Two attackers lay dead in their own juices sprawled across the floor of the front room. Both of the attackers in the back were still dead. Body five of five lay in the front yard. Apparently, Walter’s unaimed defensive fire hadn’t been for naught.

  As Jonathan and the others re-formed on the back porch, Ray said, “Someone want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

  “The good guys won,” Boxers said.

  “We just killed a bunch of FBI agents!” Ray exclaimed.

  “Maybe,” Jonathan said. “But I bet not. Even so, I don’t think there’s anything in the U.S. Code that says we have to stand still and be murdered. Remember, they fired on your friends first.”

  “They weren’t my friends,” Ray said.

  The sharpness of his tone startled Jonathan. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing. Just that they weren’t my friends. We occupied the same space, but we were all individual recruits. I didn’t wish them harm, but none of them were buddies. I knew them about as well as I know you.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Jonathan said. “Big Guy, you and Slinger go down and package Masterson for transport out of here. I need to pull the medevac to a new location away from here.” Actually, he’d make a call back to Virginia and have Venice make the call.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Ray asked.

  “Choose a side,” Jonathan said.

  “The hell does that mean?”

  Jonathan explained, “It means you can walk away and go home if you want. Or, you can stick with us and become part of the solution.”

  Boxers cleared his throat. “Uh, Agent Bonner? Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  “He knows what he knows,” Jonathan snapped. He drilled his glare into Ray’s skull. “But as you choose, understand there’s no going back. And if you choose to cross me—to cross any one of us—we’ll destroy you and everything you love.” As he heard his words, he thought they were a little over-the-top, but they accurately reflected his intent.

  “So, I’m just supposed to trust you? I don’t know who the hell you are, either.”

  “There you go,” Jonathan said. “Glad to know you’re a quick study.”

  “If I leave, where am I supposed to go?”

  “We don’t care,” Gail said. “Home? Tahiti? Anyplace but here.”

  Ray scowled as he thought through his options.

  “There’s not a lot of time,” Jonathan pressed.

  Ray shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You guys are a spooky group, you know that?”

  “Thank you,” Boxers said. “We try our best. While you’re thinking, how about you press the right buttons to get us back into the prison wing?”

  Ray moved to the phone box on the wall outside and typed in the proper code. Jonathan and Gail both watched as he did it. The heavy doors lifted out of the way.

  It was Boxers’ turn to glare. “I don’t want to see those doors come back down while I’m in there.”

  “I won’t go anywhere near them,” Ray said, backing away and holding his hands up, as if surrendering. “I promise.”

  “You can help me get fingerprints off of these assholes,” Jonathan said.

  Gail added, “And Big Guy, you and I will go down and get Masterson.”

  “Why me?” Boxers asked. “He’s disgusting.”

  “I can’t carry him on my own,” Gail said. She started down the stairs.

  “Hey,” Ray said.

  Gail turned.

  “The keys are in a box on the wall at the base of the stairs.”

  “Is the box locked?”

  “No need.”

  Gail looked like she wanted to ask another question, but headed back down the stairs instead. Big Guy followed.

  When Jonathan and Ray were alone, Digger led the way back inside. “I need your answer,” he said. “And I need some paper.”

  “I got printer paper up front,” Ray said.

  “Index cards would work better,” Jonathan said. “You get better prints.”

  “I’ve got some of those, too.”

  Jonathan let Ray pass, and followed as they made their way back into the front room, sidestepping the bodies and the gore. “You know, I used to be a gunman for Uncle Sam,” Ray said. “I was what you might call special. As in, Special Forces. I punched out after nine years, thinking I’d make my fortune in the civilian sector.”

  He worked as he talked, so Jonathan didn’t complain about the long trip to a short answer. Sometimes, people needed to talk their way through a decision, so he’d force himself to be patient. Until he couldn’t.

  “Turns out that the civilian sector sucks,” Ray went on. He arrived at the desk he’d been sitting at earlier and pulled open a drawer. He closed it and opened another. “There they are.” He produced a packet of three-by-five index cards. “Now what?”

  “Try to prin
t at least three fingers from each of the corpses,” Jonathan said, reaching out and taking a short stack of cards for himself. “Use the blood for ink. I’ll print the ones in the back.” He watched as Ray stooped down to the body closest to the door. “You still haven’t told me your plans.”

  Ray stayed concentrated at his task of manipulating the dead man’s hand to get his prints. “I’m not sure when the world turned into the shit-sucking place that it’s become,” he said, “but I’m ready for something brand new.”

  “Do me the favor of putting that in the form of an answer.”

  Ray pivoted his head to look at Jonathan. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come along with you guys. Maybe there’ll come a point when you can tell me who you really are.”

  Jonathan winked at him. “I wouldn’t hold my breath for that one,” he said. He turned to walk into the back room.

  “One more thing,” Ray said.

  Jonathan stopped.

  “What do we do with these guys after we get their prints?”

  “Nothing,” Jonathan said. “I’m going to make a few phone calls, and the people on the other side will drive those next steps.” He pivoted back to get to work. “Tick tock. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  His own words echoed in his head as he walked back to the porch. He needed to get Mother Hen involved sooner than later. He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial.

  Venice answered after one ring. “You’re early,” she said. “Is there a problem?”

  “Can’t discuss it now,” Jonathan said. “I need three things from you. One, contact our incoming chopper and redirect him to a different, nearby LZ.” He knew she would recognize the abbreviation for landing zone.

  “Where do you have in mind?”

  “Not a clue. You’ve got better maps and more time than I do. Just keep it within a few miles. Upload the coordinates to my GPS when you decide.”

  He could hear her making notes in the background. “Okay, what’s next?”

  “I’m going to be sending some high-def pictures of fingerprints in a few minutes,” Jonathan said.

  “Oh, that can’t be good.”

  “It’s been an interesting day,” Jonathan said. “And finally, have our special friend reach out to his special friend and let her know that she and I need to yell at each other very soon.”

  “Didn’t go well?”

  “Couldn’t have gone worse. She needs to know that the people she thought were assets were exactly the opposite. She needs to watch her back.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Not anymore. Let me know when we’ve got a usable LZ.” He clicked off.

  Chapter Eight

  “What in God’s name is going on up there?” Masterson had drawn himself into a tighter ball on the concrete slab that was his bed. “And who the hell are you?” That was directed at Boxers.

  “I’m the guy who’s going to carry your sorry ass up the stairs and out of here.”

  “The hell you are.”

  Gail scowled at him. “You’re not really in a position to stop us,” she said.

  “What’s with all the shooting?”

  “That was us fighting off the troops who were sent here to kill you,” Boxers said. He held out his hand for the key and Gail gave it to him.

  “We’re taking you to the hospital now,” Gail said. “We’re going to get you some real treatment.”

  “Unless you piss me off,” Boxers said. “I’ll spike you like a football if you push me. Are we clear on this?”

  Boxers pulled the door open all the way and entered the cell first. “Here are the rules,” he said. “Get your pissing and shitting out of the way now, because if you do it on me, I’ll make you eat it. Judging from those dressings, it’s gonna hurt like hell when I lift you. Yell if you have to, but try to keep it under control.”

  “Where is this hospital?” Masterson asked.

  “I can’t imagine a less relevant question,” Boxers said.

  “It’s a safe place,” Gail added. “It’s a real hospital. We’ll get you real care there. Real doctors.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re idiots,” Boxers said. “And my boss is a hell of a lot nicer than I am. Now, about that pissing and shitting.”

  “I’m good,” Masterson said.

  Boxers looked to Gail and softened his tone. “Do me a favor and see if there are any clean blankets down here. Even a murderous asswipe like him deserves better than this.”

  Gail left the cell and toured the rest of the block. The other cells were as devoid of supplies as they were of prisoners. She was about to head back upstairs when she noticed the black metal cabinet tucked into the corner at the base of the stairway. It looked like a supply cabinet from any office, vertical doors with shiny chrome handles. She opened it, and there she found not just blankets, but all manner of first aid supplies as well as a stack of orange jumpsuits.

  She brought the first aid supplies first. “Look what I found,” she said.

  Masterson’s eyes grew huge as he seemed to be hit with panic. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’ll wait for the doctor.”

  Boxers eyed the supplies and nodded to a spot on the floor. “Put ’em down there,” he said.

  Gail had brought sterile saline solution, some fresh trauma dressings, and Kling bandages to hold it all in place, and she laid it all on the concrete floor.

  “It’s your choice,” Boxers said, his tone softer still. He sounded nearly clinical. “But I’ll tell you this. There was no better combat medic than me when I was in the Army.”

  “Was that your MOS?” Military occupational specialty.

  “Coulda been,” Boxers said.

  “We’ve got a jumpsuit for him, too,” Gail said, hoping to raise the ante.

  “Call the ball, Masterson,” Boxers said. “I’m willing to help, but your clock is ticking. We need to get out of here.”

  Masterson’s gaze shifted to Gail.

  “I’ll wait outside,” she said. Really? After flashing her nonstop, this was where he decided to be shy?

  “Won’t take but a few minutes,” Boxers said. “Can’t take more than a few minutes.”

  Gail stepped back into the hall and busied herself with a more detailed tour of the prison. What a depressing damn place. As a former sheriff, she’d seen her share of human warehouses, but this sterile, windowless hellhole was particularly soul-stealing. And maybe that was the point. The people who were renditioned to places like this were at the end of their useful cycle in society. They were here to be milked for information—through God only knew what forms of enhanced interrogation techniques—and then they were left to rot. Or, maybe they were sent to the CIA’s sister prisons in the Middle East or Indonesia, where these miseries in South Dakota would look less like a prison and more like a tourist hotel.

  Gail could feel the suffering that went on in this place. In her quiet moments, she wondered how she had wandered so far from her roots as a sworn officer of the law and an officer of the court. Not so long ago, her conscience was tortured by the extralegal, sometimes lethal actions that defined the missions of Security Solutions’ covert side. But now, after only a couple of years, she’d surrendered herself to the expediency of justice over the complexity of the law. Sometimes, the world’s bad players so egregiously fractured the social contract that they surrendered their right to fairness in general, let alone a fair trial. They needed to be milked for information, and then incinerated in the human trash heap.

  The bitter irony of it all was the inherent hypocrisy of the American people. As intense as their need for action when they were frightened was their self-righteous anger once a sense of peace was restored.

  This was why governments so often failed at their mission to keep people safe from terror. Law enforcement agencies were ultimately managed by elected politicians whose fealty to the will of the people made it ultimately impossible for the law enforcers to do their jobs. Justice and principle took a ba
ckseat to reelection and pandering. Politicians forgot what they ordered the street cops and soldiers to do, and in the end, they turned on them and vilified them for doing what they were told.

  When she had been a part of that career morass, Gail hadn’t realized that she was a perpetuator of the problem. As a part of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, she had merely followed orders. It had not been within her pay grade to determine right from wrong—that was the purview of judges and juries. But now, looking at reality from the outside, she realized that judges and juries saw only what the bosses—and by extension, the politicians—wanted them to see. Not so long ago, when an FBI agent took the stand, the government’s case was half won. Everybody watched television. Everybody knew that the FBI was infallible.

  Gail had nothing but respect for Irene Rivers. As director, she was the exception to the rule, but there were limits to the scope of her effectiveness. The people below her—her assistants and deputies and field office agents in charge—all had their own career ambitions and would turn on her in a heartbeat.

  So the dirty work of true justice—the wet work—fell to contractors like Jonathan and Boxers and Gail. And God knew how many others. These contractors were invested with nearly limitless power and were managed at arm’s length. It fell to the moral compasses of the soldiers of fortune who answered only to themselves to determine how far was too far, how brutal was too brutal. The world was steadily evolving into a society she did not recognize.

  “Okay, we’re ready,” Boxers said from the cell down the hall.

  Gail turned and started that way. “Do you need help?”

  “Actually, yes,” Boxers said.

  As soon as Gail eyeballed them, she understood why. The height differential between the two men was so great that Masterson had a hard time being guided by Big Guy. Or, maybe it was the other way around. “I thought you were going to carry him,” she said.

  “I begged him not to,” Masterson said. He wore an oversized orange jumpsuit but remained barefoot. The overall effect was far less disturbing that what she’d been watching before. “I saw this fireman’s carry in my mind,” he continued, “and that sounded like a lot of pain that I’d rather not have.”