Total Mayhem

by John Gilstrap

  “Oh, dear,” Venice said.

  “Yeah, the ChiComs don’t mess around. They’re not as sick as the NoKos—they don’t smear guys with nerve agent—but they don’t put up with any bullshit, either.”

  Venice felt a flash of guilt that technology that had been purchased at such a high price was being hijacked for something like this.

  Then she thought of Cody and Megan, eviscerated by these animals without mercy or second thought.

  “Whoa, look at that!” Derek declared. He hit a key to freeze the frame, which slid to the upper right-hand corner of the larger projection. The image showed a very warm welcome.

  “It looks like daddy’s home,” Venice said.

  Derek shook his head. “Uh-uh.” Another thumbnail appeared on the screen under the first one. The image was clearly a posed one, something from a business brochure. This thin, dark-haired man was clearly different than the one in the truck. “That is Percy DeWilda. He’s not the guy in the truck.”

  “Ooh,” Venice cooed. “Maybe daddy’s away and it’s time for mommy to play.”

  As if on cue, the man who clearly was Percy DeWilda came out of the front door and gave the new guy a warm handshake and a bro hug.

  “Kinky,” Derek said. He zoomed in on the pickup truck’s license plate, clicked another still, and ran the number. “Hel-lo,” he said in a cheesy faux-British accent. He tapped as he talked. “Assuming that that truck truly belongs to him—and there are no reports of it being stolen—Mr. Zane Wortham has just arrived.” He tapped some more. “And guess what he used to do for a living.”

  “Special Forces?”

  “Ding-ding. You win a prize. And guess what his credit score is like.”

  “In the toilet,” Venice exclaimed.

  “Ding-ding again.”

  Venice keyed her microphone. “Scorpion, Mother Hen.”

  * * *

  “We’re getting closer, Mother Hen,” Jonathan whispered into his mic. “We need to keep radio traffic to a minimum.”

  “If only I didn’t know that after working together for all these years,” Venice snipped. “The new arrival is one of the attackers. And it would appear that the DeWildas are part of the plot.”

  Jonathan transmitted, “Team One, Team Two, keep track of your lines and halt at that swale you see about fifteen yards ahead. I want to be out of sight for a while. When you’re below the sight line, move to the middle. We need to powwow and modify the plan.”

  As they were taking position, Venice radioed, “Two more just arrived.”

  Jonathan keyed his mic once to break squelch. Okay.

  When they reached the dark side of the swale, Jonathan gathered the teams together.

  “There’s a fundamental change in the plan,” Jonathan said. His voice was barely a whisper. “The DeWildas are now part of the bad guy package. We’re no longer mounting a rescue for them.”

  “Just because they’re receiving the shooters doesn’t mean they’re shooters themselves,” Doug said.

  “Fair point,” Jonathan said. “So, if they don’t threaten you, don’t shoot them.”

  “Can we go over the assault plan again, now that we’re here?” Rick asked.

  “You tell me what you think it is,” Jonathan said, “and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

  Rick looked silly in his NVGs—well, sillier than most—because of his thin frame and narrow face. “When you get the word, or otherwise think it’s time to move, Team Two takes up a defensive position while you and the rest of Team One go forward and make the assault.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’m still not clear what a defensive position is,” Doug said.

  How was it possible that this was just coming up now, rather than in the mission brief back in the office?

  “You watch our backs,” Jonathan said. “If you see a threat that we don’t, take it out. If you see a bad guy getting away, you stop him. Slinger, Big Guy, and I are going to be primarily focused on the entry. You make it possible for us to do that without having to split our focus to the rear. Just remember to announce your shots as soon as you can and watch your background. If you shoot a terrorist and then your bullet goes on to shoot me, I’ll consider that a fail.”

  He meant that as a lighthearted comment to ease the mood, but it didn’t seem to work.

  “Another truck,” Venice announced. “Oops, and one more. That’s a total of five bad guys. Seven if the DeWildas are part of the package.”

  Off the air, Boxers said, “What’s the number we’re looking for?”

  “Derek said there were a total of eight phone signals,” Jonathan said.

  “Want us to shoot up their engines while you’re inside?” Charlie asked. “That way they can’t bolt?”

  “That’s a damn good idea,” Boxers said. “Why didn’t you think of that, Boss?”

  “Not as a first priority,” Jonathan said. “If it looks like they’re going to get away, then yes, of course, take out their vehicles, but only if you can’t take out the runner first. Does that make sense?”

  Doug nodded.

  “Please keep communication verbal,” Jonathan admonished. “Even with NVGs, gestures are hard to read.” He let a few seconds pass. “Any other questions?”

  He was answered by a ripple of negatives. “Okay, then,” Jonathan said. “Spread out like you were before, and when I give the word, we start advancing.” He’d arranged the line so that Team One would control the right side of the line, and Team Two would hold the left. Jonathan anchored the line on its far right flank, while Doug Kramer anchored the left. Gail and Charlie Keeling defined the middle. Pulling his infrared flashlight from its pocket on his vest, he watched as the group spread out. Distances were hard to judge in these conditions, so he waited to hear from the others that they thought they were where they belonged.

  After all five of the others said that they were ready, Jonathan keyed his radio and said, “Let’s advance. Keep it as quiet as we can.”

  For the second time that night, they stepped forward into the night.

  * * *

  Fred Kellner didn’t speak much as Iceman drove them to the rally point. Kellner didn’t understand how Iceman had come to think of him as some kind of right-hand man, but it bothered him. Almost as much as he was bothered by the entire notion of bringing all the players of Retribution together in one spot.

  “I’m going to try this one more time,” Kellner said, despite the futility.

  “Don’t bother,” Evers said. “The plan is already in motion. It can’t be recalled.”

  “But it can be canceled,” Kellner insisted. “Clearly the FBI knows—”

  “Nothing,” Evers interrupted. “The FBI knows nothing.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? You forget that I was there at the Capital Harbor.”

  “That was not the FBI,” Evers insisted. “That was the asshole who is going to pay tonight for ruining everything.”

  Kellner slammed his hand on the dashboard. “Goddammit, Iceman, will you listen to reason? This whole thing is wildly misguided. Killing children? Burning them alive? That’s beyond wrong. I don’t think you’ll get the team to go along with it.”

  Evers glared at his passenger through the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “Are you saying that you will not go through with your mission? That you will disobey your orders?”

  Kellner started to answer, but Iceman held up his hand for silence. “Before you answer, consider that you have already accepted payment. Al-Faisel has the information on your family, and he is willing to burn them alive.”

  “But this isn’t his mission,” Kellner insisted. “This is your revenge.”

  “He knows that, too, and he doesn’t care. You’re too emotional, Fred. This is business. It’s a dirty business, but it’s one that will make you very wealthy. Wealthy enough to never do this again.”

  That was the undeniable point, wasn’t it? Kellner got into this for the money, and the money came. Al-Faisel
may be a monster, but he was a monster who kept his word. And he expected the same from others.

  “You swear,” Kellner said, “you give me your word that this is the last mission.”

  “I do.”

  “Say it.”

  “I already have.”

  “Say it again.”

  “You have my word that this is the last mission.”

  “And after this I am on my own. I can go back to my life and put my gear away.”

  Iceman smiled. “All of that, yes. After this you and all of this phase of Retribution will be free to live your lives as you wish.”

  The choice of words piqued Kellner’s attention. “This phase? What does that mean?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “You mean Al-Faisel is not finished yet?”

  “I can’t say that for sure, but he has millions and millions of dollars, and he hates America with a passion that most reserve for Satan.”

  “He is Satan,” Kellner said.

  Evers laughed. “It just occurred to me that Satan and Sugardaddy start with the same letter.”

  Thirty seconds passed. “You actually like this, don’t you?” Kellner asked. “You enjoy it.”

  Evers laughed harder. “Ah, the self-righteousness of the mass murderer. It’s one thing to murder dozens of people as a business arrangement, but God forbid that you take pride in a job well done! Is that how you plan to sleep well with your family in whatever rich man’s haven you settle into? You’re going to tell mama that you got all of this money through some fantastic stock deal, or from a really terrific day at the track, and she will choose to believe it because, well, the money’s in the bank, isn’t it? None of that is especially troubling to you so long as you don’t enjoy the work.”

  “Jesus, Iceman, you’re going to fire incendiary grenades into an orphanage!”

  Iceman gave him a confused look. “Is it the children, Fred? Is that the step too far? Says the man who shot randomly into the crowd at a high school football game. Were those children somehow less worthy of life? Or was it that they weren’t sleeping, because killing the sleeping is a step too far?”

  Kellner locked up. He knew there was no winning the argument. Hell, he knew that when he brought it up. Again.

  “Well, maybe this will help you sleep better,” Evers continued. “We’re not just going to burn the children. We’re going to burn the whole damn town. Our time on target will be fifteen minutes. One-five minutes. With the right ordnance, we should be able to make quite an impression.”

  * * *

  Keeping a low profile or low sound signature clearly was not a part of the plan for the gathering members of Retribution. No one was paying attention to the woods surrounding the house. That gave Jonathan’s team some options and took some of the pressure off the need for silence.

  The trick was in knowing when it was time to pull the trigger. They’d been hunkered in the woods for nearly six hours, yet Jonathan still was not convinced that all of Retribution had arrived. As long as they remained gathered in one place, time was on his side.

  But he worried about Team Two. Unaccustomed to long waits, how were they holding up? He guessed he’d find out sooner or later.

  Jonathan had settled into a space where a deadfall met the base of an old-growth tree, with a reasonably good view of the red side of the ranch-style house— the right side, looking from the front. To call his spot comfortable would be an overstatement, but he could stay for an extended period without his back screaming at him.

  Boxers settled in about ten yards to his left. Peering through the telescopic sight of his rifle, he said. “I see the electrical meter at the red-black corner.”

  “Roger.” Jonathan saw it, too. When it came time to launch this balloon, the first step would be to kill the electricity.

  “Looks like we’re missing a heck of a party inside,” Gail said. She was on Boxers’ left, not as far down as Jonathan would have liked her to be.

  As Jonathan watched the shadows moving in the light and listened to the muffled sounds of people having a good time, he began to get concerned.

  “Mother Hen, Scorpion,” he said into his radio.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is TickTock there?”

  “He is.”

  “Can he hear me?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. We seem to have some time here, and the course we’re about to take is as severe as it gets. Now that people are in the house, is there any way you guys can take another electronic peek to make sure they’re who we think they are?”

  “We told you about Wortham.” This from Derek. “We’ve checked the other license plates, and of the ones we can find a match, they all come back with pretty much the same background.”

  “Listen to the words this time, TickTock,” Jonathan said, doing his best to control a sudden surge of anger. “I’m the one down here who’ll be pulling the trigger, and I’m also the guy in charge. I didn’t ask for what I already know. I asked if there was a way to know more. There’s really no negative to answer that. It’s either Yes, there is, and here’s how it’s done, or Gee, I don’t know, let me get back to you. Are we clear on this point?”

  This time it was Venice’s voice. “Understood,” she said. “Give us a few.”

  Boxers said, “That’s a new language from Mother Hen. The asshole was silent.”

  Okay, he’d earned that one.

  Another vehicle—this one an unremarkable sedan—pulled down the drive and headed toward the house, and Jonathan felt vindicated for continuing to wait.

  He hunkered down and froze, waiting for the headlights to wash over his hiding space and then to allow darkness to return.

  When it felt safe for him to look up, Jonathan exposed as little of his silhouette as possible. Following the pattern of the others, this driver stood from his door, then opened the back door, leaned in, and withdrew what looked like an M4 rifle and a heavy range bag. He closed up the car and headed for the front door.

  He was halfway there when he stopped and straightened, like a dog on point. He dropped his equipment bag and brought his rifle to his shoulder. “Who’s out there?” he shouted. “Show yourself!”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “I’m sorry that Digger is such a jerk to you,” Venice said.

  Derek was leaning into his computer, typing furiously. Even as his fingers flew, his voice remained the mellow baritone that it always was. “I’ve think I’ve figured it out,” he said.

  “How to get more intel on the house?” Venice gasped. “That was fast.”

  He stopped typing. “No,” he said. “Well, yes, the house too. But I’ve figured out why Mr.—Digger—doesn’t like me.”

  Venice waited for it.

  “Actually, it’s pretty obvious when you think about it.”

  She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking.

  “I think he’s jealous,” Derek said, returning to the work on his screen and keyboard. “Think about it. You said you grew up with him, right? And you had a crush on him, and he knew it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—”

  “Hear me out. It’s powerful stuff knowing you’re someone’s childhood hero. You never had a father in your life, his father was a dickhead, so you had him.”

  “He’s hardly my father,” Venice said. “You are so off base.”

  “And he had you. I think he’s the dad—or the really big brother—who’s going to kill any asshole who might even think about breaking your heart.”

  Venice just stared from her chair, vaguely aware that her mouth was open. She couldn’t find words to form. His theory was so . . . so—

  “I’m in,” Derek declared. He triumphantly jabbed one final key, and the screen filled with an oddly composed image of one woman and a bunch of well-conditioned men mingling about, snacking and drinking what Venice assumed to be beer.

  Derek explained, “The DeWildas lef
t their laptop open and hooked into the internet. I hijacked their camera.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Venice gushed. She’d done similar things before, but always when she had some backdoor knowledge of either the network or the computer itself. “Is that secret NSA voodoo?”

  “I wish it was,” Derek said. “I think maybe it started that way, but you know how secrets go. One Army private with a grudge and a laptop can steal everything but the nuclear launch codes.”

  “And maybe them,” Venice said.

  “Nope,” Derek said with a shake of his head. “Those are still analog. Can’t be stolen.” He moved his chair. “Come here, and I’ll show you the code.”

  Venice chuckled. He really was a rookie to all of this. “I think we should tell Scorpion that we’ve got eyes on the bad guys. Do you have audio, too?”

  Derek answered by turning up the volume and filling the War Room’s speakers with the sound of a chattering crowd.

  “Even he might be impressed with this,” she said. She reached for the microphone.

  * * *

  Jonathan’s left hand moved by muscle memory to flip the switch on his radio to VOX while he shouldered his M27 carbine with his right. “Everybody stay still,” he whispered. “Not a move.” A gunfight before all the players were here could be a disaster.

  A rattled voice said, “I think he sees me.” Jonathan thought it was Rick Hare, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Silence,” Jonathan whispered.

  The gunman wasn’t backing down. “Whoever’s out there step forward or I will shoot!” He yelled it louder this time, and the noise brought another one of the gunmen to the door of the house.

  “This is bad, Boss,” Boxers said.

  Yes, it was. If everybody could just stay cool, this might end quietly. It’s pretty much impossible to hit a target you can’t see, and this guy was clearly playing a bluff.

  “What’s going on out there?” the second guy asked. He stepped outside, also with his rifle in his hand.

  “I heard a rustle over there,” he said, pointing in the general direction of Team Two. “Then I swear to God I heard a voice.”

  The first guy yelled, “This is your last chance to come out before I shoot!”