Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  “Now, there is one other thing. Due to martial law, and the curfews, Tuesday’s election will have to be postponed. Just temporarily, I assure you. Because of this situation. Gas, and all. So stay calm, stay at home, and if some of your friends and neighbors, or—God forbid—a family member goes missing, do not panic. They have been taken into protective custody, for their own safety and the safety of the nation. Many of your elected officials have already been taken into protective custody, and it is for their safety I am acting.

  “So stay off the highways, and enjoy the marathon reruns of Yes, Sir, Mr. President, on many stations immediately following this broadcast.” He raised his finger and eyebrows in his signature light bulb moment, and signed off. “Good night, and don't forget to vote early and often.”

  Any viewer not already surfing in search of more interesting entertainment saw the screen dissolved to black, then cut to a brightly lit studio, with the anchor quickly hiding a tumbler under the desk.

  “Okaaay, gang; that was The Man, delivering a message the folks at FCC say we are required to air. Something about incredible threats and changing the dates of the election. Now, stay tuned for the blockbuster finale of the year’s run away smash comedy hit Who shot Charlie Brown? Follow the madcap antics of a Central American family of twelve, living inside a big box megastore. Cops and management can’t keep these irrepressible rascals down! But, first a message from our sponsors.”

  “How’d I do?”

  “You forgot the passport.”

  “Well, shit. I can’t remember everything. Mason, I’m laying that blooper at your feet. Where the heck were you with your usual last minute heads up?”

  —o—

  “Since you wasn't at work, and you wasn't at home, we wondered where else could you be.”

  “You were right, Brother Al. This is his fuck pad.”

  “And look at the fuckable treat he brang us.”

  The Morans had tossed the remains of their Chinese picnic on Nick’s workbench. Empty cartons and beer bottles mingled with the receivers, barrels, and stocks of client's hunting rifles.

  The pair filled the same old folding aluminum lawn chairs Nick and Kat had recently occupied on the roof. The brother with the neck brace had a stun gun in one hand and a bottle of Tsingtao beer in the other. The one with the bloodshot eye held a pistol, and he waved it at Nick and Kat. “Join us.”

  Nick realized this was no longer a work assignment. They'd want some serious payback for their train ride to Baltimore. And while they were beating him senseless, Kat would get the drop on them with her Glock. He hoped.

  Kat had the right idea, but her timing was off. She unzipped the side pocket of her carryall, drew her Glock. “Drop it, asshole,” she said, and extended the weapon in the Weaver stance Nick had shown her during the first, and only lesson.

  Al grinned. “Or?”

  Kat had never come anywhere near this close to intentionally killing another creature, human or otherwise. Bugs didn't count. Dad had called it buck fever, said fewer than twenty percent of U.S. troops in World War Two fired their weapons in combat. Now she didn’t feel so bad.

  She felt even better when logic told her the reason for not putting a double tap in the fat fuck’s face was they needed him alive. To tell them where Liz was. She lowered the weapon. Maybe Nick had a plan, one he wasn't sharing.

  Ern surged to his feet, and took two surprisingly quick steps for such a big man. He hit Kat in the ribs with three million volts. Except it was the third use today, and the batteries were due for a session with the charger.

  It still held enough to juice to make Kat drop her Glock, which skittered under the workbench. She followed it to the concrete floor, lost her glasses, and writhed and swore enough to amuse the Morans.

  Nick grabbed Ern's chair, and swung for the fences. He connected with Al’s gun hand, and the pistol bounced off the far wall.

  The older Moran charged, and rammed his head into Nick’s gut. He flung his long arms around the shorter man, and they both went down, with Nick on top.

  Al grabbed his left wrist with his right hand, and jerked the joint of his thumb into Nick’s spine. The pain was just as electric and twice as agonizing as the jolt from the stun gun. Al began to squeeze. Nick’s lungs emptied; he knew he’d black out if he didn't act fast.

  He threw his head back, screamed. Al laughed. Nick slammed his head forward. The back of Al’s skull was on the concrete floor, with nowhere to go. Nick felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage, the iron bands relaxed, and he struggled free, scrambled to his feet.

  Blood gushed from Al’s nose. The head butt had reopened the cut above Nick’s eye, and fresh blood ran down his face.

  A good number of rules were set down by the Marquis of Queensbury. Outside the ring there is just one. Win.

  Round Two started with both men circling, and Al was suddenly at a disadvantage. Too many burgers and beers made him slow and winded. His broken nose made him a mouth breather.

  Nick called upon old memories. Father Ralph yelling, “Box, son, box. Use the ropes. Wear him down.” Here the ropes were well-worn benches, stools, steel-wheeled parts carts. Nick used them as his silent partners. He closed the bigger man’s bloodshot eye with a series of left jabs, then went to work on the other one with feints and right hooks.

  Sweat and blood ran in his eyes. He had learned early on taking a punch was as much a skill as giving one. He let Al have his hits. Played rope-a-dope. Tiring the bigger man as he expended his energy on Nick’s biceps, Nick’s ribs. He’d be sore tomorrow. If he was lucky; pain was nature’s way of saying you were still alive.

  Ern grabbed Kat's foot with his good arm as she crawled under the workbench, searching for her pistol. “Here, pussy pussy,” he laughed, dragging her out with one hand, and reaching down with the other to grab a handful of skirt. “Let's play skin the cat.”

  She brought her knee to her chin, and drove her spike heel into his shoulder. Ern roared in pain, and clutched the tender joint. Kat rolled away, scuttled back under the workbench. It was dark, and dirty, and where the hell was her gun?

  Al swore and flailed and cursed, making the street brawler’s mistake of getting mad. Nick grinned. In the ring you fought to the death, which came as the final bell. Then you touched gloves. Unless it had been a particularly brutal bout, in which case you hugged and went out for a beer afterward. Anger makes you stupid and stupid loses fights.

  The Cannon Works echoed with the din of battle. Sweat, blood and snot flew through the air. The old wooden stools and parts carts splintered under the impact of crashing bodies. Nick hadn’t felt this good in years. To hell with transcendental anger management.

  “Ern, where the fuck are you?” Now Al was using his fists for self defense, keeping his elbows close to his body, his hands parrying Nick’s punches as best he could.

  Nick saw the other brother, the one in the neck brace, searching for a weapon. If he grabbed a rifle barrel, even a walnut gunstock, the fight would be over in a hurry. Kat crawled back out, unarmed, darted away from Ern. Nick yelled, “Get my pistol out of the file cabinet. Top drawer.”

  Ern laughed again, grabbed the handle, and pulled. The air bag sent the steel drawer and fifty pounds of ammunition, money, and marijuana straight into his cervical collar.

  The hard plastic shattered, drove shards into his throat, crushing his larynx. He tore at the velcro closures, trying to get the thing off.

  The air bag explosion and his brother's awful strangling sounds distracted Al, and Nick put him down with a shot to the mandibular nerve. The Sweet Spot, the Glass Jaw. The Button. He bent over the supine figure, saw the charred steam-iron shape on his sleeve, and thought about his sister-in-law. Pay back is sweet.

  Nick wiped sweat from his eyes, touched his brow, examined his bloody fingers. He rolled Al over, slapped the man's own handcuffs on his wrist, fastened the other half to the cast iron base of a six hundred pound drill press. Took away Al’s handcuff key.

 
Both lawn chairs were ready for a trip to Mo’s scrap yard, so Nick sat on the floor, and leaned against the filing cabinet. Hundreds of rounds of .45 caliber and 9mm and 10mm ammunition littered the floor. The Kel-Tec and a Colt .45 Gold Cup were under the big bandsaw. He fished them out, dropped them in his lap.

  Kat found her glasses and her Glock, and crawled over beside him. “Smells like my college dorm.”

  Nick glanced at the cash and weed scattered across the floor. “Probably wasn’t a good place to stash my stash.”

  She examined his face. “Man, you look like hell.” His lip was swollen, his shirt was torn. Rivulets of blood, blended with sweat, painted a crimson display on his face, his neck. She kissed her finger, touched it to a raw scrape on his cheek.

  “You should see the other guy.” They both looked at Al, coming around now, cuffed to the big machine. “I think Ern got the worst of it.”

  “Did you realize he would open the drawer before I could?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “I guess not. There are some questions better left unanswered.”

  Nick rolled onto his hands and knees, struggled to his feet. He limped into the locker room, peeled off his shirt, used it to wash off the dirt and the sweat and the blood. He studied the results in the mirror.

  Kat helped him fashion a butterfly bandage out of toilet paper and duct tape, then kicked off her heels, and peeled off her pantyhose. She tossed the filthy and torn tights in the trash. “I didn't dress for combat this morning.”

  Nick grabbed a fresh Metro work shirt from a locker, and returned to the factory floor. He kicked Al in the ribs. “OK, asshole. Question time.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Gunnery Sergeant Talarico, recently retired after thirty years as top recruiter in the Marine Corps, watched a few of his latest recruits unload the busses at Camp Catoctin, in the mountains of western Maryland.

  He and his boss, Bearclaw founder Woodrow King, were enjoying a Dominican cigar and a splash of Kentucky as they kicked back in the Day Room of the HQ building.

  Due to faulty wiring by a nonunion subcontractor there were no lights, no power to the vending machines, or the satellite television. But the wall of double hung sash made it an excellent vantage point to observe the cadre of Bearclaw troopers overseeing the arrival of the first busload of senators and congressmen.

  Elected officials are notoriously averse to the touch of lesser mortals, unless they are the ones initiating the grip, the hug, the back slap. So there was a modest brouhaha as the black-clad troopers hurried the arrivals toward the parade ground. The word outrageous drifted in the open windows.

  FEMA’s architect had gone with a Stalag look; wooden barracks and historically accurate barbed wire atop a twelve foot barrier authenticated by the Chief Historian at the National Fence Museum.

  The buildings were rough-sawn yellow pine framing and clapboard siding, covered with two coats of lead-based white paint, imported from China.

  It was basically an old WWII Army camp; refurbished with more cost-plus dollars than starting anew would have run. But the patina of seventy years of G.I. misery? Priceless.

  Woody tilted his campaign hat low over his eyes against the afternoon sun, and twirled the waxed tips of his handlebar mustache. He wore a .50 cal Desert Eagle, of motion picture fame, in a Bianchi cross-draw shoulder rig. The weapon was a gift from the televangelist Brother Theodore, and the slide was engraved with Matthew 10:34 - Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.

  “Been cogitating on the insignia for our dress uniform,” he said. “I envision a silver bear claw on the collar points, and a simple crucifix as a tie clasp. Your thoughts, Gunny?”

  I think you’re a fuckin’ asshole. Gunny examined the glowing tip of his cigar, buying a moment. His voice was the throaty rumble of a flathead Ford with a bad muffler. “Sir, I’m just a simple old leatherneck, and them kind of decisions is way above my pay grade. Whatever you decide is fine with me. Just hand me a weapon, and point me toward the enemy. Anything else I leave to my betters.”

  “Well said, my friend.” The CEO of Bearclaw Security tipped his chair forward and stood. It made him uneasy, putting his five foot six frame beside Gunny’s six foot five, and he laid a hand on the Marine’s shoulder. “Keep your seat, old timer. Enjoy the fruits of your Herculean labors. You have assembled perhaps the finest private fighting force that ever walked the earth.

  “I’ll see myself out. The Gulfstream is standing by, ready to take me on to the other camps, for an inspection tour. I pray to our Lord and Savior they are half as ready for business as you have made Camp Catoctin.” He placed his glass on the pool table and the cigar in the butt can below the No Smoking sign. “See that the men have the opportunity to attend chapel this evening. They’ll need a bit of spiritual rejuvenation, after a hard day's work.”

  Woody left the Day Room. Gunny Talarico listened to his stacked heels clicking on the wooden floor. What these boys need, after putting up with your crap for three solid days, is a couple of kegs and a double dose of pussy.

  He followed the boss outside, and told his driver to fetch the Humvee. Time to head for HomSec’s DC HQ. He didn’t trust those pointy headed geeks and their political masters worth a shit.

  —o—

  “Better leave our arsenal in the truck. We don’t want to set off their metal detectors, wind up sharing a cell with Liz.” Nick opened the wrecker’s glove box.

  Kat said, “Back home the only metal detector is the gizmo Weird Willie uses to prospect for loose change at the park.”

  “You’re not in Kansas any more, Kiddo.”

  “Speaking of which, we can’t go in there with you looking like the Tin Man.” There was first aid kit in the glove box, and she replaced the duct tape and blood-soaked toilet paper with a proper bandage.

  “He’p you?”

  Nick glowered at the desk sergeant, a thirtyish woman weighed down by a utility belt festooned with gear. He wondered why she needed six pairs of handcuffs inside a police station.

  On their way here they’d driven past a long line of charter buses guarded by several dozen Bearclaw troopers dressed in vests and helmets, riot batons and plastic shields, with gas masks bouncing on their hips. Evidently someone was expecting something.

  “We’re looking for a young lady, Elizabeth Paloma, brought here by the FPS.”

  “Say what?”

  Kat pushed in front of Nick, before he went ballistic. She extended her ID lanyard across the countertop. “Department of Homeland Security. I'm Assistant Associate Deputy Director Sinclair. How about you get your shift supervisor, and I mean right now.”

  “What you lookin’ for is the Watch Commander. Ain’t no such thing as a shift supervisor. Bitch.”

  A second officer joined the conversation. “We have a problem here?”

  Nick took Kat’s arm and moved her aside. “Not unless you people want to have your personal vehicles towed to Blue Plains every day for the next month. My name’s Paloma, and I’m looking for my daughter. The FPS brought her here this afternoon, and if I don’t get some satisfaction in the next ten seconds, then I’m going to do an I’ll be back into this lobby with the wrecker you see parked at the curb.”

  “Will somebody please take care of this gentleman?”

  Back in the Watch Commander’s office they finally determined that yes indeed, a young lady, looked to be about fifteen, like the gentleman said, was dragged in by a couple of FPS Special Agents. Big-ass dudes; one of them all tricked up in a neck brace. No, she wasn’t booked, no, there wasn’t no paperwork. Girl was stoned out of her mind, should have been took to the ER.

  Last time anyone seen the girl, she was in the holding pen with the afternoon ho sweep. Maybe she’d been bailed out by the usual pimps.

  No, it wasn’t that, because the usual pimps come by with their bail bondsmen, and their ladies wasn’t here. Some kind of crazy-ass soldiers had came by earlie
r, with this big dude they called Granny? Showed us their weapons, way bigger and more plentiful than what we carry, and signed off on the whole cage. Took them away in a school bus. Now where was it they says they was goin’?

  Camp Catoctin. For some troop entertainment. I guess you can figure what that means. No, I have no idea of what Camp Catoctin is. Or where it’s at. Man, there’s some loopy shit goin’ down today. Y’all hear the President says we been invaded by aliens? I expect Mister Will Smith be kickin’ their asses back to whatever planet they come from.”

  They left the police station and sat in the wrecker. Nick stared through the windshield at the nearly empty street. Not the Chinatown he knew. “I never heard of Camp Catoctin.”

  Kat fished her iPhone from her carryall. “Huh. Neither has Google.”

  “Isn’t it unusual for something not to pop up in the search engines?”

  “Highly.” Her thumbs flew across the keys. “I learned all about a secret NSA site in Utah yesterday, on Wikipedia. Very Orwellian.” She turned the screen toward Nick.

  He ignored her phone, continued to stare at the street. It was more than gas prices keeping the crowds down. Even foot traffic was sparse. “Orwellian. Some pigs are more equal than others?”

  “Yep. But I think 1984 is the one we ought to be afraid of. Last few days I’ve come to realize Big Brother is alive and thriving as HomSec.” She clutched her carryall to her chest. “Speaking of which, it’s pretty obvious this Camp Catoctin is yet another government secret. If I could access our computers I could find it.”

  “Well then, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “How do we get into the building?”

  “We'll go back to the Cannon Works, grab Brother Al, and use him to get us to Five.”

  “You think he’ll go along with this plan?”

  “I can be a pretty persuasive guy.”