by John Cutter
May as well cut to the chase, Vince thought. He took a grenade and a flashbang from his belt.
Stationing himself close against the oak, he pulled the pin on the flashbang, looked around the trunk of the tree — and tossed the flashbang through a gap in the foliage.
He’d put enough force in the throw to get it to the group of men at the door. He heard the crack-whuff of the pyrotechnic going off and caught the strobe of sudden intense white light from the corner of his eye. The men yelled, Gustafson loudest, as Vince pulled the pin on the fragmentation grenade, stepped out from the tree trunk, and threw it at the men stumbling around, cursing and clutching their eyes. He noticed Gustafson running clumsily back to the open front door. The three professionals — Chaz, Dusty and Henry — had enough experience to rush after Gustafson. The frag grenade exploded and the other three men shrieked as the shrapnel sliced through them. The explosion blew out the back tires of the Humvee and started a fire on its oily underside…
Vince was already drawing his Desert Eagle and — not wanting to be framed against the driveway — he forced his way through the brush to the left of the door. Branches stung his cheeks; thorns raked his knuckles. Then he was through, onto the lawn — just as the window to the left of the door shattered. An assault rifle burst, fired through the window, sliced by on his right — the shooter’s eyesight was still somewhat compromised or Vince might well be dying right now.
Vince dodged right, sprinting hard to put the Humvee between himself and the house. He saw three men sprawled on the ground, two quite motionless, the third — Gunny Hansen--trying to crawl away. Probably dying.
The flames were licking up the heavy vehicle’s chassis now, and smoke was billowing. Good cover. But the damn thing might blow up in his face in a second.
He kept running, bullets cracking behind him, toward the corner of the house. He saw a face in a window on the right side of the door and fired the Desert Eagle at it. The face vanished.
Did he hit the guy? Unlikely.
He got to the corner of the house, decided that outnumbered, he couldn’t creep slowly along — they’d use the time to catch him between them.
So he kept sprinting, jumping over a garden bench, then a short hedge, coming around to the back yard. A landscaped garden stretched between him and a broad wooden porch that looked out on a small valley behind the house. Beyond the valley a slope rose up to join a steep wooded hill.
There were lounge chairs on the porch. On his left was a long window and he was relieved to see the curtains closed. He ducked under it, moved as quickly forward as he could in that awkward hunched-over position, past the windows. He straightened up just as a burly man stepped onto the porch, rifle in hand. The gunman had a buzzcut. Henry.
He and Vince saw one another at the same moment, but Vince’s pistol was already leveled, while Henry’s rifle wasn’t raised to firing position yet. Vince had gotten here faster than Henry had expected — but Henry was wearing a Kevlar Vest.
Vince didn’t let that stop him from firing at Henry’s center-mass. The Desert Eagle boomed and the heavy .50 round knocked the militiaman off his feet. Vince doubted the bullet had penetrated the armor but now, crouching down again, Vince could see Henry sprawled under the middle railing of the porch. There was a space under the plank and the deck, and there was Henry, groaning, getting up to a sitting position, firing sloppily. The rifle bullets tore through the middle plank and cracked over Vince’s head.
Vince was aiming right between Henry’s outstretched legs. “Sorry, Henry,” he said, as he squeezed the trigger.
Henry screamed as the .50 smashed into his groin, the powerful bullet wreaking havoc, shattering not only genitals but arteries and major veins.
Vince threw himself down as Henry, shrieking curses, chewed up the railing with the rest of his clip.
There was a click as the rifle came up empty and a sob from Henry as Vince stood up, took careful aim, and shot Henry through the head.
Taking a deep breath, Vince rushed to the wall between the window and the porch — as he expected, the window shattered as bullets sprayed through it. Broken glass flew past. The gunfire had brought Henry some back-up.
Vince had four rounds left in the pistol and not enough time to reload — not with two experienced soldiers hunting him. He clambered quickly over the porch railing and flattened against the wall.
Where would Chaz and Dusty go now? Probably one would be trying to keep his attention while the other flanked him.
Heart banging away, Vince looked to his right, back at the northern corner of the house. No one visible yet. He heard footsteps inside, someone moving from the window to the door onto the porch. The window on his right was broken, its curtain tattered. He leaned out a little, glanced through it. Saw no one.
Vince took the second flashbang from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the break in the window. The noise of its falling might make the shooter by the door look toward it.
Crack-whuff, the peripheral burst of light, and a man shouted, “Bloody Hell!” Chaz.
Vince turned toward the door — bullets smashed the glass of the big window beside the porch as Chaz, blinded but trying to keep Vince at bay, fired his rifle. Vince rushed to the door and fired through its broken window at the Brit. Chaz’s head jerked and he staggered back.
Vince didn’t see him fall because he had to throw himself to the left as bullets from the corner of the house cut past him. Vince hit the deck hard, rolled, got to one knee with the stone porch pillar between him and Dusty.
Luckily for Vince, Dusty Folkson was Blackwater-trained; just private “army”, not as professional as the other two, and not as good a shot.
Vince heard the man’s running feet — he was sprinting toward the porch, counting on the porch pillar to cover him.
He’ll have his gun tilted toward the house, Vince thought, thinking of me being likely to shoot at him from up on the porch.
So Vince got up and jumped off the porch, turning in the air, landing and awkwardly trying to aim as Dusty got up on his feet. Vince fired, twice. And both times, firing off balance — he missed.
Dusty turned, spraying with the AR-15 burst setting as he came, and Vince had only one bullet left in the Desert Eagle. As the bullets zinged off flagstones to his right, Vince let his professional calmness settle over him, and he aimed carefully — and blew a trench through the middle of Dusty’s forehead.
Dusty went to his knees, twitched, and fell on his face.
Vince stood there a few seconds, getting his breath, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Then he heard a creak, a noise from the room on the other side of the window, turned to see Gustafson raising a Glock to fire at him through the window. Vince spun and threw himself at the foot of the porch, the Glock cracking as he went.
He hit the ground hard and gasped for air as he got to his feet. He rushed up the steps to the wall beside the door, holstering the Desert Eagle and unsheathing the knife.
“You Judas to all that is holy!” Gustafson bellowed, rushing up to the door and firing through. The General had the wrong idea of where Vince was.
Knife in hand, Vince edged closer to the doorframe. He looked down and saw a large shard of glass from the door lying on the deck. He reached, picked it up, and tossed it toward the big shrub close to the stone walkway, from the porch steps.
The glass tinkled there, and Gustafson thrust his arm through the door’s broken window, extending the Glock to fire at the shrub.
Vince swung the knife hard and fast so the blade pierced to the hilt through Gustafson’s extended arm, cutting between the radius and ulna. The General screamed as blood spurted from his arm and Vince twisted the knife so that Gustafson would lose control of his hand.
The gun fell from his twitching fingers.
Vince withdrew the knife and Gustafson wrenched his arm back into the house. Vince used the toe of his boot to pull the gun toward him — he wasn’t sure that Gustafson didn’t ha
ve a second gun. He wiped the combat knife on his belt and sheathed it, picked up the Glock, hearing Gustafson’s retreating footsteps. No time to load the Desert Eagle.
Stepping to the door, Vince saw Gustafson running crookedly past Chaz Prosser’s body. He was heading toward a doorway, clutching his arm and sobbing.
Vince opened the door and stepped through, striding after Gustafson.
“Herr Professor!” Vince yelled. “Where you going? You wanted firepower — I got some for you! Come on back and take down the Judas!”
Vince got to the doorway, saw Gustafson running through a sort of parlor and through another door.
Vince followed and saw Gustafson running out onto the front porch. Raoul Gustafson stumbled on the stairs and fell on the ground between the porch and the burning Humvee, yelling with pain as he hit his wounded arm on the ground. He writhed about, cursing, then got awkwardly to his feet and started past the car, coughing from the smoke. He walked past the body of Gunny Hansen, not even glancing down.
“Herr Oberstgeneral!” Vince shouted in his freshman German.
“Achtung! Stop or I’ll shoot you in der hintern!”
The General staggered onward.
Vince followed him out to the driveway and then fired the Glock in the ground between Gustafson’s feet.
Swaying, the General stopped in mid-stride. Then he turned to Vince, composing his face for dignity, raising his chin. “I officially surrender to you!” he said. The light from the burning car played on his face, red as hell-flames.
“Do you really?” Vince said, stopping about ten feet away.
“You must take me prisoner,” Gustafson said. “And turn me over to the authorities! You are a professional soldier. You are a man of conscience. You cannot shoot down an unarmed man.”
“I can’t?”
“Certainly not.”
Vince chuckled. “Herr General — if the people your thugs murdered at the Lincoln Memorial had put up their arms and asked to surrender, what would have happened to them? Would your men have spared them?” He shook his head. “You know, one of the dead was a minister with four children. He was a veteran. Another one was a young woman right out of medical school. She was going to be an oncologist. She’s dead now. And you tortured a friend of mine. And you’re telling me I have to let you live? Fuck you. Raoul Gustafson, I sentence you to death for treason against the United States of America.” He aimed the gun at Gustafson’s belly.
Gustafson’s eyes widened. “No — you’re a civilized man!”
“I’ll do this much for you,” said Vince. “I’ll give you this guy! And you can then — be armed.”
“What?” Gustafson blinked at him, frowning, as if he hadn’t heard right.
Vince took two long steps forward — and then tossed the Glock pistol at Gustafson’s feet. “Go on, Raoul. It’s loaded. Pick it up.”
Gustafson stared — and then sneered. “Truly — you slaves of the Jews are imbeciles!”
He reached down, scooped up the gun…as Vince unsheathed his combat knife, stepped in close — intimately close — and stabbed it expertly between two ribs over Raoul Gustafson’s heart.
The Glock fired as Gustafson convulsively squeezed the trigger, the bullet smacking into the gravel behind Vince…
Whimpering, Gustafson stared into Vince’s eyes.
“Gustafson,” Vince said, “you’re about to find out that Hell is real.”
The leader of the Germanic Brethren slumped, his eyes glazing over.
Vince let him drop, tugging the knife free. He wiped the blade on the dead man’s body and sheathed it. He stepped over the body and kept walking, heading down the driveway to Greenville Road. Dutch was waiting for him in his truck, down at a turn-out on the highway.
Vince kept walking, emotionally drained, shaking a little as a light, cooling rain began to fall.
Then he saw headlights coming…
He stepped off the road and hid in the brush. A motorcade of federal cars arrived — and drove right past him. They hadn’t seen him, it seemed. There was a black Crown Vic, two SWAT vans, and two other sedans. They swept on up the road.
What they found there should keep them busy for a while…
Vince returned to the road and continued on his way. The walk down to the highway seemed to take no time at all. His mind was lost in thoughts of Chris Destry and the dead at the Lincoln Memorial, and all the lies told on the internet.
And Deirdre…
*
A gray day in early November.
Vince rode the old trail-bike up into the nearly empty parking lot alongside the park. There was only one car there. A black Crown Vic.
So they’re letting her drive the company vehicles, he thought. Things couldn’t be too bad.
He parked the bike, pocketed the keys, and took off his motorcycle helmet. It was one of those black helmets with a tinted visor completely covering the rider’s face. He could see her on a concrete bench overlooking the Potomac River. She was just sitting there, alone.
Any chance, he wondered, the feds were in the bushes, somewhere, watching. Was this a set-up? Would she do that to him?
No. She wouldn’t.
Carrying the helmet, he crossed the broad swathe of grass, up to the asphalt walk.
Deirdre glanced over at him, damp wind fluttering her blond hair. He saw an inch of her natural brunette hair showing. She smiled wanly at him.
“You’re letting your hair grow out natural,” he said.
“I just dyed it for the Brethren,” she said. She glanced behind at the parking lot. “You weren’t followed?”
“Nope.” He patted the visor of the helmet. “Got a cool disguise.”
“So I see. Nice. You look like the bad guys in a Bond movie with that thing. Have a seat.”
He sat beside her. The river smelled a bit rank. But she smelled like lavender soap. “How are they treating you, Agent Corlin?”
“I am not currently under arrest. I’m not supposed to leave the area. Probably coming over to Alexandria was against the rules. But I’m going right back.”
“Politics involved?”
“An astute question. It’s all about the politics. In a way, we’re thought of as heroes — except for on certain conspiracy theory websites, where the Russian operatives are claiming that we were going to attack the crowd and the Brethren were going to stop us. And we were the ones who actually shot the people in the crowd and…”
He snorted and shook his head. Pushed the anger down. “The internet is about two-thirds babble.”
“Almost no one takes these people seriously. But — I broke the rules. I’ll at least be suspended. Probably have to resign. Might even do time — but actually I understand that if I’m convicted of helping a vigilante kill people, the president is going to pardon me and maybe even a certain Vincent Bellator, former Army Ranger.”
“I’m not holding my breath.” After a moment he added, “I did warn you, Deirdre…”
“I know you did.”
They didn’t speak for a minute. Both of them gazed at the syrupy flow of the Potomac. Then he prompted, “About Angel Lopez…”
She nodded. “I called a friend at the DEA. Lopez is now in the USA. He’s chief of an Arizona branch of the cartel. Pushing meth and heroin. He’s working with a guy named Danny Korski. This Korski is American-born Russian mafia. He’s overseeing some kind of experimental partnership between the cartels and the Russian mob. He’s got a small army around him.”
“I see. Where in Arizona?”
“Kingman. But listen — you don’t have to go there and try to kill this Lopez.”
“He ordered the chopper to fire the missile.”
“What missile?”
“The one that killed Chris Destry. And he’s a major dirtbag. It’ll be no loss to the world.”
“No one will weep for Angel Lopez. But Vince — if you don’t turn yourself in and let the process play out… you’ll be a fugitive.”
He s
hrugged. “I’m aware.”
“Come back with me, Vince. We’ll go into the Bureau together. You can surrender to Richie. Maybe get that pardon. You’ll be treated with respect. Probably get an ankle bracelet but…”
Vince shook his head. “Cannot do it. This isn’t finished yet.”
“Listen…”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m feeling like things are going to work out for you. I feel good about that. But I don’t feel like they’d work out for me. And I need to take care of this. I promised Chris when I buried his hand.”
“You did what?”
“His hand got shot off and I promised him I’d bury it under the cabin porch and… it’s a long story, Deirdre.”
“Vince.” She reached out and put her hand on his. “Come with me. We’ll take good care of you.”
He turned his hand over and clasped hers, gave it a gentle squeeze. Then he let go of it and stood up. “I can’t. But I hope to God I live to see you again.”
She stood up, put her hands on his face, stood on tiptoe — and kissed him. It was a short kiss but it lit him up inside.
He stepped back, suddenly breathing hard. “That’s not fair.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying. Anyway — I promised myself I’d kiss you at least once.”
He smiled and turned away while he still could. He strode quickly across the grass, putting on the helmet as he went.
He almost went back to her when he was nearly at the motorcycle. But — he’d promised Chris, when he’d buried his hand…
Vince got on the Harley, started it up, swung it around and rode away from the park.
He headed down the access road, a half mile, to where the big Kenworth truck was waiting for him. Dutch stood by the ramp at the rear of the trailer, beside the open rear doors.
Vince slowed, and then rode up the ramp, right up into the empty space, just big enough for the Harley, behind the boxes of wide-screen TVs. He turned off the engine, made sure the bike was secured in place, and then went down the ramp.
“She confirmed it — Lopez is in Arizona,” he said.
He helped put the ramp up, and they walked up to the tractor-cab. They both climbed in, Dutch getting into the driver’s seat.