The Wolves Within

by David Lucin

  After navigating the forest for a few more minutes, he could make out the shape of the compound through the trees. It was a single-story warehouse building and not particularly large, but Dad chose it because an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire enclosed the entire property. Why did a party rentals and supplies company need such heavy-duty security? Maybe it used to house goods more valuable than balloons and folding chairs before Peak Party took over.

  The front gate was on the west side, at the entrance to a parking lot. As Philip approached, a voice called out, “Philly? Philly, is that you?”

  On the inside of the fence stood James McIntyre, a thick man with a shaved head and a long, wild beard. He reminded Philip of a biker but without the leather. Like Esteban, he joined CFF after the bombs. Prior to that, he worked as a security guard at the Go Market. On the day after, when the store was looted, he took a blow to the skull that knocked him unconscious. He claimed he was trying to defend the place, but Philip always had his doubts. He knew McIntyre’s type: wannabe tough guys who relied on their size, nothing more, to intimidate others. More likely, McIntyre had stolen food and was clocked by a cop’s nightstick.

  Philip had never liked him. Since they first met, McIntyre swooned over Philip to the point that it was embarrassing. At every opportunity, he would ask Philip about what he did in Phoenix. Philip was tempted to recount the stories in all their gruesome detail, if only to see McIntyre squirm, but the guy wasn’t worth the time. Today, however, he had no reservations about exploiting McIntyre’s weird fascination with him. He needed all the allies he could get.

  McIntyre wore a wide grin. “We heard what happened,” he said and fumbled with a set of keys. “Thought you were a goner, my dude. It’s nice to see you in one piece. You all good?”

  The question caught Philip off guard. He had expected to be grilled on the details of his escape or why it took him so long to come back to the compound. Since Sophie confirmed that the plan was a go, he’d been rehearsing his story: It was crazy. They had dogs chasing me, so I just ran. I got away but was all turned around in the dark and had to wait until sunrise before I started walking. By then, I was way in the wrong direction and in the middle of nowhere. Believable enough, he figured.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” he said. “Little shaken up, but you know how it is.”

  “I hear you.” McIntyre released a padlock and rolled open the gate. “Your dad will be happy to see you. He’s inside. Oh, and hey.” He put an arm out to stop Philip, whose heart skipped a beat. But the guy winked and finished with, “Getting the mayor? Yeah, that went off without a hitch. Mostly. Her bodyguard got in the way, so we had to, well . . .” He formed his fingers into the shape of a pistol.

  Listening to McIntyre speak so casually about the bloodbath at the farm and killing the mayor’s bodyguard made Philip want to land a blow to his ribs, but he had to play along and pretend that he knew about Dad’s plan to capture Andrews.

  “She’s in there, too?” Philip asked.

  “And the hubby, yeah. You shoulda seen their faces.”

  Philip repressed yet another urge, this one even stronger, to forcefully put McIntyre on the ground. He was a few inches shorter and probably twenty pounds lighter, but he doubted McIntyre knew how to handle himself in a fistfight. “Anyone else come back from the farm?”

  “Other than you, just Felix.” McIntyre locked the gate and continued forward. “Just him showed up at the rendezvous point. Your dad told me to bring him here.”

  Philip trailed a few steps behind, wanting to learn as much as he could before heading inside. Luckily, McIntyre was running his mouth, as usual, and didn’t seem at all curious about why Philip was asking so many questions. “Just him? I figured more would’ve made it out than that.”

  McIntyre showed a palm and shrugged. “Maybe they did and got lost like you.” His expression darkened. “Or maybe they ran. Your dad’s calling them traitors if they don’t come back. He’s hopping mad about it, my dude. Hopefully seeing you will calm him down a bit.”

  Philip’s chest tightened. No doubt most of the survivors had simply gone home to hide. Why wouldn’t they? There’d be no evidence that they were ever involved, unless someone gave up their names. Yet Philip worried that Dad would suspect him. McIntyre hadn’t batted an eye at his return, but Dad was a lot smarter. In his mind, Philip rehearsed his story again, searching for plot holes and inconsistencies. He found none, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  McIntyre climbed the steps to the front door, which led to an office section before the warehouse itself, and opened it for Philip. “Everyone’s inside. I’ll radio ahead and tell them you’re coming.”

  “Esteban’s here?” Philip asked.

  “Where else would he be? Guy’s like your dad’s shadow.”

  Philip feigned a chuckle. “Yeah, he is.”

  He made to step through the doorway, but McIntyre held out a friendly hand. “It’s good to see you, my dude. I was thinking you were a goner.”

  As jovially as he could without coming off as insincere, Philip slapped McIntyre’s hand and then shook it, hoping the man would back him. Yet from the way McIntyre spoke about kidnapping the mayor and her husband, almost with glee, as though this was some kind of game with no consequences, Philip feared that he wouldn’t have the guts to do the right thing. Then again, “right thing” meant little to people like McIntyre.

  “It’s good to be back,” Philip lied, then went inside.

  The office section was dark; when CFF first moved in, many of the windows were already boarded up, and to preserve the appearance that this place was abandoned, all was left unchanged. Philip wished they had done something about the smell, though. Wet and pungent, like an animal was rotting behind the drywall, it always made him gag.

  He strode down the short hall, passing reception, the bathroom, and the offices. In them were blow-up mattresses with blankets. He saw his father’s suitcase in the office farthest from the main entrance. At the door to the warehouse, he paused, rehearsed his story one last time, and then knocked with his knuckles.

  Esteban pulled it inward, beaming upon seeing Philip. “McIntyre told us you were here. Happy to see you safe, sir.”

  Good start. As much as Philip would like to talk Dad down and convince him to surrender, he knew that his best chance of success lay with Esteban. “Long walk back,” Philip said, planting the seed of his story, hopefully loud enough that his father would overhear, wherever he was. “But I made it. Ophelia okay?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s safe at home with her mom. Thanks for asking.”

  “We’ll have to bring her out to the ranch again when this is all over.”

  Anguish colored Esteban’s stiff smile. “I’m sure she’d like that.”

  They shared a knowing look. Or at least Philip thought it was knowing. Esteban couldn’t have figured out why Philip was here, could he? He was probably only touched that Philip cared to ask about his daughter. Regardless, he was more confident than ever that Esteban would back him, though he tried not to read too much into the man’s body language.

  Stepping aside, Esteban invited him in. Immediately, Felix, a black-haired twenty-two-year-old with thin lips and coin-slot nostrils, blocked his way and exclaimed, “You’re here!” The knees of his jeans were covered in dirt, as were his cheeks. “I . . .” he stuttered. “I thought I was the only one.”

  “Not the only one,” Philip said and noticed the Glock on Felix’s hip. Esteban was wearing his revolver.

  When Felix offered his hand for a shake, his entire arm trembled. The poor kid was still in shock. Before the bombs, he was a chemistry student at the university. Home was Orlando, Florida. Stranded here with no family or friends, he’d sought a place where he could survive. Somehow, he stumbled upon the ranch. Dad took him in, had Rachel teach him how to shoot, and sent him out on guard duty with the promise of extra rations for every shift he worked. As far as Philip knew, he hadn’t taken a day off in si
x weeks. He brought Felix to the farm because the guy was a good worker and did what he was told without asking too many questions. The battle had clearly exacted a toll on him.

  So instead of shaking Felix’s hand, he took him into a quick man hug. Felix held on for a little longer than Philip was comfortable with, but after the hell they’d both been through, he didn’t mind. Showing Felix some support might also encourage him to throw his weight behind Philip if the talk with Dad went south.

  Esteban led Felix aside, and Philip took in the room. Light streamed in from small windows set into the top of each of the three loading bay doors. Near the far wall, back to back and tied to chairs as Philip had been at the Beaumonts’ house, were the mayor and her husband. Duct tape covered their mouths. Both had silvery gray hair, and glasses sat on the end of the husband’s nose. Two guards—Alisha and Isaac, siblings in their late-twenties—lurked nearby, handguns holstered on their belts. They were eerily similar, almost like twins, with their square faces and deep eye sockets. Both were long-time ranch workers who joined the security staff after the bombs. Philip rarely interacted with them, but they were die-hard CFF. Alisha practically begged Dad to let her go to the protests, but smartly, he didn’t want anyone associated with CFF or the ranch to be seen there.

  “Son?”

  Dad sat alone on a couch pushed up against a loading bay door. On the nearby plastic table stood an almost-empty bottle of scotch whiskey. Seeing the man made Philip’s skin itch. More and more he blamed Dad for Rachel’s death. For Valeria Flores’s, too. Philip might have pulled the trigger, but his father had given the order.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He burst from the couch more quickly than Philip had ever seen him move. On wobbly, perhaps drunken legs, he strode forward. Then, to Philip’s shock, Dad wrapped him into a hug.

  Stone still, Philip didn’t know what to do. A few days ago, he would have cherished this moment—Dad finally acting like a parent who loved his son. But now he could barely tolerate being in the same room. So he awkwardly patted his father’s back with one hand.

  Dad released himself from the embrace and nearly stumbled. The stench of liquor was strong, and Philip wondered if his father had spent the night drinking. “My God, it really is you,” Dad said, slurring a little. “I feared you were dead.”

  He spoke with a sincerity that Philip hadn’t heard since he moved to Phoenix. Yet he didn’t question his resolve. He wanted to blurt out what he came here to say—that CFF was finished and that Dad’s best course of action was to turn himself in to the police—but forcing the point was dangerous; if his father was pushed too hard, he might grow suspicious. So Philip played along for the moment. “I got out. Hid in the woods overnight.”

  “You must be exhausted.” Dad gestured toward a fold-out plastic table, around which were four chairs. “Come, sit.”

  Philip followed him while Esteban and Felix hung back. Andrews remained motionless, her head slumped to her chest, asleep. Without moving or making a noise, her husband watched Philip closely. Alisha and Isaac had not budged. Philip offered them short nods. Curtly, and with frowns, they nodded in return.

  As Philip laid his empty AR on the table and took the nearest chair, Dad retrieved his bottle from the couches near the bay doors. “Another glass,” he said as he sat beside Philip. “Another glass for my son, please.”

  “Dad, you know I don’t—”

  “Nonsense,” Dad slurred, his pupils almost pointing in different directions. He hadn’t shaved in days, and a stain adorned the collar of his button-up. “We’re celebrating today. One drink won’t hurt, will it?”

  Philip couldn’t imagine what Dad would be celebrating, but he wasn’t going to blow this whole operation over a sip or two of booze. He had to gently nudge Dad toward surrendering and maybe even trick him into thinking it was his idea all along. A tall order, but establishing trust was a necessary first step. “Sure, why not? Thanks.”

  Dad waved a hand. Alisha sprouted into action and fetched a red plastic cup from a table beside a water cooler. She didn’t acknowledge Philip when she set it down in front of him, but she did notice the AR.

  “This will have to do,” Dad said about the red cup, then popped the cork on his bottle. He poured two liberal dashes into Philip’s cup and emptied the remainder into his own glass, which he then lifted before adding, “To your mother. Finally, those who wronged her will pay for what they’ve done.”

  Dad took a large swig. When Philip brought his cup to his lips, he nearly retched at the smell. After the first sip, immediately, his mouth began watering, but in the bad way, like it was desperately trying to expel what he’d consumed.

  “You can’t begin to understand how much it means to me that you’re okay,” Dad said and had another sip—no, gulp. “Rachel, did she . . .”

  “She didn’t make it,” Philip croaked and saw her body outside the steps of the Beaumonts’ house.

  Dad’s chin fell, and for a second, Philip thought he might pass out. When he lifted his head, his glass went into the air once more. “To Rachel, then. Your mother would have been proud of her.”

  A flash of anger stung Philip like a hornet, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Proud? Proud how?”

  Fortunately, Dad took no offense. “For making the ultimate sacrifice, of course. For her devotion to the cause.”

  Philip wanted to shout, She’s dead because of your cause, but he managed to bite his tongue. Instead, he gestured to Andrews and her husband with his cup. “I’m surprised you kept me out of the loop about them and what you had planned.”

  “I apologize if I offended you, son, but I didn’t want you to feel . . . overwhelmed, I should say, considering the task I had already assigned to you.”

  The way he stretched out “overwhelmed” made it sound like he thought Philip was dimwitted. His frustration was beginning to simmer. “What’s the plan for them?”

  Dad set his drink down and leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t decided yet. They represent important leverage over the police.”

  “Leverage how?”

  “That remains to be seen. But rest assured, Andrews knows your mother’s name, and she’s expressed remorse for what she did to hurt her, though I have my doubts about how genuine it is.”

  Philip’s gaze flitted to the woman. She was still asleep. From this far away, he couldn’t tell if she’d been injured. Dad didn’t intend to torture her, did he? Did the man have that level of cruelty in him?

  “Son,” Dad said, a familiar twinge of condescension in his tone. “You needn’t worry. Everything is going according to plan.”

  An image of Rachel, blood on her face and more on her shirt, brought his frustration to a boiling point. “According to plan?” he snapped. He should shut his mouth and be more diplomatic, but he felt compelled to rush to his friend’s defense. “Was Rachel dying part of the plan? You were like a second father to her, and now she’s gone.”

  Dad sat still for a moment, wide-eyed, his wedding ring clinking on his glass. “She understood the risks of walking this path with us, perhaps more than anyone. If she were here, she would be the first to warn you about the perils of wavering in your commitment. You must remain focused, or else all is lost.”

  “We’ve already lost!” Philip nearly shouted. “Are you listening to yourself? How are you not seeing that it’s over? CFF’s done. We’re done. You snatched the mayor, but so what? You think you can give her over to the police in return for her job? Is that what you’re trying to do?” He threw a hand toward Alisha and Isaac. “All you’ve got left is here in this room. How are you going to take on the cops with that, huh? Not to mention Sophie Beaumont.”

  When Dad worked his jaw, Philip recognized his mistake; he shouldn’t have mentioned Sophie, the Griersons’ nemesis, but Dad needed to hear this. For too long he had surrounded himself with yes men. Philip used to be one of them. Not anymore.

  “Look,” Philip said, trying to keep his voice low and re
spectful but suspecting that he was failing, “I know you think what you’re doing is right for Flagstaff, and nobody’s doubting that you have our best interests at heart, but none of this will bring mom back. I wish it would, but it won’t, and she wouldn’t have wanted this. Dad, Rachel’s dead. Livingston, too. Six people died at the farm last night. How many more are going to die in her name? One was too many. But it’s not too late. We can turn ourselves in with the mayor and call this off before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Face red, the vein on his neck bulging, Dad regarded him for a long moment. Then he pushed his chair a foot away from Philip’s. When he spoke, he did so with clarity and deliberateness, as if he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. “You disappoint me, son. You’ve always disappointed me. Ever since you were younger. You never had the work ethic. No wonder you couldn’t make it through your first year of post-secondary.”

  He ran his tongue over his lips, then stared down his nose at Philip and added, “You shamed us with who you turned out to be. Armed robbery.” He grunted a half-laugh. “My son. A criminal. All the while, your sister was at the top of her class, then fighting for her country. What have you given the world? Nothing. You took and you took. It nearly cost this family everything to have your sentence reduced. If it was up to me, you would have done the full ten years. The only reason you are here today is because your mother threatened to leave me if I didn’t agree to cough up the necessary funds.”

  The admission hit Philip like buckshot to the chest. “You’re lying,” he countered, knowing in his heart that his father was telling the truth. “Mom told me—”

  “I can assure you, son, whatever she said was to make you feel better. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish you had died instead of your sister.”

  Philip was woozy, and his head spun. He tried to defend himself, but his mind couldn’t put the words in the right order. So he sat there, stunned, unable to move or speak.