Won't Back Down

by J. D. Rhoades

  The sharp report of a gunshot. The sound of shattering glass. The sudden turn of the woman’s gaze away from him. In his dazed state, Keller has trouble putting all those things together. Then the woman’s weight is off him. He slowly rises to a sitting position and turns his head.

  Ben Jones is standing a few feet away, a pistol clenched in his hands, pointed at the woman who’d been about to plunge the knife into Keller. His hands are shaking so badly that Keller can see it, even through the haze of pain.

  “Ben,” he croaks.

  Ben ignores him. “Put the knife down.” The trembling in his voice matches the shaking of his hands.

  The woman smiles as if she’s been given an unexpected present. “Please, boy,” she says. “You missed once. You should not have missed when coming against such as us.” She calls back over her shoulder. Keller doesn’t know what she’s saying, but the lack of answer makes her look uncertain for the first time. She dares a look back over her shoulder. There’s no one there.

  Keller slowly gets to his feet. “Your sister’s not there. Don’t know where she’s gone, but right now, lady, it looks like you’re outnumbered. Maybe we should just end this now.”

  The uncertain look vanishes, replaced by a wolfish smile. “I don’t agree. I don’t think the boy will be able to kill me. At least before I kill you. And then I will take the gun he doesn’t know how to use and make him watch while I gut his mother and little brother like pigs.” She advances on Keller, smiling that ghastly smile, as she shifts the knife from hand to hand. Keller knows the machine gun is lying on the porch behind him. He could turn and dive for it, but the woman, fast as she is, would be on him like a cat. His only hope for survival is for Ben to take and make the shot. To become a killer. Before he’s fully considered that, he’s charging at the knife.

  The woman’s smile widens, then disappears in a spray of blood as the round Ben Jones fires takes her lower jaw off. She stops, stunned, and turns toward Ben, her ruined face spraying blood onto the wooden slats of the porch. His next shot misses again, but the third one strikes home, hitting the woman square of the middle of her forehead and knocking her backward against the side of the house. She stands for a moment, then slides to the floor of the porch.

  Keller bows his head. He hears the boy walk up onto the porch next to him and raises his gaze.

  Ben is looking at the woman he’s just killed. His face is calm, and that calm breaks Keller’s heart. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, looks around. “Hey,” he says, nodding to the truck. “There’s a fire over there.”

  Keller turns to look. The flashbang explosion has ignited a fire inside the footlocker full of money. He sees the glow of the flames, and from time to time, a piece of burning paper flutters out, the flame sputtering and dying on the wind.

  “Let it burn,” Keller says. “Just let it burn.”

  Ben nods, then turns to Keller. “Where’s my mom?”

  ONE HUNDRED-

  THIRTY-TWO

  The moment the woman Marie’s come to call The Silent One runs to the door to see what’s happened to her sister, Marie is moving. She rushes into Francis’s bedroom, scoops the boy’s recumbent form off his bed, and throws him over her shoulder, moving quickly out through the living room. She’s into the kitchen and pulling on the back door when she hears the woman with the scarred mouth scream in anger. Marie sobs in terror, yanks the door open, and plunges into the darkness. She runs through the small backyard, then down the hillside, headed for the old barn. Behind her, she hears the inarticulate scream of the woman, then a burst of gunfire that whistles off into nowhere but makes the back muscles between her shoulder blades clench up in anticipation of the bullet. She reaches the barn and stops to look behind her. A dark figure is coming behind her, rushing through the night like a vengeful spirit. Marie sobs and pulls the door open.

  Inside, she can barely see her hand in front of her face, but she knows her way around the old shed well enough to find her way in the dark. She makes her way to the far corner, the way made easier now that her father’s old car isn’t stored here. She lays Francis in the soft earth at the far end of the open space, placing a soft kiss on his forehead before standing up. It’s pitch dark inside the barn, but she manages to work her way back across the dirt floor, the rich smell of the packed earth filling her nostrils. When she reaches the other side, her vision has acclimated somewhat to the darkness, but she has to grope along the wall where the tools are hung until she finds the one she needs. Hefting the ax in both hands, she waits for the woman pursuing her.

  She doesn’t have long to wait. There’s a sound of soft footsteps outside of the barn, then a heavy boot kicks the door open. Marie waits, barely breathing, as she feels more than sees a figure enter the darkened doorway. Her hands tense on the handle of the ax.

  From across the open space of the barn, Marie hears her son stir. He makes a small, querulous sound, then falls silent. But it’s enough that the dark figure turns in that direction. That’s when Marie swings.

  ONE HUNDRED-

  THIRTY-THREE

  Keller hears the screams from all the way up the hill, howls of agony mixed with shrieks of rage. “Stay here,” he orders Ben.

  “That’s my mom,” Ben says. “No way am I staying here.”

  Keller can’t argue with that. The two of them check the house, find it empty. Without speaking, they move down the hill. The night is waning, and light is rising in the east, enough to see Marie trudging up the hill, her son on her shoulder, an ax dangling from one hand. As they draw closer, Keller can see that the ax is smeared with blood and gray matter. Marie raises her eyes to his, then looks at Ben, who’s still holding the pistol down by his side. The look in his eyes makes her knees sag. “Ben,” she says. “Did you…?” Her voice trails off into a sob.

  “Mom,” Ben says. “Let me take Frank. And put the ax down. They’re done.”

  “Done.” She says the word as if it has no meaning to her. She looks to Ben. “What did you do, Ben?”

  “He saved my life,” Keller says, “and most likely yours and Frank’s, too.”

  She turns to him, eyes wild with grief. “I didn’t ask you, Keller. Ben,” she says, her voice cracking with anguish, “did you kill someone?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I did, Mom. I’m sorry. I thought it was what I had to…” He’s interrupted by the sight of her falling to her knees, her wail of anguish echoing across the hillside in the rising dawn. Ben steps forward, gently taking Francis from her.

  Ben turns to Keller. “You think you can get her to the house? I kind of have my hands full.”

  Keller nods “Yeah. I’ll handle the 9-1-1 call, too. Let me do the talking, okay?” He grimaces. “I’ve done this more than you.”

  Ben nods. “That makes sense.” He shifts Francis’s weight on his shoulder and turns to head back up the hill.

  “Ben,” Keller calls after him. Ben turns and looks at him steadily. “Thanks,” Keller says.

  Ben doesn’t answer, except to nod and walk up the hill toward the house, his brother sleeping on his shoulder, the nine-millimeter pistol looking more natural than it should in his free hand.

  ONE HUNDRED-

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “So let’s review,” Addison McCaskill smiles sweetly at the assistant district attorney. “Someone broke into my client’s house and planted explosives. Explosives that killed poor Brandon Ochs, bless his dumb little redneck heart.” She shakes her head. “Sorry. That was unkind. But are you seriously suggesting Keller booby-trapped his own house? After the evidence that he was attacked and had to kill two so-called ‘contractors,’ one, who I might add, put himself out there on the Dark Web as a mercenary explosives expert?”

  The ADA’s lip shows a light sheen of sweat. “I don’t see what that has to do with the charge of possession of a firearm by a felon.”

  She shakes her head, as if dealing with a particularly stupid child. “Brad, Brad, Bra
d. That search was illegal as hell, and you know it.”

  Brad’s face brightens as if he’s suddenly remembered the answer to a test. “Sheriff’s department found a cache of weapons on what was left of his premises.”

  “In the same place where someone who we’re pretty sure is not Jack Keller planted a booby trap? You sure you want to take that to a jury, Brad? Especially given the government’s very clear desire that all of this crap gets shoved under the rug?”

  Brad looks over at Detective Fletcher, who’s been silent so far during the conversation. “What’s your take on this, Detective?”

  Fletcher looks at the blank wall of the conference room. It’s a few long seconds before he speaks. “I’ve got a local citizen, a man everyone loved, dead. I’ve got an officer…” He pauses, taking a moment to collect himself. “I’ve got a young officer with a promising career in front of him carved up like a piece of meat and left to bleed out by the river. His funeral’s in an hour. And I understand that you,” he looks at Keller, “are responsible for taking out the people that did that.”

  Keller starts to say something. McCaskill puts a hand on his arm and he falls silent. “We can neither confirm nor deny—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Fletcher snaps. He stands up and walks to the door. “I’ve got a funeral to get to,” he says. “Do whatever you want, Brad.” He looks at Keller. There’s clearly more he wants to say. He doesn’t. He shakes his head and walks out.

  After he leaves, there’s a long silence. Finally, Brad sighs. “Okay. I’ll offer you a misdemeanor. Carrying a concealed weapon. Supervised probation for eighteen months.”

  McCaskill puts her hand on Brad’s and says with complete earnestness, “Brad, and I say this with all due respect, fuck your misdemeanor. We’ve got a case I’m absolutely dying to take to a jury.” She glances at Keller, who’s been sitting silently at the conference table, watching his lawyer work. Keller nods, almost imperceptibly. “But my client wants to get all this shit behind him. Misdemeanor CCW. Unsupervised probation,” she says, “six months.”

  “Twelve.” He sighs. “Unsupervised.”

  “Six.”

  “Fine,” Brad says through gritted teeth.

  “And the money in the safe goes back to Keller,” she says. “We’ve got a will and everything that says it’s his.”

  “There’s some dispute…” Brad looks like he’s going to cry. “Fine. We release the money held in evidence. But we’re keeping the firearms.”

  She nods. “Of course. See you tomorrow in court. Hey, can we get this done first? I’ve got to be in Moore County by ten thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  Keller walks out behind McCaskill. “Your dad would be proud.”

  She smiles at him. “Oh, he is. He tells me that a lot. Makes a real difference in a kid’s life when they know their dad is proud of them.”

  He smiles. “You trying to give me parenting advice?”

  She smiles back. “You think you’re going to need it?”

  The smile fades and he looks away. “I don’t know,” he says. “I pretty much fucked up Ben’s life. Now I may be doing the same thing for Francis.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” McCaskill snaps. “You didn’t fuck up their lives. You saved them. It was traumatic, sure. It’s caused Ben some problems. It may do the same for Frank. But if there’s anyone who’s learned how to navigate through that kind of trauma, it’s you, Jack Keller.”

  He grimaces. “I haven’t done the greatest job.”

  “Then teach those boys not to make your mistakes. Even if it’s true that you fucked up their lives—and I’m not saying it is—don’t you owe it to them to try to make it better?”

  Keller shakes his head. “Damn. You really are good.”

  “Honey, I am the best. You just wait and see. But it always helps a good argument when at least part of it happens to be the truth.”

  He laughs at that before turning serious. “What’s the word on Meadow? Melissa Troutman, I mean.”

  “I know who you mean. She got airlifted from Montgomery County General to University of North Carolina Hospital. She’s doing fine. Lost a few inches of intestine, but she’s expected to make a full recovery.”

  He nods, dreading the answer to the next question. “And the Khourys?”

  She hesitates. He stops as they reach her car, studying her face.

  “What?”

  McCaskill takes the deep breath of someone delivering bad news and turns to face him. “Jack, Alia and Bassim Khoury were here under false papers gimmicked up by a rogue CIA agent. They’ve got no legal right to stay here. I’ve referred them to a lawyer that specializes in asylum claims. He’s gotten a temporary stay of their deportation. But…”

  “But they could end up getting shipped back to Iraq. Where their lives could be in danger from this Al-Mansour.”

  “That’s the basis of the asylum petition.” She sees the look on his face. “Keller. What are you thinking of doing?”

  He rests a forearm on the roof of her car. “Where are they now?”

  “Foster care,” she answers. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  “Jack,” she says, her eyes wide with alarm. “Please tell me you’re not going to attempt something stupid.”

  He regards her without expression. “I’m not going to attempt something stupid.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  Keller just smiles.

  “Mr. Keller,” a voice calls to him from across the parking lot.

  The two of them turn to see who’s calling. It’s a short woman with dark hair drawn back in a long braid. She’s dressed in jeans and a khaki uniform shirt without insignia and carrying a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath her left arm.

  “What fresh hell is this?” McCaskill says under her breath.

  “Relax. I know her. She’s FBI.”

  “Great.”

  FBI Special Agent Leila Dushane saunters up to them. “Mr. Keller. Good to see you again.” She nods to McCaskill.

  “Agent Dushane,” Keller says. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “You seem to keep popping up on our radar. Usually leaving a lot of dead people in your wake. Can we talk?” She looks at McCaskill. “Off the record.”

  “Absolutely not,” McCaskill snaps. “Not without—”

  “Sure,” Keller says. McCaskill stops and glares at him. “It’s okay,” Keller reassures her. “We’ve met.”

  “And you trust her.”

  “Not really. But we can talk.” He looks at Dushane. “Where do you want to do this?”

  Dushane nods to a black Hummer sitting at the far end of the parking lot, motor idling. “Over there.”

  “Do I need to tell you that talking to the FBI without a lawyer is a terrible idea?” McCaskill says.

  “Something tells me,” Keller says, “that I’m not going to be talking to just the FBI.”

  ONE HUNDRED-

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Keller climbs into the back seat of the Hummer, Dushane right behind him. He slides over to let her sit down. “Jack Keller,” she says, “Let me introduce Special Agent Melissa Saxon.”

  The woman who turns around from the front passenger seat has an angular, striking face, with arresting gray eyes. She holds out a hand. “First, Mr. Keller, let me thank you.”

  He takes the hand out of courtesy. “For what?”

  “For the Dudayev sisters.” She smiles grimly. “I have to say, you’ve set off quite a turf war, though. The Czech Republic, the French, even the Russians, would like to get their hands on the last survivor of that nasty little trio. And to shake the hand of the people who took the first two down.”

  “How is she?” Keller says.

  Saxon shakes her head. “You are a remarkable man, Mr. Keller. You set a trap that burns half the woman’s face off, and then you ask after her health.”
<
br />   “Yeah. Well. I’m an enigma wrapped in whatever. Is she going to make it?”

  Saxon nods. “She’ll survive. And she could be a real trove of information about terrorist activity, including crimes committed by or on behalf of Mohammed Al-Mansour.”

  Keller shrugs. “Okay.” He reaches for the door handle. “Glad to help.”

  “Wait.” Saxon’s command comes as Keller realizes that the door isn’t opening from the inside.