“It’s a start. The bird can be configured for armed reconnaissance loadout, can it not?”
“Of course it can.” Doug coughed. “It just isn’t.”
“Why not? Isn’t that a trifle asinine?” she quizzed. “The M designation means ‘multirole’.”
“I am fully aware of what the godda…” Bronson trailed off, resuming his search.
“Do we not possess armament for all those nifty…hard points?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to do some digging.”
Beatrice protested, “Doug, please. How much digging? We have a functional, loadout-ready, multirole UAV with reinforced wings and pylons at our disposal, but we don’t know the status of applicable armament? Surely it wasn’t meant to just waste fuel, glide all over kingdom come, and snap pretty little pictures.”
Bronson rotated and eyeballed her scathingly, refill of brandy finally attained. “I’ve grown fond of our affiliation thus far, Beatrice. I believe it benefits us both in many ways, and I don’t wish for it to deviate or…change. But if you don’t stop with this sudden obstinance—this recklessly flippant tone of voice, there’ll be no other choice.”
Beatrice sneered, gnashed her teeth, and looked away.
“I’m glad we agree,” Doug growled, then shuffled back to his desk. “I never said we didn’t have armament for the Pred, I only said I wasn’t certain as to what we have. They discontinued those things a few years ago when the Pentagon invested headlong in the Reaper project. DHS was gifted a squadron of hand-me-downs by the Department of Defense, and we were unerringly bestowed one of them. And we’re damn fortunate to have it.”
The former operative only sighed, then spoke in a more dutiful tone. “Do we or do we not possess destructive loadout for our hand-me-down?”
“I believe we do,” Bronson said. “But I’m not informed as to the particulars.”
“And who would be?”
Doug took a drink and rubbed his chin. “I’m not informed on that either, I’m afraid.”
Beatrice frowned, nodded, then rose.
“Where are you going?” Doug asked.
“To find someone who is informed,” she barked. “And for his sake, he had better recognize the proper way to speak to a lady.”
Doug tilted his head and watched her hips sway as she trotted off. “Are you planning to return at some point?”
“Maybe. Sooner…or perhaps later.”
Doug rolled his lips. “As in…today?”
“Could be.”
“I prefer it be today…or tonight, better yet. I can arrange dinner for us. Steaks, fresh vegetables, some wine…anything you want.”
“I’ll consider it,” Beatrice cooed, then beheld him with squinted eyes before making her exit. “There’s a lot you’ve yet to learn about me, Doug. I pray by now you’ve become aware of my…resourcefulness. I can play any part you like here…critical asset or formidable adversary. Consider which of those roles you desire in your corner, behave yourself, and I’ll act accordingly.”
Chapter 3
Bronson recoiled at the sound of the door closing and even more so at his coconspirator’s smug dismissiveness.
Beatrice was a knockout, everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. But some days, he wanted nothing more than to strangle her.
Just who did this bitch think she was? And what divine entity had given her permission to speak to him that way? He felt around for the button mounted to his desk and pressed it, paging his receptionist.
Within seconds, Tori emerged through the office door. “Yes, sir?”
“Tori, get in here.”
“I…am in here, sir.”
“Good, good. Is…she gone?”
“Who? Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes, Mrs. Carter!”
“Um, yes, sir. She’s gone…in the stairwell, a flight or two down, judging by the sound of her UGGs. Did you want me to ge—”
“No,” Bronson grunted. “Just close that door…and lock it.”
“Okay.” Tori’s expression went downcast, her uncertainty on the rise. She snapped the door shut and glued her backside to it, biting into her lip while feeling for the deadbolt. “Sir? What’s this about?”
“Confidentiality.” Bronson took a lengthy sip of brandy. “You’ve always been loyal to me, Tori. Loyal to a fault. I need you to see to something for me. Get Bates in here—without anyone else knowing, particularly her.”
Tori tilted her head. “Seth? Sir, I’m sorry…I don’t understand.”
“What is there not to understand? Get him in here, Tori. On the goddamn double.”
“Okay.” Tori looked terribly puzzled. “I will. I can do that, but…”
“But what?”
Tori looked away, adjusting her glasses. “I’m sorry, it’s just that…it’s an…unusual request.”
“Unusual or not, it’s a request nonetheless,” Doug harped. “Keep stalling and it’ll become a directive.”
Tori nodded hesitantly. “Mr. Bronson, are you not feeling well today?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Bronson snapped. He was nearing his breaking point with all women today. They were useless. “Why are you testing me, Tori? Of course I am! Now go—get out of here! And do as I ask!”
Tori shuddered. “Okay, sir. I’m sorry—I will…but so you know, it might be a while.”
“It’d better not be, for his sake.” Bronson switched to a mutter. “Not to mention yours.”
Tori took her time unlocking and reopening the door.
“What exactly are you waiting for?”
“I’m sorry…I’ll call on him, I will. I’m just a little confused.”
Bronson expelled a sigh. “And why is that, Tori? What makes the order confusing? Do tell.”
“Well, sir, Seth isn’t…I mean…he hasn’t been around in a while, not here, anyway. You tasked him with other…things since his demotion, unless that’s changed and you haven’t formally announced it.”
A fire went alight inside Bronson’s chest. He couldn’t tell if it was rage building or indigestion. He readied to lash out at the timid woman, the same as he had so many times before, but relinquished the impulse upon coming to a sudden realization, something he’d overlooked until this very second.
Could he be losing his mind? Tori was right, he’d ousted that inept dipshit Seth Bates from the realms of his upper echelon months ago, and since that point, Beatrice had unofficially taken Seth’s place on invitation. It hadn’t been an official promotion. It’d remained an informal one, for rationales upon which they’d previously agreed. But today, Bronson felt less in command and more like her subordinate. And he’d foolishly allowed it to happen.
His title and position made him the commander of this region, him and only him. Doug Bronson was the leader, the head motherfucker in charge of this mission—an executive mandated DHS nationwide objective-turned-contemptuous holocaust. No matter what it had been or had become, it was his, and since the launch, not one person had ever dared cross him. Beatrice was doing just that—defying him sneeringly to his face seemingly without any fear of consequence. And it should damn well be bothering him far more than what it was.
Maybe she had been right. Maybe her closing argument had been valid. She was a critical asset to both him and the mission. Beatrice was wired that way, altogether ready, willing, and able to carry out the repugnant tasks of which he and so many others had grown exhausted.
Doug rubbed his forehead, shooed Tori away, and began rifling through his top desk drawer for a remedy—a pill, something to relieve this sudden insecurity, this lapse of self-confidence. Bottles rattled beneath his palm until his tired eyes gazed upon an orange cylinder of prescription Xanax…and the name etched on the label, the name of his former spouse. He’d relieved her of it on the day she’d left him, along with a few other personal items that Bronson had deemed as having sentimental value. She’d begun seeing a psychiatrist a year before the split. He’d prescribed Xanax to help manage her anxiety, the maj
ority of which had been blamed on an abusive relationship.
Doug recalled their final night under the same roof and the final argument that had forever severed their codependency on each other. He’d said awful things to her—horrendous things. Furniture the couple had purchased together as newlyweds had been torn and overturned. Inherited antique fine porcelain had been thrown, smashed and treated like garbage. As he continued to recollect, a mental picture faded in: one of his wife’s limp body on the hardwood floor, her head cut open after he’d knocked her unconscious with a vicious blow. For a few seconds, Bronson almost felt remorseful, until he considered what she’d told him. She’d been seeing another man, her fucking shrink, for hell’s sake. The cheating whore of a bitch had earned every ounce of pain inflicted upon her and then some.
Was this why he was being so passive with Beatrice? Was it because he knew that if he were to try the same with her, she could and would not only defend herself, but retaliate in the same uncaring, violent manner? Maybe it was. Doug knew her past and her occupational history. He’d read her dossier, and what he hadn’t read, he’d inferred. He knew with clear certainty that she was an alpha, same as he was, but did her level of dominance transcend his own?
“Formidable adversary indeed,” Bronson said, now reclining into his chair. He dumped two oval pills into his sweaty palm and tossed them through his lips, acquired his drink, sipped from it, and contemplated.
He had consciously permitted this to take place. It’d gone this far for the simple fact that he’d sought for it to. Problem was, now it seemed Beatrice was in the process of a hostile takeover all the while falsifying her efforts as benign. “I’ll give you just a few more inches, Mrs. Carter, a handful above what I’ve allowed already, and we’ll see where this goes. Take more than that, force my hand, and you’re going to see directly who really has supremacy. I won’t like it, but I will do it.”
Bronson stared around his office. No one was there to hear him, but he wished there were. He was ripe and ready to sound off, poised to assert his authority again. This office, the building, and the grounds surrounding it were now a DHS outpost, not some latitude soup kitchen from which he gifted leeway like it was going out of style. This was his castle, he wasn’t about to relinquish the keys to it to anyone, and that was something in dire need of announcement. The time had come to reup and recertify himself as commander-in-chief of this place, even if it was a post-apocalyptic hellhole.
Chapter 4
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Woodstock, Virginia
Thursday, January 6th
The dashboard vents blowing tepid air at his face, DHS Special Agent in Charge August Carter gritted his teeth and gripped the steering wheel with force enough to bend it. He tensed and trembled as his mind raced through countless adverse, almost subhuman thoughts, but those reflections were nothing compared to the heartbreak he was feeling. He was too sad to fight, too angry to cry, and yearned desperately for explanation—and reprisal.
August removed his hat, brought it about, and studied its golden embroidered logo contemplatively for a while before tossing it to the dashboard. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, then removed an earbud connected by a fine cord to a state-of-the-art receiver in his lap, one he’d been using to eavesdrop on what was becoming an extensive list of revealing conversations between his wife and the son of a bitch she’d chosen over him.
Replacing the void in his ear with a tactical earpiece attached to his radio, he peered over at the clock on the dashboard. The operation he was about to lead this morning was nearing the point of running late.
August tried remembering all the things that were supposed to happen today, including where he’d left off before deciding to take a chance and listen in. He inspected himself and his gear, finding everything where it needed to be, including his uniform, body armor, service weapon, backup pistol in an ankle holster, extra magazines, and other decorations of his trade. To his right, leaning against the passenger seat, angled at the floorboard, was his suppressed M4 carbine and a black, heavy-duty canvas seventy-two-hour pack, within which he carried all the supplies necessary for another three-day excursion outside the wire.
August strained hard to just let it all go. He tried to forget everything he had heard this morning, but there was no use. Today’s operation was going to be difficult to get through no matter what strategy he used to purge his personal dilemmas from his mind. He knew from experience that being preoccupied with frivolous matters while preparing for or being immersed in his duties was an effective way to wind up dead or cost members of his team their lives.
He held his breath, winced and flexed his muscles, trying to will all the hurt away to no avail. He then punched the steering wheel a few times. “Just snap the fuck out of it, August. You’re better than this…you weakling,” he growled. “We don’t have time for any more of your childish bullshit today.”
He punched the steering wheel again and prepared another strike, only to stop short. His eyes grew wide, and with a slackened jaw, his lips curled into a sneer.
You weakling!
This wasn’t him…and those weren’t his words at all. Those were his wife’s words. And they were now spewing from his mouth. He had become so accustomed to her berating and browbeating that he’d begun mistaking them as his own, mishandling them as some peculiar form of self-encouragement.
August shook his head. He was beyond being disgusted with himself. “Unbelievable,” he said, wishing now he’d remained in bed today. “How could you let her do this to you? How could you let this happen? How could you not have seen it coming?”
A rap on his window jolted him to attention. August rotated left and spotted one of his men waving at him on the other side. He took a deep breath and a quick moment to center himself before pressing the button to lower his window, unable to discern if his visitor had heard him talking to himself.
An agent wearing an identical uniform and toting a similar loadout placed his hand on the doorframe. “August? You awake? Are we doing this today?”
August hung his head and nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Gil. I’m a little off this morning…didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Sorry to bug you about it. Personally, I don’t mind sitting around all day, but the boys are getting antsy.”
“We’ll be underway momentarily.”
“I’ll pass the word.” Gil grinned. “Is the old lady keeping you up too late or something?”
A long pause. “Not exactly.”
Gil tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s all good, brother. A healthy sex life is a good thing, nothing to be ashamed about. Sure beats jerkin’ the gherkin, know what I’m saying? Anyway, no worries. The teams were just curious…and concerned, of course. Thought you might’ve had a heart attack or a stroke.”
Pretty damn close to it, August thought. He squinted at his fellow agent, then sent a smirk. “Not this guy. The PT regimen I’ve been following lately has this ticker in tip-top shape.” He pounded his chest.
The other agent leaned inward, gesturing to the radio device and earbud atop August’s beefy thigh. “What you got there? Something new? Doesn’t exactly look standard issue.” He chuckled. “You know…too high-tech for DHS.”
August reached for the device and wrapped the earbud’s cord around it, then placed it in the glove box. “Never mind about that.”
“Shit, man, calm down,” Gil pressed. “I’m not going to tell on you. What were you listening to? A soccer game in Spain or some shit?”
August didn’t answer.
Gil backed away from the door, sensing his colleague’s lack of enthusiasm. “Hear me out, brother. You’re the man around here, but we came up through the ranks together, known each other a long, long time. And believe it or not, my investigational skill set is just as keen as your own. I can hide things, and I can read people, same as you. I can tell something’s up. If you’re malfunctioning, it would be beneficial to know what’s causing it. So if
you’re dealing with something, personal or otherwise, just come right out and tell me—or wait until we punch the clock and talk it out with me over a drink later on. Just don’t clam up like this. It isn’t healthy.”
August sighed briefly and held up a relenting hand. “I hear you, and you’re right. Over a beer later sounds good, and I’ll consider disclosing a few things, but not today, Gil. It’s a long story, and we’re running late as it is. Let’s get back to business. This operation has to be completed before sundown.”
“Make it scotch and you got yourself a deal.”
“Scotch it is, then.”
Gil backed away and tossed a salute above a toothy grin. “Yes, sir. Give me a couple to pass along word to both teams, and we’ll get this party started.”
Chapter 5
Short Mountain
Edinburg, Virginia
Friday, January 7th
Prone and deeply concealed beneath thick, decaying layers of woodland brush and piles of snow that made up her makeshift observation post, Megan Mason pulled her NVD away from her eyes and glanced at the dawning sky. Daylight hours were finally approaching, and that meant another frigid, tiring, nerve-racking night of reconnaissance would soon be over; that is, unless her dad had developed other plans in his time away.
The search for her brothers, Chad and Mark, had been going on for weeks with nothing to show for it. For Fred, it had begun as a mission, one that had swiftly become an obsession. Finding his sons had become his only objective, the only matter about which he gave the slightest volume of a damn, and Megan hated seeing him so distraught. Her dad had returned home in early December a broken man, only to learn that his family had become jeopardized in his time away. Having been ruthlessly brutalized by his captors, Fred’s injuries were still on the mend; lacerations were well on their way to becoming scars and his bruises were healing, but the psychological damage inflicted upon him remained far from repair. The torture he’d endured would, in many ways, affect him the remainder of his life, though Megan assumed he’d never confess it as such. And she knew this for the simple fact that she knew her dad—the man he’d been prior to his departure, though she was still getting to know the one he’d become since his return.
The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series Page 3