Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just so you know what we do. We’re like an auxiliary force: we patrol the area. Much like the cops do—we’re looking for trouble. We want to keep this area, this part of the county, safe. That’s why we have two checkpoints, on the road into Branch and the road out. There’s a lot of illegal activity, and a lot of illegals. Our job is to assist the sheriff as much as we can. Now,” he added, “I know you served in the armed forces, and that’s a fine thing to do. The best men come from that training, that experience. But we are patriots here, and as much as I revere the United States of America, this here is a sovereign entity of its own—We are, and so is New Mexico. We give our allegiance to the sheriff of this county first, and to New Mexico second, and to the United States of America, which has been badly corrupted and weakened by the current administration, third. Understood?”

  “It’s the way it should be,” Eric said. “That’s the way the Founding Fathers planned it. The sheriff is the law here.”

  “Damn straight.” He looked at them both. “Take off your sunglasses.”

  They did.

  “Good. You’re good men. I can see that. You have served your country. Now you will serve this state, this county. You will assist the good people who need protection from the interlopers and those who would interfere with our sovereign rights.

  “This can be a boring job. I know you are warriors, but you need to understand this. Mostly, we stand at the ramparts. We stand at the ramparts and watch. Because if we don’t, who will?”

  “No one, sir!” Eric said.

  Landry wanted to pummel him.

  Fortunately for them, Lion Mane didn’t have a good ear for irony. He accepted Eric’s gung-ho attitude at face value.

  That was his first mistake.

  Chapter 20

  Landry and Eric fell into a pattern. They showed up, did their job, were dependable. They carried themselves as the professionals they were. Within a very short time, this engendered respect. Landry and Eric were the real deal and the rest of the group (twelve men, three women) looked up to them. Often, they asked for advice, or asked about their deployments.

  They saw little of the boss. Kilbride didn’t live on the property but in a Mediterranean-style mini-villa in Branch, in the same neighborhood as Miko Denboer lived. The part of Branch where houses were categorized by address and square footage.

  Kilbride held a party in honor of his two new members. It was a nice evening, the party outside, a fireplace surrounded by a low rock parapet to keep the evening chill away. They watched a perfect sunset. The food was excellent, and so was the wine, although Landry pretended to drink more than he did. They met all the players, including the man Landry thought of as Western Hat. It turned out that Western Hat—his name was David Bruce—was the moneyman. He bankrolled the operation. Bruce was the son of a Montana congressman who had died a couple of years before in a plane crash. Dave Bruce the younger was currently running for his father’s seat.

  Landry wondered what the younger Bruce was doing down here. He was far from his constituency. He had looked up David Bruce Senior’s web page and saw that he was very pro-military. When it came to warfare, he had wanted more of everything. He’d particularly been a big supporter of the Stealth Bomber.

  It was a nice evening—pleasant ambience, spectacular view of the valley—but no one talked much. It wasn’t a party atmosphere. The militia members were careful to watch their alcohol intake. It felt more like a field trip than a party—everyone on his best behavior.

  They didn’t talk much about what they were doing, possibly because they weren’t doing anything except stopping people on a road before letting them continue on. They talked about the food, the guys talked about the good-looking ladies they’d seen around, they talked about their cars, and all of them talked generally about the wasteland the US had become. But there wasn’t much passion to it.

  They completely ignored the elephant in the room: the three militia members who had been shot to death. Landry would have thought that would be their chief concern. That there would be conspiracy theories about who had come after one of theirs. As he went from group to group collected around the bar or in knots by the fire, he thought he would hear people talking about the recent loss of their cohorts. He thought they would be talking about what they’d do if they found whoever killed them. But no one said anything about the shootings.

  Landry realized they were keeping quiet because they were scared that the same thing would happen to them.

  He spotted the guy he had manned the checkpoint with today, Luke, standing by the low stone parapet overlooking the town. Landry joined him. “Great view,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  The guy seemed preoccupied—subdued.

  Landry had noticed that while they were manning the checkpoint, there was a certain swagger to the militia members Landry had been paired with. But at this party, everyone was circumspect. He got the impression they didn’t want to talk too much, for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  Who made them feel that way? Was it Western Hat—Dave Bruce? Or was it the head of the militia himself, Kilbride?

  Landry said, “What I wouldn’t do for a place like this.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You live out here, or did you come from elsewhere?”

  Cyril Landry, Master of Small Talk.

  “Elsewhere.”

  “Oh? Whereabouts? I hail from California.”

  Luke said, “That’s nice.”

  “Something on your mind? You don’t look like you’re enjoying the party.”

  Landry waited for an answer. If it was “What’s it to you?” or “Mind your own fucking business,” he would drop it.

  Luke shaded his eyes against the sunset and squinted up at him. Landry was aware of all the muscles and tendons in the neck that the man would use, expected him to look away after making eye contact. But he looked him square in the eye. “Take my advice and leave while you can.”

  “I just joined up.”

  Luke turned back to look at the valley. Mumbled something. A dismissal, Landry thought. “What’d you say, pard? I have a right to know if my buddy and I have stepped in something.”

  Luke turned to face Landry. One side of his mouth turned up. “Pard? Seriously?”

  Landry could tell this was a smart kid. Twenty-five to twenty-eight, he thought, but he was still just a kid. “So why are you still here?”

  “It’s easy to get in, but not so easy to get out.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Ask Rick Connor.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Was that the guy who got blown away at the checkpoint? You think someone’s out to get us?”

  Luke turned back to the sunset. His expression was bitter.

  “Is that it? Are we being targeted?”

  The kid said nothing.

  “Is someone targeting us? Is it the police? The sheriff? The Feds?”

  The kid just shook his head.

  “Was it about the guy who was shot at the checkpoint? Listen, my buddy and I, we have wives and kids. I don’t plan to end up like that guy. Are we fucking up here? Is this what it’s supposed to be or is there—”

  “Shut up,” the kid said.

  “Look, if you want to get out . . . we can help you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “We’re—”

  “Former Navy SEALs. Yeah, I know.” Sarcastic. “Why would a former Navy SEAL sign up with this bogus outfit? Seriously. Who are you guys trying to fool? Either you’re spying on us or you’re crazy.”

  “Why’d you join?”

  “Because I thought the country was getting shot to shit. I thought we would be going after illegals, but that’s not what we’re doing.”

  �
��What are you doing?”

  Luke shook his head.

  “I have a right to know.”

  “If I said anything . . .” He shook his head once more. “Never mind.”

  He turned away to walk back to the party.

  Landry said, “Hand me your phone.”

  “What?”

  “Hand me your phone.”

  The kid handed him his phone. Landry typed in “Jackson Automotive,” and the cell number of his burner phone and handed it back to him. He transcribed the kid’s number into his own phone.

  He handed back the phone. “Just in case,” he said.

  The next day, the kid was gone.

  Landry was heading for one of their battered black vehicles when Kilbride fell into step with him.

  “You notice there’s one less member around here?”

  Landry said, “The kid.”

  “Yeah, Luke.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was too much for him. Most guys wash out early on—it’s kind of like natural selection.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Not really.”

  Landry started to walk away.

  Kilbride called out, “I want to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  “Not here.” He handed Landry his binoculars and pointed in the direction of an oak-covered hill. “See that cabin up there in the trees?”

  Landry took the binocs. “The cabin with the green roof?”

  “Yep. There’s a trailhead about a mile up the road from here, on forestland. You hike on up there and wait for me.”

  “Okay.”

  On the road, Landry walked to the entrance gate and crossed onto National Forest land. He followed the blacktop until he came to the dirt track leading up the hill to the cabin.

  As always, he stayed hidden by the trees and circled the cabin, checking it out from all sides.

  As always, Eric had gone ahead and was somewhere in the trees, probably above, where he could watch. He’d been put on sentry duty today, ostensibly watching over the compound. Instead, he had followed the trail into the National Forest. He would stay in touch by radio and go back to the compound if need be.

  If anyone tracked them, they would know the two men had left the reservation. Eric had his story ready. He was a hunter, and he’d spotted a doe and followed her. It was out of season, but he enjoyed tracking and liked to keep his chops up.

  They both knew this: Telling a successful lie was nine-tenths believing that lie absolutely.

  Landry waited outside the cabin. A car engine droned down below him on the road. Kilbride’s late-model Land Rover appeared through the trees.

  Kilbride parked, but remained inside.

  Landry waited.

  Finally, Kilbride exited the Land Rover, his Ruger at his side—just in case—and looked around him. “Sean Marcus Terry!” he shouted. “Are you here?”

  Landry trained his own weapon on Kilbride, just in case.

  Kilbride holstered his weapon. “Sean? Answer me!”

  Landry held his own weapon close to his leg and trotted down.

  “You’re a distrustful son of a bitch, aren’t you?” Kilbride said.

  “Better safe than sorry’s my motto.”

  “I want to discuss some business with you.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  They walked up to the cabin and up the shallow steps. Kilbride showed him around. It looked like a regular cabin, but the walls were reinforced—ten inches thick all around, and bulletproof glass windows. It was homey, if you didn’t notice the surveillance video monitors covering every inch of the property including the encroaching pines, comms, and stockpiles of weapons.

  They sat in a small room off the kitchen where they could look out at the forest and see the road below. The row of windows was reinforced. Kilbride demonstrated the rolling metal window covers that came down with a push of the button. He buzzed it back up. “I think we’ll be okay, don’t you?”

  Landry shrugged.

  Kilbride leaned forward on his elbows and studied Landry. Said, “I know who you are.”

  Landry kept his expression neutral and said nothing.

  “I’ve checked you out. You’re a former Navy SEAL all right, but you’re not here to join this two-bit militia.”

  “I’m not?”

  “You’re no weekend warrior reliving your glory days. You’re not like the rest of these guys, these fucking misfits. I pegged you right away—you and your buddy are not the kind of guys who play in the kiddie pool. My guess is you’re under deep cover and you’re on to something in this valley.”

  Landry said nothing.

  “So you don’t want to enlighten me as to exactly who you are? That’s fine by me. I don’t care about that. What I care about is your skill set.”

  A car went by down below, and both of them watched it. It kept going.

  “Where were we?” Kilbride said. “Ah. Yes. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you interest me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because right now I’ve come to the end of the road with Denboer.

  “His son killed three of my people. Shot my best man at that checkpoint. I figure you know about that because my people claimed it was the car you were driving.”

  “I didn’t kill them.”

  “If I thought you had, you’d be dead already.”

  Landry smiled. “I doubt that.”

  Kilbride slapped Landry’s shoulder. “See? That’s what I mean. You’re the real deal. There was a guy looked like you, saw him on the news once—must have been a year ago now. Made big headlines. But apparently it was a fake sighting. Turned out the guy was dead. Killed in a firefight in Florida.”

  “Oh?”

  Kilbride settled deeper into his chair, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the table. “That’s what I heard.”

  Landry said nothing.

  “You don’t say much, do you?”

  “Just waiting for you to get to the point.”

  He leaned closer, so his face was right up against Landry’s. “How’s this? I want you to kill Jace Denboer.” He leaned back and smiled.

  “Why?”

  “He set you up.”

  “He didn’t know me. He just picked a random car. I won the lottery.”

  “You’re a funny one. Let me give you my theory. My theory is you’re here for a reason. What could that reason be? You tell me.”

  When Landry didn’t answer, Kilbride said, “Remember the guy who was in a firefight in Florida, the one you remind me of? As I recall, there was a sheriff’s detective in the middle of it, a real hero. Her name was Jolie Burke. Strange coincidence that she’s a sheriff’s detective here in this town, and now you’re here, too. If it’s true, if it’s the same person and she’s, let’s say she’s missing, I can help you with that, too. I can help both her and you.”

  “You and her,” Landry said.

  “What?”

  “You. And. Her. Better yet, you should say ‘I can help both of you.’”

  Kilbride looked puzzled for a moment, then grinned. He clapped Landry on the shoulder. “You’ve just corrected my grammar! I’ll be damned!”

  “What do you know about Burke’s situation?” Landry asked.

  “Just that she’s in hot water with her own sheriff’s department. What I’m offering you is a chance to get even.”

  “How do you know she’s in trouble with the sheriff’s department?”

  “You don’t think I have a few people in the department that I talk to? And all of a sudden a detective just disappears? You’re the right man for the job. So how about we get down to brass tacks?”

  “You have me confused with someone else. I’m
not a hit man.”

  “That’s not what I heard. What about Florida? What about Iraq? What about Afghanistan? What about Aspen?” He let the last reference hang in the air for a moment. “Let me make this crystal clear, soldier. I know who you are. I know what you did in Aspen. I know about Florida; I fucking did my homework. Kill Jace Denboer and I won’t say a word.”

  Landry looked at Kilbride and considered the offer. Kilbride watched him avidly, like a lion studying a gazelle. “Tell me what you know about Rick Connor.”

  “I know he was a good man. Former military, like yourself. Like me. He shouldn’t have died like that.”

  “Do you know why Jace shot him?”

  “Maybe Connor was undercover. Or maybe he was like you. I know men like you. You’re not good at civilian life. You only feel alive when you’re being a hard-ass. Or when you’re on a mission. Which is why you’d be perfect for this job.”

  Landry stood. “If you’re looking for an assassin, I’m not your man.”

  Kilbride rose and thrust his head forward, which put him approximately in the vicinity of Landry’s Adam’s apple. “I know who you are.” He tapped his own chest. “Inside. I know what you are!”

  “You’ve been watching too many 24 reruns.”

  “Maybe so, but this is a mission. You don’t turn down a mission, especially when there’s so much at stake.”

  Landry was no poker player, but he knew the man thought he had the winning hand. And he was anxious to show his cards.

  Kilbride’s next words confirmed his suspicion.

  “Did I tell you?” Kilbride said. “I know people who have extensive ties to law enforcement—all kinds, Border Patrol, local cops, Feds—all over the southwest. But thanks to politics, a lot of hands are tied.”

  “So?”

  “Jace Denboer, that fucking little rich kid, killed three of my best people. Maybe you don’t care about my problems, but I’m willing to pay for your expertise. It’s clear you can handle yourself. You know your way around an operation, and that’s what I need.”

  Landry said nothing.