Headcount: v5

by Frank Stein

  Five minutes later I was back outside. Mo and Chester were standing near the car. The trunk was open, and Mo was holding two baseball bats. She looked pissed.

  “Where’s the knife?” she said.

  “What?” Then I remembered. At the restaurant, along with the tire irons, we had placed a knife on the ground in case we needed it. “Shit.”

  “Shit is right. No wonder Garcia figured there was someone else at the scene. That knife would have been too far away to fit into the story.” Mo didn’t wait for my reply. She turned and went back inside without another word.

  I was mortified and speechless. Too many mistakes. This next assignment had to go perfect. I didn’t want to disappoint my new family.

  Chester shrugged and started walking towards the garage. “How about we take my car,” he said. “Come on.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Four hours later I wasn’t sure what hurt the most: my head, with all the names and numbers of the weapons we used; my shoulder, from being unprepared for the surprisingly violent kickbacks from even the handguns; or my ego, from being yelled at and called a sissy by a gay plastic surgeon.

  Still, after adjusting to the sound and motion associated with firing a weapon, it turned out I actually had pretty good aim. The shooting range was what they called full-service, which meant it had a course with moving targets. My first two passes, one with a Glock .22 and the second with a Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter, were adequate. But my third run, that time with a mini-Uzi submachine gun, was stellar. I had found my gun.

  I was glad Chester had driven, because my right shoulder was sore as hell. But I felt good, almost prepared. Almost.

  “So you’re sure our guys have the same Uzis in their armory?” I asked.

  Chester nodded. “Yep. At least three or four that I could see. Maybe more farther back.”

  “Good. That’s what I’m using then.”

  Chester smiled. “I figured. Just don’t spray Simone or me. That little beast dispatches almost a thousand rounds a minute.”

  I laughed. “Damn. Trust the Israelis to come up with something this slick.”

  “Yes. I love the double-irony of a Jew killing some neo-Nazis with their own Israeli-made weapons. Too bad those Neanderthals won’t appreciate the poetic beauty in it.”

  I looked at Chester. “Oh, I’m sure you can read out a few choice verses before you plug those murderers.”

  He laughed. Then he looked at me for a second and got back to staring at the road.

  We drove in comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes. Then I noticed him glancing over at me and smirking.

  “What?” I said.

  He gave me an odd smile. “You have something going on with Mo?”

  “No way. She’s my boss, you know. In multiple senses of the word. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  We were quiet for the next few minutes. As we pulled towards the highway exit for Port Washington, I smiled. “Did Simone ask?”

  Chester smiled, but didn’t say anything.

  “No need to say anything,” I said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  That night we took it easy. Dinner was light, and no one drank anything. We spent several hours in Chester’s basement going through the plan over and over and over again. Every detail was talked about, with every conceivable deviation from plan addressed and assigned an appropriate remediation action. By midnight I was exhausted. I was also impressed with the thoroughness and professionalism of our group. I could now see Mo’s point about what happens when you bring ambitious and driven people together and get them past the mental barriers that make them live in lockstep with the law. That ambition and passion is easily diverted and harnessed. Perhaps too easily.

  I didn’t sleep well that night, but I woke up clear-headed and alert. By seven we were in the kitchen and dressed to kill. Mo was in black, and the rest of us were in red. Chester had suggested red because the walls of our targets’ house were a dirty red. We weren’t in matching outfits or anything—just regular street clothes. Of course, I had to borrow a pair of Chester’s red jeans. Turned out he had plenty.

  We drove in silence, each of us holding a cigarette. Janesville is almost two hours southwest of Port Washington, so it was a long time to be quiet. Still, nobody noticed. We were all too deep into ourselves. This was a time for solitude, a time to come to terms with what we were about to do, a time to stomp out any last-minute personal doubts, a time to convince ourselves that the job was already done and this was just the paperwork.

  It was close to ten when we stopped at the rest-stop which was to be Mo’s perch. It was an unmanned rest area. No gas or fast food—just restrooms and vending machines. There was a large expanse of lawn behind the small brown building, and I could see the steel railing that marked the edge. There were two other cars at the stop, but both had people in them, and it looked like they’d be gone soon. We waited, and the other cars soon left.

  Mo got out of the backseat with the gun case. She was wearing those sheer surgical gloves and looked reasonably normal. She didn’t look around at all, and walked straight past the restroom-building and towards the bushes that lined the area around the railing. We waited to make sure she couldn’t be seen from where we were. Then I sent her a confirmation text, and we drove off.

  It took another seven or eight minutes before we were under the highway and on our targets’ street. Chester drove right past the house, turned the corner, took another left, and parked near what seemed to be a church combined with a homeless shelter. The church was a straight shot across the vacant lots behind our targets’ house. Also, the church was the only possible spot where a strange car would not seem out of place in that neighborhood. If the timing worked out, the few homeless people milling about would soon be inside the building for the next few hours, and the street would be clear when we came back to the car. Besides, the majority of the shelter’s patrons looked at least one parent shy of thoroughbred Aryan, and Chester was betting that in the unlikely event we were seen, the potential number of cooperative witnesses would be fairly low.

  I heard the sound of metal on metal come from the backseat. When I turned, Simone smiled and handed me one of three shiny new chef’s knives. The knife was heavy, and it had a firm rubber grip. The blade didn’t look like something that would bend or snap easily. A great knife—perfect for paring, slicing, dicing, chopping. And yes, maybe a little stabbing.

  “Slide it through the outside of your belt and drop your shirt out over it,” said Chester. He grabbed his knife and showed me how. “Make sure it’s pointing behind you and is loose enough to swing if you fall. That way you won’t lose a kidney if you get surprised and knocked down.”

  I nodded, and did what he said. Then I looked back at Simone. I couldn’t see her knife, but I figured she knew what she was doing.

  Chester looked at his watch. It was just past ten. “The meeting is probably just getting started. Another five minutes, and we walk.”

  I took out a cigarette, but Chester stopped me from lighting up. I didn’t argue. This wasn’t the time to get into a frivolous conversation.

  The five minutes passed in what seemed like thirty seconds, and I had only just drifted off into a daydream when I was interrupted.

  “Let’s walk,” said Chester.

  And we walked.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The overgrown grass and weeds in the vacant lot behind the first house was good cover, and we moved across it fast. The second lot was almost as sheltered, but the lot across from our targets’ house had been cleared for what seemed to be a stalled construction project. So we waited at the edge of the second vacant lot.

  Chester pointed at a small square window that looked to be just above the basement. “That gets us into the stairwell. Wait for Mo to send some rounds through the front windows, then give it ninety seconds for everyone to grab their guns. They’ll probably gather in the stairs at that point, since there are no basement windows that face
front. Then Mo will go quiet for thirty seconds.”

  I nodded. “Right. Then our targets will move up the stairs and onto the main floor. And Mo will wait until they’re up there, and then she’ll lay down a couple more shots to keep them busy.”

  Simone grimaced. “It’s got to be perfect, though. If she fires too much, they may start back towards the stairs. Too little, and they may hear us busting through that basement window.”

  I smiled. “It’ll be perfect.”

  Simone gave me a funny look that I didn’t quite get. I thought to ask, but Mo interrupted us by blowing out the front windows of the house.

  We could hear glass and ceramic shattering, and then we heard shouts. The shouts got louder, and I guessed the men had gathered along the staircase that lined the back of the house. I felt calm, almost like my body saw no reason to kick me some adrenaline just yet. I hoped it was saving the rush for when we stormed.

  Then everything went quiet. Mo had stopped shooting, as was the plan, but it was disconcerting that the shouting had also stopped. We could do nothing but wait. We were blind at that point—Mo was our eyes. Her next shot would be a signal for us to move.

  Now the wait was excruciating, and the adrenaline started to gush into my bloodstream. I tried to will the precious hormone to retreat, afraid that I would use it up. Of course, this only pushed me closer to panic level, and my mouth suddenly went dry and I could feel my throat begin to pucker up like I had swallowed half a lemon. I tried to spit, but nothing came out.

  Simone looked at me and touched my hand. I could feel her warmth even through two layers of sterile rubber gloves. For an instant, I had a vision of the two of us moving to a small town in Texas and settling down to raise some kids and maybe some cows. I smiled at her and squeezed her hand. I wanted to tell her I loved her. Not because I really was in love with her, but because in that moment I had an urgent need to express that sentiment. Maybe it was the fear of death that brought it out in me. Or maybe it’s the wonderful logic of the human brain—since it realized that I wasn’t going to physically remove myself from this stressful situation, it was trying to compensate by flooding me with positive emotions of corresponding intensity. Now I felt my throat loosen up, and I began to speak.

  I’ll never know what I was about to say, because Mo interrupted yet again with a three-shot volley that took out the remaining first-floor windows. Chester raised his hand.

  “Go,” he said, and sprinted towards the window.

  We raced after him. He had kicked in the glass by the time I got there. After the briefest of glances to make sure we were behind him, he ducked down and slid feet-first through the square opening.

  I dropped down onto the stairs and froze for a minute as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Chester was already at the bottom of the stairs, and I knew he was making his way to the armory door, which was around the corner. The armory itself was built into the space beneath the same wooden stairs. I waited for Simone, and reached out to help her when I saw her legs come through the window.

  But I should have been watching the stairs.

  I didn’t have much experience with guns, but everyone knows the sound of a shotgun being cocked. I slowly looked up to the top of the stairs, and into the twin circles of a twelve-gauge. My eyes refocused on another circular object farther up the barrel. It was the round shaved head of a smiling man. I blinked away the sweat from my eyes, and I may have even volunteered a pathetic smile.

  The man turned his head slightly and made as if he was going to announce his catch to his comrades. I blinked again, and when I was done, it was as if I were watching an old film reel and had missed a few frames.

  The man’s eyes were as big as the double barrels of his gun. I gasped when I noticed the rubberized handle of a chef’s knife peeking innocently out of a spot just to the right of his adam’s apple. I stared at Simone, and then looked back up at the man.

  A steady stream of dark liquid oozed from his cut, and the man sat down on the step above him, placed the gun next to him, and then slowly rolled head over heels towards us.

  Simone reached out and stopped his fall. Then she grabbed her knife, stuck him with it once more, looked up at me, and shrugged.

  “Come on,” she said.

  I stared at the lifeless body near my feet. I wanted to feel shock and horror, but all I felt was relief. I smiled at Simone and followed her down the stairs.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mo’s shots were getting more spaced out by the time we had armed ourselves. Of course, we couldn’t actually hear the shots; just the impact. It did appear that there were enough breakable targets in Mo’s line of sight, and she was hitting these so that we’d know she was still firing. Details, details, details. The mark of a good consultant.

  “We need to move quick,” said Chester. “That’s twenty-one shots, and Mo’s only got three cartridges. Nine more shots and she can’t help us anymore.”

  I nodded as I tightened my grip on the mini-Uzi. Simone was using two Glock .22s. They looked good in her hands. Chester had a shotgun slung low across his back, a Glock in his waistband, and another shotgun in his hands. He opened the armory door. All quiet in the basement. We started to move, but then the noises made us stop.

  A loud shout, then heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs above, followed by several low voices and multiple cautious movements. The boys had discovered their slaughtered brother. And with the broken window glass halfway down the stairs, it couldn’t have been a stretch to figure out what was going on: they were being flanked.

  Of course, being flanked doesn’t mean so much if your target knows about it. So from our perspective, the situation had rapidly turned into us being cornered. Cornered in a room full of guns, but cornered nonetheless.

  Chester looked at us. “I’m sorry, guys.” He smiled. “I’ll go first.”

  Simone nodded and looked at me. I was ready. My adrenaline was at a steady level, and my heart was pumping strong and hard.

  “Let’s do it,” I said. If I was going down, at least I should act a little macho.

  But then I grabbed Chester before he could charge out the door. He turned, and I think he was expecting me to be freaking out or whimpering to go home. His annoyed expression turned into a smile of realization when he saw me point to the wooden ceiling of the armory.

  The footsteps had slowed, which meant almost everyone would be directly above us, creeping down towards the door. Now Simone got it, and she smiled too.

  I spread my legs to brace myself, and then pointed my Uzi at the ceiling. Chester looked like he was about to laugh. He put one hand over his mouth, and tapped me on the shoulder with the other. He pointed at a set of old, well-used guns that looked sort of familiar. Chester mouthed the words, and I understood that they were AK47s. I guess they were a better bet for blasting through wood.

  We each traded our weapon for one of the Russian-made classics. Each had a full magazine, and Simone pointed out the safety as well as the setting for fully-automatic fire. She gestured that I should wait for her sign before flipping the safety.

  The small armory was big enough for the three of us to stand side by side with plenty of elbow room. We waited while Chester carefully placed a bulletproof cover on a box that contained several grenades and some ammo. Then he looked at Simone and nodded. She did a finger-countdown from three. On zero we let loose.

  The sound of three AK47s reverberating in a small wooden room is something that has to be experienced to be truly understood. Full, throaty, and blood-curdling, like three four-stroke Harley-Davidson engines kicking to life in an echo chamber. The AK is called an assault rifle for a reason: this is not a gun intended primarily for self-defense—not unless you’re one of those that says offense is the best defense.

  The initial shouts of surprise and pain were drowned out by the thundering drones of our three barrels, and soon the air was heavy with gunsmoke and disintegrating wood and plaster. We sprayed every inch of ceiling like a maintenance team d
oing the waterproofing. I had no idea how many bullets came in a magazine, but it was a lot, because I could feel the empty cartridges gather around my shoes.

  We hit empty at roughly the same time, and each of us gracefully reached out for a new magazine as if we were a synchronized swimming team performing in the gray fluidity of the smoke-and-dust mixture. The feeling was sublime. Perhaps the thick vibrations of the AKs had resonated with something deep in our spiritual centers, bonding us with our weapons, turning us into life-forms that were more than human. We were above logic and reason and common morality. There was no doubt about what we were doing, no consideration of whether it was right or wrong. We simply took in the bliss of the moment. If we had crossed a line, that line was no longer anywhere in sight.

  Finally Simone raised her hand and lowered her weapon. Chester and I did the same, and we all stood absolutely motionless, listening for anything that wasn’t dead.

  After the last splinter had fallen and we were satisfied that the only things moving were our three pumping hearts, Chester put down his weapon, whipped out his knife, and slowly moved out of the armory. We followed him as he moved towards the stairs.

  The staircase looked like a battlefield on the morning after. No, it looked like one of those massacre scenes with bodies piled haphazardly and with arms and legs and heads intertwined as if it were a mound of parts that you could mix-and-match to create your own action figure. The blood was fresh, and I was glad the walls had been red to begin with.

  We took care not to step on anyone. I’m not sure why, but it seemed disrespectful, even more so than pumping them full of metal projectiles from below. I pushed open the back door, and held it for Simone and Chester. Simone stepped out, but Chester didn’t. He was counting.

  “Eleven,” he whispered. “There may be one more.”

  He raised his finger to his lips and slowly crept to the top of the stairs. When he got there he spun around the corner, and I heard a shout of surprise. I started up the stairs, and then stopped when I saw the back of Chester’s red denims. He was hunched over and dragging a bleeding man towards the stairs. The man looked like he was in his late twenties. He had taken several bullets to his lower body and was barely conscious.