by James Hunt
Brooke knelt down to the girls, both of whom wore looks of terror on their faces. “I need you guys to play a game for me, okay? Whoever is the quietest and bravest gets a big bowl of ice cream. Sound good?”
Both of the girls nodded sheepishly.
“Okay, so I’m going to have you go downstairs with Aunt Amy, and you guys stay there until I come back down to grab you.”
“You don’t think it’s him, do you?” Eric asked, cutting in. Brooke nodded.
“Thank you. We’ll be here,” Amy finished, then hung up the call. “They’ll have someone here in ten minutes.”
“Ten?” Brooke asked.
It was too long. But then again, if it was who she thought it was, then he was only after her. Keeping Amy and the girls downstairs and away from any conflict was the safest option for them.
“Is there a cellar door that leads into the basement from the outside?” Brooke asked.
“No,” Amy answered, shaking her head. “There aren’t even any windows.”
“Eric, take the girls downstairs and stay there until either myself or a police officer shows up. Make them show you their badges before you open the door. Got it?”
“Brooke, what’s happening?” Amy asked.
“I should be the one staying up here,” Eric said.
“You can barely walk, let alone shoot a gun. Now go!”
A crash sounded from upstairs.
“Hurry!” Brooke said.
Eric escorted Amy and the girls into the basement. Brooke raised the revolver to the second floor of the house. She turned the flashlight off, trying to use the darkness as a form of cover. The revolver shook slightly in her hand. She pressed her feet lightly and methodically around to the front of the staircase to get a better look.
Brooke tried to control her breathing, avoiding being too loud. She waited at the end of the staircase, the revolver aimed at the second floor. Her entire body felt like it was on fire. She kept having to close her eyes, shaking the flashes of the last time she’d pulled the trigger out of her head. The memories insisted on inserting themselves into her conscious mind. The squeeze of the trigger. The bullets. The shattered bones. The blood. Brooke’s heart raced. She couldn’t control her breathing anymore. A tightness formed in her chest that felt like it would choke her.
Then the crash of the back door being broken down brought her back from the memories. Brooke turned the corner to see Terry bolt inside and duck behind one of the counters. She squeezed the trigger, and a bullet pierced one of the cabinets. She cursed under her breath. A wasted shot. She was being too reactive. She took a deep breath and crouched behind a table by the front door. It gave her a clear line of sight from the entrances to the kitchen from the hallway and the living room.
“Brooke, this isn’t a good idea,” Terry said, his voice booming, making sure that Brooke could hear him no matter where she was.
“The police are on their way,” Brooke replied. “You’ll have to answer to them before you try anything.”
Brooke’s eyes darted between each of the kitchen’s entrances. She knew he could come at her at any moment. She just had to keep him busy long enough for the cops to show up.
Terry darted into the living room. Brooke drew a bead on him and fired but missed as he ducked behind the sofa. “Shit.”
“How many you have left? Probably three, right? Looks like a five shooter,” Terry yelled. “Put the gun down, Brooke. You’re worth more alive than dead.”
By now the neighbors would have heard the shots and called the police, only quickening the response time. Brooke was just glad at least John and Kevin were safe.
But then, as Brooke was eyeing the couch intensely, she saw movement at the back door. It gently swung open, and her heart dropped as John’s foot crunched on a piece of glass. “Mom?”
Brooke sprinted down the hallway. John just kept standing there looking at Terry, his mouth open, speechless. His figure grew closer. Brooke reached out her hand. She was so close to him. Then, just before she reached him, she watched Terry’s gloved hand touch John’s arm and grab him.
Brooke stopped. The muscles in her arm spasmed from the grip she had on the revolver. “Let him go!” Spit flew from Brooke’s mouth as she barked the order. She looked for a clear shot, but Terry had pulled her son close. She didn’t trust her aim enough to pull the trigger.
“Put the gun down, Brooke,” Terry said, holding the knife to John’s throat. “Put it down, and your son lives.”
John’s body was rigid and awkward from the hold Terry had him in. Her son. Her first born. The barrel of the revolver dipped slightly, then she lowered it to her side.
“Put it on the ground, and kick it over to me. Keep your hands in the air,” Terry said.
Brooke slowly placed the revolver on the tile floor then kicked it over as instructed.
“Living room. Walk,” Terry said.
Whatever happened to her family was on her. And if the outcome wasn’t the one she wanted, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to live with herself.
***
Once the announcement was made that Jones had walked off the set, Gallo knew that it was over. There would be no treaty. The United States would not honor the land that rightfully belonged to Mexico.
Just as the American news anchors were beginning their analysis of the debate, Gallo turned it off. The room was silent. He turned to his advisors, all waiting for the order to be given. But Gallo said nothing. He simply walked over to the ancient map he kept in his office.
It was old. Almost two centuries old. The paper the map was printed on was fragile. The print was worn, and the border lines were barely visible. Gallo reached up and grabbed the map’s frame, taking it down from the wall. He turned around, looking down at the map.
“You know that during the Mexican-American war in the middle of the 1800s, a famous Mexican general by the name of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was living in Cuba, exiled from the very nation he loved. During the war, he convinced the American president to let him negotiate a peace with the Mexican government that would end the war on favorable terms for the Americans. But once General Santa Anna was in his own country, he rallied his men and engaged in a full attack against the Americans. Despite the move, we still lost the war.”
Colonel Herrera stepped forward, separating himself from Gallo’s other advisors. “General, all of our men and resources are in place. What is your order?”
Gallo could see his reflection in the clean glass surface the map was encased in. Gallo lifted the frame high above his head and smashed it on the floor. The glass shattered, exposing the map. Gallo reached down and picked up the old parchment and clutched it in a fist.
“This is our land! It belongs to us! Bring us back our glory!”
***
The Rocky Mountain range in Cheyenne, Colorado, remained quiet and majestic on the surface, but deep within its belly was a hurricane of coordinated countermeasures.
Lieutenant Colonel Mink was at the helm, guiding the resources to their destinations to engage the Mexican threat. The tiny blips and beeps on each of the screens in the command room represented the lives of tens of thousands of American soldiers.
The noise level of the room never reached above more than a dull roar. Lieutenant Colonel Mink maintained order in the face of chaos. But he knew what was happening on the ground. Bullets pierced flesh. Explosions rocked the earth. The screams of men couldn’t be heard from their command post, but Mink knew they were there.
The Mexican strike was quick. Gallo’s forces were hoping to catch them off guard, but they were ready. The only advantage the Mexican army had was the ground they had managed to gain in Arizona and New Mexico from their previous push.
“Sir,” one of the officers said, grabbing Mink’s attention. “We have a lot of movement in the Pacific.”
“What do we have?” Mink asked, looking at his officer’s screen.
“Multiple enemy warships have entered the area. I count twelv
e heading north.”
“Alert Captain Ford. What’s the status of the USS Carl Vinson?”
“They’re still caught up in the Alaskan fisheries, sir. The president didn’t pull it in time.”
***
The cheers in the flight hangar of the USS Ronald Reagan were deafening. There wasn’t a single sailor sitting down. Everyone knew what it meant. The water shortages would end, the states exiled would be reinstated, and the economy would recover. That debate was the start of a chain reaction that would ripple through the rest of the country like an antidote to a poison.
But the cheers were quelled by the carrier’s sirens. Every sailor in the hangar scrambled to her or his station in an organized chaos that could only occur through the discipline of control and habit.
Captain Howard stormed up to the flight deck, and the boom of F-18s echoed through the air. Once on the flight deck, Howard could see the approaching Mexican fleet in the distance. Once on the command deck, Howard had a full view of the battle around him.
Explosions rocked the evening sky as jets were pinned against one another in dogfights. Puffs of smoke burst from the cannons of the warships. The horizon resembled a deadlier version of fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Master Chief, what’s our status?” Howard asked.
“Sixty bogeys in our airspace, sir. Four of the Mexican warships are attempting to flank us from the west.”
“Alert Captain Ford.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ignition of the jet engines rotating through their preflight had overtaken the carrier’s wailing sirens. Each boom from the flight deck signaling another takeoff was single beat of a war drum. And Howard could feel every vibration of war ripple through his chest.
“Missiles incoming, Captain. Deploying countermeasures,” Pint said.
The sophisticated defense system of the carrier had the ability to deflect a barrage of direct attacks. The system calculated velocity, trajectory, and Coriolis effect from the earth’s curvature, all within seconds. The results were sixteen RIM-7 Sea Sparrow missiles launched from the USS Ronald Reagan, intercepting the attacking Mexican missiles.
Each missile collided with its target seamlessly and decorated the sky with the ramifications of war. High above the explosions, dogfights between the Mexican and American fighters rocked the atmosphere. The swarm of jets resembled hornets, angered by the violent disturbance of their home.
“Countermeasures effective,” Pint said.
The massive show of force from the Mexican military was Gallo throwing everything he had at them, and Howard knew it. Gallo thought he could overwhelm them. He might have stood a chance if Ford hadn’t shown up, but not now. The Mexican general had just sentenced his men to a death sentence.
“Sir, we have enemy submarines on radar!” Pint yelled.
“Order the USS Albuquerque to engage. Change course to east.”
“Yes, sir.”
Howard knew that exposing the USS Albuquerque so early in the battle might have posed a strategic threat, but Gallo had been the first to show his cards. And Howard couldn’t afford to lose the USS Ronald Reagan.
“USS Albuquerque, engage enemy submarine, heading Alpha, Foxtrot, Niner, Seven,” Pint ordered.
The radar detecting the enemy sub continued to track its location. Any torpedoes fired would trigger the defense systems, but the USS Albuquerque was much better equipped to handle such an offensive.
“Enemy sub twenty five hundred yards due south, Captain,” Pint said.
The USS Albuquerque inched closer to the enemy sub. The two shapes on the display screen were on a collision course, with the USS Albuquerque having the edge. There wasn’t a faster attack sub in the Pacific Fleet.
The shift of the massive aircraft carrier began its own change of heading. The USS Ronald Reagan was big, but Howard wasn’t going to let it be a sitting duck.
“Torpedoes launched!” Pint said.
Before Howard could respond, the USS Albuquerque did it for him. Two foreign objects were on trajectory right for the carrier. The USS Albuquerque’s own torpedoes sped along the radar to intercept. The entire bridge drew in a breath as the two elongated dots grew closer until they disappeared on radar, which failed to exemplify the explosion of contact underneath the ocean’s surface less than fifty yards from the carrier’s hull.
“We have good effect,” Pint said, wiping the sweat off his forehead as the enemy sub faded from radar.
***
Terry ordered everyone out of the basement and gathered them in the living room. Emily and Gabby huddled behind Brooke and Amy, while Terry and John sat on Brooke’s left and Eric on Amy’s right. The barrel of Terry’s pistol aimed right at them.
“Where’s your husband?” Terry asked, pointing the gun at Amy.
“I-I don’t know. He’s on business.”
“Business where?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“My pocket.”
“Reach for it. Slowly.”
Each of Terry’s hands gripped pistols, one his own and the other the revolver Brooke had kicked to him when John was held hostage. “Call him. Tell him to come home. That his daughter is sick.”
“P-please, you don’t have t-to d-do this. If you want money, we can p-pay you,” Amy replied.
“I’m already getting paid,” Terry answered.
Tears were flowing from Amy’s face. She wiped her nose and scrolled through her phone, looking for Daniel’s number. Eric kept close. His face was stone. The playful face Brooke had grown accustomed to was gone.
“Drop the thousand-yard stare,” Terry said.
“I’m surprised you can count that high,” Eric answered.
“Funny,” Terry replied. “Military, right? Tall, clean shaven, cocky… Air Force?”
Eric remained silent.
“Figures. How’s the shoulder?” Terry motioned with the barrel of his pistol, smiling and admiring his handiwork. Terry stepped forward until he was hovering right above Eric. He pressed the end of the barrel on the wound. Eric started shaking but didn’t break eye contact.
“You know that friend of yours acted tough in the beginning, too, but in the end he cracked like a little bitch,” Terry said.
Eric sprang from his seat, but Terry brought the side of his pistol across Eric’s face quickly, knocking him down. Eric groaned, rocking back and forth on his back on the couch. Terry brought the pistol down on Eric again, this time striking the other side of his face. The crack of metal against bone made each of them jump. Terry brought his arm up again for another blow.
“Stop!” Brooke said.
Before Brooke could take another step forward, the barrel of Terry’s pistol was aimed at her, with his finger on the trigger.
“Now’s not the time to get fresh, sweetheart,” Terry said.
Brooke slowly lowered herself back to the floor. Eric, still disoriented, pushed himself up on his elbow. Blood from his wounds dripped against the carpet and seat cushions. Bits of jagged flesh dangled from his cheek. The cut was at least two inches long.
Terry turned the pistol back on Amy, who jumped at the sudden movement. “Dial. Now.”
Amy pressed the phone to her ear like a kid trying to cover her ears to protect herself from the situation around her. Everyone else was quiet. Brooke could hear the faint ringing from the phone. After three rings, a muffled voice picked up.
“Daniel?” Amy asked, her voice shaking. “Daniel, you need to come home... Gabby’s sick and the doctors don’t know what’s wrong… No, they won’t let me see her. Daniel, it’s bad. Please, com— Okay. We’re at Charlotte General.” Amy set the phone down, her hand still trembling. “He’s on his way.”
“Good. Now, this is what’s going to happen next. You and your daughter are going to take a little trip with me to the hospital, where we’re going to wait for him,” Terry said.
“Please! I don’t even know what this is about! W
hat do you want?” Amy pleaded.
“Your husband pissed off the wrong people,” Terry answered.
Bounty hunter. Brooke should have known. Guns for hire had become a booming business over the past few years. Corporations wanting to protect resources and assets would hire certain unfavorable individuals to ensure their continued survival. The targets could be anyone: workers, politicians… illegals. But what haunted Brooke was worrying whether she had brought this on Daniel. Did he try and ask for favors to allow Brooke and her children to stay here permanently? Did he have to break the law to make it happen?