This We Will Defend [Book 2]

by C. A. Rudolph

  “The most recent news is that they’re quarantined due to an outbreak of cholera of all things. Apparently, there’s a major sanitation conundrum. Alpha was only designed to accommodate around forty-five thousand refugees and wound up with about one-and-a-half times that number. Too many people in an area of limited real estate. There’s no estimate of when they’ll be fully operational again or if they’ll ever be. We’ve been getting by ourselves solely because we grow our own crops and procure our own livestock at Bravo. Beyond that, the whole valley is full of farmlands. Our scavenging details are helping tremendously and we’re constantly expanding our efforts. In short, we’re doing the best we can.”

  Damien paused before responding. “I’m sorry to hear about your…setbacks. But I’m willing to bet that not a single one of the minions under your command has to go hunting or door-busting just to find his next meal,” Damien growled. “Because, Mr. Bronson, that’s what we’ve been forced to do due to your nonexistent supply chain. Hell, I bet the prisoners you’re holding captive inside still get their three squares a day.”

  “Two,” Bronson corrected. “Exactly two. Yes, even we are rationing food now. And they’re not prisoners. They’re evacuees and refugees.”

  “Are they allowed to leave when they want?” Damien poked.

  “No. They are not allowed to leave when they want.”

  Damien laughed. “Then they’re prisoners. Prisoners that you use for slave labor and occasionally…kill off when it’s prudent. The only reason my men and me aren’t in your Godforsaken camp alongside them is because we serve your mission.”

  Bronson paused, gritted his teeth, and nodded reluctantly. “There may be a little truth to that,” he admitted. “But only a little. You and your men do, in fact, serve a purpose.”

  “And yet you sit here, interrupt my dinner, and question my methods.”

  “Please. Even you can admit that your methods are a bit—”

  “Savage?” Damien interjected. “Wasn’t that the word you used earlier?”

  Bronson twiddled his thumbs. His eyes narrowed. He deliberated before responding. “So it seems.”

  Damien smiled and sat back informally in his seat. He appreciated a good back-and-forth. “Maybe we are…savages, that is. But regardless of that, I need to feed my men. And if we don’t get what you promised us, my men and me, we go bye-byes.”

  Bronson’s eyes widened. He didn’t know how to respond or how to take the man who sat across from him. The fact was he never did. He felt it best to be sensible as opposed to being adversarial—even though he wasn’t opposed to being the latter.

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t realize that our lack of support affected you this much,” Bronson offered.

  Damien laughed. “You don’t realize shit, Bronson. That’s the problem with you bureaucrats. You’ll never understand the struggles of the steerage…or anyone you consider lesser than yourself. It’s all about the status quo for you and those like you.”

  Bronson pointed his finger. “Don’t let the levity of our conversation fool you, Marcel,” he warned. “I don’t savor insults. I made my apologies, I promised to make amends, and I meant it. I underestimated the needs of you and your men, and I’ll do what I can to get you what you need. We can leave it at that.”

  “Fine. I guess we’ll be expecting some supplies soon, then. Halle-fucking-lujah.”

  “As soon as we can manage,” Bronson said. “A few days at least…so please, exercise some patience.”

  “I’ll try. No guarantees, though. I’m well-known for my lack of forbearance.”

  “I assumed as much,” Bronson uttered, and paused before continuing. “I suppose this makes us congenial again. And in the essence of being congenial, I have a small request. Would you consider toning down your…tactics a bit?”

  “My tactics?” Damien quipped.

  Bronson gestured his head backward toward the door, and Damien nodded his understanding.

  “Oh, that,” Damien said. “Yeah…I don’t think so.”

  Bronson sighed. “Would you mind explaining to me why not?”

  “It’s entertaining. My men—the savages—like it. It keeps them occupied and happy, and that makes me happy. Before, they were bored and pissed off all the time. I like my men happy, not grumpy like little bitches on their periods.”

  Bronson lowered his head and rubbed his temples as if he’d gotten a migraine at some point during the conversation. “So you’re going to sit here and tell me that you feel the level you—and they—have taken is completely justified?”

  “Please. Let’s not talk about justification for our actions, Bronson. You work for the Department of Homeland Security,” Damien huffed. “Your branch was created specifically to murder and pillage with impunity and do so with the added benefit of zero oversight.”

  Bronson tapped his index finger on the table. “What I am doing—what DHS is doing—is for the greater good, whether you want to believe it or not, Marcel. We have a mission and we intend to see it through. After this mission is complete, we’ll begin another one—whatever it may be—and we’ll see it through. That is our construct.”

  “That’s a good word—mission,” Damien said. “Well, that’s what we intend to do as well—see our mission through. And our mission…helps you accomplish yours. So please, don’t judge me and my men, and don’t you dare question my tactics. That’s our fucking construct.”

  Bronson shrugged and sighed. “I guess intervening at this point is a waste of time—I’ve created a monster.”

  Damien laughed. “No. The monster was created a long time ago. You just gave him resources and a purpose and then cut him loose.”

  Bronson nodded reluctantly, his eyes fixated on nothing more than the reflective surface of the table. “Is it too late for that drink?”

  Damien smiled and pointed to Danny, who stood silently behind Bronson. He walked over to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of Maker’s Mark, along with another glass. He poured the liquor into the glass, handing it to Bronson, who held it up in the air for a toast.

  “I typically prefer brandy, but this will do, I guess,” Bronson uttered. “To our future endeavors. May we restore our country to greatness once again.”

  Damien and Bronson downed their drinks. Damien quickly reached for the bottle and put some into his glass again and then poured some into Bronson’s glass.

  “My late father’s favorite toast became one of my favorites, so please indulge me,” Damien said. “It went something like ‘may we get what we want, may we get what we need, but may we never get what we deserve’.”

  “Touching,” Bronson yawned.

  The two tapped glasses and finished their drinks. Bronson gestured his intent to depart, stood, and began walking toward the door. Damien snapped his fingers and Danny put his arm in the way, stopping Bronson with a rough hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ve run into a bit of a problem,” Damien began. “It’s something that I’d like your help with.”

  “What sort of problem?” Bronson muttered with another loud sigh as he whipped his body around. “Let me guess—you want hot showers for your men on a daily basis. Maybe a spa day or foot massages? Or is it…a different style of food? Vietnamese cuisine? Or pizza perhaps?”

  “Some of my men have gone missing. A total of five to be exact—including Jesse, my vice president, and another club officer.”

  Bronson shrugged. “I don’t understand—you think we captured them or something?”

  Damien sneered. “No. If I thought that for a second, we wouldn’t be standing here, being so civil with one another. I like to think our relationship is a lot more…symbiotic than that.”

  “So what in the hell is it, then?” Bronson barked. “I don’t have all day.”

  “I need your help finding them,” Damien said. “I don’t have the manpower to keep sending guys out to look for them. The three guys I sent to find the other two have yet to come back, and that’s five men so far una
ccounted for. Whether they got lost or wound up dead somehow, I need to know what’s happened to them.”

  Bronson crossed his arms and looked down at the floor. “If you can provide us with physical descriptions, photos, or something to go by, I’ll inform my recovery and security crews to be on the lookout,” he said exhaustedly. “Would that be a help to you?”

  “It’s a start,” Damien said. “But honestly, I was hoping that a man with your resources…could offer a bit more.”

  “Such as?”

  “I could’ve sworn I overheard you say at one point that you had access to a drone—or a UAV, as you feds tend to call them.”

  Bronson sighed and nodded reluctantly. “I may have mentioned it in passing. Or accidentally.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Damien pushed.

  “We have one Predator ISR drone and we have one team who can operate and maintain it. It’s still sitting in a container though—we’ve never found cause to use it.”

  Damien stood up from his seat and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. He then approached Bronson like a cheetah stalking prey. “Well—perhaps now you do.”

  Bronson smirked and nodded. He wasn’t amused. “We’ll see,” he said as he turned around and walked to the door. “You’re asking for an awful lot today, Marcel. I’ll do my best to acquiesce—but I’m going to require you not to forget who works for who.”

  “Oh…don’t worry. I know who greases my gears,” Damien spat. “But before you leave, there is one thing I’d like to add.”

  Bronson sighed in exasperation. “And that is?”

  “Just so we’re clear—I may work for you, but I don’t need your permission to do anything. Ever.”

  Outside the house, Bronson approached his blacked-out sport-utility vehicle with large DHS logos on the driver and passenger doors. Two large armed men in DHS uniforms, both carrying rifles, stood guard beside it. One of the men reached for the passenger door and opened it. Bronson took a seat inside and the guard closed the door. As the guards entered and took seats in the backseat of the SUV, the driver, Bronson’s assistant Seth Bates, started the engine and then turned to look at him.

  “So…how’d that go?” Bates asked Bronson, with a curious glance.

  “Exactly how you’d imagine.”

  “I imagine dealing with a nut job like him takes a lot of patience,” Bates said.

  Bronson nodded, his eyes fixated on nothing other than the dashboard in front of him while he stewed. Seth whipped the wheel to turn the truck around and headed out of the neighborhood. The vehicles that were a part of Bronson’s security detail followed closely behind. Bronson rolled down his window to get a breath of fresh air. He pointed at a pile of burning debris to his right as they passed, with several men standing around it, some of whom were holding their hands toward the flames to keep warm. As they drew closer, it became evident that there was much more than inorganic trash and debris in the pile.

  “There. Do you see that? That’s what he calls his mission,” Bronson said in disgust. “The sick bastard actually told me that it was entertaining.”

  “You knew when you first met the guy that he was a demented son of a bitch,” Bates responded, keeping his eyes on the road. “Some of the things that came out of his mouth were like nothing I’ve ever heard anyone say before.” He paused. “But I also could’ve sworn that was the primary reason you enlisted his help.”

  “It was and it wasn’t,” Bronson said. “I knew what we were getting into, but the price was so low I didn’t see how we could lose. It served, and I guess still serves, both of our needs.”

  Bates asked, “You still think you can control him?”

  “I don’t know. We just need to keep a handle on things. We brought them on as assets to the mission and now the situation is getting out of hand,” Bronson said. “I never expected things to get this bad, Bates.”

  “I won’t disagree with you there. But with all due respect, sir,” Bates began, “it’s not like we’re any different. Our methods may differ, but the end result is the same.”

  Bronson snapped his neck at Bates and glared at him crossly.

  “We are not heathens,” he declared. “We do things in a civilized manner. We do not operate in the same fashion, Bates—regardless of what you reason in that pedantic little brain of yours. This is an undertaking for the greater good of our new nation. Our methods must remain civilized—meaning we don’t go around raping and murdering and setting fire to everything. Marcel is nothing more than a modern-era philistine.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Bates said. “I get it.” He paused. “Look, I took the same oath that you did, and I fight on the same side…it just seems to me like we’re splitting hairs sometimes.”

  Bronson turned his head away irritably and fell silent for a moment before he continued. “Speaking of hairs, Seth, I want this particular stray dog and the rest of his pack kept on the shortest leashes imaginable from this point going forward. We’ll continue to give them what they need to remain doing whatever it is that they’re doing—for now. But when I decide it’s done, it is done. They are dangerously close to outliving their usefulness.”

  “Roger that,” Bates said. “Just say the word, and I’ll cut the cord.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, I received an update yesterday concerning the squad we sent out to search for the remaining infiltrator. I wanted to bring it up to you sooner, but it seemed like you had other things on your mind.”

  Bronson glanced at Bates curiously. “And?” he questioned. “Have they returned?”

  “No, sir,” Bates replied. “Three security team members and two K9 units and their handlers. It’s been over a week now and…nothing.”

  Bronson shook his head in disgust but didn’t say anything. His mood had suddenly changed.

  “Wasn’t one of the men in the response team related to you, sir?” Bates pondered. “Cousin? Brother or something?”

  “Brother-in-law,” Bronson murmured. “Ex-brother-in-law, to be fully accurate.”

  A few moments of silence followed while Bronson twiddled his thumbs.

  “Our men carry three to five days’ worth of supplies with them at all times when they’re outside the wire, and they have a small arsenal of weapons and ammo to boot,” Bates pontificated. “It’s totally out of character for them to be gone this long, but even on an overextended stay such as this, they should be able to make it out okay.”

  After a long pause and not receiving a response, Bates asked, “What should we do?”

  Bronson turned his head toward his window and watched for a few seconds in silence as the unused mailboxes flashed by his window. “It may be time to get the Predator in the air and go look for them.”

  “We’ve never flown that thing before. Are you sure you want to use it? We could just send out another team.”

  “Marcel mentioned he’s missing men too. In so many words, he asked me if we could offer some help in the form of aerial surveillance,” Bronson said. “Truthfully, I initially had no intention of helping him…but if some of our own men are missing, we need to do what we can to find them.” He paused. “If my brother-in-law is one of them, I guess that makes it a priority. Even if he is an ex-brother-in-law.”

  As the DHS SUV train left the neighborhood, a fast-moving motorcycle flew by them, headed in the opposite direction. As the motorcycle approached the cul-de-sac, it slowed and the rider began looking around, as if unsure where to go exactly. Danny, the Marauders’ sergeant-at-arms, was standing outside the Anderson home and had been since the DHS vehicles left. Seeing the bike, he recognized who it was immediately and began waving his arm to the rider. The rider accelerated up and into the driveway, came to a stop, and turned off the ignition.

  “Lenny,” Danny said, “where in the bloody hell have you been? Where’s Jared and Mickey?”

  Lenny walked up to Danny with a wide-eyed expression and a worried look on his face. “They’re dead,” he said nervously. He pull
ed out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up after placing it between his trembling lips.

  “What do you mean dead?” Danny angrily asked.

  “We rolled up into the National Forest to look for Jesse and Vance just like Damien told us to do. We spent all day looking for them—and we just needed to take a break. Well, we pulled into a camping area and Mickey went looking around, and I took a piss, then we chatted for a bit. We were about to head across the state line to continue the search when someone started shooting at us,” Lenny explained.

  “Wait a minute.” Danny moved closer. “Who started shooting at you?” he demanded with a pointed finger.

  “I have no idea,” Lenny said. “Some locals, I guess. The shots came from the woods…we dropped the bikes for cover and shot back. Jared’s bike was hit and the gas tank exploded—he was on fire before we knew it and there was no way to save him. We were taking fire from two or three positions by then.” He paused to take a drag from his cigarette. “It was a fucking ambush.”

  “So you…just left?” Danny said, never taking his eyes off Lenny. “You left them there?”

  “Danny, I didn’t have a choice,” Lenny pleaded. “Jared was gone. We were taking fire. When I saw him get hit and go down for good, I got the hell out of there. I barely survived.”

  “What about Mickey? Was Mickey dead when you left?”

  Lenny looked down at the ground nervously and took a long drag from his cigarette. “No. I mean I don’t know,” he said. “We were taking heavy fire—there was damn bullets flying everywhere…I didn’t know what the hell else to do.”

  Danny reached ahead and grabbed Lenny’s head with his hand, forcing Lenny to look him in the eyes.

  “Was Mickey dead…when you left him?” Danny repeated his question with focus on every word. His emotions were flaring.