Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series

by R. A. Mathis

  “This way!” Gunny bellowed as he pulled the pin on a grenade and threw the whole satchel at the nearest truck. The trailer lurched. Sheet metal shrieked. A gap appeared. The hellish blast blinded their attackers as the trapped men dashed toward their only hope of escape.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Gunny fired at anything moving above as his loyal deputies raced by him. He glanced at the breach. A few made it out. He couldn’t tell how many. More deputies lay wounded on the cold asphalt.

  Gunny’s leg dropped from under him, sending him to the ground. He tried to stand, but the throbbing limb refused to obey. Something small landed next to him with a clang and a clunk. He looked to see what it was. A grenade. It exploded. Gunny ears rang. He was blind and dazed, but alive. It was a flash-bang. More bombs rained down on the wounded men.

  An unsettling realization cut through the disorientation clouding his mind.

  They want us alive.

  After what seemed an eternity, the explosions stopped. Gunny’s vision returned to reveal the muzzles of three M4s aimed at his face. He tried to sit up. One of DHS agents said something. Gunny couldn’t understand the muffled words through the ringing in his ears, but he got the gist and lay back down.

  Another agent appeared. It was Sanger. A subordinate said something to her. She shook her head, then leaned in close so Gunny could hear her.

  “Take a few of them alive. If you want to catch a rat, you need some cheese to bait the trap.”

  *****

  05:45 AM

  Freeport

  It was still dark, but Hank couldn’t wait any longer. The police radio had been silent all night. Not so much as a jaywalker was reported. That never happened. There was no word from Gunny either. Something was wrong. Hank felt it in is gut. He drove by FEMA headquarters. Two greenies guarded the entrance. Government vehicles sat parked outside. The mega-screen still televised Tophet regime propaganda. The new flag still waved. Business as usual. Not good.

  Hank drove on to the courthouse. He parked by his office door and walked toward the entrance. Two Green Guardsmen armed with hunting rifles blocked the door. He recognized both of them. The first, a pretty young girl, was an honor student at the high school. He searched his memory for her name. Chandy. That was it. Good girl. Good family.

  The other was a boy a few years older. He was no honor student. His name was Austin. Hank knew him right away. The kid was barely nineteen and already had four drug arrests on his record.

  “Courthouse is closed,” Austin sneered as Hank approached.

  Hank didn’t slow down. “The sheriff is the only person authorized to close this building and I say it’s open. Step aside.”

  The guards closed ranks, blocking the entrance.

  “Where are Gunny and the other deputies?” Hank demanded.

  Chandy poked her rifle at his chest. “We said the courthouse is closed, Sheriff.”

  “Who do you little shits think you are?”

  “You took the words right outta my mouth, old man.”Austin gloated, “Check the news if you wanna know where your buddy, Gunny, is.”

  Hank returned to his squad car in time to hear the morning news update.

  First came a rehash of the same national stories he saw at the theater the night before. His gut wrenched again at the report of soldiers being arrested. Then the local news made his blood run cold.

  “A terrorist attack was foiled in the early morning hours,” the report began, “by joint forces of FEMA and our local Green Guard militia.”

  Hank turned the radio up, his stomach knotting tighter with each word.

  “The cowardly assault targeted the district FEMA headquarters at just after three o’clock this morning. Two extremists were killed. Three traitors were apprehended, including the ringleader, Chief Deputy Arvine “Gunny” Burchette. He and the other two captured outlaws are being held at the temporary detention center outside of town. Homeland Security authorities will arrive to take the trio into custody before noon today.”

  “The drive-in,” Hank said to himself.

  The report concluded. “Two of the attackers escaped and remain at large, but Special Agent Sanger gives her solemn word to the people of Freeport that these criminals will be caught and brought to justice. It is unknown at this time if Sheriff Sexton was involved in this act of senseless violence.”

  Hank left the city limits and sped toward the detention center.

  He stopped his car several hundred yards away from the old drive-in and grabbed a pair of binoculars from the trunk. He steadied his arm on the top of the cruiser as he studied the facility. Two guards stood watch at the entrance. Gunny and two deputies were visible, shivering on the frosty ground inside the chain link fence. All three were wounded. The yard was empty but for them. The place held at least thirty detainees the day before. They were gone now. Hank guessed the midnight train had made its rounds again.

  Only two guards, high-profile prisoners in plain sight, and all of it conveniently announced on the radio.

  “Yup.” Hank nodded to himself. “Definitely a trap.”

  He scanned the surroundings, searching the darkness for the reaction force that was surely standing by to nab him as soon as he came near the fence. He spotted something at the edge of a tree line across the highway. The unmistakable glow of a cigarette, bright as a beacon in the darkness of a world without electric light. Hank focused the binoculars, straining to see what was hiding in the woods. Slivers of moonlight reached into the trees to reveal silhouettes of armored vehicles. At least four of them. Shadows darted between the waiting beasts. A thin ribbon of exhaust fumes trailed into the air from one of them. They were idling. Eager to pounce on their unwitting prey.

  Not today.

  Hank got back into the cruiser, raced to his neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. His preacher’s wife answered, Maggie by her side.

  “You okay, Hank?” Edith asked.

  “Can I come in, please?”

  “Of course. Want some breakfast? I was just going to cook some eggs and grits.”

  “No thank you. I don’t have much time.”

  The kindly woman said to Maggie, “Go on back to bed, sweet girl. I’ll wake you when breakfast is ready.”

  Maggie nodded, rubbing her sleepy eyes. She hugged Hank’s neck. “I love you Papaw.”

  He hugged her back. “I love you, too.”

  Maggie trotted upstairs.

  “At least have some coffee.” Edith handed Hank a steaming cup.

  “Thank you.” He took a sip of the hot beverage. It was watered down. Coffee was becoming a rare delicacy. Grounds were reused until the last drop of flavor was squeezed from them these days. That is unless you registered. Then you got an instant coffee ration twice a week.

  “Have you found out where they took my husband?”

  “All I know is that they put him on a train in the middle of the night. More people are being taken every day. I don’t know where the train goes.”

  The preacher’s wife sat across from Hank, her face grave, her hands clasped in her lap.

  “They got Gunny last night.” Hank sighed.

  “I know. I heard it on the radio.”

  “We have to stop them.”

  “How can I help?” She gave the faintest of smiles. “That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

  Hank’s eyes dropped to his coffee. “Yes ma'am.”

  “Then stop beatin’ ‘round the bush and tell me what you need.”

  “If you help me, your life will be in danger.”

  “We’re all in danger with these wicked people. They already took my husband. The way I see it, I can either sit here and do nothing while I wait for them to come for me, or I can do something useful and stand up to them while I can.”

  “If something happens to me, I need you to take care of Maggie. That would mean hiding from Sanger and her thugs. Is there someplace you can go?”

  “Yes. My nephew…”

  “Don’t tell me,” Hank cut her o
ff, “It’s best if I don’t know where you are. Just so long as both of you are safe.”

  “We will be.”

  Hank checked his watch. “If I’m not back here by nine o’clock, go there and stay there. You’ll know when it’s safe to come out. Maggie…” Hank’s voice cracked. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. “She’s all that’s left of us.”

  “Don’t worry, Hank. You’ll be back for her. Till then, I’ll care for her like my own.”

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I’m in your debt.”

  “You can repay me by stopping these monsters.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Hank placed his steaming beverage on the coffee table. “I need one more favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Can I borrow your husband’s truck?”

  *****

  Hank parked the old Ford F150 on a darkened side street a block from FEMA headquarters and walked to the courthouse. Chandy and Austin still stood guard. They pointed their rifles at Hank as he marched toward them in the misty predawn gloom.

  “You don’t listen do you, old man?” Austin jabbed his gun into the sheriff’s chest.

  Hank snatched the weapon from the Austin’s hands, swung it around, and cracked the butt against the side of the young man’s head.

  “Ooww!” Austin cried as he fell to the ground. “You’ll pay for that!” he spat and started to stand.

  “Stay down.” Hank ordered. “And shut up.”

  The youth sank back to the ground, quietly rubbing the knot already rising on his head.

  Hank turned to Chandy. “Go home.”

  She let the rifle slip from her hands, then ran off across the courthouse lawn, passing Brandon’s frozen corpse which still dangled from the end of Sanger’s noose.

  Hank pulled a key ring from his pocket, opened the door, and entered his office. He unlocked a wall cabinet and retrieved two more sets of keys, then hurried to the basement, where the arms room lay behind a six-inch-thick steel door. He unlocked the massive door with one of the cabinet keys and heaved it toward him. Old hinges squealed as the massive metal slab glided upon them, revealing the sheriff department’s weapons storage room.

  Hank was relieved to see that Sanger hadn’t thought to clean it out yet. He grabbed a duffel bag full of cleaning rags from the corner and dumped its contents onto the floor. He thought a moment before grabbing a few rags and shoving them into his pocket. He then began stuffing the duffel with anything useful. Flash bang grenades, plastic explosive, ammunition, night vision goggles, flashlights, batteries. He also tossed in some pistols and slung as many M4s over his shoulder as he could carry.

  He locked the room up again and dragged the overstuffed bag up the stairs to the main level. He peeked out the door for any sign of Austin. The punk was gone, but Hank was sure he would be back with plenty of friends.

  Hank lugged the heavy sack to a nearby patrol car and fished the second set of keys from the cabinet out of his pocket. He popped the trunk, hefted the bag into the back of the vehicle, and drove to where the preacher’s truck was parked.

  He took several boxes of ammunition, grenades, and C-4 explosives from the duffel, piled them into the patrol car’s floorboard, and tossed the bag with its remaining contents into the cab of the truck along with the M4s. He took half full gas can, some rope, and a cinder block from the truck bed, setting the gas on top of the ammo and explosives. He opened the ash tray. Empty. He rifled through the glove box. Nothing.

  Come on, preacher. Were did you hide them?

  The pastor swore off smoking three years earlier, but Hank caught the telltale scent of tobacco ash on him after services every so often.

  Hank looked under the driver’s seat.

  Bingo.

  He pulled a zip-locked pouch of cigars rolled in paper towels from narrow space, taking one out before stashing the rest in his jacket pocket.

  Waste not want not.

  Hank took the rags from his pocket and soaked them with gasoline. He stuffed the first halfway into the gas can. He removed the car’s gas cap and left a second rag hanging from the hole.

  He cranked the police vehicle’s engine. Hot exhaust steamed into the bitter cold air as the car crept along the Stygian city streets with its lights off. Hank stopped in the middle of the street facing the front door of Sanger’s headquarters, his engine idling. The Green Guards hadn’t noticed him in the darkness. They were busy stomping their feet, trying to stay warm and awake.

  The cigar tip glowed orange against the truck’s electric lighter as Hank puffed it to life. Smoke swirled about his head as he tied the rope around the steering wheel to keep it steady and put the car in park. The cinder block went onto the gas petal. A few more puffs from the cigar got it hot enough to light the rags.

  Morning’s first light peaked over the horizon as Hank got out of the car, faced the headquarters, rendered a one-finger salute, then put the police cruiser in drive.

  Tires yelped as the cop car raced to its target. Guards lept aside as the four-wheeled missile crashed through the front doors and into the heart of Sanger’s lair. Flames licked from the ragged hole in the building’s facade. Angry pops and bangs grew more intense as the ammunition and flash-bangs began to cook off. Then the explosions came, blowing out windows and spreading the blaze. A FEMA agent darted from the building and collapsed in the street, aflame from head to foot.

  That should keep ‘em busy for a while.

  Hank hurried back to the truck and drove out of town, headed for the drive-in. The reaction force that had been waiting to nab him outside the detention center raced passed him on the highway, headed in the opposite direction, racing to their burning command post.

  The drive-in soon came into sight. Hank didn’t stop this time. He picked up speed, ramming through the chain-link. He kept going until he reached Gunny and the others. He slammed the brakes, grinding to a halt between them and the guards.

  “Get in!” Hank yelled as he jumped from the truck to help the wounded men. Gunny helped, too in spite of the bloody bandage around his leg.

  Bullets pinged off the truck from the two remaining guards. Hank pulled his revolver and returned fire. A guard went down.

  “We’re in!” Gunny yelled as the widow next to his head shattered under the salvo of incoming lead.

  Hank jumped into the driver seat and mashed the gas. Gravel and dirt spewed from the tires as the truck spun around, smashing another hole in the fence on the way out. Tires squealed again as rubber found pavement and the old pickup bolted down the highway away from town.

  “Gunny checked the wound on his leg. It was bleeding again. “I popped a stitch.”

  “There’s a first aid kit in the duffel.”

  Gunny dug through the bag and retrieved the kit. He also found a pistol, which he tucked into his belt. “That’s better.”

  “Here.” Hank handed Gunny his revolver. “Reload this while you’re at it.”

  “Soon as my fingers start workin’ again.” Gunny held his cold hands to the air vent of the truck’s heater, trying to get feeling back into his frozen digits. “How’d you clear the trap. I thought for sure they’d nail you.”

  Hank smiled. “FEMA is gong to need a new headquarters. With any luck, Sanger burned up with it.”

  “Where we goin’?” Gunny asked.

  Hank swerved onto a back road. “I’m dropping you guys off someplace safe, then I’m going to get Maggie. We’ll figure the rest out after that.”

  “Sounds good.” Gunny began to reload Hank’s pistol. “Drop us off at my farm. My truck is there.” He looked at the the two wounded deputies. “I’ll drive these two to the safe house. Once you have Maggie, meet me back at the Tritt Cemetery. I’ll guide you in from there.”

  Hank dropped the three men off at Gunny’s place and set out for Maggie as fast as the preacher’s truck could carry him.

  He pulled into the frosty yard of the old white farmhouse and climbed from the bullet-riddled truck. “Hello?
”

  No reply.

  “It’s Hank! Anybody home?”

  Silence.

  Worn boards groaned as Hank climbed the steps onto the front porch. The front door stood ajar. Hank noted the splintered jamb. It had been kicked in.

  He pulled his revolver and eased into the open door. The interior was dark, cold, and silent save for the creaking of the floor under Hank’s feet.

  “Maggie?” he called out as his eyes struggled to adjust to the gloomy confines of the living room.

  “She’s not here,” a familiar voice replied.

  Hank’s eyes darted to the couch. A figure was seated there. He stepped closer as detail filled silhouette. It was Finbarr Duncan.

  “Where is my granddaughter?” Hank demanded.

  “She’s safe,” the mayor replied in a calm voice. “I would never let harm come to her. Like I said, she’s my granddaughter, too, Hank.” Finbarr looked down at Edith’s body lying in a pool of blood. “Her,on the other hand…” He shrugged. “She shouldn’t have resisted.”

  Hank raised his pistol and heard the creak of footsteps behind him. He glanced behind him to see two deputies in green armbands with rifles trained on him.

  “That was a stupid thing you did this morning, Hank.”

  The sheriff smirked. “It was the smartest thing I’ve done in weeks.”

  “Where are Gunny and the others you helped escape?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Interesting choice of words.” It was Finbarr’s turn to smile. The mayor reached into his coat pocket.

  Hank’s grip on the revolver tightened.

  “Relax, Hank.” Finbarr pulled out a cigarette. “I have orders to take you alive.”

  “Orders?”

  “Sanger is in the hospital, but still very much alive. Your stunt burnt her up pretty good, though.” He lit the fire stick with an engraved Zippo. “She said she wants you alive. She screamed it, actually. Over and over.” He laughed. “Hating you is probably what’s keeping her alive.”

  “What would you ever do without her?”