Z-Risen (Book 5): Barriers

by Long, Timothy W.

  “I have to go, honey. I’ll be home as soon as possible,” Bradley said and clicked off.

  Paul stared at Bradley for several seconds.

  “Sorry, it won’t happen again,” Bradley said. His hand shook from gripping the edge of his desk.

  “See that it doesn’t,” Paul said. He had a superior way of speaking that grated on Bradly’s last nerve.

  Bradley nodded, hoping Paul would go crawl back into his office and watch cat videos or porn.

  “You needed something?” Bradley asked, hoping Paul would just leave him alone with his bruised ego.

  “Yeah, almost forgot. Ed Reels in accounting threw a big baby fit this morning. He left and swore he was done working here. Go grab his computer,” Paul said.

  “He left? I was up there when the rest of the accountants were picking on him,” Bradley said and rose. “I took a memory chip out of his computer because it was throwing. I have a replacement ready to go. Took it from Janice in accounting’s old computer.”

  “No one liked that guy. He’s kind of a dick,” Paul said. “Hustle up. We have more tickets in the queue and Vinay seems to have disappeared on his lunch break. I need you back here ASAP so no smoke breaks, got it, compadre?”

  You’re a dick, compadre. Bradley didn’t dare say out loud but rose to his feet.

  He was a few inches taller and had about thirty pounds on Paul. He didn’t like to appear intimidating, but there must have been something in Bradley’s body language that made Paul back up.

  Paul swallowed and took another step back.

  “Sure. I’ll be right back after I install this in his computer,” Bradley picked up the memory chip and showed it to Paul.

  “Yeah, okay,” Paul said.

  Bradley stepped out of his cubicle and maneuvered up the hallway toward the stairwell. He would take those instead of the elevator. Walking briskly up a dozen flights was the perfect way to blow off steam, and finish waking up.

  His decision probably saved his life.

  Chapter Two

  Chris Miller, according to his current identification card, but whose real name was Roger Stephenson, met his drop in front of a coffee shop near Avalon Park. He wore a light Chicago White Sox jacket, a ball cap, and dark shades. He packed a Heckler and Koch VP9, an extra magazine, and his backup was a Glock 26 Gen 3, tucked inside an ankle holster.

  The streets were sparse with traffic as he wove his way along the sidewalk, eyes plastered to the sidewalk.

  He smelled the place before he saw it. The boutique shop roasted their coffee beans, and the smell permeated the air. He had never developed a taste for coffee. But he did enjoy the smell of ground coffee, or in this case, freshly roasted beans.

  When he had been in Iraq, the other guys called coffee shops green beans, of which there was a surprising amount. If he had to drink the stuff, he preferred it Turkish style. Instant crystals, dissolved in hot water and thick as syrup thanks to all the sugar.

  He stopped a block away, next to a Hummer H2, and leaned over to tie his shoe but his eyes never left the front of the store. He stood up, adjusted his jacket, and then crossed the street.

  His contact was named Lawson. A hard ass who he’d worked with on a couple of missions. He didn’t like Lawson because the man got off on torturing people. He had been the sort of man who was brought in for special cases. Stuff that wasn’t talked about, it was covered up, and most Americans were led to believe that water boarding was instrumental in extracting information.

  If they only knew about the work he’d witnessed. Sleep deprivation combined with being tied into painful positions for hours at a time. Rubber hoses, acid poured on exposed skin before being neutralized, electric leads applied to genitals and, of course, a whip with metal bits worked into the braids. Lawson was the kind of guy who delighted in some truly horrific treatment of high-value terrorists.

  All Chris Miller knew at this point was that he would receive his orders, meet with a team, and execute whatever Lawson handed over. From there, he was free to move on for the time being, at least until a new mission popped up.

  He approached the coffee stand and went inside. Lawson had two drinks in hand and approached Chris.

  “Yo,” Lawson said.

  Carl Lawson was a big man. He had closely cropped black hair a pepper gray soul patch under his bottom lip, and a three-pronged scar that creased his forehead. Rumor was, Lawson was such a bad ass, he’d stopped a bullet with his head in Qatar. Chris knew the truth. Lawson had been hit with an iron bar while hunting down a group of illegals in Dallas. His mission had failed, and he’d been stuck in the hospital for a week, while they tried to figure out if he would be able to think straight again. As far as Chris was concerned, that had never happened.

  “Thanks for the drink,” Chris said and accepted the cup.

  They walked out of the door and paused in front of the building.

  “No fucking problem, brother. Got you some foo foo shit with lots of sugar and cream,” Lawson smirked.

  “Cut the crap, Lawson. What’s the job?”

  “Something special. Real special. You do good, and it’s your ticket out for good,” Lawson said.

  “About damn time,” Chris said.

  “What’s wrong? I remember you being the guy who’d take out any target. Just give the word, and Stephenson’d handle it.”

  “Miller,” Chris said.

  “What the fuck ever, Miller, just do what you’re supposed to.”

  “I always do. I don’t need someone like you to judge my work,” Chris said.

  “God’ll do that, yeah? Just don’t screw this up,” Lawson said and turned away.

  “Hey. You have something for me?” Chris said.

  “Bottoms up, motherfucker,” Lawson said as he walked away.

  Chris walked in the opposite direction. When he was a sufficient distance away from the coffee store, he fingered the bottom of the cup and found a bump.

  Chris flagged down a cab and handed the man twenty bucks to take him four blocks away. By the time he had arrived, Chris had removed the tape from the bottom of the cup, folded it in half, and slipped it into his pocket. When the cab dropped him off, he tossed the cup, and whatever shit was inside.

  He got out and took a bus a mile away, then walked a few blocks. The brown row house had white lace curtains hanging in the front windows and a three foot tall metal angel in the yard.

  He had arranged for the Air BnB with a bogus credit card and ID. Once he had arrived, last night, Chris had swept the house for cameras or audio recording equipment.

  Chris entered the guest bedroom and took the piece of tape and unfolded it to find an SD card. Chris removed his black backpack from under the bed, then took out his secure Android device. He powered the phone down, removed the SIM card, and slid the battery cover off. Then he inserted the new SIM card and restarted.

  When it had booted up, he entered a long password, and then opened the card. On it was a hidden text file. Once on the screen, the file contained three columns of numbers. He removed a paperback copy of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 and began the task of decoding the message. The first number was the page. The second number was the sentence, and the third was the word.

  He scratched out the message on a pad of paper, then sat back and read it. Then he read it again.

  Chris let out a long, low whistle.

  He removed the SIM card and took it and the note to the kitchen. Using a lighter, he torched the paper in the sink and put the SD card on top. When it had burned out, he ran the water, washed it down the sink, and then ran the garbage disposal for a long minute.

  Chris returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He took long relaxing breaths in through his nose for four seconds, held them for two, and then breathed out through his mouth for four.

  Chris took out his backpack again and slung it over his shoulder.

  This was going to send ripples through the entire country. A heinous act was about to occur, a
nd he was going to be one of the perpetrators.

  Chapter Three

  Senate bill S. 542 went to the house today and was approved by sixty-seven percent. The controversial bill strips immigrants with Muslim backgrounds from entering the country. It also makes it legal for anyone who is in the country as a legal immigrant to be detained, and possibly deported, if an investigation reveals the person had spoken out against the United States even if it’s on social media.

  Opponents of the bill have called it a heinous stripping of rights that violates the constitution. The president has said that the bill will make our borders safe.

  Over twenty thousand jobs have been opened for customs and immigration enforcement to hire additional staff. They will range from public health officers, law enforcement, to border patrol agents.

  The first nine flights had gotten increasingly hard. He felt winded, but in a good way. Bradley worked out when he could spare the time. It wasn’t that he was interested in becoming a body builder. It was more of something that had been ingrained in him since he was a kid. A sound mind was first. A sound body was a very close second.

  Bradley only had one floor to go when he heard the first unmistakable pop. Then three more.

  Bradley ducked and pressed himself against the wall. Another pop and a woman screamed. His eyes followed the long line of the stairs. He could be down them in seconds.

  His heartbeat increased and his vision narrowed. Breathing came ragged, and he froze as memories flooded his head.

  The woman had been caught in the crossfire. They had been pursuing a jihadi named Ahmed Salim and his merry band of assholes. Bradley was on point and had spotted the man duck into a building.

  Jones leaned around him and popped off a few rounds.

  Then an MRAP rolled onto the scene and was practically blown sideways by an IED. The soldiers inside would hopefully be okay because the truck was designed for that kind of punishment.

  His squad scrambled to find cover when someone opened fire from a rooftop fifty yards away. The MRAP returned fire and suppressed the target.

  Bradley used the shots as cover and moved fast. His legs pumped as he reached a smoking red car that had been bombed all to hell a few hours ago. A mangy dog with a bushy tail ran across his line of sight and disappeared in an alley.

  The jihadi knocked open the window, and the barrel of an AK appeared. Then the car took almost a dozen rounds that stitched their way across the metal. Bradley kissed the ground and prayed a 7.62 didn’t find his head.

  “Move up, move up.” Koch motioned for the rest of the squad to use the building as cover and flank the man in the house.

  Bradley lifted his rifle over the hood of the car and fired in the general direction of the shooter.

  “Frag out!” Jones yelled.

  Bradley kissed the dirt again. He sucked in breath after breath, knowing he was in danger of hyperventilating. He willed his heart to stop racing, but adrenaline had other ideas. The ground wavered, and he tasted dirt and piss. Bradley lifted his head and sprayed out a huge sneeze that made his head spin.

  The explosion blew the door off the wall.

  “Cover that window,” Koch called.

  “Roger,” Bradley replied.

  Bradley popped up and ran full speed for an overturned cart. He dove behind it as the AK’s barrel reappeared. Bullets smacked into the ground, but none managed to find him.

  Koch must have gotten his men into position by then because all hell broke loose.

  “Drop it, drop it!” Koch screamed. Another door kicked in. Feet pounding on a wooden floor.

  Someone screamed, and gunshots rang out.

  Bradley pushed himself to his feet and trained his weapon on the doorway. The jihadi exited at high speed, and Bradley dropped him with one shot.

  His heart raced so fast he thought it was going to burst through his chest, but he’d completed the mission, and the jihadi was down. Praise God.

  The AK sounded again but was cut off. Another scream, one more shot, and then the house was silent.

  “All clear,” Koch called from inside the house.

  The door opened, and Koch’s face appeared under his tan helmet through the entryway.

  Bradley lowered his weapon and let it swing down on its two-point sling. He stepped out of cover and approached the house.

  “You got one,” Koch said as he poked the target Bradley downed.

  “Yeah?” Bradley said.

  “Wait a minute,” Koch said.

  He crouched next to the corpse.

  Bradley approached and studied the body of the first man he had killed. Then the world spun around him and threatened to swallow him whole.

  It was a woman dressed in black.

  “Shit happens out here. We got your back, brother.” Koch said and stood up.

  “I didn’t—”

  “It happens. Caught in the crossfire. Look on the bright side, one less breeder in this hell hole,” Koch said and went to issue orders to the rest of the squad.

  She was serene in death. Lips parted, one eye open, the other would have been, but there was a wound there where his 5.56 round had punched through her head. Blood pooled in the dirt.

  The swirling intensified. He thought he was going to pass out. Faint. Die.

  Another scream and a pop. Bradley’s heartbeat galloped like a racehorse, and his vision narrowed again until he only saw the metal stair railing.

  Something thumped against the door, and Bradley turned to make a run for it.

  The door opened, and someone fell inside the stairwell. He flinched, but then realized it was Jessica. Blood had splashed her face, and white blouse.

  She reached out and found the wall.

  Bradley snapped out his reverie and rose. His left knee popped, but he ignored the sharp pain as Jessica fell toward him. He caught her and lowered her gently to the cold hard pavement.

  “It’s okay. Okay. Not that bad. I don’t even feel it. Charlie will be so worried. Tell him at the hospital I…” then she stopped talking and her eyes stared at the ceiling.

  “Jessica?” Bradley shook her. “Jessica? I’ll get help. Hold on.”

  But she wasn’t breathing.

  “Stay with me,” Bradley slapped her cheek with gentle blows.

  A puddle of blood collected beneath her, just like the woman in Afghanistan. He fought the sinking feeling, the white haze, and let muscle memory take over. Bradley tilted her head back, so she had an unrestricted airway. He planted his palm between her breasts and placed his other hand on top. Fifteen compressions, then he pressed his lips to hers and blew while holding her nose.

  “No. Please no,” a hysterical man yelled.

  Two pops and then a groan. One more pop and the guy didn't make another sound.

  Bradley ripped Jessica’s shirt open to find the wound. He could use part of the fabric to stanch the flow of blood. Then he stopped and sat back.

  She had a pucker just left of her sternum, and bright red seeped from the gunshot. He looked up and caught her eyes. They were open and vacant.

  Bradley sat back and lifted his hands to find they were stained with her blood. What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to feel? The only thing that came to mind was horrified. He was absolutely horrified that this shooting had taken place.

  The elevator next to the stairwell dinged. The sound of the doors sliding open. Then they glided shut, and it was quiet.

  Bradley knew he should run, but he needed to render aid. Cowards ran, and he'd met a few of those when he was in the Army.

  He stared at Jessica. She could be a pain in the ass at times, but she didn't deserve this. No one did.

  Bradley leaned over and straightened her shirt, pushing it closed over her exposed lacy black bra. Blood no longer flowed from the wound because her heart had stopped beating. It pooled under her though. She had been hit with a large caliber round that must have passed through her body.

  Someone moaned for help from the other side
of the door.

  Bradley’s stomach flip-flopped. He couldn’t wait any longer. He rose to his feet and turned to face the door, and pressed his ear to the cold metal. Nothing but silence met him.

  He placed his hand on the handle. The blood made his grip slick as he turned the knob.

  The door slid opened on quite hinges so he peeked and then ducked back around the doorjamb. When no bullets found his head, he opened the door an inch and, with one eye pressed to the opening, took in the scene.

  A body lay on the ground next to the row of walls and didn’t move. Five or six shell casings scattered on the floor, copper gleaming in the overly bright overhead lights.

  He dropped to a crouch and entered the room with his body low, knees bent, and Bradley moved at a snails pace. He took a step and then waited. If the shooter was still here, he didn’t want to give away his entry.

  Turned out there was no need for him to be quiet.

  Bradley sucked in a breath when he stepped onto the eighth floor. His hands shook and his vision once again narrowed.

  Garry may have been the man who had moaned in pain. It was hard to tell now because no one moved. As he crept along the cubicles, he found nothing but bodies. Some had sought shelter under their desks, others behind filing cabinets. They had been shot in their workspaces and most finished off with a round to the head.

  Bradley pushed his fingers against Garry’s neck but didn’t find a pulse. He counted six bodies. Some were people he had known, worked with for half a year. Others were the sort who barely said a word to him. Albert Cross had been a friendly guy in his sixties who had shared Bradley’s love of the Chicago Bears. He and Albert had struck up a work friendship that involved sending football stats to each other during the last season.

  Albert was face down. He had a bullet hole in his hand, three in his back, and his head had been partially blown open. Blood and pink matter seeped from the wound.

  “Hollow points,” Bradley muttered. Nothing else left wounds like that. “Jesus save us.”