The Gauntlet

by Mike Kraus

  ***

  “We’ve got a way through over here, Lieutenant.” The soldier’s voice was garbled, both by radio static and by the sound of heavy breathing.

  “Copy. All units, proceed through. We’ll take up the rearguard.” Lieutenant Jackson sat in the gunner seat of a Humvee, watching as the three Humvees and the APC slowly rolled past, heading for the break in the debris that the soldier had called out. Linda sat in the driver’s seat while Frank sat next to her, his head constantly rotating as he scanned their surroundings.

  As soon as reinforcements arrived at the dockyard to secure the facility and continue treating the staff and workers, Jackson loaded everyone up and set out for the town of Perris, California. The drive took just under three hours, most of which was spent getting out of Long Beach and onto roads where they could drive at reasonable speeds instead of simply crawling along.

  Unfortunately, shortly after they crossed into Perris they soon found themselves crawling along once again. The city looked like the others that Frank and Linda had seen, with collapsed buildings, destroyed vehicles and the aftereffects of desperate survivors trying to loot and salvage. Some of the roads in the Long Beach area had been cleared by the military so that convoys could easily move between the port and the airport, but no such clearing had been performed in Perris. Thus, Jackson assigned a pair of soldiers to scout ahead of the vehicles for paths that were relatively clear. Any obstacles were then pushed aside by the APC, making enough room for the Humvees to follow behind.

  “How much farther do you think we have to go?” Frank asked.

  “We’ve got another mile or so. I think things will open up soon since we’re circling around to the southern edge of the city."

  “Is the warehouse not inside the city proper?”

  Jackson squatted down through the hole in the roof and tapped Linda on the shoulder. “Go on ahead. And no, Frank, it’s part of a big industrial complex based on satellite imagery.” Jackson stood back up, swinging the gun around to scan behind them as Linda pulled their vehicle in line behind the rest.

  “Sounds like fun,” Frank sighed.

  Linda glanced over at her companion, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You getting tired of this, Frank?”

  “Nah,” he shrugged, “Just tired in general. It feels like it’s been years since I’ve had a full night’s sleep.”

  “Buck up,” Linda replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll be through this soon. I hope.”

  Though the gunners on the vehicles and the soldiers leading the way were all vigilant for any attacks, the city offered no surprises to the weary group. There were signs that a few survivors still lingered in the area, subsisting off of stocked food and water or scavenging for what they needed in the ruins, but for the most part the city was clearly deserted. As they approached the southern edge and the going became smoother again, the pair of scouts got back into their vehicles and the convoy picked up the pace.

  The afternoon sun was slowly falling in the sky when Jackson climbed down from the gun and closed the top hatch. He grabbed the radio from the front seat and sat back, stretching his shoulders as he radioed the convoy. “All units, listen up. We’re approaching the location. Break up as we previously planned. The APC will hold back while the rest of us divide into two groups. Drive like you’re performing a basic patrol and nothing more. Once you reach your designated positions I want the APC rolling in like a bat outta hell. We’ll follow them in, using it for cover until we reach a location where we can deploy further.”

  A chorus of confirmations echoed back over the radio and Jackson leaned forward between the front seats. “All right, Rollins. We’re on point. Take us in nice and easy.”

  ***

  As Linda drove along, she focused on keeping her breathing steady. Her mind wandered to thoughts of driving through the narrow streets in Iran, passing between homes and businesses all while wondering when the next mortar or ambush would come. Dealing with survivors who were trying to scrape together food or water to survive was one thing. Coming up against terrorists from the country she had been to before was quite another.

  After the first attack on the baseball field and the subsequent annihilation of the attacking forces at the parking lot a short time later, Linda had been on edge about further encounters with Omar’s people. Chasing after the crates was certain to draw no small amount of attention and even if the bombs themselves weren’t at the warehouse, Linda knew that she was stirring up a lot of potential trouble.

  “Group two report.” Jackson kept his voice quiet in the back seat, his eyes trained on the large industrial compound to their north. Once a raw materials processing facility for computer chip manufacturers, the compound had operated on a skeleton crew for the last six months as they dealt with impacts from trade negotiations and more companies moving their business to foreign countries. The push from a few years prior to manufacture more complex goods inside the USA hadn’t lasted for long as Asian markets pushed back, lowering manufacturing prices and offering attractive tax-related deals to US companies.

  “Nothing here, sir. All appears quiet.”

  Jackson tapped the radio against his leg as he watched through the window. “I don’t like this. We should have seen something by now. Some sign of something going on.”

  “Maybe they abandoned the place?” Frank unscrewed the top of a canteen and took a few sips before passing it over to Linda. She gratefully accepted it and took a long drink before handing it back to Frank.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “But we’re coming up on a break in the wall. Want me to slow down, Jackson?”

  “Yeah, take it easy around this next corner,” he replied, lifting a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  Linda nodded and took her foot off of the accelerator as they wound their way around a curve in the road. The reduction in speed didn’t last for long, though, as Linda glanced out the window and saw a puff of smoke off in the distance near one of the buildings.

  “Shit!” Linda shouted as she slammed the pedal back down, sending the Humvee surging forward. Frank and Jackson both shouted, wondering what was going on, but the explosion of the RPG masked any words they were trying to get out.

  The slight increase in speed meant that the RPG didn’t hit the Humvee dead on, but impacted on the back left wheel instead, striking the center of the wheel and completely obliterating it and the tire as well. Linda felt the Humvee begin to roll over and fought the motion futilely, twisting the wheel back and forth to no avail. As an intense heat enveloped the vehicle and it began a violent roll off the road and across the sand, Linda closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss of death to brush against her lips.

  Chapter 4

  “Idiots.” Malcolm Stadwell mutters the word to himself as he stalks through the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He just left a three-hour meeting where his presence was completely unnecessary and he had to decline a call to his personal cellphone that he very much needed to answer.

  Malcolm Stadwell has worked with the Bureau for less than a year and already he feels as though the walls are closing in around him. His gambling habits that he managed to successfully hide during his interviews and background checks have come back to haunt him as his indulgence in the ‘sport’ grows in an attempt to cope with the stress placed upon him by his new job.

  Stadwell’s office is only a few feet away when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He presses a hand against his pocket, trying to muffle what feels like the loudest vibration on the planet. After he ducks into his office he closes the door and pulls the blinds, then stands near his window as he pulls out the device. The screen is bright with a picture of two young children and a woman behind a transparent box with a phone number and photograph that he knows far too well.

  “Mickey.” Stadwell taps the green button on the phone and says the name with as little emotion as possible. He can feel sweat dripping from beneath his armpits and traveling down his sides.
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  “Malcolm?” Mickey’s voice is surprisingly pleasant. It almost sounds like the bookie has had a reasonably good day. “What’s shaking, Mr. Eff-Bee-Eye?” The man speaks with a thick New Jersey accent, drawing out each letter in the acronym as long as possible.

  “I know, Mickey. I’ve got most of it together. Enough to satisfy you. I’ll bring it tonight.”

  “Most of what?” Stadwell’s face creases into a frown at the sound of genuine confusion in Mickey’s voice. “You’re all paid up! That packet you sent earlier today cleared and you’re zeroed out. Better than zeroed out, though; you’ve got a balance! I just wanted to call to confirm that it arrived and you’re good. See you tonight!”

  Stadwell’s mouth falls open as he tries to think of which question to answer first, but Mickey hangs up and the line goes dead before any words come out. He stands in the corner of his office, a stunned expression on his face with a feeling of intense confusion saturating his mind. “Twenty grand?” He mutters to himself and shakes his head. “No, that can’t be right. I sent him three, I thought. I know I did!” He’s about to look down at his phone when he feels the device vibrating in his hand again. The screen lights up and reveals the caller as simply ‘Unknown.’

  Under normal circumstances Stadwell would simply ignore the call and then, when his voicemail was completely filled up, go through and listen to each message in rapid succession. He is still somewhat confused by the conversation with Mickey, though, and answers the call without thinking much about it.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Stadwell?” The voice is crisp and clear with hints of a foreign accent playing around the edges. “You can call me Mr. Amari.”

  “Amari?” Stadwell is confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you. How did you get my number?”

  “Our mutual acquaintance—you know him as ‘Mickey’ I believe—provided it.”

  Stadwell’s mind races as he realizes that whoever is on the phone has just paid off his twenty thousand dollar debt. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know who you are. Have we met before?”

  Mr. Amari ignores the question and continues speaking. “I was glad to be of assistance, Mr. Stadwell. If you need anything further, I’ll be in touch.” With that, the line goes dead, leaving Malcolm Stadwell to stare at his phone and try to discern what on earth is going on.

  ***

  Six months later, Malcolm calls in sick to work on a Friday morning. He is ill, though not because of a bacteria or a virus or anything of that nature. After months of promising himself that he would not get himself caught up in gambling debt he has nonetheless found himself in the red to the tune of nearly six figures. His bookies are growing more impatient with each passing day and he needs a day off of work to try and relax while he attempts to figure out what to do.

  He’s three beers deep into a twelve pack when the doorbell rings. He looks up from the television and stares at the door, trying to make whoever’s there go away by sheer force of will. A moment passes and he thinks he was successful, then the bell rings again. The third ring comes a few seconds later, followed by staccato knocking.

  “Son of a…” Malcolm gets up from the couch, brushing crumbs from his undershirt and pulling his robe around his form to try and adopt some semblance of modesty. He hasn’t been expecting any packages and he knows his bookies don’t have his home address. When he opens the door he’s taken aback by the people standing on the other side.

  Three middle-eastern men are standing in the hall to his apartment, all dressed in bespoke suits with dark glasses, gold watches and smelling like they bathed in cologne. The man in the middle steps forward as the other two take a step back. He extends his right hand as he takes his glasses off with his left hand. “Mr. Stadwell. I’m Mr. Amari. Might we talk for a moment?”

  Malcolm Stadwell’s mouth moves but he can’t form words to respond to the request. The two men with Mr. Amari move forward, gently pushing Malcolm aside and the three men enter the apartment, closing the door after they are inside. The sound of the door clicking shut snaps Malcolm out of his stupor and he shakes his head.

  “Wait, no! Get out of my apartment!”

  “Mr. Stadwell.” Mr. Amari’s voice is cool with the same hint of an accent that Malcolm heard six months prior. “I’m here to make you an offer. I understand that you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a bind. I would be happy to help you with that.”

  Though Malcolm Stadwell is a gambler he is not a fool and he knows a quid pro quo when he sees one. He briefly considers making a break for his weapon that is sitting in a drawer on the other side of his living room but the two men accompanying Mr. Amari make that a challenging proposition. He watches Mr. Amari closely before replying.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need any help with anything.”

  “Ninety-eight thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven dollars. You don’t need help with that?”

  Malcolm feels his blood run cold. “How do you know that?”

  “My job,” he says, taking in a deep breath as he settles back into a chair, “Is to know things, Mr. Stadwell.”

  “Oh.” He understands now. “Let me guess, you want to pay off my debts in exchange for information from the Bureau, right?”

  Mr. Amari smiles. “That is such a crude, rough way of putting it. I don’t want any information that would break any laws or force you to do anything that goes against your better judgment. Think of yourself as a consultant. My position requires that I have intimate knowledge of the law enforcement system and I find myself in need of an expert whom I can contact from time to time when I need help dissecting the finer points of certain matters.”

  Malcolm doesn’t know what to say. He expected to be told that, in exchange for paying off his debts, he would have to give up every secret he knew. Being a consultant, though? It wasn’t kosher to consult while working at the Bureau but if that is the only thing he’s going to be doing wrong then he figures it would be worth it to ensure that he won’t wind up with broken fingers or kneecaps.

  ***

  “Another?”

  The dark-skinned, bikini-clad woman looks down at Malcolm Stadwell as she holds a tray filled with drinks. He opens his eyes and looks up at her, smiling at her as he sits up in his chair. “Absolutely.”

  She smiles back at him as she hands him a glass filled with ice and an orange-colored liquid, then takes his empty glass and places it on the tray. “Anything else?”

  He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “That’s all. For now.”

  Malcolm Stadwell’s annual two-week vacation is nearly over and he’s trying to enjoy every last second of it before he has to fly back to the United States, exchange his swimming trunks for a suit and tie and return to the gray, featureless halls, conference rooms and offices of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. While a Bureau man like himself would not normally be able to afford vacations like the one he’s currently on, his ‘consulting’ work pays quite well and has afforded him luxuries that he has taken full advantage of. He’s been careful not to be too ostentatious when anyone from the Bureau is watching, but after three years of doing outside work for Mr. Amari without anyone catching on, Malcolm is feeling better than ever.

  Two days later, Malcolm rubs his bleary eyes as he waits for his bags at the Dulles airport. He still feels the effects from his last night on the island and wishes that there was some way he could have extended his stay for another two weeks or longer. As he sits on a bench, yawning, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. A man dressed in an ill-fitting suit sits down on the bench, holding a small white envelope in his hand. Malcolm pays no attention to the man until the man scoots closer to Malcolm and begins speaking in a soft voice.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stadwell. Mr. Amari sent me to give you this.”

  The mention of Malcolm’s ‘client’ sends a wave of excitement through his body. He takes the white envelope and opens the flap before thumbing through the bills as the man who hand
ed him the envelope stands up and walks away. Every new payment for Malcolm’s ‘consulting’ services means another chunk of money put into his secret savings account, more cash for his safe and more simple tasks to perform for Mr. Amari. The slip of folded paper nestled between the bills contains his instructions and he plucks it from the envelope before placing the wad of cash into his pocket.

  Mr. Amari’s requests have always been fairly straightforward and simple—almost too simple at times. A request for advice on how to deal with foreign diplomats, an introduction to certain private corporations, help with ensuring certain shipments aren’t unnecessarily delayed. Each request is more complex than the last, but none of them have stepped so far over the line of reason that Malcolm feels like he can turn them down. None of them, that is, until today.

  He opens the slip of paper and reads the small words printed upon it and his smile begins to shrink. A client is shipping in some food products through the port in New Orleans, but the crates they used are slightly radioactive. The food products are still good, but we require assistance clearing the items through customs. Contact information follows.

  While the request is framed as a mundane one, it is odd enough that Malcolm re-reads it just to make sure he isn’t missing anything. The contact information included at the bottom of the instructions is meant for sending a confirmation text message once the request has been fulfilled, but on occasion Malcolm has used it to get further clarification on the requests.

  Malcolm glances around, trying to spot the man who gave him the envelope, but the figure is long gone. He sighs and pulls out a cheap cellphone from his pocket along with a battery. He inserts the battery into the phone, powers it on and dials the number on the slip of paper. There are three rings before a voice answers.

  ***

  “Do I need to get agents down here? Because I will if I have to.” Malcolm sneers menacingly at the operator, keenly aware of the large volume of sweat trickling down his face. Louisiana is unbearably hot in the summer and Malcolm would rather be just about anywhere else. Instead, though, he’s standing inside a cramped office with no air conditioning at a small port in New Orleans, threatening a radiation tech with federal charges if the tech doesn’t cooperate.