by Jack July
“I’m domestic. Sometimes, to the point of tears.”
“I’m sure Karl keeps you busy.”
She sighed. “Yes he does. She’ll be coming home tomorrow.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, well, thank you. Anything I should know?”
“She’s going to be fine. She did what we all have done, at least once. Some of us, more than once.”
Bogus wasn’t sure if he should ask, but he did. “And what might that be.”
“She let her definition of morality, her common sense, her unique psychosis and her emotions supersede her oath and her orders.”
“So, she went on a rampage?”
“Yes, caused a little global political tension. The bosses don’t like that.”
“Indeed. Do you think she learned anything?”
Tatiana thought for a moment about her time with Doctor Earle. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Bogus?”
“Yes?”
“I’m jealous of her, you know.”
“As well you should be.”
Tatiana laughed. “That’s not what I meant. You are such an ass.”
“Yes, I know.”
“When are you bringing her down?
“After the baby is born. She has already planned the trip.”
“I miss her. She’s the only real friend I have ever had.”
“She misses you, too. And thank you.”
“Yes, well, I brought her into that world. The least I can do is try to take care of her while she’s there.”
“You have done that. Goodbye, Tatiana.”
“Ciao.” She hung up.
Bogus leaned back and lit his pipe. A huge smile crossed his face. She’s coming home tomorrow.
For the last time, Amy sat down in the chair across from Doc Earle. “I still don’t know what I don’t know that would make me think any differently about what happened.”
“Maybe it won’t. The Director believes it will. You’ll find out soon enough., Shall we continue?”
“Yeah, um, I was praying, I was praying so hard. When I was finished, I looked through the windshield, slipped on my shooter’s glasses, took a big drink of soda, put the truck in gear and said out loud, ‘Okay Jesus, let’s go avenge some babies…”
As the tanker topped the rise, she could see the guardhouse in the distance. It was mostly trees and farm fields, so she figured Cody had more than enough cover getting to the fence. The truck slowed and came to a stop next to the guardhouse. Inside she could see one man at a console with video feeds of the compound as another opened the door. The guard began to shout in Romanian, something about deliveries being around back. “Hi!” she exclaimed with a smile, “Is Mr. Corsica home?”
The second man stood up from the console and walked to the doorway. “Are you American?”
“Yes, yes I am. Now please open the gate.”
They looked at each other then back at her. “Step out of the truck please.”
“Sorry, no can do.”
“Step out of the truck now!” he demanded while walking toward the door.
She raised the MP5 and sprayed them with the entire magazine, swapped it for a new one, put the truck in gear and attempted to ram open the gate. It flexed but held. She backed up fifty yards, started in third gear and had fifth wound out by the time the truck plowed into the gate, bursting it open. The wail of an alarm rose in the distance. Men began to flood out of the building.
Fenian let the air out of the seat, dropping it nearly to the floor. She could just see over the dash. Bullets smashed the windshield while she chanted, “Come on Cody drop em’, drop em’, drop, em’…” They were getting closer to her truck when she saw the first one fall, then the second and third. They began to panic, seeking cover. A man ran to the right side of the truck to use it as a shield, but she swerved into the grass and ran him over. His body made a ‘pop’ as the rear dualies rolled over him. “Ha! Just like a big ole frog,” she said with a giggle.
She hit the lever on the side of the seat to raise it for a better view. Another man rounded the side of the building and started to raise his weapon, but Cody got him first. The turn was too tight around the approaching fountain at her speed, so she again swerved out into the grass for a straighter shot. She skimmed the fountain at thirty miles per hour, gently turned to the right, shot up the steps and crashed through the doors.
Cody saw the truck disappear inside. He grabbed what he could carry and ran through the gate. Trotting down the driveway, rifle up, he continued to scan for targets.
The truck slid sideways on the slick marble in the large foyer and, slowed by the climb up the steps, came to a stop against the base of a huge staircase. She grunted as the impact from the steps slammed her against the seatbelt, knocking the wind out of her. She killed the ignition so she could hear, threw open the door, slid out and landed on the floor in a crouch. Looking left then right, she scrambled to take cover by the front wheel. She heard running steps across the marble, raised her weapon, fired and took down another security guard. Meanwhile, Cody made it to the fountain and slid down behind it. He swapped out his M40 for an MP5 and did a weapons check. He finished just in time to take out yet another guard rushing in from the side of the building. Suddenly the alarm cut off, the lights inside of the house went dark and he heard the sound of a diesel generator kicking on.
In a basement safe room below ground, Galiano Corsica looked at his guests: the Russian Ambassador to Romania and his wife, along with Galiano’s wife, his oldest son and his head of security. They brought up the closed circuit camera showing Fenian crouched by the front of the truck.
The darkness inside the house was replaced by the glow of emergency lighting. All was deathly quiet but for the hiss of air leaking from the rear airbags of the truck. Then a voice came from speakers arrayed throughout the house. “I am Galiano Corsica. Why have you attacked my home?”
She smiled. Got him. “Come on out, lets talk about it.”
“I am in a secure room and the police are on their way.”
“They ain’t gonna make it. You will burn alive, just like the babies you killed.”
Galiano’s wife looked at him in horror. “I killed no babies. You are mistaken.”
“The orphanage, outside Bucharest? You sent men to cover up the fact that you sell children. It’s called human trafficking. You murdered children during the commission of your crime.”
Galiano’s wife was nearly in shock. “Galiano, what did you do? Did you, did you kill children?”
Galiano lost his temper and shouted, “WHO ARE YOU!”
“I AM THE HAND OF JESUS CHRIST BROUGHT FORTH TO BRING VENGENCE IN HIS NAME! TIME TO FEEL THE WRATH OF GOD!”
Cody stuck his head through the front door and called, “Chopper’s here. Get your ass moving.”
When she turned, Galiano got a good look at her face. He blurted out under his breath, “Oh my god.” Then he hit the button. “You are Petty Officer Braxton; you have made a mistake. We meant to kill no children.”
Fenian heard her name and froze. Cody stepped through the doorway, grabbed her by the belt and dragged her out. Fenian stumbled down the steps and struggled to regain her balance. “Cody? How did he know my name?”
“I don’t give a shit. Move!”
The Blackhawk flared for landing on the other side of the fountain when Fenian heard the crack of a pistol. Cody spun to his right and collapsed. Fenian dove to the base of the fountain when gunfire erupted from the chopper, downing the last shooter.
Fenian ran to Cody. “CODY! CODY! Jesus, Cody!” She watched his face lose color. Honest Abe made it to the other side of the fountain and screamed, “MEDIC UP!” Two men wrestled Cody to his feet while Abe pulled Fenian to the door of the Blackhawk. She sat on the chopper’s bench, watching the medic cut off Cody’s clothes. Suddenly she remembered what she came to do. She pulled the detonator from he
r pocket and snapped open the guard. As the Blackhawk cleared the compound’s airspace, she hit the button.
Dr. Earle took off his glasses. “That must have been one heck of an explosion.”
“I don’t know, I didn’t see it. I saw a glow from the inside of the house when the pipes were blown off. They said it was like two big torches. But in order for the tank to explode it had to be at a certain level and a certain temperature. I saw the house after it went on the news. Most of it was gone.”
“Okay, let’s get you packed for Langley. Any questions?”
“Yeah, how did he know my real name?”
“I think the director can help you with that.”
Chapter 34
Just off a small tributary of the Indian River, nestled in the fork where the tributary meets the river, sat Braxton camp. Less than an acre, some of which is under water at any given time, it is made up of two single-wide trailers on eight-foot stilts, a fire pit, four picnic tables in varying stages of rot, a rickety old pier and a couple of small, flat bottom boats with oars. It was usually a happy place, mostly for the men to drink, fish, hunt and get away from the world. It wasn’t that women were not welcome, it was just so old and dirty they would rather do something else. This was Jack Brown’s hiding place.
In the cupboard of one of the trailers he kept supplies. One jar of corn liquor, a box of saltine crackers, two cans of potted meat, two cans of Vienna sausages, two cans of Underwood deviled ham, a half carton of Lucky Strike non-filters and a box of wooden matches. After scraping the last of the potted meat from a can, he spread it on a cracker and popped it into his mouth, followed by a sip of liquor. After fishing around in a soft pack of Lucky’s, he put one to his lips, lit it and took a puff. Jack didn’t smoke so much as he smelled and tasted the tobacco. In Vietnam, damn near everybody smoked. A pack was included in your rations. For him, the smell of the acrid smoke was to Vietnam, like the smell of Xeryus was to Carla Jo.
It was getting close to noon as he patiently and purposefully adjusted the scope on the L42 Enfield. Princeton did a little happy dance when Jack showed him what was Princeton’s first military rifle. Princeton was a bit surprised that of all the rifles Jack had to choose from, this was his favorite: a 40-year-old relic. Jack smiled at him. “I’m not into brands and what’s being pushed as the next best thing. The finest firearm made is the one you can hit something with. I can hit with this.”
The river was one of the few places he could set up for a shot that long. It was flat, with no trees; the bullet would bury itself in the bank of the river. He checked his watch; the speech would be tomorrow at one o’clock. He thought about the angle of the sun to his target, shadows, winds, temperature and humidity. He knew he was a good shot, but he was not a sniper in the professional sense. He had to work at it.
A tug pushing barges full of coal made its way past as the one o’clock hour approached. Four hundred and thirty-two carefully measured yards away hung a gallon jug full of water. Jack picked up the rifle and sat the fore stock in a divot on a small sandbag. After doing a little breathing exercise, he acquired the target, and for the fourth time, squeezed the trigger. The jug exploded.
There was no emotion. He wasn’t happy or sad. He ejected the shell and threw it into an old bucket they used for brass. He carefully placed the rifle into a soft case and zipped it up. After one last little puff on the Lucky and another sip of shine, he put everything away and strolled to his truck.
Mary Ann had no idea what to do. After seeing Micky dragged away and tossed into a car, she pulled on her sweatshirt and called out for the horses by name. They didn’t come back. She walked a hundred yards or so to Indian River Road, thinking she could wave down a car. She didn’t have to wait long. The big black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and the license plate that read JR STONE screeched to a stop. “Daddy!”
She ran to the passenger door and flung it open. The portly man with slicked back dark hair and a tan that came from a machine furrowed his neatly trimmed eyebrows and motioned her to get in. “Daddy! They beat up Micky, beat him up and took him away! We have to…”
He started screaming at her. “Young lady, just what in the hell do you think your doing? What did I tell you about hanging around with that trash!?”
“Daddy, he’s hurt. We have to help him!”
“He’ll be fine. Dammit! Dammit, Mary Ann, what did I tell you about embarrassing this family?”
Mary Ann turned in her seat, moving slightly away from him. “Wait, what? You know what happened? Did you do this?”
The men of the Stone family would not be questioned. “You were told to stay the hell away from him. You have disobeyed me for the last time, young lady!”
She softened up and, almost begging, tried to reason with him. “What’s wrong with Micky? He’s good to me. He’s always been good to me. Do you know who his father is?”
“I don’t give a shit who his father is. This conversation is finished.”
“Boguslaw Zielinsky.”
He spit out a laugh. “The multi-billionaire playboy?”
“Yes, he’s adopted. His mother is Irish royalty. Amy Braxton is royalty. Micky is a knight, he was knighted by Prince William.”
Her daddy shook his head. “Jesus, Mary Ann. If you’re gonna be a whore, at least don’t be a stupid one.”
It was the first time her own father had ever called her a whore. Angry tears formed in her eyes and through a sob she shot back, “Whore? Yeah, well, I learned it from you.”
She didn’t see the back of his hand until it smacked her in the face. Her head bounced off the window as she looked at him in shock. She tasted her own blood as it trickled from her upper lip and nose into her mouth. She had seen him slap her mother around, but he had never hit her before. Once she regained her senses, she shot him a little crooked grin. The blood bathed her teeth in streaks of red. “You’re good at hitting women. I should have known I’d be next.”
He raised his hand a second time. She didn’t flinch. He stopped. “You better shut your mouth while you still can.”
She turned her head and gazed out the window, watching the tears fall in the reflection.
Bogus was doing calisthenics, thinking about how he was going to prep Amy for what she would be dealing with upon her return. The blast of a horn from a pick-up and a call from Princeton sent Bogus to the front of the house. A truck and horse trailer was parked in the driveway. Mrs. Pritchett from Pritchett Farms located on the other side of the county called out, “Bogus, I think I got something that belongs to you.”
She opened the trailer and out walked Renaldo, still saddled. Bogus looked confused. “Where did you find him?”
“Running around outside my corral. He was spooked about something.”
“Was Micky with him?”
“No, ain’t seen anybody.”
“Thank you, I’ll reimburse you for transport.”
“That’s alright, I’ll get a favor later.”
“Yes, thank you.” Bogus took the reigns and walked to the barn, deep in thought. This is not Micky. He would never let a horse get away. Oh bloody hell… He turned and yelled toward the house, “PRINCETON! LOCATE MICKY!”
“Yes, Sir!”
Bogus walked past the red Mustang GT and shook his head, trying to come up with a reason. He looked past the end of the barn, straight down the old road, and saw something that looked like a horse lying down. He walked Renaldo into the stall, backed out and shut the door. The closer he got to the figure, the more he saw. He picked up the pace until he was at a full sprint. Athos saw Bogus, ran down the porch steps and followed. Mathias was on his side, chest and legs covered in blood. His breathing was labored as he struggled to lift his head. “Oh no, oh my God.”
Bogus went to his knees searching for a wound. Athos joined him and found it. “Sir, here, bullet hole.”
They both looked back as they heard the rumble of the Mustang V-8. Whomever was driving wildly fishtailed to the road, throwi
ng gravel and dirt then squealed the tires as they sped down the hill. Princeton shouted and waved from the porch in the distance but Bogus couldn’t hear him. He looked back at Mathias, then at Athos and shook his head. Bogus turned and jogged back toward the house as Athos pulled his pistol and put Mathias down.
As Bogus approached the house, Princeton shouted, “I found him, sir!” Bogus started toward the back stairs to the porch, but saw a manila envelope where the Mustang had been parked. He picked it up. Printed on the outside was, Jack Brown. He quickly ripped open the envelope to find a Polaroid of Micky bound to a chair, beaten but alive. Then he read the note: ‘I have something that belongs to your family. Meet with me and we will discuss how you get it back. K. S.’ Bogus went cold. He climbed the steps, rushed into the house and looked at the computer screen with Princeton. “Sir, the tracker shows his location to be thirty miles away in what appears to be some sort of small shack.”
Bogus nodded and pressed a button on his phone. “Tigger, bring the 429 to my residence. Prepare it for a military insertion.”
Princeton looked at the evidence. “Sir, these appear to be some sort of amateurs.”
Bogus nodded. “Yes, and sometimes they are the most dangerous of all.”
Athos appeared behind Bogus, who grabbed the photo and handed it to him. He studied the photo and handed it back to Bogus. Bogus put his hand on Athos’ shoulder and leaned in. “Athos, Tigger will be here in fifteen minutes. I would like you to prepare yourself for an operation. I want you to go to this cabin and retrieve Sir Micky. Execute those who are with him and bring back trophies, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Athos turned and quick-marched to the basement, where there was a small armory.
“Princeton, call up my team, have them rendezvous here at 1700 hours.”
“Sir, you’re going to let Athos do this alone?”