Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  The man slowly turned clockwise, halfway toward the shed, as he took several deep, consecutive breaths to keep the cigar lit. Jonathan instantly feared the man would see him and cautiously raised the rifle back up to cover the man’s center chest. Now seeing his profile, Jonathan felt certain he could be the man from the gun shop. Very similar face, but different features. He kept smoking, puffing heavily on the cigar, and absently gazing past the shed’s doorway. After an especially deep drag, he glanced at the shed and smirked, as though pleased with himself. Jonathan briefly stared into the man’s face and imagined he thought about the workbench and its murderous contents. I could end him right here, and no one’d know about it. My prints aren’t here, and the government has no record of this Russian rifle’s barrel pattern.

  After only a few tense moments, and before Jonathan could justify squeezing the trigger, the man again turned his back to the shed. Fuck, now it’ll feel like murder, even if this maniac has it comin’. Absent any awareness of how close he remained to immediate death, the man casually recovered his rifle by its sling and hefted it back to his right shoulder. He adjusted its weight on his right trapezoid and casually meandered away to Jonathan’s left; soon out of sight, he still audibly walked away from the shed.

  It’s ironic that smoking just saved his life, Jonathan thought as he deeply exhaled, lowered his rifle to rest his arms and shoulders, and eased his stance a bit. He could not yet risk transferring his weight on the plywood floor or completely relaxing, but he needed to allow himself some modest comfort. My feet and legs are killin’ me. Jonathan waited until he believed five minutes had passed since he’d heard the last faint footstep before he risked movement. His feet and legs ached from standing in place for so long. The weight-shifting tactics that worked so well on the parade deck to reduce lower body pain while standing at attention had no use on a questionable plywood floor that could betray his existence with the slightest change in the stresses placed upon it.

  Low-pitched creeks accompanied Jonathan’s slow movement toward the doorway, and he peered out at the man’s last known direction of travel and surveyed the desert before him. Seeing no movement and hearing nothing to indicate the man’s proximity, he cautiously stepped out onto the hard-packed ground, resumed a combat stance, and stayed inside the shed’s shadow. He stood in place for nearly two minutes, listening to the desert, relishing the cool fresh air, and watching the surrounding environment. The still night provided nothing to make him believe the man had remained nearby, so Jonathan risked quietly shaking out his legs, ankles, and feet. Feels like I’ve been in that fuckin’ shanty forever. Raising his Dragunov back to combat effective height, Jonathan stepped around the shed’s far side to attempt to locate the departed man in advance of an accidental encounter during his escape off the property. I’ve gotta get outta here and call Landon, regardless of the personal consequences.

  Continuing his combat breathing, Jonathan stepped carefully, first around the shed’s corner, and then a few steps beyond to see farther into the night. Rolling his feet as he did so, Jonathan limited the sound of each footfall and increased his stability while covering the dark, unfamiliar ground. After only three short steps, a slight red light caught in his peripheral. He instinctively stopped, rotated both feet, and turned his upper body to the left, prepared to move and shoot as required. Jonathan saw the man sat on a small rock outcropping a mere sixty yards in front of him, and realized only a few dozen waist-high bushes stood between them. He’d not expected him to remain nearby, and again thanked the cigar that both revealed the man’s presence and concealed his own. Saved by smoking again. He knew the man was close enough to hear and see him across the open desert, and that quick, eye-catching movement could get him killed.

  Jonathan weighed his few options while the man smoked, and decided the only viable one required him to return behind the shed, use it for cover and concealment to hide his movement farther into the desert, and retreat back to his parked car. He lowered his upper body to a crouch, again rotated his feet left, and—

  sccrunnnch

  The rocky desert soil betrayed him and his approximate position, immediately catching the man’s attention. Jonathan saw, in the light of a brightly burning cigar, the man’s head turn to look straight in his direction. He immediately froze in place and saw the man had done the same. He stopped puffing on the cigar, intently watching and listening to the environment as the stogie’s embers slowly grew dark. Jonathan intended to remain there until he moved from the rock, which would permit the sounds of the man’s own approach to mask his escape. Knowing the man’s night vision would be impaired for several more minutes allowed Jonathan some confidence he could still escape without any leaking holes, so long as he stayed efficient and quiet.

  Unexpectedly, the man calmly leapt off the front of the rock, dropped the lit cigar to the ground, and brought the slung rifle up into a firing position on his right shoulder. His previous careless stumbling gone, he now deliberately, competently stalked the sound. The moonlight reflected off the horizontal, raised rifle barrel and clearly announced the approaching adversary’s intent.

  Jonathan knew he had no room or time to maneuver without creating sound that would get him shot, maybe killed. His best option became getting away from the shed, hole up, and catch the man by surprise. If he could not avoid the gunfight, Jonathan believed his already-established plan to blind the man and maneuver into darkness offered the greatest survivability. He still held the powerful flashlight in his left fingers, pressed against the rifle’s stock, and quickly checked to ensure the switch still lay beneath his index finger.

  Jonathan saw the man stayed upright as he moved toward the shed and made no effort to hide the sound of his approach. Using the shadows of surrounding bushes and the sound of the man’s own footsteps for concealment, Jonathan almost silently crawled and ducked from bush to bush, laterally shifting away from the man’s inbound path. When enough time had passed for the man to have reached the shed, Jonathan stopped, turned around, and proned out to hide on the ground. Only thirty yards farther into the desert, Jonathan prayed he had crawled quickly and cautiously enough to have escaped the much faster adversary, who only had to cover fifty or sixty yards by walking upright. Only a few seconds passed before he entered Jonathan’s line of sight and approached the shed, his back again exposed to the Dragunov, at almost the same spot that Jonathan had just abandoned.

  “I know you’re in there, and this is your only chance to leave here alive! Come out now, or I’m gonna start shooting…no one but us’ll know you’re dead.” The loud announcement broke the tense, but otherwise reticent, night air. Jonathan hadn’t expected him to display such reckless and suicidal conduct. There’s no way he’s actually gonna fire into that shed, knowing full well there’s TNT—

  BOOM

  BOOM BOOM

  BOOM

  “Yell if you’re not dead already!”

  Holy fuck! Jonathan rose to a crouch, used the rifle fire to conceal his retreat, and ran toward a small stand of trees another twenty yards deeper into the night.

  BOOMBOOM

  Reaching the far side of the trees, he looked back just long enough to see his adversary still engrossed with the shed, then stood more upright and quickened his pace, trotting by moonlight from cover-to-cover and dodging obstacles until the gunfire stopped. Jonathan abruptly halted, turned back to face the direction of the shed, brought the Dragunov up to a high-ready position, and dropped to a knee so he could quickly engage his adversary if need be. After having managed to not ignite the explosives, Jonathan saw the man practically run into the small shed, presumably to kill off anyone inside. I knew this shit could happen, but I way-underestimated that man’s crazy!

  Jonathan desperately wanted to avoid a gunfight. This guy and his Chosen Few associates were truly dangerous people that law enforcement had to be made aware of, and his own death would prevent anyone else from learning about the explosives and this location. If J
onathan killed the man on his own desolate property, he would have to explain why he had trespassed there with an undocumented sniper rifle he smuggled into the US from a foreign combat zone. That has prison written all over it, he thought. Worse, he risked tragically leaving Colleen and Michael alone after surviving two foreign wars to die within a few miles of his own home. Fuck that.

  Jonathan resolved to stay hidden and survive at any cost. He would not die out there tonight and, if he had to kill the man to save himself, he decided no one else would ever know about it. Still convinced his best available tactic was to go to ground as he now understood that “Adolf” couldn’t sneak up on a corpse, he doubted the man stood a chance against him and his training, especially now that he had the distinct, overwhelming advantage. Estimating the shed to be no more than seventy-five yards away, which amounted to a mere chip shot for the Dragunov. Jonathan checked that his chamber remained loaded with the match-grade, 174-grain ammunition originally delivered to the US Army specifically that heavy-barreled rifle. The rounds, exceptionally rare and expensive in the civilian market, significantly improved the Dragunov’s accuracy and reliability. At this short range, Jonathan resolved, I can pick which side of “Adolf’s” right eye I want to destroy.

  Jonathan slowly, almost silently, moved left and sprawled out on top of a small rise beneath an overturned mesquite tree. The thinly-leafed branches helped conceal him and the rifle, but did little to impede his view of the surrounding area. Laying the rifle out in front, its bipod extended to form a solid firing platform, Jonathan quietly detached a lightweight bag filled with airsoft pellets from the back of his molle-webbed belt and placed it under the far end of the buttstock. This served to lower the barrel slightly and reduce his need to “muscle” the gun onto target. The fingers of his left hand adjusted the scope’s magnification as he settled into place, tightening the focus down until “Adolf’s” torso filled his vision, and the mil-dot cross hairs centered on his sternum. Resuming his deliberate, controlled breathing, Jonathan prepared to fire a single, life-ending round.

  He watched “Adolf” alternately search around the shed’s exterior and stop to listen. Just as it seemed he had given up and decided to abandon his efforts, “Adolf” suddenly stopped and stood upright, the epiphany readily apparent on his face. He quickly walked back into the dark shed and Jonathan immediately heard loud and repeated bangs and clangs of random, unknown items falling onto the bench and floor. He considered retreating farther back away from the impending blast, just in case “Adolf” accidentally demolished himself and the shed. The shed’s interior unexpectedly illuminated in white light and, only a few moments later, “Adolf” returned outside with a handheld searchlight.

  Jonathan simultaneously tightened the rifle to his right shoulder while dropping his left hand from the forend to the desert floor, thereby reducing his body’s ability to interfere with the rifle’s accuracy. Despite the new resurgence of adrenaline, Jonathan controlled his breathing and heart rate, and kept “Adolf” centered in the rifle’s crosshairs by swiveling the rifle on its bipod and bending his body at the waist to allow consistent contact with the buttstock and his right shoulder, as well as unimpeded vision through the scope.

  In the bright moonlight and 14-power magnification, Jonathan could see the man’s face well enough to clearly read “Oh, fuck” on his lips when he discovered the fresh, unknown footprints leading from the shed and out into the desert. Resolved to remain hidden in his present, advantageous position, Jonathan apprehensively watched “Adolf” begin tracking his footprints into the desert, following Jonathan’s exact flight path that would ultimately lead to the mesquite tree that presently concealed him. He’s too aggressive and careless to want to end this any other way, and assumes I’m less willing to fight than he is. So, how close do I need to let him and that rifle get before I snuff him out?

  After following the tracks for only a few dozen steps, “Adolf” suddenly stopped, and used the spotlight to erratically check bushes and concealment points near him. Good decision, dumbass, stop lighting yourself up like a Christmas tree to slowly chase someone who knows where you are and where you’re going. Casting the light farther along the footprints’ path, he seemingly decided against his present course of action, turned off the bright spotlight, and stood in place.

  Jonathan’s crosshairs sat just over top of the man’s upper lip as he seemed to recognize that particular track would likely be his last. He knelt down behind a small batch of rocks and sagebrush that only partially concealed him, and retrieved his phone from a pants pocket. Jonathan could not identify what the man was doing, and contemplated firing if he began calling in reinforcements.

  Watching through the Dragunov’s scope, Jonathan saw the man made no obvious communications. He appeared to have only briefly opened up a program on the smartphone, manipulated a single command, and returned the device to his pocket. Jonathan saw he then slowly strode backward toward the shed, his rifle up and at-the-ready. Once behind the shed, but not yet out of sight, the man turned away from Jonathan and ran toward the trailer. Within a few seconds, he’d successfully fled into the surrounding darkness beyond the Dragunov’s crosshairs.

  Aware he had to move quickly to avoid being flanked, Jonathan crawled out from the mesquite, knelt, and took a few moments to examine the surrounding environment. Hearing no other threats or movement, he began his own escape. Jonathan’s disciplined movement allowed him to retreat only as quickly as he could assess the desert around him, which required an excruciating thirty minutes to reach the sedan. Placing the Dragunov across the front passenger seat, he wanted it to remain accessible and avoid even the small delay of returning the rifle and his hide bag to the trunk. He left the headlights turned off and patiently navigated the rough dirt road by moonlight, driving slowly enough to avoid using the brakes and broadcasting his location to the surrounding valley.

  Once southbound on Sunvalley Parkway’s solid blacktop with a hilltop between them, Jonathan turned the headlights on and dug through the center console for his cell phone. He had to tell Detective Wall and Landon everything he knew despite Landon’s orders.

  Sixty

  Duke’s residence. Maricopa County, Arizona.

  Duke sat inside the darkened mobile home, watching for anyone who approached the residence. Concealed behind quarter-inch thick steel plates affixed to the home’s interior walls, he contemplated his next course of action. Duke considered and dismissed calling in Cleveland and the other Chosen brothers. The value of his continued anonymity exceeded the possibility that the trespasser was anything more than a common meth-head trying to steal copper and scrap metal. Duke doubted a cop would have resisted shooting back at him, and no cop cars or armored trucks had come onto his property to arrest him for the explosives possession. It’s probably just a tweeker who didn’t know what he was looking at, he thought, federal agent wouldn’t bat an eye over trespassing, but they’re too scared to come out here alone.

  Duke had only recently acquired the long-sought IED manual, which Cleveland explained had improved his confidence and trust in young Billy. Too bad Billy and his brother have been chosen to help the cause in other ways, he thought. What’s done is done, and I’ve much bigger fish to fry.

  Along with a copy of the stolen diagrams and construction information Billy provided to Cleveland, Duke had stashed materials and chemicals that members and associates of The Chosen Few had stolen from mine sites around the state, which further suited his intended theme. Taliban and other Islamic extremists were encouraged to scavenge locally available materials to improve their efficiency and evasion. If those camel fuckers were really doing this, he thought, those are the materials they would likely use to go about it.

  The acquired materials had allowed Duke to create a waste oil and ammonium nitrate prill mixture similar to what engineers used in open-pit mine blasting operations around the world. He intended to use pressure cookers to contain the fuel-soaked prills, and, based on th
e pressure cooker’s rough interior diameter of ten inches, estimated the mixture’s Velocity of Detonation to be in the vicinity of 14,000 feet-per-second.

  Gotta go back to the shed at first light to look at the tracks, get some photos, take some measurements, and see where they lead. He’d recorded the GPS location and direction of the tracks, just in case the unknown trespasser had returned to try to erase those near the shed. Better be a fuckin’ tweeker.

  Sixty-One

  Sundance Shopping Center. Buckeye, Arizona.

  From the darkened interior of the driver’s seat, Jonathan surveyed the nearly abandoned parking lot for anyone paying too much attention to either his sedan’s recent, late-night arrival, or his choice to park away from all the businesses next to a large Salvation Army clothes donation bin. He saw the radio’s digital face read 11:37pm; the late hour allowed him to potentially go unnoticed, as well as to draw immediate attention from any nearby shop owners and passing cops. A dozen columns of light fell in intentional intervals onto the asphalt lot, cast downward by overhead pole lights intended to repel predators back into the adjacent darkness and away from the strip mall’s paying customers. Jonathan scanned the business fronts in search of any one still open, and saw none but the pool hall at the far end corner still had its interior lights on. Feeling more assured he wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, he returned his focus to the angered detective on his cell phone.

  “Detective, I know what you said, and I understood what you meant. I’m a big boy with broad shoulders, I can take my whipping for doing this, but we both know it had to be done even if you couldn’t do it or give me official permission to do it on your behalf.” Jonathan slid the transmission handle into Park, opened the driver’s door, and swung his feet onto the still-hot blacktop. He secured the cellphone between his right ear and shoulder and began unlacing his boots.