With a Vengeance

by Marcus Wynne

  Hunter looked over at Ole.

  “Okay,” the big man said in his soft, high voice. “Let’s do this thing.”

  2

  KC Barch chewed one black painted thumbnail, shifted in her expensive, custom fitted computer operator’s chair, and tapped out a line of code. Between her and her partner Jimmy Neil, there were seven computer monitors gleaming on the folding tables they’d set up in their dedicated work room in the Chicago Federal Building.

  “Trace back from the Chicago Tribune?” Jimmy said.

  “Got it,” KC said. “Didn’t even try to hide the IP address…Global Internet Service, little local ISP, but they got broadband through the cable company.” KC looked over at the middle aged agent sitting in the corner. “Hey, Roscoe!”

  “My name is Peter,” the man said in a tone of long suffering.

  “Whatever, Roscoe. Here’s the contact info for the IP. We need the subpoena and search warrant like now.”

  “Can you start…?”

  KC made a look of mock dismay. “Us? Hack in without a subpoena or a search warrant? That would be illegal. Better get on the line.”

  The agent took his cell phone out and hit a button that took him to the duty judge in Washington DC whose sole job was to lend support to the CIRG during a terrorist investigation. “Yes, your Honor, I have sufficient verified information at this point to request…”

  While Peter droned on in the background through the pro forma recitation of facts necessary to secure a subpoena to compel the internet service provider to release the information identifying the IP address that the e-mailed video files had come from, KC and Jimmy hunched over their keyboards like concert pianists mid-recital and punched their way through the thin firewalls around Global Internet Service’s servers.

  “Oh, yeah, come to daddy…” Jimmy whispered.

  “That’s gross, James,” KC said without looking up. “Are you in?”

  “Like Flynn.”

  “Cute.”

  “Be there in a flash.”

  “Race ya?”

  She grinned and hit keys. Lines of code linked to addresses scrolled down the screen to her left. “Here we go…”

  She hit a button and froze the scroll, then tapped on the screen with a finger. “This is in Cicero,” she said. “Isn’t that where the HRT is?”

  “Let’s run the address,” Jimmy said. He tapped in the address. “Yup. Cicero. But this isn’t the physical location…this is a Mailboxes Etc., mail forwarding place.”

  Peter closed his phone and said, “You’ve got your subpoena and your warrant.”

  “We’re there already, Roscoe,” KC said. “Here’s something else. You got to get some of your guys over to this Mailboxes Etc. and find out who is maintaining a mailbox there with this address.”

  “This is it?” Peter said.

  “That’s it, Roscoe. And it’s in Cicero. You better let the boss know that ASAP. She don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  3

  John Shield, a fresh out of the Academy rookie agent, hunched over the wheel of the motor pool G-ride Cavalier and ticked off street addresses, while Joni Mitchell, a slightly more senior junior agent who caught constant grief from the older agents about her name, flipped through a file folder in her lap.

  “Should be right around here,” Joni said, tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. “That’s the info from the decedent’s wallet.”

  “Decedent’s,” John snickered. “Pretty fancy word. You play Scrabble?”

  “Can you spell decedent?” Joni said.

  “D-e-c-a-d-e-n-t,” John said.

  Joni laughed, a deep laugh from a muscular ex-basketball player. “That’s decadent, fool.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like the sex life you’ll never have, frat boy.”

  John glanced over in surprise at his partner. He was cautious, as the Bureau was sudden death on sexual harassment and had strict guidelines about language and behavior that might cause an “atmosphere of discomfort” for members of either sex.

  “Here we go,” Joni said. “If you watched the road, you’d see. That house, there, the green one on the left, with the Cadillac in the driveway.”

  “Nice rides,” John said. “New Cadillac, a Wagoneer, a Beemer…what, they having a party?”

  “Probably family members,” Joni said. “Coming together.”

  John pulled the Cavalier right in front of the house and parked. Joni saw the front curtains part, and a man’s form was silhouetted there for a moment. Then the front door opened and a large black man, in a fingertip black leather jacket stood there, glowering. Then he disappeared back inside, shutting the door firmly.

  “What was that about?” John said.

  “I don’t know,” Joni said. “Maybe they don’t like cops.”

  The G-ride looked just like what it was: a plain clothes federal law enforcement car with small aerials for the radio and discreet flasher bar in the back window.

  “Well, fuck them,” John said. “Let’s go do this.”

  “You better let me do the talking, frat boy,” Joni said. “They just lost two of their family or friends. They’ll be sensitive.”

  “I’m a sensitive new age guy.”

  “Shut up, rookie.”

  4

  “Why wouldn’t they open the door to a pizza guy?” Hunter said.

  Ole looked at him. “They’re hiding out. Why else?”

  “Hiding out for what? You think they’ve laid an ambush for you there? That the address is supposed to take you here to get ‘bushed?” Hunter said.

  “No duh, Air Marshal,” Ole said, to the amusement of his team members.

  “Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit obvious?” Hunter said patiently.

  “We’re not talking rocket science, man. We’re talking rag head terrorists,” Ole said.

  “You listen to me,” Hunter said. The change in his tone and demeanor made the other men fall silent. “These rag heads launched a picture perfect special operation with minimal expense and maximum effect on 9/11. Then they came back and did the same thing on an airplane I was on. Maybe you’ll recall that. Those rag heads as you say so disparagingly, have on several occasions run circles around us. They’re not stupid and they’re willing to die. Something about this isn’t right.”

  “With all due respect, Agent James, you don’t call the shots here, I do,” Ole said. “And I say we’re going to kick that goddamn door and do what we’re here to do.”

  Hunter’s temper flared, then subsided as the control of long habit – and practice – asserted itself.

  By letting go, it all gets done.

  And the Taoists had been great warriors, when they weren’t partying under the full moon and drunk on wine between writing poems.

  Pay attention even to trifles.

  That’s what Musashi would say. And it was more than a trifle that it seemed too convenient that a terrorist switched on enough to sanitize everything else just happened to keep a slip of paper with an address on it. Though, as Ole said, this wasn’t rocket science. It was just, after so many years, and so many lessons in the school of hard knocks, Hunter had developed a sixth sense for deception.

  After all, he’d studied with the grand master of deception himself.

  The Raven.

  Perceive those things which cannot be seen.

  “We’re going in,” Ole said. “Stand-by.”

  The radio operator nodded, ignoring Hunter, and picked up the handset. “All stations, all stations, stand by, stand by, stand by…”

  Ole looked challengingly at Hunter, then slipped his Oakley assault glasses into place, and touched the light switch on his MP-5, making sure that bright light mounted on the forearm lit up. “Let’s kick some ass.”

  “Stand by.”

  5

  Edina Lewis parked her G-ride in front of the Mailboxes Etc. on Ogden Avenue. The manager, a fat, fussy looking man, stood nervously just inside the do
or. Edina held up her credentials and badge case, and the man let her in. He looked up at her for a moment before speaking. Edina had that effect on people: she was six feet tall, muscled like a body builder, and a proud, gleaming ebony black woman.

  “What’s this all about?” the manager said.

  “Books,” Edina said. “Show me your books with the customer addresses on them.”

  “All right, all right,” the fussy man said, hurrying behind the counter. “They’re on my computer, it’ll take a minute for it to start up, and I can give it to you. The box is right there, if you come around the back I’ll open it up for you. You have the paperwork…?”

  “I got a badge and a gun, Mr. Man. I don’t need anything else.”

  “Well. Yes. Okay. If you step back here…

  6

  “What are you doing?” John Shield said.

  “Something’s hinky here,” Joni said. She shifted in her seat, touched her elbow to the Sig Sauer P-228 holstered at her hip. She’d never pointed her pistol at a human being before, and for some reason that bothered her right now.

  “C’mon, let’s get this done.” John opened the door.

  “I think we should call for some back up,” Joni said.

  “Are you out of your mind? Back up for what? We’re just talking to some grieving relatives here! We’ll be the laughing stock of the whole shop,” John said with disgust.

  Joni was torn. Something didn’t feel right. But he was right. She didn’t want to look bad in front of Basalisa Coronas. Coronas had a reputation, a justly deserved one, for being extremely harsh on women agents. She cut them no slack, just like she had no slack cut her when she was coming up.

  What would Basalisa Coronas do?

  Joni sighed. Basalisa Coronas would hitch up her gun belt and go and ring the damn door bell.

  “All right,” Joni said. “Let’s go. Just keep sharp, okay?”

  “Jesus,” John said. “Good thing you’re not supporting the HRT guys.”

  The two young agents got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk.

  7

  Speed, surprise, and violence of action. Those are the core principles of real world combat, of special operations, of the men who go through doors with guns in their hands. Another operating principle is KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Despite what movies show, and most people outside of the business of kicking doors (and a surprising number of those in the business) base their belief on what tactical operations are about on what movies show, it’s not rocket science. You contain the scene so the bad guys can’t get away and citizens don’t wander in. You approach the selected entry point. You break in and dominate the scene. Those who won’t be dominated get shot. Simple. All those factors were here. Ole kept it simple. Some tacticians would argue with his staging from across the street instead of a side yard; he was able to occupy the house across the street without being observed, and he didn’t think that was doable from the side houses. Yes, it meant a 25 yard dash across the street sans cover; Ole and the slowest of his assault team could do a 40 yard dash in full tactical gear in under seven seconds and shoot on the way if need be. Armored Suburbans idled just out of sight of the target house, ready to rush in with heavy weapons and provide cover if the team took fire. Snipers were positioned to engage anyone who appeared at the door or any window before the team made entry.

  So it was killing time.

  Even though that was politically incorrect, it was always a factor. Hunter pursed his lips and watched the men amp up, each one preparing himself, riding the wave of fear. No matter how “brave” someone is, there is always fear, courage isn’t about being fearless, it’s about going ahead and doing what needs to be done in spite of your fear. You went in prepared to kill. You always start with the willingness to kill. That was the essential foundation block in the education of a warrior. You must be willing to kill. You can always step down from that; back it off a little bit, hurt him some, maim him a little, but you must always enter in prepared to kill or be killed.

  From false to real, from nothing to something. The false can only delude the enemy. It takes the real to overcome the enemy.

  Prime shooters through your front door was as real as it gets. It was time to bring in the big dogs and run the bad guys down.

  Ole’s ram man carried a specially made metal ram. Forged in the flat hammer face of the ram were the letters: FBI HRT. His cover man stood right behind him in the stack, Ole right behind him. The stack strained like a war dog on a leash, twisting anxiously, ready to dump all the adrenaline in one massive burst.

  Ole took his time, looked up and down the line, then over at Hunter. Hunter nodded, one shooter to another. Ole took it, then said, “Stand by, stand by, stand by.”

  “All units stand by stand by stand by,” the radio operator repeated.

  “Go, go, go!” Ole shouted, and the ram man threw open the door and began a full tilt run across the street, setting the pace and every man right behind him in line, weapons up.

  “Go, go, go!” the radio operator said.

  Hunter stood in the door and watched them go. The ram man hardly seemed to pause; he used all the momentum of his dash to swing the ram and the door flew down as though by magic; he threw the ram aside and cleared out of the way as the stack crashed through the door: “Get down! Get down! Get down!”

  Hunter heard shouts, saw the flash of lights within the house, then heard the ripple of gun-fire from within.

  “Shots fired!” the operator shouted.

  The Suburbans rolled fast, squealing to a stop and heavily armed men piled out. Hunter grabbed a M-4 carbine and checked to make sure it was loaded, then jogged across the street and joined the men behind the Suburbans.

  “What’s happening?” he said.

  One man held up a finger, his other hand pressed against his ear piece. “Dog,” he said. “Fucking big dog. They lit it up.”

  After a moment, the radio crackled with “All clear, all clear. Send in forensics and the search team.”

  Hunter followed the crowd of men into the house. There was barely room to move with the crush of bodies. In the dingy front room, a grey and black Greyhound, an old dog, lay curled in a pool of blood. Ole stood beside the dog while one of his shooters looked down at it.

  “Any body?” Hunter said.

  Ole shook his head no. “Just an old fucking dog. Nothing else.”

  Hunter looked around the living room. There were shelves crammed with a huge collection of old paperback books, stacked magazines on the floor, a sagging couch in front of an unusually new television set, a nice 32 inch Sony Trinitron, with an equally new Sony DVD/VHS dual player. There was old dust everywhere. He walked down the hall and paused, looked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. Some milk, new, bacon, eggs, Chinese take out in the box. Dirty breakfast dishes and a frying pan in the sink. There were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. One bedroom was storage, with a huge miscellany of belongings ranging from bicycles to suitcases.

  “Is this his stuff?” Hunter asked.

  “Landlord was storing shit here. Most of this is his,” one of the forensics investigators said.

  Hunter went into the bedroom and looked at the narrow bed. It was made, something that struck him as odd. Back out in the front room, he looked around at the high shelves and the odd knick knacks stacked up with books and magazines.

  “You guys will be awhile working this,” he said to the Chief Forensics Investigator.

  “You’ll be surprised how fast we can be when there’s a cold beer at the end of the tunnel,” the Chief said, grinning.

  Hunter shook his head, slowly, no. Ole studied him.

  “What are you thinking?” Ole said.

  “This is just weird,” Hunter said. “There’s no sense of that guy here. This is like living in a warehouse. Something’s missing.”

  8

  John led the way up the steps. Joni let him go; he seemed unconscious of the fact that he always shouldered her out of the
way when they were walking. She felt uncomfortable; she’d had a glimpse of the black man looking out the window at them as they came up, but he hadn’t opened the door.

  What was going on?

  John stood on the step and knocked assertively, directly in front of the door. Joni stepped off to one side, and then remembered what she’d been taught in the Academy, though she’d never had occasion to use it.

  Stay clear of a door when you knock; stand off to one side.

  “John…” she started to say.

  The door burst open and the black man stood there, rage in his face, and in the time distortion that comes with sudden, massive adrenaline dump, Joni saw the sawed off shotgun come up in his hands in slow, yawning motion. She threw herself backwards, some part of her brain working faster than light though everything else seemed in slow motion, and she saw John raising both his hands in a classic flinch response, no motion for his gun, and then she saw and felt the blast of the cut down double barreled shotgun and John flew backwards and down the steps, landed on his back with a thump that shook the ground, and she still hadn’t heard anything, and she saw the big hole in his suit and his stomach, the blue grey intestines knotted and black around a hole, swelling out of the charred shirt, and then her fear turned into anger when she saw John’s eyes turn towards her, fear and pleading in his face, and she swept her coat back and gripped her Sig and cleared the holster and her off hand met the pistol right across her breasts and she punched the pistol out and before it was fully extended she was already breaking the trigger, just like she’d been taught to and there were three four five shell casings hanging in the air and she still couldn’t hear anything but she saw the flutter of the black man’s shirt and jacket as the 9mm rounds punched through and he staggered back, still on his feet, and someone else poked a pistol out through the door and shot at her, and Joni stumbled backwards, shooting as she went, ran back to the car and took cover, reloaded her pistol, when did the slide lock back? And got on the radio and screamed, “Shots fired, officer down, officer needs assistance, 1642 Mulligan!”