by Ross Elder
Four strikes, then five. The door is open. The breacher pulls back and clears the doorway, allowing the others to rush forward. Muddy boots and wooden porches. Bad mix. While rushing forward, the second man loses his footing and falls face first across the threshold. Without skipping a beat, the other assaulters run over the man’s body, apparently not caring if he was being hurt under their boots. Carter, who had been behind the team, is now rushing in, replacing the down man without being asked, or told to do so. Instinctive. I don’t think anyone could have stopped him at this point.
Susan is behind our vehicle, using it as cover. She hasn’t drawn a weapon. She wasn’t supposed to need a weapon, but she has one anyway. Frank and Clarence are moving toward the rear of the house, attempting to help with perimeter security on the south side. Carl has moved to the north, providing support on that side. I’m standing next to Susan now.
“God, what a clusterfuck.” It was a mumble, and I instantly feel bad about the foul language. Gentlemen aren’t supposed to talk to women like this. I really need to work on my brain to mouth filter.
“Yeah, that was pretty ugly. Nothing like the movies. Very disappointing.” She’s giggling.
I can hear a lot of yelling and slamming around happening within the house. Agents are yelling at suspects and each other as they attempt to straighten out the mess they’re in. I peek over at the front door again. The agent who had fallen is now sitting on the porch, his back against the wall. He’s cradling his left hand in his lap and appears to be in significant pain. Maybe someone stepped on his hand during the entry. I wondered why he didn’t attempt entry anyway, but his drop-leg holster is on his left side. That’s his shooting hand. He wouldn’t have been able to cover anyone in his condition. Smart move sitting it out.
I can’t see Frank and Clarence anymore. They must have gone around the back. I’ll have to cover the south wall now. I’m moving. The ground is slippery but manageable at a steady walk. Was this my job? Did I miss this part of the briefing, or did they forget what they were supposed to do and went to the wrong spot? Seriously, I hate this brain iss…fuck!
“Window!” I’m screaming. A window in what I would think was the kitchen just opened quickly. A hand. Now an arm and a head! Someone is making a break for it. “Shit!”
I’m still thirty feet away from the window, and my weapon isn’t drawn. Trying to run. Can’t really. Fucking mud! I’m slipping. Falling, scrambling back up and falling again. Fuck! A man just plopped to the ground from the window, landing on his side in the bushes next to the house. He’s on his feet quickly. Panicked.
“Freeze, motherfucker!” Really? That’s what I come up with? I’m on my knees in the mud, still fifteen feet away from him. He’s also scrambling to get his footing in the thick mud.
The man is yelling something I can’t decipher. I’m not sure if he’s cussing at me or the mud, but I can tell it isn’t pleasant. I’m on my hands and feet, fast-crawling toward him. He’s still slipping and struggling. Just a few more feet. Almost there!
“Fuck!” My language. Holy cow.
He’s made it to his feet just as I’m successful. He’s bolting. The sloshing, slapping sound of his bare feet in the mud is insulting my slow movements, mocking me. Move dammit! Yes! I can almost reach him. Just one more… there! Gotcha, asshole!
He’s a slippery, little fucker. Obviously trained. He spins out of my clutches and rotates on the balls of his feet, dragging me to his left, taking away my balance and secure footing. I’m falling now. Shit! Reach! Reaching with my left hand, desperately. I have something in my hand now. Not sure what it is but it’s attached to him so it’s something. As I fall to the ground from his defensive movement, I take him with me. We both hit the mud almost simultaneously. He’s trying to roll away from me, but I still have him in my grip. His actions are twisting my wrist and fingers painfully, but I’m determined not to let go.
He’s on his feet. I don’t know how he did that so quickly, but he’s up, and I’m using his body to balance myself and pull up to my knees. He’s flailing his arms, fists slamming into my head and neck, pummeling me on the top of the head with a hammer fist. I’m not letting go, but I’m getting angry. My head has taken enough punishment lately, asshole. Knock it off!
I punch toward his left knee with my fist, the angle from the outside inward. I felt his knee buckle slightly but not enough to stop his assault on my skull. He’s also still on his feet. We’re both slipping around, struggling to maintain an advantage. I have no advantage from this position. The best I can hope for is to hang on until someone comes to help.
“Need some help over here, goddammit!” That scream sounded a little too feminine for my tastes. Too late to worry about it.
A fist to my nose sends sharp pains and warm fluid to cover my face. Fuck, that hurt. I think my hose is broken. By now, at least one of the fingers of my left hand is probably seriously injured. It hurts like hell. Fuck this guy. I’ve had enough of this shit.
I quickly reach to my holster and retrieve the Glock 17. I shove the muzzle into the man’s left shin and pull the trigger. Unsatisfied, my anger unsated, I jerk the pistol to the other leg and put a round through his muddy right foot. There are screams. The man is down on his back. My left hand is free now, but I can’t use it. I can’t grab or make a fist. He’s still flailing around, clawing now, scratching at my eyes. Seriously, fuck this guy.
As he squirmed and struggled to avoid the pistol, the next round missed and mud splashed into my face. I adjusted and pressed forward until the muzzle made contact. His right kneecap took the next round. He’s slowing down. When I shoved the muzzle into his crotch, he froze. Finally, something the guy seems to care about. He’s screaming and panting like an angry dog, saliva splattering around his mouth when he breaths, but he has stopped fighting.
He’s severely injured, but alive. I’m injured, but alive. I don’t have to kill him. I won’t kill him. I feel good about that somehow. I roll off him and let myself fall into the mud on my back. I hear muddy footfalls all around me now. Lots of yelling. There are hands on me, dragging me away from the man I shot. The Glock is removed from my hand carefully. Someone was telling me to release it. I did. I’m not sure who is talking to me.
“Jesus, Mason. You’re like a fucking trouble magnet, I swear.” That’s Frank. He’s smiling down at me, but I don’t think he’s kidding. Maybe he thinks I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Maybe I am.
“I was in control.” I realize I’m speaking aloud and I feel weird about it.
“Huh? What’s that?” Susan is near me now.
“Nothing. Something. I…hell, I don’t know.” Now I’m shutting down. I don’t feel open with these people. I’m a little worried how they will react if they know what goes on with my head. I wish Amanda was here with me, laying in the mud. She would talk to me and let me tell her all the things floating in my head right now.
Whoa, hey, I’m up. A couple of the guys have pulled me to my feet. Carter and Carl. Carter is running his hands over my muddy clothes, almost like I’m being frisked. He’s asking if I’m injured. Rapid questions and an experienced inspection. Carl is grinning at me and pulling muddy grass from the front of my plate carrier.
“Dude,” Carl is chuckling. “That was awesome.”
“I think you’re okay. No holes in you, anyway,” Carter says.
I’m struck with the sudden need to let Amanda know I’m okay. I’m sure she’s sitting back at the hotel worried senseless, even though this was supposed to just be a research task for me. My phone is under my plate carrier in an inside jacket pocket. I try to reach under the carrier with my left hand and let out an embarrassing squeal followed by a low groan. The groan was an attempt to appear manlier. I don’t think it worked very well. Jesus that hurt. My hand is pretty messed up.
“Ooh. Yeah. Okay, that hand needs some attention. Medics will be here in a minute.” Carter is looking the hand over by holding my wrist. At least he isn’t trying to bend my
fingers or anything.
The SWAT team had arranged for two ambulances to arrive on scene immediately following entry. They wouldn’t be running lights and sirens, though. They were behind us when we took off from the Sheriff’s office.
I ask the guys to help me remove the plate carrier so I can get to my phone. They were nice enough to do so. Carl even took the phone out for me because it was awkward trying to retrieve it from the inside pocket on the right side. I tapped the contacts list and touched Amanda’s number. She answered immediately. It didn’t even ring on my end.
“Are you okay?” She asks without saying hello.
“I’m fine! Ouch! Stop that!” Carl has decided to also examine my hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing serious! I promise. There was an incident. My hand got banged up a little is all. I’ll be fine. I have to go, though. I’ll be back as soon as I can. May be a while. Gotta run! Love you.” I was successful in ending the call before I yelped in pain again.
Very funny, Carl.
Chapter Thirty-Four
September 26, 2016
2027 hours
Our team was held outside while the SWAT guys cleared the house of any possible dangers. We finally scraped the excess mud from our boots, removed them, and left them on the front porch, placing white, cotton booties over our feet before entering the premises.
Other than the typical household items, the house was filled with electronics equipment ranging from computers and smartphones to HAM radios and scanners. The electrical bill on this place must be massive.
The suspects were hauled away to the County jail a few minutes ago. The FBI team will do a full interview on each of them and promised to at least think about letting our team talk to them when they were finished. I was able to identify the watch worn by the goon from the surveillance photos. I wanted to kick him in the face to pay him back for the taser thing, but I maintained my composure.
My hand is wrapped up in a fat bandage with finger splints beneath. Cumbersome, and it is making my fingers hurt a lot. The paramedics wouldn’t give me anything other than ibuprofen for the pain because they weren’t authorized. I’ll have to see my own doctor for that sort of thing. I have several to choose from so that’s okay. My right hand is stuffed inside a blue examination glove to prevent contaminating anything I touch. Everyone else in the house is similarly gloved but some are black, others white.
I’m standing in the living room of the target house looking at some of the computers, trying to determine what types of programs they were running.
“McCall!” One of the SWAT guys is yelling from the other room.
“Yo! Coming!” I squeezed my way around the shuffling bodies in the living room and worked my way toward a small office near the back of the house. One of the SWAT guys backed up as I was trying to go passed and banged my bandaged hand with his elbow. Dammit.
Two FBI agents whose names I don’t recall are standing around an antique desk complete with a banker’s lamp, inkwell, and various other items one would expect to find on a vintage writing space.
“Here. Looks like someone left you a gift,” one of the agents says as he hands me a long, flat, wooden box. It’s heavy. The wood is carved with some sort of marine motif. It’s a cool box made of dark wood of unknown species.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Check it out. Open it.” The agents go back to combing through the desk’s contents. “Oh, wait. Here.” He’s realized I can’t really manage to open the thing with one hand so he opens it for me, placing the lid of the box on the desk.
Inside is the box is the largest wristwatch I have ever seen. Holy cow, this thing is massive. The watch itself must weigh a half pound. The watch face is plain, adorned only with fat numbers and short hash marks between them. The crown is disproportionately large, protruding what seems too far from the case. I place the box on the desk and slip the watch out. The back of the watch is plain except for a serial number.
“Oh, my god. I know what this is!” This has to be a Zlatoust Diver, a Russian-made military dive watch used in the 60s and 70s. It’s an original, too. The remakes of this watch have second hands and words on the watch face. The originals have neither of those features. I have no idea how much this thing is worth. It would be a nice addition to any collection. And, again, why do I know this stuff?
Frank has joined me in the office. He’s wide-eyed, looking at the Zlatoust. I hand it to him. He hefts it in his hand for a moment and whistles.
“Jesus. Who would wear this thing? Interesting, though.”
“There was a card.” One of the agents says. He hands me a small folded paper. Quality stock. Unfolded, the paper revealed a hand-written note in a practiced hand. The lettering and spacing are nearly perfect. Those are strange things I notice after years of creating and recreating documents and often forging the writing of others. The note reads:
Dearest Mason,
I understand you lost your watch. Please accept this gift as a replacement. Perhaps you will get yours back one day.
Rog
I hand the note to Frank. He takes a moment to read it then raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, it looks like you’ve made a new friend. He’s taunting you, daring you to come after him. This one is going to be fun.”
He’s smiling a little. I really do think he finds all of this intrigue and pursuit fun. I think I do, too. I need time to heal. I need time to remember. I have to be retrained, refreshed, and redirected. I don’t know if it will work. I can only try.
Hi. My name is Mason McCall. I’ve been through a lot lately. I’m damaged. I’m tired. I’m scared.
I’m in love.
And, I’m coming for you, Roger. I’m coming for you.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Patriot Deception. If you enjoyed the book please leave a review on Amazon. Even a few words will really help.
Until Patriot Deception book two is complete, I’ll leave you with two sample chapters from The Fireman Compendium.
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The Fireman Saga
Book 1
The Fireman
By
Ross Elder
Chapter 1
Anyone can pull a trigger. You tense the right muscles, place enough pressure against the trigger, and then you feel the "break" of the mechanism. At that moment, there’s no turning back. A mechanical chain of events occurs that is no longer under your control. The projectile is forced from the barrel into history. Anyone can do it. It’s causing that bullet to hit the intended target that 's hard. Sportsmen, police officers, and soldiers train for years to develop the skill necessary to ensure that those projectiles go where intended. Lack of that very skill is what placed me on this path.
Criminals don't typically apply such discipline to their craft. A drive-by gang shooting generally sends more rounds into innocent bystanders and occupied, uninvolved homes than into the intended victim. Hundreds of them…every year. Drug gangs and street thugs. Scum.
I’m not that soldier or well-trained cop. I’m just a man. A man driven by a need. A man who just doesn't give a fuck. I watched from the sidelines as lives were destroyed, families were torn apart, and communities were reduced to third world war zones. I was a good citizen, just like many of you. I went to work every day. I paid my bills. I paid my taxes. I obeyed the law. Hell, I never even got a speeding ticket. Until the fire.
My life was in shambles, much like my hometown. Things got rough in many ways. The economy tanked, and so did my marriage. After twenty years and two kids, I was a weekend dad, broke, eking out a living while occupying a studio apartment that, minus a well-stocked bookshelf, was sterile and lacking decoration. I wasn't a special case by any means. Just a modern man dealing with the modern problems of a society in decline. The whole country was going into the shitter. I suppose I was more fortunate than many.
I was raised in a very black and white,
right and wrong environment. I have my father to thank for that. He was a good man. A better man than me. He taught me that taking care of your family was the most important thing in life. I felt that, after my failed marriage, I had failed in that mission. The only thing left for me to do was look after my nearly grown children as best I could under the circumstances.
Two years after my divorce, I got a frantic call from my ex. Our daughter, Marie, was rushed to the hospital during the school day. She was incoherent and babbling. I left work and arrived at the hospital only to be told that she was having a reaction to a drug. An illegal drug. Someone had given my little girl some ecstasy. My anger was understandable in my mind.
Don't get me wrong, I did my share of partying as a young man. There was plenty of beer, whiskey, and women. But, never drugs. I just never wanted to go down that road. Mostly because I thought my father would kill me. Obviously, I hadn't instilled the same fear in my daughter.
Marie was a popular girl socially. She was in just about every extracurricular activity that was available. Her cell phone never seemed to stop buzzing, and it was a fight every visit weekend because she had other, more interesting things to do than hang out with her dad. We seemed to manage, though. Somehow. I was no longer directly in control of her life, so I wasn't aware of all her friends and acquaintances. Apparently, some of them were influencing her in a negative way. That knowledge added to my depression and feelings of inadequacy as a father. I was as mad at myself as anyone. Oh, I fully planned on venting that anger on other people but, deep down, I blamed myself.
Within a couple of hours, Marie had come down from her experience with the drug. The moment I knew she was coherent, and against her mother's wishes, I began questioning her at a machine-gun pace. I only wanted one answer; where did she get the drugs?