The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  For a brief moment, the world funneled to black and she was staring down at the mangled bodies of her boys. But then the image dissolved, giving way to the brilliance of the morning sun and the gentle coo of a dove sitting on Terrence’s windowsill.

  Keeping her gaze averted from the bed, Dylan watched the bird bob behind the glass. At the same time, she absorbed into herself the reality that Terrence was no longer in the room. Only his broken and diseased body remained, but he himself was as free as the bird, which lit abruptly off the sill and flew away. It had been there just long enough for Dylan to see it.

  Oh, Terrence. She closed her eyes, savoring the vision and the certainty that he’d wanted her to know that he was happy. He hadn’t died the way her boys had. He’d been ready to go. And though her heart felt utterly hollow and she lacked the desire to do anything but turn around and crawl back into bed, she knew she would be all right.

  The realization had her opening her eyes. They slid slowly toward the bed, where she absorbed the details in as detached a manner as possible. She took a wary step closer. Terrence’s eyes were closed. His jaw hung open, but there wasn’t any sign that he’d struggled in his last moments. Her prayers for a peaceful death had been mercifully answered.

  It’s over, she thought, with a hitch of foreboding. What happens now?

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Mr. Ackerman?”

  “Who’s wantin’ to know?”

  Leaning against the cold stone wall at the rear corner of the Ackerman residence, Toby overheard Jackson introducing himself and Hamilton to the individual answering their knock at 18 Piney Knob, one of two dozen mobile homes occupying a tract of forested land.

  Toby, meanwhile, kept an eye on the humble abode’s rear exit. The Rangers had a term for cowards who fled the scene whenever there was a confrontation—squirters. If Ivan Ackerman happened to be in his father’s house, he’d go running out the back, for sure.

  “He ain’t here,” Ackerman Sr. asserted.

  “Any idea where we might find him?”

  Toby rolled his eyes. Jackson was always so freaking polite. He had to be hearing the same thumps and bumps that Toby could hear as someone inside the trailer scurried around frantically. If luck was with the Taskforce members—which it had certainly been when they’d questioned Sally Richardson earlier that morning—then Ivan Ackerman was right here in his father’s house panicking over the thought of being apprehended.

  Toby’s blood bubbled with anticipation. Come out, come out, wherever you are. They didn’t have a warrant, which meant they couldn’t break the door down. But a tip to the state police, who hadn’t managed to locate Ackerman on their own, even though he owed them several outstanding fines, just might persuade Ackerman Sr. to hand his son over. Either that, or Ivan would pop out on his own, and then they could call the state police.

  “I haven’t seen my son in years.” The father’s belligerent lisp told Toby they wouldn’t get any cooperation from him.

  Toby could hear the doorknob on the back door squeaking. Anticipation whipped his muscles into a state of readiness. The hinges groaned, and he peeked around the corner of the house, only to tamp down a full-throttle charge as a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair stepped outside to light a cigarette.

  Damn. Toby sagged against the corner of the house, doused in disappointment. Just then he heard the woman whisper, “All clear, honey. Hurry!”

  In the next instant, Ackerman, Jr., wearing the same militia uniform he’d worn on Saturday, went streaking across the small back yard toward the cover of the pine forest, some fifty feet away. Toby let loose a whoop of relief and lit out after him. “Squirter!” he called, alerting his colleagues and praying the woman didn’t produce a weapon and shoot him in the back.

  The startled look on Ivan’s face as he cranked his head around was one that Toby would savor for days. With a burst of speed, he barreled into Ivan, knocking him down onto a bed of pine needles that crackled and popped as they rolled. Ivan struggled but proved no match for a former state champion wrestler. Within seconds, the deserter lay face down, one arm and one leg bent up behind him, completely immobilized.

  Hamilton materialized out of thin air to back Toby up, leaving Jackson to keep the residents subdued. “Police are on their way,” TJ relayed.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Ivan,” Toby growled, taking advantage of the time they had to themselves to clear up certain matters. “Did Dr. Richardson give you that pipe to put in the barn?”

  Ivan blanched. “Man, I told you, I found it next to the driveway,” he insisted.

  “You’re lying. Someone told you to plant it on her property. Was it your psychiatrist? Did he also tell you to drive Dylan’s Suburban into D.C. one night in September?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Damn it. “Are you going to play dumb with me?” Toby asked, tightening his hold.

  Ivan howled in pain. “Please! Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything, I swear.”

  “Then why did you desert the militia when your captain needed you, you backstabbing, weak-willed son-of-a-bitch?”

  The gentle hand landing on Toby’s shoulder eased the compulsion to make Ivan suffer.

  “He’ll spill the truth soon enough,” Hamilton assured him.

  The DEA agent’s calm energy flowed down Toby’s spine, prompting him to loosen his brutal grip. Hamilton was right. After all, Ivan was a classic squirter, the first to turn his back on his teammates. With a little persuasion from the state police, he would eventually blurt the secret he was keeping. But would he do it before the siege turned ugly? And would his words have any effect on the charges staring Dylan in the face?

  Sally Richardson had told them that she’d gone to bed before the party was over, leaving her husband and her brother-in-law in charge of the party. Scott had complained the next morning that Kevin had taken off for a couple of hours, forcing him to handle the dozen or so teens on his own. Toby’s theory appeared to be gaining ground. If the fur fiber found in Dylan’s car matched the fur on the mask Kevin had worn that night, Dylan’s good name might be cleared. But a warrant was required for that to happen, and only the FBI could get it now that they’d laid claim to the investigation. Furthermore, getting a judge to sign off on a warrant took time—twenty four hours at least.

  The odds of keeping Dylan out of jail were dwindling by the moment.

  ***

  Dylan startled at the slamming of the ambulance doors. Terrence’s sheet-draped body had just disappeared from view. The need to ensure that he received the same care and consideration she’d bestowed on the fallen back in Afghanistan had her taking a step toward the vehicle as it pulled away. Sergeant Morrison caught her back by her elbow.

  What if I never get to say good-bye? Scalding tears blurred her vision. She’d attended every one of her boys’ funerals. But with her arrest now imminent, chances were she’d be deprived of that deeply symbolic experience. She’d never get to honor Terrence the way he deserved to be honored.

  The lights atop the ambulance sparkled all the way down the driveway—now flanked by notably fewer cars and trucks. Its siren remained respectfully quiet. A cold chill seemed to rise from the gravel under Dylan’s feet to ascend her legs and spine like mercury rising up a thermometer. It was over. Another Chapter of her life had ended.

  Rousing from her self-absorption, she forced herself to consider her remaining militia members, many of whom appeared to have abandoned their posts to witness the solemn occasion. Their grimy faces reflected defeat. They had sacrificed their time and risked their lives to defend her innocence from a misguided and presumptuous federal government. Some may have lost their jobs because of their devotion to her; others had jeopardized their relationships with loved ones. She refused to ask anything more of them. The time had come to surrender.

  Clearing the phlegm from her throat, she turned to tell them it was over.

  “Wait.” Sheriff Fallon stepped in
front of her, cutting her off. “We’ve held out this long,” he insisted, having accurately guessed her intentions. “We can hold out a little longer.”

  She shielded her eyes to study him incredulously. “What for, Cal?” she demanded. “They’re ready to go home.” She gestured toward the yard. “Look how few of them remain.”

  The scar hashing Fallon’s upper lip whitened as his face hardened. “The whole town is behind us,” he insisted. “They’re protesting in the streets. The entire nation is divided! We can’t quit now. This is history! This is where the people check the power of the federal government once and for all.”

  Dylan drew a tight breath. The legacy of being descended from John Brown was something she could not escape.

  Fallon stepped closer. His slate-gray eyes burned with emotion as he added intently into her ear, “All you have to do is talk to the media and protest your innocence. When the nation sees and hears you, they’ll know you’ve been wrongfully accused, and they’ll rise up in protest of federal tyranny!”

  “Stop it, Cal.” She’d heard enough. “If you want to start a revolution, you can do it on your own turf. But this is my land, and I will not have any blood spilled on my account. Marshal the troops. Have them clean up this yard and gather their possessions. We’re surrendering today.”

  Whirling, she marched proudly into the house to wash up and dress. If her capitulation was going to be aired on national television, then she would do it with as much dignity as she could muster.

  ***

  Eastern Regional Jail in Martinsburg lacked adequate heat to warm the cinderblock maze of rooms and hallways. Even so, when Toby stepped out of the low-security corridor into the waiting lounge and realized what he was seeing on the television, his soaring hopes took a nose dive, and he broke into a cold sweat. “No fucking way.”

  Suddenly, it no longer mattered that Ivan Ackerman had just buckled under the threat of a lengthy jail sentence or that he’d confessed on tape who the real killer was and how he’d been paid by him to divert suspicion onto Dylan Connelly.

  “We’re too late,” a stunned Jackson concluded, having followed Toby’s horrified stare.

  Ike and Hamilton joined them in the room, saw what was happening live on television, and stared in silent dismay. As a unit, they drew nearer to the wall where the TV hung to watch the unfolding news story.

  Following a three day stand-off, Dylan and her militia appeared to be surrendering of their own volition.

  Frustration roared through Toby as he took in the aerial view of three dozen or so militia members marching toward the head of Dylan’s driveway. They kept their hands behind their olive berets, fingers interlocked to communicate the intent to surrender. Dylan, with her burgundy beret, stood apart from the rest as she led them toward her mailbox and the wall of black SUVs lining the other side of the road. A hundred yards in either direction, border patrol agents fought to keep the press at a distance, behind a line of yellow tape.

  Toby rounded on Ike. “Damn it! Why didn’t Palmer tell us this was happening? Call him. Tell him what we know.”

  With a hard look, Ike showed him the cell phone that was already plastered to his ear. “Obviously, he’s not answering,” he bit out.

  “Shit!” Toby wheeled away from the television unable to watch. Grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, he told himself this couldn’t be happening. They’d been minutes away from tipping the scales of the investigation in Dylan’s favor, only to run out of time.

  He’d failed her. He’d promised himself he would spare her the indignity of being arrested while a nation watched. Now, the most that he could do was get her charges dropped before she slipped off the deep end and was lost to him forever.

  ***

  The Fox 5 news helicopter hovered over Dylan’s orchard stirring the leaves that carpeted her estate. It would have sent the beret flying off her head if her hands weren’t locked at the back of her braid, holding the hat in place.

  The tramping of boots on the gravel behind her reminded her of the beat of a drum, such as the one she imagined had accompanied her ancestor to the hangman’s rope.

  In a solemn procession, her army marched toward the end of her driveway, where the FBI had instructed her to surrender. She’d been promised that her followers would face no charges; that she, alone, would be taken into custody.

  The sight of a half-dozen black Tahoes made her stomach ache, especially when she spied the heads bobbing behind them, and the automatic rifles of at least three sharpshooters trained on her and her hesitant soldiers. At either end of the FBI convoy, media vans jammed the road as far as the eye could see. Their logos—WTTG, WJLA WUSA—marked them as stations from the metro area, all of them sympathetic to the government. Where was the local representation?

  Sweat gathered at the base of Dylan’s spine. So, this is what defeat feels like.

  She cast a wary glance back at Cal Fallon, who, unlike the soldiers that had all turned in their weapons at the barn, still carried his service pistol tucked inside his shoulder holster. If Cal fired on the Feds this time, they’d end up like victims of a firing squad, all mowed down at once.

  “Hands above your heads, all of you!” a voice shouted, and Dylan jerked to a stop, signaling to her soldiers to do the same.

  With his pistol trained on Dylan, Special Agent in Charge Palmer crept out from behind his Tahoe and ventured warily into the road. A cadre of agents crept into the open after him, and Dylan’s knees quaked as they fanned out, forming a U-shape around her and her men.

  “Captain Connelly, approach the road in the company of your leaders,” Palmer barked. “The rest of you boys hang back.”

  Dylan’s boots felt like lead as she and her NCOs stepped forward. They now stood a mere twenty feet from the FBI contingent, close enough to see the mistrust tightening the agents’ faces, the whites of the knuckles crooked over their triggers.

  “Step slowly into the road,” Palmer added.

  With a sense of finality, Dylan crossed the invisible boundary of her property line.

  “Sheriff, remove your weapon, now,” barked Palmer, waving his pistol at Cal Fallon. “Lay it on the ground, nice and easy-like.”

  The resentment blazing in Cal’s eyes made Dylan’s heart skitter. For one terrifying second, she was certain he was going to shoot Palmer dead on the spot. But then he laid his sidearm on the street and kicked it across the asphalt at the agent.

  Relief gusted out of Dylan’s lungs.

  “All four of you, keep your hands behind your heads and kneel,” Palmer shouted.

  Dylan looked sharply up at him. “But you said—”

  “I know what I said,” he retorted, cutting her off. Without a word of explanation, he gestured for his men to pounce on her three NCOs, forcing them to lie spread-eagle on the street and submit to a search.

  “You coward,” she hissed as Palmer bore down on her. “You’re nothing but a god-damned liar.”

  “Down!” Palmer grated, pushing her prone onto the cold asphalt. Awash in humiliation and rage, she watched her leaders being patted down and cuffed, in the same way that she was.

  Anger boiled in her veins, most of it self-directed for having ignored her own instincts. The damn Feds had lied to her—just like Tobias had. Were they all cheats and liars, then, making whatever false promises it took to ensure their adversary’s capitulation? Of course they were. She ought to have expected that her leaders would be apprehended. Steel bit into the tender skin at her wrists, but she scarcely felt the bite, enraged as she was.

  “Stand up,” Palmer ordered, hauling her off the ground. No sooner had she staggered to her feet than he pushed her toward the open door of a waiting Tahoe. The sound of running feet and of her name being shouted startled her attention to the journalists rushing toward her. The throng had found a weak link in the perimeter, or—as Dylan suspected—had been allowed in by one of the agents.

  “Bastards,” she muttered under her breath.

 
Humiliation brought a flush to her cheeks as the media horde descended on her like a pack of wild animals. Camera operators zoomed in to film her being thrust into the back seat of Palmer’s Tahoe. At the same time, the low-flying helicopter swooped over the crowd, snatching the beret off her head just as she was being thrust into the car. As it sailed out of sight and the door slammed shut behind her, the words of John Brown, uttered to the jury at his final hearing, reverberated in Dylan’s head: I submit. So let it be done.

  And, yet, she felt anything but complacent.

  ***

  “Why the hell did you leave us out of the loop?” Toby demanded, elbowing his teammates aside to attack Palmer the instant he emerged from the high-security wing at Eastern Regional. Dylan had become a temporary inmate there, just a wing apart from Ivan Ackerman.

  Ike rounded on him with a warning look, and Toby backed off, leaving Ike to handle Palmer. He was the team lead, after all.

  “You had better have a damn good reason for pulling me from my prisoner right now, Calhoun,” Palmer groused, ignoring Toby’s verbal attack. “What is it? And why the hell have you been leaving me voicemails all morning?”

  Ike held up the digital recorder with Ackerman’s confession on it. “Listen,” he said, thumbing the play button. Ackerman’s sobbing declaration echoed off the cinderblock walls.

  He told me to leave the pipe out where someone might see it. I swear to you, he didn’t tell me why or I wouldn’t have done it.

  And what did he give you in exchange? Hamilton’s gentle voice sounded almost sympathetic.

  Prescriptions for pills—Xanax and Klonopin. I used to sell them for money so I could pay off my fines.

  And you never suspected what the pipe was for?

  Not until the FBI came and seized it. And then I was afraid I’d be in trouble if I said anything.

  Did you ever drive Dylan Connelly’s Suburban into Washington D.C.?

  He told me to do it, Ivan blubbered. I never knew why.