The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  He pulled the blanket up and away from the table to reveal a body. After the initial shock, the men inched forward to get a better look. The body was that of a mere boy, hardly a teenager. His arms were folded over his chest, where multiple dark red spots stained his coat.

  His eyes closed, yet there was no peace in his ashen face.

  “He refused to surrender,” Norton said. “He preferred death than surrender. He knew if he resisted they would kill him. He believed in what we are doing enough to die for it.”

  He reached out and touched the stiff hands. His eyes glistened as he blinked as if to mask tears.

  “We will not let this go without a response,” he said quietly. “When one of ours is killed, we must always respond. You will come with me and see that he is avenged.”

  He ordered them to form a single file line in front of the table and take turns passing by the table to individually look at the boy.

  Carl went first. It had little effect on him. He had no idea who the boy was. For all he knew, they had come from the same backgrounds, same families. Same discontent. Or maybe the boy had been raised by wealthy parents, grown dissatisfied with the easy, predictable life placed in front of him.

  That was the tragedy, though. Carl would never know. It seemed Norton didn’t, either.

  The other reporters took a moment gaze at the body. Carl couldn’t understand the purpose behind the ritual.

  But then he watched Fred lean close to the body and realized it was for them, to show them that Norton remembered those loyal to him even in their death. If they were to be killed, they now knew they would be honored in the same way by those they respect.

  Giving the boy one glance, Norton covered him again with the blanket. Several unknown men entered the room and took the body out on a stretcher.

  Norton took out a cigarette and lit it. “When I brought you on, it was to report, and you have performed this service well. I thank you for that. You have done your part. What I ask of you to do now, is not among those original duties. But, I have come to realize that it will be just as vital to our long-term survival. Now, follow me.

  He brought them through another doorway. Once inside, he turned on a series of light fixtures. They found themselves in a small warehouse, with rows of unlocked wooden crates on the floor. They approached the crates and pushed back the lids. Inside a wide assortment of firearms; semi-automatics, bolt-action, shotguns, pistols, revolvers. Other creates were filled with ammunition belts, empty magazines, speed loaders, stripper clips and other equipment.

  Fred chuckled as he rummaged through the crates, taking out an automatic shotgun and an ammo belt. He immediately set both aside in favor of a high-powered semi-automatic that came with a banana clip. The others copied him, sorting the crates with their hands and setting the weapons on the bare table behind them.

  “So, what’s our MO?” Fred asked.

  “MO?” someone asked.

  “Yeah, what’s the plan?”

  “Our other delivery carriers reported that they took their copies of our newspaper to their warehouse on Capitol Hill,” Norton said. “They intend to distribute them. Quite ingenious, really. We do all the work, but they get the profit.”

  “I’m guessing we’re going to get it back.”

  “Yes, and more than that. We’re going to destroy the warehouse and kill anyone we find inside of it.”

  The men paused, waiting to see if he had joked. His preoccupied demeanor suggested he wasn’t. Fred ignored it, but for Duong it was too much to let pass.

  “I didn’t leave one gang to join another,” he said. “Is that what we are?”

  Norton was somewhat sympathetic. “I’m not forcing you to do this.”

  “You don’t have to force us. I just want to make sure we’re not acting like a gang.”

  Norton’s tone was firm. “We didn’t attack them. We didn’t shoot that boy in cold blood. They did that to us. And it cannot happen again. It will not happen again. I intend to ensure that, personally.”

  “You are coming with us?” Ian asked.

  “Of course. Do you think I would send you off on something I’m not willing to do myself? I would think you’d know me better than that by now.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Carl asked Norton. “What if something happened to you?”

  “We’re sending a message tonight. When they hear that I was there myself, they will not be able to dismiss us. I want it to be known that I am not an armchair commander.”

  “But we don’t have experience with sort of thing,” Tom said nervously as he tried to choose between three pistols.

  “We’ll do fine,” Fred said as he flung an ammo belt around his shoulder, a thick belt around his waist. He carried his rifle over to Tom, briefly eyed the three pistols, and then took the last of them and found a holster for it. He repeated the process for others who were having difficulty selecting their weapon of choice.

  “This won’t be anything,” he said. “You’ll have me along with you.”

  “Great, a one-eyed hick,” someone said.

  Fred glanced at them with his eye. “I can still shoot a dime at a grand, my friend. Don’t tempt me to prove it by aiming for your dick.”

  At his section of the table, Carl had settled on a pistol, a Colt .45 that Fred had recommended. He loaded it cautiously and slipped it into a holster attached to his hip. He walked over to Norton, mostly to get a feel for the extra weight on his right side, but also to see what gun Norton would choose.

  Something in one of the crates caught the man’s eye. Smothering his cigarette, Norton stood over the crate and reached deep. They were both puzzled when he pulled out violin case. Unlocking the brass clasps, Norton pushed back to the lid.

  An antique-looking weapon was inside. He smiled as he took the gun out.

  “What is it?” Carl asked.

  “A Tommy gun.”

  Fred saw Norton and immediately guffawed. “You look awesome! All slick and smooth. Add the right hat and you’ll be just like Meyer Lansky.”

  He pointed at Carl. “And he can be Baby Face Nelson.”

  “You know your gangsters,” Norton commented.

  “You actually going to use that thing?”

  Reaching back into the case, Norton took out two round-shaped magazines. Seeing both were fully loaded with ammo, he pushed one up into the front section near a slanted handle. He then turned and faced the reporters admiring him.

  “I guess you can use that,” Fred said. “Not the most high-tech, but isn’t that the way we’re playing this thing?”

  “You’re quite right,” Norton replied. “I think I’ll keep it. Consider it my calling card. I don’t think they will mistake me for anyone else when I have it.”

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  “Everyone ready?”

  “I still don’t have a rifle,” Carl said, turning to Fred. “Got any further advice?”

  Peering into one of the crates, Fred took out another violin case and slid it across the table toward Carl. The same gun was inside, along with ammunition.

  “They’re drum magazines,” Fred said. “They got a hell of a lot of ammo in them, but for the love of God don’t fire that thing fast. If it jams, you’re in trouble. Those things were notorious for that.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Guess it’s both your calling cards.”

  Fred stepped over to Norton, hinting he wanted to speak privately. They moved over to the side, but Carl could still hear them beneath the clink of metal as men prepared their guns.

  “You got any combat experience?” Fred asked.

  “This sort of thing doesn’t call for combat.”

  “Uh, yeah, we’re going into a place to shoot people up who will be expecting us. I’m guessing they will shoot back.”

  “They won’t expect us. I had one of my men purposefully send out a message for them to intercept. They think we’re going to wait until tomorrow to contact them and
arrange a meeting.”

  Fred shook his head with a grin. “You’re a crafty old bastard. But I still want to lead these boys. Most of ‘em will do fine if they’re properly led.”

  “You don’t think I am qualified?”

  ‘I’m not calling you an REMF, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve been there and seen it and done it.”

  “I’ve got the plan all worked out.”

  “Yeah, the first rule in warfare is this; no plan ever survives first contact. They never did, by the way.”

  Norton considered the suggestion before walking to one of the loading bays. The bay door opened once he got close. On the other side, a truck was parked, the back open and the ramp pulled out onto the bay. He spoke to a man and then ran back for his Tommy gun, shouting at them to pile into the back of the truck. Grabbing as much ammo as they could, they hustled to the loading bay, ran across the ramp into the truck, and pulled down the makeshift seats. Carl sat next to Tom, who quietly rubbed his fingers.

  “You alright?” Carl asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “This bother you?”

  “Yes and no. I knew it was going to happen. I just didn’t think we would be the ones to do it. Wasn’t I a fool?”

  “I didn’t know we would.”

  “Should we have?”

  The truck door slammed shut. They were completely black. Silent, unable to see or hear anything except the rumble of the engine ahead of them, it felt like they were traveling into a deep, dark hell.

  ***

  The screeching sound of the vehicle brakes signaled their arrival. Norton joined the men in the back with a small map in hand. He opened it and placed it in front of Fred, showing him the layout of the warehouse.

  Fred studied it, then addressed the men. “Here’s how it’s going to go. The building is directly outside this truck and to our left. They got their trucks out there for the deliveries, so now’s the time to make our move. First thing to keep in mind; we need to stick together. No point is splitting off and getting isolated. My guess is we have more men, and they won’t be expecting it. That’s the big thing for us. We’ll have the element of surprise for a few seconds. That’s it. After we get a couple shots off and take down who we can, they’ll respond.”

  “Don’t shoot your gun like a retard,” he continued. “Take your time. Keep up a steady rate of fire so we can keep them pinned down. Some of you provide suppressing fire; the others will move forward. The idea is to trap them where they can’t get out, then neutralize them before they can react. Go for the armed targets first.”

  He eyed some of the men with handguns. “Oh, and keep in mind those don’t have great range, so don’t waste your bullets on long distance shots. That means those of you who have the handguns get in close, while the others lay down suppressing fire. Got it?”

  “Remember something else,” Norton said. “We’re not taking any prisoners. No quarter is to be given. I don’t care who they are or how much they beg for mercy. Kill them.”

  Fred raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “A whole new kind of hostile takeover, ain’t it?”

  “No prisoners.”

  “Gotcha. Any questions?”

  “What do we do when we’re finished?” Ian asked.

  “Get as many newspapers loaded into the truck as you can,” Norton said. “Concentrate on ours, but if we can snatch some of theirs, the better.”

  Carl held the Tommy gun close. The anticipation of violence flooded his body with adrenaline. It deadened all emotion in him, so he was neither afraid nor angry.

  When they were ready, Norton jumped out with Fred. The rest followed and crept across an unlit pathway near the warehouse. The building had been hastily constructed, the metal frames covered over by thin sheets of metal. Inside the warehouse men drove forklifts carrying large pallets of newspapers toward the truck.

  Norton brought them to an unlit section of the wall, where they hid behind a pile of broken pallets. Fred sent Duong and several men over to the other side of the building to provide the suppressing fire.

  When they were ready, Duong signaled to Fred. Unclipping a flash bang grenade from his belt, Fred crept closer to the entrance. He wound his arm back and chuck the grenade high in the air.

  As the grenade flew toward into the warehouse Fred ordered them to cover their ears.

  The explosion rocked the ground. His eyes averted, Carl didn’t see the flash. A moment later, Fred was charging toward the warehouse amid an eerie silence. Carl and the others weren’t far behind. They crossed the open gates and found a dazed man stumbling out.

  Duong killed him with well-placed shot. The loud roar from his gun spurred them onward. They found most of the Tribune carriers on the ground, still recovering from the blast.

  “Kill them all!” Norton ordered.

  The men didn’t hesitate. The carriers went down in a swath of gunfire. Carl ignored the pain in his ears as the sound jarred his senses. The violent kick of the first handful of rounds caught him off-guard, but he soon got used to it. Tom knelt beside him, remaining calm as ever while bullets ricocheted off the ground or the truck.

  He went to reload. A bullet smacked his rifle, and he fell. At first, Carl was terrified Tom had been hit, but he quickly jumped back on his feet and retrieved his rifle; the bullet had gone clean through the stock.

  Fred tried to keep them moving, directing Duong and his men to continue their efforts. He then ran across the open, exposed center. However, their organized plan fell apart when they discovered the carriers were pathetically armed with a small sidearm. Many of them were also still deaf from the flashbang, unable to hear their enemy closing in.

  Carl followed Norton, amazed at how he moved with the energy of a man half his age.

  It was all over within a minute. Norton and Fred met up at the end of the warehouse, where a huddle of carriers had gathered in the corner, silently hoping they would be spared. But their cowering only seemed to stimulate Norton’s bloodlust. Their unwillingness to face death almost made it that much more imperative that they be killed.

  His eyes ablaze, Norton went to shoot them, but his gun jammed. He tugged at it while ordering the reporters to finish them off. Carl lowered his Tommy gun, figuring Fred could do it himself.

  But Fred didn’t shoot. Spitting chewing tobacco off to the side, he stared at the whimpering carriers with a sense of disgust.

  “Kill them!” Norton yelled.

  Fred said nothing.

  “Do it!”

  The reporters silently watched Fred, wondering whether he would obey. Rolling his jaw to the side, he gave Norton a strange face. The older man nearly threw his Tommy gun down in frustration and reached for his spare pistol.

  He was about to fire when Carl stepped in front of Fred, aimed at the mass of men, and pulled the trigger.

  Carl didn’t look at them as they fell.

  He finally let go of the trigger. Holding the gun with one hand, he lowered it to his side and looked to see if any of the carriers had been wounded and needed a final bullet

  None were still alive.

  He glanced over at his comrades. They had been lucky. Two of them had minor wounds, and no fatalities. Death had spared them that night.

  The other reporters stared at Carl, while Norton approached him with a proud expression on his face.

  Fred moved past Carl without so much as a glance, placing his rifle over his shoulder on its sling as he took Duong with him to check the wounded Tribune men elsewhere in the warehouse, finishing off two of them with a bullet from his sidearm. They came back to Norton and Carl.

  Duong looked distraught.

  “What’s next on the menu?” Fred muttered. “We shot the bastards, but someone will have heard the shooting. I estimate we have ten minutes, no more, before the Tribune arrives with their regular boys. They’ll be expecting us, and they’ll be armed to the teeth.”

  Norton looked at the pallets of Tribune newspapers, set for early morning delivery along
with their papers. He approached one of the crates and shook his head.

  “We’re only taking what’s ours,” he said. “No more.”

  “We just leave the rest here?” Ian asked as he joined them.

  “No,” Norton said. “We burn it.”

  “Burn it?”

  A Zippo lighter in hand, Norton set the first pallet on fire, moving onto the next ones in rapid succession. They quickly conflagrated into massive fireballs, the heat searing Carl’s face. Norton beheld the burning pallets like funeral pyres.

  “Get our papers onto the truck,” he ordered. “Everyone else be ready to clear out as soon as it’s loaded.”

  Eager to leave, Carl and Tom moved to the front of the warehouse, where Fred gathered the rest of the men. Their driver still in the truck, he reversed it into the warehouse and lowered the ramp. Duong hopped onto the forklift in the warehouse, picked up the two pallets of Cascadian newspapers, and drove them into the back of the truck.

  As he was driving out, Fred ordered them all into the back of the truck. Carl was headed up the ramp when Norton grabbed him and brought him to the front cab, telling him to get in.

  “Why not the back?” he asked.

  “Just do it.”

  The back closed, Norton closed the cab door. Tugging the wheel to the left, the driver took them out of the warehouse and onto the road. He switched off their headlights, the distant rumble of cars approaching from behind. Worried, Carl leaned forward and checked the rearview mirror; now a half a mile away, several vehicles were driving down the road toward the warehouse.

  “Well done,” Norton said, patting him on the knee. “I don’t ordinarily tell a man this, but I was glad to it was you who did it.”

  “Why?”

  “It confirmed what I suspected about you.”

  “Which is?”

  “It didn’t say I was going to tell you that,” Norton said with a chuckle as he leaned against his weapon. He tapped it lightly. “What did you think of these?”

  “The Tommy gun? It’s impressive.”

  “It certainly was. I think I’ll make it my calling card, after all. And maybe, just maybe, yours someday, too.”