The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  “How do you feel about me?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, Carl?”

  “Do you…I mean…I know how you feel about me.”

  “Do you?”

  It sounded more like a challenge.

  “Yeah. And I wanted to talk to you about…”

  He couldn’t make out the words. He had rehearsed them a dozen times, gone as far as to practice, anticipating her possible replies to each statement. What stumped him wasn’t her words, but her actions. She stood as though prepared to leave if the wrong thing was said. What was she afraid of hearing him say?

  “I care about you a lot,” he said, hoping the dimness would hide his trembling. “I didn’t know how much until recently.”

  “Oh.”

  “I just wanted to…to let you know that.”

  She nodded her head. “I know that, Carl. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

  He looked at her hard. The words were in his mouth. All he had to do was speak.

  Why wouldn’t he?

  Something about her kept him mute. He wanted to think he knew the answer, but he was more afraid of it. He knew couldn’t ask again. It had to be done right.

  “That’s it,” he sputtered. “Just wanted to say that.”

  She nodded her head and then invited him to walk back with her. In the kitchen, she grabbed him and kissed him on the cheek, then moved like a dancer in a ballet across the room back to the podium just in time for new arrivals.

  Carl stood by the bar, observing her with renewed determination to get things right.

  At their table, Tom raised his eyebrows. A delayed response was all the answer he required.

  Not this time. But the time would cone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The explosion itself didn’t hit Carl before the aftershock struck his bed and almost knocked him out.

  His first thought ran to an earthquake. But there were no other tremors.

  Another explosion. It was distant, but clear.

  He rushed out bed and went to the window. He was about to throw open the curtains when he heard a rapid high-pitched click, like the cracking of glass. Then the floor shook several times.

  He reached for the curtains.

  A voice cried out from the hallway. “Get away from the windows!”

  Carl heeded the advice and threw himself over toward the bed as curtains were peppered with automatic gunfire. Covering his head, he grabbed his bedcover and shielded himself from the shards as he headed to the front door. He hoped Tom had heard the warning in time, but there was nothing he could do until the guns stopped.

  By the time he reached the door, all fell silent.

  The door swung up. He dove for his revolver underneath his pillow, spun around, aimed straight in the center mass.

  “Shit! Don’t’ shoot!”

  The adrenaline rush fell. His vision cleared.

  It was Tow crawling on the floor. The door handle had been shot off by the hail of bullets, the wooden frame hollow in a dozen places. He picked up the splinters and tossed them aside.

  “You alright?” he asked Carl as he got on his knee. He must have already been up, as he was fully dressed.

  “Yeah. What the hell was that?”

  “Don’t know. But we got to get the hell out of here. Whoever it is, they’re going to make sure they didn’t kill anyone.”

  Carl hastily put on his suit, tossing his books into a bag he slung over his shoulder. Taking his Thompson and extra magazines, he joined Tom in the hallway. The bodies of three reporters lay beside their doors, gunned down trying to escape the rooms. Their blood stained the floor like merlot.

  Neither Tom nor Carl bothered check the identities. Once they got to the newspaper they would know who was dead. The mourning would come much later.

  “Anyone else alive?” Tom called out.

  More doors opened, the men crawling like bugs across the floor. Duong and Ian were among them. They formed a huddle around Carl, looking for the sort of guidance they would have formerly sought from Fred.

  “Anyone see anything?” Tom asked.

  “Snipers on the rooftops of the adjacent buildings,” Duong said, loading his pistol. “They missed me by an inch, but I got a good look at him. I can’t say if they’re on your side, but we should bet on it.”

  “How are we going to get to our cars?” Ian asked.

  “We’re not,” Carl replied. “We’re taking the scenic route.”

  “What is that?”

  “Underground, providing they haven’t figured out about it, yet.”

  “You think it’s the ISA?” Tom asked.

  “No.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Duong asked.

  “Because if it was them they would have used a drone. That’s why. Unless they wanted survivors to interrogate.”

  They didn’t bother with the elevator. By the time they reached it, the power to the building was cut off. Taking the stairs, Duong and Ian covered the rear, while Carl took point and Tom followed alongside him. They anticipated the shooting would resume, but the silence remained. It only made them more certain another attack was imminent.

  “If the ISA didn’t do it, then who?” Duong asked.

  “You ask too many questions,” Carl chuckled. “Just sit tight and follow me.”

  They came to the ground floor. Inspecting the corners for an ambush, they moved to the center of the building where the darkness offered ideal protection. Tom shone a flashlight in front of Carl to provide a path as he led them to a storage room infested with insects and cobwebs. He pushed aside the old computers from the middle tiles and pulled at them. Trying each tile one by them, he eventually got one to come up.

  Below it was a latch. He yanked at it, and the immediate section of the floor came up with a cloud of dust. He put the flooring to the side, took one of the flashlights, and dropped down into the hole. The light poured down the long, narrow tunnel that he knew went on for half a mile.

  “Come on,” he called to them. “Unless you want to wait here.”

  They dropped down individually, with Tom resealing the entrance. Ideally, whoever was after them would ignore the storage room, or its contents.

  “How did you know this was here?” Tom asked. “Nobody told us.”

  “Fred told me,” Carl said.

  “Why not us?”

  “Whoever sees him first can ask.”

  Tom laughed humorlessly. “That might be sooner than we think.”

  ***

  “Childs is dead.”

  Norton’s words hit Carl like a punch to the gut. They had just reached the newsroom, having successfully navigated their way safely to the building.

  “How?”

  “Ambushed outside his place. Same fate they intended for you.”

  Norton didn’t appear to have been surprised by the assault. He was dressed as sharply as ever, though there was a strain to his voice. Any joy he had seeing Carl alive was tempered by the loss of their editor.

  “What are we doing?” Carl asked.

  “I’ll explain that when everyone is here…everyone that survived. Any casualties?”

  “Not sure, but definitely three.”

  “Who?”

  “Didn’t check. Didn’t have time.”

  He appeared to understand the urgency. He withdrew to confide with his associates, whose names had been kept as secretive as their conversations. After a short talk, he dismissed them and then addressed the reporters gathered in the room.

  “I don’t have the time or the heart for a flowery speech,” he said. “As you certainly know, this was not a spontaneous attack, but well-coordinated. Fortunately, they didn’t try to conceal their fingerprints, so to speak.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Fremont.”

  Every man’s head tilted down as though in prayer. Some of them actually prayed. Fremont was the largest paper in the city, equal to that of the Cascadian. This was not the Tribune. It would be fighting for t
heir lives.

  Carl thought of Tony; the purpose for their recent meeting was beginning to make sense in a very peculiar way. He had wanted to speak with Carl before this.

  “Marconi has made his intentions obvious,” Norton said. “He thinks this town is too small for the two of us. Or, he feels like we’re squeezing in on his customers. Whatever the reason, he informed me via a short phone call just before the attack that it wasn’t personal, just business.”

  Drawing near to the men, he held out a clenched fist. “He hopes that we will back off, that we will not retaliate. That’s why he didn’t order me targeted, too, in the hopes I will be ‘reasonable’ and not turn this into a war.”

  Fred’s words came to Carl’s mind; do not hesitate and if someone tries to kill do not give them a second chance to do it.

  “What say you?” Norton asked them. “Should we fight or call for a truce?”

  A battle cry shook the room as the men roared in defiant unison.

  “We fight!”

  Norton beamed proudly. “The front-page headline tomorrow will be our reply: We’re here to stay, and we will keep operating no matter how difficult he may make it. Now, there are some new rules. I don’t want any more pairs on the field. One, and one only. The other will remain here at the desk. As soon as the man on the field gets what he needs, he will contact the newsroom and send the information. This way they cannot ambush our people and prevent the news from getting back. I’m splitting you all up into two divisions; the man at the desk will be the reporter, and the other will the stringer. With Childs dead, I will have someone replace him. But you will all need to continue your present assignments. Whatever it takes, get them done. Do whatever is necessary. Anyone who stands in the way, kill them.”

  “What about our cars?” someone asked.

  “Our people have already swept the areas near your residences. The hits were quick strikes, not prolonged occupations of the buildings. They should be secure now, so you can retrieve your vehicles as soon as we are done here. Double check for any booby traps or bombs, though.”

  They dispersed, and Carl went to his desk. He was gathering his things when Tom approached him worriedly.

  “I’m the better driver,” Tom said.

  “You’re also the better writer.”

  “True. Doesn’t change anything.”

  Carl turned around and faced him closely. “You’re staying. I’m managed to survive bad things before without much of a scratch. I’ll call you as soon as I get what I need.”

  Tom nodded. There was no time to agree.

  They shook hands.

  “Good luck, man,” Tom said. His tone made it sound as if he had meant to say “goodbye.”

  Carl wouldn’t let it happen.

  ***

  It was one of the easiest assignments Carl had ever carried out. Extra precautions aside, his work had involved no more than a phone call to Usher, who had arranged for the person he needed to speak with to come to his house.

  There, Carl had interviewed him briefly and then taken the needed documents to bolster the claims that formed the core of the story. The man left in a hurry, even though Usher had watched the windows carefully during their talk.

  “Seen worse, haven’t you?” Carl asked.

  Usher grinned but said nothing. On the table, he had two pistols and a rifle laid on a thick blanket, fully loaded magazines beside them. He didn’t appear like a firearms expert, but Carl had learned not to underestimate Usher’s abilities or the extent of his proficiencies.

  “I would be concerned even if you weren’t here,” Usher assured him as he strode across the room, checking the other side of the house. “When things like this occur, you never quite know what people will do.”

  “Why would they come for you?”

  “You are never truly safe in this town. No amount of money or friends or associations or threats can protect you against someone who wants you dead no matter the cost.”

  “If it’s worth the cost to them.”

  “That’s what I don’t know,” Usher said, standing next to the table. “The attacks weren’t as thorough as I would have anticipated. They planned for one hit, and one hit only.”

  He patted Carl on the shoulder. “Relax, my friend. This is the way men are. This is how we handle each other. We all want something, and if we can take it, we do. It’s not about right or wrong but survival. Sooner or later, Norton would have attacked Marconi in the same way, had he been left alone to grow strong enough. Marconi knew that well. That’s what this is about.”

  “It makes no difference to me,” Carl declared as he went for the phone and picked it up. “My only interest is in getting the story and getting back in one piece.”

  There was the chance the phone lines had been cut, but he soon got a hold of Tom. He relayed the information he had noted from the documents, then several choice quotes from his interview.

  Tom’s voice cut off.

  “Hello?”

  A new voice appeared. It was Norton.

  “You done?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A solemn deliberation. “There’s something I need you to do for me right now.”

  “Absolutely, sir. What?”

  “Tony Marconi was seen by one of our friendly contacts driving down by lower Queen Anne. His car is parked outside of a home. I need you to go there and take care of him.”

  Carl clutched the phone firmly. “You want me to kill him?”

  “I do. Now, don’t make a scene. Just go in there and do it. I’ve got Ian Shevchenko heading out to help; he’ll meet you up by the convention center ruins.”

  Of course, Carl would obey. But his conscience resisted the order. Norton sensed the deliberation in his breathing.

  “It has to be done,” he said. “Tony isn’t a bad guy, but that doesn’t change a thing. We need to hurt Marconi, so he’ll stop this now, or it’ll go on forever. We can’t have that. Our survival depends on it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He put the phone down and shoved his fedora on his head and over his face, so Usher couldn’t see the grimace as he headed out the door without the usual farewell.

  He drove to the convention center remains gritting his teeth as though holding back the revulsion at his new assignment. It wasn’t like before, when there was either hate or indifference. This time there was something else; respect. Seemed like it didn’t matter what side a man was on. The notion of killing someone he respected didn’t sit well with Carl.

  The only thing that overrode his personal moral code was his total obedience to Norton. He would not disobey him; not this time.

  Ian was at the remains, his car concealed behind a heap of concrete. Carl took the wheel and drove them toward Queen Anne using directions Ian had obtained. The entire drive there, Ian fussed around with his tie trying to make it right.

  Amused, Carl told him to forget about it until after they were done. “You bring the firepower?”

  “Just my rifle. No machine gun. Norton doesn’t want collateral damage or civilians hit.”

  “Yeah, no need for anymore martyrs besides Tony.”

  “He’s not a bad guy, is he?”

  “No worse than us. No better than us, either.”

  “It’s sad we have to kill him, then.”

  “Yeah, real sad.”

  They got to the address and found a house just like every other on the block. It was a single-story setup with a basement window visible on the right. The row of houses to the left and right of it looked abandoned, but that didn’t mean much. Half the occupied houses in the city went for that sort of façade to hide the illegal activity going on within.

  Flashes came from the basement window. Carl peered carefully. They weren’t gunshots. The flashes were too slow.

  He brought up his Tommy gun and cocked it, placing it in his lap. Initially the best strategy was to shoot up the house and hope they hit it Tony enough times, then drive away. But there was too great a risk they’d
miss, hit someone else. The same mistake Marconi had made that morning. You couldn’t give someone a second chance. You had to make sure.

  “We wait until he gets out?” Ian said.

  “Yeah.”

  They parked the car around the block between two houses where it wouldn’t be noticed until the job was done. A row of foliage was tempting to use for cover, but Carl wanted more than just visual concealment. He sighted a pile of old concrete bricks lying on the front lawn of a house across the street from Tony’s location.

  He ran over to it, signaling Ian to join him.

  Down the street, people spotted them, noticed their clothes and the guns. They stared for a moment, then kept walking as though it was nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Directly ahead of Carl the lights in the basement flashed again, then went out completely.

  “What the hell is going on?” Ian whispered.

  “No idea. Just wished they hurry up.”

  Laughter emanated from the front of the house. Then the main door swung open. Tony stepped out, alone. He was tightening his belt buckle, his pistol hanging visibly from the holster tucked underneath his left arm.

  Carl gestured to Ian. They both stood up and fired.

  Tony ducked as the first bullet struck the doorframe. They couldn’t see him.

  Desperate to make it quick, Carl sprayed the frontage of the house. He wasn’t going to spare anyone for Tony. Whoever the person was, they weren’t worth it.

  The people on the street went down on a knee after the first shot, but otherwise were unaffected. A woman picked up her youngest child and led the other two away from the shooting, as if it were merely two dogs fighting one another.

  Carl motioned for Ian to stop shooting. The echoes reverberated down the street and petered out. They watched the house for any sign of movement. None came.

  They still had to be sure.

  Ian went right, trying to get a good flanking position if need be. Carl moved to the left, bent down low with his submachine gun tucked in close to his chest. He got to the sidewalk overlooking the porch and took a knee. There had been no further movement. No groans or suppressed cries. He didn’t expect Tony to offer them. If he went down, he’d go with dignity.

  A shot rang out. With his peripheral vision, he saw Ian drop. He turned to see the damage. He had been shot in the upper thigh.