Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  Seconds later, the drone dipped beneath the canopy, and he adjusted the camera, finally spotting the source of the motion. His blood turned cold, and it took his brain a moment to realize what his body had already reacted to—danger, and a lot of it. Three men in some kind of camouflage fatigues were moving toward the far end of the woods, toward his neighborhood. They held what he thought were assault rifles, but it was the way they moved that spurred him into action. He’d played enough Call of Duty video games and done enough research into the military that he recognized a tactical movement when he saw one. These weren’t hunters: they were men on a mission. And then he realized where they were headed, and he exclaimed, “Oh, shit!” His heartbeat increased furiously, and he thought, I have to warn him.

  He looked at the controller in his hands, thankful that he’d purchased the Mavic Pro 2. He hit a small button on the upper left side of the controller that had an angled H inside a small circle—the return-to-home button. Knowing the drone would find its way back to him, he immediately disconnected the iPhone from the docking station in the bottom of the controller. He hit the phone button at the bottom, and his favorites list popped up. He scrolled down quickly, trying to control the panic, and found the one he wanted. He pressed the button and prayed, Please, God, let him answer the phone.

  CHAPTER 37

  Former CIA Special Operations Group officer Chase Grayson slowly stalked through the woods in Calvert County. The target’s property was less than one hundred yards away, followed by a short distance across the backyard to the large colonial home the target occupied. A former Marine Special Operations team tactical element leader, he’d spent plenty of time in woods and forests across the globe, but for some reason, Maryland and northern Virginia always seemed especially uncomfortable in the summer.

  The last thirty-six hours after they’d inserted under the cover of darkness into the woods from the Patuxent River had been uncomfortable, but Chase’s team had made the best of it, setting up a small, concealed camp in the middle of the woods more than a mile from civilization in all directions. The only incident they’d had was the unfortunate encounter with the hunter.

  Chase despised collateral damage, especially the loss of innocent life, but Vice President Baker—Chase still considered him to be the vice president, but if not that, he was still a Council member of the Organization, even if he’d gone off the reservation—had been clear about one thing: mission accomplishment at all costs. As a result, the hunter had been a human obstacle in their path, nothing more, and he’d had to be dealt with in a way that didn’t jeopardize the mission.

  The mission had started out as a simple kidnapping in order to provide the vice president leverage, but something had changed within the last twenty-four hours, escalation from kidnapping to direct action—eliminate the retired detective and anyone else with him. No prisoners. No witnesses.

  When the vice president had called ten minutes earlier, he’d sounded frustrated but still in control. There was a continuous high-pitched roar in the background, but Baker had never wavered: terminate the targets with extreme prejudice. And neither Grayson nor the other two members of his team had an issue with it. There was a war underway, even if the general public wasn’t aware of it. And like it or not, his mission and his job involved the taking of human life. While he didn’t revel in it in the same fashion he’d seen others do, it was a necessity, pure and simple. Retired DC police officer Nick Cerone and whoever was with him had to die.

  At the center of a three-man on-line formation, Chase carefully placed one boot in front of the other to eliminate any unnecessary sounds. The edge of the woods materialized, with spaces emerging in the wall of trees and underbrush.

  Chase never heard the drone until it was close overhead, but by then, it was too late. The three men froze, and Chase prayed their commercial tree suits would hide them long enough for the drone to pass. But for whatever reason—karma, bad luck, or both—the drone stopped above and behind them.

  Come on. Keep going. Whoever you are, you didn’t see anything, he thought, which was precisely when the quadcopter descended through a gap in the woods’ canopy thirty feet behind them.

  No one moved, as if to do so would trigger some kind of alarm and send the drone screaming in their direction. The camera on the drone swiveled from side to side. Damnit. We’re made.

  As if sensing Chase’s recognition, the drone suddenly ascended like a launched rocket through the treetops. Without hesitation, Chase said, “We’re made. Let’s move, and don’t stop until we’re at the house.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, but instead, jumped into a sprint along the floor of leaves and twigs, no longer concerned about the noise. Always has to be something. No matter. We’ll overcome it. We always do.

  * * *

  Amira stared at the photograph on the bookshelf in the large family room, lost in the memory of that day when she was eighteen and had just been accepted into the University of Maryland School of Theatre, Dance, and Performance Studies. Her parents had taken her out to dinner to celebrate and then walked along the National Mall, beaming with pride at their daughter, who’d received the opportunity to pursue her dreams.

  Amira had been dancing since she was five years old, and she’d excelled at every level in every way possible. Graceful, fluid, and strong—the fact that she was stunningly beautiful helped, as well, with eyes that no one forgot—she’d pursued her goal with a relentless and fierce determination that her parents hadn’t had to encourage. She was a natural fighter, which was why her father had also trained her in basic martial arts and boxing starting at age ten. The combination of dance and combatives had created the perfect synergy of power and grace, heightening her skills in the dance studio.

  In the picture, taken by a passerby in what felt like a life lived by someone else, she sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in front of the reflecting pool, obvious joy on her face. Her parents sat behind her, her mother’s arms wrapped around her neck and her father’s arms around both of them, leaning downward toward Amira.

  The picture always affected her deeply, a reflection of a different time filled with hope and happiness, before the violence and the CIA had entered her life. All she’d ever wanted to be was a dancer, but life never worked out the way one intended. Of that, she was certain. Her mother had died five years ago, and her father was all that she had, a steady presence of support and love. And John. You have John now too.

  Her father’s cell phone on the kitchen island countertop suddenly erupted, the sound of police sirens wailing digitally from the device. Seriously, Dad? she thought, but also pleased at the knowledge that her father still had a sense of humor.

  She walked into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and looked at the screen. Tony the Mower? Sounds like a mob boss with a penchant for yard work. She contemplated letting it go to voice mail, but her curiosity as to who deserved such a ringtone and moniker won the battle in her mind, and she answered it. She’d reflect on that decision for days to come.

  “Hello?” Amira answered.

  “Is Mr. Cerone there? This is Anthony. I cut his lawn,” a teenaged voice said in a hurry. “Please. It’s urgent.”

  Urgent? Does Dad owe the kid money? Definitely not a hardened criminal. “Sorry, but he’s out back, grilling. This is his daughter. Is everything okay?”

  The boy sounded panicked. “I don’t think so. I just flew my drone over your house toward the woods, and there are three men in there with rifles in some kind of camouflage, and they’re moving toward your dad’s house. I didn’t know what to do. So I called.”

  Amira’s mind tumbled in free fall for a moment. No. Not here. But then the warrior inside her regained equilibrium, and the steel her enemies were familiar with appeared. “Call 911 and get back inside and lock the doors. Thank you.”

  Even as she ended the call, she started for the sliding door to the deck and shouted, “John! Dad! Get inside, now! Hostiles in the woods! Move!”

  T
he shadow war in which they’d been engaged for the past two and a half years had just arrived in the rural suburbs of the Rolling Knolls subdivision.

  * * *

  “How is she doing?” Nick asked, glancing at his watch and waiting to flip the thick-cut fillets. He still preferred an old-school charcoal grill to the convenience of gas. The world might have moved on to pellets and propane, but he liked charcoal, nonetheless.

  “As well as any of us,” John replied. “For me, it’s been the last two and a half years, but she just joined the fight. I won’t lie. I know you can probably guess at a lot more than what we’ve told you. These are dangerous, violent people we’ve been chasing, people who would gladly undermine the Constitution and every other legitimate government for their own agenda. Hell, they wanted to pull us into a second conflict in the Middle East, which is how I got roped back in out of retirement.”

  “What happened?” Nick asked, knowing John might not answer.

  “They came at me in my lake house in Montana, where I’d decided to hide from society after the things I’d done and seen in the Marine Corps. I’d been divorced, which was inevitable, considering the op tempo we’d been under for years, and I just wanted peace and solitude.”

  “What happened to the men who came after you?”

  “Some of them died that night; the rest, the next day,” John said, remembering the Alamo and the endless day that had started at his house.

  “Good,” Nick said.

  John laughed warmly. “That’s why I like you, Nick. You get it. So does Amira.”

  “I know, but as her father, there’s a part of me that loathes the profession in which she works. I know most of what she does, and I can figure out the rest. I raised her to be the strong, independent woman she is, but I never wanted her to be immersed in a world of violence.” His voice was strong with emotion. “I wanted her to be insulated from the world I saw every day on the streets of DC. I wanted her to be a dancer, to bring joy to others, but most importantly, to be happy for herself.”

  “You know she is, right?” John said. John didn’t have kids, and he could only imagine what parents went through raising them, but he knew Amira was doing exactly what she wanted to be doing with her life. “What she does, there are very few people on the planet who can do it. All jokes aside, I’m good, really good, but your daughter, she’s on a whole other level of warrior. But more importantly, she’s on the right side, the side of those who can’t fight for themselves. She’s balancing the scales in the right direction, and no one can ever argue otherwise.”

  “I know. But it never turns out like we wanted, does it?” Nick asked, although it was more of a statement than a question.

  “No,” John replied. “It doesn’t, but I believe she’s precisely where she’s intended to be and wants to be, and that’s more than most can ask for.” John paused for a moment. “Nick, you raised a warrior, a smart, beautiful, fierce warrior, and the world needs her. I absolutely believe there is no higher calling. Evil walks among us, and she’s one of those who stand at the gate, refusing to let it in and crushing it when it does. It’s why I’m crazy about her. So thank you for making her who she is.”

  Nick was silent, and then a smile crept across his tanned face. “I see why she loves you—and she does, you know. Who knew a Marine could be so smart?” he joked, taking the edge off the conversation.

  “Just don’t tell anyone,” John replied, and grabbed him on the shoulder in mock seriousness. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Nick replied. “Time to flip the steaks,” he said, and raised the lid on the stainless steel grill, which was when Amira started shouting frantically from inside and the first gunman opened fire from the woods.

  CHAPTER 38

  John yanked Nick backward and pulled him down as several rounds struck the open grill, pinging loudly like baseballs hitting a heavy sheet of tin. More suppressed shots rang out from near the wood line, but they sounded closer. They’re moving in. Need to get Nick inside.

  In addition to the composite railing around the deck, Nick had built a brick wall around the grill area to prevent the heat from causing the railing to blister and buckle. At the moment, it was the only thing providing substantial cover from the two weapons John heard firing at them.

  Several rounds struck the back of the house, punching holes in the vinyl siding and tearing chunks of glass from the windows.

  The grill was less than fifteen feet from the sliding door, but John realized that the brick wall wouldn’t protect the last few feet. Why did we have to leave our guns in the truck? Because you don’t expect to get ambushed at Amira’s dad’s place. No one should even know who she or her dad are.

  “We have to get inside. Low-crawl behind me to the doors. It’s either that, or we die out here,” John said, and started squirming toward the back door. There were no other options.

  Amira’s shouts were interspersed with more shattering glass and thuds against the house. It’s going to have to wait until we’re inside, babe, John thought.

  John reached the exposed gap and prayed that the railing would deflect the trajectory of any rounds sent their way. As if on cue, the door slid open to the right, and Amira shouted, “Move! Now!”

  Here goes nothing, John thought, and scrambled toward the door. The two seconds of exposure induced a brief sense of panic, but he reached the door and pushed through as several rounds struck the right half of the glass doorway, destroying the large window and the glass door behind it.

  Amira was just inside to the left of the open door, and John spun around. Nick was less than a foot from the door, struggling on his stomach. Fifty feet behind him in the middle of the yard, a man in a full camouflage tree suit with an AR-15 stalked forward. He couldn’t see the second shooter since the brick wall obstructed his view. Two more shots destroyed one of the white posts, and the shooter’s weapon emptied. One small mercy, John thought, as the man ejected the magazine, stashed it inside a cargo pocket on his pants, and pulled out a second magazine from a pouch attached to the front of the camouflaged suit.

  John grabbed Nick by the arms and pulled him over the ledge into the kitchen, and all three scampered to the left into the family room.

  “Where’s your gun?” John asked.

  “Upstairs, in one of those four-button gun safes next to the bed on the right side on the floor. It’s my birthday and her mom’s,” Nick replied, breathless from the adrenaline surge and crawl to safety.

  “What about ours in the truck?” Amira asked.

  “They’ll have someone covering the front. They came here to kill us, and they won’t risk letting us escape out the front,” John said.

  “Who the hell are these guys?” Nick asked.

  “Welcome to the fight, Nick. It doesn’t even matter, but we’re going to take them apart, one by one,” John said, a rage building in his voice as he spoke. “Let’s get down the hallway and upstairs.”

  The shooting had stopped, but John knew the shooters had to be close to the back porch. He wasn’t about to raise his head to find out: he knew it’d get shot off. “Amira, then you, then me,” John ordered. “Now, move!”

  Amira crouched and dashed toward the hallway that led from the kitchen to the foyer. The stairs were to the left just before the main floor powder room and the hallway itself. Nick followed close behind his daughter as she bounded up the first two steps and turned, waiting for her father. He reached her a moment later and stepped up, as the front door exploded inward, the lock destroyed by a small charge. The door slammed backward on its hinges, crashing into the wall on its left.

  “Go,” John said, and dove to the right into the kitchen as a third camouflaged shooter appeared in the entrance, a black pistol in his hands. John landed on the wooden floor behind the kitchen island, temporarily protected from the shooters in the back and the one in the front.

  He heard footsteps as Amira and her father raced up the stairs, whi
ch turned ninety degrees up to a smaller landing. A short set of stairs led up to a rec room above the garage, and a second set led to the right up to the second floor, where the three large bedrooms were. Two of the bedrooms were in front, and the master bedroom was at the back of the house down a short hallway past the guest bathroom on the right. At least they have options up there, John thought, but he was down to one.

  He scrambled forward past the island and through a small archway into the formal dining room. He just hoped that the gunman in front hadn’t seen or heard him. A second entrance at the other end of the dining room led around to the front and formal living room. If he circled around and wasn’t detected, he’d be able to take the shooter from behind.

  He crept along the dining room, reached the door, and waited. John heard the gunman move a few steps into the house, and he stole a quick glance through the doorway just in time to see the back of his tree suit disappear into the narrow hallway. Gotcha.

  He moved purposefully and as quietly as he could, trying to remain undetected in order to reach and neutralize the new threat. As he moved, the shooter spoke, “They’re upstairs.” A quick pause. “Roger that. Stand by.”

  John stopped at the far end of the living room near the foyer, exhaled, and leaned around. The shooter stood in the kitchen, his attention directed upward at the ceiling, and John realized with horror what he was doing. He’s listening for them.

  A creaking noise sounded from above, and the shooter raised the suppressed AR-15. Oh no.

  John broke from cover and dashed down the hallway, screaming as he ran, “Move toward the back, now!”

  The shooter heard him, but rather than turn to confront the threat, the discipline ingrained from years of training took command of his actions. His objective was to eliminate all targets in the house, and he opened fire a second and a half before John Quick crashed into him.