Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  Goddamnit. I never even got into the fight, he thought, and then his head hit the concrete and he blacked out, temporarily sparing him the pain of a shattered right tibia and a gunshot to the left quad, which missed the femoral artery. He wouldn’t realize how fortunate he was until much later.

  CHAPTER 41

  Chase managed his frustration, even as the sheriff’s deputy crumpled to the street and lay still. He hoped he hadn’t killed him: that wasn’t the mission, and he knew the deputy was only doing his job, but Chase had a job as well, and it had gone horribly wrong at the appearance of the drone.

  He and his team had calculated multiple courses of action and response, but accidental compromise due to a small commercial drone had not been one of them. The plan had been a simple one—obtain clear fields of fire, wait until they had a direct shot at the target and whoever else was in the house, and then simultaneously take them out from the wood line and clear the house afterward.

  But the drone had changed the calculus, and Chase had been forced to send in his men, and by the look and sound of it, neither had survived. He’d considered charging in himself, but he knew it was reckless, and as the team leader, he wasn’t paid to sacrifice himself. He knew it wasn’t what the vice president would want, and Chase didn’t exactly relish the idea of confronting whoever was in the house in addition to John Quick and Nick Cerone. It was likely the daughter, who worked on the same presidential task force as John Quick. And from what Baker’s dossier had provided, she was just as lethal—if not more so—than Quick. He didn’t think he’d win that confrontation, not against the woman and Quick.

  As he stood off to the side of the house, he’d considered retreating into the woods, working his way back to the Patuxent River, and crossing it at night like George Washington on the Delaware. He knew he’d be vulnerable, that helicopters would be called in, as well as the K-9 units and God knew whoever else worked the woods in southern Maryland. His odds were not good, but they were better than his chances of survival if he remained at the house.

  But then the first Calvert County Sheriff’s SUV had arrived, and the plan, flexible until the end, shifted. Steal the SUV, escape the neighborhood, ditch it before they can find it, change into the spare set of clothes in the daypack, and get the hell out of Calvert County.

  The first deputy down, Chase moved toward the Ford Explorer, jogging toward the SUV, a misshapen hunchbacked monster in camouflage. He needed to get the key fob off the deputy, since he knew the SUV wouldn’t function without it.

  A second SUV suddenly turned down the street from the right, its headlights briefly illuminating the scene—one SUV parked at an angle, door open, and the deputy unmoving in the street ten feet in front of it. Damn it, Chase thought, adjusting his avenue of approach, and moving toward the new arrival.

  He didn’t know if the deputy had seen him yet, but he didn’t wait for a visual confirmation. The door opened, and a young, tall deputy with a short, military-style haircut stepped out, his eyes focused on the first SUV and the fallen deputy. Chase opened fire from less than eighty feet away, aiming for the legs once again. The collateral damage was mounting by the minute, and he hoped this was the last innocent bystander he’d have to engage.

  The rounds struck the deputy as he stepped toward the curb, and his legs gave way under him. He fell forward, and the Glock pistol in his hand—he hadn’t pulled his AR-15 yet—clattered to the street and bounced into the grass.

  Chase ran hard, and loud pistol shots rang out from his left. Clumps of dirt kicked up behind him, and he ran harder. He needed to get to the deputy, who was crawling facedown on the pavement toward the grass and his Glock. If his instincts were right—and he was betting his life on it—Quick and the Cerone woman wouldn’t risk hitting the deputy. Just a few more seconds.

  He reached the deputy as the wounded man placed his hand on the Glock. Chase delivered a kick that broke two of the deputy’s fingers but sent the pistol tumbling away and out of his grasp.

  “Motherfucker!” the deputy shouted, and rolled over onto his back, pain and anger mixed as one on his young face.

  “Sorry about all this,” Chase said evenly. The shots from the front porch had stopped—as he’d expected—but he raised the AR-15 and fired six quick rounds toward Cerone’s front porch. That should buy me a few seconds.

  Chase looked back down at the deputy, who still showed no fear, even as spent 5.56mm casings now lay next to him. “Two things: I need these,” Chase said, reached down, and yanked the key fob off the deputy’s gun belt, disconnected the microphone from the Motorola radio, and grabbed the radio. “Second, you’ll live. I didn’t want any more collateral damage, and I know you’re only doing your job. Tell your friend the same. Finally, there’s a man buried about a mile and a half toward the river. His grave is marked by an orange flag. He deserves a proper burial.”

  Chase stood up, and the deputy said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter, and all of this, it doesn’t involve you, which is why you lived. Be grateful,” Chase replied, strode over to the second Explorer, hopped in, and shut the door. Seconds later, he spun the car around and fled the street, lights and siren off.

  CHAPTER 42

  John and Amira ran toward the fallen sheriff’s deputies. “I’m going after him,” John said between breaths as the two ran. The gunshot wound to his stomach had healed, but he felt a throbbing, as if the wound were threatening to reopen.

  They reached the first, unconscious deputy and knelt down beside him. Blood ran from a small cut on his head, but a thick pool of it lay on the street near his legs. “Need to stop the bleeding,” Amira said, rolled the deputy over, opened the IFAK kit on the back of his gun belt, and grabbed the contents, which included scissors, a tourniquet, bandages, and several packages of QuikClot.

  John looked back at the second deputy, who had propped himself up into a sitting position, his legs out straight before him. His wounded right hand lay on his lap. “Hey!” John shouted. “How you doing over there? How bad is it?”

  “A couple of broken fingers, my legs are fucked, but I think I’ll live,” the deputy replied. “How’s Shea? Also, you call this in yet?”

  Amira grabbed the Motorola microphone from the unconscious deputy’s lapel, yanked the key fob from his belt, and handed the key to John. She stared at him fiercely, the anguish and rage burning brightly in her eyes. “Go. Hunt him down and end him. Please.”

  “I will,” John said, leaned in, and kissed her fiercely on the mouth. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

  Amira only nodded. “I’ve got this. Now go,” she said, and pressed the microphone’s talk button. “This is Amira Cerone. There are two officers down in front of fourteen-oh-four Burning Leaf Court. I say again, two officers down with severe leg injuries from multiple gunshots. The shooter fled in one of the police Explorers, and my partner is pursuing him in a second Calvert County SUV. There are two enemy KIA on scene. Send medical and multiple units. How copy?”

  There was a brief pause, and then the dispatcher replied, more calmly than Amira had expected, “Roger all. Scrambling EMS and additional units. Who did you say you are again?”

  As John jumped into the front seat of the Explorer, which was still running, he heard Amira say, “We’re with the FBI.”

  Well, that’s kind of true, he thought. They did give us badges, after all.

  He closed the door, whipped the SUV around, and floored it off Burning Leaf and onto the main road that led out of the subdivision. He grabbed the Motorola handset from the SUV’s radio, pressed the microphone, and thought, This should be fun. “Calvert County Dispatch, is this a dedicated channel for only you and me?”

  He waited until a female voice, calm and confident, with a twinge of a southern accent, answered, “Roger. It is. Who is this?”

  “This is John Quick. I am in the SUV that was the first deputy’s on the scene. I’m in pursuit of the shooter, who fled in the second SUV that arrived. I’m
a federal law enforcement agent with the FBI. Please contact the FBI director’s office at the DC Field Office for verification. More importantly, I assume you have a GPS on these vehicles, I need you to guide me to the one that just left the scene. That’s our shooter. Also, keep the other units away until I can engage him. I don’t want to spook him until I’m on him. Over.” Let’s see how that goes over.

  “Stand by,” the dispatcher replied. “Unit 172 is northbound on Route Four, approximately three-quarters of a mile ahead of you once you make the turn.”

  “Roger that,” John said, looked from the radio and computer to the console between the two seats, and smiled. Oh yeah. Now we’re in business. Two rows of buttons ran horizontally between the seats. He flipped two of the switches, and the police lights started flashing, and the sirens started wailing. You’re living every kid’s fantasy right now. Damn straight. But then his reverie was broken at the thought of Amira’s father, killed by an unknown gunman who was now dead himself. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, accelerated, and reached the entrance to the subdivision at the intersection of Route 4.

  Traffic stopped from his left, and he crossed into the median. The vehicles approaching from the north from his right slowed, and he entered the left lane and pushed the pedal to the floor. The specially designed shift point engaged for instant power, and the Explorer rocketed forward.

  “You’re gaining on him. Looks like he’s maintaining his speed at fifty-five miles per hour. Half mile,” the dispatcher said.

  “You try to radio him?” John asked, as an idea formed in his head.

  “Negative. You want me to?” the dispatcher asked.

  “No. But I may have you connect me directly or broadcast in the open in a few minutes. I just need to catch up to the bastard.”

  “Roger. Standing by,” she said, and went silent.

  So this is what it’s like to have working comms in the middle of a crisis or combat, he thought ironically, recalling the days in the Marine Corps when acquiring a clear communications signal was like searching for alien life in space—futile and endless.

  A white Mercedes SUV moved into the left lane, and John pushed past the SUV, creating a pathway that utilized the left half of the lane and the shoulder.

  “You should see him shortly. Looks like he’s at a light or stuck in traffic,” she said.

  John scanned the traffic in front of him. He’s going to see and hear me coming. “Can you put me through to him or broadcast in the open?” John asked.

  Seconds later, “You’re in the clear.”

  “To the asshole in the SUV, this is John Quick. I’m betting you know exactly who I am,” John said, and slowed for traffic at a light one hundred yards away. “This is your one and only chance: stop the SUV and surrender. Otherwise, I promise you it’s not going to end well for you,” he finished, and released the talk button. He flipped the siren and light switches and crept up the shoulder toward the intersection.

  A calm voice replied, “I don’t think so. And you’re right, I know exactly who and what you are, but I’m not stopping. Not for you or anyone. Just know that if it weren’t for that drone, you’d be dead right now.”

  “I assume you’re former military,” John responded, ignoring the failed threat. “All you Organization types are. And that means you should be used to things going wrong on an operation. Things went south for you and your little team. They’re dead, but you have one chance left, and this is it.”

  Gotcha, motherfucker, John thought as he spotted the Calvert County SUV in the left lane, third in line at the light, eight cars in front of him.

  “No thanks,” the shooter replied. “The only chances I need are the ones I’m taking on my own.”

  “Kind of figured you’d say something like that,” John said, dropped the microphone, and floored the Explorer. The SUV shot up the shoulder, accelerating with each vehicle it passed. The Explorer reached 50 mph, and John braced himself for the impact.

  The enemy in the stolen Calvert County Sheriff’s Office Explorer must have realized John was close. As John bore down on him, the SUV suddenly pulled onto the shoulder to try and escape the traffic jam, but too little too late. I have the advantage, he thought as he slammed the crash gate of the Explorer into the left front quarter panel of the other SUV.

  The two vehicles merged for a brief moment before the other SUV was pushed to the right. Its driver did the only thing he could to minimize the effects—floored the accelerator in a futile attempt to evade his pursuer. Chase’s SUV separated from John’s Explorer and was pushed right. It ricocheted off a dark-blue Nissan Pathfinder and careened left, striking the passenger side of John’s Explorer. Both vehicles shot into the intersection.

  John glanced out his passenger window into the enemy vehicle. A man in camouflage paint and a digital camouflage tree suit looked at him, the whites of his eyes in stark contrast to his outfit. But it was what he saw through the front seat of the other Explorer that made him smile and point quickly past the driver.

  The other driver turned to look just in time to see a Chevy Suburban barreling through the intersection at more than thirty miles per hour.

  The other driver was already halfway through the intersection before the two police SUVs magically appeared directly in front of him, as he’d recall later to the sheriff’s deputies.

  John yanked the steering wheel of the Explorer hard and to the left as the Suburban smashed into the passenger door and right-front wheel well of the second Explorer. The window shattered, and the impact flung Chase to the right as his vehicle was pushed left. Without his seat belt on, his right shoulder slammed into the corner of the mounted Toughbook laptop computer, and he felt a sharp pain in the joint.

  Chase’s Explorer was shoved sideways and struck the right rear corner of John’s Explorer, whipping the end around as John unsuccessfully tried to avoid the collision. John’s vehicle skidded across the pavement and rocked on its side as it came to a halt. The enemy’s Explorer, slowed by the impact, wobbled slowly across the middle of the intersection on its ruined chassis before it stopped.

  As soon as John’s SUV came to a halt, he reached into the passenger seat where he’d stowed the dead man’s AR-15 he’d taken from the kitchen and aimed over the dashboard of the Explorer. Traffic had stopped on the southbound lanes, and there were no vehicles behind the other disabled Explorer. This is going to hurt, John thought, and pulled the trigger.

  The suppressor helped minimize the pain and saved John from permanent hearing loss, but the loud bangs as the weapon tore apart the non-bulletproof windshield still made his ears ring with each shot. He stopped firing after several shots, heard no return fire from the Explorer, unbuckled his seat belt, opened the driver’s-side door, and stepped into the middle of the intersection.

  The sounds of vehicles stopping, horns blaring, and people shouting assaulted him, but he trained the AR-15 on the other SUV as he circled around the front of his own vehicle.

  “Last warning!” John shouted. “Come out of the vehicle with your hands up!” Spoken like a real cop, he thought, and dismissed it as he realized the front of the SUV was empty. And then he saw the passenger door, which had been blocked by his angle, ajar. Motherfucker somehow made it out.

  Seconds later, he heard several shouts three or four vehicles back. John shifted his eyes and spotted the source of the commotion—a dark shape running in a crouch back down the shoulder of Route 4. The figure suddenly bolted back through the northbound traffic and off the side of the road toward a small strip mall and several freestanding casual restaurants and the king of fast-food dining—Chick-fil-A.

  John, with no clear line of sight on the fleeing figure, broke into a sprint down the right shoulder of the northbound lane. No way you’re getting away. No. Fucking. Way.

  CHAPTER 43

  Beth Fritz was exhausted, counting down the hours until she could close the store and get home to sleep. A tall, thin, attractive twenty-year-old brunette who looked like
she’d be comfortable in both rural southern Maryland and urban Washington DC, the Chick-fil-A assistant manager was enrolled in the College of Southern Maryland’s Respiratory Therapy program.

  She’d witnessed the decline of her father due to emphysema, which led to a condition called cor pulmonale, and ultimately heart failure and death. As a result, something had shaken loose inside, and she’d been compelled to research her father’s killer. Someday she knew she’d be a doctor, maybe even a pulmonologist, but first she wanted to help those who suffered the same way her father had. It was why she’d also taken the position at the brand-new Chick-fil-A in Prince Frederick, Maryland. The money was good, the hours were flexible, and the company legitimately cared about her and the other employees. As advertised, it was a warm and friendly working environment. The free food was just an added bonus.

  The restaurant was half full of families, construction workers, teenagers looking for a bite out on a Wednesday evening, and even six members of a girl’s local lacrosse team. Lacrosse was revered in Maryland the way football was in Texas, although no one was making TV shows with Kyle Chandler about lacrosse. Just another normal Wednesday night crowd, Beth thought, at least until she heard the first scream, looked up from the register, and saw the thing holding some kind of rifle in his left arm as blood dripped from his right one onto the clean floor.

  Her manager’s hat on every minute of every shift, she couldn’t help but think, Damn. Someone’s going to have to clean that up later.

  But then he spoke, and Beth’s temporary transfixion on him was broken as other customers spotted him and screamed or gasped in surprise.

  “I need everyone to remain calm,” he said loudly, speaking across the entire restaurant. He looked at Beth. “You. I need you to lock the doors. We’re going to be here a while.” A boy no older than five started to cry, but his mother hushed him. The stranger spoke again. “I promise you that if you do as I ask and remain calm, no one, and I mean no one, is going to get hurt.” He looked back at Beth. “Did you not hear what I just said?”