by David Spell
“Thanks for that report. That was Becky Sanders, live from Malibu Beach, California. Next, we’ll update you on the Democratic Presidential primaries. It’s turning into a tight race! We’ll be right back.”
What a scumbag, Beth thought. That Nicholson guy was the one who was indicted for trafficking girls and selling access to them on his private island. He had been found not guilty of the charges against him, but everything Beth had read pointed to his guilt. Good riddance.
She poured two mugs of coffee and walked back into their bedroom. Chuck had the news on there, also, with the volume low on the television mounted to the wall. Raymond still slept peacefully next to his dad.
“Did you see that last story? Alfie Nicholson, the Hollywood sex trafficker, drowned while surfing.”
“I did see it. You can’t be too careful surfing by yourself,” he commented.
Beth glanced at her husband, his face impassive as he watched the screen. I wonder if he was in California for the last three weeks? There were many aspects of his job that he shared with her. When it came to actual missions, however, he did not talk about them at all. There had been several times over the last year when she suspected that Chuck knew more about a few big news stories than he let on.
Fox came back on with Anchorman Stuart appearing excited.
“We have a breaking story out of Honduras, Central America. We received an anonymous tip earlier, but due to the nature of the story, we wanted to verify it before we put it on the air. The FBI is now confirming that they are assisting the Honduran Federal Police in a homicide investigation involving three United States citizens and a Honduran police officer.
“Our anonymous source gave us the names of all the deceased. The most notable name on that list is actress Erin Knight. The FBI has not released an official statement yet but with Alfie Nicholson missing and presumed dead, we wanted to let you know that it now appears that Erin Knight is also dead, possibly a murder victim. We’ll update you as more details become available.”
“It’s turning into a big news day,” Chuck noted, dryly.
“Yeah, what a crazy coincidence, huh? Alfie drowns and his girlfriend dies under mysterious circumstances within twenty-four hours.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” McCain replied, sipping his coffee.
Elizabeth gently lifted the sleeping baby and placed him in his crib. She took the TV remote out of her husband’s hand, pressed the “Off” button and climbed on top of him.
“I’ve still got a little while before I need to start working,” she breathed into his ear.
The big man wrapped his arms around her, kissing her deeply.
“How did I get so lucky?” he asked.
Reston, Virginia, Friday, 1440 hours
McCain had met Scotty Smith at their favorite gym that morning for a two-hour workout. Scotty was one of the strongest men that Chuck knew and they constantly pushed each other to get better. While Smith had helped McCain get stronger, McCain was responsible for the bearded man becoming a much better fighter.
During Chuck’s first law enforcement career as a SWAT officer outside of Atlanta, he had been a part-time professional MMA fighter. A lifelong martial artist, the big man had always enjoyed testing himself. McCain had compiled a ten win, four loss record fighting as both a heavyweight and a light-heavyweight in small venues around the Southeast.
Scotty had once made the mistake of challenging Chuck to a sparring match. Even though he was younger, taller, heavier, and stronger, Smith had been knocked out in less than thirty seconds. Since then, the former Ranger had tried to learn everything he could from his boss.
After getting home from his workout and showering, McCain went into dad mode, letting Elizabeth finish up her morning’s work. Since Raymond was born, her job as the CDC Director’s personal assistant had become exclusively remote. The Centers for Disease Control Headquarters was in Atlanta and Beth had offered her resignation to Dr. Charles Martin when she and Chuck had sold their house in the Atlanta area to move to Northern Virginia. Martin had waved the resignation away, offering her a raise and allowing her to work from home.
Now, Beth was out for a couple of hours of therapy shopping. The baby fell asleep sucking on a bottle of his mother’s milk as Chuck sat back in his recliner. Rather than getting up and putting Raymond in his crib, the big man let his son nap on him, soon falling asleep himself.
Falls Church, Virginia, Friday, 1510 hours
The black full-size, four-door Ford pickup truck stopped in front of the small nondescript home in Falls Church and the five men gratefully got out, stretching their tired limbs. The thirty-hour drive from Brownsville, Texas, had been long and uncomfortable and they were ready for some rest before they undertook their mission. The front door of the house opened and a beefy, heavily-tattooed, mid-thirties Mexican male stepped out with his arms spread wide. He was clad in a white singlet, baggy jeans, and Oakland Raiders cap with the bill cocked at a forty-five degree angle, looking every bit the Los Angeles gang banger that he used to be. His long, greasy black hair hung around his shoulders.
“Amigos! Welcome to my humble home,” Juan Guerra said, with a laugh. “Come on inside.”
The men grabbed their bags out of the back of the truck and entered the residence. After introductions were made, team leader Damian Sanchez pulled Juan to the side.
“How far away is the warehouse? I want to see the equipment.”
“Now?” Juan questioned. “I figured you guys would be tired from the trip. I thought we would go tomorrow. I can bring in some girls from one of our whorehouses if you want and we can have a little party later on. I’ve got some good weed, too.”
Sanchez locked eyes with his Guerra. “I want to go now. I want to make sure everything is as you said so I can finalize our planning.”
Juan felt his anger rising. Was this guy calling him a liar? The gangster had killed men for smaller insults than that. He quickly remembered, though, that the compact man in front of him had been trained by the American Special Forces before returning to Mexico as a platoon leader of an SF unit there.
Like many of these elite soldiers, Sanchez had been recruited to work for one of the various cartels. The Nueva Generación Cartel paid more than Sanchez could have ever have hoped to make in the Mexican Army. Juan had heard the stories and knew that Damian would kill him without hesitation if he felt that he wasn’t receiving the cooperation that cartel head Señor Vincente Villarreal expected.
“Sí, amigo,” Guerra answered, swallowing his pride. “It’s close. We can go now.”
Fifteen minutes later, Juan pulled into an industrial park off of Lee Highway. About halfway down the main drive, they pulled up to a long, stand-alone brick building, surrounded by a tall chain link fence. The sign on the front of the business identified it as ‘New Generation Enterprises.’
Damian had left his team at the house to rest. He would sleep later. If Juan had what he said he had, the former Mexican Special Forces soldier would feel much better about their mission.
“You used the name of the cartel? What’s your business?” Sanchez asked, surprised.
“The gringos are stupid. They don’t know what the name means. It’s mostly just a front, but I do have a couple of lawn care crews, plus I take some construction contracts and sub them out. We make some legitimate income to go with the other,” Juan smiled.
Sanchez nodded. He knew that Señor Villarreal trusted Juan. The gangster had been running things in Los Angeles two years earlier, their prostitution houses and drug sales generating a steady profit. An informant in the inner circle in California, jealous of Sanchez’s success, had set up the Mexican gangster. The traitor had provided information to the DEA so that they could take Guerra down on both human and drug trafficking charges.
Juan had narrowly avoided arrest, fleeing back to Mexico just before the Feds could capture him. Rather than staying in the safety of his home country, however, Guerra accepted another assignment from Vi
llareal. This time he was sent to the opposite side of the nation, to Washington, D.C., to establish the cartel’s presence there in the sex and illicit narcotics business. The cartel leader had provided him with his new identity as “Juan Guerra,” complete with a new driver’s license, and social security number.
Before going to Northern Virginia, however, the gangster had first paid a visit to the snitch in LA who had set him up. Juan had taken his time killing the man, inflicting the maximum amount of pain. After the rat succumbed to his wounds, Guerra had cut off his head, placed it in a box, and shipped it to the Drug Enforcement Agency’s headquarters in Springfield, Virginia.
At New Generation Enterprises, Juan unlocked the padlock, removed the chain, opened the gate, and drove his blue Ford F150 pickup inside. After resecuring the gate, he pulled behind the building and parked. Two large pickups with attached trailers sat in the lot, loaded with commercial lawn mowers on the trailers, with weed eaters, blowers, and other lawn care tools attached. Guerra led his companion past a large roll up door to the rear entrance.
Inside, Guerra flipped on the lights and Sanchez’s eyes took in the contents of the room. The gangster had been telling the truth! Two desert tan National Guard humvees sat waiting to be used. An M249 machine gun was mounted on top of one of the vehicles, with an M240 on the other. The M249 fired 5.56mm ammo, while the M240 fired the heavier 7.62mm round.
Damian allowed himself a rare smile. “¡Muy bien! Where did you get these?”
The gangster shrugged. “I got here and started setting up my operation about six months before that zombie virus got released. Those National Guard troops were in way over their heads. Some of them the zombies ate, some we killed. They left us a lot of great equipment. Here, look at all the guns.”
Guerra stepped over to the rear of one of the hummers, pulling open the back door. A stack of M4s, M-16s, 9mm Beretta pistols, shotguns, stacks of magazines, and green metal cans of ammo sat waiting to be used. Juan stood aside as the soldier checked the weapons, an excited look on his face. Sanchez then climbed into both of the humvees, examining the machine guns mounted on top. They were unloaded, but several cans of linked 5.56mm and 7.62mm ammo were ready to be fed into the guns.
“How do they look?” Juan asked. “We haven’t shot them.”
“Good, amigo, very good. I’ll take them apart and clean them tomorrow. Excellent work, Juan. Any explosives? Grenades? Rocket launchers? Anything like that?”
Juan shook his head. “No. One of my guys had been in the guard but he left when the zombies showed up. He said the big bosses didn’t trust them with grenades in such a densely populated area.”
Damian had expected as much. He had been hoping for some grenades or maybe a grenade launcher on one of the vehicles, but wasn’t surprised that the gringos in charge refused to authorize them. Their target would likely be in an armored vehicle but the machine guns, especially the M240, should be able to eventually punch through it.
“No problem. We can make do with what we have,” Sanchez nodded, climbing out of the hummer.
“So, who are going to kill?” Guerra asked.
The soldier was impressed by the cache of weapons that the gangster had amassed. He had been skeptical when Señor Vincente had told him about his man in Virginia and all the guns and vehicles he had taken from the National Guard. Now that he had seen everything with his own eyes, though, he felt much better about working with Guerra.
“Sorry, but it’s a secret. My own team doesn’t even know yet. It’s called operational security. I’ll tell everybody Sunday night.”
Guerra didn’t like to be kept in the dark, but he understood the need to keep everything under wraps until the right time. He was secretly pleased that the special forces soldier was happy with the equipment.
“Sure, amigo, whatever you say. You ready to go back and get some rest?”
“Excellente.”
Reston, Virginia, Sunday, 1350 hours
That morning, the McCains and their friends, Scotty and Emily Smith, had attended church at Word of Life Christian Center. Despite what he did for a living, McCain was a man of strong faith, attending church as often as he could. In his mind and in his heart, he believed that he was doing what was right. While older translations of the Bible said, “Thou shalt not kill,” the more correct rendering was, “Thou shalt not murder.” Chuck and his team saw themselves as taking out predators who had somehow managed to evade the law. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t nice, but sometimes it just had to be done.
Scotty and Emily had been married for less than a year. They had met at the beginning of the zombie virus crisis. Smith and Andy Fleming had taken down a vanload of terrorists who were on their way to infect a hiphop concert in the middle of Atlanta. The two federal agents had managed to kill all the terrorists but had both been wounded during the shootout.
Emily had been one of the paramedics who responded to transport the two men to the hospital. Scotty managed to get Emily to give him her phone number and was eventually able to convince her to go on a date with him. The quiet, petite young woman had been intimidated by the large, loud man. After going out with him, though, she realized that there was much more to Scotty Smith than met the eye.
The two had fallen in love even as the chaos of the zombie virus raged around them. When McCain had accepted the promotion as Assistant Director for Operations at the CIA, he invited Smith and Fleming to join him as part of his staff. Scotty couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his girlfriend behind and proposed to her in front of his teammates. Thankfully, she had accepted and they had been married in a small, civil ceremony.
Now, the McCains and the Smiths were enjoying a quiet after-church lunch at a bustling steak house off of the New Dominion Parkway. Beth and Emily had become good friends but didn’t get to see each other as much as they would have liked. Emily worked for a local ambulance service but had also just recently started taking classes at George Mason University to become a Physicians Assistant. Elizabeth had a baby to look after, as well as her own job with the CDC. The two women sat across from each other, talking, laughing, and catching up on each other’s lives.
Scotty and Chuck spoke little as they hungrily devoured their steaks, washing them down with cold draft beer.
“How you enjoying the church, Scotty?” McCain asked after finishing his slab of beef.
“Man, I don’t know,” Smith answered, wiping his mouth and beard down with a cloth napkin. “Everybody’s so nice it makes me wonder what they want. I’ve never gone to church before in my life until you invited us a few months ago. I still feel like a fish out of water. All those people seem like they’ve got it all together and know all the Bible stories. I mean I’d never even heard about Jeremiah getting swallowed by a whale, or Moses building a big boat, or Daniel killing that giant. This is all new stuff for me.”
Chuck suppressed a laugh at his friend’s butchery of Biblical history. “Yeah, it’s a lot to remember. Thankfully, God isn’t that concerned with how much we know.”
“That’s a good thing or I’d be screwed,” Smith grinned.
“And trust me,” McCain continued, “no one has it all together. Everybody has their struggles. Our friends at church have just chosen to put God first in their lives. And as far as them being nice, just accept it at face value. One of the things about Christians that’s supposed to set them apart is their love for other people.”
Scotty leaned in towards his boss with a wry smile. “What about us? We didn’t show a lot of love last week, did we?”
The big man shrugged. “Like I always say, ‘Some people just need killing.’”
“Roger that,” the former Ranger agreed, downing the rest of his beer. “What’s next?”
“Enjoy your week off. I’m planning on being in the gym everyday in the afternoon. In the morning, I’ll take care of the baby so Beth can work undistracted. I may even try to get in a session or two at the dojo. I haven’t sparred in over a month and need to hit som
ebody in the face.”
“Just as long as it’s not me,” Smith laughed.
“I’ll check in with the boss in a few days and see if she has anything brewing,” McCain said. “If not, I was thinking we could do some tactical training next week. Maybe Kevin and his guys and gals might want to join us? We could have Jay and Chris put us through some CQB drills.”
Chuck and Kevin had utilized the two former SEALs to run their last several training sessions. Each team member was already beginning to see their already impressive tactical skills taken to another level under the SEALs’ tutelage. Scotty’s eyes lit up. The only thing he liked better than lifting heavy weights was shooting.
“That’d be great!”
“We probably need to make a visit out to our property in the next few weeks to check our stands and put out some corn.”
“Good idea. Do you think we’ll ever get our houses built?”
“Man, I hope so. But, at least we’ve got a good place to hunt.”
Teammate Josh Matthews had proposed to a few of his colleagues that they build homes together on a piece of property he owned near Haymarket, Virginia. He had a fifty-acre tract in a secluded rural area that had been in his family for years. No one had lived there for over half a decade, but Matthews hunted it every deer season.
He had sold three-acre lots to McCain, Fleming, Smith and Gray. With his own lot included, they still had thirty-five acres to hunt and shoot on. With their heavy workload at the CIA, though, no one had been able to do more than clear the spots where their homes would eventually go.
