by Peter Nealen
There was another pause, and I could hear muted arguing in the background. They didn’t like it any better than Potter and his bunch had, but they had to know that I’d at least stopped the convoy. They wouldn’t have been saddling up to head for Cody otherwise.
The arguing died down, but the guy on the other end of the phone still didn’t say anything. Then a single shot rang out from up the mountain.
“You motherfucker,” the guy snarled into the phone.
“You didn’t really think I was going to give you assholes an easy way out, did you?” I asked. I knew what had just happened, even if I hadn’t seen it. One of them had tried to make a run for one of the vehicles that the militia had covered, and had caught a bullet for it. “You must be dumber than I thought. Now, are we done fucking around? Are you going to come out quietly and surrender, or am I going to burn you down?”
He started cussing me out, but I cut him off. “Listen, asshole, if you think I’m fucking around, I can touch those charges off now. I can always rebuild my house.” Granted, it wasn’t my house; that was farther out, back in the trees. “Your situation would be something more like Humpty Dumpty, only with a lot more pieces.” I paused for a second. “You’ve got two minutes. Then I push the button.” I ended the call.
After about forty-five seconds, I was starting to think they were going to make me do it. But then the radio crackled. “I’ve got movement out front.”
My hand was hovering over the button that was going to set off the charges. But the militiaman on the far end of the radio continued. “They’re coming out. I don’t see any weapons, and their hands are on their heads.” He sounded relieved. So was I.
Once he confirmed that there were thirty-two men kneeling on the grass out front, their hands on their heads, we got up and flowed out of the trees, heading back to the house.
We kept them waiting as we swept the house, carefully clearing each room. Once confident that everyone was out, we pushed out and started processing our prisoners, though not before equally carefully confirming that all of the remaining vehicles were similarly empty.
We’d just gotten the last of them zip-tied when a distant growl caught my ear. Looking up, I scanned the horizon. After a moment, I spotted four helicopters flying at treetop level, coming in from the east. They were heading for The Ranch, and they were coming fast.
Chapter 19
“Friends of yours?” I asked the acting TF commander. He was kneeling only a few feet away, his hands zip-tied behind his back.
“Fuck you,” was all he said.
“Well, that’s just downright unfriendly,” Nick said wryly.
I took a second to squint at the incoming helos, trying to get my tired brain to work right. I could think of three possibilities. Either the birds were carrying reinforcements that had been called in once we’d attacked The Ranch, they were carrying reinforcements that had been called for earlier, and didn’t know we’d hit The Ranch yet, or they were somebody else who was coming for the Task Force, and likely didn’t know we’d taken them down.
Either the first or third possibilities had some serious potential for disaster. I turned and raised my voice.
“Somebody get on those CROWS,” I snapped, “but don’t move the turrets until I give the word. I don’t want them knowing what’s happened.” I pointed to the rest. “Everybody else, get inside.”
“What about them?” Eric asked, jerking a thumb at our captives.
“Fuck ‘em,” I said. “If their buddies burn ‘em down, oh well. They probably should have stayed home and minded their own damned business.”
In short order, we had the vehicles manned and everyone else inside the house, covering the doors and windows, minus the zip-tied Task Force goons, who were still on their knees in the dirt. Jack had made ominous noises about burning the prisoners down if they tried running, and we had a clear shot at all of them from the front windows of the house. But I don’t think any of us would have actually done it. After all, where the hell were they going to go, in the middle of rural Wyoming, with their hands behind their backs?
We didn’t have a moment to spare before the four helos were swooping in, their side doors open and machine-gunners covering the buildings. They flared fast and hard, shooters spilling from the far sides and fanning out as soon as they settled to the ground, coming around the noses of the Sikorsky S-61s with their rifles up.
Peering through my scope, I focused on the lead shooter coming from the northernmost helo. I frowned as I recognized him. I wasn’t sure what to think.
We’d worked with Joe Ventner twice before, both times under the auspices of Renton’s Cicero Group. He’d backed us up in Baghdad, and then moved in to backstop our ops in Mexico once we really started wreaking havoc on the Los Hijos de la Muerte cartel and their various backers. Joe had a well-deserved rep as a straight shooter, a man who backed up his boys and generally didn’t give a shit about political niceties.
But he was still a soldier for hire, and, as exhausted and paranoid as I was, I couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t been hired by our enemies to back up the Task Force.
The shooters slowed, carefully approaching the house and the armored vehicles. I saw several of them were carrying LAWs; Joe had ways of procuring and caching weaponry that we tended to improvise, at least Stateside.
That told me that they’d come ready to deal with the armored vehicles, but if they’d been called in by the TF and warned that we’d neutralized them, the anti-armor weapons might still be a contingency in case we’d captured those same vehicles.
I suddenly became aware of a buzzing in my chest rig. It took some fumbling to pick it out, but after a moment I realized it was the “Renton phone.”
“I’m assuming that you’re in the house and/or the vehicles right now,” Renton said as soon as I answered. “Please do not shoot Joe or the helicopters.”
I let out a deep breath. “We need to work on that whole, ‘telling me what the fuck is going on’ thing,” I told him.
“Likewise,” he replied dryly. “I thought you were still down in Cody.”
“So did they,” I answered. “Tell Joe I’m coming out.”
When I came off the porch, Joe Ventner had let his rifle hang and was walking toward me, a wry grin on his face.
We shook hands and he clapped me on the shoulder. “That was close,” he commented.
“Too close for comfort,” I replied. “That would have been one hell of a note to end this on. ‘Contractors on the same side murder each other in blue-on-blue frenzy after their targets are already neutralized.’”
“One set of targets, anyway,” he said quietly, turning toward one of the helos.
I followed his gaze, to see Renton getting off another of the green-painted S-61s, followed by another figure, who was also vaguely familiar. After a moment, I realized who it was.
“Holy shit.” I had never met General Carl Stahl in person, though I’d served under his overall command in Libya. But I knew the man on sight. Anyone who’d been a Marine within the last twenty years knew General Stahl.
A barrel-chested fireplug of a man, he had been the very image of a Marine leader, with a pugnacious, bulldog face that looked like Chesty Puller had been reborn blond. He was a cigar-chomping, foul-mouthed, hard-fisted leader of the old school, who probably would have been forced out years before he ever got stars if it hadn’t been for mentors in high places. He loved his Marines, and he loved to fight.
That had finally gotten him in trouble in Libya. I’d been halfway across the country at the time, and hadn’t heard any details about what had actually happened, but some of his Marines had gotten drawn into an ambush near Tripoli, and he’d jumped in with the QRF to go get them out. In many ways, he was a lot like Tom.
He’d gotten his Marines out, mostly in one piece, but at the end of the day, dozens of photos of dead women, kids, and unarmed men had surfaced in the aftermath. We’d all suspected that they’d been human shields or simply posed phot
os; Libya had not exactly been suffering a shortage of dead bodies at the time. But it had been just the hammer that his political enemies back home had been looking for, and he was relieved of command and forced to retire.
He strode up the yard, pulling one of his signature cigars out of his pocket and jamming it between his teeth. He spared the kneeling prisoners an appraising glance before letting his eyes scan the parked armored vehicles, then he settled his deceptively mild gaze on me.
He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. His grip was as gorilla-strong as he looked.
“Good to meet you, Stone,” he said around the cigar. “Renton’s told me a lot about you. Including that you were down in Al-Jawf during the late unpleasantness.”
“Yes, sir, I was,” I answered. “Among other places. They moved us around a lot.”
He nodded. “You guys were a hell of a useful asset,” he said. “From what Renton tells me, you’ve honed your craft over the last few years.” He ran another glance over our captives, who were now being moved toward the helos by Ventner’s guys. “From the looks of things, he might have undersold you somewhat.”
“As good as it is to meet you, sir,” I said, “it’s been one hell of a long few days, my guys are tired as shit, and we’ve still got a wounded man missing.” I might respect him, but I didn’t work for Stahl anymore, and I had responsibilities of my own that I wasn’t going to drop to glad-hand with a retired general.
His eyes hardened. Not threateningly, but with that tough, “Marine Corps leader with important shit to do” look. “And I wouldn’t dream of taking more of your time if it wasn’t important,” he said. He motioned toward the house. “We need to have a talk, and time is of the essence.”
I glanced at Renton, who was standing just behind Stahl’s shoulder. He nodded gravely. I shot him a brief glare that promised lots of pointy, profane words later, and then nodded, jerking my head toward the house.
“Tom should be on his way down from the hills soon,” I said. “If this is that important, he should be a part of it.”
Stahl just nodded. “Of course. We can wait for him. But as soon as he gets here, we’ve got a lot to discuss.”
Tom looked rougher than I felt. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore, and weeks of being hunted in the mountains had taken their toll. I was pretty sure he’d run out of cigarettes a while ago, too, and had just lit up his first in what had to be days. He was gaunter than I’d ever seen him, his icy blue eyes surrounded by deep, dark circles as he took a deep drag on the cigarette.
We were presently sitting around the living room of the house, which was still mostly littered with the remains of the Task Force’s TOC. Stahl was standing; the rest of us—Tom, Eddie, Tim, Larry, and George—were sitting on the couch or the equipment cases they’d scattered around the room. I had grabbed one of the storm cases; if I sat on that couch I was going to pass the fuck out.
Stahl looked us over. “Well, gents,” he said, “while I’m sorry it took so long to get some reinforcements up here, I need to assure you that it was not for lack of trying. There’s just a hell of a lot going on elsewhere in the country, and the Group has been trying to put out fires. Trying, and failing, as the case may be.”
He handed Tom the tablet that Renton had brought in. From where I was sitting, it looked like a news page. “I know Renton told you about the riots that started after the Pueblo bloodbath.” I noted that he didn’t call it our Pueblo bloodbath. “Well, over the last week it’s gotten worse. Far worse.
“The riots have only intensified across the Southwest, and sympathetic ‘demonstrations’ in other major cities have started up. Since then, there have been several high-profile murders and assaults in Los Angeles, Chicago, St. Louis, Boston, Seattle, and New York. This wouldn’t be all that interesting, except that every one of them has had a distinct political and/or racial bent, always carefully publicized and highlighted—whether the facts are true or not—to further inflame matters. As a result, the rioting has become far more vicious and far more widespread. To make matters worse, a few places have seen bombings aimed at the rioters, which have killed a few dozen and just escalated the violence.
“None of this is happening by accident, either,” he continued grimly. “We don’t know exactly what triggered this, but there have been several quiet assassinations happening under cover of the riots, apparently completely unconnected to them.”
“All the unrest and rabble-rousing of the last ten years or so has been leading up to this,” Renton put in. “I’m not saying that it’s all been part of some master plan; nobody’s that foresighted. But the population’s been primed for this, through social media lynch mobs, twenty-four-hour outrage-of-the-minute news, and politicians cynically willing to exploit both to advance their own agendas. Now all it takes to trigger a riot is a few inflammatory photos or carefully edited video, spread across the right social networks, and hey-presto, you’ve got a city in flames.”
“And as I know I don’t need to tell you gentlemen,” Stahl said, “that kind of chaos is a fucking playground for Direct Action.”
“We think that ‘Sulla’ moved first,” Renton said. “This kind of social engineering is more their style; ‘Marius’ tends to work more in the backroom deals, blackmail, and direct action ops impersonating law enforcement, like this Task Force. Plus, the first target taken out that we know of was a banker who’s done a lot of deals on behalf of ‘Marius’ personalities.”
“In the last five days, there have been two dozen murders of known associates of both factions,” Stahl said heavily. “The Group has tried for years to try to contain this situation, but whatever sparked it, the factions are now engaged in open warfare, and risking a general civil war to conceal it.”
“You’re not just telling us this to bring us up to speed on current events,” I said grimly, “any more than you brought Joe and his boys in to help us out from the goodness of your hearts.” My own voice was a harsh croak in my ears. If I’d had a bit more sleep and hadn’t been worried about where the hell Little Bob was, I might have been a little less blunt, but my Give-A-Fuck was busted. “You want us to get involved.”
“You’re already involved,” Stahl said, just as bluntly. “You’re on so many target lists it’d make your head spin, and both factions have just made concerted attempts to take you out of the picture. They may have failed this time, but you should know that they’ll try again, and next time they’ll be better prepared.”
“Aren’t they a little preoccupied with their own little war at the moment?” Eddie asked. “Why not let ‘em kill each other, then send in Ventner’s boys to clean up? We’ve just taken a hell of a beating, and we’ve still got a man missing.”
“The longer this goes on, the harder it’s going to be to bring things back from the brink,” Renton said. “You don’t understand; these factions have people at every level, every branch of government, multinational corporations, non-profits, you name it. On top of that, the unrest they’re spreading could easily spiral out of control; they’re playing with matches in a warehouse full of dynamite. It has to be stamped out now.
“As for Ventner, he’s a good dude, and his boys are better than most, but they don’t have the track record that you do. If we just wanted stuff smashed and people dead, I’d definitely go to him. But you gents have demonstrated a particular aptitude for going into chaotic situations, taking out targets, and disappearing without anyone knowing what the hell just happened. That’s what we need now.”
“Face facts, gentlemen,” Stahl said. “This is now a matter of your own survival. Take out the factions, or they will eventually take you out. Working with us is in your best interest.”
“And if we were to say no?” Tom asked coldly. “We’d be left in the cold, wouldn’t we?”
Stahl met his gaze just as coldly. “It’s a big job ahead of us, and our assets are limited,” was all he said. But the message was pretty clear.
The air in the room got thick. None of us
were at our peak, and when you hit that level of exhaustion, perceptions get a bit skewed. I think we were all taking Stahl’s words as a threat, and no Praetorian ever took threats lightly or kindly. There was a lot of pent-up rage and violence in that room all of a sudden.
“Help us out, and we’ll help you out,” Renton said, his tone suggesting that he was trying to defuse the tension, at least a little. “Have you got any leads at all on where Sampson is?”
Angrily, grudgingly, we shook our heads. “We’ve got greater intel resources than you do,” he continued. “We’ve got a better chance of finding him than you do on your own. And General Stahl’s not wrong. Both factions have a vested interest in burying you, and if you think that their preoccupation with going after each other is going to make that go away, you’re kidding yourselves.
“We’re not trying to blackmail you,” he continued earnestly, though he was met with stony, blank stares. “But we need your particular skillset and demonstrated proficiency at this sort of operation. And I’m not being melodramatic when I say that the fate of the country is at stake.”
There was a long, tense silence. Finally, Tom broke it, his voice bitter. “Whether you intend to blackmail us or not, you seem to have us over a barrel,” he said. “If what you’re describing is the full truth, of course, we’d be remiss not to lend our assistance. But you understand if we’re a little reticent about dealing much with your little network, given what happened to Stone’s team in Mexico.”
“The individuals responsible for that little fiasco have been…chastised,” Stahl growled. He pointed to me. “Stone should be able to vouch for the fact that I look after my men, and I don’t take that kind of double-dealing lightly, or kindly.”
I had to nod. Stahl had an earned rep for taking care of his Marines, one that had had thousands of men publicly pronouncing after his dismissal that they’d follow him into Hell, damn the politicians who had forced him out.
