Patriots United

by Robert Boren

  “Yes sir,” said a young man with dark shaggy hair and an olive complexion, having the look of a TV star. “Are we leaving now?”

  “Yep,” Ben said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I can’t say,” Ben said. “We can never stay in the same place for long. This is just routine. You know that.”

  “So, we aren’t going to the southern base, then?”

  Ben eyed him. “What’s your name again?”

  “Eric,” he said. “Just joined you last week.”

  “Uh huh,” Ben said. “You ask too many questions.”

  He looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m still feeling my way around with this organization.”

  “How did you find out about us?”

  The young man shot him a worried glance. “Friend of Ivan’s.”

  “What’s his name?” Ben asked, thinking about where his gun was.

  The young man didn’t answer right away.

  “I’m waiting,” Ben said.

  “I can’t remember his name. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s one of those Russian names. Somebody who knew him in grade school, back in the old country.”

  “Okay, never mind,” Ben said, walking away. When he was out of sight he sent a text to Ivan, telling him about the exchange.

  “Oh, there you are,” Eric said, coming around the back of the truck. “Which vehicle do you want me in?”

  “Third one from the back,” Ben said as his phone dinged with the text return. After Eric walked away, he looked at it. Kill him now.

  Ben’s heart was in his throat. He’d killed since this started, more than once, but it always got to him.

  “Hey, Eric,” Ben yelled. “Forgot about something. I need your help. Come over here.”

  Sean, one of Ben’s other people, had watched what was going on. He got close to Ben and whispered. “I’ve got your back. Don’t trust this one.”

  “Get by the door of the suite,” Ben whispered. Eric was back, trying to force a smile on his face as he approached.

  “C’mon,” Ben said. “We’re going into the back-office. We need to dismantle the desk in there and take it. We’re short on those where we’re going.”

  “Oh, that was what the text was about?”

  “Text?” Ben asked, following the young man into the office suite.

  “I heard one come to your phone.”

  “Oh,” Ben said. “Yes.”

  They got to the back office, Ben closing the door behind them. He pulled his weapon. Eric whirled around, his eyes getting big. His hand went behind his back.

  “Freeze or I’ll shoot,” Ben said in a loud voice, knowing that Sean would hear it.

  Eric raised his hands above his head. “Don’t shoot.”

  The door opened, Sean rushing in with his pistol in a two-handed combat grip.

  “He’s got a gun in his back waistband. Get it. I’ll cover.”

  “My pleasure,” Sean said, reaching around and pulling the small pistol out. He stuck it into his pocket, then frisked Eric. “Clean.”

  “Who are you working for?” Ben asked.

  “I can’t say,” Eric said, trembling. “They’ll kill me.”

  “If you don’t say, I’ll kill you,” Ben said. “Make your choice.”

  “How did you know?”

  “You think Ivan grew up in Russia,” Ben said. “You weren’t prepared well by whoever sent you.”

  Sean laughed, then got a serious expression on his face. “He might have friends around.”

  “All they wanted me to do was tell them where you went,” Eric said.

  “Yeah, so they could come kill us,” Sean said.

  Ben shook his head. “They probably think we’re going to the same place Ivan is going. Like we’d do that.”

  “Can you just let me go?” Eric asked. “Please? I won’t tell anybody.”

  Ben ignored him, turning to Sean. “Get the others on all of our vehicles with the bug detectors.”

  Sean nodded yes and left the office.

  “Who are you working for?” Ben asked again.

  “The UN,” he said softly.

  Ben sighed. “I already knew that. If it were anybody else, you’d have an RFID chip. Who specifically are you working for?”

  Gunfire erupted outside. Eric lost it, crying now, begging for his life.

  “You have a frigging wire on or something,” Ben said, pointing the gun at his head and firing. He poked his head out of the office, watching as his small team was killed by a group of UN commandos. “Dammit.” Grabbing his gun, he bolted towards the back of the facility, slipping out the door and running into the shadows. The sound of gunfire went on for another minute or two. Then he pulled out his cellphone, loading the demolition app. He pushed the button, and a large explosion went off, pieces of bob-tail truck flying high enough into the air to be seen from behind the building. A quick text to Ivan, and then he disappeared into the night.

  {11}

  Pool Pickup

  B en ran out of the dark industrial area, heart pounding. His whole team, gone in an instant. He had to contact Ivan, but was afraid to stop. Sirens approached, probably coming to check out the gunfire and the burning truck. He ran towards the opening in back, which went into a vacant lot, hiding in trees about fifty yards out, then hit Ivan’s contact on his phone and put it to his ear.

  “Ben, you left yet?” Ivan asked.

  “They’re gone,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “All of them.”

  “What happened?” Ivan asked.

  “The plant tipped off the enemy,” he said. “I was questioning him in the office when UN commandos attacked the group outside.”

  “Did they get the computers?” Ivan asked.

  “I used the self-destruct. I’ll never doubt you again about that kind of thing. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Ivan said. “You’re learning faster than anyone I’ve ever had on my team. You sure everybody’s dead?”

  “Pretty sure. Nobody was returning fire before I blew the truck. Somebody might have survived, but now I hear sirens approaching. Want me to go back and check?”

  “NO!” Ivan said. “Get away from there, find a good place to get picked up, and I’ll send Mr. White and Mr. Black. They’re nearby. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “We were lucky. Can’t believe this jerk thought you were from Russia.”

  “Morons,” Ivan said. “Protect yourself. We need you to rebuild the team. That recruitment is essential, with the forces we’ve got coming at us now.”

  “I’ve got my phone, and we’re rolling big time with the recruitment. I think we did enough before we packed up. These campaigns develop a life of their own once they get going.”

  “Good,” Ivan said. “We’ll get you on a plane to the south. I’ll have new facilities ready to go. Don’t get killed. Call me when you’re in a place you can be picked up.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Ben said. He ended the call and crept further back in the vacant lot, heading for a housing tract that backed up to it, climbing a fence into a back yard and rushing for the front gate, the dog next door barking. He burst out of it just as lights came on in the house, his heart hammering in his chest, running full speed down the sidewalk towards a park at the end, getting into the shadows before anybody got outside. There was play equipment there, in an area with a rubber floor. He slipped into a play fort, hidden from the outside, and watched for a few minutes. The only sound was the sirens, and then the thumping of a chopper. Dammit.

  The chopper came into view over the industrial area, circling, it’s spotlight shining, making a beam in the damp night air. The lights in the house he just ran past were on now, a man standing on the front lawn looking around, his cellphone to his ear. “He’s calling the police,” Ben whispered to himself, looking around for a better hiding place. The community pool was sixty yards away, with a club house and cabanas, sitting dark and un-occupied. Run.

  He slipped away from the
play equipment, not running until he was out of sight of the man, who was still looking around, phone to his ear. The ground between him and the pool complex seemed like a mile, but he crossed it in seconds, climbing the fence and getting into the shadows, under a patio roof with a towel cabinet and a row of lounge chairs. The pool was dark, wind putting gentle ripples on the surface, the large round spa also dark. Chlorine smell. There was a click, and the pump started, the flow of water in the pool barely audible.

  The sound of a car approached, a K-9 unit driving slowly up the street towards the house. He could hear car doors opening and closing, the police chopper going in wider circles now. On the edge of panic, he texted Ivan.

  “I’m hiding at a pool, in the housing track past lot behind office. K-9 unit and choppers approaching.”

  An officer was walking towards the park, holding the leash of a big dog. The text ding startled him, and he frantically shut the ringer off and read, trying to block the light of the screen with his hands.

  “In area, diversion in seconds, be ready, black sedan.”

  Suddenly there was a huge explosion at their former office, a massive fireball rising. The officer ran back to his vehicle, pulling the dog, who was looking back at Ben most of the way. The chopper moved towards the blast, the police cruiser racing out of the tract, siren going on as they got to the main street. A few seconds later the black sedan pulled up. Ben got up, jumped the fence, and ran, getting into the back seat.

  “Put on seat belt,” Mr. Black said, smiling back at him from the driver’s seat.

  “Ben Dover, good to see,” Mr. White said as the car peeled out, heading out of the tract, going the opposite direction of the melee.

  “How’d you guys get here so fast?” Ben asked, trying to catch his breath.

  “Boss dispatched right away,” Mr. White said. “He know where office is, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ben said. “Where are we going?”

  “Franklin Field,” Mr. Black said as he turned onto the southbound I-5 onramp.

  “Laptop on seat for you,” Mr. White said. “Work recruitment. Time short. Chartered plane pick up.”

  “You guys going too?” Ben asked.

  “No, boss leave us here to watch state government, make sure no slippage,” Mr. Black said.

  ***

  Sarah slowed as she approached the saloon, heart beating a little faster than she liked. There was laughter coming from inside. The doors swung open, one almost smacking her as two people came out.

  “Oh, sorry,” said one of them, tipping his cowboy hat.

  “It’s okay,” Sarah said, feeling her face flush. She pushed through the swinging doors. The room was starting to empty out, only the bar fully occupied. Willard saw her come in and smiled broadly.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Want a drink? I’m buying.”

  “Sarah,” Sam said, seeing her walk in. Ed and Garrett turned, nodding a greeting, Clem seeing her and smiling.

  “This taken?” she asked, standing by the stool next to Clem.

  “It is now,” Clem said, eyes light with booze, voice still clear as a bell.

  “Want some of the good stuff?” Willard asked.

  “What’s the good stuff?” she asked.

  “Whiskey from the folks who mined here,” Garrett said. “It’s probably about a hundred years old.”

  “Really?” she asked, settling onto the stool, her elbows going onto the bar. “This place isn’t that old, is it?”

  “The saloon?” Willard asked. “Nah, we built this about eight years ago. The mine is another story, and there was a basement under the ruins we build on. Original bar sat here, I reckon.”

  “We know it did,” Garrett said. “Surprised the place ain’t haunted.”

  “Maybe it is,” Ed said, grinning at the others. “This is damn fine whiskey, but I think I’d better slow down.”

  “You got to drive anyplace?” Clem asked.

  Ed chuckled. “No, I guess not.”

  “I’ll try some of the good stuff,” Sarah said demurely.

  “On the rocks, or mixed with soda, or a shot?” Willard asked.

  “Give me a shot,” she said. The others chuckled as Willard grabbed a shot glass from under the bar and picked up the ancient unlabeled bottle. He poured carefully and slid it over to her.

  “It might be a little harsh,” Clem said, watching as she picked it up.

  She smiled at him and then tossed it back, her body shuddering as it burned its way down. “Wow.”

  “Told you,” Clem said. “I like it on the rocks. That way I can sip and enjoy the flavor.”

  “I never liked the whiskey taste much,” she said, setting the shot glass down. “Wow, you feel this fast, right behind the forehead.”

  “Another?” Willard asked.

  “Oh, what the hell,” she said. He refilled her glass, the others watching.

  “You drink much?” Garrett asked.

  “Rarely,” she said, looking down at the shot glass. “John had a problem, and I didn’t want to encourage it, so I drank a lot less in the last fifteen years than I did in my youth.” She tossed the drink down, shuddering a little less than the first time, the light feeling in her head growing. “This is nice. I do like to drink. Usually something a little weaker, though.”

  “We’ve got a full bar,” Willard said, “I don’t know much about those sweet drinks that women like, though. I’m more of a pourer than a mixer. We’ve got some white wine if you’re interested.”

  “Never mix the grain with the grapes,” Sam quipped.

  “I think that comment was meant for beer, not whiskey,” Garrett said.

  “What’s whiskey made of?” Sarah asked, pushing her shot glass towards Willard.

  “You sure, honey?” Willard asked.

  She nodded yes, so he poured.

  “Whiskey is made from corn,” Sam said. “That’s a grain, isn’t it?”

  “Kinda sorta,” Ed said. “Corn squeezens.”

  Garrett laughed. “Isn’t that what Granny Clampett called it?”

  Sarah giggled. “Rheumatiz medicine.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Clem said. “Loved that show.”

  “Grits and gopher jowls,” Ed said, laughing. “Hell, I need another drink.”

  “I’d better get back,” Sam said. “Erica’s gonna wonder what happened to me.”

  “Text her,” Garrett said.

  “Yeah, she’ll understand,” Ed said. “Have some fun with the boys.”

  “Hey,” Sarah said. She laughed, then drank the next shot, not shuddering at all this time, savoring the warm feeling as it went down her throat. “I’m kinda liking this.”

  “You’re gonna start slurring in a second, if you’re not careful,” Clem said. “This stuff hits women harder than it hits men.”

  “That’s a fact,” Willard said.

  “I’ve only had three,” she said.

  “Well, I’ve had five, and I’m pretty tight,” Willard said. “Probably have more, though.”

  There was yelling across the street. Willard and Garrett looked at each other and cracked up.

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked.

  “Elmer and Susanne again,” Willard said.

  “He’s going to end up here, I suspect,” Clem said.

  “Nah, they’ll just stay there and fight for a while,” Garrett said.

  “Nothing violent, I hope,” Sarah said.

  “Never,” Garrett said. “That’s why I told Clem to stay at the hotel instead of her boarding house.”

  “Maybe you should’ve warned me too,” Sarah quipped.

  “You already moved in before I had the chance,” Garrett said. “Don’t worry, they don’t do it every night.”

  “It’s been fine until now,” Sarah said, sliding her shot glass back to Willard.

  “You’re gonna be feeling no pain, you know,” Willard said as he poured.

  “Good,” she said. “I could use a break. Letting loose a little isn’t bad
every once in a while. It’s good for you, actually.” The last of the sentence was a little slurred. Willard eyed Clem, smiling. He shook his head.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “Nothing,” Willard said. “Bar etiquette.”

  “What’s bar etiquette?” she asked.

  “It’s where the bartender makes sure there’s somebody with a person to help them home.”

  “Message received,” Clem said, “but who’s gonna help me home?”

  Everybody laughed.

  “I’m okay,” Sarah said. “Not like I have to get into the car and drive.”

  “Yeah, you only have to cross a muddy, rutted street and brave three flights of stairs,” Garrett said.

  “It’s not muddy,” Clem said.

  “Just trying to be colorful,” Garrett said, smiling at him.

  “How are you getting home, Garrett?” Sam asked. “Your place is a lot further.”

  Garrett smiled. “Anna. She’ll come get me in the wagon.”

  “She knows how to drive a team of horses?” Sarah asked.

  Ed laughed. “Oh, yeah, she’s got that down.”

  “She does,” Garrett said, “but this is just a carriage with one horse. She’ll probably be here soon. Maybe I can talk her into a drink or two.”

  “That won’t be too difficult,” Ed said. “Trust me on that.”

  More shouting drifted across the street.

  “Geez,” Sarah said.

  “Decent squall,” Willard said.

  “Yeah, I was gonna say,” Sam said. “Hit me again.” He pushed his glass to Willard, who filled it with ice and whiskey.

  “Maybe I ought to do it that way,” Sarah said.

  “It’ll slow you down a tad,” Clem said. “Not a bad thing. I’m enjoying the company.”

  She touched his arm, looking into his eyes for a long moment. “You’re so nice to me.”

  “Oh, you know,” he said. “Old friends.”

  “Yes, old friends,” she said. “Can I have one on the rocks, Willard?”

  “Of course,” he said, fixing her one.

  She took a sip of the cold whiskey, savoring it for a moment. “You know, this isn’t bad.”