Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  “Run the fucker down if he doesn’t get off that road. Tactical One and Two, the operation goes ahead as planned,” said Sadler.

  “Ninety seconds.”

  “Copy that.”

  Washburn came on the line, his voice loud and clear. “Lieutenant Sadler. Couldn’t hear you, sir. Assumed DS MacNeice was here on your instructions. Over.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Laid his weapon on the ground. He’s walking towards the farmhouse, sir. Over.”

  More confusion on the line, people talking over each other. “One at a time. Keep this line clear.” That sounded like Baker.

  “Wash, stand down. We go in sixty seconds. Drone has MacNeice proceeding slowly to the house.” Sadler was angry, but more than that, he was disappointed.

  Maracle looked at Montile. Williams whispered, “What . . . the . . . fuck?”

  “It’s called military precision,” Maracle replied, and shrugged.

  “T-1, T-2. Go, go, go!”

  [62]

  MacNeice was still some distance from the house, and even though the windows were painted over, he felt certain he was being watched. He was tempted to check the garage in case Venganza was lying in wait, but it didn’t matter — he was committed to moving forward. In any event, he knew there was very little he could do to defend himself. In spite of the warm sun, his legs were trembling beneath him and he was embarrassed by his fear.

  Behind him, the heavy engines of the tanks were moving them forward at a walking pace. MacNeice resisted the urge to turn around. He listened for the moment when they turned into the driveway, closing on him slowly over the hard dirt and rocks. Stealth, he realized, wasn’t the point of these behemoths. They were designed to intimidate.

  The undercarriage of T-1’s belly dropped into a gap left by a storm sewer. It landed with a heavy wumph, followed by another when the rear wheels followed. In an attempt to avoid the sewer, the driver of T-2 eased over to the cedar hedge on the right. The manoeuvre kept the right wheel from dropping but sent the left lurching deeper into the gap. Inside, heavily armed men were thrown off their seats as they reached for something to hold on to. MacNeice thought he could hear them swearing, but their shouts were drowned out by the dozens of cedar branches raking the length of the tank’s black siding.

  Ten yards from the house, MacNeice was startled by a series of small explosions behind him. They were followed instantly by sighs, snaps, and creaks that may not have been heard inside the heavy vehicles. He turned to see the tall maples that lined both sides of the lane topple onto the front and rear of both tanks. The charges had been set eight feet off the ground to ensure that whatever came down fell fast and heavy. As a maple pancaked onto the hood of the second tank, it sent ice-cube-sized chunks of windshield splashing everywhere. The tank’s engine raced, whined, and rattled before it fell silent. Within seconds, black smoke started pouring through the gaps in the hood.

  Both tanks were left without room to manoeuvre forward or back. Looking through the mesh of leafy branches, MacNeice could see Washburn behind the windshield. The engine of his vehicle shut down and he moved out of sight. Other than the hissing and popping from T-2, the assault had fallen silent.

  MacNeice took a deep breath and turned back to the farmhouse.

  * * *

  When she heard that MacNeice had left his vehicle, Aziz leapt off the bench and stood at Sadler’s shoulder. As panic set in and the expletives went from occasional to constant, she shouldered her way in front of him.

  Sadler’s cheeks were purple with rage. He covered the mike of his headset and shouted, “Get back on the bench, Detective!”

  “Sir, I can help,” said Aziz.

  “You can’t do shit! Sit the fuck down or I’ll have you removed.”

  “He knows what he’s doing, sir. He’s studied Venganza. He knows who he is.”

  Sadler ripped off his headset and, with his face inches from hers, screamed, “I don’t give a shit if your boss is suicidal, Detective! I will not have this operation jeopardized because of him — or you. Sit down or you will be cuffed to that bench.”

  Aziz tightened her jaw and walked back to the bench. She slid sideways to get a better view of the drone images.

  “Give me a report on thermal. Where’s Venganza? What’s he up to?” Sadler was pointing furiously at the video feed.

  The first drone operator said briskly, “Negative, Lieutenant. He’s either not there or he has some kind of infrared shield.”

  The second drone operator shook her head. “Same here, sir. I can’t detect a heat source.” Sadler dialled Wallace on his cellphone. He talked tough while relating the current events but fell silent when the DC responded. There was too much noise on the bus for Aziz to hear the sounds spilling from the phone, but they were sufficient to register that Wallace was furious. The veins in Sadler’s temples were swollen as his heart pushed blood to counter the career-ending stress. “Yes, sir . . . no . . . MacNeice left his headset in the vehicle . . . Sir, I’m told his weapon is on the road in front of the driveway . . . Yes, he’s approaching, very close to the house.”

  The call ended and Sadler put on his headset. He turned to look at Aziz. “Wallace will be here in five minutes —” He was going to say more, but one of the drone operators grabbed his arm.

  “Sorry, sir. You’ve gotta see this.”

  Aziz stood up but stayed near the bench. Along the row of heads beside her and over her headset, people seemed to be freaking out. The aerial view showed little of the reason why — just drifting puffs of smoke. But a second later, like falling dominoes, the treetops shivered and fell onto the vehicles.

  Aziz could see MacNeice, unharmed, turn to look at the tanks before resuming his walk towards the house. She removed her headset and laid it on the bench. In the chaos of the control room, no one noticed as she made her way to the shallow steps and out the door. Setting her sights on the Chevy, Aziz began walking, slowly at first and then as quickly as she could, ignoring the pain in her back. She listened hard for Sadler’s men rushing to retrieve her and put her in cuffs. But the farther away she got from the command bus, it was only the sound of her own footfalls and breathing that she heard. Her heart was beating faster and faster. As Aziz drew closer to the unmarked cars, she feared that MacNeice might already be injured or dead.

  She willed herself to think about something else. She took several deep breaths and looked about. The sun was rising, the birds were calling; she wondered if MacNeice could hear them. He’d identify what they were and tell her stories about their lives, stories that were always true but heavily anthropomorphic. For him they were little people. He said they had personalities and character traits, that some were thugs but most were saints. She smiled and quickened her pace.

  Through clenched teeth, she spoke aloud. “You risk your life, waste your life, without care. If you’re dead, Mac . . . If you’re dead, I will be so fucking angry with you.” Tears were streaming down her face and her nose was running, but she kept swallowing to keep from sobbing, to keep from collapsing from the searing pain in her back. When she’d left the bus, MacNeice had been close to the door of the house. Where was he now?

  Aziz cleared her throat several times, coughing up something. She spat it out, then spat again. Vertesi was out of his car and running towards her. She stopped on the road. She put her hands on her hips and spat again, this time with a low, loud growl. Vertesi wrapped his arms around her. “Fiza, Fiza, trust him. Trust him, Fiz.”

  She tore herself angrily away from him, her arms outstretched, her fists clenched. Bending over, she panted until her breathing returned to normal. “I don’t know, Michael. Honestly, I tried to pray. It doesn’t fucking work.” She wiped the tears from her eyes in disgust.

  “The rest of this is bullshit, Fiz. You know that. Boss is trying to make sense of it.”

  She stood upright, groaning
from the pain in her back, and shook her head. She turned back to look at the bus, then took a deep breath and sighed. “I know that. I do . . .” Seeing the concern on his face, she added, “I couldn’t pray, but” — she put a hand on his shoulder — “I learned what it means to be so angry I could spit.”

  [63]

  Five feet from the door, MacNeice looked back at the tanks. He realized that the only doors left to open would expose them to withering fire from the farmhouse. He looked for any sign of Venganza but saw nothing. He began to second-guess the spotters’ report that no one had left the house during the night. Yet the Econoline was in the garage.

  He heard one of the tank doors open and turned to see Baker and six armed men jump clear of its smoke-filled interior, coughing and swearing. Two scrambled under the trees behind the vehicle to establish defensive positions. Baker and the other three took off at a run across the infield to flank the building. They didn’t get far. The first to fall was the fastest. He went down screaming, disappearing beneath weeds, leaves, and ancient fallen branches. As the other two ran to his aid, one tripped over a fallen branch and landed with a loud, guttural wail. Realizing there was a hidden threat, the last one stopped and looked back at Baker, who signalled for him to return to the driveway. He hesitated, then turned and had taken two steps before MacNeice heard the snap of metal jaws on flesh and bone. The man’s head snapped back and his assault rifle flew in an arc before sinking into the brush. He screamed, struggling for a moment to stay upright, then fell with a shriek into the brush.

  Baker was frantic as he called for medics over his headset and requested further orders from Sadler. Then, realizing he was exposed, he turned slowly and tried to retrace his steps back to the lane. The brush was so thick he might as well have been looking for footprints in the ocean. Baker was two feet short of the driveway when something hit. He went down hard, howling in pain.

  Washburn was standing in the open door of the first tank when Sadler’s voice broke through the screams of the four men. “What the hell is going on, Wash?”

  “Check the drones, sir. We’ve been treed from both sides. Came down like scissors. T-2’s out of commission and on fire, and we’re blocked front and back by trunks. He detonated both rows of trees, all except the two near DS MacNeice.”

  “Who’s screaming? What’s happened to the men?”

  “That’s Baker’s team, sir. He and three of his team just went down. Not sure from what. We need medics now, sir. The other two are behind the vehicle, taking cover under the trees.”

  “Can you move the injured men to safety?”

  “Negative, sir. That field is booby-trapped. And we don’t know by what.”

  “Can you storm the farmhouse?”

  “Sir, we’re gonna be exposed the moment we step out of this vehicle. The rear door’s blocked. We only have one way out.”

  “Hang on, Wash. We’ve got a drone overhead; I’m waiting for a zoom. Tell the injured to cut their headset feeds. You’re the only one I want to hear from.”

  Washburn gave the command. Baker was reluctant but discarded his headset. The screaming from the infield continued, but now it was a mix of pain, fear, and rage. Baker had had enough. “What’s happening, Wash? Get us the fuck out of here!”

  “What hit you, Sergeant?”

  “Looks like wooden stakes . . . four of ’em. Thick, like sharpened axe handles. Trip-wired. Came from both sides . . . took out my leg.”

  Washburn called to the men on the ground. “Report. What hit you?”

  Amid groans, someone called, “Looks like a beartrap.”

  “Mine too . . . caught my arm when I fell. It’s bleeding something fierce.”

  After a stream of expletives, the third man yelled, “Don’t know, Sarge. Both legs gone . . . Get a medic here, fast!”

  “Listen, hang tough. Put on tourniquets above those wounds. Do ’em tight.” Washburn went back inside and called Sadler. “You heard that, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah. Not a shot fired and we’ve got two tanks disabled and four men down. Tell them the EMS teams are on the way.”

  “Roger that, sir. But there’s no way EMS will go in there.”

  “What do you suggest, Wash?”

  “I’m saying the more men we throw at this, the more men we’re gonna lose. And given what he did to the trees, the guy knows how to blow things up. He’s going all hunter-gatherer on us.”

  “Make your point.”

  “He doesn’t want to kill us . . . at least not yet. Sure as shit, if we open an assault on that house, he’ll change his mind. So far it’s been about disabling.”

  “Gimme something, Wash. We can’t just sit here.”

  “All we got now is some heavy fire. We unleash that, there’s no telling what’ll happen. Sure as shit it’s gonna get ugly . . . But we do have MacNeice, sir.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Let MacNeice talk. He may be crazier than a shithouse rat, but unlike Baker’s men, he’s still standing.” Washburn looked through the branches on the hood. “Correction. He’s making his way to the door of the house.”

  * * *

  Williams and the rest of MacNeice’s team were still wearing their headsets and had been listening to the exchange, trading glances and shaking their heads. Williams decided to interrupt the tactical team’s communication. “Sergeant Washburn’s nailed it, sir.”

  “Who the fuck is speaking?”

  “Montile Williams, DI, Homicide.”

  “What are you saying, Detective?” Sadler couldn’t hide the disdain in his voice for the breach of protocol.

  Williams disliked being lorded over by anyone, but given the lenth of time he’d known Sadler, his back was up. He laid on a heavy helping of sass. “Brother Wash is on that road, not in my car or in your fancy black bus. He knows Venganza could have blown up both tanks and taken out MacNeice, who is unarmed.” And in case his point would be missed, he added, “He could just as easily nuke your boys with all their toys. But he fucking didn’t. Why?”

  “Your insubordination, Detective, is duly noted and recorded —”

  “Sir, I trust my boss. You’re a boss, but you’re not my boss. His ass is on the line. This guy will either kill him or not. But four of your men are cut up and losing blood. So far, sir, this thing’s going precisely the way Venganza planned it.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Washburn said. “I think we get the point. Right, sir?”

  “We need to get those wounded men out of there.”

  “You’ll either need a map of the traps or get a sweeping unit in there before EMS will touch it,” Swetsky said, barely keeping his temper under control.

  “Okay, okay. We give MacNeice ten minutes. If he hasn’t come out by then, we can assume he won’t be coming out at all.”

  The line went dead and the homicide detectives began to process the cold truth of Sadler’s statement. If MacNeice was still standing, he would be negotiating. That could take longer than ten minutes. If he was dead, why wait at all?

  Swetsky was fed up with thinking. He took off his headset, opened the door, and got out. A moment later Williams stepped out of the car, laying his headset on the roof. Vertesi, Maracle, and Aziz didn’t ask where they were going — they knew. Without exchanging a word, they made their way towards the lane.

  In minutes they were all lined up across the end of the driveway. They could hear the groans, cries, and swearing from the infield, but they couldn’t see anyone but Baker. His back was propped up on the shoulder of the driveway. He looked their way but said nothing, as if he had half expected to see them standing there. He stared for a minute or so before turning his attention back to his leg.

  Swetsky said softly, “You boys realize this may cost you your jobs? Sorry — you too, Aziz.”

  “She’s one of the boys, Swets.”

  “Indeed I am.
I even said ‘fuck’ today, so I certainly qualify.”

  “No problem, Swets. I’ll go back to stand-up. After this shit, I could use a good laugh,” said Williams.

  They didn’t know where MacNeice had gone but assumed he’d entered the house. Swetsky watched the windows for signs of movement, a muzzle flash or any other signal that they should dive for cover.

  “Remember when someone said MacNeice was grandstanding? What do you think they’ll make of this?” Maracle asked, shifting his weight off the ankle cast and chuckling.

  “That MacNeice is diseased and it’s contagious,” answered Williams.

  “Yeah, well, maybe it is,” Maracle said. “But for the record, I’ve seen grandstanders. I’ve listened to ’em carry on, putting shine on deeds that don’t deserve it. This isn’t grandstanding.”

  Williams considered it for a moment before answering. “Yeah, but pretty crazy all the same.”

  “Check yourself, brother. We’re not crazy and we’re standing here,” said Maracle.

  “That’s us — a band of brothers, like that television series,” added Vertesi.

  In a low voice full of gravitas, Aziz began to speak. “This story shall the good man teach his son; and Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember’d; we few, we happy few . . . we band of brothers.”

  For some time no one spoke. The sound of groaning men had slipped behind the calls of birds in the fallen trees and the gentle rustle of dying leaves. Up ahead, black smoke continued to spiral skyward from the hood of T-2.

  “That was beautiful, Fiza,” Williams said. “I’m serious — really beautiful. Where’d that come from?”

  “Shakespeare. Henry the Fifth.”

  They were quiet again until Swetsky asked, “So who’s Crispin Crispian?”

  “Saints,” Maracle answered, to the amazement of everyone. When he noticed the side glances, he added, “What, because I’m Native I can’t know my Christian saints? Crispin and Crispian were Romans. They became saints.”