Firepower

by John Cutter

  Vince used the only Bureau name Deirdre had mentioned. “Agent Chang sent me. You’re leaving with me!”

  “Boss!” someone called from the downstairs hall. “What’s going on?”

  “Code?” Stirner grated.

  “Wind of freedom!” Vince whispered.

  Stirner lowered the gun. “You’ll have to kill the others.”

  Vince nodded, hearing footsteps hurrying around the corner below. He sheathed his knife and drew his gun — two quick motions with his right hand.

  He turned around and fired point-blank in the face of a scarred, blond Neo-Nazi. The man had an Uzi in his hand and he squeezed the trigger convulsively — but it wasn’t pointed at a target yet and the burst crack-crack-cracked into the wooden wall to Vince’s left, spitting oak splinters.

  The militiaman staggered one step back, then fell, already dead. He slid down against the corridor wall to a sitting position, staring at Vince’s boots in death. His mouth was replaced by a gaping wound. Gun smoke choked the stairwell.

  Vince turned back to Stirner. “They were supposed to warn you.”

  “I haven’t been able to monitor the… never mind, shit, here comes Tiso!”

  Another rush of bootsteps in the hall downstairs. This wouldn’t be so easy — the guy was warned, now.

  “Tell him you’ve killed an intruder,” Vince whispered. “Then back up — real quiet.”

  “Tiso! Some motherfucker broke in!” Stirner yelled, backing up away from the stairs. “I killed him but he got Conklin!”

  “What the fuck!” Tiso called.

  “Get up here!”

  Vince went up the stairs, taking three at a time, and stepped out of view in the upstairs hall.

  “Dex!” the man called as he pounded up the stairs. “Jesus, fuck, there’s two of them dead! Who the—”

  He got to the top step, turned, and Vince shot the Neo-Nazi through the forehead before even getting a clear look at him. He went to his knees… and sagged over against the wall of the stairwell.

  Vince turned to see Stirner poking his head through an open upstairs bedroom door to see who had shot who. He nodded to himself and stepped into the hallway, a small suitcase in his hand.

  “How many others here?” Vince asked.

  “Sentry outside—”

  “Dead now.”

  “That’s all except Trevor at the gate.” He paused, licked his lips and asked, “Listen — did you kill the gate guard?”

  “No, he wasn’t paying any attention. No need to.”

  “For once I’m glad the kid’s a dope. That’s my son.”

  “You taking him into witness protection?”

  Stirner sighed, then nodded. “Got to. I’ll find him outside. Let’s go.”

  Vince pointed the Glock at Stirner.

  Dex Stirner’s eyes got wide. “What? Why are you…”

  “First — drop your gun.”

  Stirner hesitated, then reached into his coat and took out the Smith & Wesson, tossed it on the floor. Vince stepped back, giving Stirner enough room to sidle by. “Go on. Don’t want you behind me.”

  Stirner edged by and Vince followed him down the stairs. They took turns stepping over Tiso.

  “Where are they meeting us?” Stirner asked, stepping over the dead men in the hall.

  The guy’s not real sentimental about his followers, Vince thought.

  They went out the back door, and Vince said, “The highway.”

  “What? There’s no direct road to it from here—”

  “We’re going through the brush. Get going. Down the hill, west.”

  “There’s a barbed-wire fence in the way!”

  “Then climb over it.”

  “Dad?” It was a young man’s voice, from the front gate. He was around the corner of the house from them. “That you? I heard gunshots!”

  “Forget it!” Stirner called. “Just get over here, Trevor!”

  The young man trotted into view, his slack mouth getting slacker when he saw Vince. “Who’s that? What’s going on?”

  “We’re getting out of here. We’re going into witness protection.”

  “What!”

  “That’s right. Unless you want to be on your own. Make up your mind right now.”

  “But — this guy’s a cop?”

  “Never mind that. You coming or not?”

  “Yeah, whatever…” Trevor said, shaking his head.

  Vince pointed his gun at Trevor. “You got a gun there. Drop it. Then you go with your dad.”

  “Um…”

  “Do it, Trevor!” Stirner barked.

  Trevor shrugged and tossed his pistol on the ground.

  Stirner went to the fence behind the house, tossed his bag over. Trevor stared in surprise — then looked at Vince’s gun and followed his father.

  Vince holstered his gun. “Help your dad over the fence, kid.”

  “Why we going this way?”

  “Going to the highway down that side of the hill. Just do it.”

  Trevor helped Stirner climb over. The old Neo-Nazi cut his hand, cussing to himself as he picked up his bag.

  Trevor climbed awkwardly over, then Vince came quickly after and pointed. “That way.”

  They followed a slender game trail a quarter mile down the hill, opposite from the slope Vince had climbed. They passed through a couple of fields of high grass and then reached the highway.

  Vince was relieved to see the black Crown Vic parked on the road shoulder, right where it should be. The lights came on, went off, and came on again, as per the signal.

  “That the feds?” Stirner asked.

  “Who else?” Vince said.

  “Oh Jesus, Dad!” Trevor burst out.

  “Just do what I tell you, boy. We’re getting in that car.” He turned to Vince. “You going to tell me who you are? You don’t seem like FBI to me.”

  “I’m not. But that Crown Vic is FBI. That’s all you need to know. Get in the car.”

  Vince watched as Stirner and his son strode the thirty yards to the car. The back door opened for them and they got in. The Crown Vic drove away.

  The feds would be at the site within minutes, and one of the bodies left in the farmhouse would be “identified” as Dex Stirner. The word would go out that Stirner was dead…

  Vince went back up the hill the way he’d come, skirting Stirner’s property, and retrieved the assault rifle. He started down the road, jogging back down the other side of the hill.

  It was quick this time, and he was soon on the edge of the plowed field — where he saw that the helicopter was lifting off without him.

  He ran toward it, waving — and saw Mac Colls standing in the open hatch, holding onto a stanchion, a Glock in one hand… and taking aim.

  Vince threw himself to one side, and a bullet kicked up the dirt where he’d been standing. Then the heli’s door closed.

  The H225 flew off to the south.

  And as Vince got to his feet, he could hear police sirens coming his way.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vince Bellator ran through the night.

  He ran across fields and someone’s back yard and across two gravel roads as police cars raced up the highway in the distance.

  He’d seen a Justice Department UH-60 tactical-transport helicopter coming down on the hilltop where the Ragnarin HQ was. The FBI would stop those cops from taking over the farmhouse. But Vince knew he was fair game for any local cop who’d gotten a call about gunshots up at the Stirner property — or maybe had gotten a tip from Mac Colls.

  That prick.

  He’d tried using the burner phone. No answer. Colls wasn’t picking up, which was no surprise at this point. He’d tried calling Wolf Base itself — no answer there either. Had Colls told someone not to answer if the call came from the burner number?

  Vince got to a highway and saw a police car’s flashers coming. Conscious that he was still wearing a black mask and carrying an assau
lt rifle, he threw himself flat in a grassy ditch by the road shoulder.

  Had they seen him?

  Sirens shrieking, the patrol car roared by and kept going.

  Vince got to his feet, picked up the rifle. He had thought about burying the rifle and the other gear, maybe in a windbreak. But there was other people’s blood on them — and his own sweat had gotten onto the weapons. He had no wish to be tied in to the killings with DNA. Supposedly the FBI was going to cover for him. But Agent Deirdre Corlin was not the head of the Bureau. A lot could go sideways…

  He took a deep breath and ran across the road into another field. It was a slog across that muddy, cow-pat strewn field, and his balaclava was soaked with sweat. He tore it from his face as he reached the screen of trees by the river.

  He pushed through the brush and found himself on the banks of the Oostanaula River. It was a fairly broad, dark-green river, snaking through the night.

  Vince stepped up to the edge of the riverbank and threw the assault rifle as far out as it would go, into the water. Then he followed it with the mask, his combat belt, the Glock and ammo, his gloves, the night vision goggles, and finally the armored vest.

  He kept his knife. He’d had it a long, long time.

  Vince reckoned to follow the trail along the river to the next town — the map had put it a mile away — and dodge the cops while he looked for some transport. Probably would take two or three Greyhound buses to get back to Stonewall, Alabama.

  *

  “I’ve got a mission for you, Bobby,” said the General.

  “Yes sir!” said Bobby Destry, without a clue what he was saying yes to.

  He was just giddy to be out of his cell, standing in front of Professor Gustafson’s desk, poised there in parade rest like a person who knew what the hell he was doing.

  Mac Colls was standing behind the General with his arms crossed, watching Bobby narrowly. Behind Bobby was Marco, who’d brought Bobby here under armed guard.

  It was early in the morning, and Gustafson was drinking his second cup of coffee. “Like some coffee, Bobby?”

  “Me? I…” He would. But he didn’t feel like he should. “I’m good, General.”

  “Alright, now — here’s the thing. I’m going to need you to go on a kind of undercover mission. We have a big tactical action coming up, and I’m going to need decoys to keep them looking the wrong way. You’re going to pretend to be wearing an explosive vest. It’ll look like one, but it won’t be one. You’ll call the police from downtown D.C., and you’ll say that some Antifa types put it on you, and they’re going to detonate it. They’ll organize a bomb squad and a whole host of people will surround you. Eventually they’ll figure out it’s not real and you’ll act as if you were deceived. They’ll let you go. But by then we’ll have gotten our men into place for… our critical action. You can rejoin us after that. This is an important job, Bobby… can I count on you?”

  “I…” Bobby’s heart was pounding. “Do I have to go back to my cell, Professor? Until the… the decoy action?”

  “Bobby — I’m afraid so. You were talking treason around here.”

  “I think I was misunderstood, sir.”

  “Mac here heard what you said.”

  “I didn’t misunderstand a goddamn thing,” Mac growled.

  Bobby cleared his throat. “Sure, Sarge, but still—”

  “It won’t be long, now, Bobby,” Gustafson said. “I’ll tell you what — we’ll bring you out for certain activities. Centurion training, that sort of thing. We’ll have a guard watching you. You won’t be able to talk during that time, however. A rule of silence.”

  “That’s…” Bobby was aswirl with conflicting feelings. There was elation, to have some relief from the cell, and a way out of it completely, in time. And there was fear.

  Suppose the explosive vest was real? Or suppose the cops simply shot him?

  No. The Brethren didn’t use tactics like suicide vests. That was Al-Qaeda terrorist stuff. They just wouldn’t do that…

  Which meant he could let the cops figure out there were no explosives on him. Then he could go free — and he could stay far, far away from the Brethren after that. He’d never rejoin them, not for real.

  He saluted and said, “Yes, sir, General. Anything you need me to do.”

  Gustafson nodded, stood up, and shook Bobby’s hand. “Good man! Marco, escort this man to the cafeteria, give him some food, then take him back to his cell.”

  “Yes sir! Come on, Destry.”

  Gustafson watched as Marco escorted Bobby Destry from the room. Then he nodded to himself. “He will be useful.”

  Mac turned to Gustafson and said, “Suppose he figures out the explosives are real?”

  “He won’t. He has no expertise of that kind.” He put some artificial sugar in his coffee and added, “When we detonate the vest, he will die so quickly he won’t even feel it. A good death, in a great cause.”

  “The word has come that Dex Stirner was found shot to death, sir,” Mac said.

  “Ah! So it was confirmed! Wonderful! But what about Bellator?”

  “As to that, General — no word.” With a private smile, Mac added, “I suspect the police picked him up.”

  “That would be a shame. I had plans for him. And suppose he tells the police who ordered the assassination of Stirner?”

  “The local sheriff’s department, over there, is run by Jake Ferret, General.”

  “Oh — I’d forgotten! Jake’s one of us! So if Bellator looks like he’s going to flip on us…”

  “Yes sir. Jake will find a good reason the prisoner had to be shot. Trying to escape, I imagine…”

  *

  Vince had slept most of the way on the two buses, catnapping at times, other times sinking into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

  He was asleep now, dreaming that Chris Destry was asking if he could have his hand back…

  “Stonewall, Alabama, folks,” said a man shouting from a Black Hawk helicopter.

  The helicopter fired a rocket right at Vince…

  And the explosion woke him up. He straightened up in his seat on the bus as it pulled over in Stonewall.

  Covering a yawn, he sat up and looked out the window. Watery autumn sunlight of mid-morning. A light rain was falling. People were walking down the sidewalk on errands.

  Vince was within five miles of Mac Colls. He was looking forward to seeing Mac again…

  He got up and made his way off the bus. There was a Walmart on the edge of town. He would go there, buy some clean clothes, clean up in their bathroom, put the clothes on and get some breakfast at Pat’s.

  Then a long walk back to the cabin for the Desert Eagle. And the hike out to the Wolf Base.

  Then…

  He had to make a decision.

  Should he try to take the place down now? Or should he try again to infiltrate — maybe just get Bobby out and run for it. Let Deirdre work with the FBI to take these bastards down. But that would come too late — wouldn’t it?

  Still unsure, Vince hurried down the street, wanting to change out of his cammies as quick as he could. He saw Sheriff Woodbridge drive by in his patrol car, staring at him. If Woodbridge chose to take a closer look, he might see the blood splashed on Vince’s clothing. He’d got most of it rinsed off in the bus station bathroom, but there were some stubborn bloodstains a sharp-eyed observer could notice.

  But the sheriff kept going and so did Vince.

  *

  Mid-afternoon now. The rain had ceased, the clouds rolled away, and mist rose, summoned by late-Autumn clouds. Wearing blue jeans, a long black and yellow plaid shirt, and a black vinyl jacket, all fresh from Walmart, Vince was trudging down the access road toward Wolf Base. He had the Desert Eagle under his new jacket and two pocketfuls of ammo. In his left hand was a Walmart bag stuffed with his dirty, blood-splashed paramilitary uniform.

  He was operating under the assumption that Mac Colls, who seemed to hate him, had acted on his own. That Gustafson ha
dn’t known that Colls planned to order Marco to take off. That Colls had taken a shot at him and had simply missed.

  But he could be wrong. The General might have realized that Vince was not loyal to him and his cause. If that were the case, then Vince was walking into a wasp nest of enemies.

  He had a strong feeling, however, that Gustafson wasn’t in on the decision to leave him to the tender mercies of the local cops. Acting on that feeling was a gamble.

  Vince also had a mounting sense that he was about to make a decision that would reshape his life.

  Was he here for the right reasons? He did want to find Bobby Destry and set him free. But part of him wanted the fight. He knew that.

  He had tried letting it all go — the warrior life, the soldier’s life; the dependency on action and adrenaline to feel like life was worthwhile. Last year, he’d had a girlfriend for six months, up in Washington State.

  Sandra June Tarkington. Till some drunk had tried to make a move on her in a bar. Vince told him to back off and the guy took a swing at Vince… who had broken the guy’s wrist, and jaw, in under two seconds. He’d done it with such savagery it scared Sandra away.

  She was never comfortable around him after that. She had muttered about soldiers with PTSD and then stopped taking his phone calls.

  One way or another, if he kept walking down this road — literally and figuratively — he was going to find himself, in time, in violent confrontation with the Germanic Brethren. If he happened to kill one of them in a public place in self-defense, witnesses would probably clear him of wrongdoing. But it wasn’t likely to play out that way. If he decided to go to war against them, he’d be breaking the law. He could become a wanted vigilante; an outsider, an outlaw in his own country.

  Trouble was, he knew too much to back out now. Firepower was coming. He couldn’t be sure Deirdre would be able to mobilize the FBI to stop it. There wasn’t enough direct evidence. But Vince felt certain that innocent people would die if it weren’t stopped. Maybe a lot of people.

  That thought made up his mind for him.

  Another quarter mile and Vince would come to the checkpoint. He could slip into the woods and go around it. But coming in that way they’d see him on one of their cameras, and some zealot might well take a shot at him. And he needed to look like he belonged here. That was the plan.