by Javan Bonds
The War Cabinet at the big house radioed for the apparent double agent to come to the house for a debriefing. With no current orders, the other two decided to park the Humvee at the corner of the cornfield and the driveway, facing the path to Jackson’s.
Old Ben finished securing the metal shutters on the French doors and turned to prop himself against Jeff’s recliner, facing the two men. Though hesitant, Alvarez relayed the whole truth: none of the soldiers in the National Guard unit stationed in Dodge (not even him) were using their real names; they had not actually been sent there to give emergency aid to anyone; nor were they National Guardsmen. They were actually DHS agents sent to locate Hollis Duncan if he returned to the area. Their objective was to capture and detain the target, who was linked to the terrorist attacks, and return the detainee to their superiors.
It was obvious Sherman was withholding information from the rest of the unit and had been given secret orders to hide the truth. Alvarez was not willing to follow this madman. Old Ben looked at the younger man as if he had known all of this from the beginning, and the sergeant guessed the white-haired man was about to say something like, “See, I told you so.”
Alvarez had to further his defection before he could change his mind. “The little guy told me about a recording he has…” Bol let the sentence trail off, hoping Hollis had not lied to him. The tacticians’ demeanors drastically changed, as if Alvarez had slapped them both. He now understood his superiors had lied to him. There was something more, and their faces told him they had proof.
Jeff’s face seemed to tighten and go blank. “The recording of government agents executing US senators? Yeah, we have it.” Jeff paused and then answered Alvarez’s question before it crossed his lips. “And yes, you can see it—later, if we survive.”
Alvarez understood his primary had just changed. He realized Sherman had known the truth all along and was planning to murder the kid. The bastard was probably telling the other guys how Alvarez was a sympathizing double agent for these militias. Bol smiled. He found it funny that Sherman would accuse a Mexican American of being a white supremacist but knew Sherman could make it sound believable. The guy seemed to have some kind of power.
The sergeant decided he had just switched teams. He was not going to play for a team that lied to its own players and certainly wasn’t going to be a part of assassinating innocent people just because they knew too much. He would either help these people rise up or be laid in the ground beside them. He ripped the American flag patch from his arm and let it fall to the ground.
CHAPTER 31
July 26
“SO YOU HAVE not contacted Sherman, and he does not definitely know of your location or the reason for your disappearance?”
The former DHS agent dressed as a former National Guardsman shook his head in the negative, and he could see the gears in the old man’s mind running.
Finally the Jedi Master gave a clever smile. He laid out the plan for everyone. The sergeant would return to town hall and explain to his superior that his truck radio was damaged, receiving yet unable to transmit. He had been somewhat wary to return, being intimidated by Sherman’s threats. After regaining the trust of his commander, he was to enter the MCU housing Hollis and escape with the boy in tow. Immediately following their reaching safety, the other four men would launch their assault on town hall from their cover in the woods and eliminate Sherman.
Alvarez was adamant. “We definitely have to kill Sherman. He would like nothing more than to just carpet bomb this property and the entire town, execute Hollis, and be on his merry way. This attack will give him reason enough to call in the airstrike if he survives. Until then he will most likely sit on his prisoner and wait for you to make a move.”
Before anyone else could speak, Jeff inserted, “Don’t worry. I’ll fill him with holes till he doesn’t twitch.”
This statement seemed cold coming from his father, but Jackson still wanted to cheer.
Old Ben had mentioned earlier that Sherman obviously had the phone but had realized the insurgents would have copies, and that was the only reason he remained in the area. The sergeant explained that his former comrades were not in possession of the phone.
◆◆◆
Jeff, with Old Ben in the passenger seat, parked at the decided meeting place, far enough away from town hall so Sherman would not be aware—in the water board parking lot. Jackson’s truck arrived a few heartbeats later, followed by Bol and Redstone in the Humvee. All three motors went silent simultaneously. Only the sounds of nature could be heard, to the delight of the senior tacticians, who realized Sherman probably heard only the same thing.
Old Ben exited his seat and walked around the front of the younger Pike’s truck to face the driver of the military vehicle. “I do believe you can pull this off, young man.” The Jedi Master was attempting to boost Alvarez’s confidence, but the sergeant was not so sure he would make it back. The plan had furthered through their discussions, and he was to go to Sherman and admit that the reason for his bolting was to investigate gunshots he had heard. His search had turned up no leads, and he would explain his radio issues. While he was detailing the entire episode to Sherman, the Pike clan would hurry across the school campus, cross over the highway, and hopefully be through the woods and in position to observe and reinforce the former sergeant if needed. There would be backup within fifty feet, yet he continued to find holes in the plan, and frankly, it scared the shit out of him.
Each insurgent approached Bolivar Alvarez in turn, as if to give final farewells. Old Ben shook his hand and followed it with a few words of Jedi wisdom; both Pike men somberly faced their new ally and simply shook his hand, neither finding adequate words; lastly Redstone approached Alvarez and chose to embrace the sergeant in a manly hug.
“Dude, get this shit done with so we can play Xbox.” Redstone had spent almost the entire ride in unusual silence, trying to think of something that would say, “I want you to survive this so we can hang out later”—something that would sound masculine and unemotional. He thought he had pulled that one off.
“Gracias, amigos.” Alvarez crossed himself a final time, said a quick prayer, and chuckled as he climbed back into the Humvee. “I’ll get the little guy out and maybe even get to shoot that motherfucker Sherman.” He tried to make the statement sound more confident than he felt, and before he could think about it much longer, Bol revved his engine and started what could be his last journey. Before the Humvee had exited the parking lot, Old Ben was leading the rushed parade across school grounds.
◆◆◆
Sherman hurried to the window upon hearing a vehicle and watched to see a lone Humvee approaching at a snail’s pace. The faux National Guard sergeant first class and the remaining members of his squad of DHS agents assembled on the sidewalk just beyond the front porch to watch Alvarez enter the parking lot. It was easy to see the fear in the sergeant’s face. The soldiers standing with rifles drawn (but at ease) and Sherman casually holding his pistol at his side really did not make him comfortable.
Alvarez exited the vehicle with his hands held high. “The radio is broke, boss. You couldn’t hear me.” The nervous sergeant turned to place his hands on the cab, far enough apart to prove he was no threat, and went on to explain how he had heard rapid gunfire and had gone to investigate. This lie was full of holes and nowhere near fool proof. And even though he had been trained with taxpayer money in the art of lying, he had to admit this was a barely believable stretch.
He eased as the other agents relaxed, feeling guilty because they obviously wanted to trust their brother-in-arms. Sherman, on the other hand, appeared as angry as he had been when Alvarez had come out, and his knuckles were visibly whitening as he gripped the pistol by his side. Bol was sweating, not sure how to proceed in a conversation with a man who would not speak, wondering if Sherman was just attempting to scare him before welcoming him back into the fold or if the sergeant first class was simply about to explode and start shooting.
Alvarez wa
s starting to walk toward the group of phony soldiers when Sherman snarled, “Where’s your American flag patch?” and gestured to Bol’s arm. Alvarez abruptly stopped walking, and fear crossed his face. He knew that Sherman knew.
◆◆◆
The out-of-breath insurgents had taken position just inside the tree line, all sighting different targets. Redstone could hopefully hit Michaels or Tyler, as they were the largest targets and were standing almost in a line from his angle. Jackson had his sights on Nichols’s midsection. Old Ben lined up Freeman in his crosshairs. Jeff would have already popped Sherman’s head, but he was on the opposite side of the other men and did not have a clear shot. He decided it would be prudent to aim in the direction of Redstone’s priorities, so at least one would drop. Though the words were not definable, Jeff could tell the conversation had not yet escalated to shooting or yelling, so he hoped the sergeant’s ruse was playing out.
◆◆◆
Does this fucking wetback think I don’t know where he’s been? Every agent should know that all vehicles on every mission are LoJacked. I know exactly what he’s been doing; I just don’t know why he was stupid enough to come back here—guess I never will. Sherman cocked his head to the side while straining his eyes and pointing. “Where is your American flag patch?”
The sergeant’s eyes grew wide, and he stopped motionless before Sherman raised his pistol with lightning speed and squeezed the trigger.
The sergeant felt his right arm going numb as he dropped backward onto the pavement. The instant Sherman’s round struck him right under the collarbone and before the soldiers could raise their rifles, Alvarez was positive he could hear gunfire coming from behind his former comrades. Not even Sherman was expecting to be fired upon, but he instinctively spun to face the oncoming barrage and crouched, using his subordinates as a shield while they were raising their rifles. Michaels took a shot in the hand while Freeman dropped to his knees, screaming about his kidney. Every agent who could still move took cover behind the closest Humvee or the solid-concrete porch while Freeman lay in the open, holding his stomach and crying. The rapid fire had obviously come from behind them, and they took cover accordingly.
Sherman wished he had thought about it earlier. He should have run through the fractionally open door of the town hall, where he would have at least had access to weaponry more powerful than his Colt .45 pistol and two hand grenades. These fucktards had assault rifles.
The sergeant first class glanced back at the traitor on the ground, smiling as he saw the sergeant was down for the count.
Michaels let out a war cry as he heaved a grenade in the general direction of the enemy; he had obviously misjudged their position, or they just quickly moved—his grenade felled only trees and kicked up dirt while bullets continued to spill in his direction. Tyler stood to catch a glimpse of an old man, a flash, and then black as he crumpled to the ground, a slowly reddening tunnel where his eye had been only moments before. Though they had never been personally close, this angered the big black agent, who felt a professional camaraderie. Michaels screamed as he watched his partner fall. “Motherfuckers” was his cry as he stood to begin firing blindly, throwing two more frags one-handed at the tree line. His rapid-fire bursts trickled off as he took numerous hits across his entire body and sank down by his brother-in-arms.
Sherman was crouching behind the cement steps with the porch between him and imminent death, Nichols at his side occasionally peering over the porch to look for a decent shot. The sergeant first class watched as the biggest man he had ever seen fought on while taking an inhuman amount of punishment. Sherman was attempting to figure out how he could signal surrender and somehow escape, with or without Nichols, when he had an idea. “Give me your personal radio.”
“What?”
“Goddammit, Nichols, just fucking hand it over!”
The private lifted his radio from his pants pocket. Sherman took it, extended the antenna, and tied his white handkerchief around the end. “Now hold this up, and slowly stand with raised hands.”
“I ain’t fucking crazy. They’ll shoot me!”
I don’t give a shit if they do. “No, they won’t. Not if you throw your rifle away and hold your hands up.”
The number of bullets flying in the direction of the National Guardsmen steadily decreased as Nichols nervously lifted the makeshift flag of surrender until the only sound the two could hear was the occasional chirping of cicadas and crickets.
The shaking private stood and begged for mercy, seeing no movement but hearing a shout from the woods: “Where’s Sherman?”
The sergeant first class had been anticipating this. He knew it had to be Jeff fucking Pike. He took Nichols’s sidearm out of its leg holster, rested it on the second step of the porch from the top, and held his own pistol upside down from the grip with two fingers, well away from the trigger. He lifted both hands, exposing his surrendered weapon, and then slowly stood when his hands were not blown off.
“Don’t move,” the command came from the woods as his enemy began emerging with rifles raised and trained on the surrendered agents.
He whispered for Nichols to slowly step up on the porch. It didn’t bother him if this kid became another casualty, especially if his death could save someone as valuable as Sherman. As the enemy drew closer, he tensed, getting ready to reach for the pistol and try to hit at least one of those yokels before bolting up the last step, using Nichols’s body as a shield while he ran into the building.
Sherman began to lower his hands and then heard a click-thud behind him, and he turned his head to see a grenade at his toes. He rotated his head imperceptibly more to see Alvarez holding his head and left arm up and staring at him with a bloody smile. Raising a middle finger, he coughed, “Hey, Sherman, fuck you, puto.”
◆◆◆
It was black. This could not be possible. If this was death, Jackson was going to be pissed—he was not willing to believe there was nothing after life. He finally began to hear muffled noises over the constant buzz and realized it was his father and Old Ben speaking just above a whisper, calling roll and checking for injuries. The senior men were apparently unscathed while Jackson was on his back with blood pooling over his eyes. He had fired only a few bullets at the enemy when that grenade landed close enough to send a rock or something cutting horizontally across his forehead, causing a torrent of blood to cover his face. On top of that, it had knocked him unconscious for a short time, and there were a few pieces of shrapnel lodged in his right thigh—not nearly fatal wounds, but he would soon need medical attention. Jackson used a nearby fallen tree to assist himself in standing.
His hearing grew sharper by the second, and he was able to discern Redstone a short distance away whimpering and repeating, “There is no death; there is only the Force.” Old Ben appeared at Jackson’s side and offered assistance using items from his field medical kit. Jackson gratefully accepted the help. The spry white-haired man continued on a few feet to find the town’s only remaining policeman rocking back and forth, holding his arm and complaining. Redstone professed he was close to death because a small rock had somehow embedded itself into his forearm. He was begging for morphine and his mother. Jackson would have found the situation funny if he had not been in so much pain. He looked up as he heard his father say, “Don’t move!”
Old Ben ordered Redstone to assist Jackson as the group began to push beyond the tree line. Jackson’s hearing had returned to almost normal as they drew closer to their destination. He heard a few short, clipped yells from Sherman’s direction and then an explosion that sent the rebels behind cover once more.
◆◆◆
Jeff kept his rifle at the ready and was the first to walk toward the sunlight, with the others spread out a few yards behind, watching through the leaves as the surrendering men stood with raised hands. Sherman quickly turned his head to peer over his shoulder. The leader of the insurgent band heard faint speaking from the parking lot beyond. Sherman and his remaining cohort de
sperately pushed themselves forward in a vain attempt to get to the other side of the porch or into the door; Jeff would never be certain. He briefly wondered why two outgunned, unarmed men would charge at live rifle barrels, and then they both disappeared in an explosion of light and debris.
◆◆◆
After another long moment behind cover with only silence attacking them, the freedom fighters started their cautious and mostly crouched way up to the town hall, with the elders taking an excessive lead while Jackson and Redstone slowly hobbled forward together. Jackson held his rifle left-handed, intending to appear at the ready.
Jeff reached the scene first. A pitted crater in the sidewalk showed him where a grenade had obviously caused the most recent explosion; the porch and the front of the building were scarred but still standing while the front window of Bobbie Jo’s office had been shattered. The concussion had thrown the front door wide open, and the explosion had turned the two camouflaged men into nothing more than a gory smear with what appeared to be an assortment of body parts strewn for some distance. He noticed a body close to the parked Humvee beyond the grenade blast radius and quickened his pace to reach the fallen sergeant.
Old Ben could see Jeff inspecting the destruction, which he assumed had been caused by a grenade. Ben reached down to pick up the wounded and crying soldier’s rifle and replaced it with what was left of his open first-aid kit. “That wound is nowhere near mortal, young man. You can surely survive it with treatment.” The Jedi Master nudged the box of medical supplies with his foot as the bleeding agent looked up in defeat, and then he turned back to see the remainder of the other two soldiers and his concerned brother-in-arms.
“Mr. Kennard—medic!”
That was all it took for the senior man to spring to his friend’s side, taking a knee by the fallen man who could only be their new ally. Old Ben started opening an unused first-aid box as he hurriedly examined the prone body.
