Won't Back Down

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Bullshit.” The flat declaration sets off all the alarm bells Marie’s come to dread. She sees the widened eyes, the flared nostrils, the clenched jaw that reminds Marie so much of his late father, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ben. Take a breath. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

  He turns to her, gives her a bright smile that’s terrifying in its insincerity. “Sure, Mom. Tomorrow.” He turns and walks back to the house.

  FORTY-SIX

  Inside the house, in his bedroom, Ben reaches under the bed and draws out the rough wooden box. Now he knows what the gun nestled inside is for. He takes it out, checks the revolver again to make sure the weapon is fully loaded. He looks at his school backpack, leaning against a wall across the room. Taking a deep breath, he stuffs the gun down deep into the backpack.

  Tomorrow, motherfucker, he thinks. It’s always been a frightening feeling, this rage that seems ready sometimes to take him over. But now, it’s found a focus. There’s a reason for it, and that’s to protect his mom and his little brother. That makes the anger feel righteous. Ben closes his eyes. He’s back on that hillside, the scent of smoke and blood and fear an acrid reek in his nose. But this time it’s him holding the gun as his tormentor kneels unarmed before him. It’s his finger on the trigger.

  It’s his own laughter ringing in his ears.

  Ben opens his eyes, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. The feeling’s intoxicating. He wonders if that’s what Keller felt. He wonders if that’s how it will feel when he pulls the trigger on Brandon Ochs.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Mohammed Al-Mansour is dozing on the bed when the soft knock comes on the door. He opens his eyes, a feeling of dread coming over him. He wonders if he’s made the right decision, even as he realizes the question is now moot. The Chechens are here. He gets up and opens the door.

  The woman standing in the doorway is tall, just a little under two meters. Her dark hair falls in waves to her shoulders, and she has the strong features of a fashion model. She smiles at him. “Sheikh Al-Mansour?”

  She’s so lovely, he instinctively nods and starts to smile back. The smile dies as he sees the other two women standing behind her in the walkway outside the motel room. Like her, they’re tall, dark-haired, and striking, but they gaze at him with the blank-eyed rapaciousness of predatory birds. He takes an instinctive step back.

  The leader smiles and takes the opportunity to enter the motel room, followed by the other two. “I am Natalya,” the first woman says in Arabic. “My sisters are Liza,” she points at one who’s taking a seat in the room’s one easy chair, “and Marina,” she points to the other sister, who leans against the dresser, arms folded across her chest. He notices that Liza has a prominent scar running from the corner of her left eye down to the corner of her jaw. There’s something strange about Marina’s mouth that he can’t quite put his finger on. Natalya speaks up and pulls his attention away. “I speak for the family. Tell us your problem.”

  He explains as succinctly as he can, telling her and her silent sisters about the money he and Fadhil Al-Masri conspired to siphon off from the Americans, how Al-Masri, now known as Adnan Khoury, took off with both shares, how the CIA, or someone he thought was CIA, had been protecting Al-Masri/Khoury, but now he’s begun to doubt that America is actually protecting them. He hesitates before admitting his doubts about hiring the Americans, but plunges ahead when he decides they need to know everything.

  Natalya listens until he’s done, then shakes her head sadly. “You’re right. You should have come to us first. These giaour,” she uses the Chechen for unbeliever, “are weak. They can’t be trusted. But you can trust us. We are of the Faithful.” She looks at him appraisingly. “Can we trust you?”

  He bristles a bit at being questioned that way by a woman, but nods.

  She smiles. “Good.” She nods at Marina. “Because my sisters, Marina in particular, don’t have much trust in men. And they tend to be…unforgiving of men who betray them.”

  Marina straightens up and leans over to look intently into Al-Mansour’s face with those dead, blank eyes. He can see the pale white tracery of scars around her mouth.

  “You see,” Natalya says, “Marina trusted a man once. A Russian soldier. He promised he’d protect her in the war that was raging in our land.” She shakes her head. “But he was false. Like many men are false. He took her one night to the barracks where his men were. He gave her to them. When they grew tired of her screaming, they had the company medical officer sew her mouth shut. She was sixteen. She hasn’t spoken since.”

  Al-Mansour swallows. “Infidels,” he whispers. “Savages.”

  Marina straightens up, steps back to lean against the dresser again. Al-Mansour breathes more easily.

  “No doubt,” Natalya says. “But after that, she does not respond well to men who do not deal with us in good faith. Do you, sister?”

  Marina’s answer is to produce a quickly shining butterfly knife that vanishes almost before his eyes can register it. “She is very fast with the knife,” Natalya says. “But she can also be very slow and careful when enacting payment. Back home, our fighters captured the Russian who’d betrayed her. They let her have him. He was begging for death for three days before she ended him, and then it was only because the unit had to move on.” Natalya gives Al-Mansour a smile that chills his blood. “If these Americans you are concerned with betray you, my sisters and I will be glad to teach them a lesson. No extra charge.”

  Al-Mansour is shaken, but he keeps his voice steady as he says, “Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

  Natalya’s smile widens as she realizes she’s made her point and gained the upper hand in the negotiation. In her world, the one who wins the deal is not the one who can walk away, but the one who can inflict the most agony and fear. “Let’s talk payment, then.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The auto salvage yard seems to stretch for miles, endless rows of crumpled, dented, and utterly destroyed vehicles as far as the eye can see. The sun’s barely up, and Fletcher’s yawning and resorting often to the cup of coffee provided by his old friend and Army buddy Billy Sims, who owns the place. Billy, who’s got a titanium hip and about sixty pounds more that he should be carrying on his five-foot-five frame, waddles over to stand beside Fletcher and stares at the burned-out frame of the vehicle Fletcher had towed there.

  “I don’t know if you thought you were doin’ me a favor,” Billy says, “but you weren’t. Ain’t no way I can sell any part of this wreck.”

  “I know.” Fletcher takes a sip of the coffee. It tastes like something Billy might have drained from one of the fractured radiators in the vehicles surrounding them, but he doesn’t complain. “You’re doing me a favor. And you know the county’s good for it.”

  Billy just sighs. “Yeah. Eventually.” He looks up the aisle formed by the lines of vehicles and frowns. “Who’s that?”

  Fletcher looks. “That’s who I’ve been waiting for.”

  The man approaching is as short as Billy, but so skinny as to seem almost anorexic. He’s dressed in a standard Army Combat Uniform and boots. The nametag over his pocket says BROWNE.

  “Rob.” Fletcher greets the new arrival. “Thanks for coming.”

  The man just nods and looks at the destroyed vehicle. His eyes narrow and he inclines his head curiously. “This the one?”

  “Yeah,” Fletcher says.

  Browne walks over and stands next to the car, hands on hips. He looks it up and down before leaning over and sniffing, delicately, like a cat. Whistling absentmindedly through his teeth, he walks around the burned hulk, bending down from time to time to examine something more closely.

  “Who the hell is this guy?” Billy Sims whispers.

  “Explosives expert, out of Fort Bragg. I’ve used him in a couple of arson investigations.”

  Browne finishes his inspection and walks over to where Fletcher and Sims are standing. “You want me to tell you
what you already know?” he says.

  “I know what I suspect,” Fletcher replies. “I don’t know anything. Yet. But something tells me I’m about to.”

  Browne nods. “That’s not regular burn damage. That’s a demolition.”

  Sims looks disgusted. “God damn it.”

  Fletcher ignores him. “How do you mean?”

  “For one thing,” Browne says, “whatever burned that vehicle burned hot. Way hotter than the gas in the tank. I’m thinking maybe thermite.”

  “Why?” Fletcher says.

  “Walk over here.” Browne walks to the vehicle with Fletcher right behind him. “See?” Browne points. “There. And there.”

  Fletcher shakes his head. “I see. But I don’t understand.”

  Browne sighs. “The burn pattern. You’ve got two places where it looks like something extremely hot was placed on the vehicle and burned straight down through it. One right over the gas tank, and one over the engine block. I’d have to do a chemical analysis to be sure, but thermite’s the best guess. It’s cheap, you can make it yourself with the right ingredients, and it’ll do the job.”

  “What job?” Fletcher asks.

  Browne looks impatient at Fletcher’s apparent obtuseness. “Destroying evidence.”

  Fletcher nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “God damn it,” Sims says again.

  Fletcher glances at him. “What’s your problem?”

  “So now I’m holding evidence for you.” He gestures at the burned-out car. “I wasn’t going to get doodly-squat for that wreck anyway, and now I’m not gonna get anything.”

  Fletcher looks puzzled. “You’ll get storage fees, right?”

  Sims looks disgusted. “Yeah. When the sheriff’s department has the money. I’m still waiting on my money from some of those DWI confiscations of piece of shit cars I can’t sell. In case you didn’t notice, Fletch, this is what I do for a living.”

  “Come on, Billy, you know I’ll—hang on.” Fletcher’s cell phone is blaring its electronic tone in his pocket. Fletcher hates the ringtone, but doesn’t know how to change it. He pulls the phone from his pocket and looks at the screen. It’s Cameron. “Yeah.”

  “We just got a call from the M.E.,” Cameron says.

  “And?”

  “Two bullets in the body we pulled out of the wreck.”

  Fletcher sighs. He wonders what it’s like to enjoy being right. “Okay. I’m at the junkyard. Looks like someone burned the car up to try to destroy evidence. Open it as a homicide.”

  “God damn it,” Billy says as he stomps off.

  FORTY-NINE

  Marie’s working the drop-off line again as Keller pulls up with Alia and Bassim. But this time, the other SRO, Rogers, is behind her. He’s watching the line like a hawk, his hand on his holstered sidearm. Keller notices a sheriff’s cruiser pulled up in the faculty lot, and a pair of deputies in full tac gear standing beside it. Alia and Bassim notice at the same time.

  “What’s going on?” Bassim says.

  “I don’t know. Sit tight.” Keller pulls the truck up to the drop-off point and rolls the passenger side window down. “What’s happening?” he calls to Marie. As she steps over to the window, he can see the dark circles under her eyes and the exhaustion in them. “Nothing, Jack,” she says in a hoarse voice.

  “Marie,” Keller says, “tell me.”

  She opens the door. “Come on, guys. Let’s get going.”

  Alia and Bassim look at Keller, who nods. “I’ll be back at the usual time.”

  Reluctantly, they climb down from the cab.

  Rogers nods to them as they walk quickly past. He doesn’t take his hand off his gun.

  Marie turns back to Keller. “Someone shot at my house last night.” She takes a deep breath. “I think it was Brandon Ochs.” Keller sits back, eyes narrowing. She notices the look and speaks quickly. “You need to let us handle this, Jack.”

  He has to take several deep breaths before he can speak. Cars behind him are beginning to honk their horns. “How’s Francis?” he finally says quietly. “And Ben?”

  “Frank’s shook up, but I think he’ll be okay. Ben…” She looks back at the school as if searching for him. “I don’t know, Jack. He’s completely closed off. He’s polite. He’s agreeable. And that scares the shit out of me.” Another horn honks. Marie steps back and closes the door. “You need to get moving.”

  Keller nods and puts the truck in gear.

  “And let us handle this!” he hears her call as he pulls away.

  FIFTY

  “Oh my God,” Meadow says. “Are you okay? Is Frank okay?”

  Ben just nods.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t believe that asshole…are you sure it was Brandon?”

  Ben shakes his head. “I didn’t hear him. Just the shots. The breaking glass. I heard my mom telling the deputies she thought it was Brandon. That’s why there’s extra security.”

  She looks across the lot at the sheriff’s deputies posted down. “I’m surprised they didn’t do a lockdown.”

  “I think they talked about it.” Ben’s eyes are distant, his tone distracted.

  Meadow puts her hand on his arm. “I don’t think you’re okay.”

  He shakes the hand off. “I’m fine.”

  Meadow’s feeling of alarm rises. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s ditch school and hang out by the river. Come on. If anyone needs a mental health break, it’s you today.”

  Ben shakes his head. “I’ve got something I need to deal with.”

  “Brandon?”

  Ben says nothing.

  “Ben. What are you thinking of doing?”

  He looks at her as if noticing her for the first time. “Nothing. But maybe we shouldn’t hang around with each other today.” He takes a deep breath. “Or maybe not at all anymore.”

  She steps back, her eyes wide with shock. “Okay, now you’re really freaking me out.”

  He glances at his backpack, then picks it up and slings it on one shoulder. “Just stay away from me. Leave me alone.” He gives her a hard look. “You fucking freak.”

  Tears spring to her eyes. “You don’t mean that. I know you better than that.”

  He doesn’t answer, just walks away.

  “Ben!” she calls after him, her voice breaking.

  He doesn’t look back.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Brandon pulls up to Jake’s old farmhouse. He feels like shit that’s been hammered flat, doubled over, then hammered flat again. His buzz from last night is nearly gone, and the adrenaline rush from shooting up the bitch cop’s house has long deserted him. He sits in the pickup for a moment, trying not to fall asleep over the wheel. Maybe Jake will let him crash here for the day. He’s sure as hell not going to school.

  Jake comes to the door and leans against the frame, watching him. He’s got a beer in one hand that he takes a pull from as he stands there. Brandon doesn’t like the look on his face. Slowly, moving like an old man, Brandon gets out of his truck. He holds the pistol down by his side. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Jake still doesn’t move.

  “I brought the gun back, like you said.”

  Jake nods. “Bring it here.”

  Brandon crosses the packed dirt of the yard, yawning as he walks. He holds the gun out, grasping it by the barrel. Jake takes it in his free hand, still with no expression on his face. He reaches behind him to place the weapon inside the house. “Your mama called.”

  Brandon blinks stupidly at him. “She did?”

  “Yeah. Deputies came by the house looking for you.” Before Brandon can process that, Jake’s hand comes around and smacks him across the face, harder than last night.

  Brandon’s head whips around with the blow. “Hey,” is all he has time to say before the backhand comes back and knocks him to the ground.

  “You dumb son of a bitch,” Jakes snarls down at him. “You shot at a fuckin’ cop? A f
emale cop?”

  Brandon tries and fails to keep the whine out of his voice. “She ain’t a real cop. She’s just a—” He flinches away as Jake aims a kick at his midsection. The kick misses by an inch.

  Jake stops, breathing hard, and studies Brandon on the ground. “You told me somebody threatened you.”

  Brandon gets slowly to his feet. “Someone did. But I think that was her boyfriend.”

  “So instead of shooting at the boyfriend, you shoot at the fucking cop.” Jake shakes his head in disgust. “Did she actually see you?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I mean, it was dark. I was in the truck. I wasn’t driving, though.”

  “Oh, good, there were witnesses. This shit just gets better and better. Which of your dipshit friends was with you?”

  Brandon looks down and mumbles. “I don’t wanna say.” Jake rears back for another blow and Brandon blurts out, “Bunny. Bunny was drivin’.”

  “You think he’ll keep his mouth shut?”

  Brandon nods, with more confidence than he feels.

  “Good,” Jake says. “Well, get ahold of him. Tell him to keep quiet, or he’ll answer to me. I gotta get rid of this gun you suddenly turned into evidence, and didn’t even make a fuckin’ dime off of it. Do you feel even just a little bit stupid?”

  “Yeah,” Brandon says miserably. “I feel really stupid.”

  “Well, that’s a start. Come on in the house. We gotta get our story straight.”

  Brandon looks up, feeling hope for the first time. “We do?”

  “I don’t rat family out to the cops,” Jake says, “even if that family member is a dumbass. I’ll say you were with me, but we need a timeline. Come on.”