Against All Enemies

by John Gilstrap

  “What does your Uncle Victor look like?”

  Shit! And that was why you didn’t use verifiable references. Jonathan dropped the socket set. The metal case clanged against the tile floor. “Dammit!” he shouted.

  “You okay back there?” Bud called.

  “I’m fine,” Jonathan called back. “Just got some butter fingers is all.”

  “You need help?”

  Jonathan snatched the box up and walked toward the counter. “Sorry about the noise. I found what I wanted.” And indeed he had. The security camera was mounted high on the wall behind the cash register, aimed to record anyone who bought anything. He also noted the guns in the case and he realized why the security precautions were in place—including the cannon on Bud’s hip.

  Jonathan nodded toward Jolaine. “Hi, Miss.”

  “Hello.” She looked a little confused, but made no indication that they knew each other.

  Bud turned back to her as well. “You were going to tell me what your uncle looks like.”

  Okay, so the distraction didn’t take. It was worth a try.

  “He’s sort of medium,” Jolaine said. “Medium height, medium build. I guess he’s in his fifties.” As bluffs go, it was a pretty good one. When in doubt, describe everyone in the world.

  Bud turned his attention back to his paying customer, but said to Jolaine, “Nope, don’t know nobody who fits that description.”

  Jonathan suppressed a smile. “Do people still buy money orders?” he asked. “Sorry for eavesdropping, but I haven’t seen a money order in years.”

  “We don’t sell a lot,” Bud said. He looked up, as if sensing that he might have said something wrong. “But we sell enough to keep selling them. And I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”

  “Horgan,” Jonathan said, extending his hand. “Rick Horgan.” And if he somehow dropped his wallet—not likely—it was filled with carefully forged documents that would confirm that.

  “Any relation to Zeb Horgan up near Wheeling?”

  “No, not that I know of. It’s not exactly a rare name. How much do I owe you?”

  As Bud figured the retail price and tax on a calculator and transferred it to an old-fashioned NCR receipt book, Jonathan motioned with his eyes for Jolaine to leave.

  “Can I give you a phone number in case you remember anything about my uncle?”

  “I won’t remember anything,” Bud said.

  Jolaine left. Jonathan said nothing.

  “You movin’ in around these parts?” Bud asked as punched the numbers into an antique cash register that was older than anyone in the room.

  “Just passing through. Seeing the sights.”

  “And you just happened to want a socket set?”

  Bud wasn’t buying any of this, and Jonathan wasn’t going to chase a lost cause. He paid in cash and left.

  As he stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned toward Boxers and Jolaine, he mouthed, “Get out.”

  Jolaine didn’t get it, but Boxers did, and he pulled her around the corner. They’d just disappeared when Bud stepped out the door, too. The Colt on Jonathan’s hip begged to leave its holster, but Jonathan ignored his inner paranoia. Instead, he turned and faced Bud, some twenty yards away. “Everything okay?” he asked. “Did I leave something in the store?”

  Bud covered. “No,” he said. “I just wanted to test the weather.”

  “While I’ve got you,” Jonathan said, “let me ask you. Is the food over at Mary’s good?”

  “As good as you’re gonna get in this town,” Bud said. “Try the chicken-fried steak.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  His belly full—his club sandwich was waiting for him, so he didn’t get a chance to try the chicken fried steak—Jonathan sat on a picnic bench at a roadside break station, surrounded by his team. Behind them, the Coal River flowed freely and heavily, testament to the first year of adequate rain and snowfall in quite some time. The Batmobile stood beside them. This was a place designed for families to kick back and stretch their legs after long hours on the road. Given the number of spiderwebs covering the area between the benches and the tabletops, and the lack of trash in the bins, Jonathan deduced that it hadn’t earned its price as a tourist concession.

  Jonathan was in the middle of a strategy session for tonight’s operation. “If we get the security tapes—or disks or whatever—then we get a face. With a face, we have a shot at getting a name.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get anything on the goatee man,” Venice said through the computer on the table. “And for striking out on any more information on Victor Carrington.”

  “That just means it’s an alias,” Jonathan said. “One he doesn’t use very often.”

  “How are we getting in?” Rollins asked.

  “You’re not getting in anywhere, Colonel,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want to have to construct a cover story for a Unit commander getting arrested. I want you and Dylan in the alley behind the store, keeping an eye out, just in case.”

  “In case of what?” Dylan asked.

  “In case of anything.”

  “Where will I be?” Jolaine asked.

  “Across the street in Mary’s, watching the front.”

  “Won’t it be closed?”

  Jonathan gave her a look, let her figure it out for herself.

  “Oh,” she said. “We’re breaking in there, too, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  She blushed, and Boxers put a tender hand on her shoulder. Sooner or later, Jonathan supposed he’d get used to using tender and Big Guy in the same thought string, but it was proving to be harder than he’d anticipated.

  “We need a place that’s under cover so you can keep an eye on the street. Hanging out where people can see you will just raise a lot of questions. The good news is that I didn’t see any sign of alarm systems when we were there for lunch.”

  “How do you plan to do all this breaking in, Boss?” Boxers asked. “You said the back door is impenetrable.”

  “We could always use thermite,” Dylan said.

  “Why not a load of C4?” Jonathan asked sarcastically.

  Boxers clapped his hands together. “Now you’re talkin’.”

  “In a perfect world we’ll be in and out and no one will know the difference,” Jonathan explained.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Boxers asked.

  “Old school. We pick the lock,” Jonathan said.

  Boxers’ shoulders fell. “But that’s so boring.”

  Coal River Road was as solid a definition of the phrase dead after dark as Jonathan had ever encountered. Granted, they’d waited until after midnight to move in, but even so, the buildings along the road seemed unusually dark. Only a couple of lights glowed from windows, and they were all from the second floors above the commercial buildings. Jonathan figured they must be apartments.

  They’d parked the Batmobile in a pullout about half a mile away, then walked one at a time through the woods along the river to work their way to the edge of town. Jonathan made them travel light with their various burglar tools carried in day packs that looked on the outside just like any hiker’s day pack. Expecting no violence, Jonathan limited his team to their sidearms of choice and a couple of spare mags of ammo—nothing that couldn’t be explained away if they encountered a cop along the road.

  In many ways, this was the kind of op that troubled Jonathan the most. Over the decades, his training had focused on speed and overwhelming force. Collecting intel via breaking and entering was a level of tradecraft that was better left to Agency guys.

  Consistent with their loose cover story of being hikers on a trip, they wore woodland camouflage of the type normally worn by hunters. All black would have made them far less visible, but it also would have blown their cover. Life is balance, right?

  The designated gathering spot was the Dumpster behind Mary’s Diner. Jonathan brought up the rear, and by the time he arrived, the others had already made their way inside. A wad of anger
bloomed in his gut. Independent action was commendable to a point, but he didn’t like them breaking in without him being there. What if something had gone wrong? They hadn’t established comms yet, and—

  “Get rid of the pinchy face, Boss,” Boxers said as Jonathan entered the kitchen through the open back door. “The door was unlocked.”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Doesn’t that raise a concern with you?”

  “I don’t remember you being this twitchy before, Dig,” Rollins said.

  “It’s Scorpion,” Jonathan corrected. Once an op went hot—once any op went hot—the use of real names was forbidden. Choosing from a list of three options Jonathan had offered, Jolaine had chosen She Devil. Rollins rejected Roleplay and settled for Madman. He certainly liked it better than Big Guy’s suggestion of Asshole as a moniker. “Everybody comm up.”

  Jonathan saw to it that no corners were cut when it came to communications equipment. The ability to see and hear your enemy, in combination with the ability to see and hear your team, made all the difference between the success and failure.

  Tonight, Jonathan, Boxers, and Jolaine wore custom-molded wireless transceivers that tucked snugly into their ear canals. When their satellite radios were set to VOX—voice-activated transmission—vibrations of the bones in their head brought the transmitter to life, and every word they said would be live, both between themselves and to the rest of the team, including Venice, who monitored everything from Fisherman’s Cove. When set on PTT—push to talk—a transmit button would have to be depressed in order to transmit a message.

  As transient newcomers, Boomer and Madman would work Secret Service style, with a generic monitor in their ear and a microphone cord strung down their sleeve. VOX was still an option for them, but it was an awkward one. Jonathan monitored everyone’s progress. When they seemed set, he reached behind to depress the transmit button on his radio. “Mother Hen, Scorpion. Do a radio test for us, please.”

  Five seconds later, Venice’s voice came clear as crystal through his earpiece. “Black Team, Mother Hen. Radio check. Respond when I call you. Madman.”

  Rollins raised the wrist mike to his lips. “Madman’s okay.”

  “Boomer.”

  “Boomer’s okay.”

  “White team. She Devil.”

  Jolaine had positioned a transmit button in the center of her chest, beneath her camo shirt. She pressed it. “She Devil’s okay.”

  “Words cannot express how much Mother Hen hates that handle,” Venice said. “Entry team. Big Guy.”

  “Here.”

  “And Scorpion.”

  “Scorpion’s okay and we are set. Everyone keep the channel clear except for essential traffic. Mother Hen, do you have any eyes at all?”

  “Nothing I like,” Venice said. “I’ve been able to tap into the ATM fisheye from the Commerce Bank, but it’s no one’s version of a clear picture.”

  “Monitor what you’ve got and let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Oh, you want me to tell you if I see something? I thought you wanted me just to keep that a secret.”

  Rollins laughed. “I’m liking her more and more,” he said off the air.

  “Yeah, give it a couple of years.”

  “Big Guy, do you have traffic?” Venice asked. “Give what a couple of years?”

  “Shit!” he spat. He damn near turned himself inside out switching off VOX. Then he pressed his transmit button. “Disregard, Mother Hen.”

  “We’d all be wise to consider that a lesson learned,” Jonathan said through a chuckle. “Nobody on VOX unless I order it.”

  “Oo-uh,” Dylan said.

  “And we don’t oo-uh here,” Jonathan said. “We’re all civilians now.”

  “Not all of us,” Rollins said.

  “The night is young, Stanley,” Boxers said. Then, to get ahead of Jonathan, “I mean Madman. This might not turn out to be your best career move.”

  “Focus, gentlemen,” Jonathan said. He loved the banter as much as the next guy, but he had his limits. “Boomer and Madman. Questions?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “I prefer verbal,” Jonathan said.

  “No questions.” That came in unison.

  “Okay, then. Git. Let us know when the alarms are disabled.” The plan was simple and direct—and again, untraceable if they went about it correctly. Madman would keep an eye out while Boomer disconnected the phone line—it was merely a matter of dislodging a plug that could easily be reset—and then disconnecting the exterior to the local alarm by unscrewing the connectors. Whoever had put this system in place had not planned for a sophisticated burglar.

  Jonathan checked his watch as they left through the back door of Mary’s. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes, he figured. In fact, it took just under four. His earbud popped. “Exterior’s clear.”

  Now it was Jonathan’s turn. If big steaming holes had been an acceptable side effect of entering the hardware store, then popping the door would have been Boxers’ job. As it was, Jonathan had decided on the more subtle approach of lock picks, and as with all things more subtle than not, that fell more naturally into his wheelhouse.

  “You wait here with She Devil,” he said to Big Guy, “until I get the lock undone.”

  “Shouldn’t I be watching your back?” Boxers asked. He didn’t like it when Jonathan worked without backup.

  “It’ll only take a few minutes,” Jonathan said. “It’s going to be obvious enough if someone drives by and sees me working the door. With both of us, it’d be too much.” He wasn’t going to argue the point, so he walked back outside as he was talking.

  Over the years of doing this kind of work, he’d learned that one of the hardest things to do was to look intentionally nonchalant. When you genuinely had nothing to be concerned about, it was easy to stay unnoticed, in large measure because you didn’t care if you were noticed. It’s when people try to be invisible that they stand out like a bright light on a dark night. Jonathan believed that people generated a different kind of energy when they felt nervous, and that it was that energy that triggered discomfort in others.

  Think about it. You can pass a thousand people in a shopping mall without noticing any of them, yet there’ll be that one guy that gives you the creeps. It’s not anything he’s said or anything he’s done, it’s just a feeling. Countless studies had shown that those discomfiting feelings—those feelings of “stranger danger”—were real and needed to be paid attention to.

  In Jonathan’s line of work, the challenge lay in not giving out the vibes for others to intercept. He thought of that kind of thing as the woo-woo element of his job, and he believed that it was impossible to teach it to others. The woo-woo elements led inevitably to platitudes that resonated as hollow and empty to those who didn’t believe in them. If you projected confidence, people felt confident in you, and their belief resulted in results worthy of the confidence. It was a big cycle. To project victory guaranteed victory. To consider failure to be an option guaranteed failure as the only outcome.

  Or something like that.

  As Jonathan stepped out from behind Mary’s Diner, dressed in camouflage with a pistol concealed on his hip and a leather pouch of lock picks in his hand, he pretended that he belonged, and believed that no one who saw him would think otherwise.

  Assuming that Bud hadn’t invested more in his cylinder lock than he had in his burglar alarm, Jonathan anticipated no problem getting through the door.

  Coal River Road was empty from horizon to horizon as Jonathan stepped from the street up to the sidewalk. He opened the flap on the pouch, and his fingers worked by feel to find the two tools that he would need—the tension bar and the rake. By the time he reached the door, his hands were ready to go. It was darker than he’d like, but this was an operation that shouldn’t take a lot of visual examination. And night vision was out of the question because of the bizarre space-man look that
it presented to observers.

  Simple locks like standard cylinder locks found on glass doors that were typical of retail establishments posed little challenge to anyone with even a vague knowledge of what they were doing. These were pin-tumbler locks. The keyway slit at the front of the lock formed the center of a rotating cylinder which, when rotated, caused the bolt to either insert or retract itself from the receiving slot in the door jamb. Two lines of pins—one on the top and one on the bottom—jutted into the keyway like tiny stalactites and stalagmites and their presence physically blocked the cylinder from turning. The ridges on the key pushed these pins out of the way, removing the blockage and allowing the lock to turn.

  The process of picking a lock required the burglar to push the pin tumblers out of the way manually. To do this, Jonathan would insert a tension bar into the lock to put rotational torque on the cylinder, and then use a pick to physically push the pin tumblers out of the way. As they cleared their individual slots, the cylinder would turn a tiny fraction, just enough to keep the pins from reinserting themselves.

  Some burglars worked well with a tension bar that was essentially an L-shaped piece of metal that they’d stick into the keyway to add torque to the cylinder. Jonathan preferred a Y-shaped tension bar that never entered the keyway, but rather grasped the slit on the top and the bottom. He held it in place with his left thumb and applied upward pressure with the first knuckle of his forefinger. With the tension applied, he inserted the rake—a general purpose thin metal pick with a squiggly head—into the keyway and literally raked it along the heads of the pins, first along the top and then along the bottom. With each pass, the cylinder turned a little, and after maybe seven seconds, the pressure released, and the cylinder turned all the way.

  Jonathan returned the picks to his pocket and keyed his mike. “We’re in,” he said.

  Two seconds later, Boxers’ hulking form emerged from the shadow of Mary’s Diner, and he walked a straight line across the street to join Jonathan on the sidewalk in front of the door. Jonathan smiled as his big friend approached. He was one of those people who attracted attention no matter what. Big Guy was still five feet away and moving when Jonathan pulled the door open and stepped inside. Boxers was with him ten seconds later.