Against All Enemies

by John Gilstrap

  Some lines just could not be crossed. And Ian had crossed one.

  His future did not exist. Not anymore. Unless General Brock figured out a way to help.

  But Brock would never do that, would he? Of course not. Brock’s fingerprints were nowhere to be seen on this operation. He’d never shown his face in the camp, he’d never met Ian on government soil. There had been no written record. He needed only to deny his involvement, and Ian’s claims would be ignored. After all, who was more believable to a jury of military personnel, a lieutenant colonel who’d been trying to overthrow the political structure of the United States, or the chief of staff of the United States Army?

  He pumped his legs harder. The weight of his M4 was slowing him, but that weapon was his last opportunity to impact his own future. Tree branches tore at his face and his arms as he crashed through the woods, so he turned a hard right and headed out into the open. There, he’d be able to move faster, but the people chasing to catch him—he hadn’t seen them, but he’d heard the footsteps—would have a clearer shot. It was a chance he had to take.

  Ian had already decided that the invaders were not here to kill him. They’d said as much back in the compound—back when there was something that could reasonably be called a compound—but that could have been a lie to get him to step out into the open.

  But now that they had a shot, they weren’t taking it. That meant that they wanted him alive.

  But he’d never be able to outrun them. Not two of them, who were no doubt much younger than he, and clearly understood the business of warfare. If they caught him, they would send him to prison, where he would die, either of torture at the hands of other prisoners, or of old age. Neither suited him.

  His rifle was his only chance. He stopped without slowing, sliding to a halt while pivoting 180 degrees and bringing his rifle to bear. At this range, he couldn’t miss.

  “He’s going to do something desperate,” Jonathan said into his radio. It was the only reason he could think of for Carrington to peel off out of cover to run in the open. They followed, but it didn’t feel right. “Give him some space.”

  Ahead and to his left, Rollins responded to the order by slowing his stride just enough to open some distance between himself and Carrington, and allowing Jonathan to catch up.

  Carrington skidded to a stop and raised his rifle.

  “I got him!” Rollins yelled, likewise stopping and raising his weapon.

  “No!” Jonathan yelled. They needed him alive. That was the whole damn purpose of the exercise. He blew past Rollins, spoiling his aim, and drove himself headlong toward Carrington. Even in the darkness, he saw the look of shock in the man’s eyes as Jonathan closed the distance without slowing.

  Jonathan was three feet away and closing when Carrington popped off a shot. The sound of the report was deafening, instantly stuffing Jonathan’s head with a pound of invisible cotton that seemed to fill even his sinuses with sound pressure.

  Jonathan targeted Carrington’s off-hand for collision with his shoulder, and his nose for collision with the crown of his Kevlar helmet. Both impacts reverberated through Jonathan’s body. Jonathan felt a snap on the bridge of his nose as the night vision array absorbed its share of the impact, and knew that he’d broken it. This would be the fifth time for his nose, but he hoped that he hadn’t ruined the ridiculously expensive electronic gear.

  Jonathan’s momentum carried him through and over his target, ending in a shoulder-roll that left his equipment tangled and his flesh torn in the spots where hard metal won over soft tissue.

  By the time Jonathan found his feet, Rollins was already standing over their prisoner, covering him with his M4. “He’s not moving,” he said. “Nice hit, there, Scorpion. Are you okay?”

  Jonathan adjusted the night vision array on his head and blew a plug of bloody snot from his nose. “Been better,” he said. “Tell me I didn’t kill him.”

  “He’s breathing. And, frankly, it wasn’t that good a hit. But at least he looks worse than you.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what matters.” He keyed his mike. “Alpha, Scorpion. How’s it going down there?”

  “It’s like Zombieland.” Dylan replied. “Lots of dazed and confused. Lots and lots of injuries. Burns. And people are flooding out of here.”

  “Are they armed?” Jonathan asked.

  “Not that I’ve seen. But I can’t tell you with certainty that no armed men got out of the compound.”

  Jonathan considered that. The fear was that the defeated army would regroup and form up for some kind of counterattack. But that would take effective leadership of a level Jonathan hadn’t seen here. What would be, would be, and they would need to remain vigilant. But for now, he felt that things were stable.

  The Batmobile rumbled up out of the night and disgorged Big Guy, who, predictably enough, looked pissed. “You know I hate it when you do the cool shit without—” He interrupted himself with a laugh and he pointed to Jonathan. “Look at you,” he said. “You got a boo-boo.” Then he looked down at Carrington’s unconsciousness. “Nice.” Then, to Rollins, “Was it epic?”

  “It was a pretty good hit.”

  “Can you just package him, please, and let us get out of here?” Jonathan said. Then, over the radio, he said, “Mother Hen, Scorpion. Have you been monitoring radio traffic?”

  She always monitored the radio traffic. “Is it time to start ambulances on the way for the injured?”

  She’d read his mind. Again. “Affirmative,” he said. “Have them send five ambulances to start, and then they can work out their own tactics from there.”

  “I copy.”

  “Scorpion, Boomer.”

  Jonathan’s team stopped at the leaden tone in Dylan’s voice.

  “Scorpion.”

  “I think you need to come to the gate. A police officer wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The young cop looked even younger out of the car than he did when viewed through the window. Maybe five-ten, with a physique that Mama Alexander liked to call a swimmer’s build, the kid stood tall in his gray-and-green uniform, his legs set wide and his hands resting on his Sam Browne belt, the web of one thumb spanning his pistol, and the other spanning his nightstick.

  Jonathan approached on foot while Boxers followed in the Batmobile, and Rollins watched from a little ways up the hill. Dylan and Jolaine flanked the cop from a respectable distance, and all weapons rested in neutral positions.

  “Officer Parks,” Jonathan said as he closed to within a few feet. He extended his hand. “Pardon my glove.”

  Parks ignored the gesture of friendship. “You’re hurt.”

  “Not that bad.”

  “From the town, it sounded like there was a war going on up here.”

  “Felt a little like that, too,” Jonathan said. “If you’re here to help us, though, you’re a few minutes too late. We’re just cleaning up and are on our way out of here. We’ve called for ambulances to take care of the injured.”

  Parks cocked his head. “What about the dead?”

  “They won’t need ambulances,” Jonathan said. “They’ll pretty much just stay dead.”

  The cop’s face folded into an offended mask. “You think this is funny?”

  “I think it’s settled business,” Jonathan replied. “No, I don’t think it’s funny. I think it was a lot of hard work, and a lot of gullible young men died needlessly because they listened to nonsense in the past and refused to listen to reason tonight. Nothing’s funny about any of that. And nothing is funny about the countless murders that we prevented by being here.”

  “Well, you did say you were on the side of the angels,” Parks said. “I remember from Sunday School that Satan was once God’s favorite angel.”

  And there went Jonathan’s patience. “I’m not sure why you’re here exactly, Officer Parks, but I am no more inclined to be arrested now than I was a couple of hours ago.”

  The kid shifted his stance to one l
eg and he folded his arms. “Me and my team were working the murders down at Mary’s, and one of the dead guys showed up as being wanted by the United States Army for desertion. Another one has been in and out of jail since forever. Judging from the physical evidence, I think it’s pretty clear that we’re dealing with a case of self-defense down there.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t at all sure where this was going. Parks seemed too calm, too focused. And too alone.

  “So I took what you told me down there,” Parks continued. “You said your name was Scorpion, and that you were on the side of the angels. Those are two things you don’t hear very often, and the way you said them, I figured it wasn’t your first time. So I did some research into some police databases, and I got a couple of hits. It seems that there’s another guy out there who uses those same combinations. Violence seems to follow him, too.”

  The back of Jonathan’s neck lit up with a feeling of danger. What did this guy know?

  “There’s no real pattern to it,” Parks went on. “And no real focus. This Scorpion guy has touched lives all over the world, it seems. No one knows his real name, and the guy rarely leaves fingerprints. On the few occasions when he has, the fingerprints prove to be untraceable. They belong to someone who appears not to exist. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Huh,” Jonathan said. “That’s really wild.”

  “I thought so, too,” Parks said. “But here’s where it gets really interesting. Wherever this other Scorpion goes, it seems that only bad guys end up dead. There’ve even been unsubstantiated rumors where Scorpion rescued hostages that the police never knew had been taken.”

  “Sounds like this guy is quite a hero,” Jonathan said.

  “Well, yes and no,” Parks hedged. He took a step closer. “What Scorpion does is technically murder. It’s called vigilantism, and it’s illegal in all fifty states. It’s that whole due process thing that’s guaranteed by the Constitution.”

  Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded this kid with ever-growing respect. “So, what’s your point?”

  Parks shrugged. “I don’t really have a point, I guess. I just thought that you should know that there’s a guy with your name who’s wreaking havoc and is a wanted man. For example, if I suspected that you and he were the same person, I’d have to arrest you. But of course I don’t suspect you. That’s why I felt comfortable coming up here alone.” His eyes burned into Jonathan’s.

  Jonathan didn’t blink. He waited for the rest. This kid was tough.

  Parks broke it off and turned toward the fires and the injured and dead. “I have no idea what happened up here, but it looks like a terrorist camp of some sort to me. As you said, ambulances are on the way, and word is going to leak out. I’m going to need a way to explain this.” He turned back to Jonathan. “Any ideas?”

  “Officer Parks,” Jonathan said, “you seem to have thought most of this through already. I sense that if I just stand quietly, you’ll tell me an idea on your own.”

  Parks smirked. “I can’t say you’re wrong. Back in town, Mary mentioned something about you coming up here to grab someone to question him. A fellow named Carrington, I believe.”

  Jonathan waited.

  “Did you succeed?”

  Jonathan waited.

  “I’m betting you did,” Parks said. “I want him.”

  “Why?”

  “For the credit,” Parks said. “And for the scapegoat. You can’t have this kind of destruction, this much loss of life, without a rationale to explain it. A town like ours can look away from a lot of stuff, but we’re talking mothers’ sons here. Someone has to answer for that.”

  Jonathan pressed his mike button. “Big Guy, bring out our guests, please. Boomer, help him.”

  “I’m doing this, but I’m not liking it,” Boxers said.

  “Ah, so there’s more than one,” Parks said. “So much the better.”

  “Don’t count those chickens just yet,” Jonathan said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think you heard,” Jonathan said. “And in a few seconds, I think you’ll understand.”

  Thirty seconds later, Dylan and Boxers arrived with their hog-tied cargo and laid the men on the ground. Jonathan pointed his rifle at them and thumbed the tactical light on the muzzle, bathing them in a beam that was brighter than bright.

  Karras squinted and looked away. Carrington was still trying to figure out if he was alive.

  “I’m going to try and pull a Solomon on you,” Jonathan said, “and split the baby. The one on the right is Carrington. That’s not his real name. In fact, we don’t know his real name, but I want to find that out. He’s mine. I’m keeping him. The other one’s name is Karras, and as far as I can tell, he’s supposed to be the boss, but he’s a big-ass coward when the going gets tough.”

  Parks scowled and moved in closer. He withdrew a MagLite from his belt and hit Karras with the beam. It must have been like staring into the sun.

  “His name’s not Karras,” Parks said.

  The hog-tied man writhed and tried to force his eyes open. “Watch yourself, Parks,” he said.

  “Why, Mr. Wainwright,” Parks said. “So you’re actually the one behind this?”

  “Wainwright?” Jonathan said. “The guy who owns everything in town? This whiny asshole is him?”

  “His son,” Parks said. “Now this should be interesting.”

  “You know you can’t win,” Karras—or whoever—said. “I’ve got more friends in this town than you will ever know. You’ll never win against me.”

  “I believe I can,” Parks said. To Jonathan, he added, “This is quite the gift. Fact is, he doesn’t get the difference between friends and people who are afraid of him. This thing is federal, anyway, if only because of the weapons involved.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. “Mr. W, you are so under arrest. I’ll figure out the charges later.”

  Karras let out a stream of curses, but Jonathan paid no attention. In the distance, the night swelled with the sound of approaching ambulances.

  “Okay, you can keep your guy,” Parks said. “This will be way more fun.”

  Boxers was already hefting Carrington and returning him to the Batmobile.

  “It’s probably time for you to get going,” Parks said. “Once the ambulances get here, it’s gonna be tough.” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a three-by-five index card. He handed it to Jonathan.

  “What’s this?”

  “Once I realized that both Scorpions are on the side of the angels, I took the liberty of jotting down these directions for you. They’ll get you off the mountain and onto the main roads without having to pass back through town. Be careful, though, it’s easy to get lost.”

  “You know I’ll verify these, right?” Jonathan said as he took the card.

  “Doesn’t surprise me a bit. In fact, it’s kind of a relief. I don’t want you around here any longer than necessary.”

  Jonathan extended his hand again. “Thanks, Officer Parks.”

  The cop shook his head. “Put that away. And don’t think for a minute that we are friends. Get out of here.”

  Jonathan was liking this guy more and more. He pressed his transmit button. “Okay, teams, let’s mount up.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Three weeks later

  Autumn in Virginia was a time of unparalleled splendor. Not all fall displays were created equal from year to year, though. Some years the trees were more vibrant than others—Jonathan understood it had something to with rainfall amounts, but he’d never researched it—and this was one of the winners. Just barely north of dawn—an unusual time for Jonathan—the hues of yellow and orange and red bled into the splendid blue of the newly bright sky. When you gave it the chance, life could be truly breathtaking.

  He sat alone on the porch of the lodge. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt, no shoes or socks, sipping coffee from a logo-less mug. In retrospect, the footwear decision was probably a mistake�
��it was just a touch too cold—but he was enjoying the peace too much to break it.

  Out in the field, directly in front, a small family of deer grazed about, as if to complete the picture of bucolic perfection. They wandered in the comfort of knowing that deer season wasn’t quite yet upon them. When the front door opened and Dom D’Angelo stepped out to join Jonathan, they didn’t even look up.

  “Now there’s a picture,” Dom said.

  “Yes, it is. Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  The priest—who looked distinctly unpriestly in a disheveled puffy gray sweat suit—helped himself to a rocker. “I enjoy peace and quiet as much as the next guy,” he said. “But this might take it to a new extreme. And you might consider a night-light in the guest room. I nearly peed in a closet at around four.”

  “If you didn’t drink so much beer, you wouldn’t have to pee so much.”

  “If I didn’t drink the beer, you wouldn’t invite me out,” Dom countered. “Are you considering ruining Bambi’s day?” He pointed to the rifle that rested against the railing.

  Jonathan pulled it toward him and picked it up. “This is my gift from Haynes Moncrief,” he said. “It arrived yesterday at the guard shack, and they brought it up this morning. It’s a beauty.”

  “Looks like a rifle to me,” Dom said.

  “Cretin. This is a Nosler M48. Eighteen hundred bucks.” He opened the bolt, and the deer took off at a run. “Did you see that?”

  “Evolution in action, I suppose,” Dom said. “And is this Haynes Moncrief the same one of late in the news?”

  “Indeed,” Jonathan said. He felt oddly sorry about scaring the deer. “It’s hard to prosecute so powerful a man when it became clear that not only was he defending himself from attack, but that the attack was part of a plan to overthrow the country.”