They'll Call It Treason

by Jordon Greene

  “Dante,” he tried, but the word barely came out. “You’re going to be fine, buddy!”

  “Ah…” Dante grunted in pain. “I got the mag.”

  Ethan forced a grin. Dante’s face was covered in soot. A bloodied gash ran down his cheek. Ethan kept his eyes locked on Dante’s, refusing to look at the fractured two by four inch board protruding out of his chest. Crimson streaks coated the white paint showing the path the board had travel before lodging in place.

  He reached down and found Dante’s hand and gripped it tight. Despite how hard he tried to hold them back, to remain strong for Dante, a few tears escaped his eyes. Ethan turned his head to wipe his tears and found Austin and Gray knelt beside him, just as distraught.

  “Hold on, Dante,” Ethan stuttered. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “You stay with us now,” Gray commanded his old friend, tears streaming down his face as he knelt down, gently placing a palm on Dante’s shoulder. “You’re going to be just fine. I need you to stay with me.”

  Ethan stared down into his friend’s glassy blue eyes. They were usually so jovial, watching for the next opportunity to slip in a goofy one-liner. Ethan had never seen fear in those eyes before, but now he did. His heart broke at the sight.

  “Just hold on, Dante. You’re going to be okay,” Ethan lied. He knew better. They both knew better.

  Slowly, Dante’s eyes moved sluggishly between his friends, finally settling on Gray.

  “You take care of Ethan,” Dante stuttered between ragged breathes. Gray nodded vigorously.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Gray pressed. “Ethan’s got you to take care of him.”

  His strength was evaporating. Dante lifted a shaky hand to Gray’s face, cupping his palm around the back of his neck.

  “It’s okay,” Dante smiled weakly and then let his head bob toward Ethan.

  It’s not supposed to be like this, Ethan thought. He looked into Dante’s eyes, trying to find the words to say. Can we move him? No.

  “Ma…Make that bastard…pay for what… he’s done,” Dante stuttered, blood escaping his mouth with each breath.

  Slowly his head lowered back onto the ground, letting his eyes settle on Gray as those sky blues went cold, staring out into the distance past Gray. His hand went slack around Ethan’s fingers, but Ethan refused to let go. For a moment no one said a word.

  “Dante?” Gray begged, reaching down and shaking his friend’s body. “Dante?” His eyes pleaded with his friend. “No. You can’t leave. Not like this!”

  Gray buried his face into Dante’s unmoving chest and let the tears moisten his burnt shirt. Gray’s body shook. His friend was gone.

  “Dante…” Ethan whispered. He knew there was nothing left to say, but it just seemed right to say his name one more time. With tears falling and no words to say, he placed a hand on Gray’s back.

  “We’ve got to move,” Ethan reminded them softly.

  Austin reached down and helped Ethan pull Gray to his feet. Gently urging Gray forward, they loaded into the Jeep. Ethan turned the ignition and listened to the engine roar to life. Looking down and closing his eyes, he tried to stem the tears.

  As he fought with his guilt, his belly grew hot with rage. Finally he raised his face. Ahead he could see the open driveway and a few chunks of debris that had shot out past the Jeep. All they could do was run, but not before making one last promise to Dante.

  We’ll make them pay. I promise.

  CHAPTER 44

  January 31 at 10:25 a.m. EST

  Washington, D.C. – FBI Headquarters

  Richard entered the control room, almost colliding with Doug Comer, one of the more recent additions to the team. His green eyes were fixed on his tablet, a good six inches below Richard’s jawline, as he turned into the hallway out of the control room with a flurry of apologies once he realized who he had nearly pummeled into. Richard shook his head with a fake grin and assured him it was fine before leaving Comer to his tablet again and entering the control room.

  Up on the main screen was displayed a large gray and white map. Richard zeroed in on the map as Aran joined him.

  “Sir, we have the Reaper drone inbound to the target.” Aran’s voice was even and cool, simply rolling out facts as they came. He pointed at the screen, drawing Richard's attention to a small white dot.

  The dot representing the drone moved along the map. It was surrounded by the dense mountain forest, covered in snow. Everything was white, or some shade of white, on the primary satellite imagery. Richard shifted his gaze to the left of the screen where another dot, this one yellow, signified their target.

  On the adjacent screen the video feed from the predator drone was streaming in. It captured a breath-taking bird's eye view as it sailed over the mountain. Despite the endless white coating, the drone’s feed gave them more detail with its high resolution cameras. Richard could make out the individual tree limbs, the winding streams that split the white in haphazard trails and the breaks in the tree cover revealing small fields and hills.

  “ETA?” Richard asked without looking away from the screen.

  “We’re looking at about two minutes, sir.”

  Two minutes. Two minutes and this is all done with.

  They watched intently as the white dot approached its target. As the drone closed the distance, the satellite view slowly zoomed in. Richard could now make out the geometric shape of a house in a small clearing between hundreds of trees.

  “Firing now, sir,” a short black man sitting at the station in front of Aran confirmed.

  A faint flash of light erupted from the drone and a streak flew across the screen straight toward the target. From the Reaper’s feed it was a more spectacular scene. The missile shot forward in a brilliant array of light and smoke, as it sought its target. Seconds later, a bright light blurred the screen, followed by huge plumes of dark smoke obscuring the area. And just like that, it was done.

  “I want confirmation of a direct hit,” Richard barked.

  Aran turned to the agent who had announced the Reaper’s successful missile launch. He nodded, “Confirmed, sir.”

  As he watched the drone’s feed, Richard spotted the cabin come into view―a smoldering mess of wood, flames and smoke against a white backdrop.

  “Good. Now let’s sweep up this mess and move on.” Glad to have this inconvenience out of the way, Richard patted Aran on the shoulder. “I want a team up there to clean up, ASAP.”

  “Already en route, sir.”

  “For the press, the official story is that the terrorists tampered with the house’s gas tank trying to get some heat and that led to an explosion,” Richard instructed him as he turned to leave. In reality, the explosion was a bit much to plausibly attribute to a gas leak, but it was the best cover story Richard could concoct at the moment, he knew Aran would fine tune the story to make it more believable. The house’s foreclosure and property records indicated a gas line, and gas explosions were always a risk factor, so he did not anticipate that his version of events would come under too much scrutiny. To be on the safe side, there would be a few experts on hand to legitimize the story. “Of course, give some time for the local authorities to arrive first.”

  He could always count on Aran to be one step ahead. His second-in-command had learned his tactics well over the past two years, and strove to emulate them―even when he did not exactly agree with them. Now that the clean-up team was on its way, Richard could put all of this business behind him and focus on the upcoming State of the Union Address.

  Threats to the President’s life were always more numerous in the weeks leading up to the State of the Union, but this year they had increased significantly. The President had won his re-election in November handily, but some of the more extreme groups, mostly violent environmentalists and foreign sympathizers, had been clear about their desire to see the President out of the way. The environmentalist saw his win as a danger to their hard fought wins for climate change rule both
domestic and abroad, and they were probably right. The foreigners, well they were foreigners. There was always something.

  “Director!”

  Richard had almost reached his office when he heard Aran call out behind him. He stopped in his tracks and turned expectantly. Aran was standing just outside the control room door. His expression read defeat.

  “Yes?”

  “Unfortunately,” Aran’s head twitched downward and then back at the Director, “the group was not all inside. It seems that three of the targets escaped. We do have one confirmed down, though.”

  “Dammit!” Unconsciously, Richard raked a hand through his hair and turned his back in anger. If it’s not one damn thing it’s another. He shook his head and faced Aran.

  “Well? Are you tracking them?”

  “Yes, sir. But we are going to lose them soon.” Aran shored up his fortitude even though he knew the Director would likely blame him for this. “At their current northerly direction we will lose them on our satellite feed in approximately fifteen minutes.”

  “What about the drone? Turn it around and have it track them.”

  “We can’t sir, it doesn’t have the fuel to maintain purs—”

  “Dammit, Aran!” Richard released his frustration. How did his people continue to remain one step behind at every juncture? This had to stop.

  “Now we have to change the story,” Richard said, looking down the hall with his brow crinkled. “Okay, initially we’ll speculate it was a gas leak, they were tampering with the tank, trying to get some heat. Slowly we’ll feed the media intel that suggests the survivors intentionally blew the house to kill Dante.”

  He paused for a moment to think out his scenario. Aran stood by intently.

  “We’ll claim that Agent Mercer was feeding us intel and they found out.”

  “But that’ll portray Agent Mercer as an ally of the FBI,” Aran questioned.

  “One concession to keep everyone off of our backs,” Richard explained. “Now get a team on their trail like it was yesterday and get another drone up ASAP―maybe we can get there before we lose them. We cannot lose them!”

  CHAPTER 45

  January 31 at 11:35a.m. EST

  Fleetwood, NC

  Sean watched the dark smoke billow into the clear winter sky just above the tree line. The remains of the house were only a few more miles up the road.

  Sean savored the warmth from the Benz’s vents and leather seat warmers. Outside, the wind still whipped fiercely at below freezing temperatures, sending the distant plumes of smoke careening in haphazard patterns.

  Some ten yards ahead, Sean spotted a brown and white local patrol car turn off onto a side road. Sean closed the distance and pulled off the main road onto the same gravel drive. The smell of smoke and burning wood permeated the car as he bumped along the uneven road and out into a clearing. A huge column of smoke bore witness to the house that had once stood intact―now a pit of smoldering ash and wood.

  There’s hardly anything left of it.

  Beyond the smoke, the only indication that a structure used to stand here were the piles of scattered debris and what was left of the foundation. Hardly a board was left standing in place.

  Just north of where the front wall used to stand, the crews of two fire trucks were hard at work putting out the flames. Water gushed from the long white hoses, extinguishing the inferno one section at a time.

  Sean had parked the Benz next to an EMS van and three Ashe County Sheriff patrol cars. Sean eyed the four uniformed men―deputies, he surmised―walking through the debris. One of them was a younger man, small but firm. The other three looked to be near retirement. A big belly hung over the belt of the largest and eldest of the three.

  As hoped, he had already attracted the attention of the men. The younger deputy was high stepping toward him through the debris, a questioning expression across his face.

  Sean stepped out of the car, grinning affably at the younger deputy as he walked up.

  “Good morning, Deputy,” Sean greeted him.

  “This here’s a crime scene,“ the deputy replied, a moment of hesitation combined with an evident mountain drawl in his tenor voice. “You’re going to have to turn around, Mister.”

  Sean let him finish before pulling out his badge and flashing the large letters, F.B.I., and service photo. The look on the deputy’s face changed from one of slight irritation to confusion.

  “Special Agent Sean Abrams, FBI.” Sean repeated the intro as he had a hundred times before.

  “Oh…” the deputy stuttered, as if he were unsure how to interact with a federal agent. “I’m Deputy Joseph Wright.” He extended his hand and gave Sean's a firm shake.

  “I assume you’re here about the agent we found in the debris,” Deputy Wright said.

  “Yes, that would be correct,” Sean confirmed. “Where is the body?”

  The deputy turned and pointed toward the EMS van. “He’s over there. He was one of those agents the news was talking about, wasn’t he? Went rogue or something, right?”

  Sean paused briefly to calculate the best response. He refocused his attention on the deputy.

  “That's correct. Unfortunately, Agent Mercer got himself involved with the wrong crowd. He was aiding and abetting the agent involved in the shooting of a US congressman,” Sean explained.

  They had been walking as they talked, and had now arrived at the EMS van. Its back doors were open. On a metal gurney within lay a lifeless body draped in a white cloth. Sean stepped up into the van, crouching to avoid bumping his head against the ceiling. He pulled the cover back to verify the target, revealing Agent Mercer’s face covered in a thick layer of soot.

  “Cause of death?” Sean asked without looking away from Agent Mercer’s lifeless face.

  This will be you soon, Ethan.

  Deputy Wright jumped into the back of the van and walked around the gurney. He paused for a second, his nerves not yet inured to the sight of the mutilated dead. Reluctantly, he pulled the white sheet back a few inches to expose a piece of wood jutting out of Agent Mercer’s chest.

  “So far we are pretty sure this was the main cause, probably internal bleeding,” the deputy explained. “He also has some extensive burns to his back, and as you can see, lacerations to the face.”

  Sean nodded to the deputy and jumped down from the EMS van. He looked toward the remains of the house.

  “You got any idea what caused the house to catch fire?” the deputy asked from behind as he jumped down from the van. “It’s odd― it looks like it exploded.”

  “It’s possible,” Sean explained. “These men were ready. Who knows what supplies they had with them? The house also had a gas tank out back, I believe.”

  “But why would they kill one of their own?” the deputy asked, confused.

  Sean turned and met Wright’s eyes, making sure that whatever he said next held more weight.

  “These treasonous bastards turned on their own country. Why not each other? Seems to me that Agent Mercer outlived his usefulness for them,” Sean explained. He looked back to the dwindling flames.

  “That’s cold,” Wright said, his voice disgusted.

  Sean shrugged in agreement, “Do you have any idea where the others may have headed? All we know is they headed north in a red Jeep. We lost them shortly up the road.”

  “No, sir,” Deputy Wright confessed. “We didn’t know what we had until we found your agent in the debris.”

  Damn hillbillies, Sean thought.

  “If you can spare it, I’d recommend you have some extra patrols cover any towns on the main road north of here,” Sean explained. “Any help to apprehend these men would be appreciated.”

  “We’ve set up a check point north of town, but I’ll see what else I can do,” Deputy Wright said as he nodded and sprinted off to his patrol car.

  When the deputy had gone, Sean ambled toward the field of debris. As he negotiated a winding path through the rubble, he could feel the warmth radiating
from the wood and bricks scattering the ground. It was intense enough to penetrate his jacket through the frigid wind.

  Sean noted the yellow marker indicating the location where Agent Mercer’s body had been found. He strolled over, his eyes never straying from the blood-splotched grass, while using his peripheral vision to keep tabs on the deputy that was patrolling the area just to his right.

  Sean bent down to examine the ground, imagining Mercer lying on the ground in agony before breathing his last breath. Pathetic. Hate I missed it. I would have loved to see Ethan’s face.

  His pocket vibrated and then emitted a muffled ring. He stood and removed his phone, checking the screen. The Council. Sean took in a deep breath and accepted the call.

  “You continue to fail us, Mr. Abrams.” The distorted voice was icy.

  Sean took a quick look around him before answering. The deputies were all out of ear shot, but he took a few steps toward the tree-lined perimeter just in case.

  How had he failed them? Did they already know the others had escaped?

  “I’m sorry, sir. I have done what I can with the information available,” Sean began. It was better to go with the truth. They would find out in the end anyway; they always did. “Their team is dwindling, and I’m sure their resolve is as well.”

  “You need to clean this up. We cannot have this going on for weeks.” The voice spoke more rapidly than usual, its synthetic tone terse and choppy.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Use whatever methods necessary. Then clean it up.”

  Abruptly the line went dead. Sean released a breath he had not realized he was holding.

  Use whatever methods necessary. The words kept running through his head. They sounded almost desperate. Was the Council really worried by this rag tag team of rebels? Surely not. They were ruthless. Their reach was undefined, unknown even to its members.