Reaper

by Buckhout, Craig

  Calhoun stood there for a couple of seconds as if he was trying to decide something, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Okay, we’re looking for a place we can keep a couple hundred prisoners until they can be moved to a more secure location. We took them into custody during yesterday’s unlawful assembly.”

  Frank, from the back of the crowd said, “You mean a couple hundred American citizens exercising their right to assemble and speak, not a couple hundred terrorists, correct?”

  “Make no mistake about it, these people broke the law.”

  Max raised his hand to cut off any further comments from the residents behind him. That slight movement, once again, created enough pain to cause him to suck a breath. As the pain began to subside, he quietly said, “It’s not going to happen, ever.”

  Calhoun raised his eyebrows, crossed his arms on his chest, “Ever?”

  “That’s right. You’ll have to find some other place.”

  Calhoun’s eyes looked at the crowd and then beyond them to the building. “You know, if we wanted to, we could take it from you.”

  “That’s not going to happen either,” Max said, but as he said those words he was thinking, yeah, you probably can.

  “Okay, Max Calloway, the guy who says who comes in and who doesn’t, or whoever the fuck you are, we might or might not be back. But either way, I’ll remember you and the others.” His eyes rested briefly on Maureen, Walt, and Frank. “We’re going to be around for a long time. I think you better get used to it and become, shall we say, more cooperative.”

  At that, he turned around, twirled his index finger in a circle, and said, “Okay, mount up and move to the next location.”

  When they were out of earshot, Steve asked, “You don’t think they’ll try anything, do you?”

  “I don’t think so, at least as long as there is even a pretense of, ‘we the people.’ But then again, who would have ever dreamed all that’s happened so far. So maybe just in case the lunatics do escape the asylum, we should continue to prepare.”

  Max waved Maureen, Will and Walt over.

  “Let’s call a meeting of all sworn and non-sworn working security. We have to tighten-up our procedures. I don’t want everyone grouping up at the gate like this again. One person will approach and make contact, while the others hold back behind the barriers. When they’re making their rounds checking the perimeter fence, one stays in place behind cover, while the other walks. And as soon as we have more people trained to use firearms, I’d like someone with a good scoped rifle up on the roof. We’ve got three or four hunting rifles in the arms room we can use and a couple of the AR’s have optics as well, so we should be able to work something out.”

  “I got just the thing for that,” Steve said with a smile.

  “I won’t ask,” Max said. Then he got more serious. “Look, we just can’t afford to ignore what’s going on. What’s happened to us so far is only a fraction of what’s happening around the city. God knows what’s going on in the rest of the country.”

  “You can say that again,” Walt commented. “Narco came into briefing the other night and said that the Mexican drug cartels are actually taking over small towns in the central valley and are supposedly organizing some of the street gangs right here in San Jose.”

  “It’s crazy out there Max,” Maureen added. “We can’t keep up with it. We’ve got things happening that would normally be major deals, but they’re only getting a two-car response and a report filed, if that. Hardly anyone is working investigations anymore. Almost everybody is in uniform responding to calls. There are officer-involved shootings every single night.”

  “How’d all this happen anyway?” Walt asked.

  “I don’t know, man,” Max said. “I think it’s always been there just below the surface. But now, we’ve had these attacks that just seem to keep going on and on, which is making people afraid, killing the economy, and creating the impression there’s no law and order. Then we have a government that changes all the rules we thought were cast in stone, giving the impression there are no rules, and maybe never have been. It’s just a big mess.”

  Steve said, “I don’t know about all that, but I do know that we’ve got good people,” he pointed toward the building, “and we’ve got assholes,” he pointed outside the gate. “So we protect the good people and shoot the assholes …ah, only if necessary, and only when all other reasonable means have failed, of course.”

  “Of course,” Maureen said.

  “How about some razor wire?” Will said. “We’ve got some at the yard. And if I can get my hands on something like a front-loader, maybe we can rig up a vehicle of some kind with steel plating to give the people on the outside some protection. The Israeli’s use ‘em. Saw a video on one at a trade show.”

  “Perfect,” Max said. “If you need bodies to help with that, let Jessica know. Okay everyone, let’s meet tonight at twenty-one hundred hours in the briefing room to go over some safety procedures. Ideas are welcome.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  June 24th

  Max lay naked, face down on the blow-up mattress. Myra, also nude, sat astride the small of his back, a knee and thigh squeezed tight on either side, her toes pointed, her full weight pinning him down. The heat and moisture from her body seeped through his skin, inside, deep, radiating out, kindling his desire for her once more.

  But more than just that passed from her to him. He got her, all of her, not just the part that brought him to satisfaction, but every bit of who she was; serious and demanding and pushy. But she was also playful, and needy, and flexible, and incredibly passionate. He felt these things about her and knew them as sure as he knew the softness of her breasts and the smell of her body at love.

  The night before, they made love, slow, easy, him on top because of his injury. And afterward they talked a bit, kissed, touched, and fell into a deep sleep. He awoke, though, having rolled onto his back. And before he drifted off again, he lay there staring at her, studying the lines of her face and body, listening to the steady cadence of her breathing, and trying to imagine what future they might have together.

  Max reached down with both hands and stroked her lower legs, thinking how unpredictable life was. Here, their city, their country, the entire western world, was going through something that seemed to threaten their very way of life and, despite all that, or more accurately, because of all that, he’d found Myra. Amazing.

  She slid off his back, slapped him on the ass, threw the tape and gauze across the room onto her medical bag, and said, “There, now try not to move around so much today. Give things a chance to heal up.”

  He rolled over onto his good shoulder so he could see her. He liked seeing her, especially like this. “That’s it? I mean, you know ….” He reached out and stroked her inner thigh, running the blade of his hand all the way up.

  She smiled, arched her eyebrows, “Hmm. Depends. How hard do you want to work for it?” She moved to the head of the bed, sat, threw one leg over his head and shoulders, laid back against the wall, and scooted down flat so her hips were even with his head.

  Afterward, he was back on his side, running his fingers lightly over her body, still moist from their lovemaking. “I say we just stay in bed the rest of the day.”

  “No can do, buster.” She picked up her watch from the cardboard box nightstand. “I have a delivery scheduled in about an hour and after that, office hours in the infirmary. I have just enough time to shower, grab something to eat, and get out to the front gate.”

  “Delivery? What kind of delivery?”

  “Supplies. Amisha got us some free goodies. That kid Ben, the one you and Steve call Blogger; well your friends at Homeland Security not only beat the holy crap out of him, they denied him adequate fluids. When we got him, he was way dehydrated. That’s part of the reason he sounded so confused about things. So anyway, we had to run an IV to get him back to where he should be. That got us to talking about what would happen if we had, say, a bout of food pois
oning or a bad case of the flu went around.”

  “I wouldn’t mention food poisoning around Frank if I were you.”

  She laughed. “I mean we’ve been operating with just what I have from work and a few things Amisha borrowed. So she came across this notice of bunches of stuff the Army is just giving away because of our pulling out of Afghanistan and other places, and she jumped on it. Sooo …” she leaned over and kissed him, “As much as I’d love to spend the day in bed with you, I can’t. Tonight, though, tonight will be my turn to work for it.”

  “Oh, I like that deal.”

  Max spent most the rest of the day, despite the wound to his back and Myra’s admonition to take it easy, helping to string razor wire along the top of the chain link fence surrounding the ten-acre compound. He also took a couple of one-hour tours on the security detail so those assigned could have a lunch break. They were running thin because Steve was putting several people through a firearms class. Additionally, he handled a couple of minor disputes between residents, and gave Will the go-ahead to offer shelter to a Public Works employee who was a skilled welder and not so bad of a machinist either, in exchange for his home machinery and a promise to armor a front loader when they got one.

  About 4 PM, Fran, who was still on crutches from her injuries at Oakridge Mall, but filling a slot in the communications room, let Max know the computers were down, and it appeared to not just affect the city system, but all systems. This was followed two hours later by another power outage of unknown size or cause.

  At about 7 PM, Max was having a cup of coffee and imagining just exactly what Myra was going to do to him as part of her turn, when Jessica approached at a march.

  “Max, we got a problem,” she said.

  Ah crap. “What kind of a problem?” he asked.

  “We’ve got some missing residents. They left to pick up some things at their house and never came back.”

  “How do we know they aren’t just getting something to eat or maybe had car trouble?”

  He really didn’t want to do this. He just wanted to finish his coffee, shower, and enjoy some nice, not so quiet time with Myra.

  “Well, for one thing, they left their fourteen year-old daughter behind, promising to return. She’s tried them on their cell phones and no answer. For another thing, the mom missed her turn in the day care center, and the father was supposed to do clean-up after dinner, but didn’t show for that either.”

  “Ah, they probably just lost track of time. Let’s go have a talk with their daughter.”

  As they were walking, he asked, “How’d the class go today?”

  “I out-shot the men,” she whispered with a big grin on her face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Max, Myra, Steve, and Rich Martinez, Jessica’s police officer husband, took Rich’s Chevy Blazer in search of the missing Briones family.

  In speaking with their daughter, Max learned her parents had promised to return before noon. They were only going to check on their house, water the lawn and garden, and retrieve a few items for their dog. After that, they’d return. They left about 9 AM.

  Max checked the log at the front gate and sure enough, the Briones signed out at 0908 hours and hadn’t returned. It briefly crossed Max’s mind that it wasn’t his responsibility to go look for them. They made a decision to leave, and if something bad happened, well, that was on them. His job was to protect the people behind the gate. But on the other hand, they had put themselves in his care and their daughter was still in-residence. Wasn’t it reasonable to expect people to leave for a few hours to get personal items and check on their property? Besides, if he didn’t have a responsibility to the parents, he certainly had a responsibility to the daughter. And who else was going to look for them?

  So he got their vehicle description and photos from the form they filled out when they moved in. Good old Jessica and her thoroughness, Max thought.

  This time out, all three men were armed with either a carbine or shotgun, in addition to their side arms. It was also closing in on dusk, so they equipped themselves with flashlights as well.

  On the short drive to the freeway on-ramp, Steve, who was in the front passenger seat, shot his arm out the window and said, “You don’t see that every day.”

  Everyone looked to where he was pointing and saw a man carrying groceries from his car to his house. He was also carrying a revolver in a belt holster, a sight Max had never, ever seen before in San Jose. A couple of weeks ago, if you were to do something like that, you’d have ten people calling the cops on your ass. In the old days was a phrase that came to Max’s mind. Were those the old days? It was sure starting to look that way.

  They took highway 85, transitioned to highway 87, and exited at San Carlos/Auzerais. From there, they made their way to Bird Avenue, and drove south to Riverside Drive.

  The Briones home was half a block down on the left. The door had been kicked in. The good news was their car wasn’t out front. Maybe they were okay after all, Max thought.

  Max sent Rich around back and gave him a couple of minutes to get set up.

  Rich was a few years older than Jessica, so maybe in his late thirties, had thick curly hair, a bushy moustache, and a black ink Marine Corps tattoo on his left forearm.

  Just as Max and Steve were about to make entry through the front, he heard Rich shout, “One down inside!”

  “Shit!” Max said. “Okay, okay, let’s do it. San Jose Police, we’re coming in!”

  Except for the far corner of the front wall, the floor in front of the couch, and the area behind an upholstered chair, they could see the living room was unoccupied. Max, with his carbine slung, Glock in hand, rolled in and cleared the corner, while Steve entered and kept his shotgun pointed toward the other blind spots. Max then pied his way, a slice at a time, until the other places of possible concealment were revealed enough to know they were clear, too. And so it went, from the living room, to the hallway, to the first bedroom, the hallway bath, the second bedroom, and the master bedroom and bath. They next went on to the kitchen and dining area, which is where they found Mr. Briones. He had been shot twice; once in the back and once in the head. The house had been thoroughly ransacked.

  Max shouted to Rich, letting him know they were coming out the back door.

  Once they were out there, Rich and Steve checked the detached garage, finding it empty, while Max went out front to make sure Myra was safe. They then all gathered back inside.

  “Awe, no,” Myra said, when she entered the kitchen. “His poor daughter.”

  “Think the mom is still alive?” Rich asked.

  “I don’t know, man. It sure doesn’t look good,” Max said.

  “What do you want to do?” Steve asked.

  “Well he’s not going anywhere, that’s for sure, so let’s take a few cell phone photos, make a couple of notes, and call it in. It may take a couple of hours, but on-duty people can take it from here.” As an afterthought he added, “Before we leave, maybe we can also knock on a few doors.”

  Rich called it in to dispatch while Steve and Max checked the houses next door and across the street. People were home in at least three of them but apparently refused to come to the door. Maybe uniformed officers would have better luck, Max thought.

  They climbed back into Rich’s Blazer and started on their way back to the substation. They followed Riverside back around until it connected with Bird Avenue again and turned north. Rich’s intention was to pick up Highway 680 to Highway 101 south.

  As they passed Fuller, Max looked to his right and shouted, “Stop, stop, pullover! There’s the car!”

  As Rich pulled to the curb, Max added, “Swing it around and drive down Fuller. I think it’s parked two or three houses down.”

  Rich did as directed, driving past a small, single-story, wood-sided home, with a three-foot chain link fence surrounding a front yard of mostly dirt and weeds. There was a junked refrigerator next to the driveway, as well as a rusty car transmission, also with
weeds growing around it. In the driveway was a blue Sonata bearing a license plate matching the car belonging to the Briones. In front of it was parked a faded red Honda Accord.

  Rich continued down the street, made a U-turn at the end of the block, returned toward the house, and parked three addresses away.

  Want me to call it in?” Rich asked.

  “I suppose we ought to try. See if you can get an ETA from the dispatcher,” Max said.

  When Rich disconnected, he said, “They couldn’t give me an ETA. The nearest unit in service is on the far west side. Everyone else is out on calls. I don’t think we ought to wait. What if she’s in there being hurt or worse, while we’re out here sitting on our asses?”

  Max looked at Steve, who tilted his head slightly to one side, “He’s got a point.”

  His eyes shifted to Myra. He couldn’t take her into the house, it was just too dangerous. He also didn’t want to leave her outside alone; that had its own set of risks.

  “You looking for my vote?” she asked.

  “No, I’m trying to decide what to do with you.”

  “Do with me? I’ll be fine right here.”

  “Don’t like it.” At that he drew his Glock and handed it to her. “All you do is keep both hands on the grip, hold on tight, point, and pull the trigger.”

  They left Myra one house away on the street-side of a car parked at the curb. As before, Rich went to the back corner of the house where he could see two sides, and Max and Steve went to the front door.

  Max stood to the side of the door with his carbine at the low ready position, while Steve covered the front windows with his Remington 12 gauge pump. Max quietly tried the knob and found it unlocked, pushed the door open an inch, re-gripped his rifle with both hands, switched on the mounted light, faced the door, and toed it hard.

  The door swung open and impacted the wall, bouncing part way back, stopping against Max’s shoulder as he stepped through and brought his weapon up. The timing couldn’t have been any better. A twenty something Hispanic male was just entering the front room from the kitchen with a beer in one hand, a bag of chips in the other, and an expression of total shock plastered across his face.