Of Patriots and Tyrants

by Alex Ander

  Hardy: “Overwatch, this is Shepherd. You’re cleared to go hot. Take them out. I repeat, take them out.”

  … … … … …

  Positioned among the shrubs along the slope, Pence closed an eye and peered through the night vision scope, an ATN ARES secured to his CMMG MK4LE rifle. He located the man in the backside tower before finding the second man in the second tower. Each target was shrouded in a green hue.

  Centering the first man in the scope, he let out half a breath and held the rest. His forefinger eased back the trigger. One 300 AAC Blackout round zipped down the barrel and through a Sig Sauer SRD762TI sound suppressor. The figure in the crosshairs fell. Pence swung the CMMG right, repeated the process and watched a similar movie play out through the scope. “Shepherd, this is Overwatch. You’re clear to move out.” Pence slung the rifle, drew a Glock 19 and ran. “I’m on my way to the main gate—over.”

  … … … … …

  Pence: “I’m on my way to the main gate—over.”

  Hidden in the shrubs, ten feet from the wall, and dressed in black tactical clothing and boots, faces painted to match, Hardy and Cruz—her long hair tucked under a black stocking hat—knelt. Hardy withdrew a three-foot and six-foot tube from a canvas duffle. “Here,” he gave Cruz the shorter section along with a grappling hook, while he kept the longer piece, a round canister and a backpack. “Let’s go.”

  Taking a knee at the base of the wall, Hardy assembled the pieces of the VerTactical ascending pole and activated the system. Compressed air forced upward several telescopic sections. Seconds later, he eased the grappling hook into one of the battlement’s crenels. Come on, baby. Be long enough. Castle walls were several feet thick. Battlements were measured in inches. Hardy had chosen the longer sixteen-inch grappling hook.

  He lowered the claw, removed the pole and tugged on the ascending ladder several times. “It’s holding.” After putting on a pair of advanced four-tube night vision goggles, he shrugged into the backpack, slung his sound-suppressed 9mm MP5 and tapped his ear. “You copy, Cruz?”

  Her thumb went up. “Loud and clear.”

  He grabbed a ladder rung and stuck a boot into another.

  Squatting, her back to the stone—MP5 shouldered—Cruz rose up and patted his butt twice, “Watch yourself up there,” before dropping back to her haunches, her head pivoting back and forth. The NVG’s made the night seem like day along the wall. “I’ve got your backside down here.”

  “Thanks,” his boot finding the next foothold, he clutched a rung and hoisted his body higher. “I’ll return the favor in a minute.”

  Hardy reached the top of the wall, squeezed sideways between two merlons and dropped onto the wall walk. After scanning the walkway in both directions, he crawled to the other side and peered over the edge; the left side of the courtyard was empty. He looked right and found two men standing guard near three limousines. Beyond the vehicles, he saw a sliver of Pence near the main gate.

  Hardy crawled back and double-checked the grappling hook. “I’m in position. Ladder’s secure. Your turn, Cruz.” Covering his teammate, he stuck his rifle into the crenel and swung the weapon left and right, just as an archer would have done hundreds of years ago.

  Cruz slung the MP5 behind her back. Mimicking Hardy—handhold after handhold, foothold after foothold—she ascended. Reaching the top of the wall, she grabbed her man’s outstretched hand, flopped over a crenel and readied her rifle, breathing hard.

  Hardy squatted next to her. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she let out a puff of air. “It’s been ten years since I,” she sucked in more oxygen, “climbed a rope.” She exhaled. “I’ve done it twice now in the last forty-eight hours.”

  He curled up one side of his mouth, looked away and came back to her. “You good to go?”

  She nodded and flashed a thumb skyward.

  “Stay low and follow me.” Crouching, the two hurried along the wall walk.

  … … … … …

  Having received a grand tour of the castle from Wells, Dahlia cleared two upper floors with no resistance. Coming to the ground floor level, she heard muffled voices. Standing at an archway that led to a huge room, back to the wall, she leaned out and pivoted, expecting to find the source. The room was empty. She glanced at the walls of stone. Every little noise is thrown off in here.

  After a glimpse behind her, she crossed the archway, sneaked down a hall, cleared a room and came to a second. The volume on the voices had grown. Heading in the right direction. Back to the wall, one foot crossing over the other, she sidestepped. She stopped at the doorway. With a heavy German accent, a man and a woman conversed in English.

  Man: “Come on. It’ll be fun. You know you want to.”

  Woman: “Just because I want to, doesn’t mean we should. What if someone comes in and catches us?”

  “We’re all alone. What’s his face is upstairs with some slut, and his men are spread out all over the place.”

  Gripping the Walther tighter, Dahlia stiffened. Slut? She spied her slinky dress. I think I look pretty classy, thank you very much.

  Man: “No one is going to think to come in here. Come on. Let’s have a little fun.”

  Dahlia heard a gentle slap, skin-on-skin, and a giggle.

  Woman: “Stop it. We can’t do it here.”

  “Of course we can.”

  Hearing smacking lips and low moans, Dahlia rolled her eyes. And he says I’m the slut.

  Woman: “At least—o-oh—shut,” —more kissing— “the door.”

  Footsteps drew nearer. Dahlia’s muscles tensed. An appendage appeared from the room. Before the hand could reach the doorknob, she charged forward, grabbing the man by the throat and driving him backward into the wall, pistol to his forehead. Fixing the woman with a steely glare, Dahlia pushed the muzzle harder into the man’s skull. To the twenty something, tall and lanky blonde-haired woman, wearing an old-fashioned maid’s uniform—now disheveled: “You scream,” she bobbed her head, “Player here dies. What’s it going to be?”

  Maid shut her mouth and cowered, stepping backward, until she bumped into a counter. Her hands shot upward. “Please don’t hurt us. We don’t know anything. Take what you want. We won’t tell anyone.”

  Backing up, gun leveled at the man, Dahlia closed the door. She gestured with the PPQ 22. “Both of you on the floor…now!” The duo complied. “Back to back…interlock your arms…cross your ankles.” She lowered the weapon. “If you uncross your legs, I’ll kill you.” Faces paled. “Do you understand me?” The couple nodded. “Good. Now tell me. How many men are on the premises?”

  … … … … …

  Dahlia stood. “Are you sure?” Having secured her prisoners at the ankles, interlocked elbows and wrists with strapping tape she had found in a cabinet, she peeled off two long strips and threw the roll onto the counter.

  Player and Maid nodded their heads.

  Dahlia bent over and stretched tape over Maid’s mouth before coming to Player and staring at him. “Last chance.”

  “That’s all we saw. I swea—”

  Dahlia slapped the adhesive over his mouth. “Because if you’re lying to me,” she looked around, “you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll come back. And when I do,” she paused for effect, “I won’t be as nice and pleasant as I am right now.”

  She walked to the door and stopped. Pivoting and squinting at Player, she shifted her weight to one heel, put a hand on her hip and ran the other down the length of her body. “Do you really think I look slutty?”

  The man’s brows came together.

  She waved a hand, “Forget it,” and tapped her earpiece. “All teams, this is Phoenix. Be advised. We have a total OpFor of twelve on site. I repeat…enemy contingent is at twelve. I’ve eliminated two. Integrity of intel,” she eyed Player and Maid, “is eighty-five percent—over.”

  Pence: “This is Overwatch. I took down two.”

  Hardy: “Copy that. Shepherd and Cruz have stormed the
castle walls. We have eyes on two, still upright. That leaves six hostiles unaccounted for. Keep your eyes open everyone—Shepherd out.”

  Dahlia closed the door behind her and headed for the other half of the ground floor. She cleared the area in three minutes. Her mind recalling Wells’ tour, she backtracked toward the kitchen. That leaves only one area left...she slipped through the narrow archway that led to basement steps…the wine cellar. Pulling up short at the top of the staircase, she removed her heels, laid them on the landing and crept down the stairs.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 31: Game On

  “Copy that. Shepherd and Cruz have stormed the castle walls…” Inwardly, Hardy grinned from ear to ear. That just sounds so cool. “We have eyes on two, still upright. That leaves six hostiles unaccounted for. Keep your eyes open everyone—Shepherd out.”

  Staying in the shadows near the base of the wall, Hardy and Cruz crept toward three limousines that faced the gate. Two baldheads came into view. Hardy’s left fist went up, while he sat on his haunches. Behind him, Cruz followed suit. He cranked his head around, held up two fingers, pointed at his eyes and gestured in the direction of the Baldies.

  She nodded.

  Hardy issued several hand signals. When she nodded again, he made a chopping motion to the left, and his teammate—crouching low—darted for the rear of the last luxury vehicle. Rising to a squatting position, Hardy spied the men. Conversing over the hood of the lead limousine, Baldy 1 was on the opposite side and Baldy 2 was on the near side.

  Hardy duck walked along the wall to get a better angle on Baldy 1. Raising his rifle, he held up three fingers at Cruz. Two fingers. One finger. A flash of light over Cruz’s shoulder caught his attention. He sliced fingers across his throat and pumped a hand toward the ground. A red glowing dot near the far wall intensified before dropping a few feet and rising again a few seconds later.

  Hardy glimpsed Baldy 2 and went back to the red dot. Damn it. He duck walked back to his original position and risked a communication, his voice barely a whisper. “Cruz, there’s a hostile at your eight o’clock…behind that abutment…look for a glowing ember.”

  Facing the back bumper, Cruz looked to her left and saw the dot, and a hand, moving up and down. A moment later, the owner emerged, walking straight toward her.

  Pence: “Cruz, you’ve got two bogeys heading for your position. I can take them. Shepherd, please advise.”

  Hardy saw what Pence was seeing; Baldy 2 had joined Baldy 1, and both were walking toward the last vehicle, and Cruz. The third man flicked his cigarette and tipped his head back at the other two. The two party’s current trajectory put them on course to intersect at Cruz’s location. Son-of-a—

  Pence: “Losing the angle…awaiting orders.”

  “Hold fire, Overwatch. Open up on my order.”

  “Copy that.”

  Hardy looked toward the rear limousine. Cruz was gone. What the… He scanned left before spotting her—on her back, under the car—inching along like a mechanic on a creeper.

  The three men met at the left corner of the back bumper, a few feet from the female operative, their hands shoved deep into woolen overcoat pockets. German words spewed into the cold night air, while clouds of expelled breaths rose a short ways above their heads and disappeared.

  … … … … …

  At the bottom of the steps, Dahlia glanced left and right. Rows and rows of wine bottles were setup on narrow shelving units on both sides. From her vantage point, she could have been standing in a library. She cocked an ear to the left. Laughter. Several people. Men. Firearm straight out in front of her, she went down one row on the right side of the staircase, cut across and cleared the right half of the cellar before heading for the voices.

  Dahlia started down the first row on the left. Her bare feet made zero noise on the frigid concrete. She shivered, her shoulders shaking back and forth a couple times. She rounded the corner—a wall to her left—and made her way to a doorway beyond the last storage unit. The noise level grew. A round of boisterous laughter erupted, and she stopped, her pulse racing. She rose up on the balls of her feet, giving her heels a break from the cold. A barrage of German came from the room. The only words Dahlia understood were ‘more wine.’

  She backed up and made herself small in the corner, aiming the pistol at the spot where the first man would become visible. She glanced at her suppressed 22 rimfire. Nice for planned kill shots, but lousy in a full-on gunfight. Her mind went to the 9mm Glock sandwiched between her thighs. Noisy. Let’s hope—a man crossed her vision.

  The big German shuffled down the row furthest away from Dahlia, his head twisting, his eyes scanning the bottles, his finger running along the shelves. He came to the end of the row and started up the second, heading toward her. If he turned left, he would force her hand, her trigger finger.

  Both hands on the Walther, she raised the gun higher, estimating where his head would be. The low whistling stopped, replaced by the sound of bottles being slid out and returned. Come on, Herman. Just pick one already. In a few minutes, it won’t matter anyways.

  Herman read a label, smiled and went back to whistling. He ambled to the end of the row and made a slow turn, engrossed in the wine’s label. Had he turned his head a few degrees left, or shifted his eyes in the same direction, he would have died instantly. He picked up his pace and joined his comrades to shouts of applause.

  Dahlia let out the breath she had held for the last thirty seconds. Her lungs were on fire. Her feet were frozen. She stood. Time to end this before I get hypothermia. She plodded forward, stopping at the doorway to ready her muscles and mind for the job at hand. Her hands gripped the Walther. Clean headshots. Clean headshots.

  … … … … …

  Heart thumping, temples throbbing, Cruz lay motionless on her back, hands gripping the MP5 on her chest, the limousine’s differential a couple inches from her nose. She eyed the MP5’s muzzle. How am I going to get this into the action? I can barely move. The car rocked, and she rolled her eyes; the backs of combat boots, crossed at the ankle, were planted next to the tire. German words and laughter boomed. A welcome and soothing voice, Hardy’s voice, resonated in her ear.

  … … … … …

  “Stay calm, Cruz. They have no idea you’re there.” Hardy opened both eyes, got a fix on a second target, closed one eye and found him in the red dot scope. “I have two in my sights. Overwatch, give me a sitrep.”

  Pence: “I got eyes on the one leaning against the vehicle.”

  “Negative. He’s mine. Take the one across from him.”

  “That’ll compromise my position. Please advise, Shepherd.”

  Hardy gritted his teeth. This is turning into one big cluster… he eased to the left, opening the angle on the man across from the one leaning on the car, Baldy 1. “Stay on your target, Overwatch. I’m moving to acquire the other two.”

  “Copy that.”

  … … … … …

  Cruz fought the urges to shudder. Her tactical clothing had kept the snow and cold pavement at bay, but inactivity had lowered her body temperature. She pressed her lips together and thought of warmer days. She saw herself in a white two-piece bikini, lounging poolside with Hardy at a hotel—their trip to Texas to see her mother. The hot sun had felt good on her body that day.

  A moment later, stifling a chortle, she shut her eyes. Of all the memories I could’ve… Cruz had chosen an event from her past that ended with her being shot. Oh Lord, I know you have a good sense of humor, but right now I really need something else from you. Drowning out the German verbiage, she focused on her faith. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be—boots shuffled. Her eyes popped open and shifted left; a man was on one knee, re-lacing a boot. Don’t turn your head. Don’t turn your head. Just tie them and get up. Don’t turn…

  … … … … …

  Hardy’s heart leapt into his throat. He had centered the man across from Baldy 1 in his scope, onl
y to have the man drop out of sight. “Overwatch, get ready to take your shot.” Squatting, he transferred more weight to the balls of his feet and leaned forward, ready to bolt forward. “Easy girl, we got you. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  … … … … …

  Hardy: “Nothing’s going to happen to—” Cruz locked eyes with the man, who stopped tying his boot in mid-knot. Game on. She had no room to get the assault rifle on target, so she jerked her body and kept pressing the trigger. Set to three-round burst, the MP5 expelled three sound-suppressed bullets with each finger pull—thump, thump, thump…thump, thump, thump.

  Taking several nine-millimeters to his ankle and calf, Baldy 1 dropped to the ground. Another three perforated his body, and he no longer cared about his foot pain. Struggling, Cruz brought her weapon further around. The man who had spotted her had recovered from the initial shock. His gun had cleared the holster; it was inches away from being on target, on her.

  … … … … …

  Hearing Cruz’s suppressed MP5, Hardy fired his own twice. Six bullets ended one man’s life. He took off on a dead run for the limousine, for Cruz. He skidded to a halt and dropped behind the rear bumper. A split-second later, two projectiles whizzed by his face, and he recoiled. Pence’s 300 Blackouts.

  … … … … …

  Cruz saw the man’s gun—a familiar one, a Glock 22—lined up with her nose. The sound suppressor on her MP5 caught the undercarriage. Twisting and jerking her body to free the weapon, she stared at the black hole. May God have mercy on my soul and forgive me of…

  The Glock barked a full magazine in all directions, and the man on the other end spun around and went to his belly. The forty-caliber reports pierced the still night. The 180-grain jacketed rounds pierced everything else that got in their way.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 32: Slide Stop