Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  “You will not speak to me in that manner.” The man had no emotion whatsoever in his voice. “Mr. Rivers, your predicament requires no action. You will sit there and cause no trouble for us until we are done with you. If you do this, we may let you and your family live. If you do not, I will kill your son first. It will be slow and painful, and you will watch. Your wife will follow, and then I will kill you. Your lives mean very little to me.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he said feebly. The image of his son at the hands of this madman was horrifying. His will to resist was instantly snatched from him.

  “What we are doing and why is not of your concern. Concern yourself with your family’s survival. That involves cooperation.”

  “Where is Dianne?”

  “The fat one’s services were no longer required, and that miserable little rodent you had as a pet as well.”

  He killed Dianne and Scooby. What an animal! Poor Dianne. She had just gotten engaged a month ago, and now she had been slain at the hands of a madman.

  “You didn’t have to kill them. Please don’t hurt my family!” Jack pleaded.

  “The fat one tried to alert the police. She was of no value to us. Now, as you Americans say, smile.” He held up a camera in front of Jack. The flash was blinding. The man walked over to Maureen, who gave a muffled grunt. He slapped her and then, grabbing her by the hair, he picked her head up and snapped a picture of her face.

  He then walked up to Evan, who was still unconscious and kicked him in the ribs. Evan moved slightly and groaned. As he woke, he gave a blood-curdling scream in pain. The man backhanded him and snapped a picture. Evan grunted with the blow and continued to cry. The man kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Winter Haven, FL

  It was nearly 4 AM by the time Spectre and the chaplain made the final turn, down the long country road to Chloe’s parents’ house. After Coach left his house, Spectre had made several attempts to call Chloe’s mom and Jack using their individual cell phone numbers and their house phone. He even tried calling Dianne’s cell phone. All attempts were met with voice mail, or in the case of Mrs. Ridley, a notification that her voice mailbox was full. He figured as much. Even in retirement, she was still being bombarded with phone calls.

  The news media had done a good job of keeping the incident quiet, only making a brief statement that there had been an incident with an F-16 in the Atlantic during a routine training mission. Despite that, Spectre figured it was only a matter of time before the news became more widespread and reporters started showing up. After talking it over with the chaplain, Spectre had decided that since he was unable to reach the family, it would be best to notify them in person, before the media could get to them.

  Nearly four and a half hours and two Red Bull energy drinks later, Spectre and the Chaplain were nearly there. Spectre had gone through what he might say in his mind over and over. Her mom had been “reserving judgment” about him since the moment he and Chloe first started dating, and he had his suspicions that she had played a key role in Chloe’s sudden change of heart. He never quite understood why, other than perhaps her unrealistic standards mixed with his sudden fall from grace in the military, but her distaste for him was evident every time they interacted.

  Jack, on the other hand, was a completely different story. Spectre and Jack seemed to get along just fine. They were both gun guys. Spectre respected the man living his life in the shadow of such a strong and outspoken woman. He had been by Maureen’s side for over twenty years, and had suffered through several of her campaigns in the House of Representatives. Spectre was sure that came with its own challenges, being just far enough into the spotlight that he could never quite relax. And then there was the ridiculousness of the last name issue, something he had been dealing with as he prepared to marry Chloe.

  Chloe Moss was born to David and Maureen Moss. When the two split, Maureen retook her maiden name of Ridley. With that, she established herself as an attorney and eventually a corporate litigator where she eventually met Jack Rivers. Having established herself as a professional, she kept her last name when the two were married a few years later. When Evan came around, the two decided that he should share Jack’s last name. So it became that the family of four, Maureen, Jack, Evan, and Chloe had three separate last names.

  Of course, this mattered very little to Spectre until the discussion of their wedding came up. Spectre had grown up in the South, and while mainstream chivalry and decorum might have been dead to most, to him it certainly was not. Chloe, at the behest of her mother, was intent on keeping her last name. In fact, she even wanted Spectre to consider taking hers, if he were so intent on them sharing a last name. It was a blow to his ego, especially with all that had been going on with his employment status, but before she had dropped the hammer on their relationship, he thought they had worked it out. She finally seemed agreeable to going along with the traditional route, despite her mother.

  Spectre was still deep in thought over his past with Chloe as they made the final turn onto the winding two-lane road toward the house. He shook it off as the GPS alerted them that their destination was ahead on the left in half a mile.

  As Spectre and the Chaplain reached the lone row of houses on the dark country road, Spectre pointed out the gravel road next to the house and told the chaplain to pull into the driveway past it. With the moonless night, the property was completely dark save for the fluorescent streetlight illuminating the driveway.

  The chaplain pulled up in front of the garage and parked. A few lights were on inside the house, and Spectre was pretty sure he saw someone walking around.

  “They’re up early,” the chaplain commented, pointing at the kitchen window.

  “Yeah, I think Jack gets up around this time. Maybe he’s just having his morning coffee,” Spectre replied. Although there was no way Spectre could see himself waking up at 4 AM every morning in general, much less in retirement, he had to respect a man disciplined enough to stick to his routine, even with nowhere to go.

  “How do you want to do this, Chaplain? Do you talk first or do I? At the very least, you should walk up first, since you’re in uniform. Jack’s less likely to shoot you.” Although a joke, Spectre wasn’t really sure how Jack felt about him since the breakup. Seeing the chaplain in his Air Force service dress uniform would probably disarm him enough to let Spectre break the news gently. At least he hoped. Jack was still a card-carrying NRA member with an impressive arsenal, so anything was possible.

  “Based on what we’ve talked about for the last few hours, it would probably be best if I did the talking at first. You can help explain some of the more technical stuff. What they need now is a familiar face, and despite your past, you’re still someone they can trust.”

  Spectre nodded and they exited the blue government sedan. With the garage door closed, the two followed the sidewalk to the front of the house.

  Spectre stopped halfway down the path. “Shit. I forgot the teddy bear I was going to give Evan. Just wait on the front porch, I’ll be right back.”

  Spectre turned and started a half jog back to the car. He had found a teddy bear dressed in a flight suit at one of the truck stops they had stopped at on the way, and he knew Evan would love it. As he started to open the Impala’s door, he heard the house door unlock and open.

  “I thought you were going to wai—”

  The unmistakable sound of the gunshot left Spectre’s ears ringing. It took him a moment to even register it as he instinctively dropped to the ground. It had been the last thing he was expecting, but it was enough to get his adrenaline pumping. Had Jack finally lost it?

  Spectre low crawled around the car and leaned against the left front tire, hoping to shield himself if Jack decided to start shooting in his direction.

  “Jack! What are you doing?” Spectre pleaded. Another two shots registered, hitting the side of the government v
ehicle. Spectre drew his own weapon. As a licensed concealed carry holder, he never left home without his Glock 36, a sub-compact semi-automatic handgun chambered in .45ACP. He certainly didn’t want to use it, especially not on someone else’s property, but with shots fired and the chaplain presumably down, he was left without a choice.

  “Jack! What the fuck!” Spectre crouched behind the driver’s side door and peeked over the windshield. In the darkness, he could make out a figure, someone a lot taller than Jack.

  Another shot was fired. The bullet zipped past Spectre’s head. He ducked back down. His hands were shaking. He had done shooting from concealment scenarios hundreds of times in the store’s shoot house, and he had been shot at from the comfort of his F-16 in Iraq, but he had never been this close before.

  Gathering himself, Spectre stayed crouched and moved toward the rear of the car. The front passenger window shattered as he reached the driver’s side door. Apparently, he wasn’t low enough. He reached for his phone to dial 911. Not a single bar of coverage. Fuck you AT&T. More bars my ass. Maybe a neighbor would hear the gunshots and dial 911, but Spectre knew he couldn’t count on that. They were in the middle of nowhere and the nearest house was nearly a quarter mile away. There were no guarantees anyone would wake up at four in the morning.

  As Spectre reached the rear bumper of the car, he repositioned himself for a better look, keeping his weapon low and ready. His assailant was now out of concealment, standing next to one of the decorative columns on the front porch. It was clearly not Jack. Spectre leaned around the taillight and took aim.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Tariq, do you hear that? Someone’s here.”

  He had only dozed off for a second, but it took a moment for Tariq to regain his senses. They had been left by Aalee to guard the hostages. It was not a glorious job, but Tariq knew it was for the greater good. Aalee would not lead them astray. It was Allah’s will and part of a bigger plan.

  “Find out who it is!” Tariq jumped, trying to appear in command. He got up out of the recliner and followed Kasim to the nearby window. A dark blue car had pulled into the driveway.

  “Do you think it’s Abdul?” Kasim queried, looking anxiously out the window.

  “At this hour? I don’t think so. He said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” Tariq watched as the dark sedan pulled up to the garage and turned off its lights. It looked like an official vehicle. It was not the van that Aalee had left in, so it couldn’t be him. Besides, Aalee had faith in him. He wouldn’t need to check up on them. Tariq had the situation under control, and strict orders on how and when to report in.

  “There are two of them! They’re getting out!” Kasim exclaimed. For Kasim, it was his first real mission as a soldier for the cause. He was convinced that Aalee would fulfill the promise of jihad against the infidels in America, punishing them for their greed and imperialism. Trespassing the Holy Lands could not go unpunished.

  Tariq drew his Glock 17 9MM upon seeing the uniformed man exit the car. It was certainly not Aalee, and the man with him carried himself like a police officer of some sort. Had Aalee been captured? Surely they would send more than just two men if that were the case.

  “Kasim, take your weapon and go to the hostages. Make sure they stay quiet. I’ll deal with these two.”

  Kasim nodded and hurried to the laundry room where the hostages were being held. The smell was absolutely horrid as he opened the door. They were nothing more than animals, defecating on themselves. Disgusting. He looked forward to putting an end to their miserable lives when this was all over.

  Tariq walked to the front door holding his Glock behind his back as the two men approached. He planned to talk his way out of it. They were just hired help. The homeowners were asleep and should not be bothered. It was obviously all just a big misunderstanding that could be dealt with at a more reasonable hour.

  Suddenly one of the men turned and ran back to the car. He must have found something. There was no time to talk them away.

  As Tariq opened the door, the man in uniform began to speak, but Tariq didn’t give him a chance to finish. Pulling the Glock from behind his back, he fired it at waist level, hitting the man in the gut and dropping him to the ground. He had caught the man completely by surprise. If it weren’t for the other man Tariq now had to worry about, he would have taken a moment to enjoy the surprised look on the infidel’s face as he clutched his stomach and fell to the ground.

  Tariq stepped out onto the porch. The other infidel had apparently fled back to the car, losing his will to fight at the last moment. It was typical of these cowards. They never stood to fight, instead using fighter jets and drones to fight their battles from far away. He could not let the man escape.

  Tariq fired two rounds at the car, hoping to get a lucky shot. With just the street light and no moon, it was very dark out. He could barely make out the figure leaning against the car. The man yelled something, but Tariq couldn’t make out what he was saying. Was he trying to surrender? He had heard many stories of the infidels surrendering from Aalee in Iraq, but had never seen such a thing first hand. He had no use for more hostages. The coward was better off to him dead.

  Tariq saw the coward’s head pop up once more above the hood, and he fired again, barely missing. He could see the feet moving underneath the car and as he once again popped his head up, Tariq fired. This time the glass shattered right where the silhouette had been.

  Tariq waited for return fire. There was none. Had he hit the other man? He looked back at the man lying on the front door step, clutching his stomach and gasping for air. He would be dead soon. He had seen that uniform before. It was some sort of military uniform. They both must have been unarmed; otherwise, there would have been return shots by now.

  Tariq stepped out onto the sidewalk, keeping the car in his sights. The coward was probably dead, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He needed to make sure of it and get rid of the body. Abdul Aalee was going to be pleased. It was another victory in the fight for Allah.

  As Tariq walked toward the car, his confidence vanished as quickly as he had gained it. He had made a horrible miscalculation. The muzzle flashes were the last thing he saw. The pain was extreme, but short lived as the world went dark.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two in the chest, one in the head. Two in the chest, one in the head. The mantra that had been ingrained in him since his first formal trip to the firing range was suddenly at the front of his mind. It referred to the Mozambique Drill, a shooting method made famous by shooting legend Jeff Cooper, whose student found himself facing an advancing adversary at close range during the Mozambican War of Independence. When the first two center of mass shots with his Browning HP35 handgun failed to stop his opponent, Mike Rousseau adjusted his aim for a final headshot, ending the fight then and there. The drill later became known as the Failure to Stop Drill and became the standard by which military and law enforcement personnel were trained with handguns.

  Spectre’s first two shots were in quick succession, hitting just left of the man’s heart. The third shot, after a brief pause, went right through his Adam’s apple. If the first two shots hadn’t done it, the third ensured that the chaplain’s attacker was dead before he hit the ground.

  As the man’s lifeless body fell to the ground, Spectre rushed to the chaplain with his gun low and ready. He had no idea how many more, if any, were in the house. It still didn’t make any sense why any of this was happening.

  On the way, Spectre approached the attacker and picked up the Glock 17 9MM next to his lifeless hand. The man appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. Given her past, Spectre wondered if this had something to do with Congresswoman Ridley as some sort of act of terror.

  Moving toward the house, Spectre found the chaplain lying on the ground, struggling for air. A pool of blood surrounded him as he held pressure with his right hand against his wound. He wouldn’t last much longer without medical attention.

  “Hang in there Chap
lain, we’re going to get you help,” Spectre said, examining the wound. It had been years since he sat through the mind numbing Air Force mandated Computer Based Training slides on Self-Aid Buddy Care, but he knew the basics. The chaplain’s airway was unobstructed and his breathing was labored, but the biggest threat was the abdominal gunshot wound and subsequent bleeding. The chaplain was at extreme risk of shock and Spectre had no way of knowing what, if any, vital organs had been hit by the bullet.

  Spectre reached for his phone again, hoping for a better signal. Again, he was disappointed. He vowed to pay the ridiculous early termination fee and cancel AT&T as soon as he got home. Fucking ridiculous.

  “Chaplain, do you have your phone on you?”

  The chaplain nodded and with his free hand, shakily pointed to his inner coat pocket. Spectre reached in and pulled it out. Thankfully, it wasn’t AT&T, and it had full signal strength. He quickly dialed 911 and pressed the green SEND button.

  The 911 operator answered almost immediately. Spectre explained the situation, careful not to implicate himself, and requested an ambulance. The operator attempted to talk him through some basic first aid for the chaplain, but it was nothing Spectre hadn’t already done. The wound needed to be cleaned and the bullet removed.

  “There’s another inside,” the chaplain said weakly as Spectre hung up the phone.

  Spectre leaned in closer. The chaplain barely had enough strength to form the words.

  “Another man...I...saw him running...when the door opened.”

  Another attacker and possibly more. Spectre couldn’t wait any longer for the police. There was nothing more he could do for the chaplain, but hope the paramedics showed up. He hated the idea of leaving the chaplain alone to die, but Chloe’s family might still be in the house and in danger. He had to act.

  He handed the attacker’s weapon to the chaplain. If he could muster the strength to defend himself, he would at least be armed.