Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  Seth turned his laptop, a dread welling up within him as he felt something change. The live feed screen shuddered once, pixilated, and then flashed into white noise. He was already typing when his signal went dead. His mind leapt forward, having anticipated this moment, and feverishly he worked to reestablish the link. It wouldn't last long, it was a last punch thrown in desperation–he didn’t need days now, just minutes. Just a few fucking minutes.

  * * *

  Automatically, the script searched… sending out ping after ping down multiple pathways, all of which led to a physical location. Within moments the ping returned, and with that… Seth Meek's refuge was revealed. Instantly this information was transferred to the FBI's home office, and without pause to the Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Virginia. It was time to bring it all to an end. The FBI was not used to losing, and they would not lose now.

  Tanner's head fell forward and came to rest on his keyboards, adding a few characters to his now unneeded command line.

  Baker simply left the room.

  The pair of HRT helicopters had been cleared into D.C. airspace an hour earlier and had begun a lazy orbit of the city. As this fresh information was fed into the onboard computers, a new heading was generated, the Blackhawks dipped in unison and picked up speed. The operators in the rear noticed the change of course, and what had been a chilly midnight sight seeing tour of the nation's Capitol, became a life or death race to neutralize Mr. Seth Meek, former employee of the NSA.

  Each team member listened to the information being rapidly relayed from Quantico – unlike many UH–60's, where only the team leader was plugged into the intercom system, HRT birds allowed everyone to share information instantaneously. This freed the team lead to sit in the middle of the men with an old fashioned white board, looking for all of the world like a high school basketball coach detailing a last second play for his boys. He sketched the building from words alone, noting the nearby bar, the probability of overhead parking lot lights, and then wrote and underlined, "ICE." With simple arrows he plotted the team's likely entry point and rally point. One by one he looked at his men and got the thumbs up.

  They were ready. And now, again, they would wait.

  The co–pilot turned aft, staring at the group from behind his four barreled night vision goggles, and flashed them four fingers, twice. Plus one middle finger for good measure. Eight long minutes to their LZ, maybe a minute to size it up and get into position to fast rope in, fourteen seconds to get everyone on the ground, thirty to find the entry point, stack, and breach, and then a minute or less to take it all down and secure it.

  They all returned the one finger salute.

  * * *

  "Is it over?" Ray asked as he watched Seth working at the keyboard.

  "Almost."

  "Did they shut it down?"

  "Yes, but no," Seth looked up briefly and then back to the screen. He typed without pause for thirty seconds and then put the laptop aside and stood again. "We'll be live again in about a minute, but it won't last. Once my script propagates over their system again I'll have about ten minutes tops before they kill it completely. Then it's really over. Unless the cops get here first. I'm broadcasting in the clear."

  "So what now?" Ray asked through tears.

  Seth walked to Saul, stepping over Bolo's balled up form who lay unmoving at the base of the chair.

  "You can do it yourself Mr. Seth."

  Ray put his head down, closing his eyes so tightly that it hurt.

  In the background the computer beeped, and the cameras went live one last time.

  * * *

  At Smokey's, Seth reappeared suddenly all around the bar, filling each screen–there were cheers and then things went instantly silent as everyone leaned in, straining to hear as Seth leaned down and talked quietly to a very much alive Saul Brown.

  He turned to the camera and said, "Forgive the interruption. As always, my former employer had impeccable timing. They are very, very good at what they do, and I'll have just a few moments to finish what I've started. As you've all seen, the vote was in favor of ending Saul Brown's life…"

  "What's that?!" someone shouted from the back of the bar. He stood and pointed at one of the nearest screens, jabbing his finger again and again in alarm.

  "Oh no no no…" Smokey exclaimed, moving forward as if to intervene.

  In the background of the live feed, Derek Siclo rose, staggered, and then stood, bolstered up by his hate alone. His body swayed, his hips too far forward and askew, chin down as if thoroughly intoxicated… as he raised the pistol at Seth's back.

  There were screams of outrage and fear from all around the bar, and few actually heard what was said.

  "Untie him mother…fucker…"

  Seth's eyes closed as understanding dawned.

  "Untie the little bitch. He's getting me out…" he swayed dangerously, "right after I fucking cap you right here."

  Again silence descended on the bar as everyone prepared for another execution. Seth leaned forward again, evidently working the tape loose on Saul's wrists.

  "Stall man, just wait for him to bleed out…" Smokey said as Siclo's form faltered again in the background.

  "You know that I loved it… all don't… you motherfucker. And I'll kill you right here and you'll beg… me… in front of everyone not to do it… you aren't nothin', and you'll take it all back about my daddy, you'll take… it all back…"

  Seth stood slowly, having wrested Saul's bindings loose enough for the boy to pull his hands free. Instantly Saul began to work on his feet as Seth turned to face the gun.

  Bolo waved the pistol in a vague arc, "Get on your knees bitch."

  Seth stared at him, and then slowly shook his head, "No."

  "Get down on… your knees," he blinked heavy lids, they were slow to reopen, "or he dies…" the gun swung to Ray, wavered, and then settled.

  Chapter Seventy–Four

  Hindsight

  “There ya are you goddam…” the muted words were slurred. Footsteps thumped across the floor above. "There!” the belligerent voice boomed. The door above the stairs was suddenly wrenched open and a face appeared.

  “There ya are ya sonofabitch,” Irving Hack said from behind a revolver. He leaned forward, made it down one step, and fell hard. He groaned as his butt hit the edge of the fourth stair and he slid to a stop, but followed it up with a grin of triumph. “Gotcha,” he said as he waved his pistol at Meek.

  * * *

  “There,” Tonic said.

  Finn saw nothing. "Where there?”

  “Right at the end, on the corner,” Tonic’s voice was calm, but edgy. “I saw somethin’ move through the front glass, left to right and disappear.” He lowered the scope and Finn drew his pistol. There were no cars down here. They moved in closer to the plaza, leaving the overhead lights in favor of the shadowed awnings. “It was the corner one, way at the end.” Finn looked back down toward Smokey’s, hoping to see Hop’s car pulling up. Nothing. He suspected that the boss had already called in the cavalry, but the ice was going to slow everything down.

  They moved with care, Tonic in the lead, until they reached the beginning of the corner storefront. The glass was papered. Opening Soon.

  “Wouldn't bet on it,” Finn whispered.

  “Voices,” Tonic raised a hand.

  “I found ya…”

  * * *

  “I found ya… you fuckers.” He wobbled from his seat on the steps, jacket open and shirt stained. “No secret now. This is my story. Mine. I'm here to take it back.” Only then did Hack recognize Derek Siclo standing opposite him… he squinted, and then simply went on with his tirade. "First though, I need to settle a score too…" The gun came up again, and as if in the grip of a swaying puppet, searched for Ravish Ramadeep.

  The sound of ripping paper–a jet of glinting jelly marched up Hack’s chest, and clung in gobs to his face. Ray held the trigger on the pepper gel until it sputtered dry, all the while waiting for a bullet. The big man shri
eked, blinking wide–eyed in disbelief. His free hand clawed at his face, and he screamed in a rage behind searing eyes.

  Still, the first shot was nearly true, impacting the cinderblock wall just to Ray’s right–splinters digging into his neck. The next round was wild, and the rest followed a haphazard arc across the room. Screams. The fragmenting bullets ricocheted in the tiny concrete basement, spitting slivers everywhere.

  Hack fell back and slid down the remaining steps and Ray, tipping his chair forward, was upon him before he reached the floor. Seth was right behind, bringing his foot down hard on Hack’s forearm; it snapped into a right angle off the edge of the steps, and the gun clattered to the floor. Hack howled, threw Ray off of him with ease, and staggered upright.

  He waved the broken arm like a flail–it sailed past Meek’s face twice, the useless hand now a drunken weapon. Meek backed against the wall as Hack drew his arm back once again. The man screamed as he brought it down, eyes alive with malice. Then stopped. A halo of blood sprayed upward from his hair and he lurched forward. Hack's knees buckled, and he dropped in place.

  Ray stood in the man’s wake clutching Seth’s bat. He let it slip out of his hands, devoting both to covering his face. “Jesus Christ,” he dropped hard to his knees, ankles still bound, the searing pepper gel residue thick in the air.

  The bright lights were still on, but their beams did not cut through the cordite haze. Seth dropped to his knees, pulling Ray with him, and searched for Bolo under smoke as he waited for more gunshots. As the rest of the room cleared, there was only one person standing–Saul Brown. In the boy's right hand was the bloody pistol.

  Siclo lay at his feet, still gasping out short, shallow breaths.

  Saul stepped forward, toward Seth and Ray. The camera maintained its focus on him as he emerged through the haze.

  Once again Seth found himself kneeling, moments from death. He looked up at Saul, exhaled, and waited. He did not look away, did not make a sound. Seth Meek understood that he'd won… and he'd known all along that he wouldn't walk away.

  The live feed struggled on, flickering in and out as new code was introduced in an attempt to silence it once and for all. Still the broadcast continued, Seth's last code held. Saul took another step, his fingers flexing on the grip of the pistol, "I think it's over now."

  Seth said nothing, waiting for the gun to come up.

  They watched one another through watering eyes as the moment drew out before the world. And then Saul spoke, "I don't want no more blood."

  Seth blinked, confused. He hesitated there, and then rose unsteadily to his feet even as Saul stepped back and sat down in his chair.

  "It's over Saul."

  "Yeah. I figure it is," the boy said as he once again hefted the gun, handing it to Seth.

  Seth glanced down at Siclo, still gasping. The flesh from his collarbone to his chin was in tatters, laid back to expose the tendons and muscles that pushed and pulled as he ground his jaw in anguish. One of Hack's shots had connected; Derek Siclo would speak no more. He was drowning.

  Siclo blinked, blood still rimming the inside his eye. Again he tried for words, but there was only a weak spray of blood from his throat. His gazed turned to Seth. Seth just stared back. Siclo's faltered, teeth grinding in torment. A slick muscle in his neck twitched uncontrollably. He was suffocating, panicked for another breath, but there would be none–he convulsed upward, and his last pleas for mercy were mere gurgles.

  Derek Siclo's sentence had been carried out.

  Seth staggered out of the frame, leaving Saul sitting alone in the live feed. He lay the pistol in the sink and stood there for a moment, as the water ran. After a few moments, he emptied all of the bullets into his palm, and then held them under the stream until the water ran clear. Until there was no more blood.

  * * *

  The bar was silent.

  Still dumbfounded by the violence of the last moments, some patrons simply stared at the screens, others cast furtive glances at one another over tables that bore the remains of their beer and barbequed ribs. Smokey turned away, he'd had enough. But The Trial was not over, and the networks didn't miss the last words.

  * * *

  "I'm sorry," Saul said from his chair.

  "I know."

  Meek unceremoniously dumped the bullets into the sink and walked back to his computer in time to see the screen scramble once again.

  The Trial was over.

  Chapter Seventy–Five

  Hawm

  Seth made his way over to Ray and bent down until their foreheads actually touched. "Thank you. I wish it could have all been in some other time, but I guess now I can look forward to reading the ending."

  Ray wiped at his mouth, he’d been heaving, but now his stomach was dry. No words came. He shook his head and tried again, “Wait.”

  Seth put a hand on his shoulder and two sets of bloodshot eyes met for the last time. “There’s no wait left in me.”

  Meek walked up the stairs and out of the haze.

  * * *

  “Heyas,” Tonic said just as the figure made it to the top of the stairs.

  Meek didn’t turn to look, but instead slowly opened his palms, showing them to be empty.

  Finn stood near the shattered door, silhouetted in the glare of the parking lot lights and blowing snow. "Is it over?”

  Meek nodded.

  They watched him stand there, admiring the sheer force of will that kept him upright. His face was lopsided and bruised, shirttails out and torn and bloody; it was the Seth Meek that the world could hardly imagine. He did not encompass all things heroic as he stood there hunched in Finn’s shadow. Small and on the verge of collapse, Meek was, here and now, the human he’d been as he knelt on his living room floor and watched his family die.

  Finn thought back on the last few days. It had taken a fair share of luck this time around, but they’d won. Here they were, twenty feet from the spot where Seth Meek had turned the world upside down, and less than half that from the man himself. Again. The elation of victory swelled inside, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  “You gave us a hellavah run, man,” Tonic said from behind him, pistol still poised at Meek's center mass.

  “That was the plan,” Seth dropped his hands to his sides. It was over. Somewhere in the distance helicopter blades thumped.

  Tonic said, “Ya know we’ve been so busy playin’ keystone cops with you tonight that we didn’t get to vote.”

  “Polls closed awhile ago, sorry.”

  “Call it an absentee ballot,” Finn said as he holstered his pistol.

  They looked at one another, and Finn stepped aside.

  The light from the doorway spilled into the room, casting a bright pathway across the wooden floor.

  Seth took a breath, nodded… and walked out the door.

  Epilogue

  Esoteric

  “It is the spirit and not the form of law that keeps justice alive.”

  Earl Warren

  “Who needs Miami when you have Nebraska?” Finn said as he hung against the chain link fence.

  Tonic was shooting baskets with a weather–beaten ball. “I’m not sure that they have an ocean here though.”

  Finn grunted. “Rayburn, you have enough money to build us an ocean yet?”

  Ray sat at a park bench, re–reading the letter that Finn had handed him ten minutes before. He was oblivious.

  “You figure all that out Ray?” Tonic asked just as the ball bounced off of the rim.

  Finn caught the rebound and tossed it back. "He’s tired from all of the book signings… he'll need a addendum now though.”

  Ray’s head came up and he gestured with the papers. "This is for real?”

  “Looks that way,” Tonic said. He came over and curled his fingers through the fence, the ball against his belly. “We got it about a week ago. Looks like you’re the man. It’s his dad’s signature, and we checked it all out. It’s solid.”

  They all looked out over th
e grounds of the Central Nebraska Regional Center and watched a trio of jet–black squirrels darting across the enormous expanse of trimmed lawn. Ray reread the letter again, all the while shaking his head.

  “And what’s with all these trees?” Tonic said. “I thought Nebraska was a desert. Why'd they move him here?”

  “Well hell Spence, people in Somalia saw the Trial.”

  “I guess this was out of the way.”

  “Well it is that,” Finn turned and examined the half-dozen or so imposing brick buildings that were sprawled out over what looked to be a several square miles of ground. Evidently space was not at a premium in Nebraska. It wasn’t quite a prison, nor was it Camp Cupcake. There was plenty of barbed wire, and exactly zero options if you decided to run; the place was like an island of trees and shade within a sea of vibrant green, sunbathed cornfields.

  The squirrels scattered, disappearing up the trunks of the cottonwood trees as a dozen shirtless young men spilled out of a building and approached the basketball court. They were black, white, and each of the shades in between: all muscles and tattoos and attitude. Their raucous chatter died away momentarily as they came face to face with Finn and Tonic.

  They stared at the ball that Tonic held sandwiched between his belly and the fence.

  “Heyas.”

  “You usin’ that ball, Oso?” a lanky kid asked.

  “Just one last shot,” Tonic said. He situated himself, legs wide, and with both hands gave the ball a gentle underhand toss toward the basket. It bounced twice on the rim, and went in.

  “Nice shot,” one of them said as the hustled past. "Abuelita.” The laughter died away as they divided up and got a game started.