by L. T. Vargus
He snored next to her in the bed. He’d been all worked up when she answered the door. Had a wild look in his eye like a grizzly or something. Practically had her right there on the kitchen table, but she’d managed to coax him into the bedroom. She was too old for that kind of funny business. The last time she’d let him do her on the sofa, her sciatica had acted up for a whole week.
She slid from the bed, still nude, and fumbled around in the closet until she found her robe. It was a silk kimono. A gift from Donald. She felt real fancy when she wore it. Like an old Hollywood starlet. Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth.
Her bare feet padded out of the bedroom, down the hall, out to the kitchen. She’d make herself a cup of tea. That herbal stuff. Sleepyhead or whatever it was called. That would put her back to sleep.
The ceramic tile chilled her toes as she stood at the sink and filled a mug with water. She set the cup in the microwave and punched in three minutes.
Over the mellow hum of the microwave, there was another sound. The rumble of an engine as it rolled down the street. Slowly. Her heart beat quickened. It was a moment before she realized why that should bother her, and then Mandy remembered the woman on the news, the pregnant girl who had taken a couple of loads of buckshot in the face and chest right outside of her own home two nights ago.
A loud beep caused her to jump before she recognized it as the microwave. The water for her tea was ready. Good Lord, she was jumpy. Overreacting to every little noise. The odds of the car outside being the Georgia Sniper… well, there was simply no way. And besides, as long as she stayed in the house, she’d be fine.
Still, part of her wanted to go over to the window, to peek outside, just to be sure. She took a step that way and stopped herself. It seemed like too much of a risk. What if he was waiting there to see a face in the window?
She pulled the kimono a little tighter. She was being silly. She’d always been like this, scaring herself in the dark. Seeing things that weren’t really there. She’d had terrible nightmares as a child. Night terrors her mother had called them.
Then she heard something else. The creak of a rusty hinge. Barely audible. Her breath caught in her throat and she immediately dropped the box of tea she’d been fumbling with. Another sound now, a soft clack. Yes. It was the gate. The one that led from the alley into the backyard. From the corner of her eye, a shadow passed by the kitchen window, and suddenly Mandy didn’t think she was imagining things anymore.
He was here. Oh Dear Lord, Jesus, the sniper was here! Right outside!
“Donald!” she whispered, scared that if she made too much noise, the shooter would hear and know where she was and where to shoot.
She skittered back down the hall, hissing for Donald. Just as her toes met the rug inside the bedroom door, she heard the crash of a window breaking, and then there was shouting, and a loud crack — a gunshot? — and then boots stomping over the floors, and flashlights bouncing, and Donald was scrambling out of bed finally.
“Down on the ground! Hands on your head! Down now! Get down!”
It sounded like a hundred voices, all hollering at once, but she did what they said. She threw herself on the floor, hands on her head. With her cheek pressed into the rug, she peered up at the men in her house. They wore black vests emblazoned with bold white letters that spelled POLICE. Oh thank God, it wasn’t the sniper. It was the police.
Donald was still completely naked, and Mandy noticed that his manbits were flopping about as he struggled with the policemen, like a damned fool. What did he think he was going to accomplish anyway? He had no weapon, unless he thought perhaps his nudity would keep them at arm’s length.
It didn’t. Two of the officers forced him face down on the bed and fastened cuffs around his wrists while Donald continued to cuss and squirm, his voice muffled by the bed.
The damned fool.
Chapter 41
Luke rummaged a hand around in the opposite cargo pocket, this time pulling out a bigger wad of the gray substance. This piece was longer, a semi-smashed rectangle with the corners rounded a bit from its pocket journey. It looked a little wider than a king sized Snickers bar. Luke molded it some with his fingers and stuck in a pair of detonator pins.
He couldn’t keep that smile off his lips, teeth still glowing purple, though the darkness was receding to gray about them. Dawn would rear its head over the horizon within twenty minutes, Levi figured. Maybe less.
This time the explosive was placed under the driver’s seat of the El Camino, and the brothers moved farther back from the doomed vehicle, kneeling to shield themselves behind a cluster of old refrigerators lying face down. The anticipation made Levi’s chest tingle and his hands go cold, but he wanted it, he knew. He wanted to see what a bigger wad of C4 would do to this damn car as badly as he wanted anything.
Luke licked his lips, and let the silence grow awkward before he finally thumbed the detonator.
Again, the blaze flashed its orange fury, and in that instant, Levi felt its hatred in the way his jaw clenched and his nose wrinkled and his fingers curled into claws. And he liked it.
The boom was louder than before, a guttural blast with an incredible crack laid over top of it. He felt it from head to toe as much he heard it.
The ground rumbled its excitement.
The glass exploded like crashing cymbals hitting a touch after the big downbeat.
And the poor car came apart all at once.
The roof of the El Camino ripped off clean and blew 25 feet in the air, straight up, wobbling a little.
Both doors wrenched out of their frames and flopped to the ground, rocking a little on their rounded exteriors like box turtles trapped on their backs.
The roof tipped backward on its way back down and bashed into the El Camino’s bed, wedging itself there partially upright.
Dust and smoke arose from the car and the ground as this transpired, the billowing clouds joining the flung shards of glass to obscure the scene little by little. It all sprinkled down in slow motion, pattering on the ground like rain.
All of this happened in the time it took to draw four breaths — that is, if Levi hadn’t held his.
Again, the silence swelled into something uncomfortable. They stood and watched the scene go still as the last of the debris touched down.
“WWBWD, right?” Luke said, clapping Levi on the shoulder.
“Huh?”
“What would Bruce Willis do?”
Chapter 42
The observation room featured both a one-way mirror and camera feed displayed on a small black-and-white screen. There was nothing to see at the moment. The interview room was empty. But that would change. Soon, she hoped.
Stokes yawned from the seat beside her. She wasn’t sure if it was theatrics or if he was genuinely tired. Darger stifled her own yawn, not wanting to share so much as a gesture with him.
The nerves were keeping her going at the moment, her mind filled with doubt. What if the stash wasn’t where he said it would be? What if the drugs or guns or whatever illegal paraphernalia was there, but Hardegree wasn’t? Or what if he managed to get away in the midst of the chaos?
“If you give me the name right now, you could be back in your cell, getting a few hours of sleep before you have to see the judge for the disorderly conduct charge.”
He made a tsk, tsk, tsk sound with his tongue.
“You know the rules, Agent Darger. I want to see Hardegree in cuffs and Mirandized before I’ll talk. But I admire your tenacity.”
Darger’s fingernails made tiny crescent moon indents in the flesh of her palms. She knew he was enjoying this part. The power he held over them, over her. Making them wait. Having everything done on his terms.
She’d figured out by now what Stokes was really after. He wanted his turn at the helm of the pirate ship. What she hadn’t been able to puzzle out was why a man like Randall Stokes had ever allowed a buffoon like Donald Hardegree to run things. Hardegree was surely a lesser breed of scumbag. Stokes
was an apex predator.
She thought that maybe if she got him talking, he’d let something relating to the sniper slip.
“I know why you’re doing this,” she said, drumming her fingers on the table. “It’s not a mystery. With Donald Hardegree out of the way, you can take over the Nameless Brotherhood. But why now? Why turn on him after thirty years?”
Stokes pressed his lips together, a sign that he wasn’t going to take the bait, she thought. But after a few seconds, he croaked out an answer in that dry, husky voice.
“Donny got greedy and lazy. He doesn’t care where the money comes from as long as it’s green. That’s a shit attitude. And well, shit trickles down.”
“Are you trying to tell me you want to take the club in a more legitimate direction? The way I heard it, that was exactly what got the last president killed,” she said, recalling Owen’s story about Stokes and Hardegree feeding their former leader to the alligators.
“See, the problem with you cops is that you think being a one-percenter inherently means being a criminal.”
“It doesn’t?”
“It’s a philosophy, Agent Darger. It’s about freedom. It’s about consenting adults being permitted to make their own choices without Johnny Law stepping in to say what you can and can’t do.”
Perhaps sensing that she remained unconvinced, Stokes shrugged.
“Honestly, I mostly hate the fucking Aryan Brotherhood. My two best friends growing up were a black kid and a Jew. The official policy of the club is that we don’t associate with white supremacists, but the past few years, we’ve been doing more and more business with those neo-Nazi fucks. Had to bust up two younger members last month for sportin’ 88 patches on their cuts.”
“So… you’re a criminal with scruples?”
“Everyone has principles, Agent Darger. The only difference between yours and mine is that you get yours from your FBI handbook, and I get mine from my own moral compass.”
Darger had to bite back a bitter laugh. Moral compass. The way Owen told it, Stokes was the biggest bad in the group. If anything, the club would become even more ruthless with him at the wheel.
Before either of them could say more, a phone attached to the wall began to ring. Darger reached for it.
“Darger,” she said, and relief flooded her when the desk sergeant informed her that Donald Hardegree was in the midst of being booked.
She thanked the sergeant, replaced the phone, and turned to address Stokes.
“Five minutes. I hope you’re ready to give me that name.”
“In due time, Agent Darger. Now how about you run along and bring me back a Coke?”
Hardegree sat in the interrogation room, his gaze pointed at the top of the table before him. All aggression — all the macho biker posturing — seemed to have drained from his being. A blank expression occupied the man’s face instead, and his belly and shoulders sagged. He looked, Darger thought, almost comical in his melancholy demeanor, an exaggerated pathetic presence like a sad clown.
Stokes shook his head as he watched his half-brother through the two-way mirror, his lips forming a crooked line of disgust. He took a swig from the bottle of Coca-cola, perhaps trying to wash the bad taste from his mouth.
“Look at him. An embarrassment. It’s a shame. He’s my brother, and I love him, but he’s a fucking idiot.”
Darger was staring at him, not interested anymore in anything he had to say about the Nameless Brotherhood or Donald Hardegree. She only wanted one thing. The name of the shooter.
He regarded her for a moment and then said, “The guy you want is named Luke Foley. That’s the dude that bought the Glock-18, anyway.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t. One of the members set it up. Someone he went to school with or something.”
“And you had no idea what he had planned?”
“Why would I? He bought the gun quite some time ago. When that detail got out in the papers, one of my guys just happened to remember it being specifically requested — a special order, you could say. Anyway, it’s like I told you, I’m a proponent of personal responsibility. I am not accountable for the actions of another.”
Darger scoffed, unable to hide her contempt.
“Right. I bet the victim’s families would be quite impressed by your lofty ideals.”
She stood, using her foot to kick her chair back under the table.
“Are you gonna take me back to my cell now?”
“An officer will escort you,” she said, glad to finally be done with him. The whole arrangement was starting to make her feel dirty.
As the door was about to swing closed behind her, he called out.
“Agent Darger.”
She caught the edge of the door before it shut.
“What?”
His black eyes bored into hers, full of amusement.
“Watch yourself out there. I’d hate to see this thing blow up in your face.”
“I appreciate your concern,” she said with no lack of sarcasm and walked out of the room.
She could still feel his carnivorous gaze on her long after she’d passed from his sight.
As Darger lifted her phone, intending to call Loshak with the name, it began to vibrate. Loshak was calling her.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Know what?”
“That I got the name? Are you developing psychic powers on me now?”
“No. I called because we got a hit on the Jeep.”
A fist tightened around her guts.
When she didn’t speak, Loshak said, “You want to go first? Or should I?”
“Luke Foley,” she said.
Now his end was silent.
“Loshak?”
“I’m here. The name we got on the vehicle is Levi Foley.”
“Father and son? Brothers? What?”
She could hear muttering and typing in the background as Loshak directed someone — probably Rodney — to enter the names into the computer.
“The birth dates are a little over two years apart. Brothers. Now we just need to figure out which one it is.”
“No we don’t,” Darger said, the realization suddenly hitting her. “It’s both of them.”
“What?”
“Two shooters. They’re working together.”
Chapter 43
Soaring tones screeched in Levi’s ears — the remnants of whatever temporary damage the concussive blasts had done. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed to be affecting him physically. Each ear canal felt pinched, like the tube had somehow closed up. Or maybe they’d been clogged, long strands of cotton shoved in, everything all congested, weeping thick yellow wax in protest. He swiped his pinkie fingers at the openings, but it didn’t help. There was no evidence of weeping wax, at least.
After running a few more tests with the plastic explosives — taking out the windshield of a Buick Skylark and employing a bigger chunk of C4 to obliterate a Maytag dryer almost entirely — Luke seemed satisfied. They’d walked back to where the Jeep was parked in the tall grass along the side of the road, and here they still sat.
Explosives. Jesus. It made him nervous. Even more confused than before. How far was Luke going to push this? And how far was Levi willing to go in helping him?
He didn’t know. Nothing made sense anymore.
Before they started — back when it was all a plan — it seemed like vengeance was a noble goal. Psychotic, yes, but with some underlying honor attached. Like they could prove something to someone. Make something right.
But it wasn’t a plan anymore, wasn’t an abstract concept. It was concrete. Made real with guns and bullets. Etched forever into flesh and bone and blood.
And it was all different now.
In the violence itself, he found only meaningless destruction. No sense of vengeance. No sense of honor. No sense of anything beyond the brutality itself.
He licked his lips. Thought about saying something to Luke about it. Bu
t the words didn’t come. There was no way to express the mixed up way he felt inside.
And yet, he had to admit it. There was an allure to the sheer force of the explosions he’d witnessed. A raw power that pulled him in like a magnet. Something primal. Aggressive. Cathartic in its hateful fiery glow.
Something that whet his appetite for destruction.
They were going to fuck shit up. That’s what Luke had said. And when he said it like that, maybe things did make sense, if only partially.
The world had beaten them down, used them up, made them feel worthless. And now? Now they were standing up.
The wind picked up outside, swishing through the brush and whistling a little where it blew through the Jeep’s open windows.
Blades of grass laid flat for a beat whenever the air moved through them, popping up moments later. This dance rippled through the field in segments. It looked organized, almost like a crowd doing the wave.
Now Luke brandished the tiny remote in his hands once more, wiggling it to get his brother’s attention. Levi shook himself into the moment, focused on the little black rectangle in his brother’s mitt. He had no idea how long Luke had been talking.
“You listening to me? The remote detonator here works by radio wave. Additionally, it is fucking awesome.”
“Radio wave?”
Luke nodded.
“It sends a coded radio signal on a specific frequency to tell all the charges to fire at once, right? I bring this up because if I get taken out of the game, and I happen to have the remote on me, you might need to resort to a backup method of detonation. To finish the project, I mean. Just felt like it was something we should go over.”
Levi thought about it for a second.
“Couldn’t I just shoot it or something?”
Luke lit a cigarette, the lighter’s flame flickering orange against his face. He shook his head.
“C4 is pretty stable stuff. You can throw it against the wall as hard as you can, and it won’t detonate. Shoot it full of bullets, and it won’t detonate. Light it on fire, and it won’t detonate. It’ll burn, but it won’t detonate. To get it to blow, you have to trigger an electrical charge. That focused, intense burst of heat makes it explode.”
