For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1

by Ted Peters

  “I like the way things work out, don’t you? We ask our Army recruits to take a base pay of fifteen hundred a month and send them to the war zone. We bring them back shocked, maimed, or dead. And we reward them with glory. We put an American flag on their casket. We pay mercenaries to go to the same zone and return to enjoy spending hundreds of thousands if not millions.”

  “Leona, you’re too cynical. First of all, they don’t like to be called mercenaries. They prefer the term private military contractor, or PMC. Secondly, if it weren’t for the PMCs, we wouldn’t be a step ahead of the IED makers. We wouldn’t have the technology that protects our soldiers.”

  Leona grunted an acknowledgment combined with skepticism. “My friends call me Lee. Remember?” she enunciated.

  Graham sensed the warmth of the gesture and continued. “Here’s the problem, Lee. The PMCs have done pretty well, as you say. They’ve raked in enormous amounts of money since 9/11. Their businesses have grown. But now they want spiraling growth. They abhor downsizing. They have one special cash cow: the U.S. taxpayer. They can’t afford peace.”

  Leona listened. Her face displayed full comprehension of what Graham said. Then she added another of her own sarcastic interpretations. “So, as long as Iran remains a nuclear threat, then the U.S. taxpayer will not object to paying the bill, no matter how big that bill is. It’s like hatching a T-Rex egg. We love the cute little tyke as long as it eats the mice and rats in the backyard. But now it’s grown so big and hungry that it’s about to eat us too.”

  Graham laughed out loud. “So tragic, and so true.”

  The conversation continued with Graham sharing details about various contractors at work on various U.S. military fronts. Leona understood clearly the difficulties and dangers he was describing. Among the names Graham mentioned was one Jarrod Grimes.

  “Did you say Jarrod Grimes?” asked Leona.

  “Yes. He’s a real bad ass. For a while he was in charge of unmanned reconnaissance and secret bombing in Pakistan. As you recall, our military was not supposed to be fighting in Pakistan. So, Budenholzer sent in the contractors. Shortly before Osama bin Laden’s death, Grimes went after a guy he labeled an Al-Qaeda operative. This alleged operative happened to be attending his brother’s wedding. Thirty family members were gathered in a garden for the festival. Grimes ordered a missile shot from an unmanned drone. Everyone was either maimed or killed. Imagine wantonly endangering twenty-nine innocent bystanders in the midst of a celebration just to take out one single operative! Grimes has all the compassion of a crocodile.”

  Leona paused to think. Graham watched her patiently. She brought to her mind the night SEAL Team 6 took out Bin Laden. Their coded message to the U.S. president was, “For God and Country, Geronimo, EKIA [Enemy Killed in Action].”

  Leona interrupted her pause to search her memory out loud. “I met Grimes once. It was in the field, of course,” said Leona. “Does he just kill people or is he effective at gaining intelligence?”

  “Oh, he’s effective all right. In Afghanistan he plays both hands in the game of drug poker. One hand he plays is the contract he won from the Pentagon’s Narcoterrorism Technology program. With this U.S. contract he supplies the National Interdiction Unit of the Afghan police with sniffing dogs and narcotics officer training.”

  Graham sipped his wine, then continued. “And, in order to make himself indispensable to the intelligence community, he plays a second hand. He has recruited a couple dozen cocaine dealers from Juárez, Mexico, right across the Rio Grande from El Paso. He transported them to Afghanistan and put them in contact with the poppy farmers. Opium galore! This provides Grimes with intimate access to the Afghan underworld right along with access to Taliban and other sources. The Mexicans keep the profit in exchange for passing to Grimes what they learn from the farmers and traders.”

  “Yuck,” growled Leona.

  “It gets worse. When these Ciudad Juárez druggies settle a big deal and find themselves loaded with profits, they want to celebrate. They celebrate with a ritual they’d practiced at home. They kidnap a young Afghan woman, usually a teenager and a virgin. They rape and murder her. In the process, they bite off the nipple on the left breast. When dried, they put it on a chain they wear around their neck. They collect these like Hurons used to collect scalps.”

  Leona winced. She sat unmoving, taking in the horror, not knowing exactly how to react. “So, Grimes sponsors this. Does Budenholzer?”

  “We don’t know what Budenholzer knows or prefers not to know. Still, Grimes could not do what he does without Budenholzer’s permission, or at least passive permission.”

  “I gather that Grimes would like more money for more killing, er, ah, I mean more national security?”

  “Yes, it looks that way.”

  “We should redesign the American flag. Make it simpler. Get rid of the blue and white. Soak it red in the blood our nation sheds around the world. That’s the true color of America.”

  “Oh, come on! I won’t stand for that kind of talk, Lee, despite what Grimes does. The blood shedding is not a national policy. It’s done by mavericks or renegades, former soldiers who get out of hand.”

  Leona sat, silent.

  “Now, Lee, I need a name. Who is the fifth column in Tehran secretly blocking the nuclear program?”

  Leona looked aghast. “Well, for the sake of Atlanta, that’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said, mimicking a fourth grade girl.

  “I’m serious, Lee.”

  “I’m even more serious, Graham. Officially, I don’t even acknowledge that I have such information. Please remember that I’ve had my come-to-Jesus moment. I quit the CIA. I quit my complicity in such shenanigans. I’m now a pastor, not a spy. In addition, even if I were a spy, I would not divulge such information. Giving you or anybody such information would undoubtedly subject this alleged person to exposure and execution. Such snitching would confront our world with a merciless nuclear terrorism, which might last in perpetuity.”

  Graham stood up with a gasp of frustration. He excused himself to visit the upstairs toilet. Leona, sensing that the conversation was far from over, poured two more glasses of cabernet sauvignon. She was staring out the picture window when Graham returned to his seat on the sofa.

  “There’s more, you know,” he said.

  “I guessed there might be.”

  Graham picked up his glass, allowing light to filter through the cab’s translucent ruby color. His eyes shifted from the glass to Leona, then back to the glass. Finally, he set it down without drinking. He thought. He hesitated a moment, then spoke. “CUB is no longer merely a list of competing businesses. CUB has become its own organization. It’s almost like a labor union. It’s bargaining collectively for higher wages, so to speak. CUB claims to hold the key to America’s security. What this means, of course, is that CUB is actually holding America’s security hostage. The negotiations look like a ransom demand. Your friend in Tehran is quite possibly a threat to Iran’s nuclear success. And more, a threat also to the ability of CUB to negotiate contracts with the CIA.”

  “I’m starting to get the picture. So, you’re here to get the information from me. Then you’ll sell it for a high price to CUB. Right?” Leona’s sarcasm shot like an arrow.

  Graham hesitated, wondering if he should respond like a wounded puppy or with aggressive sarcasm. He did neither. “I can see that I’ve won over your complete trust.”

  “Much is at stake. I’ve got good reason to deny you my trust.”

  “Much is at stake right here in Chicago, Lee. Not only on the other side of the globe or in Washington. As I said, it would not surprise me that what you thought was a purse snatching was in fact an attempt to kidnap you.”

  Although Leona seldom found herself confused, she felt she needed some private time to sort out what she was hearing from Graham. She politely asked him to leave. The two bid one another good night, and Graham headed for his car at the front end of the parking lot. Leona retrie
ved her jump rope. Graham was driving through the lot and turning into the alley when Leona took her first jump. Within seconds the rope was flying at such a speed it was invisible.

  14 Tuesday, Chicago, 10:29 pm

  Leona’s jumping was interrupted by the ringing of the parsonage landline. She wrestled with herself momentarily. “Do I stop jumping and answer it or…?”

  “Hello. Trinity Church.”

  Leona could barely hear the panicky and muffled voice of Harriet Bolstad. “Pastor, it’s Harriet. I’m in my kitchen. He’s got Lars. Someone’s got Lars in the living room. He’s got a big knife. He’s demanding that Lars give him money. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Did you dial 911?”

  “Yes, the police are on the way. But what if they come too late? What if…?”

  “How many intruders are there?”

  “One. I’ve only seen one.”

  “Can you leave without being seen?”

  “Yes. But I can’t leave Lars.”

  “Harriet, stay right where you are. Don’t make a sound. I’m coming.”

  Leona’s legs carried her up the stairs at three steps in a bound. Right behind her bedroom door her fingers addressed a small numeric console on her wall. She typed in a code, then heard a muted buzz. A large dresser drawer opened automatically. Within the drawer lie an array of firearms, bullet clips, and ammunition. Some were wrapped in carrying bags. One was a small bore target pistol; a single shot .22 caliber. This was her baby. With only a half ounce trigger pull, it had won Leona a trophy in marksmanship. The .22 was lying next to a Magnum .357 double action revolver, both atop a wrapped M5 assault rifle. She grabbed her Kimber Super Match II .45 with a sound suppressor. She pressed an eight bullet clip into the handle. A second loaded clip went into her pocket. The weapons drawer closed and self-sealed.

  In a flash the running pastor was out the front door. Left. Into the alley. Right. Then north until she reached 79th Street. She turned left and ran two blocks to South Saginaw. Then right. The Bolstads lived on Marquette, but Leona wanted to approach the house from behind. Her ears picked up the sound of police sirens as she ran.

  Leona located the house directly to the rear of the Bolstads’. She ran up the driveway and through the backyard. After scrambling over a fence into the Bolstad yard, she paused. She drew in a deep breath while peering through the Bolstad rear window. She could see Harriet safe but frightened with her ear to the living room door, listening. Leona did not announce herself to Harriet.

  As silently as a rabbit, Leona crept around the south side of the house. The megaphoned voice of a male policeman ordered someone to “drop that weapon.” At the house’s front corner she positioned herself behind an evergreen, an almost perfect Christmas tree. She observed three police cars in the street in position for a stand-off.

  On the porch, now lit by spotlights, Leona sized up the situation. Lars was in the grip of a black man: tall, unshaven, and apparently also in a panic. He held a large knife at the front of Lars’ throat. Lars stood frozen, fearing a jerk that might end his life.

  “I said drop that weapon!” reiterated the spokesman for the police. His voice was electronically magnified, so it boomed in intensity. The spinning and flashing lights created a crisscross of strobes that would intimidate the bravest of attackers.

  “I don't want to hurt nobody. But I will,” challenged the captor. His face expressed confusion, perhaps panic. “You stay back, or I will.”

  “If you put down the weapon and put your hands up, you won't get hurt,” responded the megaphoned voice. “Step away from the hostage, and you won't get hurt.”

  The police continued to engage the hostage holder with threats, threats they could not back up because they could not get a clear shot from the street. The would-be robber was temporarily in power. His power over Lars’ life gave him the authority to shout orders, or so he thought. The cracking in the captor's voice suggested unpredictability. He might kill his captive in panic, as a last ditch effort to feel a sense of power. The threat was ultimate and immediate.

  In her hiding place Leona exacted the self-discipline of her training. Though the adrenalin was raging, she took a few deep breaths to regulate her heart beat. She lowered it. All of her senses and all of her thoughts became utterly focused on one thing and one thing only: the situation. Without actually making a calculated decision, Leona found herself pointing her gun at the assailant’s forehead. From her angle the bullet could go right through the man’s cranium and out the other side without hitting Lars. Such a shot would be like threading a needle. Much too close to the hostage for anyone with less self-confidence. But lack of confidence in the face of crisis was not Leona’s weakness.

  Leona walked the target through her gunsights. The Kimber was held in her right hand, with her left supporting the right wrist. Both rested securely on the crotch of a tree limb. She took careful aim. She waited for the split second in which the captor’s head would be positioned so that…she squeezed the trigger.

  Ordinarily she would fire twice in rapid succession. In this case it was a single shot. Her prey was stunned and stiffened by the impact. Still standing. The knife fell. Then his body slowly crumpled. Lars shrank out of the way. Immediately, the police fired four more rounds, perhaps one from each officer’s gun. It happened so quickly, no one could be certain who had fired round number one. Each recruit for the Chicago PD acquires a Glock 17 or 19, but vets select from other options, including Berettas and Smith & Wessons. The variety of bullet holes in the body would not likely raise a question at autopsy.

  The body had hardly hit the porch by the time Leona had scooped up her spent shell and was racing to the rear of the house. She tapped rapidly on a window to get Harriet’s attention. Harriet unlocked and opened the kitchen door and let Leona in. “Lars is fine, Harriet,” she whispered. “Now, listen. Tell everybody that I’ve been here for half an hour. Got it?”

  Harriet nodded, not knowing if she should feel joy or confusion. The two women entered the living room from the rear at the same moment a policeman entered from the front. “Are you all right? Was anybody else hurt?”

  “My husband!?” screamed Harriet.

  “I survived, my love.” Lars stumbled through the front door and grasped Harriet with a hug of relief.

  “I was petrified.” Harriet said.

  Two officers searched the house and pronounced it secure. An ambulance arrived. Other cars arrived. A detective asked Lars, Harriet, and Leona to sit while he wrote up the case. Lars and Harriet held hands. Leona only nodded her head as she listened to the story as told by Mrs. Bolstad. While Harriet [and Pastor Lee] were in the kitchen, they reported, the front doorbell had rung. Lars answered. A man, perhaps thirty or something, asked for bus fare back to his home in Oak Park. Lars turned toward the living room, ostensibly to find some money. The beggar raced through the front door and flashed a large knife, demanding that Lars turn over his wallet and any money he might have stored elsewhere. He asked Lars about other people in the house and Lars wisely told him he was alone.

  Harriet had caught a glimpse of the living room activity through the ajar kitchen door, but she wisely stood perfectly still. Pastor Lee, it was said, had not actually seen anything. Lars seemed to be moving too slowly for his captor. After Harriet had telephoned 911 and sirens were heard, the lone bandit took his hostage to the front porch to negotiate his getaway.

  The questioning took an hour, interspersed with apologies from Detective David Ragland, a fifty-year-old who combined courtesy with focus. His slightly rumpled brown suit probably fit him at thirty-five, but no longer. “I’m sorry to put you through more stress after what you’ve just been through,” he would say on occasion.

  Leona tried to remain obscure, something difficult under the circumstances. When Detective Ragland asked her questions beyond how she was related to the family and happened to be in the kitchen, Leona took the initiative. “Do you know Jaraslov Schmucynski?”

  “Doya me
an Ol’ Shmoo?”

  “Yes, Ol’ Shmoo. Is he still with the department?”

  “No. He’s retired. But he couldn’t give up. So, Ol’ Shmoo now works for night security at Macy’s in the Loop.

  Ragland and Leona traded a few memories. But Leona declined to say exactly how she and Shmoo had known one another.

  Although it seemed an eternity, the interrogation was finally completed and the police officials began departing. Ragland announced that some lab personnel would be gathering evidence from the front porch for a while. But the family could head for bed.

  In the quiet that followed, Leona looked the Bolstads squarely in the eyes. “I’m sorry that I pressured you to stay in this neighborhood. It’s been selfish of me. I so wanted you to support my ministry at Trinity. But you’ve paid your dues over the decades. Enough is enough. You can’t stay. Lars, find that house in Naperville. Then, get the hell outa here!”

  The three hugged. Leona bent her body slightly so the hugging hands could not feel the gun concealed in her back waist.

  Leona walked home. From one point of view, all had gone well. Her experience as a sharp shooter had been an investment that she could still capitalize on. Lars was safe. Harriet was safe. Even though they were filled with fear, at least they were alive and could greet a better future in the suburbs.

  From another perspective, this was a moment of deep grief. She interrogated herself mercilessly. Had Leona’s first shot been the one to end that man’s life? Or, had she merely stunned him, making it one of the four subsequent shots that did the final job? Did it matter? In her mind, Leona had just taken a person’s life. A man was now dead because of her. This was a man she probably had never met. Like the dead squirrel she found on her porch, he was one of God’s creatures. The desperate man with the knife carried God’s image, the imago Dei. And Leona was responsible for the ending of his time on earth. Leona did it. No one else. Or did she? Even if it were her bullet, would the fact that, legally, her act of shooting him was in defense of an innocent life salve her conscience? No. I’m a killer, she said to herself. Was this the first? Would it be the last?