Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Now that the newscast had pushed far too much reality into his living room, Jonathan reached for the remote control to find an alternate escape. Seems legit, thought, he thought, I’ve had plenty of interview offers for commission-only sales jobs, but I need money today rather than the hope of money in four-to-six weeks. I have to doubt many folks’re buying new insurance policies right now, anyway.

  Jonathan drained the last of his whiskey and rose from the couch in search of another refill. His expedition required only the slightest foray into the kitchen, where he found the fifth of Jameson standing on its last leg. Well, its last three fingers, anyway, he corrected himself. Why slowly erode your sobriety when you can quickly defeat it, he wondered as he poured the bottle’s final contents into his glass with several new ice cubes. Taking a sip at first, then a small gulp, Jonathan felt his nicotine levels had depleted and strode to the back patio for his self-prescribed treatment. At least there’s still enough money in the coffers to keep the local Indian reservation mailing me cheap cigarettes. God bless America.

  Standing on the cracked concrete patio, Jonathan lit up and drew a long, deep breath, paused, and then exhaled a tobacco-filled sigh. His son was a danger to himself, his wife needed back surgery, his mother was getting older and needed more help and care than she used to. He had no job, no prospects, no interviews, and nothing that even resembled hope of an opportunity. And amidst all of that personal responsibility, he had to figure out how to pay the rent, car payment, insurance, and keep the lights turned on this month. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Another draw. His only immediate, viable option was returning to the Army, the cost of which may be his marriage and custody of his son. Colleen had made it clear she no longer wished to share him with the federal government. She wanted and needed help with their son on a more frequent basis than the Army could accommodate. For the time being, she willingly worked part-time jobs to help keep things afloat while he took on more responsibility with Michael. He knew neither of them really wanted this arrangement, but they didn’t have a lot of choice.

  Jonathan stabbed out the cigarette, walked back into the house, and passed the television. “…when two suspects engaged the officers in a gunfight underneath the carport of the residence.” Jonathan stopped, immediately engaged in the news story. He watched a uniformed sergeant from the Phoenix Police Department finish providing an official statement to a gaggle of microphoned disaster-vultures. “At least one of the suspects was struck and fell under the carport and, at this time, is believed to be deceased. The second suspect, whose condition is unknown, retreated into the residence after officers fired at him. One of the officers was shot twice in the chest. Both rounds penetrated his vest and he is currently undergoing emergency surgery. The remaining officers did a commendable job, put themselves in harm’s way, and risked their lives to ensure that the downed officer was rescued and transported to surgery as soon as possible. This officer will owe his life to his partners, E-M-Ts from Phoenix Fire Department, and the trauma surgeons and staff at Maricopa County Hospital.”

  “Has the deceased officer’s family been notified and is the Phoenix P-D ready to release his name?” asked an attractive Hispanic female reporter.

  “I apologize if I was unclear, only suspects have been killed so far today. The injured officer is undergoing surgery at this time, and, no, his name has not been released and we’re in the process of notifying his family.”

  “Why were the officers at this residence? Can you tell us what got them there?”

  “All I can say at this time is that they had responded to a Shots Fired call in the area. At this time, all indications are that this house was being used as a stash house for drug smuggling or human trafficking. We won’t know more until we completely process the scene.”

  Motherfuckers, Jonathan thought, those pieces of shit are no different than the insurgents overseas. He believed their willingness to trade in human suffering and murder cops over drug money might actually make them more despicable human beings than the insurgents who killed soldiers and murdered civilians over fucked-up religious perversions. Fuck, he thought, call it a tie in the Ninth Circle of Hell. Anybody willing to shoot at cops was willing to shoot innocent people, shoot at soldiers, or shit on my flag…motherfuckers…maybe I should look into becoming a cop…continue to serve the country…protect Americans at home, stay here with Colleen and Michael…how would she take that?

  He smiled at the idea, raised a glass to his ingenuity, and wondered why he or Colleen hadn’t yet considered that option. His stroke of drunken genius called for a late-night snack, and he not-so-quietly walked into the kitchen and saw Michael tugging on the refrigerator door. “Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?”

  “My tummy hurts, dad, I’m hungry,” he whimpered and tried to convince his dad to give in. “I want to eat, dad, please?”

  This always broke Jonathan’s heart. The psychology of food and feeding those you love very heavily equated to caring for them and loving them. He and Colleen had to monitor Michael’s food intake and mercilessly deny him extra food that could hurt him or, at best, make him obese and unhealthy. “Sorry, buddy, it’s way past dinner time. Come on, let’s go back to bed, want me to read you another story?”

  “No, I want peanut butter and jelly. Why won’t it stop hurting, dad?” Michael continued to whimper. Jonathan didn’t doubt his son suffered both physical and psychological agony, but he felt certain this was another one of those aspects of parenting that hurt him worse than it did Michael. Walking Michael back down the hall, Jonathan placed his bourbon glass on the bathroom counter as he passed by the open door, and grabbed a Clifford book after they reached Michael’s room.

  Fourteen

  Duke’s residence. Maricopa County, Arizona.

  Standing before his living room window with a blue metal coffee cup in his right hand, Duke watched the Dry Creek PD cruiser drive west off his property, briefly pause at the intersection with Sunvalley Parkway, and then accelerate and merge into the southbound lanes. He realized long ago this day would inevitably come and knew he alone bore responsibility for having tried so hard to plausibly distance himself from his early straw purchases. Duke would’ve been angry at how stupid and naïve he had once been, but he found the emotion counterproductive.

  Sipping at his black coffee, Duke pondered what he needed to do next. So Dry Creek detectives arrested some kid named Dominic with Uncle John’s stolen High Point, he thought, but the patrol cop seemed like he didn’t suspect much about my involvement, and knew even less. He might’ve really believed Uncle John is out of reach, gone on some Ethiopian Jesus-gospel mission. Another few sips of black coffee worked to help him resolve his intrinsic inquiries, as he saw the police cruiser disappear over the near, hilly horizon. Duke thought back on his crimes, on everything he had done in the past eight years that had directly led to that cop questioning him today. After Uncle John died in 2007, Duke unceremoniously buried his body near the property’s driveway and went about the business of taking over John’s financial identity. Duke looked enough like his dead uncle that he could present his driver license to bank tellers, federal firearms dealers, even traffic cops, and easily claim his identity. It had been, therefore, all too easy to keep cashing John’s social security and pension checks, buying guns under his identity, and using his bank accounts and credit cards. Hell, there’s probably not been a record of me anywhere for damned near a decade.

  When he illegally purchased and sold the cheap High Point handgun in 2009, Duke had been too fearful of the federal government and had given its agents far too much credit as omnipotent ideologues who spent every waking hour tracking, arresting, and imprisoning straw purchasers such as himself. As he had done throughout his memorable life, his back-up plans had back-up plans, so Duke had long ago concocted a reasonably believable story to sell anyone who showed up asking about his uncle’s “stolen” guns.

  Duke recalled the day he reported that High Point as stole
n, the vivid memory indelibly printed on his mind as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Nervous the spineless buyer might decide to turn him over to the cops in exchange for leniency on whatever crimes he had committed, Duke had decided to distance himself and his uncle’s identity from the straw purchase. At the time, the risk of filing a local police report under John’s identity seemed significantly less than being arrested by federal agents for illegally buying and selling guns. So, only an hour after the High Point buyer drove away from their prearranged meeting behind a then-new pet store in nearby Buckeye, Duke called the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office non-emergency line and posed as Uncle John to report the gun lost, and asserted it may have been stolen.

  About two hours later, a deputy drove up to his house, listened to his rehearsed, self-righteous statement about how he shouldn’t have to lock his truck on his own property. The deputy dutifully listened to him rail against the current state of societal affairs, drug-fueled crimes, and the legal system that protected the accused more than their victims. Duke didn’t even slow his rant to retrieve and present Uncle John’s ID when the deputy requested it, and the deputy hadn’t bothered to look at it twice or question how the years had been so kind to him. He felt certain his objectionable persona had encouraged the deputy to take the report and quickly return to service, all without having raised suspicion that a far greater crime was afoot.

  Now, thinking of that distant memory, Duke’s living room window reflection returned his smirk back to him. He enjoyed the darkly humorous reality that Uncle John laid in a shallow, unmarked grave no more than ten feet from where that deputy had parked his Crown Vic. If they had suspected anything, that cop would’ve stayed and more would’ve shown up here. They won’t have time to make a case against me before that fuckin’ tower falls and I head north. Another sip of black ingenuity. Good thing I was home when he showed up. I would’ve had to shoot that sonuvabitch if he’d wandered around the place and found my shed. Duke finished the last bit of coffee his cup had to offer. So, that’s over with. What next??

  Back to work. He left the picture window, placed the cup in the kitchen sink, and walked through the trailer’s back door to set about his last few preparations to bring down American Bank Tower. And, he thought, before the concrete dust settled, the present nigger-fied America’ll go down with it.

  Fifteen

  Watson Road Shopping District. Buckeye, Arizona.

  As his Casio read 1:37am, Billy drove his truck into the parking lot of a convenience store on the east side of Watson Road just south of I-10. He slowly drove through the front lot and, after not seeing his acquaintance, drove around to the rear of the store where he soon saw Zeke huddled against a dumpster. Billy leaned across the bench seat and repeatedly turned the manual window control clockwise to lower the glass.

  “Zeke! Get in here! What in God’s name are you doing there?!” Billy shouted through the now-open passenger window at a man he only vaguely knew as a semi-trusted associate of The Chosen Few.

  Zeke jumped up and jogged a dozen steps to reach Billy’s truck. “Thanks, Billy, glad the coast was clear, don’t want nobody to see me there.”

  “Why? Don’t you fuckin’ work the cash register?”

  “Well, yeah, but I can’t be seen doing dirty, ya know?”

  Billy suddenly felt uneasy about their intended meeting that night. “Doing dirty? I thought we’s just meeting a friend of yours for a talk?”

  “Yeah, sure, Billy, but I figure any talk about bombs gots to be dirty, right?” Billy watched Zeke scratch persistently at his forearms and cheeks.

  “You all right, man? You’re not on the tweet, are ya?”

  “HA! Tweekers suck! Come on, let’s go get some bombs. And a sucker. I could really use a sucker.”

  “I’m serious, man, are you on crystal right now?”

  “No, I got allergies.”

  “Allergies?”

  “Yeah, I got bad allergies.”

  “What the fuck are you allergic to ‘at makes you act like ‘at?”

  “I dunno. Cats. Dogs. CIA surveillance. Go back out onto Sundance and turn east. Gotta go to Dean Road and Sundance, I think.”

  Billy had seen a lot of methamphetamine use among his friends, and decided Zeke was not tweeking so hard that they had to change plans. He piloted the truck away from the convenience store, suddenly very nervous they might be watched or followed, as though Zeke’s paranoia spread to him. Glancing between all his mirrors and the road ahead as he drove, Billy grew more curious about Zeke’s meeting.

  “How you know this guy, Zeke? You sure he’s friendly?”

  “Yeah, I know him through my ex, he’s always been super great to me, and he owes me a favor, so I think this is just the thing to get me back in good graces with Cleveland, you know, after the thing that happened last year.”

  “No, I don’t know. What thing?” Billy had reached Yuma Road and turned east as Zeke had instructed.

  “Well, there was a little misunderstanding between me and Cleveland, and he thought I stole some stuff from his property, which I would never do, and sold his stuff for drugs, which I would never do, either, and so I asked him to stop calling me after he accused me of all that.” Several seconds of welcome silence passed and Billy fought to understand why Cleveland asked him to take this nutjob to meet a possible source to help with their bombmaking aspirations. Did I do something to piss Cleveland off? “So, I guess that hatchet finally got buried, is it hot in here or is it just me?”

  “Fuck, man, it’s you, dude. It’s goddamned two-o’clock in the morning, it ain’t hot anywhere!”

  “Yeah, probably right, turn here, this is Dean Road. It should be the next left, then circle around the back of the block. We have to go around the back ‘cuz his wife is kind of a bitch and she doesn’t care much for me, so we’ll go in the back door.”

  Billy turned the truck south, his apprehension growing by the block. “You sure this dude knows we’re comin’, right?”

  “Yeah, oh, hell yeah. He knows. It was his idea.”

  “You sure? I mean, one-hundred percent sure, this man knows we’re about to come into his house?”

  “Positivo, Bill-o. Yeah, so, right here, and park by that fire hydrant. Wait, no back up a bit, out away from that street light.”

  Billy stopped the truck in the middle of the residential street and made no effort to back the truck. Instead, he faced his passenger and tried to be as plain and deliberate as he could. “Zeke, I’ve knowed you a lotta years now, and I’m asking, as a friend, are we about to get into somethin’ bad here?”

  “Billy, no, man, it’s all good. I just really don’t want his wife to see us. That’s his place, the two-story right there, and she might see the truck and get mad that I’m there.”

  “She don’t know my truck, Zeke.”

  “No, but she knows I always have to get rides, ‘cuz-a my license troubles.”

  Billy sat watching Zeke for several long seconds, trying to analyze what was actually happening. Seeing nothing but some meth-induced stupidity, Billy slowly backed the truck a few dozen feet and parked in the darkness behind the two-story house.

  “Perfect, there’s a gate right behind us, straight into the yard and the back door.” Zeke practically leapt from the truck, but still intentionally shut his door as quietly as possible.

  Damn, Billy thought, if he ain’t lying, he’s scared to death o’ that woman. Billy only opened his door halfway, for he knew it started creaking loudly soon thereafter, slid from the bench seat, and squeezed himself out the partially open door. After quietly pushing his door closed, he followed Zeke through the now-opened back gate. Upon entering the yard, Billy saw kid’s toys, a plastic princess play structure, and a Barbie Big Wheel. “You better not wake his kids up, Zeke,” Billy whispered, “or that woman’ll get you four-shore.”

  “Yeah, right, the kids.” Zeke had reached the sliding glass rear door, thrust his right hand into
his front pants pocket, and retrieved a small screwdriver. He immediately started manipulating the lock and handle.

  “ZEKE,” Billy hissed through his teeth, “what the fuck are you doin’?”

  “It’s fine, the lock just sticks sometimes, I guess he forgot to leave it opened for us.”

  “You sure, man? This fuckin’ looks like a god-damned burglary.”

  “Yep,” Zeke replied as the lock gave way, “all good, as long as his wife don’t wake up.”

  “What’s she got against you, anyway?”

  “She’s my ex-wife, so you can only imagine.”

  The news struck Billy hard, and gave him further insecurity and pause. “Wait…we’re here to meet with your ex-wife’s new husband?”

  “Yep. He just got home from Afghanistan, fuckin’ jarhead, though, a little short tempered.” Zeke quietly slid the glass door open and, remaining outside, stepped aside to beckon Billy to enter the home first. “Okay, let’s go make some bombs.”

  “You go ahead, Im’ma wait out here until I see and hear all is well, ya know?”

  “Okay, I’ll just get him and I’ll be right back.” Zeke stepped through the doorway and into the kitchen, which immediately prompted a loud chirp from the home’s alarm system, followed by a robotic announcement.

  “Motion detected, kitchen. Disarm system now. Motion detected, kitchen. Disarm system now.” From his position outside the home, Billy saw upstairs bedroom lights turn on and his anxiety level spiked. He contemplated running across the yard, but decided it would have been a great way to get shot in the back. Commotion and running inside the house told him he had been right not to trust Zeke, and that there had been no planned meeting.