Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  “It’s all right, Charlie, it’s just me.” Billy heard Zeke speaking as though nothing were wrong, despite all the evidence stacking up against him. “Need to talk to you alone, outside maybe, if you don’t mind.” His voice got louder, as though someone upstairs couldn’t hear him. Billy looked inside and saw Zeke standing at the base of the home’s stairs yelling to the upper floor. “Didn’t realize you got an alarm system! That’s new since I was here last! Try not to wake Cheryl, if you can, she ain’t gonna be too happy to see me.”

  “What the fuck, Zeke?! How did you get in our house?! You know you can’t be here!” The booming voice told Billy everything he needed to know. Exit stage left!

  “Well, Charlie, you said you did bombs in the Army, and said you’d help me if I needed it, and I came over to ask if you could teach me and my friend Billy here to build bombs. For the kai-oats.”

  “‘Did bombs in the Army?’ Mother fucker, I was an Explosive Ordinance Specialist in the Marines, and you’d better get the fuck on outta my house. What the fuck do you think you need bombs for, your dealer piss you off?”

  “They’re for, thee, uh, kai-oats.”

  “Coyotes?”

  “Yeah, for the kai-oats, they keep, uhh, getting into the chicken coops.”

  “Are you high?! Seriously, are you high right now?! You told us you stopped using!”

  “I had, maybe, just a little, earlier, much earlier, like two hours ago, so I’m good right now, I’m good.”

  “Zeke, get the fuck out! She’s callin’ the cops and I’m gonna commence to whooping your ass, you stupid tweeked-out fuck!”

  “How about now, Charlie, whatchya think about me now?” Zeke’s calm demeanor didn’t match the rest of the conversation, and Billy watched him draw a black semiautomatic handgun from his front waistline and point up the stairs, presumably at ‘Charlie.’ Billy felt compelled to get Zeke away from the house, before he got arrested and had a chance to talk to the cops about The Chosen Few and their plans. “Zeke!” He hissed a whisper as loud as he could. “What the fuck are you doin’! Put that down and get the fuck outta there! Let’s go!”

  Zeke turned to face Billy, and the gun turned with him, although it appeared to Billy his actions were caused by stupidity rather than murderous intent. “It’s okay, Billy, I just had to show my man Charlie I ain’t no bitch and he can’t push me around no more. We’ll be out in a minute.” Zeke turned back toward the stairs, and Billy decided he had to leave immediately, regardless of what tweeked-out Zeke decided to do. Running as fast as his fear and dilapidated work boots would propel him, Billy fled the yard, leapt into his truck, and had just inserted his key into the ignition when he heard the first gunshot.

  BOOM

  “Come on, Charlie, get down here, you BITCH!” Zeke yelled loud enough that Billy could hear him, at least until the ignition caught and he floored the old Ford, desperate to escape before the certain swarms of bloodthirsty cops pounced on anything leaving the neighborhood.

  Sixteen

  Gas ‘N Go station, 411th Ave & I-10. Tonopah, Arizona.

  Just after 3am, Billy and Cleveland huddled together near the pay phone, as though waiting for a call for help with a broken-down car. “Zeke’s dead??! What the fuck happened tonight?!”

  “You tell me, Billy, you’re the one what was there. I only know what the cops are tellin’ the reporters.” Cleveland had little concern about traffic into the abandoned lot, but knew the cops might have already identified Billy and may be tracking him through his cell phone at that very minute.

  “I picked him up, just like you asked, and took him to see the guy he said could help. Turned out it was his ex-wife’s new husband, and they obviously didn’t want nothing to do with Zeke. He was high as fuck, Cleveland, but I didn’t think nothin’ like that was gonna happen!”

  “Well, apparently, after you left, Zeke started shooting up the house, chased the family out the second story windows, and stayed in the house for about thirty minutes, just shooting every so often until he ran out of ammo. For some reason, he decided to go outside ‘n point an empty gun at the cops, so that was that.”

  “Man, Cleveland, I didn’t see none of this comin’, he was really fuckin’ high, all tweeked out, but I didn’t think he ‘uz crazy. Holy fuck, man.”

  “Did he say anything that oughta concern us?”

  “He told ‘em the lie about the kai-oats, but he was so high and crazy I don’t think they believed him.”

  “Is it enough the cops could tie him back to us?”

  “No, no way. He never said nothin’ ‘bout us, just that he’s lookin’ to fix a kai-oat problem.”

  “I hope you know how bad you fucked up tonight, Billy, you shoudda known enough to shut that down before you two ever went inta that house. Now we got at least two civilians who know Zeke was lookin’ for bombs, they probably know your name, and if they can find you, they can find us. Right?”

  “Well, no, Cleveland, they can’t find me. All’s he’s got is a name, and…”

  “And you’re a convicted felon, Billy, the guvment’s got your fingerprints in a computer somewhere, and if the cops find ‘em inside that house, you’re as good as back in prison. I’m not sure how much good you are tuh-us right now, Billy, until we know if you’re a trustworthy free man.” Cleveland paused. “Any man’s got the kinda time you could be lookin’ at hangin’ over your head, man’s gonna get desperate, real fast, and do desperate things, like cuttin’ deals to stay on the outside. You willin’ to cut a deal, Billy?”

  “NO, Cleveland, what're yuh talkin’ about, ‘cut a deal?’ You think I’m gonna rat on you, to the feds, to the very people I’m workin’ to bring down with you? Fuck that, if I got time comin’, I done time before, and I can do time again. I didn’t break into that house and I didn’t try to shoot nobody!”

  “You think the cops are gonna believe you, Billy, or a Marine defendin’ his family from a tweeker and a convict? You better lay low and figure out how you’re gonna make this right. I won’t tolerate you puttin’ The Chosen Few and our mission at risk again. Give me your cell phone and, er, uh, wait, I don’t want that fuckin’ thing. Get rid of your cell phone, pitch it out on the highway somewhere so it’s good and broke. Don’t call me, I’ll call you when we’re good and ready to do so.”

  Seventeen

  Cleveland’s residence. Tonopah, Arizona.

  After waiting more than an hour following Billy’s departure from the gas station, Cleveland finally decided he could safely drive home without incurring the wrath of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s SWAT team. Despite the early hour, he placed the phone call just before 5am, knowing this was important enough to wake the man up.

  “Better be good.” Emanating anger and consequence no matter when Cleveland called, the gruff voice could have belonged to the Marlboro Man, if he hated everyone but white, natural-born, conservative, American Protestants. As the real, actual leader of The Chosen Few, Cleveland knew Duke had to be made aware of their potential exposure tonight.

  “It is, sir, I promise. I got good news, and bad news, and I need to see you.”

  “It’d better fuckin’ be. See me in an hour, at the pancake house.” With that, the line disconnected. Cleveland dreaded telling Duke about Billy and Zeke’s actions that night, but he looked forward to announcing that he had arranged their long-sought patsy. Billy had done cooked his own goose, and his brother’ll just be icing on the cake. Cleveland intended to make sure the McDougals solely shouldered the blame for their real plan. He and Duke intended not to use the devices for defending themselves from a federal invasion; rather, Duke had foretold him about an unspecified revolution, and Cleveland hoped Duke would allow him to play a role in it. Duke’ll know just what to do. Lady Liberty always demanded a sacrifice of her true, dedicated followers, and those two fucks’re gonna be it.

  Eighteen

  Rocco’s Bakery. Surprise, Arizona.

  “Someday, yo
u’re gonna show up on time and give me a goddamned heart attack.” Duke’s gruff baritone voice perfectly matched his mood. Maybe I picked the wrong lackey, he thought, but then, if Cleveland had more’n a lick o’ sense, he might not believe me so easily.

  “Sorry, I had tuh-be extra careful coming over here that no one had followed me,” Cleveland offered as he slid into the far, back corner booth across from his mentor and leader, “can’t be too careful now that we’re getting so close. I thought it’d be better to spend a few minutes protectin’ us.”

  Duke smiled and looked down at the coffee cup held between his hands to conceal his reaction. He’s no smarter than a box o’ hair, but he damned sure wants to be Public Enemy Number One. God Bless this stupid jackass. He decided not to follow his initial reaction and further berate the man. No, he thought, this is an opportunity to sink this hook further and deeper, all the way down into his gut. Looking back up, he drew Cleveland’s attention and made a show of overtly scanning the immediate area, despite having constantly used his peripheral vision to covertly do so since his arrival; he then quietly addressed his devotee. “I appreciate you takin’ our operational security so seriously, Cleveland. If, no, when, we succeed, and strike the first of the last blows to finally put an end to this fascist federal government, your devotion and contributions will have been among the most important, and greatest, keys to that success.” Duke sat back, but kept eye contact with the younger man. “America will owe a tremendous debt to you, and I, as being among the new American leadership, will ensure that your efforts are duly rewarded with a position of influence. We’re gonna need men, good men, just like you, to lead and guide this country as we navigate our way into a brave new future. Thank you for being brave enough, and devoted enough to our cause to take this on. You’re a true patriot, in the classic sense of the word, and I will never forget your sacrifices.”

  Duke saw his impromptu monologue had its desired effect; sitting before his mentor and confronted by the kind, and excessively rare, words of gratitude, Cleveland’s eyes moistened, his face lit up, and the man almost literally beamed with pride. Having given Cleveland only the sparsest praise, Duke knew his intentional emotional abuse had worked to concentrate the impact of his appreciation. Not unlike a neglected dog, Duke had only to show Cleveland the most minimal affection to keep him loyal and devoted. Duke had been cautious, however, to avoid creating his own To Build a Fire scenario, in which his praise became so uncommon as to be suspicious, and therefore, deadly. No, he told himself, I’ve given Cleveland just enough honey to ensure he developed a craving for it. He’d never consider running away when the time comes. He’ll gladly and willingly offer himself up for slaughter in my stead.

  “Now back to business. What is this ‘news’ you have that’uz worth waking me up for?” Duke sat through Cleveland’s apprehensive explanation of his understanding of the events that had transpired between Billy, Zeke, and the former Marine. He patiently sat and held his tongue, despite his returning desire to berate Cleveland for having errantly believed in two fools to accomplish such a sensitive task. Once Cleveland finished dispensing the medicine, he moved on to the sugar: his hopes to blame both the McDougals for any future charges related to their intended acquisition and use of explosives.

  Duke leaned back against the maroon vinyl booth, lightly pushed his hands against the table before him, and stayed there for a moment, considering the probability of success. “You just might have somethin’ there, Cleveland. Are you sure Billy has no idea about our actual plans?”

  “No, he’s got none. I been tellin’ him the same thing as ’erbody else, that we’s prepping for a dee-fensive fight with the feds. Nobody’s heard nuthin’ else, ‘specially not from me, and I ain’t heard nobody else offer up any other ideas about what we’s gonna use ‘em for, or even what else we could use ‘em for. I’m tellin’ you, Duke, there ain’t no way those two got a clue about what we’s really up to.”

  Duke plainly saw how much Cleveland enjoyed his part in their deceit and subterfuge. “That’s certainly good news, that’s all…very…good news. I think this brother, the vet? I think he presents us with an exceptional opportunity to use his combat experience in our favor, even if he won’t directly or willingly help us. I believe we can place enough suspicion on him, lay just enough blame at his feet, that the feds, the cops, the media, the public, they’ll all believe he’s responsible when the time comes. They’ll act as they always do, as investigators, judge, jury, and executioner, all before the man is even lawfully brought before a magistrate. We can put just enough damning, circumstantial evidence out there that everyone who hears the story’ll assume it’s true. They already think combat vets are dangerous, broken people, and now, with only about one-percent of Americans serving in the military, the public has no idea about how these vets really are. All they hear, day after day in the news media, is about how some psychotic combat vet snapped and killed someone, attacked someone, killed themselves. The public is already prepped for this, Cleveland, they already want to believe someone like the McDougal brother would do this, they’re just waiting for it to happen. I bet they even have the audacity to act unsurprised.” Duke thought for a moment, working to find holes in his developing plan to blame a completely innocent man for, at minimum, terrorism and attempted murder. “This is what the public expects, Cleveland, and I think we’re just the men to give it to ‘em.”

  Nineteen

  McDougal residence. Dry Creek, Arizona.

  Standing alone on their darkened back porch, Jonathan lit up another cigarette, drew a long, deep breath, paused, and exhaled a smoky sigh. Comfortable with the way in which several glasses of Jameson had rounded off his edges, he felt a slight sway in his stance and appreciated how quickly his tolerance seemed to have returned. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Another draw. Jonathan still debated returning to the Army, as that remained his only immediately viable option to support his family, and whether or not the time had come to broach that subject with Colleen. In the meantime, he thought, I’ll have to find out if I can give that cop thing a go. Crushing the cigarette out in a repurposed Folgers can, he walked back into the house, turned down the hallway, and entered the guest room/office. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he briefly used it as a support, then stumbled a bit as he took control of the wheeled office chair, and found he had not yet been gone from the computer long enough for it to have automatically locked. Jonathan again sat before the monitor, where he saw a new email displayed in his Microsoft inbox, and guided the mouse as necessary to open the message. Hmm, automated alert for new government job openings, just came in a few minutes ago at 0001. The email loaded quickly, as it contained only text and a hyperlink, and notified him of a newly opened application process for Phoenix Police Department Police Recruits. Fuck yeah, no experience necessary.

  Jonathan followed the link to a detailed job posting, commanded the police department application and background documents to print, and decided he needed a late-night snack while he waited for their antiquated printer to finish its work. Rising unsteadily from the chair, Jonathan slowly opened the bedroom office door, quietly plodded out the door and into the hallway; he sought to avoid waking Michael or Colleen, but sounds from the kitchen foretold that as an unnecessary concern. As he turned the final corner from the foyer into the kitchen, he found Michael tugging on the locked refrigerator door. “Hey, Michael, what’s going on, buddy? You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “My tummy hurts, dad, I’m hungry,” he whimpered, “I want to eat, dad, please?”

  Jonathan knelt down on his right knee, reached out, and pulled Michael close, in hopes of comforting his son’s broken wiring and his own breaking heart. “I’m sorry, honey, it’s too late for dinner and way too early for breakfast. Let’s go get you back in bed, and I can read another Clifford story?”

  “No, daddy, please, I want peanut butter and jelly,” he dropped his arms and shoulders in recurring defeat, seemingly a
ware of his argument’s futility. Jonathan picked up his son and stood, holding him close for a few seconds before starting back down the hall. Maybe we could get a prescription to help him stay asleep through the night? He noticed a slight stagger in his own walk, and wished he could have just focused on his own snack, instead of having to stay sober enough to get Michael back to bed. I bet an antihistamine might do the trick for tonight.

  After a small, pink pill, some water, and two Clifford stories, Michael reluctantly fell back asleep. Jonathan quietly left his son’s bedroom and plodded back into the bedroom office, where he saw the printer had finished. As he thumbed through the application packet, he found his thirst a bit more powerful than his hunger. He retrieved his whiskey glass from the office desk, dropped the packet in its place, and returned to the kitchen in search of whatever liquor remained there. Jonathan required little inspiration to drink tonight, and the current state of his life offered far more encouragement than necessary. How many have I had tonight? Three three-fingers, or four? Twelve is a lot of fingers, he thought, and smiled at the visual image of twelve stacked fingers holding a large whiskey glass.

  Having drunk more heavily tonight than he had since returning home, Jonathan knew he had laid sobriety to rest several hours ago. As he finished off what remained of an open fifth of Jameson and commenced his march into a second, he stared at a Fox News broadcast on the living room television and tried to focus on the digital time displayed on the screen’s lower right corner. Eventually determining the time as 4:05am, he drained the last of the whiskey from his glass and, looking at the time display through its thick bottom, saw what he thought appeared to be a Picasso-inspired time machine. Where did the last four hours go? How long has the television been on? Did I turn it on, or is Colleen up somewhere? I’m pretty fucked up, man.