Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Alex had never before seen Wall be so human. That guy must have gone through some shit coming back from ‘Nam.

  Berkshire cleared his throat, as though to indicate he still had business to attend to. “Jonathan, before we leave, do you mind if I run through a few, potentially related questions that you may be able to help with?”

  “No, shoot, Detective,” Jonathan offered after clearing his throat and wiping tears off his cheeks, “whatever I can do.”

  “Great, thanks. Out of curiosity, what got you out of the Army?”

  “Short answer? Colleen and Michael.”

  “Long answer?”

  “I couldn’t stay in the Army anymore. If they wanted me to have a wife and a kid, they’d ‘ve assigned ‘em to me. As it was, I was always deployed, training for deployment, or rotating to another assignment somewhere. Colleen and Michael had no real support from the Army, and they only lived wherever I was stationed when I was home, otherwise, they were here with our families so she could have help with Michael.” Spit. “And, now, the economy’s all SNAFU, the job market’s fucked, and, after sixteen years of service, the Army sent me off without so much as a goodbye kiss. Now, with all the problems I’ve got here, I doubt I can even go back in. Not sure I could ever work for the federal government again, anyway.”

  “Are you in contact with much of the vet community here in the Phoenix area?”

  “I know a few guys from my old neighborhood, and a few guys from my own service, but, not really. I don’t spend a lot of time at the Legion or VFW talking about the ‘good ‘ol days,’ if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, maybe you can still help. Do you know anyone with a military background who’s especially disgruntled with the federal government, maybe expresses a lot of hate and discontent for the country he came home to?”

  Alex tried not to show surprise, but he had no idea where Berkshire was headed with this line of questioning. While he struggled to find a logical connection, Alex could only assume this had to do with Berkshire’s Social Media Investigator assignment.

  “Detective, you may be surprised to learn most vets don’t have a whole lotta love for the federal government. I don’t mean offense, but, based on your question, I gotta ask. Did you serve?”

  “No. I didn’t have that particular honor.”

  “I expected as much. What I mean, is just that you don’t seem to understand much of the typical veteran mindset. From my perspective, we served our country, but we only worked for the government. Most politicians use the military and its personnel as propaganda for campaigns and legislation, but they really have no idea what we go through to serve our country. Civilian leadership sends us into war, tells us who to fight and kill; they define our enemies and strategy and, too often, influence our tactics. Military pay and veterans’ benefits are debated by civilians with no skin in the game, and nobody ever asks us. By the way, if someone did, we aren’t allowed to make public, official comment on policy and legislative matters. So, short answer, you’re gonna need to give me more specifics. That could be any one of us.”

  “Fair enough. We’ve been hearing a lot of noise in websites and chat rooms about how the corrupt, oppressive, and Jackbooted federal government needs immediate reform, and that violence may be the only way to accomplish that.” Berkshire paused, and it appeared to Alex as though he had intentionally done so to analyze Jonathan’s body language. Berkshire maintained strong eye contact while he did so. “Specific enough to say if that’s someone you know, someone you’ve heard, ya know, talking around the campfire?”

  Alex looked at Jonathan and saw he hadn’t even flinched; in fact, he didn’t see any reaction to Berkshire’s question or specific wording. Jonathan certainly didn’t seem nervous to be confronted by either.

  “Yeah, that’s specific enough, and no, I don’t know anyone who says things like that. All the guys I know complain about the ‘fuckin’ politicians’ and the ‘anti-VA’ outta one side of their mouth and sing the National Anthem outta the other. Sorry, Detective, can’t help you.”

  “Well, it was worth a shot. If you hear something that seems to fit that train of thought, I’d appreciate you givin’ us a call.”

  “No worries. Is there anything else for me?” Jonathan glanced at the three detectives in turn, who also looked among themselves.

  “No,” Wall again spoke for the group, “you got anything else for us?”

  “No. Just lemme know when you decide what to do with my case so I can get on with my life. Tired of being penned up like this.”

  Alex, Wall, and Berkshire left the home with exchanged handshakes and business cards, but little fanfare. The three detectives walked in silence to Berkshire’s car, and waited until its interior offered privacy before speaking. “Ron,” Alex said as soon as the last door shut, “what was that about, the disgruntled vet stuff?”

  Berkshire accelerated and maneuvered the sedan back toward the Investigations Bureau. “Our social media mining efforts recently produced a series of threads across about a half-dozen sites that are likely the source of a single author, but we can’t know that for sure without forensic analysis of the writer’s computer.”

  “And you think Jonathan might know the author?”

  “The combat vet community here is really pretty small, but they’re also a very reluctant and tight-lipped group. I hoped Jonathan might have a lead for me, but the odds were small.”

  Wall stepped into the conversation next. “Or, you thought Jonathan might be your guy.”

  Berkshire paused before answering as he navigated out of the neighborhood streets and onto major cross-city thoroughfares. “I didn’t see any indication of deception on his part.”

  “So, you don’t think he’s your guy?” Wall pressed Berkshire, and Alex thought the tone of his question had made his bias for the combat vet and his plight too plain.

  “Wall, I understand your position, and you have to admit your personal affinity for military personnel has often kept you from conducting objective inquiries into their potential misconduct.” Berkshire’s statement hung for a moment before he continued. “I think it’s a pretty amazing coincidence that we’re working a case against McDougal at the same time these postings were published, and the indications are that someone with his experience and possible paradigm wrote them. Whether you like it or not, vets and active duty personnel commit crimes every day, and, while they deserve our respect and gratitude for their sacrifices, we are in no way obligated to overlook their misconduct. A DD-214 does not give them a blanket pass for everything short of murder.”

  Thirty-Four

  Mrs. McDougal’s residence. Dry Creek, Arizona

  Jonathan turned Billy down for the third time, and hadn’t expected his brother to be audacious enough to have again asked for help with ‘security explosives.’ The conversation ended badly, as they both finally agreed aloud that they didn’t like each other and only played nice to appease their mother. Billy now understood Jonathan didn’t want him around their mother or his family, and Jonathan understood Billy would continue visiting their mother’s home as he “damned well pleased.” The repeated efforts to acquire Jonathan’s help to solve his friend’s “security” problems seemed initially suspicious, but now Jonathan thought Billy and his racist friends had a far darker purpose in mind. He assumed it must be the wet dream of every antisocial group to possess explosives because of their destructive and psychological usefulness, and Jonathan prayed that such groups never actually succeeded. Cleveland and the other two douche bags from The Watering Hole Saloon didn’t strike Jonathan as idle men, and he grew seriously concerned they had killing on their minds and were using Billy as a pawn to further their objectives. Well, I hope Billy is just a pawn in this, he thought, and shuddered at the possibility that his brother could be a willing participant in whatever plot his friends had devised.

  Jonathan watched Billy’s Ford back from the driveway and start down the street when he f
elt impulsively compelled to further investigate his suspicions. He ran to the neighbor’s home and spoke with Mr. Trujillo, whom he had known since childhood. Feeling a little guilty for lying about needing a car to drive to the auto parts store, Jonathan surmised it served the greater good. The old man graciously and immediately agreed, without question, to loan Jonathan their family’s only car for as long as he required.

  Jonathan expected Billy to continue generally heading west to a trailer somewhere in Tonopah, so he quickly left the residential neighborhood and drove south toward the I-10 freeway. Hoping to either dispel his fears or provide the police with useful information, he sped west on the interstate without exactly knowing where he was headed. Thank God for small favors, he thought when he saw Billy’s truck just a few hundred yards ahead of him on westbound I-10. Keeping a safe distance behind the dilapidated truck, Jonathan contemplated what he actually hoped to find. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I pray I know when I see it.

  He’d never been to whatever flophouse Billy now called home, and Jonathan estimated it had been more than a decade since he’d crossed his brother’s threshold. However, he didn’t feel surprise when he saw the Ford truck exit the freeway at a relatively abandoned highway, turn north, and drive only a short distance to a dirt side road. After passing the turnoff and continuing north until he topped the next hill about a half-mile away, Jonathan u-turned and went back. Following his brother’s turn onto the unidentified road, he drove the borrowed sedan over the rough, dusty ruts and soon found Billy’s truck expectedly parked in front of a dilapidated RV trailer with a makeshift cinderblock front porch. Jonathan thought the trailer, a rotting, 20-foot bumper-pull model, looked like something out of a horror movie where a deranged psychopath hacked unwitting teenagers to death after their car broke down on an isolated desert road. Fuckin’ perfect.

  Jonathan continued on the dirt road more than a half-mile past Billy’s truck before he found a decent place to watch the trailer through his binoculars. Acutely aware of being unarmed and alone in the midst of a remote “neighborhood” filled with residents who surely didn’t trust outsiders with binoculars, Jonathan wanted to avoid attention and scrutiny. Desert dwellers, generally, didn’t want to live by normal social rules, and distrusted white men conducting surveillance in sedans. What the fuck am I doing here?

  Jonathan began creating a cover story in case Billy’s racist friends caught him out here. I could tell them I had to turn Billy down, so I didn’t seem too eager, like a snitch or cop would be, he thought, and I’m watching them to make sure they aren’t a bunch of posers, because I’m only willing to help legit warriors. Yeah, some shit like that, feed their egos. Let the games begin.

  He didn’t have to wait long, as Billy remained at the trailer for only fifteen minutes before he returned to the aging Ford and piloted it back toward the main county road. Jonathan followed at a distance, which proved difficult in this sparsely populated section of Maricopa County. As he followed Billy south of the interstate, and even farther away from civilization, Jonathan grew more concerned that he had unreasonably placed himself in jeopardy as no one knew where to find him or that he might soon need help. Memorizing the road signs and mile markers, Jonathan wanted to ensure he could tell the 911 dispatcher where to send help if Billy and his friends decided to confront him.

  The Ford’s only functional brake light come on just before Billy made an unsignaled left turn at the south dead-end of 411th Avenue. More than a half-mile behind Billy’s truck at the time it turned, Jonathan accelerated quickly, but reached the intersection after the Ford had disappeared from sight. He followed Billy’s left turn onto the Tonopah-Salome Highway and drove just below the fifty-five miles-per-hour speed limit to avoid drawing attention. With no obvious sign of the Ford, Jonathan had to hope for a lucky break.

  Just then, he saw it. Not the Ford truck, but a small feather of desert silt rising from within a dense treeline to his left and just ahead of him. Jonathan assumed that had to be from Billy’s truck, especially because there had not been another vehicle in sight for the previous ten minutes as he followed Billy onto this isolated road. As he closed distance on the rising plume, Jonathan passed what he believed had been the access road Billy used to get into the treeline. An exceptionally rough driveway, numerous ‘No Trespassing’ signs posted at its entrance announced it was, and would remain, private property.

  The driveway, even if he wanted to enter, appeared too rough for a sedan. Dense desert trees and foliage prevented Jonathan from seeing too deeply into the property, and equally dense cacti would have stopped anyone who wandered from the driveway on foot. Jonathan stayed on the paved county road and only momentarily slowed before quietly accelerating once beyond the entrance. He assumed there were mechanical or electronic counter-surveillance measures in place beyond those offered by the terrain, cacti, and silt, especially if Cleveland and his merry henchmen lived at the property, rather than some random desert skank who had the indecency to throw her legs open for someone like Billy.

  Even though he hadn’t gotten a look at Billy’s destination, at least he had a starting point. Jonathan opened a mapping app on his phone and set a marker at his current GPS location. Even if the coordinates weren’t perfect, they would get him close enough to again locate the property, establish an overwatch position, and see what he could learn. He rolled up the sedan’s windows, kicked the AC on to max-high, and headed back to civilization. I still have to stop and fill Mr. Trujillo’s gas tank, he thought, you can’t return borrowed cars on fumes.

  Thirty-Five

  Cleveland’s residence. Tonopah, Arizona

  Billy hung up the new prepaid cell phone after announcing his arrival to Cleveland. From inside the hot, dusty cab, he drove the last few dozen yards toward the hard left turn, and pondered how to live up to his commitments with The Chosen Few. Jonathan basically told him to fuck off and, while he didn’t exactly say it, Billy sensed Jonathan knew the “security system” story was bullshit. I wonder where I could still get copies of The Kitchen Terrorist or The Anarchist Cookbook, he thought, should’ve bought those back in the day before Big Brother watched everything we do.

  Nearing the driveway’s end, he saw Cleveland had company, as a lot more trucks were parked at the house than normal. What the hell’s goin’ on here? Billy saw Paul and Mikey standing near the carport; he assumed they waited there for him, which they confirmed by quickly approaching him and his truck as soon as he parked. “Hey, fellas, what’s goin’ on?” Billy slid from the driver seat and landed on terra firma at nearly the same moment Mikey reached him and grabbed his left hand. “Hey! What the fuck, man? What the hell’s goin’ on?!” Billy watched both men stand in abject silence while Mikey held his right index finger up in front of his pursed lips to indicate Billy should be quiet. Although apprehensive, he felt compelled to trust his compatriot.

  Mikey directed Billy to turn and face the Ford’s hood, where Paul immediately began patting him down, as though searching for weapons. Oh, fuck, Billy thought, they think I’m wearin’ a goddamned wire!

  “Hey, man, I ain’t got nothin’, no guns, no nothin’ but a pocket knife, and you can have it if you want. I ain’t no snitch and I ain’t wearin’ no wire!”

  “I told you to be quiet, Billy, the sooner we can get this done, the sooner it’ll be over with,” Mikey whispered.

  Can’t fault the man’s logic, Billy thought. Paul’s frisk completed, Mikey directed Billy to turn back around.

  “Lift your shirt, Billy.”

  He slowly did as directed, but the growing humiliation he felt at the distrust among his conspirators became overwhelming. Billy had long sought their approval and acceptance, and he almost truly had it; now, he stood before them as a suspected snitch, a goddamned Benedict Arnold! Fuckin’ Zeke! “Turn around, keep your shirt up.” He again did so, his shame and disappointment growing as a palpable lump in his throat.

  “He good?”

  B
illy looked at the carport when he heard Cleveland call out, hoping to be saved from this prison yard treatment. Even as he wished for Cleveland to rescue him, he knew the leader had dictated the search and distrust.