Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  “Helluvuh thing, idn’t it?”

  He pondered Nichols’ question before responding. “You mean how an asshole from Arizona tries to blow up a skyscraper and kill a bunch of innocent people, flees the state, steals a car in La Verkin, Utah, nine hours before a Montana trooper thinks he might be a drug trafficker, and then tries to shoot and kill the trooper, twice, only to be run over like a feral dog and killed in return for his troubles?”

  “Yeah, that, except you forgot the part about the F-B-I taking over the investigation ‘cuz he’s a domestic terrorist.”

  “Yeah, I did forget that part. My wife’s not gonna believe all this. Shit sounds made up.”

  “Missoula, Charlie-5.” The MHP Captain’s radio traffic interrupted their conversation. “L-C-S-O bomb techs are here, and they’ve gotta take over the scene to clear the body and the car.”

  “Copy, Charlie 5, bomb techs have the scene.”

  After the radio again fell silent, Nichols returned to their conversation. “So, the Utah cops found an abandoned car with Arizona plates, and that’s what ties all this together?”

  “Yeah, I guess it was just around the block from where that Corolla was stolen,” Raheps appreciated the company and conversation, even though he knew Nichols only knew as much about the investigation as he did. It just feels good to talk right now, though. “Sounds like they still haven’t I-D’d the suspect, but they’re sure as hell not takin’ any chances.”

  Ninety-Seven

  Closed northbound lanes of Interstate-15. South of Dillon, Montana.

  Just after 8:30am, Montana Highway Patrol Captain James Willoughby stood in the center of the northbound Interstate 15 travel lanes beneath a small, twenty-feet-by-twenty-feet collapsible canopy that served as his Incident Command Post. Having risen a half-hour ago, the morning sun had only slightly warmed the air temperature above its brisk overnight low of 39⁰; Willoughby watched his expired breath visibly protrude, cool, and disappear before him. Sunlight shone from just above the nearest easterly hilltop and, for the first time today, noticeably warmed his black MHP jacket and uniform pants.

  Willoughby watched the gathered personnel dissipate from beneath the Incident Command Post now that he and each of the specialized, on-scene tactical and investigative units had just finished briefing the recently-arrived agents from the FBI’s Salt Lake City Field Office. As the crowd thinned and returned to complete their respective tasks, Willoughby looked north, up to the crest of the roadway; the cold blacktop rose just high enough to deny him a line-of-sight to the distant corpse and crime scene where his trooper had been assaulted. Tired but determined, he lifted his right hand to bring a disposable paper coffee cup to his lips and sipped at his cooling black coffee. Willoughby quietly sighed and returned his attention to handwritten case notes in search of anything he’d missed. The FBI SAC and his staff had driven the 344 miles from Salt Lake City in very short order and, upon their arrival, he’d passed off oversight and responsibility for the investigation to them. Even though the FBI had primary jurisdiction over almost any terrorism investigation, I hate the idea of passing off unfinished cases, he thought.

  “Thanks for taking care of this early on,” he heard the FBI SAC’s voice from behind his right shoulder and turned to face the new Incident Commander, “you’ve done my job so well that I don’t think I’ve got anything to occupy my time at the moment.”

  Willoughby sipped at his coffee again before responding. “Not a problem. I’m glad our trooper found your man, and that we’ve been able to lend a hand to such an important case. Even happier this asshole didn’t get to hide out in my state.”

  “Yeah, we have no idea where he was headed yet, and we’re hoping to find out a lot more after we’re cleared to start going through the car and any electronics he has…err, had.” The SAC raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun, despite wearing dark aviator sunglasses.

  “Yessir, past tense for sure. I’m most looking forward to pulling him off my roadway and getting the interstate reopened. Not many other options for commercial vehicles to navigate this part of the world.”

  “Yeah, definitely gotta get that taken care of,” the SAC’s tone struck Willoughby as a bit mocking, “gotta make sure the department store trucks get through our terrorism scene as soon as possible.”

  Willoughby watched the SAC take a few steps toward the scene, tugging at his dress shirt sleeves. This guy has no idea where he is right now. How does real cop work get done in skinny lady pants, anyway?

  “So, Captain, where’s the line the bomb techs wanna maintain for their working perimeter and standoff?”

  “It’s just the other side of the top of the rise to the north. We’re about fifty yards beyond it here.” Willoughby watched the SAC walk a few steps north, his eyes still shielded by his right hand.

  “I don’t know about you, but I much prefer to actually see the scene I’m working. How long would it take to get the I-C-P moved up to the standoff line?”

  Willoughby again quietly sighed and paused before addressing the SAC’s request. “I don’t know about you, but I prefer not to have shrapnel and fragmentation unnecessarily propelled through my body when a secondary device goes off inside that mutt’s car. I put the I-C-P here to allow the hill to provide line-of-sight protection for my people. I’ve got no need to see that corpse and car to have continued confidence they’re there and that my people are competently working them.”

  “Yeah, I guess that one’s hard to argue with. Thanks for thinkin’ of that, Captain,” the SAC offered, as though he didn’t understand how Willoughby had taken his inquiry. “So, Captain, what’s the big deal about March 7th?”

  “March 7th?”

  “Yeah, 1977, the date stickered on your squads by the badge. I thought your agency was a lot older ‘n that.”

  “Not a date, sir. It represents Montana’s long history with swift justice and the rights of free men to stand up and defend themselves from those who would do them harm, regardless of the offender’s position in society,” the Captain explained and slightly smiled. “It’s technically a mystery, but the numbers are alleged to be from the first organized law enforcement officers in the Montana Territory, the Vigilantes. They used to write ‘3-7-77’ across the doorways of road agents, criminals they were ordering to leave town. The original Vigilantes’ members swore a strict oath of secrecy about the group and held it true, all the way to the grave.

  “Some said the numbers foretold the road agent he had three hours, seven minutes, and seventy-seven seconds to leave town. Another tale said they came from similar Vigilante groups in the California or Colorado gold rushes. A different story is that it had to do with Masonic symbolism.” The Captain spat Copenhagen juice on the asphalt at his feet and slowly wiped his mouth before continuing. “The most widely accepted explanation, which is also my personal favorite, is that the numbers represent the dimensions of a grave. Three feet wide, seven feet deep, and seventy-seven inches long. Thus, if you walk out and see ‘3-7-77’ above your door, you’d best be on your way to avoid meeting such a fate. The Vigilantes acted for the safety and welfare of the people, but they did so with swift and ruthless efficiency. They were kind enough to warn you, but they didn’t do so twice.”

  “What about actual law enforcement, the territorial sheriff and his deputies? Where were they when that was going on?”

  “They were the first criminals to be given the chance to leave town unharmed.” Willoughby felt a mischievous grin spread across his face. “They didn’t get to stick around much after that, and most Montanans ain’t had much trust for federal agents since then.”

  Seemingly uncomfortable with the direction their conversation had taken, the SAC turned to leave. Must need to find one of his own agents in need of immediate supervision, Willoughby thought.

  Ninety-Eight

  Intensive Care Unit, Maricopa County Hospital. Phoenix, Arizona.

  Mentally foggy, J
onathan awoke in a panic, unaware of his surroundings. He tried to move his arms, but soon realized he couldn’t do so. Blurry vision in his right eye was made worse by an inability to see anything out of his left.

  “Uhhh…wha…ehhh…” He felt heavily drugged, and struggled to pick his head up off the pillow and focus his sight. Having lost consciousness engaged in life-and-death combat, Jonathan returned to reality in much the same mental state. He tried in vain to get up and identify any threats around him, but his body failed to comply.

  “Captain McDougal, you awake?”

  The unfamiliar voice didn’t lessen his fear, and he continued to struggle as a dull figure came into view, standing over him on his left side. How is that, how does he know my name?

  “Captain, you’re alright, sir. You’re in I-C-U, and I’m Sergeant Hall. I’m with the Arizona Army National Guard’s 860th Military Police Company. There’s some guys from Phoenix P-D’s Special Assignments Unit here, too, and we’re here to keep watch, sir. You’re safe, you’re alright.”

  “Doc! Hey, DOC, he’s coming to!” Another unfamiliar voice shouted, from somewhere farther off to Jonathan’s left, and he tried to focus on the people around him.

  “Captain,” the sergeant continued, “can you hear me okay, sir?”

  “Yea…whha…what…happnd…”

  “Sir, the doc’ll be here in a second. They’ve had you on some intravenous drugs, and you’ve been unconscious for a while since you came outta surgery. There’s nylon soft restraints that’re keeping you from moving too much and messing up your I-Vs. Stay calm, and the doc’ll be here shortly, sir.”

  “K.” Jonathan calmed down and worked to regain his mental acuity and vision. Despite understanding the sergeant’s words, he had trouble processing what they meant. Why won’t my left eye work?

  “Nurse!” The second voice shouted again. “Ma’am, can you get the doc? Captain McDougal’s waking up!”

  “Sir, don’t worry about him,” the sergeant seemed to understand Jonathan’s efforts to identify the second voice, “he’s a Phoenix S-A-U sniper, and even though he’s former Navy, he’s pretty high-speed and low-drag, sir. Stay calm, you’re okay, Captain, we’ve got you.”

  The vision in Jonathan’s right eye cleared enough that recognized the sergeant’s uniform, and saw a blue-and-black clad tactical officer standing outside his room with a slung M4 rifle and a chest full of extra magazines.

  “Sir, rest easy,” the sergeant continued, “the rest of this wing’s been cleared for you, and there’s nobody but the good guys here. You’re okay, you’re alive, and no one can hurt you, sir.” The part-time MP’s soft, confident voice felt reassuring to Jonathan, and he maintained a gentle hand on Jonathan’s left forearm.

  Comforted by the MP and the realization that he was no longer inside the packed American Bank Tower stairwell, Jonathan relaxed somewhat and focused on the friendly MP. Groggy from surgical anesthesia and struggling to moisten his painfully dry throat and mouth, Jonathan immediately accepted a drinking straw when the MP offered it. He closed his eyes and drank the most delicious ice water he’d ever had.

  Pushing the straw away with his thick tongue, Jonathan leaned back in the bed and tried to improve his vision. “Wha..whaTtt…ha..” Jonathan’s tongue remained swollen and uncooperative.

  “Relax and lay still, Captain, the doc’s coming in now. You’re gonna be fine, sir, you’re gonna be fine.”

  “Whhhhaaaat, ha-ppendd…”

  Before the MP could offer a more detailed answer, Jonathan saw five women, whom he assumed were nurses, and a female physician rush through the doorway. Upon entering, they slowed to a purposed walk, and Jonathan watched the MP and SAU sniper move back against the walls or out of the room to ensure the medical staff had space to work.

  Jonathan listened and interacted with the nurses and doctor as they went through an initial evaluation with him. Each passing minute seemed to help lift the fog from his brain, and he better understood everything they conveyed to him. After the nurses removed the restraints from his arms and the doctor explained that his left eye had been covered only to treat other trauma and had escaped injury itself, he further relaxed.

  After answering a round of questions to identify any lingering pain or deficiencies in his mobility and sensation, Jonathan learned of the heroic, lifesaving efforts anonymous American Bank employees made to keep him alive and get him out of the stairwell. The doctor explained what the paramedics who brought him to the Emergency Room learned on-scene, which was that American Bank employees descending the stairs initially recoiled away from him and his shooter in self-preservation, but immediately collapsed back around him and carried him down and out of the building. After delivering him to paramedics, the Good Samaritans vanished among everyone else fleeing the area, and no one knew who they were.

  “You’re a lucky man, Captain,” the doctor explained. “Ordinary people who had come to work their cubicles that morning heroically rose to meet the atrocity before them and provided critical aid necessary to save your life. I’ve only seen a couple other gunshot wounds to the head that occurred at just the right angle so the bullet never penetrated the brain. It did, however, penetrate your skin between the left temple and ear, traveled along your cranium, and exited the posterior left side of your head, which gave the appearance of a mortal, brain-penetrating wound, and a concussion sufficient to render you unconscious. Basically, you got grazed and knocked out. You’re on some pretty heavy pain meds right now, so you might not feel much headache, but I guarantee you it’s there as soon as the meds wear off. If those folks hadn’t taken you out, you could’ve easily been trampled or bled to death.”

  Jonathan deeply wished to see Colleen and Michael, but part of him feared asking about their presence, or if they had been in to see him. The fact that none of the medical staff mentioned them concerned him. He had to know, ignorance felt like Hell as his mind raced down a slippery slope of further grievance and disaster.

  “What, what about my family? Whe--where are Colleen and Michael?”

  “They’re down the hall right now, sitting in a secure doctors’ lounge so Michael could have ice cream and watch cartoons while they waited for you to come out of the anesthesia. We spoke about this a few minutes ago, but I now expect you were still a bit too drugged to retain it.” Jonathan broke out in the happiest tears of his life, and he struggled to wipe them on the hospital gown sleeves. Sympathetic and seemingly embarrassed by her own oversight, the physician continued. “I’m so sorry to have frightened you, Jonathan, we should have discussed that with you again after we knew you were more alert, I am so sorry. We can call for them immediately, if you want. You should also know you’re a bit of a celebrity right now.”

  The doctor turned the room’s television on to a local news report, and Jonathan watched the Dry Creek and Phoenix Police Department Chiefs, along with their respective mayors, praise the injured and unnamed civilian for his efforts to aid law enforcement, identify the men responsible, and thwart the plot to destroy lives and property. They also provided the welcomed news that the suspected shooter had likely been killed by a Montana State Trooper, but forensic confirmation would take another day or two. They asked the public to pray for the wounded Good Samaritan and his family, and directed anyone with any information to immediately call the FBI tipline.

  Jonathan watched as the news anchor stated all but one witness to the stairwell shooting said they didn’t realize a gun had been fired, assuming instead that there was a small explosion related to the fire alarm. Only one witness, who did not wish to be identified on camera, professed he immediately recognized the sound and the subsequent fallen man in the stairwell as a gunshot victim.

  “DADDY!”

  Jonathan heard his son’s shout outside the room, from somewhere down the unfamiliar hospital hallway. His son sounded both scared and excited, and fall of small, fast footsteps immediately followed his shout. Michael’s voice immediately
welled tears in Jonathan’s eyes.

  “In HERE!” Shouting hurt his head, despite all the drugs he had onboard. He motioned to the television, toward which the MP had already stepped. He owed Michael enough explanation without complicating its narrative with graphic videos and harmful half-truths.

  The television went blank and silent as Michael ran through the middle of the hallway and turned sharply right toward the SAU sniper immediately outside the room. Jonathan saw the sniper, well aware of the boy’s flight path, step aside ahead of time. Colleen entered only a few feet behind Michael, and was also running, but she had to carry her heels to keep up with the boy. She must have been working today, Jonathan thought, she always looks so beautiful in heels. She’s beautiful in everything.

  As they entered the room, Jonathan gratefully watched the gathered crowd vacate it to give them privacy. Michael quickly climbed up onto Jonathan’s left side, buried his head in his dad’s chest, and hugged him tightly. Colleen ran around to Jonathan’s wide-open right arm. She leaned in and kissed him, wrapping her arms around both of her men, careful to avoid Jonathan’s bandages.

  The three of them held each other for a long time, Colleen and Jonathan crying together, Michael apparently happy and unsure why his parents were upset. Jonathan doubted his little man understood their explanation of “happy tears,” but he seemed to accept it for the moment.

  “I love you, daddy, can you come home?” Michael’s innocence and unconditional love melted Jonathan’s heart. He looked at Colleen for her consent, and she immediately and sincerely nodded “yes.”

  “Yeah, buddy, as soon as the doc says it’s okay. Do you think you can help me put my stuff away when we get there?”

  Michael kept holding Jonathan, the right side of his head glued to Jonathan’s chest. “Sure, daddy, but first, I’m hungry, let’s go get something to eat. Can you drive me to McDonalds?”