Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  “I’m still checking them out,” Brown said.

  “Suit yourself,” Mills added.

  Brown stood up and walked up the stairs to the deck, navigating his way to the screen doors beneath a massive two-story wall of wide glass windows framed by stone.

  “I wish your wife didn’t have a problem with firearms,” Greely said. “I feel a little exposed sitting here unarmed.”

  “Are you worried about Brown? His loyalty to the cause is second to none. Trust me on that. He’s just being cautious. Nothing wrong with that,” Harding said.

  “I suppose not, which is why I’d feel better with my Colt,” Greely said.

  “Sue Ellen will not allow them in the house, which is why I own several houses,” Mills said, laughing at his own joke.

  “I can’t imagine she feels too comfortable about all of this firepower on the estate,” Harding said.

  “I convinced her that kidnapping threats have been made against the family because of the water crisis. She loves those kids more than life itself. As long as the weapons stay outside of the main house, I could land a battalion of marines on that beach.”

  **

  Brown strode across the slate floor of the Vista Room and headed right for the Grand Entry. All of the rooms in this house had a fucking name, and he’d already forgotten most of them. Mills had subjected them to a tour of the estate, once they had all arrived earlier today. Prior to this morning, none of them had been invited to Mills’ exclusive Lake Wallenpaupack estate. They’d always met in his “lesser” homes or at retreat locations throughout the region.

  Wallenpaupack. Brown promised himself that if he ever had enough money to buy a lake house, it wouldn’t be on a lake with such a stupid name. He felt like a douchebag even hearing someone else say it.

  He hoped to hell that he didn’t run into Mills’ trophy bride. More like old trophy, though you couldn’t tell by the amount of work she’d had done on her face, which is why he hoped to avoid her. She was teetering on the edge of looking like one of those cartoonish Hollywood freaks that got a little bit carried away with collagen injections and skin tightening. She wasn’t there yet, but give her a couple more years and she’d be forced to take drastic action to continue looking thirty years old. According to Mills, the two of them had been high school sweethearts. Mills had recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, which put Sue Ellen in her late forties. Once she hit fifty, the gains achieved through simple plastic surgery and Botox would start to diminish, forcing her to either accept the aging process or continue the madness and risk looking like Donatella Versace.

  Brown stopped at the far end of the Vista Room, at the custom-crafted, arched doorway leading deeper into the house, and wondered if he should have taken the smaller opening on the other side of the fireplace. The house had so many rooms and hallways that he imagined unattended guests could disappear, only to be found hours later. It was truly an outrageous spectacle and, frankly, didn’t square well with the workingman focus of True America’s manifesto, though he was quite sure that Owen Mills wouldn’t hesitate to waste an hour of anyone’s time explaining how his success embodied the true potential of America’s resurgence to greatness. Somehow, inheriting a multimillion dollar company from your parents was considered an American success story in his world.

  Before stepping out of the room in search of the Grand Entry, he couldn’t resist looking back at the sweeping panoramic view of the lake through the virtual wall of windows behind him. He estimated the view to span one hundred and twenty degrees from the two-story fieldstone fireplace at the back of the room. He shook his head at the king’s view of Lake Wallenpaupack before continuing.

  He had chosen hallways wisely, seeing the front door in the distance. He hoped Anne Renee hadn’t figured out her fate. She’d be hard to track down if she vanished. The arrival of Paulson and Brooks closed the loop on their involvement with Al Qaeda. The guards brought to the Mills’ estate for the “exclusive” VIP-protection detail were all that remained of the teams assigned to steal the virus canisters from Al Qaeda cells in the New York Tri-State area. They couldn’t completely erase True America’s links to Al Qaeda, but they could take steps to prevent detailed testimony regarding the unsavory relationship.

  Paulson had been intimately involved with the plan to fund Al Qaeda’s overseas efforts to acquire the virus, which was enough to put her in the ground. Her direct coordination of their plan to steal the canisters from Al Qaeda and “redistribute” the virus ensured her execution. Greely had recruited her through a military contact, but he had never grown fond of her. Brown had detected from the beginning that Greely was simply using her intelligence background to fill a temporary role within the organization.

  Mrs. Mills would leave with the kids for their house in St. Kitts early tomorrow. After they departed, Greely, Harding and Brown would host a celebratory picnic on the estate for True America’s most loyal and valuable members, none of which would leave the property alive. He didn’t look forward to loading over twenty bodies onto a truck.

  Brown approached the door and noticed something he hadn’t seen before. A hand-sized red splotch adorned the center windowpane on the left side of the double pine door and daylight shined through two small holes in the door. It didn’t register with Brown until he drew closer and saw that one of the holes was splintered. He immediately grabbed his radio and sprinted to the wall next to the bloodied window.

  He was fucking right about those two, but he didn’t think they’d have the nerve to take on his entire security detail. He wondered if they had managed to turn any of the estate’s security detail. The New Recovery could end right here at the estate if Paulson managed to recruit any of the guards. He needed to get his hands on a weapon. That stupid Mills bitch had put a moratorium on firearms in the house, and her equally fucking stupid husband had agreed.

  “All patrols, this is Brown. Shoot Paulson and Brooks on sight. They’ve gone rogue. Secure the VIPs in the guest house.”

  His radio wasn’t squawking as many replies as he had expected. Either most of the security team were already dead, or they had turned and were converging on the pool. He thought about warning the men near the beach. They would rush to protect the men sipping scotch by the pool, but would never expect the other guards to fire on them. This whole situation was about to explode, which made him think briefly about his other option. Get the fuck out of here. He thought about it for a second, but decided to do some reconnaissance first. If Paulson and Brooks were acting alone, he would be running away for no reason.

  Brown opened the heavy front door and crawled through the opening, scrambling to the crumpled guard located at the foot of the covered porch. The guard lay face down in a contorted position, with his head hung over the top step. He saw no blood on the porch. The guard’s AR-15 was nowhere in sight, which really worried him. He stayed low, continuing to the top of the stairs, hoping to find a pistol in the man’s thigh holster. He reached the man and started to turn him on his side. What he saw on the stairs stopped him cold.

  The granite stairs leading to the driveway were soaked bright red, in a fan-shaped pattern starting where the man’s head touched the top stair. The back of the man’s head was completely missing, which struck him as odd. He glanced behind him at the door and saw the remnants of the sentry’s brains and skull fragments on the door. The splintered hole he saw on the inside of the door represented a bullet that had passed through the guard’s head with enough energy to penetrate two inches of thick wood. He hadn’t been shot in the head with a pistol. This was the work of a high-powered rifle. Shit. He started to dig for the guard’s pistol, but spotted the barrel of a rifle protruding from the evergreen bushes a few feet away. He ripped open a few of the pouches on the dead sentry’s vest and looted two spare rifle magazines before he lurched forward and grabbed the rifle. Dashing back inside the house, he didn’t stop until he reached the perceived safety of the room next to the two-story entry hall.

  He s
at back against the wall and tried to process the scene. Nobody had taken the rifle. If Paulson or Brooks had taken down the guard, they would have grabbed the rifle. The guard had either been shot at close range with an assault rifle or hit from a distance with a sniper weapon. Based on the exit wound characteristics, he was leaning toward the high-powered sniper theory, which led him to the worst possible conclusion. They had professional company on the estate. His range of options had just shrunk considerably.

  “All units report,” he said and waited a moment, but received no response.

  He swallowed hard and stood up, planning to work his way back to the Vista Room. Escape was no longer an option…and neither was capture.

  **

  Melendez fired two rapid shots at a muscular black man that had come barreling around the southwest corner of the house in a full sprint. The 7.62mm rounds caught him by surprise, striking him center mass, but failing to penetrate the hardened ceramic trauma plates inserted into his vest. The kinetic energy of the rounds spread throughout the plates and stopped him cold and knocked him off balance. He stumbled backward, taking his hands off the only thing that could have saved him at this point. Before he could regain his footing or grab the rifle hanging from his three-point sling, Melendez dropped to one knee and fired a single round between his eyes. The massive guard grunted once and landed on his back, his arms and legs no longer receiving any coordinated or recognizable directions from his frontal lobe or cerebellum.

  He took a deep breath and ran for the corner of the house, glad the guard hadn’t seen him first. He’d have to take the backyard approach a little slower, spending more time searching for concealed targets. Someone had obviously sounded the alarm, and not every guard would run helter-skelter into the open. He reached the corner and surveyed the backyard. Past the tennis courts, he saw the edge of an infinity pool, which was partially obscured by a metal rack filled with several kayaks. Three guards wearing polo shirts and khaki pants sprinted from the wide beach toward the pool. Melendez raised the M1A SOCOM and fired at the lead runner, tumbling him onto the well-manicured grass. Shifting his aim, he watched the other two guards careen forward, losing control and crashing to the ground in lifeless heaps. He hadn’t fired those rounds.

  “Back patio is clear. High-value targets secure,” Fayed said over the radio.

  Melendez scanned the area between the house and the waterline, searching for a concealed shooter. It looked clear.

  “West side clear. Approaching the pool from the west,” he said, making sure Munoz and his crew didn’t accidentally fire on him.

  “Assault team securing targets. Approach clear.”

  Melendez took off running.

  **

  Daniel passed a short hedgerow on the eastern side of the house and searched for the single guard watching the southeastern shoreline. Unlike the sentries stationed between the house and road, this one hadn’t moved more than ten feet while they watched from Ledge Point. He located the heavily armed sentry exactly where he expected. The man raised his hand to block the sun as he scanned the lake. Daniel edged forward a little further, completely exposed. He kept an eye on the guard as he approached the corner of the house. He wanted to make sure the sentry’s sudden collapse wouldn’t attract attention. Their position on Ledge Point didn’t provide them with much information regarding the disposition of True America’s guard deployment behind the house.

  He reached the corner and crouched, taking a careful look beyond. He saw a large deck with stairs leading down to a patio. Three men sat comfortably around a low table, drinking from tumblers. He recognized them immediately from their online research. Mills, Greely and Harding. Beyond a blue slate infinity pool, he counted three additional guards near the foot of the dock on the beach. This might require some timing.

  The guard to Daniel’s left suddenly turned and started running for the house. They locked eyes, but Daniel had years of experience on the man, which translated into quickness and zero hesitation. A lethal combination on the battlefield. He fired two shots before the man could process the fact that Daniel wasn’t part of their guard detail. Both projectiles hit him in the face.

  Realizing that someone had sounded the alarm, Daniel leaned around the corner and aimed for the guards past the pool. He saw them drop from sight, leaving thin vapors of red mist above their vanishing heads. He aimed up at the deck, finding it clear of threats. Munoz and his team emerged from one of the sliding doors below the deck on the ground level, aiming at the three high-value targets still holding their drinks, relatively oblivious to what had just transpired. Jackson Greely placed his glass on the table and stood up, searching for the guards near the beach. He stumbled backward, spilling Lee Harding’s glass out of his hand and nearly landing in his lap. Mills ran for the house with the drink in his hand, knocking one of the chairs out of the way. He was intercepted by Paracha, who butt-stroked him in the face with his carbine, knocking the CEO of Crystal Source to his knees and breaking his nose. He grabbed the overweight man by the collar of his tailored shirt and yanked him to his feet, pushing him back toward the pool.

  Daniel jogged forward to join them, anxious to get this over with. With any luck, he could be headed south with Jessica by nightfall. He heard Melendez report his approach from the west and glanced up at the deck to make sure they hadn’t missed anyone. Satisfied for the moment, he turned all of his attention to the three psychopaths being searched by the assault team. He missed the Jamaican’s appearance on the deck by less than a second.

  **

  Brown eased through the Vista Room in a low, tactical stance, scanning with the barrel of his AR-15. So far, he had detected no movement in the house, which led him to believe that the teams had flanked the mansion and converged on his coconspirators. He heard a scuffle outside, followed by the sound of patio furniture screeching against stone. A few harsh voices joined the activity, followed by the sound of Mills crying out in agony. He wondered why agents hadn’t flooded the house. Why didn’t he hear the sound of helicopters or support vehicles?

  The backyard was quiet beyond guttural voices and the occasional protest from Mills or Harding. All of these thoughts and observations floated through his head as he stepped quietly toward the open door. Through the massive wall of picture windows facing the lake, his view of the rippling, dark blue water transitioned into sandy beach and rocks, exposing the three guards sprawled in the grass. Everything had been so quiet. He was impressed. A sudden realization washed over him. This could be the same crew that had abducted Miguel Estrada and stopped the assassination team assigned to kill Benjamin Young in Atlanta. A glimmer of hope flashed in his mind. He might be facing a small team.

  He flipped the G33STS Magnifier down, exposing the EOTech sight. He anticipated engaging targets at close range in the backyard and would have no use for the 3X optic attachment. The edge of the infinity pool appeared over the deck, followed by Mills and Harding. A dark-haired, dark-skinned man stood next to Mills. A little further and the whole scene would come into focus. Four men armed with rifles stood around the three founders of True America. Brown thumbed the rifle’s selector switch to “auto” and aimed at two of the operatives standing in tandem. Lee Harding’s torso was clearly visible behind them, which didn’t make an impression on Brown one way or the other.

  He depressed the trigger for a sustained burst, shifting the EOTech’s red holographic sight image to the next target. A 7.62mm bullet penetrated his right eye and exited his skull before he could aim the next burst. Brown could still see out of his other eye and was vaguely aware that his body had ceased to function. He never felt the fusillade of bullets fired from the pool patio.

  **

  The smell of scotch floated in the air between the confused men. Daniel leaned over the table to pour the three terrorists another round of drinks. They would need a little something to numb them for what he had planned. The crystal decanter exploded in Daniel’s hand, followed by the thunderous explosions, as 5.56mm bulle
ts ripped through the air, shattering everything in their path. He felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder and realized he had been spun ninety degrees to face Munoz and Fayed, who pointed their smoking rifles upward at the deck. Daniel saw a dark figure drop out of sight below the railing, followed by a cascade of glass from one of the immense picture windows high above him. The glass fragments tumbled over the side of the deck, bringing him back to his senses.

  He turned back to their three prisoners. Lee Harding’s head lolled to the left, his arms and legs lightly twitching. His glassy eyes stared lifelessly forward, drawing Daniel’s attention away from the small red hole visible above his right eyebrow. Jackson Greely looked unharmed, staring blankly at Harding’s grotesque post mortem display. Mills started to stand, but was pushed back into his chair by Fayed, who stared past Daniel with a look of dismay. As Daniel’s hearing recovered and the initial shock of being shot faded, he heard the desperate rasping sounds of the man who had been standing right behind him when the automatic fire started. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Tariq Paracha had absorbed most of the steel fired from the deck.

  Fayed shoved the table aside as Daniel wheeled around to see Paracha on his back, clawing at his blood-soaked neck. He could see two other entry wounds, one in his upper chest and another high on the front of his left thigh. The vast amount of blood pooling on the stone under his hips signaled to Daniel that the bullet passing through his thigh had likely severed or nicked his femoral artery. Combined with a neck shot, there would be little they could do for Tariq. They hadn’t been equipped with a first aid kit, let alone a trauma kit.

  “Watch them and keep an eye on the house. We can’t afford any more surprises,” Daniel said.

  Melendez, who had just arrived, joined his counterpart Munoz and aimed toward the house, searching for movement. Daniel placed his rifle next to Paracha and put his hands under the dying man’s back, kneeling behind his head. He lifted Paracha’s upper torso onto his knees to elevate his chest and head. When he removed his arms from under Paracha, they were slick with dark, red blood. He held them up for a few seconds, before wiping them on the side of his khaki pants. All they could do at this point was make him feel a little more comfortable. He’d be unconscious in less than a minute. Fayed crouched next to Paracha and spoke.