The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  He rewarded Milly with a handful of kibble, and together they returned to the farmhouse.

  Captain Connelly stood on her porch holding a mug of what smelled like fresh coffee as she watched him through narrowed eyes.

  “Nice property,” he said in an attempt to avert suspicion.

  “We’re all waiting for you, Sergeant,” she said impatiently.

  He checked his watch again. Two minutes to five. She was one of those people.

  Venturing into the command room, he realized why arriving early was a good idea. The XO and the NCOs had nabbed all the good chairs for themselves. Toby wasn’t about to share the love seat with Ackerman, so he toted a chair in from the kitchen, where June Lee puttered about preparing supper. As he sat down, Dylan pulled several stapled pages from a briefcase.

  “I’m going to keep this meeting brief,” she said, distributing the handouts all around.

  Toby looked at his copy. Given the URL at the top, the printout had come straight from an anti-government website he was already familiar with. The title read Fusion Centers Violate Civil Rights.

  “Last Friday, I brought up the issue of fusion centers,” Dylan said, offering him a bit of background information. “The Feds have spent millions of dollars installing and running them. Allegedly, they exist to promote the sharing of threat-related information between the federal and local law enforcement. But, according to a subcommittee investigation, not a single terrorist threat has been uncovered as a result of their inception. Instead, the Feds were telling local authorities what books were being read by the Muslims in their community, which is a clear violation of those citizens’ First Amendment rights.”

  Toby felt like a fish out of water. He glanced up to see a stain of indignation suffuse Dylan’s porcelain cheeks. Seeing her reach for her coffee, he wondered if she fueled herself on caffeine to maintain her energy levels.

  “The nearest fusion center is in Woodlawn, and the next meeting of law officials there is November 9th. I’d like to propose that we picket that event. We have two weeks to mail out educational brochures and to make signs. I’d like your feedback on this.”

  One by one, the militia leaders pledged their support for the proposed protest.

  Toby waited for the other shoe to drop. That was it? The militia was planning a peaceful protest, complete with brochures and signs? Was there no shooting involved? No targeting of federal law enforcers? So, what gives?

  “Very well,” Dylan continued, unaware of his thoughts, “then we’ll iron out the details as that date approaches.

  Stepping toward the easel, she put down her coffee cup to flip through the sheets of bound paper until she came to one labeled CPX. Toby guessed that stood for Command Post Exercise.

  “In regards to this Saturday’s CPX,” she said, “we’d discussed holding physical readiness evaluations, but I’m thinking of substituting training of some kind, specific to the skills Sergeant Burke can teach us.” Her crystalline gaze flickered to Toby. “Since he’s new and needs to be brought up to speed, I’m going to release the rest of you so I can educate him. Does anyone have any immediate concerns?”

  The former Marine who liked to blow shit up put his hand in the air.

  “Yes, Sergeant Morrison?”

  “We’re low on ammunition, ma’am. I need you to order more clips.”

  “Of course.” She nodded at her XO, who was already jotting himself a note. “Anything else?”

  Toby harbored dozens of questions, but he kept them in check. It would look suspicious to voice them so early on.

  “No? In that case,” she said, addressing just the NCOs, “kindly return to your work while I orient our newest member.”

  With a glare at Toby, Ackerman pushed to his feet and followed the other sergeants out of the room. Lt. Ashby stood up and limped to the filing cabinet, where he pulled out three sheets of paper and surrendered them to Toby, one at a time.

  Toby skimmed the first sheet, entitled The Defender’s Creed.

  I accept and understand that human predators exist. Criminal or terrorist, they take advantage of our civilized society to prey upon the weak. They represent evil and must be confronted and defeated. His eyes fell to the words with righteous indignation and superior violence, and a shiver chased up his spine.

  “Read it, believe it, and live it,” Ashby commanded with gravity. “Our Creed is what gives each man and woman in the SAM purpose.”

  Just like in the Rangers Regiment but with vigilante flair. Got it. Toby nodded.

  Next, Ashby handed him a copy of the Constitution of the United States and one of the Bill of Rights. “You will carry these with you at all times in the backpack you will be shortly issued. These pages constitute the core of our beliefs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Toby glanced over at Dylan, who’d gone to stand by the window, her back to both of them as she drained what was left in her cup.

  “There are some terms you need to know.” Ashby hobbled toward the easel. He flipped to a clean page, picked up a marker, and scribbled FreeFor. “The FreeFor, or freedom forces are the overt participants in a CPX.” He pointed at Toby. “You are now a member of the FreeFor.”

  The marker squeaked as he scribbled OpFor. “These are the oppositional forces opposed to the objectives of FreeFor. They may be individuals, but more often they are governments, state, federal, and foreign.”

  And servants of the government, like Nolan. And me.

  As if privy to his thoughts, Dylan turned her head and pinned him with an Arctic stare. Toby fought to mask his discomfit. God, if she knew he was, in fact, a servant of the OpFor, who knew how she would react?

  “Our main objective,” she announced turning from the window to approach him, “is to rebuff the federal government’s natural propensity to oppress the people.” The sway of her hips heightened his awareness of her subtle curves. “The alphabet soup of government agencies—FBI, CIA, NSA, DEA—you name it, have spied on, harassed, and ruined the lives of individuals deemed to be enemies of the state, all under the guise of preventing crime and halting terrorism.”

  Toby swallowed hard before muttering his agreement. From her burnished hair, still caught up in a bun, to the earnest glint in her eyes, she reminded him of a flame of indignation. But she couldn’t be more of a cynical individualist if she tried.

  “Our daily routine looks like this.” She ticked off the information on her slim fingers. “Reveille sounds at oh-five thirty, every day except for Sunday. We PT for forty-five minutes, shower, and eat. You’ll earn your keep here by completing projects around the compound. This facility is not a charity. Since I’ll be away at work on weekdays, you will answer to Lt. Ashby while I’m gone. Upon my return, we convene here for the evening briefing. Dinner follows immediately after. Lights out is at twenty-one hundred. Saturday is the CPX. On Sundays you may sleep in and relax or leave the area, if you so desire, but I encourage all my soldiers to attend mass with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t give her leaders much time to reflect on what the hell they were doing with their lives, did she?

  Her cool gaze darkened as it slid to the curls at the nape of his neck. “I promised you a haircut, Sergeant,” she recollected. She sent a thoughtful look at June Lee, who was busy whisking sauce into a bowl. She looked over at the wall clock and back at Toby’s curls.

  He could tell what she was thinking—that she wanted his hair shorn before dinner, which meant she’d probably end up doing it herself.

  The mere thought of her wielding a sharp instrument near his neck made his testicles draw up. Yet, here was his chance to lay the groundwork for a special kind of relationship—one that entailed confiding secrets.

  “Have a seat on the back porch,” she invited, waving a hand at the rear door, thankfully unaware of his thoughts. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ashby, who was absorbed in tidying the filing cabinet, didn’t even look his way.

  Toby got up and returned his chai
r to the kitchen. Milly followed him out onto the screened-in porch, where she plopped down in the last remaining patch of sunlight.

  He sat uneasily at the outdoor table and surveyed the tidy yard, rimmed by a hedge of azaleas. In the center, stood an old brick well, newly-renovated and topped with a fresh coat of paint. The only items in decay were a child’s play house and a dry-rotted tire swing that hung from the branches of a massive weeping willow.

  A gentle breeze, redolent with the scents now coming from the kitchen, stirred the tire. He pictured Dylan as a child, pumping her legs to get higher, her red hair streaming.

  A minute later, she joined him, flicking on an exterior light and shutting the door. In her hands she held a pair of sharp-looking scissors, a towel and a spray bottle. Toby’s nerves jangled.

  “You might want to take your shirt off,” she suggested, laying those items on the table next to him.

  He braved the rapidly cooling air to pull off his T-shirt. Self-consciousness speared him as her gaze dropped to his thickly muscled shoulders. Her eyes affected him like ice against his skin. Most women liked what they saw, but if she did, she didn’t show it. She frowned at the tattoo on his upper left arm.

  “What is this?” Her light touch felt like the flick of a whip.

  “It’s the 75th Ranger Regiment distinctive insignia.”

  She picked up the towel and shook it out. “I thought the Ranger symbol was a skull over crossed rifles.”

  Toby shrugged. “That’s one of them. I’d feel like a pirate with a skull on my arm.”

  “You look like a pirate with this ridiculous hair.” She draped the towel across his shoulders, and Toby held the edges together as she spritzed his mane with the spray bottle.

  Then she attempted to draw a comb through it.

  Every tug affected him like fingernails on a chalkboard. The pleasant aroma of coffee emanated off her clothing, underlain by the scent of clean linen.

  She reached for the scissors, which gleamed like twin blades in her hand, and he tried not to flinch. “I can trust you, right?”

  “A doctor should always be trusted.”

  He wondered at the cryptic reply. “You’re a doctor?” he asked, though he already knew her occupation.

  “A physician.” She pulled on a lock of hair and snipped it off. “I work at the VA Medical Center in Martinsburg.”

  Silence fell between them, and Toby started to feel like a cat being petted. As she stroked her fingers through his hair, snipping as she went, he fell into a semi-hypnotic state.

  “What do you think about doctors taking bribes from pharmaceutical companies?” she inquired out of the blue.

  He roused from his pleasant stupor to ponder the question. “You mean accepting purchase-incentives to use their products?”

  “Bribes, purchase-incentives, what’s the difference? A doctor gets four free rounds of golf for prescribing a drug that’s not adequately tested. Does that sound ethical to you?”

  “Not when you put it that way.”

  “Well, I work with a doctor who’s been playing a lot of golf lately.”

  Snip, snap. She was working herself into a state of agitation. Maybe if she drank less coffee, she’d be more relaxed. He could feel her fingers shaking. The edge of the blade grazed his ear, and Toby flinched.

  “Sorry.” With a guilty look, she began to check her work. “Almost done,” she assured him.

  “Great, just…take it easy,” he invited. He gestured to the dog sprawled and snoring at their feet. “Gotta live life the way Milly does.”

  Hearing her name, Milly lifted her head to study them through luminous and intelligent eyes.

  “I’ve read about therapy dogs,” Dylan volunteered.

  “You should get one,” he suggested, regretting his words the instant he heard her indrawn breath.

  “Are you implying that I have PTSD?” she demanded, stepping back.

  Well, duh. Her condition was so obvious that he couldn’t bring himself to deny the accusation, not even to protect his position as the new guy. “Sorry, but it’s fairly apparent when you’ve been through it.”

  Whirling so that her back now faced him, she laid the scissors slowly on the tabletop.

  A tense silence filled the enclosure.

  “Your hair’s short enough for the clippers, now,” she told him, dropping the subject like he’d never brought it up. “You’ll find them in under the sink in the bathroom upstairs. If you need help, Morrison’s a decent barber. June Lee will tidy up out here.” Snatching up the spray bottle and the scissors, she fled the porch, leaving him to his own devices.

  Toby looked at Milly, who put her head on her paws with a long-suffering sigh.

  “Don’t say it,” he grumbled. Pushing to his feet, he removed the hair-dusted towel.

  He’d thought it would be a simple matter to develop Dylan Connelly—to use the word his team lead had supplied. Toby hadn’t met a woman yet who didn’t respond to his easy-going charm. But the militia leader wasn’t like any woman he had ever tried to flirt with. She was so preoccupied by political matters and civil rights concerns that he had to wonder if she even saw him as a man at all, let alone a prospective confidant.

  This job is going to be a little harder than I thought.

  Chapter Three

  At dawn the next morning, Dylan stepped out of her house and drew up short as she spied the solitary figure bathed in the silvery light, waiting for the others to join him. Tobias Burke had beat all of them to morning PT, and given Milly’s labored breathing as the dog padded up to the porch to greet her, he’d even walked his dog already. Given her humiliation yesterday, she harbored no desire to find herself alone with the hunk, not before downing her morning coffee.

  The man was too appealing by far, not to mention disturbingly astute.

  Bending at the waist, Dylan paused to pet Milly’s head—anything to delay joining Tobias in the yard.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he called, removing her choice to ignore him.

  “Hello.”

  She’d seen for herself at supper that he’d buzzed the rest of his hair just fine, with or without Morrison’s help. This morning, the spiky strands were mussed from sleep, and the strong jaw he’d shaven smooth had already grown new stubble.

  The flutter in the pit of her stomach annoyed her as she determined whether to stay where she was or to find something else to preoccupy her. What was it about the man that unsettled her at such a visceral level? She had thought herself immune to animal attraction.

  None of her NCOs or militia members had ever dared to mention her struggle with PTSD. It was their faith in her that kept her going. Tobias’s insight left her feeling transparent. It crippled her confidence. Would he follow her leadership knowing what a wreck she was?

  “You’re up early,” he persisted, forcing her to stop petting Milly at the risk of looking rude.

  “I don’t sleep much,” she admitted, joining him in the yard.

  “Might want to switch to decaf, at least in the afternoon,” he suggested.

  She wasn’t about to defend her habit of drinking coffee all day long when it gave her the energy to combat her lack of sleep. “How was the attic?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly. “Did you freeze?”

  “No ma’am. It was perfectly comfortable in the sleeping bag. Thanks again for taking me in. I have a sense of purpose, now.”

  “Hmm.” He must have sensed her doubts about him.

  In all fairness, aside from commenting on her PTSD, she had no real complaints—yet. He’d projected an upbeat outlook at the supper table, deflecting Ackerman’s nastiness with humor and deferring to the rest of them. She managed a small smile. “Then you’ll have no complaints about the workout this morning,” she said sweetly.

  His white teeth flashed in the gloom. “No, ma’am.”

  His exuberance teased a smile out of her. She quickly masked it as light poured out of the house and three men tumbled into view. At the same time, Chet
Lee rounded the building from the guest cottage. The NCOs fell into place next to Burke, while the officers squared off to face them.

  Terrence Ashby got them moving. “Jumping jacks!” he bellowed. Hampered by his prosthetic and fatigued by his illness, Terrence oversaw the routine more than he participated in it. Dylan, who craved the endorphins, lived for exercise. Fifty jumping jacks preceded a series of stretches and core-conditioning exercises.

  Terrence’s voice boomed in the quiet yard. “High knees!”

  Over the stamping of their feet and the huffing of their breaths, Dylan heard a rooster crow. If not for that distinct sound and the smell of wood smoke wafting from the fireplaces in the county, she could almost close her eyes and pretend she was back in Afghanistan, leading PT in the barren yard outside the MACP. In her mind, her specialists—her boys—were still alive, ribbing each other, telling dark-humored jokes.

  What do you call two dead guys hanging in your closet? Curt and Rod—get it? Curt-n-rod?

  “Pushups!” Ashby announced, snatching Dylan out of the past. They all dropped belly-down onto the cold, damp grass. The sun edged higher to illuminate their sweating faces. Most of them had shed their jackets, including Tobias, whose broad shoulders made her think of the tattoo on his upper arm. He’d chosen a shield over a skull. She liked that about him.

  Intercepting her stare, he shot her a grin, and she promptly looked down at the grass.

  Down. Up. Down. Up. With each depression, the scent of fertile soil and wet grass filled her lungs. The dirt under her hands made her think about her boys, all buried deep beneath the earth, while she remained above, still alive … for what?

  Sergeant Burke’s baritone startled her from her reverie as he cut off the others’ groans. “Come on, guys. We got this. Easy day.”

  They had fifteen more pushups to go to get to fifty. He joined Terrence Ashby in belting out the count. “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one…”

  Sergeants Morrison and Lee chimed in, latching onto Burke’s enthusiasm. Dylan, whose own arms had started burning, added her own voice. Only Ackerman refused to count, but then he was barely even doing pushups.