Enemy of the People

by Peter Eichstaedt

  Raoul paused, pondering what to do. He inspected the door as the commandos joined him and stood flat against the wall at each side of the door. Raoul tried the broken handle. It didn’t move.

  “Mister president!” Raoul shouted, holding his breath as he listened.

  Nothing.

  Raoul glanced at his three men and nodded, then stepped back and slammed a foot against the door just above the door handle. It didn’t budge. Two of the others then joined him, as they kicked again in unison. The door gave slightly as the metal door jam twisted from the bolts holding it in the wooden frame. Another couple of joint kicks and the door finally gave way, catching a chain pulled tight.

  Raoul knew he could shoot the chain apart, but feared that an errant bullet might kill the president, the man they were trying to rescue. Not an option. He turned as one of the commandos handily used the butt of his rifle to snap the door chain. The door swung halfway open.

  Raoul waved his hand motioning for the others to stand clear, weapons ready. He knew the metal door provided some protection from gunfire until after they’d burst inside when all hell would break loose.

  Raoul held up a hand, bent his head forward, and listened. Was President Harris already dead? That would change everything. In a loud and forceful voice, again he called out, “Mister President?”

  Nothing. Raoul turned to the other commandos and nodded. He lifted his right hand, and as he’d had done earlier, flicked his fingers and silently counted, one…two…three.

  Raoul burst into the plush and spacious living room of the presidential suite, but stopped suddenly, his rifle trained on the two men who stood before him: Tariq and President Harris.

  They were in the middle of the living room, the crook of Tariq’s left arm around President Harris’s neck and chin, his combat knife at the base of the president’s throat.

  Raoul and the commandos froze, their guns held high and aimed at Tariq, the man they knew as Jihadi John.

  Raoul sighted through the rifle’s scope, knowing he had a 99 percent chance he could put a bullet in Tariq’s skull and be done with it, freeing the president. But that one chance in a hundred?

  “It’s over, Tariq,” Raoul said. “Let the president go.”

  Tariq flashed a wide grin. “Over? This is far from over.”

  “You won’t get out of here alive,” Raoul said. “Let the president go. Now!”

  “I won’t get out alive?” Tariq asked with a laugh. “Did you never think that may be the point?”

  “Don’t do it, Tariq.”

  “You stupid infidel scum,” Tariq growled. “I may die, but I will die a martyr’s death. And, I will not die alone.”

  “Listen to me,” Raoul said. “Drop the knife and let the president go. Do it and I won’t kill you, even though I should.”

  “You shut up and you listen,” Tariq said.

  “What do you want?” Raoul asked.

  “President Harris here and I are going to take a trip.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Get the president’s helicopter ready,” Tariq said. “We’re going to a location I will tell you when we are both safely on board.”

  “You’re insane, Tariq,” Raoul said. “You’ll never get away with this.”

  Tariq tightened his grip, jerking the president’s head higher, and pressed the knife blade against the president’s neck where a trickle of blood showed.

  “Do as he says,” Harris groaned, his voice tight.

  Raoul shook his head, held his gunstock against his cheek, his eye at the scope, and the barrel aimed at Tariq’s head, the crosshairs on the corner of Tariq’s forehead barely visible behind the president’s. “Don’t shoot, soldier,” President Harris said. “Stand down. That’s an order.”

  Raoul hesitated, but slowly lowered his rifle.

  “Get the helicopter ready,” Harris groaned. “It’s our best chance.”

  Raoul stepped back a couple of paces, turned to his men, and said, “Stand down.”

  Chapter 40

  Raoul looked at his fellow commandos, rolled his eyes, and motioned to Tariq and the president, standing 15 feet away. “Shoot him if he moves,” he said.

  The commandos nodded grimly, raised their rifles and drew a bead on Tariq’s head as Raoul stepped out into the hallway, over the bodies, and paused at the top of the stairs. He pulled his hand-held radio phone from his belt and clicked it on. The small diode lights flickered alive as the device searched for signals. The lights froze, having found a channel. Raoul held the radio to his mouth and called out for Hank Benedict. “Hotel Bravo, this is Romeo Gulf.”

  He waited as static came from the small speaker, followed by a voice, “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Been takin’ care of business, Hank. Over.”

  “What the fuck?” Hank yelled. “Who told you to lead an assault?”

  “I’m outside the president’s suite,” Raoul said. “Three of my guys are with Harris now. If Jihadi John does anything, they’ll shoot to kill.”

  “Jesus,” Hank said, his voice calmer, but dripping with disgust. “How is that possible? The president was in a secure room. He was with a secret service agent.”

  “Was is correct,” Raoul said. “They killed the agent. With an axe. Not a pretty sight.”

  “After what they did to Blount, you’re not telling me anything new.”

  “The agent killed a couple of the jihadis before they got to the president,” Raoul said. “They busted down the door.”

  “You fucked up, Raoul. Now the bastard has the president!” Hank said. “The idea was not to pressure the bastards because they’d do something stupid. That’s what they’ve done.”

  “It was a risk I and a few others were willing to take,” Raoul said. “They were mocking us, Hank. They’re all dead now, by the way.”

  “Except for Jihadi John,” Hank said. “You fucked up, Raoul.”

  The knot in Raoul’s stomach tightened. “Jihadi John is making demands.”

  “What the fuck?” Hank shouted. “He’s in no position to do that.”

  “Come again?” Raoul said. “He sure as hell is.”

  “Okay,” Hank said, after a long pause. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to leave on Marine One?”

  “The president’s helicopter?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Hank groaned.

  “Listen to me,” Raoul said. “There’s a way we can do this and maybe free the president and get rid of Jihadi John.”

  Benedict groaned at the plan, then said, “Well, maybe, but I still gotta convince Marvin and the Security Council. Maybe we can still salvage this situation, Raoul, but you stay out of the way. Hear me?”

  Raoul remained silent.

  “Just get the president down there and ready when the chopper lands,” Hank said. “It’ll be there in about 15 minutes, I’m guessing.”

  “Roger that.” Raoul clicked off. Raoul massaged his stomach in a futile attempt to relieve the ache inside, then returned to the presidential suite where he stood behind his three men, their rifles still aimed at Tariq’s head.

  The situation in the room had changed, but only slightly. Tariq was now seated on a small couch, and the president sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, Tariq’s left hand cupped tightly on the president’s chin, his right hand holding the blade to the throat.

  Raoul drew a deep breath and nodded to Tariq and the president. “You got your wish.”

  Chapter 41

  Kyle stood beside the stone fireplace, holding his phone camera. The past thirty minutes had been the longest of his life. It seemed as if time had stopped, until the thunderous pounding of helicopters circling above the lodge broke the silence.

  Kyle ran out to the stone patio, stil
l littered with bodies, and watched the choppers circle in the distance as the Marine One presidential chopper floated through the sky.

  A moment later, he was joined by Ariel, who emerged from her small massage room, where she’d retreated to wait in silence and safety. Her eyes were wide with panic as they both watched the hulking chopper settle onto the grassy landing pad in front of the lodge. A half-dozen other choppers, all Black Hawk gunships, each emblazoned with the bright yellow Atlas Global logo, circled in the distance.

  Then three of the Black Hawks slowed and settled on the ground a hundred yards from the Marine One. As they touched, down, heavily armed Atlas Global men spilled out the open doors, and took up kneeling positions, their weapons trained on Marine One and on the lodge’s patio.

  “They’ve got him!” Ariel blurted, turning to the lodge doors that suddenly opened nearby them.

  Raoul fingered his weapon as he emerged from inside the lodge, stepped to the side of the doors, and was followed by Tariq and the president, Tariq’s knife blade still against the president’s throat.

  Using phone as a video camera, Kyle recorded Raoul and the commandoes as they trailed Tariq and the president, who made halting steps across the stone patio. At the patio’s edge, they descended the wide flagstone steps, one by one, finally reaching the grassy meadow.

  The whooshing sound of the long, thick rotor blades of Marine One filled the air as the hulking chopper’s door opened and the steps were lowered.

  Kyle scanned the scene, capturing it all. At least two dozen of Benedict’s Atlas Global men surrounded the landing site, but they were well back, crouching and aiming their rifles at Tariq and the president.

  A tremor of anxiety rippled through Kyle, worried that now some trigger happy Atlas Global agent, hell bend on eliminating the jihadi leader would open fire, throwing this delicately choreographed event into chaos. Kyle drew a breath and waited, wondering what the madman Tariq intended to do and where he might go with the resident held hostage.

  Did Tariq have a plan? Was someone or something on Marine One? Kyle hoped not. With Tariq’s knife at the president’s throat, the difference between life and death was the thickness of the thin skin on President Harris’s neck.

  Tariq and the President stood strangely still at the edge of the grass where Tariq scanned the scene. The Atlas Global rifles pointed at him did not waver. Tariq held the knife so tightly now that blood trickled steadily down the president’s neck, soaking into his shirt. The two men began to move again, shuffling across the circular gravel drive, then onto the grass where they paused again, just thirty feet from the steps to the chopper door. The chopper’s rotor blades churned the air.

  Kyle looked at Raoul, thinking his cousin might feel a small sense of relief when the doors to Marine One would close and the polished green helicopter would rise from the landing pad and angle toward the forested slopes, knowing he’d done everything in his power to keep President Harris alive. Kyle exhaled.

  Then the president’s head exploded in a bloody spray as a shot cracked open the silence.

  Tariq staggered backwards, his face coated with blood and brains.

  President Harris’ body collapsed to the ground.

  “What the fuck?” Kyle shouted. He lowered his phone and stared.

  Tariq stood still, the knife still in his hand, and stepped back, looking at the president’s contorted body at his feet. His gaze then slowly rose from the Harris’s body to the distant trees where he strained to see where the shot had had been fired.

  Then Tariq’s head exploded as well, his body jerking backwards and twisting to the ground.

  “What the hell…!” Kyle shouted. He glanced at Raoul. Raoul eyes were not on the two corpses on the ground by Marine One, but instead on the forested slope where Tariq had been looking—the likely source of the lethal shots. Kyle looked there as well, struggling to make sense of it all. Had the first shot been a miss, intended for Tariq? Had they come from a sniper’s rifle in the hands of an expert? Or a trigger happy amateur?

  Benedict’s Atlas Global men, who were equally stunned, froze in place, some lowering their weapons at what they’d witnessed. The steady thump-thump of the Marine One rotor blades filled the dazed silence. A handful of the Atlas Global men cautiously rose to their feet. When it seemed no more shots were forthcoming, they sprinted to where the bodies of President Harris and Tariq lay on the ground.

  “Who … shot … them?” Kyle asked, hoping for some clue from Raoul. “The president was not supposed to die.”

  Raoul held up a hand to hush Kyle, ignoring the question as he scanned the trees. He then motioned to the three commandos at his side for them follow him. Neither hesitated, and neither did Kyle, who took off at a run, trailing the Raoul and others.

  They ran across the grassy field, skirted the trout pond and quickly reached the trees where Kyle had been earlier. Kyle drew up behind the men, gasping for air, as Raoul paused and peered up the hillside for the shooter.

  Kyle had no idea how, but Raoul had seen movement. He pointed through the shadows and said, “up there.” As Raoul and the commandos charged up the hillside, Kyle sucked in a lungful of air and followed.

  Ducking below and around pine boughs and branches of gnarly scrub oaks, Kyle heard the crackle and pop of bullets breaking through the air near his head, followed by the retort of rifle fire echoing through the trees. Shit! Whoever had killed Tariq and the President now wanted them dead as well! Of course! The man with gun had just killed the President! His life was as good as over. Unless he escaped.

  Kyle ducked behind the trunk of a tree and looked up through the branches as more shots crackled through the air. One of the commandos nearby cried out in pain, spun around, and fell to the ground.

  Raoul and the remaining two commandos dove to forest floor, rolled, then slowly lifted their heads, trying to determine the precise location of the shooter. Raoul pointed his rifle up the hillside, and with his eye pressed to the scope, squeezed off a burst. Then another. Silence.

  Raoul pulled his head back from the scope, twisted around to the wounded commando, and then turned to Kyle and the other commandos and said, “Let’s go. I think I got a hit.”

  They rose, and in a low crouch, continued climbing the slope, Kyle trialing, moving carefully, his chest tight, wonder now why he was again carrying a camera instead of a weapon. Kyle heard the crunch of twigs beneath his feet, his heart pounding in his ears. Further up the slope and twenty yards ahead, Raoul suddenly stopped, crouched, and raised a fist.

  Kyle froze.

  Raoul turned to the commando behind him, then nodded and pointed. Rising slowly, Raoul took several more steps, and holding his rifle at his waist, pointed the barrel at a body on the ground.

  Kyle crept closer, then saw the target of Raoul’s shot. A well-camouflaged body lay on the ground, the face smeared with green and tan face paint, the blank, blue eyes looking to the sky. Kyle glanced at Raoul, whose brow was furrowed with confusion. Kyle eyed the motionless body at their feet where the other two commandos stood, their weapons trained on it.

  The body jerked suddenly and pistol shots exploded from the ground, three bullets slamming onto one of the commando’s chest, his body jerking with each hit, staggering him backwards to the ground.

  Raoul fired a burst from his rifle into the torso of the shooter on the ground, the man’s body jerking with each shot. Then nothing. Raoul hovered, eyes on the body, and stepped around it to kneel closer. He touched their man’s shoulder.

  The commando looked up at Raoul and tried to smile, his chin quivering as he tried to speak, knowing that he was about to die. The quivering slowly stopped and the command wheezed, air escaping from his chest with final breath. His eyes went blank.

  Raoul shook his head, and with two fingers, closed the man’s eyes. Raoul pushed himself to his feet and went to the sniper on the ground who he’d
just shot. He twisted the man’s face upright and looked closely. He wiped away some of the face paint.

  Kyle stared in disbelief. “It’s Hank Benedict!”

  Chapter 42

  Its engines revved and whining, a Lear jet painted with the Atlas Industries logo sat on the paved runway, of the Atlas Global headquarters ten miles from the Vista Verde Lodge. Inside the plane, two men dressed in khaki trousers and wearing black polo shirts emblazoned with the Atlas Global logo, sat on the white leather seats and faced David Benedict.

  “Where’s Hank?” David Benedict asked. “We can’t wait much longer.”

  The two men looked at the elder Benedict and shook their heads.

  Benedict looked at them for a long moment, his lips in a deep frown, his chin quivering. His eyes began to water. He pinched the tears from his eyes, then waved for the men to deplane.

  As the doors were closed and locked shut, the jet engines whined loudly. The jet turned sharply, nosed down the runway, and moments later, the engines screamed. The jet streaked down the runway and swooped into the blue sky, banking over the forested mountain slopes.

  ***

  Led by their director, Frank Huntington, six FBI agents strode into the Situation Room at the White House. They were followed by an equal number of Secret Service agents and their director, John Dempsey. The dozen men took up strategic positions around the room. Two FBI agents stood at the elbows of acting president James Marvin, who sat at the head of a conference table. Marvin and the other cabinet members glanced around, confused, their eyes panicky.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Marvin asked. “What are you men doing in here?”

  “Mister Vice President,” Madison said. “I’m placing you under arrest for treason.”

  Marvin looked up indignantly. “You can’t arrest me!” Marvin shouted. “I’m the president now!”

  The FBI agents seized Marvin and lifted him by his upper arms from his chair, then spun him around, and pulled his arms behind him as a third agent snapped handcuffs on his wrists.