Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  He’s talking to you, Beth. As if forcing herself from a dream, she shook her head from side to side, walked behind the counter to the left end, emerged from behind it through the opening, and moved to the door behind the stranger. She passed through the first door in the small entryway, grabbed the outer door, pulled it toward her, and turned the lock, securing the door. Seconds later, she was back inside the restaurant and locked the inner one.

  A scream rose up from the middle of the tables, and she heard a man exclaim, “Oh, damn. This is going to get bad.” Beth Fritz turned around and found herself less than a foot away from the camouflaged intruder. He grabbed her with his wounded right arm and pulled her in front of him. She smelled blood and a musky odor as if he hadn’t showered in days. But she forgot his grip on her as she looked at the door on the opposite side of the restaurant.

  Standing across from her was a rugged-looking man in a blue T-shirt and khakis, holding the same kind of weapon her captor held, except his was pointed in her direction as the man stared through some kind of mounted scope at her. Oh God, she thought. Please don’t let him shoot me by accident.

  * * *

  “This ends now, one way or another,” John said firmly, the red arrow on the lens of the variable power reflex scope lined up on the Camouflage Man, as John thought of him. He ignored the noises to his right as the remaining patrons moved toward the front of the dining area and the door that led to the glass-enclosed children’s playground. “You either surrender or die,” John continued, his words eliciting a gasp from several of the customers, who’d grown quiet at the confrontation. A modern-day Mexican standoff in a Chick-fil-A. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  The Camouflage Man slowly edged forward, and he swept the AR-15 toward the patrons. “You shoot me, and my finger, which is not straight and off the trigger but on it,” he said, referring to one of the Marine Corps’ weapons safety rules, “likely contracts, and some of them likely get hit or killed. I don’t want that, I’m pretty sure you don’t want that, and I know they don’t want that. So I’m getting out of here, through the kitchen and out the exit in the back. This lovely young woman is coming with me, but she won’t be harmed once I’m away from this place.”

  “Where the hell are you going to go?” John asked. “You got an Uber waiting out back? There’s nowhere to run. Don’t you get it?”

  “That’s not true, and you know it,” the Camouflage Man replied. “There’s always someplace to run, even if they’re bad choices.” He and his hostage had reached the open entrance to the area behind the counter. “No more talking. Just please let me do this, or it all ends badly.”

  John desperately yearned to pull the trigger. At this close range, he knew he’d hit his target and kill him instantly, but the thought of an innocent bystander taking a stray round sickened him. There’s been enough bloodshed for one Wednesday night. And so he let him move, slowly, toward the back of the counter, hoping for something that might change the calculus of the standoff.

  But neither John Quick nor Chase Grayson, the wounded and bleeding Camouflage Man, had accounted for Darren Nettles.

  CHAPTER 44

  Frustrated at the loss of another job to a new competitor in the area, thirty-three-year-old electrician and former army enlisted engineer Darren Nettles sat in the back of the small dining section near the restrooms of the Chick-fil-A. After another long day, he continued to struggle to build his fledgling business, the one-man electrician company Nettles Short-Fuse Electrical, a reference to his temper from his twenties. He brainstormed marketing and advertising ideas as he devoured the spicy chicken sandwich, extra pickles, and pondered his next move, at least until the gunman who looked like a hunter—except for the tactically modified AR-15 he carried in his left hand—stormed into the restaurant and ended his dinner.

  A veteran of the Iraq War who’d participated in the rebuilding of Sadr City in 2008, Darren didn’t panic. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen an armed gunman, although it was the first time in rural southern Maryland.

  As the crisis unfolded, Darren realized a second person had entered the restaurant and had engaged the gunman in conversation, of which Darren could only hear one side since the other entrance was around the corner from his booth and out of sight. You need to do something, but you don’t need to be a hero, he thought as he reached for the concealed Glock G17 Gen5 9mm pistol he wore inside the waistband of his Carhartt khaki rip-proof cargo pants.

  Notorious as one of the most difficult states in the Union in which to obtain a conceal-carry permit, Maryland did care about one criterion that fit Darren—small business owner. The fact that he was an army veteran had made the process easier. But even though he maintained his proficiency with his Glock, he didn’t want to be responsible for an innocent bystander getting shot. He knew the state of Maryland would come after him if that happened, and he had enough problems. But he had to do something.

  The gunman was distracted by his injury and focused on the other side of the restaurant. Darren pulled up his red T-shirt with a yellow dynamite fuse emblem on the left chest and withdrew the Glock, which he kept chambered. What’s the point of a weapon that’s not ready to go?

  He quietly slid out of his booth, the Glock at his side, and crept forward, one work boot in front of the other. If he could get close enough, maybe he could distract him and get the AR-15 pointed away from the customers in the middle of the restaurant. He’d seen enough terrified, huddled civilians in Iraq to last a lifetime. He wouldn’t tolerate it in Maryland, USA.

  He was within eight feet of the gunman when he stopped, raised the Glock to the man’s head, and said, “I have a Glock pointed at your head. At this range, I won’t miss. I do know how to use it. Please don’t make me. These people don’t deserve it, and I pray that you know that.”

  Chase Grayson didn’t panic: he was beyond that emotion at this point in his life and career. Instead, he suddenly felt exhausted, as if the weight of the past two days had just barreled into him harder than the bullet he’d taken in his right arm. He was a lot of things—mercenary, killer, and even a former Marine—but he didn’t consider himself a monster. The retired detective had been a job, pure and simple, and the hunter in the woods had interfered with it, albeit unknowingly. But these people, they epitomized the definition of innocent collateral damage. His plan was to use them as bargaining chips, nothing else. But now some good Samaritan with a gun had blown that plan into oblivion as effectively as the drone had destroyed his original one. I will not be remembered as a monster, no matter what happens.

  Chase exhaled, said to the young woman, “I’m sorry,” and did the only thing left that gave him a fraction of a chance of survival: he dropped the AR-15 from his left hand and shoved her as hard as he could forward, propelling her into the area behind the counter. He lunged for the kitchen door and his last avenue of escape.

  * * *

  As soon as the tall, thin man in work pants had emerged from behind the corner from the other part of the restaurant with a Glock pointed at the Camouflage Man’s head, John knew the situation had reached critical mass. Oh, God. Please don’t let him shoot anyone. He placed the red upside-down V of the scope between the Camouflage Man’s eyes, prepared to squeeze, and prayed his shot would be the only one fired in the next few seconds. It was precisely as his finger tightened that the Camouflage Man shoved the girl and moved toward the kitchen door.

  John moved his finger away from the trigger, lowered the weapon, and took two steps toward the counter. He launched himself into the air, placed the AR-15 on the counter between two cash registers, and sprang over it like a gymnast over a pommel horse. He landed behind the counter as the Camouflage Man reached the kitchen door, slammed it inward, and disappeared inside. John hit the door a second later and entered into the secret world of the kitchen of Chick-fil-A.

  The pleasant aroma of cooking chicken and french fries assaulted him. Brown cardboard boxes were stacked on the right just inside the door, and clear tubes ran up
and through the wall to the fountain machine out front. The right half of the kitchen was a long, narrow walkway at least thirty feet deep with metal prep tables on the left, multiple cooking stations, standing ovens, and all sorts of restaurant equipment John didn’t recognize. The Camouflage Man was only six feet in front of him and moved quickly, even with the wounded arm.

  A metal rolling tray at least six feet tall with dozens of narrow slots to hold the cookie sheets stood to his left. Too light. Won’t do the trick. Instead, John yanked a heavy box of soda syrup off the shelf to his right, tearing away the clear tube and sending a spray of thick liquid across his shirt. Coke Zero? he wondered, as he heaved the heavy box down the aisle. The packaged beverage struck the Camouflage Man in the back of the legs and sent him sprawling face-first to the kitchen floor.

  John took several strides as his enemy scrambled to his knees, scurrying like a wounded animal trying to flee its stalker. John was suddenly filled with a pure black rage, overwhelmed by the primal desire to seek vengeance and justice for what this mercenary had brought upon them—the death of Amira’s father, a good and just man who’d dedicated his life to protecting and serving those who could not do it for themselves. A low, guttural cry built up inside him and he roared, “Nooo!” as if the one word summarized all the hate, sadness, anger, and frustration he felt, channeling it toward one target—the Camouflage Man.

  John grabbed a heavy wooden rolling pin from the table to his right, took one step, and swung downward as hard as he could, striking the Camouflage Man in the right arm, the one that bled. He heard something snap, and he pulled the rolling pin back to strike again.

  Chase shrieked in pain and fell to his left. He looked up and saw the merciless gaze of his attacker, brown eyes blazing with hatred, and he instantly realized there would be no quarter given. This man would kill him where he lay for what he’d orchestrated. There was nowhere to go, but he had to try. His attacker moved toward him, and Chase grabbed a bowl full of kitchen utensils and hurled it upward with his good left arm. He didn’t even wait to see how effective the move was; he rolled over and scrambled away, grabbing with his left hand a small paring knife that had fallen to the floor.

  John batted the stainless steel bowl away like a major league slugger, the contact creating a thunderous metallic clang that echoed throughout the kitchen like an ancient Chinese gong. The bowl sent its contents scattering across the kitchen like a utensil bomb, and John hoped for a moment nothing would impale the wounded Camouflage Man on the ground. He wasn’t done with him.

  The Camouflage Man reached the end of the aisle and crawled left into a small walkway that connected the right half of the kitchen with the left half, which had an additional extension to the back of the building and the exit beyond. John stepped forward and delivered a harsh kick to the man’s exposed left side. He satisfactorily felt two ribs break under his blow, and he exhaled with the adrenaline and anger.

  “I said no,” John growled at the man, who writhed on the ground but kept moving forward, as if swimming slowly against a heavy sea. John watched the effort, a coldness comingling with his rage. He waited as the man reached the left side of the kitchen and staggered to his feet. Sweat smeared the camouflage paint on his face as blood dripped from his right hand to the floor. “I’m pretty sure that’s not sanitary,” John said, and nodded at the blood, even as he noticed the small knife in the man’s left hand.

  “I knew you’d be trouble,” Chase said. He looked left and then right, calculating any moves that would turn the tide. There were none. This would be his last stand.

  “You have no idea the trouble I am,” John growled back. “But tonight, I’m not just trouble. I’m death come for you.”

  Chase nodded and said, “Well, come on, then.”

  John smiled, a mixture of malevolent glee and purpose, and stepped forward, wielding the rolling pin in his right hand like a baton. He feigned a jab with his left hand, and the Camouflage Man responded with a quick slash with the paring knife. John yanked his hand back and, like a windmill, slammed the rolling pin into his left forearm. The hand reflexively opened, and the knife clattered to the floor. With lightning speed, John reared back once more and struck the Camouflage Man on the side of the head, splitting the skin on his left temple. Blood flowed freely from the cut and mingled with the sweat and camouflage paint.

  The Camouflage Man staggered sideways, and John felt the exhilaration of battle take control. John dropped the rolling pin and punched his enemy in the throat. The Camouflage Man began to choke, but John didn’t care. He crossed his hands, reached forward, and grabbed his camouflage tree suit by the collar. He bent his wrists, and the motion applied pressure to the Camouflage Man’s wounded throat.

  John suddenly pulled the man close to him and hissed into his face. “No mercy. Damn you to hell, whoever you are.” He suddenly took a step to the left, pulled the Camouflage Man with him, released his grip, pulled back his right hand, and delivered a powerful blow to the man’s stomach. John felt him go limp, and in one quick motion, he held him up, spun him around, and placed his head in the enormous open pressure cooker he’d spotted once the fight had progressed into the left side of the kitchen.

  Several feet deep by at least two feet across, a row of six of the behemoth cookers stood along the back wall of the left side of the kitchen. A wire basket lay in the middle of the cooker with battered and breaded chicken breasts ready to be lowered into the hot, bubbling liquid.

  John didn’t care about the basket, and he yanked it out of the cooker, flinging it to the side. He leaned in to the Camouflage Man’s right ear and whispered, “Time to pay for your sins.”

  He shoved the Camouflage Man’s head into the square hole and held his head near the scalding hot viscous fluid. The Camouflage Man screamed as drops of liquid exploded upward and splattered his face.

  John grabbed the steel lid, pulled his left hand backward, and yanked down as hard as he could. For Nick. The commercial grade lid crashed down on top of the Camouflage Man’s skull, and John felt the impact as it sent a tremor through the man’s body. He lifted it up, saw the Camouflage Man still struggling, his left arm reaching backward to try and stop John. For Amira. The lid slammed down with a thud followed by the sound of something cracking. He raised the lid, which was covered in dark red, as the Camouflage Man’s arm fell to his side. For all the others you won’t be able to harm, John thought, and brought the stainless steel lid down one last time with a sickening crunch as the blow crushed the back of the Camouflage Man’s head.

  John felt the man’s body twitch, and John knew he was dead or dying, but he didn’t care. Emotion roared through him as he tried to regain control of himself, and he released his grip on the Camouflage Man. The weight of the lid kept his ruined head pinned inside the cooker while his upper torso rested on the edge of the machine.

  John stepped back, and he felt the adrenaline begin to diminish. You still got off easy, you sonofabitch, he thought. He inhaled and exhaled, and his thoughts turned to Amira. He’d left his phone in the kitchen at the house and hadn’t had time to grab it, but he needed to get back to the dining area and assure whatever patrons hadn’t scattered that the situation was over, the threat neutralized, that they were safe.

  He walked toward the front of the kitchen as one of the remaining workers came in through the door. John, exhausted from the hand-to-hand encounter, the chase, and the ambush, looked the blond teenaged boy squarely in the eyes and said, “You’re going to need a new pressure cooker.” He moved past the employee and through the door to wait for the police. He prayed that they’d get there soon. The physical exertion of violence had ended, replaced by the need to be with the woman he loved who’d just lost her father.

  PART VI

  JUDGMENT

  CHAPTER 45

  Caracas, Venezuela

  Present Time

  Logan West closed his eyes and briefly absorbed the peacefulness that had fallen over the ruined mountain base. He exhale
d, opened his eyes, and looked at the man who’d caused all of the wreckage and death over the past month. God knows what else he’s responsible for. Logan held the Iridium phone he’d carried into battle and listened to Jake Benson on the other end explain the events that had just transpired in Maryland at the order of the traitor who stood before him.

  Cole, Jack, Marcos, and Santiago stood in a circle near the front of the abandoned command post. The surviving four mercenary members of the Hunter and Killer teams had recovered their fallen comrades and placed them in the back of two J70s for transport down the mountain.

  Logan wanted to lash out—physically needed to lash out—at the monster in human clothing, but he knew he couldn’t. Not just yet. Joshua Baker still had a purpose, and a plan was formulating itself in Logan’s mind as he listened to Jake. Baker had already told them all he knew—or at least what he claimed was all—and Logan believed the man.

  Baker was beaten, bloodied, and exhausted. He’d aged at least ten years since his last public appearance a month ago, and he wore his defeat like a medieval fur cloak around his shoulders, heavy and burdensome. There was no fight left in the middle-aged man in front of him, but Logan didn’t care. His very existence elicited a feeling of unnatural outrage that the man still breathed after all he’d done. Baker would die for his sins and crimes. Of that truth, there was no doubt in Logan’s mind, and he only hoped he’d be there to facilitate his demise or observe it. It didn’t matter which: it just had to happen to preserve the natural order of the geopolitical world.

  Logan had told Jake the reason General Cordones wanted Baker, as well as what the general planned for President Pena. There was a part of him that agreed with what the general was doing and why, but it wasn’t for the general to do, at least not according to Venezuelan law. It’s what it always came down to—men of power making self-serving decisions that exceeded their authority, always to the detriment of others.