The Standoff

by Scott Blade

  Brooks was the largest, strongest, and second-highest-ranking in their crew. The sniper named Jargo was almost his opposite as far as physical descriptions go, but he was just as deadly.

  Jargo was a white man from Kentucky with family ties to white nationalists, a fact that he wasn’t embarrassed about, but he also didn’t share in those philosophies. His allegiance was only to his unit and Abel’s cause. Still, he kept close touch with his family. Some of the Athenians’ best allies were cousins of Jargo who were members of backwoods militias all over the state of Kentucky. None of these groups was as serious or dedicated to the cause as the Athenians.

  Jargo never held that over them. They were strong allies to have, but a joke nonetheless.

  Jargo stood two inches under six feet. He was stocky, built like the side wall of a lighthouse. In regular sparring matches, Brooks feared losing to Jargo the most, even if he was far shorter. Jargo was fearless and tough. They were all tough; even Dobson wasn’t a guy to take for granted in a one-on-one street fight.

  Brooks said, “What’re the parameters?”

  Jargo asked, “Shoot to kill?”

  “No. No killing. You likely won’t find anyone there. But if you do, take them alive. We might need a hostage or two.”

  “You got it, boss,” Brooks said.

  He took up his M4 assault rifle and led Jargo with his sniper rifle through the snow and darkness, toward the farmhouse.

  Abel looked back at the others and zeroed in one of them.

  “Flack, get behind the wheel and slip the thing into neutral. The rest of you, grab a corner. You’re pushing the van down the driveway.”

  They all hugged a corner, with Dobson clambering to the passenger side door, which Abel corrected with a single order as if he was singling out Dobson to take on the brunt of the work as punishment.

  “Dobson, grab the rear.”

  Dobson stopped and nodded and didn’t protest.

  The three remaining guys grabbed positions on the van and started to push toward the farm’s snowed-over driveway.

  Abel stepped aside and reached into his inner coat pocket. He took out a pack of cigarettes, a guilty pleasure of his that he also used to kill his nerves, whenever he got nervous.

  Broke down in the middle of nowhere, about twenty miles from a massive explosion that he was responsible for, all while a hundred Feds and probably an equal number of South Carolina cops would be frantically searching for him was plenty of validation to be a little nervous.

  He lit up a cigarette and took a drag, releasing slow exhales of smoke into the early morning darkness.

  Sixty seconds later, he saw Brooks’ flashlight beam light up and flash in their direction, signaling that the coast was clear.

  “Okay, boys, get that van up to the house. See if you can hide it in a barn or something.”

  Dobson, Cucci, and Tanis, the rest of the crew, stuck their heads out and gave affirmatives, while Flack nodded from behind the steering wheel.

  It took them twice as long as Abel would’ve required back in their Army days, but the snow-covered driveway made it difficult, especially pushing uphill for part of the track.

  Once the van was up and near the house, Jargo and Brooks rested their weapons against the brick around the front door and joined in to help push the van the rest of the way.

  They got the van inside an old, empty barn with untouched cobwebs in every corner. They closed the doors behind the van.

  After it was all complete, Abel pulled Brooks aside and asked, “How’s the inside of the farmhouse?”

  “It’s good. Must’ve been a foreclosure and the bank took everything because the place is fully furnished.”

  “Any beds?”

  “Yeah. Four.”

  “Good. I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll be in the master. If this shithole has a master.”

  He paused a beat and turned and stared at the barn.

  A shutter from an open window at the peak flapped in the wind, clacking against the barn.

  “Tell Jargo to set up there. You stay with him. Keep an eye out. Take turns sleeping. Tell the others to do the same.”

  Brooks said, “Our old Army motto.”

  Abel asked, “What’s that?”

  “Sleep when you can. You forget?”

  Abel didn’t answer that. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the abandoned farmhouse.

  Chapter 17

  S EVEN MILES SOUTHEAST of the roadblock that Widow snuck through, and further away from the explosion in Carbine, and the Athenian compound, Widow sat comfortably in the passenger seat of a roomy Toyota Tundra that looked like the owner had put it to the test as far as being a workingman’s truck.

  It had a certain kind of worn but well-maintained feel about it. The guy driving sat in the seat like a cowboy on his trusty horse.

  The truck was Widow’s first ride after the gas station and after the roadblock. He ended up walking past the roadblock for two miles before someone pulled over. It all happened right on cue too because it had started to snow, not hard, but enough for the Tundra driver to take pity on Widow and pull over to the shoulder and offer him a ride.

  The driver was a man of an age somewhere between his last birthday being in his early thirties and being old enough to run for president. Widow wasn’t exactly sure where the guy sat on his life’s timeline because the guy was in good shape with a youthful demeanor, like he was full of life, but he also drove the truck with a mature, confident way, that driving the truck was part of his business and business was doing well.

  The Tundra driver was cheery and friendly. He had crinkles above his cheeks from smiling a lot. He had wrinkles across his forehead like he also worried a lot. Widow saw in his face, behind the smile, a guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was a family man and a businessman, Widow guessed.

  The Tundra driver had calloused knuckles, but not the same kind of callouses that a boxer would have, or that Widow had. These were more of the workingman’s telltale callouses.

  Widow figured the guy was a business owner but had probably worked his way up. Maybe his father had made him work from the bottom of a family-owned business until he proved himself ready to take over.

  The Tundra driver was probably second or third or fourth generation in the same business. Now, the brunt of the weight was his to bear. It was a handed-down family business, probably defining his future before he was even born, like a prince inheriting the throne and all the responsibilities that come with it.

  Widow wasn’t quite sure what the business was exactly. He figured it was farming related. But what? Maybe the Tundra driver was given a hauling business, delivering fertilizer or farming goods to all the nearby farms. Maybe the guy was a farmer himself. Maybe his daddy had handed him the reins recently, possibly when he turned thirty like his daddy’s daddy had done before him.

  A pair of rough utility gloves was stuffed into one of the cup holders. They were the kind that a lineman might wear or those guys who tossed around large bundles of hay all day. They were hard and tan and worn. The material was part canvas, part suede. They looked durable.

  A wedding band dangled from a chain around the Tundra driver’s neck, which at first signaled that he might be a widower, but that didn’t seem likely because the guy sat back with a sense of pride and was chipper like he was doing well with his business, with his family, and with his own life. Not the kind of bearing of a man who was unmarried.

  Widow figured the ring on the chain was related directly to the gloves and the physical labor he did for a living. He probably didn’t want to risk losing his ring so he kept it close on a chain instead of on his finger where it might slip off or get him caught in some work-related machine.

  The interior of the truck was clean, spotless, and worn with use. The seats were clean. The dashboard and the upholstery were oiled and polished with care. Everything in the truck was used and worn but maintained with the utmost care.

  The Tundra driver
was a ginger. He had a red beard, about three-quarters of an inch grown out. Widow figured the guy was completely bald on top. He wore a baseball cap, but the sides of his hair thinned just as it vanished under the rim of the hat. The cap’s bill was flat, as if it had just been bought off the rack ten minutes ago.

  Widow had seen this style around many, many times in the last couple of years. It was a trend. Lots of guys his age and younger stylized their hats this way. It didn’t bother him, but every generation was different.

  He remembered seeing photos of his dead grandfather, his mother’s old man. He had been a Marine. In most of the old photos that Widow saw, his grandfather wore his hats on the top of his head. They were just set down on top like a soft lunar landing. The hat rested there and was never pushed down all the way. The brim barely set on his head, not pushed all the way down. It looked like a brisk wind would’ve knocked it off, but that never happened.

  Widow remembered seeing the same style on the old guys in his grandfather’s other photos. A group of aging vets hanging out, playing dominoes, and they all wore their military caps this way.

  At least the driver wasn’t wearing it with the sales sticker left on it. Widow had seen that too. Millennials liked to do that. He did find that one annoying.

  The first five minutes of the ride were mostly awkward silence with neither Widow nor the Tundra driver wanting to speak first. In the end, the Tundra driver spoke first.

  “That roadblock was something, huh?”

  Widow smiled and answered with what he thought was a lie.

  “It had nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  Widow looked over at the driver, curious.

  He asked, “How?”

  “What?”

  “How do you know it has nothing to do with me?”

  “They did that because of that thing over in Carbine.”

  “Carbine?”

  “It’s a town. Not far from where I picked you up. It’s in this county. I passed through it. I go there sometimes for supplies because it’s closer to my home than Charlotte.”

  “Carbine is where you’re coming from?”

  “No. I’m driving back from Knoxville with a couple of stops along the way there and back. I brought samples to a wholesaler last night. A bit late, but he’s in a pinch and he was the last on my stop anyway. Needs more trees. So, I made the trip because we need the business. He’ll send them down his pipeline to new vendors throughout his region. Hopefully, one of them will buy from us.”

  Widow didn’t ask what the samples were. He got the impression it was some kind of crop or possibly nursery related. He figured if the Tundra driver wanted him to know what they were specifically, he would tell him.

  The Tundra driver talked and talked, answering questions that Widow didn’t ask.

  “But Carbine’s where I go for quick stuff, sometimes. It’s easier to get to and get out of than driving all the way to Charlotte. Well, normally, it is.”

  “Why? Is that far for you?”

  “I live in Cherokee Hill.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You never been out here before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, let me introduce myself proper,” the guy said with a bigger smile.

  He held onto the steering wheel with one hand and reached over with the other one and offered it for Widow to shake.

  “My name’s Walter White.”

  Widow took the guy’s offered hand and shook it, awkwardly because their positions were side by side and not dead-on straight like most handshaking scenarios.

  White chuckled like he and Widow were in on an inside joke, except Widow wasn’t in on it. He was clueless to why White chuckled. He thought maybe the guy was famous or something and he was used to people recognizing him.

  “I know. Now, you’re wondering if I cook meth.”

  Widow looked at him sideways.

  “I don’t judge,” Widow said, which is half-true. “Live and let live is my motto. You wanna cook meth, that’s on you. Knock your socks off. I could care less.”

  “No. No. I mean like the TV show.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a joke. You know?”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  “Walter White? My name is like the guy’s on that TV show. You know?”

  Widow looked at him dumbfounded.

  “You don’t know the show, do you?”

  “I don’t watch TV. Don’t own one. Never have.”

  “You don’t own a TV?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you never have?”

  “Can’t say I have. My mom had one in our home, but that was twenty years ago.”

  “What’re you? A priest or something?”

  “More like a monk.”

  “Say what?”

  “I’m more like a monk. Priests own TVs; they vow a life of celibacy, not boredom.”

  White said nothing to that.

  “Guess you can say I’m a nomad, which is kind of like a monk. Nothing says that a monk must live in a monastery.”

  “You’re a drifter?”

  Widow nodded.

  He saw White’s smile shrink slowly. He stared at Widow before turning his head straight. Widow could see that White was having second thoughts about picking him up in the first place.

  One of the tools in Widow’s tradecraft from his deep cover days was simply developing a camaraderie. So, he kept talking.

  “I don’t know about Walter White, but I do remember that old TV show about the monk who wandered the Old West, righting wrongs.”

  “You’re talking about Kung Fu ? That show starring Bruce Lee?”

  Widow shook his head.

  “No. Bruce didn’t star in it. He created it. The story goes he wanted to star in it, but the studio wouldn’t let him. They wanted a white actor.”

  “That true?”

  “It is. According to his autobiography.”

  White nodded.

  Silence filled the cabin once again, and they drove on. Widow listened to the heat blasting from the vents. He heard the hum of the engine and the tires on the road. He heard the wind gusting outside, beating on the truck’s skin. And suddenly, he realized he hadn’t introduced himself.

  “My name’s Jack Widow. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem.”

  “What’s the roadblock about? You said you knew.”

  “It’s been all over the radio.”

  “What has?”

  “Back in Carbine, there was an explosion. But the media doesn’t have all the facts about it.”

  “But you do?”

  White reached down with his left hand and pointed underneath the Tundra’s stereo at a black, metal box drilled into the bottom of the dashboard, aftermarket. The box had buttons and knobs and a lit-up screen with digital channels displayed. The power was on, but the volume was all the way down.

  Widow asked, “Police scanner?”

  “Yep. I get bored doing long drives. I like to listen sometimes. Plus, it’s helpful if there’s lots of police activity on the road. I don’t trust Apple Maps always to guide me through the quickest routes.”

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “The ATF raided the Athenian compound.”

  “Athenian? That a company or something?”

  White leaned forward and stared out the windshield at the sky. The snow picked up speed and density. He flicked his left wrist and flipped on the wipers to the slowest mode and then inspected it and decided to go up one more level to a slow, steady rhythm.

  The snow fell slowly and haphazardly almost as if it was dancing on the wind.

  The wipers flicked the snowflakes off the windshield with ease.

  A solitary early morning flicker of light appeared on the horizon as the sun started its climb to a new day. The sunlight looked like a spark on the horizon.

 
White said, “The Athenians are a cult.”

  “A cult?”

  “Yeah, you know? Like Jamestown, or Waco, or that guy that convinced a bunch of women to be his wives. You know? The inbreeding thing?”

  “Aren’t they all like that?”

  White chuckled and shrugged.

  “I think this one is like a militia slash religious cult. You know? The most dangerous kind—a bunch of religious nuts with lots of guns.”

  “That is just like Waco.”

  “Well, just like Waco, this one ended badly. Only without the long standoff. Didn’t that one have like a month-long standoff between the cops and the Waco people?”

  Widow thought, More like two months .

  He asked, “What happened?”

  “FBI raided them this morning. They must’ve got wind of stockpiles of weapons or something. I guess.”

  “ATF, you mean?”

  “Huh?”

  “The ATF raided them, not the FBI. The ATF handles illegal weapon stockpiles, and the like.”

  “ATF?”

  “The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”

  White mouthed the words and asked, “Wouldn’t that be BATFE?”

  “Too long. The Justice Department likes three-letter acronyms. FBI, DEA like that.”

  “CIA?”

  “The CIA is part of the State Department, not Justice. It’s not a criminal investigation agency. It’s a spy agency.”

  “ATF is responsible for alcohol and tobacco?”

  “They were formed long ago.”

  “Oh, during Prohibition?”

  “Before that. Eighteen-eighty-six.”

  “Was alcohol illegal back then?”

  “It wasn’t originally about alcohol. It was part of the Treasury Department. Then it became an IRS unit. Then a Justice Department unit. They regulate the sale and transport and stockpiling of…?”

  Widow trailed off and stayed quiet, waiting for White to say it.

  “Alcohol, tobacco, firearms, and explosives?”

  “All the good stuff. They’re federal like the FBI, and they come with all the red tape and bureaucracy.”

  “You sound like you’re not fond of them?”

  “I got nothing against them. They stay out of my way, and I stay out of theirs’.”