by Scott Blade
Every time the guy exhaled, Brooks saw his breath.
Brooks lowered the M4 down to hipshot level. The weight was heavy to keep holding one-handed, and he was as good at this range with a hipshot as he was any other way.
The man walked slowly out of the trees’ edge and into the open clearing. He walked until he was five yards away.
Brooks said, “That’s enough! One more step and I’ll kill him. I’ll snap his little neck like a twig.”
Brooks jerked Dylan back, moving his hand from Dylan’s collar to his neck. He pulled him in close.
“I’ll do it.”
The man stopped moving.
Brooks repeated, “Who the hell are you?”
“Jack Widow.”
“Who the hell are you in relation to this kid? Where the hell did you come from?”
“I’m Cousin Jack. I was asleep upstairs. Your boys missed me.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why don’t you toss the rifle?”
Widow held the Winchester in both hands like John McClane at the end of Die Hard . He tried to make his best impression. He even dragged his feet in the snow like he had also cut them up by running through broken glass.
Brooks wasn’t picking up on the impression.
Widow said, “Okay.”
He tossed the rifle down and raised his hands in the universal don’t shoot me way that everyone knows.
“Now, where’s the other one?”
“I’m right behind you,” Adonis said.
Brooks turned, fast and pointed the M4 in the direction of Adonis’s voice.
He couldn’t see her, but her voice had come from where he was staring.
He flipped back around, quick, thinking it was a trap. He pointed the M4 back at Widow, who hadn’t moved. He stood in the same place, with his hands up.
“Come around,” Brooks ordered him, and he flicked the M4’s muzzle in the direction he wanted Widow to circle around to.
Widow said, “Okay. Okay. Don’t shoot.”
He circled around Brooks and Dylan, keeping his front facing them.
“Stop there!” Brooks ordered.
Widow had hoped that Brooks wouldn’t have him come all the way around to stand right next to Adonis, which he didn’t. He ordered Widow to stop where he was in Brooks’ line of sight, but Adonis was still ten feet to Widow’s left. It was a big enough gap between them, as Widow had hoped for.
“Come out!” Brooks called out to Adonis.
She did nothing.
“Come out or I’ll kill this kid!” he shouted.
“Okay. Okay. Don’t hurt him!” Adonis called back.
Slowly, she came out from behind a tree. He saw a dark object in her hand. She held it like a gun.
“Stop there!” Brooks ordered.
She stopped.
“Toss the gun!”
Adonis paused a long moment, like giving up her weapon wasn’t an option. Certainly, she had been trained not to give it up.
Brooks jerked the kid closer and repeated himself.
“Toss the gun!”
“Okay. Stop hurting him!”
She threw the gun off in the distance, farther than he had expected. Widow thought it was overkill. It might give them away, but it didn’t.
“Come closer,” Brooks ordered.
Adonis walked closer. She did like Widow and stuck her hands straight up in the air. She stepped out of the shadows. She was not in line with Widow, but stayed ten feet away, as he’d told her to do.
Brooks said, “Well. Well. We meet again. It looks like I’ll be the last man standing this time.”
Adonis said, “Widow?”
Widow eyeballed Dylan. He was too close to Brooks. So, Widow called an audible and started laughing, hysterically like a madman.
Brooks stared at him, dumbfounded.
Adonis turned, looked at him sideways, her hands still up in the air.
This isn’t working , she thought.
Widow wanted Dylan to pick up on what he was doing, but he didn’t. Then, Widow thought about Maggie, his mother. She was a bit stern, a bit strict. She probably didn’t let him watch R-rated movies. He may not even have known what happened in Die Hard . He probably wasn’t even allowed to watch it on TV, edited.
Widow decided to shift gears.
He said to Brooks.
“What’s your name, by the way?”
Brooks stared at him like he was trying to figure out what Widow was up to. He had them both dead to rights. They’d tossed their weapons. What would be the harm in playing along?
He said, “Brooks.”
“Brooks, I got a question for you.”
Brooks stared at the insane-looking Widow.
“I’m all ears.”
Widow said, “Know what a dead fish is?”
“What the hell is a dead fish?”
Widow glanced at Dylan. The boy’s eyes widened and stared back at Widow.
Adonis was a little lost, but she knew something clicked with the kid when she saw his eyes.
She shouted, “Now!”
Time slowed.
Brooks looked at Adonis, flicked the M4 in her direction like he was waiting for her to make a move.
Dylan pulled his feet up off the ground and let his body go completely limp, which started a chain reaction.
His body went limp, causing more weight on Brooks’ arm. Brooks wasn’t prepared to hold a kid up with one hand and the M4 with the other. His arm slunk, and Dylan slipped down and completely out of it. The barrel of the M4 wavered and moved away from Adonis.
Widow reached back with his right hand, over his shoulder to where the Beretta M9 was duct-taped between his shoulder blades. He jerked it off his back and shot Brooks four times in the chest.
Blood exploded out the front and misted in the air. Brooks released his grip on both the rifle and the kid.
Dylan flew forward and rolled away from Brooks.
Adonis went for the M4 and scooped it up and pointed it at Brooks in case he got back up. But he wasn’t getting back up.
Widow walked over to him, stopped, and stood over him, pointing the M9 at his face.
Brooks stared up at him. He gurgled blood. His teeth were red with it.
“Who. Are. You?” he struggled to ask.
Widow lowered the weapon. Brooks wasn’t going to fight back. He wasn’t going to do much of anything.
“Me? I’m nobody.”
Widow watched Brooks take his last breath and then he stepped away from the corpse. Dylan ran over to him and hugged him like he really was a long-lost cousin.
Adonis dropped the M4 in the snow. She was tired of guns.
She walked over to Widow and Dylan and wrapped her arms around them, joining them for a big bear hug.
They stayed like that for a long time until Widow finally said something, breaking the silence.
“It’s cold out here. Let me get my clothes back.”
They laughed together.
Adonis went back to get the gun she’d tossed away and came back with one of Widow’s boots. She never had a gun. She used his boot as a prop.
They all walked together, still half-hugging, back to his shirt and socks and coat and other boot.
On the way, Adonis said something that Widow understood.
“I’m surprised you didn’t say, ‘Happy Trails, Hans,’ after you shot him.”
Widow laughed, but Dylan didn’t.
He said, “What? I don’t get it?”
“It’s from Die Hard , kid,” Widow said.
“Oh, Die Hard . That’s that old movie. With that actor that died.”
“You’re talking about Alan Rickman,” Adonis said.
Widow glanced at her.
She said, “What? I like movies.”
Dylan said, “No. I never heard that name. I’m talking about the dead guy from the Six Sense.”
Widow said, “That’s Bruce Willis. And he’s not dead.”
“He’s not?”
Dylan asked. “He must be ancient then. Like sixty?”
“Sixty’s not ancient,” Widow said.
“Oh. Sorry. Are you sixty? I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Widow stayed quiet. He had no comment.
Chapter 63
T WO DAYS LATER, in both Carbine and Spartan County, South Carolina was swarming with FBI, still. They came in from all over the region, more than a hundred agents. They took statements and investigated all over Cherokee Hill.
Abe was upset about his barn burning to the ground more than anything else. But he was very happy to have his family back in once piece. They told Widow he could come back any time to visit. He was always welcome to come back for that Christmas dinner. He promised that if he was ever in the area, he would stop in.
They ended up keeping him out of the police and FBI reports. Sheriff Henry Rourke took credit for saving everyone. He was happy to do it. Being handcuffed to a toilet was something he didn’t want getting out anyway.
Agent Adonis was fired from the ATF, which she had expected. She viewed it as a fresh start for her. She was lucky not to be facing any charges, considering she’d disobeyed orders. At least, that’s what the reps from the FBI kept reminding her.
After Widow reunited the Whites, the first thing they did was move the White’s other vehicles away from the fiery trucks and barn. The sheriff called in a ride from one of his deputies. He took Widow and Adonis with him back to his station. He radioed everyone at the fire department to get out to Cherokee Hill.
From the sheriff’s station, Widow got a ride from the same deputy to a bus stop fifty miles to the east. From there, he watched the deputy drive off and caught a bus to his original destination, a beach in Florida. But before he did that, he stopped in Charleston. He rented a motel near the port and waited nearly seventy-two hours before Adonis showed up. They met in a little café that she had been to before. She’d told him about it on their ride to Sheriff Rourke’s station.
She’d had to deal with official reports and lectures and intense debriefings from the ATF and the FBI before she could join him. He was surprised that she managed to get away as fast as she had. He was prepared to wait a whole week for her.
They sat at a table on the patio, near the water and the boats. He worked on his second cup of espresso, a quad shot. He liked espressos.
Adonis drank a hot tea with a lemon squeezed in it.
People walked along the sidewalks near them. People sat at tables nearby; all of them talked and carried on about their business. But Adonis ignored them and stared into Widow’s eyes. He ignored them and stared back at hers, and contemplated sticking around for Christmas.
In 2018, in the US, more law enforcement officers died by gunfire than traffic accidents. The total number of those shot and killed in the line of duty was 144. That’s 129 more than 2017. I dedicate this book to the fallen and the loved ones they left behind.
Thank you for your sacrifice.
– Scott Blade
A Word from Scott
I hope you enjoyed reading The Standoff. You got this far—I’m guessing that you like Widow.
The story continues…
To find out more sign up for the Jack Widow Book Club to get exclusive content and notified of upcoming new releases.
Coming September/October 2019 is Foreign & Domestic : A Jack Widow thriller, book 13 in the series.
Here’s a preview of what it’s all about:
A covert enemy. A grisly terrorist plot. And Jack Widow, the only man to stop it.
A rainy Seattle day forces Widow, the ultimate loner, to shelter in a café. Out of boredom, out of curiosity, out of impulse, he checks his old NCIS email account. Surprised, it’s still active, he finds an urgent message. An old friend in need.
A phone call later, and Widow flies to DC. His friend is an elite Secret Service Agent. He’s detail is the First Family. The emergency: someone kidnapped the Secret Service Director’s only daughter.
The kidnapper’s demands: 1: Tell no one. 2: Assassinate the President.
Widow races against time to save an innocent girl and keep the President alive from enemies both foreign and domestic.
The Jack Widow Book Club
Building a relationship with my readers is the very best thing about writing. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and other bits of news relating to the Jack Widow Series.
If you are new to the series, you can join the Jack Widow Book Club and get the starter kit.
Sign up for exclusive free stories, special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest releases, and coming soon Jack Widow novels. Sign up at www.scottblade.com .
Preview: Foreign & Domestic
A Jack Widow Preview
Coming September 2019
*Note: This is a preview of a work-in-progress. Details, prose and events are subject to change from this version to the final.
Chapter 1
ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER.
Cause and effect.
A bullet leads to a target and a democratically-elected president dies and a fragile country is thrown into upheaval and the world changes and somebody benefits.
Simple. Cause and effect.
A son shoots his father in front of an entire nation, and the whole world sees it, and politics shift, and power struggles happen, and a country’s destiny changes forever.
On this occasion, the equation equaled three bullets fired—two center mass and one miss, with one trigger pulled, three times and one father killed by one son who had no choice.
Three bullets. That’s all it took.
One thing leads to another. Cause and effect.
Moments before he was assassinated, in the small African country of West Ganbola, President-elect George Biyena stood offstage in a freshly-pressed suit with a black and gold tie—his country’s colors.
Not just on his tie, but he could see the same colors ahead of him on the stage, sewn into a large West Ganbola flag that waved softly in the wind, standing next to and of equal footing with a flag of the African Union.
A big part of Biyena’s platform had been to move West Ganbola more in line with the rest of the union’s humanitarian and democratic policies.
He was a champion of his country’s poor and impoverished.
His wife stood on a provisional platform, built the day before in preparation for his first speech as West Ganbola’s president-elect. She faced out toward his constituents. He gazed over them through a black and white curtain, surveying the crowd of hundreds of supporters, non-supporters, and the media, both foreign and domestic.
Biyena had just emerged from a vicious election cycle, fraught with back-and-forth political character assassination ads and propaganda, some true, most lies. He had almost lost the election, but not because the other guy was more popular—or even popular at all, and not because the other guy was the sitting president. It was only because the people of his country were terrified of the other guy. He had been an extreme dictator, a warlord, categorically.
The other guy wasn’t a legitimately elected official, not in the sense of what an elected official was supposed to be. The other guy was a dictator, a military leader who overthrew a once democratically elected government twenty years ago and then installed a fake democratic one over it. He installed the kind of thing that a lot of strongman-types did. They would hold elections, make it all look real, make it all look legit, but under the surface the votes weren’t counted. The whole thing was poised to make it look like the other guy was mandated by his population.
It was all a scam.
The other guy was nothing more than a criminal.
Not this time. Part of Biyena’s run was to make the votes counted by a new third party institution. This time, Biyena had made enough friends in government and the other guy had made enough enemies, that the vote was actually counted and Biyena had won.
He was proud of his political victory, a road that had been
thick with more than just potential political defeat. It had been dangerous for him and his family. His path to leader of his country had led him through treacherous waters and political acrimony. Where so many others had failed, forced out of the previous presidential races against the incumbent socialist dictator, or they were simply the other guy’s patsies, Biyena had succeeded. Any of his close, personal friends would attest to his patriotism. He believed his country deserved a fresh start, a new beginning. It was truly a great day for democracy and a great day for West Ganbola.
He had not made a public appearance in the three days leading up to the election due to concerns from his head of security. Death threats against him had risen sharply the week before, and it looked as though he would legitimately win the election. This meant he’d have to be under close watch. He waited in secret until the ballots were cast—and he’d won. Now he was about to give the speech that would move his country into a new era of peace.
He had rehearsed the process many times in his head. Walk up the steps. Cross the raised platform. Go over to the podium and hug his wife. Stand and recite his speech, eyes locked on his people.
Don’t show fear.
Biyena had stayed up the entire night before, practicing his speech in front of his two most trusted advisors. When they had run out of energy to continue, he had practiced it in front of a mirror at the Royal Hotel on Webiga Street, the street with the hospital that he was born in, sixty-three years ago, which was not on purpose, just one of life’s coincidences like dying on the same street.
English was the official language of West Ganbola, but in actuality, over eighty languages were used in the region. Languages other than English were especially common in the more rural areas, which was almost everywhere.
Near the craggy mountain ranges and olive jungles to the east, you could walk into a village, hear a regional language that had been born there, and then turn around and travel a few miles inland only to hear a completely different vernacular and see completely different jungles and mountains.
