by Warren Ray
“He must have thought you’d do something about it.”
“This whole thing is because of Boxer and his damn Patriot program.”
“It was his idea?”
“Yes, the Patriot Centers were his idea.”
“So, he is the one responsible for our friends getting killed?”
“He’s also the one that chased you up into Canada.”
“He’s still here, then?” Winters asked with a heightened level of interest.
“Yes. Washington sent him here to catch you and knowing what I know now about these terrorists, he’s probably here to keep an eye on them as well.”
“Where’s he at?”
“St. Paul.”
“Really,” said Winters turning to Elliott. “St. Paul.”
“Are you thinking about paying him a little visit?”
Winters eyed Green to get a read on him before answering. “Would you have a problem with that, Major?”
Green shook his head slowly. “No, I can’t say that I would.”
“What about you, what are you going to do?”
“Don’t know yet, but whatever it is, it’ll involve Colonel Nunn.”
“Well, Major, I think we’ll be on our way unless there’s something else you need from us.”
“Just one thing.”
Winters waited for the question.
“What’s your name?”
Winters cracked a half smile knowing he had just made a new friend. “It’s Cole, Cole Winters,” he said putting out his hand.
Chapter 67
St Paul Minnesota
The Shadow Patriots scavenged the dead for weapons and ammo and left them where they lay. There were too many to deal with, and they didn't have the time, so if anyone was still in town, they would have to bury them. After they got everyone loaded up, the Shadow Patriots headed south toward St. Paul.
Their spirits were running high from their overwhelming victory over the terrorists. What once would have seemed impossible was now a major coup for them. Winters dared to smile in light of what they had accomplished. For the first time, they had been a cohesive team. Each man performed well and no one had died. Their new equipment supplied by the Canadians had been an essential factor in their success. He wondered how they’d gotten as far as they previously had without radios.
Winters sat in the front seat, looking out the window, and thought through what had happened to Major Green. The poor guy did his duty and followed orders like a good soldier, trusting his superior’s orders to be in good standing. Never having to worry that, if put in harm's way, it was not for someone’s personal gain or some kind of vendetta.
Winters could relate. The government had betrayed them as well by appealing to their patriotic duty to serve. Never in a million years would he have thought something like the Patriot Centers could have happened, but then the worst betrayals are probably like that…simply unexpected.
Scar and Meeks bantering in the back got Winters' attention. He listened in, as they were always entertaining.
“I can’t believe this Colonel Nunn would set up his own man,” said Meeks. “Talk about a dog eat dog world.”
Scar laughed. “Man, that’s what you call a demotion.”
“Yes, I’m afraid we no longer need your services,” Meeks started laughing. “So, if you could just step over to that trap door.”
“Like some James Bond villain,” said Scar.
“Yeah, yeah, like Blofeld,” said Meeks.
“I loved Scaramanga,” said Scar.
“Oh, of course, you do Scar…ah...manga,” said Meeks dragging the last bit out.
Elliott looked in the rear view mirror to get in on the levity. “What about Jaws, best henchman ever.”
“I liked Vesper Lynd,” Winters offered.
Meeks pulled himself to the front seat. “She wasn’t a henchman.”
Winters raised his finger. “Well, no…but…she was very hot.”
They all burst out laughing and started to compare and debate the hot Bond girls. They enjoyed the lightheartedness of the moment after the intense firefight they had so recently gone through.
They arrived on the outskirts of St. Paul and parked their vehicles off the road. Despite its size, Minneapolis/St. Paul had not suffered the devastation of a dirty bomb as other large Midwestern cities had. However, with food and fuel shortages, its population had been moving south along with most everyone else. Approximately one-fourth of the citizens remained. The National Police had a significant presence here, and they supported enough commerce to provide a livelihood for those who stayed.
Winters sent Bill Taylor, who was from St. Paul, with Scar and Meeks to recon the city. They would need to locate where the National Police Headquarters and, if possible, where Boxer spent his nights.
The next morning, after making some inquiries of the locals, they located the place Boxer had appropriated for his residence. He had taken over a large house owned by a wealthy lawyer. It stood on a sizeable lot in an older neighborhood which boasted many thick, lush evergreens and oak trees. The three of them spent the night across the street watching the house to determine what kind of security he had. Scar noted he had four men on the inside and two patrolled the property.
Later in the morning, they showed up at the Shadow Patriots' makeshift camp outside the city to report to Winters. That afternoon, Winters, Scar and Meeks left for St. Paul. They drove as far as they thought safe and then parked the car in the garage of an abandoned house. They walked the rest of the way to Boxer’s house. Scar took them across the street to the old Victorian house he and Meeks had stayed in last night. Looters had ransacked it, leaving busted up furniture strewn around, broken windows, and rotting garbage.
Four hours later, while Winters and Meeks were resting, Scar kept watching for Boxer to show up. Finally, a car pulled into the driveway. He looked through his binoculars and observed Boxer. Scar snapped his fingers to awaken Winters and Meeks.
“He’s here?” asked Winters stretching his arms.
He and Meeks padded across the room to the broken window and watched as four men entered the house. Two remained outside patrolling the grounds.
An hour later, Winters led them through the back door to hide behind the bushes of the grand old home. As soon as the guard was out of sight, they bolted across the street. Scar positioned himself at the far end of the house, and the other two moved into the shadows of the tall oak trees.
The neighborhood was quiet enough you could hear the soft footsteps of the guard as he came back around. Scar grabbed his six-inch knife and waited for the guard to walk past him.
Like a leopard pouncing on its prey, Scar leaped out and threw his big arm around the man's throat cutting off his windpipe. He swung the knife around and shoved it into his stomach. He yanked it out and struck him again. The man went limp and Scar dragged the dead body into the hedgerow that lined the house. Moments later, the second guard rounded the corner and Scar repeated the move.
They then moved to the back door and found it unlocked. The door opened into a laundry room, which led to the kitchen. They tiptoed through the house and into the dining room.
They froze when they heard voices coming from the living room. Scar motioned the other two to get on the other side of the doorway. The voices became more audible as they headed toward the kitchen.
A light flipped on and two men headed for the refrigerator. Winters’ breathing all but stopped. He inched his knife out of its sheath. Scar did the same, while Meeks gripped the Sig Sauer 9mm. The gun would be a last resort, as they didn’t want to alert the others in the house.
Scar peeked around the entrance-way to see where the men were. They stood at the counter by the sink, making sandwiches. A breakfast bar with four stools stood in the way of a direct assault.
Scar squatted down on his hands and knees. Winters followed. They both crawled across the floor to get in a better position. Meeks remained, standing guard. The two men were blissfully u
naware as they continued to make sandwiches.
Winters' eyes began blinking rapidly and sweat beaded on his forehead as they inched closer to their prey. As soon as they reached the breakfast bar, Scar turned and signaled to Winters—go on three. He counted down with his fingers. Three…two…one. In a quick motion, he leaped to his feet and rushed them.
Winters followed, but as he came around the corner, one guard reached for his gun.
Chapter 68
Detroit Lakes Minnesota
Major Green stayed in Detroit Lakes to help clean up the bloody mess, get the wounded patched up, and contemplate his next move. Green’s state of mind didn’t allow for much sleep that night. Besides mourning the loss of his friend Lieutenant Crick, he was incensed at Colonel Nunn. Everything Cole Winters had told him made sense. The whole idea of sending him up here was to make sure he was killed. He now knew the reason why, for the first time ever, Nunn had been respectful to him. He was planning his demise. Green slammed his fist on a table. The bastard.
He went back and forth, trying to decide what to do with Nunn. On the one hand, he wanted to march into Nunn’s office, pull out his sidearm and assassinate him. On the other, justice would be the better option. However, what kind of justice could there be? The government would more than likely protect him. He had little time to plan what to do because Nunn would soon be aware that he still lived.
After lunch, Green stepped onto the porch of the abandoned house he had stayed in last night. He saw some of the remaining townspeople milling around outside and talking to each other about what had happened the day before. A few children played together. These were innocent people doing no one any harm. They had survived a hard winter with limited power and very little food. Now they had been the targets of a dishonorable action perpetrated upon them for, God only knew, whatever selfish reasons. How did we come to this? How did the world become so helter-skelter that powerful people would murder the innocent in the United States? This kind of thing only happened in third world countries. This wasn’t supposed to happen here.
Green’s late father, a career soldier, taught him that the strong are supposed to help the weak. No matter what happened, you were supposed to choose the right and honorable thing. This was one of the reasons he had joined the Army. It offered him a way to live by a code of conduct that reflected his upbringing.
Green continued standing on the porch. He wished he could talk to his late father now because the man had always given him good counsel. His advice had gotten him through a rough period at West Point. When he was a Plebe, Green stumbled upon some fellow cadets cheating. He didn’t know what to do. Should he not report the incident and carry the guilt of dishonoring the code, or risk the moniker of being a snitch forever. His father told him that sometimes doing the right thing, is the most difficult, but in the end, he had to be able to accept the Code of Honor.
So, he informed on them, and because of the deterioration of the caliber of cadets, he endured the stares and whispers for his remaining three years at the Point. He became an outsider and had few friends. It had been a painful experience, but he still had his honor intact, and that was all that matter.
Green walked off the porch toward his Humvee parked on the street. He hopped in and drove to where some of his men were still removing the dead. He rolled down the window. “Corporal Bassett, keep the men here till I get back.”
Bassett gave him a knowing nod. “Stay alert, sir,”
The long drive back to the post gave Green enough time to reflect on Crick's death. He’d have to write to his parents about the incident. Still close to them, he would also have to take a trip to visit them the next time he was in Virginia.
Hours later, he reached the post, parked off to the side of the building that housed all the offices, got out, took a deep breath and walked inside. Nunn’s personnel clerk was not there. Green looked at his watch. 1800 hours. He walked into Nunn’s office and found him still at his desk, with a half emptied bottle of Scotch sitting in front of him. Nunn raised his head up and stared in obvious astonishment.
“Major, where have you been?”
“Colonel Nunn, you seem a bit surprised.”
“We haven’t heard from you since yesterday. We’ve been worried sick that something bad happened.”
“I don’t recall getting any calls from you. Why would that be?”
Nunn finished his drink and set the glass down. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just said you’ve been worried something happened. Why didn’t you try to contact me?”
Nunn didn’t respond and looked down at the empty glass. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself another drink. He put the bottle down on the corner of the desk and nonchalantly reached for the desk drawer.
Green reacted quickly and with one quick motion, grabbed his Army-issued Beretta M9, and pointed it at Nunn.
“Don’t even try and go for your gun, Colonel. I’d have no problem dropping the hammer on you right now.”
Nunn moved his hand back on the desk. “So, how did you figure this all out?”
“Let’s say a little birdie told me. Still, I held out some hope it wasn’t true. That is, until just now.”
Nunn snorted. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? You never were very bright. Actually, I’ve always thought of you as more of a dumb-ass.”
Green shook his head in disbelief. “Even now, with a gun pointed at you, you’re still an arrogant prick.”
“That’s because I think so little of you, it just comes naturally to me. You're nothing but a pencil pushing ass kisser,” taunted Nunn.
“Yeah, well how’s it feel to have a pencil pushing ass kisser get the drop on you? Must be an age thing, affecting your mind and reflexes. You’re an old man who’s still a Colonel. It must frustrate the hell out you being passed over for promotion all these years. Oh, and let’s not forget your criminal background. How was that prison you were in, anyway?”
Nunn locked eyes with Green. “You’re not half the man I am, Major.”
Green fired back. “Thank God for that.”
“So, what you got in mind, Major? You going to try and send me back to prison. Good luck with that one. It’ll never happen. In fact, you’ll be the one who’ll end up in prison for pulling a gun on me,” sneered Nunn.
“I’m not going to take you to the authorities. Hell, I wouldn’t even know who to trust.”
“That’s right, you don’t. So, what’s your move, Major? You won’t kill me. You don’t have the balls for that.”
“Killing you would let you off the hook. No, I’ve got something else in mind for you.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’m taking you to Canada. I’m pretty sure British Intelligence would love to interrogate someone like you.”
Nunn nervously moved back in his chair.
This bit of news had him rattled. The Canadians and the Brits would be interested in what Nunn could tell them. Not only were they worried about this war spilling over their border, but they also wanted to stay informed of the Government’s overall plans. Green figured Nunn had plenty of information to share and he felt confident the Brits could get it out of him.
Nunn reached for his glass, his hand shook as he raised it to his lips and gulped the whole pour down.
“Now get up, Colonel,” said Green still pointing his sidearm at him.
Nunn pushed his chair back, stood up and moved around the desk. Green backed up and bumped into the umbrella stand. When he turned to see where he was going, Nunn suddenly rushed him. The speed at which a man in his mid-sixties could move surprised Green when he felt a punch to the side of his gut.
Nunn grabbed for the gun with his right hand. The quick movement and Nunn's strength threw Green off balance as they fought for control of the weapon. The stench of Scotch vapors rose from the old man’s breath stinging Green's nose. He collected himself and head-butted Nunn in the nose. Blood spattered and poured out of his nostrils, bu
t it didn’t slow the Colonel down.
Nunn pushed Green into the hallway. He stumbled and they fell backward with Nunn on top of him. The fall loosened Nunn’s grip on the gun and Green took advantage of it. He called up all the strength he could muster to roll to the left.
Keeping a strict regimen of lifting weights had paid off for Green and he was able to push Nunn into the roll while taking control of the pistol.
He was now on top of Nunn.
With his arm now free, he swung the gun like a club across Nunn’s temple. The first contact echoed as it crushed bone matter.
Green kept swinging.
All the frustration and pent-up anger he had suppressed came raging out of him. Again, and again, he hit Nunn until the old man stopped moving.
Green leaned back breathing in quick spurts of air. He looked down at the bloodied man and checked his pulse.
Nothing.
Colonel Nunn was dead.
Chapter 69
St Paul Minnesota
Scar and Winters, with knives drawn, made a rush for the two guards who were making sandwiches. They were alerted by the noise of feet pounding across the floor. One instinctively reached for his gun. He was fast enough to have his piece drawn, but not fast enough to get off a shot before Winters plunged the knife into his stomach. The man dropped the gun and reached for his gut, he tried to scream, but couldn’t get enough air. He fell to the floor next to the one Scar had taken out.
The two men turned when they heard another guard coming from upstairs, and they moved to the entrance of the kitchen to wait. Seconds later, a cop staggered through the doorway holding his neck. Meeks who had come up behind him had just sliced his jugular. The man fell, dead, onto the tiled floor.
They gave each other a firm nod before they hustled up the carpeted staircase. Upstairs was a long hallway, where at the end was an open door with light shining out. Winters led them down the hall and stopped at the entrance.
