Three worlds collide, p.34
Three Worlds Collide, page 34
ABCs’ entire body jolted. He jerked his head to the right. In the light of dusk, he saw a trail of slowly growing dust, headlights heading toward the compound. It could be only one thing—a vehicle on approach. He yanked out his phone and group texted the guards, ‘Car coming, everyone, get outside, now.’
ABCs heard the notification from the phone on the guard driving him back to the compound. “When we get there, take us in around back.”
ABCs’ phone dinged with a text notification from the guard who had driven them back from the hospital, ‘Looks like the SUV from the hospital.’
“Shit!” ABCs cursed. His mind raced. He had moments to decide what to do. The location of his compound was no secret. But what were these people thinking, charging in unprotected like this? Did they have a plan? Or were they just reacting to the child being taken? Who was with them and how many people? The SUV couldn’t hold more than six, maybe seven. He had lost one guard at the parking lot. One was injured. Besides the guard driving and the injured man, he had four able men at the compound. The attacking SUV was going to beat him there so his men would initially be outnumbered. But they had the advantage of firing before the advancing team could get out of the vehicle and get a shot off.
On the face of it, this appeared to be a reckless, stupid, purely emotional reaction on their part. Panicked and poorly planned. Had to be. One last ditch effort. He bet the woman was with them, with the landscaper, maybe the cop too—convincing them to go. From ABCs’ experience, beautiful women had a way of inspiring weak men to do crazy things. But she was also a fighter. She had to be with them. He could get her too. She would walk right into his hands. Fools.
ABCs hesitated for one more second, but ego eventually took over. He could have everything he wanted. Today. Now. The blonde woman, revenge on the meddling landscaper, and a chance to eliminate one of the cops he couldn’t turn. A clear message. I am The Alphabet King. Resist me and die. No one attacks me and lives. ABCs sent the guards another group text, ‘As soon as they are in range, fan out and open fire. Disable the vehicle first. If the woman is with them, I want her alive. Shoot to kill anyone else.’
His driver’s phone dinged again. Several more minutes passed. The Alphabet King sat in the passenger seat willing the progress back to the compound to quicken as the cloud of dust approached. Without warning, multiple explosions lit up the area in front of the lone building. The driver slammed on the brakes as they watched the blasts light up the darkening sky.
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Just before the explosions, Michael thought back to the conversation with Agent Connor earlier that night.
“You have my word. It won’t leave this group,” Michael had assured him.
Agent Connor had hesitated long enough to gather his thoughts. “Okay. The DEA has a black ops drone program, mostly tasked for surveillance. But we’ve been developing a couple of the drones for surgical military-style strikes.”
“That sounds promising,” Michael had said.
“They have been tested, but as of now, remain unused by the DEA in a real-world scenario. We have the system in place and trained ex-military pilots on standby 24/7. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity.”
“Okay. Let’s put a plan together. We can be ready to roll in about 30 minutes.”
Michael’s attention was brought back to the present as the drone strikes lit up the scene before them. Sean hit the brakes and he instinctively covered his face with an arm as the truck slid to a stop. Michael and Jackie did the same. They were about 75 to 100 yards out, but the unobstructed shock wave still rocked the vehicle, sending more spider cracks through the already weakened safety glass.
From the back, Martha and Clay only raised their arms a little. They were still able to see how the area lit up in the fire from the blasts. In that brief moment, they both witnessed dozens of Geiste—lost souls frozen in motion around the compound. No doubt the remaining spirits of the men and women ABCs had brutally tortured and killed. Martha thought she saw the spirit of the overweight guy from the video who drove the truck, just for a moment, off by himself, confused, scared. When the blaze dissipated, Martha and Clay shared a knowing look before their attention was called back to the scene unfolding in front of them.
“Sean, kill the lights and swing the truck around to the side like I said!” Michael yelled.
Sean turned off the lights, jammed the Suburban into reverse, cut the wheels to the left, and backed into a sharp turn, then dropped the shifter into drive, cut the wheels back to the right, and pulled forward so they straddled the road with the driver’s side toward the compound.
“Everyone, out!” Michael yelled again.
The passenger doors shot open, Michael and Jackie were out first. Jackie reached back to help Clay and Martha out from the third row. As she offered her hand to Martha, Jackie gave her a small nod of assent. Martha moved by her without even so much as a glance. Sean slipped over the console and out the passenger door while Michael reached in behind the front seats and pulled out his rifle—a Remington 700 equipped with a night vision riflescope and a buttstock holder stocked with nine cartridges. He pulled back the bolt and confirmed he had one round chambered, then stepped up on the running boards, put one foot on the bottom frame of the door, and rested his left arm on the roof. He flipped up the lens covers, released the safety, and settled in. Everyone huddled in a tight group behind the front side of the vehicle, using the engine for added shielding from any gunfire.
Through the nighttime scope, Michael scanned the area in front of the building. He saw two walls with a gap in between. He knew from aerial photos this was the open end of the U-shape building, looking into the courtyard. The explosions had slightly cratered the ground in several areas. Small fires burned ground-level clusters of dry brush. The flames appeared unusually bright in the monochrome vision of the scope. The walls of the building were slightly blackened. The first frantic scan didn’t reveal any movement. He remembered in his briefing notes that the guards typically wore camouflage. He didn’t know how many men had made it out to defend the building, so he scanned again, this time more methodically. His briefings had told him ABCs usually kept about 10 to 15 guards. Recent scans had shown only seven. Michael knew he had shot one at the hospital and he remembered seeing one lying on the ground motionless after ABCs had pulled away. Depending on the condition of the man they had shoved in the backseat, there were five, maybe six men plus ABCs to deal with.
He noticed some stirring in front of the left wall face. Michael settled his aim in the area and breathed deeply. He went to the rifle range as often as he could. His well-practiced habits took over as he watched the movement, trying to discern what he was seeing through the haze. Strange that no one fired on us yet. Did we luck out and hit everyone? Then, slowly, a form materialized. He could make out an arm, then a shoulder, then a head oddly clad with sunglasses slightly askew. As he slowly breathed out, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired with a sharp report and an arm flailed up as the figure disappeared. The sound echoed off the hills behind the compound. He scanned the area again then hopped down from the running boards.
“Okay, Sean and Martha, get back in.” Martha moved to get back in, but Sean paused for a moment beside his brother. “Jackie and Clay, let’s gear up.” Michael set the rifle down, picked up an AR15 from the gun bag, and pulled the sling over. Then he checked his sidearm. Satisfied, he holstered the weapon and picked his Remington back up.
Jackie and Clay both picked up AR15s and stepped back from the truck as they inspected them before pulling the slings over. At the shop, Michael had gone over how to use the straightforward automatic rifle. In a matter of minutes, they’d felt comfortable with it.
Jackie shouldered her AR15 and took the Sig P365 from the gun bag. She thought for a second and then reached in for a .38 special snub nose and turned to hand it to Clay. He regarded it cautiously for a moment, then took it, checked the safety, pressed the release forward to swing out the cylinder, confirmed it was loaded, pressed the cylinder back in, and stuffed it in a back pocket. Even though she had inspected the weapon at the shop before loading it into the bag, Jackie checked her Sig once more.
“Okay, let’s fan out. Jackie, go right. Clay, go left. I’ll take center.” Michael walked up to Sean and paused. “I—”
“Don’t,” Sean said. “Go kick some ass. I know what to do.”
Michael put a hand behind Sean’s head and pulled him forward so their foreheads touched briefly, then stepped away. He paused for a moment, turning his focus to Little Guantanamo. “All business,” he muttered.
Something shifted in him. His expression hardened as he set his intention. His muscled form bristled with anticipation. Michael felt a connection within himself deeper than anything he’d experienced. Then a warm sensation of profound realization washed over him. He knew he was in the right place doing what he was supposed to be doing—a feeling of satisfaction that many people yearned for but few experienced. With that, Michael murmured a brief prayer to himself then leveled his Remington. He gave Sean a small nod before heading out.
Jackie had already moved around to the front of the Suburban and Clay had gone around to the back. Michael paused behind Jackie, tapped her on the shoulder, then followed her out into the open area so he could see over her as they moved past the Suburban. Clay followed. They crouched as they trotted slowly, fanning out as they moved forward with the rifles up, ready to shoot.
The small fires had burned out. An acrid smoky smell lingered in the air. As they approached the building, Jackie noticed a stirring on her right. She saw a man, black with burns, dragging himself toward the opening of the building. Jackie signaled to Michael, moved forward stealthily, and opened fire. Two shots and the movement stopped. Michael held up his hand. Everyone knelt down and paused. Nothing. The lack of response worried him.
They made their way up to the blast zone to find the guard Michael had shot plus two more bodies badly damaged from the explosions, no movement. Including the man Jackie had shot, that made four casualties in total. Michael signaled for Jackie and Clay to head over to the left wall where they could crouch out of view from the courtyard. Michael rested for a second, formulating their next move. He didn’t want to lead them into an ambush.
In the silence, they heard the approach of a vehicle from the south. Michael signaled for Jackie to watch the right and Clay to watch their six, then Michael crab-walked over to the corner and risked a glance. He saw headlights bouncing as an SUV struggled to find traction in the rough sandy terrain. There were two men in the vehicle, but he couldn’t make out their faces.
Unsure of who might be approaching from the south, Michael made his way back to Clay and Jackie. He spoke softly to Jackie, asking her to make her way over to the corner and take a quick look into the courtyard. “Tell me how many SUVs you see in there.” She crouch-walked over, glanced around the corner, and then signaled back with one finger.
Michael thought for a second. He knew ABCs had two SUVs. If there was only one in the courtyard, that would mean he had just seen the other. He waved Jackie back so she could resume watching their right, then made his way back to the corner of the building for another quick glance. Same headlights closer now. Must be him. He crouched down and prepared to fire on the oncoming vehicle.
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After talking to Michael, Slade had stared at the screen for several more minutes, rereading Luke’s file. It said that Jackie had killed him and the other man in self-defense. He huffed out a short breath in disbelief. Michael seemed to have some characteristic about him that either scared off dirtbags or drew in decent people. Moved by that thought, he got to work.
Knowing the DEA had a drone in the area, he wondered what they might do with the feed. In college, he had gravitated toward a lot of the more advanced, even shady tech guys, and his dark web skills had benefited from the associations. Slade imagined he could hack the drone’s video feed, maybe reroute it. It might be his only option because, so far as he knew, navigation of those things could not be hacked Whatever action he took would be traced—of that he was sure.
He leaned back and considered his options. Wait, what if I don’t care about being identified?
Slade went back to work. His hands danced over the keyboard, the mouse ticking, maneuvering him through the backdoors of the dark web. He sent a quick text to an old friend. If granted access, he could bounce from his location, through servers in Scandinavia, maybe Norden, then into the backdoor of a government server. He would be detected and blocked, but perhaps it would give him enough time to do what he needed to do, make sure the right people witnessed this as it unfolded.
Mark knew that nothing stirred people more than a live feed of someone’s struggle.
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Out of the silence, Dewey awoke to hear frantic commotion coming from the courtyard. Men shouting, doors slamming, footsteps across the basketball court. The clatter of automatic weapons being loaded and cocked as men scurried around outside. Then, as suddenly as it began, the commotion settled. Dewey relaxed and cautiously slid off the edge of his bed. As he walked slowly toward the door, hoping to peek out the window, several explosions rocked the building. The door to his cell rattled in its frame as the blasts seemed to rain down one after another. Bursts of angry orange-yellow light poured through the window of his cell door. Dewey pulled his arm up to shield his face and fell back in surprise, landing heavily on his rear end. When the explosions stopped, he rolled over onto his elbow and pushed himself up into a crouched stance. Fear and adrenaline surged through him as he stood poised like a scared cat in the middle of his cell.
Overcome with a combination of fear and self-preservation, Dewey headed to the door and pulled it slightly open, then paused. Thankfully, the hallway lights were off. Somehow, enough courage welled up inside of him and he pulled the door wide and moved out of his cell, keeping low along the windows as he headed to the door at the end of the hallway. He peered through the window and he didn’t see a guard. He tested the door—locked. If only he could shatter the little window. Then he remembered the ‘tools’ in ABCs’ torture room. He turned and raced back down the hallway, frantically trying to remember which of the plain repetitive doors was the one. After checking a couple locked doors, he realized it probably had been the room across from his cell. Cursing himself for not thinking straight, Dewey headed for the door. As he approached, he figured there would be no way ABCs would leave a room full of weapons unlocked with prisoners in unlocked rooms. Or was he that bold? Or careless? Maybe he wanted his captors to fight each other to the death. Sick bastard.
He finally reached the door of the room across from his. He noticed it was ajar. He reached out tentatively and placed a hand on the door to test it when a loud crack erupted from outside—a single report from a rifle some distance away. Dewey’s hand jerked back as if shocked. Tremoring slightly, he reached out again and pushed on the door. It budged. A firmer push and it unstuck, swinging wide open.
Dewey hurried through and over toward the closet. As he passed the torture chairs, he noticed a small table with a Ouija board on it. The ominous device emitted an invisible static hum that made him cringe as he walked past. The closet had been left open. Dewey surveyed the tool collection. His eyes rested on a shelf with various types of hammers. “Why do you need so many?” he whispered as he picked up a regular claw hammer. Making sure to give the Ouija board a wide berth, he hustled back out of the room.
Once Dewey was in the hallway, he began to run-walk toward the door. As he did, he looked out the windows to his left and saw a guard pushing himself out through the doorway on the opposite side of the courtyard, a look of anguish on his face. Blood stained the front of his shirt. Once through the door, the guard proceeded along the far wall, dragging one of his feet as he made his way toward the opening of the U-shaped building. Dewey pulled his attention back to his side and slowed as he approached the door at the end of the hall—no one there. He swung the hammer and cracked the glass. The impact sounded too loud. He stopped to check across the courtyard. The man was still moving slowly along the opposite wall, seemingly oblivious to Dewey’s noisy attempt. He paused for a moment to assess what he could. No other movement. Dewey noticed the lights had been turned off in the main room as well as the other hallway. That might help. He went back over to the door and gave the glass panel another solid hit and it broke through. He used the handle of the hammer to clean the glass from around the frame and reached through, unlocking the door.
Setting the hammer down quietly, he pushed the door open. It stuck momentarily and then released. Dewey stumbled into the main room, doing his best to keep low. He didn’t see any action outside besides the injured man, who was distracted with keeping himself slowly moving away from the main room along the wall. He saw the man pass the windows along the hallway then pause. Through the opening at the opposite end of the courtyard, he could see small fires burning. What the hell happened? With a nervous jolt, he bent over, trying to scramble unnoticed through the main room heading to the other side.
Suddenly, he heard the sharp pop-pop of a gun, causing him to clamp up and fall flat on the floor, his skin screeched on the smooth vinyl tile as he slid to a stop. He looked around in panic to see who might be coming after him, but no one did. He clambered on his stomach the rest of the way, past the small kitchen to the other door. He risked a glance into the courtyard and saw the guard collapsed in a heap on the ground beside the wall, not moving. Dewey shook his head and leaned back, gathering himself. First, he stepped into the kitchen for a quick look inside, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary or anything to indicate the presence of a hidden door.
He returned to the doorway leading down the hall and turned the bolt lock. Slowly pulling the door open, he squeezed through and kept his hand on the door until it closed with a soft click. The hall was the same as the other. Plain doors down the outer side, windows along the inner side with rooms on the inner end of the hall.
