Chapter 7
"What a load of crap," Claire said as she and John parked at a high rise overlooking the town. She reclined in the passenger seat of Margaret’s new Ford Explorer with her feet resting on the dashboard. “Patriots? That’s not what I saw in Pittsburg. I can’t listen to this anymore." She turned off the radio.
“Marge is going to be furious with us for taking her truck without permission. I’m going to tell her it was your idea, and that the only reason I went along is that I was afraid, you’d disappear again.” Claire chuckled and waited for her father to respond with some half-hearted dirty retort as he often did. When he said nothing, she turned to catch him sleeping, head back and mouth open. “Really, Dad?” she sighed. She reached up and slugged him in the chest.
John yelped and began coughing profusely. “What the hell, CW?” he grunted, clutching his chest.
“We’re supposed to be on a stakeout,” the plucky young woman said, returning to her reclined position. “I’m not going to sit up here and do all the work while you catch some Z’s.”
“For the tenth time,” John replied between coughs. “This isn’t a stakeout. If it were, we’d be reconning a target. We don’t have a target. We’re simply waiting for a phone call.”
“Yeah, about that. I thought I was going to finally get to go on one of your missions with you. You know? See you bust some heads? Shakedown some perps?”
“First of all, you’ve been reading way too many spy thrillers. We don’t know any perps in this town. Secondly, if this was that kind of mission, I certainly wouldn’t let you come along.”
Claire rolled her eyes and chewed on a Twizzler. “So, I’m good enough to tag along while you make a prank phone call, but not experienced enough to bust some heads?”
“If you say 'bust some heads,' one more time? And that prank phone call was genius. You said to make Mathis come to me.”
“And you think by calling the fire department in Charleston twice and telling them there's a fire at a sugarcane factory that may or may not belong to this mystery man, it's going to bring him out of the shadows?”
John nodded. “That’s the plan. Mathis if not anything else is paranoid. If that plant belongs to him, then it’s either a dead drop or a front for a money-laundering business; and the last place you want to draw attention. You can bet he’s tracking this cellphone you and Marge bought and will call any minute.”
“But, Dad, it’s been three hours. Marge is probably worried sick. And why couldn’t we just do this at the cabin?”
“Because I don’t have a death wish. We want him to track this location; not where we sleep."
John’s comment sent chills down Claire’s spine. She wanted to ask what he meant but knew he would clam up. She loved that he wanted to protect her, but hated when he treated her like a child.
“Yeah right,” she tested. “Freedom fighter guy exposes his operations by going on a rampage and murdering four strangers in Mill Creek. I can see the headlines now.”
John said nothing and seemed to deliberately avoid eye contact with her. Claire turned and glared at him. “Dad, come on. He wouldn’t do that would he?”
John flashed a smile and gazed at her reassuringly, but Claire could tell it was forced. “Of course not,” he said. “And even if he plans to, we'd be alright. You know I can charm my way out of anything.”
"What do you mean if he plans to? Mathis is a freedom Fighter. I thought the Horsemen stood for American values.”
“Claire, I need to tell you something; something I should’ve told you a long time ago."
The hairs on Claire's arm stood on end. The only time John called her by her first name was when it was serious. “What is it?” she said cautiously, afraid of the answer.
"I’m going to tell you, but I need you not to freak out when I do. Can you promise me that?”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Um, OK?”
John sighed. “Ok. HOJ isn't just an arms dealer group as I had led you to believe. It’s bigger than that; so much bigger. They're what you’d call a coalition of the old national law enforcement agencies all working as one unit.
Clair’s eyes stretched as big as the moon. “You mean like the FBI, Secret Service, DoD-
"CIA, NSA, Homeland all working together,” John nodded. "They operate under their trademark job descriptions but they're essentially fighting the same fight.”
"And you work for them? Dad, those agencies are outlawed. You’re risking more than just jail and fines. You heard what Bowen said. If the Alliance finds out-
“Yeah, I know, kiddo."
“So, what do you do, or what did you do for them?”
"I was hired as a foot soldier. We were losing the war and there were plans of a large scale last stand afoot. We weren’t going to fall so easily like they did out west. My assignment along with hundreds of other dealers was to sell as many weapons on the streets as possible. The pay wasn’t that great, but eight years into the war, the stock market had crashed, our president and vice president were hung on national television, and our military had announced they were no longer able to keep the enemy at bay on the west coast. People were desperate and scared.”
“Yeah, I remember when they made that announcement. I remember that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you’re afraid of something. But something tells me you did more than just arm American citizens for the cause.”
“The brass had taken notice of my unique set of skills. I wasn’t just running guns. I had taught my customers how to shoot, what to do if their homes were invaded, how to attack the weak spots of a superior opponent; even taught a couple of them how to spot a tail. Mathis had somehow got a hold of my records from my Seal days. He made some recommendations and after being put through dozens of psych evals and field tests, I was given more delicate assignments."
“I’m afraid to ask what delicate means,” Claire grumbled.
“Well at first, they weren’t that bad; security detail for our top brass, HVT prisoner transports, and bugging cars, phones, and homes of suspected spies in our camp. But then the ops began to take a dark turn. I found myself doing things like framing a U.S. senator who was afraid to take a stand for this country’s values, or posing as a dirty FBI agent to blackmail a drug kingpin into revealing the location of a whistleblower.” John shook his head.
Claire listened in disbelief as her father told the story.
“And then things got even worse. I was called to a mission briefing and instructed to fly to Munich. There was this native dignitary who had lost his parents in the states during the war. The Horsemen had turned him as an asset to locate High-Value Target GRA members and sleeper cells. But the job had gotten too dangerous for him to continue. He had nearly been exposed several times and wanted out.
“As you can imagine HOJ didn’t receive the news too well. He had become their hotshot treasure trove and so they offered him more money. When he turned that down, they threatened his family. When that still didn’t work, they sent me."
“What?” Claire whispered. "What did they want you to do?”
The look on John’s face made her quiver.
“I mean come on, Dad, you didn’t… You know? I mean you wouldn’t kill an innocent man, would you?
The look on John’s face made her quiver. “Innocent people? No. Of course not. Most of them were spies for the GRA Nonetheless, I have had to kill for the Horsemen. But you need to know they were bad people.” He reached to touch Claire on the shoulder, but she pulled away.
“You told me you went looking for treatment for Mom. All this time, you left us to fend for ourselves, because you were a hired hitman?”
“Your mother suffered from radiation poisoning from the nuclear attacks in Texas. I needed to save her. And I couldn’t do that without money. HOJ provided that opportunity. I know you blame me for your mother’s death, but I couldn’t imagine-
“Yes, Dad!” Claire yelled. “Yes, I do blame you. All of those pills you forced down her throat; all of those surgeries you convinced her to undergo. It only made things worse. She begged you to stop; to stay home and be a husband and father."
“What was I supposed to do?” John said, incensed. “Just sit back and watch her die? She was the love of my life, and you expected me to do nothing?”
“Yes! It’s what she wanted. Maybe… I don’t know. All I do know is that you made us targets. Because of you, we’re being hunted by the GRA. All this time, I thought it was because you were a Navy Seal. You brought the enemy to our doorstep. They took Mom from us. You spilled so much blood, spent all of our life savings, and for what? In the end, she still died and now we’re broke because of you.”
Just then, a black van rolled up behind them. "Who is that?” Claire said, alarmed. She heard the click of John’s pistol.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Wait… It can’t be."
“Oh, God,” Claire whispered, her heart racing. "Miles?”
“No. It’s Mathis.”
“What? Here?”
John opened his door. “Stay here,” he said.
Claire grabbed his arm and shook her head. “No, Dad.”
“I'll be fine.” He pulled free of her grasp, took a deep breath, stuffed his Sig in the back of his pocket, and exited the vehicle.
Claire slid down in the seat and looked in the rear-view mirror. She saw two giant men wearing black suits exit the passenger and driver side of the van and approached John, who stood with his arms up. The men searched him and took his weapon. Claire quieted her breathing and struggled to make out the muffled voices. John was conversing with someone in the van, but she couldn’t see him.
“Get in,” she heard a man's voice say. "And don’t make me ask again."
John entered the vehicle and the other two men did the same. After they backed out and drove off, Claire grabbed the disposable phone Margaret purchased and broke it in two. She tossed the pieces over the hill and quickly made her way back to the cabin, desperately praying for her father's safety.
Friday, November 11th
The year 2016:
Pittsburgh, PA
Three years before the war
A thirty-two-year-old Margaret Brown answered the cook's bell and took order #237 off the counter. The receipt attached to a piece of tape under the plate read an egg white burrito bowl with kale leaves, tomato dices, bacon bits, and chicken fajita slices. She recognized to whom the order belonged and smiled.
“Alright, Marge," an older Italian man called out to her from behind the counter. “Take that food to our guest and get back to work, capisce? You two want to exhale, take it to the iHop. I'm trying to run a business here, not a nail salon.”
The kitchen staff erupted into laughter. Margaret was so embarrassed, she almost told him to go and screw himself. But she had a disabled husband and two children to feed.
“Yes, Mr. Costanza,” she replied. She carried the plate out into the dining area where a young attractive light-skinned black woman sat, reading a book.
“Fancy seeing you here again,” Margaret said with a twinkle in her eyes. “This makes the third time this week.”
“What can I say?” the woman said with a simper. “I love the way they make my eggs.”
“Not me child. Make mine scrambled, load it with cheese, sausage, and a stack of pancakes. You talking about some good eating?”
“I heard that,” the woman giggled. She beamed at her meal and rubbed her hands together.
“But what do I know?” Margaret continued. “I guess that’s why I look like this and you look like a million bucks, huh?”
“Oh please, Mrs. Brown,” the woman replied. “What you lack in appearance, you make up in style.”
Margaret’s smile faded and she put her hand on her hip. “What I lack in appearance? What are you trying to say?”
The young woman’s wide-eyed awkward stare gave Margaret pleasure. She had never had a daughter and enjoyed teasing the young lady.
“I… I was just playing off your words,” the woman said. "I wasn’t saying… Mrs. Brown, you have nice hair and a killer-
“A killer amount of girth, ha!” Margaret laughed and lightly slapped the woman on the shoulder with her dishcloth. “I’m just playin’ with you, baby. I know I can still drop it like it’s hot.”
“Woo, OK," the young woman laughed. “Go ahead with your bad self.”
“Marge!” Mr. Costanza called out. “You’re killing me. I’m beginning to see pink here. Or is that a pink slip? Order #241 is up.”
O scowl stretched across the woman’s face. “I hate the way that man talks to you.”
“Me too child, but what can I do? The things we do to take care of our family. Well, let me get back to work, nice talking to you, Sasha Hemingway.”
"You too, Mrs. Brown.”
A knock on her door snapped Margaret out of the daydream.
“It’s open, Tex,” Margaret told him.
The farmer poked his head in her room, and smiled “You heard from John or CW yet?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said, her face turning to a frown. “But he better have a good excuse for takin’ my car without asking.”
Bill ogled her and smiled. “Look at you lookin' all fine and brown in that cotton robe.
“Is this your idea of flirting?”
“Nope, this is.” Bill began to dance like he was riding a horse.
Margaret fell back on the bed, laughing. “Bill, you are a fool,” she said, waving her hand at him.
Bill kept dancing and got closer. “Like the song says. It takes a fool to fall in love. So, consider me insane.” He changed up the dance, spread his feet apart, and did a pulling a lever motion with his hand. He bounced on his toes and slapped his hip.
“Now what kind of train-wreck move is that?” Margaret said, her mouth gaped open.
“You like my crank dance?” he said. “Cus I’m reeling you in.”
“You ain’t got no sense.”
Bill came to her side and asked if he could sit on the bed. Margaret playfully rolled her eyes and nodded.
“Bill, how can you think about courtship at a time like this?” she asked as the Texan sat down beside her.
“Well, Darlin’ everyone needs a little romance in their life; no matter what’s going on around them.”
“Bill, if this was any other time-
“If this was any other time, you'd be playin’ hard to get, which is fine. I’m old school. You know I don’t mind a good chase.”
"Um-hm,” Margaret said.
Bill glanced at her and snickered. “I was thinking about that kiss I gave you a couple of years back. You remember?"
“I sure do. I almost shot you.”
“He-he. You wouldn’t have made it to your office. The way I remember it, you had to hold on to the counter to stay upright.”
“Boy, get out of my room.”
“How about a kiss first? Something to think about while you’re getting dressed. You know you can’t resist all this fine white chocolate.”
Margaret threw her head back and howled with laughter. She didn’t know what was coming over her, but for the first time since their last kiss, she felt flush. Margaret was no Beverly Johnson, but she had an attractive smile and kept up her appearance. Her salt to the earth style, her loyalty to family and friends, and her southern charm brought many would-be suitors to her restaurant. She leaned in and rested her shoulder on Bill's chest.
“Okay,” she said softly. “But just a peck.” But before she knew it, Mr. Suave leaned in and planted a lip-lock on her that made the room spin. Just as she was about to place her arm around his neck, she heard a car pull up into the driveway. “Finally,” she said, pulling away. "They’re back. I can’t wait to get my hands on that John.”
“Hold on a minute, baby,” Bill said. “We were in the middle of something.”
“Baby?” Margaret said, tying her robe closed. “Watch it, sucker. You ain’t put a ring on it yet. We’ll finish this later.”
She hurried into the living room and opened the door.
Claire rushed into the house almost knocking her over. “Girl, will you slow down? What’s wrong with you?” Marge felt her body trembling and the look in her eyes told her what she needed to know. “Where’s John?"
“They took him,” Claire mumbled trying to catch her breath.
“They what? Who took him?”
“His-his people,” Claire stammered, her eyes wide with fear. “The gun dealers; they-they rolled up behind us and just took him away.”
“Who took John?” Bill said, walking into the living room.
“My God,” Margaret said. She guided Claire to the couch.
Bill brought her some water and sat down across from her in a chair. “Now tell us what exactly happened."
“Have you ever heard of the Horsemen of Justice Operations?”
“Yes,” Margaret replied. “But why would they abduct him?”
“It’s my fault,” Claire said, tears streaming from her face. She rose and began pacing. “I gave him the idea to lure them to West Virginia. I didn’t know it would blow up in our faces. He was desperate to fix things with us. I should’ve known this was a bad idea.”
“John-boy knows what he’s doing, CW,” Bill said, guiding her back to the couch. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m sure he’ll be fine."
“He’s been reckless as of late, Tex.”
“Bill is right,” Margaret said. “This is his world. Perhaps he knew they were coming. He has to handle things on their terms.”
“Or he knew he was going to die,” Claire replied.
Margaret shook her. She didn’t know what Claire was talking about, but she knew it was bad.
“Marge, my dad told me something that about HOJ that you and Tex need to know."
***
Captain Hemingway was willing to bet on himself in almost any situation. His Navy Seal training had prepared him to overcome any obstacle thrown in his way, no matter how insurmountable. John possessed a unique set of skills of adaption and survival second to none. The cloak and dagger means by which Mathis had him apprehended wasn’t overkill. John knew he was a weapon.
But as he surveyed his surroundings, uncertain if he were being taken to Mathis, or to be executed and dumped in a landfill, he quickly realized that he was in an unwinnable situation. The combat specialist sat between two very large security guards and two more sitting across from him, carrying full-auto HK MP8 submachine guns. He had ridden in enough specialty designed unmarked vans when transporting GRA HVTs to know that pulling a stunt would be suicide.
Even if there were only two guards, the confined space made for little to no tactical advantage. The van had been gutted out and replaced with metal ceilings and floors, a bench on either side, and metal fixtures used to chain prisoners. All John could do was rely on his wit and charm to frustrate them into making a mistake. Maybe he’d get lucky.
“So here we are, huh fellas?” he said with a grin to one the guards. “Chilling in the back of a van. Kind of reminds me of my college days, if you remove the jacked-up scary dudes with machine guns and replace them with raging hormonal party animals.” He glanced at the guard to his left. “What about you soldier? You look like a guy who knows how to have a good time. Am I right? “Huh?"
The man didn’t respond but only stared at him.
“Ah, I see.” John nodded. “The strong silent type act, huh? Tough guys with futuristic weaponry in black suits do send a strong message; classic one on one intimidation tactics. It’s working for you. Especially you, Cowboy,” he said to the bodyguard across from him. “Seriously. Love the paisley shirt. Where’d you get it? A pimp catalog?”
“Enough talk,” the man finally spoke up; his thick accent giving away his Turkish heritage. “Just sit quietly.”
“Well excuse me,” John said. “I was only complimenting your taste in fashion. Speaking of clothes, don’t you guys think I’m a little underdressed for a party with Mathis? I mean jeans and a bomber jacket might fly when drinking with the boys, but I mean, come on here. Look at me. Maybe we should stop at a thrift store or-
“Shut up, you American swine,” said the first guard he addressed. “You talk, and talk, and say nothing of worth. I put a bullet in you next, yes? Say nothing more."
The van pulled to a stop and someone in the front banged on the metal divider that separated the front and rear compartments. John couldn’t see where they were because there were no windows or on the sides of the van.
“We’re here,” said the guard beside him. “Let’s go. Do nothing stupid? I don’t want to get blood on my favorite suit, yes?”
“You got it,” John said, feigning a smile.
He took that threat as good news. If Mathis wanted him dead, he would’ve been already. Or would he? Mathis was one of the most paranoid men he had ever known. In John’s experience, if you were only trying to intimidate a captive, you’d handcuff him, or place a bag over his head so he couldn’t identify your location.
The man took him by the arm and pulled him out of the van. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that he had been taken to an abandoned shipping dock. His heart race, and he realized he might have to fight his way out. His training kicked in and he assessed his surroundings, looking for the quickest exits, and anything he could use as a weapon.
The guard that was seated beside John shoved him with his MP8 and told him to move. The men took him toward the end of the dock where a tall thin Caucasian man appearing in his sixties stood waiting. His thinning brown hair was combed back and he sported a long leather peacoat over a light blue dress shirt and wool pleated black slacks. He chuckled and shook his head when he saw John.
“What’s with the getup?” the man said. "Are you having a mid-life crisis? If you'd like, I can fetch you a snapback to complete this Fresh Prince of Be-Air look you got going here?”
“Says the man in a Dracula coat,” John retorted.
“Hey, this is trendy. Whatever; haters gonna hate.”
“Mm, not hating, Mathis. This is more like well-deserved ridicule. Seriously, Casper, when was the last time you saw some sun?”
Mathis put his hand on his chest. “Ouch, John. Feelings. Score one for the cheeky dead man walking.”
“So, you are going to kill me."
Mathis cocked his head and appeared to contemplate John's words. “Underneath all that bluster you’re one jumpy bastard, aren’t you? What, you think I’m going to blow your head off for that stunt you pulled in Charleston?”
“Well, this would be the perfect place to do it. The dock is abandoned, so there’s no foot traffic within ten miles. I mean you got those buildings on the other side of the bay, but I imagine it’s too far to see anything with the naked eye. I’d choose the place if it were me.”
Mathis shook his head and grinned with admiration. “Look at you, you sweet talker. It’s nice when people appreciate your work.”
“I know, right? I mean any thug can pull the trigger, but guys like you and me? We go through painstaking detail to do what we do.”
Mathis nodded in agreement. “It’s a lost art these days.” His smile faded and his expression turned to pity. “I’ve always liked you, Captain. You were one of my best agents. Now, look at you. How the mighty have fallen. Maybe it would be an act of mercy to end this.”
One of Mathis’ bodyguards drove his weapon into the back of John’s left thigh and he grunted and fell to his knees. With a flourish, Mathis whipped out a pistol and pointed it in his face.
“So, you have thirty seconds to convince me why I shouldn’t,” he growled.
John knew enough about his “boss" to know he wasn’t bluffing. He had once witnessed the old man shoot two GRA High-Value Targets at point-blank range after he had extracted intel from them. Another time, Mathis had beaten a female GRA mole planted in his agency to death with a metal pipe. There was only one card left to play besides suicidal resistance, and it was something Mathis loved about him. His knowledge of tactical gear.
“Wait,” John said. “Am I staring down the barrel of a rare new addition Rex Zero 3 Tactical Compact with micro red dots, an optical guidance system, a nitrocarburized barrel, and a biometer attached to the sights? I’ve played with its predecessor, the Zero ones, but only heard rumors about these.”
A hint of a smile appeared on Mathis’s grizzled face. “Yep,” he nodded. "My men stole a shipment of these from a GRA transport last week.” It appeared to John that Mathis was having a conscious of crisis, but he could never be sure. Mathis' sullen gaze made him hard to read and even harder to predict. Finally, he lowered his weapon.
John let out a deep sigh of relief. “Alright,” he said, his body shuddering. “That was intense. You know for a minute there, I actually thought you were going to pull the trigger. Why don’t we all just calm down and figure this-
Suddenly, Mathis turned around and punched John square in the face, knocking him to the ground.
“Ow!" John moaned, grabbing his jaw. “Son of a douche bag,” he grunted. "Feeling better? If you’re done with the theatrics, I’d like to stand please.”
Mathis smirked, his brown eyes and chiseled face showing signs of a man who had been to hell and back. He stretched out a hand and helped John to his feet. After dismissing the guards, he turned and looked out into the open bay. John dusted himself off and joined the man he had once looked to as his mentor.
“What a crap-fest,” Mathis said, shaking his head. “First, you let bounty hunters track you down, then you engage in a firefight at your home, and then the icing on the cake? You bring the fire department sniffing around my base of operations.”
“I wouldn’t have had to go this far if you hadn’t burned me.”
Mathis loured at John. “And what the heck did you think I was going to do? Huh? How in the world did you get into this mess? You had the perfect cover. We changed your identity, found you a place where no one was looking, and somehow you brought the enemy right to your doorstep. Who's after you anyway?”
“Just a guy with a vendetta. He wants something from me and… Well, you know how stubborn I can be. Mathis, I need to put some cash together.”
Mathis lit a cigar and shook his head. “I can’t help you, John. You’re red hot right now.”
“I have no money. Do you hear me? None.”
“You're the one who went gallivanting around the world, disappearing for weeks at a time when you knew we were at war.”
“I was trying to save my wife’s life.”
“And I was trying to save America! Millions of men, women, and children died because you went AWOL. And for what? You spent all your earnings, chasing witch doctors and wackos to the darkest corners of the earth, and you still couldn’t save her.”
John’s eyes widened with rage. “Don’t you dare talk about Sasha-
"I tried to reason with you, John, but as you said, you can be stubborn. You’re broke because we had to stop sending you work. You became reckless and you know our job hinges on anonymity. That client you were supposed to meet; the one we wouldn’t tell you anything about? There was nothing special about him. He was just another freedom fighter looking to join the cause. But he was afraid that you’d out him, somehow. HOJ sent me here to make certain you were silenced."
“If that’s the case then why am I still alive?”
Mathis inched closer to John. “You know why."
“What? Those blueprints you gave me? You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to have them with me, do you?"
“Among other brilliant decisions you’ve been making, yes. I kind of counted on it. I want those docs, now.”
“And give away my bargaining chip? Really?”
“Do you really want to cross me a second time, Captain? I have a soft spot for you, but I don’t run operations alone. The FBI, DOD, and CIA all think you’re a liability now. Pulling this trump card on me won’t do you any favors and it puts me in a very bad light. And we both know what happens when I’m in a tough spot.”
John was filled with indignation. He could give two cents about Mathis’ tough spot. “Well, I’m sorry that my present situation is an inconvenience to you. It’s only my life on the line. I can get you those blueprints, but only if you help me.”
Mathis eyed John wearily. “Fine. Give me a few hours to reactivate your account. But if you’re screwing with me, I will hunt you and your family down and skin you alive, myself."
“I know,” John nodded. "I just need to put some distance between myself and this mess. But you’ll have the blueprints before I go. I’ll need a week to pony up.”
“You've got 72 hours; miss the deadline and you know what happens next.”
ns 15.158.61.6da2
