They rode in silence for a while, then Sean looked back in the rearview mirror. “I think we’re getting close.” No one spoke. Alone on their own islands of thought, they prepared themselves for what lay ahead.
On the western horizon, a shape materialized from the hazy seam where earth and air meet, lit with a soft glow sharp enough to stand out from the smooth contours of the distant landscape. Little Guantanamo. The outline of the foothills behind the compound defined by the distant glow of the setting sun and the darkening night sky above. As they approached, lengthening shadows cast by the hills seemed to seize the odd U-shaped building, engulfing those who sought refuge there in premature darkness.
Michael reflected for a moment on why ABCs picked that name. The Alphabet King wanted to strike fear into his rivals. The actual Guantanamo was notorious, seen by many as a point of no return. It was widely feared as a place of horrors where international law didn’t apply. Michael did his best not to imagine what they might find. He picked up his phone and sent a text to Agent Connor, ‘We are close.’
After a slight delay, the phone vibrated—everyone had switched off sounds. ‘Drone has you, maintain speed on approach.’
Sean maintained enough speed in the Suburban to announce their arrival not only by the headlights but also by kicking up plenty of dust without losing control. They definitely didn’t want to get there too quickly either, trying to find that balance of appearing as though they were rushing in clumsily while taking their time.
“Let’s hope they take the bait,” Michael said as they approached the compound.
Chapter Fourteen
John’s shallow grave had been easy to find. After completing his gruesome harvest, The Alphabet King sat stone-faced in the passenger seat, hands bloodied as the guard drove back along the base of the foothills approaching the compound from the southern side. On the way out, ABCs had grabbed a knife, an empty jar from the trash in the kitchen, as well as a few other things he would need for the ritual described to him by his Shaman. The jar sat between his legs, un-lidded and half full.
The guard driving him back leaned away from ABCs, a hand over his nose, trying his best to distance himself from the awful smell of that disgusting jar. He had seen his boss do some nasty shit, but this... He shook his head, thankful the back glass of the SUV had been shattered in the hospital parking lot gunfight, but aggravated because not enough fresh air made it up front at their current pace.
The truck trail heading back to the compound was little more than two ruts cut into the rugged terrain. They made slow progress. The soft glow of the lights from the building helped to guide their way back. Lost in thought, recounting the day’s events, ABCs began to relax—the rhythmic swaying and jolting of the SUV massaging him into a sleepy trance. Suddenly, the guard jerked his hand away from his face and pointed to the right. “Sir!”
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.
𓂓
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.
