Oath of Office

Luke nodded. “Me too.”

*

The man was a ghost.

He stood in an upstairs bedroom at the back of the old beach house, staring at his prisoners. A woman and a little boy, tucked away in a room with no windows. They sat side by side in folding chairs, their hands cuffed behind them, their ankles cuffed together. They wore black hoods over their heads so they couldn’t see. The man had left them without gags in their mouths, so the woman could speak quietly to her son and keep him calm.

“Rebecca,” the man said, “we might have some excitement here in a little while. If we do, I want you and Gunner to stay quiet. You’re not to scream or call out. If you do, I’ll have to come in here and kill you both. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Gunner?”

Beneath his hood, the boy made a sort of croaking noise.

“He’s too frightened to speak,” the woman said.

“That’s good,” the man said. “He should be afraid. He’s a smart boy. And a smart boy won’t do anything stupid, will he?”

The woman didn’t answer. Satisfied, the man nodded to himself.

Once, the man had a name. Then, over time, he had ten names. Now he didn’t bother with names. He introduced himself as “Brown,” if such niceties were necessary. Mr. Brown. He liked it. It made him think of dead things. Dead leaves in fall. Barren, burned out woods, months after a fire had destroyed everything.

Brown was forty-five years old. He was big, and he was still strong. He was an elite soldier, and he kept himself that way. He had learned to withstand pain and exhaustion many years ago in Navy SEAL School. He had learned how to kill, and not be killed, in a dozen hot spots around the world. He had learned how to torture at the School of the Americas. He had put what he learned into practice in Guatemala and El Salvador, and later, at Bagram Air Force Base and Guantanamo Bay.

Brown didn’t work for the CIA anymore. He didn’t know who he worked for and he didn’t care. He was a freelancer, and he got paid by the job.

The money, and it was a lot of money, came in cash. Canvas bags full of brand new hundred-dollar bills left in the trunk of a rental sedan at Reagan National Airport. A leather briefcase with half a million dollars in random tens, twenties, and fifties from Series 1974 and 1977 waiting in a locker at a gym in suburban Baltimore. They were old bills, but they had never been touched before, and they were as good as any General Grant minted in 2013.

Two days ago, Brown got a message to come to this house. It was his house until further notice, and his job to run it. If anyone showed up, he was in charge. Okay. Brown was good at many things, and one of them was being the boss.

Yesterday morning, somebody blew up the White House. The President and Vice President escaped to the bunker at Mount Weather, with about half the civilian government. Last night, somebody blew up Mount Weather with all the kiddies still inside. A couple hours later, a new President took the stage, the former Vice President. Nice.

A total flip, from liberals running the show to conservatives, and it all happened in the course of one day. Naturally, the public needed someone to blame, and the new masters pointed their fingers at Iran.

Brown waited up to see what happened next.

Late in the night, four guys pulled up to the back dock in a motorboat. The guys brought this woman and child. The prisoners belonged to someone named Luke Stone. Apparently, people thought Stone might turn into a problem. This morning, it became clear just how much of a problem he was.

When the smoke cleared, the whole overthrow had gone belly up in a matter of hours. And there was Luke Stone, standing astride the rubble.

But Brown still had Stone’s wife and kid, and he had no idea what to do with them. Communications were down, to say the least. He probably should have killed them and abandoned the house, but instead he waited for orders that never came. Now, there was a Verizon FIOS van out in front of the house, and a nondescript flying deck fishing boat maybe a hundred meters out on the water.

Did they think he was that dumb? Jesus. He could see them coming a mile away.

He stepped into the hallway. Two men stood there. Both of them mid-thirties, crazy hair and long beards – lifetime special operators. Brown knew the look. He also knew the look in their eyes. It wasn’t fear.

It was excitement.

“What’s the problem?” Brown said.

“In case you didn’t notice, we’re about to get hit.”

Brown nodded. “I know.”

“I can’t go to jail,” Beard #1 said.

Beard #2 nodded. “I can’t either.”

Brown was with them. Even before this happened, if the FBI found out his real identity, he was looking at multiple life sentences. Now? Forget it. It might take months for them to identify him, and in the meantime he would sit in a county jail somewhere, surrounded by low-rent hoodlums. And the way things were right now, he couldn’t bank on an angel to step in and make it all go away.

Still, he felt calm. “This place is harder than it looks.”

“Yeah, but there’s no way out,” Beard #1 said.

True enough.

“So we hold them off, and see if we can negotiate something. We’ve got hostages.” Brown didn’t believe it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Negotiate what, safe passage? Safe passage to where?

“They’re not going to negotiate with us,” Beard #1 said. “They’ll tell us lies until a sniper gets a clear shot.”

“Okay,” Brown said. “So what do you guys want to do?”

“Fight,” Beard #2 said. “And if we get rolled back, I want to come up here and put a bullet in the heads of our guests before I get one myself.”

Brown nodded. He’d been in a lot of tight spots before, and he had always found a way out. There might still be a way out of this one. He thought so, but he didn’t tell them that. Only so many rats could make it off a sinking ship.

“Fair enough,” he said. “That’s what we’ll do. Now take up your positions.”

*

Luke shrugged into his heavy tactical vest. The weight settled onto him. He fastened the vest’s waistband, taking a little of the weight off his shoulders. His cargo pants were lined with lightweight Dragon Skin armor. On the ground at his feet was a combat helmet with an aftermarket facemask attached.

He and Ed stood behind the open rear door of the Mercedes. The smoked window of the rear door hid them somewhat from the windows of the house. Ed leaned against the car for support. Luke pulled Ed’s wheelchair out, opened it, and placed it on the ground.

“Great,” Ed said and shook his head. “I got my chariot, and I’m ready for battle.” A sigh escaped from him.

“Here’s the deal,” Luke said. “You and I are not playing around. When SWAT goes in, they’ll probably put guns on the porch door that faces the dock, and swing a hammer on that backyard door. I don’t think it’s going to work. My guess is the backyard door is double steel and doesn’t budge, and the porch is going to be a firestorm. We’ve got ghosts in there, and they’re not going to have the doors covered? Come on. I think our guys are going to get pushed back. Hopefully nobody gets hit.”

“Amen,” Ed said.

“I’m going to walk up behind the initial action. With this.” Luke lifted an Uzi submachine gun out of the trunk.

“And this.” He pulled out a Remington 870 pump shotgun.

He felt the heft of both guns. They were heavy. The weight was reassuring.

“If the cops get in and secure the place, great. If they can’t get in, we don’t have any time to waste. The Uzi’s got Russian-made overpressure armor-piercing rounds. They should punch through most body armor the bad guys could be wearing. I’ve got half a dozen magazines fully loaded, just in case I need them. If I end up in a hallway fight, I’ll go to the shotgun. Then I’m going to be shredding legs, arms, necks, and heads.”