Against All Enemies (44 page)

“He’s over there behind that pickup truck!” someone shouted. Ian didn’t have to look to know that he was being pointed at.

“Simpson!” someone spat in rebuke.

“He shot Dennis!” was the reply. “I’m not dying for a guy who’ll shoot his own troops.”

Panic seized Ian. He didn’t know what to do. Certainly, getting caught was nowhere on the agenda. Whatever his next step was going to be, he had to decide now.

The officer who’d ratted out his commander made a show of placing his weapon on the ground and standing with his hands stretched high in the air.

“If he leaves, let him go peacefully,” Jonathan said in his radio. “That will encourage the others.”

“As long as his hands are empty.”

“Keep those hands high in the air until you are past the gate,” Jonathan instructed. “You’ll pass more of us. If you pick up a dropped weapon, or attempt to seek shelter elsewhere in the compound, you’ll be shot without warning. Hold two thumbs up if you understand that.”

The soldier popped two thumbs and started walking. He’d taken three steps toward the rear when one of his cadre whipped around and shot him. Boxers and Rollins fired simultaneously to drop the shooter.

“Goddammit, it does not have to be this way!” Jonathan shouted. “Put your weapons down! Give yourselves a chance to live, for God’s sake.”

But panic had taken hold. Two or three of the soldiers opened up on full-auto in the direction of Jonathan’s voice. Jonathan had seen them raising their weapons and had plenty of time to duck behind his tree before bullets slammed into it. He heard cracks through the air of rounds that went wide of the tree, but still close enough to make themselves known.

“Left shooter down,” Boxers’ voice said in his ear.

“Center shooter, right shooter down,” Rollins said.

In the blast of rifle fire, Jonathan didn’t hear the softer pops of his team’s suppressed weapons, but the silence of the others confirmed their words.

Jonathan pivoted from behind his cover and scanned the scene before him. It was utter bedlam. Against the wild, dancing light of the burning barracks down the hill, a swarm of largely undressed men ran and fell and tripped over themselves trying to get away. It would have been comical had it not been for the corpses among them, each lying so still among the swirling action.

Sudden movement on Jonathan’s left startled him. It was Rollins, and he had taken off at a dead run. “Carrington’s bolting,” Rollins said. “I saw him take off from behind the truck they were pointing at.”

Jonathan bolted after him. As he sprinted, his gear flapping against his body, he pressed his transmit button. “Big Guy, get the vehicle before we get too far separated. Break, break. Alpha, Scorpion.”

“Go, Scorpion,” Jolaine said.

“There are waves of bad guys heading your way. They are in total disarray. Try to find a way to let them go. Try to disarm them. Only engage if engaged.”

Jolaine said something in response, but Jonathan had turned back to the business of running. An exercise fiend, he was no stranger to a vigorous ten-mile jog, but he hadn’t sprinted in full kit in a while. It bugged him that Rollins seemed to be better at it. That pushed him to run harder.

The man they were chasing seemed intent on not getting caught. He had a rifle in his hands, but he’d made no effort to shoot. Technically, by their unofficial rules of engagement, that made him eligible to be shot, but he was the purpose for their raid tonight. If at all possible, they wanted to take this guy alive.

Son of a bitch wasn’t making it easy.

Ian’s lungs screamed and his head boomed with the effort of his flight through the woods. He felt angry and betrayed by his men, but mostly he felt fearful of what the future would hold for him if he got caught. Under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the fact of his conspiracy was justification for the death penalty. But to be caught at this stage of the operation wouldn’t trigger that. The judges wouldn’t want that. They would want to see him toiling at hard labor for the rest of his life.

Life in a military prison was a fate worse than death, especially for the crimes he had committed. As unlikely as it sounded, many of the inmates in military prisons were still patriots at heart. They had violated the rules, or in most cases had committed felonies, but they’d committed their crimes while in service to the United States. Ian imagined that the treatment of a traitor at their hands would mimic the horrifying stories he’d heard of the treatment of child molesters who’d served time.

Some lines just could not be crossed. And Ian had crossed one.

His future did not exist. Not anymore. Unless General Brock figured out a way to help.

But Brock would never do that, would he? Of course not. Brock’s fingerprints were nowhere to be seen on this operation. He’d never shown his face in the camp, he’d never met Ian on government soil. There had been no written record. He needed only to deny his involvement, and Ian’s claims would be ignored. After all, who was more believable to a jury of military personnel, a lieutenant colonel who’d been trying to overthrow the political structure of the United States, or the chief of staff of the United States Army?

He pumped his legs harder. The weight of his M4 was slowing him, but that weapon was his last opportunity to impact his own future. Tree branches tore at his face and his arms as he crashed through the woods, so he turned a hard right and headed out into the open. There, he’d be able to move faster, but the people chasing to catch him—he hadn’t seen them, but he’d heard the footsteps—would have a clearer shot. It was a chance he had to take.

Ian had already decided that the invaders were not here to kill him. They’d said as much back in the compound—back when there was something that could reasonably be called a compound—but that could have been a lie to get him to step out into the open.

But now that they had a shot, they weren’t taking it. That meant that they wanted him alive.

But he’d never be able to outrun them. Not two of them, who were no doubt much younger than he, and clearly understood the business of warfare. If they caught him, they would send him to prison, where he would die, either of torture at the hands of other prisoners, or of old age. Neither suited him.

His rifle was his only chance. He stopped without slowing, sliding to a halt while pivoting 180 degrees and bringing his rifle to bear. At this range, he couldn’t miss.

“He’s going to do something desperate,” Jonathan said into his radio. It was the only reason he could think of for Carrington to peel off out of cover to run in the open. They followed, but it didn’t feel right. “Give him some space.”

Ahead and to his left, Rollins responded to the order by slowing his stride just enough to open some distance between himself and Carrington, and allowing Jonathan to catch up.

Carrington skidded to a stop and raised his rifle.

“I got him!” Rollins yelled, likewise stopping and raising his weapon.

“No!” Jonathan yelled. They needed him alive. That was the whole damn purpose of the exercise. He blew past Rollins, spoiling his aim, and drove himself headlong toward Carrington. Even in the darkness, he saw the look of shock in the man’s eyes as Jonathan closed the distance without slowing.

Jonathan was three feet away and closing when Carrington popped off a shot. The sound of the report was deafening, instantly stuffing Jonathan’s head with a pound of invisible cotton that seemed to fill even his sinuses with sound pressure.

Jonathan targeted Carrington’s off-hand for collision with his shoulder, and his nose for collision with the crown of his Kevlar helmet. Both impacts reverberated through Jonathan’s body. Jonathan felt a snap on the bridge of his nose as the night vision array absorbed its share of the impact, and knew that he’d broken it. This would be the fifth time for his nose, but he hoped that he hadn’t ruined the ridiculously expensive electronic gear.

Jonathan’s momentum carried him through and over his target, ending in a shoulder-roll that left his equipment tangled and his flesh torn in the spots where hard metal won over soft tissue.

By the time Jonathan found his feet, Rollins was already standing over their prisoner, covering him with his M4. “He’s not moving,” he said. “Nice hit, there, Scorpion. Are you okay?”

Jonathan adjusted the night vision array on his head and blew a plug of bloody snot from his nose. “Been better,” he said. “Tell me I didn’t kill him.”

“He’s breathing. And, frankly, it wasn’t
that
good a hit. But at least he looks worse than you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what matters.” He keyed his mike. “Alpha, Scorpion. How’s it going down there?”

“It’s like Zombieland.” Dylan replied. “Lots of dazed and confused. Lots and lots of injuries. Burns. And people are flooding out of here.”

“Are they armed?” Jonathan asked.

“Not that I’ve seen. But I can’t tell you with certainty that no armed men got out of the compound.”

Jonathan considered that. The fear was that the defeated army would regroup and form up for some kind of counterattack. But that would take effective leadership of a level Jonathan hadn’t seen here. What would be, would be, and they would need to remain vigilant. But for now, he felt that things were stable.

The Batmobile rumbled up out of the night and disgorged Big Guy, who, predictably enough, looked pissed. “You know I hate it when you do the cool shit without—” He interrupted himself with a laugh and he pointed to Jonathan. “Look at you,” he said. “You got a boo-boo.” Then he looked down at Carrington’s unconsciousness. “Nice.” Then, to Rollins, “Was it epic?”

“It was a pretty good hit.”

“Can you just package him, please, and let us get out of here?” Jonathan said. Then, over the radio, he said, “Mother Hen, Scorpion. Have you been monitoring radio traffic?”

She always monitored the radio traffic. “Is it time to start ambulances on the way for the injured?”

She’d read his mind. Again. “Affirmative,” he said. “Have them send five ambulances to start, and then they can work out their own tactics from there.”

“I copy.”

“Scorpion, Boomer.”

Jonathan’s team stopped at the leaden tone in Dylan’s voice.

“Scorpion.”

“I think you need to come to the gate. A police officer wants to talk to you.”

Chapter Thirty-one

T
he young cop looked even younger out of the car than he did when viewed through the window. Maybe five-ten, with a physique that Mama Alexander liked to call a swimmer’s build, the kid stood tall in his gray-and-green uniform, his legs set wide and his hands resting on his Sam Browne belt, the web of one thumb spanning his pistol, and the other spanning his nightstick.

Jonathan approached on foot while Boxers followed in the Batmobile, and Rollins watched from a little ways up the hill. Dylan and Jolaine flanked the cop from a respectable distance, and all weapons rested in neutral positions.

“Officer Parks,” Jonathan said as he closed to within a few feet. He extended his hand. “Pardon my glove.”

Parks ignored the gesture of friendship. “You’re hurt.”

“Not that bad.”

“From the town, it sounded like there was a war going on up here.”

“Felt a little like that, too,” Jonathan said. “If you’re here to help us, though, you’re a few minutes too late. We’re just cleaning up and are on our way out of here. We’ve called for ambulances to take care of the injured.”

Parks cocked his head. “What about the dead?”

“They won’t need ambulances,” Jonathan said. “They’ll pretty much just stay dead.”

The cop’s face folded into an offended mask. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s settled business,” Jonathan replied. “No, I don’t think it’s funny. I think it was a lot of hard work, and a lot of gullible young men died needlessly because they listened to nonsense in the past and refused to listen to reason tonight. Nothing’s funny about any of that. And nothing is funny about the countless murders that we prevented by being here.”

“Well, you did say you were on the side of the angels,” Parks said. “I remember from Sunday School that Satan was once God’s favorite angel.”

And there went Jonathan’s patience. “I’m not sure why you’re here exactly, Officer Parks, but I am no more inclined to be arrested now than I was a couple of hours ago.”

The kid shifted his stance to one leg and he folded his arms. “Me and my team were working the murders down at Mary’s, and one of the dead guys showed up as being wanted by the United States Army for desertion. Another one has been in and out of jail since forever. Judging from the physical evidence, I think it’s pretty clear that we’re dealing with a case of self-defense down there.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t at all sure where this was going. Parks seemed too calm, too focused. And too alone.

“So I took what you told me down there,” Parks continued. “You said your name was Scorpion, and that you were on the side of the angels. Those are two things you don’t hear very often, and the way you said them, I figured it wasn’t your first time. So I did some research into some police databases, and I got a couple of hits. It seems that there’s another guy out there who uses those same combinations. Violence seems to follow him, too.”

The back of Jonathan’s neck lit up with a feeling of danger. What did this guy know?

“There’s no real pattern to it,” Parks went on. “And no real focus. This Scorpion guy has touched lives all over the world, it seems. No one knows his real name, and the guy rarely leaves fingerprints. On the few occasions when he has, the fingerprints prove to be untraceable. They belong to someone who appears not to exist. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Huh,” Jonathan said. “That’s really wild.”

“I thought so, too,” Parks said. “But here’s where it gets really interesting. Wherever this other Scorpion goes, it seems that only bad guys end up dead. There’ve even been unsubstantiated rumors where Scorpion rescued hostages that the police never knew had been taken.”