Against All Enemies (45 page)

“Sounds like this guy is quite a hero,” Jonathan said.

“Well, yes and no,” Parks hedged. He took a step closer. “What Scorpion does is technically murder. It’s called vigilantism, and it’s illegal in all fifty states. It’s that whole due process thing that’s guaranteed by the Constitution.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded this kid with ever-growing respect. “So, what’s your point?”

Parks shrugged. “I don’t really have a point, I guess. I just thought that you should know that there’s a guy with your name who’s wreaking havoc and is a wanted man. For example, if I suspected that you and he were the same person, I’d have to arrest you. But of course I don’t suspect you. That’s why I felt comfortable coming up here alone.” His eyes burned into Jonathan’s.

Jonathan didn’t blink. He waited for the rest. This kid was tough.

Parks broke it off and turned toward the fires and the injured and dead. “I have no idea what happened up here, but it looks like a terrorist camp of some sort to me. As you said, ambulances are on the way, and word is going to leak out. I’m going to need a way to explain this.” He turned back to Jonathan. “Any ideas?”

“Officer Parks,” Jonathan said, “you seem to have thought most of this through already. I sense that if I just stand quietly, you’ll tell me an idea on your own.”

Parks smirked. “I can’t say you’re wrong. Back in town, Mary mentioned something about you coming up here to grab someone to question him. A fellow named Carrington, I believe.”

Jonathan waited.

“Did you succeed?”

Jonathan waited.

“I’m betting you did,” Parks said. “I want him.”

“Why?”

“For the credit,” Parks said. “And for the scapegoat. You can’t have this kind of destruction, this much loss of life, without a rationale to explain it. A town like ours can look away from a lot of stuff, but we’re talking mothers’ sons here. Someone has to answer for that.”

Jonathan pressed his mike button. “Big Guy, bring out our guests, please. Boomer, help him.”

“I’m doing this, but I’m not liking it,” Boxers said.

“Ah, so there’s more than one,” Parks said. “So much the better.”

“Don’t count those chickens just yet,” Jonathan said.

“Excuse me?”

“I think you heard,” Jonathan said. “And in a few seconds, I think you’ll understand.”

Thirty seconds later, Dylan and Boxers arrived with their hog-tied cargo and laid the men on the ground. Jonathan pointed his rifle at them and thumbed the tactical light on the muzzle, bathing them in a beam that was brighter than bright.

Karras squinted and looked away. Carrington was still trying to figure out if he was alive.

“I’m going to try and pull a Solomon on you,” Jonathan said, “and split the baby. The one on the right is Carrington. That’s not his real name. In fact, we don’t know his real name, but I want to find that out. He’s mine. I’m keeping him. The other one’s name is Karras, and as far as I can tell, he’s supposed to be the boss, but he’s a big-ass coward when the going gets tough.”

Parks scowled and moved in closer. He withdrew a MagLite from his belt and hit Karras with the beam. It must have been like staring into the sun.

“His name’s not Karras,” Parks said.

The hog-tied man writhed and tried to force his eyes open. “Watch yourself, Parks,” he said.

“Why, Mr. Wainwright,” Parks said. “So you’re actually the one behind this?”

“Wainwright?” Jonathan said. “The guy who owns everything in town? This whiny asshole is him?”

“His son,” Parks said. “Now this should be interesting.”

“You know you can’t win,” Karras—or whoever—said. “I’ve got more friends in this town than you will ever know. You’ll never win against me.”

“I believe I can,” Parks said. To Jonathan, he added, “This is quite the gift. Fact is, he doesn’t get the difference between friends and people who are afraid of him. This thing is federal, anyway, if only because of the weapons involved.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. “Mr. W, you are
so
under arrest. I’ll figure out the charges later.”

Karras let out a stream of curses, but Jonathan paid no attention. In the distance, the night swelled with the sound of approaching ambulances.

“Okay, you can keep your guy,” Parks said. “This will be way more fun.”

Boxers was already hefting Carrington and returning him to the Batmobile.

“It’s probably time for you to get going,” Parks said. “Once the ambulances get here, it’s gonna be tough.” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a three-by-five index card. He handed it to Jonathan.

“What’s this?”

“Once I realized that both Scorpions are on the side of the angels, I took the liberty of jotting down these directions for you. They’ll get you off the mountain and onto the main roads without having to pass back through town. Be careful, though, it’s easy to get lost.”

“You know I’ll verify these, right?” Jonathan said as he took the card.

“Doesn’t surprise me a bit. In fact, it’s kind of a relief. I don’t want you around here any longer than necessary.”

Jonathan extended his hand again. “Thanks, Officer Parks.”

The cop shook his head. “Put that away. And don’t think for a minute that we are friends. Get out of here.”

Jonathan was liking this guy more and more. He pressed his transmit button. “Okay, teams, let’s mount up.”

Chapter Thirty-two

Three weeks later

A
utumn in Virginia was a time of unparalleled splendor. Not all fall displays were created equal from year to year, though. Some years the trees were more vibrant than others—Jonathan understood it had something to with rainfall amounts, but he’d never researched it—and this was one of the winners. Just barely north of dawn—an unusual time for Jonathan—the hues of yellow and orange and red bled into the splendid blue of the newly bright sky. When you gave it the chance, life could be truly breathtaking.

He sat alone on the porch of the lodge. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt, no shoes or socks, sipping coffee from a logo-less mug. In retrospect, the footwear decision was probably a mistake—it was just a touch too cold—but he was enjoying the peace too much to break it.

Out in the field, directly in front, a small family of deer grazed about, as if to complete the picture of bucolic perfection. They wandered in the comfort of knowing that deer season wasn’t quite yet upon them. When the front door opened and Dom D’Angelo stepped out to join Jonathan, they didn’t even look up.

“Now there’s a picture,” Dom said.

“Yes, it is. Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

The priest—who looked distinctly unpriestly in a disheveled puffy gray sweat suit—helped himself to a rocker. “I enjoy peace and quiet as much as the next guy,” he said. “But this might take it to a new extreme. And you might consider a night-light in the guest room. I nearly peed in a closet at around four.”

“If you didn’t drink so much beer, you wouldn’t have to pee so much.”

“If I didn’t drink the beer, you wouldn’t invite me out,” Dom countered. “Are you considering ruining Bambi’s day?” He pointed to the rifle that rested against the railing.

Jonathan pulled it toward him and picked it up. “This is my gift from Haynes Moncrief,” he said. “It arrived yesterday at the guard shack, and they brought it up this morning. It’s a beauty.”

“Looks like a rifle to me,” Dom said.

“Cretin. This is a Nosler M48. Eighteen hundred bucks.” He opened the bolt, and the deer took off at a run. “Did you see that?”

“Evolution in action, I suppose,” Dom said. “And is this Haynes Moncrief the same one of late in the news?”

“Indeed,” Jonathan said. He felt oddly sorry about scaring the deer. “It’s hard to prosecute so powerful a man when it became clear that not only was he defending himself from attack, but that the attack was part of a plan to overthrow the country.”

“I hate to see anybody be above the law,” Dom said. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“I hate stupid laws,” Jonathan countered. And yes, he’d caught the irony in Dom’s words, but he chose to ignore it.

There was a moment of silence as Dom sipped from his own mug. “You make terrible coffee. I might as well put a pinch of grounds between my cheek and gum.” An awkward silence. “How’s your friend Dylan?”

“I can’t talk about Dylan,” Jonathan said. That was because the entire Nasbe family was being assigned a new life. If you think it’s hard to hide someone from the mob, try hiding them from the CIA. Just because Dylan did something heroic and helpful did not clean the slate of the bad stuff. Jonathan wished him well, but he didn’t think it could end well for him in the long run. Frankly, Jonathan lost a lot of respect for the man when he decided to suck his family into his disappearance instead of just going away solo.

But it was not for him to judge.

“Okay, Digger,” Dom said. “I’ve been here for fifteen hours. We’ve drunk through the night and now it’s morning, and we still have not had a meaningful exchange. Let’s have it. Why am I here?”

Jonathan said nothing.

“Dig, you suck at this. You don’t invite me for private getaways unless there’s something private that you need to get away from. So let’s have it. Consider my confessor hat and my shrink hat to both be on my head.”

For as long as Jonathan had been in the business he’d been in, Dom had been his single relief valve. It helped that as both a psychologist and a priest, he was compelled by both manmade and holy laws to keep secrets secret, but mostly, he depended on Dom as a friend. Perhaps his only true friend.

“What the hell am I doing, Dom?” Jonathan asked.

“I need way more than that.”

“This op into West Virginia. We killed a lot of people. We maimed even more.”

“Forgive me, but you say that as if it’s a first time. Meaning no disrespect, you’ve been killing and maiming people for a long time. What’s different?”

While those words were exceptionally harsh, Jonathan knew that Dom meant no harm. One of the reasons their friendship had lasted so long was because they communicated bluntly with each other.

“Jolaine Cage took pleasure in burning people alive.”

“Did you take any pleasure out of burning people alive?” Dom asked.

Jonathan felt his ears go hot. “Of course not. I was horrified.”

“So how did you channel your horror?”

Jonathan knew that Dom knew, but there had to be a reason for him asking. “She’s done,” he said. “She’s off the teams.”

“Done and done,” Dom said. “How’s Box with that?”

Jonathan shot him a look. “Less than happy. But I think he gets it.”

Dom kept watching the tree line. He seemed to understand that Jonathan handled moments like this best without eye contact. “Not to repeat myself, but done and done. You’ve chosen a path for yourself, Dig, that doesn’t allow for a lot of introspection. It’s a little late to change, don’t you think?”

It was a valid point. Scorpion had committed more murders than Jonathan cared to count over the years, but he got through the day by convincing himself that every killing was justified. People chose the courses they chose, and at the moment when they chose to cross the line that threatened other people’s lives, they’d abandoned the most important clause of the social contract. The fact that Jolaine had wandered so far off the reservation didn’t rest directly on his shoulders, and the fact that he’d fired her removed any of the burden that remained.

“How did your chat with Wolverine go the other day?” Dom asked.

Jonathan chuckled. “If only the public knew,” he said. “It turns out that our Victor Carrington is in fact a US Army officer named Ian Martin. He’s a complete whack job, but he’s claiming that General Manfred Brock, also of the US Army, is involved with the plot to overthrow Washington.”

“I know that name,” Don said. “General Brock.”

Jonathan turned his head and waited till he had Dom’s gaze. “He’s the chief of staff of the United States Army.”

“A coup?”

“Yep. Of course, there’s no proof beyond the rantings of a crazy guy. Wolfie doesn’t think anything will ever come of it.”

“So the guy just walks?”

“Welcome to Washington,” Jonathan said. “Wolfie hadn’t even shared the details with the president. Apparently, the Honorable Mr. Darmond does not like to hear bad news unless it is accompanied by hard evidence.”

“Unbelievable,” Dom said. “I can’t count the number of things I’ve learned from you over the years that I wish I could unlearn.”

“Hey, priest-boy,” Jonathan said. “You chose to be the sin-catcher.”

Dom laughed. “Sin-catcher. I like that.” Then he drilled Jonathan with his eyes. “Quit dancing, Dig. I happen to know that you groove on the political intrigue, so don’t tell me that’s why I’m here. Dig deep, my friend. What’s really going on in that addled head of yours?”

Jonathan closed his eyes. In the past, every mission had left him feeling exuberant, confident that he’d made the world a better place, if only for a few people. “Okay, here it is,” he said. “I think I made a mistake in breaking up Carrington’s operation—Ian Martin’s operation. I believe in my heart of hearts that the world would be a safer place if that abortion of an army had been better trained and more successful.”

Dom’s scowl deepened. “You’re not suggesting that you wish you’d been killed.”

“Of course not,” Jonathan scoffed. “I’m suggesting that the Darmond administration is the most dangerous group that’s ever sat in Washington. And we’ve had some pretty scary groups.”

“So, we should just kill the lot of them?

Jonathan waved that off, too. “No. Dammit, I don’t know what I mean.”

“We get to have another revolution in just three years,” Dom reminded. “Election Day.”

Jonathan now wished he hadn’t said anything. He did not need a lesson in civics.

Dom continued, “And that oath you pledged back in the day was to support the Constitution, not the president. And certainly not some tin pot who considers himself smarter than the electorate.”

Jonathan didn’t need a lecture on his enlistment oath, either.