The Gatekeeper, page 6
The man’s boots leave the ground, and he skids a good four feet on the gravel.
The shooting has stopped. Everyone left alive is safe.
So Dez does what Dez knows to do. He laces his fingers behind his head and kneels in the gravel.
This part, he’s got down.
CHAPTER 15
It was his old mate Rafik who used to say, “The fecal matter has just collided with the air-conditioning unit, chef.”
And indeed it has.
The first circle of officialdom consists of Army MPs, who are out of their jurisdiction but who nonetheless get Dez on the ground, facedown, and cuff him.
LAPD is on the scene next, Beth Swanson’s other pursuit vehicles having circled back and rejoined the caravan. They take command from the MPs, who are too shell-shocked to complain.
California Highway Patrol is next, and they quickly take command from the city cops, blocking all traffic in both directions.
TV news helos arrive in record time to capture live footage. The sun has finally set, but the place is lit up like Old Trafford.
The Department of Defense gets to the scene twenty minutes later and quickly takes back operational command, which pisses off CHP to no end.
Someone from the California Attorney General’s Office arrives in twenty-seven minutes and reverts control of the scene to CHP but, by then, LAPD Detective Beth Swanson, a lieutenant, and a captain have arrived, and CHP’s feeling like, who needs to be drum major of this parade? They quickly concede the crime scene to the city cops.
Dez misses all this, catching a quick snooze in the back of a California Highway Patrol SUV. When he wakes, he’s thinking about that stout he had at the pub and how it’s no longer fair to say Americans can’t make beer. It was true for decades but they’re getting better all the time. Most of it’s still horse piss, and that’s a fact, but the microbrew industry seems to be revving along just fine. Impressive, that.
The scene on Highway 1 is now about one panto and a maypole away from being a village fete. Dez is surprised no one’s sold him a raffle ticket.
At some point, the Department of Defense guys lined up on the east side of the highway are joined by Vincent Guerrero of Triton Security and some of his lads. Guerrero makes eye contact with Dez, and Dez winks at him. Guerrero appears not to find any of this amusing.
A uniformed cop politely transfers Dez to a big, brightly painted LAPD recreational vehicle with INCIDENT COMMAND written on the side, where he’s met by Beth Swanson and her lieutenant and her captain. The captain is an impressively tall woman with a long face and half-glasses on a cloth lanyard, who nods to Swanson. Swanson removes Dez’s cuffs.
The captain might be six-two. She’s rail-thin. He pegs her age at fifty-five, give or take. She says, “Aloysius? Really?”
“It’s a perfectly fine name!”
Swanson seethes with anger. “What’s it short for? Dumb Ass?”
Dez says, “Oh yeah, an’ what’s Beth short for?”
“Elizabeth.”
Dez pauses. Turns back to the captain. “Had a better comeback in me head but I lost it there for a second.”
The tall woman says, “I’m Captain Naomi Cardona. Los Angeles Police.”
“Dez. Pleased.”
She says, “You saved a couple of lives today, Mr. Limerick.”
“But I also lied to Beth, ma’am, and for that I apologize.”
The three cops study him for a few seconds. The lieutenant, a wiry blond guy, shakes his head in amazement.
“We interviewed the officers on the scene. They saw it all. We’re trying to decide if we should arrest you or thank you,” Cardona says. “But right now, I think we have a window of about fifteen minutes before the military takes those guys out of here, and I have a very, very stupid idea.”
The lieutenant says, “I’m against this.”
“Duly noted, Stan.” Naomi Cardona points out the window of the Incident Command vehicle at the prisoner transport with its four shredded tires. “Mr. Limerick, I’d like to put Swanson and you in that transport for the few moments we have. Those men haven’t said a word to anyone since they were arrested at the Hotel Tremaine. You slammed into those guys like Hurricane Katrina. They’re pretty pissed off, and they’re in a lot of pain. I’m wondering if we can’t make that work in our favor.”
Dez smiles. “Can I hit ’em again?”
Cardona says, “No.”
“Can Beth hit ’em?”
“No. But I want to see how they react to the two of you. Are you game for this?”
Dez’s smile turns into a grin.
* * *
The captain has a word with the senior-most military man on the scene. He has the chevrons of a first sergeant, which means he’s used to making snap decisions and living with them. He says, “I can’t authorize this. Sorry.”
Captain Cardona makes her case without emotion. “It could be important. We need to know something. We won’t touch the prisoners. Promise.”
The first sergeant chews his gum, eyeing her. Dez can tell he wants to believe her, to help. He can’t find a legal reason to do so.
Dez says, “Gimme a sec?” and leads the Army sergeant about ten meters away. They huddle, speaking sotto voce. At one point, the sergeant draws his cell phone, taps on it, looks something up. He eyes Dez, then his phone, then Dez.
Under her breath, Cardona says, “This is beginning to feel like an eight-point-two on the Sphincter Scale.”
Swanson nods.
The sergeant turns on his heel and marches back to the cops. “Jesus, why didn’t you lead with that? The transport is yours, Captain. Good luck.”
He walks away.
Beth says, “What just happened there?”
Dez shrugs. “Dunno. Said you two was upstanding police officers. LA’s finest. He came ’round.”
From the way she side-eyes him, he can tell that Cardona isn’t buying it. But time’s short, and she just got what she wanted. She and her lieutenant climb in the front of the transport van, from where they’ll be able to hear what happens.
Beth Swanson and Dez wait in the back as an MP gets ready to unlock the transport. Dez whispers, “Aloysius. Latinized. Part an’ parcel with Louis, Lewis, Luis, Luigi, Ludwig—”
“Shut up.”
“From the Latin meaning famous warrior.”
“Begging you to shut up.”
Two MPs open the back of the van. Dez and Swanson use the handholds to lift themselves up onto the thigh-high bumper, and from there into the mobile holding cell.
Dez recognizes his three dance partners from the Hotel Tremaine. All three are in their late twenties or early thirties, white, with short hair and athletic builds. He hit one in the gut with an ax handle. He hit one in the throat. He separated the ball and the socket of the third guy’s right shoulder. All three wear prisoner jumpsuits with LA COUNTY JAIL emblazoned on the front and back. The first two have their wrists cuffed in front of them and attached by chains to wide, locking leather belts around their waists. The third guy’s right arm is in a sling and only his left is cuffed to the belt.
Dez can tell from the bloody noses and split lips that they went flying when the long van skidded off the highway.
The three guys aren’t simply in a locked van, they’re also behind bars.
It takes them a second to recognize who’s just entered the van.
The man with his arm in the sling stands from the bolted-down bench, eyes burning. He’s on some pretty powerful painkillers; Dez can tell by the dilation of his eyes. “You are a fucking dead man.”
Dez winks. “How’s the bowling arm, then?”
The man with the bruised trachea rises and stands with his mate. “You’re gonna die badly,” he croaks.
Beth Swanson flashes her ID. “We’d like to ask—”
Broken Shoulder speaks directly to Dez. “No one’s talking to your colored bitch.”
Swanson lowers her eyes and takes a meek step back.
It takes Dez all of a quarter second to get it: three very white guys. Four white guys, if you count the not-a-lawyer, Robert Smith. Five, if you count the MP who opened fire on his men. Swanson and Cardona had an inkling the common denominator was that they’re violent racists. They sent Swanson in here to test that theory.
Broken Shoulder says, “You’re fucking dead. Race traitor.”
Bingo.
“Could be. Not from the likes of you ladies.”
The man with the sore gut hasn’t spoken yet, but when he finally does, Dez can tell he’s the leader. “No talking.”
Detective Swanson stands there, head down, and just listens. If the racist bullshit gets to her, Dez certainly can’t tell.
“Time comes, we’re gonna remember your kind,” Bruised Trachea hisses.
The leader finally rises.
Broken Shoulder steps close to the bar. “We’re gonna find you, and that bitch, and we’re—”
The leader reaches up and grips Broken Shoulder’s broken shoulder. He squeezes. The man turns parchment pale, eyes wide, body rigid. Despite the massive dosage of painkillers, he falls to his knees and dry heaves.
The leader keeps his voice low, eye-fucking the other man. “No. Talking.”
Broken Shoulder, penitent, nods toward the floor. Bruised Trachea backs up.
Dez grins at the obvious leader. “Which’d make you the big dick in this lot.” He takes a rambling step closer to the bars. If the man reached through, Dez would be within striking distance.
“Your lawyer mate is dead. Your MP mate is down. Ye’ve five shots on goal. Five misses. You’re the saddest bunch of fighters it’s been my pleasure to meet.”
The man stares at him with dead eyes.
Dez steps closer, puffs out his chest, testing the durability of the stitching of his T-shirt. “Desmond Aloysius Limerick. Pleased as hell.”
The man behind the bars nods only once. His meaning is clear: I’ve heard your name. I can find you. And I will.
From behind Dez, Detective Beth Swanson says, “Thank you, gentlemen. We appreciate your time.”
She touches Dez’s shoulder. They turn and walk out, step down onto the bumper, then onto the gravel of the shoulder of the highway, with the cliff and the ocean off to their right. This close to the Pacific, the air is crisp. The harsh lights of emergency vehicles and helicopters make the lay-by look like a movie set.
“Aloysius.” Swanson shakes her head. “It’s starting to grow on me.”
CHAPTER 16
Ryerson Ranch, Boca Serpiente County, California
Jonesy has taken out one of the quad ATVs to check the perimeter of the Ryerson property. It’s his turn, written in pencil on the duty roster in the communal kitchen.
Joe Ryerson is in that kitchen making eggs for the seven kids, all seated around the big wooden table, all doing their homework. The older kids help teach the younger ones. Today it’s practical math, the kids working out the problems of feeding fifteen people during the siege by the Zionist Occupation Government. The siege is only on day twenty-nine but the people here can hold out for seven months easily. Nine, if they ration. And they do.
Joe will fry up rashers of bacon for the children. None of them have any experience buying bacon at Safeway. Each of them has been taught how to slaughter a hog; how the belly and ribs are removed from the loin; how the belly is trimmed for bacon. All of the adults and all of the older children can do this. It’s part of the life they live.
The radio on the sill of the window overlooking the vegetable garden squawks. “Jonesy here. You copy? Over.”
Joe wipes his hands on his apron and lowers the heat under the eggs. He crosses the kitchen and grabs the mic. “Go ahead, man. Over.”
“Ah, you got a dead calf out here. Over.”
Joe swears softly to himself and glances at the uneven wooden table that he and Molly built when they moved here, twenty-two years ago. The kids all heard Jonesy’s call. They know it affects their calculations but they don’t yet know how.
Joe toggles the switch. “Where are you at? Over.”
“Sector Seven-A. Over.”
The ranch has been gridded off into sectors, ever since the siege began. For security reasons. Joe looks at the hand-drawn diagram near the radio. Seven-A is right at the edge of the Ryerson property, and close to the big old fence put up by the federales back in the 1960s.
Jonesy speaks again. “Anybody know what coyote kill looks like? Over.”
“Coyote? You sure? Over.”
Jonesy laughs. “I’m from Rochester, New York, dude. Hell, no, I’m not sure. I’m asking. Coyote, wolf. Looks like a predator, is all. Over.”
It’s not a wolf. They’re all about 120 years to the right of any wolf packs roaming the Boca Serpiente Valley. Joe says, “Hang loose, good buddy. We’ll come take a look. Over.”
“Roger that. Out.”
* * *
Joe talks to Molly. They do rock, paper, scissors. That’s how they’ve decided things for more than twenty-two years now. Molly pulls scissors, Joe rock, so Molly hops on the second of their three quads and rolls out to Sector Seven-A.
She’s skilled on the four-wheel ATV, knows to bring her thick leather gloves and her tool belt, because it’s going to be fifteen minutes out, then fifteen minutes back and fifteen more for the return trip if she needs to go retrieve any tools. Better to bring damn near everything on the first run. Including her Colt 1911. It’s a beloved bit of single-action, recoil-operated, .45-caliber American technology. She’s owned it since she was a teenager. All of the adults at the ranch carry, as do the four children ages fifteen and older. Ranch rules. The only thing the Zionist Occupation Government understands.
Freedom isn’t free.
Molly Ryerson curves around the dry brush of the flat, arid land that they’ve ranched for two decades, avoiding the ravines she knows, an eye open for snakes. She spots Jonesy and the other ATV. Well, first, she spots that red baseball cap of his. Between that and his full beard, she’s not 100 percent sure what Jonesy looks like, although he’s been part of this siege since it started nearly a month ago. If he got gussied up for, like, a wedding, she wouldn’t recognize him.
He’s parked near a deep crevice. Molly knows this land like she knows her own handwriting. Jonesy’s standing maybe all of ten yards from the long, rusty, unbroken fence that stretches clear to the horizon. Directly behind him is an old, metal sign, hung on the fence, round, blue and green, with a lightning bolt cut crosswise. The U.S. Department of Energy.
Molly’s not happy being this close to the federal land. She pushes up her aged, sweat-stained outback hat and peers up at the cloudless blue sky, as if she could see the ZOG’s surveillance satellites peering tirelessly down at them all.
Jonesy’s standing, hands shoved into the rear pockets of his Levi’s. She likes the young man. She likes that he’s quiet and a hard worker. She suspects he’s had military training and, when she asks, he admits to a tour in the Coast Guard. She likes that he calls her ma’am.
She pulls up so the quads are nose-to-nose and dismounts. Her back aches. Riding the quads always does that to her these days. She sighs. “Hey.”
Jonesy looks a little sad to see her, oddly enough. He says, “You and Joe play rock, paper, scissors for this?”
She shrugs. “Same as always.”
Jonesy seems to think about that a moment.
“Calf?”
He nods toward a shallow ravine.
Molly approaches the ravine and peers down.
She’s surprised to see two U.S. Army soldiers, both staring up at her, looking nervous as hell.
Jonesy pulls a Beretta M9 out from beneath the tail of his shirt and shoots Molly in the back.
Molly is dead before she hits the red clay soil.
Jonesy walks over and puts two more slugs into the flank of his ATV. The sound of the shots echo over the flat land. It’ll reach the ranch in a hot second. Old Joe will be scrambling for the kitchen radio any moment now. Jonesy wishes it hadn’t been Molly who came.
He turns to the ravine. The two soldiers are climbing out, their camo tinted red by the clay soil.
“Captain,” one of them says, his voice breaking. “Did … did you just shoot a civilian?”
Jonesy throws the Beretta into the ravine. He removes his thick work gloves. He has a second gun in the saddlebag of his ATV. It’s a Smith & Wesson. He draws it now and calmly shoots both soldiers in the chest. He closes in, fires more shots, makes sure they’re dead.
The radio starts squawking. “Molly? It’s Joe! Molly! You copy? Over!”
Jonesy takes a switchblade knife out of his saddlebag. He braces himself, then slashes his left forearm. It begins to bleed quickly.
“Molly? Joe! Molly, come back! Over!”
Jonesy waits. He doesn’t bother answering. Not yet. From where he stands, he can see the vertical slit cut into the long, imposing Department of Energy fence, through which his unit had made egress onto the ranch land, under his orders. The clipped wires are directly below the round DOE logo and the DO NOT TRESPASS sign that’s been vigorously decorated with buckshot over the years.
And beyond the fence and the sign, Jonesy can see the cooling tower of the Boca Serpiente Valley Nuclear Power Station, two and a half miles away.
He stands there, bleeding, thinking, Now it gets interesting.
CHAPTER 17
Dez calls his friend Ephrem Kebede to inform him that his Jeep is both ruined and impounded as evidence. The Ethiopian gives his signature basso profundo laugh. “Usually not hard to see where you been, eh, chef? Just follow the debris.”
From what Dez finds out later, Constantine Alexandris throws all of his considerable corporate weight behind a demand that a representative of the Department of Defense brief him, personally, the following morning on the assault against his daughter, and the subsequent assault against LA County Sheriff’s deputies.
He can do this, Petra Alexandris explains, because Triton Expediters doesn’t manufacture weaponry or military materiel. Rather, the company shepherds the money to manufacture such weapons and materiel, and shepherds the money for international sales of weapons and materiel. Petra explains all this to him that night, again out on the deck of the sprawling Malibu property, him with a beer, her with a single malt Irish whiskey, as the clock ticks over to tomorrow.
