Chronicles of War
Part 1: Way of the Storm
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"The purpose of war is war."
- "Anil's Ghost"
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Chapter 12: Embrace the Evil
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James stalked back to the store's entrance, his blue-gray eyes dim and
lifeless. With a tired gesture, he directed the hostages to stand at the
back of the store. He reinforced his hopeless attempt at commanding the
situation with a single wearily spoken command, "Get away from the
doors."
Ed had taken up a guarding position near the entrance rather than follow
James into the store itself. As he came to a stop, James gave him a
solemn pat on the shoulder. James had looked him in the eye, meaning to
say something comforting, wanting to ease Ed's conscience. The guard's
fingers were wrapped around his gun's grip so tightly that his
fingerprints would still be visible on it days later. But James knew his
words of comfort often came out broken and twisted, disgusting by nature
and about as comforting as a sack of dead kittens.
He kept his mouth shut.
Kat followed James into the store a pace behind his. Her eyes were wet
and staring accusingly at James' back. He didn't dare turn around to
confront her. He knew he'd gone too far. It was time to wait, and let
her to come to him.
Carl walked up to him first while the rest of the hostages drew back;
more from James' presence than from his command, no doubt.
Carl tapped James' elbow to get his attention, and asked, "What hell
just happened?"
The assassin leveled a stare at the Marine. "Are you blind? Didn't you
just see what happened? When a gun goes off, does not a bullet fly?"
James fought the urge to throw his hands helplessly in the air. "I shot
someone. What do you want, a rough sketch, the original 8mm film, and a
fucking reenactment?"
Carl drew back at the subtle fury rolling off of James' words. "Who," he
said slowly, not daring to ask a second question.
Now James felt like shooting the man. "One of--" he wouldn't use a
callus euphemism for a person to be quickly forgotten. He would not.
"--our people was killed. I killed the people responsible. I got rid of
the threat, you know."
Carl pointed in the direction of Peter. "Revenge for him?"
Kat spoke to James' profile. "You shot him...because he wasn't worth
your time."
James didn't flinch, didn't waver, didn't bat an eyelid. "Pretty much."
The hostages--his people, friendly people that had done nothing wrong
and didn't deserve to be here--were waiting, watching, and looking him
over. He suddenly knew what it was like to be a toaster oven on display,
being critically analyzed by every eye in the room.
They were looking for a savior.
"I need to make one thing perfectly clear right here, right now," James
said to the assembled. He noted Kat's eyes snapping to attention as she
focused raptly on his speech. "I am an assassin. I used to kill people
for money. I'm a professional at this, you see. Now, Peter was not
killed deliberately. That was just an accident. I want you to remember
that no one is after you all. No one. I want you to remember that the
people doing this...consider all of you expendable. That's right. Think
about it. Let it sink in. Fifty lives, useful only a distraction. You're
standing here just to distract me and the cops outside."
Kat was engraving every word onto her brain. Her hand itched for a tape
recorder.
"Now, it is important to state that I don't even know what this is
about. All I can say for certain is that these guys with guns are
looking for a man named Rick Genoni. They have mistaken me for him. They
want Rick Genoni alive, everyone else is cannon fodder. You, the guys
trying to capture me. The cops. Hell, if they figure out that I'm not
Rick Genoni, I'm expendable too. We're all faceless numbers here, and
the man running this little operation would kill us all as easily as
he'd swat a mosquito." James paused. His chest heaved, and his heart
beat like thunder. Even as his anger rose, his voice became ever more
calm and level. The word 'mosquito,' could have been read out of a
dictionary.
"In case anyone here hasn't been paying attention, let me reiterate some
important points. First, no one is after you guys. They're after someone
I haven't met, and it looks like no one in this room has any idea of who
this guy is. Now, we're all under the gun because someone else just
thought that maybe there was someone else in the same general area as
us. That's it. People are out there killing just because of where one
person may or may not be! Second, I'm going to stop them. As I said
before, I'm an assassin. What I can do here is help. I can stop them,
but that means killing them. I'm okay with that, it's what I did for a
long time. You guys probably don't like that idea, and I'm not saying
you should or have to, but that's what I'm going to do. You want to
help, I invite you to. You don't, cover your eyes and hide somewhere
safe. There's no shame in that."
"He's dead," Kat said, "Peter is dead."
With two simple words, she brought them all right to the third point.
James cursed reality. Reality sucked sometimes. "That's right. Peter's
dead."
"And you're going to go out there and kill more people," she pressed.
"Yes," James snapped, "It's horrible and vile and probably stupid, but
it's what I do. These soldiers, these mercenaries, they've got their
task. I've chosen mine task. I chose...don't forget that. They're just
following orders. Doesn't that make me worse?"
"You're both sort of in the same boat." She watched him, her eyes still
and voice level, focusing on him while her body literally trembled with
emotion; her communication with him like the eye of a hurricane. "His
name was Peter," she said quietly.
"And we don't even know the mercenary's name," James responded in kind.
Ed had strode back inside the store and stopped next to Kat, who looked
back out of the store's entrance, past Peter's body, and to the dead men
beyond. So many...
"So that's how it is," Carl said quietly.
James nodded. "We shouldn't forget any of them. We're all just piles of
organic matter once we're dead. Not good, not evil, just...there." His
words were weaker than a wet napkin, but nothing he felt like saying
could top the moving speeches of the leaders of past years, decades, and
centuries. War took many lives, and taught us that just because you
didn't know a man did not mean that he lived without family or friends.
No man was an island and all that.
James' phone started ringing. "Son of a bitch! I was just going
to...man, that totally ruined my dramatic moment."
Ed and Kat just gaped at James' mutterings, while Carl managed to just
barely suppress a laugh.
James brought the cell phone to his ear. "Hello?" The phone rang again.
James jerked it away from his ear, flinching at the noise. He peered at
the control pad of the device like a caveman examining a computer, and
answered the call with a cautious button press. When a portal to the
neither world failed to open and swallow him up, he put the blasted
contraption against his ear again. "Murder, Inc. Fast service, high body
counts, and low, low prices. Will this murder be paid for with cash,
credit, or sexual favors?"
"Do ever do anything like a normal person?" Said a familiar voice.
James was silent for a second, then it clicked. "The negotiator from
earlier."
There was a dry chuckle like rustling leaves from the phone. "Very good.
I'm Daniel Smith. We really didn't get the chance to talk earlier."
"Yeah, I was being an ass," James admitted sheepishly.
"How's that working out for you?" Dan said with an audible smile.
James put his hand over the microphone and mouthed 'police' to the
hostages. He waved Ed back to the doors before speaking into the phone.
"So far it hasn't won me a lot of friends. How's the weather out there?"
"Cold and windy. How are things inside?"
"Warm and quiet, except for the occasional shoot out. We've got one down
man and there's a bunch of dead bad guys laying around."
"That doesn't sound good," Dan said, "Are you sure there isn't something
else you'd like to tell me?"
James smirked, in spite of himself. "Tons of stuff, actually, but you'll
have to be more specific about what you want."
"Very well. What would you like in exchange for providing me with
information?"
"Would it be too much trouble to send in a pile of body armor and a
variety of weapons?"
"Probably, since we can't enter without the bombs..." he trailed off.
"I see." Direct one minute, coy the next. He was doing this every time
he wanted to change subjects. Subtle redirection? Don't ask, just hint
vaguely that he wants to change the flow of conversation? It was subtle,
polite. It made sense; a negotiator wasn't supposed to aggravate his
subject. 'Competent' was the word that came to mind when thinking of
Dan. James decided to bow to the man's conversational skills. "Well,
what would you like to talk about?"
"Can you tell me what's going on in there?"
"Be more specific, please, I have a lot to keep track of," James said.
"Well, who are you fighting?"
Ah, the gunfire. "There's a bunch of guys that keep attacking us in
here, and all look military. At first, I thought they were trying to
kill us, but it appears that they're trying to knock us out and tie us
up. So far we've killed every one of them that's stuck around to fight.
Questioned a few too, but they're very tight-lipped."
"You're saying your fighting mercenaries of some kind? Any
distinguishing marks? Uniforms? Dog tags?"
"No, but their weapons were US military issue and their fighting styles
and tactics gave them away. First Marines I think, then Navy SEALs, but
not very good ones. These last guys I swear are Army or something. I
haven't seen any of the Air Force, but it's still early."
"So, these are mercenaries drawn from US military forces?"
"Looks that way. They might not even be retired. A lot of them are very,
very young. Are they on leave? AWOL? Who knows." James blew out an
exasperated sigh.
"We'll be looking into that," Dan promised, "But in related news, no
word on Rick Genoni."
"Contact the FBI. Maybe he's got a record and you'll get lucky."
"You think he's an ex-con?"
"Not necessarily. He could have clearance for something. Maybe he was
doing vital work for the government and that's why these guys are trying
to catch him; pump him for information." James could hear the fact click
into place in Dan's mind right over the phone.
"I see. So how have they been trying to capture you?"
"I haven't let it get that far. Mostly they shout threats and point guns
at me. I suppose if it got far enough, they would be beating the ever-
living hell out of me at gunpoint for a while to see if I would crack."
"How very antisocial."
James shrugged, momentarily forgetting the gesture would be lost over
the phone. "So, a few minutes ago, one of the hostages here got killed.
Ed and I were on our way back back here and two soldiers were trying to
get the hostages herded away from us. Maybe they were--hell, I don't
know. Any way, one of the soldiers was going to fire a few warning shots
into the ceiling and kinda jumped the gun. Shot a guy named Peter in the
neck."
"I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but does Peter have a last name?"
Dan asked, his voice slipping into a 'cop' demeanor.
James put his hand over the mouthpiece and caught Kat's eye. It wasn't
hard; she was watching him like a cat locked in a closet with a rabid
pit bull. "Hey, do you know Peter's last name?"
Kat looked at the body, then back to James. "I didn't talk to him long
enough to find that out, James," she snapped at him.
"Just Peter for now, Dan," James said into the phone.
"We'll identify the body when we can get inside again," he said in that
careful official tone that was spoken by police the world over.
As if everything would be all right.
James was not a man who relished breaking down the illusions of others.
It was a perk, a pleasant side-effect of pursuing The Goal, but he
didn't dwell on it or enjoy it. Much. Shattering illusions was simply
shattering lies. If the lies were broken, there was a chance that the
truth could be realized. A lot of people needed to see the truth.
And sometimes the truth was a very ugly thing. James glanced at the body
and replied with a dis-hearted, "That's good."
Dan, apparently still in the grip of his own illusions, changed the
subject--bluntly. "Okay. Can I speak with Kate Dogson?"
"Kat? Yeah, hold on a second." James handed the phone to his old friend,
who looked at it like a rattlesnake offered by a murderer before taking
and slowly putting it to her ear.
"Dogson," her voice was all authority as she dabbed at the corners of
her eyes.
James watched her, wondering what illusions he had broken there.
----------
Kat watched, curious, as James talked to the police. There could not be
anyone else on the other end of that line. James would have verbally
torn into that bastard that put them in this situation without the
slightest bit of hesitation. Kat would cheer him on, too. The only other
people that called, she supposed, were the police, as James had given
them the number. He was explaining what had happened, listing his
suspicions. The question of where James had learned about the military
was easy for her to answer; he'd already revealed he was an assassin,
and the military was little more than a giant organization made up of
trained killers.
The knowledge didn't make her less afraid of either James or the army.
She'd seen what bullets could do to a person up close--closer than she
ever wanted to see. She had neither seen nor heard the approaching
bullet that carved Peter's life right out of his body in the blink of an
eye. James handled the guns he'd come across so casually, with such
familiarity...
On one level, she wanted desperately to pin him down and interrogate him
a hundred times more thoroughly than the police seemed content to. She
wanted to know his every secret. She wanted the answers to a thousand
questions that burned within her.
She took a moment to chide herself. If she continued down that lane of
thought, she'd have him on a leather couch, spilling his life story and
she'd be scarred for life. She knew James' family. She thought she knew
what cloth he was cut from once, she thought he was different, but an
assassin? She stomped out that train of thought. She'd learn what she
could.
Her thoughts drifted into even more dangerous territory next; Peter. The
dead man. Once a living, breathing person, though she was having a hard
time reconciling that pleasant man she talked with mere minutes ago (a
minute? How long had it been?) with the bloody body outside. She was
listing off his traits as if reading the back of a VHS case. Nice guy.
Medium height, brown hair. Shy but inquisitive personality, though not
pushy. Easily blended into the background.
She didn't want to think about this.
They were standing there, talking, and the subject moved inevitably to
James.
"Do you know him? He treats you like an old friend," Peter had said. She
added 'sharp mind' to the Peter video case.
"I dated him in high school," she had answered. There was a lot said in
those words, and more unsaid.
"So you don't know him at all," Peter said. He might have been speaking
metaphorically, but it hit Kat several levels at once, and that earned
him her respect.
She really didn't want to think about this.
"Of course I didn't," she chuckled, "He was a little odd, a little scary
sometimes, but he was just James. You never took him too seriously; he
was always kidding around. In fact, you got scared if he stopped kidding
around."
They were standing in the middle of a huge death trap surrounded by
armed killers and she made small talk about a dysfunctional high school
relationship. This was a pristine example of black humor.
She found then she didn't care what it was.
They talked a bit more, about what she couldn't say now.
And then he'd been shot.
And then, there was blood everywhere.
She almost couldn't think about this.
And then...he died.
And then James...
Kat swore under her breath, willing her thoughts to be once again under
her control. She was in shock, some idle part of her mind noted
clinically, take a breather. But she couldn't just be a detached
observer.
Her tumultuous thoughts stopped on that point. Like a corpse sliding
down a mud-slick hill and stopping suddenly as it comes upon a rogue
fence post, like a hummingbird hitting a window, like a mind...stumbling
upon a revelation. She wasn't detached observer Kat Dogson who wasn't
part of the situation, she was intimately involved human being Kat
Dogson. She wasn't in the action, she was part of the action; and she
was hurting.
She wanted the hurting to stop.
"Kat? Yeah, hold on a second," James said.
Startled, she hesitated as she reached out to take the phone.
She wanted to do something.
She blinked, feeling wetness at the corners of her eyes. The tears
seemed less important once she felt them with the tips of her fingers.
Silent, crystalline drops of water. Analogy and meaning escaped her at
the moment. Did those things even matter now? They seemed so
unimportant. She could feel James watching her as she brought the phone
to her ear. "Dogson."
"Hello," the voice at the other end of the line was dry and smooth and
kind. It was the aural equivalent of cinnamon and apple cider with a
warm hug from a favorite uncle. "I'm Daniel Smith, with the Kennewick
Police Department. The detectives you spoke to earlier wanted me to ask
you a few questions."
"Go ahead," Kat said.
"Can you tell me, specifically, what you knew about James and Ed's
relationship as you knew it prior to today?"
They were already investigating his past? An easy question. "As far as I
knew, they didn't know each other. Back when I was in high school, I
thought about introducing them a few times." She paused to gather her
memories, condense them, apply meaning to vague ghosts of images half a
decade old. "Ed was more introverted then, but a nice guy. He knew an
old boyfriend of mine, and we said 'hi' to each other and things like
that. He used to be so horrible at English, and since we had that class
together, I helped him out a bit. He improved a lot after I did, so it
only for a few weeks. It's funny, but even now I think he did better
just so he could stay away from me. I don't know where that came from,
he's a lot different now. More responsible, but less...spontaneous? He's
more..." She looked at the figure standing at the entrance. He was
pacing back and forth, his head scanning the area twice a second, free
hand flitting up and down his weapon like an insane bird on a leash.
Like some spark in him had died since they last talked. That had been
months...no, years ago. A chance meeting in a local grocery store,
behind an old lady who seemed to be having the worst luck. She made
pleasant, demurring noises as the woman wrote a check at a three-year-
old's pace. Ed stood behind her, trying to pace a hole in the floor two
feet away. He made a comment, a few actually. They chuckled nervously...
and they hadn't spoken since. She wanted to say that something had died
in him, something had clamped down on that flighty part of him, that
part of his awareness that floated up in the clouds was gone, but she
chickened out and said, "Mature."
"And James?"
And James. "Oh, I dated him for a while."
Like they were going to fall for that.
"What seems different about him now? You don't have to remember
anything, just what sticks out."
"He's...bigger." Kat blinked. She hadn't meant to say it like that, but
that word was what came to mind first, and it fit.
The voice contained more than a hint of mirth. "Bigger?"
"He's not any taller, and he's always been unusually strong for his
size, but there just...it just seems like there's so much more of him
now. He's got this presence. More confidence I guess. He moves more
smoothly, and he's always looking at strange things, looking at the way
people move, looking at the walls, the ceilings, everything."
"I see." But the cop didn't see. No one else did at all, otherwise they
would have been fighting the urge to stare at him like she did. Who
scanned the place like-- "Anything else?"
He's an assassin, she didn't scream. He's a trained killer on vacation,
she didn't say right into the phone. He's our last, best hope, and you'd
better back him up with your lives. She wished had the nerve to say
that, but at the same time, she knew antagonizing the police because she
wasn't feeling good would help no one. "He's more capable," she said,
biting off the words, "like he's an expert now. Certified and shit. I
think something snapped some sense into him. College, maybe?"
"Ah, yes. University of Reno, Nevada."
Nevada. University Reno, Nevada. She burnt the place into memory. "I did
not know that."
"He didn't talk about it?"
"We haven't been exactly holding a high school reunion, here."
"I understand, Ms. Dogson. Thank you for cooperation."
Maybe he did understand, being a cop. No, he was the negotiator; he'd
said it himself. "It's no problem."
She resisted the very tempting urge to make some snippy comment about
her facing down trained killers while he and his buddies hid outside,
safe, but it sounded petty even in her own head.
Reno. Nevada.
Something about that rang warning bells in her head. Giant 'The
Hunchback of Notre Dam' kind of skull-reverberating bells that could be
heard miles away. As she handed the phone back to James, she just wished
she knew why the bells were ringing.
----------
James took the phone back. Kat went back to ignoring him, tapping the
side of her jaw while her eyes stared blankly; deep in thought.
"Hello?"
"I'm still here, James. I've got just a few more questions."
"Go ahead."
"You graduated college in 1994, correct?"
"Yeah, I think that's right. Just two years ago."
"What have you done since then?"
"I've been a new college hire at a firm in North Dakota, called Mineral
West. They were part of Icon Mineral, based out of Pittsburgh or
someplace back east."
"You were a mechanical engineer?"
"Yeah, working on stainless steel ring seals for equipment connections."
"I see." Though he didn't, and James could hardly blame him. Talking
obscure engineering could even put him to sleep, and he had years of
training.
"One more. What was your original last name?"
And he thought the police couldn't surprise him, he thought wryly. Oh
boy, was he wrong. Naturally, he didn't have the slightest clue what his
last name was. "I don't remember."
"You don't remember?"
"I don't remember."
The kindness was gone. "Explain."
He had, of course, explained this a hundred times already. It was a
silly story, and even he would be suspicious if it hadn't happened to
him. "I got a severe head injury in an unsanctioned sparring match.
Happened back in college. The doctor mentioned there might be some
memory loss, but he was more worried that I wouldn't be able to talk, or
write, or things like that. You know, I haven't had a reason to
remember, but now that I think about it, I can't remember it at all. Oh
well, I have my original birth certificate in a safe deposit box."
"Wow, that's quite a story. You get in bouts like that often?"
"Just once or twice," James said casually.
"I'll be sure to make a note of that," Dan said, "Could I speak with one
of the hostages?"
"Preference on who?" James asked.
Dan was suddenly cagey. James wasn't sure if he was joking or not.
"Someone you haven't talked with yet."
James marched up the nearest hostage at random. She was a short woman,
the top of her head barely cresting his breastbone. She was petite,
almost fragile in appearance, with a fine bone structure framing a
delicate face. Huge brown doe eyes peered at him through wire-rimmed
glasses, and not a hair on on her head was out of place. Her clothing
was so clean that she looked to have just stepped out of a clean room to
stand in front of James, who could smell smoke, gun oil, and the
perfumed crap from his cheap laundry detergent still on his own clothes.
Resisting the urge to grin like a demon circling a virgin, he handed the
phone to her and said, in his most officious tone, "Police, ma'am. They
want to talk to you."
The perfect little face didn't flinch as she took the device from his
hand.
----------
Carl worked his way back to Jimmy and stood beside the taller Marine. A
tense expression was camped out on Jimmy's face. Carl was certain he was
wearing its twin.
"What the fuck is going on with that man?" Jimmy finally said, watching
James answer his phone with much grumbling.
Carl shrugged. This didn't make him feel comfortable. Not the situation;
not the details. On the battlefield, you ignored distractions. You paid
attention to your enemies, your allies, and yourself. Anything else you
ignored. You ducked your head down, listened to the mantras from Basic
running through your head, and if you were lucky, you lived.
James Rahn claimed to be an assassin--a professional killer. Carl was
only trained to kill--he didn't have a lot of experience, and he didn't
intend to get any more than he absolutely had to over the course of his
life--but he felt he had a few observations worth thinking over when it
came to James Rahn.
Firstly, the man was a headcase. Wouldn't a professional killer, in this
situation, slink into the shadows and strike without mercy as often as
possible and with whatever brutally was necessary? Would not a
professional wade through the bodies like skipping over mud puddles, a
concrete goal kept firmly in sight? James was walking around in the open
with a civilian tied to him at the hip. He was getting into shoot-outs
right in front of the hostages.
On the other hand, his insane plans were saving lives. When he first
went off, Carl figured he would be counting survivors on one hand when
he came back, but his antics were apparently keeping the forces within
the building almost completely occupied. How? Why? What was he doing out
there? The questions burned in Carl's mind, though he feared their
answers.
"Why isn't he just trying to take out the terrorists first?" Jimmy asked
from his right.
Carl stared at his friend. Was Jimmy reading his mind again? They had
been buddies in that hell-hole of a desert for fourteen months and
treated each other like brothers. Carl was staying at the Olvera house
for Thanksgiving. The boy lived his life according to strict rules and
with his methodical problem-solving skills. Was Jimmy about to drop a
bomb of insight that Carl had missed in his careful review of the events
so far?
Jimmy remained silent for another minute, until Carl was forced to prod
him along, "Isn't he?"
"He's gone after the explosives first. In this situation, it would be
safer to eliminate the soldiers and reduce his threats to one," Jimmy
pointed out.
"Yeah...he has no problem killing these guys. It's like he's giving them
a chance to fight back, drawing them out..." Jimmy was reading his mind
again.
"Stumbling into their ambushes like an amateur but coming out looking
like gold," the Marine was almost talking to himself.
"Something suspicious is going on here," Carl voiced their mutual
thoughts.
This is more than suspicious, Carl thought to himself. The pair stood
there, hands in pockets, lost in their own thoughts. It was James'
excursions that were drenched in mystery, and his contact with the
enemy--probably some of domestic terrorists from what Carl had heard so
far--was a complete mystery. What role did James play in this? That was
what he really wanted to know.
"We should be prepared," Jimmy said out of the blue.
"For what?"
"To eliminate the terrorists."
Carl had often wondered what it would be like to be in real combat with
the boy. Now they were, in a sense, in more real combat now than they
had ever been in Iraq. And Jimmy Olvera, Private First Class, was
pulling plans out of his ass.
"Why?" Carl asked.
"That removes some variables from the equation. With no armed enemy
sneaking around behind our backs, finding and diffusing the bombs--or
enacting an evacuation plan--will be easy. The situation right now makes
looking for the bombs more dangerous than skydiving without a
parachute."
Another short pause.
"Do you think James is deliberately stalling?" Carl asked.
Jimmy remained silent for moment, then, "I can't say, but why? Why would
he stall?"
Because he didn't care about the bombs? That made perfect sense with the
facts they had, but logical thought rebelled. Why come in here if he
didn't? Why the grandstanding? The speeches? The continuous battling
with the terrorists outside? If James truly didn't care about the bombs,
then he was only sticking around to...
And everything snapped together, the puzzle pieces forming a flawless
picture in his mind. James wasn't looking for the bombs. He was looking
for the terrorists.
James didn't know what was going on either. His actions were random,
trying to draw out his opponents...
To question them.
It was insane, but it made sense.
Carl hated plans like that.
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