The Sword of Damocles

 

“Everywhere around me

I see jealousy and mayhem

Because no men have all their peace of mind

To carry them”

                                               Steely Dan

ONE: BLUE FIN CONSULTING

The retirement party for Phillip Ross was held at a large bar in downtown Washington. Leaving as the Deputy Director of the NSA, the party attracted spooks, high-ranking civil servants, and even a few politicians, all Democrats.

Ross had faithfully served the department for twenty solid years, running agents all over the country, dealing with countless planned insurrections and manic political machinations. He was next in line for the directorship and if he had held on for another year or two that’s just where he would have been. 

But Ross had carefully observed his boss, James Whitcomb, and saw how that job wore him down to practically a nub. Ross was only fifty one years old and had no intention of spending the, hopefully, second half of his life slowly melting into the ocean of political pressure that the top job in any government agency brought with it.

When one of his closest friends and allies, democratic senator Winters Roland Winters who had grown up in  Richmond Virginia, along with Ross, and was very much a big brother as well as political ally, walked over and gave him a friendly hug, Winters said, quietly. “Now we’ll really get a chance to kick some ass, Phil.”

Ross just smiled because of all the eighty plus people in the room, Winters was the only one who know about his going forward plan to open a consultancy, that would help the Democrats, who currently had a firm grip on the government, maintain that grip against all comers.

The only ‘civilian’ in the crowd was Ross’ twenty-two year- old daughter Marlena, who was a graphic designer and had recently completed the process of moving from DC where she was currently working, back home to Richmond to set up her own design company. 

She knew Richmond was a little out of the way, but the  fact that she was Ross’ daughter gave her a certain amount of clout with some of the larger democratic-owned businesses in the US. Marlena had no problem at all with the nepotistic nature of how things were going to move forward for her. In her mind, business was business. She was a good designer and an outstanding strategic thinker so, nepotism aside, she would add a good deal of value to the businesses she worked for.

The next day, Marlena, whose business was already set up in an older building in downtown Richmond and was living in the family home on the north side, took the one-hour drive down from DC, Her father would follow in a rented van, which housed his desk and office chairs and all the files he was allowed to bring with him. He too was set up, having done most of the work during the one-month notice period he gave at the NSA, in which the only work he was allowed to do was train his hand picked successor. 

His core team in Richmond was small at the moment, but it would grow along with his business. 

After arriving back home in Richmond and setting up his office, Ross contacted his best friend, Alvin Tuttle and a fellow named Damon Reece who ran a local digital marketing company, which was a plausible cover for his real business which was industrial strength hacking. They got together for lunch at a diner across from the offices of the recently named Blue Fin Consulting to talk things over, make some plans and generally get organized into what would eventually become a highly effective underground army in the service of any Democratic government or business that needed help in any of a dozen different ways, some legal, others not so much.

TWO: JACKSON LYALL

Jackson Lyall was sitting at a counter in what looked to be a garage of some sort. It was, in reality, a small freestanding building in the industrial area of Richmond, Virginia. Jackson was wearing a denim shirt and his light brown hair was short, growing out from the brush cut that most US Marines sported. 

Jackson had strong, angular facial features and he looked a bit older than his twenty-eight years, the last eight of which were spent in the service of his country. The room he was sitting in was lit with a single overhead bulb, behind him, which made his face almost a shadow in the liquid crystal screen of the computer, as he spoke.

“The first thing you need to know about me is that I am a killer. Not a murderer, but a killer. I spent eight years in the US Marine Corps training and then killing the enemy. In my case, mostly Taliban and other members of radical Islam. I killed a lot of them from a safe distance. 

I watched them die through a scope from anywhere between a couple hundred and a thousand yards away. Those bastards never knew what hit them. I was good at killing. They gave me a couple of medals and promoted me to Gunnery Sergeant. But the worst part of all was that I loved every minute of it. 

Every raghead I killed gave me a little thrill that lasted all the way to the next kill. Oddly enough, ever since that first kill, I was looking for a way out. Then one day, through a stroke of the purest luck, I found it. I waited till the end of my hitch and I pulled the plug and disappeared myself, or so I thought, believing I could leave it all behind and make a new life. 

Guess it just goes to show you how wrong you can be sometimes.

~~~~~~~~~~

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

It was a few hours before dawn in Afghanistan. There was a waning full moon in the southern sky, so it wasn’t completely dark. Two black Toyota SUVs moved down a two-lane road heading south out of the town of Khost. Three US Marines were in the lead vehicle, and two civilian contractors were in the rear. There was sporadic chatter between the two vehicles. 

After a time, they came to a small rise in the road and pulled over to the side. One of the Marines took a 50-calibre rifle from the back of the second Toyota. His code name was Stan. He and a second marine, code-named Ollie, quietly scrambled up the hillock. 

From their point of view, they saw a small concrete block structure, approximately four metres square, and three hundred metres away. Parked at the side of the hut was an older Toyota truck with a large machine gun mounted into the bed. Behind the gun sat a Taliban soldier, scanning the area with a pair of night vision binoculars. 

Stan flattened himself into his shooting position. He flipped open his scope and peered through it scanning the entire area. As he did so, he spotted a second Taliban, walking out from behind the building. The Taliban walked to the truck and bummed a cigarette from the man sitting beside the gun. He lit his cigarette, exchanged a few words with his comrade and continued his almost pointless patrol around the building.  

On the hillock, Ollie was lying beside the shooter. His hand was cupped over his ear and he was listening to something coming through his earbud. “One on the truck. One walkin’ around, that’s all. Range: 314 yards Ollie whispered.  

Stan whispered back. “Roger that.”

“Heading back down.” Ollie said. “Take’em sooner rather than later, so we can get home for breakfast.”

“Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.” Stan said as he sighted the Taliban in the truck. He measured his breathing and waited for the second Taliban to come around the building. As he appeared, Stan fired at the Taliban in the truck. A direct hit. The force of the 50mm bullet blew his chest apart. The second Taliban froze for just a second or two. But that was long enough for Stan, whose second shot hit him in the side of his torso and blew him sideways into the truck. Stan got to his feet and marched down the hill to the waiting SUVs.

“If the drone jockey got it right, it’s all clear down there.” he said as he arrived at the truck and stashed his weapon. 

The men climbed into the vehicles and drove down the road. They pulled up in front of the building. It was made of concrete bricks and had a thick metal door and no windows anywhere. One of the Marines brought an infrared X-ray camera to the door. He moved it slowly up and down. He then turned to Stan and shook his head. The men backed the vehicles up to about a hundred metres. Stan rested his rifle on the hood of one of the vehicles and fired at the door. The lock exploded and the door blew open. The men moved the vehicles in closer. Two of the Marines entered the structure and gave the all-clear. Inside there were several wooden crates. The Marine with the infrared camera, scanned the boxes and found nothing to indicate a booby trap. The Marines cracked open the cases and took pictures of the contents mostly older Russian AK47s, grenades and several Israeli Desert Eagle pistols. They loaded the munitions into the back of the contractors’ SUV.

After the weapons were loaded, the two contractors headed back the way they came, leaving the three Marines to clean up. As they began to drag the bodies into the small building, one of the soldiers inside the hut started to poke at the earthen floor with a small shovel. He heard a slightly hollow sound. He dug down a few inches until his shovel hit wood. He kept digging until he had unearthed a trap door. The Marine with the infrared camera flashed it all over the surface of the door and gave his comrade a thumbs up.

The Marines gathered around the door as the trap door was pried open. A light was flashed into the pit below which was lined with thick plastic. In it, wrapped in cellophane were close to 200 bricks of what looked to be heroin or cocaine. There were also several other plastic small bags filled with gold coins, jewelry and currency from a couple of different countries.

Ollie jumped down into the pit and picked up one of the bricks. “Feels like a kilo per brick. Maybe close to 200 bricks. This is not small potatoes.” he said. 

Stan, who was the leader of the patrol, took a deep breath. 

“Why the fuck would anybody stash that kind of weight here?” Ollie asked.

“We can debate Taliban logic later. Stan said. “Let’s just get this shit loaded and stashed.”

The men formed a line and loaded the bricks and other contraband into their vehicle. They then dragged the bodies in and dumped them into the hole where the powder and other goodies used to be. They smashed the 50 mm cannon on the truck with a sledgehammer.  As they left, they poured a jerry can of gasoline over the bodies and set them on fire. Then they drove off into the dawn.

Four months later. Marine Gunnery Sargent William Farrell, aka Stan, was outside the terminal building in Kabul. He was rolling a gold coin around through the fingers of his right hand. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots. A leather jacket was draped over his duffle which was sitting next to him. He was sitting with several other soldiers, with legs stretched out and duffles beside them.

Long story short, that dope and the other goodies we took from the Taliban never made it back to base. Call it a performance bonus. I won’t tell you how much it was worth because you wouldn’t believe me. But it was more than enough to finance a new identity and pretty decent new life outside the corps. Through the larceny and contacts of one of my crew, we were all three checking out of this man’s military as well-off individuals.

After a few minutes, William Farrell got to his feet, pulled on his jacket and shouldered his duffle. He walked toward a C 130 sitting on the tarmac with its big belly opened up.

My name is Jackson Lyall. It’s a new name and I’m still getting used it. But that will pass. Part of the responsibility of having the kind of money I now have is making sure that nobody can trace it back to the guy I used to be...

Jackson found a place along a long row of bench spots inside the C130 and strapped in. He nodded to the guy next to him. They introduced themselves and shook hands. An Army corporal walked down the line of passengers giving out headphones. Everybody took one, because the takeoff would be eardrum shattering.

A very good forger in Lahore was able to create an excellent-looking identity package. Birth certificate, Marine discharge form, and Virginia driver’s licence. He even changed the colour of my hair and shaved my beard. I honestly didn’t recognize myself.

The plane’s engines fired up. The ramp at the rear of the big transport plane pulled closed. The sound was deafening on the ground and through takeoff. Once it achieved altitude, the noise level dropped somewhat. Inside the plane, the men took off their headsets and started to shoot the breeze with their neighbours.

All I had to do is make it to Richmond without any hassle, and I was home free. Or at least that was the plan.

THREE DAYS LATER

Jackson got off the Amtrak from Washington in Richmond, Virginia. He entered the terminal and walked through to the other side. He came out onto Glenside Drive, and walked to a Hampton Inn & Suites Hotel.

A few minutes later, Jackson opened the door to his room and tossed his duffel on the bed along with a couple of local newspapers. He took off his jacket and flopped down on the second bed and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, he shaved his beard, took a long hot shower, and put on his other jeans and shirt. He headed down to the half-empty dining room. He loaded up his plate, filled his coffee cup and found a table in the corner, where he scanned the newspaper classifieds, making notes while he ate.

After breakfast, Jackson took a cab downtown and went into a BankAmerica branch. Using his new ID he sat with an account manager and saw about having the money in his Zurich account transferred to his branch. The manager looked over his ID and arranged the transfer of $600,000 to a savings account and $250,000 to a checking account. 

“I was notified of this inheritance about two months ago. It was deposited in this Swiss account, and I was given the account number. I was astonished, to say the least.” Jackson said, lying through his teeth.

“It’s a pretty substantial amount, Mr. Lyall. You might want to consider sitting down with one of our investment people.” the manager, whose name was Gil Chambers, said.

“That’s a possibility after I get myself settled in.”

“Well, we thank you for choosing BankAmerica. I’ll take care of the transfer and we should be able to issue you a credit card and bank card as soon as tomorrow.

“Is there any limit to the amount of cash I can withdraw at one time? I’ll be buying a car, and renting a house and a workshop.”

“That shouldn't be a problem,” Gil said. “We’ll make your bank card a fifty thousand dollar limit.” He handed Jackson a business card. “Just ask for me, and we’ll make sure you’re taken care of. You’ll like Richmond. Lots of good people here.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The two men shook hands and Jackson left the bank. 

Jackson spent the rest of the day, walking around downtown Richmond and getting a feel for the place he was planning to call home. He returned to the bank the next day. He collected his credit card and debit card, and a stack of cash, which he stuffed into his backpack.

Determined to get things done, and get himself settled, he called about a fairly new Jeep Cherokee for sale and made an appointment to see the owner. Then he saw an ad for a house for rent and made an appointment to see that too.

The next day, Jackson took a cab to go look at the three-year-old Jeep Cherokee. He dickered with the owner a bit then they shook hands on a price, which Jackson promptly counted out and handed to the man in exchange for the ownership papers and keys. The Cherokee owner, a guy named Dave, gave Jackson the name and number of his insurance agent, who would transfer the car’s insurance. Jackson told him he would call the agent as soon as he had a fixed address.

Jackson then drove to a local mall and a couple of hours later he came out with several bags of clothing and footwear. After a quick lunch at a local Arby’s, he drove to a quiet street south of the downtown core.

He parked in front of a bungalow where a woman was waiting by her car in the driveway. She looked to be in her early fifties. They shook hands and the woman opened the door to the house and they both went in.

The woman, whose name was Claire, told Jackson that this was her parents’ house and that her mom had just gone into a managed care facility. She was going to sell the house, but she wasn’t quite emotionally ready to do that just yet. Jackson took a look at the place. It was nicely furnished in an old folks’ kind of way, but it had three bedrooms, lots of light, a finished basement and a nice back deck. Jackson had never had to rent a house before so to him the place looked just fine. He agreed to a six-month lease. Claire told him she would write up a letter of agreement and that as soon as that was signed he could move in.

Jackson made two more stops before heading back to the hotel. The first was to an Apple store where he bought himself MacBook Pro and an iPhone. One of the kids in the store set it up for him and made him an account with the store, and with a company called Adobe, which made Photoshop. The kid also showed him how the iPhone worked and set him up with a local number. Jackson was fascinated with what the kid was doing and realized just how long he had been out of touch with the world.

The following day Jackson signed the lease agreement and handed Claire eighty-five hundred dollars in cash to cover the rent and utilities. In addition to a copy of the lease agreement, Claire gave him the name of the cable and internet provider. Jackson thanked her and then backed the Jeep into the driveway and unloaded his gear. For the rest of the day, he made a list of the food and other stuff he would need. Then headed out for more shopping.

That evening, Jackson drove around the neighbourhood, doing some recon. He was looking for something that might be a local hangout, where he could meet some people, and maybe make some connections, even a friend or two. In his travels down West Main Street, he found a place called Rudy’s. He parked in a lot at the side, where there were several other cars parked.

He stood inside the doorway and looked around. There was an L-shaped bar in the back, with several round tables in front of it. Off to the right were three pool tables, and a bank of video games. The place was not quite full of diners and there was a small cluster of younger guys and girls shooting pool and playing video games. The vibe he felt from the place was pretty laid back. So he walked up to the bar, which was almost empty and sat down on a stool. He took a menu from the end of the bar and started looking through it. The bartender came over. He was an older guy with bright eyes and a bunch of curly reddish-greyish hair. His name was Rudy Phillips.

“Welcome to Rudy’s, soldier, What can I get you to drink?”

“Coors Lite in a bottle if you have it.” Jackson said

“We sure do.”

Rudy turned around and slid open the door to a cooler. He pulled out a bottle of Coors Light, unscrewed the top and put it on the bar with a glass.

“No glass necessary.” Jackson said.

“One less glass to wash. How’d you happen on my place?” 

“I just rented a house over in Woodland Park.” 

“Well, welcome to the neighbourhood. Rudy Phillips.”  Rudy extended his hand and they shook. 

“Jackson Lyall.”

“Army or Marines, Jackson Lyall?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Army. Captain. Vietnam.” Rudy said.

“Marines. Sergeant. Afghanistan.” Jackson replied.

“Two shitty wars. Too many dead amigos.” Rudy said.

Jackson raised the bottle. “Fuckin’ A, Rudy. Lost a few myself.”

Rudy put his head down and then took a deep breath. Then he took the menu that Jackson had picked up. “If you didn’t come for the ribs, then what the hell are you doing here, soldier?”

“I came for the ribs, sir.’ Jackson replied in his best army voice.” Bring on those bad boys.”

A pretty waitress named Josephine, but everybody seemed to call her Josie, scurried around taking care of the table diners as Rudy and Jackson chatted at the bar while Jackson ate his ribs, which were the first ribs he’d had in a hell of a long time. They were spicy and tender, and though Jackson always believed you couldn’t fall in love with food, he was seriously rethinking that notion.

“So you want to start a photography business?” Rudy asked.

“That’s the plan. I took a lot of pictures in Afghanistan. That country really gets a bad rap. A lot of it is quite beautiful.”

“Vietnam was beautiful too. But we managed to fuck up most of it.”

“Yeah, well… So tell me about this place. Have you always owned it?”

“Naaa, I was in trucking for twenty years. Sold out for enough to cover my old age and buy this joint. It’s kinda like a hobby farm. I don’t need to work,  just don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t.”

“I hear you, sir.”

“So if you’re gonna be starting a business here, you need to get connected to somebody who can help you put your best foot forward.”

“Sounds like you’re about to suggest someone.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. There’s a young lady who comes in here quite regularly, name of Marlena Ross. She showed me some of her design work one time. Quite impressive, plus the lady is, well, she’s what we used to call a looker.”

“Marlena Ross? OK. I’ll look her up.”

“You can grab one of her cards on the rad under the bulletin board by the door.”

Jackson plowed through his ribs and baked potato and small green salad. When he was done, he pulled out his Visa card and slapped it on the bar. 

“Oh, no. First meal is on the house, son.” Rudy said.

“OK, well that’s mighty nice of you.”

The two men shook hands, and Jackson walked to the door. Beside the door, he saw a large bulletin board festooned with pictures of people and business cards and little for-sale signs. He spotted a business card with the image of a beautiful-looking dark haired woman on it. It read, ‘Marlena Ross, Web & Graphic Design’. He didn’t see any cards other than the one that was pinned there so he took a shot of the card with his iPhone and headed out the door. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Capitol Mall in Washington, DC was crawling with tourists as was usually the case on a bright summer day. 

Phillip Ross entered the mall looking like just another businessman taking a break. He found a bench that was away from the crowd and sat down.  Ross was a well-dressed man in his mid fifties and a former Deputy Director of the NSA. He turned down the directorship more than five years earlier and went into corporate security. There he set about solving problems, large and small, for whoever had the problem and the bucks to have it solved efficiently and effectively. He was one of those people you could drive right across the country with and never find out what he did because most of it was over on the dark side. After all, he was a career spook, and that’s what they were about.

Meetings like this only meant two things to Ross. One was that the government needed to have something done that could not leave so much as a partial thumbprint. And two, it would be a pretty substantial payday.

After a few moments, an older man with a shock of white hair and two younger men in suits and sunglasses walked toward the bench where Ross was sitting. The older man sat down beside Ross. The two younger men flanked either side of the bench out of earshot. The older man was Roland Winters, the ranking Democrat in the US Senate.

“How are you, Phillip?”

“Fine sir, and yourself?”

“I’m OK. Can’t complain. And how’re those kids of yours, Marlena and Marcus, isn’t it?”

“They’re fine too. Marlena’s got a little design studio in Richmond, so we see each other quite often. And Marcus, last I heard, was in Thailand. Workin’ his way around the world.”

“That’s good, Phil. Families should stick close to each other these days.”

“I’m sure you didn’t arrange this little meeting just to shoot the breeze. What’s on your mind, sir?”

“Well, quite a bit. You remember all the nonsense that went on after the 2020 election. Storming the Capitol and all that other insurrection.”

“Everybody remembers that, sir. It was a sad day for the Republic.”

“Well, things are going pretty well right now and we want to keep ‘em like that.” 

“I can’t imagine you’d want it any other way, sir.”

“No, I wouldn’t. This is why I’m talkin’ to you right now.” Winters reached into his suit coat and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Ross, who opened it up and saw a list of names, addresses and titles. 

“These are the heads of all some of the worst right-wing extremist groups in the country.” Winters said. “We’ve thought a lot about this and the only solution that has any chance of succeeding is the option that involves you.” 

Ross folded up the pages and put them back in the envelope. He slipped the envelope into his suit pocket.

“Time frame?”

“Nothing fixed. A few months or so. We’d like to be in good shape popularity-wise by the midterms. I know it gets harder as the numbers pile up.” 

“You’re right about that. But there are always ways to get anything done.”

Winters chuckled. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I told him you’d say. We just need plausible deniability. And, as usual, you will always have a get-out-of-jail-free card. At least you won’t be out there slogging through some third-world shithole.”

“There’s always that, Senator.” 

“At the bottom of that page is a cell number where I can be reached if you have any questions. Only use it if you have to. I don’t want to know too much. We have allocated six million for your consulting service.”

 With that, Senator Winters got to his feet, and with his two faithful secret service eunuchs, headed down the Mall to the Capitol.

Ross sat on the bench for a long time thinking it through. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson was driving north of Richmond. He came to a place called Ann Wright’s Corners, which was just a general store with a fruit stand beside it and a couple of old barns.

A few seconds later, he spotted a sign with the words Tuttle’s Gun Range neatly hand-painted on it. He turned onto the dirt road and drove through the woods until he came to a small parking lot. As he got out of the Jeep he heard the sound of rifles firing from somewhere behind the squat concrete building that had a duplicate of the road sign on the upper right-hand corner.

He headed around the building in the direction of the arrow at the bottom of the sign.. He came to a seating area with several tables scattered around. Half of them were populated with pairs and groups of guys all drinking beers and chatting with each other. They all had the look of tough, hardened Virginians, with ammo vests, and hats from various branches of the armed forces. Their rifles were leaning on small racks adjacent to the tables where they sat. 

Nobody paid much attention to Jackson as he entered the building. 

Inside the building, there were more tables. Nobody was sitting at them except an older guy, balding and dressed in khaki slacks and a plaid shirt. He was staring intently at the screen of a laptop. When he noticed Jackson he jumped to his feet and walked over to him.

“Howdy, my friend. Welcome to Tuttle’s. I’m Tuttle”, the man said extending his hand. Jackson shook it. 

“Jackson Lyall, sir.”

“OK…Well Jackson Lyall, what brings you to Tuttle’s on this fine summer day?”

“Well, I was told about your range by a young fellow named Tyler Reeves.”

Tuttle scratched his head and then smiled. “I remember Tyler. A real piece of work. Last I heard he’d joined the armed forces and shipped out to Afghanistan.”

“I met him flying back from there.”

“So you’re a soldier?” 

“Yes sir.  Eight years in. Just checked out. Last stop Afghanistan.”

“Crazy shit over there. None of the boys who came back had anything good to say about it.”

“That makes sense. It was not the best of all possible worlds.”

Tuttle motioned Jackson to a chair opposite where he was sitting. He closed his laptop and sat down in his chair.

“So what was your specialty?”

“I was a Marine sniper, sir.”

“Aha. Guess you have some stories.”

“Yeah…all of which are classified.”

Tuttle laughed. Jackson laughed along with him. Then Jackson turned in his chair and looked at the gun rack on the wall behind the counter.”

“That’s quite a selection you have there.” 

“I used to have a gun shop up in Fredericksburg, but when this property came up for sale ten years ago, I pounced on it.”

“You sell anything in the 50 cal range? I was using an AI AS50 for my last hitch. Really liked it.”

“Now that’s a British cannon. Not a lot of demand for something that big. The ammo has more to do with it than the gun. It ain’t cheap. Plus this range is only about 550 yards deep. But you must have been some shooter if that was your pet piece.”

“I got my share, sir. Maybe a little bit more.”

“Where you from originally, son?”

“I grew up in a little town in Louisiana, close to Shreveport. My mom and dad died young, so I was raised by a foster family on a farm outside the town. ” 

“How’d you end up in the Marines?”

“Just walked into a recruiting centre and signed up. I couldn’t see livin’ in Louisiana for the rest of my life.”

“And why leave now? I mean eight years is a good chunk of a career.”

“I came into some money recently, so I just put in my papers and was discharged comin’ up on two weeks ago.”

“Well, you’re a free man now, son.”

“Yes sir, I am indeed.”

“OK, well I can show you some rifles I think a sniper might like to play with. By the way, you never mentioned what you do for work.”

“No sir, I didn’t. I took a lot of pictures when I was overseas and kinda got the bug. So I thought I’d try my hand at it.”

“But why Richmond, this the boondocks as far as big-time photography goes.”

“I really had no place to come back to. So I quite literally threw a dart at a map of the US and it stuck close to Richmond. And here I am.”

Tuttle chuckled.

“I am also interested in keeping my skills up.”

Tuttle got to his feet. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, Jackson Lyall. Why don’t we get you outfitted with a good 30-cal long gun that you can practice with.” 

“Sounds like a plan, sir.” 

Jackson followed Tuttle to the counter. There was a young kid sitting behind the register. He just sat and watched as Tuttle and Jackson looked over the guns for sale. Jackson scanned the rack and then pointed to a rifle that caught his eye. 

“This here’s called the Ridgeline Scout from Christensen Arms,” Tuttle said. “It’s a bolt action piece that’s lightweight and compact. This one has black-nitride-coated action, MOA optic rail, barricade stop, 10-round AICS drop-box magazine and flat-shoe Trigger Tech trigger. Weighs in at just under 6 pounds and I can get it configured for .300 BLK, .223 Remington. 6.5 Creedmore or .308 Winchester. It’s also got a 16-inch muzzle-threaded barrel suppressor if you like. And in the right hands, it’s deadly accurate up to 1200 yards. 

Jackson only held the gun for a few seconds and he knew he’d found his weapon of choice. Jackson just smiled. “This is a beautiful piece.” Jackson said “I’d also like a scope with that. Zeiss if you’ve got one that will fit, and the suppressor too.  If I decide to practice out in the woods, I don’t want to be making a lot of noise. And probably the Winchester .308 configuration.”

“That would have been my reco, son. It’ll take about three days for the gun, we can talk about scopes once we have the rifle. You’ll be looking at somewhere between forty-five hundred and five grand.”

“Fair enough”, Jackson said. He wrote his name and phone number on a small pad beside the register and handed it to Tuttle. 

“You want a down payment?” 

“No, we’re good. Let’s just make sure you’re happy with the piece.” But I will need some ID so I can apply for the permit.”

Jackson took out his wallet, and Tuttle used his cell phone to take a picture of his driver’s licence. Even though he was operating under an assumed name, his contact in Pakistan assured him that his people had hacked into the Virginia DMV and registered him. When Jackson asked the man how he did that, the only response he got was that it was much easier than he might have thought. Nobody in that business was giving a damn thing away.

Jackson shook hands with Tuttle and headed back into Richmond. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Jackson, pulled into a small parking lot beside a large brick house on East Broad Street. He entered the building and walked down a short hallway to the entrance to Marlena Ross Web & Graphic Design.

Jackson knocked on the door and opened it. Marlena Ross turned around. She was sitting with her bare feet up on the table. She was looking out the window and talking to someone on her headset, while she played with her long, dark hair. When she saw him, she disconnected from her call and got to her feet. She was tall and willowy and wearing a loose cotton skirt and a sleeveless top. Her eyes were as dark as her hair. And her skin was almost a shade of gold. She was definitely, Jackson thought, the product of a mixed marriage. Jackson was immediately attracted to her.

“Hi. You must be Jackson Lyall.” Marlena said. 

“I am indeed. And you must be Marlena.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jackson Lyall.” Marlena extended her hand and Jackson shook it gently. Her skin was very soft to the touch. “Come on in.” she said.

The office was essentially a large open space with a small meeting table in one area and a large workspace running along the outside wall. Closest to the door was a seating area with a sofa and a couple of chairs. The back wall of the office was covered from floor to ceiling with corkboard, with designs, logos, website home pages and packaging prints tacked to it. 

Marlena led him over to the meeting table where they sat down.

“That’s a beautiful name, Marlena.”

“Thank you. I’m named after my grandmother, who was Spanish.”

“Well, that explains why you don’t look like someone named Ross.”

Marlena laughed. Jackson turned to look at the wall behind him.

“That’s some pretty nice-looking work you have there.” 

“Well thank you, sir.”

“Have you been at this a long time?”

“About eight years, give or take. Would you like a drink? A soda or some coffee?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

Jackson got to his feet and walked over to the cork wall.

“So, tell me, Jackson Lyall…that’s a great name by the way. Is that your real name or a nom de plume?”

“No that’s the name I’ve been carrying forever. I thought about shortening it to Jack. But Jack Lyall sounds more like a curse word than a name.”

“I’ll say. I like Jackson. It’s got some authority to it. But anyway, tell me about what you’re looking for.”

Jackson sat back down. “OK. I just left the Marine Corps, literally about two weeks ago and decided to settle here in Richmond. I’d heard some good things about the city and since I didn’t have a home per se. I thought, let’s give it a try. When I was overseas, I got into taking pictures, with a cheap digital camera I brought with me. I kinda got hooked on it, and thought if I ever left the corps I would move to someplace warm and start a photography business.”

“What kind of pictures did you take overseas?”

“A lot of stuff in and around Kabul, where we were stationed. People stuff, some of the architecture….a little bit of everything really.”

“OK, well I’d love to see some of those shots. It would help me focus on an identity for you.”

Jackson reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a weather-beaten single lens Minolta camera and a USB cord.

Marlena took it and walked over to her computer. She opened up the camera’s picture file and started looking through it. She motioned for Jackson to pull up a chair beside her, and together they went through the images. After seeing a couple dozen of the images, she turned and looked at him.

“Wow…you have a very good eye, Jackson. These are pretty amazing images. Hard to believe you shot them all with this little shitbox camera.”

“It’s all I had to work with. But I bought the Minolta because it had a lot of memory and the images are all pretty big. We were travelin’ light over there.”

“I’m gonna download these to play with.” She started copying the files onto her hard drive. “This is exciting.” She swivelled over to the table and grabbed a pad and a pen, then slid back.  “So basically you need a name for your company, a portfolio website design and a business card. I can do that for you. There’s a programmer upstairs I work with who can build the site. There’s also an SEO guy up there if you ever want to market more aggressively.

“SEO…what’s that?”

“Search engine optimization. It’s a way to get a high ranking on the search engines. So people can find you easier online.”

“All right. Well, it seems I have come to the right place.”

“You sure did. This is fabulous work. We’re gonna have some fun. Do you have a name for your company? Because I think you should probably just use your name. I can make it look very cool graphically, and it’s a pretty memorable name.  

“You’re the expert.” Jackson said.

“If you don’t mind, was wondering how you found out about me?” Marlena asked.

“I took a picture of your card over at Rudy’s Roadhouse.”

“I love Rudy’s. The ribs are amazing. So’s everything else. He’s a cool guy, Rudy is.” She smiled at Jackson, and Jackson felt something weird but not crazy weird. Just nice weird.  

“OK.” He said, snapping himself back out of the fantasy that was blooming in his brain. “You can use any images you like except anything with soldiers’ faces. My CO advised me strongly against publishing those in any way.”

Marlena’s computer dinged. She unhooked the USB connector and handed the cable and camera back to Jackson.

“OK, last communications question,” Marlena said. “What kind of photography are you interested in doing?”

“Well, I suppose I would just do more of the same. I don’t want to have any kind of studio and shoot packages of stuff. I’m much more interested in people and places. I don’t know if that’s a good explanation.”

“It’s fine. Let me think about that. Do you mind me asking what exactly you did in the Marines?”

“Not at all. I was a sniper. My job was to cover the men in my squad whenever they engaged the enemy.” 

“Were you good at it?”

“Yeah, I suppose I was. Never lost a single brother in more than seven years of doin’ the job.”

“It didn’t bother you that your job was killing people like that?” 

Jackson leaned back in his chair for a moment. “Well let me put it to you this way. If you knew someone was going to kill you if they could, what would you do to keep that from happening?”

“OK, I get your point. Kill or be killed.”

“Pretty much.”

Jackson got up, as did Marlena. She walked him to the door. Jackson handed her a slip of paper with his phone number on it. “As you of all people know I don’t have a business card yet. So you can call me and we can arrange to get together and look at what you’re thinkin’.”

“First I’d like to cost this all out for you.”

Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, if you like. But I’ll be happy to pay you whatever you think is fair.”

Marlena laughed a short little laugh. “You know, in the whole time I’ve been doing this no one has ever said that to me.” 

Jackson looked at her. “I have no frame of reference for any of this stuff. But I do know people and you strike me as someone who's quite honest. So what it costs is what you believe it’s worth.” 

“Ummm Okay. But I will explain the costs to you when you come back. Give me a couple of days. Let’s say, Friday.”

“Friday it is.” Jackson said, then turned and walked out the door. Then he turned. “I’m off to buy myself a new camera, and this time it won’t be a shitbox.”

“Well, that’s good. No shitboxes allowed. Bring some more shots when we get together. It will be good to have some stateside stuff.”

“All right I will. Nice to meet you, Marlena.”

“Same here. You’re an interesting fellow Jackson Lyall, Marine sniper.”

Jackson chuckled as he walked out the door. He raised his hand to wave goodbye.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Jackson was sitting at his dining room table downloading the software to allow him to retouch photos on his laptop. His new camera, a small Nikon, with a 35 to 110 zoom, was over on the kitchen counter, charging. 

 As he was downloading the software, his phone rang. It was Tuttle informing Jackson that his gun had arrived and that his license had been approved. Jackson told him he would drive out to pick it up. As he was hanging up his computer dinged, indicating that his camera software was uploaded. He closed the computer, unhooked the camera, which was now fully charged, put it in his shoulder bag and headed out the door.

Half an hour later, he turned off at the Tuttle’s Gun Range exit.

Tuttle laid out the equipment that Jackson had chosen: the Christiansen Arms Scout rifle, a cleaning/oiling kit; a couple of different scopes, a pair of 5 lb. sandbags, four .308 ten-load magazines, 2 boxes of .308 loads and a shoulder carrying pouch, etc. After he chose the scope and Tuttle totalled the purchase, Jackson counted out $5000 in hundreds.

“So $4400 and change for the gear, and put the rest on my account for loads and target time. And thanks for gettin’ this together so quickly, Mr. Tuttle.”

“Just Tuttle, son, Mr. Tuttle was my father.”

“Sure enough. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Got some photography to get done.”

“Oh, you got a job already?” 

“No this is just for my website. It’s still early days, sir.”

“Well, good luck with that.” 

Tuttle slid the gun into its shoulder carrier and got young Cameron to help Jackson carry the sandbags and other equipment out to his car.

Later that day, Jackson was sitting at a table at Rudy’s with a bottle of beer, and a menu.

“I think I’ll try the Salisbury Steak tonight, Josie.” he said.

“Roger that, soldier.” 

She walked away. Jackson flipped open his laptop and connected to the restaurant’s WIFI. He opened a news site and started scanning through some of the stories.

Josephine put a bowl of salad on his table. He nodded to her and started eating the salad, and continued reading. After a moment, he looked up and saw Marlena Ross walk into the restaurant. She went over to the counter and gave Josie a friendly hug. Josie disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a paper bag. Marlena paid for her dinner and picked up her bag to leave. 

As she walked by Jackson’s table, she noticed him and stopped. Jackson smiled up at her. “Marlena Ross, as I live and breathe.”

“Why Jackson Lyall…fancy meeting you here.”

Jackson got to his feet. “I could say the same. But then well…World’s best ribs, right? Are you going somewhere, or would you like to join me and have your ribs here. I’ll buy you a beer, or whatever you like.”

Marlena smiled at Jackson’s awkwardness. “Well, how could I turn down an offer like that?”

Marlena sat down. Josie came over with Jackson’s Salisbury steak. 

“Please bring Miz Ross whatever she would like to drink.”

“Just a Diet Coke, Josie.” Marlena said as she sat down and Marlena unbagged her dinner. 

“Were you working on something?” 

“No just watchin’ the news.” 

“Yeah, I try and avoid as much of that as I can. It’s a little too crazy for me these days.”

“That’s the impression I’m getting. Most of the news we got overseas was European. I never realized how screwed up things had gotten here after the 2016 election.”

“It was kind of all going to hell long before he showed up. But that didn’t help, it just gave all the crazies in this country something to rally behind. Some people I know got caught up in it. Others, they’re just keeping their heads down, mouths shut and ears plugged.”

“And which one are you, Marlena Ross?”

Josie set a glass of Diet Coke in front of Marlena.

“Thanks, hun.” she said. And then she looked at Jackson. “It depends on when you ask me. I’m paying attention. I just want people to understand that this is still basically a civilized country.”

Jackson just looked at her. 

“And what about you, Jackson Lyall, retired sniper? That sounds like a Republican job if there ever was one.”

“I left this country when I was twenty. Other than basic training and sniper school, I have been in Europe, the Middle East and Central Asia for all of my adult life. I never had the chance to become a Democrat or a Republican but from what I have seen of the Republicans since I’ve been back here, I sure as hell would not want to be associated with them.”

“So that would make you a Democrat?” 

“I don’t know about that either. Ask me in a couple of months, once I’ve got the lay of the land.”

“Fair enough.”

Jackson clinked her glass with his bottle. Over the next two hours, they got to know each other. Jackson told her about growing up in Northern Louisiana, being orphaned at the age of ten, living in a good foster home, learning to shoot hunting and killing varmints that would attack the chicken coops, winning a couple of medals at the state long gun shooting championships, then turning eighteen, leaving home with a high school diploma, knocking around the country moving north for the next couple of years and finally and joining the Marines. And eight years later here he was, a survivor of yet another American fiasco. 

Marlena’s story was almost the opposite. Stable life in northern Virginia while her dad rose through the ranks of US intelligence. Then her mom passed away within six months of being diagnosed with breast cancer, while she was in high school, then she was off to art college in New York City. Worked there for a couple of years then came back home after her dad had turned down the NSA directorship and moved back to the family home in Richmond to pursue a new business, about which she knew very little, only that he ran it out of a nice office suite in downtown Richmond. Whatever it was, it was extremely profitable, because he gave Marlena and her brother Marcus, their family house and bought a new estate along the south side of the Country Club of Virginia.

After that, Jackson just sat back and listened to Marlena tell her stories about all the weird shit that had been going on in the country, since the end of the Obama era. Jackson felt like he had come back to a country that was no longer the America he had left eight years earlier.

After a while, they got up and left together. They walked to the parking lot and arranged to meet the following day to look at Marlena’s ideas. He was quite interested in her opinions about how he should focus his business. 

Marlena got in her car and backed out onto the street. Jackson just stood there watching her leave and thinking warm thoughts

~~~~~~~~~~

Blue Fin Consulting was the holding company for Phillip Ross’ business interests. It maintained its own set of books and filed tax returns based on receivables, mostly in the form of situational analysis and consulting fees from the Federal government as well as several corporate clients. 

Off the books, Blue Fin, was essentially a black bag operation, dealing with everything from evidence planting to assassinations. In the virulent free market economy of the US, the need to damage or destroy business rivals or opposing forces of any kind was everpresent and the stock in trade of people like Phillip Ross. While Ross did not participate directly in any of the ground-level activities of his business, he orchestrated them down to the granular level and had a small roster of experts in various aspects of tradecraft to carry out his meticulous planning.

As a former NSA operative and deputy chief, Phillip Ross was extremely well qualified and trusted to handle the kind of work that needed to be free of government fingerprints. His team, which varied in size over time, consisted of about a dozen people and specialized in computer hacking, cybercrime, kidnap & ransom, extortion and assassination.

On this particular day, he was meeting with a man who would help lay the groundwork for his most recent project from Senator Winters. 

Ethan Jones was a British subject, a former member of the British Intelligence service known as MI-6 and was referred to Ross by Senator Winters several months earlier. He was about six feet tall and had very rugged features, his skin was ruddy and had been baked under the equatorial sun for several years. But he had sharp eyes and a brain that didn’t miss a detail. Ross suspected that Jones was there to keep an eye on the government’s interests as the various projects unfolded, but as their relationship developed he found that Jones was highly intuitive and extremely resourceful, considering that the US was not his home turf. So Ross considered it a fair trade. 

For the corporate work that Ross did, he simply did not use Jones, so Jones had nothing to hold over his head if it turned out there was a little larceny in his British soul. And Phillip Ross had only gotten as far as he had in this business on one guiding principle. Trust no one but yourself.

Jones knocked on Ross’ office door and let himself in. He took a seat on the other side of the large desk and waited until Ross looked up from the document he was working on. 

“We’ve got a new assignment from the Fed.” Ross said, as he got up and walked over to his printer. He took several sheets and handed them to Jones. “I need you to profile each of these five characters. Find out what they do all day, and what would be the best place and time to deal with them.

“Do you have any wet workers in mind?” 

“Not just yet. We’ve recently lost one of our snipers. The other one is over in Turkey on assignment. I’ve got a call into Tuttle. He told me that he has a prospect. Someone he just met. So he will need some time to solidify that.” 

Jones studied the paper. “All of this is down south.” 

“Yeah, head down there. Take Missy with you. You’ll attract less attention if you’re with a southern girl. Scope out each situation. Figure out the patterns. Tuttle and I will work on getting a shooter.”

Jones got to his feet. “We’ll need a couple of weeks at least.”

“That’s fine. Drive safely and don’t bring that document with you. I’ve emailed it to you and Missy. Just keep it in your phones, nowhere else.”

Jones nodded and got to his feet. “Everything else OK? You seem a little out of sorts?”

“Yeah, I, umm… it just bothers me to lose a team member. Fletcher was more than just a shooter. We went way back.”

“Time heals all wounds.” Jones said, as he walked out of the office. 

Ross sat at his desk for a minute or two and then shook it off and picked up his phone. 

“Missy. How are you darlin’? Jones will be calling you soon. Road trip… two weeks… South … Be good.” 

Missy Felder was from Texas, five foot seven and drop dead beautiful, albeit a little tough-looking, She had worked her way up from local law enforcement to the FBI to the Secret Service. She was in her early thirties, and had a combination of skills and good looks that made her extremely lethal. She started making her plans to quit the Secret Service the day that it was official that a whacko far right-wing Republican would be the next president of the United States. She knew all the inside stories, and she also knew that if she had been unlucky enough to be assigned directly to the presidential detail, she most likely would have killed him. 

But Missy never did anything in a rush. She watched and waited and observed. The Secret Service network had a very special view of politicians and their families, since they were always close by. Missy was assigned to one of the daughters and saw her as one of the most arrogant, entitled women in America. And as disgusting as she was, the things Missy heard about what her father was saying and doing were a hundred times worse. 

Secret Service agents hear things they aren’t supposed to and are pledged to keep that knowledge to themselves. But after about a year of waking up every morning totally disgusted by what she was hearing every day in the White House, Missy pulled the plug. First, she asked for and was refused re-assignment. Finally, she tendered her resignation and was quietly replaced. 

Once word of her resignation got to Phillip Ross, he gobbled her up. Tough, seasoned, beautiful women with Missy’s skills were hard to come by in his line of work. That was four years ago. Up until just recently Missy was travelling with Melvin Spence, another scout, who had decided to get married and settle down. Spence settled up with Ross and simply vanished into the American woodwork one day. 

Ross liked to have his teams look like married couples. They were a lot less obtrusive than two men travelling together or one man on his own. Even one man with Ethan Jones’ skills. Most recently, he had lost one of his shooters, a guy named Fletcher Philpot, who filled his downtime working as a bomb builder. Ross knew it was only a matter of time before Philpot would blow himself up. And sure enough, about two weeks earlier that’s just what he did. He also blew up his house, his wife and two children who were sleeping peacefully at the time.

Missy would make the recon run with Jones and then if they could get Tuttle’s guy on board, she would spot for him. So Missy was gonna be busy and that was just the way she liked it.

Missy and Phillip Ross were also occasional lovers. And over the past three years had grown quite fond of each other, to the point where Ross was ready to invite Missy to live with him in his big house by the country club. But that could wait until this job was done.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson came into his house through the back door. He was sweating from his five-mile run and all the other exercises that led up to it. But he was, Rudy’s Ribs or no, determined to stay in top shape.

While he was sitting at the dining room table with a bottle of water, he got a text from Marlena Ross, with an estimate attached for all the work needed to create the materials they talked about. He had a quick look at it then emailed her back and gave her the go-ahead, and asked if she would accept payment in cash.

Marlena emailed him back almost instantly. Cash is always good.

Early that afternoon Jackson went out to Tuttle’s gun range to put his Ridgeline Scout through the paces. He entered the building with his gun in its sling over his shoulder. Tuttle was behind the counter talking to a customer, but nodded to Jackson. Jackson grabbed a Diet Coke from the cooler and sat down at one of the tables. When the customer had gone Jackson walked up to the counter.

“Jackson Lyall. And how are you on this fine day?” Tuttle said.

“I’m good. Can you set me up with a target at 500.

“Will do. And when you’re done, I’d like to have a little chat with you.”

“Sure.”

Tuttle looked at a piece of paper on the counter.

“Slot eight today, Jackson.”

“OK…thanks. The slot Tuttle gave him was closest to the door of the building, so Tuttle could watch Jackson go through his routine. Jackson didn’t seem to be firing for accuracy only. He was practising some off-balance drills. Dropping to one knee. Spinning from a rear-facing position, jumping up from one of the chairs aiming as quickly as possible. He was deadly accurate because although it was difficult to see exactly where on the silhouette target he was hitting, the little puffs of impact smoke told Tuttle a lot.

After shooting off the 50 rounds, Jackson came back into the building, grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and sat down with Tuttle, who was at his usual table.

“Good day?” Tuttle asked.

“Yeah. Not too bad. Bit of a breeze out there, so I got to feel how she pulls. So that was good.”

“You have some world-class moves Jackson, I’ll say that, and your accuracy is, well, as far as the shooters on this range go, in a class of its own.”

“Thank you, sir. I work hard at it.” 

“And it shows, son. Listen. I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Sure thing. Ask away.”

“Have you ever considered competitive shooting?  And I’ll tell you why. I don’t get many real marksmen coming through here. Mostly weekend warriors and macho assholes. But you’re the real deal, Jackson, and I would be more than pleased to sponsor you if you’d like to get on the circuit.”

Jackson leaned back in his chair and thought about that for a moment. His mind was churning a mile a minute and he wondered if that was showing on his face.

“Well, first of all, I’m flattered that you would ask, sir. But to be really honest, I’ve had more than my share of high pressure. All I really want to do now is concentrate my energy on building my photography business.” 

“OK, I understand. No harm in asking.” Tuttle said.

“No, I’m honoured that you would, sir.”

“If you change your mind, you let me know.” Tuttle said.

“OK.” Jackson looked at his watch. “Well, I’ve gotta go. Thanks again for your understanding.” Jackson loaded his gun into the back of his Jeep, got in and pulled out onto the road. Before he turned onto the main road, he paused behind the wheel for a moment. ‘Fear is the mind-killer.’ he said to himself. Then he shivered. He shook his head and drove on, finally starting to understand the pressure of living a lie.

Tuttle was standing outside the building, looking out over the range as the sun was closing in on the horizon and spreading a warm orange glow.

He activated his phone and pushed a button. He then put the phone on speaker.

“Hey, Tuttle.”

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain… How have you been?

“Not too bad. It was a good week, a few new customers, a few good sales. I’m thinking maybe a big steak would be in order.”

“You read my mind. The usual place? Six thirty?”

“See you then.” 

Tuttle disconnected and then dialled another number.

“This is Reese.” The voice on the other end of the call said.

“Hey, Reese. It’s Tuttle. Got a little job for you. I need some background on a marine, name of Jackson Lyall. Just shipped back from Afghanistan maybe a month ago now. Anything you can find out about him would be helpful.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“Yeah. Scanned his driver’s licence for a gun permit. I can email that to you.”

“Send me the permit info too.”

“Will do.”

“Timeline?” 

“I’m just interested in thorough. So if it takes a few days so be it.”

“OK.”

“Most appreciated.”

“Take care, Tut.”

Tuttle disconnected and went back inside. He sat down at his computer and emailed Jackson’s driver’s licence and the permit application scan to Reese. He closed up his computer and slid it into his bag.

“I’m out of here Cameron. You can close up.” he shouted to his clerk who was in the back room, loading clips.

“Aye aye, Cap’n.”

Just before 6:30 PM, Tuttle arrived at the Sapphire Steak House, off of Highway One in north Richmond, just in time to see Phillip Ross walk into the restaurant. The two men greeted each other warmly at the bar.

“They’re just clearing the room.” Ross said. Then he turned to the bartender. “A double Chivas on the rocks for my friend here, Andy, and I’ll have a chardonnay.”

The bartender nodded and got to work.

“How’s things with you, Phil?”

“Aw, you know…same old shit, different outhouse, Al.  How about you?”

“Well, I think I may have some good news for you. I may have found just what you are looking for.”

Tuttle and Ross carried their drinks through the busy restaurant to one of the small rooms in the back. Ross closed the door behind them. The two men sat down at the table.

“Dinner will be here soon. I ordered on the way here.” Ross said. “So you have good news.”

“Maybe, yeah. I met a guy last week. Just left the Marines after eight years, a sniper, and he’s easily the best I have seen since Fletcher.”

“So why is that good news? Is he a team player?” 

Well, that’s not the way to think about it, exactly. I got his story through some casual conversation and I’m not sure he is who is says he is.”

“And how did you arrive at that?”

“Just a feeling right now. But I asked him about competition shooting and he shut me right down. Most military shooters would jump at a chance to get out there and compete.”

“That’s a little thin, Alvin.”

“Yeah, I know. It wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it. I may be totally out to lunch on this. But I thought, doesn’t hurt to check.”

“And so then you’re talking about extortion, blackmail, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, basically that sort of thing. I call it incentivized cooperation.”

Ross took a sip of his wine then put the glass down in front of him and stared at it for a moment. Then he lifted his head.

“But he’s the real deal sniper-wise, right?”

“Oh yeah. He’s scary good.”

“Alright.” Ross raised his glass and clinked Tuttle’s. “Here’s to false identities and their utility in the world.”

Just then there was a knock at the door and a waiter came in with their dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, a bright sunny one, Jackson was driving east on Highway 64, heading for Norfolk. As he drove into the city, he stayed close to the bay. He saw several dry docks where US Navy ships were undergoing refitting and repair. He parked the Jeep and took his camera from the front seat. He started wandering around the complex, photographing anything of interest. 

Eventually, he found a group that was being given a guided tour and joined them. After a while, he broke away and wandered around on his own. He captured candid images of people mostly. But he also found himself interested in the geometric lines of the ships themselves. He climbed aboard one of the battleships that were available for the public to look at and shot some of the cannons. He even got a couple of sailors to pose for shots. 

Later on, he sat on a bench with a coffee and a hot dog and reviewed the photos he took. He deemed them to be not too shabby. 

~~~~~~~~~~

That same afternoon, Tuttle and the hacker, Damon Reese, were sitting at a table in the back of a quiet bar in downtown Richmond.  Tuttle was drinking scotch, Reese a beer. Reese was a very intense-looking geek with round frameless glasses, long hair tied back and dressed for comfort, as opposed to fashion, in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. On the table between them was a printout of all the info that Reese was able to gather on Jackson.

“So that was a pretty quick turnaround.” Tuttle said.

“Yeah, well it helps when you have a picture.”

Reese slid a paper across the table. “His real name is William Farrell. He was a Gunnery Sergeant in the 72nd out of Kabul. A Marine sniper extraordinaire. More than 90 registered kills in a seven-year span. Your boy is a lethal weapon.”

Tuttle studied the printout. “This is good, Reese. Were you able to figure out where his money came from? He appears to have a lot of it, but says he comes from dirt poor Louisana stock.”

“Nah. My contact tells me that these flanker squads were real pirates. They sold weapons on the black market, and likely a lot of hashish, coke and heroin as well. Hit the right Taliban bunker and you never know what you’ll find over there.”

“That could explain the well-made fake identity and the desire to keep a low profile.”

“The flanker squads were the real bad boys over there. Not so much now that there are a lot of private contractors doing most of the messier stuff. Do you want me to keep diggin’ or are you happy with this?”

“I’m good. Just bill Blue Fin. You know the drill.”

“No problem. So how are things at the range these days?”

“Things are good, and today they just got a little better.” He tapped the report sitting on the table between them. “Thanks to you, sir.”

Reese lifted his glass and clinked Tuttle’s. “Cheers, Tut.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson and Marlena were sitting at her computer and looking at some of the images that Jackson shot on his trip to the coast. There were quite a lot, some were junk, and others, for the most part, were interesting. A few were fabulous. 

As Marlena pointed out the ones she thought were fabulous, she took the time to explain why. Jackson took it all in, which is one of the things he was good at. It all went in and got stored there, so he could call it up when he needed it.

From time to time he would glance over at Marlena and he thought, this is one very beautiful lady. He felt like there was some good chemistry between them, although he was admittedly no expert on things of this nature. His experience with women was woefully inadequate. Nonetheless, he recalled a line from a Dylan song he liked, called Simple Twist of Fate. The line went: ‘He looked at her and he felt a spark, tingle to his bones’. And that was exactly the way he felt when he looked at Marlena. He just wondered when he would get up the nerve to act on that sensation.

“Well, I challenged you to go off and show me some of America and I have to say, you certainly did, Jackson.” Marlena said, “A lot of these are real keepers, And, you know, they have the same feel as the stuff you shot in Afghanistan. I think, I mean, what this did was kind of confirm what my first impression was.

“And what was that?” Jackson asked.

“This is art. This is gallery material. It’s not commercial stuff, Jackson. The way you see things…it reminds me of a few different photographers, and at the same time, it’s unique. I will be very interested in seeing what the galleries think.”

“Galleries?”

“Yeah. This is the kind of work you print and frame and sell in galleries.” 

Jackson looked at her “And you concluded that just from what I’ve shown you?”

“Yes, I did.” 

Jackson didn’t know what to say. 

“In fact,” Marlena said, “I was so confident that would be the direction for you, I designed your whole identity to position you that way.”

Marlena opened a file and took Jackson through the entire package she designed for him. Jackson just sat there staring at it as Marlena explained why she did what she did. When she got to the end she looked at him. He was dazed. 

“Any questions, Mr. Lyall?”

Jackson just smiled and shook his head. “This is amazing, and kind of scary at the same time. I mean, you’re making me look like I’ve been at this for years.” 

“Well, that’s the whole point.”  

“I’m really impressed with what you’ve done here. I feel like my new career is off to a great start. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Your work is very good.” 

Jackson reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope. He put it on the desk. “Your payment, as per your estimate. Just let me know about any ongoing charges.”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“I think we should go out and celebrate. What’s your favorite restaurant around here?”

“Believe it or not, my favourite restaurant is Rudy’s.”

“What a coincidence. So what do you say?”

“I say … how about tonight?”

“Works for me. About 8:00?”  

Jackson got to his feet and grabbed his bag.

“And thanks for this. It’s way more than I ever could have imagined.”

“You’re most welcome. I’ll get your cards printed and the guy upstairs started on the website. Just draft me out some background on you for the home page. We’ll make you a photographic legend, Jackson Lyall.”

Jackson chuckled. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

Jackson left Marlena spinning around in her chair. She looked very happy and maybe just a little bit taken with the man who just left.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tuttle’s Gun Range was empty. It was late in the day, dinnertime for most folks. Jackson was sitting with Tuttle at a table outside.  He was drinking a Diet Coke. Tuttle was sipping a scotch.

“So how’s it feel being back stateside, Have you noticed anything different since you’ve been gone?” Tuttle asked

“Yeah, but I find if you don’t pay attention to Washington politics, mass shootings, cops killing black people, the Covid virus after-effects, and all the right-wing crap, everything’s pretty much the same.”

Tuttle chuckled.

“Some of the older guys I served with were hardcore Republicans. And they were the ones who were the most pissed.” Jackson said.

“Yeah, well, can you blame them?” 

“What do you mean?”

“We’re on our way to another civil war in this country, and it’s being fuelled by extremist right-wing rhetoric. The people who led the attack on the capitol are all well-organized militias, and their numbers are growing larger every day. There are also an increasing number of right-wing extremists in the army and many of the police forces around the country.”

Jackson looks at Tuttle. “How do you know all this?” 

“I pay attention, which is one thing a lot of Americans don’t do much of these days. And I’ll let you in on a little secret. I grew up with a guy who has been working for a while now to come up with ways to get out in front of everything I just told you and a whole lot more.”

“This guy? What does he do?”

Tuttle leaned back in his chair. “He’s an organizer. He creates plans and then works with several people with different skills to execute those plans.”

“And why are you telling me all this, Tuttle?”

“Because people with your kind of skills can be extremely useful to people like him. You see, Jackson, this is a war. It’s just being fought a little differently. Let me ask you this. You joined the Marines because you wanted to serve your country right?”

“Of course.” 

“Well, my friend wants to serve his country in much the same way. He wants to defeat the enemy that resides within the country. That enemy may not be organized like an army, or be anywhere near as disciplined, but they are every bit as deadly. I’d say even more deadly because they aren’t  disciplined.”

“And so we’re talking about killing these people? I mean you would be telling me all this if it wasn’t about killing people. That’s what I did for most of my time in the corps.”

“I think of it more as helping defend your country from the enemy within. And yeah. I’m telling you this because I believe you are a patriot and you have skills that could make a difference in this fight.”

Jackson didn’t say anything for a good long time. He was working hard to process it. He was being recruited. But he wasn’t sure about what exactly he was being recruited into.

“So, how does this work?” he asked, desperate for more information so he could figure out what the hell was going on.

“How it works is simple. You sign on. You become a supplier of services. When there is a need for you, you get briefed in great detail and then you just do your thing as part of a well-planned effort. You have a partner who will have your back and you have immunity right across the board. You’re extremely well compensated and free to pursue whatever other interests you have. This is project-based. Not a long-term or anywhere near full-time commitment. I just thought that a man with the kind of talent you have would be interested in using that talent in the service of your country from time to time.”

Jackson took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Son, I have recruited a few guys like yourself over the years. Some were gung ho. Some needed the money. You are neither one of those. You are, as far as I can tell, very much your own dog. I just thought I’d put it out there.”

“Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about.” Jackson said.

“Good. If you’re not interested, I’ll understand. I haven’t told you anything specific.” 

“If I said yes, what would be the next step?”

“Well…I would say that you should probably meet the man who you would be working for. And let him explain what this is all about.”

“I uh….I have to admit that after getting caught up since I’ve been back, I’ve become more than a little concerned about the mess things are in these days. You know when you’re over there traipsing around in the desert, or the mountains, the only solace you have is in knowing that the people back home are…I don’t know, safe, protected, whatever. But I see all these lunatics with their semi-automatics and their jackboots and their allegiance to something that has nothing to do with democracy, and it does piss me off.”

“All I’m saying,” Tuttle said. “Is that if that’s how you feel, this is a chance to do something about it. It’s up to you son. I just think you’d make a great addition to our team, and be able to make a difference.”

“Let me think on it a bit.”

“No problem. You just let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”

Jackson stood up slowly and grabbed his gear. “I will.” And with that, he got up and headed out to his car.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson parked in front of Marlena’s house. He checked his phone for the address that she texted him. The house was absolutely gorgeous and quite large. It was older but with beautifully manicured grounds. 

Jackson walked to the door and rang the bell. A middle-aged black lady opened the door. She was wearing black jeans and a white cotton top under a red apron. Her hair was long and curly with just the beginnings of grey. Her eyes were dark brown and her smile was warm.

“Hi…I’m here to pick up Marlena.”

“You must be Mista Jackson Lyall.” she said.

“I am indeed, ma’am.”

“Well, how do you do? My name is Darla. Come on in.”

“Thank you.” 

Jackson entered behind Darla. He looked around. What he saw was understated elegance. The walls were on the dark side but the light seemed to come from everywhere. 

“Oh Miss Marlena. Your young man is here.” Darla shouted up the stairs. She turned to Jackson. “She’ll be right down. Why don’t you go in the study and make yourself at home.”

Jackson walked into what was the study. It was lined with books and filled with beautiful furniture. He walked around the room, taking it all in. After a few minutes Marlena, in a beautiful print dress, came in. 

“Hello there!”

“Hi….you didn’t mention that you were rich. This place is amazing.”

“Yeah, well you know, what can I say, I like surprising people.”

“Score one for you.”

“It’s even better out the back. Come on. I’ll show you.”

They walked down a hallway through a large country kitchen and to a beautiful yard, a glistening pool and a substantial garden.

“So your dad just gave you this house?”

“Yep. He bought a place of his own. I think he has a girlfriend and they’re getting ready to move in together.”

“You know, you never really told me what he does, I mean now.”

“Oh, he does all kinds of things. Which is my way of telling you I have no idea what he does. This house belonged to my grandparents who have both passed away. My grandfather was a senior senator in the Virginia legislature.”

Marlena led him back through the massive kitchen where Darla was busy making something on the stove.

“Darla has been with us ever since I can remember. She was my nanny, and now she runs both houses and is my best friend.”

“Nice to see you have a friend who’s close to your own age.” Darla said. 

They kept walking until they were out the front door. “My mom passed away when my brother and I were in our late teens. This is the only house we’ve ever known so when we both finished college, my dad gave it to us to live in.”

“Wow, that’s pretty generous of him.”

“Yeah…But for now, it allows me to concentrate on building my business, without a lot of financial pressure.”

“Your dad sounds like a good man.”

“He really is.”

It was a slow night at Rudy’s so they had some dinner, shot some pool, something which Marlena was surprisingly good at, and had a few drinks. Then Jackson drove her down to his house. She walked around looking at the place without saying anything at all for quite some time. 

Then she turned to Jackson and said. “You know, if I didn’t know anything about you and walked into this place, I would swear that a little old lady lived here.” 

Jackson laughed. “Well, a little old lady did live here, I rented it from her daughter.”

“It’s…homey. You’re gonna have to start makin’ apple pies. That’s all that’s missing.”

Jackson drove Marlena home, although he had the distinct impression that if he had suggested she stay the night, she probably would have been okay with that. But Jackson didn’t want to rush anything. His instincts told him to move slowly and deliberately.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The next day, Jackson was driving towards the ocean. 

He wandered around Virginia Beach, photographing anything that interested him. A couple sitting at an outdoor cafe sharing a laugh. Some kids sitting beneath a Civil War hero statue staring at their iPhones. A cool-looking hot dog vendor. Three girls in bikinis sitting on a bench with ice cream cones. An older couple sitting on the front porch of their large colonial home. A roller-skating waitress at a drive-in burger joint leaning into a car window. It seemed like everywhere he looked he saw something worth shooting. 

Later that day, Jackson and Marlena were sitting at a table by the pool in Marlena’s backyard. Jackson was showing her some of the images he shot on his road trip. For no reason other than that he wanted badly to do it, Jackson leaned over and kissed Marlena. She returned the kiss. And they both knew that was the moment they had been waiting for, 

Marlena led Jackson into the house.

The next day was Sunday. Jackson picked Marlena up at her house and they drove down River Road. After a few miles, Marlena told him to turn into a wide driveway. They were in front of a very large, colonial-style frame house. There were two cars parked in the driveway. One a sleek Jaguar sedan, the other a fairly new Toyota Sienna van.

They were shown into the house by Darla who ushered them out the back door and onto the deck. 

A few minutes later, Phillip Ross came out the back door where Marlena and Jackson were standing looking out at the beautiful backyard and the golf course.

“Hi sweetie,” Ross said, as he walked over to give her daughter a hug.

“Daddy, this is my friend, Jackson Lyall, the photographer I told you about.”

Ross extended his hand to Jackson and shook it. “Oh yes…the Marine. Well, I’m glad to know you, son.”

“Ex-Marine, sir. Glad to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“None of the bad stuff I hope.”

“No sir. Nothing but the good stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Then we may just keep you around, right Marly?”

“We live in hope.”

Ross got a couple of beers and a glass of wine for Marlena, who went inside to help Darla. Ross and Jackson sat down at the table that had been set there.

“So, Marlena tells me you were stationed over in Kabul.

“Yes sir. I spent five years there, two in Africa before that. Mostly South Sudan.

“So what made you quit?” 

“Well, I came into some money…an inheritance… not a ton, but enough to start something in civilian life. So I chose photography, and that’s how I met Marlena.”

“Where are you from, originally? You have a lot of the south in your voice.”

“Louisiana, sir. Little town near Shreveport.”

“And so now you’re starting a photography business?”

“Well, I’m tryin’. So far, Marlena has been very encouraging.”

“I know…she sent me some of your images. I think you have a real talent. Your pictures from Afghanistan are beautiful.”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

Marlena, holding a plate of steaks and baked potatoes, and Darla with a large salad bowl arrived at the table. They served themselves and started to eat.

“Marlena never really told me what sort of business you are in, sir.”

“Daddy used to be a big-time spook, and was never really able to talk about what he was doing.” Marlena said. “Now he’s in the private sector and still can’t.”

“Let’s just say, I solve problems for businesses and sometimes for the government.” Ross raised his glass. “Here’s to retired warriors and new beginnings.” 

They all raised their glasses, toasted the future and then dug into their steaks.

Later that evening, Jackson was driving back to Marlena’s, she was nodding off with her head against the window. Jackson looked over at her and smiled to himself. He simply couldn’t believe his luck. 

~~~~~~~~~~

It was late the next day when Phillip Ross pulled into the parking lot of Tuttle’s gun range and got out of his car. He walked around to the entrance. Tuttle was sitting at his usual table with his laptop open. He got to his feet when he saw Ross.

“Oh my, Philip… what the hell brings you out here?”

“We need to talk. Outside.” 

The two men walked over to the far end of the range. There were only a couple shooters and they were taking a break so it was relatively quiet.

“What’s on your mind, Phil?”

“This sniper you’re investigating.” 

“Oh, Jackson. What about him?” 

“He showed up for dinner last night with Marlena. Apparently, they have just started seeing each other.”

“Oh … shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit for sure. None of this is on you, just one of those weird coincidences, but I wanted to get to you before you start doing whatever you’re planning to do to get him, on board.”

“Well, this changes things considerably.”

“Maybe. Have you broached the subject with him?” 

“Yeah, two days ago. He’s thinkin’ about it.”

Tuttle’s head was tilted like he was really running the problem through in his brain. The two men walked along for a bit. Tuttle stopped and turned around. 

“Okay…then we’ll try plan B.” Tuttle said.

“Plan B?”

“You talk him into it.” Tuttle said. “No threats. He will be volunteering.”

“Well…” Phil said but there was a good deal of doubt in his voice.

“Honestly Phil. My read is that he just needs a little nudge. And that’s got to come from you.”

Ross took a deep breath. “All right. But no extortion. This is not worth my relationship with my daughter. She seems quite taken with him. And he’s a good kid.”

“He’s also a stone killer, and maybe the best one we’ve ever had.”

“Okay. Set it up. I just hope to hell we can keep this from Marlena.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson and Marlena were sitting by the pool in her backyard. It was a glorious afternoon and they were both sipping iced tea from large glasses. They were watching a CNN report on the aftermath of the January 6 insurrection. When it was over, Marlena looked over at Jackson and saw that he was deep in thought.

“Earth to Jackson.” she said

Jackson snapped out of the faraway headspace he was in. “Sorry, I guess I’m just a little preoccupied today.” 

“What’s on your mind?” she asked.

Jackson didn’t say anything for a while. In reality, he was trying to figure out how to word what he was thinking. He took a sip of his iced tea. 

“You know, I spent almost eight years over in some of the worst shitholes you can imagine. But I’m still trying to process how things here have gone to hell. It seems like the far right is the tail that’s waggin’ the whole dog. They’re getting tons of attention and all they want to do is destroy whatever the country has managed to build over the past couple hundred years.”

“So what’s really bothering you, Jackson?”

“What’s really bothering me is that this country feels like a war zone, and I know that it’s just a relatively small group of insurgents. Trouble is their numbers are growing and they’re being egged on from just about everywhere.”

Jackson took another sip of his iced tea. He couldn’t remember a time that he had to explain himself to anyone. “Over in Afghanistan, the name of the game was cutting the head off the snake. This would create chaos and chaos created mistakes which were situations we could capitalize on. Nobody here seems to be going on the offensive against these anarchists. Just a lot of people in Washington arguing about them. They declared war on the country and nobody’s fighting back.” 

“So are you saying you should be going out gunning for the heads of these right-wing militias?”

“Speaking as an ex-soldier, I’d have to say that would be a good start.”

Marlena smiled and shook her head. “You know, coming from anyone else I know, I’d have to say that’s a fine fantasy. But coming from you, well, that’s a whole different kettle of fish, as Darla would say.”

Jackson looked at her to see if she was upset. He was testing the waters and he hated himself for doing it.  

“Bottom line is that this situation bothers me,” he said. “And I know that if I got hooked up with the right outfit, I could help do something about this.”

“Yeah, but you’re talking about killing people.”

“No. I’m talking about fighting the enemy. Do you really want these kinds of people in your country? Are they actually worth having here? I mean, wouldn’t we be better off if they didn’t feel so empowered?”

“I hear you, Jackson. But I don’t believe that killing people is ever the answer.”

“Well, since we’re talking theory here, I’d ask you what you think a good solution would be.”

“OK, first of all, the solution is that the people get out and vote for good leaders. That’s what elections are for.”

“And how’s that working out so far? We just watched an hour of TV that basically showed us that this movement is growing like a weed. Pretty soon, it won’t be able to be controlled. All that’s gonna happen is a violent revolution in this country. I have seen it happen in other countries and on that score, we are no different from anywhere else in the world.”

“Well, you are a warrior. So it would be out of character for you to believe anything different.” Marlena said. But there was no anger in her voice. 

“Guilty as charged. But that doesn’t alter the geometry of the situation. Or the fact that unless somebody does something this is only gonna get worse. Right now this country really is at a crossroads. Authoritarians have got almost anybody who calls themselves a Republican to get behind this. And on the front line, they have all these weekend warriors who are uppin’ their game. A lot of these guys are ex-armed forces and cops too. This is an army of insurrectionists. They’re primed and highly motivated. Crazy as shithouse rats, but motivated nonetheless.” 

Marlena found herself with no real comeback. The situation as Jackson described it was pretty clear. Shaking a tambourine and singing Give Peace A Chance seemed like nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction. 

“Sounds like you have been trying to decide what to do about this. Has someone approached you about it?”

“It came up in a conversation I had out at the gun range.”

“Isn’t that where all those weekend warriors go to practice?”

“Yeah, it is. But this was a little different. I’ve been asked to think about it. And I have been.”

“So there is a counter-movement out there.”

“I don’t know what it is. And I still don’t know if I want to get involved. But I am definitely gonna find out more about it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Jackson called Tuttle and told him he would like to go to the next level. Tuttle told him to expect a text with an address and a time. About two hours later, the text came through and the time was set for 4 PM. 

Jackson drove to the downtown address of Blue Fin, and as instructed went into the coffee shop across the street where Tuttle and Damon Reese were sitting. Tuttle introduced Reese to Jackson, as he sat down at the table.

“Before we go to this meeting, we need to get you to sign a non-disclosure agreement because anything you hear in this meeting will be classified as top secret.” Tuttle said.

“I understand.” Jackson said.

Reese pushed his iPad across the table, with a digital pen. On it was a one-page document. “Read and sign, Jackson.”

Jackson read the document carefully, which was entitled ‘Project Sword of Damocles’, then signed his name at the bottom and pushed the iPad across the table to Reese, who packed it into his case and got up. He shook hands with Jackson. As he left, he simply said, “Welcome aboard, dude.” 

“What does Mr. Reese do?” Jackson asked.  

“Mission control, communications and watchdogging.” Tuttle said. 

Jackson and Tuttle got up and walked across the street to a small office building. They took the elevator to the fourth floor and entered Blue Fin Consulting.  The girl at the reception desk smiled at Tuttle, as he and Jackson walked past. They entered a long fairly narrow workspace and walked down to the end office. Several people sat at desks wearing headsets and talking in low voices as they played their keyboards. They entered the office at the far rear of the building. Tuttle closed the door. Phillip Ross got to his feet and walked around his desk. Jackson was flabbergasted.

“Hello, Jackson. Good to see you again.”

The two men shook hands and Ross went back to his chair behind the desk, but not before giving Tuttle a pat on the shoulder as both men sat down. 

“So I can see you’re a bit surprised.” Ross said.

“To say the least, sir.” 

“Well, that will pass. We’re here to talk about you and what you want. I know you wouldn’t have come this far unless you were feeling that perhaps you could contribute to this effort.” 

Jackson was still a bit stunned. But he pulled himself together because deep inside he was a highly disciplined thinker. “Yes sir. But I guess I’d like to know what this effort is really all about.”

“Alvin here has told me about your conversation from the other day. And he feels like you might be a bit disillusioned about what you see going on in this country.”

“He got that right.”

“I can understand that. This isn’t the America you left eight years ago. It’s an America that’s facing its biggest test, maybe even since the war between the states. Fascist and authoritarian movements have always existed in this country. But over the past decade or more, they have grown to the point where it’s now starting to tear at the fabric that holds us together.”

“You’re talking about the attempted insurrection in Washington last January, I assume?”

“Yes, and a number of other events. These groups used to be off in the hills shooting at haystack targets and talking tough, mostly to each other. But they are now getting backing from people who want to turn this country into an oligarch-based fascist state. Very much like Russia. And the government in power at the moment is so concerned about this that they have actually contracted me to help them do something about it.”

“And what specifically do you mean by something?”

“That something would be you. Jackson. I’ll be direct. We need you to liquidate the leaders of five of the more dangerous far-right domestic terrorist organizations in this country. And by doing so, we will send a message to these people that if they’re looking to overthrow the government, there are very capable and highly lethal people standing in their way.”

“So that’s what this Sword of Damocles operation is all about. A counter-terrorist group of some sort.”

“Yes, it is.  After each one of these people that we are currently tracking is eliminated, we will be sending a message to that group, directly and through the media, that there will be a steep price to pay for any acts of violence against the government. This will come from The Sword Of Damocles.”

“So the government has plausible deniability.”

“Yes. And should this ever be traced back to this group, we will be investigated and taken off the suspect list immediately. I have that in writing from my contact, who is very highly placed in the government.”

“Hmmm. I’m still a little unclear on the objective of this mission. I can understand killing bad actors. What I’m havin’ trouble with is just how that gets you anywhere.”

Ross smiled. “That’s an excellent question. The objective here isn’t so much the killing of the bad actors as you call them. It’s more about the swaying of public opinion. For the past couple of years, the American people have seen this government as progressive in a lot of ways, but kind of soft when it came to the question of internal stability. This mission had been designed to show the American people that there are folks out there who are willing to defend the left as forcefully as the far right is willing to attack. This is the kind of activity that moves the needle, and if we can keep the democratic government in power, the country will be much better off in the long run. In essence, these bad actors will be doing their country a service by being liquidated.”

“What’s the plan, specifically?”

“We have two operatives in the field already. A fellow named Ethan Jones, ex MI-6, and a lady named Missy Felder, ex-Secret Service. They are doing a complete assessment. They will bring back intel that they will share with you and together you will make a plan and a schedule. Damon Reese, who I believe you have met, will be handling all media communications so that none of this traces back to us. Tuttle here is munitions. He will provide you with your weapon of choice, I believe you were using an AX 50 in Afghanistan, and he’s had a gross of mercury-tipped rounds custom-made so they are untraceable. I am planning and government contact. That’s the team. The Sword Of Damocles.”

Jackson took a deep breath. There were a hundred thoughts galloping through his head. He thought he had made up his mind when he got back to the States to leave all this behind, get into something creative and forget all about killing. But what he saw when he got home angered him deeply. He found himself thinking that the American people were nothing but a bunch of spoiled brats who had no idea how good they had it. He worried that if he let that fester inside him, that couldn’t possibly be a good thing at all. On the other hand, the whole operation that Phillip Ross was outlining sounded like some sort of political game. But then maybe that was what things had been reduced to.

“Alright. I’m in. But if I get the feeling that this is just some pie-in-the-sky bullshit, I’m out.”

“Understood. But we don’t deal in bullshit here, Jackson. We are an assault team and this is as real as it gets. Of course, you can pull out if you think it’s not working. But you’re gonna have to trust me on that because I’m the only one who is going to know for sure. And I promise to be straight with you. That’s the best I can do.” Ross said, and his tone of voice was as dead serious as Jackson had ever heard in his young life.

Jackson poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher on the table in between the chairs where he and Tuttle were sitting.

“One other thing, Jackson,” Tuttle said. “And I was actually planning to use this against you, but Phillip here talked me out of it.”

“What’s that?” 

“William Farrell.”

The name hung there in the air like a noose tightening around Jackson’s neck. But he said nothing.

“That’s who you really are.” Tuttle said. “We don’t care what you want to call yourself or why you want to do that. Just saying that if we could find you relatively easily, according to Mr. Reese, then anybody else who is looking for you, well, they could too.”

Jackson  shrugged and grinned. “You got me.” Jackson said with a long exhale. “I wanted a brand new start once I got back. I thought I had done a pretty good job of getting rid of Billy Farrell. Evidently, I was wrong.”

“Nobody’s invisible anymore son,” Ross said. “Just not possible. You just keep a low profile and you’ll be fine. When this is all over you’ll have enough money to hide in plain sight with a certain amount of comfort.”

“Damon Reese was the guy who found you,” Tuttle said. “And trust me, he can completely erase any digital trace of William Farrell and he’s happy to do so when this is all over. Call it a performance bonus.”

When this is all over. Those five words burrowed deep into Jackson’s brain and no matter how he tried to find comfort in them, he just knew that his old life, the one he had tried so hard to leave behind, wouldn’t go away. The only option he had, was the same option he dealt with for most of the past decade. Shoot your way out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ethan Jones and Missy Felder looked like a married couple. The story, for anybody who asked, was that they were writing a book titled: My American Vacation. Not that they ran into all that many people, outside of hotel personnel. But it was a good story for any cops who pulled them over or caught them taking pictures of stuff they probably shouldn’t have been, which was course was the whole purpose of the trip in the first place. 

They visited four different states, Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia and Arkansas. They staked out each target and followed them for two or three days in order to establish their movement patterns. They never got into the areas where the entire groups would be because those compounds were heavily guarded and offered little in the way of a quick escape. They determined, in all cases, that the five targets were much more easily accessed in either of two ways. One was on a country road, on their way to or from their organization’s encampment. Two was at home. 

The one consistent thing about the leaders of these organizations was that none of them lived in a subdivision. Their houses were fairly isolated and they probably like it that way. There was a certain amount of security in each house. But nothing to prevent an attack from anywhere between five hundred and a thousand yards out. 

There was no real romance between the two scouts. Missy was pretty fussy about whom she fooled around with, and Jones, while interesting and terribly British, was not anywhere near Missy’s cup of tea. She was a southern girl and was genetically predisposed to not warming up to foreigners, no matter what they looked like. So they kept it strictly business.

After the meeting with Phillip Ross, Jackson and Tuttle went back across the street to the coffee shop and sat in a corner.

“Phillip didn’t mention it, but he was upset about all this. He was quite impressed with you when he first met you and knows that this is going to put a strain on your relationship with Marlena.”

“Well sir, that’s very considerate of him,” Jackson said. “But I have already talked to her about this situation, nothing specific, and while she wasn’t thrilled about it, she knew I was gonna do whatever I thought was right.” 

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Tell me something, sir. If it was completely up to you, would you have used my fake identity to get me to do this?”

“I don’t know, Jackson and that’s the God’s honest truth. But you should understand that I get Reese to check out everyone who comes on board. Hell, I even hired another hacker I know to check out Reese.”

“You and Mr. Ross seem to be pretty close. Have you known each other for a long time?” 

“We grew up together in North Richmond. Both went to Virginia Tech. Then he got gobbled up by the agency and I inherited my dad’s sporting goods business. I got into the underground weapons business through Phillip, as he was working his way up the food chain. Sad to say but there are a lot of what you call bad actors in this country. Have been for as long as I’ve been drawing a breath. So I was honoured to join Phil in his ‘business’. ”

“That’s some business.”

“Yeah well, the years pile up and so do the bodies. Price of what we blithely refer to as freedom here. Speakin’ of which, you never really asked about what this is all worth to you.”

Jackson laughed. “Guess it got buried under all the shock in my head.”

“The fee for your participation is five hundred thousand per. You’ll be travelin’ with Missy Felder, who will take care of all the bills, so you don’t have to sign your name to anything. 

“As Phil said, Missy and another operative are down south sniffing out the targets and a couple of ideal locations. You three can work it all out when they get back, which will be in maybe another ten days or so. The overall plan is to do one, then come back north, and let Reese do his thing, get the media all riled up and the assholes thinking it was just a one-off. Then after it starts to die down, you head south again and do another. Phillip will stay in touch with his Washington guy and they’ll be taking the temperature every day.”

“What about law enforcement? These guys are citizens after all.”

“Yeah, well, that’s part of the reason for the time gaps. You will leave very little to go on after each kill other than an exploded 50 cal slug that nobody will be able to trace.”

“So you’re not worried about the law of diminishing return in this?”

“I know what you’re sayin’, and normally I would be,” Tuttle said. But the time gap, the exploding ammo and the fact that these law enforcement agencies take a long time before they start cooperating are all gonna minimize any cop pursuit. And as far as the Feds go, the FBI will be on it but they’ll spend at least a month analyzing it and talking to everybody and their uncle. 

“The other advantage we have is that nobody knows who’s next. There are about twenty of these groups scattered throughout the south. Phillip’s thinking is that attacking a few puts the fear of God into the many.”

Jackson had only one other question. “So when can I get hold of the 50 cal and tune it?”

Should be arriving by the end of the week. Gettin’ my bullet maker to burn off the serial numbers. He’ll deliver it with the gross of the 50s. One thing you should do is find yourself a little place to stash and clean this gun, and maybe build yourself a place to hide it in your vehicle.”

“Roger that.”

“Just remember, there is no downside risk to us on this particular mission. Phillip got that in writing. We’re no different from those contractors you used to work with overseas.”

They talked a bit about guns and ammo. Tuttle told Jackson some great stories about what he and Ross had gotten up to over the years. He also told Jackson about Marlena’s mother, who was one of the most beautiful women Tuttle had ever seen up close. Her name was Luna. Ross met her at a Spanish embassy party. She was a diplomat, with deep ties to her country, but Ross just swept her off her feet. She gave him twins and a great life for more than twenty-five years. Then she got sick, cancer, and was gone in a few months.

Tuttle also told him about the derivation of the project name. Sword of Damocles. He explained that there were many different interpretations but basically, it was about the danger inherent in any sort of power. It was likened to a sword, held over your head by only a single strand of hair, a constant reminder that it could all be over in an instant unless you were careful. And lucky.

The concept was not lost on Jackson, who was currently feeling that way himself.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Jackson got up early. He knew he would have to explain what he had signed on for to Marlena and hoped she would understand. As usual, he had trouble putting the words together in his head. Something about the way he felt about her, he supposed. Marlena, I’m gonna head down south and kill some bad guys. Hope we can still see each other when I get back. Yeah. it needed some work. 

After breakfast, he got into the Jeep and headed out to the industrial area of town which was a few dozen blocks due south of where he was living. 

As he drove he saw several larger buildings that had been closed and boarded up, as well as places where business was thriving. 

Then something caught his eye. It was a small freestanding building in the rear of a larger empty factory that looked to have been, from the rusting oxygen tanks out beside it, a small metalwork shop of some sort.

He turned in and drove up to the building. He got out of the Jeep, looked around and noticed that he was pretty much invisible from the street. He walked over and took a look through the window. The space inside was open, except for a small bathroom in the corner.  It had a garage door entrance in addition to a steel door at the side and the window he was looking through. There was a ‘For Lease’ sign in the window and a number for the agent who was in charge of it.

Jackson called the number and the agent agreed to meet him in an hour. Jackson used the time to look at the storage area of the Jeep and figure out how he could build a false floor into it.

After an hour, a late-model Toyota sedan pulled up beside Jackson’s Jeep. A man who looked to be in his early forties got out. He and Jackson shook hands, and he gave Jackson his card. The man unlocked the steel door and they entered the small building. There was a wooden counter that ran almost the whole length of the structure, and the washroom in another corner. There was room for the Jeep with about eight feet to spare on either side and at the front. Jackson looked around and nodded to the agent.  A few minutes later the agent and Jackson stepped outside. The agent locked the door. They shook hands and talked for a moment longer.

After the agent left, Jackson walked around the building again. He looked at the other larger buildings surrounding it. There were no security cameras anywhere to be seen. Jackson got his notebook and a pen from his bag and leaning on the hood of his car, started to make a list of all the stuff he would need.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day, Jackson drove over to Marlena’s office to pick up his business cards and have a chat with her. When he walked into the office, she seemed to be very glad to see him. She showed him the cards she’d had printed. Jackson just shook his head and smiled.

She poured him a cup of coffee and talked to him about what she wanted to do going forward. They would pick no more than a dozen shots, work together on the best treatment for them, then make large format digital prints. They would use a local printer just to see how the shots looked and if they looked anything like she thought they would. Whatever gallery they found to represent him would insist on using own their printer to make any limited edition prints.

Jackson was astonished at the way Marlena was talking. It was like, in her mind, this was all a done deal. He had a lot of trouble processing her extreme optimism. But then again, he was no expert on this stuff. He just liked to take pictures.

“You seem distracted,” Marlena said. “You should be happy about this. It’s a challenge. Aren’t all you shooters supposed to be A-type personalities?”

Jackson laughed. “You’re right.” He said. “I kind of am distracted.”

“Well, the only way I know for you to get undistracted is to tell me what’s causing it.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s the thing. I have been thinking about how to talk to you about this. But it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.” 

“Why is it so hard?”

“Because I’m afraid this is all gonna blow up in my face.”

Marlena just stared. “How about just telling me the truth?”

Jackson stared at his coffee cup. “These people I was telling you about. They know things about me. Things that I didn’t want anyone to know. Things about who I am. What I’ve done. They haven’t used that against me in any way. In fact, they swore they wouldn’t and I believe them. But it got me thinking quite hard about what I am. You see me as this veteran. This guy who can take pictures. An artist or trying to be. But…and this is where I get lost, I’m also this other guy. This killer. This sniper. This angry soldier who needs an enemy. I thought….I thought I could leave that guy behind when I got back here. And I prayed I could leave that guy behind when I met you and you showed me a whole other side of myself. But when they talked to me about the war that’s shaping up in this country, it just…man, it just brought me right back to that guy I was trying to leave behind. So I signed on with them. Not just because I think they’re trying to do a right thing. But because that other guy, he needs to do this. He needs to fight in this war. And I know that we can still do all of this, at least I hope we can, while I take care of the other guy. Because his war’s not finished just yet.” 

Marlena looked at him. And she was astonished at the depth of his feeling and the weight of his internal turmoil.

“You know, we all have some kind of albatross around our necks,” she said. “I understand. I do. War changes people. I’m constantly amazed that anybody in this country is sane. I can’t imagine what is going on in your mind right now. but I could never hate you for it, Jackson.”

“The reason this is so hard is that I have feelings for you that I have never had for anyone.” Jackson said.

“I feel the same about you, Jackson.”

“The question is how you feel about the other guy.”

Marlena took a deep breath. “I’ve always believed we are the way we are for a reason. And the worst thing we can do to ourselves is to fight against that. The guy I like is the one who's sitting here right now, being honest with me. The other guy, well he’s just out there somewhere. But I don’t see him. I just see you. So just promise me one thing, Jackson Lyall. Promise me that you’ll keep that other guy away from me. From us. You do what you have to do for him. And you do what you want to do for us.” 

Jackson stared at her and couldn’t believe his luck. First time out of the gate and he’d found a woman who actually understood him.

“I promise.” he said and he kissed her, and she kissed him and they both knew how it had to be. Jackson made up his mind that he would be both those guys and never would one be allowed to intrude on the other unless it was at her request. Because that would either break your heart or get you killed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

While Marlena worked on the shots, and some of the other projects she had on the go, Jackson worked on turning his little workshop building into a fortress. A guy named Raphael Mendes, who was a good friend of Reese’s, installed a state-of-the-art video surveillance system, and then gave Jackson a software lesson to control it through his iPhone. Jackson hired a couple of college kids to paint the entire building, off-white inside and dark grey outside.  The doors were in pretty good shape, so Raphael messed with the motor for the garage door and hooked it up to the rest of the security system, which Jackson could control from either his phone or his computer. While the painting was being done Jackson worked on cleaning up the bathroom, then sanding down and varnishing the counter. After the painting and varnishing was done, he bought everything he thought he might need to furnish the place, which wasn’t much: a small table, two folding chairs, a small fridge, coffeemaker, some cups, a couple of padded stools for the counter, a vice. Some basic tools, and a gun locker. He didn’t worry about an Internet connection, although Reese volunteered to hook him up from one of his satellite feeds. Jackson wanted this place to be completely off the grid.

~~~~~~~~~~~

On the Friday of that week, Jackson drove out to the Tuttle’s gun range. As per Tuttle’s instructions on the phone, he backed the Jeep up to the rear entrance and went around the building. Tuttle was alone there, and the range was empty as it often was on a Friday morning.

Tuttle showed Jackson into the back room where all the hardware was laid out on the table. 

The gun was assembled and in a long leather case. Beside the case were three boxes of loads. Jackson picked up the smaller of the three boxes first.

“Those are all .338 Lapua Magnum loads,” Tuttle said. “Super accurate up to 1500 yards. You can use them for setting your sight and practice. The other two boxes are the untraceable loads. They’re specially tooled to explode at first contact and do a serious amount of damage while leaving virtually nothing behind.”

Jackson opened the box and took out one of the bullets. He looked at the tip and saw that it was white.

“Mercury?” he asked.

“And magnesium.” 

“Never heard of that. It’s not gonna ignite in the barrel is it?”

“Not according to my guy, Maybe on a slower gun. There are three, five-load mags, And a fourth for you to load the Lapua Magnums.”

 Tuttle picked up the suppressor. “This suppressor is custom-built for the AS 50. It will affect your accuracy by a small bit, but it cuts down the noise by a lot. That’s why you need to test the hell out of it.”

Jackson took the suppressor and examined it. 

Tuttle picked up another box with a Zeiss logo on it. “This is the Zeiss LRP S3. It’s the best long range scope with a built-in rangefinder for this gun.” 

Jackson clipped the scope onto the rifle. He adjusted the eyepiece.

“Feels just like home.” He said. 

“Yeah, it’s a good unit. Extremely accurate up to about 1500 yards. and I have one last thing for you.” Tuttle went into one of the drawers in his cabinet. He took out a khaki-coloured soft nylon bag and unzipped it. In it was an FNX pistol, a screw-on silencer, two clips of 45 cal loads and a small box filled with more loads. Jackson wasn’t a pistol guy, but he loved the feel of this gun. It was compact and heavy even without a clip in it.

“Not a lot of recoil with that kind of weight I would reckon.”

“You would reckon correctly, Jackson. And you never can tell when you might need to do this up close and personal.”

“I’d prefer a few hundred yards away, but I get your point, sir.”

Tuttle walked him through the nuts and bolts of the pistol and then put everything back in the canvas case. 

“The loads for the pistol are also handmade and untraceable, just like they are for the long gun.”

They talked a bit about logistics. Tuttle told him that Jones and Missy would be back sometime later the following week. They would set a meeting for probably the Friday, and he and Missy would be on their way early the week after that. As they loaded the gear into the back of the Jeep, Jackson told him about the false floor he was planning to build.

Before he left, they went back to Tuttle’s work table. Jackson opened his phone and accessed his Zurich account. There was still about $50,000 US in it. Tuttle then took the phone laid it by his laptop and transferred $250,000 into the account. “This is how we’ll pay you. Two hundred and fifty grand up front and another two fifty after the job is done. Times five is two million five.”

Jackson nodded. 

“I’ll let you know exactly when we’ll meet.” Tuttle said.

“Fair enough.”

“Let me know how the gun works. It should be fine, but you never know.”

“Will do. And thanks, Tut.” Jackson said as he climbed into the Jeep and headed off. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

That weekend, Jackson set to work designing a fake floor for the storage compartment of the Jeep, which he did with a single sheet of 3/4”plywood which the Home Depot guys, for a few extra bucks, were happy to cut to his exact measurements. He supported the plywood with simple 1 x 4s. around 3 sides. He laid the gun case on a thin sheet of corrugated plastic and carved two hand-hold slots in the near end so he could slide the gun case in and out easily. He shoved in his two sandbags to make the space sound less hollow. Then he covered the plywood with rubber cement and then a carpet remnant he found that matched the car’s carpeting. He also covered the 1 x 4 that would close off the space with the same carpeting so that when he slid it into place it was very difficult to tell that there was any sort of false floor. At the same, time the gun could be easily accessed and quickly stashed simply by popping out the 1 x 4 and sliding out the case. Finally, he folded the back seat down and it saw that created an almost completely flat surface. It was at this point that Jackson realized that all those wood shop classes he took in high school had finally paid off. He also knew that he was good to go. All that was left was the field testing. 

Ten minutes later, Jackson was driving west on Highway 64. He spotted a side road and turned off the highway. He drove along the road for a while. There were no houses in sight. Soon he came to a long stretch of fairly straight road. 

He stopped his car and quickly paced off 1200 steps. He dropped a sandbag at the side of the road and jogged back to his car. He dropped another sandbag. He drove the car up to the first sandbag and got out. He took three aluminum tripods from the back of the car and extended them to a height of about four and a half feet.  He set them at the side of the road. He then jammed a melon, that he had bought at a roadside fruit stand, into the top of each tripod and secured them with duct tape. 

He drove back to his original spot and turned the car sideways on the road. On the hood of the car, he placed a sandbag. He got out his big gun, fastened the silencer and the sight, then clipped in the magazine with the Lapua loads. Taking up a position facing the targets about 1000 yards away, he began firing and adjusting his sight ever so slightly until he was able to hit all three melons and causing them to virtually disintegrate.

He then loaded a magazine with the Mercury/Magnesium tipped loads. He sighted a tree next to one of the tripods. The main trunk was about 8 inches thick, Jackson reckoned. He carefully aimed and gently squeezed the trigger. The dead centre hit exploded the trunk for a radius of what looked to be about 18 inches. Jackson disengaged the clip, put on a rubber glove, picked up all his brass and tossed them all as far into the woods as he could. He put everything back the way he found it in the car, and drove up the road to examine the tree and gather up the tripods. When he looked at the tree he had a bit of a twinge of guilt, thinking that even a near miss to centre mass would still blow the victim to smithereens. But Jackson was a warrior and probably a bit of a psychopath, so he shrugged it off and threw the tripods in the back of the Jeep.

It was dark when he got back to his workshop. He backed the Jeep in and shut it down. He opened the hatch, pulled the gun case out of the back and set it on the counter. He then opened the passenger door and took out a bag from Arby’s and a can of Diet Coke. He spread the food out and started eating one of the two roast beef sandwiches and curly fries. As he was eating, he opened the case and stared at the rifle. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry and would certainly make a hell of a mess wherever it was used. 

After he finished the food, he field-stripped the gun. He examined each of the pieces and applied gun oil where it was needed and cleaned the barrel. He smiled and kissed the butt of the gun and gently laid it into the case. It was just like old times he thought. 

When he had that gun in his hands there was a feeling of invincibility that rubbed off on him. He knew that feeling would be the hardest thing to shake after this mission was over. But Jackson didn’t dwell on any of that. He was a killer, no two ways about it, and if you didn’t walk the talk because of some shit going on in your head, it could cost your life.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Jackson walked into Marlena’s office the following Monday morning, he was astonished to see that she had cleared off an entire section of her corkboard and pinned up the twelve shots that would make up Jackson’s initial portfolio. They were about 36 inches wide by 24 inches deep.  They were a mix of faces and places which when seen all within the same space told the story of a place and a time and a people. Seeing them displayed like that Jackson was moved. It was like he was looking at someone else’s work, but centred at the bottom of each print with a key line framing each side, was his name in a beautiful graphic signature. 

“You didn’t use anything from the US shots.” he said.

“No, not this time,” Marlena said. “This defines you. It shows people your curiosity and your ability to uncover the beauty of a harsh place. The American shots have several different flavours. I wanted this to be pure.”

Jackson took a long deep breath. “I don’t know what to say. You seem to see me better than I can see myself.”

“Maybe,” she said and she took his hand. “There are a lot of people who will see what you are and who you are with this. It may take a while, but we’ll find a gallery. I’m certain of that.”

Jackson stared at the images for quite a while. He had never really seen them grouped like this, so for him, it was like looking at them for the first time. As his eye moved from shot to shot he realized that they really did tell the story of that place. A country filled with amazing people. A country that had been exploited several times for its mineral wealth and its illicit substances. Maybe he was reading too much into the images because they did bring back some of his most vivid memories of that place.

Jackson and Marlena talked for quite a while about little things like warmth and contrast and tweaking the colours to make them a bit more vibrant. It took a good three hours and Jackson surprised himself with his ability to analyze these shots and work with Marlena to tweak them in Photoshop.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The meeting was set for three pm on a Friday afternoon. Phillip Ross gave his people the afternoon off, and as soon as the last person had left Damon Reese entered the building and swept the office for bugs. He also set up a low-volume white noise generator to cloud any external audio surveillance either parabolic or drone-based. 

The boardroom was swept and deemed clean by two which is when Ethan Jones and Missy Felder arrived and set up their findings on the large corkboard. They placed digital summaries on individual memory keys on the table, then poured coffee for themselves. At about 2:53, Phillip Ross entered the room followed by Tuttle, Reese and Jackson. Jackson was introduced to Missy Felder and Ethan Jones, and after getting coffee or water, everyone sat down.

“Ethan and I had a delightful trip through the southland, or as I like to call it, Cracker Central.” Missy said. “We scoped out the neighbourhoods for each of our targets, as well as tracking them to their clubhouses. As you can see from the shots we got, these guys are all living outside of any subdivisions in their respective towns. This may have a lot to do with the notion that they are probably not what you would call good neighbours. But that works to our advantage. As we scouted their home locations we found several possible set-up sites, none of which were more than 1100 to 1300 yards away. Several were as close as 600.” She looked at Jackson, who was simply taking everything in. “That work for you Jackson?”

“Umm, yeah. I’m pretty confident up to about 1500 yards.”

“That’s good to know. The other good news is that none of these clowns is currently married, which is a pattern among this type of bad boy. So the chances of a clean getaway are optimal. But the best news is that while they may have all been in DC together on January 6, they have the motorcycle gang mentality. They don’t see other groups as brothers-in-arms but as rivals, at least that’s the impression I picked up in the bars we visited. Very territorial. The probability of blame boomeranging back to Uncle Sam is very low. The mentality is that they think the government is just a bunch of weenies, So they’re much more likely to believe it’s another group who is attacking them.” 

Missy sat down. “So there you have it in a nutshell. Just remember these guys, for the most part, are much more violent than they are smart. Now all this information and our surveillance notes are on the memory keys. So take one and study it, especially you, Jackson. I want to be in and out as quickly as possible. I don’t believe in long meetings. So I’m done. If anybody has any questions we’ll be glad to answer them.”

“I have one question,” Jackson said. “It was something you didn’t touch on. And that was the police. Any risk that these guys are being watched by the local cops?”

“There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of police presence in any of the towns we visited.” Ethan Jones said. “We saw the odd cruiser on the main streets, mostly looking to break up drunken brawls. These are very small town environments. But, to answer your question, no we didn’t sense any surveillance, and we did a 360-degree scout around each of the houses.”

“Any more questions?” Missy asked. The room was silent. “OK, take your memory keys. Don’t copy them onto your computers, and Jackson, I understand you’ll be driving so I will be at your house bright and early on Monday morning.”

“Roger that, ma’am.”

Missy just smiled. “We’ll have a good time, Jackson. I just know it.”

The meeting was over almost as quickly as it had started. Everybody went their separate ways. 

Phillip Ross caught Jackson at the door. “Come on down to my office for a minute, Jackson.”

“Sure.” And Jackson followed him across the workspace and into the office. Ross sat down at his desk and motioned for Jackson to take a seat.

“I just wanted to tell you how happy I am you decided to join us on this mission.”

“Well, let’s just hope things go smoothly.” Jackson replied.

“You’ll be in good hands with Missy. She’s a real pro. But the other thing I wanted to ask you about is Marlena.”

Jackson took a deep breath. “Yeah, we’ve talked about this. Nothing specific…no names. But we have come to an understanding. She knows I have to do this. And if she ever finds out that it’s at your request, that info will not have come from me, sir, I guarantee you.” 
“Good. That sets my mind at ease. Marly and her globetrotting brother are all the family I have. I don’t want to lose either of them.”

“I can understand that, sir. But I think Marlena might surprise you if she ever did get wind of what this is and who you are.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather not risk it.” 

“Yes sir, I get that too.”

“OK. Be safe. Missy is there to help you, but the show is yours to run. If it feels like there’s any chance at all of it going south, you get your ass, and hers, out of there.”

“Yes sir. I surely will.”

Jackson got to his feet and so did Ross. The two men shook hands and Jackson nodded and left the office. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson spent the weekend studying the surveillance photographs and reading the reports on the men who were his targets. 

Late that night, after he had digested all the intel that Missy and Ethan Jones had gathered, he turned on his computer camera, where he had started keeping a video journal.

“We were briefed on the mission today. I’m amazed how so many living in America could become this radicalized because I can’t for the life of me figure out what these people hope to gain, and how they could possibly believe that they could equip and train themselves well enough to win any sort of violent revolution when the powers that be have the vast majority of the armed forces, extremely well-trained soldiers and superior weaponry.

The only conclusion I can draw is that these people are nothing more than brainwashed mad dogs. They certainly believe in their cause, but most likely, they have nothing going on beyond that. They can’t form a government. They can’t convince all the right-minded people in America that their cause is somehow just, especially as the country very much seems to be coming back after the Covid plague and its total mismanagement in the early days led to more deaths and ruined lives than anyone would care to admit. And even with the high levels of inflation worldwide, the country is managing to hold its own and chalk up record employment and job creation numbers.”

Jackson scratched his head absently. “I can’t help but wonder what the hell these right-wing extremists actually want. All I can logically conclude is that it’s just power for its own sake.”

Slowly but surely, Jackson became convinced that The Sword of Damocles was a right thing to do. This was shaping up to be a war. If they could throw the enemy into a bit of disarray, then maybe…

~~~~~~~~~~~

Early Monday morning Missy Felder arrived in an Uber at Jackson’s house. She was dressed casually, wore just enough makeup to make her look around the same age as Jackson and had her blonde hair tied back with a red patterned bandana over it. She wore a white sleeveless top and a pair of tight-fitting jeans with sandals. 

Jackson was already packed and offered Missy coffee for the road. She produced a large thermos from her shoulder bag and filled it, then added a little milk and closed it back up. 

They loaded Missy’s gear, and Jackson showed her how the gun was concealed. Missy very much approved. A few minutes later, off they went heading south on 85 through Raleigh Durham, Charlotte, Greenville and into Atlanta, a little over nine hours later. 

They grabbed some Arby’s which they both readily agreed on and headed to a motel on the south side of the city. They ate in their room, watched a little news on TV and sacked out till about seven the next morning. 

They had breakfast at a crowded IHOP. Jackson took some pictures of Missy outside the restaurant with his iPhone. They wanted to look like a young couple on vacation and the picture-taking helped create that impression.

An hour or so later they got off 85 and onto a two-lane state road where they drove through a podunk town called Newnan, where Missy directed him up a street called Roscoe Road to a run-down auto garage with a faded sign that said Myles Bros. Collision. 

“Wiley Myles, or Wildman as he is better known, runs that mess with his brother Aaron. Both of them are bastards, but Wiley is the boss.”

“Sons Of The Revolution.” Jackson said. “How do they come up with this shit?”

“Keep goin’ and we’ll head out to Wiley’s abode, and I use the term loosely.”

They drove on for about two miles until they were clear of any houses, gas stations or big box stores. They were in the country again. Missy directed Jackson to take a left onto a road dirt road that didn’t appear to have any name. Jackson noted that they were going uphill. 

When they got to the top of the hill. Missy directed him to pull over. They both got out. Down in a shallow valley was a rundown house with a small barn. There were a couple of older cars at the side of the barn. Jackson got out his scope and surveyed the entire area surrounding the house. 

“He usually gets home around seven. Has a couple of beers in him. Makes some dinner and then either hunkers down to watch something on TV or sits out on the porch and drinks more beer and talks on the phone.” Missy said. 

“This is ideal.” Jackson said. “I can take him when he gets out of his car. You sure there’s nobody else lives there?”

“Sure as we can be. He’s too fuckin’ mean to hold onto a woman for any length of time. Least that’s what I heard from some half-drunk idiot at one of the bars in town. He also told me the Sons Of The Revolution only get together on the weekends, on account of jobs and such.” 

Jackson pointed his scope at one of the rusted-out Chevys beside the barn. “Eight hundred and thirty-four yards.”

Jackson returned the scope/rangefinder to the compartment. Then he walked into the woods and moved around a bit. After a few moments, he came back to the Jeep.

“Found a nice tree with a clear field of vision. What we’ll do is keep an eye on the bar he drinks at. When he goes in, we’ll set up. We’ve got high ground so our phones will work. You let me off right here, I’ll wait him out. You drive a mile or so past the house. We’ll keep our phones on. Once he’s down and I’m sure nobody else is around, you come and get me and we’ll get our asses back to Atlanta before anyone knows anything.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They drove back into Newnan and went to the Walmart Super-centre, which was pretty crowded. They agreed that Missy, even dressed down as she was would attract too much attention, so she stayed in the car and Jackson went in and got some fruit and a few other goodies to munch on while they waited. They then found a place where they could keep their eye on Myles Bros. Collision. 

Sure enough, at five o'clock almost on the button. Wiley got into his Camaro and headed down to a bar called Whiskers.

After he had gone in, they went back to the spot that they had decided on that afternoon. Jackson took his gun and fastened the scope, and the suppressor, slapped in a clip, put another clip in his small shoulder bag and headed into the woods. 

Missy drove the Jeep up the rise past the house to the top of the hill, where she couldn’t be seen from Myles’ place After a few minutes his phone vibrated. It was Missy letting him know she was in place. After they disconnected, Jackson sat down beside the tree and ate a Mars bar. He closed his eyes and thought about Afghanistan. Then he thought about what he was doing and, for a moment, wondered why he wasn’t giving himself a hard time about it. Maybe, he thought, it was because he could see another life. A life in photography. Maybe a life with Marlena. A life with no cannon in it like the one that was laid across his lap. 

The time went quickly and it went slowly. Soon he heard the rumble of Wiley Miles’ Camaro coming up the road. He punched in Missy’s number and opened the line. He got to his feet took a couple of deep breaths and set the AR50 down in the crook of the tree. He stood erect, the butt of the gun resting in the muscle mass in the corner of his chest. He peered through the scope and followed the Camaro up the dusty road and into the driveway where it stopped about fifteen feet from the front of the house.

Wiley Miles opened the door and climbed out, looking over the roof of the Camaro as he stretched his arms out and shook a kink out of his neck. It was the last thing that Wiley Myles did in his life, as Jackson squeezed the trigger and less than two seconds later drilled a hole right into the center of Wiley Myles’ back. The round exploded on impact and slammed Wiley’s body into the car where he bounced back and fell to the ground face up, with a massive crater where his chest used to be.

Jackson waited a full minute to see if there was any activity in or around the house. Finally, he gave Missy the all-clear. He picked up the brass shell casing which had cooled down and put it in his pocket. 

One minute later, Missy pulled up. She opened the hatch and Jackson pulled out the gun case. He grabbed a rag from the tool bag and used it to unscrew the warm silencer. He unfastened the sight and placed everything where it belonged. He closed it all up and got into the passenger’s seat. They were gone within two minutes. When they got onto Roscoe Road they went straight north for another 20 miles, then hooked up with Highway 70 and rode it on into Atlanta. They found a nice suburban steakhouse and had some dinner, tipped just the right amount to keep their server happy but make themselves unmemorable. They then found a motel on the north side of the city. Jackson didn’t want to stay in hotels because he needed to bring the gun in with him. Motels generally had rooms where the car could be backed into a space only a few feet from the door. 

They talked for a while and both got to sleep at around eleven. They got up early the next morning and it was a straight run back home to Richmond from there. 

On the way, Missy texted Phillip Ross a coded confirmation and Ross got hold of Damon Reese, who sent an anonymous text to the Newnan police department. Then he started sending releases to all the major news networks and radio stations bounced from about a dozen different servers around the world, most recently a location in Johannesburg South Africa.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Nobody found out about Wiley Myles’ death until the next morning when Newnan Sheriff  Willy Dupont got the anonymous message from Reese.

Dupont, then notified the FBI office in Atlanta and they immediately dispatched two agents, James Holcomb and Hollis Keene, who arrived at Wiley Miles’ house a few hours after the Sheriff. The Sheriff brought two deputies, and for a while, they all stood in a semi-circle around the pulverized carcass.

Keene who was the senior agent on the scene said, “This guy’s been hit with a cannon, most likely from at least a thousand yards out, probably from that little rise over there,” he said, pointing up the road at the rise in the land. “We can check it out but I’d say anyone with the skills to do this will have made damn sure he didn’t leave anything behind. But get on up there and have a look around anyway.” Keene said to a young deputy.

Keene took Holcomb aside and walked over to the front door of the house. “This guy is a pro. Likely ex-military, not many civilians could handle a big gun at that distance, looks like about 900 yards. Long and short of it is, we got big trouble brewin’. And I’m pretty sure he ain’t done. Far from it. When we get back I want you to start digging into the military. See if you can spot anything hinky. The only way we’re gonna catch this motherfucker is comin’ in the back door.” 

“You got it boss.” Holcomb said.

With that Keene walked over to the Sheriff. “Willy, the forensics squad will be here soon. Let them know if you find anything up on that rise although it’s not likely. We’re gonna head out, we can do more on the computer right now than we can in the field.”

The Sheriff just nodded and shook hands with both men. They got in their car and turned it around as a couple of news vehicles were driving in.

“You don’t want to stay and talk to the press?” Holcomb asked. Through the open window of Keene’s car.

“Naa. I make it a rule never to talk to anyone until I’ve got something concrete or enough bullshit to be scary. Right now we’ve got neither one.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson dropped Missy off at her house in south Richmond and headed to his studio to clean the gun and stow it away. The schedule Missy had outlined meant that nothing would happen for at least another week. So he was free to take some pictures. He made it home and into bed by midnight. Just before lights out, he texted Marlena and arranged to have lunch with her the next day. She texted him back and hinted that she had some very good news to tell him. He was too tired to call her, so he just laid down and was asleep about ten minutes after his head hit the pillow.

The next morning, the shooting and the existence of the Sword of Damocles group were all over the national news. The Democrats in Washington applauded the group. The Republicans labelled it a far left-wing conspiracy to stifle freedom of speech in the country. The press had a field day. New experts were dragged out of the woodwork to pontificate on the goings-on. Generally speaking, the media was conditioning people for a full-blown assault on right-wing patriots.

Jackson watched it for about an hour, and it occurred to him that it wasn’t so much that the people were fucked up, it was the media struggling to turn a single killing into a left versus right spectacle, and the politicians for piling on to give it exactly the kind of horsepower that Phillip Ross had told them it would. As he was getting ready to head out for lunch with Marlena, Missy Felder called. 

“I suppose you’ve been watching the news.” she said

“Yeah. It’s amazing how this thing has blown up.”

“Now you know why I like doing what I’m doing. The people at the top really do have their shit together.”

“No doubt about it.”

“So we should probably get together for coffee next Monday.” she said, which was the code they had worked out for the start of the next phase.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jackson said and disconnected.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson picked Marlena up at her house. And they drove east through Norfolk to Virginia Beach. They found a place to park and spent the rest of the afternoon eating junk food, walking, sitting, and talking. Jackson photographed Marlena in several different locations and took candid shots of some of the interesting sights they saw on the beach. 

For Jackson, it was his first real date in a long time. Marlena had had a couple of boyfriends but nothing seemed to stick, so when she realized that Jackson could be someone she could share her life with, she cut him all the slack he needed to do what he had to do. She knew he had killed that anarchistic right-wing nutbar down in Georgia, and she also knew that there would be more to come. He was part of something pretty substantial and for the first time that she could recall, the left wing of the country was playing hardball. This Sword of Damocles group, that she was certain he belonged to was dead serious and had proven it.  

She knew that the country was torn in two, precisely because the Republican party had moved much farther to the right and they fought the government at every turn. Despite the fact that she didn’t believe that violence did anything but beget more violence, she was proud of Jackson for having the strength of his conviction. She would never tell him that, of course. No sense in having a boyfriend with a swelled head.

After an hour or so of walking around, they got coffees and sat down on a bench to watch the world go by. Marlena had been saving her news until she felt Jackson would be in a receptive mood. She could feel his tension from the moment she got in the car. But as they were sitting on the bench with their coffees she felt that he had cooled out considerably.

“So”, Marlena said. “Remember when I told you I had some good news?”

“I was wondering when you would get around to tellin’ me.”

“Well, while you were off being that other guy, I put a little PDF package together with the bio you gave me and sent it off to about a dozen galleries between here and Baltimore.”

“Okay?”

Marlena got out her iPhone. She opened Google Maps and zeroed in on a street called Thames Street in South Baltimore. She then clicked on one of the names along the street. 

“This is one of the most prestigious galleries on the east coast. It’s called Viewfinder. Two nights ago, I got an email from Dianna Freeman, the owner, in response to my email. She was impressed with the presentation and she wants to meet with us.”

“That’s great. But what does it mean?”

“Silly boy. It means she might very well be interested in doing a show. This is a big giant opportunity, my love. Very big.” 

She hugged Jackson. She was trembling with excitement. 

“Well, alright.” Jackson said. 

Marlena disengaged and looked at Jackson curiously. “You don’t seem very excited.”

“No. No…Please. I’m…this is a great thing. I’m just a little…well blown away. I honestly believed that my photography would never be more than a hobby. Now you’re telling me some big-time gallery wants to talk about a show. That’s like light years from one thing to the other.”

“You need to understand something, Jackson Lyall. You have talent beyond shooting a gun. Even if nothing happens, which I doubt, we have proven that you’re the real deal. And you should be delighted about that.”

Jackson took a deep breath. His head was spinning a bit from a combination of excitement and fear. “OK…so what do we have to do?”

“Well first of all we have to get our asses up there to meet with her. If that goes well, then we’ll figure it out from there. Even if she doesn’t want to do a show, I can definitely get some good advice from her that we could use to find another gallery. Or maybe a referral which would be even better.”

Jackson was staring off at the ocean. He was thinking about his real identity and how easy it was for Tuttle to find out about it. It began to feel like an overweight albatross around his neck. The only thing to do was to play it by ear and see what Reese could do about erasing William Farrell. Maybe push the time frame for doing that. Jackson put on a happy face and shook his head.

 “I’m sorry Marlena, this is all quite a shock. I really am blown away by all of this. And your effort has been spectacular.”

“You hired me to help you market you, Jackson.” she said. “And I am actually pretty good at that.” 

“You are world-class.” And then Jackson kissed her, and for the first time, he realized that this was much more than just a boyfriend-girlfriend thing. This was the real deal. He could feel her love, and he hoped to hell that she could feel his.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The brutal assassination of Wiley Myles became big news around the world. Mainly because it was pretty much unheard of that a left-wing group would actually assassinate someone. 

Phillip Ross monitored the news religiously and saw that even after just one killing, there was a definite rise in the temperature in the country around this incident. 

Instead of being shocked by the killing and its brutal nature, many of the people who were interviewed by various stations or who responded to social media postings, which Damon Reese was closely monitoring and texting links to Ross, were overwhelmingly positive. The consensus, at least in Phillip Ross’s mind, was ‘It’s about time’. 

Ross knew that the majority of Americans, the people who put the current government into power with almost full control of Congress and the Senate, were fed up with the distance between the left and the right in America. And they blamed it all on the right for allowing themselves to be hoodwinked into supporting insurrectionists. A lot of this was a result of all the ‘rigged election’ rhetoric emanating from the leader of the Republican party and someone whom Ross, and a whole lot of other people, felt had no business being anywhere near political power.

After an hour or so of listening to the news, Ross called Ethan Jones and instructed him to get down to Atlanta, rent a car and get to Newnan and start interviewing people. Reese had already set Ethan Jones up with a recorder that was linked by satellite to his main system, so Reese could edit and upload the video vignettes to all the social media sites and YouTube.

Three hours later, when Ross sat down on the bench in the Capital Mall, Senator Winters was all smiles. “We got ourselves a decent-sized bump right from the get-go, Phil, even though nobody directly associates this activity with the party or the government.” Winters said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. They’ll be putting two and two together, but more like a free association.”

“Well, kudos to your team. They have not ruffled a damn feather out there yet. Even the FBI are stumped.”

“Thank you, I’ll pass that along.”

“You do that Phil. The worm is startin’ to turn. I can’t believe the amount of attention this is attracting.”

“Well, you wanted to move the needle.”

“Yes I did, and yes we are. Keep up the good work.” With that, Winters got to his feet and headed back to his office. 

Phillip Ross sat in the mall for another ten minutes or so, watching all the people strolling by in the warm summer air. He had often thought about what would happen to his country if there ever was a civil war. Somehow he couldn’t imagine these tourists lining up to get outfitted for the fight. Americans had grown too fat and happy for that. But one of the things he had learned from twenty years in the espionage business is never to underestimate desperate people. If these folks ever thought their lifestyle was threatened in any way…then he chuckled to himself at the intellectual indulgence that these people could get angry enough to go to war with their countrymen. Most likely it would go in the opposite direction they would want to get as far out of the line of fire as possible. 

In reality, these people would probably never even know what was going on. Because while this government might tolerate the behaviour of all these far-right assholes, it would not hesitate to snuff them out at the first sign they were getting organized to attack en masse. Which is why his plan made so much sense. Keep them distracted with a new enemy, which some of them would believe is a rival, and hopefully, get them feuding with each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson was surprised when he opened the door early on Monday morning to see that Missy had almost completely changed her look. Her blonde hair was now brown and quite a bit shorter. Her wardrobe was mainly denim. and she wore beautiful hand-tooled boots. Jackson had let his beard grow out and had bought himself a new black Stetson hat. He wore jeans and a white denim shirt untucked. They looked very much like the cliched version of a young Texas couple. When she got in the house, Missy set her bag down on the dining room table and dug around in it for a few seconds. She came up with a plastic bag which contained a Texas licence plate, which she handed to Jackson.

“We’re gonna be right in the middle of Arkansas, and they’re suspicious as hell down there of anything further north than they are. So we can switch them up once we get to Little Rock. Guy we’re goin’ for, Desmond Keller, lives just outside of Hot Springs. Owns a gamer place and sandwich shop. Does a pretty brisk trade but he only goes there at the end of the day to do the cash, drop it at the bank then head home. We can scope out the area around his house, but this might very well have to be a road job.”

Jackson shrugged. It didn’t really make much difference to him. This guy would end up with a large hole or maybe a few smaller ones in him no matter what. Missy handed Jackson her travel mug and he filled it with coffee and some milk. 

Five minutes later they were on the road. They took 81 down to Knoxville and then got onto 40 which took them to Nashville, where they got a motel and spent the night. They ate some great southern food at a place called Kelly’s Cajun Grill on the north side. The next day they switched to the Texas plate and headed for Little Rock. They got there with three hours to spare before Desmond Keller was due to arrive at his shop. 

Missy stayed in the car while Jackson entered the place and bought them a couple of coffees and looked around. The place was called DK’s and it was filled with people young enough to make Jackson feel old. Some were playing computer games, others were doing stuff with their phones that Jackson couldn’t figure out. Still others were at the tables drinking coffee and talking. It looked like a pretty cool hangout. The guy behind the counter was a hard-looking redneck who no doubt kept order in the place.

“A couple coffees to go. milk, no sugar.” Jackson said. “Looks like a happening spot.”

“Yeah, we do OK” The hard looking counter guy said. “Gives the kids somewhere to hang out.” He handed Jackson the coffees and Jackson laid some bills on the counter. “You don’t look familiar.” he said, more curious than suspicious.

“Yeah we’re just on way back home from Nashville.”

“Where’s home?” 

“Arlington.”

“So what brought you to Nashville?”

“You ever hear of a band called Dire Straits?”

“Well, sure. Sultans of Swing. Money for Nothing and your chicks for free. They were pretty big.”

“Yeah. Well, the guy who created that band, his name is Mark Knopfler, and he lives in Nashville. And he’s got a daughter named Cindy, who is my wife.” Jackson was astonished at how full of shit he was, but this asshole was mesmerized. “My father-in-law has his own production studio. Lookin’ for the next big thing.”

“No shortage of dreamers in this country. So what do you do over there in Arlington?”

“I’m a photographer. I work for National Geographic magazine. They send me all over the place. It’s gettin’ kinda old though. I was thinking about maybe buyin’ a place like this.”

“Just make sure it’s in a nice part of town and close to as many schools as can be. School kids make up about 90% of our business.”

Jackson picked up the coffees. “Thanks for the advice. Good talkin’ to you.”

He just nodded then said, “Have a safe trip back.”

Jackson headed back out to the Jeep. “Which way, Missy?”

Missy directed him to a road that ended up in a place called Hot Springs, After a mile or two they turned north on a two-lane paved road, surrounded by woods. They came to the top of a hill and Missy told Jackson to stop. They were looking at two houses set maybe 500 back on grassy lots.

“His is the house on the left. Jones and I checked out the other place. It looked like it had been empty for a while now.

Jackson got out of the Jeep. He walked to the end of the woods across the way. “What’s on the other side of these woods.”

“Trailer park.” 

Jackson said “Hmmmm”. And he got back into the Jeep. “This guy an after-work drinker?”

“Nope. At least he didn’t for the three days we watched him. Came right home. I think he works here. The only light we saw at night was at the far end of the house.”

“Let’s go back and tail him.”

They drove back into south Little Rock and waited for Keller at his shop. About half an hour later, he arrived, parked around the back went into the building using a rear door. Twenty minutes later, he came out the front door. He stood there for a while looking up and down the street. At that point, Jackson thought his little cover story might not have been such a great idea. Keller only stood out the front for a minute or two and then went back inside. A few minutes later he pulled out from behind the shop and headed south out of the city.

“This is gonna be trickier than we thought,” Jackson said. “Guy looks like he’s a little paranoid.”

“Well, do you blame him?” Missy said.

“No, I guess not.”

Jackson pulled out of the side street where they were parked and followed Keller’s truck south out of Little Rock. But instead of turning off onto his road, he kept going south until he came to a roadhouse called Edgar’s Place, about four miles south of his turnoff. Jackson drove by as Keller parked in the back and went inside. 

They pulled over into a McDonald’s parking lot and parked in the back away from the few other cars in the lot.  They both got out. Jackson opened the trunk and pulled out the canvas case that held the FNX pistol. He inserted the clip, and then screwed on the silencer. He then put everything back but the pistol, which he brought with him and got into the front passenger side. 

“Let’s go back to that bar.” he said.

Missy drove back to the bar, and around the back to see exactly where Keller had parked his truck. She backed the Jeep in several spaces down. The lot was quiet. There were a few older cars and newer pickups in it. And there was music emanating from the back door which was held partially open by a piece of 2 x 4. Jackson got out and walked into the unmown field behind the lot. He came out on the passenger side of the Keller’s truck which was parked facing the bar. He then moved around to the other side of the truck. There was another pickup right next to Keller’s. 

Jackson stopped and turned to face Keller’s truck. This would be an ideal spot to shoot from, he thought, right over the hood of the neighbouring truck. He walked back through the tall grass to the Jeep. Missy rolled down the window and Jackson told her what the plan was. If anybody came out she should just pretend she was talking on the phone to someone. Jackson told her he had a good shot and they could make a clean exit if all went well. If not, he would take off through the field, and kill anybody who came after him. Once he was clear he would call her and she could come to pick him up.

Missy just nodded. She knew what to do and she also knew that Jackson did too. Jackson went back to the white pickup and sat down in the field between the two trucks so he could see the rear door of the bar. It was just a question of time. 

Jackson waited in the grass for close to an hour so it was dark when Keller, pushed his way out the back door. He’d obviously had a few drinks because he looked a little unsteady. Just like a cracker asshole, Jackson thought, to drive home drunk. Jackson chambered a bullet. He leaned toward the neighbouring truck and then pulled himself up just as Keller opened the door to his truck and started to climb inside. Jackson fired three shots into Keller’s side. He slumped forward onto the front seat of the truck. His keys tumbled to the pavement. 

Jackson picked up his brass, and looked around the lot to see if anyone was coming it. Then he got to his feet and walked over to Keller’s body, He pinched his neck pulse with his gloved hand. Nothing. He quickly faded back into the grass and made his way down the lot. He got into the Jeep and Missy dropped it into gear. She drove by Keller’s pickup and out of the lot. They turned back toward Little Rock and kept on going.

 They took Highway 40 to Memphis and on the way, they stopped at a Barbecue Place called Baines and picked up some ribs. While Missy was getting the food, Jackson backed the car into a corner of the lot and put the gun, its clip and the silencer back in their places in the little canvas case, tossed the spent brass into a field behind him and switched the plate back to Virginia. 

Jackson took over the driving and Missy called Ross and told he that Keller was done and they would be back in Richmond tomorrow afternoon.

Ross called Damon Reese sent a note to the Sheriffs’ office in Hot Springs.

Jackson and Missy found a motel in West Memphis, ate their dinner and watched the late local news. They finally saw a story about the killing. Police were investigating. Keller was the head of the Arkansas Aryan Brotherhood, and was the second far right-wing leader to be assassinated in so many weeks. Police had no leads but suspect that this may have been a feud between rival far-right groups. The same old story. Speculation up the wazoo. 

The next morning, they were on the road back to Virginia and Missy sent an ‘all is well’ text to Phillip Ross, which was his signal to send out the second release.

As they were approaching Charlotte, North Carolina, the radio news started blowing up with all kinds of speculation about the killings of both Myles and Keller. Conspiracy theories in abundance. 

Jackson and Missy could only laugh about how overjoyed the Democrats in Washington would be, having this army of six true patriots doing the dirty work that they couldn’t. For Jackson, it brought back a lot of the feelings he had when he was hunting in Afghanistan. He had to admit that feeling was a lot more addictive than he believed it would be when he left the Corps. He talked about it a bit with Missy as they drove along. 

“I can understand how you feel, Jackson.” she said. “I missed carrying a badge and the big gun for quite some time. But it finally wore off. Riding shotgun with you brings a little of it back. Of course, back then I wasn’t being paid to kill anyone, more like keep’em alive if I could. But the extremes are kinda the same. You keep workin’ on your photography and see if you can’t get that to replace the rush.”

“Well, that’s the plan, Missy.”

“Good to have a plan, and some serious money in the bank when this is all over.”

There were those words again, “When this is all over.” Jackson thought. He knew there would be an end to it all, sooner or later. It was, after all, a political game as much as it was a killing game. His hope was that it wouldn’t all be in vain. But then again, he had zero control over that. All he could do was take out the bad guys and hope he would never get caught. He thought about the Get Out Of Jail Free Card that Phillip Ross had told him about. But the more he thought about it the more he realized that regardless of the legal ramifications, he was making enemies, even though they didn’t know who he was at the moment. And that was probably his best incentive for doing the job flawlessly.

They got into Richmond at about dinnertime. But Missy wanted to be dropped off at home and that was fine with Jackson. He was dog-tired. But he dropped off his guns and left the pistol to be cleaned the next day.

He picked up a roast beef sandwich and fries from Rudy’s and headed home. He flipped around the TV channels. The story was taking on a life of its own. The FBI had organized a task force. Local police were on high alert in the towns where the heads of right-wing fanatic groups existed. 

And now, for the first time, Democratic politicians were involved. This is when Jackson got his first look at Senator Roland Winters. He didn’t put two and two together but just assumed that he looked devious and smart enough to have orchestrated this whole thing. But then again, he thought politicians all looked kind of devious.

The next morning, Jackson went to his studio and cleaned the pistol and silencer. He reloaded the cartridge and stowed everything in the gun safe. Then he headed north to Tuttle’s range, determined to get the thing that had been on his mind since he signed on.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was pretty hot by the time he got out to Tuttle’s. He parked out back then went inside and grabbed a Diet Coke from the cooler, and showed it to the counter kid, who nodded back. Tuttle was at his usual table, scanning the news sites with his headphones on, as Jackson sat down opposite him. Tuttle closed the laptop and took off the headphones. 

“So I hear things went well in Arkansas.”

“Yeah, they did,”

“So you come out to do some shootin’?”

“No, I came out to do some talkin’.”

“OK, well what did you want to talk about.”

“My ID. When I first signed on, you told me you could get Reese to make Billy Farrell completely unfindable.”

“Yeah, that’s what he told me.”

“Well, I need you to get him to do that sooner rather than later. You’ve seen the coverage this is getting. It won’t be long before the FBI comes looking at the Forces for me. Get Out Of Jail Free Card or no, I’m the tip of this spear, and the one who’s gonna make all the enemies. The more we can slow them down the better it will be for all of us.”

Tuttle leaned back in his chair and thought it through. Jackson was absolutely right. The boy was smart. Knew all the angles.

“OK. You’re right and we should have done it from the get-go.”

“I’m only concerned because the further along this road we go, the more attention we will be drawing. Just want to make sure there are no unnecessary complications if something should go sideways.”

Tuttle picked up his phone and called Reese. He put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Tuttle.” Reese’s voice said.

“Hey, Reese.”

“What can I do you for?” 

“Remember that thing we talked about for Jackson?”

“Oh sure.”

“Okay, well I think it’s time to go.”

“You got it, man. Should only take a couple of hours.”

“Call me when you’re done.”

“Will do. Is Jackson there with you?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Hey Reese,” Jackson said.

“Hey man. Just wanted to commend you on the quality of your work.”

“Thank you. We’re not done yet.”

“Yeah but you’re off to a hell of a start, and you can forget about that other guy. He’s leaving town.”

“That’s good to hear Reese. Thank you.”

“Take care, man. And give my regards to your friend 

Missy.”

“Will do, Reese.” Jackson said.

“Thanks, Reese.” Tuttle said and disconnected. “So there you go, Jackson Lyall, all in one piece.”

“I really appreciate it, sir.”

“Well, you have earned it and a whole lot more.”

“Have you heard from Mr. Ross lately?” 

“Oh yeah, they’re beside themselves with joy up in DC. But they’re not lettin’ on. And he’s thrilled with the way things are moving along. We should probably wait a little more than a week this time. Let the media get it right out of their system, then hit ‘em again.”

“I find it a little strange that we haven’t heard much from these right-wing groups in the media. I can’t believe we shook them up that badly.”

“There’s probably a lot of chatter on the dark web. These people can’t really afford to go public. A lot of them have godawful TVQ. They’d probably do more harm than good to their cause.”

“I did notice that Keller looked to have his radar up. He also was half drunk when we took him down. Didn’t fit his profile.” 

“They’ll get more paranoid the more we hit them. Most of them are varying degrees of psychotic to start with. Doesn’t take much to send them over the line. Oh yeah, you probably haven’t seen this.” He opened his laptop and turned it toward Jackson. It was the text for the second warning.

Attention Anarchists

If you haven’t noticed yet, the Sword of Damocles is fully operational and will soon be coming to your neck of the woods. Myles and Keller are just the beginning. You need to start thinking seriously about disbanding and going back to whatever lives you had before you got sucked into the Radical Right. There is no room for extremism like yours in America. And we are pledged to put it down like you would a mad dog. You have been warned. We are deadly serious. And we are coming for you.

The Sword Of Damocles

Jackson chuckled a bit and then turned the computer back to face Tuttle.  “God damn,” he said. “That should piss some people off.”

“Well, that’s the whole point of it, son. We eventually want them screaming so loud that everybody can hear. That’s the only way you break through to that big chunk of America that doesn’t seem to give a shit about anything.”

Jackson sat back in his chair. “You know, Missy and I talk a lot while we’re out there. Sometimes…it comes and goes, but I kinda feel like a pawn in some strange political game.” 

“I can understand that. And this is a game. It’s called an ounce of prevention. trying to head off a civil war in this country. And we’re trying really hard because the stakes are high. This is the greatest country that’s ever been in the modern era, Jackson. And the reason is that we fight to defend it and stick up for our way of life, even though close to half the grown people in this country are too stupid to give a shit. We do it for the rest who do. These anarchists have no idea what they’re fighting for. Most of them are dumb as rocks and just like to shoot stuff. It’s the people at the leadership level who do all the damage, keepin’ the dummies all wound up about how shitty things are and how much government is in their faces all the time. The shallow are easily led, Jackson. And the guys you’re killin’ they’re the manipulators who are leading them around by the nose. You are doin’ a public service, son. And don’t you forget that.”

Jackson was mesmerized. When you put it the way Tuttle had done, it was hard to argue with it, Jackson thought. Then he looked at his watch. 

“Oooo I gotta get goin’. Thanks for the talk, sir. I feel a lot better knowing that my old ID is in the ground.”

Jackson got to his feet and shook Tuttle’s hand. Then he got his ass out of there. He called Marlena as soon as he got in the Jeep and told her he was on the way to pick her up.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took about three hours to get to Baltimore, through thick traffic that fortunately was unhampered by accidents, stalled vehicles or construction.

The Viewfinder Gallery was on a street in the heart of the downtown core called West Barnes. They parked in a garage on the other side of the street and made it with about five minutes to spare. 

The gallery was in a long row of brick buildings. As Marlena and Jackson entered, there were a couple of other people looking at some of the art on the wall. Jackson looked up and noticed that the second floor had been removed. The ceiling high above them had been reinforced with large timbers. It gave the room a very otherworldly feel. The space was wide open. The walls were tastefully filled with beautifully framed photography. Each of the two walls featured a different artist. There were backless benches about five feet out from either wall. In the centre of each wall was a small shelf that just seemed to float there. It contained the biographical information of the artist whose work was displayed and a small brass card holder with the gallery’s logo and information on it. 

At the rear of the gallery, in a glassed-in office that ran the width of the space, Dianna Freeman sat at a glass-top desk looking at a large computer screen. She was a light olive-skinned woman with a large mane of black wavy hair and a beautiful face. She was dressed in a stylish black business suit that screamed power and taste. When she noticed Marlena & Jackson she got to her feet and came out of the office.

“Marlena Ross, I presume?”

“Yes, Ms. Freeman. And this is my guy, Jackson Lyall.”

“Just call me Dianna.”

Hands were shaken all around. Dianna showed them into her office. Marlena set the portfolio case down in front of Dianna and she looked through it slowly taking her time over each image. Finally, she looked up.

“So Marlena told me you were a Marine.” She said to Jackson.

“Yes ma’am. Eight years in. Mostly Africa and Afghanistan.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It had its moments.”

“I’m curious about what you used to take the pictures in Afghanistan.”

“I had a little Minolta single lens that I brought with me. Most of the shots were in and around Kabul, which is where we spent most of our free time.”

“The images you got are quite stunning.”

“It’s a pretty amazing place. The light is very good over there.”

“Well, geography notwithstanding I think you managed to capture something wonderful here.”

“Thank you.”

“You guys are quite the team. This is really refreshing imagery. And I would love to display it here. Not a show, just yet. I’d like to see how my visitors react and get us some feedback on your work. I will be putting up a new full wall and two new half walls later next month. If the preview goes well, one of the half-walls will be for you. No more than six images for the preview .”

“Well, Marlena says this is the place to be, so I’m really honoured,” Jackson said. “You know, up until Marlena told me we were comin’ to see you, this was just a pipe dream more than anything.”

“I tried to convince him otherwise.” Marlena said 

“It’s no longer a hobby, my friend. It’s a business. And the way I run it, it can be a profitable one. Why don’t we schedule another meeting and pick some shots from your entire collection. Then we’ll figure out pricing. But I’m thinking four to six.” 

“Four to six hundred?” Jackson said

“No Jackson…Four to six thousand for limited edition prints. Once we agree on the final images, I will do the printmaking and framing with my people. I will take 40% of all sales and that will also cover costs for the printing, framing and shipping.”

Jackson was stunned. He looked over at Marlena.

“I told you, hun. You are the real deal.” Marlena said to Jackson.

“Well, my clients will decide that. But right now, I’m feeling quite optimistic.” Dianna said.

“Okay. well…mmmm. Well thank you, I hope you sell the hell out of them.” Jackson said.

“Me too.” Dianna replied.

Dianna got up and closed the portfolio case that Jackson took. They arranged to meet in another couple of weeks. Diana then took them on a little tour of the art she was currently showing. As they were leaving Jackson and Marlena thanked her again. 

Crossing the street, to head back to the car, Marlena said, “Just think of it as a hobby that will make you famous.” Dianna said

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Jackson said. He was confident that Reese would be able to obliterate his record, but Jackson was a cautious man and cautious men never let their guard down. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Damon Reese worked out of a loft in downtown Richmond. Like most smart hackers he was networked to several remote servers around the world so if the FBI ever decided to come looking for him, they certainly wouldn’t be able to find him by seeking out power consumption hotspots, which is how most hackers got discovered.

Reese was importing and editing on-the-street interviews which were being sent to him from Ethan Jones who was currently down in Silver Springs Arkansas, interviewing people on the street about the shooting of Desmond Keller, with a small camera that hung around his neck, very low tech, but linked to a satellite feed which went directly into Reese’s computer. 

Whenever he came across a particularly good response, he would copy it off, clean up the sound and post it through a distribution program he developed that worked like Hubspot but collected no data. Every interview he fed into the program would be simultaneously posted on the vid channels of Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok and a YouTube channel, so people from all over the US and around the world were hearing about the killings and the supportive reactions of the people in the areas where they had taken place. 

Every six hours Reese would forward the response data to Phillip Ross, and every twenty-four hours, Ross would report the results via texts to Senator Winters’ private phone. 

In between sessions that morning, Reese worked on vanishing William Farrell from the military, which included cancelling his pension payments, this was done simply by tricking the Department of Defence algorithm into believing that Gunnery Sergeant William Farrell was deceased. The cause of death was listed as a car accident. Reese was surprised that that was all he had to do. He was in and out of the server within three minutes and watched as Mr. Farrell’s file was transferred to an area of their server, which he assumed was a graveyard. Reeses then hacked the graveyard and deleted Farrell’s file. Reese then texted Tuttle and told him that, as far as he could tell digitally, the job was done. Tuttle called Jackson, who was sitting in a restaurant near the Baltimore shipyards with Marlena when he got the call. 

“Jackson it’s Tuttle. Are you with Marlena?”

“Yes, I am, sir.”

“OK, Just wanted to let you know that William Farrell is officially deceased. Car crash.”

Jackson took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that sir. Please relay my condolences to his family. And thank you for calling.”

Jackson put the phone down.

“What was that about?” Marlena asked

“Someone I served with in Afghanistan has passed. Car accident, apparently.”

“What was his name?”

“Farrell, Sergeant William Farrell. He was my spotter.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” 

“Yeah. Me too. He was a good guy.”

They talked a bit about car accidents and then toasted William Farrell. Gone and hopefully forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The response to the two killings was everything Senator Roland Winters had hoped for. A lot of his good feeling came from the recorded interviews with people on the street in Silver Springs and Little Rock that seemed to be all over the Internet. He got one of his aides to do a little calculating just to see how many people were being reached. It was close to fifteen million in aggregate and climbing fast. 

His aide also told him that there was little commenting of a negative nature, which Winters thought was unusual in a land where dissenting voices droned night and day. Of course, the right-wing pundits were up in arms, taunting the government into taking responsibility for what they deemed was the ‘senseless slaughter of patriotic Americans’. Patriotic, my ass, Winters thought. 

Beside Phillip Ross, the only other person Winters could talk to about this was the president, but he restrained himself in that regard because while the walls of the Senate had ears, the walls of the White House were literally a megaphone. 

Over the past few days, he had made the rounds casually getting a sampling of opinions from the other side. The moderates were non-committal, but the radicalized dozen or so were beside themselves with anger and convinced that the Department of Defence was behind it at the behest of the President. All in all, that was to be expected, and yet another reason to keep President James Gregory out of the loop.

Summer break was coming up and it would be very interesting to see what the folks at home had to say to their elected representatives, especially in the states with the highest head counts of right-wing dissidents. 

But the long and short of it was that, as he made the rounds and wished everybody a great holiday, he was pretty damn proud of himself and considered himself lucky to have picked the right guy and his team for the job in Phillip Ross.

~~~~~~~~~~~

FBI Special Agents Hollis Keene and James Holcomb flew into Washington and checked in at FBI headquarters. They were shown to an empty office with a desk and a phone and a computer terminal. Once they were alone, Keene did a computer search then took out his cell phone and dialled a local number.

“Personnel, Daryl Stone.”

“Daryl Stone. Hollis Keene.” 

“Hollis Keene, well I’ll be dipped. I heard you left the reservation and joined the Feebs. Is that correct?”

“Indeed I did.” 

“Are you in DC?” 

“Yes sir I am and I’m fixin’ to buy you a hot dog and pick your brain.”

“Slim pickins there Hollis. But that dog sounds like a winner.”

“I’ll meet you on the pier in about two hours.” 

“Looking forward to it.” 

Keene disconnected. “Let’s go get us a car, son, he said to Holcombe we’re going to the Annapolis Naval Academy.”

Two hours later, give or take, Hollis Keene, James Holcomb and Captain Daryl Stone were sitting at a picnic table in a small parkette close to the dock. Stone was dressed casually but his military bearing was powerful. Behind them was the Thames River which emptied into Annapolis Bay. Daryl Stone was the special assistant to Admiral Allen Freemantle who was in charge of the Naval Academy.

“So.” Keene said after the introduction was made. “How’s the old man?”

“Feisty as ever.” Stone said. “Still trying to make super sailors out of everyone.”

“And how about you?”

“Not quite as much war these days. But the budgets are holding.”

“Captain Stone and I came up together right in this very place, James.” Keene said to Holcombe. “I joined NCIS and Daryl here stayed in administration, which is why we’re talkin’ to him today.”

“So this is about more than the dogs, I take it.” Stone said.

“Yeah. Agent Holcomb here and I have caught this right-wing killer case. And one of the ideas I had was that this guy might have a military background bein’ as he’s in and out like he was never there and the holes in his victims were about the size a souped up 50 calibre round would make.”

“Well, we do teach’em to be sneaky, Hollis.”

“I’d like you to take a pass through the personnel files and see if anything jumps out at you.”

“Can do. Quite a few people back from Afghanistan over the past six months or so, and few from the Middle East and Africa as well.” 

“I’m just looking for anything that looks hinky. I will be honest with you. We’re behind the eight-ball on this. The killings are swift and silent. The physical evidence is non-existent. I never heard of a civilian hitter who was that smart.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Hollis. But logic dictates that if they were that good you would know nothing about them. See how that works.”

Hollis turned to Holcomb. “He was always the smart one, James.”

They all shared a bit of a laugh. Then Hollis said “Take a run-through, especially army and marines, and see if anything pops.” 

The three men finished their dogs and Hollis gave Stone a card. “Call anytime, Daryl. There’s more dead assholes on the way, and as much as I would love to sit back and watch this all play out, well, you know, it’s the fuckin’ job.”

“I’ll give it a good look, Hollis.” And with that Stone walked back toward the administration building. 

Keene and Holcomb headed back to their car. “We’ll get back to the DC office and start looking through the criminal files. But my gut is telling me this guy is military.”

“Well, I believe it was you who told me to always trust your gut. And from all I’ve heard so far, I think you might be right.” Holcomb said.

~~~~~~~~~~~

One of the things that Jackson had going for him in all of this was that, thanks to a TV interview with FBI Special Agent Hollis Keene, he knew who was on his trail. It didn’t worry him, because he had a lot of faith in the plan and knew the odds of the FBI being anywhere near any one given event were slim to none. But still, he got hold of Reese and asked him to email him a profile on Special Agent Keene, which he got early the next morning. 

Keene worked out of Atlanta and was considered to be a hotshot, especially when it came to domestic terrorist activity. The airport in Atlanta was one of the busiest in the country, and the city itself was home to countless Middle Eastern terrorist groups, several of which had been busted up by Agent Keene and his unit. No doubt about it, Keene was a pro. But these guys were only as good as the evidence they could collect and thanks to Tuttle and his weapons connection, there was no traceable evidence anywhere. 

Jackson burned the file he had printed on Keene and deleted the email from Reese, then headed out to take some pictures of his new hometown and have dinner with his new girl. 

At close to 7:00 that evening Jackson and Marlena were sitting at a table at Rudy’s waiting for their ribs.

“I haven’t seen you for a few days,” she said.  Hope you’ve been out taking pictures.”

“I have. I’ve also been a little busy with some other stuff. You know getting the house together and the workshop.”

“Oh yes, the mysterious workshop. You never really told me where it is.”

“No. I haven’t told anyone.” 

“I can understand that.”

“You can?”

“Sure. I had a secret place that nobody knew about at our house. There was a little room above the garage. It had a drop-down stairway and wasn’t even high enough for me to stand up straight in. I filled it up with my dolls and toys and books. And I would hide up there.”

“What were you hiding from?”

“Nothing really. It was just a place where I could go and be totally by myself.”

“Then you do understand.”

“We all have to have that place that nobody knows about. In your case, it’s where the other guy hangs out.”

Jackson was about to respond when Josephine arrived with the ribs.

“You know, I’m curious about something.”

“Okay.”

“Your dad. You told me you weren’t sure exactly what he did. But surely he must have told you something.”

Marlena scratched her nose. “Why are you so curious about him?” she asked, but there was nothing sinister about it.

“No special reason. Just when we had dinner with him, he never really talked about anything to do with what he did.” 

“My dad worked in intelligence in Washington. I’m not sure which agency. It was most likely the State Department or the NSA because he didn’t travel outside the country a lot. But that’s about all I know. People in that business, I imagine, tend to keep a lot of secrets.”

“And you don’t know what he does now?”

Marlena shook her head. “I assume he does more of the same sort of work that he did when he worked in government, only as an outside contractor. All I know is that about a year after he left the government he was buying his new house and so I figured he was doing OK.”

“Do you worry about him? You know, doing what he does?”

“Not really. He’s a pretty smart guy. He knows what he’s doing. So what’s this all about, Jackson?”

Jackson shook his head. And Josie showed up with the ribs. “It’s not about anything in particular. Just trying to get to know your family a bit.”

“That’s sweet.” Marlena said as she bit into a rib. 

Jackson realized that he had probed about as deeply into this subject as he could. It was obvious that if Marlena knew what her dad actually did, she was damn good at concealing that knowledge. But Jackson didn’t believe that. He was just a little worried about what would happen to her relationship with her father if she found out that he was working for him, and that he was orchestrating the deaths of these right-wing anarchists that she’d been hearing about because the news was kind of everywhere. 

All this was going on in his head while he was telling Marlena where he went and the kinds of images he shot there. Maybe he was being a little paranoid. But he knew for a fact that his paranoia, no matter how chronic, was a big part of the reason he was alive today. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Hollis Keene got a call from Daryl Stone, who claimed another free hot dog would be in order. Keene left James Holcomb at the office checking through the criminal files and drove back out to Annapolis.

Keene and Stone got their dogs and drinks and sat down at a table.

“Well, that didn’t take too long.” Keene said

“Yeah, well when you peel it all away, you end up with about half a dozen swingin’ dicks.”

“And did anything pop out at you?”

“As a matter of fact, something did.”

Stone reached into his bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper. With six names, rank and some pertinent data on it, one of which was circled.

“The other five were all accounted for, but this one here.”Stone said tapping on the circled name. “He’s kinda gone MIA. Plus it looks very much like his stateside records have been hacked and disappeared. I only found out about him from the transition documents that were still at Kabul station.” 

Keene stared at the sheet. It was just info with no picture. “Sergeant William Farrell, Minden Louisiana, eight years in. Master sniper, 90+ recorded kills. OK, he’s a hot shot.” 

“How’d you flag this in the first place? You said his record had been hacked, I assume to disappear it.”

“His record was transferred to the morgue, with pretty vague details about how he died. I had to dig it out, because someone attempted to destroy it but they didn’t quite pull it off. Then I found out he had a bank account.” Stone said. “Some podunk Key Bank branch in Bangor Maine. His pension checks were being deposited there. Whoever did the hack was good, but our system was just a bit better. Also they just didn’t think about the money in Maine or the dupe files in Kabul.”

“Sounds like he was getting a little professional help to disappear himself.”

“Yeah, this kind of hacking is pretty high-end stuff. But unless you know the military, you can get fooled pretty easily. I checked Farrell out with his base commander in Afghanistan and he had nothing but praise. Great soldier. World-class shooter. Nice guy. Pulled two tours over there, one in South Sudan, so he liked his job.”

“So what would cause somebody like that to just disappear himself?”

“Could be a lot of things. One of the most common though, is black market money.”

“What do you mean?’

“These guys, Marines especially, patrolled in small packs and operated with very little supervision. If you were there you’d understand. Anyway, they tend to come across stuff they can get rid of on the black market instead of burning it or bringing it into the base where somebody else would likely steal it. It’s pretty lawless over there.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Drugs, jewelry, gold…the kind of stuff the Taliban and other insurgents trade for whatever weapons they need.”

“So maybe he came into some money and he used it to buy himself a new identity.” Keene said.

“That’s one scenario. But this guy is an orphan. Chances are he’s just roaming around looking for something to do and didn’t want his record following him around.”

“You don’t really believe that, now do you, Daryl? ”

“Anything is possible Hollis. It’s a crazy world. But this guy, he’s a lethal weapon if there ever was one.”

Keene studied the page again. “OK…William Farrell. Let’s see if we can’t figure out who and where you are.”

“Gonna be tough, Hollis.” Stone said. “Guy’s got serious skills and, if he is your guy and he is gettin’ help, you can bet your ass he’ll sure as hell be hard to find.”

“I knew this was gonna be a tough one. But this, at least, gives me a little hope.”

“A little hope is better than no hope at all.”

They finished their dogs and shot the shit for a while longer, then they parted company and Keene headed back to DC with something didn’t have up until now, which was a lead.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next name on the list was in Mississippi. A guy named Garth Whiteside. He was the leader of a group called Mississippi Mud. Or Double M. Unlike the other two groups, whose leaders were dead, this was a much more mercenary group. They didn’t so much have a political allegiance as they did a profit motive.

They were all, with few exceptions, ex-armed forces, with some combat skills. Nothing on Jackson’s level but what they lacked in high-end skills they more than made up with brutality. They were killers for hire, trainers, abductors, blackmailers, crowd disruptors, tactical bombers and torture specialists. This was gonna be Jackson and Missy’s biggest challenge because if something even went as much as one degree sideways, that could change the whole game.

Garth Whiteside was an ex-army drill sergeant whose brother Eldon was highly placed in the Mississippi state legislature. So he had a little protection. Eldon Whiteside was too radical to run for elected office, so he functioned as a special assistant to the Attorney General of Mississippi, James Richardson. Eldon pretty much fed all the dirty work to his brother Garth and his Double M compatriots. Double M operatives were also very much in the mix during the January 6 insurrection. They were paid by several different far-right organizations to keep people riled up and make as much of a mess as they could. 

This was probably the most badass bunch of far right-wingers in the country. Jackson considered it an extraordinary opportunity to stir the pot, mainly because this would affect both state and national politics, The downside is that it could  make him some pretty formidable enemies.

On the ride down, Missy explained Whiteside’s routine. The group only met when there was a job to do. Garth worked out of an office in downtown Jackson, close to the capital and had lunch with his brother whenever there was a project to discuss. But the biggest surprise of all was that Mr. Whiteside was a low handicap golfer and played three or four times a week at a place called the Lake Caroline Golf Club.

After a stopover in Birmingham, they rolled down Highway 20 to Jackson. They then drove north to the Lake Caroline Golf Club and made a pass completely around it. On one side of the course, there was a fairly thick forest, with several footpaths through it. 

They parked nearby then got out and walked down one of the paths toward the golf course. There were no fences, as the forest bordered the deep rough on what looked to be a very long golf hole. Jackson reckoned this would be a good angle to shoot someone several hundred yards away, and then simply walk back to the car. But the footpaths meant people and he sure as hell didn't want to run into any of them. So he found a spot where he was well hidden but had a view of most of the bordering fairway.  He then paced off one hundred steps deeper into the woods. He drove a stake into the ground, and then he and Missy walked back to the truck.  

It was late in the afternoon, so they headed out of town, got some blackened catfish at the restaurant called Maestro’s and found a Motel 6 on the highway. After midnight Missy drove Jackson back to the parking lot beside the wood. Jackson got out the rifle. He wrapped it in two large Hefty bags and headed into the woods with the gun and small shovel. The moon was up and he found his vantage point and then moved through the trees to the spot where the stake was sticking out of the ground. He dug a shallow trench and placed the wrapped-up rifle in it. He rammed the stick into the ground next to it, He covered the dirt over with some leaves, walked back to the path and then back to the Jeep. The operation took about half an hour altogether. 

The idea was that it was a long trek into and out of the woods, so burying the gun, cut down his potential exposure by 50%. 

The next day, they staked out Whiteside’s office and waited for him to leave, which he did around 11:30. 

“Let’s hope he has an afternoon tee time.” Jackson said.

They followed Whiteside’s Ranger to a restaurant in North Jackson where he met up with a couple of other guys, who looked as tough and mean as he did. Jackson hoped they weren’t golfers because that would throw a real monkey wrench into his gears.

“We’ll keep the phone lines open like we did on the first project.” Jackson said. “You park beside the woods. I’ll be comin’ pretty fast.”

“I’ll open the hatch.” Missy said. “You just toss the gun in, close it up and we’ll be gone in a flash. Once we get somewhere outside the city limits we can get everything organized. It’s gonna be dicey because there could be at least one witness to the shooting.”

Jackson took a deep breath. “It is what it is, Missy. Life is not without its risks.” 

They waited and watched Whiteside leave the restaurant alone, which was a break for them. They followed him to make sure he was going to the golf course, then circled around and Jackson headed into the woods, dug up the gun then went back to the tree he had found and waited. 

At first, he thought it was kind of strange there he didn’t see anyone walking along the paths that crisscrossed through the wood. But then after looking at the map the night before, he concluded that he was actually on golf course property. About forty-five minutes later, he saw Whiteside and two other guys come to the tee on the long hole. He noticed that the two guys he was playing with were pulling their clubs on wheeled carts but that Whiteside had a caddy. He looked to be a bit older than all three men but he had the same rugged face that Whiteside’s lunchmates had. As the men hit their tee shots and started walking up the fairway. Jackson got a closer look at the caddy and realized that underneath his right armpit, he could see the butt end of what looked to be a Luger or H&K 45. So Jackson reckoned that this would be a twofer because the caddy needed to go too.

The men Whiteside was playing with didn’t drive their balls as far as he did, so they both hit their second shots and started walking up the far side of the fairway toward the green. They were about 80 yards ahead of Whiteside, when he and his caddy got up to his ball.

“Make sure the car’s on, Missy.” Jackson said into the phone in his breast pocket. I’ll be coming out in less than sixty seconds.” Jackson said into the phone.

“Roger that.” she replied.

Jackson waited until Whiteside had stopped at his ball. He then zeroed in on his back and fired. The force of the bullet killed Whiteside instantly but spun him around and he ended up on his back. The caddy dropped the golf bag and drew his gun. But Jackson’s second shot hit him square in the chest and pulverized his heart before he could get a shot off. He fell backwards. The two other men didn’t seem to notice what had happened, but Jackson knew they would soon enough. 

Seconds after the caddy hit the ground Jackson, grabbed his brass and was up and moving quickly but not recklessly down the path. 

He had gotten about thirty yards when he was suddenly confronted by a large man with an old style Colt 45 revolver pointed directly at him. 

“Who the fuck are you? Jackson asked. Missy heard him through the phone in Jackson’s breast pocket.

“I could ask you the same question? But I think you probably know the answer to that. Did you kill him?”

Jackson stood silently and counted off the seconds. When he got to twelve he said. “That gun’s gonna make a lot of noise.”

“Did you kill him.”

Then Jackson heard three ping and the man fell forward and landed face down on the path, revealing Missy, still holding smoking FNX in a rigid shooting stance. 

Jackson walked over to her and kissed her on the cheek. 

“Thanks Missy.  

He then picked up the three ejected shell casings.  

“Let’s go.” Jackson said they both started jogging toward the Jeep.

Missy had the hatch open. She gave Jackson the pistol and climbed into the passenger side of the Jeep. Jackson quickly grabbed a rag, removed the silencer, then the scope and quickly tucked the rifle into its place with the silencer, scope and cartridges, He then replaced the 2 x 4, closed the hatch and got in the driver’s side. The whole operation took less than thirty seconds. Missy had placed the ’45 in the glove box, just in case. They quickly got over to Interstate 56 and headed north to a town called Winona where they turned east on 82 through Columbus and then North on 20 into Birmingham, but more importantly out of Mississippi, and any immediate danger. 

They found a side road off 82 that led them up a hill where they could see all around them. Jackson, got everything organized and tossed the spent brass as far as he could into the scrub that surrounded them. Missy then turned the Jeep around and they headed back to the highway. She had said nothing since the shooting. But now found herself coming back to normal.

“It’s been a long time since I fired a gun at an actual human being.”

“It takes some gettin’ used to.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You saved my ass back there. Never forget that, ‘cause I never will.” Jackson said, as they drove back down to the highway.

It was dinnertime when they got into Birmingham, and they were both starving. So they found a Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet and Missy went in and filled a couple of Styrofoam containers with food. They found a 7/11 and Missy picked up a couple bottles of Diet Coke and they drove to a large mall where they parked in the middle of things and ate their dinners while Missy called Ross and got the PR ball rolling.

They then pushed on for another three hours and found a motel outside Chattanooga where they stayed the night. The killings were all over the news and so was Agent Keene. So far they had no clues other than the damage done to the dead individuals, who were obviously shot with a very high calibre weapon. 

Keene, perhaps intentionally, did mention that they were pursuing one lead that looked promising but was not at liberty to talk about it in any detail. Jackson wondered if the lead had anything to do with William Farrell. But then again, Mr. Farrell was gone and tracking his history would be kind of difficult too, since he knew for a fact that his foster parents had passed and their farm had been sold. There was nothing left of him outside of a little bank account in Bangor Maine. All he had to do with that is leave it alone. He talked this all over with Missy and she agreed with him that they were clutching at straws. 

Bright and early the next morning they headed home. Jackson wasn’t sure how difficult the next hit would be. But he was a planner and his partner was not just beautiful she was pretty damn smart too. So while it was a concern, it wasn’t something he was going to lose sleep over.

He was in bed and dead to the world by one AM. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Next morning the news of the killings and the messages that followed were everywhere. They had even given him a name. The Big Gun Killer. Some of Ethan Jones’ on-the-street interviews from Mississippi were being picked up by major news sources. Jackson chuckled at all of this, but he realized that the killings that remained would become exponentially more difficult. This was not going to go away quickly and he also realized that the farther he went, the more paranoia he would encounter. 

Then he had an idea. 

After breakfast, he decided that he needed to talk to Phillip Ross. So he got hold of Tuttle who set it up for early that evening at the gun range.

That afternoon he dropped into Marlena’s office and found her watching the news on her computer. It was another interview with Special Agent Hollis Keene. On the way, he called Missy and told her about the meeting. She said she’d be there.

“This guy Keene is pretty intense.” she said as Jackson pulled up a chair beside her and kissed her on the cheek. 

“Yeah, he’s a regular Dudley DoRight.”

Marlena laughed. “Ahhh Rocky and Bullwinkle. One of the few cartoon shows where adults and kids could both get a laugh.”

“Every week I waited for Bullwinkle to pull an actual rabbit out of his hat.”

“Me too.”

“So, how’s it going with the images?” 

Marlena shut off the TV link and opened a file on her desktop. Six powerful images came up in a cluster. They were rich and vibrant and when you looked at them in sequence, they told a great story of Afghanistan. 

“These are the ones Dianna decided on. I’ve sent these off to her.” She’ll get them printed and framed. We decided on all that while you were gone. Sorry, but, we’re on her schedule, not our own.”

“No problem. I trust you. Hell, none of this would have happened without you.”

“Well, I think you might have had something to do with it.”

Jackson took his camera out of his bag, popped out the small memory card and handed it to her. Marlena inserted it into her computer and copied the files over.

“This is everything I’ve done for the past week or so.”

“Anything from the other guys’ travels.”

“Naaa. The other guy doesn’t take pictures for me. Maybe he should but he’s pretty cautious about that.

They spent the next hour and a half talking about the shots that Jackson had made. Then Jackson looked at his watch. 

“I’ve gotta go. I have a quick meeting up north.” I should be back in town around 7. You want to have dinner?”

“Tell you what. Come to the house. We’ll get a pizza or something. We can have a swim and just goof off. I’m sure you’ve both earned it.”

Jackson smiled. “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard in a long time.”

He kissed her goodbye and headed off to Tuttle’s range.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson arrived at the range before either Missy or Phillip Ross. The place was empty, as it usually was on hot summer days. Most of the shooters would be fishing or on holiday with their families. Tuttle was sitting at his usual table. Jackson entered and grabbed a Diet Coke from the cooler. 

“Jackson.”

“Tuttle, how’s it goin’?”

“Can’t complain. Hear you had another bang-up trip down south.”

“Oh yeah. Lotta bad roads down there.”

“Well, what do you expect they’re all red states and corruption is the only thing they’re actually good at.”

Jackson chuckled at the left-wing joke.

“So what’s this meeting in aid of Jackson?”

“Just a little planning session. Now that I’m so popular down there, I’m kinda leery about driving around with the big gun. The cops will all be on high alert and all over the place. The last thing I want to do is get busted by accident. They’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”

Just then, both Missy and Phillip Ross walked in. Jackson got up and gave Missy a friendly hug and shook Ross’ hand. They all sat down at the table. Jackson never talked to Missy about her relationships. She figured it was none of his business. Missy talked a lot about her time with the police and the secret service but didn’t talk at all about her personal life.

“So Jackson.” Ross said. “First of all, I want to thank you for the incredible work you have been doing here. And I want you all to know that we are definitely moving the needle. We’re being seen much more as heroes than villains, and that’s exactly what we were aiming for.”

“Thank you for that, sir.” Jackson said. “Missy has been a real plus to have with me. Not only does she know where all the good motels are, she’s a hell of a navigator, and has great situational awareness.”

“OK. Well, the reason we’re here is that Jackson has a concern. And he wants to get it on the table, for discussion.” Tuttle said.

“Yeah, well we’ve had three successful forays into the south, in more or less as many weeks.’ Jackson said. “I have to think, and I’m sure you all will agree, that the various state police organizations, includin’ the FBI, are all talkin’ to each other by now. So I’m more than a little concerned about travelin’ with my long gun. The last guy we took out was a badass but he was seriously well-connected through his brother. To my way of thinkin’ that pretty much doubles the alertness that these police forces are gonna have. So the options I see going forward are, A…We quit while we’re ahead or at least take a longer break until the situation cools down. B…We get your contact person to give us some names that are outside of that southeast corner of the country. I’ve gotten a good look at that Hollis Keene fellow from the FBI, and I thought, this guy’s a hunter. And it made me a little leery. So that’s my piece.” 

Phillip Ross, cleared his throat. “Well, that’s very well reasoned. My preference would be to keep going and stick to the original list. But I will certainly relay your concern to my contact and see what he says.”

“You know, Phil,” Tuttle said. “It might not be a bad idea to target a couple of groups up here or, even better, in the Midwest. First of all, it will get us a reading from a wider demographic and secondly, it will show the bad actors, as Jackson calls them, that we’ve got some range. Hell, there are almost as many of those scumbuckets in the central region as there are down south.” 

“That’s an excellent point, Alvin.” Ross replied. “I can use that.” He then turned to Jackson. “Son, I understand your concern, I really do. I will twist whatever arms I need to twist to get some names of organizations further north.” Then he turned to Missy. “What do you think, Missy?”

“Well…I think Jackson has a pretty good sense of what he can get away with and what he can’t. I also think that he is one hundred percent lethal no matter what he’s using. But I agree, they’re expecting us down there. If we don’t zig when everybody is zagging, we’re doomed. And I know we have a wild card, but it’ll do your reputation a world of good if we don’t have to use it.”

“OK,” Ross said, “I’ll get with the client and figure out how best to proceed. But I think you all have made a pretty strong argument for staying out of the south, at least for a while.”

Ross and Missy got up together. Everybody said goodbye, and they left together. Jackson sat back down across from Tuttle. 

“I saw a clip on the news with that FBI guy, Hollis Keene.” Jackson said. “He mentioned that he had some sort of lead. I was just wondering if maybe you could get Reese to check into it, see if he can pick up anything specific. I assume he can hack the FBI. 

Tuttle laughed. “Son, when you talk about Reese, the question is what can’t he hack? I’ll get him on it. But I wouldn’t worry too much. If he erased you there’s nothing left except your pissant little bank account up in Maine.”

“That’s good.” Jackson said as he got to his feet. “By the way, Missy and Mr. Ross, are they, you know, a thing?”

“Yes, they are Jackson. You’re a very perceptive fellow. But you just keep that to yourself. Phillip will be tellin’ Marlena when the time is right, and when this job is done.”

Jackson just smiled. “Gotcha. And thanks for puttin’ this meeting together.” 

Tuttle closed his computer and got to his feet. “You never did tell me how the AR50 worked out.” 

Jackson chuckled. “Felt just like…home, sir. Just like home. Have a good night.”

“You too, son.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

James Holcomb was sitting in the Washington DC office and looking at a YouTube Channel called The Big Gun Killer Saga. He was particularly interested in the guy who was doing the interviewing. The name he gave on the sign-off of each video was Ryan Michaels. But though Holcomb might have been a junior agent he was no slouch. Honours graduate from Dartmouth in forensic science and was top of his class at Quantico a year ago, which was why Keene snapped him up.  

Holcomb froze a good image of the man called Ryan Michaels and ran it through every available database. He came up empty. The man was an enigma. He then forwarded the headshot of Ryan Michaels to his boss Hollis Keene who had a higher level of clearance. 

Keene was out for lunch with an associate Gerald McElroy, from the DC office of the CIA, when he got the message from Holcomb. McElroy, who went everywhere with his laptop searched through all the law enforcement databases that he had access to including British MI-5 and MI-6. And got a hit. “Ethan Jones. MI-6. Retired two years ago more or less. Then dropped off the map. Nothing sinister about it. Just means he went into the private sector. So he could be working for anyone.”

“Or he could be working for whoever is orchestrating these killings.” Keene said.

“Anything’s possible in this fucked up world, Hollis. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Another brick in the wall. You have a contact at MI-6?” 

“Sure.” I can get his file sent to you sometime tomorrow. It’s already evening over there and all the Brit spooks I know are out at the pub or somewhere east of England causin’ trouble..”

“That would be great. So I guess lunch is on me.” 

“That would be a good guess.”

On his way back to the office, Keene called Holcomb. “Good work James. We have an ID and we’re getting his file first thing in the morning. Dinner’s on me tonight. and then we’ll head home.”

“Roger that, sir.” Holcomb said.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Ross waited at his usual bench on the Mall. It was cloudy and looked like rain, so he had an umbrella on the bench beside him. This time the Senator came ambling toward him, with no secret service guys in tow.

He plopped down on the bench beside Ross. “I figured the screws would tighten once you took out that Whiteside character. Probably should have warned you to leave him to the last.” Senator Winter said.

“I don’t think that would have made much difference.” Ross said. “Three is usually the number that gets’em all talking to each other.”

“Yeah, well, fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may be, there is no real shortage of this brand of scum. There’s a bit of a cluster in southern Illinois, Indiana and Missouri.” He reached into his jacket and handed Ross an envelope. “None of these are mercenaries. But I have to assume that all of them will have their guard up. I also like the idea of getting a sample of opinions from the Midwest. Shoulda thought of that myself, but then that’s why I pay you the big bucks, Phil.”

“It is indeed, Senator.” 

With that Winter rose from the bench, and so did Ross. He shook Ross’s hand. “Keep up the good work, Phil and kudos to your people.” Winter said, then he turned and headed back toward the capitol.      

Ross turned to walk in the other direction. He twirled the umbrella, and said to himself, ‘Well, that was easier than I thought.’ 

On the way back to Richmond, Ross called Ethan Jones, who was still in Jackson and summoned him back home. He then called Damon Reese and asked him to meet at his office at the end of the day. 

After that, he just sat back and enjoyed the drive home. As he was driving he thought a lot about Marlena and her involvement with Jackson. He felt bad that Jackson had to conceal things from her. Kind of like he had to conceal things from his Luna when he was working for the NSA. Of course, it was a little different in that she completely understood that Phillip carried secrets and that knowing what they were would put her life in danger. So she never asked. They just had an understanding. He wondered how Marlena felt being left out of a whole part of Jackson’s life. He took a deep breath. Sometimes he wondered if all of this was worth it. Killing people for points on a scorecard, which is really what this amounted to, patriotism aside.

He turned on the stereo and listened to some Bob Dylan. That man had an uncanny sense of what America was all about, he thought. He had been a fan all his life. He admired the way Dylan could drive points home without ever sounding like he was taking a side. He was a master of metaphor and as a listener, you had to work to understand the underlying meaning in his lyrics. He sang along with the lyrics, his voice slightly out of tune, but feelin’ it nonetheless.

“People are crazy and times are strange

I’m locked in tight. I’m out of range

I used to care but, things have changed”

Ross was the veteran of more incursions than he cared to recall. He had killed a few and been responsible for dozens of bad guy deaths and incarcerations. All of them out to do the country harm. But at the same time, he had to deal with the feeling that he was barely making a dent. He drove on singing along with Dylan as the afternoon traffic heading south out of DC plodded along. It would open up after they got to Montclair and all the suburbanite civil servants got home to take their kids to baseball.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 By the time Hollis Keene got back to Atlanta, Jones was long gone. James Holcomb checked all the rental car companies and found the car that Jones had rented. It was dropped off at the airport in Jackson. He evidently caught a flight directly to Dulles. There was also no record of him using his card to taking a limo, cab, or Uber, in DC, so he either took the bus into town, somebody picked him up or he had his car at the airport. Either way, they’d lost the trail.

As it turned out, Missy Felder picked him up and together they drove back to Richmond. “Reese is scoping out a couple of new targets in the midwest,” Missy said. “After the last hit, Jackson felt there would be too much heat for us to go back down south.”

“Well, he was right about that. The local constabulary in Jackson is all working double shifts. I believe the American expression is that you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one.”

“Yeah, we were all in agreement. So as soon as Reese gets us our info packets we’ll be off to the great midwest.”

“Just in the nick of time. I’m seriously fed up with interviewing people who have a distinctly inbred demeanour about them. It’s rather frightening.”

Missy just laughed. “Distinctly inbred demeanour. That’s one for the books. You realize I’m from the south myself.”

“We all have to be from somewhere I suppose. Perhaps you are the exception that makes the rule.”

“Perhaps I am, chappie.”

They drove on south along with the rest of the mass exodus from the nation’s capital. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson and Marlena were sitting at a table at Rudy’s. They had just had some ribs, which they split because they were both eating at Rudy’s way too often, and there were always way too many ribs.

Marlena was talking about the show which was going to go up within the next week in Baltimore and how excited she was about it. Jackson was a little uncomfortable about going to the opening. His life was pretty much a solitary thing, at least until he met up with Marlena. He was not at all used to any of this world he was entering. But he didn’t have whatever it took to talk to her about it. She would have just given him a pep talk and he would pretend to be all excited about getting out there. 

The simple fact was that he had only ever been comfortable inside his own skin when he was holding a high-powered gun and looking at the soon-to-be dearly departed through his scope. He wasn’t shy. But he was inexperienced at dealing with people alive and in person. But tonight he had made up his mind to talk to her about it, explain why he wasn’t getting all that excited about the prospects that lay ahead for him.

Jackson took a deep breath. “I have to tell you, this exhibition… meeting all those people, being out in public like that, it’s scarin’ the hell out of me.”

“Is that what this is all about? Every time I bring up the subject of your photography you seem to drift off into space. What are you afraid of Jackson? Nobody’s gonna bite you or take a shot at you.”

Jackson smiled. “I know. You have to understand, people who did what I did in the Marines, we were treated a little differently.”

“What do you mean, differently?”

“We were left alone. We lived a pretty solitary life. I lived like that for six years. Other than my spotter, I had no real friends. And I was comfortable with that. But now, there’s you, and there’s this career which kinda depends on me being out there and letting everybody know who I am. It’s hard, Marlena. It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“And you don’t think it will get any easier with more practice?”

“Yeah, it will. I’m dealing with it. But right now it’s not so easy.”

Marlena took his hand. “I don’t know what to tell you, how to help you, because I only know half of you.”

“Trust me, it’s the better half by a long shot.”

“So what do we do with you, Jackson? You want to back out of this whole thing?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Then maybe it’s time for you to tell me about the other guy. So I can get to know the whole guy. Because, otherwise you could wake up one day, think this has all been a big mistake and disappear into the other guy. And I don’t want that to happen.”

Jackson stared at her for a long time. He saw the future in her eyes. And she was right. She needed to know all of him. And he had to be prepared to lose it all or win it all by showing it to her.

The finished their dinner. Jackson put some bills down on the table. “You’re right. Let’s go. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Marlena smiled at him as they walked out of the restaurant. Jackson wondered how long that smile would last.

They drove down to the south end of the city. He clicked the clicker on his visor and the door to his studio opened. He drove the Jeep in and they both got out.

Marlena walked around and checked out the bathroom. then came back to the counter where Jackson was sitting. 

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” she said.

Jackson slid off the stool and walked over to the gun safe. He took out the pouch for the big rifle and the smaller nylon bag for the pistol. He put them both on the counter in front of Marlena. He then opened up the rifle pouch. 

“This is an AI AX50. The company that makes it is British. They’re called Accuracy International. It’s a 50-calibre gun, which maybe only a couple hundred people in this country can handle. It’s got a suppressor that cuts down the accuracy a tiny bit and a beautiful Zeiss scope with rangefinder. It fires custom-made, untraceable Mercury/Magnesium tipped 50 calibre rounds These rounds do a massive amount of damage to anything they hit.”  

He lifted the rifle out of the pouch and handed it to her. “See how heavy it is” That means not a lot of kickback, so you don’t end up with a useless shoulder after you’ve used it for a while.” He took it back from her and laid it on the pouch.

 Then he unzipped the pistol bag and took out the gun. This is an FNX pistol. It’s got a screw-on suppressor and fires 45 calibre loads through an 18 load clip.”

He handed her the gun and she hefted it. “It’s a beautiful piece of industrial art.” she said, “Just like the rifle. So these are the tools of your other trade.”

“Yep. This project that I’m on is gonna last a little while longer, and then I’m pretty sure I can walk away. A lot of that is gonna depend on me. You know, if I can walk away.”

Marlena handed Jackson back the gun and he placed it back in the canvas case and zipped it up. Then he slipped the rifle into its sleeve.

“So now you know exactly what the other guy does. I sincerely hope you can live with that.”

“Let me ask you. This work you do, the other guy, I mean, is it important to you?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why is it important to you?”

Jackson thought about that for several seconds. “I guess a lot of it has to do with how I was trained. In the corps, right and wrong were black and white. It was easy to see the distinction. And that got me through eight years over there. Then when I came back here… it was all…shades of grey. There’s no black and there’s no white that you can see. But there’s a force at work trying to keep it all that way. And then one day someone I met said, hey, we think the way you do. Come and join us. And you’re back in a world of black and white again and you’re comfortable there and you’re helping clean up the mess. You may not understand this but there’s an incredible amount of satisfaction in knowing that you're helping to clean up the mess. We couldn’t do much over there and we’ll probably not be able to do all that much here, but I have to try. I was hoping I could live with all the shades of grey. But that’s the hard part. I’m working on it. But it’s real uphill work.”

Marlena looked at him, and he could tell she understood. And that was all he needed. because he knew if he had that, it could be a lifeline that he could use to keep from sinking. 

“So now you know all about the other guy. If you’re OK with that, it will mean the world to me.”

“I’m OK with that. You and I are quite different in our backgrounds, and certainly in what we believe. But you’ve explained yourself with total honesty, and that’s all I wanted, Jackson. So put your guns away and let’s go back to my place and make out.”

Jackson laughed and hugged Marlena, and she hugged him back and he knew, right there and then, what he had to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, Ethan Jones let himself into the Blue Fin office. The place was deserted. 

He went to his own office and sat down at the computer there. MI-6 had taught him a lot of computer tricks, especially with networks such as the Blue Fin’s, which was built and maintained by Damon Reese. But what Damon Reese didn’t know was that six months ago, Jones had embedded a small Trojan horse that he brought with him from England. The program was designed to give the email sender access to all the emails in the local area network of Blue Fin. Once the Trojan horse had completed its task, it simply minimized itself and provided Jones with an ongoing complete look at all of the email activity that went through the company’s computer. The beauty of it was that if it were discovered, it would be seen as a glitch and corrected. And that was unlikely because Damon Reese was only concerned with the website that he maintained for Blue Fin. And because the Trojan Horse was only in Jones’ computer and nowhere else, it would be very easy for him to play dumb about it, if he was careful to delete all traces of his activity after each peek. 

As he scanned the emails from the time he was down south he saw one that caught his eye. It was from Alvin Tuttle with the name Jackson Lyall in the subject line. Jones opened the email, and read it carefully, then downloaded the attachment which was a text file from Reese to Tuttle. ‘So the young sharpshooter isn’t who he claims to be. Interesting,’ Jones thought. ‘Now that’s something I can use later on.’ 

He then scanned through the rest of the emails, saw nothing more of interest. He then deleted his footprint, copied the data file on Jackson onto a memory key then deleted that file as well. He left the office as quietly as he had arrived.

Jones had gladly accepted his role at Blue Fin. But his ultimate ambition was far greater than simply being a highly paid gofer for Philip Ross.  

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Agent Holcomb reviewed the previous day’s arrivals footage from Dulles Airport and found Ethan Jones meeting up with a woman at the main gate. They crossed the road into the parking lot and then he lost them. The woman wore a large hat and a rather shapeless dress so he was unable to get any facial recognition, and Holcomb figured that was intentional. But at least he knew that Jones was in the Washington area. 

So he walked down the hall and told all of that to Hollis Keene, who was then out of the office and on his way to DC within the hour. 

On the plane to DC, Keene contacted a connection of his at Immigration and asked for a trace on a British National named Ethan Jones. Within twenty minutes he had an address for Jones in Richmond. He landed at Dulles and was picked up by another agent named Pascal DeSoto. Together they drove to Richmond and knocked on the door of Jones’ apartment at around four that afternoon. Jones answered the door wearing a pair of shorts and a dark blue LaCoste shirt. 

“Ethan Jones?” Keene said. 

“Yes.” Jones said.

Keene flashed his credentials. “FBI. Special Agent Hollis Keene, this is Agent Pascal DeSoto.”

Jones looked at the credentials. “Do come in.”

Jones showed them into the apartment, which was nicely furnished in a generic sort of way.

“Have a seat.” Jones said who took a dining room chair and turned it to face the two agents, who were sitting in the sofa. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We’re investigating a series of homicides in Georgia, Arkansas and Mississippi.” Keene said.

“Ah yes. And this has what to do with me?”

“Well, we noticed that you were down in each of those cities interviewing people on the street. I was curious as to your motive in doing that.”

“My motive is strictly, umm, income. I am paid to do this.” 

“By whom?” 

“To be completely honest I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How could you not know, if in fact you are being paid to do the interviews?”

Jones chuckled a bit. “Well. Here’s how it works. I had a pay site created. I call it Interesting Bits dot com. I upload all my interviews and people sign in and purchase them via digital Money Order. None of that bitcoin nonsense. Once the transaction is complete, the data is erased, and on I go. I’ve just started and I’m quite impressed with my numbers so far. I will certainly be paying income tax on all my earnings. This is the way things work these days, You can purchase pretty much anything you like online and it’s just the same as if you went into a shop and laid down a pound or a dollar. I trust that answers your question.”

“You used to be with MI-6.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what brought you to the States?”

“Surely you jest. When Britain severed its relationship with the European Union, thanks to the only politician dumber than, well you know who, I saw the writing on the wall. I had done my service to Queen and country. It was time for a change. So I’m experiencing a little American free enterprise.” 

“So you know nothing about an organization called The Sword of Damocles?”

“Well certainly. Who doesn’t these days? Making quite a splash, those chaps are.”

“Would it interest you to know they’re using your footage.”

“I should think they would be. It’s rather right up their alley so to speak.”

Keene took a deep breath. 

“As a former investigator, I sincerely sympathize with your dilemma.” Jones said. “Whoever is perpetrating these assassinations, they are quite professional.”

“Indeed they are.” Keene got to his feet along with Desoto. “Thanks very much for your time.” 

“Sorry I can’t be of more assistance. Do hope you catch the bad guys.” Jones said as he walked them to the door.

As he closed the door he breathed a huge sigh of relief and thanked his lucky stars that Damon Reese had the presence of mind to cook him up a fairly bulletproof cover story.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Ross called a meeting before sending Missy and Ethan Jones off to the Midwest to scout bad guys. They all gathered at Phillip’s house and sat out on the deck eating burgers and drinking wine and beer.

After dinner, Ross called the meeting to order. 

“There are only three items on the agenda. The first is the government’s heartfelt thank you for the progress that’s been made so far. The second is to say bon voyage to Ethan and Missy, as they head to the Midwest to scout some more scumbuckets to deal with. And the third item is something that Damon has noticed and kept track of. So I will turn this over to him.”

Damon took a sip of wine and then opened the Ipad that was on the table in front of him.

“Okay. So as you know, Ethan here has been our man on the street, on the initial three projects, But just over the past couple of days I have noticed something I didn’t expect in the comments, especially on Instagram and YouTube. There were quite a significant number of comments that were actually queries - people wondering what it would take to start their own Sword of Damocles group. It would seem we have developed more than a cult following here, but the potential for a volunteer army. At first, I just wrote it off to exuberance, but as the queries kept on coming, my little brain started to wonder about the utility of doing this. I passed this information along to Mr. Ross here, and he decided to let me tell you about it. 

“Personally,” Damon continued, “I never thought people would react as strongly or in such high numbers as Ethan’s little vignettes have been pulling here. So the question I have is this: Is this a thing that we think about doing, or is it just a bunch of people blowing smoke up our kilts, so to speak? So I toss it to the group.”

There was silence for a good thirty seconds so, and then Jackson said. “I don’t think it’s a thing. And even if it was, expanding this group to anything larger strikes me as asking for trouble. There are probably as many trolls out there as there are regular people these days, and without exposing ourselves to them we’ll never know. This group was created by Mr. Ross. I think it’s generous that he would open it up for discussion, but, my vote would be thumbs down because it’s just too dangerous for all of us.”

“But what if another group was assembled with no connection this group?” Ethan Jones asked. “I for one would be willing to step away from this group and put another one together. We could use some of the same resources and definitely the same modus operandi.

“You’re putting a lot of faith in your ability to separate the wheat from the chaff, Ethan.” Missy said. “I’m not big on this idea at all.”.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Ethan said. “But if this game is about taking out bad actors, as Jackson calls them, I would think that two groups would be better than one.”

“There's a certain amount of logic in that.” Phillip Ross said. “But I do worry about the point that Jackson made regarding trolls. It could very well be we end up inadvertently inviting the enemy into the bedroom.”

“Maybe.” said Damon Reese. “But everybody’s got a history that can be checked out, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that. In order to get there, you Ethan, would have to expose yourself, and from what I understand, the FBI already knows who you are.”

“Yes, they came a-calling last night enquiring about who was employing me to do the on-the-street interviews.

“Was that Hollis Keene?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah, and some Hispanic chap named deSoto.”

“Well, that motherfucker is just gonna keep on comin’” Jackson said “I’m doubling down on my thumbs down. because Hollis Keene scares me, and I don’t scare easily.”

“Tuttle,” Ross said. “We haven’t heard from you yet.” 

“No, you haven’t because as much as I love you all, I think this is a bit ridiculous. Jackson here is one in a million. The success we have achieved so far, all the work every one of us doing aside, is because Jackson and Missy do not fuck up. They are where the rubber meets the road. And the chance of us pulling another Jackson off the Internet, of all places, is next to zero.”

“Yeah,” Ross said. “I’m with Alvin here. This is a tactical mission, if we try and make it a cause by expanding it, I am certain we will lose our Get Out of Jail Free Card. So thanks for the idea, Damon, but it’s too high risk for all of us.”

With that the meeting dissolved into some general chatter, a few more glasses of wine and a bon voyage to Missy and Ethan Jones who were off to the Midwest to scope out more bad actors.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Missy Felder picked up Ethan Jones at his apartment and they headed north out of Richmond. But they had one last stop before they left the area and that was at the Three Lakes Nature Park, where Tuttle was waiting for them. 

Jones got out of the car while Missy sipped her coffee and waited for the two men to have a brief conversation.

“I hope you have a productive trip, Ethan.’ Tuttle said. “But there was one thing I wanted to say before you left.”

“Alright. I’m listening.” 

“ You are the wild card in the lives of everyone in the group. You were the only one that Phillip or I didn’t recruit personally. We’ve all come to accept you and your work has been exceptional. But the point of view you expressed last night was a bit…disconcerting. We sincerely hope you understand that this is Phillip’s project, and he has the final say on quite literally every aspect of it.”

“If you’re worrying about me, what it is, going off the reservation, please understand that I was only voicing an opinion. As it turned out it was overruled and I respect that. I do know where my bread is buttered, sir. And I certainly know that shooters like young Jackson are few and far between.”

“Okay, that works for me. Just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page here.”

“Indeed we are, Alvin.” 

“Good, well have a safe trip.” 

When they were back at the car, Jones got in the passenger side and Tuttle leaned in and rubbed Missy’s shoulder. “Happy hunting. See you soon.”

“Bye, Alvin.” Missy said. And they were off.

Tuttle took out his phone and punched a few keys. “Hey…yeah, we talked…I think so. But we’ll keep our eye on him all the same. I’ll talk to Jackson and Reese.” He disconnected and walked to his car.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hollis Keene and James Holcomb were sitting in a park in downtown Atlanta. The temperature was in the 90s but they were both from the south and it really didn’t bother them all that much.

“So you traced the origin of the Interesting Bits website that Jones fellow told us about.” 

“Yes sir. It traces back to a company called ReesesPeeces.com. It’s owned and operated by a fellow named Damon Reese. He has no record, but I checked him out with some of the undesirables I went to college with and his name rang a bell with one of them. He’s a hacker, and a damn legendary one at that.”

 “Huh.” Were you able to get onto his website?”

“Yes sir. He’s a pretty popular guy around the Richmond area. He has about two dozen clients listed.” Holcomb pulled a folded-up piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Keene, who stared at it for quite a while. Holcomb then opened his tablet to his notes. 

“So there’s a gun range owned by someone named Alvin Tuttle, a mysterious company called Blue Fin Consulting. 

Yes, sir.’ Holcomb said, looking at his notes. But I did look at Blue Fin Consulting. Their website is pretty vague. The CEO is someone named Phillip Ross.”

“Phillip Ross? That name rings a bell from somewhere.”

“So I drilled down and there is a Phillip Ross who used to work at the NSA up until about five years ago. He was next in line for Deputy Director, but resigned suddenly and started this Blue Fin Consulting.”

Keene chucked. “Yeah, he’s got to be a government contractor. That’s the NSA version of a golden parachute. Does all the stuff he used to do for about a hundred grand a year and makes millions instead.”

“There was another name on that list that intrigued me.” Holcomb said. “A Missy Felder. She is former FBI from down south and Secret Service in Washington. Now, according to her site, she’s a private investigator and one of the clients she listed on her own site is Blue Fin Consulting.”

“Jesus Christ, James. Every day you make me proud that I picked out of that whole mob of Ivy League grads.”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“So we’ve got an ex-NSA big shot, a female investigator, an ex MI-6 Operative, a world-class computer hacker, and…” He ran his finger down the list of ReesesPeeces companies, “and a gun range owner.”

“Oh yeah. Alvin Tuttle. I checked him out as well and he used to own a gun shop in Fredericksburg, and still has a valid dealer license.”

“And if we add our mysterious disappearing sharpshooter, we have a pretty solid team. Maybe even a Sword of Damocles.”

James Holcomb laughed. 

“What’s funny, James?”

“I don’t know. It all feels like we’re throwing shit at the wall and hoping it sticks. This is a big country, sir. This could just be, you know, a figment of your imagination.”

“Maybe.” Keene said. “But our job is putting pieces together. And these particular pieces all fit, son. At least in my head they do and since I call the shots, I’m calling this one. Let’s get back up to Richmond and rattle some cages.”

“Yes sir.”

The two men got up and started moving in the direction of the office behind them.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson and Marlena were at Marlena’s house, sitting at a table beside the pool. It was late in the evening and the heat and humidity during the day had abated.

Jackson opened his laptop and tuned into the national news. The lead story was entitled Massacre In Hot Springs. A talking head was standing in front of what looked like a town hall in Hot Springs Arkansas.

“The little town of Hot Springs Arkansas exploded in violence today that left nine men dead and a dozen or more seriously injured. The incident took place at a farm just outside of Hot Springs where a far-right militia group, the Arkansas Patriot Brotherhood, was attacked by another right-wing group from Georgia, The Sons of The Revolution. According to local authorities, both of these groups had recently lost their founders in assassinations, allegedly by a militant left-wing group known as the Sword of Damocles. These victims were Wiley Miles of Newnan Georgia and Desmond Keller from here in Hot Springs. The FBI has been following several leads, none of which link the two groups. Evidently, the new heads of both groups recently received anonymous email messages implicating the other, which is what led to this clash. It’s a bloody night here in Arkansas. The body count is still not confirmed, but anyone left standing has been arrested. It’s a real mess here. Stay tuned to Action News for more details as they become available.”

Jackson shut off the computer. He looked at Marlena, who just shook her head and said “Violence begets violence, my darling.”

“No shit. This was not part of the plan as I knew it.” He then got to his feet packed up his computer and kissed Marlena on the cheek. “I gotta go and find out what the hell is going on.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jackson was banging on Phillip Ross’ door. Ross opened the door. “Jackson. Come in, son.” 

Jackson entered the house. He paced around not sure how he should be feeling. 

“Come in the kitchen. I’ll pour you a little scotch. I’m sure you have questions.” Ross said.  

They walked into the kitchen and sat down at the large counter. There was already a bottle of Chivas Regal open on the counter. Ross poured a glass for Jackson who took a sip. “I just…what happened down there in Arkansas?” 

“What happened is that the people of Georgia and the people of Arkansas now have a pretty good idea of just how crazy these right-wing fanatics are.”

“How did you trigger that?”

“It wasn’t that difficult. We are not dealing with intelligent people here, Jackson. We’re dealing with primates. It doesn’t take much to set them off. This was the part of the plan I never told you about. It was just Reese and myself and we weren’t sure it would work.”

“Weren’t sure what would work?” 

“Let’s just call it an influence campaign. Reese started sending emails to the web sites of both these groups, basically fabricating little snippets of innuendo, creating some animosity and mistrust. Pretty simple manipulation, and I have to say Reese is really quite inventive when it comes to this tactic. He would have made a good intelligence operative. Fortunately, we have him all to ourselves.”

“So you fabricated a feud, to make it look like leaders of each group being killed was the first salvo?”

Ross smiled. “That’s right, son. And it worked extremely well. Better than I had imagined in fact.”

Jackson took a longer sip of the scotch and felt it burn its way down his throat. “This is crazy.” he said. 

“No Jackson, this is just a different kind of war.”

Jackson was speechless. His mind was off in all directions at the same time. He looked at Phillip Ross who sensed his confusion.

 “Wow.” Jackson finally said. “You know, the first thought that entered my head when I saw this, with your daughter, by the way, was that this was your work.”

“Well, they are paying us a lot of money, Jackson. And they expect results. This will give them a bump way beyond anything their people were predicting. And these kinds of bumps, well they’re hard to lose once you have them. Welcome to American politics.”

Jackson took a deep breath. “I guess I just have a lot to learn.”

“And we’re all happy to teach you.”

“Do you think you will try again?”

“That’s hard to say. Maybe. But we’ll figure something out. The one thing we have going for us is that these people are more or less all the same. Politicians tell them that their lives suck and they believe it. Back in the day, these people were called rubes. You could baffle their brains fairly easily. Well the rubes are still the rubes and a lot of them have brains that are easily baffled.”

Jackson got to his feet. “Sorry for barging in on you like this.”

“Anytime Jackson. And I’m glad you came to me first. I hope this sets your mind at ease.”

“Believe it or not sir, it does.”

Jackson shook Ross’s hand and left. He called Marlena when he got into the Jeep and told her he would see her tomorrow and that everything was fine. He thought she believed him. 

But everything wasn’t fine. This was crazy. Jackson could see killing the leaders of these groups. They were the real instigators and the genuine threat. But setting up a scenario where these people would kill each other? And for Phillip Ross to sit there calmly sipping scotch while he explained it to him. Jackson had seen his share of weird shit, but this was off the charts and he felt like he was sinking in quicksand. But as he drove home and went over it in his head, he started to understand just how little he really understood about this kind of warfare.

~~~~~~~~~~

James Holcomb and Hollis Keene arrived in Richmond by car from Washington in the early afternoon. Holcomb had secured addresses for the entire group of people they were planning to talk to, starting with Ethan Jones, just to see how he would react when they started dropping names.

They went to Jones’ apartment and buzzed but there was no answer. So Keene dialled his number and heard the phone ring through the door. Then he got a message stating that Jones was out of town for the next few weeks but to please leave a message. Keene left no message but instead moved on to the next name on their list, which was Alvin Tuttle.

Half an hour later Keene and Holcomb entered the Tuttle Shooting Range. Tuttle, as usual, was sitting at his table with his laptop open. They walked over to the table and showed him their identification. Tuttle invited them to sit down which they did.

“So what can I do for the FBI today, gentlemen?” 

“I don’t know if you have been following the assassinations of some prominent far-right militants.”

“Who hasn’t? That’s big news.”

“Well we’re the primary investigation team and we have reason to believe that the group responsible for these killings may be operating in this area.”

“This area?” Tuttle chuckled. “Whatever would make you think that?”

“We’re not at liberty to discuss that. We were simply wondering if the name William Farrell means anything to you. Perhaps someone who uses your range for practice.”

“No. I can’t say I’m familiar with that name.” Tuttle said, shaking his head.

“He would be in his late twenties, quite fit, an ex-marine sniper.”

“All we have here are a bunch of weekend warriors and hunters, Agent Keene. If I had ever met anyone like that I’d sure as hell remember it.”

“In our investigation, we have also noticed that you had your website built by a man by the name of Damon Reese.” Keene said.

“Oh sure. That was a few years ago now. Don’t really use the website much, so I haven’t seen Damon in a while. What does he have to do with all of this?”

“His name has come up in our investigation.”

“Well I’m sure he has lot of clients. I mean that’s his business, building websites, e-commerce, that sort of thing.”

There was a few seconds of silence. Then Tuttle said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Keene reached into his pocket and then handed Tuttle a business card. “If you should see someone calling themselves William Farrell, I’d appreciate a call.” 

Tuttle took the card. “Sure thing. Always happy to help out the FBI. And I wish you luck finding the shooter you’re looking for, although it’s the considered opinion of a lot of the people I know that he’s actually doin’ a public service.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that sentiment expressed. Thanks for your time Mr. Tuttle.” Keene and Holcomb got to their feet. Tuttle didn’t bother standing up. He just opened up his computer again and went back to what he was doing.

As they were walking back to the car, Keene said “So what’s your read on him, James?” 

“Sounded pretty much like he was telling the truth.”

“Yeah he did, didn’t he?”

“Yessir, he did.”

“You think this is a wild goose chase, don’t you, James?”

“I think we’re clutching at straws here, especially after the massacre in Arkansas last night. I think there’s a war going on within the far right, and that’s where we should be lookin’, sir.”

“Could be, James. But humour me for a little while longer.”

“You’re my boss, sir. I really don’t have a choice.”

Inside the building, Tuttle watched the agents get in their car and drive off. Then he called Phillip Ross.

“Hey. Just had a visit from the feds looking for William Farrell. How they found out about him is beyond me. Obviously, we missed something. Consider this a heads-up. It looks like they’re workin’ from a list of Reese’s clients, so you should probably expect a visit. Yeah, I’ll let him know. Yeah, they’re just nosin’ around right now. If they stick around any longer though, we’ll have to keep off the phones because they’ll likely be tapped.”

Tuttle closed the range and drove down into Richmond. 

At Jackson’s house, Jackson was sitting in his dining room, downloading pictures from his camera when Tuttle knocked on the door.

Jackson got up to let him in. He offered Tuttle a coffee, which he accepted and Tuttle sat down at the table across from Jackson.

“So here’s the thing. Somehow the FBI got hold of William Farrell’s name and they’re nosing around. But it feels like it’s just a shot in the dark.”

“I thought Reese disappeared me.”

“Nothing’s perfect. They had no picture, or they would have shown it to me, so I’m thinking they probably got the info from Afghanistan. They are professional investigators, Jackson. The good news is that if they knew about Jackson Lyall they’d have been askin’ about him, not Farrell. But just to be on the safe side, you need to be anywhere but here for the next few days.”

Jackson took a deep breath to try and calm himself down. “I was thinkin’ about doing a series on the farms up in Delaware. That would take three or four days easily.”

“That’s a good plan. If I need to reach you, I’ll do it through Reese. He’s got several different numbers I can use.”

“What’s your read on this situation, sir?”

“They’re chasin’ shadows. Since the massacre in Hot Springs, I imagine their investigation had the heat turned up a few notches. Hopefully, they nose around a bit and move on.” 

“Do Missy and Jones know about this?”

“No, but Phillip does and Missy calls into him every night.”

Jackson rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “Alright. Thanks for comin’ down to tell me this.” 

“They don’t know who you are or anything about you, Jackson. All they know is William Farrell and they don’t even have a picture, because all that stuff is gone, right back to public school in Louisiana. So you just go on about your business, and I’ll keep you posted.”

Tuttle got up. And looked around. “Cozy,” he said. And then he headed out the front door. Jackson closed up his computer and then packed a bag. Half an hour later he was headed to Marlena’s studio, by way of his bank where he withdrew ten thousand dollars.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson entered the studio and found it in complete disarray. Almost everything in the studio was piled on the meeting table. Marlena was in the middle of the space holding a roller on a long stick. 

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Stay there, hon.” I’m almost done.”

She did a few more swipes with the roller and deemed the job finished. She walked over to Jackson and gave him a peck on the cheek. 

“Things are always slow in the summer and since we have a couple more weeks before the show, I thought I would varnish my floor. I did this half, where we’re standing, yesterday. Today I did the other half.”

“You should have called me. I’d have been happy to help you.”

“No need. I quite enjoyed two whole days of not staring at a computer screen.”

“So business is slow.”

“Everybody’s on holiday.”

“Well listen, I am getting out of town for about four or five days and would love it if you came with me.”

“Where would we be going?”

“Delaware.”

“What’s in Delaware?”

“Delaware’s in Delaware. I want to do a series on farmers in Delaware, and since this is the slow season for them too, I figure I could find at least a dozen or so that I could photograph.”

“What a neat idea.” Marlena said. 

“So what do you think? It’ll be fun. Fresh air, Roadhouse food, salt of the earth people, Motel Sixes and me.”

“You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet…OK, you’re on, mister. I’ll clean up here and meet you at my house in an hour.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Jackson asked.

“Nope. I’m done. In fact, the longer I leave this to dry the better. 

She kissed Jackson again. “Our first road trip. Delaware, huh? I like it.”

Jackson left and got back into his Jeep. He sat there for a few minutes, just thinking. He kind of felt like the whole thing was starting to implode. But after a while, he shook it off, started the Jeep and headed up to Marlena’s house.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Agents Keene and Holcomb arrived at Phillip Ross’ office at the end of the day. They were shown in by a secretary who was on her way out. They entered the office. Ross was sitting behind his desk, working on his computer, and talking to someone in a low voice. He motioned for the two agents to sit down, which they did in the two chairs opposite Ross’ desk. He disconnected from his call and took off his headset. 

“Gentlemen.”

“Mr. Ross, I’m Special Agent Hollis Keene, this is Special Agent James Holcomb. We’re in charge, of the assassinations of the far-right citizens down south.”

“I know exactly who you are, gentlemen. It’s a small town and when the Federales show up, the word spreads rather quickly. I believe you have already interviewed my friend Alvin Tuttle and, a few days ago, a man named Ethan Jones, who does project work for my company. So my question to you is a simple one…what the hell do you want?”

Both the agents were taken a bit aback by Ross’ bluntness, which was exactly what he wanted to gain the upper hand.

“We’re just following leads, sir, and they have brought us here.” Keene said.

“Because Ethan Jones was interviewing people? There were literally dozens of people, I imagine, doing interviews down there. This was big news when it happened. I’m sure Mr. Jones explained himself adequately, did he not?”

“Yes sir, he did.” Keene said, starting to feel a little intimidated and that was not a state he was all that familiar or comfortable with.

“Then the question still remains. What the hell are you doing here? Do you have any actual evidence that you are acting on? Or is this just some wild ass hunch you’re following?”

The response from both agents was silence.

“So if you want to ask me a question,” Ross said. “By all means ask away. But I’m afraid it will be of no use to you, because the assumption you are labouring under makes no sense. In the meantime, you have what basically amounts to a gang war down in your neck of the woods and here you are chasing shadows up north.”

“You are former NSA, is that correct?”

“Ahh, a question. Yes, I am. If you want to know about the situation of my leaving the agency, it’s simple. I didn’t want to be the boss. Bosses deal with bullshit twenty-four seven. I was perfectly happy being a worker bee, running agents, catching terrorists, all that good stuff. Trouble is the NSA is just like any private sector organization. The minute management finds out you’re actually good at something, they promote you into a position you’re totally unsuited to. So I quit and started my own business.”

“And what is that business, sir?” Holcombe asked.

Ross laughed. “It’s whatever you want it to be, sport. And the lion’s share of it is classified, some of it is even top secret. I may be in the private sector now, but I am still one of the good guys.”

Keene took a deep breath. He knew he wasn’t going to get any information out of Ross because Ross was a spook and from the sound of things, a pretty damn good one.

“I’ll level with you, sir. We are essentially banging our heads against the wall here.” Keene said.

Ross softened his tone now that he had some humility coming his way.

“I can see that, Agent Keene. And I don’t blame you for being frustrated. Whoever is doing this has obviously thought things through very thoroughly. I know the FBI doesn’t stump easily. And I can see how, as a former NSA operative, I might look like the kind of person who could put this sort of thing together. But alas, I have much more pressing concerns than a mob of fanatics from below the Mason-Dixon line.”

“OK, last question,” Keene said. “Does the name William Farrell mean anything to you?”

“William Farrell. No. Who is he?”

“Currently, he’s a person of interest in our investigation.”

“And did Mr. Tuttle or Mr. Jones have any inkling of who he might be?”

“No sir, they did not.”

“Well then, third time’s a charm.”

“You don’t happen to know where Mr. Jones is at the moment?”

“I do. But unfortunately, it’s classified. But he’s not interviewing people about some assassination. He does that in his spare time on his own dime.”

The two men got to their feet. Keene didn’t bother to leave Phillip Ross a card. There was no point. This guy was a high-degree spook. Unflappable, unquestionable. 

Ross walked the agents to the elevator and wished them luck in their endeavours, and a moment later they were gone.

As they left the building, Holcomb said. “I feel like we just got our asses kicked.”

“Yes, we did, James. Indeed we did.” And that was all he said about it as they drove back to DC to catch a plane back to Atlanta. But Keene was thinking hard about the Chinese wall that very much appeared to surround Richmond.

On the plane heading back, James Holcomb said, “You know we never did interview the computer guy.”

“Yeah well, what do you think that would have amounted to?”

James Holcomb was a smart young man and he just said nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a straight and fairly boring ride on Interstate 64 from Richmond to Lexington, Kentucky where they decided to stay for the night before pressing on to Missouri and the first name on their list.

After dinner, at the Texas Roadhouse on Highway 25, they checked into a half-decent-looking motel just down the street. It was a muggy, warm evening so Ethan Jones decided to go for a swim. Missy stayed in the room, had a nice long shower and got into bed. She was pooped. Before she turned on the TV to catch the local news, she called Phillip Ross.

“Hi, we’re in Lexington. We’ll make St Louis by late tomorrow and get to work the next day.”

“OK. Just so you’re both up to speed,” Ross said,  “I had a little meeting with the FBI today, the same agent that went to see Ethan. They were looking for William Farrell. But nobody here knows anybody by that name. They hit on Alvin too. I think I managed to dissuade them. But I also think this will definitely be the final road trip for you both.”

“I understand. How’s our boy?”

“On Alvin’s advice, he’s gone on a road trip of his own.”

Missy laughed. “Did he take his girlfriend?”

“Oh yeah. She called before they left.” Ross said.

“Well, I hope they have a nice trip. They make a sweet couple. You know, I saw them over at Rudy’s one night.”

“You never told me that.” 

“No, I never did. Maybe I should have.” 

“Anyway, I think the Feebs have left the building, so to speak. Let’s hope they don’t come back. But there’s always a chance they can find some judge who will let them tap our phones. If that happens, you know the drill.”

“OK. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll call you tomorrow, same time same station. If you’re right, get hold of Reece, he’ll know where we are. Ethan left his phone at home.”

“Take care.”

A few seconds after Missy disconnected, Jones came into the room and jumped into the shower. A few minutes later he came out drying his hair, with a towel wrapped around his long wiry frame.

“I was just talking to Phillip.” He told me the FBI came back to town.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I think they’ve been deep diving on you and Tuttle and are trying to make a case.”

“I’m not worried about that.” 

“Why is that?”

“Well I had a meeting with them and while the older one looked to be a bit of a bulldog, it was a lot of bark and relatively little bite. They are stumped and swinging their wickets wildly.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

“Indeed.”

Jones flopped down on the other bed, and flipped on the TV.  “Let’s see who’s killed who in jolly old Lexington tonight.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

On their way north, Jackson & Marlena stopped in at the Viewfinder gallery and Dianna Freeman showed them the six prints and the frames they would go in. Jackson signed the prints. Both he and Marlena thought they looked amazing. The show was scheduled to start early the following week, so that gave them a week and a bit to travel around, then get back in time for the opening. Jackson reckoned he would be off to the midwest a few days after that, and hopefully down the home stretch of his project. The only consolation is that he would end up with a net worth of about three million, and be able to devote all his time to his photography and Marlena.

All this was going through his mind as they rolled into Wilmington on Highway 95 and they headed south on the Delaware Peninsula to Dover. They found a good steak house and then checked into the local Marriott, where they fooled around a bit and caught some of the news. The massacre in Hot Springs was still front and centre and all over the Internet. Agent Keene was interviewed again, and stated that all the participants were being questioned and that they would soon get to the bottom of this affair. But other than some confident-sounding bullshit, he had nothing concrete to report. 

Worn out from a whole day of driving, they fell asleep and slept in until about 10 am the next morning, when they would start their search for farmers to photograph.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Missy and Jones got to St Louis the next afternoon. They travelled through the city on Highway 70 and got off on the far west side, an area called Warrenton. They drove up East State Highway 47 to a street called Willow Road. They went down about half a mile and pulled into a kennel there. The sign on the building said Warrenton Breeders. They went inside. There was a man standing behind the counter talking to a younger woman. They were both dressed in khaki outfits. The man was Cletus Boyer, and he was the leader of a group called The Missouri Minutemen. 

Boyer put his hands on the counter and leaned toward Missy. Jones was looking at some of the supplies that were displayed along one of the walls. Boyer looked to be in his early 50s. He had a full beard and was wearing a John Deere hat. His shirt had the Warrenton Breeders logo on it and beneath it the word Clete.

“So what can we do for you, young lady?”

“We were wondering what breeds you actually offer here.”

“Well, we’re pretty limited, most of the animals we have here are used for personal protection and for the various police forces in the area. Dobermans, Rottweilers, and Shepherds mainly.”

“I see. We were looking for something more in the line of a family pet.”

“They all make good pets, ma’am. Just depends on how they’re trained.”

“Okay, well thanks for the information… Mister?”

“Boyer, ma’am, Cletus Boyer.”

“Mister Boyer. We were looking for something in the toy poodle end of things.”

Boyer chuckled. “Sorry ma’am but we’re fresh out of them.”

Missy thanked Boyer, then turned and left with Jones right behind her. 

“He looks like a lumberjack.” Jones said as he got into the car.

“They come in all shapes and sizes. They should be closin’ up soon. Let’s head on up the road and see if we can’t tail him for a while, see where he goes.”

Jones slowly backed out of the lot and headed up the road. 

“We’re pretty much pretty much surrounded by farmland here, mostly corn, and it’s not tall enough yet for Jackson to pick him off from the fields.” Missy said.

Jones said nothing as he turned the car around and pulled off the side of the road, where they had a clear view of the front of the kennel.

At about 6:00 PM, Cletus Boyer came out the front door and got into a van, with the company logo painted on either side. He took off heading toward 47 and turned north. Jones followed at a discreet distance. After about three miles, Boyer turned off into a long driveway. 

“Is there something in the anarchists’ manual that says you must live as far from people as possible?” Jones asked.

“A lot of people here come from farming stock. After their parents pass, they inherit the farm, they sublet the land to corporate farms or their neighbours. It gives them enough income to cover upkeep and taxes but not a hell of a lot more.” Missy said. “So this was probably the house he was raised in. 

They drove up to the end of the road and parked. They would stay there for a while because a car going up and back down the road in a short space of time would have raised suspicion with Boyer if he noticed it. Missy got out of the car and saw they were on a bit of a rise. She walked to the end of the elevated part of the road and had a perfect view of Boyer’s driveway. She walked back to the car. She looked all around in every direction then got back in. 

“You know, if Jackson parked himself right here, he could pop one of the tires on Boyer’s pickup, and while he was changing it, he’d pretty much be a sittin’ duck.”

“That’s why you make the big bucks, Missy.” 

“He also doesn’t seem to have anybody else in the house. File says he’s divorced, wife lives in east St Louis.”

 Just then a car came up the road from 47. It turned into the driveway and a woman got out of a grey sedan that was a couple of years old. The woman who got out, grabbed a plastic shopping bag from the backseat and walked into the house like she belonged there. But that wasn’t in the Boyer file that Damon Reese had put together. 

Missy picked up her phone and called Reese. “Hey, Reese. Have a question. Cletus Boyer. Your report says he lives alone. Well, a woman just pulled up and walked right into the house like she belonged there.”

“Let me look it up.” Reese said. “Just a sec, Here it comes. Ummm yeah, no my report says he is currently divorced. Kids all grown and gone. Hold on, Missy.” Missy could hear the clicking of keyboard keys and some Pink Floyd music at a very low volume. After about a minute, Reese came back on the line. “There’s a woman named Peggy Boyer listed as his next of kin. I assume she’s either a sister or a daughter. She has an address in Wright City, which is the next community over from Warrenton. Chances are she’s just visiting.”

“OK good, we’ll keep an eye on this.”

“Good luck.”

Missy and Jones got back in the car. Jones had been looking at his Google map and found a road out that precluded them going back past the Boyer house. They turned around and then turned down a dirt road that led back to 47, and took it down into Warrenton. They found a Holiday Inn Express with a Waffle House and a Chinese Restaurant within easy walking distance. Missy registered them, then they dumped their bags and walked to the Chinese Restaurant, which was surprisingly good, had their dinner and were back in the room by about nine pm. 

Missy called Phillip Ross and told him that they had a good setup picked out and that they would be moving on to Illinois the next day.

Phillip told her he had heard nothing further from the feds, and that hopefully they had moved on to other targets. 

Missy hung up, then flipped Ethan for the first shower and won. Jones sat down on the bed and turned on the TV. The news was interesting, so he called Missy out before she could get undressed. 

He was watching the network news and someone was reporting from a place called Germantown, Tennessee.

“The assassination of right-wing militia group leaders across the south has claimed another victim tonight. Martin Freitag, leader of a local far-right militia group called the Germantown Reichstag, was gunned down in the driveway of his Germantown home late this afternoon. The killer, who has so far eluded the local police is said to be armed and extremely dangerous. Freitag was shot several times in the back with what the Germantown Medical Examiner believes are hollow point 45 calibre bullets, the same calibre bullets that were used in the killing of Desmond Keller, leader of a far-right group known as the Arkansas Patriot Brotherhood. This is the fourth killing of far-right group leaders in almost as many weeks, and so far the FBI and local police forces are completely baffled. We’ll have more for you as this story develops, as I’m sure it will.” 

Missy was immediately on the phone to Phillip Ross. “Have you heard about this shooting in Germantown? What the hell is that about?”

“Calm down Missy. It’s not our boy. He’s off on the road. Marlena just called me from somewhere in Delaware.”

“So what the hell is going on?” 

“I have no idea. But hopefully, this will help keep the Feds out of our hair.”

“Okay, so we have a copycat. The other question I have is are you sure they aren’t tapping our phones?”

“Damon assures me that he’s been monitoring them all and at the first sign of intrusion he will let me know.”

“OK. This just kinda freaked me out a bit.”

“Just carry on, and remember the protocol. We’re almost done.”

“We will. Goodnight hun.”

Missy disconnected. “It’s not Jackson. He’s in Delaware with his girlfriend taking pictures.”

Jones was smiling. “A copycat. You Americans are really something.”

Missy got up off the bed and headed into the shower. Jones continued to flip around the news channels.

At about 11 pm, they got in their car and headed up 47 to Cletus Boyer’s house. But just before they were going to turn up his road, they noticed a car pulling out and turning south. Missy, who was driving, kept on going past the turn turnoff.

“We missed the turn.” Jones said.

“No, it’s cool. That car that we just passed going the other way, that was the car.”

 Missy did a U-turn and sped up a bit to catch up with the car that had just passed them heading south. When the car got down to 70 it turned east toward Wright City. Missy drove them back to the hotel. They got a good night’s sleep and headed out to Illinois and the final target.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hollis Keene was sitting in a room in the Hot Springs Holiday Inn. It was just after 5 PM and he had finished interrogating the members of both right-wing groups that were left standing after the shootout in Hot Springs.

He had sent James Holcomb back to Atlanta earlier in the day. His brain felt like a plate of badly mashed potatoes. The people he was interviewing were absolutely infuriating. They were all dumb as rocks, with their heads full of far-right propaganda. They were mostly barely coherent and, to the man, filled with a venom that only the gloriously and thoroughly brainwashed possessed. 

They were foot soldiers, every one. They did what their leaders told them to do. And all the while, while they were killing other Americans, they steadfastly clung to the opinion that they were the real patriots. 

After close to six hours of this, Keene was thoroughly disgusted and completely exhausted. In fact, in his exhaustion, as he sat at his hotel room desk nursing his umpteenth cup of coffee, he started to think that the killer who began all this, so well organized, thorough and, so far, completely invisible, was the real hero here, the true patriot, ridding the world of vermin like the so-called humans he had just spent the last six hours with.

Then there was the new murder that forensics told him was done with a different gun than the Desmond Keller shooting. So now the copycats were starting to crawl out of the woodwork too. 

This was getting real messy. The more he thought about all the killings he was dealing with the more he kept thinking about Phillip Ross, the retired spook and government contractor, the more he thought that it was not beyond the realm of possibility that these killings, the well-planned ones, could be attributable to the government itself. 

If that were the case, then Ross and his people would likely have some sort of deal in place so they would not be prosecuted, which meant that if he continued to go after them, he could eventually expect a visit or phone call, from someone way the hell above his pay grade, diplomatically warning him to cease and desist. 

In this regard, he felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Damned if he did his job, equally damned if he didn’t. 

But Hollis Keene was raised with a sense of honour and duty, and he believed that if you swore an oath to uphold the law, then that’s what you had to do no matter what the personal consequences or downside risks. Needless to say, sometimes he wished to hell that he wasn’t built that way.

An hour later he flew back to Atlanta and got a good night’s sleep because he was exhausted. In the morning he went back to the office and wrote up a request for wiretaps on the phones of Phillip Ross, Damon Reese, Alvin Tuttle, Missy Felder and Ethan Jones. 

The request was granted that afternoon and the taps were in place by about 8:00 pm that night.

At approximately 8:02 pm Damon Reese picked up the intrusion. He immediately grabbed a bag full of burner phones from his drawer and got into his car. He drove to Alvin Tuttle’s house and gave him one of the burners he had programmed for just this eventuality. He then drove to Phillip Ross’s and gave him three burners, one for him, and one each for Ethan Jones and Missy Felder. He then went back home and called Jackson and told him not to make any calls to anyone in the group, but just to wait for them to contact him. Phillip Ross called Marlena in Delaware and told her he had accidentally dropped his cell phone and had ordered a new one. He gave her the number of his burner phone and told her she could reach him on that phone. 

When Missy Felder put in her nightly call to Phillip Ross, she got a message that he was in a meeting in Fredericksburg and to leave a number and he would call her back ASAP. Missy knew this was actually an alert that the lines were being tapped. She hung up immediately.

Phillip Ross called Damon Reese right after receiving the call from Missy. “She’s at the Holiday Inn Express in some place called Warrenton, Missouri. He gave Ross the number of the hotel. He called and was quickly connected. 

“Hi.” Ross said. “I guess we underestimated the effect I had on Agent Hollis Keene of the FBI. This is my new number.” And he gave her the number. “Only call me on a landline if you have to. This will pass. They will probably only have permission for 48 hours and likely no location tracking, because, from my experience this is a flimsy ask, so no bells and whistles. And Damon caught it right when it was happening. He has already called Jackson to let him know. You guys just carry on and get back here ASAP. I’m not risking anyone for a few more approval points. I’m going to get my guy to read Keene the riot act. Enough is enough.”

“OK, said Missy. “We’re finished here. One excellent option. So tomorrow we’re off to Illinois. That should just take a few days and then we’ll be back.”

“Sounds good.” Ross said as he hung up.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The thing about smart people is that they can usually outfox the law provided they don’t get too cocky about it. 

Forty-eight hours after they were created, the taps were lifted and Hollis Keene had absolutely nothing to show for his effort. Either these people had all gone on holiday and left their phones at home, or they had somehow caught the taps and had a plan in place to deal with that possibility. In its own weird way, Keene’s admiration for these people was growing, pretty much alongside his determination to beat them at the game they were playing.

Sadly, and unlike them, he was hamstrung by the laws he had sworn to uphold. And to complicate matters to a greater degree he had been summoned to Richmond to meet with Senator Roland Winters, the ranking Democrat in the US Senate. Winters was the Representative for Virginia, and a close personal friend of the president. 

Keene and Senator Winters met at a restaurant in downtown Richmond, which was the senator’s hometown. The restaurant, of all places, was Rudy’s Roadhouse, which had been closed so the Senator and Keene would have complete privacy. The Senator sat at the bar chatting with Rudy when Keene walked in past a lone Secret Service sentinel. 

“Ahhh, Agent Keene. Roland Winters.” The two men shook hands, “And this fellow here is Rudy Phillips, whose establishment serves the finest ribs in all of Virginia and several other states I could name. I encourage you to try them. They will spoil you for anything else. What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have a beer, anything light.”

Rudy nodded and pulled out a Coors light, popped it and handed Keene the bottle and glass. Winters got off his stool and walked to a table in the middle of the restaurant. Keene followed him and sat down across the table.

They made a little small talk. Winters told Keene about growing up in Richmond and forging lifelong friendships there. Keene grew up in a small town in Georgia, got his criminology degree at Purdue then joined the Navy as a junior NCIS investigator. He worked out of DC for ten years then he jumped to the FBI where, after a couple of years, he was assigned to counter-terrorism, and built his reputation from there.

The ribs came while they were talking. Winters encouraged Keene to rip one off and dip it in the cajun sauce before eating it, which he did.

“So I was looking at your record, which is exemplary, Agent Keene. And because it’s so exemplary, I find it hard to understand why it is you have become fixated on Phillip Ross. Can you explain that to me?

“Well sir, you know any investigation requires a lot of connect the dots. So when I connected Ethan Jones to Damon Reese, I found that Reese was connected to Alvin Tuttle, Phillip Ross and a lady named Missy Felder. To my way of thinking that was, or could easily have been construed to be a project group. Everyone has different skills and backgrounds. The only thing I was missing was the actual shooter, and I was, am, following a separate lead to find that man.

“That’s quite a lot of supposition, son.”

“Yes sir, it surely is.”

“And did you find anything beyond the fact that these people knew each other and were all in Richmond and were connected because they all knew the same website designer?”

Keene took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No sir, I did not.”

“So basically you have crossed these people off your list.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But this case is nowhere near being resolved.”

“The reason I ask is a simple one and a matter of national security. Mr. Ross is a highly qualified and trusted security advisor. And that is the reason why the recent wiretaps you put on the phones of all the people you mentioned failed to produce anything of value for your investigation. Mr. Ross, and the other people you mentioned do work as a team. But they are not some rogue left-wing terrorist organization. They are in fact government contractors and very valuable clandestine ones. So you can see how mucking around in their affairs would present a significant national security risk.” 

Again, another shot upside the head from a higher place. Keene was starting to feel a little punch drunk. “Yes sir, I can certainly see that.” 

“The reason that you have not been able to connect these folks to an actual shooter is because this is an intelligence-gathering group. It is not a hit squad. We have perfectly good military people to handle that for us, should the need arise, Agent Keene.”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

“Good. Because continuing to poke at this particular bear can get you into a heap of hardship that you don’t really need in your life. My suggestion is to find out more about these far-right groups and why they would want to kill each other. You might find an answer just pops out somehow.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, sir.”

“Good. Do you like the ribs?” Winters said, signifying that the discussion of Phillip Ross and anyone close to him was over. 

But Hollis Keene was cursed with being one of those never say die types. He took this warning as just another clue he would paste into his theory. Maybe, in the end, he could do nothing about this. But at the very least he was determined to have the satisfaction of knowing what actually happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps it was the easygoing lilt of Jackson’s voice, but the farmers he talked to all through the state were more than happy to let him photograph them. And the images he made of them were, at least to Marlena’s way of thinking, beautiful portraits of the American farmer. 

Jackson talked to each of the farmers he met for quite a while before shooting them and this seemed to put them at ease. He never forced anything from them that wasn’t already theirs to give. These were good, hard-working people and Jackson respected them for that and what their work meant to the country. 

They didn’t talk about politics. They talked about the land and the animals and the kind of machinery they used and what they did in the winter. He was genuinely interested and Marlena saw the kind of person Jackson really was and she fell in love with him on that trip.

As they travelled through many of the small towns that dotted the highway heading south she noticed very little old-world charm. There were no general stores, few independent pharmacies, and most of the restaurants were chains. 

Marlena was expecting something more rustic, she supposed, and was disappointed when so much of what she saw that wasn’t farmland was basically stuff that could be seen anywhere in America. The towns did have a number of beautiful and well-kept old large frame houses with ample porch space for sitting and rocking. But on just the next block over, there was a whole field of tract housing, that reminded her of the old Pete Seeger song “Little houses made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.”

But none of that really mattered much to Marlena, she was just having a wonderful time being with Jackson, watching him become the artist she believed he actually was. The days flew by and the nights were fun in the best restaurants they could find and in each others’ arms till they fell asleep. Marlena decided they needed to do more of this.

They got back early the following week, and spent the next couple of days at her house, swimming and eating and and at her office, editing the many hundreds of images Jackson had made on their trip.

Two days later, they drove up to Baltimore and Jackson’s work was presented to the photography lovers of the greater DC area. It was a nice evening and Jackson comported himself with the same easy manner he had used to charm all the farmers in Delaware.  

The next day, Dianna Freeman called and said she had orders for at least twelve sets of all six prints at $35,000 a set. She also told Jackson to keep shooting because by November he would have his own wall. They arranged to get together in two weeks so that Jackson could sign a contract to allow the Viewfinder to represent him worldwide.

That night Jackson took Marlena to Rudy’s to celebrate. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Missy Felder and Ethan Jones had an uneventful trip to Illinois, where they found and surveilled their last right-wing nutbar, Wilbur Hessel, who lived on the outskirts of the town of Champaign. 

Hessel was the founder of a group called the True Patriots of Illinois and a gun nut. He owned his own range, out on Highway 10 west of Champaign. In behind the range he had built himself a genuine log cabin, which was essentially a single large room, with an attached bathroom. He had his own well which provided him with clean water, and it all ran on a generator powered by a solar array, on a hill at the back of his house. Also in the side of the hill, he had dug himself what looked to be a cold cellar and he had a large truck garden where he grew all the vegetables he would need for the winter. He was an almost totally independent survivalist. But he was also vehemently anti-government and the building that housed his gun shop and the range business was also where he held his meetings. 

Missy and Jones we able to view Hessel’s entire estate from a scenic lookout at the top of the adjacent hill. They also noticed that Hessel had built himself a large deck at the front of his house. There was a table with an umbrella and four chairs, and a wrought iron love seat glider. In the evenings, Hessel would sit on the glider for hours and either talk on the phone or listen to a small portable radio on a small side table, drink beer and smoke some weed.

“What would you reckon this distance to be, Ethan?” Missy asked. “I’m thinking about a thousand yards, maybe a little bit less.

Ethan Jones stared out into the late afternoon sky. “Nine hundred to one thousand. Very little wind too. Should be, what’s the American expression, like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Let’s go get some dinner and we’ll head home tomorrow and hope the Feds have been told to back off.” 

“If your Feds are at all like mine, I don’t think we can count on that.”

They climbed into the car and headed down to 74 into Champaign where they checked into the Courtyard By Marriott, then went off in search of something for dinner. They settled on The Olive Garden, which was good because they had spent the entire day scoping Hessel’s range and nearby residence and they hadn’t eaten a thing. Needless to say, they pigged out with some veal scallopini and a big Caesar salad and some not-too-bad pasta. They were stuffed to the gills by the time they got back to their room. Jones won the toss for the shower and Missy called Phillip Ross on his burner.

“Hi. We’re on our way home first thing in the morning. How’s things?”

“The phones are no longer tapped and I assume we are no longer persons of interest but you never know with fanatics like Hollis Keene.”

“Well, this is the home stretch. And the jobs are a lot less tricky than they were down south.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m pretty sure that Jackson is going to want to be cut loose after this is done. And I don’t blame him. If we have to tee up some more, we’ll find someone. Maybe he can evaluate for us.”

“All you can do is ask. We’re gonna get an early start and drive right though. Should get in by nine tomorrow night. I’ll come see you.” 

“That would be wonderful.”

“Yes it will, big boy.”`

Missy disconnected and turned on the news.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The meeting was on a Saturday, four days before Missy and Jackson were scheduled to head out to Missouri to do the first job. 

Everybody was assembled in Phillip Ross’s backyard, sitting at the large table with coffees and bagels.

Phillip Ross sat at the head of the table. “OK, so we’re coming down the home stretch of this campaign. I want us to carry on, business as usual. Agent Hollis Keene of the FBI may still be snooping around, but I assure you, it will be just for his edification. We know the type. We are all the same type. He sees this as a puzzle he just has to solve. I don’t really care if he solves it or not. All I care about is all of you. So if anyone has any questions or issues let’s hear them and we can discuss this as a group.”

Jackson raised his hand. “I was wondering, you know, just how this is actually working out.”

“Well,“ Ross said. “The general perception here, and it’s kind of what we hoped it would be, is that the left is not a bunch of candy-ass liberals who just sit around and talk about the problems in America. Oddly, the people who have been focus-grouped by the government don’t see what we’re doing as a crime, so much as they see it as a balancing of the scales. And that’s been helped a lot by the media. So in the sense of moving the needle, my contact figures it’s worth a good ten points in the polls which, in a country as divided as we are right now, is a lot.”

“So what’s your prediction based on the next two killings?” Ethan Jones said, with a certain amount of sarcasm that just seeped out. “Another five points?”

Phillip Ross just stared at Ethan for about fifteen seconds. “You’re really not very big on this project, are you?” he asked.

“To be completely honest with you, I think what we are doing here is obscene. Maybe it’s just because I’m not a native American, but it seems to me that fighting fire with fire, as you put it, is really an accepted way of life here.”

“As opposed to, what, the British Empire? I believe you folks actually hold the record for dead bodies around the world.” Ross said. “There’s not a country on the planet that’s not guilty of some sort of killing to get what needs to be gotten. But to answer your question Ethan, sadly, yes, violence is a way of life in this country. But right now we have a government in place that’s actually trying to get that under control.” 

“Come on Ethan,” Jackson said. “You’ve been to the Middle East, western Asia and Africa. You know very well that taking out the strongman or leader weakens and confuses the group. If you buy that this is a war we are engaged in, then the work we’re doing here is the least destructive tactic.

“Touché, Jackson.” Ethan said. “Your points are well taken.”

“Are you unhappy with the way things are going, Ethan?” Ross asked.

“I, umm.” Then he took a deep breath. “I think it was the interviewing. The people I was talking with, their ignorance, and in many cases their outright idiocy, was not something I expected. Not one single person expressed any concern for the victims, as bad as they may have been. It was like simply sticking a microphone in front of them was more than enough to bring out their most base emotions. It was difficult to hear so much of it in a short span of time.”

“Okay, well we can dispense with any further interviewing unless, Missy, you would like to do it?” Ross said.

“Don’t look at me. If it depressed a hardass like Ethan here, it would probably fry my brain.”

Everybody had a little chuckle about that. But Jackson kept staring at Ethan Jones. There’s something up with that guy, he thought to himself. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he made it a point to keep a closer eye on him.

Missy then took the group through their recon and distributed memory keys. Twenty minutes after that, the meeting was adjourned. As everyone was leaving Jackson pulled Alvin Tuttle aside. 

“I was just thinking about these hits and I’m gonna need a good night scope.” 

“I have a couple at the range.” 

“Good. I’m coming out tomorrow to do some shooting.”

“I was wondering, you had your art show in Baltimore a couple nights ago. How did that go?”

“We’re going up there day after tomorrow. Apparently, we have sold quite a few prints, and I have to go sign them.”

“That’s great, Jackson. Seems like just a few weeks ago you were talking about getting a new camera and now here you are selling your art in the big city.”

“It quite literally was a few weeks ago, Tut.” Jackson said. “Don’t ask me how that happened. It was all Marlena’s doing.”

Tuttle slapped Jackson on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jackson walked back to the table where Missy and Phillip Ross were sitting. He took a seat.

“I just wanted to tell you that when these next two assignments are done, so am I. I have managed to keep a lot of stuff from Marlena, but I think if I were to sign on for any more of this excitement, that might just get a lot harder to do. I’ve made a pretty good start on another life and so far it’s working out. I’ll be happy to consult with you and evaluate anyone you find, but I won’t be going on any more field trips, sir.”

“That’s very generous of you, Jackson. And I told you, one and done, and I am a man of my word.” Ross said.

“Another thing.” Jackson hesitated, working to find the right words. “Mr. Jones’ little outburst. I’ve seen this sort of thing before over in Kabul. A lieutenant started talking like that. A couple weeks later he had a full-blown attack of something. He was strapped down and sent the hell home in short order. It started with snarky remark and ended up, well, a whole lot worse. I’d just keep a close eye on him, sir. All due respect to him.”

“Thanks Jackson. I appreciate the insight.” Ross said.

Jackson got to his feet. “Sir.” then he turned to Missy. “See you next week.”

“You got it, Jackson.” Missy said and Jackson nodded and turned to head around the house to his Jeep.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hollis Keene sat at the comfortable bar in the Views Bar & Grill on Peachtree Street in Atlanta. He was drinking scotch and was on his third. James Holcomb was sitting on the stool next to him, nursing a Ginger Ale.

“You know James, we had this thing figured right out. Maybe it was just dumb luck and some good research on your part, or maybe it was just instinct, but we cracked this walnut with a jackhammer. The guy I went to see in Richmond, he’s about as high up as you can get and not be the fucking president and he told me to back off.”

“Can he do that, sir? I mean he’s just a politician, right?”

“Some people are just politicians, James, but this guy, he’s a whole lot more. And when he tells me he can make my life miserable, I know he knows he can do that. But what’s worse is that I know he would not lose a wink of sleep over it either.”

“So what happens to this case?”

Keene just laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine, son. It just gets worked on and worked on and then eventually something real comes along and it gets filed away and the boxes go to the warehouse and after a while, neither you nor I nor anyone else will give a shit about it.”

“Have you ever had anything like this happen to you before?” 

“No. But I’ve heard stories. None of them have happy endings.”

James Holcomb took a deep breath. “So what do we do, sir?”

Keene laughed again. “We find this fucking shooter. And we look him in the eye and we say ‘gotcha’. And then we walk away. The closure, James, is for our own edification.”

Holcomb looked straight ahead at himself in the mirror over the bar. “Is that really enough, sir?”

“No. Not even close. But it’ll have to do.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next two weeks, Jackson and Missy travelled to Missouri and Illinois respectively. The Missouri trip went off without a hitch. The Illinois trip, however, provided an added bonus of two more bad guys. Evidently on the second night of surveillance Jackson and Missy noted that there must have been an executive meeting of some sort going on.

Jackson gave her the license plate numbers of the two trucks parked in front of the cabin and she called Reese, who checked them out and determined that both cars were registered to certified bad-asses in the True Patriots. One was Nicholas ‘Smiley’ Peterson and the other was Evan, no nickname, Grant.

All three men died that night from bullets they never even heard coming. At least they were high, because Jackson nailed them while they were sitting on the front porch of Wilbur’s log cabin passing a joint around.

Missy and Jackson stuck to the side roads that ran more or less parallel to Highway 74, until they reached the outskirts of Indianapolis and then cut down to find themselves some decent takeout and motel. They settled on a pizza from a place called Noble Roman’s in a suburb called Brownsburg. They ate while they drove through the city then south and found a motel in another suburb called Southport. 

Missy called in and reported their good fortune, and told Ross that they would be in by dinner time the next day. 

The next morning the killings were all over the news and again, police and the FBI were in a state of mystification over the cleanliness and precision of the hits.

At about 4:30 the following day, Jackson dropped Missy off at her house and headed south to clean and pack away his rifle. At the first chance he got he would bring everything back to Tuttle. When he was finished, he called Rudy’s and ordered some ribs, which he picked up half an hour later and took home. He turned on the news and listened to the coverage of the latest killings.

“The enigmatic Sword of Damocles has struck again, This time just outside of Champaign Illinois where the three leading members of a far-right group called the True Patriots of Illinois were gunned down in much the same fashion as all but one of the other killings, all leaders of far-right organizations. And like all the killings in the south, local authorities, the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security have no leads, and no real evidence to go on. For those who think there is no such thing as a perfect crime, well, what we have been witnessing in America for the past several weeks certainly qualifies.”

Jackson’s phone rang and he picked it up. “I was just about to call you.”

“Well, welcome home.” Marlena said. “Is this all over now?”

“Far as I can tell.”

“Well, that’s good, because there is this other guy who really needs to get his head into his photography and figure out what he wants in his upcoming show.”

“And he is ready.” I have one last thing to do tomorrow and then I’m all yours.”

“That’s just fine with me, sir.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, later in the day.” Jackson said and then he hung up.

~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, Jackson was sitting in his workshop, a place he had grown quite fond of, looking at images on his computer. At the end of the counter sat a leather shoulder holster that held a legally registered FNX 45. It was the same model that Jackson had used on the Keller project in Little Rock. He ordered it when he returned the AI cannon to Tuttle. 

He had just finished cleaning the gun. It was a beautiful piece of hardware and he enjoyed the sensation of holding it in his hand. Truth be told, he bought the pistol because he was a little concerned that the frustrated FBI agent, Hollis Keene, might just be the kind of person who would leak his info should he ever find it out, to one of the aggrieved groups he had attacked. If someone did get it into their mind to come after him, his rifle would be of little use. He knew he was being paranoid. But this was America after all, the land of endless possibilities and permutations and you could never really be too careful.

Jackson didn’t dwell on the five weeks or so that he was working with the Sword of Damocles group, although he was reminded of it every day when he woke up to see Marlena Ross lying next to him. He had more or less moved into her house, but kept his own place because he had paid for six months and one never knew when it could come in handy.

Jackson looked out the window and then at his watch. It was late August and the weather was starting to moderate somewhat, as the autumn approached and the sun was going down a bit earlier. He shut down his computer and was just putting it into his bag when he heard the door creak open. His hand automatically went to the 45, in almost a single fluid motion he turned and cocked the gun, when Ethan Jones stuck his head inside the door. 

“I heard the gun cock, Jackson. Don’t shoot.” Jones said and then entered the small building. Jackson slowly lowered the pistol. 

“What the fuck…What are you doing here, Jones? And how did you find this place?”

“Come on Jackson,” Jones said. “It’s not like you’re the hardest chap to follow.”

“What do you want?”

Jones walked around the Jeep and checked out the entire space. Jackson didn’t put the gun away. He was if nothing else, a cautious man. 

“That’s a very good question.” Jones said.

“So what’s the answer?”

“You know what I want. And I reckon I will get it.”

“Are you being deliberately vague, or is that just your nature?”

“I have, let’s say, parted company with Mr. Ross.”

“Oh really. No surprise there.”

“But it’s all good, so the saying goes. Because I have a new customer, and well, I need someone with your particular skill set.”

“You must be joking. My deal was with Mr. Ross and it’s done. I’m done too and you, sir, can go piss up a rope.”

“Well, no. You see, I have what the American poker players call an ace in the hole.”

“What do you mean?

“I mean I have a copy of Mr. Reese’s original report on you, Mr. William Farrell. I’m sure that any number of sources such as the US Marine Corp and the Internal Revenue Service, not to mention your lovely young lady, Marlena, would be thrilled to find out about.” 

Jackson really wanted to just raise his 45 and shoot Jones right where he stood. But he restrained himself, as he thought through the ramifications of shooting an unarmed man, despicable as he might be.

“What do you want, Jones?”

“Nothing more than your skill and undivided attention every so often. You see, I have decided that politicians are not really my kind of people, so I am branching out into the private sector.”

“Branching out…what does that mean?”

“Well, there’s really a lot of ‘need to know’ involved here. But trust me when I tell you the work we will do together will make the world a better place for humanity.”

“You’re talking about more assassinations.”

Jones shrugged. “More or less.”

“You’re insane.”

“Perhaps that’s true, But it doesn’t alter this situation one iota.” Jones said, with a dead seriousness that rocked Jackson a bit.

Jones resumed walking around. He fondled the gun safe. “It’s a gig economy, Jackson, and I am going to get the gigs. They are lined up around the block on the dark web.”

“And if I tell you to go fuck yourself, or even better just blow your brains out right here?”

“I don’t think you want to do that. It would be very hazardous to your continued well-being. Falsifying documents. Whatever dirty deeds you did in Afghanistan to be able to afford a new identity, then of course there are  all the assaults. Possession of a restricted weapon and ammunition. We’re talking about what, 30 or 40 years, easily.” 

“And what about you?”

“I’m the whistleblower. I get the immunity. Funny how that works.”

“It won’t work. Mr. Ross’ connection has guaranteed that none of us would ever be charged. I could kill you right now, and bury you out the back of this workshop.”

“Oh, but you won’t because you simply do not know what arrangements I have made to keep myself alive.”

Jackson took a moment to process this.

“And what’s that?”

“Tut, tut. You know enough about me to know that I will always cover my posterior.”

“Well, it appears you have got me right where you want me.”

Jones walked over and slapped Jackson on the shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, you’ll be making a tidy sum for each job.”

“No, it’s no consolation at all.”

Jones sashayed to the door. “Cheer up, old chap. We’re going to do great things together, you and I. I’ll be in touch.”

Jones closed the door as he left. Jackson sat on his stool. Slowly he raised his head. He pinched his lower lip, then he picked up his phone and punched in a number.

“Hi…it’s Jackson. Can we meet tomorrow? I have a little problem I think you can help me with… Yeah, I have an idea. But I’ll need your help. OK, around one. That’s great. See you then.”

Jackson slipped the pistol into its holster and tossed it in the car along with his bag. He opened the garage door and backed out into the twilight.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Jackson spent the morning with Marlena going over images and making their final selections to present to Dianna Freeman.

At about 12:30 he left Marlena’s studio and headed downtown to a Starbucks near Reese’s loft. Reese was waiting for him when he got there.

Jackson sat down with his coffee and took Reese through what had happened with Jones. Reese just shook his head. “Some people are never happy, Jackson, unless they’re tossing shit around.”

“No kidding.”

“Give me your phone.” 

Reese popped the phone open and removed the SIM card. He then reached into his pocket and took out a small envelope with an identical SIM card in it, which he put into Jackson’s phone. He punched in a long sequence of numbers and then gave the phone back to Jackson. “Punch in your password and hand me back the phone.” Jackson did that. Reese punched in another sequence and then handed the phone back to Jackson.

“This new SIM card I put in sends a signal to one of my computers. As soon as Jones calls, I can record anything from that link. I can also hack his phone, and with a few tricks that would get me five to ten. I can download texts and messages and whatever else I want from it. I can also access his call logs and know who he talked to. It’s either an accountant or a lawyer. Let’s hope it’s an accountant. They tend to be pushovers. Lawyers not so much. Once we find out where he’s keeping your incriminating evidence, we can go get it and you can do whatever you want with Jones. The worse the better. What a dick.”

Jackson held up the phone. “Is there anything I have to do?”

“Nothing, it’s all automatic when the phone is on. If you can get your guy to incriminate himself that would be great. And maybe he’s arrogant enough to do that.”

“How much is this gonna cost me?”

“It won’t be cheap. Fifteen to twenty-five grand, depending on how long we go for.”

“Well, I’d say right up to whenever an operation is supposed to go down. I’m not sure when that will be.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll know. Also, you should know Mr. Ross feels pretty bad about all of this, so he’s payin’ the freight here.” 

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah, well, you may be out of the group. But I’m not and neither is Missy or Tuttle. All for one and one for all, Jackson.”

“I guess so.” 

“Just hang in there and wait for his call. I’ll figure out who he’s got holding your info and Tuttle will get it back.”

Reese got to his feet. “Don’t leave for another five minutes or so.”

“Roger that. And thanks, Reese.”

“Not a problem, Jackson. In fact, it’s kinda fun.”

Jackson sat and sipped his coffee. He took out his phone and unlocked it. Up in the top corner of his screen, he saw a tiny little green light pulsing slowly.

Jackson then drove out to Tuttle’s range. He chatted with Tuttle for a while and helped Tuttle load the AX-50 into the back of his Jeep along with the silencer, scope, and four magazines of the magnesium/mercury tipped 50 cal loads.

Jackson then headed back to his workshop and stashed the AX-50, and drove down to Rudy’s to meet Marlena for dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, Jackson and Marlena drove up to Baltimore to see Dianna Freeman and finalized the shots for Jackson’s wall in the gallery. 

On the way back Jackson got a call from an unlisted number. It was Jones. 

“I’m just on the road right now, I’ll be available to talk later this evening.” Then Jackson disconnected. 

“Who was that?”

“Oh, that was the Apple Store. He was going to talk me through upgrading the system and Photoshop in my computer. Can’t very well do that while I’m driving.”

Marlena said nothing and Jackson wondered if he believed her.

He dropped Marlena off at her house and headed to his workshop. At a little after nine Jones called again. 

“I will be texting you an address. I need you to check the place out and find a good spot to set up.”

“Who is it?”

“Need to know Jackson. And you don’t.”

“You’re not giving me much intelligence to go on here.”

“All you need to know is the location. I will control the rest.”

“All right. What’s the time frame?”

“Scout the location first. Then tell me what you think.”

“Okay.” Jackson disconnected. A few minutes later a text, with an address came through. Jackson called Reese, who said. “Jackson, you‘re not gonna fuckin believe it but it’s a US Senator. Guy named Roland Winters.”

“OK thanks, Damon.” Jackson disconnected and called Phillip Ross.

“Hi, it’s Jackson. I have a question. The contact you have in Washington, it wouldn’t by any chance be a Senator named Roland Winters?  

Ross was silent. 

“Yeah, I thought so.” Jackson said. Jackson then told him about his recent conversation with Jones.

Phillip Ross was surprisingly cool-headed. “Well, I guess we know what needs to be done here. The question is how do we do it without ruffling any feathers.”

 They talked about it for a few minutes and Jackson was blown away by the way Phillip Ross’ mind worked. “Leave getting the damning evidence to Tuttle and Reese. I will talk to the Senator, and you will scope out an alternative location and let me know ASAP. We’ll beat this turd at his own game.”

Jackson disconnected and felt a whole lot better knowing he had a good defence here, and a plan that could work, providing Jones was as arrogant as he always sounded.

Just in the event that he was being followed Jackson went through the motions of scoping out Senator Winters' house. It was a rather large place on a quiet cul de sac in the north end of the city. Jackson drove all through the neighbouring streets and could not find a place to set up that would not have almost immediately drawn attention. 

So he drove up a little farther north and, at the very northernmost edge of the city, he found a perfect location. It was an abandoned nursery and plant store. One large flat building with several small greenhouses in the back. The place was overgrown, which meant it had been vacant for quite a while. Eventually, as the city grew, Jackson figured, it would be torn down to make room for a new subdivision. The entrance road was lined with trees that made a perfect hide.

Jackson picked up his phone and called Jones. “It’s me. Look, I went out and checked that address you gave me. I really don’t think it will work. Especially during the day. The wood you told me about has a good vantage point. But it’s crawling with joggers and bike riders and rollerbladers. In other words, no privacy.

“Very well,” Jones said. “You’re the expert. What would you suggest?” 

“Well, I did look around the area and found one location. It’s an abandoned plant nursery, I’ll send you an image and the location. There are a couple of places where I can set up. If you meet with him there, we can get it done without any potential spectators.”

“I’ll get back to you.” 

“You do that.”

Jackson took a wide-angle shot of the nursery building, and typed out the location and texted it to Jones. He then got out his rangefinder and wandered around in the trees that lined the long entrance road until he found the perfect spot. 842 yards. Easy peasy, he thought.

~~~~~~~~~~

That evening Phillip Ross met with Senator Winters at his home. They sat in Winters’ beautifully appointed study and Winters poured him a glass of thirty-year-old scotch. 

“It’s Ethan Jones, sir.” Ross said. “He’s, gone off the reservation, and has taken a contract to kill you. And he is blackmailing my shooter into doing it.”

“Well, it won’t be the first time, Phil,” Winters said. “So what’s the play?”

“The ball’s completely in our court, Senator. Our shooter is scoping out a location, and Jones will likely call you and tell you he has some critical information he wants to share with you.”

Winters laughed. “This is startin’ to sound like some kind of spy movie.”

“So the play is,” Ross said, “That you agree to meet him at whatever location he gives you and sound interested and intrigued. And that’s it. We get him to show up at the location and we end him.”

“Sounds like my kind of tactic.”

“We have gained access to his phone. And we are currently rounding up that material he’s using to extort cooperation from my shooter. So when he’s gone there will be no leaking.”

“Well, it sounds like you have all the bases covered, Phil.” 

“We live in hope, sir.”

“Indeed we do.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

At around noon the next day. Alvin Tuttle and a man named Jake Foley walked into the accounting office of one Jerome Wiggins in downtown Richmond.

The two men walked past the receptionist, who got to her feet. Foley, a large man, who was menacing without even trying to be, looked her back into her chair. “Sit down darlin’. We’re just gonna have a chat with your boss.” 

They entered Jerome Wiggins’ office. They closed the door and took the two seats on the other side of Wiggins’ desk. Wiggins got to his feet.

“What the hell is going on? Who are you?” Wiggins asked.

“Sit down Jerome. This won’t take long.” Tuttle said. 

Wiggins sat back down in his chair because Tuttle’s request sounded a hell of a lot like a command.

“Here’s the thing.” Tuttle said. “You were given a file by a man named Ethan Jones, or maybe he used some other name, a few days ago with a certain amount of cash I assume and instructions to release this material to a number of email addresses. Is that correct?”

Wiggins kept looking at Foley. He was petrified. 

“Jerome.” Tuttle said. “Answer the question, please.

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right. Who are you?” Wiggins was terrified.

“We represent the people who will have a great deal of damage done to their reputations if that material should be released. Now tell me just how this would work, or my associate here will come over to your side of the desk and break things, starting with your fingers.”

“Wiggins looked at Tuttle, who just sat there calmly. He took a deep breath. He may have been a little crooked, but he was not an idiot. “Well, the deadline is tomorrow at noon. If I don’t hear from him by then, I email the package, well the file really, on a memory key, to the addresses he gave me, along with some text that he provided on a Word file he told me was also on the key. ”

“And where is this material at the moment.”

“At the moment it’s all in my safe.”

“So you haven’t uploaded anything?”

“No sir. I have not. Frankly, I was afraid to look at any of the material. He was as scary as you are.”

“Then I would appreciate it, and I’m sure you will too, if you would get me the information.”

Wiggins got to his feet and walked over to his safe which was already unlocked. He opened it and took out a memory key in a #10 envelope. He walked back to his desk and put both items down in front of Tuttle.’

“And this is all he gave you?”

“Well no, he also gave me ten thousand dollars.”

Tuttle said. “Okay, you can keep that. Now listen very carefully Jerome. If this information, you know, through a copy you made or have uploaded and lied to us about, should surface anywhere in the known universe, I will be back and you will spend the rest of your life in serious pain and regretting your dishonesty.”

“That’s all there is. I swear. Nothing in my computer, You can check if you like.”

Tuttle took the key and the envelope and slipped it into his pocket. He was a pretty good judge of character and this Wiggins fellow was scared shitless. “No need, Jerome. Have a nice day. And if Jones calls you tell him you no longer have the information. That’s all you have to say. Don’t elaborate.”

“What’s to prevent him from coming after me?”

“Sorry Jerome. That’s need to know, and you don’t need to. But he won’t be.”

Tuttle and the Foley got to their feet and left the office. Down on the street, Tuttle counted out five one hundred dollar bills and gave them to Foley. “Thanks Alvin.”

“Jake. Always good to see you.”

The two men parted company. and headed off in different directions on West Clay Street. It was a beautiful day in Richmond and they were all one step closer to the end of this debacle.

As Tuttle walked down the street, he took out his phone and called Ross with the news.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson was in his workshop the next day. It was around noon when Jones called him. “I checked out your location. It’s fine. I arranged to meet the target at 4 PM. I will park right in front which should give you a clear line of sight from the trees along the entrance road.”

“Roger that. By the way, you never mentioned my fee for this.” 

“Five hundred thousand.”

“Five hundred for a US Senator seems a little low.”

“And you know this information how?”

“Need to know, Jones. You’re not the only one who does his homework.”

At ten minutes to four, Jones pulled into the nursery. He drove down to what was the front entrance and parked. He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He took out his laptop, set it on the hood of the car and opened it up.

Back in the trees, Jackson stood behind a small maple. The gun barrel rested on a ‘Y’ in the branches. Through the scope, he watched Jones, who was standing by his car. He looked briefly at his watch then turned to look out at the entrance road.

Jackson punched in Jones’ number. He saw Jones pull the phone out of his pocket and answer it.

“He’s not coming, Jones. It’s just you and me, and my trusty cannon. If you do the right thing, you can get in that car and drive away. If you want to make a break for it. I will shoot your legs out from under you. You know I can do that.”

“I guess I know what you want.”

“Actually the only thing I want is to see you dead.”

Jones laughs. “Yes, well, my death is yours. Mr Farrell.”

Don’t be so sure of that, sir. You can call Jerome Wiggins to verify it if you like.”

“And what makes you think I don’t have another copy?”

Jackson took aim at the open computer on the hood of Jones’ car and fired. Two thirds of a second later, the computer exploded and smashed into the window of the empty nursery shattering the glass.

“The Senator was really pissed when he found out you were executing a contract on him.” Jackson said. “This, of course, limits any bargaining power you might have had. So I would suggest you just get in your car and get out of town.”

“And if I decide to hang around and make your life miserable.”

“You won’t do that. Because you’re smart enough to know that getting out from under the Senator’s wrath will require the kind of strength you don’t have. In fact, I’d suggest you get as far away from the States as possible.”

“You’re bluffing, Jackson or is it William or Billy?”

“You should also know that Reese has hacked your phone. So we can pretty easily build a good case for treason against the state.”

Jones stood there with nothing to say.

“You’re an opportunist, Jones. But I imagine you’re a realist as well. The door is open. All you have to do is walk through and disappear.”

“And what about you Jackson? You have stuff to lose here. A burgeoning career in photography. A beautiful lady from a good family.”

“You couldn’t resist bringing Marlena into this now could you?”

“Any old port in the storm.”

“I’m giving you the option to walk away. If you don’t take advantage of it you’re not only a fool, but a dead man.”

Jones walked to the car, opened the door and climbed inside. “We’ll see about that. In the meantime think, of me as your own personal Sword of Damocles, Jackson.”  

Jones started the engine. 

Jackson computed the situation in his sniper's brain and knew that if he let Jones go, something would definitely come back to haunt him

“Sorry Jones.” Jackson said to himself. “One metaphor too many.”

Jackson took aim at rear of the car. He fired three quick shots that hit the gas tank, just as Jones was backing the car out and turning it. A fourth shot hit Jones in the shoulder and blew it away along with a good part of his head. A few seconds later the car exploded and was engulfed in flames. Slowly it came to a stop. Jones’ burning broken body was slumped across the front seat.

Jackson collected his brass, slid the gun into its case and walked to his Jeep. He drove down to the burning car and picked up the pieces of the Jones’ laptop. He quickly reached in and grabbed Jones’ phone off the front passenger seat. Then he backed up, looked at the car and just shook his head.

The next morning Jackson drove out to Tuttle’s range. He backed up to the rear door and honked his horn Tuttle opened it and Jackson popped the trunk of the Jeep. Tuttle stashed the gun in his gun safe. Jackson then parked the Jeep and took his own gun out of the back seat. 

He went around the front and entered the building. Tuttle had just planted himself at his table. Jackson grabbed his usual Diet Coke and sat down across from him.

“There won’t be any more projects,” Tuttle said, as a few people started trickling into the shop. “The client got what they were looking for. Maybe a little bit more.”

“I’m gonna do some shooting before I go.” Jackson said, “I’m gonna have a larger show at the Lightbox Gallery up in Baltimore I’ve got about a month to prepare for it, and I want to do a lot of photography between now and then. So you may not see me for a while. But I’ll make sure to get you an invitation to the show.”

“That would be great, Jackson. Listen. I know all this wasn’t part of your plan when you came to Richmond. But you have done a hell of a service for your country. And I’m sure Phillip will want to tell you the same thing.”

“Thank you, sir. And no, it wasn’t part of the plan at all. But it was a job that needed doin’. That’s just the way it goes sometimes.”

“Phillip tells me you’re willing to stay on to vet the new shooter when we find one.”

“Yeah. It’s the least I can do.”

Tuttle smiled, then got up and grabbed a target for Jackson. 

Half an hour later, Jackson had fired off at least 100 rounds. He took off his headphones, and glasses, brought his target forward, what was left of it anyway, and turned around to grab his Diet Coke, when he noticed two men sitting at the table behind his shooting stall. Jackson recognized one of them right away.

“Very nice shooting there, son.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“You’re welcome, William, or is it Billy?” 

Jackson stood facing the man in the chair. He was a bit taken aback, but never let on. 

“Sorry sir, you must have me mistaken for someone else.”

“Oh I don’t think so,” the man said. “William Farrell is who you really are. Is that not true?”

“No, it’s not. My name is Jackson, sir. Jackson Lyall.”

“Okay, if you insist. My name is Hollis Keene. This is my associate James Holcomb we’re Special Agents with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Atlanta office.”

“Okay?” 

“For the past five weeks and a bit, we’ve been hunting you.”

“Hunting me for what?”

“Let’s say, multiple assassinations of prominent far-right extremists across five different states.”

Jackson just stared at Keene. He and Missy had had a long conversation about the headspace of police officers. She told him that the agents investigating the killings would likely keep on pursuing them because closure was very important to these types of people and that she should know because she was one of them.

“That’s a lot of dead bodies. I’ve been following that on TV. It’s a hell of a thing.”

“I understand you were a real hotshot in Afghanistan.”

“I did my job, sir.”

“Indeed. Now I would imagine you already know that I can’t do anything about these killings, because, for whatever ungodly reason, your protection trumps my authority.”

Jackson sat down at the table, “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, now that you have accused me of killing all these people, maybe you could tell me what evidence you have to substantiate your claim. I’d really appreciate knowing that.”

“That’s just the trouble, son.” Keene chuckled. “I don’t have any evidence. Not even a scintilla of evidence. You son, and your compatriots, have committed a series of perfect crimes.”

“So what is this, some sort of courtesy call?”

“Nope. It’s just something a lot of cops carry around, which is the need to be sure that they got their man, even if there was not a goddamn thing they could do to prove it. Call it confirmation that their intuition was correct, and I guess, closure, because they just ran up against a Chinese wall.”

“And you’re convinced that I’m this guy you’re looking, you know, for your closure.”

“Yep.”

“Well, whatever floats your boat sir.” Jackson got up and slid his rifle into its soft case and hefted it onto his shoulder.

“Have a great day, Agent Keene. Agent Holcomb.”

Jackson left Keene and Holcombe sitting at the table staring out at the totally demolished silhouette that was Jackson’s target.

~~~~~~~~~~~

One month later, Jackson sat down in front of his computer. He switched on the camera. 

“According to Phillip Ross, the government got the much-needed blip in the polls it was looking for, enough to ensure them a majority in Congress in the mid-terms and a bright future for the current administration. Mr. Jones was disappeared almost as if he had never existed. Even his MI-6 records were hacked. I suppose there’s some evidence of him somewhere. But there’s nothing here. 

I owe a great debt to this little group I was part of for a brief time and promised to evaluate and train my successor. It’s the least I can do. 

Marlena and I are making plans to get married. She still has no idea what her father does and one of my jobs is to help keep it that way. I’m teaching Damon Reese how to shoot at the range. He, Tuttle and I have become good friends. 

Everybody came to my show in Baltimore. Missy has moved in with Mr. Ross, and Marlena seems to be OK with that. Her brother Marcus showed up two weeks back, ate a lot of Darla’s home cooking and the next week was gone to Finland for something to do with global warming. 

I decided to move into Marlena’s house, and so my house is just sitting there empty for the few months. But we still make it down to Rudy’s at least once a week, because it’s hard to go for very long without the world’s best ribs.

I don’t know if America is a better place for all the work we did. The more I find out about this country, the more hopelessly divided it seems to be. It’s not something I will ever understand I guess. The problems run too deep in this culture. But at some point soon, there will be a breaking point. I saw that in the places I went as a Marine and I can feel it coming here. 

All we can do is try our best to find happiness wherever we can. I doubt I will ever kill another soul again. But if it comes to the point where that is an inevitability, well, I guess we’ll have to make the decision then. 

Right now the only shooting I want to do is with a camera.

TWO: COREY SIMS

The shooter was sitting on a hill about ten miles outside of Columbia, South Carolina. In his arms was cradled a high-powered British-made large semi-automatic rifle with a night scope and a nine-inch suppressor screwed into the barrel. The hill he was sitting on was overlooking a large estate which was quite lavish, ostentatious and best of all, isolated. It was surrounded by a 12-foot fence of steel rods with sharp points facing skyward. 

This was the second night of his vigil. According to his intel, his target liked to work at night, since a lot of his business was done on the other side of the globe where it was day.

There were very few lights on in the estate, all on the upper level. But the grounds were dark. There was no moon and the sky was grey. He sat and watched for what seemed like forever. 

Finally, the man came out of one of the side doors and walked toward the front the the main house of the estate. He sat down on the steps that led up to the front door and lit a small cigar.

The man looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed in a dark track suit, which made him all but invisible in the pitch-black night. 

Through the scope, which was designed for shooting in the dark, the shooter could see that the man on the steps, in between drags on the cigar, was talking. He was wearing headset and mic, but they were barely visible in the almost total darkness.

He jacked a round into the firing chamber of his rifle. He was waiting for the man to complete his phone call because he knew that his chances of escaping were much better if the man was not talking to anyone.

So he waited. He was very patient. He knew that people who lived in mansions like this did not waste time just shooting the shit on the phone at two in the morning, so his call would probably not take all that long.

Finally, the man stopped talking, removed the headset and set it down beside him on the steps.

It was then that he fired. Three-quarters of a second later the bullet from his gun penetrated the man’s chest cavity and exploded his heart. The force of the bullet knocked him back and his head hit the stone at the top of the steps.

Three seconds later the shooter was on his feet and jogging. His night goggles illuminated the way ahead. He ran at an easy pace. His Jeep was parked about half a mile down the far side of the hill. A woman was sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing night vision goggles of her own. She was at least ten years older than the man and had short blonde hair. She had turned the Jeep around so he could, stash his hardware, get in and go very quickly. As he got closer to the Jeep, the rear hatch opened. No light came on, as they had been disconnected earlier that night.

He got to the vehicle, unfastened the scope, popped off the small tripod that was clipped to the barrel, and unscrewed the silencer. He pulled out his gun case from beneath a false floor that was built into the back of the Jeep. He carefully, but quickly, put everything in its place. No wasted motion. He then closed up the compartment and lowered the back gate. He got into the passenger side of the Jeep. He removed his night vision goggles and stashed them in the glove box. Before anyone would notice anything, they reckoned, they could be at least fifty miles away, down the highway. 

They navigated through the darkness down to a county road. They drove for about five miles, past a couple of farmhouses that were dark, after which the woman removed her goggles and turned on the car’s headlights. The shooter switched on the police scanner in the vehicle and with a small remote and tuned in the local police frequency. They heard nothing unusual. They drove north for several miles until they came to Interstate Highway 85, where they joined the procession of vehicles, mostly transport trucks, heading north. At Petersburg, they picked up 95 and made their way into Richmond by mid-afternoon that day.

As they approached Richmond the shooter started flipping around the news channels on Jeep’s radio. The news of the assassination of Irwin Rust was everywhere. Rust was rumoured to be one of the richest people in America, and a major contributor to the Republican party, and now he was no more, shot dead by a sniper using a large calibre rifle, while smoking a cigar on the front steps of his North Carolina estate, some time after disconnecting from a call to Australia.

~~~~~~~~~~

The shooter’s name was Corey Sims. He was accompanied by Missy Felder, who did recon for the group they belonged to, known as The Sword Of Damocles  

Corey was twenty seven years old and he was the youngest child of Edie and Raylon Sims of Jackson, Mississippi. His family owned a chain of very profitable hardware and building supply stores in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Southern Georgia. Edie and Raylon also had two daughters, both older than Corey, who basically now managed the hardware business. This gave Raylon, an inveterate hunter, a lot of free time to take his son out to the shooting range. Corey took to shooting as if it were in his blood and during his teenage years had won several state and regional championships.

Corey, who went to college at Jackson State majoring in communications eventually became a freelance art director, working mainly for a small regional ad agency that ran out of Charlotte, North Carolina. He continued to enter and win local shooting championships, and this, five years later, is where he met and was eventually recruited by Alvin Tuttle, who was part of the clandestine Sword of Damocles team.

Several months earlier, the group had lost their stateside shooter, Jackson Lyall, who was now living with the daughter of the group’s head, Phillip Ross. He had signed on for one project which consisted of five separate assassinations of right-wing anarchist group leaders, and was now developing his photography business along with his partner, and soon-to-be wife, Marlena Ross. 

Tuttle was very skillful and methodical in his approach to Corey. He first felt him about about his politics. He discovered that his father, like most southern businessmen, was staunchly Republican. But at the same time, he was quite disillusioned at the degree to which the party politicians had swung to the right. Corey didn’t concern himself much with politics. In the communication business, it was always to your benefit to be politically ambivalent, since you never really knew who exactly you were working for unless you were doing actual political advertising. 

Personally, however, Corey was quite liberal. He had watched the Democrat government, despite the staunch Republican opposition in Washington, as they managed to keep the country on track and employment and the market growing at a steady pace. Tuttle took this to be a sign of real intelligence and concern for the future of the country.

Tuttle made it a point to follow Corey’s shooting exploits and regularly attended the contests, treating Corey to dinner and getting to understand what made him tick. 

One day, quite to Tuttle’s surprise, Corey showed up at the shooting range and gun shop he owned just outside of Richmond. He hadn’t come to shoot, but to have a chat. They sat at a table outside at the far end of the range. It was a cool spring day, but the sun was shining and there were only a few shooters on the range.

“I have to tell you, sir, that I have really enjoyed our conversations and the interest you have shown in my shooting.”

“Well, that’s good, son. Because you are a hell of a shooter. Bein’ as that’s my business, I tend to take notice of real talent when I see it.”

Corey hesitated before he spoke again. “I, uh, I’m not sure how to put this, but it’s been playin’ on my mind for a while now. But I get the feeling that you have a specific reason for your interest in me.”

“And what do you think that would be, Corey?”

“I’m not rightly sure I know that. I was hoping that you could maybe tell me a bit more.”

“Yeah well, that’s tricky because it reaches quite a way into, let’s call it the other side.”

Corey thought about that for a bit and then he said. “So what would I have to do in order to…you know, find out more about what you’re thinking.”

“Well…first and foremost you’d have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. And it’s a hefty one, one that it was to get broken, well the consequences would be pretty damn serious.”

Corey chuckled but he wasn’t laughing. “Okay, say I understand that and am willing to sign my life away.”

“Let me ask you this,” Tuttle said. “Why are you so interested? Is it just idle curiosity or is it something deeper? I mea, you’ve come a fair distance with this on your mind.”

“You’re right about that, sir.” Then he took a deep breath. “I have the feeling that you have been getting to know me because you want me to become a part of whatever it is I will only find out about by signing my life away.”

Tuttle was a bit taken aback at Corey’s reasoning. This kid was one smart cookie. But then again the best shooters usually were.

Tuttle opened up his arms. “You’ve figured it out. Yes. I am, let’s call it feeling you out. Or at least I’m interested in gauging your interest. But I can only do that if we can speak freely.”

“Where’s the document?”

“Let’s go sit inside.” 

The two men got up and went back inside. Tuttle opened up his computer and printed out two copies of the non-disclosure agreement. He handed one to Corey who sat staring at it for a good five minutes while Tuttle waited patiently.

“So what happens when I sign this?”

“Well one of two things. I tell you all about the group and its mission and you sign on to be part of it. Or you don’t, and you go away and forget our discussion ever happened. No hard feelings, but you are bound by this agreement, which as you can see, if you break it, you will end up in a mess of very serious trouble.” Tuttle said with a lot of emphasis on the ‘very serious’ part. “The only question I will ask you before we go any further is if you believe, really believe you have it in you to take the life of someone you don’t know because that would be part of your responsibility in this group?”

“Will it make things better in our country?” 

“Yeah, it will. That’s the whole purpose of this group.

Corey pulled a pen out of his bag and signed the non-disclosure agreement.

“One of our former shooters will show you the ropes and he will make the final determination on you.” Tuttle said.

“Will I be expected to move here?”

“Yeah. But there’s a house for you to live in rent free and a special vehicle for you to travel in, one that has good concealment for your weapons. Do you have anything tying you to Charlotte?”

“No sir. I’m renting a furnished flat in a house month to month, and I’m freelancing with my art direction business, so I can do that from anywhere. I assume this will be project-based and not wall-to-wall?”

“You assume correctly.”

“So what happens now?”

Tuttle printed out an address and handed it to Corey. “You go home and pack up your gear and bring it to this address. I’ll leave a key under the doormat. Our previous shooter will come to visit you and make the determination. If he decides that you can do it, we will all get together and discuss things in more detail. If it turns out he feels you can’t do this, we will pay you fifty thousand, for your time and trouble. If he agrees that you have the right mindset, we will all get together and fill you in.”

Tuttle got up and extended his hand. “I’ll explain it all to you once we all get together.”

“Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

“I think you will work out just fine. Call me when you’re settled in.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It only took Corey a couple of days to get his gear packed, sell his agency client on him working more or less remotely, and drive up to Richmond. He found the key to the house right where Tuttle had told him it would be and he brought everything in. As soon as that was done he called Tuttle and told him he had arrived. 

He spent the next couple of hours getting himself organized and making a list of the food he would need. He then drove around Richmond and found a grocery store, got his supplies and headed back to his house. He knew he was being overly optimistic, but something inside him told him to just act like he already had the gig. Once he had everything stowed away he sat down and opened his computer. From an information page left for him on the kitchen counter, he got the wifi password and checked on a couple of the jobs he was doing. 

At about 7 pm that evening he heard a knock on the front door. He opened it and there was a guy standing there. He looked to be in his late twenties just a couple years older than Corey. 

“Jackson Lyall.” he said. And you must be Corey Sims.”

They shook hands and Corey invited Jackson in. Corey offered him some coffee which he accepted and then he and Jackson sat down at the dining room table. 

“This was the house I rented when I first arrived in Richmond. Seems like a long time ago now but it was only a four or five months. ” Jackson said.

“So you are the shooter I’m replacing.”

“Yep. I only signed on for the one project. I would have probably done more except I’m living with the boss’s daughter. And she doesn’t know anything about this end of his business. Tuttle tells me you’re quite the competition shooter.”

“Yeah, I did OK.”

“Well, you should keep on doing that if you like it. Tuttle will be happy to sponsor you.”

“I’ll have to talk to him about that. But before we talk about me, can you tell me a bit about yourself?”

“Sure. I’m a veteran. Marines. Served eight years in Africa and Afghanistan as a sniper. I have more than ninety registered kills. So they kinda lucked out with me. My war wasn’t quite over when I got back. So it was pretty easy to step back into it here. The car you’ll be using used to be mine. I designed the storage compartment and a lady named Missy Felder and I travelled around the South and the Midwest and did several assassinations. They were all leaders of either Nazi or far right-wing groups. Missy and a guy named Ethan Jones did the scouting and that made the job a hell of a lot easier and cut our exposure times way down. I was contracted for five missions. When I was done I backed off, but volunteered to vet the next shooter.”

“Why did you back off? I mean, did you feel it was getting too dangerous. After all, on the crime scale it’s way up there.” Corey said,

“No. I backed off because I didn’t come here to do this. I’m a photographer and now have good representation world wide. The other reason is the woman I live with. Her name is Marlena Ross. Her dad is Phillip Ross. This is his project. Now she knew what I was doing but had no idea that it was her dad’s team. That’s a good thing for you to remember if we should ever run into each other, you know, in town.”

Corey took it all it. This guy was one of the deadliest people he had ever met. But at the same time, he felt like a real human being.

“You know, I followed the news of those right wing whacko killings.” Corey said. “I asked myself a dozen times if I could be capable of pulling the trigger.”

“And what did you determine?” Jackson asked.

“Well, I’m here aren’t I?” 

“Tuttle told me you weren’t all that political.”

“No, I’m not. But you’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know what’s happening in this country. I mean things are running OK right now, but if the Dems ever lose control to the Republicans the way they’re set up these days, that could be the end of everything good in this country. 

“I’m not political, but this is my country they’re fuckin’ with and that goes way beyond politics. And if I can do anything to help keep them from messin’ it up, well.”

“You’re gonna have to kill some people. Probably some very powerful people, according to what I’ve heard from Tuttle.” Jackson said.

‘Yeah, I know. And that’s gonna be hard to do. But I get what needs to be done. And right now, the need has never been greater, in my opinion at least.”

“Okay.” Jackson said. “Have you ever fired a 50-calibre gun?”

Corey absently scratched his head. “No, can’t say as I have.”

“Well, I’ll teach you how. And I think you’ll love it.”

They talked for a little while longer and then they went outside and Jackson showed him weapons compartment in the Jeep.

Jackson left half an hour later, agreeing to meet up with Corey and take him out to Tuttle’s range where he could learn to handle the 50 mm cannon.

On his way home, Jackson called Tuttle and gave him a report. It was all good news.

~~~~~~~~~~

On Sunday morning, very early, they drove out to Tuttle’s range. Corey was in the Jeep, Jackson was in an older Mustang in mint condition. Tuttle had closed the range for the morning so that Corey and Jackson could have it to themselves. He had also set up a thousand-yard target for them, since he had the real estate. The vast majority of his customers, however, were happy with 350, 400 and 500-yard distances, since most of them were hunters.

They entered the back room of the main building where the AX-50 was laid out on the table beside it were a suppressor and two scopes. 

Corey picked up the rifle and raised it to his shoulder. “It’s heavy.” he said.

Corey put the rifle down on the table and Jackson showed him to disassemble the rifle and how to clean it. Corey picked up on it quite quickly, because most of the key parts of any semi-automatic were the same, as was the procedure for taking them apart, cleaning them and putting them back together.

After that Tuttle explained the ammo situation, which was fairly straightforward. Untreated bullets for practice. Mercury tipped for the kills.

They then went out to the range with several clips. Jackson gave Corey the gun and asked him to shoot off a clip, just to get a feel for the weight, the pull and the kickback. 

“It’s a heavy weapon, so you will likely be surprised that it kicks less than you might think. The trigger is also very delicate, even a twitch will cause it to fire.” Jackson said.

Corey took the rifle from Jackson and adjusted the day scope on the thousand-yard targets. He could feel the solidity of the gun and that gave him a pretty good sense of the power.

He fired five shots, taking a good long breath between each shot, judging how he felt and listening to Jackson who was spotting for him. Jackson was astonished at the relative tightness of the grouping, considering the weight of the rifle and the fact that he was holding it without any support. The kid was obviously quite strong. “You’re sure you’ve never handled one of these before?”

“No sir. First time, I swear. What a magnificent piece of hardware.” 

Jackson pulled the Jeep up and parked it sideways. He got Corey to fasten the tripod to the bottom of the barrel and use the hood of the truck to shoot the next clip.

They loaded a second clip and now Corey’s grouping was both tight and fairly accurate.”

“Over a thousand yards,” Jackson said. “She’s gonna pull a bit to your left. You just need to compensate a hair.”

Corey loaded a third clip, did as he was instructed and fired it off. Jackson just shook his head. “You, sir, are a fuckin’ maniac.”

Corey smiled. “Well it’s a beautiful gun.”

“Yeah, there’s always that. But I’ll tell you, we’re done here. You just need to keep doing exactly what you’re doin’ and you’ll be golden.”

Jackson turned to Tuttle. “Where did you find this guy, Tut?”

Tuttle just smiled. “That’s a trade secret, Jackson.”

Jackson and Tuttle sat drinking Diet Cokes while Corey took the AX-50 apart and cleaned it. They then packed everything into the Jeep. Corey shook hands with Jackson and thanked him for the lesson. Then he took off.

 As he was driving away, Jackson slapped Tuttle on the shoulder. “All that’s left now is for him to do what he just did for real.”

“That’ll be the test.” Tuttle said. But something in his head told him that he had found himself another Jackson Lyall.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, the entire group met at Phillip Ross’s house on the north side of the Richmond.  The group was comprised of Phillip Ross, Missy Felder who lived with Ross, Alvin Tuttle, Damon Reese, who was the hacker in the communications specialist, and a younger Chinese guy named William Ling, who was another hacker who specialized in finance, to wit, digitally moving money from protected accounts.

After everyone was seated, with beers, sodas or coffees in front of them Phillip Ross said. “We’re here to welcome two new members to the group, Corey Sims, who is our Jackson-approved shooter, and William Ling who will work with Damon on the hacking that needs to be done on this project. 

“So let me run down the rest. I’m Phillip Ross. I’m the chief planner on this project as well as the government liaison. Alvin Tuttle here is in charge of munitions, Damon Reese and William will be our hackers and communications guys and Missy Felder is our advance scout and will accompany Corey on both the scouting and execution parts of the mission.

“The overall objective of this mission is simply to eliminate the five of the largest Republican private funders, hack their accounts and take them and their money out of play. This, we figure, will have a substantial fear-based domino effect on many of the larger funders, as we make it clear, through the media, that funding the Republican party, at this point in time, will be fraught with danger. 

“The main advantage we have going forward is that the country knows about the Sword of Damocles and, for the most part, are with us.

“We have done a fair bit of research ahead of this project and the targets we have chosen are not at all well-liked by the country as a whole. They are seen as exploiters and carpetbaggers. Their support is mostly based on the Republican’s enslavement to big business and, of course, their desire to pay as little tax as possible. These are some of the richest and greediest people in America. They all have some level of security, but it’s been our experience that this means next to nothing when they are being attacked from about a thousand yards out.”

“This meeting is also a getting-to-know-you party. Missy will be leaving tomorrow, along with Corey, to scout the first target. If they get lucky, they can set up and execute. If not they can hold off until the right opportunity presents itself. We are not making strict timings a priority, as far as the actual wet work goes. Throughout this project, we place opportunity above expedience. This will be our ace in the hole so to speak. We learned a lot from our last mission and the most important thing we learned is that we move slowly and deliberately and we get the hell out as fast as we can.

“After the first project, we can assume the FBI will be all over this. One of the agents who is likely to be assigned is someone most of us have met before. But this time, he will not have had the fear of God put into him from on high so we do not want to give him even a hint of evidence.”

Just then, Damon Reese got to his feet. He walked around the table and gave everyone a Nokia phone and a charger. “This is the only way we will communicate with each other.’ Reese said. “This is a private network. I have programmed all the numbers in the directories of each phone, indicated by your initials. The Feds can’t tap these phones, because they don’t know about them so we can feel free to communicate whenever it’s necessary. We had a little issue with that on the last project. Live and learn.”

“Jackson tells me that Corey here is up to speed with the weapon, so all that’s left is for Corey and Missy to hit the road and scout our first target.” Ross said. 

The rest of the evening was spent with everybody getting to know Corey and William. Both young men were astounded at the depth of skill and experience that was in this group, and any nervousness they may have felt in the beginning slowly dissipated. They were playing with real pros now, and it was, for both men, an instinct to step up to that level as quickly as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Clayton Rust execution went off without a hitch, much to Phillip Ross’s delight, when he heard the news from Missy as they were heading back after two days out. Ross then called Damon Reese and he and William Ling went to work.

Using a remote server link, William hacked into the two accounts that Clayton Rust used to forward money to the Republican party. William was protected by an intricate decoy route that would take anyone who was tracing the hack, halfway around the world to a dead end.

The message that Damon sent to the media was clear and to the point.

The recent assassination of Clayton Rust and the hacking of two of his main funding accounts is the work of The Sword of Damocles. This is a warning to all major anti-American  funders. Your lives, and the lives of anyone who would carry on your work in the event of your demise, are in grave danger. You are on our list and the only way to have yourself removed from this list is your public announcement that you will no longer be funding the Republican party and that you are living up to that pledge. We have eyes everywhere and will know if you are bluffing….The Sword of Damocles

At the same time, on the other side of Damon’s studio, William Ling was hard at work hacking and moving huge sums of money from one numbered account in the Caymans to another. He then went onto the RustInc. account at Bank of America and grabbed up another hundred million plus and transferred it to the Caymans holding account as well. The late Mr Rust was now, in the parlance of everyday people, personally flat broke. William didn’t hack the business accounts because they were used to make sure that the 130,000 or so RustInc employees all got paid. This wasn’t about hurting everyday people, just the fat cats at the top. Anyone tracking these thefts would be led on a merry chase around the globe ending at an S&M porn site in Paris.

The hacks took surprisingly little time, which was more a testimony to William’s genius than anything, and now there was close to a billion, three hundred million in a secured Cayman Islands account.

Damon then called Phillip Ross and gave him the numbers. Ross thanked him and then contacted Tuttle and told him the good news. One down and four to go. If indeed that was even going to be necessary.

Damon suggested that he and William head over to Rudys for some ribs. But William begged off for a day because he was going to see his folks and help them with a few household things.

In the Jeep, which had just crossed the Virginia state border, Missy disconnected from a call to Phillip Ross.

“Everything went according to plan on the financial end.” she said to Corey. “By the way, do you know how this works for you, financially?”

“No. I guess I was so pumped I kinda forget to ask about that.”

What followed was a discussion about money. Corey would receive a million dollars for each assassination. The money will be held in a numbered trust account of Corey’s choosing, which Tuttle would explain to him in more detail. He would then draw from it as he needed to. Phillip Ross’s accountant would take care of his taxes, as he would technically be an supplier to Mr Ross’s company, Blue Fin Consulting, at a freelance retainer of $6000 a month, where he was listed as a creative director, which made perfect sense. This way, there would be no weird questions when the FBI began their search for the money and the perpetrators.

“This all sounds like spy stuff to me,” Corey said. “A lot of secrecy.”

“Yeah, well it’s really all about not giving the Feds anything to glom onto. You’ll get used to it.”

“I suppose I will.”

“Always keep in mind that you are doing a service for your country. These people, our targets, are a big part of the reason that the government is close to twenty-two trillion dollars in debt.”

“I can’t even imagine that kind of money.” Corey said.

“It’s a ton, and the people who are propping up the Republican party are the ones who are making it grow. So it’s not spy stuff, so much as it is money stuff.” Missy said. 

They got into Richmond at about midnight. Missy gave Corey a friendly hug. “You were great, Corey.” And then she walked down the driveway and got into her car.

Corey brought the rifle and the silencer into the house. He stashed them in a closet, took a shower and hit the sack. He was exhausted. He did some deep breathing to relax himself and reflect on what had just happened. He wasn’t all that tense. The weirdness of it all wore off as Missy explained things to him. And also he realized that he didn’t feel one bit of guilt, mainly because everything she told him made perfect sense. He nodded off a few minutes later and slept for twelve hours straight.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Atlanta-based FBI agents, James Holcomb and Hollis Keene were summoned to Washington. Later that afternoon, the meeting they walked into was a large one. Three of the FBI’s best major crimes teams, three high-level bureaucrats. The vice-chairman of the Republican party, James Andrews.And the democratic Vice President, Juliet Dodge. This was a very unhappy group of people. And they had every right to be.

There was no trace evidence at the scene of Mr.Rust’s assassination. And the money trail that the hacker created was a dead end as well. Then there was the press who were having a field day at the expense of every Republican politician in DC. 

Keene and Holcomb were relegated to the wall chairs behind the table where the big boys were duking it out. Finally the vice-chairman looked over at Keene.

“Agent Keene. You investigated the original Sword of Damocles attacks. Do you have anything to contribute to this discussion?”

Keene got to his feet. “We had a very good lead on the first series of attacks, but nothing panned out because we could not locate the shooter and put all the pieces together.”

“In your opinion, does this bear any resemblance to the previous activity?” Andrews asked.

“Yes and no, sir. Different targets, but pretty much the same motive which is damage to the Republican party and the same degree of sophistication of the operation. Could be a different group using the name. So far, of course, there is no evidence, no leads and no persons of interest. Whoever is doing this is operating with extreme precision.”

‘So what do you suggest we do?”Andrews asked, “If these people keep on scoring points like this, there will soon be only one political party left in this country.”

“We don’t get involved in politics, Mr Andrews.” Keene replied. “The minute we do that, our mandate becomes fodder for the press and our credibility goes straight to hell. I understand you wield a lot of political power in Washington, but we are investigating a murder and a major theft. With all due respect, left or right don’t enter into it, sir.”

“Thank you Agent Keene.” Andrews said, but he wasn’t happy at all.

With that, the meeting collapsed into a series of conversations and arguments. Holcomb and Keene slipped out and headed back to FBI headquarters to do their jobs.

On the way back Holcomb said. “I know that Senator read you the riot act last time. Do you think this might be a different situation, you know, politically?”

“Yeah, I do James. Because there’s no way in hell that I can see these people being protected by the Democrats. So that makes them a little more vulnerable.”

“So maybe we should take another trip down to Richmond.”

“Maybe we should.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon they were driving down to Richmond to from DC to have another chat with Phillip Ross. 

Ross was working at home and had given them the address, when they called. They pulled into the driveway at at around 3:30. Darla, their housekeeper, let them in and showed them to the back terrace where Ross and Missy Felder were sitting. Ross had his laptop open. Missy was reading a magazine. 

“Well, well, well,” Ross said. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, Agents. Please have a seat.”

Holcomb and Keene sat down opposite Missy and Ross. 

“This is Missy Felder. She lives here. With me.”

“Agents.” Missy said and then went back to reading her magazine.”

“You can probably guess why we’re here.” Keene said.

“Well sure, we’re at the top of your hit list, especially after the spanking the Senator gave you last time.”

Missy looked up long enough to read their faces.

“What can I help you with this time?” Ross asked. “Perhaps you’d like the gun that killed poor Mr. Rust. Or maybe the keys to the vault where I’m keeping all that stolen money.”

“No. We learned our lesson last time.” Keene said.

“Well, nothing’s changed here, except my relationship with Miss Felder of course. Still doing the same old stuff that you aren’t high enough on the food chain for me to disclose. And still not interested in all the murder and mayhem that’s going on these days.”

“I was looking at your org chart and saw that Mr. Ethan Jones was conspicuously absent.”

“Indeed he is.”

“So what happened to him?”

“Not quite sure. Just walked into my office one day and said goodbye and that he was heading off for parts unknown, whatever that meant.”

“And you haven’t heard from him at all?”

“No. And I find that a bit odd.” Ross said. “I tried calling him. But his number had been disconnected.”

What Ross could not tell him was that Jones had betrayed the group, went on his own as a fixer, took a contract on a Democrat Senator, and tried to recruit Jackson Lyall as his shooter through extortion. Needless to say the parts unknown that Jones had allegedly headed out for, were his untimely death in an incinerated car, courtesy of Jackson Lyall. 

“So. The Sword of Damocles.” Keene said.

Ross chuckled. “Yeah, it’s kind of got a ring to it. I can see any number of groups wanting to make it their own. There appears to be a pretty substantial left wing backlash in this country, wouldn’t you say?”

 “And how’s your young friend Jackson Lyall doing?” Keene asked.

“If you can believe it he’s becoming a very successful photographer. Has world wide representation through an international gallery in Baltimore. And he and my daughter are getting ready to tie the knot, so to speak. I really wish I had some good FBI type news to report, but things are just moving along here on the right side of the law.”

There really wasn’t anything left to say. But Keene decided on one more poke. “And how are things with you, Miss Felder? We never got a chance to meet the last time I was in town.”

“Look around, agent.” Missy said, with a gesture to the rest of the backyard. “What you see is the American dream in all its splendour.”

“Look, Agent Keene.” Ross said. “We understand what you are up against. You’re probably feeling twice the pressure because the deceased Mr. Rust, I understand, was a huge Republican donor. I personally am filled with admiration for the people who are doing this. If I was into wet work, I’d love to have them on my team. But as it is, our work is all on the intelligence side of the great abyss. The wet work, if any happens as a result of our findings, is something we seldom, if ever, really hear about. And as much as I like these little chats we have, I’d really appreciate it if you would only show up in the future with some sort of smoking gun with my name on it.”

With that Keene and Holcomb got to their feet. 

“You can go around the side of the house.” Ross said. 

After they had turned the corner. Missy poked Ross in the arm. “Smoking gun with my name on it. That’s very good.” 

They both had a good chuckle about that, then Ross reached into his bag and pulled out his Nokia phone and sent a text to everyone.

‘Just had an (expected) visit from the FBI. Not sure if they’re making the rounds or have headed back to DC. More likely the latter. But keep your eyes peeled and your stories straight…Phillip.’

He set the phone down on the table and looked over at Missy. She felt her eyes on him and looked up. 

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just looking and thinking about what a lucky dog I am.”

Missy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “And don’t you forget it, Mister.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There were more than 200 very rich Republican supporters in America, and although their wealth was allegedly public knowledge, the FBI knew that this was nothing but a smokescreen to satisfy the lurid public interest in the comings and goings of people with great wealth. In short, nobody actually knew who had exactly how much, and this was proven conclusively by the last Republican president who claimed to be worth tens of billions, but after the shit hit the fan, so to speak, and the judgements against him began to pile up, the country soon realized that he was nowhere near as wealthy as he claimed to be.

The converse, to a great extent, was also true. Not even the FBI knew who the actual wealthiest Republican contributors were, because they were smart enough to keep that to themselves.

The long and short of it was that the FBI had no real way of knowing just who would be the next target of the infamous Sword of Damocles.

On top of that, despite all the high-end hackers they had taken down over the years, they had never run up against anything like the five-foot-six-inch powerhouse named William Ling. 

To say William was gifted would be a gross under- statement. He had done his first hack at the age of five and in the twenty-three years that had ensued, he had more or less perfected the art of hacking the unhackable. The only reason that Damon Reese knew anything about William was that he had grown up next door to him in south Richmond. Though Reese was five years older than William, age had nothing to do with their relationship. They began sitting in each other’s backyards, playing complex video games with each other, many of which William had designed himself. 

Bit by bit, Reese came to understand that William was a wunderkind. They had been friends for more or less their whole lives, except for four years when William attended MIT on a full ride scholarship and sucked that institution dry of all the knowledge he would need to become a major league player in the hacker world. 

The first thing William did when he returned to Richmond, with several million in ill-gotten money in the bank was buy his parents a new house, and he moved into and totally renovated his family home. The second thing he did was renew his friendship with Damon, who was now gainfully employed by Blue Fin Consulting. Damon introduced William to Phillip Ross, who gobbled him up because William had tricks in his bag that were both beyond belief and Damon Reese’s capability.

Like all the other members of the Sword of Damocles group, William was painfully aware that Republican politics had degenerated to the point where there would be no cooperation between the two major parties, and that the only way to solve this was to bankrupt the Republicans. Propaganda campaigns, which William had been following on social media, had gotten to the point where nobody really knew what was real or fake. So that was out of the question. But in America, money had the loudest voice.That was the thinking that Phillip Ross expressed to both Damon and William and they both agreed.

Between Reese’s intelligence gathering skills and William's financial hacking they were able to create a list of the top 20 people in America who were both vehemently anti-Democrat and huge Republican contributors.

After that, it was just a question of execution. And since the FBI had no clue where to look next, they could take their time and strike anytime after each story got cold. 

With William’s hacking ability, the only real reasons for the shootings were to A) make certain that these big Republican donors would be in fear for their lives and b) send a message to their relatives that their lives would be in danger should donations continue.

Everyone on the team knew they were doing this on their own. There was no high-ranking Washington protection in place, because, unlike the last project where the targets were all despicable creatures.  And while no one in law enforcement was looking directly at the Democratic party as possible sponsors, the Republicans most certainly were. 

But Phillip Ross had a lot of experience with assassinations, and he knew that the simpler everything was kept the harder it would be for the FBI to glom onto them. Because without evidence or valid confessions, there could be no arrests. It was all suspicions, suppositions or theories.

The billionaire community was completely silent after the assassination of Irwin Rust. Phillip Ross took that to mean they had put the fear of God into them. Constant requests for statements and or interviews from the parasitic media were all turned down flat. Nobody wanted to be seen on TV as expressing any point of view, until one day about a week later when a man named Robert Kincaid, issued a statement in the form of a video.

In it, he was sitting in what Ross assumed to be his house, with the requisite bookcase and family photos behind him. Kincaid did not own any businesses but made his fortune with his uncanny ability to predict market trends. He was a self-made billionaire who lived in Atlanta Georgia.

“Like many Americans with wealth, I tend to be on the conservative side of the political spectrum and therefore supported the Republican party, despite the fact that, in my opinion at least, it has become much more extreme in its views. Truth be told, I have been looking for a valid reason to withdraw my support from the Republican party and quite frankly, this is it.

The death of Irwin Rust, who was an old friend, rocked me to the core. At a certain point, you have to ask yourself if the allegiance to and support for the Republican party in its current form, is really worth risking your life. 

I have concluded that it is not. And for those reasons I will be withdrawing my support for the party, effective immediately, and I strongly encourage anyone who is currently supporting it to withdraw their support as well.

This party is unrecognizable. The conservative values and the people values it stood for no longer exist in any substantial way. If the Republican party wants my support back, they will have to earn it, and they do that by getting back to being a party of human beings and real Americans, not the zealots they have turned into.” 

Phillip and Missy just sat there, stunned.

“Wow.” Missy said. “I was hoping that something like this would happen but I had no idea it would happen so fast.”

Phillip just smiled at her. “Let’s hope this is just the beginning.”

A few minutes later, Ross’s Nokia phone chimed. It was Jackson, who was also given a Nokia phone by Reese, just in case Corey had any questions.

“Hi. It’s Jackson.”

“Well, hello. How are you son?”

“Doin’ just fine, sir. Just watching the news and caught Mr Kincaid's little speech and, well, I just wanted to congratulate you and the whole group. That was a stunner, to say the least.”

“Did Marlena see it?” 

“Not sure sir. She’s at her office. I’m out at Tuttle’s range and he and I saw it together. He’s over the moon, sir.”

“Well thank you, son. Let’s hope we can do some real damage.”

“You obviously have a great team. I’m happy that you don’t need me.”

“I only need you to take good care of my daughter.”

“Will do sir.”

Ross put the phone down on the table.

“Was that Jackson?”

“Yeah, just phoning to congratulate us.”

“You know what? I think we should all get together for dinner. I’m really feeling like some Rudy’s ribs. Maybe tomorrow night.” 

“Sounds like a plan.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Corey was out driving around. It was early evening and he was starting to get hungry. He was driving down West Broad Street when he spotted Damon Reese and Ling getting out of a car in the parking lot of a place called Rudy’s Ribs. He pulled in and honked his horn.

Damon came over to his window. “Hey Corey. Fancy meeting you here.”

“What is this place?”

“Oh man.” Reese said. “Only the best ribs in all of Virginia. Are you a rib guy?” 

“I could get to be one for sure.”

“Park your car and come on in.”

Corey parked and entered the restaurant. Damon and William were already sitting at a table. He noticed a bar in the back, and off to the side a couple of pool tables and some video games, even an old pinball machine. There were a couple of kids playing video games and the restaurant was about half full of diners. 

An older guy with white hair and a barrel chest came over and dropped off three menus. 

“Who’s your friend, Damon?” he asked.

“This is Corey Sims.” Damon said then turned to Corey.

“Cory this is Rudy. He owns the joint.”

Corey extended his hand and shook Rudy’s. “Good to meet you, sir. I hear the ribs here are the best in the state.”

“Well thanks. And how is it you’re hooked up with these two reprobates?”

“Just moved up here from Charlotte. Needed a website so I got hold of Damon here.”

“Well, welcome to Rudy’s. First rack is on the house.”

“Well thanks. Most appreciated.”

Rudy took their orders which were simple. Ribs and beers.

‘I hear you’re livin’ in Jackson’s old house.” Damon said.

“Yeah. I think he must have rented it from a little old lady.”

“Actually, he did. But after the last adventure, Mr Ross decided to buy it. It already seems to have come in handy. And it will make a dandy safe house if the shit should ever happen to hit the fan.”

“You think that’s a possibility.”

“Not really. I mean, you’ve probably figured out by now that everyone has their act together, including you, my friend.”

Josie the waitress showed up with the beers, and was introduced to Corey.

Corey had noticed that William hadn’t really said much of anything.

“You’re a quiet guy, eh William?” Corey said

“I guess.”

“William is off the charts intelligent, Corey.” Damon said. “He doesn’t talk a lot but there’s a ton of inner dialogue going on there.”

“That’s a good way to put it, Damon.” William said.

“Nothing wrong with being quiet. It’s actually an advantage when you do what I do.” Corey said.

Then the ribs came and they spent the next couple of hours just shooting the shit. Damon and William told Corey about the good fruit markets, the better bars and the general layout of the city. They talked about everything but their work. Damon also asked Corey if he would come by sometime and show him his portfolio ‘cause he could probably refer him to a couple of his web clients.

They each had one more beer and some coffee, then called it a night. 

Before he left Corey walked up to the bar to thank Rudy for the ribs. “You know, when Damon told me these were the best ribs in Virginia, I thought he was bullshittin’ me. But he wasn’t. They really are the best ribs I’ve ever had.

Rudy just laughed. “We’ll then it looks like we’ll be seein’ you again.”

“You can count on it sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Ross was sitting in the study of Senior US Senator Roland Winters. He was drinking brandy as was the Senator. 

“So the first job went off without a hitch. Really got some noses severely out of joint, I have to tell you.” Winters said.

“Yeah, I was very pleased with the ways things went.”

“What’s the plan going forward?”

“Well, as I told everyone in the group, we will be taking our time. I reckon we’ll be up against a lot of private security. So we’ll move slowly and deliberately, especially since we have no get out of jail free card, and the targets are a much higher level of scumbag.”

“Have you heard from the FBI?”

“Oh yeah. Good old Agent Keene.”

“Is he gonna need another talkin’ to?”

“”No. I’d leave it alone. I think he’s already under the impression that we’re probably not involved and I’d rather not have you on his radar, more for your sake than anything.”

“That makes a lot of sense. So I hear that your daughter has got herself engaged.” 

“Yeah. She met him through her work. He’s a photographer and a damn good one. Name is Jackson Lyall. They’re gonna live in my old house for the time being. She really wants to stay in Richmond and so does he and I couldn’t be happier. He’s a very good guy.”

“Well, I hope I get an invite to the wedding.”

“Yes sir. It was never an issue.”

They talked a little more. Ross explained to the Senator some of the additional precautions they were taking and he very much approved. There was no real time pressure at the moment because the mid-terms were done and the Democrats had their majority. Now all they had to do was hold onto it. In about a year, the real test would start. Hopefully by then, it will be clear to anyone who wants to throw big money into politics that the Republicans were a very high risk venture.

~~~~~~~~~~

News of the assassination of Irwin Rust worked its way through the news cycle and two weeks later, it was very much on the back burner because law enforcement at every level simply had nothing to go on and no leads to follow. Agent Keene could not put a tap on any of the Blue Fin people because he was certain that would end his career. 

They made a visit to the crime scene and interviewed the victim’s family, who were all gathered at his estate in advance of the funeral. The autopsy had turned up nothing but the coroner was convinced that Rust was shot with a single Mercury-tipped 50-calibre bullet.

The family was quite open in their resentment of their father and what they described as his insane continued support for the Republican party. They did not understand it. They were a very rich family and would still be rich after whatever taxes they would have to pay on the incomes from their various businesses. There were no inheritance issues since the two daughters and one son all held senior management/ownership positions in his companies and business would go on pretty much as usual and every bit as profitable.

They noted that only two accounts were hacked and neither of them were business related. They were investment and holding accounts where Irwin Rust kept the money he would donate to various Republican politicians on both the state and federal levels.

Other than that, the family had nothing to offer in terms of personal motive. After five minutes with them, Keene realized that they would be totally incapable of organizing their father’s death. He and Holcomb offered their sincere condolences and promised to expedite the release of the body.

The drive back to Atlanta was short but relatively quiet.

“Holcomb got a call from the coroner’s office informing them that the body was ready for release and that the family had been contacted.”

Keene was completely wrapped up in his thoughts as he drove. Finally he broke his silence.

“It just fucking has to be that Ross character. He’s got all the right qualities and the right kinds of friends.”

“Yeah, he’s also got government protection.” Holcomb said.

“I don’t know James. I mean, if you were a politician, no matter how high up, would you want to be involved in something like this? The trashy far right wing whackos, I can see. But this is a rich citizen. That’s a whole different kettle of fish.”

Holcomb said nothing for a long time. “Well we can’t tap their phones. But we could certainly get somebody to surveil them. If they are doin’ this, we could just keep an eye on Ross’s house and see who comes and goes. I mean what else do we have going for us?”

Two days later, after the request for 72-hour surveillance was approved a pair of young agents from DC, named Calvin Driscoll, and John Jacobson were assigned 18 hours a day of surveillance of Ross’s house. 

On the first day, they followed Missy’s car as she went to a nearby mall, where she bought a new pair of jeans and a couple of tops. Then about seven in the evening they followed her again. This time to a Greek restaurant where she picked up some takeout. It was quickly turning into the most boring detail imaginable.

What these agents didn’t know was that Ross had noticed the car, as it was almost unheard of that anyone would park on his street. When he got into the house he called Corey. “I know you were supposed to leave tomorrow morning with Missy. Little change of plan. You know Rudy’s, the rib joint on East Broad Street?”

“Yes sir I do.” 

I want you to drive up to Rudy’s and park in the lot there. Say about 8:30 am. I will drop Missy off there and you guys can head out.”

“Anything wrong?” Corey asked. 

“Nothing that I didn’t already expect.”

“Okay Rudy’s at 8:30.” Corey said.  

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Driscoll and Jacobson were in their usual spot and had been for a couple of hours. Keene looked at his watch it was 8:21. Ross came out of the driveway and turned left away from them, obviously on his way to his office. 

What they didn’t know was that Missy was lying in the backseat. with her bag on the floor beside her.

 “This is so cloak and dagger.” she said.

“We don’t want these clowns finding out about Corey. They could put the whole damn thing together with that knowledge.”

Ross checked the rearview mirror. The agents were not following him. So he drove over to Rudy’s and let Missy out. She gave him a kiss and then grabbed her bag and tossed it into the Jeep. 

They took off out of Rudy’s lot started heading west. 

“What’s with all this?” Corey asked.

“We have an FBI agent who’s stuck on us. Hopefully this will frustrate them enough to back off.”

Ross quickly got to his office. And no sooner was he at his desk than his phone rang. “Phillip Ross.” he said. But there was nothing on the other end but a dull click. 

“Where are we headed?” Corey asked. 

One of the changes to the program was that Corey and Missy would surveil, determine a good spot and then execute all in one single day or two, depending on the opportunity. This would minimize, as much as possible, their time in the field. This was a necessity because Phillip Ross understood that, after the Rust killing two weeks earlier, every big Republican donor will have have added extra security and wider patrols.

“These jobs, from here on in, will be trickier. So our first stop will be at Tuttle’s where he will equip us with some personal protection.”

Tuttle was waiting for them when they arrived, The range was deserted because it didn’t open until 11 am.

They got out of the Jeep and entered through a back door which took them into a large storage area. In the middle was a long table. On the table were an assortment of handguns.

Missy immediately picked up the Colt Commander and looked up at Tuttle. “You’re a man after my own heart, Alvin. This was my first piece. It’s perfect.” 

Tuttle just chuckled. “Well, I knew you’d be easy to please, Missy.” Then he looked over at Corey who was staring at the table in wide-eyed wonder. 

“How about you, son?” Tuttle asked.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with pistols, sir.”  Corey said. “They all look pretty awesome to me.”

“You’re a shooter, son.” Tuttle said. Just pick the one that feels best in your hand. Your instincts will take care of the rest. And if things go well you won’t have to use it anyway.”

Corey picked up each of the eight guns on the table and then went back to the Sig Sauer P226. To him, it felt like a kind of small rifle. 

“Okay, that was easy,” Tuttle said. “Missy will teach you all the ins and outs on your way to Illinois.”

Tuttle dropped the gun, a cleaning kit, under-the-shoulder holsters and several clips into separate small black canvas bags. 

Missy gave Tuttle a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Corey shook his hand. Then they were off almost as quickly as they had arrived.

Back in Richmond at about, about 10 am, Darla walked out of the house with a small paper plate. She walked over to the FBI car. Driscoll rolled down the window.

“Good mornin’. My name is Darla, I take care of things around the house for Mista Ross and Miz Felder. She said she’s got a big report that needs doin’ so she’ll be here all day with no plans to go anywhere. I brought you some cookies, fresh out of the oven.” She handed Driscoll a paper plate of cookies wrapped in Saran wrap. “Y’all have a good day. Hope you brought a book to read. “Cause it’s gonna be a long one.” Darla smiled and walked back to the house.

“What the fuck.” Driscoll shouted. 

“Gimme one of those cookies, Jacobson said. “Then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

“Can we do that?” 

“We’ve been made, Calvin. But at least we got some cookies.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Corey and Missy took a bit of a zig-zag route to get where they were going which was to Lexington Kentucky, where they would stop for the night. But about fifty miles before that they turned north off of Highway 75 and entered the Daniel Boone Forest.  They drove deep into the forest and pulled off on a small fire road. It was mid-day on a weekday so the area was deserted. 

Missy and Corey leaned on the side of the Jeep while Missy took him through the rudiments of the Sig Sauer. She taught him how to load a clip, showed him where the safety was and the best sort of stance he should use if he ever actually have to shoot at someone.

“This is not a long distance thing. This is up close and personal.”

 She pointed to a scrubby-looking evergreen about fifteen yards off the road. 

“I want you to empty a clip into that tree over there. The one that’s already dead.”

It took a bit of coaching but Corey was a natural born shooter and a quick study, after the first three misses he instinctually figured out what he was doing wrong and corrected himself. The rest of the clip went into and through the tree.

He looked over at Missy who was beaming. He ejected the empty clip, and inserted another one, chambering a bullet. He flipped on the safety and then put the gun back in his small black bag and after tossing his brass as far as he could in the forest, off they went, turning west as they came back to the highway.

They drove on into eastern Louisville where they found a nice motel. Once they had checked in they drove around the east end of the city looking for something to eat. They finally settled on a nice family restaurant that specialized in roast beef dinners. 

Over dinner, Missy explained the situation. 

“The target is a man named Oscar Field. He’s a multi-billionaire. Made all his money in the steel and building business. Now he lives on a horse farm where he raises thoroughbred racehorses. His farm, which is called Three Flags, is halfway between here and Lexington. Field is an outdoorsman and spends a lot of time not only making sure his horses are well taken care of, but riding as well. The farm is just outside of Shelbyville, so we will check it out tomorrow. According to our research the man likes to ride every day. He owns a passel of land over there, but a lot of is is bordered by narrow forests, which is going to be your best vantage point.”

“I assume he won’t be riding alone.”

“You never know with these guys. But if he isn’t alone  he’ll likely have just one rider with him. You’re gonna have to spend some time in the woods, and he’s going to be very much a target of opportunity. The good news is that he’s an early riser and likes his horse to be fresh.”

“Who’s gathering this intel?”

“Damon. He’s been studying these targets for a while now.”

“I packed some head covering for you, just in case the mosquitoes have hatched. Hope they haven’t.”

“Yeah. Mosquitos are the worst.”

After dinner, they drove over to the the area where Field’s estate was located. They drove around a wide swath, past several grazing fields all divided by well-maintained wooden fences. When they got to the far side of the property, Corey got out and walked through the narrow stand of trees. When he got to the other side, he could see pretty much the entire ranch. He pointed his range finder at the main barn. It read 1574 yards.

The next morning, very early, before sunrise they headed out. Missy dropped him in the same place, then drove on up the road slowly. They kept their phones on. Corey had found a tree with a low ‘Y’ formation where he could rest the gun. He chambered a bullet and then he waited.

An hour later the sun was just beginning to rise up behind him. He could hear faint sounds coming from the far side of the field in front of him. He got to his feet and stared through the site panning close to 90 degrees left and right. He saw nothing for several minutes, then he saw his target. He appeared to be riding alone across the field. Corey quickly looked behind him and noticed another rider, moving much slower. Field didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the other rider, who was probably a private security person and not used to riding from the way he held on to the pommel of the saddle.

Corey did not hesitate. He fired and blew the companion right off his horse. He quickly chambered another bullet. The riderless horse made a loud whinny, when his rider fell to the ground. This, in turn caused Field to stop and turn around. That was all the time Corey needed. He slowly squeezed the trigger and hit Field in the side of the chest . Like the other man he was blown off the horse. Corey knew both men were dead. He picked up the still warm ejected shells and put them in his pocket.

“I’m on my way, Missy.” He said, then folded up the phone and trotted back to the road. 

It was about a fifty-yard walk through the trees out to the dirt road where Missy was waiting. Missy reckoned it would take him about 30 seconds to clear the woods. When it his 45 seconds she grabbed her Colt and headed into the woods. A few seconds later she saw a rather large man, holding what looked to be a Beretta on Corey. 

The man’s name was Clinton Eggert. He was in his mid-forties was one of three bodyguards that Oscar Field had hired to protect him. He was a good six foot two and built like a brick shithouse. Corey stood about twenty feet away from him. The rifle was slung over his shoulder. 

What Clinton Eggert didn’t notice was the knife tucked into a sleeve that the gun was covering. As Corey bent down to lay the rifle on the ground he came up with the knife in his hand and whipped it the way he had done for years into the stump his dad had left from a tree he cut down in his back yard. The knife went straight into Eggert’s midsection and caused him to double up and hit the ground on his side. His gun dropped out of his hand. Missy appeared a few seconds later and without even thinking about it put two bullets in Eggert's head. Corey pushed Eggert’s body with his foot and pulled out the knife, wiping the blade on Eggert’s jeans. He then picked up the rifle and he and Missy strode back to the car. 

“You didn’t tell you us could handle a blade.” Missy said, matter of factly.

“Well, nobody asked.” Corey replied as they got to the Jeep.

Missy opened the hatch and Corey quickly detached the silencer and the scope and put everything in its place. He wrapped the knife in one of the small rags in the utility bag. Missy got into the Jeep, and turned it on. Five seconds later Corey got in the passenger side. Five seconds after that they were heading down to Highway 64. 

“I had to take out another man who was riding behind Field. Looked like some sort of protection, but he was no horseman. Looked scared shitless to be in the saddle.” Corey said.

“There’s always some collateral damage.” Missy said. “Comes with the territory. But you’re doing a fabulous job.”

“Thanks, Missy. That was a little too close for comfort.”

“Yeah, well I told you it would get trickier the farther we went. But you were cool and that probably saved your life. If you had raised that rifle he’d have shot you dead.” 

“That did occur to me. But then I knew you would have my back. And of course, I had the blade.”

“It’s called teamwork, Corey, and it’s how we get through this shit unscathed.”

They drove on toward Frankfort. 

 When they were on the road for a while, Missy called Phillip Ross and he got things going on the hacking and public relations side. Ross also told her that their FBI detail appeared to have been removed but just to be safe, he would pick her up at Rudy’s.

~~~~~~~~~~

With a stop for lunch in Roanoke West Virginia, by the end of the day they were home. Corey dropped Missy off in Rudy’s parking lot where she jumped into Ross’s car. Ross simply nodded and smiled at Corey. After they had left, Corey parked the Jeep with the back up against the fence and went inside for dinner.

As he was waiting, he got out his laptop and checked his emails. He saw the most recent email from Damon Reese.

Another major league Republican contributor bites the dust. That makes two. How many more of you are willing to risk life and limb to support a dying political party? The Sword of Damocles is dedicated to change for the better. And what better way to rid the country of its right-wing infestation than to cut off its support. Will you be our next target? Or will you do the right thing for your country and start giving that support to people who want to keep America a free and thriving Democracy? The choice is yours. We will be watching.

The Sword of Damocles

At more or less the same time, William Ling syphoned off close to another another three quarters of a billion from the private account of Oscar Field at a U.S. Bank branch in Lexington.

Around 7:00 that evening, Missy was sitting at the dining room table with Phillip Ross. Darla had just put dinner down in front of them. Ross poured out glasses of wine for both of them.

“You know, I never believed that we could have replaced Jackson. But I have to tell you, Corey is simply amazing.” “Missy said. “None of this seems to freak him out in the least.”

“Well, I heard today that the Republicans up in DC are screaming blue murder. To say they are scared shitless would be an understatement. Senator Winters called me late this afternoon and told me that at least a dozen major funders have called it quits. He found it rather hard to contain his glee.” Ross said.

Missy laughed and then got serious. “I’m not sure things will get any easier as we move along. Anybody who is left on out list is gonna be hard as hell to isolate.”

“You know, I was thinking about that. And it occurred to me that maybe we don’t have to do any more wet-work. Maybe we just, you know, miss, but scare the shit out of them. I was talking to Alvin and he said that a mercury tipped fifty cal round would make a hell of a sound if it were to hit a brick or stone wall of any kind. They would know they were being fired on. Might even catch some flak. And, hell, they might just feel like they dodged a bullet and wouldn’t be so lucky next time. And the two kills we have so far would be the proof in the pudding.”

Missy took a sip of her wine. “I guess it would be worth a try. I’ll talk it over with Corey and see what he says.”

“Just an idea. It might also get the FBI thinkin’ a little differently too. But we don’t have to do anything at the moment. Just see who’s left on our list after a week or so. But this is definitely hitting them right where it hurts.”

Missy raised her glass. “Here’s to hitting them right where it hurts.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Ross sat in his office and watched the news on his computer. Every network was playing the story up big. Not so much the killings but the way the killings had shaken the Republican party to its foundations.

In the four days since the last killing the party, it was estimated, had lost more than three-quarters of a billion dollars in national funding and about two thirds of that in state funding. And the numbers were increasing every day. Social media was now full of animated charts that kept track of the donation losses and though most of them were just guesstimating, it still looked like a bunch of pretty scary numbers.

Toward the end of the week, the Chairman of the Republican party, Ronald Meyers, sat down with three Democrat senators including Roland Winters and flat out accused them of sponsoring these acts of terror being perpetrated by the so called Sword of Damocles.

Senator Winters, who was the ranking senator in the group, simply smiled and said. “Well that was certainly expected, Ronald. I mean who else would you blame? The trouble with this accusation is that it’s sorely lacking in evidence and that seems to have become the way the game is played in your party. Hurl accusations, then hope all the idiot faithful believe them and send you more money.

“What I completely fail to understand is how you and your party are ignoring the writing on the wall. Hell, man, it’s there in big, black letters. Somewhere out there is a group of concerned Americans who have been watching your party turn into a total shitshow and have finally said, that’s enough. Hit’em where they live. 

“I only wish that I had come up with the idea myself, because it’s fuckin’ brilliant. All I can do is; One, Offer you my sincere condolences, because the longer this goes on the weaker you will become. And two, offer you some advice in four simple words, Ronald…Clean up your act!”

And with that, the meeting came to a crashing halt. 

Meyers and the two Senators with him, sat silently in the room, after the Democrats had got up and left. Then Meyers said. “Well, you heard it. I think it’s time to make some changes. It’s either that or we’ll be doomed to be the party of the opposition form now till Kingdom come.”

Missy and Phillip Ross knocked on Corey’s side door. Corey was in the dining room, working on an ad for one of his clients in Charlotte. He invited them in and offered them a soda or some coffee, which they politely declined. 

Once they were all seated Ross said. “First of all I would like to thank you for the work you have done to date. According to my source in Washington, this has worked out much better than they could have hoped. The Republicans are bleeding and have no way to make it stop. It will eventually I suppose, but the damage has been done and it’s significant.”

“So does this mean the project is over?” Corey asked.

“It does and it doesn’t. We are going to hold off and see what happens over the next little while. Reese will keep a close eye on things and if he senses anything hinky, well, we’ll rev it back up again.” Ross said.

“OK. ”

“We’re just gonna let things simmer for a while maybe a month or two. So you can feel free to head back to Charlotte if you choose. In the meantime, you now have two million in the bank, and the potential for more if the need arises.

We’ll also be sending you a cheque for $6000 every month, which you can report to the IRS as a freelance retainer from Blue Fin. If you need any more than that, just give me a shout on your Nokia. I’ll make it happen.”

“Six grand should be fine, sir, and it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d much rather stay here in Richmond. Damon Reese is hooking me up with a couple of his clients who need some marketing work done and my Charlotte clients don’t care where I’m living. Never have.”

“That’s fine son. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. You may have the odd roommate from time to time. We will be taking the long gun and the Jeep over to Tuttle’s. He’s gonna have the Jeep steam cleaned. and then we’re gonna store it away from prying eyes.”

“I get that sir. The long gun is all cleaned and carefully wiped down.”

“Missy will drive it over to Tuttle’s house when we leave. You can hold onto the pistol, but take it out to Tuttle’s range. He’ll get you one just like it and register it for you. Consider it a little bonus. And it never hurts to have a bit of personal protection.” Ross said.

‘Thanks, that’s very good of you, sir.”

“We do feel kinda like we’re deserting you a long way from home.” Missy said.

“That won’t be a problem, Missy.” Corey said. “I have already met a lady, through Damon Reese. She runs a little boutique downtown and I’m gonna design a new sign and some other stuff for her shop. We’ll officially start dating tomorrow night.”

Ross and Missy both smiled. “Well, you seem to have settled right in here.” Missy said.

“Yes ma’am. I have.” Corey said. “Only one question. Is it safe to go and practice at Tuttle’s range? He’s interested in sponsoring me in some shooting competitions.”

“Yeah, well sure you can.” Ross said. “I don’t think there will be any FBI types snooping around. If you should run into one, the drill is simple…You know about the Sword of Damocles, who doesn’t, but you have never handled a fifty cal rifle which everybody now knows is the weapon in question.”

“Got it.” 

“Alright. This war were fighting, son. It’s not over. Maybe this battle, but the war rages on.”

“I understand that, sir. I’ll be here. Might get my own place sooner or later, but I do like this town. So far all I’ve met are good people.”

They all got to their feet. Ross shook his hand and Missy hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Corey handed her the keys to the Jeep. “Everything’s clean and sittin’ where it’s supposed to, Missy. I have the pistol in the bedroom, I’ll swap it out at Tuttle's in a few days.”

“Good man, Corey. We’ll see you soon.”

And with that they were gone. Corey sat back down as he heard the Jeep start up and head down the driveway. He then walked to his fridge, got out a Diet Coke and got back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Ross’ twenty years in espionage taught him that quitting while you are ahead is the best way to ensure your ability to fight another day. So he drove up to Washington, sat on a bench in front of the Capital Building and told Senator Winters just that. 

Winters nodded his head in agreement, and then set. “It’s a damn shame that we have to play so dirty just to keep on doing the right thing, Phil.”

“I can’t disagree with you there, Senator. Trouble is, until you get to the core of the problem that battle’s gonna keep on raging.”

“You’re right about that. And the core of the problem is so deeply embedded that it’s gonna take generations beyond ours to change it. It’s kinda like that Covid bug. You can get it under control, but it’s always gonna be with us.”

“All we can do is what we can do, Senator.”

Winters got to his feet, as did Ross.“True enough. I assume we’ll be talkin’ soon. ‘Cause sure as you’re born, some more shit will be hittin’ hit the fan.”

“Whatever you need, sir. Whenever you need it.” Ross said. Our team is rock solid.

“Cold comfort, Phil.” And with that, the Senator and his two agents headed back the way they came.

Phillip Ross sat down on the bench again. It was a nice enough spring day, so why not just enjoy it, he said to himself, but not too loud.

Without evidence, the FBI and all the other law enforcement agencies that got involved were powerless. Agent Keene remained firm in the belief that Phillip Ross was the mastermind of The Sword of Damocles movement. But he also understood that Phillip Ross was actually smarter than any of the law enforcement agencies that were after him. There was no phone evidence, no photographic evidence, no witnesses, no forensic evidence. Just a couple of dead billionaires and bodyguards and a couple of rich families who put no end of pressure on law enforcement, all to no avail.

Politically, the Republican party had suffered a huge setback, and that was the entire objective of the mission. Any billionaires who thought they could buck the odds and throw a ton of support at the party feared that they would soon  find The Sword of Damocles, hanging by a single hair over their heads.

FOUR: JARRET MORROW

Ace Morrow’s real name was Jarret. But he got the Ace nickname from the six-year hitch he served in the British Special Forces. He left, having achieved the rank of First Lieutenant. The Ace came after his second year when he was trained for and achieved the rank of Marksman First Class. 

Ace was a killer. His weapon was the L115A3 Long Range rifle. It was semi-automatic, had an all-weather sight and an effective range of up to eleven hundred metres. It fired 8.5-millimeter rounds, which were very destructive. The chances of walking away from a good hit from one bullet were next to none.

 Ace spent most of his service in Afghanistan and racked up an impressive record of Taliban kills. He was loved by the soldiers in his unit and feared by the enemy, which is exactly how he liked it.

Ace was not a psychopath, although he did believe that one had to be a little touched to have gravitated toward a military career that was 100% about killing. But he was highly motivated. His father, Joshua Morrow, was a veteran himself and had stressed to young Jarret the absolute necessity of free democratic nations to defend freedom. Otherwise, the world would become nothing more than a massive slave ship to the wealthy autocrats. Jarret found this a bit odd since his father was actually one of the people he was referring to. He was the owner of a large and quite successful ceramics company located in Sheffield.

Ace had lost his mother to cancer just before he joined the Forces. His father, in his grief, threw himself into his work and used his money to support local Liberal candidates. 

Joshua had high hopes for his son, who was bright, handsome and well-constructed. The very model of a great British soldier. 

The thing Joshua, or even Jarret himself, didn't count on was that Jarret could not, for the life of him, walk away from the killing game.

After his discharge, Jarret took a few months off. He didn’t do much of anything. He kept mainly to himself and took three-day trips down the coast. Something about the water, he felt, was good for his soul.

His father never put any pressure on Jarret to enter the business. He was more interested in his son’s mental state, after his six years in the killing fields.

Then one day, Jarret got a phone call.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day. Jarret was on his way to London, to visit an old friend named Sam Delaney, who had called him. Sam and Jarret were school chums at Eton College. When they graduated, Jarret joined the army and passed the Special Forces requirements, while Sam headed straight to London to join the international wing of the British intelligence service, MI-6.

The two men met at a Cantonese restaurant called Three Uncles in central London.

Sam, was shorter than Jarret by about six inches, but other than that they could have been brothers. They were both handsome, exceedingly well dressed and both had an intensity that would have frightened any normal human being.

They had just placed their orders and were sitting with glasses of beer. They toasted each other, with a ‘Cheers, mate.’ 

“So, six years in hell,” Sam said. “I don't know how you did it, mate.”

“Sometimes I wonder about it myself,” Jarret said.

“Got any plans now that you're a free man?”

“Nor at the moment. Dad wants me to come into the business. But…”

“I get it, Jarret. It’s a far cry from the battlefield and all that glorious warfare.”

“I wouldn’t call it glorious. But it had its moments. And I’d be lying if I said I didn't miss it.”

“So why pull out?”

Jarret took a deep breath. “I don’t have a really good answer for that, Sam. I wish I did.”

Sam stared at his old friend and he could see the sadness in his eyes. “That life…it must have felt like the best high ever. It gets under your skin. And after it’s over, well it’s hard to shake. I have felt like that a couple of times myself. On a totally different level, of course.”

“Yes, well. I’ll just keep looking around. Dad’s not put any pressure on me to make a decision. In fact, he’s encouraged me to go see a bit more of the world before I settle down.”

“That’s a good plan. You should do that. Go see America. It’s better than a night at the circus.”

“You know, my spotter was a Yank. Joined the British forces because he wanted to see how a real army functioned. He told me some stories about America that made my skin crawl.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty much reverted back to the Wild West over there. Seems like the idea of modern civilization never really took hold. We hear horror stories ourselves. I’ve often thought they could use a few well-placed snipers like you, only this time you’d be gunning for lunatic right-wing politicians.”

They both had a good laugh about that. As they were, the food arrived and the anti-America quipfest ended.

But Sam, devious little bugger that he had always been, filed away the thought that occurred to him about his old friend. When he got back to his office that afternoon, he made a call to the US.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four days later, in Richmond Virginia, a meeting took place at the home of senior Democratic Senator, Roland Winters. There was only one other man present at the meeting; Phillip Ross.

Ross was a planner extraordinaire. He and the Senator went back a long way, as they had both grown up in Democratic households in Richmond. What they also had in common was a real fear that their country was under siege by right-wing insurrectionists being egged on by a former president and a cadre of extreme right-wing congresspersons. 

The two men had talked a lot about what to do about this, always careful to skirt around the reality that drastic action was called for. But both of them also knew that any sort of ‘extreme’ measures they would undertake could soon be discovered because the intelligence apparatus in the country was by far the most sophisticated in the free world. They needed a wild card to add to their hand if they were going to get this insurrection under control.

Their first foray into ‘wet work’ was a series of assassinations of prominent right-wing nutbars. It was this very project that gave the government the numbers it needed to stay in power with a comfortable majority in both houses. So when Ross called the Senator and arranged for a get together, the Senator was more than happy to do it.

“A couple of days ago I just got a call from an associate in London,” Ross said. “MI-6. On my last trip to England, we talked, in general terms, about the challenges we were facing. The guy, his name is Sam Delaney, is a real go-getter and a smart thinker, Roland. He said he met up with an old school friend who was fresh out of British Special Forces A sniper with triple-digit kills in the Middle East.”

“Interesting. Never thought about importing someone.” Winters said.

“Me neither. But the Brits, they’re a lot more devious than we are. Anyway, Sam got the distinct impression that this guy was just one incentive away from being recruitable.”

Winters leaned back in his chair lost in thought for a moment. Ross sat with the patience of Job. 

“This would be for all the marbles this time, Phil. Not just a decent blip in the polls.”

“Yes sir, I understand that.”

Winters got to his feet and walked over to the bar in his study. He poured a couple of glasses of Scotch and brought them back to his chair. He handed one to Ross. “Here’s to the Brits. Those devious bastards that I’m proud to say are our closest allies.”

They clinked their glasses. 

“So tell me about this sniper fellow.” Winters said.

At the end of the conversation, Winters rubbed his face. with his hands, which is something he liked to do while he was thinking. Finally, he said. “Get yourself over there and have a chat with him. See what he wants.”

On the way back to his office, Ross made a call to reserve a private jet for a flight to England.

On his arrival at home, he was greeted by his live-in partner Missy Felder.

“How’s the Senator?” Missy asked. 

“Loaded for bear. This time, at my suggestion,”  Ross replied. “Looks like we could be going for the jackpot.”

Missy knew what that meant. As Ross explained the play to her, she also knew she would be quite busy for the next little while.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Jarret knocked on the door of a large row house on Liverpool Road in the Islington area of London. Sam Delany answered and showed Jarret in. Jarret and Sam went down to the lower level meeting room where Phillip Ross was waiting. 

Introductions were made and all three men sat down with coffees in front of them.

“If you listen to the news at all, Mr. Morrow, you undoubtedly know that my country is in a state, let’s call it confusion, right at the moment.” Ross said. “The fascist leaning right-wing movement has gained a great deal of power, even though the current Democrat government is doing some pretty good things for the country as a whole. The people I represent are justifiably concerned that this could easily descend into a civil war of sorts, which would not be good for us and, as the dominoes tumble, the rest of the world either.”

“There is a small, but extremely powerful group of individuals that would really like to see this situation cooled down, by taking out some of the key players in the, I guess you would call it, ‘opposition’. I’ve been sent to offer you, in your expert capacity, an invitation to come to America and help us with this mission.”

Jarret looked over at Sam Delaney, who just shrugged.

“You’d like me to come to America to kill a few people for you. Is that what you are asking?”

“Yes.” Ross said without any hesitation whatsoever. “You’d be extremely well compensated and protected. But yes, there are a few people we would like to dispose of.”

Jarret laughed, but only a chuckle. “Well, your honesty is most appreciated. And yes, I have kept abreast of the goings on in your country and I have to say it’s really quite astonishing. Your country, sir, strikes me a huge agglomeration of spoiled brats who have no appreciation whatsoever for how well off they actually are.”

“I can’t disagree with you, Jarret.” Ross said. “And believe me, if there was a more diplomatic way to get this situation under control, that would be our definite preference. Unfortunately, nothing we have tried along those lines has made any real impact.”

“You talked about protection. What does that mean exactly?”

“It means that if you are apprehended at any point, you will be remanded to the custody of the State Department and disappeared, or should I say sent home. No questions asked, no names revealed.”

Jarret thought about it for close to a whole minute. He weighed the pros and cons and had a lot of trouble coming up with much resistance. This would get him back into the fray and the very thought of it was exhilarating.

“What about compensation?” Jarret said finally. 

“Five targets, one million each.” Tillis said. “Five million guaranteed even if we don’t have to go that far.”

“Who will be my tour guide on this little adventure?”

“Her name is Missy Felder. She’s a seasoned operative. Extremely capable. She is also the woman in my life and I trust her unconditionally. She will take good care of you.”

Jarret took a deep breath. “My father told me never to sign onto anything dangerous without something in writing, signed off by the highest authority.”

‘That will be waiting for you when you arrive in the US.” Ross said.

“Okay, Mr Ross. You have bought yourself a shooter.”

The two men shook on the deal. 

“Thank you for agreeing to do this for us. I’m certain you will find us a very reliable team.” He then handed Jarret a card with an address in Washington DC, and an envelope with $5000 US Dollars in it. “Let Sam know when you’re ready to leave. I’ll make sure Missy is waiting for you when you arrive. The money is for your travel and any special clothing you might wish to purchase. Everything else you will need will be waiting at the address I gave you.”

Ross then pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. In it was two copies of a single-page confidentiality agreement, which he explained to Jarret, and which Jarret quickly signed. 

With that, Ross got to his feet and shook hands with both men, and headed for the stairs.

Sam and Jarret sat back down. “Fuckin’ Yanks. They know how to deal with shit.” Sam said.

“How do you know Mr Ross?”

“He’s former NSA, left about five years ago and formed his own black bag ops group. The object was to keep the government fingerprints off anything extreme that needed doing.”

“Funny, he looks like a pretty regular bloke.”

“Naa. He’s a high-level planner. And an innovative thinker. Which is why he jumped over the pond about ten minutes after I called him about you.”

“So this is all your doing.”

“That’s right, mate. After all, what are friends for?”

“Well, I guess I owe you a pint and a half-decent dinner, now don’t I?”

“You do, indeed.” Sam said with a chuckle.

~~~~~~~~~~

A few minutes after Ross had left, Jarret and Sam climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the art studio was located. 

“This is where we build identities.” Sam said. “And for your trip to America, you’re going to need a new one. If you play your cards right over there, you’ll not have any real use for it. But it will most certainly keep anything from blowing back on us, meaning the intelligence service.”

Jarret was smart enough to know that his friend was actually protecting him and he appreciated that. 

“Your new identity is Thomas Frederick Archer, from Baltimore Maryland.”

They took Jarret’s picture and got to work on creating an American identity, which included a cell phone, Maryland driver’s license, and birth card, Medicare card, and a passport stamped with several European country stamps.

He also handed Jarret a sheet with information about his ‘family’.

“How the hell did you put this together so quickly?”

“It’s what we do, mate. I also had a feeling this offer would be too tempting for you to refuse, so I forged ahead before the face. 

“The only thing you need to remember, including all this information, is that the Americans are devious to the point of being evil, but they are our allies and we want to keep it that way.” 

Three hours later Jarret and Sam left the house with Jarret now Thomas Archer. He had a full identity package and a camera filled with shots from several parts of England and Europe.

After a pint and a nice East Indian dinner with Sam, Jarret drove back to Sheffield, stashed his real identity in the small bungalow he lived in and grabbed himself a good night’s sleep The next morning, he packed a suitcase and took the train to Liverpool where he took a cab to the airport. He called Sam Delaney to let him know what he was doing and, a few hours later boarded a plane to New York using the return portion of a round trip ticket. Before the flight was called he sent a text to the number already programmed into his phone, then tore up the cheat sheet, all of which he had memorized, and shoved it into a waste receptacle. And he was off to America.

The text that came back to him gave him complete instructions on getting from JFK airport to Grand Central Station to Washington to the address on the card that Ross had given him. For whatever clandestine reason they didn’t want him flying directly into Washington, which told Jarret a lot about how careful his employer was being.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eight hours later, Jarret was deposited at a townhouse on K Street in Washington. He climbed up the stairs and rang the bell. A few seconds later a blond woman about Jarret’s age answered the door, She was wearing a tracksuit but that didn't disguise the fact that she was, Jarret thought, nicely assembled. Once Jarret and the lady were inside she introduced herself. “My name is Missy Felder. And what do I call you?” 

“Thomas Archer.” Jarret said. “I actually prefer Archer.”

“Archer it is. And you can call me Missy.”

Missy showed Archer to a large bedroom on the second floor. He tossed his bag onto the armchair in the corner. 

She also handed Archer a business envelope. “This is your get out of jail free card.” she said. “It’s signed by the highest ranking Democrat in the Senate.”

“Thank you. I hope I never have to use it.”

“So do we, Archer.”

“So Missy, do you live here?”

“I do now. This is one of Mr Ross’ safe houses. But I’ve volunteered to be your spotter and tour guide.”

“I assume you are former military.”

“No. Actually I came up through law enforcement first with the FBI, then the Secret Service then, well I met Mr. Ross.” 

“So when do we get briefed? I’m curious to know who the targets are.”

“Soon enough.”

“I assume you and I are the whole team.” 

“We are indeed.” Missy said. “I’ll leave you to get organized. Then come down to the kitchen. I’m cooking tonight.” She showed him the bathroom and then left. 

Archer took a shower and then sat on the bed staring out the window as the sun set over the houses across the street. He then got dressed and headed downstairs.

~~~~~~~~~~

The steaks were beautifully grilled and the Caesar salad was one of the best he had ever tasted.

“As you probably already know.” Missy said. “The current Democrat government is having a very hard time getting the Republicans to cooperate on any of a number of very important issues. The Republicans are, for want of a better phrase, hoping that they can sway public opinion to the right. Currently, only about a third of Republicans are as radicalized as the handful of genuinely nutty politicians that are controlling the party.”

“Sounds like every fucked-up democracy on the planet.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Anyway, there is a concerned group of Democrats, very powerful people, who have put this project together.”

“Assassination, you mean.”

“Yeah. Assassination.”

“And you couldn’t recruit locally because I imagine the list of usual suspects would be rather short.”

Missy just tilted her head and then gave a slight nod. “Right. Your value is that you’re not an American and, according to our contact in London, you’re officially missing in action in the hills of Afghanistan”.

Archer didn't say anything for a good long time. The reality that the Americans, of all people, would have the balls to plot this sort of thing and then actually give it a go made him chuckle to himself.

“What?” Missy asked noticing the chuckle.

“I was just thinking that this is quite out of character for America.”

“These are strange times we're living in here, Archer. We, some of us, have just had enough. Fortunately, some of us are highly placed and can afford to hire someone of your calibre to help pull this off.”

“You do realize that after the first…event…all hell will break loose.”

“That’s fine. The thing about these crazy Republicans is that they are so wrapped up in their own shit they will likely refuse to be protected. Or at least their protection will be minimal. They can't look like they’re afraid. Bad TVQ and all.”

“Bad TVQ. That’s so American.”

Missy took a sip of her wine. “In a week from now the Congress will break for the summer, these people we have targeted will be back in their home states. All in the east and in the south as luck would have it. We will have about eight weeks in which to execute five events, which means we’ll have a whole week to travel and scout, if we need it. 

“We’ll be leaving in two days to scout out the first hit which will be in Florida. If we pull it off and it goes the way we think it will go, we may not need to execute any further actions. But that’s just my opinion. The people running this op may feel differently.”

Archer put his fork and knife down and brought his hands to his mouth. He kind of looked like he was praying. “So we’re going to kill the frontrunner for the Republican nomination.”

“That’s the plan, Stan.”

“And you think we can actually get away with that?”

“Well, that’s why we’re going to Florida in two days. We’re gonna scope it out and you’re gonna tell us.”

“This just gets better and better.”

“Are you being satirical?”

“No. Quite the opposite. I’m honoured to be a part of this plan. We have degenerate politicians in England, but this chap, you’re talking about, he’s in a class of his own.

“Precisely. And the sad part is that he’s been able to convert a whole section of the Congress to this way of thinking,  And we are all suffering the effects of it.” 

Archer didn’t say anything for the better part of a minute.

“Whose idea was this? This assassination plot?”

“Above my pay grade. Only Phillip, Mr Ross, knows that. But whoever it was, they have my admiration and my undying loyalty.”

“So how does this work, you know, from an information flow point of view?

“Phillip is the logistics. He puts the plan together, along with all the best options. We have a gunsmith in Richmond who has created the loads for your rifle. We have a gun range owner, also in Richmond who has acquired the firearms. And we have a communications expert whose main job on this project is to keep his eye on the FBI, and also to collect the reaction of the public and make sure that the reactions of the Republicans are widely disseminated. It’s a team effort but everyone has plausible deniability.

“Phillip receives the raw intel from a person inside the party who will have access to all the various planned events, their times and locations etc. Plus we have all their residence information.

“We’re hoping that it gets lots of coverage because the only real skill that these Republicans have is performing for the media. Their outrage should be quite a circus act.”

Archer stared at Missy for a few seconds. “You really hate them, these Republicans.”

“I wouldn’t call it hate. They are nothing but power-seeking opportunists. They want as much as they can get and they don't care who gets damaged along the way. These are not good Americans. They are anarchists pure and simple.”

“But what happens to your so-called democracy once you start down this path?”

“That’s a very good question, Archer. Sadly I don't have an answer. This is uncharted terrain we’re in. But between us, all we can do is get the job done, or as much of it as we can, and then see what happens. After that, it’s over to the politicians. Hopefully, cutting the head off the snake will change the game enough for us to get back to what passes for normal in this country.”

After dinner, Missy took Archer down into the basement. There was a communications complex there, a large steel cabinet, several chairs and a round table. Missy opened the steel cabinet to reveal two L115A3 long guns, along with suppressors and scopes and several boxes of .338 Lapua loads. 

“My God. This is the same hardware I used in Afghanistan.”He took one of the guns and examined it.”

“Yeah, we did our homework on you. You need to feel comfortable. The guns have had all identification burned off and the loads are all hand-made. I ordered a hundred rounds. A little overkill but I'm sure you’ll want to test the guns and key the sights.”

Missy walked to the back of the basement and opened the door. She showed Archer the garage. In it was a newer model Jeep Cherokee. “Nothing special.” Missy said. “Great way to hide in plain sight. And the indoor parking makes loading and unloading fairly straightforward.”

Missy opened the rear gate. Archer stared at it and saw exactly what it was, although he was impressed with the way it was fabricated. Missy reached over to the side of the hatch space and pressed a button. Suddenly the floor of the hatch popped open to an angle of about 45 degrees, revealing an open space about nine inches deep. It was large enough to stash both weapons, the ammo, the scope, a couple of sandbags and whatever else Archer wanted to bring along. Missy then closed up the space and the hatch.

“Very clever. It also answers the question of how we were going to transport the weapons.”

“One of our shooters came up with this idea. He built this for us. But he is more or less retired from the business.”

They went back inside and sat down at the console.

“This is quite the setup you have here, Missy. Don’t you worry about getting hacked?” Archer asked.

“No. Everything about this operation is offline. We get all the info we need delivered to us on memory keys. It’s old school. This op wouldn’t last ten minutes if we put it online. The only digital connection we have is to cable TV and get every channel on the fucking planet.”

“So this is just me and you.” 

“Yep. Compartmentalization is how we stay safe. Only three people even know who you are. Sam Delaney in London, Phillip Ross and me. And I don't even know who you really are.”

‘Well then, I’d better get to trust you.”

“I hope you will.” 

“So what’s in it for you? I’m doing it for the money and the sport. I have no political dog in this fight. I’d like to understand what your motivation is.”

Missy leaned back in her chair. “This country has had it too good for too long. And we got all that good stuff because everybody was willing to work hard for it. But over the past few years, things have started to go to hell. A lot of people blame the last Republican president and he was part of it for sure. But the rich and the corporations have been systematically gaining control by buying politicians, mostly Republicans. And they’ve been working hard to convince a lot of basically ignorant people that it’s the Democrats who are fucking them over. 

“The last Republican administration ran up the national debt by about seven trillion. And over the past few years the party has morphed into one that is completely controlled by big money. Currently, the most corrupt of the bunch have formed blocs in both houses that are doing everything they can to make the Democrats look incompetent. They’re willing to tank the whole country to do that. And if this country starts going to hell, it won't be long before a good chunk of the world starts feeling it too.” 

“You’re painting a pretty dark picture of America, Missy.”

“These are dark days, my friend. The objective of this op is to take out some of the ringleaders, starting from the top down. Hopefully, that puts the fear of God into some of the moderates and they start smelling the coffee.”

The coffee analogy was lost on Archer, but he got the general impression.

“But you still haven't answered my question. What’s in it for you?”

“What’s in it for me is that I get to live in a country that isn’t in danger of becoming a totalitarian state. You spent enough time in Afghanistan to know what that looks like.” 

“But we’re talking about cold-blooded murder here.”

“There really is no other kind of murder, Archer. And right here, right now in America, there really is no viable alternative. This is a dragon that needs to be slain.”

Archer had to admit he didn't know much about Americans. But he was a pretty good judge of character, and that was telling him the woman he was looking at really did have the strength of her conviction. 

“Alright.” he said. “What happens next?”

“What happens next is you give me your phone.” 

Archer handed her the phone. She accessed a VPN, which was a Virtual Private Network, and then accessed a private  account at Credit Suisse AG, a bank in Zurich. 

She handed Archer a business card from the bank. On the back was a nine-digit account number. and a password. “This is your account at Credit Suisse in Geneva. Before each project, five hundred thousand US dollars will be deposited in that account. After each project is completed, another five hundred. And so on for as long as it’s viable to do that. At the end, whenever that is, you’ll end up with five million.”

“Okay. Now let’s talk about risk.”

“There’s always some risk. But I believe that if we plan each project carefully and stick to our plan, we can evade just about any kind of pursuit. They brought me in because I’m a tactician and I understand the terrain. They also brought me in because I’m a woman and looking like a couple lowers our visibility index by a lot. They brought you in to minimize the possibility of a miss or any other kind of fuckup. It all comes down to tactics and trust, Archer. Hopefully, the authorities spend a lot of time spinning their wheels looking for an American sniper.”

Archer had no other questions. This woman, whoever she was, had convinced him that she was both a thinker and a doer. He didn't need much convincing about the actual targets, he had seen enough of America struggling with itself for the past several years to know that there was a genuine insurrectionist movement going on here.

“Go catch up on your sleep, we’ll start in the morning.”

‘Yes, Ma’am.” Archer said and then headed up the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day they drove out to the countryside south of Fredericksburg. They had both rifles, the sights, suppressors and loaded clips in the rear compartment. They turned off onto Highway 3 and rode it to a hole in the wall called Johnson’s Corner. Just north of there, they came to a shooting range. It looked like it had been abandoned for quite a while. They turned in and parked, The clubhouse was an old frame building that had seen better days. But the range itself was close to 1000 yards deep.

“Back in the day, they used to have long gun championships here. My uncle Pete, was a Congressman and a shooter. He brought me here a couple of times.” Missy said.

At the far end of the range, there were several hay bales with faded targets painted on them. Archer walked with two a few large sheets of Bristol board they had bought on the way with three-inch diameter circles on them. He folded them at the top and hung them from the twine holding the bales together. He then paced off what his rangefinder told him was  a thousand yards. He was right beside the dilapidated clubhouse building. 

“Bring the car up to about here and park it sideways.” He said to Missy, who did just that. He then got out the guns, fastened the silencers and the scopes and slapped the 5-shot cartridges into both of them. He took out a small sandbag and placed it on the hood of the car. Missy took the range-finder and squinted into it. “Nine hundred and ninety-seven yards. Wind is calm.”

Archer set the gun barrel on the sandbag, and spread his legs, resting his knees against the front tire. He peered through the scope and made the focus adjustments. Then he switched off the safety and gently squeezed off a round. 

“Six inches left.” Missy said. 

Archer made the adjustment and squeezed off another round. This time he caught the end of the paper.

“You’re still off about six inches.”

“She pulls a bit. That could just be because she’s new and the loads are custom made.” Archer said.

He fired off three clips until he had figured it out. He repeated the process with the second gun. But he knew what he was dealing with and had that figured out quickly. 

He then climbed into the back bench seat of the Jeep, and lowered the passenger side window. He balanced the sandbag on the opening and turned sideways on the seat wiggling around until he was comfortable. He then emptied a clip with each rifle into the paper targets with incredible consistency.

As he was putting the guns away he said to Missy. “We can do this without getting out of the car, if the situation is right. We’ll be gone before anybody knows what’s happening.” 

Archer stowed the weapons and the sandbag in the compartment. He then picked up the ejected shell casings. While he was doing that he, said. “You also need to get me a pistol. An H&K 9 millimetre would be nice. But whatever your gunsmith in Richmond has on hand.”

Missy knew better than to question anything that Archer said regarding munitions. They hired him for his expertise and his skill. And so far, he had been a consummate professional.

“I’ll put in the request.”

A few minutes later they were headed back to DC.

~~~~~~~~~~

The memory key arrived the next morning by courier. Missy opened and decrypted all the files and then transferred them to the larger computer. There were information sheets with the itineraries, for all the public engagements for nine extremist Republicans in Congress and their first target, the ex-President. 

They focused on the ex-President. “There are four secret service agents assigned to him. Two close by and two that patrol the perimeters of any event he is attending.”

As Archer and Missy studied the information they had been provided with, they realized two things. One was that the target was almost constantly on the move, which probably made life hellish for the agents assigned to guard him. The second thing was that he played a lot of both golf and tennis. These were venues where his security detail was the most spread out.

After staring at images, absorbing intelligence reports and discussing them ad nauseam, they concluded that he was most open and vulnerable in four locations. One was at the airport where he loved to do photo-ops from the stairs leading into his aircraft. Two was coming out of church. Three was on the golf course. And four was on the tennis court at the resort where he lived. The latter two appealed more to Archer since the first two locations would be crowded and the chances of collateral damage were extremely high. Archer wanted to check out the resort where he stayed, because as helpful as maps and sat images were, there was no substitute for the boots on the ground. He had learned that there were always things you could see on location that you might not notice studying even the most meticulous surveillance photos.

Archer was particularly drawn to the photos of the tennis courts at his Florida resort. This seemed to be the one area where the palm trees that surrounded the complex were not obstructing a clear view of the interior.

He didn’t say anything to Missy about it  But his sixth sense was telling him there was something to it. But he needed to see it for himself to make that determination.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, they packed their bags and tossed them in the back seat. Over the gun chamber was a nylon bag that contained a jack, some flares. some rags and a tire iron.

They drove to Richmond where Missy picked up the handgun, A Sig Sauer 9 mm with several clips of ammo for Archer. Archer stashed the gun in the rifle compartment and then they continued south.

   “You know,” Archer said, as they passed through Raleigh-Durham on 95. “I recall reading about a series of assassinations a year or so ago. The Sword of Damocles, I believe it was called. Was that you lot?”

“Yeah. The attack was directed at the leaders of some of the far-right groups. It was quite a big deal when it was happening. Really got a lot of people thinking about their country in a different way.”

“None of that was traced back to the government, as I recall.”

“Didn’t matter. All that mattered was that some bad actors got taken off the stage. The debate over blame and responsibility made the Democrats look like heroes and the Republicans like assholes.”

“But did it really change anything? I mean, here we are doing more or less the same thing.”

“The stakes are a bit higher here.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“But as long as we get in and get out cleanly and leave no evidence, I have no reason to believe we can’t make some decent progress. And this will change a hell of a lot more than public opinion.” Missy said.

“You know, we hear a lot about this country over in England.” Archer said. “It’s widely believed that America is so steeped in violence that it doesn't really matter much who is in power. The violence never seems to abate.”

“I can’t disagree, Archer.” Missy said. “But all we can do is what we can do.”

Archer chuckled. “That’s actually quite profound in its simplicity.”

“I have my moments.” 

It was about 800 miles to Jupiter Beach. They decided to do it in two days instead of driving straight through. So they spend a night at a nice motel called the Magnolia Inn in suburban Savannah Georgia.  They got into Jupiter Beach at about three the next day. They found another nice motel along the strip, slept late and walked around, playing tourist, and hung out on the beach for most of the next day, which was a Friday

Saturday morning they were up early and drove to the resort. It was on a long strip of land separated from the mainland by a channel about 500 feet across.

On the mainland side, there were a series of industrial buildings with large hedgerows along the shoreline to more or less hide them from anyone looking from the resort or traveling on the water.

The entry road to these buildings was long, ran more or less parallel to Highway 1 and was shielded by trees. The vehicle entrance to the building Archer wanted to check out was locked. Archer got out and tested the fence for electricity. He scanned the parking area for cars and saw only one empty rusted van with the company’s logo on it. 

Archer deftly scaled the fence and headed for the main building. He went around the side and found the ladder that went to the roof. He climbed it and crossed the roof until he came to a skylight, that was raised from the floor of the roof by about four feet. He stood beside the skylight and, using his range finder, scanned the estate directly across the canal. Six hundred and two yards. He did a 360 and noticed that there were no taller buildings in sight. The closest one was almost 2000 yards away. He then stared at the tennis court for another few minutes. Finally, he tucked the range finder into his pocket and made it back to the car, counting off seconds. He was at 53 seconds when he finally closed the car door and Missy started to drive away.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“Better than I expected, there’s a skylight that makes a four-foot high platform. That makes it a lot easier and probably cuts ten to fifteen seconds off my retreat time. Also means I only have to carry the rifle. The only unknown is the sun. I’m shooting pretty much due east. By ten am it should be high enough that it won’t cause any lens flaring in my sight.”

“Missy said nothing, but drove on observing the speed limit, despite the fact that there was no traffic to speak of.

Later that night, well after midnight, Missy and Archer returned to the vacant factory. It was dead silent except for the cicadas and crickets and there was hardly any traffic on the adjacent highway. It was also pretty close to pitch black because there was no moon that night. Archer climbed out of the car and walked to a small grove of trees close to the entrance gate. With a set of heavy duty wire cutters, he had purchased at Home Depot along with several other items that he would have no use for, except for a pair of rubber gloves and a small fire extinguisher, he cut a narrow section of the fence to about his own height and two feet across. The fence didn't look any different when he was done, except that he could easily push it back and pass through. This could cut another twenty seconds off his time and it would not be noticed until the investigation of the shooting was well underway.

Archer then returned to the car, and they headed off to their motel to grab some sleep before the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~

Early that morning. Missy and Archer were cruising the area of Jupiter Beach when they spotted what they were looking for. It was an old Ford Pinto sitting in the corner of a large vacant lot by the shore. It had several parking tickets on the windshield. 

Archer got out of the Jeep, put on a pair of gloves and, with a large screwdriver, jimmied the door on the Pinto. He climbed inside and pulled out the ignition wires. After a few minutes, he got the car started and drove it to the abandoned factory with Missy following him in the Jeep. He left the car on the side of the road, and got back into the Jeep. They drove to a secluded area about two miles north where he got out one of the rifles with the scope and silencer. 

Missy then drove him back to the factory site and Archer entered through the fence and climbed to the roof. He got his gun ready, then snuck a look over the elevated skylight. Fortunately for Archer, the day was cloudy so his visibility was excellent. 

About half an hour later two men walked toward the court. The target and some one else, carrying a large container of tennis balls, a tennis instructor, Archer assumed. Behind them were two Secret Service people. Archer used his scope and eventually spotted the other two at the end of the courts. No one was looking in his direction Archer moved to the other side of the skylight and picked up the rifle. He got into a comfortable position, chambered a round and watched carefully as the target on the right side of the court began to warm up. After a minute or so, he started practicing his serve. His instructor was standing beside him, so it wasn’t a clear shot. After about five minutes of conversation, the instructor went around to the far side of the court. Archer pulled his phone out of his breast pocket and called Missy. 

“Three or four minutes, give or take.” he said into the phone.

“Roger that.” Missy replied.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, then took a deep breath. He watched as the target practised his serving, waiting for the moment when he was standing relatively still. 

That came about forty-five seconds later, when he stopped to listen to something his instructor was saying to him. He never heard the shot that ripped into his chest, through his heart and out through his back. Archer was on the move before the target hit the ground. He was down the steel ladder and through the fence fifteen seconds later. He laid the gun on the front seat beside him gun , fired up the car and drove away. Three minutes later he parked the car beside the Jeep in the secluded area where they had found it.  Archer opened the hatchback of the Jeep and and slid the gun into the compartment. He then took the fire extinguisher and hosed down the entire interior of the Pinto. This would obliterate any DNA the police might search for.

By that time, he climbed into the Jeep they could hear sirens off in the distance. Within a minute he was in the Jeep with Missy was heading north to the next bridge that would take them to the mainland and Highway 1. But instead of fleeing, they simply pulled into the first IHOP they came to about fifteen minutes up the highway, went inside and had their breakfast, while twenty miles to the south, all hell was breaking loose.

~~~~~~~~~~

FBI Special Agents Hollis Keene and James Holcomb, who were the ranking domestic terrorist team, arrived at the resort within hours of the killing. They talked to the Secret Service agents on site and all they had to report was that the shot appeared to have come from across the channel, maybe from the roof of an abandoned factory along the strip that ran parallel to Highway 1. If that was the case, the agents told Keene and Holcombe, they could be on the highway and be well on their way to anywhere they wanted to go in no time flat. 

The consensus of opinion was that this was that this was a super-pro job, aided by inside information. “From the size of the crater in the ex-President, it had to be some kind of military long gun. Not many cowboys could ride that horse,” Aaron McCabe, the head Secret Service agent said. “Feels like that Damocles thing, only they’ve stepped up their game.”

“Yeah it does feel that way.” Keene said. “Let’s hope it’s not an epidemic.”Gonna be a lot of high-priced noses out of joint over this. Pretty much assures the Dems of another four years.”

“Roger that.” McCabe said. “Wish we had more info for you. It was one and done. Shooter’s got game. The list should be pretty short.” McCabe said. And then he turned and walked away.

Keene and Holcomb walked back to their car. “You reckon this is gonna be another wild goose chase, sir? Holcombe asked.

“All that +and a media shit circus to boot, James.”

~~~~~~~~~~

 

The news stories flew past them a mile a minute as they headed north. After a few hours, they put on some music because the endless speculation got really tedious to people who knew exactly what happened.

After breakfast they drove straight north to Fayetteville and found a nice motel and some good Japanese food, They then got a good night's sleep and made it home by midafternoon the next day. 

Archer stowed the weapons in the basement and cleaned the piece he used while they resumed watching the news. 

In one segment, Hollis Keene was being interviewed. Missy said. “That’s the cop who was in charge of the Sword of Damocles Investigation.”

“Looks pretty well seasoned.”

“Except for the Damocles thing, his record was spotless and his conviction rate was through the roof.”

“It’s been my experience that these chaps are only as effective as the evidence they uncover.”

“True enough. But I wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him. Word has it that he actually had the whole Damocles thing figured out but was told to back off from a voice on high.”

“Well, we’ll just have to make certain we don’t leave any tidbits for them.”

The shooting hit the media like a ton of bricks. It was the last thing anyone expected, since the vast majority of the gun-toting lunatics in the country were among his disciples.

The Republican party was thrown into complete disarray. For the better part the last six years they had given their undying loyalty to this man, believing, in their hearts that supporting him would be the only way to get back into power.

They all saw him as bulletproof, right up to the point where he wasn’t. The single shot that Archer had fired destroyed his lungs and his heart, what was left over that passed through the body was scattered. The forensics people did a total sweep but found nothing that gave them any real information. A house painter named Delbert James came forward and told the investigators he had seen someone driving away from the abandoned factory, heading north. He couldn’t make out the driver. A few hours later the cops found the Pinto. It was swept from top to bottom for prints and DNA and came up empty.

A thorough search of the rooftop that was determined to be the gun site revealed nothing either. The only odd thing was a six-foot high and two-foot wide cut in the fence that surrounded the abandoned factory. Again, no prints or DNA. No nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hollis Keene and James Holcomb sat in their car in the parking lot of the murder scene.

“Remind you of anything, James?”

“Yes sir, it does.”

‘Killin’ redneck assholes is one thing. But this really is quite a few rungs up the ladder.”

“We could go back to Richmond and talk to the Lyall kid.”

“We could I suppose. But then again maybe that’s exactly what they’d want us to do. Spin the wheels. Waste time chasin’ shadows.”

What about the Senator or that Ross fellow? Even if it’s just to let them know we have our eye on them?” Holcomb asked.

“As much as I admire your initiative, James, I think we have to start with the shooter and work our way back.”

“Well, then we already have one good candidate in Jackson Lyall.”

Jackson Lyall, was lying in bed with Marlena Ross in North Richmond, when the news of the ex-President’s assassination broke. They both sat up in bed and turned up the volume. They watched the broadcast for about ten minutes and then shut it off. 

“Well, it looks like I’ll be getting another visit from the FBI.” Jackson said.

“Well, you do qualify as one of the usual suspects. Fortunately, you have a really good alibi, which is me.”

“Still in all, I wonder who would actually have the nerve to put something like that together.” But in the back of his mind he already knew the answer to that question.

Half an hour later they were both back to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

The country was quite literally turned inside out amid the chaos that had erupted following the shooting. Even Republicans who weren’t supportive of the former president were angry and demanding that the government get to the bottom of it. Media coverage was wall-to-wall. A massive march on Washington was staged and a couple million people flocked into the city demanding justice.

Senator Winters sat in his office in a state of unbridled glee. They had indeed killed the fatted calf, and they would continue to knock off anyone who pretended to the throne. And Winters knew exactly who they were because they were on a list that Phillip Ross was carrying around in his suit coat pocket. 

Winters used his secure line outside to call Ross. “Well Phillip, looks like it’s bad news for the bad guys, he said barely able to contain his joy.”

“Looks that way, Senator.”

“There will be a pretty substantial power struggle over the coming weeks.”

“We’ll do what we can to make it all you’re hoping for.”

“Good man, Phil. Keep me up to speed. I’ll probably at the house. I want to let them stew in this for a while”

“Yes sir, will do.”

Winters disconnected and returned to his office where he stared out at the angry disillusioned mob. At least the events of 2020 taught them to keep it in check and not storm the barricades. It would be very interesting, Winters thought, to see what would happen after the next event.

Four days later, when the initial shock and anger had subsided a bit, Missy and Archer received the next briefing. The target was Republican firebrand Desmond Lowell. He was cut from the same cloth as the former president and was a good thirty five years younger. He was the most outspoken of the radicalized Republicans in Congress and, like several other lunatics, was vying to be the next Republican presidential nominee. Nothing was certain because the presumptive, now deceased presidential candidate had made no definite announcement. But it was rumoured that he was being groomed to be nominated as vice-president, contrary to the popular belief that it was actually a female from Georgia. But in Washington rumours were a dime a dozen,

Lowell was from Lexington Kentucky. His family, like many upper-class Kentucky families, had made their fortune from the coal mining and distribution business.

Lowell was forty-four years old and was able to afford a powerful political machine that kept his profile high all year round. He was handsome and well-liked among his constituents in the congressional district he served. He was married and had two teenage children, both of whom, along with his wife, were away visiting their grandparents in neighbouring Louisville. This gave Lowell free rein to attend a number of events scheduled for him in Lexington and the surrounding communities.

Missy and Archer studied his schedule and diagrammed it on a map of Lexington. One spot stood out, but they would know more once they were on location.

Early the next morning they set out heading south and west skirting the Monongahela National Forest, then north to Highway 64 which took them right into Lexington. In the middle of their trip, they stopped at a small town called Hurricane where they grabbed lunch at a place called Farley’s Famous Hot Dogs which they enjoyed with something called frozen Root Beer, during which time Archer experienced his first case of brain freeze. But the dogs were delicious and they made it a note to drop in on their way back.

Since they knew that Lowell would be alone at his house and he lived in a very upscale area where the houses were relatively secluded from each other, they decided that the best place to take him down would right at his front door.

The plan they devised was quick and simple. First, they would make sure that Lowell had no security at his home. Secondly, they would park the car across the street from Lowell’s house. Archer would get onto the backseat and prop his gun on a sandbag over the open window.  Missy would go to the house and ring the doorbell. She would then move to the side of the house out of sight. Lowell would open the door, see no one there, step out onto the landing and Archer would take the shot. 

Missy would walk to the car and they would leave, heading out of town as quickly and directly as they could. They were reasonably certain that the body would not be discovered for at least a few minutes, if not hours, as it was late at night and there were very few lights visible in neighbouring houses.

The plan was a good one, and it went off without a hitch. An hour later, they were parked in the empty parking lot of a Dollar Tree in a town called Winchester, where Archer stowed his gear in the back compartment of the Jeep. They then took shifts driving back to DC, because they did not want to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves by checking in late to a motel. Farley’s Famous Hot Dogs too, would have to wait.

On the way back Missy called Ross and told them they were a couple hours out, but that Damon should release the message anyway. 

By about eight am the following morning the news of the Lowell assassination started to break. Evidently, the body was found by a UPS driver delivering a package to Lowell’s house at 7 am that morning. 

By the time they were safely home around two in the afternoon, the story had busted wide open, but they were both too tired to care.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day Phillip Ross met with Senator Winters in their usual place on the National Mall. The area was chock-a-block with tourists and protestors alike. 

“Well, Phil,” the Senator said as he sat down. “This is more fun than a fuckin’ turkey shoot in late October. The Republicans are absolutely beside themselves. And for all their bluster, only the real idiots have designs on the White House. Trouble is nobody knows them. And nobody really gives a shit about some backbencher, so there’s no support inside the machinery. It’s a great time to be a Democrat, my friend.”

“Do you want to me carry on?” Ross asked.

“Now that’s a very good question. Right now I’d have to say let’s let it fester for a spell and see what happens.”

“I’ll keep the shooter in the country.”

“The Feebs will no doubt be comin’ after you again. And since this is a different kettle of fish, I won’t be able to have a chat with them.”

“We knew that going in, sir. We have structured the mission to account for that.”

“Good.” And with that the Senator got to his feet, along with Ross. “Lots of pissed-off people here today. I haven’t had this much fun since the Clinton scandal.”

“Those were the good old days, sir.”

“Keep your boy in the country for now. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Will do, Senator.”

“Thanks for your help, Phil. Always appreciated.”

Ross stood beside the bench as the Senator sauntered back toward the capitol.

In Atlanta, Hollis Keene and James Holcomb sat on their favourite bench in the park across the road from their office.

“The candidate and the front runner for succession. Talk about killin’ the Republican’s chances.” Keene said.

“There has to be some sort of inside source we can tap. I mean, these killings came off without so much as a blip on the radar. There has to be someone pulling strings somewhere.” Holcomb said.

“You’re probably right, James. Trouble is that this is gonna be out of our hands in another day or so unless we come up with something solid in the way of a lead.”

“Have you contacted your friend in Annapolis?”

“Daryl Stone? Yeah. He’s taking another wade through the files but the trouble is the gun. There’s just aren’t all that many swingin’ dicks that can handle a piece like that and all of them are accounted for.”

They sat quietly for a minute or two then Holcomb said. “Well, maybe they imported someone, you know, a mercenary from another country. I mean, hell, whoever planned this thing had to know that we would be looking through all the local talent.”

Keene said nothing but pulled out his phone, checked his directory then punched in a number. “Angus McFadden please, Hollis Keene FBI calling. He waited a few seconds and turned on his speaker. A few seconds later, he heard. “Angus McFadden.” 

“Hollis Keene, Angus.”

McFadden chuckled. “Hollis Keene you old sod. How goes the battle? Hear you’re up to your ass in alligators these days.”

“Pretty much, Angus. We have this crazy ass idea that maybe the shooter we’re looking for was imported. So of course I thought about Merry Old England. Anywhere in the British Isles for that matter.”

Angus laughed. “So I suppose you want me to take a little look around and see if there’s anything….untoward.”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“I can try, but I’ll tell you flat out. Getting anything out of Special Forces or M-6 is like trying to get blood from a stone.”

“Just give it the old college try. I’ll owe you a big one if you come through.”

“You’ll owe me a big one either way, sport. Leave it with me.”

“Time, as they say, is of the essence.”

“Always is Hollis.”

Keene disconnected.

“Who does he work for?” Holcomb asked.

“Himself. He’s one of the premier systems hackers in the western world.”

“Is that legal?”

“No, James. It’s about as illegal as it gets. But desperate times call for desperate measures. If we can find this guy, we can nail him because I’m sure there won’t be any Washington halo over his head.”

 Keene got to his feet and Holcomb followed. “In the meantime, let’s get up to Richmond and rattle some cages.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, Phillip Ross drove back to Washington and then, after parking his car took a long walk to the K Street house where Missy and Thomas Archer were staying. 

Missy greeted him with a huge hug and a curious look on her face. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, sweetie, but has something gone wrong?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Where’s your partner in crime?”

“He’s downstairs watching some soccer game. He calls it football. Can you imagine?”

Missy and Ross headed down to the basement. Archer was sitting on one of the office chairs with his feet up on the desk. On the big screen in front of him was a soccer game and the frenetic voice of an announcer in an accent so thick they could barely understand him. Archer clicked off the volume and rose to shake hands with Ross.”

“So much for never seeing you again, sir.” Archer said.

“Yeah, well, we are kind of playing it by ear at the moment.”

They all sat down. 

“First of all I just want to convey my gratitude. And that of my client. You may not realize it but you have actually saved this country from what could have been a bloody civil war.”

Archer shook his head. “Doesn’t really look that way to me, at least from the news stories we’ve been watching.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. The media here are just as bad as they are in your country. Things will calm down. The main thing is that the Republicans have lost their ace and their ace in the hole, so to speak. It will take a long time for them to regroup and groom a new leader.”

“So are you telling me the job is done?”

“No. There’s more that needs to be done. When we started we had a list of five key players. Two are gone. But taking the temperature out there has changed things a bit. We’ve decided on a wait-and-see sort of strategy. The minute someone shows any sign of rising up out of the quagmire, we will quickly profile them and take them out.”

“So what do I do in the meantime?”

“Ross opened his briefcase to reveal that it was filled with money, a cell phone, an iPad and a business card from a BMW dealership. “There’s two hundred thousand in cash here. We’ve also leased you a new BMW, which your friend Sam Delany told me you favored. He also told me you had a desire to see America. Well here’s your opportunity. We will contact you when we need you. But you can feel free to hit the road at any time. Call it a paid vacation.”

Missy walked over the far drawer of the computer table, opened it and pulled out a key on a key ring. She handed it to Archer. “If you get back before we know whether or not we need you, you can stay here until were 100% sure.”

“I would also suggest, just to be on the safe side, that you dye your hair a different colour and grow some facial hair, just on the very off chance that the FBI figures out who you are.” Ross said. “Besides you can’t can’t go back to England just yet anyway, because the cover story is that you’re MIA. And if it turns out that more action is required, we’d like to be able to activate you quickly and quietly. As long as you are presumed MIA, the FBI won’t be looking for you.”

“Are they anywhere close to that?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll find out for certain pretty soon. I’m pretty damn sure they’re on their way up here. I am one of the usual suspects based on past suppositions.”

“Tell me, Mr Ross, was this part of the plan or are you just winging it?”

“The plan was to take out all five of the worst of them. But the client has noticed that a lot of highly destructive infighting has already begun. He wants to let things simmer for at least a few weeks then determine if further action is necessary. Your contract was for five kills and you will be compensated accordingly, whether you execute the last three or not.”

Archer just nodded and closed the case. “So it looks like I’ll be taking off on an American holiday.”

“I trust you will keep as low a profile as possible.”

“Of course,” Archer said. 

“I’ll be taking Missy with me when we leave.’ Ross said. “So you will have the house all to yourself.”  Then Ross handed Archer his business card. “Call me if you run into any difficulty.”

“I rather thought I might like to visit New York City. Sounds like a fascinating place.” 

They had a final drink and Ross and Missy told him about New York and things he should see when he got there. He was grateful for the advice. Half an hour later he was alone in the house. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Hollis Keene and James Holcombe flew into DC, drove down to Richmond and entered the offices of Blue Fin Consulting. They were shown into Phillip Ross’ office and took seats directly across from him.

“Looks like you gentlemen have drawn a shitty hand once again.” Ross said, working hard not to betray any smugness.

“Yes, sir, we have indeed, “ Hollis said.

“Well, what can I tell you? The game here is still the same at my end. Lot of planning, all of which is classified. No political killings to speak of if that’s what you’re here to inquire about.”

“No sir. We’re not here for that reason. We are here to pick your brain if we might.”

Ross chuckled. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“You know the stakes are much higher now than just a bunch of dead redneck assholes.” Keene said.

“I should think so.” Ross said. 

“So let me put it to you this way. If it were you who was planning this sort of action, how would you go about it?”

Ross sat back and thought about it for a moment. “I assume that these people were killed with pretty high calibre bullets.”

“As far as we can tell,” Keene said.

“Well, knowing that you can track anyone with that capability, and probably already have come up empty, I would say that whoever was doing this shooting had been secretly trained. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“What if he were imported. You know, and international hired gun?” Keene asked.

“Well, that certainly opens up a whole different line of enquiry. But from my experience, that’s something that would take months to piece together. That theory multiplies the suspect list by, I don’t know, a factor of ten to twenty. And then there’s the issue of cooperation. For example, if this guy was Russian or Turkish or Iranian, you would hit a serious brick wall.”

“But wouldn’t it stand to reason that anyone who had this sort of assassination in mind would mostly likely be looking at allied countries?” Holcomb asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. But if it were my op, I’d be looking for a shooter who is as far away from any of the usual suspects as you can get. Mastering a big rifle takes a bit of skill and practice. But any half-decent marksman with the right incentive either political, financial or both, could get fairly skillful without a whole lot of trouble. I know that opens a wide gash in any theory you might be entertaining, but it’s as viable a possibility as anything else.”

Ross could tell from the looks on the faces of both men that they were completely lost in the maze of possibilities.

“You came to pick my brain, which means you have at least a modicum of respect for it. Well, that’s what I think. I know it doesn’t help. These killings, they are extremely well-planned and flawlessly executed. Maybe you should be looking at the Republican party. I mean someone has got to step up and take over the reins of power there. And if you were really being honest with yourselves you’d consider that another possibility.”

Suddenly, Hollis Keene started to chuckle. “You know, we came here today because you beat us last time. And we were sure this was something you had come up with.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Ross said. “I’m a Republican.  I’m not crazy about what’s happened with the party over the past few years. In fact, I’m overjoyed that the people who are dead are dead. Hopefully this wakes everybody up. But I’m not holding my breath waiting for that to happen. All I know is that whoever is pulling this one off, is probably someone you will never find. But I know you have to go through the motions, and I sincerely wish you the best of luck.”

With that Ross and Holcombe got to their feet.

“That’s for meeting with us. You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

“My pleasure.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Washington, the administration issued messages of condolence to the families of the two victims, and pledged to put every available resource to work on bringing the shooter and the people behind him to justice.

The president addressed the nation at 7 PM on the day after the second shooting, He expressed shock and dismay and spouted all the usual platitudes. But deep inside his soul was singing. Because he had thrown the opposition into a complete state of chaos and knowing the cannibals they were, they would spend months trying to devour each other.

It had been a long time since a government in the United States had been in a position of absolute control. With the death of the leader and the frontrunner to be his successor, moderate Republicans in Congress appeared to shed their fear and started issuing statements of support for the initiatives the Democrats were putting into place.

This show of confidence took all the wind out of the sails of the radical right Republicans, And the leadership void left them all scrambling for as much power as they could grab within the minority they had become. 

As went the politicians so went the public. With no public martyr and cheerleader to lead them, the so-called radical right faded back into the obscurity. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Archer dyed his hair light brown and grew and tended a seven-day beard. He spent a few days looking around New York City, and then headed south, picking up Highway 81 at Harrisburg. He drove casually for two days until he ended up in Nashville, where he checked into a motel just off Music Row and spent the next five days there doing day trips around Tennessee and spending his evenings in the clubs listening to live country music.

On the fifth night, he saw a girl on stage at a small club. Her name was Colleen McHale. She was a spunky Scottish girl who sang Bob Dylan songs and sounded like a younger version of the famous folk singer Joan Baez. Her voice was high and crystal clear and full of passion. 

Archer was smitten. After she finished her set to very generous applause, he offered to buy her a drink.

 Then he offered to take her for a late dinner, which was fine with her. He found out her entire life story that night. She had been born in Glasgow and started singing in some of the pubs there. But her real love was for Dylan’s music, and for that she knew she needed to be in America. So with her scant savings she worked her way over on a cruise ship and took a bus from Miami to Nashville.

When she asked Archer about himself, all he could really tell her was that he was a retired soldier who had come into some money from a family inheritance and was on a bit of a road trip to see America, but had every intention of returning to England as soon as he possibly could.

They spent the night together in his motel room and the next day, he drove her to the bed sitter she was living in. She packed her things and threw them in the Beamer and off they went. 

They drove around the Southern states for another couple weeks, making it all the way through Texas to New Mexico.. Colleen wrote songs while Archer drove. One day about two weeks later, Archer got a call from Phillip Ross, summoning him back to DC and announcing to him that the project was complete and that he could now go home.

Two days later he showed up at the K Street house where Missy was waiting for him. She transferred the rest of the five million into his account and was not altogether surprised to see a beautiful Scottish girl with him.

That evening Phillip Ross, came by with another non-disclosure agreement, this time to be signed by Colleen. After that was done Ross explained the situation to her. She looked over at Archer and smiled. All she said was.“Those fuckin’ Republicans got exactly what they deserved.”

The next day, they were flown back to England on a jet chartered by Phillip Ross He turned over his Archer identity, which his MI-6 friend Sam Delany told him would be available to him should he ever need it again.

Hollis Keene was called up in front of a select committee in Congress, and was quite forthright in reporting that there were several avenues of enquiry that were being followed but at yet there were no concrete leads. Like the shootings of a few years earlier, there was no traceable physical evidence, no witnesses and no solid theories for him to put forth.

Angus McFadden had scoured the intelligence services of both England and the US and was sad to report that he had come up dry. Keen thanked him for his work and promised a favour that would be collected by McFadden at a later date.

The next week, the British News services received a story about how Jarret Morrow had been found, alive and well in Kabul. He had been returned home and awarded the medal of valour for for his service to King and country.

After the ceremony, Jarret and Colleen drove up to Sheffield. They had a long dinner with his father and Jarret told him he was moving to London. Two weeks later, Jarret entered into an agreement with a man named Malcom Briggs, an assistant director of MI-6, who found themselves occasionally in need of a highly trained killer.

With the money he had made in America, Jarret bought himself a houseboat which was anchored at the Dove Pier in Hammersmith. It was a renovated craft with a lot of luxurious appointments and a wide rear deck. It was a steal at just nine hundred thousand pounds. The rest of his money, he invested in the market and between that and his MI6 retainer and his military pension, he was able to live quite comfortably.

One night, Jarret and Colleen had dinner with Sam Delaney, who told them that his wife was one of the owner of a large talent agency. He agreed to arrange an interview with Colleen, which turned out to be the key to getting her started on her own music career in England.

From time to time, Phillip Ross would call him just to see how he was doing. Jarret had little to report. He spent his days reading and cycling around the city stopping off for a pint at different pubs. He called it the Great Pub Tour of London. He figured that someday he would write a book about it. But he was in no hurry.

In America, the investigation into the assassinations of the two key Republican players moved on slowly and unproductively. A new successor was chosen but the Republicans had wasted so much time on infighting that the Democrats walked away with the elections and solid majorities in both houses. 

This, in turn, led to a series of retirements of old-guard Republicans, and slowly but surely a new, more progressive contingent took over. But it would be years before they were well enough organized to mount any sort of significant attack on the Democrats.

FOUR:  JULIETTE DODGE

The Democratic government under President William Clayborne was nearing the mid point of its second term.

Things had been sailing along quite smoothly, but the Republican party which was in the minority was in meetings every day trying to figure out how to topple that which could be seen as a democratic dynasty.

Claybourne’s Vice president, Juliette Dodge was being groomed to take the reins and run for president, which would make her the first woman ever elected to the highest office in the land.

Juliette Dodge, whose given name was Juliette Sams, until she married Elliot Dodge, a multi-millionaire financier, was the daughter of a mixed marriage, meaning that her father was black and her mother was originally French Canadian. Juliette was raised in California where her father owned a chain of car washes and small grocery stores in the Sacramento area. Juliette’s mother Monique, managed all family business finances having been trained as a chartered accountant. 

The Sams family was not rich but art the upper end of the middle class, and well respected in the community. After law school, Juliette worked her way up through the country attorney’s office to the state Senate to the Democratic national Senate over fifteen years. She had been vice president for the past seven years, and had a blemish-free record.

She had been chosen as the vice Presidential candidate by Senator Roland Winters and Claybourne. Winters had taken her under his wing from the moment she arrived in Washington. Her even introduced her to Elliot Dodge, who one year later became her husband.

As far as defects in the Washington world she had none to speak of. What this meant that the media had to start working overtime to dig into her life to see what they could twist to their advantage to feed the gaping news maw that was nothing if not incessantly hungry. Once they got wind of the plans to nominate Dodge as the next presidential candidate, they kicked their effort into a new gear. It was all about the story. It didn’t matter if it was true or false as long as it would put bums in seats in front of the TV and newspapers. 

The news quickly spread around the world and the curiosity about Juliette Dodge grew with it. The Republicans were particularly interested because the move came as a real surprise, despite the fact that the Democrats had announced, over the last quarter of the previous year, that they were making their selection from inside Washington. 

The Democrats had no problem with Juliette Dodge. She had more than proven herself extremely capable and fanatically loyal to the Claybourne government. The whole idea behind her nomination was to carry on the policies, which had been, in large part, responsible for a huge upturn in economic growth measurable by just about every vector imaginable. Dodge’s job would be to keep the ship of state sailing in the right direction, and she was more than capable of doing just that.

 But this was Washington and it was not without the requisite amount of drama. In this case it was a bit more extreme and that’s when Phillip Ross got a call from Senator Winters.

~~~~~~~~~~

They met at their usual place on the Capital Mall. Winters was unaccompanied by secret service agents, because he didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing their conversation.

“Thanks for coming, Phil.”

“My pleasure Senator.”

“Everything good at home?” 

“Yeah. Got myself a good son-in law. They’re living in the old house, so we get to see them quite a bit. Marcus has taken an Associate Professorship at  NYU. Something called environmental politics. He comes down on the odd weekend.”

“Well, that’s good. Listen Phil, we have a bit of an issue that’s cropped around the announcement of Juliette Dodge’s candidacy.”

‘Oh yeah. What could that be? She seems like a natural.”Ross said.

“Yeah, you would definitely think so. But there’s something going on and we think it’s not some whacko from the boondocks. It’s internal. Which explains why I am without my usual dynamic duo.”

“How serious is this?”

‘Well, that’s the trouble. There’s not a lot of chatter about  this. More whispers than anything. But they’re loud enough than we can’t disregard them.”

“So I’m assuming you’re sitting here alone because you don’t know who to trust.”

Winters took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “That’s about the size of it.”

“So how do you want to move forward?”

“On a couple of fronts. One is that we need to make sure she’s covered front and back once she hits the campaign trail. So I’ll need a couple of people. Your shooter would be good. He would have the right kind of situational awareness whop could figure this shooter out and spot him before he could do any damage. And a capable female who could travel with Julie and stay close. The sooner we can diffuse this the better. We also need your hackers to start looking at the way money is moving throughout the clandestine community.”

“What does your gut tell you about who this could possibly be? Ross asked.

Winters didn’t say anything for a good thirty seconds. “It’s gotta be someone or some small group in one of the Alphabet agencies who have been corrupted by the Republicans. This sounds like their kind of bullshit. We need to gather up as much intel as we can on this and head it off at the pass.”

Ross sat thinking for about fifteen seconds. “Who’s gonna run point on your end.”

“That would be Lisa Franklin. She’s been with me for a decade. I trust her without question.”

“OK. Let me get with my people and see what we can come up with.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Phillip Ross thought the issue through on his drive back to Richmond. He had a good shooter in Corey Sims, but he was way too young for a protection assignment. His other shooter was out of the country on assignment in Central Africa. So  that left him with only one choice and he would have to be very diplomatic in terms of approaching him. 

The female companion for the Vice President was a no-brainer. In fact she was Missy Felder his housemate, lover and and Ex-Secret Service agent. Communications would be covered by Damon Reese who had been with him for a while now and could get into and out of just about anywhere in the digital realm without leaving so much as a partial fingerprint. And Damon’s partner, William Ling would be able to pick up the money trail and follow it wherever it would lead. 

On his way home, Phillip Ross stopped at his old house where his daughter Marlena and her husband Jackson lived. 

Marlena was a graphic designer and had an office in downtown Richmond. Jackson was a photographic artist, and one of the more successful in the country. But Jackson was also a world class sniper, which had been his job in the Marines which he left a few years back. He had done a series of assassinations for Phillip Ross then backed off, and pursued his new career as a photographic artist.

Jackson was in the den of the house, looking over some images in preparation for his next show.

Jackson got to his feet as Ross walked into the room.

“Jackson.”

“Mr Ross. Good to see you. Marlena’s downtown at her office.”

“Yeah. Actually I came to see you. We have a bit of an issue that we could use your help with.”

Jackson sat down at the desk and Ross took a seat on the other side. 

“I hope this doesn’t involve any wet work. Because you know I’m, through with that.”

“Actually it doesn’t. Or shouldn’t. The Senator has asked me to put a team together to investigate an assassination threat on Juliette Dodge, the presumptive nominee for President.”

“Don’t these politicians live with threats like this all the time?”

“Yeah, they do. But this is a bit different because it’s  coming from  the inside.”

“So the Republicans.”

“Yeah, most likely. They’ve been running scared for a while now.”

“That figures. So what do you need me for?”

“I need your nose. If we can’t nail this down before she really hits the campaign trail, we need you to check out the venues and put yourself into the head of the assassin. Then they can deploy their security accordingly.”

“So this is a consulting gig.”

“Yeah. I guess you could call it that. Security is tight around these candidates which more or less eliminates the possibility of a close-up shooting. So the alternative is a sniper in the rafters or wherever. We need you to suss out the best locations in each venue. You fly in. You do your thing. You fly out. We’re not so much worried about the outdoor venues, just the arenas and stadiums.”

“You said the threat is internal. So how do you know who to trust?”

“Damon and William will be hacking the various security services. But if they’re smarter than that, we’ll need some expert analysis of the venues.”

Jackson thought about it for a bit. Then he said. “So this is really an intel operation. No shooting necessary?”

“Yes. There will be other people to handle that part of it.”

Jackson thought about it some more and realized that Phillip Ross would never go back on his word.

“Okay.” Jackson said. But only on the condition that I can tell Marlena about it.”

That one came out of left field for Ross, who for the past five years had managed to keep his daughter in the dark regarding his clandestine operations. 

“Before we got married, I promised her there would be no secrets.” Jackson said. “So this is a deal breaker, I’m afraid.”

Ross was envisioning the huge can of worms this would open in his life. Then he said. “Alright. I guess it’s long past time that she found out what her dad does for a living.”

“Just between you and me, I think she may have already figured it out. “Jackson said in the most earnest voice he could muster.”

“Okay. Well, everybody’s coming over to the house tonight, around eight. And thanks, Jackson. I feel a lot better about this project knowing you’re with us.”

“I am as long as I don’t have to bring a big gun.”

“You might be wise to bring your small gun though. I’ll get you cleared for that.”

Jackson just nodded as both men got to their feet. 

“See you around eight.”

“Yes sir. I’ll call Marlena now.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Ten minutes later, Ross was sitting in the coffee shop across from Blue Fin Consulting, looking at email on his iPad. Five minutes after that Damon Reese and William Ling entered the coffee shop, got coffees and sat down at the corner table where Ross was sitting. Both men shook hands with Ross and sat down.

“Thanks for coming, guys.” Ross said. “We have a new assignment. Purely intel. It seems that there is some noise floating around concerning a possible assassination attempt on Juliette Dodge, who’s the presumptive Democratic candidate for President.”

Both men were aware of who Juliette Dodge was, as she was one of the more outspoken democrats in the Senate.

“So what are we looking at? Surveillance and or find the loot?”

“Yeah, both. Someone or some group of someones inside the intelligence services will have been paid a good deal of money to arrange this.” Ross said.

“What about a get out of jail free card?” Reese asked. “The stuff we have to do to dig around is easily worth ten to twenty.”

“We’ll have that.” Ross replied. “I’ll let you know when it comes through.”

Ling said. “You know there’s a chance they’ll be doing this through some offshore bank. I mean that’s what I would do. What do you estimate this would be worth, so I have an idea of what to look for?”

Ross took a deep breath. “I’d say, about a million maybe two.”

“And where would the money come from, do you think?” Reese asked.

“Hmmm. Could be out some some kind of slush fund within the Republican party. It would probably be disguised as some kind of consulting fee.” 

“How high up in the party?” Damon asked.

“Pretty damn high. Senate minority leader. Campaign manager. Party chairman. You know the drill on that as well as anyone. Damon.”

“Are you providing her with any protection when she’s on the road?” Damon asked,

“Yeah. Missy will be her right hand and Jackson will be scouting the indoor venues and give the security people a better idea of where a shooter might position himself.”

“So Jackson’s back in the game.” Damon said, then he turned to Ling. “Jackson was one of our shooters. He did the right-wing fanatics jobs. Hell of a shooter. Well it looks like you have it all covered. As soon as you have the ‘Get Out Of Jail Free” letter in your hands, we’ll get crackin’.

They shot the breeze for another few minutes, then finished their coffees and all three men got up and left, on their way to their new assignment. Before doing that they agreed that Damon would create a private phone network and get phones for everyone involved.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Phillip Ross received an envelope by special courier that contained an indemnification document, which was very carefully worded and covered any individuals that would make up Ross’s team. He then called everyone and arranged for a meeting at his house that evening.

Jackson and Marlena were the last to arrive. Everyone was sitting at the large table in the backyard, including Alvin Tuttle who was in charge of munitions and wet work, in the event that someone would have to be taken out. His shooter was a young man named Corey Sims who worked as an advertising writer and art director for direct clients and marketing and communications companies in the Richmond area. He would only be called upon if needed and Alvin, who was a life-long friend of Phillip Ross, and would manage that whole process.

Marlena looked at the table full of people, gave her dad and Missy Felder a hug, then sat down next to Jackson at the table. Jackson poured some iced tea for both of them. Phillip Ross introduced Marlena to everyone she didn’t know, then quickly got down to business.

“Marlena.” Ross said. “I’m sure you will have some questions, which I will be happy to answer after this briefing.”

Marlena just nodded and took a sip of her iced tea.

“Okay.” Ross said. Now that we’re all here, I will just reiterate the project parameters so we’re all on the same page. There has been a threat to the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, Juliette Dodge. Falcon Wing has been approached by one of the Democratic leaders in the Senate to investigate, hopefully figure out where this threat is coming from and eliminate it by whatever means necessary.

We have been tasked with this mission because the threat has originated from somewhere inside the wider intelligence community and at the moment, there is no one who can be trusted to deal with it

“Damon and William will be working on line to track any unusual financial transactions and, hopefully, that will get us a suspect or two. Juliette Dodge is going to be starting her campaign, soon so Jackson and Missy will be in the field. Jackson will examine the indoor venues for possible attack sites, and help coordinate the protection process.

“Missy will be Juliette’s right hand and never very far away, in case any attack is up close and personal. We don’t  really think it will be because the people who are planning this, whoever they are, are pretty savvy. I know this because that was my world for twenty years. Alvin is here to keep up to speed and to mobilize a response if one is necessary, meaning, if one or more of the bad guys get away. And that’s it, in a nutshell. I have an indemnification document that protects us from prosecution. All that’s left is to get the show on the road.

“Missy and Jackson will meet with Juliette Dodge, brief her and let her know that Jackson will be scoping out every venue. She has a need to know about this because she’s the target. That’s about it.”

With that Damon got up and handed out cell phones to everyone on the team, explaining that this was a closed network and totally untraceable.

After that the meeting broke up. Jackson and Marlena stayed behind to talk with Phillip Ross.

“So this is what you do.” Marlena asked.

“Well not all of it.” Ross said. “There are some projects that are a little more elaborate than others. And believe me, sweetie, I felt terrible keeping this from you.”

“Truth be told dad, I had pretty much figured a lot of it  this out on my own. Especially after I met Jackson and he showed me his tools.”

Phillip Ross took a deep breath. In one way, he was quite relieved to know that Marlena was aware of what he was doing.”

“I hope you can understand that maintaining the democracy that we’re all so proud of in this country,” Ross said  “Well, it takes a lot of hard work and sometimes hard choices have to be made. But it’s the price we pay for being the kind of country we are.”

Marlena rubbed her face and then shook her head slightly. “I do understand that our freedom comes at a cost. It’s just, well, sometimes I wonder if the cost isn’t too high.”

Marlena got up and hugged her dad. “Just make sure nothing happens to Jackson. I kinda like having him around, you know.”

“Jackson did one heavy duty project for us. All this amounts to us using his expertise to keep a good woman out  of harm’s way.”

A few minutes later they were driving back home. 

“I think you took that very well.” Jackson said.

“Well there really was no point in getting upset about it. It is what it is. And you are all real patriots as far as I’m concerned.”

“Like your dad said, it’s the cost of freedom.”

“Yeah. Sad but true. Just be careful out there. You’re gonna be more visible this time and you might just make some enemies.”

“Yeah, I thought about that.  I’m gonna grow back my beard and always wear a baseball cap. I’ll just be one of the crew. Hopefully nobody will notice me.”

“Hopefully.” Marlena said as they drove up their driveway.” But there was just enough concern in her voice to make Jackson feel like he really had to keep himself out of the spotlight.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, Missy Felder picked Jackson up and they drove to a house on Drummers Cove Road in Virginia about 40 miles south of the capital. It was a beautiful house on the Potomac River that was one of three homes that Juliette and Elliot Dodge owned. The others were in France and California. 

They were passed through a gate that was guarded by two very formidable looking men, one of who Missy recognized from her Secret Service days

Elliott Dodge, Juliette’s husband was tall, handsome and casually, but expensively, dressed. He showed them into the living room which overlooked the river, where a third guard who was stationed on the dock at the end of their property.

After the introductions, a maid brought in a tray of coffee and set it down on the large table in front of the sofa where the Dodge’s sat. Milly and Jackson took seats on the opposite side of the table. 

Elliott Dodge looked over at Missy. “I understand that you are ex-secret service.”

“Yeah. I left when I had had my fill of the Trumps.”

But the Dodges laughed because they were hard core Democrats and knew exactly what she meant.

“And you, Mr Lyall.” Elliot Dodge said. “What is your role in all of this?”

“Well sir. I spent six of my eight years in the Marines as a sniper. I know how they think. My job will be checking out all the indoor venues and probably a few outdoor venues and  be able to help the security people deploy more effectively.”

“So you think it will be a sniper?” Juliette Dodge asked.

“We don’t know for sure, ma’am. We’re just making sure all the bases are covered.’ Jackson said. “But I would seriously doubt any shooter would want to get too close to you. If this was planned within the intel community, they’d want to make damn sure the shooter got away clean so nothing would blow back on them.”

“I see your point.” Juliette Dodge said. “It’s kind of sad that it’s come to this in America.”

“Yes it is. But you have to play the hand that’s dealt you. If you want to be president, ma’am, you have to get out there and be with the people.”

“I’m not worried about the people. A lot of our research to date indicates that they would welcome a female president.”

“Yeah, I don’t worry about your supporters.” Jackson said. “I worry about whoever has been corrupted by the Republicans to the extent of attempting something like this.”

“You should also know, “Missy said, “That part of our team is working on line to track down the money that has likely changed hands. Missy said. “They are very good. Hopefully, we can nip this in the bud so to speak.”

Juliette Dodge took a deep breath and then smiled. “Well nobody ever said this was gonna be easy.”

“No ma’am they didn’t.’ Jackson said. “But we’ve got our bases covered and hopefully we can, as Missy says nip it in  the bud. Either on line or on site.”

“Do we need more private security?” Elliott Dodge asked. “Because I’m pretty sure there’s no one in the the Secret Service that we can really trust.”

“I would say that a few well-trained people close by would help. But right now, according to Senator Winters, they don’t know that we know what’s going on.” Missy said. “That gives us a bit of an advantage. I will be your bodyguard. Jackson will be disguised as one of the sound crew so his wandering around near the rafters won’t be seen as unusual.”

Juliette Dodge took another deep breath. Jackson watched her closely and didn’t so much detect fear as he did disappointment that someone would resort to assassination to gain political advantage, despite the fact that her own party, just a year earlier did the same thing.

They talked for another few minutes and then Missy gave  Juliette Dodge a phone that was connected only to her. She instructed her to use it for all communications between them.  A few minutes later, Jackson and Missy were on their way back to Richmond.

“So what’s your reading on her?” Missy asked.

“I don’t think she’s scared. Maybe a little, but more disappointed that it’s come to this. You know, that she can’t really trust government security people.”

“Yeah, that’s a pretty good read. We’ll take good care of her. She’s got a lot of common sense and political savvy so I think she’ll mop the floor with whoever the Republicans put up against her.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though Arthur Mitchum was a seasoned Secret Service Agent, he was nervous driving to Philadelphia with half a million dollars in a small suitcase on the floor beside him. The contractor they chose was a Mexican American named Pedro Gonzalez or at least that was the name he went by. They had used him on a couple of jobs in Guatemala and Colombia. He got his training in the Mexican armed forces and was strictly a long-range killer. Deadly accurate from anywhere within a thousand yards. In this case, he would be a lot closer than that. 

Arthur was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican and hated the Democrats and all they stood for. This is how Arthur was raised by his industrialist father who, like most people in
business, strove to make as much profit as possible by thwarting any efforts to unionize and paying the minimum in taxes.

When Arthur was recruited into the Secret Service, his family background was pretty well known. Nothing happened for several years. Then all of a sudden, he was being invited to strategy sessions regarding political assassinations. Shortly thereafter, he came to realize that there were a number of Secret Service people who were vehemently anti-democratic. This certainly was not public knowledge, but Arthur was slowly admitted to a group they called The Brotherhood. They met at each other’s homes once a month to discuss the political situation in the country and how they could make it work to the advantage of the right.

During most of any given presidency there wasn’t a lot they could do. But when it was announced that Juliette Dodge was going to be nominated as the Democratic candidate for president, they swung into action.

Arthur Mitchum, as the newest member of the group was designated to be the bag man for the operation. And so here he was, driving through Baltimore to a small suburb called Chesapeake City, where they met in the parking lot of the C&D Canal Museum.

Gonzalez was sitting on the hood of a vintage Cadillac. He was dressed in black jeans and a denim shirt. He hair was long and tied back. His face was clean-shaven, and he didn’t look anything like a Mexican. More like an Italian, Mitchum thought.

Mitchum got out of his car and the two men shook hands.

“So you’re the bag man, where’s the bag?” Gonzalez said.

There were a few cars in the lot but no people. Mitchum looked around anyway, then retrieved the bag from the front seat of his car. He handed it to Gonzalez who didn’t bother opening it. But tossed it into the backseat of his Caddy. 

Mitchum also handed Gonzalez an iPhone. “We’ll use this to keep you up to speed on any developments and to text you any changes to her schedule. We’ve already uploaded her current schedule so you can scope out the venues. He handed Gonzales a Secret Service Badge. “It’s fake but it will fool any building people you might come across.”

Gonzalez stared at the badge for a moment, then slipped into his pocket.

“Just one more thing.” Gonzales said.

“What’s that?” Arthur replied.

“I need to see your driver’s licence.”

“What the hell for?”

“Insurance, amigo. You’re paying half up front I just want to be sure I get the other half.  Nothing personal but I have been doing this for a while and I have come to realize that ‘trust no one’ is the best business policy.”

“I just gave you half a million that you don’t even have to launder, amigo.” Arthur said sarcastically.

Gonzalez just shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, but this is a deal breaker.”

 Arthur was furious. But he was also backed into a corner and he knew it. So he got out his wallet and showed Gonzales his licence which he took a picture of with the phone he was just given.

“I’m almost certain that you will be good for the other half. But you can never be too careful. If you decide to stiff me, amigo, I will track you down and cut you to ribbons along with your whole family.” Gonzalez said in a tone so matter-of-fact that it was frightening.

“You’ll get your money.”

“I know I will. But now I’m sure of it as I can be. See how that works?”

“They told me you were a little crazy, you know.”

“Well, there you go.” And with that Gonzales got into his car. “Twenty-four hours after the job is done, amigo. We meet right here. If you or someone else with the rest of the money doesn’t show, things will get very unpleasant…for you.”

Gonzalez dropped the car into gear and took off leaving Arthur Mitchum furious, but helpless.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day. Marlena drove to her father’s house. He and Missy were sitting out by the pool with a pitcher of Margaritas. Missy poured one for Marlena, who took a sip and then set the glass down

“I just want you to know,” Marlena said. That I’m not a big fan of what you’re doing. Not on this project but before, you know when you killed all those asshole right-wing fanatics. But I had a long talk with Jackson about it last night and I believe that what you are doing is a right thing. There’s too much evil in this country and…I guess…you know, somebody has to be chipping away at it.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, sweetie,” Ross said. “This has been the case for the whole of my career. It’s sad to say but this country is constantly on the verge of spinning out of control. Our enemies know that and watch us closely, always looking for cracks in the armour. It’s a terrible thing that the world is like that. But all we can do is keep trying to hold things together. There are a few other groups doing the same thing as we are all around the world.”

Marlena took another sip of her Margarita. “OK. That’s what I came to say, and to wish you good luck in protecting Senator Dodge. From what I have seen of her, she sounds like a good person. 

Marlena got up and gave her both dad and Missy hugs.

“Stay safe out there Missy, and keep Jackson safe too.”

“We’ll do our best.” Missy said

“I know you will.” Marlena said and headed back to her car.

~~~~~~~~~~

Over the year and a few months that had passed since Jackson left the Sword of Damocles group, he had done two very successful shows at the viewfinder gallery, which were netting him sales in the low six figures. But because of that success, he was free to make his own schedule and follow his muse. He was quickly becoming known as a people photographer, especially after his show on the Farmers of Delaware. Right now he was in the process of arranging to photograph firemen from New York on down to South Carolina. He was also finding out that he was a pretty good hustler, and that the Fire Chiefs he talked to all agreed that it would be great PR for fire departments everywhere. 

And now that he had Juliette Dodge’s schedule. He could coordinate a certain amount of that work with his assignment for Blue Fin.

Dodge’s campaign route would take her from east to west over the next several months. She would start with several TV appearances to get he known around the country and then she would kick off her campaign in Boston and work her way in a long zig-zag pattern across the country.

Understanding the mindset of the professional killer, Jackson figured that he would strike earlier rather than later in the campaign. Because travelling long distances with a serious weaponry hidden in your vehicle was a high risk situation, So Jackson figured if it was going to happen anywhere, it would be somewhere along the eastern seaboard.

He had had a conversation with Lisa Franklin in Senator Winter’s office and she had paved the way for him to nose around the first venue ahead of time, and had couriered him and Missy staff passes that would allow them to roam freely during the events.

Jackson and Missy had decided to scout the venues together, their first road trip in a quite a while. This time, however it would be in Jackson’s Lexus.

They had scheduled it for the middle of the following week as Dodge’s campaign would start in Boston later that week. So they would spend one day scouting and briefing the security team and the second day at the event with Missy protecting Dodge and Jackson roaming around in the upper levels. From there they would move on to New York City, then Philadelphia. So they would be on the road for the better part of a week and a half. Hopefully, they would get luck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Pedro Gonzalez, whose real name was Raul Santiago, lived with his wife and two teenaged children in an area called Monmouth Beach in New Jersey. They had a beautiful frame house which he bought for cash back when his kids were just babies. His family believed that he was a freelance writer, which explained why he travelled a great deal. 

He was a good dad and an even better husband. His wife was the only other person on earth who knew what he actually did and she was fine with it as long as the money kept coming in. Raul was actually a multi-millionaire, but insisted on maintaining a low profile. Hence the out-of-the-way home in New Jersey. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized by anyone. His disguise was a simple moustache, shades and a ball cap with no logo on it. He drove an older Dodge Lancer to his jobs and always dressed casually so that he would not be noticed for anything odd, different or unique. He was a chameleon and a damn good one.

Gonzalez, too, had Dodge’s schedule and like Jackson and Missy was heading out to scout out the locations, mainly to figure out when there were the very least number of people in the venue he chose.

When it came to weaponry. Gonzalez was a traditionalist. His weapon of choice had always been the AR-15. Mainly  because it was one of the easiest guns to get hold of on the black market. And they were precision-engineered with very little in the way of drift. Plus the AR-15 was the weapon he started with twenty years ago and felt the most comfortable with. His current favorite configuration was with something called a Nosler barrel and 35.9 grain high velocity ammo. It was deadly up to a max of 750 yards.

The AR-15 broke down and assembled easily, which made it easy to stash in his car and smuggle into whatever location had to work in and it did just as much damage as many larger guns, of the same calibre, if you knew your anatomy, which Gonzales did. 

Gonzalez bought all his ammunition from an underground dealer down Highway 9 in a town called Toms River. This dealer was plugged into the black market and could get Gonzalez just about anything he was looking for in the way of arms, accessories or munitions without any real need for paperwork. It was a cash only business. As long as he kept his shit together, including leaving no trace of himself at whatever the cops determined to be the shooting site, his assassinations would remain unsolved.

The majority of Gonzales’ business came from an ad he would post periodically on the dark web, which is how this group, represented by Arthur Mitchum, who looked to Gonzales like a spook, had found him. He had a handler for a couple of years, but the money was a lot better if you were your own boss. His handler also took jobs that entailed too much long-distance travel which was always a risk. And in America there was more than enough business on the east coast to keep him close to home, which was where his heart was.  

~~~~~~~~~~

The drive to Boston would take Missy and Jackson about ten hours, so they left at around 8 am, arrived in Boston in the late afternoon, got settled in a nice hotel and walked around downtown until they found a restaurant they could both agree on. 

On the way they both talked about how different it was in a live-in relationship. They also talked about lot about the kind of shooter that people in the government security industry would hire. Missy believed that they would designate a single person for contact and that they would probably hire someone off the dark web as opposed to anyone who they would be known to and could turn on them if they were caught.

“I’m not big fan of hard core Republicans,” Missy said. “But they aren’t stupid. And because this possible threat is coming from inside the protection service, they will know a bit about orchestration.”

‘I agree.” Jackson replied. “I was talking to Tuttle about this one day and he believes there are at least a couple dozen of these contractors in various places around the country.” 

“Trouble is that while they might be good, they will turn on you from the moment they get caught and probably have the evidence to back it up and trade for a lighter sentence. That would be, in my opinion at least, the best way to close this whole thing down.” Missy said. “ And I honestly don’t think that Damon and William are gonna find out anything on the online side. Intel people are too smart to try and finesse the money out of their agency’s budget.”

“I agree.” Jackson said. “But if they’re not doing this on line and they’re using a private contractor, there has to be some sort of in person exchange, which is going to expose at least one of them.”

“Good point.” Missy replied. “Sadly, it does nothing to narrow things down. Our best bet is still to be to apprehend and disable this guy before he can do any damage.”

After dinner and a good night’s sleep they drove to the West End where the TD Garden arena was located. This was where both the Boston Celtics basketball team and the Boston Bruins hockey team played. 

The arena manager, a man named Tim Gillespie, met them at the employee’s entrance and gave them a quick tour of the premises.

After he had done that, Jackson asked Gillespie if they could just wander around by themselves for an hour, which he was happy to allow them to do. The arena was set up for basketball, but the Celtics were on a road trip and the court was scheduled to be taken apart that afternoon. Juliette Dodge’s campaign rally, in two days, was the next event scheduled.

Jackson and Missy walked the circumference of the building, under the seats and checked out all the entrances and exits. There were a couple of workmen scattered about repairing some damage to the seats, but other than that the arena was empty. 

“You can see why somebody would chose this as a probable location.” Jackson said. “There are a dozen ways in or out. The guards are gonna have their work cut out for them. They then climbed the stairs up one of the aisles to the very top of the building and again walked the circumference of it. They talked about possible locations where a shooter might position himself and be out of sight. There was also a catwalk that dissected the building, which Gillespie told them was where any repairs or lighting replacements to the scoreboard could be made but that was too visible and too vertical, which made the target much smaller.

They then moved to the far end which they were told would be on the opposite side of the stage during the rally. They sat together in the uppermost row. Jackson took out his range finder. It read a little over little over 350 feet to the lower end of the seats behind the far basket on the court.  

“A hundred and twenty yards. Piece of cake. That’s the upside. Visibility, entry and exit are the downsides.”

Jackson then said nothing for a good minute. “If it were me, I could get in disguised as one of the maintenance or catering crew or even one of the security people. But it’s the fuckin’ gun, you know, Missy. Even if he was using something compact like an AR-15. he’d still have to carry it in or place it beforehand and then carry it out somehow.”

Jackson didn’t know it at the time, but his read on the situation was right on. Gonzales was  planning on coming in as part if the catering crew. But Missy had already called the catering company, the TV stations and the security service for the venue and told them to avoid hiring anyone they had not worked with before, so that eliminated that possibility for Gonzales. 

This meant that he would have to break into the venue early in the morning before the rally and hide himself in the rafters. Getting out after the shooting was solved by simply firing more shots into the crowd and panicking everyone there He would slip out in the mad rush for the exits. It was not an ideal situation, and he really didn’t relish the idea of killing other people besides his target. But a job was a job and a million was a million.

Jackson and Missy went to Gillespie’s office and thanked him for the tour and the time for them to walk the building on their own. 

When Jackson and Missy got back to their hotel, Missy called Phillip Ross and gave him a quick summary. He told Ross that they were going to stay for the rally, which was in two days time.

The next day, Missy went off to visit some friends and Jackson wandered around taking pictures. He particularly liked the harbour. And he visited one of the fire departments and had a brief chat with the Chief who would be only too willing to let Jackson shoot his crews. So he put them on the list for his next shoot.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, Pedro Gonzales arrived in Boston. He drove to a street about a block from the TD Gardens entrance and watched through his binoculars as the Garden’s staff exited and the night guards, three of them, entered. 

He then went and bought some dinner from a Taco truck near one of the parks, and sat in the park reading a book on his Kindle until well after dark. 

He drove to a street about four blocks from the TD Garden The streets were empty as he got out of his car dressed completely in black from top to bottom. He carried no I.D. He had his AR-15 in pieces in his black backpack. He figured there would be one guard stationed at the security desk in the front area of the arena and two others who patrolled the lower level with powerful flashlights. He circled the building sticking close to the wall and out of camera range. He finally came to the employee entrance. He quickly picked the lock and moved inside. The hallway he was in was pitch black. He donned a pair of night vision goggles and carefully made his way to the front row of the hockey arena seating. Both guards were at either end of the building mostly just walking and occasionally flashing their lights up into the seats. This was very haphazard and they were both quite a distance from him as he started to climb the steps to the top of the permanent seating. When he arrived there. He ducked down behind the last row of seats as a beam passed over his head. Half a minute later another beam passed over him. After that, he took a look and saw that the guards were now sitting in the front row having a cigarette.

 He made his way around the upper deck, found the beam he was looking for. It was right in the corner of the building and it was wide enough that he could climb up onto it and when he was in position, he was invisible to the lights being shone up into the corners of the building by the two guards below. Gonzales laid on the beam, removing his night vision goggles and putting them in his backpack. 

Five hours later at 8:00 am the guards left the floor. And for about five minutes there was no activity. He took advantage of the lull to assemble his rifle and clip on the silencer and the Zeiss scope. After he had done that he slipped off the beam and did some stretching. The work he did required both patience and stamina. But most important of all, it required stillness. He drank a bottle of water and then urinated into it, leaving it off in a corner where it was not visible. He then ate an energy bar and climbed back on the beam. 

A few moments later the building started to fill up with the crew who would televise the rally and the lighting and sound people who would set everything up. A stage was lowered from the ceiling after the seats as the far end of the building were moved back toward the wall. Once the stage settled a couple of people started to set up the dias and the microphones. The lighting crews started wheeling in the large lights that would be positioned about 150 feet from the stage. One they were turned on he would be totally invisible from the stage.

He had no idea how many people would be attending this rally. But even if it was a full house, it wouldn’t matter. Once the target went down, all hell would break loose. He would quickly take the gun apart and stuff it in his backpack and join the crowd of people evacuating the building. At least that was the plan.

He wasn't a big fan of shooting over a crowd. Inevitably there would be someone who would hear the gun’s report, even though it was silenced. So he had to be prepared to move quickly and mow down any interference he might encounter, although he didn’t think that would happen. But just in case he had tucked into a shoulder holster a Smith and Wesson 38 Semi-Automatic with a fifteen round clip.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson armed with his FNX pistol and silencer and Missy with her trusty Colt 38 arrived at the TD Garden at around 6 o'clock They sat in a couple of the empty seats while the crew scurried around doing all the last minute things they did. They ate sandwiches from Arby's and drank Diet Cokes. 

“If he’s comin’,” Jackson said, “He’s already here. My guess is is that he is up behind one of the corner beams farthest from the stage. That’s where I’d be. So I’m gonna hang around up there and see I can spot him. He’s gonna have to make himself a little visible in order to actually fire the shot. He also may not even be here at all. He’s got lots of opportunities to choose from.”

“That’s true,” Missy said. “But you know the longer he waits the greater the chances that something on the other end will fuck up. And like you said, this is an ideal site.”

As they were talking and eating they noticed that the crew had stopped running around. The lights were set. The banners were hung. The security people were taking their positions and audience was starting to file in. 

Jackson and Missy put on their headsets and activated their phones so they could talk to one another. They gave each other a high five. Missy set off for the stage to direct traffic. Jackson moved down to the far end of the venue in a line of people entering, and took the stairs to the top row, where he sat along along the far right side. He figured if the shooter was where he thought he would be, he want to be able to fire from the right-hand side of the corner beam that grounded the roof of the building where he was hidden. From where Jackson was sitting he would have a clear view of him. He didn’t intend to kill the shooter but instead try and do some damage to either his scope or his arm and disable him. This would, he believed, cause the shooter to abandon the weapon and flee. He also assumed that the shooter would have a pistol as well. So if Jackson got the chance he also would aim for the arm or shoulder or leg. The idea was to take him alive. He had very little doubt that they could find out who exactly was paying him to do this unless that happened. 

Jackson realized that he was once again involved in the shooting business, but after his meeting with the security people and getting the lay of the interior of the building, he realized he could not trust any of them to make the kind of shot that needed to be made to bring this person down.

His whole theory was a lot of supposition, and not even necessarily a situation that Jackson found ideal. 

No. It was down to him and the shooter. Missy had made sure they both had vests, so if it came to a gunfight his torso at least would be protected.

Jackson watched the beams closely, looking for any sign of movement from behind either one. He was sitting on an aisle seat about five rows from the top and one section in from the rear. He glanced down and saw the floor seats filling up. He saw a band filing in and taking up positions in front of the stage. He saw a tech come out and test the microphones. He saw photographers all along the front row chatting with each other. He saw lighting guys climbing up to their lights. He saw curtains behind the stage rustling. Then he saw Missy appear on the stage. She stood in the centre of the stage about ten feet behind the dias. She then went to the microphone stand and looked out over the crowd that was now beginning to fill the stadium seats.

Through his headset heard Missy’s voice. “Where are you Jackson?”

“Five rows from the top corner to your left.’ Jackson said. “I’ve got a good view of both corners. If he’s here I reckon he’s on your right. So if you have to take her off the stage, go left and go fast.”

“Roger that. Let me know the second you spot him. I’ll get her off the stage.”

“That might not be necessary, especially if I can disable either his sight or his arm.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Roger that.”

The crowd was now starting to fill the lower stadium seats. Jackson got up out of his seat and walked along the pathway around the far side away from the corners were he thought the shooter would be.

He met a security guard who was patrolling the, mostly paying attention to the people entering the upper level seating. 

“I reckon he will be up behind one or the other of those corner beams.” Jackson said. “I’m going to try and disable the sight on his weapon. I really want to take him alive. If he gets past me for any reason. I want you to follow him at a distance. He’ll try and get to his car if he gets out. Let him go and get the plate number of his car. We can find him from that. Don't try and apprehend him. He’s likely to have a smaller gun and he will know how to use it.”

“Sounds like a plan.” the guard said. “I’m not big on getting shot.Nobody is,” Jackson looked at his ID badge. “Ron.”

 “I’ll stay around where I can see the exit door,” the guard said.

“Good.”

The guard started to walk the other way. Jackson looked down and watched the arena fill up. As he watched, it felt like water rising as the people filled the seats below him. They were a good half hour away from the beginning of the speech. The band had started to play. Jackson kept his focus on both the corner beams looking for any sign of movement.   

~~~~~~~~~~~

Behind the right beam, which was the farthest from Jackson, Gonzales listened as the crowd noise grew in volume. He heard the band in front of the stage as they started playing. But he wasn’t prepared to move until the lights went down and he was in total darkness behind them.

Jackson watched the corners closely standing beside the doorway to the stairs that led down from the upper level. The lower levels were filled, so people started filing in beside him. They walked past him and paid little attention as they scrambled for the lowest seats.

Jackson spoke into his headset. “This is gonna be tight because if he is here, he’s not gonna make a move until the house lights go down and the spotlights come on. Once he’s in the dark he’ll get himself in position and I should be able to take out the sight on his gun. That will get him running for the exit and give me a clear shot at his leg. Hopefully, he goes down and I can get whatever gun he has away from him.

“You sure you can make that shot with your pistol.” 

“Yeah, there’s a railing that goes all the way around behind the seats. I can anchor myself on that. If I miss getting hitting the sight, you’ll have a few seconds. I’ll let you know and you get her off the stage as quickly as you can.”  

 Jackson waved to Missy who was still standing on the stage. “I see you. Will do.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s here. This setup is ideal. He’d be a fool not to capitalize on it.” 

“OK, Jackson. Make it happen.”

“That’s the plan Missy.”

Missy walked off the stage and headed down to the dressing room where Juliette Dodge was being made up. Her husband sat on a chair a few feet away, reading a newspaper.

“Jackson is up in the highest level of the seats. He’s found the most likely position that any professional shooter would take. He not going to know for sure until the lights go down and you take the stage. Now if the shooter is there, he will have to reveal himself at which point Jackson will fire a shot into his rifle sight and make him blind. If this guy is a pro, He will not try a wild shot, but focus on getting his ass out of the building and live to do the job another day. Jackson will then disable him with a shot to the thigh. We want him alive, so we can root out these conspirators.”

“That makes sense. But it’s gonna require some good shooting isn’t it?’ Elliot Dodge said. 

“Yes sir, it is. But Jackson, well he’s the simply best shooter I have ever seen and I have seen quite a few over the years. The key is that he won’t try a shot until you are behind the dias and standing relatively still. So if you come out and walk around, greet the audience, and keep moving, even for ten seconds that will give Jackson the time he needs.”

“You have a lot of faith in your partner.” Juliet Dodge said.

“Yes, ma’am, I certainly do. But the choice is up to you.”

“Why don’t we just get all the security people up there and surround him.” Elliot Dodge asked.

“He a professional killer. His first instinct would be to shoot his way out. There’s no telling how many people will get killed or injured if he does that, because we don’t know what kind of gun he has.”

“Okay…well.” She thought about it briefly. “If that’s how we play it, that’s how we play it. I just want this over and done.” Juliette Dodge said. She looked over at her husband who took a deep breath and nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson moved into what he believed would be an optimal position to get a good shot off. The arena was filled except for the top three rows. After a moment, the lights went down and the spotlights came up. The crowd started cheering and applauding, Jackson stared into the darkness. After about ten seconds his eyes adjusted. He fastened his silencer and leaned into the railing from the second step down. He focused on the left right side of the left balustrade because he didn’t really know of any shooter who shot left handed. He chambered a mercury tipped 30 calibre bullet and stood perfectly still. He bent his knees so that his gun, rested on  to railing, was at his eye level. He slowed his breathing and he waited. Down on the stage, the Mayor of Boston, William Macklin walked out to the dias. He spoke into the microphone. Jackson tuned him out as he introduced Juliette Dodge. She had no yet taken the stage.

Suddenly his eye caught a small reflection in the dark. It  was a reflection in the glass of Gonzales’ scope. Jackson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Just then, the crowd erupted as Juliette Dodge came on stage. Missy shadowed her from ten feet behind.

Jackson took aim at the reflection and gently squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the gun and a fraction of a second later it  exploded in the scope, knocking Gonzales backwards
to the floor behind the corner beam. 

Four seconds later,, Jackson caught a glimpse of a shadow running to the right from out behind the beam He tracked the shadow for several feet then fired. He hit Gonzales in the thigh and he went down. His pistol made a metallic noise as it hit the floor, and slid out of Gonzales’s reach. Jackson was up the steps and running towards the figure in black, splayed out on the floor. 

Juliet Dodge got behind the dias and began her presentation

When he got to Gonzales he dropped a knee into the centre of his back causing him to wince. Jackson pulled a set of plastic cuffs and tied Gonzales’ hands together behind his back. Gonzales didn’t resist. He knew he was caught so there was no point. He then touched his earpiece. “Send up the cops, Missy. He’s down and under control.

“Roger that, Jackson.”

Jackson pulled two more long plastic ties from his bag and hooked them to each other. He then wrapped it around Gonzales’s upper thigh to slow the bleeding from the bullet. Gonzales made no sound other than his laboured breathing when his leg was tied off Jackson turned him over and sat him up against the wall. 

Gonzales’s expression was blank.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Just an educated guess. I was a marine sniper. It’s what I would have done. More logic than magic.” Jackson said.

“I always believed that myself. Thing is I was told that nobody even knew about this.” 

“Dude. It’s Washington. Everybody eventually knows everything.”

As Jackson and Gonzales waited for the police to arrive, they listened to some of Juliette Dodge’s speech. Then Gonzales said. “You know they’re just gonna find somebody else.”

“Not if you want to be a good citizen.”

“Cooperation always comes with a price. But I will definitely consult with my attorney.” 

“You do that, pal.” Jackson said. “But just remember they’ve got as much reason to want you dead as we have to want you alive.”

“Yeah, well…”

Jackson went through Gonzales’ bag and found a set of keys, which he pocketed. He found nothing else but the disassembled AR-15, a bottle of water and some granola bars.

Just then, four Boston police officers arrived. Jackson got to his feet and explained the situation to them. “He’s got a nine millimeter slug in his thigh, no major bleeding. Other than that he looks to be OK.” Jackson said. He nodded at Gonzales. “Don’t forget what I just told you, amigo.”

Jackson walked away and headed down to the floor. “We got him, Missy.” The Boston cops have taken him to a hospital to get his leg fixed up. This is a pretty cut and dry case of attempted murder. I think we can plea bargain a name out of him.”

“Nice work, Jackson.”

“I also got his car keys. I’m gonna go look for his car and see what kind of goodies he has stashed there.I don’t think there’s any more danger here. Sounds like the crowd really loves her.”

“Damn straight.” Missy said then disconnected.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson left the arena and started walking the side streets in a methodical way. At the top of each street he pressed the flasher but on Gonzales’ keychain. Four streets later he found the car parked with a ticket on the windshield.

He opened the car and looked around inside. It was empty. He popped the trunk and found a beautifully tooled leather shoulder bag. In it was Gonzales’ wallet, a couple of spare magazines for his rifle and what looked to be a high end burner phone. He took the bag and closed up the car and locked it and walked back to the arena. He didn’t open the phone or even touch it. That would be Phillip Ross’ department.

He entered the stadium and went backstage to join Missy standing off to the side, with Elliot Dodge. The crowd was receptive and enthusiastic as Juliette Dodge went through all the reasons that she should be president to carry on the work of the Claybourne administration. 

The crowd was with her all the way. 

~~~~~~~~~~

At the end of the speech Juliette Dodge flopped down in her dressing room chair. She was pooped. Jackson and Missy were sitting on a sofa behind here. She turned in the chair and took a deep breath. 

“That was the roughest gig I’ve ever done.” She said after she swivelled to look at Missy and Jackson. 

They all got up and had themselves a little group hug. 

“I quite literally couldn’t have made it through without you” She hugged both Missy and Jackson. Elliot Dodge shook their hands warmly.

“You know we’re gonna need some more security as we roll along.” Elliot Dodge said.

“That can be arranged.” Missy said.

Jackson replied. “I found a burner phone in Gonzales’ car. I’m pretty sure this will get us the identity of at least one of the group. After that, it should be fairly short work to put  them all out of business.” 

Missy turned to Juliette Dodge. “This might take a few days, so it would be better if you just laid low until we have these clowns in custody. We got lucky tonight. Best not to push it.”

“I’m all for staying alive.” Juliette Dodge replied.

“Good.” Missy said. “Because from the sounds of things out there you’re gonna have a country to take care of.”

Missy and Jackson were famished, so they decided to treat themselves to one of the most expensive dinners in Boston, which just happened to be in their Hotel. It was called The Sporting Club and they blew more than $200 on the best dinner they had had in a long time.

~~~~~~~~~~

On their way out of Boston the next day, Missy and Jackson stopped off at the hospital where Gonzales was being held. There were two armed guards sitting outside the room. Inside there was a third armed guard. Gonzales was sitting up in bed reading the Boston Globe.

“Well, well, well. If it’s not Dead Eye dick.” Gonzales said. 

“I hear they got the bullet out and repaired the ligament damage too. At least you’ll be able to walk around the prison yard, maybe even play some hoops.” Jackson said.

Gonzales looked over at Missy. “And who might you be?”

Missy just chuckled. “ Listen, Pedro,” she said. “You still have a chance to come out of this with less time. Just give us a name. We’ll tell everybody how cooperative you’ve been and who knows?”

Gonzales just smiled. But he was thinking about it. 

“You’ve found my phone by now, I assume.” he said.

“Yeah, we have.” Jackson replied.

“Well there’s a picture on it of a DC driver’s licence That’s the gringo who was the bag man. He gave me half the money, which you will never find and the lady VP’s schedule. I figure he's the low man on the totem pole. You get him to flip and you’ll get the whole gang. How helpful is that.”

“Well,” Missy said, “We’ll see what strings we can pull. We have a few.”

“I imagine you do if you could take me down.”

“So long Pedro.” Jackson said as they turned to leave.

 

It was about nine PM the next day when they pulled up to Phillip Ross’s house and they both went inside. Missy gave Ross a huge hug and a kiss. 

“The name checked out.” They took him into custody this afternoon. He cut a deal and blew the whole gang to smithereens.”

Jackson smiled. “Smithereens. I like it.”

“Great work both of you, especially you Jackson. I know this was only supposed to be a recon job.”

“Yeah well, shit happens. I honestly can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

“I think I can squeeze extra half million for both of you. The senator sends his regards. He’s a very happy camper.”

“Whatever you think is fair.” Jackson said. He kissed Missy on the cheek and shook Phillip Ross’s hand. 

On the way home he thought about all the ways he could spin the story to keep Marlena from getting pissed. But by the time he was in the door, he had nothing but the truth. 

And he got paid for it with a pretty solid left hook to his upper arm. Then he got a hug.

FIN