Fireteam Spectre: “Close one door…”
The street lamps were dim and yellow; the few that worked hardly provided enough light to keep the streets safe at night. Jackson kept his eyes roaming while he canvassed the area from the safety of his Honda. Counting the illicit customers coming and going from the yellow house on the corner of Third and Elm, seeing no apparent pattern at this time of night, but all the same the plan did not matter to whatever pattern the customers took, there were no innocents in this equation.
Each man and woman entering and leaving made their choices long ago. He was not there to play judge or jury, far from it. There was a wrong that lead him to this house, a wrong that needed a solution and an endgame lest it destroy him along with Emily.
This was not the ideal situation, not enough homework had been done, if he were doing this a few years ago there would be no chance this plan would move forward. But saying there were not some good signs to go with the ultimate folly he was about to engage, there were at least no guards walking any perimeter, all the defenses were likely inside the house, manned by strung out addicts. Jackson tapped his fingers to a rhythm that entered his mind hours ago with no apparent trigger as the radio never had power applied. Waiting for the clock to change past one, all of these things had a plan or a place to play into his idea of how everything should work out, and it was paramount he not get too excited to deviate. If anything else, this was another operation, though the payday might be larger if the customers paid in cash.
He would be shit out of luck if most of the women that walked through those doors paid through sexual favor, though. Pain and suffering would surely help, but it would not be just pain that brought on a feeling of retribution tonight.
Only ten minutes left to kill. His mind controlled his actions at this point and he switched to the habits the Army instilled in him through years of training before the missions they sent for him. His nine-millimeter strapped to his left leg — the backup weapon of choice — was snuggly in place with a magazine inserted and a round already chambered for full effect. He had three other magazines fully loaded and housed in the slots in his thigh holster, a stray finger pressed down on each of them one at a time to ensure there was no play in the spring that each magazine was filled to capacity.
His primary .45ACP sat in the passenger seat next to him, the magazines were in the same condition as the nine-millimeter, just strapped to his right leg nothing else to keep them separate. As his fingers finished their physical inventory his mind started to clear and focus in like a steel trap, shut on in his targets. The excitement calmed and he took a deep breath, telling himself it was just another job, if he were in the Army they would’ve sent him to Bogota to do the exact same thing, why would it be so illegal in this country?
The streets were clear, the street lamp about thirty feet in front of his car had been long extinguished by disuse and abuse was perfect to hide his face from anyone that might try and see him through the darkness. If of course, they weren’t strung out on whatever drugs that were changing hands.
He used the darkness and walked freely, despite having the weapons strapped to both legs. Jackson kept his walk slow and deliberate, walking across the street and between the Yellow house and its neighbor, the wrought iron fence was barely standing in his way, without much effort he could have easily tossed it to the ground but the noise would not do his situation well. He watched as another couple of people — teenagers — walked out of the front door and he knew there was too much traffic to go unnoticed by walking in the front door. He continued to walk slowly past the Yellow house and turned the corner. Dogs were guarding their fences like good instruments they were purchased for, there would be no use in making them mad, and it would only cause too much noise.
Instead, he chose to walk through the back alley, there was less foot traffic than in the front of the house, but judging from the look of the passed out Heroin junkie with a needle still sticking out of his arm this alley wouldn’t be totally empty either. His black boots crushed a broken glass figurine of some sort, he stopped all his motion and held steady for a count of fifteen and with his hand ready to rise at the sign of any hostile movement he was relieved that he had only been paranoid.
His heart was racing; he needed to calm it down if he was going to continue to think clearly. Jackson pushed his back against one of the garages in the alley and took a few long and slow deep breaths that he hoped would calm him, as they usually did. Only finding a partial relief this time, and if this was a mission like any other, why was it so hard to calm himself down and keep his mind clear?
The answer was simple of course, this was personal. Everything he’d ever done for the Army was a faceless target, but every junkie he watched today wore Emily’s face. John would severely disapprove.
The yellow house was never far out of his sight, only a few more paces to go now to find his route into the rear door and he stopped short to take a look at what he would be soon facing. Several men — the mixed races destroying the stereotype he had firmly held in his mind — a muscular kid no older than twenty and two others, a beaded Hispanic and an overweight white kid maybe seventeen or younger all hunched over on the back stoop, smoking what smelled to be normal tobacco but there was something else in the air, something far more industrial than just the odor of a cigarette. His experience with the drug trade didn’t include some of the more garden variety homeboy mixtures of Methamphetamines or whatever people cooked in their bathtubs these days, but he was sure he wasn’t smelling anything natural, it almost had a bleach odor to it, whatever the case it wasn’t going to survive the night.
A screen door opened and a woman walked out and he immediately recognized the face of his step sister. He sighed and checked the area around him to make sure no one heard him. This wasn’t going to go well when he saw her in the hospital like Emily. His heart slowed and he pulled the ski mask over his face and adjusted the wool to make sure he didn’t hurt his field of vision.
There was no fence in his way, a strange thing that he would likely ponder about later. He walked deliberately up to the laughing trio all taking their turns molesting his twenty-eight year old stepsister. They were all having a good time, surely they were all strung out or coming off something, the drug scene was something he never understood.
The clean-faced black kid saw him first, but never got a sound out of his mouth. The butt of Jackson’s pistol struck him first and he tumbled off the stoop, his skull cracking on the pavement below but before Elizabeth could scream she suffered a fate similar to her black friend as the pistol slapped her face. Metal chimed against the skin and bone of her right cheek, she too toppled over and her unconscious body coiling against itself and the pavement. The Hispanic were more upset over the hand jobs that had ceased more than Lizzy’s condition but by the time they could turn to say their piece to Jackson the only saw a .45 pistol staring them down.
Jackson didn’t want these kids to die for Emily; the Hispanic made the mistake of speaking a word and the brass knuckles Jackson wore on his offhand shattered his upper jaw and sent teeth flying out of his mouth. Hunched over and bleeding, the white kid made a dash for the door, never bothering to tuck away the cock hanging out of his pants. Jackson couldn’t allow the stoner to warn anyone of his presence, and grabbed the kid by the overly long hair and jerked his head back. Part of the kids scalp came off in his hand and Jackson pounded the off-hand armed with brass into his face twice, silencing the kid seconds before a single though could be turned to voice.
Three boys down within a blink of an eye that felt of an eternity, Lizzie was alive at least, the others were bleeding and would likely live through the night but wish they had not. The first obstacle finished, none of these boys were running anywhere to say anything to call for reinforcements.
The body count, 3 non-fatals, so far and counting.
* * *
Jackson stepped into the kitchen two guns were drawn on him the moment two black haired Mexicans put eyes on his mask. They never stood a chance, two silenced bullets were sent through their air and both their chest before they could touch the trigger. They both fall in unison, thumping to the floor in a bloody mess over the black and white tile. Someone’s grandmother would be pissed in the morning.
He moved on, the dining room was small; only a small group of groupies lay naked with track marks up both arms and one girl with a needle sticking from her thigh. He shook his head, firing another round at a kid who walked in at just the wrong time. He screamed out and there was no helping it now, stealth was gone it was now about speed. Jackson took a mental count, three bullets out of a magazine of fifteen and a round already chambered, thirteen to go.
Jackson’s stepped into the room dressed as a silhouette, the only color to be seen were the hate-filled brown eyes peering through the ski mask. He walked into the TV room and startled a man finishing a third line of coke. Shirtless and surprisingly still wearing pants, despite the groupie next to him willing to do anything for his share of the coke, Jackson put a bullet in both their brains. Their useless bodies tumbled to the carpeted floor, one atop the other in a bloody mess, blood leaking from their open mouths.
Eleven to go.
The first level of the house was as secure as it was going to get for the moment, and he took a chair from the kitchen table and slid the frame of the chair under the knob of the door, he’d clear the top level before moving into the likely place where the manufacturing took place. The bloody mess soaking into the brown carpet vanished as Jackson shut out the lights, blanketing the entire first floor in darkness as he moved from room to room.
The lower level bedroom was of no surprise, a woman half lucid crawled up on the bed after finishing servicing the man that lay unconscious, “What do you have for me?”
Jackson slapped her face with the butt of his pistol grip, the prostitute toppled to the floor with the grace of a noodle and the cracking sound of her anorexic ribs sent a shiver down his spine. He almost felt sorry for her, but he shut the door behind him and moved on, leaving the mattress to soak up the blood from the emptying cranium of the serviced male.
* * *
The steps made a creaking sound with every step he took. He took each step with a successive quickening pace, keeping his pistol raised and knowing of the ten shots left in his first magazine. Three doors remained closed, the sound of the first breaking off its hinges likely altered the others but it was the screaming — such a womanly voice — coming from the throat of a woman with an Adam’s apple that would cause the most ruckus. It was a slaughter for the three of them; they hadn’t enough time to reach for anything but cries for mercy but Jackson sent well placed rounds center mast in their chest without a second thought and turned to see a screaming naked man rushing toward him.
His foot shut the door in the rushing druggie’s face, the slab of wood surely breaking something in the kids’ face, but the pain never stopped him. Jackson backed against a wall, letting the crazed asshole run at him, sending the brass knuckles into his nose and a knee to his groin. It made the fucker back off some but he didn’t stop until a bullet pierced his neck. Gagging, the punk fell to the floor, his blue tinted hair mixed with red as his body toppled and his hands reached for the source of the bleeding, smearing his crimson liquid all over his face.
It was disgusting, the sight of the kid dying like that, it was as though he had no idea he was dying, just experiencing some bad trip.
Jackson approached the third door, still closed he almost feared the addicts calling the police, though clarity fixed the momentary though and he carefully touched the knob. Pushing the door open with his foot, he spun around and used the wall for protection even after nothing happened. The room was devoid of life, only face masks, and cardboard boxes stacked in the far side of the room and a long table with rows of packaged heroin and cocaine.
The Stash room, excellent.
He checked the top level and within minutes he was sure there was no one left inside, living. Taking a few steps down the stairs he crept quietly back toward the basement.
* * *
Someone was wrestling with the knob, trying to find a way out screaming for help. A deep voice pushed through the wooden door and Jackson’s mind echoed with a small laugh, they were all sitting ducks down there and no one had an idea what was going on. Silencers were a godsend.
Jackson put his back to the wall; the peep hole he missed the first time he passed the door would ruin the surprise if the man trying to get out saw him. Life would not be pleasant with witnesses to his crime spree.
With a solid kick, Jackson pushed the chair out of the way and the door flung open. A male, roughly five foot seven inches and one hundred fifty pounds burst through the door. Jackson sized him up the moment his eyes made contact. The wide eyed drug pusher — completely sober — filled with fright but a chair came crashing down on his head, he never saw the masked man that threw it. Tumbling backward, the pusher was dazed enough for Jackson to shove another chair against the knob and force it shut before anyone else came up the stairs.
The intruder pushed his gun into the homeowner’s face, but the pain of the chair hitting his face and head were enough to keep him compliant without the threat of death alone. Jackson took him by the arm and slung him like a rag doll across the bloodied floor and into the darkened TV room. Lifting him off the floor, the homeowner slipped in the blood-soaked carpet but Jackson had no trouble putting a knife to the criminal’s neck and pushing the man against the wall. “You aren’t the only one that trades in death, friend.”
The criminal had nothing to say, staring into the masked face of Jackson, knowing full well this was no gang turf war gone wrong. He coughed up, “I give people what they want,” blood choked from his throat. “You gonna kill me for that? I don’t drag anyone against their will, ya know.”
“You’re useless,” Jackson grunted, slicing the man’s throat with the blade and following through with a jab to the heart, using pure anger to pierce through the man’s ribcage as though it never existed at all.
He turned his back after he removed the knife and put it back into the kitchen sink with the water running. He returned to the basement steps, kicking the chair out of the way and calling down, “Hey! What the fuck is going on up here!”
Jackson hears a number of people grabbing for weapons, sliding weapons across wooden tables and he’s more than ready. He shuts the door and a metal ball bounces down the steps just as a horde comes running. The run right into the line of fire, dropping one by one three of them fall before they know the buddy in front of them just took a bullet to the face. Jackson shuts the door and swaps magazines, before chambering the last round from his first. A pair of feet stumbles up the steps slipping through blood but he makes it through the door and Jackson has him by the throat before he knows what is going on.
“What the…” he tries to curse but Jackson’s grip chokes the air out of his throat.
One-handed, full of adrenaline, Jackson pushes the man across the kitchen table, smacking his head on the hardened wood. “Perhaps you can tell me, is all this worth the money you bring in?”
Jackson pours on the light, letting his blood stained visage stand over him like a demon come to call. “Do you enjoy the money, the death, the pain, or the dying?”
“What the fuck,” the criminal coughs, “what the fuck kind of question is that?”
He tries to get up but a silenced round through his inner thigh is enough to make him scream and collapse. “It’s the money right? Easy money?”
He doesn’t answer and Jackson puts the gun to the criminal’s head. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
There is no use, no answer would ever be good enough anyway and Jackson squeezes the trigger splattering grey matter and blood on the wall across from the kitchen table, not far from where the basement door is left open.
“No use at all,” Jackson mutters, holstering the weapon and returning up the stairs to inspect what these criminals left behind without a final will and testament to be claimed.
* * *
He pulled his car into the lot behind the yellow house, safe from the street and after changing the license plate he quickly ran back inside and up to the second floor and three trips later had the boxes all lining his trunk. Leaving the drugs behind, he wanted nothing of them, he took twenty minutes to clean every bullet out of the flesh of his victims.
His body count was higher than he thought, but there was not a moment of remorse in his thoughts. He stood back and shut out all the lights in the house. There was no need to look into the eyes of all the dead faces staring up into the air. Though it was a curious thought, almost every dead face looked to heaven as though it pleaded for entry, but like him, there was no place in heaven for people like them.
He stepped outside, leaving his step sister to her fate and returning to his car. The trunk was difficult to close, but he forced it shut after the third try. It was stuffed to the rim, and Jackson didn’t look back for a moment he just put his foot on the gas the second the started ignited the engine. He drove around the neighborhood cautiously and made sure the streets were still clear and he didn’t stick to a particular patter that could be traced by anyone nosey enough to take notice.
There were only three lights that stopped his progress to the other side of town. It was strange how every traffic light was on his side on his drive through town, even downtown it seemed as though he spent less than half the amount of time even without traffic. He kept driving, taking a second to pass a somber thought as he passed the hospital Emily slept in and putting his mind back on track when it was out of sight. The radio blared and he almost celebrated. But there was still too much to do, and he knew too much to let himself get complacent now.
Thirty miles pass before Jackson steps out of his car. His weapons aren’t traceable, the beauty of his former line of work, but all the same he tosses the bloody evidence down the bridge holding over the Ohio River. He can’t stay too long, lest a cop see him. The palm of his hand carries the battered casing of lead ball ammunition destroyed after finding an impact with a human body or another, but there are no trophies in this line of work. He rears back and tosses them away, along with the ski mask and the gloves.
The car rolled away quietly, too early in the morning for anything but a few truckers to be on the road at this time of day. He stopped worrying when he crossed the state line, but never once regretting anything that transpired, but he passed his house and continued driving through the next city and coming to a stop at a driveway with a light on in the corner room.
* * *
Dave was still awake, the man hardly slept a day in his life and like Jackson, Dave spent many restless nights wasting away in the den, reminding himself of the days he would never get back. Jackson walked to the window and tapped three times on the glass, Dave never came to the window or would wonder who was tapping, within a moment he was at the door with a cold beer in hand. “Hey Jack, sorry about yesterday, I heard about Em.”
“S’alright Dave. I think it’s finally alright.”
“Yeah, that’s good news.” He took a drink of his own beer, never thinking to invite Jackson in even though he followed Dave into the house and closed the door behind him. They both walk into the den and shut the door behind them. “I’m guessing you need a favor?”
“Yeah,” Jackson is quick to agree. There was no point to beating around the bush.
“I need you to take my car to your shop and give me a week long repair bill that puts my car in your shop yesterday morning.”
“Okay, that sounds easy enough. Are the cops going to wonder why?”
Jackson nods as he sips down more beer, “They shouldn’t be looking into anything that has to do with me, but at the same time, I need my ass clear.”
“Sure thing, that ain’t hard to do man. You need the spare room?”
They sat back in the chairs they took for themselves, watching two college names beat the tar out of one another in a football game he recorded from earlier in the day. There was nothing quite like hitting Dave’s house. It was like a center of peace in a world full of chaos, John always wondered why Dave was the only one that was doing well after the Army, but Jackson knew. Jackson knew the moment the Army was finished for him Dave would find something simple that kept him happy, kept him busy, and best of all, kept his nose cleaner than the other three of them.
“Thanks man,” Jackson chimed in, though Dave only raised his beer in a silent toast, he wanted to know nothing of why Jackson was calling in a favor, there were just some things that it was better that a friend shouldn’t know. Jackson needed his help, a friend needed his help, to Dave that was all that mattered.
* * *