Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“You’re on,” Darren said with his own mischievous look toward the kitchen. A sound from the front room, though, drew his attention away.

Moises Griggs stopped a few feet inside the house, his eyes going left toward the dining room. Who the hell are you?

“Moises,” Darren said, loud enough that Felicia was passing him in a split second.

“Moises!” Felicia stopped a foot from her son and reached gingerly for him, laying a hand on his dirty jacket.

Darren swallowed hard, wanting to both cry and scream. But he could do neither. There was only one thing he could do. “It’s good to have you home, son.”

Moises looked away from his father, and avoided his mother’s stare altogether. He did, however, give the two strangers in the dining room a curious look. But there was no time for introductions, and no need for them. “I’m not staying long. I just came to get some clothes.”

“No!” Felicia shrieked. “Moises!” Her hands grabbed at the soiled collar of his jacket. “You can’t!”

Anne pressed past the two men and came up on Felicia easily from behind, easing two hands on her shoulders. The stare of the young man fell on her as he peeled his mother’s hands from his clothing.

Darren glared at his son. You little bastard. If I…

“Felicia, come on,” Anne said as the woman’s head dropped, tears already dropping to the floor.

Darren started to step forward, but a hand pressed firmly on his chest. He looked left into the eyes of Art Jefferson. They were pained. Filled with a sort of rage, even, but in control. Control . That was what was needed now.

Moises left the front room and headed for his bedroom down the hall. Art was a few steps behind.

“Are you an actor?”

Moises jerked his head back from where he knelt next to his dresser. “What?”

“Nice performance out there,” Art commented, stepping into the boy’s room. “It takes a good actor to put on a tough-guy show like that. Especially for your mother.”

Moises looked away and stuffed assorted pieces of clothing into a large gym bag.

“Are you a tough guy?”

“Fuck yourself.”

Anatomically impossible, Art thought, and so common as an insult that it no longer held even the slightest sting. “Tough guys are an interesting bunch, you know? They can talk up anything. Make themselves sound tougher than stone. But that’s all words, son.”

“Excuse me?” Moises said caustically. “Were you talking?” And I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son.

Art reached under his jacket and unclipped his shield from his belt, tossing it on the bed close at the boy’s side. “I know tough.”

Moises paused and looked at the badge, shifting only his eyes to do so. FBI?

“You wanna know tough? I can tell you tough.” Art walked forward and picked up his shield.

“Look, I’m getting outta here. Okay? I just gotta go.” Moises continued his packing. “I just gotta…”

“Those people out there care about you, and I barely know them. I can see it.”

They’re weak.

“They’ve been through a lot.”

Tanya went through more.

“They just want to help.”

They just want to forget. I can’t. Moises took a little cash that he had stashed in a drawer and shoved it in his pocket before zipping up the gym bag. He stood and turned to leave, but Art Jefferson was blocking his path. “You can’t make me stay.”

“This isn’t the way, son,” Art said, recognizing the look in the boy’s eyes. He knew what came from that kind of look.

Moises pushed his way past the much taller man and headed back toward the front room, a loud cry from his mother preceding the slamming of the front door by just a second.

“Dammit,” Art said to himself. If there was one thing the world didn’t need it was another black kid gone over the edge to waste his life. But he was witness to just that occurrence. He knew it. And he was powerless to stop it. “Goddammit.”

Thirty .45-caliber rounds spat from the fat, suppressed barrel of the Ingram M-11 in less than two seconds, chewing up the squat trunk of the felled juniper.

“Whoa,” Moises exclaimed calmly, though clearly enamored of the power projected by the compact submachine gun.

Darian ejected the spent magazine as smoke wafted from the business end of the Ingram and inserted a full one. He held it out to Moises. “Here. Try it.”

Moises took hold of the weapon by its pistol grip, which ran perpendicular to the box-shaped body indicative of the Ingram and that doubled as the magazine housing. His off hand held the cylindrical suppressor, which was covered by a pad intended to dissipate the thermal energy radiated during firing. “I pull this back, right?”

“Right,” Darian said, pointing to the rounded cocking lever atop the weapon. “That’ll load a round.”

Moises chambered the first .45 ACP round and tightened his grip on the weapon, both hands squeezing tight. Too tight.

“Ease up, Brother Moises. Control is what you want. You don’t have to hold it as tight as a baseball bat.”

“Okay.” Moises looked around the desolate clearing, hidden from the hilly road north of the city by a row of thick vegetation, searching for a target. The headlights of the Buick illuminated another juniper stump a few yards beyond the one just mutilated. He shifted his feet like a batter digging in for leverage and guess-aimed from a low hold, then squeezed the trigger.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

“Man!” Moises said loudly as the empty weapon stopped bucking. “Whoa. That is awesome.” He looked closely at the target, which was not quite as torn up as the one Darian had taken under fire.

“Not bad,” Darian commented, taking the Ingram back. “Pretty good shooting.”

“That thing has a kick.”

“A big-ass kick,” Darian expanded. “But it hits harder on the receiving end.”

“No kidding.”

Darian inserted a fresh magazine and handed the weapon back again. “You should hear the sound without the suppressor on.”

Moises’ fingers scratched at the padded cylinder. “The silencer, you mean?”

“Incorrect term, Brother Moises. But unimportant right now. You’ll learn plenty about weapons and how to use them right, and with the most effect. Right now you’ve just got to get used to it.”

“Is this what we’re going to use tomorrow?” Moises asked.

Darian nodded. “You’ll have one, and I’ll have one.” He paused for a moment, studying the boy’s face carefully. “You’re ready for this?”

“I’m ready.” Moises pulled the cocking lever back and quickly chose a new target, laying thirty rounds on and around it in a flash. A cloud of dust billowed from the ground and drifted through the blazing beams emanating from the front of the Buick. He ejected the empty and held it out for his leader. For the man he was beginning to think of as a father. “Gimme another, Brother Darian.”

“Right on, Brother Moises,” Darian said, smiling. A soldier was coming of age right before his eyes, and there could be no more beautiful sight than that. Other than the one they were going to create in the morning.

John Barrish had his own personal instrument of power in hand at the same moment, though his preparations were of a quieter variety. He had cleaned the silenced Beretta thoroughly over the last hour, checking for dirt and rust, aligning the sound and flash suppressor at its front end, working the action. He loaded three magazines, each with thirteen rounds of .380-caliber hollow-point, also known as 9mm short. In reality, though, he would need only two rounds. Hopefully. But if more were needed, he would use them without hesitation.