Чак Хоган - The Standoff

Fagin was standing under a high arc light and watching his marshals suiting up Banish in a BDU, a battle dress uniform, black fatigues and a flak jacket and bulletproof helmet. They were issuing him a 9mm sidearm and having him sign for it.

Fagin said, “This is fucking bullshit.”

He looked at the agents and other marshals standing around them, including ever-present Perkins, and then off to the side, being zipped into a similar black BDU suit, Charles fucking Mellis.

Fagin said, “This is fucking goofy, you following him into the woods like this.”

“The mountain is secure,” Banish said, tugging on his gloves. “He is unarmed. I will be watching him, and your men will be watching us from the trees.”

“Fuck it,” Fagin said. “I’m going too.”

Banish shook his head. “He doesn’t like you.”

“Doesn’t like me? He doesn’t like me? You think I’m up here to fucking meet people?”

“You’re staying behind. And I want all your men pulled back another twenty yards.”

“Fuck that. Fuck it. I’m in charge of security and I won’t allow it.”

Banish accepted his weapon and ejected the clip, thumbing out rounds, counting them. “It’s real simple,” he said. “I am responsible for every man on this mountain. Mellis is the only one who knows where the mine is, and he has agreed to lead me and only me to it. We will climb up the mountain, slip into the no-man’s-land, isolate the trip mechanism, and then back off so you and your men can disable it.”

Fagin said, “He’s bullshitting. He’s stalling or something. He’s full of shit up to his fucking beard.”

Banish said, “If so, then he has nothing to gain except wasting my time. If not, then there’s a tree trunk up there with a projectile mine strapped to it. It’s on a trip wire a raccoon could trigger and it’s facing downhill. That’s a widow-maker, Fagin. These woods are full of agents and marshals. Some may be your men, but all of them are mine. The circumstance here is that, for better or for worse, he trusts me. Things might be different if you had thought a moment before suckering him up there.”

“Fuck him. Fucking piece of trash.”

They handed Banish a flashlight and then the strobe. “What’s this?”

“Infrared strobe,” Fagin said. “So night-vision can pick you up in the trees if we need to, fast. No fucking lights up there still.”

Banish said, “Good. Better cover. And stay off the radio. He’s listening in.”

“Fuck it,” Fagin said, more determined than ever. “I’m going.”

Banish didn’t answer, reloading the 15-clip and popping it back in and tucking the piece into his holster.

Fagin grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “You listen to me. I’ve got a fucking job to do here. The marshals are in charge of security, and I am in charge of the marshals, and that’s that. So don’t talk to me about widow-makers. I’ve lost one man already, and I don’t care who you are, I’m not losing one more. You are not going up there solo and I’m the best fucking man to go with you.”

A voice came up behind Fagin. “I’ll go.”

Fagin turned to see who it was. He saw the Indian sheriff coming toward them carrying a big Browning 12-gauge.

Banish said immediately, “No way.”

Fagin eyed the shotgun and reached for it. The Indian presented it, and Fagin hefted the thing and turned it over in his hands. The semiautomatic Browning shotgun was a sporting piece, but the Indian had stripped down the walnut stock and dulled all the steel parts. He had custom-policed the thing.

“Expensive piece,” Fagin said, sighting down the barrel, feeling its weight. “Nice weapon. You come prepared, anyway.”

The Indian said, “I know this mountain. I hunted all over it as a boy.”

“Negative,” Banish said, done suiting up. “This is no photo op. No politicians on the mountain, and no heroes.”

The Indian said, “Politicians?”

“That’s right. You’re not riding to reelection on a short hike up a hill.”

This was something here. Fagin rode Banish like a bastard day and night and the mope reacted as though he were asking him for the time. Then the Indian comes up and says word one and Banish runs down his throat.

The Indian was confused. “Two officers in my jurisdiction were shot at—”

“Jurisdiction.” Banish was shaking his head. “Now you sound like the police chief. Now all of a sudden you’re worried about jurisdiction.”

“That’s right.” The Indian nodded, relaxed but firm. “Because I figure now maybe I can earn my keep up here.” He looked around. “You’ve all been feeding me these past few days, and it hasn’t been particularly good food, but it’s kept me from going hungry. And I’ve been using the facilities here, running up quite a tab. But I am the sheriff of this county and am nobody’s lapdog. Now you are climbing up my tree. Now you need me.”

Banish said, “Somebody take this man’s gun away from him and get him a cold drink.”

Fagin had had enough. “Will you two shut up, you fucks. A claymore mine. Eight hundred steel ball bearings blasted into a hundred-fifty-yard kill zone, shredding you to fucking ribbons before you can even think to shit yourself. If one of you bickering girls doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going, then you’re both gonna get there, and awful fucking fast.”

Fagin thumbed the marshals over to equip the Indian before Banish could say anything else. Fagin was going to win this one. He was right as rain this time and Banish fucking knew it.

He spoke to one of the other deputy marshals, then issued coded orders over the radio to his men, and by the time he was done the Indian was suited and ready. The three of them walked off toward the trees, all camouflage and dark paint, Banish with the flashlight in his hands and Mellis in between, taller and wider than both. They walked into the dark tree line at the base of the mountain and were gone. It was at least a good fifteen-minute hike up to the zone.

Fagin shook his head. Fucking Banish. Doesn’t want to be involved with Tactical, then doesn’t want anyone else but himself involved. Crazy fuck.

He saw Perkins drifting over toward him. Perkins was like that, shifty, blowing around and feeling his way into things and then melding with them. A penny boy. A chameleon in a suit and tie, and Fagin could use that. He knew he had a sounding board here.

“Crazy fuck,” Fagin said aloud when Perkins was near enough.

Perkins looked at him as though he wasn’t sure what Fagin was talking about. “Sorry?”

“Fucking unpredictable,” Fagin said. “I don’t like that.”

Perkins nodded. “Well,” he said, a sentence. “Maybe it’ll all work out his way in the end.”

Fagin looked at him more closely. Perkins was smiling faintly.

“You serve in “Nam?” Fagin said.

Perkins shook his head.

Fagin nodded back behind them. “When those Hueys take off sometimes, dipping away over the trees, I do get flashes.” It was a fertile part of his memory when triggered. “Banish served,” he added. “Psyops specialist. Psychological Operations. Propaganda and persuasion.”

Perkins nodded slow. “Like Tokyo Rose,” he said.

Fucking citizen. “A little more sophisticated than that,” Fagin said. “Deception. Head games. The fingernails on the blackboard.”

Perkins looked at Fagin. “You have good sources,” he said, dropping his hand lightly into his pants pockets and rocking twice on his heels. “From what I understand, Banish was a real asshole before the crack-up too.”

Hearing a Mormon trying to swear was like listening to a drunk trying to sing. “At least then,” Fagin said, “he was a respected asshole.”