Tim Washburn - Powerless

He takes three steps forward, the pistol fanning a small arc between the two men, the cone of light from the flashlight blinding them with each swing. “I want that shotgun on the ground.”

The young punk shrugs and bends down to toss the shotgun on the ground. Something about the shrug seems out of place to Zeke. These guys haven’t said a word and they are nonchalant for having a gun aimed at their heads.

A niggle of worry tickles the nape of his neck. “Now, using two fingers, I want you to very carefully remove those pistols and toss them over the fence.”

Neither man moves.

Zeke takes another step forward. “You can remove your guns or die with them stuck in your pants. The choice is yours, but either way is fine with me.”

The men make no move to disarm. Zeke fires a single shot and the man on the left slaps a hand to his ear. Blood seeps between his fingers as the man howls in pain. The smell of cordite hangs in the still, cold air. The horses stomp and thrash until the ropes come free, but they scamper through the open gate and race back to the safety of the barn.

Zeke waits for the man to stop wailing. “I’m usually not one to give warning. The next shot will drill into the center of your forehead. The hollow-point slugs will mushroom on impact and a good portion of the back of your head will disintegrate.”

The man to his left moans as they begin to slowly reach for their pistols. “Now, I want you to grab them by the barrels and—”

A high-pitched scream erupts in the darkness. “Uncle Zeke!”

Zeke’s stomach plummets and his blood runs cold. But the ingrained army training assumes command. He doesn’t whirl at the voice and his gun hand never wavers from the two would-be horse thieves. Both are still holding the butts of their weapons with two fingers.

“Emma, are you okay?” Zeke shouts, berating himself for not checking the surrounding area more closely.

“Uncle Zeke…”—her voice is trembling—“there’s a strange man here.”

A new voice shouts out, “Earl, you and Bobby bring whoever you got on in here. And I don’t want any more shootin’. You dumb asses will have half the county headed this way.”

“Everything’s going to be all right, Emma,” Zeke shouts.

The man on the right laughs. “You got that right, cowboy.”

A searing anger wells up from the depths of his core. The heartache of the last few years—the loss of his fellow squad members, the agonizing months of recuperation, and the staggering deaths of his wife and unborn child—solidifies into a fiery rage. Zeke explodes forward. He knocks the gun from the man’s grip and rams the barrel of his pistol under the man’s chin. Without hesitation Zeke pulls the trigger. He whirls toward the other man, who’s fumbling to get a firm grip on his pistol. The Glock barks again and the man collapses to the ground.

Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. Zeke sucks in a lungful of air before stalking toward the rear of the house.

“Hey, boys, what’s going on out there?” The man’s voice is deep and raspy but contains no hint of fear. Zeke’s fairly certain the man is older than the other two, not that it matters one whit whether he lives or dies.

With a clock counting down in his head, Zeke races up to the side of the house and takes a quick glimpse around the corner. The dying fire, coupled with the faint moonlight, illuminates enough of the scene for him to see Ruth and Carl along with Emma and Noah bunched together near the fire pit.

Summer is nowhere in sight.

A large, burly man stands at the rear of the group, a shotgun braced against his shoulder. Too close for Zeke to risk a shot. A mixture of fear and cold has Emma and Noah shivering as they stand next to their parents.

The man bellows, “Boys, somebody answer me.” His request is met with silence.

Now or never. Zeke tucks his pistol behind his back and steps into the clear. “I’m sorry to say that Earl and Bobby are indisposed.”

The shotgun swings his way. He exhales a sigh of relief and slowly approaches the group, meandering farther to the right to draw the shotgun farther from his family.

“Who are you and what did you do to my sons?” The man’s finger caresses the trigger as Zeke stalks closer.

“Who I am doesn’t matter.” Zeke continues his slow pace forward, doing his best to tamp down the rage coursing through his body.

He comes to a stop ten feet from the man. At this range the shotgun would rip through his body from shoulders to ass. “Now, the way I see things is you can die where you stand or, choice two, you can gather up your sorry-ass sons and go back to the hole you crawled out of.”

The man tenses. “You sorry mother—”

His head explodes in a red mist as the rifle shot echoes in the darkness. Zeke is moving before the body hits the ground.

A cry of despair and the sound of the rifle clattering to the floor escape from the house.

Zeke thrusts his pistol into Carl’s hand. “There might be more. Keep an eye out.”

Zeke jerks the screen door open and hurries down the hallway. He turns into the first bedroom and finds Summer sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her head buried in her hands. Zeke sinks to his knees and takes her in his arms.

“It’s not like shooting an animal,” she blubbers into his chest.

“No, it’s not,” he says in a gentle voice. “But you did what you had to do.”

She wipes at her tears and pushes him away. Anger flashes on her face. “You intentionally provoked that man.”

Zeke drops to his butt and leans his back against the wall. “Maybe I did… but I”—he pauses and rubs his hands across his face—“I’ve seen more than my share of bad men. Men who spend their lives terrorizing others. Men who only take and never give. That man lying in the yard was that type of man.”

Summer whirls to face him. “How could you know that?”

“I know from a lifetime of reading people.” Zeke expels a heavy breath and reaches for her hand. “If we had simply disarmed him and his sons and sent him on their way they’d come back. Tomorrow, next week, maybe next month, but make no mistake, they would have returned. Life is difficult enough without having to look over your shoulder wondering if every odd noise is an announcement of their reappearance.”

Summer turns away. “Did you kill those men trying to steal the horses?”

“Yes.”

A cold silence. Zeke rests his head against the wall.

The screen door squeaks open and slaps shut a moment later. Murmuring voices drift down the hall. Zeke drags his legs under him and starts to stand. Summer reaches for his hand and pulls him back down. She rests her head on his shoulder and entwines her fingers with his.

The Oval Office

First Lady Katherine Harris threads her way around the bustling West Wing and enters the Oval Office through the side door connected to the study. Her husband, dressed in a black knit shirt from Congressional Country Club, is hunched over his desk but he glances up as the heels of her boots strike the hardwood floor.

“Surprise,” she says. Her trips to the Oval Office are few and far between. Most of their discussions take place in the privacy of their bedroom. But with the upheaval and the fact that they’ve taken up residence in the Roosevelt Room across the hall, their private time has been compromised.

He tosses the pen on the desk and pushes out of his chair. They meet halfway across the office and wrap their arms around each other.

“Have I told you recently how good your ass looks in a pair of jeans?”

“Not recently, no.” She is dressed in jeans tucked into a pair of knee-high boots with a soft cotton red sweater filling out her ensemble. Her face is absent of makeup. With no cameras around, the staff of the White House has stretched casual Friday to include most every other day of the week.