James Swain - The Program

“Let’s do it,” Linderman said.

Wood called the second team on his cell phone.

“It’s show time,” Wood said into the phone.

The four men poured out of the van and sprinted across the street. At the same time, the agents in the second van jumped out, and ran toward the house. It was an impressive show of force, designed to instill terror in the heart of the Eric Drake.

It worked. Eric dropped his metal lunch box on the ground, and his eyes went wide with fear.

“FBI. Put your arms in the air,” Linderman said.

Eric threw his arms into the air and blinked several times.

“Against the car,” Linderman said.

Eric hugged the car, his legs spread wide. Linderman patted him down. His suspect was shaking from head to foot.

“Does your brother have a gun?” Linderman asked.

“You mean Randy?” Eric replied. “Yeah, he’s got a couple inside the house.”

“I want you to tell him to come outside and surrender. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Linderman guided Eric down the front path. The other agents stood on the lawn, ankle-deep in water, their weapons trained at the house. Two of the agents were gone, and were covering the back door in case Randy should attempt to escape.

“Talk to your brother,” Linderman ordered.

“Hey, Randy, it’s me,” Eric Drake said, cupping his hands over his mouth. “You need to come outside. Do as I say, man.”

The front door cracked open, and a bloodshot eyeball stared at them.

“What the fuck’s going on? Who are these guys?” Randy Drake shouted.

“It’s the FBI,” Eric replied.

“FBI? You shitting me?”

“No, man. They want to talk to me. Come on outside,” Eric said.

Linderman was surprised. Even though Randy was running a meth lab, Eric knew the FBI was here to see him. It told him that whatever Eric was doing, he’d been doing it for a while, and his conscience was eating at him.

“How do you know it’s not some guys trying to rob us?” Randy asked.

“Randy, listen to me,” his brother pleaded.

“They could have stolen FBI badges and made up phony ID,” Randy said, his voice rising in accusation. “Happens all the time.”

Randy Drake sounded delusional. There was only one way this was going to break, and that was bad. Linderman aimed his Glock at the front door.

“Come outside with your hands up,” Linderman ordered.

“Who are you?” Randy replied.

“Special Agent Ken Linderman. Do as I say – right now!”

“Yes, sir!”

The front door banged open. Randy came onto the porch wearing a pair of bright red underwear and nothing else. He looked like his brother, only fifty pounds heavier. Drool ran down the side of his face, and his tattoo-covered arms cradled a machine- pistol.

“Fuck you, mother-fuckers!”

Randy squeezed a round over their heads. The agents returned the fire, and riddled the porch with gunfire, the bullets tearing shingles off the house. Linderman had a bead on Randy, and shot him in the shoulder and side. The bullets seemingly had no effect, and Randy laughed and slipped back inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Shit. He’s a meth tweaker,” Wood said.

Meth tweakers were real-life zombies. Addicted to crystal meth, they often stayed awake for weeks at a time, and did not feel pain. Stories of them being shot multiple times and not stopping were mythical within the FBI. So too were the stories of the widespread destruction they caused, and the innocent lives they took with them.

Eric was handcuffed and locked into one of the vans. Then the team swarmed onto the porch. The front door was kicked down, and they entered single-file. Linderman was the last inside, and found everyone standing in the living room, a small space filled with mis-matched furniture. Randy was not there.

“Let’s search the house,” Wood said.

The FBI did everything by the book. The house was checked using systematic search protocol, with the team going room by room, searching in closets and under beds for their suspect. After each room was checked, one agent remained behind, preventing Randy from back-tracking on them.

Linderman stayed behind in a bedroom. The room had trash on the floors, and looked like a cyclone had hit it. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils.

“I smell fire,” he called out.

He followed the smell down a hall and entered a spacious kitchen in the back of the house. The equipment used to cook crystal meth was on the stove, bubbling away. Kitty litter covered the floor, having been used to soak up spilled chemicals. Randy stood at the sink, shooting through a broken window at the two agents in the backyard.

“Freeze!” Linderman said.

Randy paid him no heed. A bullet penetrated the wall and tore through Randy’s arm, shredding the biceps. It didn’t faze him.

Linderman had to make Randy stop shooting. The combination of the boiling chemicals and gunfire could easily blow the house up, and kill everyone inside. Only Randy was too far gone to be reasoned with.

Having no other option, Linderman shot Randy in the side. It was the third time he’d put a bullet in him. Three shots was usually the charm. The machine pistol fell from Randy’s hands into the sink.

“What the hell,” Randy gasped.

Linderman lowered his gun. He’d shot men before, and the feeling was always the same; revulsion, twinged by the exhilaration that the threat had passed.

Except Randy didn’t go down. He staggered across the kitchen like he was drunk, and grabbed a carving knife off the counter. His eyes were blinking wildly and rolled up once in his head, then snapped back down.

“You’re gonna die,” Randy said.

Linderman’s Glock held fifteen rounds. He had been trained to count his shots when he fired his weapon, and knew that twelve rounds were left in the magazine.

“Stop,” the FBI agent ordered.

Randy charged him with the carving knife. Linderman squeezed the trigger and kept his finger down, the bullets popping Randy at short range. Each shot slowed him down a fraction, but did not halt his forward momentum.

When Randy was six feet away, Linderman put a bullet in his forehead. The look in his eyes said he’d sold his soul to the devil long ago.

Wood entered the kitchen as Linderman was turning off the stove.

“Jesus. How many times did you have to shoot him?” Wood asked.

“Too many.”

“We’ve got a problem. Eric is screaming for a lawyer. Says we had no right coming here without a search warrant. What do you want to do?”

If Eric Drake lawyered up, he’d never find out why he’d been talking to Mr. Clean. He hadn’t come all this way – and risked his life – to let that happen.

“Bring him into the kitchen,” Linderman said.

“You want him to see his brother?”

“Yes. I’m going to do a number on him.”

Linderman opened the kitchen door and walked down a short flight of steps into the backyard. The two FBI agents who’d been exchanging gunfire with Randy had taken up cover and concealment positions behind a rotting wood shed. “All clear,” he called out.

The two agents cautiously emerged from behind the shed. One was a woman, the other a man, their faces wet with fear.

“Is he down?” the female agent asked.

“Down and out,” Linderman replied. “I need your help.”

“Of course,” she said.

Linderman had the female agent lie on the ground on her back, and close her eyes. Next, he had the male agent place his weapon on the ground, and kneel beside her.

“Stay like that for a few minutes,” Linderman said.

“What am I supposed to be doing?” the female agent asked.

“Playing dead.”

Linderman went back inside. Wood had brought Eric Drake into the kitchen. Eric was staring at his brother’s bullet-ridden body lying on the floor. Eric’s hands were handcuffed behind his back and he was silently weeping.