William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

Rosita’s taillights faded into the rainy-sleety gloom of early morning. The man walked to a phone booth and punched out the number.

“She is not what she appears to be,” he said to the voice on the other end.

Carl Harrelson, still smarting from the dressing-down he’d received from Robert Brighton—in front of a crowd, no less, asked, “What name is she using?”

Jim Honing, a reporter for the Richmond Post who occasionally worked with Harrelson said, “Susan Spencer.”

“Wait for me,” Harrelson said. “We’ll toss the place together. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Jerre rolled from the bed just as Hartline pulled the trigger, the slugs tearing smoking holes in the sheets and mattress.

“Girl! Stay out of there!” she heard Ike’s voice shout.

“Miss Jerre!” Lisa called.

“Setup,” Hartline snarled.

“Lisa!” Jake Devine called. “No!”

Lisa appeared in the doorway just as Hartline jumped for the side window. He paused, spotted the girl, and pulled the trigger. The slugs took the girl in the face, blowing off half her jaw before twisting up into her brain. Dead when she hit the carpet.

Hartline felt the shock of a bullet hit him in the left shoulder, turning him, spinning him, dropping him to one knee. He looked out the window at the savage face of Jake Devine, a gun in his hand. Hartline shot him in the chest and jumped for the shattered window. He hit the ground and rolled as slugs whined around him, cutting paths of death through the thick smoke from the smoke grenades.

He was off and running, serpenting through the smoke and the mist. He jumped into a car and roared off, toward the airstrip.

“To hell with him,” Ike yelled. “Find Jerre.” He stumbled over the dying body of Jake.

“That bedroom,” Jake pointed. “Me and Lisa was going to get her at noon—try and… make a break for it. The kid’s dead, isn’t she?”

“The girl I tried to stop from entering the house?” Ike asked, kneeling down beside the merc.

“Yeah.”

“Yes. Hartline shot her in the face.”

“Least she went quick.”

The sounds of gunfire were fading as the Rebels went about the grisly business of finishing off Hartline’s mercenaries.

“I was tryin’ to do the right thing for once in my life,” Jake said. “As usual, I fucked it up.”

“No,” Ike said softly. “No, you didn’t, partner. You tried.”

Jake held out his hand. “I’d like to shake your hand, mister. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Ike said, a catch in his voice. He looked up at Jerre, standing over them, tears running down her face.

“She loved you, Jake,” Jerre said.

Jake clasped Ike’s hand hard. “I loved her, too, Miss Jerre.”

The hand went limp. The mercenary died.

Captain Dan Gray cleared his throat. “I think we should give this one a decent sendoff.”

“He’d like that,” Jerre said, shivering in the cold morning air. “I think he was a good man; at least toward the end.”

Jake and Lisa were buried together, arms around each other. Captain Dan Gray read from Ephesians, a few verses about forgiveness, and the service was over.

Jerre looked at Matt, young and tall and strong and fierce-looking with his new beard. She smiled at him.

“Take me home, Matt.”

“But, Ben…”

She shushed him with gentle kiss while Ike and Dan and the others grinned and looked away.

“Home, Matt. You and me—together. I want us to go home.”

Matt blushed and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“Ain’t love grand?” Ike said.

Captain Gray smiled. “Ah, love, let us be true to one another! for the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams.”

“Now that’s pretty,” Ike said. “I think I heard that on a Rollin’ Stones album.”

Captain Gray looked horrified. “I rather doubt it,” he said frostily. “That was from Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach. ”

“Who’d he pick with?” Ike grinned.

“Cretin!” Gray said. “Philistine.”

Gray was still lecturing him, waving his arms and shouting about the lack of culture in America when Jerre and Matt slipped away from the group and headed for Matt’s pickup truck. They walked hand in hand, smiling at each other.

One of the women in the group mentioned she thought the air about them was a bit steamy.

“You sure you know how to pick this lock?” Harrelson asked.

Honing smiled patiently. “I worked for several gossip rags before I came to Richmond,” he said. “I haven’t seen the lock I couldn’t pick.”

The tumblers meshed, clicked, the door swung open, the apartment yawning darkly in front of the men.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so interested in this half-breed spic,” Honing said, pausing for a moment before entering.

“She lives—supposedly—with Dawn Bellever, our president’s steady pussy. I saw her a dozen times at the White House when I was covering that. One night I was going home and passed this apartment, saw her entering, thought it was strange. I waited for several hours. She never did come back out. I thought at first I might blackmail her into working with me… using her shack job as the carrot, but I never could catch a man with her. That’s why I called you to tail her and find out as much about her as possible. I’ll do anything to get that no-good son of a bitch out of the White House. And maybe this will help.”

“Well, let’s do ‘er,” Honing said.

Together they stepped into the dark apartment.

It was seven o’clock before Ben received the news of Jerre’s rescue. For a time he allowed himself the luxury of sitting quietly in his den, savoring the feelings of joy welling up from deep within him.

Ike had told him of her leaving with Matt, and Ben felt only a slight pang of regret at the news. He knew they had run their course months before and it was time for her to settle in with a good person who loved her and would take care of her and the twins.

The twins.

He would make arrangements for the twins to be sent to Jerre as soon as he knew they were settled in and safe.

Ike was returning to the Tri-States, having told Ben Richmond was a great big pain in the ass, as far as he was concerned. He was a farmer and a fighter; fuck politics.

Ben wished it was that easy for him. God! he wanted so desperately to chuck the whole business of big government right out the nearest window and get the hell back to Tri-States.

But he knew he couldn’t. Knew he was not going to leave any job half done.

He looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. He punched the intercom button.

“How many waiting, Susie?”

“An officeful, boss. Got four holding on the horn.”

“Any of them important?”

“No.”

“Tell ‘em I’ll call back. Who is first?”

“The surgeon general.” She paused for a second. “He’s kind of antsy, boss. Pale looking.” She whispered the last.

“Send him in, Susie.”

“You had your coffee, boss?”

“I could use another cup.”

“Coming up. Two cups.”

Doctor Harrison Lane looked rough. Like he hadn’t slept well in a week. They talked of small things until Susie had brought the coffee and left the room.

“What’s on your mind, Harrison?”

“Rats.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ben paused in lifting the cup to his lips.

“I said rats, Mr. President. Of the family Muridae, genus Rattus. The big rat; I’m guessing it’s the big brown rat.”

“The humpback?”

“If that’s what you wish to call them, yes. You find them in sewers and in garbage dumps and alleys. Ugly bastards. Two—two and a half feet long from nose to tail. Filthy sons of bitches.” He spat out the last and lit his pipe with shaking hands. Ben could see he was wound up tight as a dollar watch.