Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

No surprise there, either. Virginia Ward was a fixer, not a negotiator. By the time she was called into service the opportunity for bargaining had always long passed.

“Okay,” she said, as she stood. “Now I need to make a call, and I’ll need some privacy for that.”

“I’m sorry, our comms are down here right now. It’s inexcusable, I know, it must be sunspots or something—”

“Your comms are down because I took them down.” She stowed her pistol and her ID and then removed a special-purpose satellite phone from her satchel. “This one should punch through just fine, though. The next thing you’re going to do is collect all the radios and phones from your men, and make your orders very clear. I’ve got people coming in specifically to enforce the communications blackout. If anyone’s seen trying to get a message out of here to anyone, I don’t care if they’re telling their grandchildren good night, they won’t get a warning, they’re going to get shot. Not a word gets in or out except my own traffic and any calls coming from the perpetrators. You’ll know I’m coming back when you see me.”

The man nodded, and then he said, “Don’t tell me you’re going down there all alone.”

“That’s right.”

“Unarmed?”

“Whatever weapons I bring they’ll just take away. Don’t worry, there won’t be any shortage of guns available in that place, I’m sure.”

“Can you at least tell me what you think you’re going to do when you get there?”

“Sure,” Virginia replied. “If anyone in that family is still alive, I’m going to bring them out. And if I can I’m going to kill every last one of the savages that took them hostage.”

While she was outside making her call she heard the generator roaring to life and saw scattered lights fade on. During the briefing more equipment and a company of soldiers had arrived. Her own men were among them, and these exchanged a discreet acknowledgment with her as they started their work. Others began the task of positioning and raising four heavily armed mobile VIPR watchtowers along the base perimeter.

Off in the distance another vehicle approached; this would be her ride to the besieged home of Harland Dell and his wife and kids. In this midsized mover’s truck was loaded all the loot and the bound prisoners that the kidnappers had demanded be returned to them immediately, or else.

And returned to them it would be.

• • •

By the time she’d driven to the final stretch of her route, the highway had become completely deserted. The roadblocks that accomplished this were disguised as drunk-driving checkpoints, and undercover teams posing as night-shift pavement crews rounded out the travel barricades. This layer of secrecy was mostly to aid in controlling the story, and as such it was probably a wasted effort. For whatever reason the American press had long since proven their bias to ignore the ever-widening, bloody war being fought along these southern borderlands.

Virginia made the turn onto private property and drove slowly down the long gravel drive. The entrance to the ranch was a hand-hewn wooden arch with the family cattle brand displayed at its central apex. Soon after she passed it, from the pitch dark of the moonless desert night the first visible signs of the Dell ranch emerged in the distance.

The place and its grounds were lit only by firelight, but it wasn’t an inviting radiance of the hearth or a peaceful evening glow in the windows that she saw.

There was a crude line of smoky blazing torches lashed to random fence posts along the driveway and around the residence. A massive bonfire burned high in what used to be the front yard, fed by what looked like sticks of furniture and other belongings, and encircled by men with rifles and belts of ammo slung across their backs.

By the light of the torches, off to her left she saw a man crucified among the lower branches of a eucalyptus tree. Another was nailed up in the same way, but higher at the crossbeam of a utility pole. To the right three bodies still hung where they’d been lynched, two in the trees beyond the steep, rocky shoulder and the last one nearer to the inbound road. That accounted for the ranch hands, and one more. The last battered corpse swung from a hasty gallows by a noose suspended from the highest crossbar of a children’s swing set.

Above this hanging body was affixed a makeshift wooden sign, and Virginia was able to read it by the ugly light of the bonfire. It was lettered in dripping black paint and a primitive scrawl as though it had been made by someone unaccustomed to expression in any written language.

H A R L A N D D E L L, the sign read.

Chapter 23

As her headlights swept across the gathering of armed men by the fire, Virginia Ward scanned the scene and noticed one thing right away. There were quite a few more bad guys here than she’d been told to expect.

Her arrival had captured their full attention and soon a group of them put their heads together and then started walking up the driveway toward the approaching truck. They kept on coming and as she slowed they began shouting and gesturing her onward, some with their weapons raised.

Despite these threatening signals Virginia pulled to an abrupt stop, turned off the ignition, lowered the driver’s-side window, and extended her hand outside, waving the white hand-towel she’d brought along to serve as a flag of truce.

The men had nearly reached her as she thumbed a button on the key-chain remote. A signal module under the dash blipped twice in response; she’d activated a one-way kill-switch that the Agency mechanics had installed. To anyone trying to restart it the engine would sound like it was on the verge of firing up, but this well-hidden device would ensure that it would never come to life again. She’d stopped a good distance from the house and that was where the truck would remain.

Now a timer was running and a slow-motion self-destruct procedure had begun. With this action the mission was fully committed and she set a counter ticking in the back of her mind.

The man in the lead grabbed the handle outside, jerked the door open, and shoved his pistol toward her face. Her hand was shaking as she handed him the keys, and then in response to a shouted order, with careful motions she took up her cane and made her way down to the turf from the high cab.

The one who’d opened the door cocked his arm and delivered a backhanded slap across her jaw that nearly put her on the ground. They weren’t happy that she’d stopped where she had and they obviously weren’t shy of violence against a defenseless woman, but that’s where the punishment ended for the moment. It had been a calculated risk—they might have shot her immediately—but she had wagered on their standards as professional murderers. You can penalize disobedience as harshly as you want, but a pro doesn’t kill a newly arrived hostage over nothing.

Two of the other men had climbed into the truck’s cab and were attempting to get it going again. As they pumped the accelerator and worked the key she could already smell the fumes of excess gasoline filling the air. The starter ground away and popped occasionally but the engine wouldn’t fire.

“ Ten cuidado, ” Virginia said, and she made it seem as though she struggled with the Spanish, “ To . . . to inicio, es difícil, muy difícil, ” she continued, pantomiming the turning of an ignition key. “It’s something with the fuel pump. Tell him to be careful not to flood it, because it’s very hard to start.”

The lead man pushed her against the fender and twisted her around, playing rough. He searched her with his hands, groping and lingering here and there, and in the course of it he found her pepper spray, her counterfeit ID, her penknife, and the separate ring of keys to the padlocked rear compartment.