The Attic, West End Sector
0652 EST
"How did Kelso find this place?" Gregory asked as he set his backpack down on the floor.
"Don't know, but I'm glad she did." Ryckmen leaned against a door frame. "The Campus is nice and all, but Brother Henry seems a little less than thrilled by our presence. We're going to need to do a lot of hearts-and-minds work to get a warm welcome there."
"Kind of what the plan is, isn't it? Hitting the Outcasts where it hurts to enkindle some of that goodwill we need?"
"Yeah. Between the True Sons and the Outcasts, the latter is probably the more immediate threat. And immediate threats are always the ones that grab people's attention the hardest. Ridgeway's been turning himself into an American warlord, so he realizes at least intellectually he has to leave enough people alive to actually keep him in the style he'd like to become accustomed. Shaw, on the other hand, is more of the 'kill'em all and let God sort them out' school of thought."
"How do you think she got that way, Lowell? How do you convince people to become so hostile to life that they're willing, even eager, to join a suicide army?"
Ryckmen shook his head. "I don't know, Paxton. It's not like being in the 'Stans. There, half the time it was guys too ignorant to know how they were being used. There might be folks like that among the Outcasts, but if that's the case, there's likely somebody higher up just like those mullahs who told the Taliban they didn't need to be able to read in order to know the Word. And honestly, those are the guys we need to be putting a stop to, not the dumb bastards they've put between us and them."
"Are we absolutely sure Shaw's one of those higher ups?"
"We have to operate on the premise that she is. And if that is the case," finished Ryckmen grimly as Tarvey and Bundmeister came into the room, "then we need to put her down fast and hard."
"Maybe so," Tarvey said as he reached into a net bag and pulled out a tomato, tossing it gently to Gregory. "But not the object of tonight's raid. No, we're going after Shaw's right hand man."
"Harlan Lloyd," nodded Bundmeister. "Known as 'The Strategist' among the Outcasts. Though I gotta say, looking at his dossier, I kinda want to knock his teeth down his throat."
"Because he's orchestrated the depraved and sadistic murder of God knows how many people?" Gregory asked around a bite of tomato.
"No. He just has the kind of face that makes you want to punch it. Hard. And repeatedly."
Ryckmen brought up the dossier on his watch. "Is this a recent photo?" he asked. "Thought the Outcasts went for the skinhead look."
"They do, and no, that photo is not recent." Gregory brought up his own watch. "That was taken about two years ago, some lobbying event. Lloyd used to be a big name on K Street before Black Friday."
Frowning, Ryckmen closed the dossier. "I know we're not in on making the snatch, but do we have a recent photo? I've been on jobs where the designated team lost the target, and then the target runs into the security detail. And while I wouldn't want to cast aspersions on Kelso, the Demon Murphy has not died of Green Poison as far as I know."
Gregory fiddled with his watch, bringing up a virtual keyboard and typing for a few moments. "Nothing. Which I would find super-weird if I didn't know he was a lobbyist. Not exactly somebody who likes to be out and about in the public eye. He's much more comfortable in smoky back rooms."
Ryckmen grunted in acknowledgment. "We're slated to go in around 2030 hours tonight. We'll get up about 1800 hours, do a final weapons check and planning review, roll out at 2000 hours. I'll take first watch. Ricky, I'll wake you up around 1130. Rest up, guys."
Tarvey and Bundmeister nodded, each finding a cot and settling down to fall asleep within a couple minutes. Gregory, on the other hand, laid down but couldn't quite get comfortable. Something just wouldn't let him drop off. Knowing Ryckmen was down on the ground floor, Gregory tapped his watch. "Lowell, you got a second?" he asked quietly.
"You need to get some sleep," Ryckmen replied laconically.
"I can't get my mind to shut down. Something's bugging me."
"If it's about Ellis, I don't want to hear it." There was a pause, then a sigh. "Look, I can accept intellectually that you believe something's hinky. But I can't quite see the connections you're seeing. And until you can paint the picture in a way that lets me see what you're seeing, we can't be talking about it right now. We've still got a job to do, Peace, and anything not directly related to the job is a distraction we don't need. The background stuff is just going to have to take care of itself this time."
Gregory killed the connection and laid back on the cot, trying to fall asleep, hoping something came to him.
* * *
Potomac Events Center, West End Sector
2106 EST
"Fire in the hole!" called out Tarvey as he pulled the pins on a pair of grenades and gently lobbed them underhand into the open engine compartment of a twenty foot runabout before backing away quickly. The grenades went off a few seconds later and the boat began to sink into the Potomac River. "It breaks my heart, Lobo, it really does."
"Drown your sorrows later, swabbie," Ryckmen said with a smile. "We've got more work ahead of us."
So far, the raid was going relatively smoothly. Kelso had infiltrated the grounds of the Potomac Events Center the night before, wiring up explosive diversions before slipping into a hide to wait for Team Peacemaker. Right on schedule, the team had showed up outside the gates on the east side of the building and signaled Kelso. The diversionary explosions had gotten the team inside the grounds with minimal resistance.
Making their way around the perimeter of the building toward the riverside dock had been a bit more difficult, with the Outcasts belatedly realizing they'd been suckered by the explosions. Whatever his other faults, Harlan Lloyd knew how to adapt to a changing situation, and Team Peacemaker had quickly come under fire from reinforcements. Unfortunately for those reinforcements, the agents were in prepared positions and had worked together long enough to become a smoothly operating machine.
The boats had been a surprise, but not completely unexpected. Lloyd and Shaw would have been idiots not to use them as transportation for their own people. Trashing those boats made complete sense to the agents, though Tarvey had put up at least a token protest. He couldn't quite escape his Navy background or the SEALs' love of small craft for covert insertions.
Gregory tapped his watch. "Casablanca, this is Peacemaker. Docks have been secured, all craft have been neutralized."
"Peacemaker, this is Casablanca," replied Ortega. Since the return of Ellis, he'd dropped his former radio handle. "We're patching you in with Kelso. Stand by."
Bursts of gunfire and the roar of flames came abruptly over the earbuds, causing the entire team to wince. "I'm in trouble! They got in behind me! I'm cut--" The signal abruptly went dead. A moment later, ISAC chimed in the agents' earpieces.
"Agent vital signs: zero."
"Kelso? Kelso?! Dammit, Kelso's not responding!"
"Focus, Manny," snapped Ryckmen. "Until we see a body, we don't know what happened. Where do we go from here?"
Ortega took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The target's inside the center. Probably in a room with access to a public address system. You'll have to make your way inside. Back entrance to the main auditorium is your closest access point."
"Copy that. We're rolling." Ryckmen glanced around to the others. "We'll keep an eye out for Kelso. She's good troop, and she's meaner than hell, so she may still be alive. If she is, we'll continue as we originally planned. If not, we'll make the snatch ourselves." A crooked grin spread across his face. "I'm sure we can find a roll of duct tape around there somewhere."
The team moved in towards the back entrance of the main auditorium, seeing a bizarre mix of vegetable gardens and deep pits filled with occupied body bags. The smell of kerosene and rot hit them like a blowtorch, almost making Gregory gag. "Jesus, what is this place?" he asked, trying to keep his gorge down.
"Guessing the Events Center used to be a smaller settlement at some point, and this courtyard was their garden," Ryckmen said flatly. "When the Outcasts took it over, they started to repurpose this area for..." Words failed him as he verbally came to a stop. It was a snapshot of barbarism, the unchecked rage of those who literally wanted the world to burn, and it was like nothing Lowell Ryckmen had ever seen before.
Bundmeister tapped him on the shoulder. "Lowell, we're on the clock," she said quietly.
Shivering slightly, Ryckmen nodded. "Over there," he pointed, seeing a ramp on the far side of the courtyard. As he moved towards the ramp, a cargo container slammed down, blocking off escape.
"Perfect!" crowed a voice over PA speakers set up around the garden. "So arrogant. Feed these pigs to the burn pits!" Outcast fighters began to boil over the sides of the garden's high walls. Gregory laid down suppressing fire, giving the others time to find cover and start engaging targets. The shooting was brief, the Outcasts spending too much time trying to charge the agents' positions, allowing the agents to dispatch them quickly. A second wave from the opposite side of the courtyard fared no better. The cargo container lifted up and a small knot of Outcasts rushed out, only to be cut down in a few shots.
The team moved up the ramp and through the backstage door, finding themselves approaching an elaborate set. "What was playing here? A Midsummer Night's Dream?" asked Gregory as he noticed the armor plating hidden behind the stage dressings.
"Looks like The Tempest, from the notes back here," said Bundmeister, glancing at the stage manager's lectern. "Kinda wish I'd had the chance to see it."
Ryckmen closed his eyes for a moment as a line from the play came to mind. "Hell is empty and all the devils are here," he said quietly to himself. "Keep moving."
As they made their way down the corridor leading to the main lobby, a pair of doors swung open. The team instantly brought their weapons to battery, ready to engage, when a slightly rumpled looking Alani Kelso stumbled out in front of them. She instantly put up her hands. "Easy, guys! I'm not dead." She looked between the agents, a grimace crossing her face. "Don't everybody say 'hi' at once," she said tartly.
"We thought you bought the farm," Bundmeister blurted out.
Kelso shook her head, holding up her left arm, a crude splint in place. "No such luck. The bullet just killed my watch. Did you know those things have a titanium backing on them?" She winced a little. "Think I might have cracked my forearm a little, but that's about the worst of it. I can still shoot."
"Then let's go bag us a lobbyist," grinned Ryckmen ferociously. "Kelso, where's he holed up?"
"There's a control room above the main concert hall. You're probably going to have to secure the hall itself to make sure he can't slip out the exit near the stage."
"Attention, brothers and sisters!" blared Lloyd over the PA. "Do not let the running dogs of the Division leave the main lobby! Protect the concert hall at all costs!" Gunfire came from the far end of the lobby as a large number of Outcasts began to rush towards the agents.
Grabbing what cover they could, the team dug in and returned fire. Gregory had very little room to traverse his M249, but the way the Outcasts seemed to be stacked up, it wasn't like he could very easily miss. Bullets overpenetrated, striking two and three people deep in spots, and still they came. But the agents refused to break cover, letting the weight of fire serve as their shield. By the time Gregory was forced to change out a belt, the engagement was over, Outcast bodies littering the floor in ungainly heaps of bloody and broken meat. Ryckmen stood up, looking over the scene with a frigid gaze for a moment before turning to Kelso.
"You're up, Kelso. Make us proud." Kelso flashed a wolfish smile at Ryckmen, then disappeared up a set of stairs. The rest of the team checked their weapons, made sure they were fully loaded, then crossed the lobby and went over to the outer doors of the main concert hall. Ryckmen and Tarvey went over to the second level stairs, intent on using their rifles to cover from an elevated position, while Gregory and Bundmeister held the ground floor.
Coming into the concert hall, a large projection screen hung above the back of the stage, showing Harlan Lloyd in the control booth, wearing the face mask and scavenged first responder gear common to the Outcasts. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he sneered. "You come in here, in your smug arrogance, and you think you can just kill us? Think again!" Outcasts began to pour out of the doors at the back of the concert stage, scrambling towards the agents and dying within moments as Team Peacemaker cut them down. Ryckmen looked up as he heard a loud metallic sound above him, seeing Outcasts tipping over fifty-five gallon drums of some kind of fluid, then backing away as the fluid ignited. "I just hope you suffer as much as we did!"
"Kelso, things are getting a little hot in here," quipped Ryckmen. "Hustle it up." Another wave of Outcasts came out the back of the stage, their efforts not much more successful than the first wave. More flammable liquid was poured out, this time on to the second level, and ignited by Outcasts who wisely kept out of the line of fire.
"We have the power of life and death around here," crowed Lloyd, a manic look in his eyes, "and we're going to use it!"
Ryckmen and Tarvey tossed their weapons down to Gregory and Bundmeister, then lowered themselves on to the ground floor, dropping a short distance before scrambling behind cover. "Kelso, the concert hall is fully engulfed and we're going with it here in a minute," growled Ryckmen.
"I know," replied Kelso calmly.
The heat from the upper levels beat down on the agents, causing Ryckmen's sight picture through the scope to shimmer. "Shag it!"
"I know."
"I mean it!"
Another wave of Outcasts, two of them carrying RPK light machine guns, began to lay down fire. The team inched their way forward, rolling over the rows of seats to make their way towards the foot of the stage. Ryckmen brought the Model 700 to his shoulder, getting ready for a snap shot. He put his eye to the scope, seeing the RPK gunner's head filling the center of his crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger. The gunner fell nervelessly as his brains exploded out the back of his head. The other gunner looked over in surprise, giving Tarvey the opportunity to put a bullet from his M1A through the side. The remaining Outcasts were quickly picked off as the team moved forward, the heat and smoke starting to push them from their positions.
Looking up at the screen, they watched as Kelso came up behind Harlan Lloyd and pulled the hammer back on her sidearm. "Gotcha," she said quietly.
Lloyd turned around in terror as he looked up at Kelso, hands coming up quickly. "Please don't hurt me! I'll tell you anything you want to know, I swear!"
"All right. Quit embarrassing yourself." Kelso looked into the camera, smiling at the agents. "We got him. I'll see you outside in five."
* * *
The White House
1524 EST
Ryckmen came over to the range officer's desk, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Afternoon, Mr. Douglas," he said quietly.
"Please, call me Charles. The post-apocalypse is no reason to stand on formality."
"Charles, then. I hate to ask, but would you mind looking at my rifle? The trigger feels a little stiff." Ryckmen presented his Model 700, the bolt drawn back, the magazine and chamber empty.
Douglas took the weapon with a warm smile and put it on a bench, removing the bolt carefully. "If you don't mind my saying, Agent Ryckmen, you seem rather troubled," he said as he shone an LED light on the interior of the action for a moment, then flipped the rifle over and removed the trigger guard.
"Lowell, if we're not standing on formalities."
"Lowell, then." Douglas gently removed the action and barrel from the rifle stock, then took a blade screwdriver and lightly scraped the point against one side of the trigger mechanism's housing before carefully swabbing some solvent on the screws. "Need to let this soak in for a bit. While we wait, maybe you can lay down some of your burdens. After all," he said with a gentle smile, "you clearly trust me with your rifle."
"True enough." Ryckmen sat on the edge of the bench. "I'm starting to wonder if maybe I've been doing this work just a little too long."
"You served in the Army, correct?" asked Douglas as he looked for an appropriately sized screwdriver.
"Tenth Mountain Division," confirmed Ryckmen.
"Afghanistan?"
"Three tours."
"Decorated?"
Ryckmen squirmed a bit. "A few more than the basic campaign ribbons. The fruit salad definitely had more protein that fat."
Douglas found his screwdriver, raising an eyebrow. "Even one Silver Star is a little more than simply 'high protein,' Lowell. Don't diminish your accomplishments. I wouldn't suggest bragging overly much on them, you understand, but don't pretend they didn't happen or you didn't really deserve them." He gently slid the bolt back into the action, loaded a "snap cap" testing round in the chamber, then put on a magnifying visor. "What'd you do after your last tour?"
"Finished my master's degree. Wrote a few pieces here and there."
"How long between the end of your last tour and your activation with the Division?"
"A little over two years."
"Hmmm. This sear engagement screw feels like it's binding up on me." Douglas dropped another bit of oil on the screw. "You were in New York, if I recall correctly."
"Yeah."
"Worse than here?"
"No, actually, the other way around. I mean, New York was bad. But nothing like D.C. If anything, this is light-years worse. When I was activated, Green Poison was new and people were still in shock, you know? But now, it's like everyone has let the crazy run wild. The end of the world happened, and suddenly everybody's scribbling in the blank spot at the end of the page with blood and guts before the start of the next chapter."
"Does kind of seem that way. Hand me that trigger gauge, would you?" Ryckmen turned and picked up the trigger gauge off a small shelf, handing it to Douglas. Douglas tested the pull on the trigger, smiling as he looked at the gauge. "Pound and a half, right on the dot." Douglas reassembled the rifle, then worked the action several times, testing the trigger with the gauge each time to make sure the pull stayed consistent. "I know it feels like everything's gone completely down the spout, Lowell, but there's still enough left worth hanging on to. Family, friends, comrades. The people we trust with our lives."
"I think that's part of the problem." Ryckmen closed his eyes. "I'm scared to death I'm going to get those people killed first."
Ejecting the snap cap, Douglas cleared the action and handed the rifle back to Ryckmen. "It's a terrible burden, isn't it? Having people you trust that much, people for whom you'll run risks any other man would call insane just to keep them safe, and who would do the same for you if the roles were reversed. I had that with John Harding. Sure, we bickered and we squabbled, and there were times both of us were complete berks to each other for the pettiest of reasons. But he was my best friend, Lowell, not just my business partner." A brief look of pain flashed over Douglas' expression. "I'd have shot God clean through the head to keep John safe from anybody or anything that threatened him. And I'd forgive the Devil himself each and every one of his trespasses just for the chance to have one more good argument with my friend."
Ryckmen took the rifle, feeling the weight of it, his fingertip running feather light along the curve of the trigger. "Hopefully, Charles," he said softly, "I won't be giving the Devil a pass like that anytime soon."