5.
MAYBE GOES STRAIGHT to the kitchen, picks up a plate, helps herself to some pasta, and enters the dining room saying, “Please. Don’t get up. Let’s enjoy this wonderful dish.”
Of course, Lemon screams.
Of course, Jake jumps to his feet.
Now Lemon’s standing, too.
For a moment, they’re frightened. But Jake’s a big guy, in his thirties, and Maybe’s practically a child, in comparison. He erroneously comes to the conclusion she’s not a serious threat. He’s cursing, shouting, making rude comments.
This is how it is for Maybe, the girl with no friends. Is it really asking so much for people to share a simple dinner with her? Obviously yes, since Jake’s coming around the table in a huff, saying something about how he’s going to throw her ass out.
Maybe opens her jacket, points to the .380 holstered under her arm.
“You like this?” she says, addressing Lemon. “It’s a tank top with a built-in holster. Fits snug against the side of my boob. Completely undetectable when I’m wearing a light jacket.”
Jake hesitates, then wishes he hadn’t.
Not that it matters. She could kick both their asses, even if they had knives.
Which they don’t.
She lifts the Velcro safety strap, removes the gun, points it at Jake.
“Have a seat, tough guy.”
Jake and Lemon look at each other.
Maybe adds, “Before you decide to go Rambo, think about your friends, Lexi and Byron. I know the cops like Byron’s ex-wife for the murders, but that’s my handiwork, not hers.”
Lemon goes from worried to terrified. Jake isn’t so sure. He eyes her carefully. Could this be some sort of prank? If so, he doesn’t want to come across like a pussy.
Maybe understands the developing dynamic, and wonders if she should just kill them now if they’re not going to have a pleasant dinner together. She ratchets a round into the chamber, and Jake finally gets it.
He moves toward Lemon.
Poor Lemon. It’s all moving way too fast for her. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, but she hasn’t thought to start crying yet. Her body’s reacting to the stress, but in a manner that’s completely out of synch. She’s shivering and shuddering, and probably doesn’t even realize it. “Wh-what do you want?” she says.
“For starters, I’d like you both to sit down. Then I’d like us to have a nice dinner, and maybe some light conversation.”
“If this is about the lottery money,” Jake says…
“It’s not. Please sit. I’m making an effort to be friendly. But if you’re not interested, I’m prepared to shoot you where you stand.”
They look at each other again, then sit.
Maybe places her gun on the table, spears some pasta with her fork, and takes a bite. “Omigod!” she says. “Lemon, you’ve outdone yourself. You simply must give me the recipe.”
It takes a few minutes before Lemon and Jake realize they’re expected to eat. When they finally start, it’s obvious they’re not enjoying the food.
“This always happens,” Maybe says. “I fear I’m incapable of making friends.”
She takes a moment to glance at the latest text message from Milo, who’s had a change of heart and wants her to spare Lemon’s life. Says he understands he still has to pay her the hundred grand. Hopes she gets the message in time.
Maybe can claim it either way, and decides to let Lemon make the decision.
When their dinner conversation grinds to a complete stop, Maybe motions them to the den, has them sit together on the couch. Claims the comfy chair for herself. Lemon’s trembling like a Teacup Maltese getting a shot at the vet’s office. Jake holds her hand. Maybe stares at them a moment.
“Please,” Lemon says. “Don’t do this. You can have anything you want.”
“Good to know. What I’d like is for you to tell me what’s going on here, and why.”
Maybe’s attitude hits Jake the wrong way. He’s suddenly less frightened, less concerned for his personal safety. Perhaps he’s not convinced she has the guts to pull the trigger. Or maybe in his mind this has gone far enough. After all, Jake’s a full-grown man, and though Maybe’s athletic, she’s small, and barely 20 years old. He probably visualizes lunging at her, grabbing the gun, smacking the shit out of her. Visualizes himself standing over her, strong, powerful, in control. Visualizes her on the floor, sobbing, begging his forgiveness while he lectures her about pointing a loaded gun at people.
Jake makes his voice as big and powerful as possible and says, “What’s going on here is none of your business, bitch.”
Lemon catches the slight change in Maybe’s expression, and gives Jake a frightened warning look. She says, “Jake and I are good friends. Nothing more.”
Maybe says, “Lemon, you’re adorable. I totally get why a loser like Jake would put his marriage on the line. You’re a helluva catch. What I don’t understand is what you see in him. He’s a pig.”
“I—”
“Yes?”
“I love him…You know, as a friend.”
Maybe leans forward, casually reaches under her chair, produces a handgun complete with silencer. She notes a definite change in their expressions as they come to the realization her visit wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. It suddenly dawns on them she’s been here a long time. Long enough to hide a gun under the chair before Lemon came home.
When their eyes are large enough to show they understand the implications, Maybe says, “They know.”
“I-I beg your pardon?” Lemon says.
“Milo and Faith. They know all about your affair.”
“There’s no affair,” Jake says. “This is two people, two friends, having dinner together. Nothing else.”
With a flick of her wrist, Maybe points the gun at Jake and puts a bullet between his eyes.
Lemon freaks out.
Vomits.
Pisses.
Screams.
Throws herself on Jake’s dead body.
Screams some more.
Maybe says, “I know you’re upset, but I like you. If you quiet down, I’ll let you live.”
Lemon—bless her heart—looks up in disbelief, and makes the world’s most valiant attempt to calm herself. It takes 20 seconds to stop crying, and another 20 to stop huffing.
“Thank you!” she says. “Thank you for letting me live.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for being calm. There’s something very likeable about you. Under different circumstances, I bet we could be friends.”
“Th-thank you.”
She hiccups.
Maybe arches an eyebrow. Then says, “I don’t like what you did with Jake.”
“I know how it looks—hic! But we’re just friends—hic!—I swear.”
Maybe sighs. “That’s not true, Lemon.”
“I love my husband.” —Hic!
“You know what I hate worse than a liar? Nonstop hiccupping.”
“I’m sorry.” –Hic! “But Jake and I weren’t having an affair, his wife was!” –Hic! “She had sex with a stranger in the men’s room of a bar!”
“Tattletale!” Maybe shouts.
“I—I…” —Hic!
“You’ve got a lot to say about Faith, don’t you!”
“W-Well—”
“Tell me about the toothbrush.”
—Hic!— “Th-the…what?” —Hic!
“Milo’s toothbrush.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Did you stuff Milo’s toothbrush up Jake’s ass?”
—Hic!— “What?”
Maybe goes quiet.
….Hic!
Lemon feels she should say something, but everything she’s said so far seems to be working against her.
….Hic!
The two women stare at each other.
….Hic!
Maybe says, “As stuffy as Milo is, I think the toothbrush thing is sort of funny. I’m not happy you’ve been cheating on
him, and even less happy you keep lying to me about it. But Milo’s a weasel. I like you better.”
“Th-Thank you.” —Hic!—
“Your taste in men sucks.”
Lemon nods. —Hic!—
As bad as Milo is, you managed to find someone even worse. I mean, Jake? Jesus, Lemon! You should thank me for saving you a lifetime of misery.”
“Th-Thank you.” —Hic!—
“God, that’s annoying. You really need to stop that shit.”
—Hic!—
Maybe frowns. “I’ll make you a deal: If you can stop hiccupping for five minutes, I’ll let you live.”
—Hic!—
Maybe laughs. “I won’t count that one.” She checks her watch. “Starting now.”
—Hic!—
Lemon sees the barrel turning toward her face and wonders if Maybe plans to let that one slide, also.
She doesn’t.
After firing her weapon, Maybe remains seated, while contemplating the differences in human bone structure. While Jake’s head is perfectly intact, Lemon’s is all over the place.
Go figure.
She heads to the kitchen, helps herself to some more pasta. While eating, she spies the recipe card on the counter, silently thanks Lemon for providing it, and stuffs it in her pocket.
Home invasions don’t require much staging.
Maybe washes her dinner plate, collects the shell casings and pinhole cameras, wipes her prints from whatever she touched during the time her gloves were off. She gives the place a once-over and heads to the back door. As she opens it, the house blows up.
Maybe’s disoriented, but smart enough to dive to the floor. She rolls under the large chunk of kitchen counter that’s now in the rear entry way. It takes her a few seconds to realize the blast came from the front of the house.
Which is the only reason she’s still alive.
She hears additional blasts all around her, as if someone’s bombing the neighborhood.
Is it safe to run out the back door?
Another blast rocks the house.
Safe or not, it’s time to make tracks!
Maybe scrambles to her feet, tries to run out the door, but the third blast causes the back of the house to come crashing down on her.
6.
Ryan Decker.
DECKER WATCHES HIS men blow up the neighborhood with bazookas.
Well, shoulder-launched, rocket-propelled missiles, to be exact.
The term “bazooka” hasn’t been used by the Army since the 1960’s, but try telling that to civilians. If Decker’s monkeys want to call them bazookas, who gives a shit?
To be honest, Decker thought there’d be more damage. Each round from this distance is equivalent to a stick of dynamite. He knows these are nicer-than-average houses, but his men have each fired three missiles, and most of the homes are still standing.
He sighs. These guys are thugs, not military, and this is their first real-life attempt with RPG’s.
It shows.
Speaking into his mouthpiece, he orders them to fire two more rounds, and challenges them to level the structures. They give it their best, and though it takes nearly twice as many rounds as Decker thought necessary, five gets the job done.
He says, “Gunners, shoot any survivors you see. Then plant your BWC flags, and get the hell out of there!”
A minute later, the soft hum of a dozen electric bikes fill the air. They only cover 25 miles at 20 miles per hour on a single charge, but the furthest residence was only a half-mile from the trucks. The men drive the bikes up the ramps and into the semi’s. Once in, they angle the bikes into braces and tie them in place with bungee cords. By then the foot soldiers—the gunners—have returned. They place their weapons in the truck, push the ramps into their slots, climb in the back, close the doors, and knock on the wall to let the drivers know it’s time to roll.
Decker, riding shotgun in the first truck, checks his watch. The entire attack took nine minutes.
He frowns.
“I hope the others did better than we did.”
7.
Donovan Creed.
AS CALLIE AND I cross the tarmac, heading to our private jet, Sherm calls to say Decker’s men hit another small neighborhood in Jackson, Mississippi.
“Any witnesses?”
“No ground reports yet. Check out Jackson first, then Louisville. And Creed?”
“Yeah?”
“Before you say ‘I told you so,’ it’s still not worth a billion dollars.”
“I agree. But after this I’ll kill him before letting you pay him a cent.”
“That’s the spirit. But I think when people hear about this, the singing will start.”
“What singing?”
“Decker’s women. It’s one thing to write on people’s asses in the park. But you can’t tell me a hundred American women are gonna stand for this bullshit.”
Sherm’s right.
By the time we land in Jackson, more than fifty of Decker’s college-aged men and women have come forward to tell authorities what they know.
Unfortunately, they know very little about Decker, and nothing about the bombing.
The geeks know plenty about the bombing, though, and call to brief me. They’re skilled at telling me exactly what I need to hear in the briefest manner possible. When they’ve finished updating me, I pass the information on to Callie.
“Eight homes in Louisville,” I say, “And eight more in Jackson.”
“Any idea why he chose these two neighborhoods?”
“Both were good targets: small, exclusive, with multi-million dollar homes. Neither were gated. Both neighborhoods had homes situated along a circle, with a common entrance and exit.”
“That must fit a thousand locations across the country.”
“I agree.”
“Why wealthy homes?” she asks.
“Intimidation. Better news coverage.”
“Why these two cities?”
“I don’t know. But that’s something the FBI can follow up on. They can run a check on all the homeowners and their relatives, and try to establish a common connection.”
“Think there is one?”
“No. But it’s worth checking.”
“What’s the body count?”
“They’re still searching the rubble. But so far we’re 15 Louisville, 18 Jackson.”
“Any owners decide not to come home tonight?”
“That’s a damn good question. Remind me to ask the police when we get there.”
By the time we get to the blast site the Jackson body count is complete at 21, with no survivors.
The bomb squad spokesman tells us the attackers used shoulder-fired missiles, probably RPG-7’s.
I call Joe Penny and repeat what I’ve been told. He says, “That’s one of the least-efficient ways to bring down a house.”
“Why?”
“Those types of rounds were designed as antitank weapons.”
“So?”
“It’d be hard to contain the shells inside a normal home. They’re just as likely to blast right through the front and back of the house and blow up in the yard. See any evidence of that?”
“No. These homes are decimated.”
Joe pauses a moment. Then says, “Foreign surplus, delayed fuse.”
“Excuse me?”
“Their rocket launchers must’ve had diminished propulsion capabilities, with missiles wired to blow up seconds after impact.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Shoulder-launchers are anti-tank weapons. Current U.S. rocket launchers are too powerful to use on civilian homes.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Decker must have bought some older RPG’s and modified them.”
“Why do that?”
“Harder to trace the sale of that many RPG’s.”
“Unless we can find out what country sold them to him.”
“That won’t happen. RPG
’s are used by the armies of 40 different countries and dozens of terrorist organizations. So it could be an army, ex-army, terrorists, or militia groups.”
“In other words, they’re untraceable.”
“That’s my guess,” Joe says.
8.
I HAVE TO give serious props to the police, National Guard, and local builders, who have assembled an amazing array of industrial lighting equipment, powered by massive generators. Giant floodlights hang from six moveable cranes, illuminating the fourth house on the block as if it were mid-day. The cranes will stay in place till the operators receive the go-ahead to move to the fifth house. All houses were previously searched for bodies and survivors, and now the explosives experts are taking photos and combing through the rubble to piece together any information that might prove beneficial later on.
“No survivors?” I ask the lead investigator.
“Thought we had one, but he died in the ambulance.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nope. We found him unconscious, he died the same way.”
Decker’s men planted a flag in each yard after the attacks. White, with red lettering: BWC.
The lead guy sees Callie staring at the flag. “Don’t touch that,” he says. “We haven’t had time to dust it for prints yet.”
Callie gives him a withering look.
He says, “Sorry. I know it’s not your first rodeo.”
“So I can’t blow my nose into it?” she says.
With no survivors or witnesses to interview, Callie and I are beyond frustrated. We’re decent fire investigators, but this type of rubble-sifting is beyond our expertise. I mean, had we been first on the scene, she and I could have looked at the damage and determined how the attack took place, and the approximate locations from which the weapons had been fired. But the munitions experts already made those determinations prior to our arrival.
My phone vibrates. “Text from Curly,” I say.
Callie says, “No more attacks, I hope.”
“Louisville had four survivors.”
“That’s good news. Has anyone made a statement?”
“No. All four are in critical condition.”
“I bet at least one will pull through.”
“Let’s move on,” I say. “There’s nothing for us to do here.”