Molon Labe! (35 page)

Move!
he commands himself. Swan leaps through the kitchen doorway onto the concrete steps, then drops over to the left side. Here he has kneeling cover to engage the last man in the backyard.

Although Swan could have no way of knowing it, the time from Otto's growl until his first shot was 46 seconds. From his first shot until now was just 11 seconds. An incredible vehemence has engulfed him in under a minute. Less than two minutes ago Swan was deep asleep. Within the time slice of a TV commercial break he has shot and probably killed five intruders by rifle-fire, and is fleeing his home in fear of his life.

From his house he hears the pounding footsteps of several men booming like thunderclaps in his electronic earmuffs. Shouts of
Lear!
Lear!
are an odd thing for burglars to yell.
Maybe it's a name.
He cannot imagine what valuables they think he owns to justify such a massive home invasion.

He no longer hears Otto barking.
Bastards shot my dog, too! Can't think about him now time to
move
!

Sure wish I had another mag for my rifle!
He meant to order a butt-stock magazine pouch, but it was one of those unperformed details which comprise modern Life. That old poem flashes through his mind:
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost
. . . He shakes himself back into focus.

Swan lights up the last dark hooded form and fires three rounds, hitting the intruder's left shoulder and arm. The man goes down screaming. Relief floods Swan as he is now free to escape.
I'm sure glad my rifle has a light!
He figures he has five or six rounds left in his M1A but is unsure.
Whoever said "count your rounds" probably never traded gunfire with anyone!
He lights up the writhing man one last time to make sure that he is out of the fight, and notices the large white letters on the intruder's vest, letters which he did not see earlier. His heart stops at the familiar abbreviation:

FBI

Swan's concentration is instantly erased by this new, horrible reality.
Oh, shit! What the hell do the feds want with me? I didn't know they were FBI, but they'll never believe me! They'll gun me down because of this!
He frantically grasps at the stillborn hope that it has all been a dream, but the illuminated cloud of hanging gunsmoke tells him otherwise.
I am screwed!

near Lander, Wyoming

" . . . and have a warrant to search these premises," lead FBI agent Malone says.

"Search for
what?
" Kyle demands. "What's going
on?
"

"I'll ask the questions here. Just sit tight and do not interfere. If you need to go to the bathroom, one of the agents will accompany you. Now, do you have any other weapons in the house?"

Logan, Utah

Why did they break into my home?
What
do they want? Why are the FBI wearing
masks
? Aren't they proud of what they do? Only
criminals
wear masks!
He forces himself to continue deep, regular breathing as his body desperately needs dirigible volumes of oxygen.
Must press on and escape! They will kill me rather than let me surrender! I might as well go down like a man, fighting! The bastards have left me with nothing to lose!

The FBI has discovered the (admittedly rare) flip-side to dynamic entry raids: causing such desperation in a subject can backfire. In a "fight or flight" scenario, some men fought, even against overwhelming odds. A man with "no way out" just may create one. And you don't want to be in his way when he does.

Swan hears the agents coming down the hall. They will be through the kitchen in seconds . . . after having stepped over four of their buddies. And they will be very, very pissed.

near Lander, Wyoming

An agent leers at a naked Susan Bradford on the living room sofa. "Got any concealed weapons on you, Honey?"

Susan glares at the agent in black tactical garb. "You're a creep!"

"And you're really sexy when you're angry, didya know that?"

Logan, Utah

A solid plan crystallizes in Swan's mind. Run to the fence on his left, hop over and take cover behind the neighbor's woodpile. From there, the alley.
A good plan now is better than a perfect plan later
.

Agents are in the kitchen now and he is still outside by the steps.

Move or die!

Swan springs up and runs to the fence. In his eagerness to escape he neglects to pie out and clear the left corner of his house. Given his limited training and practice, it is an understandable lapse. He has done extremely well to have gotten even this far against highly-trained multiple assailants. Five for five is pretty good.

But, a mistake is a mistake, and not clearing your last corner is one of the worst ones to make.
You have the rest of your life to solve your problem. How long you live depends on how well you do it
. Swan does not notice a member of Green Team against the wall, behind his peripheral vision.

As Swan runs towards the fence and safety, already imagining how he will bound over and land, the agent draws a careful bead on the running man and squeezes the trigger of his 9mm MP5.

Five rapid tubercular coughs are heard from the AWC suppressor, echoed by five sickening thuds of impact.

near Lander, Wyoming

"My wife and I are both naked and
handcuffed!
Why are you worried about weapons in the house? Still feeling a bit inferior? Are we not defenseless enough for you?"

Logan, Utah

Swan is stitched across the back with a ragged diagonal line. The impacts feel like hammer blows but the US Armor Level IIIA vest does its job, stopping rounds #2, #3, #4, and #5. Although a 9mm subgun is not a rifle, being hit in the back with four rounds within a half second will drop a man. Swan falls facedown and is immediately swarmed by Green Team. His M1A is kicked away and gloved hands yank the Glock from its holster.

near Lander, Wyoming

"Shut up, Bradford," commands Malone. "We know you and Swan had something to do with Denver. The Bureau may be slow, but "

"
Swan?
What does
Frank
have to do with this?" Kyle demands.

"You tell us, farmboy. What were you two doing in Denver?" sneers the agent. Since the Bradfords are not under arrest only detained no
Miranda
reading of their rights is required.

Kyle Bradford never placed much stock in ESP but he suddenly has a sense almost strong enough to pass for actual knowledge: his boyhood buddy Frank Swan is in very bad trouble.

Logan, Utah

No bulletproof vest, however, can protect what it doesn't cover. Swan is bleeding profusely from the first round, which shattered his left thigh bone and severed the femoral artery. From just below his groin, hot oil of life spurts out regular bursts, soaking his sweatpants and the cold ground beneath him. In the moonlight it looks black. Because he is shivering he must be cold, though he is too numb to feel it.
Wounded! How bad?

His lungs howl for air, but gasping for breath is a difficult task with angry men pinning him down. His consciousness begins to evaporate, gently, like a fading dream.

near Lander, Wyoming

"Susan! They're raiding Frank's place right now!" Kyle shouts. "

Frank?
What's
happening?
" Susan yells from the living room.

Logan, Utah

"Where the fuck are they?!"
screams a White Team agent.
"What did you do with them?!"
He presumes that Swan will, under such pressure, reveal where he had taken the three Denver abductees.

Swan hears the words through a thickening fog but does not understand. He thinks he means the dead guys in the kitchen and backyard, but that doesn't make sense. Nothing about any of this makes sense.

"Wh
who
?" Swan manages to ask.

While an agent has a knee to Swan's neck and a Springfield Armory .45 to his head, another agent is wrenching his hands behind his back and cuffing him. Two other agents are holding Swan down by his legs.

"You know goddamn well who, asshole!"

One of the Red Team agents looks up and says, "Scrote's wearing a
vest
! He knew we were coming, Dennis!"

"Yeah, no shit!" the White Team agent says. "He blocked his front door, too! Took us forever to get through!"

The urgent flurry of radio chatter and the icy handcuffs on his wrists remind Swan that he is in police custody. He has never been arrested in his life. He is terribly confused.
Police!
He vaguely recalls something from a thin yellow book about keeping silent and demanding to speak with your attorney.

"C call my
lawyer
," Swan says barely, but with clear umbrage. He takes several more labored breaths, accepting the sudden realization that he would never see the inside of a courtroom. He is dying, and knows it.

A feathery swooshing sensation engulfs him as
animus
detaches from
corpus,
all 65 trillion cells being evacuated of spirit.
Going home.
In a giddy state of shock he confuses the steam from his blood soaking the frozen earth as his soul floating into the starry night.

Hello!

Swan giggles softly.

"Fucker's laughing at us!" the White Team agent spits.

Before his bloodpressure fades out, Swan's forty three years of life muster one last defiant tug. It is his final thought and emotion a parting shot of anger.

Otto!

The thread breaks and he is untethered.
So it was a dream after all!
Swan floats away, unweighted, toward a beautiful, loving light. He hears singing, soft and lovely. Water in water, spirit in spirit, he is gone. Only the barest suggestion of a smile is left on his face.

SWAT commander Wilcox coldly stares down at the deceased mechanic. "Little late for your lawyer, Mr. Swan."

There is much shouting as EMT personnel rush into the house and backyard for the wounded agents. Three in the kitchen are dead, but the fourth took his hit to the ceramic trauma plate and is only winded. The agent shot through the tree is critically injured to the head, and not expected to make it to the hospital. The other agent would live but the .308 wounds are devastating. His arm will require amputation just below the shoulder.

Wilcox abruptly turns to the White Team agent. "And
you
, Seńor
Dumbfuck!
You really dropped your pack on this one! You
know
better than to question a subject
before
he's been Mirandized! What if he
told
you some-thing? It could have got tossed out because he wasn't aware of his rights! Do I need to send you back to Quantico for a refresher?"

"Sorry, sir. Wasn't thinking," the agent replies, eyes down, chastised.

The neighborhood is now alive with dozens of frightened though unquenchably curious residents in bathrobes. A multitude of dogs are barking. Squad cars are screeching up in front of Swan's home with lights flashing, and more police and EMT are pouring onto the property.

A Green Team member implores, "Sir, Swan
had
to know we were coming. Look at his gear! Vest, Peltors who's ever seen such a thing? And who uses a
rifle
in his house?"

Wilcox considers this. "Somebody who doesn't fuck around, that's who. Probably militia. He nearly escaped, too. He may have a car and driver waiting. I want a grid search of the surrounding ten blocks.
Now!
"

"Yes, sir!"

Wilcox seems to decide something else. "Yeah, I think he knew we were coming. Probably got tipped off by someone in the PD or SO just before we got on line. And now six of my men are dead or wounded! If this thing was leaked I'm gonna have somebody's Logan, Utah ass on a spit, I swear to God!"

near Lander, Wyoming

After twenty minutes the Bradfords are finally allowed to cover themselves with their own bed sheets. Their farmhouse is ransacked over the course of five hours. Agents confiscate all firearms, paper records, disks, as well as the computer.

Malone's cell phone rings. It is Wilcox, calling from Utah with the bad news. Moods blacken as word spreads to the agents.

Bondo is still screaming his little lungs out. The leering FBI agent says to Susan, "Will you shut up that fucking bird?"

Susan coldly replies, "You've broken into his home and he's upset. As long as you're here, he'll keep screaming."

The agent counters, "If you don't shut him up
right now
, I will!"

"Oh, are you going to
shoot
our parrot? Federal agents seem to have a thing against family pets. Let's see, the ATF hates cats, the US Marshals hate dogs I guess the FBI hates parrots," Susan taunts. "What do US Customs hate,
ferrets
?"

The scene is getting ugly so another agent interrupts with, "Mike, just put his cage in a closet or something!"

Special Agent Michael Tipton has an idea. "How about
outside
?"

"It's below freezing out there!" Susan vehemently objects. "He's a
tropical
bird; he can't handle the cold!"

"Tough shit, lady. You had your chance," Tipton sneers. "Maybe if he quiets down I'll remember to bring him back inside before he turns into a parrotsicle." He chuckles at his new word.

Tipton picks up Bondo's cage and carries it outside. On the way he says to the bird, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will "

Later that day a Salt Lake City spokesman for the FBI announces with thinly concealed pride the twin raids in connection with the Denver kidnappings. "Although we cannot comment on any evidence so far uncovered, our investigations are continuing."