Steve’s shorts: Militia Hostage…
Militia Hostage
Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore
Sullie saw the Jeep Cherokee winding its way along the dirt road, often hidden by pine trees and leaving a dust cloud behind it when visible. He looked at his dog lying on his old throw rug; Fang wagged his tail.
“Looks like we have visitors, old boy.” He reached for his shoulder holster containing his Glock and slipped it on while still sitting in the wicker rocker.
The dog then sensed the approaching vehicle, sprang to a sitting position, and faced the road. Sullie heard the low growl. His dog was a gentle soul—the name was a joke—but Fang didn’t like visitors either. Mostly because he thinks he owns me, not vice versa, thought Sullie.
“Easy, boy. Let’s not assume everyone’s out to get us.”
The Jeep’s driver didn’t seem to be lost. There was only one thing at the end of the road, Sullie’s cabin. He watched it come to a stop, do a three-point in the gravel, and park facing back in the direction from where it had come.
Sullie left the gun in the holster but disconnected its restraining leather strap. He had no neighbors with a car like that, and none could drive like that either. He squinted against the sun and saw a small man get out of the Jeep. Correction: not a man.
“Patrick Sullivan?” said the woman as she approached the porch.
“Maybe. Who’s asking?”
“Victoria Sandoval.” She climbed the steps and offered a hand. “Boston Globe reporter.”
Sullie gave her the once over. Perky. I don’t like perky. She had short brown hair and long legs accentuated by the tight blue jeans stuffed into hiking books. She wore a flannel shirt. Not much makeup. Expressive eyes. I like that. He then was embarrassed. He hadn’t even bothered to shower that morning and had two-day stubble. He wiped some residual bacon grease off his hand and shook hers.
“What do they say? If I knew you were coming, I’d have baked a cake. You’ve come a long ways for nothin’, ma’am. I don’t do interviews. Especially here.”
“I know I’m invading your privacy, but it’s important. It’s not about the scandal. It’s about your daughter.”
“Laura? Have they found her? Is she alive?”
“I think I’ve found her. A woman in Michigan matches the image we’ve generated using age progression software. And, if it’s her, she’s alive.”
Sullie stood, dusted off the pad in the wicker rocker, and motioned for her to sit down. He took a pot of geraniums off an old kitchen chair, dusted it off, and sat sideways to her.
“Give me the whole story.”
“Not much to tell yet. Sheriff from Michigan called me and sent the picture. They’ve been watching a militia up there for gun running, drugs. and human trafficking. In a video, he saw someone who reminded him of the pics in our paper. I sent him the age-progression image, and now he’s even more sure it’s Laura.”
“My God. That was luck.” He thought a moment. “Why are you interested in this case?”
“Two reasons. My Dad was a cop, and he thought you were wrongly accused. No evidence. Just a hunch. The second reason is that Laura’s case caught my attention. Young girl who had no reason to leave is taken right out of her home.”
He stared into the trees. “I always thought she might have had a reason. I was a single father and, as a cop, I wasn’t home all that much. She stepped up and cooked and did other housework when her mother left, but it wasn’t a normal life for a twelve-year-old. And she was starting to flirt with guys. Kind of hard for a father to talk about dating and protecting yourself and things like that. And after the scandal and I was fired, I drank a lot. Didn’t seem to bother her as much as the divorce, but it couldn’t have been good to be around a drunk all the time.”
“That’s quite a confession, but I don’t think she left because of you. All her friends said that she thought of you as her hero for standing up to city hall and BPD brass, not to mention being there for her when her mother left.”
“Some of the drinking was for that too.” He slapped his knees. “That’s past. Where abouts in Michigan? I need to go there.”
“You need to see Sheriff Willis first. He told me that he’s afraid you’ll blast into that militia camp and get yourself killed. That wouldn’t help Laura, you know.”
“What have they done to her?”
“I don’t know. Nothing good, I’m guessing. Willis says she walks around like a zombie from what they’ve seen. But she’s nineteen now, Mr. Sullivan. She’s a young woman.”
“And I know what wild animals neo-Nazi militia members can be in their treatment of women. I’ve got to save her from that.” He gestured to her car. “I’ll give you twenty grand and my old pickup for the Cherokee. My wheels would never make it to Michigan.”
“Sorry. No deal. I like my car. And I’m going to Michigan too, so I’ll drive you.” She pointed at his gun. “You have the sword, I have the pen, so we’ll see which is mightier. And I want the story.”
“You had this all okayed with your editor, didn’t you?”
“Yes. And he bet you wouldn’t let me come along.”
“Guess you win the bet. When we get in cellphone range, give him a call. We can live off your per diem. I’ll reimburse you later.”
She eyed him. “I’ll wait right here while you bathe and change clothes.”
He nodded. “Good idea. Otherwise the State Police might think I’m kidnapping you.”
***
When Sullie reappeared on the porch, Victoria was doing what he’d be doing if she hadn’t showed up—rocking and enjoying the scenery. The air was fresh and clean with just a nip to it. The sky was clear blue over the pines.
“Nice place you have, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Please. It’s Sullie.” He stood in front of her. “Meet with your approval?”
“You clean up nicely…Sullie. Much improved. Where’s your suitcase?”
“Duffel bag’s inside. Let’s inspect the kitchen to see what we can take along for snacks.”
The cabin was just one room except for the small extension that was the small bathroom. The kitchen was along the back wall with the window over the sink showing nothing but pine fronds. Victoria helped Sullie select various food items—chips, cookies, dried fruit, and bottles of water.
They were soon winding their way back to the highway with Victoria driving. They dropped Fang off at a diner; a Hispanic chef there would spoil the dog with his tasty cuisine while Sullie was gone. She and Fang were already good buddies. Back on the highway, Sullie relaxed with his Panama hat pulled down over his eyes. They junctioned with I-90 in Oneida. The smooth ride on the interstate woke Sullie.
“Whenever you want me to drive, just say so,” he said without raising the hat.
“Next potty stop,” said Victoria.
“I saw your name on the article about Laura’s disappearance. I have all the clippings in a manilla envelope in my duffel. That article didn’t even make the first page, though, unlike my scandal. You were the second person on the byline.”
“Seven years ago I was a newbie reporter at the Globe and one of the few women among many men.”
“What happened to the first guy?”
“He lost interest. Now he’s dead.”
“Why the continued interest?”
“The editor didn’t buy my argument that her disappearance was an important story, so he put it on the fifth page. That first journalist did, but I think the editor thought you were damaged goods after the scandal, I suppose. As for my continued interest, just call me stubborn.”
“Your editor was right. There wasn’t much to the story. Laura was taken. No sign of her. BPD and the FBI called her a runaway. I knew better. She didn’t even take her cellphone. Kids can’t live without them.”
“I pursued the story when I could. I even took a trip to New Mexico with my own funds when a homeless child with a similar appearance turned up. Wasn’t her.”
“Why the obsession? I’m obsessed, but I’m her father.” Sullie pushed his hat up to study Victoria’s face.
“When authorities give up, a good journalist digs in. I dug in. I continue to dig in. I was always convinced there was a story. Now I’m sure of it.”
“Would you have gone to Michigan alone?”
She smiled at him. “I hadn’t even thought about it. I was certain you’d be more obsessed than I am.”
In ten minutes, they took a break at a rest stop.
***
Sullie drove from there. They took I-75 north across the Mackinac Bridge where they headed west on U.S. 2. At Manistigque, they took M94 north to Munising.
“We’re too far north,” said Victoria.
“We need a motel as a base,” said Sullie. “The Hiawatha Forest is a big place.”
“Have you been here before?”
“Long ago with my father. The Upper Peninsula hasn’t changed much. I suppose the militias want to keep it that way.” He drove into the parking lot of a motel. “They keep moving around. Might be over in Wisconsin now for all I know. We’re going to have to do some sleuthing. Let me do the talking. You might sound like a reporter.”
“Maybe that’s a good cover,” said Victoria. “We can say I want to do a story on militias. You could be my cameraman.”
“Not a bad idea, but there’s one problem with it. Militias probably don’t like cameras too much. Let’s both be journalists.”
Once they were establishid in the small motel on the outskirts of Munising, they started playing their roles by asking around town, leaving the sheriff for last. Victoria had some success with a waitress who served them coffee in a small café.
“Sure I know God’s Soldiers. Some of them stop by here every once and a while. Silent, scary types who look like they’d kill their mothers and rape everyone’s daughters.”
“Do they have any women at their camp?”
“I can’t answer that for sure, but I’ve heard plenty of rumors. God help them, I say.”
“Why do you say that?” said Sullie.
“They strike me as the kind of men who beat the crap out of women. My husband was that way. He has a standing restraining order against him. He’s one who never shows his face around here, because the sheriff has his number.”
“Think the sheriff has more info he can give us?”
“You FBI?”
“Journalists,” said Victoria. “We’re writing a story about Michigan militias.”
“The correct label is looney North woodsmen playing soldiers. They’re all crazy psychotics, including my ex.”
Sullie nodded. “I’m sure that will be in the story. But we also want to analyze where they’re coming from. What motivates them?”
“Hatred, distrust, racism, homophobia…the list is long.”
“I’m sure they won’t describe it that way,” said Victoria.
“That’s what it is, though, no matter what they say,” said the waitress.
***
Sheriff Willis was helpful once he learned that they’d report back to him on anything they learned about the militia group’s illegal activities. His last comment was a bit chilling: “Nosy journalists have a bad habit ending up dead, and not just in Putin’s Russia. Don’t add to that statistic. It makes my job that much harder.”
They left Munising and followed a paved secondary road for a few miles, and then turned onto a dirt road. It ended with a two-by-four nailed across two four-by-four posts; the lumber looked new. A path stretched into the woods on the other side of the barrier.
“There must be another way to get to the camp,” said Sullie in a whisper. “No way to get supplies through there.”
“We’re here,” said Victoria, “so let’s explore. We can find the real entrance later. This is what the sheriff described, though.”
“Yeah. But he must know that other way, being from around here. Think he warned the militia members?”
“He’s been watching them. Why would he do that? Are you always this suspicious?”
“When it comes to saving Laura, I am. Wouldn’t you be?”
“I suppose,” she said with a smile.
They started on the path and stopped in a clearing to sit on a boulder and rest after almost an hour of hiking. Sullie handed her a water bottle.
“Now I’m even more suspicious. I doubt that we’re even going to find the militia. Sheriff Willis was wrong.”
She ignored him. “How ‘bout one of those fruit bars too. I need some sugar.”
“Sugarless. Just good old fiber.” He saw her raised eyebrows. “Yeah, I know, the health nut. I’m an old man, Victoria. I need my fiber. Won’t hurt you either.”
She accepted the bar. “I suppose not.”
They had just finished their brief break when the militia found them.
***
“Journalists? For what paper?” said Matt Jenkins, leader of God’s Soldiers, when Victoria and Sullie’s captors led them blindfolded into an old wood cabin not unlike Sullie’s. It was the militia’s HQ, and Jenkins sat behind a desk that had seen better days.
Before they entered, their captors had removed the blidfolds. As they climbed the steps to the cabin’s porch, Sullie had taken note of the old Army Jeeps and trucks parked in front of the cabin. Around the oval area there were many tents that looked like they were from Army surplus. The weapons militia members carried looked new, though.
“Boston Globe. We’re doing a story about militias in America—motivations, goals, and so forth. We think the public wants to read about those things.”
Jenkins frowned. “You’ll just spin things around and make us look like fools, or worse.”
“We let the public make their own decisions,” said Sullie. “Op-eds are opinions; investigative journalism just presents the facts.”
“Massachusetts is a haven for liberals. Most liberal place in the country, right George?”
One of the three men standing at the door who looked like members of a SWAT group nodded. Presumably from Massachusetts, thought Sullie. The exception to Jenkins’s rule, as was that politician who was no longer in Congress. He smiled. He knew a lot of conservatives from his state; many of them were cops. He never committed until election time, although now he didn’t even bother with an absentee ballot. He received no mail at his little cabin in Maine. Just like I want it!
“Plenty of people there are independents,” Sullie said. “And not just a few admire you rugged types.” No harm in flattering the bastards a little.
“OK. Ask your questions. The sooner you’re gone, the better.” Jenkins relaxed back in his chair. “I reserve the right to skip some of them.”
Victoria ran the interview while Sullie took notes in a small notebook he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket. She soon ran out of questions because Jenkins had refused to answer some of them.
“You’re very quiet, Mr. Adams.” Sullie had figured that using his real last name might set off some alarms. The militia members weren’t all stupid, especially Jenkins. “Do you have any questions?”
“Pretty lonely out here. Don’t all of you miss your families? Wives, kids?” He winked at Jenkins. “Rugged types like you have needs, after all.”
Jenkins’s frown deepened. “We make sacrifices for our country and for our God. All good soldiers make those sacrifices.”
Yeah, but the adjective “good” doesn’t apply here. “That really doesn’t answer my question. Seems like your people are all from the north and northeast, but that means many are still far from home. Everyone must get lonely. Any female militia members?”
“We have some women here who are just as dedicated as the men,” said Jenkins.
“We’d love to meet some,” said Victoria.
Sullie had noticed that the three commandoes were looking bored. He knew Jenkins would never let them interview their sex slaves.
Sullie went into action. He pushed Victoria down, sent the desk crashing onto Jenkins, and flung his chair at the nearest militia member.
In three steps, he had the man’s AR-15 and fired rounds into the surprised three God’s Soldiers and Jenkins’s shoulder when he rose to his feet. He then slammed the cabin door shut.
“What the hell have you done!” said Victoria.
“Exactly what I came to do! I didn’t beg you to come.”
“You don’t know Laura’s even here!”
“Correct. So just call me a boy scout. If she’s not here, we still get to wipe out these apes.”
***
The militia’s SWAT group had automatic rifles and plenty of ammo. The siege of the cabin by the others was delayed as a good dozen succumbed quickly to Sullie’s rapid fire. Victoria even joined in. Not a bad shot, Sullie observed.
It was soon a stand-off, though. Militia members outside the cabin, hidden behind trucks and jeeps, shooting occasionally into the cabin. Victoria and Sullie shooting back when they had clear shots.
During one pause in the battle, someone started a negotiation with a megaphone. First, a question. “Is General Jenkins alive?”
“Who wants to know?” said Sullie, moving aside. As expected, bullets tore into the side of the cabin where he’d been standing. “Not a valid answer,” he said, firing back through a different window and hearing a satisfying yelp.
“No matter,” said another voice. “If you don’t stop being stupid, you’re going to die.”
“No, we’re going to have a great story!” said Victoria, following Sullie’s lead and jumping to another small window and firing at a new shooter. She hit him too. “Jenkins is still alive. We’ll trade him for Laura Sullivan.”
Sullie smiled at her. He was going to say that eventually.
There was a pause. Then: “Laura who?”
“Laura Sullivan,” said Sullie. “Shoot at us again and your fake general dies.”
“Don’t know any Laura Sullivan.”
“Jenkins just told us there are women in the camp. I suspect that they’re here against their will, and Laura Sullivan’s one of them.”
Again the pause. “How do we make the trade?”
“I’ll meet you half-way with Jenkins.”
“You can’t do that,” said Victoria in a whisper. “They might take a chance and kill Jenkins to get to you.”
“Do you want your story or not? They just confirmed she’s here.”
“I can’t write the story if we’re dead.”
“I have a plan.”
“I hope not like the part where a militia now has us under siege.”
“Nope. Ever see High Noon?”
Victoria thought a moment. “That old Gary Cooper movie?”
“Spot on. I’m the good guy here, and the clock’s ticking.” He showed her the two grenades he’d taken from a SWAT member’s vest. “He’s now going to say I have to bring Jenkins out unarmed. But he’ll be looking for an automatic rifle.”
“You’re crazy! You’ll just blow up Laura and youself.”
“Most plans have some risks. If I die and save Laura, that’s fine. Just be ready to mop up when the dust clears. Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“Basic training. I was first in my group.”
“Imagine that. I was only a medic. But then I was a cop.”
***
Sullie wasn’t too compassionate about Jenkins’s shoulder. He tied the man’s arms behind his back with a boot lace, cinched it tight, and marched him out. As expected, a good number of the remaining militia members exposed themselves but stood back, weapons ready, as one marched forward with Laura.
She didn’t seem surprised to see him. Is she drugged? That wouldn’t surprise him. Sheriff Willis had said she seemed like a zombie. That motley crew would want their sex slaves docile. What if she doesn’t react to my cue?
But he smiled when he saw her mouth the words “Kill them all.” He nodded ever so slightly and mouthed “one,” meaning lesson one. Years ago, as a little girl, he had begun training his wife in self-defense, and Laura would watch. When she flashed him a brief smile, he knew she understood. She must be prentending she’s drugged!
“How you want to work this?” said the militia member.
“Let her come to me, and I’ll let your general go to you.”
“How do we know you’re not armed? And what about the other reporter?”
“Your men are covering you. She’s covering me. Stalemate. Actually, you have better odds because you have more shooters.”
“All right. Let’s do it. On three. One—“
That was when Laura acted, bringing her boot up in back of her and using its heel to kick her captor in the balls. She then dropped as Sullie tossed the grenades and also dropped. Victoria did the rest.
***
“I had my doubts about you,” Sullie said to Sheriff Willis.
The man raised his eyebrow but then nodded at Laura comforting the militia’s other sex slaves. Three of seven women actually had belonged to God’s Soldiers; they were in handcuffs. The militia members were all now in body bags.
The sheriff ignored Sullie’s remark. “That was a stupid chance you two took. I don’t care if you are Boston PD.”
“Ex-BPD cop,” said Sullie. “Bad hombres are dead.” He held out his arms. “You should arrest me. I had no authority here.”
The sheriff glanced at the carnage. “I think I’ll just write it off as self-defense. We won’t even mention your daughter.”
“Thank you for that, sheriff,” said Victoria. “To protect Laura and her father, I’ll do the same in my newspaper article. Some people say our news is all fake anyway.”
***
Comments are welcome!
You’ll find more free short fiction in the blog categories “Steve’s Shorts” and “ABC Shorts.” Also see the list of free PDF downloads on the web page “Free Stuff & Contests” at this website. Enjoy!
In libris libertas!
