Powerless (31 page)

 

Z
eke bolts up in bed. Summer reaches her arm out to comfort him. But it isn't a nightmare that wakes him this time.

“I heard something,” Zeke whispers. For a moment he's disoriented in his new surroundings.

“I didn't hear anything,” Summer whispers back.

The windows are cracked open and a chill has invaded the space. He slides from beneath the covers and pads toward the window. Months in Afghanistan had trained him to be aware of abnormal noises in the night. He slips on his jeans and shirt. In the darkness he fumbles for the hard polymer handgrip of the Glock. Not wanting to risk a flashlight, he searches the floor with his hands. In their haste to remove clothing, Zeke, usually a stickler for proper handling of weapons, can't recall where he placed the gun.

“Where did I put my pistol?” he whispers to Summer.

“Check the nightstand.”

One of the horses trumpets a nervous whinny.

“Somebody's after the horses,” Zeke says in an urgent whisper. He yanks the nightstand drawer from off its tracks and the heavy gun clumps to the hardwood floor. He snaps up the pistol and tucks it into his waistband. In two quick strides he's digging through his jacket for the extra magazine and a tactical flashlight that mounts to the bottom rail of the gun.

Summer jumps naked from bed and quickly dresses. “I'll cover you with the rifle.”

“Fine, but do it from the house. I don't know how many there are or what the hell they're up to.”

Zeke gently raises the window to the stops. Afraid the front and back doors are being watched, he slides through the window and drops to his feet. He creeps toward the front of the house and peeks around the corner, but his visual range is limited to about ten feet. His senses, not as razor sharp as they had once been, but still sharp enough, suggest no one is present. There are none of the telltale signs: no rustle of fabric or the impatient shuffling of feet. The gate hinges to the barn squeal in the night. Zeke ducks low and races to the opposite corner toward the back of the house.

In the anemic wash of the moon, he makes out the silhouette of the three horses being led through the gate by two people. The darkness prevents him from guessing their ages, their sex, and even their size—just two forms leading away
his
horses.

His body surges with anger as he takes the Glock from his waist and seats the flashlight. He stands to his full six foot three and steps around the corner.

He makes it to within ten yards of the horse thieves before they notice that a gun barrel is tracking their escape. Zeke triggers the powerful flashlight and points it directly at their faces. The two men are in their early twenties and, from their appearance, they hadn't bothered to bathe or shave even when the power was on. Both are big and broad, nearly as tall as Zeke, and each is carrying about forty pounds of extra weight. The one on the left has a shotgun riding on his shoulder. Zeke pans the flashlight down and discovers guns tucked into the waistbands of their ragged jeans.

Zeke stalks closer, the Glock held at shoulder height and locked in a two-hand grip. “Let the leads hit the ground and step away from the horses.”

The one holding the ropes releases them from his grasp, but neither makes a move to step away. Zeke wants to shoot them where they stand, but the safety of the horses is paramount. With his pistol never wavering, he steps over and gathers up the ropes. With a cluck of his tongue, he leads Murphy and the mares away from the men. There's not much he can do with the horses one-handed, but he quickly wraps the ropes around a fence post.

He takes three steps forward, the pistol fanning a small arc between the two men, the cone of light from the flashlight blinding them with each swing. “I want that shotgun on the ground.”

The young punk shrugs and bends down to toss the shotgun on the ground. Something about the shrug seems out of place to Zeke.
These guys haven't said a word and they are nonchalant for having a gun aimed at their heads.

A niggle of worry tickles the nape of his neck. “Now, using two fingers, I want you to very carefully remove those pistols and toss them over the fence.”

Neither man moves.

Zeke takes another step forward. “You can remove your guns or die with them stuck in your pants. The choice is yours, but either way is fine with me.”

The men make no move to disarm. Zeke fires a single shot and the man on the left slaps a hand to his ear. Blood seeps between his fingers as the man howls in pain. The smell of cordite hangs in the still, cold air. The horses stomp and thrash until the ropes come free, but they scamper through the open gate and race back to the safety of the barn.

Zeke waits for the man to stop wailing. “I'm usually not one to give warning. The next shot will drill into the center of your forehead. The hollow-point slugs will mushroom on impact and a good portion of the back of your head will disintegrate.”

The man to his left moans as they begin to slowly reach for their pistols. “Now, I want you to grab them by the barrels and—”

A high-pitched scream erupts in the darkness. “Uncle Zeke!”

Zeke's stomach plummets and his blood runs cold. But the ingrained army training assumes command. He doesn't whirl at the voice and his gun hand never wavers from the two would-be horse thieves. Both are still holding the butts of their weapons with two fingers.

“Emma, are you okay?” Zeke shouts, berating himself for not checking the surrounding area more closely.

“Uncle Zeke . . .”—her voice is trembling—“there's a strange man here.”

A new voice shouts out, “Earl, you and Bobby bring whoever you got on in here. And I don't want any more shootin'. You dumb asses will have half the county headed this way.”

“Everything's going to be all right, Emma,” Zeke shouts.

The man on the right laughs. “You got that right, cowboy.”

A searing anger wells up from the depths of his core. The heartache of the last few years—the loss of his fellow squad members, the agonizing months of recuperation, and the staggering deaths of his wife and unborn child—solidifies into a fiery rage. Zeke explodes forward. He knocks the gun from the man's grip and rams the barrel of his pistol under the man's chin. Without hesitation Zeke pulls the trigger. He whirls toward the other man, who's fumbling to get a firm grip on his pistol. The Glock barks again and the man collapses to the ground.

Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. Zeke sucks in a lungful of air before stalking toward the rear of the house.

“Hey, boys, what's going on out there?” The man's voice is deep and raspy but contains no hint of fear. Zeke's fairly certain the man is older than the other two, not that it matters one whit whether he lives or dies.

With a clock counting down in his head, Zeke races up to the side of the house and takes a quick glimpse around the corner. The dying fire, coupled with the faint moonlight, illuminates enough of the scene for him to see Ruth and Carl along with Emma and Noah bunched together near the fire pit.

Summer is nowhere in sight.

A large, burly man stands at the rear of the group, a shotgun braced against his shoulder. Too close for Zeke to risk a shot. A mixture of fear and cold has Emma and Noah shivering as they stand next to their parents.

The man bellows, “Boys, somebody answer me.” His request is met with silence.

Now or never.
Zeke tucks his pistol behind his back and steps into the clear. “I'm sorry to say that Earl and Bobby are indisposed.”

The shotgun swings his way. He exhales a sigh of relief and slowly approaches the group, meandering farther to the right to draw the shotgun farther from his family.

“Who are you and what did you do to my sons?” The man's finger caresses the trigger as Zeke stalks closer.

“Who I am doesn't matter.” Zeke continues his slow pace forward, doing his best to tamp down the rage coursing through his body.

He comes to a stop ten feet from the man. At this range the shotgun would rip through his body from shoulders to ass. “Now, the way I see things is you can die where you stand or, choice two, you can gather up your sorry-ass sons and go back to the hole you crawled out of.”

The man tenses. “You sorry mother—”

His head explodes in a red mist as the rifle shot echoes in the darkness. Zeke is moving before the body hits the ground.

A cry of despair and the sound of the rifle clattering to the floor escape from the house.

Zeke thrusts his pistol into Carl's hand. “There might be more. Keep an eye out.”

Zeke jerks the screen door open and hurries down the hallway. He turns into the first bedroom and finds Summer sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her head buried in her hands. Zeke sinks to his knees and takes her in his arms.

“It's not like shooting an animal,” she blubbers into his chest.

“No, it's not,” he says in a gentle voice. “But you did what you had to do.”

She wipes at her tears and pushes him away. Anger flashes on her face. “You intentionally provoked that man.”

Zeke drops to his butt and leans his back against the wall. “Maybe I did . . . but I”—he pauses and rubs his hands across his face—“I've seen more than my share of bad men. Men who spend their lives terrorizing others. Men who only take and never give. That man lying in the yard was that type of man.”

Summer whirls to face him. “How could you know that?”

“I know from a lifetime of reading people.” Zeke expels a heavy breath and reaches for her hand. “If we had simply disarmed him and his sons and sent him on their way they'd come back. Tomorrow, next week, maybe next month, but make no mistake, they would have returned. Life is difficult enough without having to look over your shoulder wondering if every odd noise is an announcement of their reappearance.”

Summer turns away. “Did you kill those men trying to steal the horses?”

“Yes.”

A cold silence. Zeke rests his head against the wall.

The screen door squeaks open and slaps shut a moment later. Murmuring voices drift down the hall. Zeke drags his legs under him and starts to stand. Summer reaches for his hand and pulls him back down. She rests her head on his shoulder and entwines her fingers with his.

 

F
irst Lady Katherine Harris threads her way around the bustling West Wing and enters the Oval Office through the side door connected to the study. Her husband, dressed in a black knit shirt from Congressional Country Club, is hunched over his desk but he glances up as the heels of her boots strike the hardwood floor.

“Surprise,” she says. Her trips to the Oval Office are few and far between. Most of their discussions take place in the privacy of their bedroom. But with the upheaval and the fact that they've taken up residence in the Roosevelt Room across the hall, their private time has been compromised.

He tosses the pen on the desk and pushes out of his chair. They meet halfway across the office and wrap their arms around each other.

“Have I told you recently how good your ass looks in a pair of jeans?”

“Not recently, no.” She is dressed in jeans tucked into a pair of knee-high boots with a soft cotton red sweater filling out her ensemble. Her face is absent of makeup. With no cameras around, the staff of the White House has stretched casual Friday to include most every other day of the week.

He takes her elbow and steers her toward the opposing sofas. President Harris sits and she cozies up next to him.

“When are we leaving for Camp David?”

“Tomorrow night. We have to slink out of town under the cover of darkness.” There's lingering bitterness in his voice.

Katherine scoots up to the edge of the sofa and turns to face her husband. “Paul, I know we've had numerous discussions on the topic, but I want you to send someone to retrieve Juliette and David.”

“I thought we decided not to intervene.”

“Lord knows our daughter is strong willed, but I can't stop worrying about her. And I love our son-in-law to death, but I don't know how resourceful he is.”

“Not being able to put together a bookcase from IKEA doesn't mean he's not handy.”

“David is about as handy as a toadstool.”

They both chuckle.

The President grasps one of his wife's hands. “What happens if they've left their condo? They could be anywhere in Southern California.”

“Where would they go?” Katherine asks. “I could maybe see them camping along the beach, but I have a feeling they haven't gone too far astray. Call it mother's instinct.”

President Harris stands and begins pacing, his hand on his chin. “It could take weeks to find them.”

“I don't care. I want our only child here with us.”

“What if they refuse to come?”

“For all of her independence, I'm betting a week without running water and minimal food has changed her outlook.”

The President stops pacing and turns to face his wife. “Your instincts are well honed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I have a small squad of soldiers from the California National Guard keeping an eye on them. Juliette and David are camped in a park down the block from their condo building.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“One, I know they're fine. And two, I wanted to see how long your resolve held.”

“Damn it, Paul. Just because you're the President doesn't give you the right to withhold family secrets from me.” She stands from the sofa and walks to her husband. “Are you going to bring them home?”

“There are some logistics to work out. And there are some political issues we need to overcome. I don't want to be accused of using scarce resources for personal matters.”

Katherine's cheeks turn red. “I don't give a damn about politics. I want—” Her tirade is interrupted by a soft knock on the door to the study. They both turn in that direction.

Chief of Staff Scott Alexander steps into the room. The First Lady takes three angry steps in his direction and raises her finger to his chest. “Out, right this damn minute, Scott.”

A voice behind the door speaks. “Wow, Mom, glad to see you haven't lost your spunk.” Her daughter walks into the room, followed closely by her husband.

Katherine turns to her husband. “Asshole.”

Those in the room erupt with laughter.