American Mutt

Sunlight

Sunlight

The Blood of Tyrants… was embossed on the card, followed by the number 38. The team leader picked up the card from the table. “Tonight,” he said, his eyes absorbing the words, absorbing their meaning and weight, absorbing the end of one type of life and the beginning of another. If there would be another after tonight.

He felt his heart thump against his rib cage—closed his eyes, centering himself—and exhaled a breath of resolve. A righteous passage? A threshold to cross. A christening of sorts. But no God will be there to save us. Not tonight.

A slight nod, then an I’m-good-with-that wry smile. He placed the card back on the table and checked the magazine in his SIG Sauer, a 9mm with an anchor logo on the side. He checked the targeting of the green laser attached to the light rail, then holstered the weapon.

Tonight my training will have to be enough because tonight we will commit federal crimes.

A few blocks away, a white van drove through the upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood.

The leader placed a breathable synthetic skin hood over his head, his smile disappearing behind the veil. The hood was designed to fit his face perfectly with cut-outs for his eyes, nasal passages, mouth and ear cavities. The breathable hood overlapped the suit that covered his entire body, including his fingers and toes. No trace evidence to be left.

An eight-man crew stood behind the leader, methodically covering their second skins with black tactical clothing, including gloves and boots with smooth rubber soles. Once dressed, the men affixed gear belts with extra magazines to their waists, attached their headsets, and tested the comm systems. They slammed magazines holding composite bullets into their BCM RECCE-16 dark bronze carbines and slung the rifles over their backs.

“Nathan Control, this is Gadsden One. Ready for vitals check. Over,” the leader said.

“Read you Gadsden One. Checking vitals,” Nathan Control confirmed.

An extended wheelbase black van was parked on a Washington, D.C. residential street with its headlights off. Inside the van, computer monitors displayed the vitals of eighteen operators active in the field—heart rates, blood pressures, oxygen levels. At the top of the computer screen, the names of the teams: Gadsden and Knowlton.

“Vitals confirmed, Gadsden Team. Vitals confirmed, Knowlton Team,” Nathan Control said over the comm.

“Copy,” the team leader said, then paused, hearing a vehicle outside. He held up a closed fist, and all the men froze.

The moon was full but muted behind cloud cover, dark was the night. Headlights of the approaching van penetrated the mist, shimmering beams reflecting off the rolling and churning moist night air. The van slowed in front of the stucco box house. The engine stopped, the headlights remained on, piercing light into the gap of the living room shutters. On both sides of the van was a logo: J.P. Jones Painters. Two men wearing white jumpsuits were inside.

The leader pointed to two of his men, then to the hallway, and the men left the room through the arched doorway, then moved to each side of the darkened living room window. One man inched open a wooden shutter, just enough to see the two dragon eyes of the van intruding.

Two men in jumpsuits got out of the van, looked over the house, then opened the rear cargo door.

The leader motioned to the six remaining men, who filed out of the room and moved through the house.

Outside a clatter of metal on metal, the men in jumpsuits removed something from the van.

Inside, the two men in the living room drew their carbines to ready and racked the bolts. They exhaled long and slow. The leader and his men made their way to a door off the kitchen, entered the three-car garage and got into three black SUVs.

The men in jumpsuits carried toolboxes from the back of the van and approached the front door. The electric motors of the three-bay garage doors hummed, and the doors opened. The men in jumpsuits stopped and put down their toolboxes.

Inside, the two men slid from the living room window to the front door. One man held the doorknob. The other man stood five feet away and leveled his carbine. They listened.

The big-block engines of the SUVs turned over and growled. The white reverse lights of SUVs illuminated. Outside, the men in jumpsuits reacted to the noise and turned toward the garage. The man at the front door counted down: three—two—one. He swung open the front door. The men in jumpsuits snapped their heads toward the door and stuck up their hands.

“Lower the RECCE, you’re violating my civil rights,” one of the men in jumpsuits barked.

“Yeah, mine too,” the other man added.

“B-Team doesn’t have f*****g rights. Where’s your headset?” the man holding the carbine said.

“Truck. We’re just painters tonight, remember?”

“Get your comm on now. Then paint every square inch of this place. No prints left,” the man at the front door said. “Command is mobile now.”

“Copy that,” the reluctant painter said.

The three black SUVs moved through the neighborhood, then veered off in different directions into the murk.

Former Speakers of the House of Representatives were members of the “cot club.” The name described politicians who bedded down on a cot in their offices in the Longworth House Office Building every night while the House was in session. There was a quasi-palatial official suite in the Capitol, but some complained it reeked of cigarette smoke from a prior inhabitant. The current Speaker, Susan Arnold, had no intention of joining the cot club. She lived in a 7,350 square-foot Federal-style red brick on 31st street in the Georgetown section of Washington D.C. Five bedrooms and bathrooms, thick panel solid timber hardwood floors, a lower level gym, theater, and a wine cellar.

It was 2:45 a.m. when the operator in the back of the black SUV said, “Loudspeaker quiet,” a confirmation that the home security system guarding the Speaker of the House had been successfully hacked.

“Primary out route one confirmed Gadsden One. Secondary out route also confirmed,” Nathan Control said.

“Out routes confirmed Nathan,” Gadsden One said. “Let justice be done though the heavens fall,” he said to himself.

The rear of the mobile command truck was wall-to-wall communications and surveillance equipment. A computer monitor displayed a layout of the residence. Thermal images of warm bodies glowed hot on the second floor.

“Adult thermals second floor, Gadsden One,” Nathan Control said.

“Copy, Nathan. Two thermals, second floor,” Gadsden One confirmed.

The first three-man team of commandos—or operators, as they referred to themselves—Gadsden One, Two and Three, entered the residence from the rear.

That first step inside, a chasm crossed, the first of several federal crimes that would take place on this night nearly simultaneously.

Their entry was swift and silent and smooth—hand signals—not a word was said. Once inside, Gadsden One whispered into his comm, “Nathan, be advised, Gadsden One, Two, Three, internal on target.”

“Penetration of residence confirmed, Gadsden One, Zero time, mark,” Nathan Control said over the comm.

“Zero time confirmed,” Gadsden One replied.

The operators wore heads-up displays that allowed them to see their locations within three-dimensional blueprints of the residence. They saw two adults on the second floor in a prone position, likely asleep in bed. The team proceeded through the thirty-foot-long kitchen; white shaker cabinets, brass knobs and handles, a large slate gray granite island, Thermador stainless steel appliances. One operator walked through the dining room, glanced once at the oversized painting of Jacqueline Kennedy above the fireplace, and opened the front door. Operators Gadsden Four, Five, and Six entered the residence.

Willows surrounded the back yard. A lush grassy mound in the center of the yard glistened in the moonlight. On the mound stood Gadsden Seven. His two partners, Gadsden Eight and Nine, staked out the front of the residence.

Inside the residence, Gadsden operators One through Six proceeded up the staircase to the second floor, one slight creak of a wooden stair, then another, at each sound, the team froze and listened. The Speaker, still asleep, turned to her side but did not wake. Gadsden One, Two and Three entered the Speaker’s bedroom, and without hesitation, taped the mouths of the Speaker and her husband with duct tape. As the Speaker and her husband lurched from their beds, the needles found their arteries, injecting a solution that caused unconsciousness in seconds. The operators removed a black body bag from a backpack.

Gadsden Three opened the Speaker’s left eye. Gadsden Two removed a device from his tactical vest and scanned the eye. In the Command truck, a computer monitor displayed an image of the Speaker’s pupil. Gadsden Three removed a fingerprint scanner from his vest and scanned the Speaker’s thumb. Another monitor displayed the thumbprint.

“Susan Arnold confirmed, Gadsden One. Proceed Arnold transport. Repeat. Proceed Arnold transport.”

“Copy, Nathan. Proceeding with transport, over.”

The operators slipped the Speaker into the body bag.

“Ninety seconds counting,” Nathan Control said over the comm.

“Copy,” Gadsden One said.

The men carried the Speaker out of the bedroom.

“Time for SSE, Nathan?” Gadsden One said.

“Negative on SSE, Gadsden One. Complete transport and exit residence.”

“Copy.”

The extraction from the Speaker’s bedroom took two minutes. An operator lagged behind. From his backpack, he removed what looked like a mini leaf blower connected to a small canister. He turned it on and sprayed the room with a cloud of fine dust. The team moved the body bag through the kitchen to the back door. Gadsden One paused, removed the calling card from his pocket and placed it on the kitchen island. The Blood of Tyrants - 38

Minutes earlier, several blocks away in the Foxhall neighborhood of Washington, D.C., the landscaping lights went dark in the back yard of a renovated 6,350 square-foot colonial. Heinrich Tenner snored deeply, long labored inhales and garbled exhales. His penchant for Davidoff cigarettes had given him a low-grade case of emphysema but his gold Dunhill lighter still stood tall on his nightstand next to his bed like the trusty companion it was. His wife lay next to him wearing earmuffs. The Knowlton team stood at ready over the bed and counted down by fingers: three—two—one—go. The duct tape went on, and the needles plunged into the carotids. After a few seconds of struggle, all was quiet, and the team rolled the governor of the World Bank into the body bag. On his kitchen counter lay another calling card: Blood of Tyrants - $.

Across the country, the estate on Harcross Road in Woodside, California was one of the largest properties available on the San Francisco Peninsula. The marketing brochure in the kitchen boasted its exceptionally rare 32 acres, minutes to Menlo Country Club, award-winning formal gardens (specific awards not noted), surrounded by rolling grassy hills with native oaks and redwoods, orchards, and potential for cattle or horses.

The circa 1933 Pennsylvania Tudor consisted of a 7-bedroom main residence, a secluded oversized pool, and a multi-room pool house. On the market for a cool 21 mil. Apparently, the executive vice president of the largest social media company on the planet, Glenn Woo, wanted to move uptown to posh Pacific Heights.

The rolling grassy hills surrounding the property proved useful to the nine special operators of the Tallmadge Team. Minutes earlier, they had approached the main house at the exact time of the abductions of the speaker and governor. The tech-exec was a light sleeper and sat up in bed. The men in black were on him within two syllables, which sounded something like, “What the.” Remaining behind in his kitchen was another calling card: Blood of Tyrants - METHOD.

Lawrence Brenton served several years in Congress before he was defeated by a younger Democrat, an aggressive Ivy leaguer, left of his left, which was far left. So be it, he became a wealthy lobbyist. Political insiders on the hill considered him to be one of the leading experts on state legislatures, for which expertise he gained the nickname Local Larry. But some insiders thought his curriculum vitae to be odd. What was an expert of small local politics doing in D.C. as a multi-million-dollar lobbyist, and who was paying him?

Local Larry was an old school, cigar smoke closed door meetings with power brokers kind of guy. But he liked to blow town twice a month, flying private of course, to his contemporary post-and-beam on the ocean in Newport Beach, California. It was there the midnight ramblers dressed in black, the Revere Team, snatched Local Larry, who had fallen asleep on his living room couch. The operators entered from the beach. Another card was left behind: Blood of Tyrants - Convention.

Attack dog pundit faux news anchor, Donald Sturitz, was in the middle of his five-year contract, the largest deal CNN made to date. More rancor than anchor, Sturitz became the Sean Hannity of the left. While Hannity split time on his show praising his conservative politic favorites and berating those on the left, Sturitz praised no one and became the master of the dark attack, king of gutter political ranting, and his base audience loved him for it. Sturitz created an edge, an element of humor Hannity lacked. Sturitz relished the inflicting, the rusty dull blade that needed force to go deep. He taunted, he ridiculed, he derided. Only politicians with the thickest of skins dared appear on his 7 p.m. prime-time hour.

CNN juggled the onslaught of censure issues and slander lawsuits, but the ratings kept rising for his show, and with them, ad revenue. His view of America was dark, darker, the darkest. Sick dark. He scorned, he mocked, and he divided, all with his screechy, shriekish laugh. The devil on c***k. Sardonic Don. Don Rickles on Oxy, he was sarcastic, satiric, and ironic. He became known as Donic.

In the last year, Donic had become paranoid, noticeable if you watched his show, daily. There had been three attempts on his life. One Southern nut case packing an old Colt .45 revolver screamed Confederate Army slogans while he unloaded at Sturitz on Columbus Circle in broad daylight. A poor shot evidently, the hot dog vendor with a flesh wound, but Sturitz was unharmed. Another attempt, this one by an Angel Dad, who beat Sturitz good and b****y outside the Time Warner Center. Sturitz stayed overnight at Mount Sinai. The attack only made Sturitz more brazen on the air. The third attack was a rumor within the CNN New York office. No police report. Sturitz missed three shows.

Two bodyguards protecting Sturitz’s brownstone in the Upper West Side was the norm. Part of his CNN contract. The black van was parked one block away. Inside the van, aerial footage from the drone circling over the residence displayed on the operator’s pad. The thermal infrared camera on the drone only detected a single guard outside. Heat signatures inside the residence revealed one adult female and one adult male lying prone in different bedrooms, indicating a high probability of the target being present.

“Single guard,” Ethan One said into his headset. “Alarm disable confirmed. Targets separate rooms.”

“Why one guard?” Ethan Two said.

“Unknown,” another operator responded. Hold for further.”

“Copy.”

Outside the brownstone, the Ethan Team exited the van. Ethan Seven, dressed in a trench coat, approached the guard and tipped his hat. The guard nodded at Ethan Seven as the dart found his neck. The guard collapsed, Ethan Seven caught the guard’s limp body, and pulled him into the bushes.

Six Ethan operators stood in the hallway on the second floor of the residence. Ethan Four, Five and Six were outside the bedroom door of the female non-target. The other team, Ethan One, Two and Three, were thirty feet down the hallway at the other bedroom door. Ethan One nodded, Ethan Four nodded back, then the finger count: three—two. The operators rushed through the bedroom doors. The pundit’s wife had no time to react. She was neutralized according to plan. Neutralized, not dead.

Ethan One saw the king-size bed was made, not slept in... but on. On the bed was one of Sturitz’s security guards, AR-15 at his side. The team paused for half a beat. That was too much. The guard rolled off the bed and swung his rifle around toward Ethan One, who was on him in a flash, but not before the guard got off four rounds from the rifle on full auto—c***k, c***k, c***k, c***k—the rounds shredding the plaster on the wall and ceiling.

Ethan Two swung his carbine like a baseball bat into the side of the guard’s head, blunt force, out cold. The guard rag-dolled to the floor.

“We gotta Charlie Foxtrot. Negative on target. Security guard down,” Ethan One said into his headset.

“Abort,” came over the comm.

The Ethan Teams ran down the stairs and exited the side door of the residence. They hugged the perimeter wall. The van screeched to a halt out front. The men jumped in the rear of the van, and it sped away, turned a corner, pulled over then stopped.

“Ethan Team, continue to proceed to evac. Stand by,” Nathan Control Two commanded.

Breathing hard in the back of the van, Ethan Team waited.

“Ethan Team. A new twenty. Brownstone. Target still possible at new twenty. Stand by.”

“Should we full abort, Nathan?” Ethan One said.

“Stand by, Ethan One.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ethan Seven navigated the drone until it displayed the residences on each side of 3 Sutton Place. Through the speaker on the pad broadcasting audio from the drone, a dog barked.

“Negative lights on adjacent. Dog barking,” Ethan Three said.

“Proceed to alt twenty. Repeat, proceed to alt twenty. Target at second location,” Nathan Control Two said over the comm.

Several blocks away was the brownstone of Madeline Cironnia, former A-list actress. The traffic jam on her face of lift-nip-tucks piled up into an under-construction zone. Her latest offers had been roles to play variations of aging Zoloft queens for Netflix pilots, no acting required.

The man standing guard outside the Cironnia brownstone was a tenured CNN security guard. The man’s body-guarding skills had peaked years prior, but he was trusted with many company secrets, embarrassments that never saw the light of day. Inside, asleep in the master bedroom, was the man’s boss, Donald Sturitz.

Madeline apparently had not gone to bed yet, a bout of insomnia fueled by what was in the mirror at the edge of the pink granite countertop in the kitchen. Her pupils dilated even further when she whipped around, negligee twirling, and stared at the foreboding military insurgents in her kitchen. Ethan Four moved like a cat, covered her mouth, and Ethan Five delivered the just-a-slight-prick. The intruders gently laid her down on the kitchen floor. Ethan Five pulled her negligee down to cover her waist.

Sturitz’s bodyguard was milling around smoking a cigarette when the man in the trench coat and hat distracted him. The card on the kitchen island; Blood of Tyrants - CUDA.

Four of the five public figures had at least one thing in common: recent investigative exposés asserting some level of corruption—political, journalistic or corporate. The reports revealed evidence no other media outlet had discovered or knew existed. The reports revealed hard evidence. Evidence that came from the public figures’ own confidential files or those of their cronies. Sources unnamed. Journalists and pundits stated that evidence presented in the exposés was hacked, stolen, or both. Attribution? Russia, China, other nation-states, our own government? Unknown. What was known was that the exposés were published by a single media outlet, the controversial investigative journalist website.

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