Capitol Punishment

ELEVEN Creatures Not Stirring

Thirty .45-caliber rounds spat from the fat, suppressed barrel of the Ingram M-11 in less than two seconds, chewing up the squat trunk of the felled juniper.

“Whoa,” Moises exclaimed calmly, though clearly enamored of the power projected by the compact submachine gun.

Darian ejected the spent magazine as smoke wafted from the business end of the Ingram and inserted a full one. He held it out to Moises. “Here. Try it.”

Moises took hold of the weapon by its pistol grip, which ran perpendicular to the box-shaped body indicative of the Ingram and that doubled as the magazine housing. His off hand held the cylindrical suppressor, which was covered by a pad intended to dissipate the thermal energy radiated during firing. “I pull this back, right?”

“Right,” Darian said, pointing to the rounded cocking lever atop the weapon. “That’ll load a round.”

Moises chambered the first .45 ACP round and tightened his grip on the weapon, both hands squeezing tight. Too tight.

“Ease up, Brother Moises. Control is what you want. You don’t have to hold it as tight as a baseball bat.”

“Okay.” Moises looked around the desolate clearing, hidden from the hilly road north of the city by a row of thick vegetation, searching for a target. The headlights of the Buick illuminated another juniper stump a few yards beyond the one just mutilated. He shifted his feet like a batter digging in for leverage and guess-aimed from a low hold, then squeezed the trigger.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

“Man!” Moises said loudly as the empty weapon stopped bucking. “Whoa. That is awesome.” He looked closely at the target, which was not quite as torn up as the one Darian had taken under fire.

“Not bad,” Darian commented, taking the Ingram back. “Pretty good shooting.”

“That thing has a kick.”

“A big-ass kick,” Darian expanded. “But it hits harder on the receiving end.”

“No kidding.”

Darian inserted a fresh magazine and handed the weapon back again. “You should hear the sound without the suppressor on.”

Moises’ fingers scratched at the padded cylinder. “The silencer, you mean?”

“Incorrect term, Brother Moises. But unimportant right now. You’ll learn plenty about weapons and how to use them right, and with the most effect. Right now you’ve just got to get used to it.”

“Is this what we’re going to use tomorrow?” Moises asked.

Darian nodded. “You’ll have one, and I’ll have one.” He paused for a moment, studying the boy’s face carefully. “You’re ready for this?”

“I’m ready.” Moises pulled the cocking lever back and quickly chose a new target, laying thirty rounds on and around it in a flash. A cloud of dust billowed from the ground and drifted through the blazing beams emanating from the front of the Buick. He ejected the empty and held it out for his leader. For the man he was beginning to think of as a father. “Gimme another, Brother Darian.”

“Right on, Brother Moises,” Darian said, smiling. A soldier was coming of age right before his eyes, and there could be no more beautiful sight than that. Other than the one they were going to create in the morning.

John Barrish had his own personal instrument of power in hand at the same moment, though his preparations were of a quieter variety. He had cleaned the silenced Beretta thoroughly over the last hour, checking for dirt and rust, aligning the sound and flash suppressor at its front end, working the action. He loaded three magazines, each with thirteen rounds of .380-caliber hollow-point, also known as 9mm short. In reality, though, he would need only two rounds. Hopefully. But if more were needed, he would use them without hesitation.

The front door opened and closed, Toby coming into the dimly lit front room a second later. “The suitcases are in the car, Pop.”

John nodded. “Where’d you get it?”

“From a dealer in Lancaster. It’s new, so we won’t have to worry about plates.”

“You paid cash?”

“Check from the bank,” Toby answered. “I just told them it was from a purchase order. None of that paperwork for a ten-grand transaction. Hell, they were just glad to sell a car.”

“And a place to stay?”

Toby stiffened his body and pretended to haughtily pull at a nonexistent lapel. “Arrangements for Mr. Benjamin Howell to lease a house have been made through the relocation services of Jefferson Properties of Harrisonburg, Virginia.”

John smiled at the short performance. “Your doing?”

“Are you kidding? I told you Stan does this stuff good.”

Toby saw the gun lying on his father’s lap, resting on a towel. “Pop, I… I mean…” Toby could never remember saying the words he now wanted to utter to his father. Maybe that was best. “I’m glad it’s starting.”

John Barrish looked up at his son, understanding what he was saying without actually doing so. He remembered the awkwardness well from his own youth. “Your mother and Stan are already in bed, son. You’d better get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“G’night, Pop.”

John smiled as his oldest boy left him alone with his thoughts for the last night in this place. In the morning they would be gone, on their way to bigger and better things. Things no one could even imagine.