Stones of Fire

18

Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.

He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the 4th Street exit and Riggins posted at the 7th Street exit. Experienced war fighters one and all, each was equipped with a Ka-Bar and two ID photos, one of a curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall red-headed bastard. And the best part? To a man, they were decked out in DC police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.

The op in play, Boyd secured a communication device to his right ear enabling him to speak to all five of his men. ‘You’ve got your orders. Take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent and deadly.’

‘Copy that, Boss Man,’ Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarters fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade, close combat appealing to a particular kind of warrior. That being the kind of warrior who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.

‘Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,’ Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. ‘And don’t forget, we go with God.’

‘Amen, brother.’ This from Sanchez, a former army ranger and Afghan veteran well experienced in slaying the godless.

As he headed towards the 4th Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand, the cluster of silver crosses a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who a thousand years ago had gone forth to conquer the Holy Land: Hugues of Payen. Godfroi of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who had fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was something new to him, his old man not holding the good book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumour had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar trees.

Approaching the museum lobby, Boyd jutted his chin at the Rosemont man standing sentry near the cloakroom — Agee, a good man to have in a tight fix. The silent greeting was returned with an innocuous nod.

Not about to stand in line, Boyd slid his hand into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet. Flipping it open, he thrust the DC police badge at the same guard he had flashed when he entered the museum.

‘Detective Wilson,’ the guard said by way of greeting. ‘Hell of a mess we’ve got on our hands, huh?’

‘Just another day in sin city. Anyone get a look at the bastard who fired the shots?’

‘As a matter of fact, one of the museum patrons was able to video some of it on his cell phone.’

Hearing that, Boyd froze.

Within hours his face would be plastered all over YouTube and the major news outlets.

‘Glad to hear it,’ he replied, his facial muscles taut with a fake smile. ‘Keep up the good work —’ he glanced at the man’s name badge ‘— Officer Milligan.’ He had no idea if security guards were addressed as ‘Officer’, and at the moment he didn’t much care. The fake grin replaced with a grimace, he headed for the doors, shoving aside a couple of jabbering tourists.

Once outside, he came to a standstill, his booted feet planted on the cobbled stone driveway that fronted the entrance. Ignoring the two-way human traffic — badges heading into the museum, tourists heading out — he raised his head to the grey sky above. And prayed.

Dear Lord, help me make this right.

Boyd didn’t want to let down the colonel. He owed everything he had to Colonel Stan MacFarlane. Sometimes, when his mind wandered, he liked to imagine that the colonel was the father he never had but always wanted. Stern but fair. Righteous. A man who’d never hit you unless he had just cause.

Like a soothing balm, the gently falling snow cooled his brow, big fluffy flakes sticking to his eyelashes, his lips, the tip of his nose. It put him in mind of the first time he’d ever seen snow fall from the sky. It was during a tour of duty in Japan. A backwater kid from Pascagoula, Mississippi, he’d only seen winter snow on celluloid. He well remembered standing there, a bad-ass two-hundred-and-thirty-pound marine, sorely tempted to lie down, flap his arms and legs like an epileptic and make an angel in the snow. Come to think of it, it’d been snowing the day he made his first kill. A Jap with an attitude had accused him of stiffing on the sake bill and had followed him into the alley, attacking him from behind while he took a piss. He killed the slant-eyed shitbird with a backward jab of the elbow, ramming his nose all the way into his skull. A ruby-red bloodstain on virgin white snow. It had been a beautiful sight. Like a silk-clad whore spreading her legs for a game of peek-a-boo.

Reinvigorated, the blood pumping through his veins fast and furious, Boyd straightened his shoulders as he strode past the black Wrangler. The colonel said that God was a fine one for testing the faithful. Maybe that’s what all this fiddle fucking was about — he was being tested.

If that was the case, bring it on!

He was up to the challenge.

Opening the boot of the Ford, he removed a drawstring pouch. Inside the bag were two mobiles, coiled wire, duct tape and a small block of C4 plastic explosive. Everything he needed to make things right.