Excerpt: Enfilade

Chapter III
“Older men declare war, but it is the youth that must fight and die…” –Herbert Hoover

It was dark by the time John Porter returned home.

He had to run to town with a stock of corn for the market, taking the old Ford pickup, and had run into little bumps along the way. First, the farmhands hadn’t cut all the corn he told them to, and they only had half a stock ready. He had to dock their pay for a day while he waiting several hours for them to finish cutting the corn. By the time he got the full stock done and loaded it into the truck, he only made it halfway to town before his truck sputtered to a stop. He opened the hatch to reveal a smoking engine black with overheating. He walked the rest of the way to town to get a mechanic to come out and fix the truck, which took another three hours. By the time he and the mechanic drove out to where his truck was in a tow-truck, he found a flock of crows pecking at the corn, ruining dozens of ears. When they got the crows off and hooked the front of the pickup to the tow-truck, the mechanic cranked the chain a bit too high, and the flatbed of the pickup opened and half the remaining corn tumbled out and was ruined by the dust and dirt on the road. With only about a third of the stock left, they motored to town. The mechanic was kind enough to drop Porter off at the market with his corn, while he continued down to fix the truck, a task which he said may take all day.

Nevertheless, Porter went into the market to sell his corn. The market manager, considering the fact that it was already late afternoon and Porter only had a third of a stock, refused to pay more than half-price for each ear. Porter was furious, but he was in no position to argue. The manager paid him and he sluggishly went back to the mechanic. It took the rest of the day and well into the night to fix his truck, and when he finally did, he was forced to pay the mechanic all the money he had made from selling the corn plus some from his own pocket. But now Porter was back on the road, short several dollars where he was supposed to be up several dozen. Darkness was covering the farm as Porter parked the truck.

It was because of this darkness, and of Porter’s unyielding exhaustion and frustration, that he did not notice the unmarked black car sitting behind the farmhouse.

“Ma! I’m home!” he shouted as he opened the door into the silent dark house. There was no answer. She must be asleep, he thought.

He silently crept upstairs, stripping off his dirty and sweaty shirt in the process. He did not see the man in a black trench coat crouching by the stairs, a Lugar in one hand and a syringe in the other.

* * *

Uwe Schlossberg had never been asked to do something like this before. Prior to this moment, his missions had been strictly reconnaissance. He was a spy, not an assassin. That being said, when he received the telegram this morning from Weiss saying that he was to wait for his orders to kidnap the mother, wife and kids of Kurt Pallas, and head to the state of North Carolina, where he was to hop onto an unmarked Ha-139 seaplane and fly to France, he was almost inclined to not believe it. But he was not about to disobey a direct order from Weiss, either. So he had done it, faithfully and loyally.

And now he crouched, heart pounding, by the stairs in the Pallas farmhouse, certain that the man walking in the door was looking directly at him. But his luck was good that night, for the man was too tired to notice, and walked up the stairs, taking off his plaid shirt. Schlossberg released the breath he had been holding slowly, and he could swear his heart was beating hard enough to move his chest. He silently stood up, his cramped knees popping, and sounding frighteningly loud in the silence. His palms were sweaty against the grip of the tiny pistol, and his thumb twittered on the plunger of the syringe. He turned the corner and headed up the stairs.

He made his way along the hallway of rooms to the door on the end. It was open a crack. He put his pistol against it and pushed it open, the creak of the hinges making him cringe in pain. He opened the door just enough to slip inside. Staying low, he made crept along the room, pausing at every shadow, towards the bed, and the sleeping figure within. He rose slowly, gazing down at the figure below him, her wrinkled and unsuspecting face turned toward the ceiling. Ignorance is bliss… he thought. He held the syringe above his head and readied his thumb to press the plunger…

* * *

John awoke to the sound of a piercing scream. His eyes bolted open as fear drained the color of his skin. It chilled his bones and a cold sweat broke out on his face. He threw away the covers of his bed and jumped to his feet, clad only in white boxers, and ran to the door, grabbing a shotgun from the corner of the room as he went.

* * *

Schlossberg threw his hand over the woman’s mouth on instinct, muffling her shrill scream of terror. Her eyes were open, fixed on him with unwavering resolve. Shut your hole, this’ll all be over soon enough.

He plunged his arm down, driving the syringe into her wrinkled neck. His thumb hit the plunger and sent a steady stream of clear fluid into her veins. Schlossberg injected a third of the fluid into her, then drew it out. She quieted instantly and her eyes lazily hung half-open. He pocketed the syringe and grabbed the woman, throwing her over his shoulder and keeping the Lugar at his side.

He heard frantic footsteps, and suddenly the door to the bedroom flew open. John Porter stood there, cocking a shotgun. Schlossberg acted in impulse and pulled the trigger. The cracking sound of the shot reverberated throughout the house and the bullet exploded against the doorframe, inches from Porter’s startled face, sending woodchips and splinters flying. Porter staggered with the shotgun and Schlossberg jumped forward, pushing Porter out of the way and charging down the hall.

He heard the titanic explosion of the shotgun discharging, and felt a searing pain in his leg, as well as saw pieces of wood from the floor fly up around him. Schlossberg spun, holding the unconscious woman out in front of him, the Lugar aimed at her head.

“Put…her…down,” threatened Porter, cocking the shotgun again and putting it up to his eye.

“You wouldn’t shoot at me! You can’t,” Schlossberg snickered. “You shoot me, she’ll be dead before she hits the ground, and you’ll have a bullet in your spine…”

“James?” Porter lowered the gun slightly. “But… you saved me… I thought you could be trusted!”

“‘The brothers we thought were loyal and strong may be our enemies all along…’” Schlossberg quoted. It was something his father used to say to him. Now he finally knew what it meant.

“I won’t tell you again, James, put her down!”

Schlossberg aimed the gun away from the woman and pointed it at Porter. “Say that again, boy. Come on, I dare you.”

He could shoot Porter right here, but Porter would most likely fire back. It would hit the woman, but who’s to say it wouldn’t hit him as well? He didn’t want to take the risk… It was better to just play it safe and accomplish the mission in his mind. He slowly began backing down towards the stairs, the gun still aimed, unmoving, at Porter.

“Stop right there, James…” Porter said, bringing the gun back up to eye-level.

“I’m not afraid of you, boy.”

“You will be when you’ve got a handful of shot in your ass!” he shouted.

“You don’t have the guts to shoot me, boy! No matter how tough you think you are, you will never have the guts to shoot me!” Schlossberg challenged. His foot found purchase on the edge of the stairs and he smiled. “I, however, am different. I do have the guts to shoot someone. Especially when they’re a smart-ass farm boy!”

He pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed in the empty house, and the round tore through the air just over Porter’s shoulder. Porter impulsively pulled his own trigger. The shotgun roared and flashed a bright orange light from the barrel. Schlossberg dove right and smashed through the stair railing. He felt himself and the woman falling for a brief moment before there was a momentous crash as he struck the ground, followed by pieces of wood from the banister he had crushed. He stood up without waiting and grabbed the woman, throwing her over his shoulder.

* * *

Porter felt the rush of air as the round whistled past his ear, and felt the recoil of his shotgun as he fired. He saw the man and his mother disappear from view and heard the crashing as they tumbled from the stairs. His first, terrified thought was that he had shot her. He rushed to the edge of the precipice that was once his stair railing and looked down. He saw the man grab his mother by the collar and glance upward briefly before dragging her forward and rushing out the door.

Porter felt a moment of rage as he jumped down from the second floor and cocked the shotgun for a third time. He ran out onto the porch and heard the slamming of a car door and the starting of an engine. Porter threw himself over the railing of the porch and landed in the grass just in time to see the black car take a sharp turn and speed away from the house. Porter fired again, but the car was too far away for the spreading shotgun rounds to take any effect. Nevertheless, he cocked and fired a fourth, fifth, and sixth round after the car.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted. “You sick son-of-a-bitch! I’ll fucking murder you! Do you hear me you bastard?! I—Will—Murder—You!”

He chucked the shotgun at the ground in anger and it discharged in a bright light. Porter screamed into the night, but there was nobody to hear him for miles around…

* * *

The dawn light was just beginning to crest the horizon as the black car bumped and slid along the road towards the dock on the North Carolina coast. Müller was already awake, watching eagerly as the car came to a halt in front of the seaplane. Müller got out of his seat and walked down the ladder onto the dock, as a tall and muscular man stepped out of the car.

“Schlossberg?”

The man turned and glared at him.

“Don’t call me by that name,” he hissed.

Müller raised his hands defensively. “My apologies. You got the…cargo?”

Schlossberg looked at him and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He brought Müller around to the back of the car and opened the trunk.

“Holy…” Müller was mystified. In the back of the car sat two women, one of them rather old, and two small children, all bound and gagged, barely conscious.

“Let’s fly,” Schlossberg whispered. “Fast.”