The Enforcer (8 page)

At this rate, it wouldn
’t be long before Dylan divulged all her secrets. He had that effect on women, whether he found them attractive or not. Women confided in him. It was a gift he had, not that he actively exploited it, but he found it extremely useful in his line of work. And until now, he’d never felt a lick of guilt for leading them on, not when the information he gleaned took arms dealers and drug smugglers off the streets. Not when he rarely followed through with his flirtations.

But this was different.

Dylan wasn’t like the conniving hustlers who looked out for their own interests first and screwed everyone else over, even their own families. Dylan did what—in her own quixotic mind—seemed right. In that sense, she was honorable.

And possibly the most vulnerable woman he had ever known.

What’s more, he was starting to like her—a circumstance that privately concerned him. Because, chances were, he would be called to testify against her when her case went to trial. And, damn, he would feel like shit for using her confessions against, her especially if he did find his way into her bed, which was where their connection was leading. For once, the prospect thrilled him.   

Chapter
Six

Fog blanketed the landscape on the morning of the CPX.

The pearly veil was so dense at zero seven hundred hours that Toby could scarcely make out the cars and pickups lumbering onto Dylan
’s property and parking on either side of the driveway. The sheer number of civilian soldiers tramping toward the front yard suggested that every one of Dylan’s sixty-odd members promised to be in attendance.

Given the business and confusion, Toby opted to keep Milly in the house and out of harm
’s way. Wearing the camouflaged gear that he’d been issued the previous night—woodland patterned BDUs, a large pack, and an olive-colored beret with a red patch that went over the forehead—he made his way to Supply, where Second Amendment Militia soldiers scribbled their names on the attendance ledger. Helping himself to a steaming cup of coffee from the dispenser provided by June Lee, Toby watched Gil Morrison issue M-16s from the unlocked closet. Every soldier received two spare clips.

Toby blew on his scalding coffee to cool it off.
That’s a lot of ammo
. In the hands of sixty-some soldiers, it was enough to cause some very serious damage.

He glanced at the ledger, waiting for the opportunity to snap a picture of it—not with his cell-phone, which would remain buried in the lining of his jacket, but with a tiny digital camera disguised to resemble an Army Rangers Regiment pin. He
’d affixed the pin to the collar of his jacket this morning, counting on Dylan to view it as a symbol of his prowess, not as a violation of dress code. The Taskforce wanted the names and faces of her civilian soldiers to run through their terrorist database on the off chance that they’d find a match.

At last, Morrison stepped away from the table for a moment. Toby laid his coffee down, leaned over the ledger and, with a pinch of his finger, snapped several photos of the entries in it. Then he tossed back his coffee, crushed the cup, and pitched it in the trash on his way to the yard.

Given her irrational plan for people like Hendrix who failed to share her point of view, Dylan was bound to end up in jail sooner or later. He needed to accept that probability and live with it. Using his thumbnail, he switched the pin from camera to video mode while approaching the throng in the yard. An atmosphere of merriment hung over the crowd as they milled about, waiting for the officers to join them.

Made up of predominantly young and middle-aged men, plus a few tough-looking women, the militia vied for standing room. Greeting one another with good-natured humor and slaps on the back, they struck Toby as little more than grownups looking for an excuse to play war.

He approached the nearest knot of soldiers and introduced himself. Receiving words of welcome, he moved to the next group to receive more of the same. The sense that he was being watched had him scanning the crowd until his gaze intersected with that of a steely-eyed loner. Taking in the man’s square jaw and the scar hashing his upper lip, Toby ventured toward him. This man wasn’t like the others. 

“
Morning.” Toby tipped him a nod. “I’m Tobias Burke, the new senior operations sergeant.”

“
Cal Fallon, Sheriff of Harpers Ferry.” The sheriff stuck out a hand.

“
Of course.” They shook, one hard clasp and a quick release.

Toby made certain the pin on his lapel had an unobstructed view of the man
’s face, scar and all. “Captain Connelly said there was another sheriff in the militia.” He glanced around. “Where is he?” The thick fog concealed several of the soldiers standing at the back of the yard.

“
Hooper? He’s around here somewhere.” But Fallon kept his attention fixed on Toby, and when Toby looked back, he found the sheriff studying his pin.

“
You wear that for a reason?” 

The challenging question made Toby
’s pulse kick. The sheriff was versed in surveillance; maybe he could tell that the pin was actually a camera. “Pride,” he said with a shrug. “I served in the 75th Ranger Regiment.”

The sheriff
’s eyes narrowed. “What years?”

Shit.
He was supposed to be the one asking questions, not the other way around. Rattling off his practiced lie, he could only hope that Homeland Security had been thorough in altering his service record.

“
I’m a former Ranger myself,” Fallon announced, unsettling Toby further.

He forced a laugh.
“No kidding? What years?”

The Sheriff had left the service before Toby even went in, a fact that eased his worries only slightly.
“Bet you saw a lot more action than I did,” Fallon surmised.

“
More than enough.” A layer of sweat formed under Toby’s jacket. He couldn’t wait to shrug it off, but he couldn’t yet, not until he’d filmed the rest of the militia members.

“
There’s Hooper.” The sheriff pointed to a thick-set man with a handlebar mustache.

“
Thanks. I think I’ll introduce myself.” Toby walked away, feeling Fallon’s eyes on his back.

Sheriff Hooper of Martinsburg proved to be less of a threat.

“Excellent,” he exclaimed as Toby introduced himself. “Captain Connelly must be thrilled to have you on board,” he added pumping Toby’s hand.

Toby wasn
’t so sure about that. Since their kiss last night, she’d scarcely said two words to him.

“
At-ten-TION!” Ashby’s booming voice snuffed the yammering in the yard and replaced it with silence. “Fall into line for muster and inspection!”

With a shouldering of packs and a rustling of dead leaves, soldiers scrambled to sort themselves into neat rows, about ten men deep. Toby followed the example of the other sergeants and positioned himself at the head of the last line. Standing the butt of his M-16 on the ground, he clasped the muzzle like the others. Silently, with just the barest scuffling feet and clearing of throats, they watched Lt. Ashby open the screen door and announce:
“Commanding officer of the West Virginia Second Amendment Militia.”

Dylan stepped onto the porch, and elbows shot out as everyone present saluted. With a sense of surrealism, Toby saluted right along with them. Dylan paused on the porch to survey her troops from a distance. In the misty light it wasn
’t easy to read her expression, but Toby thought he’d seen that look of exasperation on her face before. It was her XO who insisted on the formality, not Dylan herself.

With an eloquent return salute, she freed them to lower their arms to their sides. Then she stepped off the porch with her graceful, loose-limbed stride, and Toby
’s gaze drifted to her honed thighs. She wore the same woodland patterned BDUs as her militia, as well as the hallmark beret on her head—only hers was burgundy, and it had a gold star on a green patch reminding him of the Czechoslovakian paratroopers. The suspicion that she’d bought the berets wholesale from Eastern Europe nearly made him snort out loud.  

The head covering topped a thick French braid that kept her hair under disciplined control. With just a slash of gloss on her lips and not a drop of makeup, she managed to captivate every
eye in the regiment as she paused to run a maternal gaze over her army. 

How many men, besides him, were admiring the way her camouflage jacket outlined her curves?

“Good morning,” she finally called out.

“
Good morning, ma’am!” the legion chorused.

“
We have a full regimen in store for you today.” She clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace. “For six months to the day, we have withstood threats to individual liberties. You know what they are—tyranny, corruption, illegitimate force, and apathy, to name just a few.” She turned and covered her own tracks. “We have trained to respond to an attack or emergency propagated by the Oppositional Forces. Until now, our mission has been a purely defensive one. Yet, I believe that our passivity makes us guilty of the very apathy that we abhor.”

She paused in her pacing to fix her crystal gaze on her troops.
“It is not enough to protest corruption. Our forefathers fought for their freedoms, and so must we, before they are wrested away. The time has come to take more offensive action.”

A bad taste filled Toby
’s mouth as an expectant hush fell over the yard. She really was crazy. And completely serious about her intent to frighten civilians into seeing the world her way.

She folded her arms across her chest.
“Our creed clearly states that illegitimate force and illegal violence must be met with righteous indignation and
superior
force. It states that we should learn new skills and techniques with firearm or blade, so that we can hit our enemies hard, fast, and true.”

He realized she was quoting directly out of The Creed, which he now had mostly memorized.

Her pale gaze zeroed in on Toby. “In the next few weeks, our newest staff member, a former Army Ranger, will be refining our skills and turning us into an effective strike force. Everyone, say hello to Sergeant Burke.”

“
Hooah, Sergeant Burke!” the militia shouted.

Toby turned toward the crowd, forced a smile, and waved.

“Lt. Ashby, do you have any announcements?” Dylan turned toward her XO, who stood respectfully behind her.

“
No, ma’am,” he said grimly.

“
In that case, Lieutenant, kindly proceed with the inspection and the march.”

Inspection required each NCO to examine the pack of every soldier in his line. Those who
’d failed to fill their canteens with water, who didn’t carry three-days’ worth of rations, a flashlight, extra batteries, ammo, a first-aid kit and a gun-cleaning kit,
plus
the paper copies of the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights were made to drop and do thirty pushups. Only one soldier in Toby’s line failed to meet the mark. Toby recognized him as the waiter, Nathan, from Private Quinn’s Pub.

“
Wife had her baby yet?” he inquired.

“
Not yet, Sarge.” Nathan looked upset with himself for having left his canteen empty.

Toby let the oversight slide. Lacking water to quench his thirst would be punishment enough. This wasn
’t real combat training, where an empty canteen could mean the difference between life and death.

“
Suit up!” Lt. Ashby called as inspection came to an end.

Soldiers shrugged on their packs.

“Atten-TION. Right FACE!” the XO bellowed.

Everyone swiveled toward the running course.

“Forward MARCH!”

Just like soldiers in the Civil War, they tramped down the hill in formation, matting the dew-damp grass beneath their many boots. The sun had edged high enough to burn away most of the fog. Toby watched Dylan hustle toward the head of the pack. At the tree line, the troops veered right, away from the running course toward the shooting range Toby had yet to see in person.   

“Pick it up!” Lt. Ashby shouted. Every man, with the exception of the XO himself, broke into a jog, with Dylan in the lead.

The land rose, the trees on their left thinned. They ran for a mile over rolling hills before coming to a rocky outcrop. On the other side of the outcrop stretched a large field, which Toby recognized from the drone photos as Dylan
’s shooting range. Sandbag bunkers edged one side and black-and-white bulls-eyes standing at intervals edged the other. 

By now his line had disintegrated as out-of-shape soldiers fell behind. He focused his attention on motivating the stragglers. By the time the entire militia reached the range, many of them were red-faced and out of breath.

Toby led his squad toward a sandbag bunker. There, he ordered them to drink water, sharing a sip from his own canteen with Nathan. Next, he ordered them to clean their guns, to lock and load. It was all so oddly familiar.

And then the fun began. Not that Toby wanted to be enjoying himself. But as the quiet countryside crackled with the
rat-tat-tat
of semi-automatic gunfire and his squad competed against Ackerman’s to accomplish the most hits, he found himself cheering on his men, adjusting their grip and stance to improve their aim. Pretty soon, his squad led the rest in direct hits.

“
You want to practice, ma’am?” he asked, catching Dylan’s eye as she paused to watch his team shoot.

“
Oh, no. Thank you.”

He stepped closer to her, pitching his voice low so the others couldn
’t hear it. “A true leader leads by example,” he told her with a challenging smile. “Come on. Take a shot.” He nodded at her revolver, which she carried on her hip in lieu of an M-16. Truth was, he wanted to see how dangerous she was.

Biting her lower lip, Dylan looked like she would rather clock him in the head with her revolver than shoot it. Her chin came up in response to his challenge, confirming Toby
’s suspicion that whatever reservations she might have about firing a weapon, the last thing she wanted was to appear ineffective in front of the troops. “Fine, I’ll give it a whirl.”