Shoot First

“That’s him. I’m sure of it,” Lane whispers.

Caleb glances at the bearded, heavy-set man in the black Fedora sitting alone in the back of the bar. Nursing a draft, the man’s obsidian eyes scan the room.

The four other soused patrons watching a soccer game are unaware they could be in imminent danger.

“Same uni-brow,” Lane utters quietly. “The jagged teeth, the humped back. His right hand still shakes from that bullet he took at the Battle of Numar. It’s definitely the Shark, Caleb.”

Karl “the Shark” Nimitz’s malignant stare preys on Caleb.

“He’s made us,” Caleb realizes.

Caleb and Lane rush toward Nimitz, who bolts for the door, sprinting up the dimly lit, grimy street.

“He’s got a lot of zip for a sixty-six-year-old fugitive,” Lane pants as he and Caleb give chase. “I hope he isn’t armed.”

Nimitz stops. Turning, he fires a Luger at the two agents.

“So much for hope,” Lane comments.

Nimitz darts away, narrowly avoiding a speeding cab as he runs across the street. Caleb outdistances his less conditioned partner, gaining on Nimitz.

His tall physique sharpened from years of competing in 25K marathons, Caleb Cross is the Assistant Chief of the Bonum War Crimes Commission and has personally tracked down a dozen Malum war criminals. He doesn’t care if he brings them to justice dead or alive. With a bad comb-over and an encroaching gut, his partner, Lane Lively, is known for his critical thinking and adaptability.

Nimitz bolts down a blind alley. Realizing he’s trapped, he fires at the on-rushing agents.

A bullet passes through Caleb’s open trench coat.

Pulling out his weapon, Caleb yells, “Hands up, or I’ll cut you down, Shark!”

Nimitz's hand shakes as he fires at Caleb. The bullet from Nimitz’s gun creases Lane’s cheek as he enters the alley.

Caleb draws a bead on Nimitz. Hit twice in the chest, Nimitz slumps to the garbage-strewn ground.

“Call for an ambulance,” he says to Lane, kicking Nimitz’s gun aside.

“They might be busy helping people who deserve it,” Lane replies, wiping the blood away from his cheek.

Caleb leans over the Shark, who bares his jagged teeth at him.

“Defiant to the end,” Caleb says brusquely. “Malum’s second most prolific killer meets his end in a dingy rat-infested alley where he belongs.”

“I had twelve years of freedom. Twelve years to fight for Malum.”

“News flash, Karl, you lost the war. Get over it.”

“I killed thousands of arrogant Bonums like you, and I would happily do it again,” Nimitz rasps. “I’ve killed a dozen Bonums with my bare hands since the end of the war. One for each year of your so-called peace.”

Nimitz looks at the armed forces service pin Caleb wears on his collar.

“…They were all veterans…like you. My proudest moment in the war was killing two thousand Bonum soldiers. We caught them in a perfect crossfire from two hills as they came through a chasm. It was like shooting skeet… And I’m good at skeet. When we were done, we got a bulldozer, knocked down those two hills, and buried them in that chasm.”

“Dog.”

Nimitz coughs, spitting blood. “Woof.”

“You may only have a few minutes left to live, Nimitz,” Caleb says. “Care to brag about some of your other war crimes?”

“I laughed when I read about your capture of our capital, Hostis. None of your accounts mention your first attack; how Colonel Blake and his troops rode triumphantly into the city in their tanks, thinking they’d easily captured it.”

“It was a turning point in the war.”

Nimitz gives Caleb a greasy, unrepentant smile. “You took the city the second time you attacked. Your propaganda machine never mentioned that the first time you entered the Hostis, my troops, dressed as peasants, slaughtered half of Colonel Blake’s army.”

Enraged, Caleb presses his gun against Nimitz’s forehead.

Lane pulls on his shoulder.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

“Still boasting of your savagery, Shark, even as you face death. Your war against us failed, Nimitz. We crushed your army, bottled up your navy, and deposed your wretched king.”

“We would have won if Brandt Bader had continued to guide our army.”

“But he was wounded during the Battle of Hostis and missed the last month of the war,” Lane remarks. “And you made the mistake of replacing him with Elgin Reichert, a coward with no battle experience. He lost the war in one afternoon.”

Caleb leans into Nimitz, pressing his knee against his chest so hard that blood spurts from his wounds.

An approaching ambulance’s siren draws nearer.

“Where is Brandt Bader? Where’s the Butcher?”

“…Safe…”

“Looks like you’ll live to collect three meals a day in a six-by-eight-foot cell… What a waste of breath.”

                                               ***

Caleb and Lane flash their badges, walking down the bleak hallway leading to the Bosum Penitentiary’s underground high-security cells.

Caleb looks through the tiny cell door window. Frowning, he gives the guard a look of disbelief.

Shrugging his shoulders, the guard unlocks the door, remarking, “He’s been a model prisoner.”

Caleb puts his hands on Lane’s shoulders, holding him back. “Leave Werner to me.”

“No rough stuff,” Lane says.

Entering Werner’s cell, Caleb scans the room, looking at the numerous paintings on the wall. There are portraits of legendary Malum generals and commanders, as well as paintings depicting famous battles.

Caleb notes that the largest painting in the center of the room is Brandt Bader’s.

Werner continues painting, oblivious to Caleb’s presence.

“Klaus Werner? I’m Caleb Cross, Assistant Chief of the Bonum War Crimes Commission.”

Bent over his painting, Werner replies, “Good for you. Have a seat. There’s only one.”

“I’ve come to ask you about the Commander-in-Chief of your army, Brandt Bader.”

“Former Commander-in-Chief, Mister Cross. Hostilities ended a dozen years ago.”

“And you were found guilty of twenty counts of war crimes and sentenced to life here. We've balanced the books in the past twelve years by capturing or killing King Corona’s entire war council. We neutralized Karl Nimitz three days ago.”

“Good. He was a monster, a psychopath who scared other psychopaths.”

“He was also one of King Corona’s most faithful and efficient commanders. There’s only one left, and I want him.”

Werner stops in mid-stroke, turning to face Cal. Wearing a pair of granny glasses, his hair and mustache turned silver from age, Werner looks more like a kindly professor than the business Czar who oversaw Malum’s factories, arms production, and slave labor.

“There are soldiers, and there are followers, and then there are fanatics,” Werner says. “Unfortunately. King Corona’s high command was full of the latter.”

Caleb points at Brandt’s painting. “Best exemplified by Bader ‘the Butcher’. He had his men walk through churches with flamethrowers, put old men’s heads on pikes, and napalmed nurseries.”

Werner stiffens, placing his brush on the easel.

“I won’t help you kill him.”

“Aiding and abetting a war criminal is punishable by death.”

“Death and I are old friends, and you would be doing me a favor if you ended my stay in this suffocating box.”

“Where’s the Butcher?”

“You’re acting like we’re pen pals. I haven’t seen or talked to him in twelve years. The war is over. Enjoy the peace.”

“Not as long as he’s a free man.”

“Maybe he should stay free. There wouldn’t have been prison camps for the Bonum if not for Bader. Your men would have just been slaughtered. He saved a million Bonum soldiers’ lives.”

“He also interrogated wounded Bonum soldiers by injecting their hearts with gasoline. It’s been said that when he got bored, he would time his victims’ deaths with a stopwatch.”

“An exaggeration.”

“He bombarded the city of Caris for three days, then had his men gather the thousands of survivors and had them gassed. Bader and his men burned, looted, and raised more than twenty Bonum cities, killing women, children, and the elderly. He ordered that the remaining soldiers and citizens defending the village of Triess be buried alive, that is, those he and his men didn’t run over with their tanks. My brother was in Triess. He was thrown into a common grave and treated like a piece of trash.”

“I’ll tell you what the Malum thought of Brandt Bader. He fought off the advance of 45,000 Bonum soldiers with only 5,000 men. When General Runestad’s troops were pushed back to the sea, Baden and his men held off three armies, allowing over 250,000 Malum soldiers to escape by boat. He pulled the King’s nephew from his burning tank in one battle. When your troops stormed the royal castle, instead of saving himself, King Corona had his guards help Bader escape. That tells you all you need to know about him. He was charismatic, a brilliant strategist, and brave. He was a butcher to you and a hero to us.”

“Where is he?”

“After twelve years, who knows? He was supposedly evacuated to the neutral island of Murrow. He obtained travel papers through a sacred order of monks, and a group of sympathetic citizens put him on a private plane. No one knows where it landed.”

Caleb picks the painting up off the easel.

‘WHERE IS HE?”

Lane and the guards storm into Werner’s cell as Caleb is beating him with the remnants of one of his paintings.

“WHERE IS HE?”

“Right under your nose. Rumor has it he goes by the name of Arthur Angelus.”

                                               ***

Lane shakes his head.

“Why would the hottest war criminal on the planet live in enemy territory?”

“He’s hiding in plain sight.”

“Refugium is one of the smallest villages in Bonum. He sneezes, and somebody’s going to know about it.”

“He’s had time to perfect his cover, to live his lies. Look closely at him,” Caleb says intently. “Same build. Same full head of deep black hair. He has grey eyes. The only thing different about him is his name.”

“It can’t be him. Think about it. The man who started his day by shooting a dozen Bonum prisoners is now helping his neighbor plant tomatoes.”

“He can try to hide beneath a mask of benevolence. He can’t escape his past,” Caleb counters.

“But look at him! In every picture we have on file of Bader taken during the war, he’s either seething or frowning. Look at him now. He’s smiling! He’s doing something helpful, something positive. Imagine if he’s reformed… I say we wait… We have to find out more of what he’s been up to for the past twelve years.”

“I don’t care if he’s been the Pope’s caddy. He killed my brother and slaughtered thousands of other Bonum soldiers.”

“Don’t make this personal, Caleb.”

“It’s too late for that.”

                                                     ***

The agents wait for Angelus to go inside, then approach his neighbor, Turge Supperlake.

With a withered right arm and a scar that runs from his forehead to his chin, Turge Supperlake appears to be a former Bonum soldier, a man who would befriend Arthur Angelus but hardly the type of man who could stand to breathe the same air as Brandt “The Butcher” Bader.

“Arthur has been a great neighbor and a pillar of the community. In the past twelve years, he’s been a Boy Scout troop leader, volunteered to deliver meals to seniors, and coached Little League,” Supperlake says. “Why are you asking about him?”

Lane clears his throat. “Mister Angelus may have witnessed an accident. Before we ask him to give a statement, we want to know what type of guy he is. It’s just a routine background check.”

“I'm happy to be a character witness for Arthur Angelus,” Supperlake says. “He’s one of the finest people I’ve ever met.”

Lane sips a Frappuccino, cringing at the number of positive news clips he’s collected about Arthur Angelus.

Caleb bursts into the squad room, his teeth on edge, snorting angrily.

He throws the latest edition of the Refugium Register on Lane’s desk.

“Check the obituary section.”

Lane nearly spits his coffee back up.

“The gardener, Turge Supperlake, Bader’s neighbor. He’s dead? You don’t think…”

“Of course, Bader killed him. He knows we’re closing the net around him.”

“But why kill someone who speaks so highly of you? Why kill a friend?”

“The Butcher has no friends.”

                                                     ***

“…Keep your distance…,” Caleb cautions as they follow Arthur Angelus down the street.

“He’s even changed the way he walks,” Lane notes.

They follow Angelus to the Refugium Senior Center community room. Caleb grumbles as he looks at the banner above them, proclaiming that Arthur Angelus sponsored the Community Day Fair.

A band of spritely senior citizens are playing songs for an appreciative audience. On the other side of the room, children are playing carnival games for prizes and getting their faces painted.

Arthur Angelus and a few other seniors are handing out free hot dogs and hamburgers.

Caleb steams.

“You hungry?” Lane asks.

                                               ***

Caleb watches Arthur Angelus exit the local delicatessen carrying his lunch in a plastic bag as he whistles a jaunty tune.

“We’ve been following this rat for a week. Let’s take him,” Caleb says, screwing a silencer onto his gun.

“Whoa. Not that way! He’s unarmed. And he looks a little, I dunno, weak.”

“It’s an act,” Caleb insists, gritting his teeth. “He’s alone, and no one’s around. Now’s the best time.”

“Still, we can take him alive. A trial would help heal the families of the men he butchered.”

“Not my family,” Caleb sneers, bolting from the car.

“Caleb! No!”

“BADER!”

Arthur Angelus turns around, giving Caleb a bewildered look.

“... I’m Arthur Angelus…”

Caleb fires two shots into Angelus’s chest. He falls onto his back, blood spewing from his lips.

Caleb stands over him.

“…Die, Butcher…”

For a moment, Angelus’s gentle, bewildered stare freezes him.

Caleb empties his gun into Angelus.

                                               ***

Arthur Angelus’s wife, Aurora, weeps over his coffin. A young woman leads her away.

“Something’s not right, Caleb. There wasn’t any mention of Bader having a second wife or a daughter in his file.  I mean, this guy’s the number one war criminal in the world, and hundreds of people have shown up to pay their respects. He can’t have fooled this many people.”

Caleb and Lane join the receiving line.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Angelus,” Caleb says, gently taking her hand.

“Thank you. Arthur retired from working at the library not too long ago. I thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together, fishing, hiking, and antiquing. He loved going to the opera... First, his best friend, Turge, dies from a heart attack, then some thug guns my husband down like a dog. Even after changing his name, I warned him that people would think he was Brandt.”

“Arthur wasn’t Brandt Bader?”

“Heavens, no! I wouldn’t have married that animal. Arthur was Brandt Bader’s twin brother. Arthur changed his name because his brother’s abominable behavior nearly ruined our lives. We left Malum just before the war started, emigrating here. I hate the thought that Brandt is still out there somewhere laughing, drinking, possibly even murdering some innocent soul while my Arthur takes his place in the cemetery.”

                                               ***

Caleb looks at the man in the trench coat trudging along the sidewalk, then at the photograph he’s holding.

“He’s the right height.”

“Bader’s hair was full. This guy’s hair is short with streaks of grey. Bader was tall, distinguished, and good-looking. Even with that coat on, this guy looks scrawny, disheveled, and is no beauty.”

“It’s all part of his disguise, Lane.”

“We have to be sure this time, Caleb.”

Caleb twists a silencer onto his revolver.

“That’s him. I’m sure of it.”