Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [121]
That would be his second stop. First, there was something he needed to find.
Jack got off the bike and reassembled the Glock as he walked. He didn’t need it to work, only look like it would. He moved quickly through the solemn darkness of the yards, a graveyard for the relics of a passing era. The cars afforded some relief from the cold, blocking the wind and releasing some of the baking heat they’d stored during the day. One of the trains—the only one that appeared to have any activity—smelled of livestock. Jack was looking for a light, any light, that would suggest a night watchman, a security shack … a phone.
He didn’t find one. What he did find—bless its antique self—was a pay phone. It was housed inside a green booth with a door that folded in the middle. Jack staggered toward it, legs aching from the bike ride. The light bulb was long dead but Jack didn’t need it. He lifted the receiver, holding his breath, and caught his second break of the night as he heard a dial tone. He exhaled, thanking God for technology that wasn’t designed to be so disposable.
He dialed—actually dialed—the O and placed a collect call. The operator actually sounded surprised as she put it through.
Jack waited, still running the night’s play through his head, wishing to Christ he hadn’t left Sara behind.
But what else could he have done?
She had wanted him to go because she knew he was their only chance of stopping this thing, and she was willing to sacrifice herself for the greater good. Still, he couldn’t help feeling as if leaving her had been a mistake, and he knew he had to divorce himself from his feelings—just as Sara had. He needed to forget that he’d fallen in love with her and concentrate on doing what had to be done.
What had to be done was that Jack needed to build a small army. Fast. And there was only one person who could do that.
A moment later a familiar voice came across the line.
“Hello?”
Tony Antiniori.
Jack struggled to speak, then finally got the words out. “I need you to gather the troops and come get me.”
“Jack—where the hell are you?”
“I’m at the rail yards in Richmond, but I can’t stay here—meet me at the north end of the Oakland yards in about two hours,” he said.
“Okay—”
“And get some manpower. We’ve got a war to wage.”
“What kind of manpower?”
“MARSOC,” Jack said. “Bare-bones assault.”
Jack had asked for a Marine Special Operations Command. Tony would understand he wanted three or four good men. If he had other questions—and Jack was sure he did—Tony didn’t bother to ask them. Jack hung up and hurried back to the train where he’d smelled livestock. The door was partly ajar for ventilation and he confirmed what his nose had suspected: the car was loaded with goats bound for the slaughterhouse. From there, no doubt, many of the carcasses would be sent to the halal market.
“Hope you don’t mind if I ride with you,” Jack said as he painfully pulled himself in, his arm aching and his legs wobbly from the unaccustomed bike ride. He nestled himself in a corner, beside a water tank that fed a plastic hose into the pen. “I promise that at least one of us is going to give those guys indigestion before lunchtime.”
35
By the time Jack and his team hit the island, everyone was gone.
They came at it hard, at three in the morning, Tony Antiniori commandeering the Sea Wrighter as three of their friends—all ex-military, faces painted, weapons in hand—jumped onto the now empty dock and charged up the ramp toward the concourse.
Despite Jack’s loss of blood, Tony had used his skills as a medic to do a quick patch job and get him back on his feet. But as he headed out after the others, Tony held him back.
“I don’t think so, buddy. Leave this to us.”
“Try and stop me,” Jack said.
Tony sighed and backed off.
Then Jack was off the boat and pounding up the ramp, a borrowed Colt AR-15 assault rifle in hand, moving with the others like commandos on a village raid.