Chapter 13: Chapter 13 – Demons Chasing Demons

Fritz pulls into town at 5 A.M. The sky is a blotted purple mess, streaked by orange clouds rising with the red burning penny of a sun. He’d driven all night after being tipped off about the shooter’s movement by the FBI’s geolocation team. They’d been able to pin down his vicinity using EXIF data from the camera he was using to livestream, accurate to a 5 mile radius, but without a Minority Report style setup, they were unable to predict if or when he would be shooting up a place of interest in the surrounding area.

Fritz parks his truck at an elementary school, next to the soccer field. He gets out to stretch his legs and have a cigarette. He stares at the dewy grass, sparkling with the rising sunlight. His phone pings with a text that says “Target likely hitting this town. Hold there for further instruction.” Fritz spits on the ground and takes a drag of his cigarette. 

He calls the number that sent the text. The other line picks up immediately. “What do you mean by ‘likely?’” 

“Our prediction model suggests this town has a higher than average likelihood of containing an area of interest for the shooter, with an above average potential to be his next target.” 

“Above average. Now, what does that mean?” Fritz rubs his forehead and closes his eyes. 

“Um… higher than 30% likelihood.” 

“So there’s a 70% chance he’s going to be somewhere else?” 

“No. Er— that’s not how it works.” 

“Forgive me,” Fritz drawls sardonically, “How does it work?” 

“We base it off his past patterns of behavior and—“ 

“‘Past patterns of behavior.’ This whole fucking country’ll be dead by the time we catch this son of a bitch if we follow his past patters of behavior. You don’t catch a wild animal by sniffing its shit; you catch it by burning down the whole god damn forest so he don’t have nowhere to hide.”

“Um…. scat analysis is actually a common tracking technique that’s been used by hunters for centuries.” 

Fritz throws his cigarette away and screams into the phone, “Shut the fuck up.” Veins bulge out under his neck skin. “Did you hear me? I’m doing things my way.” He tosses the phone into his truck and gets in. He revs the engine and peels out of the parking lot. 

He drives through a middle class neighborhood in a suburb of the town, slowly passing by sleepy houses. He drives though the neighborhood patiently until he sees one he likes. He parks his car in front of its driveway, intentionally blocking the garage and the movement of any car that would try to back out. He grabs his bag of death and walks around the side of the house. He sneers at the “Beware of Dog”' sign and hops the gate. He lands silently on the other side and creeps silently along the mud and gravel path to the backyard, keeping his cowboy boots light on the gravel. 

It’s a nice large backyard with a gazebo in one corner and a stone bird bath with a tree next to it in another. Fritz stays against the wall of the house, crouched low under the windows as he approaches the sliding glass back door. He uses a suction cup and ceramic knife to cut and pull a large circle out of the glass, next to the door’s handle. He reaches through to undo the lock and let himself in.

 Once inside, he pads along the home’s interior wood flooring, testing each step before putting his weight down, to prevent any squeaking. The whole house is silent. He walks toward the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. As he passes each closed bedroom door, he slips a zip tie around the knob, and fastens it with a military grade sticky putty to the door frame next to it. This way, if someone were to wake up and attempt to leave their room, they would have to break down the door to exit, which would give Fritz plenty of warning to prepare for their approach. 

Outside the master bedroom door, he stands for a moment, listening to the house in the early morning dark. He can hear a white noise sound machine beyond the door and the sounds of sprinklers in a neighbor’s backyard. Bedroom doors are always difficult. Sometimes they were locked from the inside, sometimes they groaned loudly when opened. The only way to discover any of these potential dangers was to turn the knob and push the door open. A leap of faith. Fritz takes a moment to steel himself before doing so. 

He grips the stainless steel knob and twists slowly. He twists until he feels the locking mechanism go all the way back into its socket. Unlocked. Then, he pushes, ever so lightly. It’s a groaner. A loud one. In situations like this, you have to move fast. He throws the door all the way open and sprints to the close side of the bed, where a bewildered looking man dumbly blinks his eyes at the twilit room. Fritz slams his hand on the man’s mouth, draws his sidearm, and presses it against the wife’s temple before she can scream. “Make a noise, and I blow your brains out. He makes a noise, I blow your brains out. Got it?” The wife trembles and cries silently, her eyes bulging out in fear and confusion. The man’s eyes dart around in terror. “I just want to ask you a couple questions.” 

Fritz holds the wife and husband at gunpoint for two and a half hours, asking them questions about the township that he could have easily Googled for quicker and more accurate results. To their credit, the couple answers as best as they could under the circumstances, but would you know the most foot frequented restaurant in your town between the hours of 8AM and 4PM on a given weekday? And if you did, would you be able to recall the answer after being woken up by a hulking stranger holding a gun to your forehead? After many confusing questions and a tortuous moment during which Fritz forced the husband to wet the bed, which led to the husband losing control of his lower bowel muscles, and also shitting the bed, the children of the couple finally entered the room to interrupt the interrogation. 

See, their rooms were in the middle by a Jack and Jill bathroom, and they were able to combine their strength and baseball equipment to break through one of the soft wooden doors that Fritz had zip tied shut. They rush at Fritz with their aluminum little league bats in hand and batting helmets on head. Fritz turns around when he hears them and rips their weapons from their hands, forces them to lie down, and zip ties their wrists and ankles together, all while keeping their parents at gunpoint. 

Although Fritz could have gone ten more rounds with the interrogation, the distraction of the children had caused him to notice the long list of missed calls and texts on his phone. All from “FBI.” “Call now.” “Shooter located.” “Shooting happening at target location.” “Go now.” “We know where he’ll hit.” “10 minutes.” “Go now. He’s going to be there.” Fritz scrolls through the missed notifications casually, while keeping his pistol trained on the couple. 

“Well, folks, thank you for your time. Looks like we’re all done here.” He jogs out of the master bedroom and slips out of the sliding glass backdoor he’d entered through. Sirens are already screaming in the distance. 

#

The shooting the FBI had nearly predicted and potentially prevented is a bad one. The shooter targets a large retirement community near the pastoral side of town. It’s named The Sunderland.

The Sunderland has a golf course on one of its borders, which the shooter crosses undetected. Before entering the building, he gives a short speech about how a lot of old people look sweet, cute, and innocent, and you feel bad for them because they’re old, so you automatically give them sympathy, like babies. 

“Oh, look at that sweet old man eating alone at McDonalds, look at those sweet old ladies doing tai chi in the park. I’m so happy for them. But unlike babies, old people have lived very long lives where, statistically speaking, they’ve done more bad things on average than any other age group. Think about it, even generally good people do at least a couple of bad things a year, and when you multiply that by 80 years or more, you have a lot of bad things on your conscience, and that’s just the really good outliers. You think those golden oldies who fought in WW2 were just killing Hitler and liberating concentration camps the whole time? Hell no. They were raping German women and terrorizing the towns who were dumb enough to give them respite. You think those guys went off to Korea just to liberate the South? Fuck no… they were torching villages and also raping women they didn’t consider human while they wrote boiler plate love letters to their sweeties back home. Not to mention, these people are a complete drain on society. Not only did they fuck the planet and economy for future generations, they’re living off your tax dollars with social security and filling hospital beds and taking up medical resources. I mean, out of all the places I’ve shot up, and I know some of you watching have your qualms about what I’m doing, this one is by far the least morally ambiguous. And not to mention, have you ever lived with an old person? Or even gone out to a restaurant with one? They’re just fucking annoying. They move slow as shit. Ask you to repeat yourself constantly. And need someone to hold their hand every move they make. I’m pissing myself off just talking about it, so let’s get to it.” 

He hits the place at 9:00 AM sharp, entering through a back entrance, where the wheelchair accessible Sunderland van would pull up to take residents on excursions and day trips. He makes quick work of the place, methodically snaking his way through the paisley wallpapered dining room, the activity center, the bridge room, and two floors of residential rooms. At the end of his stream he remarks on the quicker than usual police response time and tells viewers he’ll be switching things up next time in case the government is trying to predict his movements. 

#

FBI Director Harris is on the phone with The President, again. The President is beyond displeased. “Yes, Mr. President. We’re—” 

“I don’t care what you’ve been doing up until now. I will have you replaced and possibly even put on trial for treason if we don’t make progress on this.” 

“I understand, Mr. President. I’ll have it—” 

The line goes dead. Director Harris swallows hard and closes his eyes. He straightens his tie and smooths it out. He grabs the flask of whiskey from his desk drawer and takes a nice long, luxurious pull, the way a racquetball player would chug water after a particularly taxing set. He presses the button on his phone to dial his secretary. “Get Michelson in here.” 

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A few minutes later, Mick Michelson arrives. He’s a 35 year old hot shot with ambitions for his boss’s job. “I need you to keep an eye on someone for me. He needs a little bit more guidance than I’d originally anticipated. Take a surveillance team with you. And just make sure he’s following his orders. In a timely manner, understood?” 

“Understood, sir.” 

“You’re dismissed.” 

As Michelson exits, Director Harris says “Shut that door, will you?” Michelson shuts the door behind him. Harris listens to the leather soles of his shoes clack down the hallway. “Sounds like a woman.” The FBI Director laughs to himself bitterly, then takes the flask from his desk drawer back out again. He brings it to his lips and tilts it back, but is miffed to find it empty. He licks the rim and taps it against his tongue to get the last few drops, then searches his other desk drawers for a bottle that he may have been gifted or forgotten about. “Who am I kidding?” He says aloud to himself. He would never forget about a bottle. 

He exits the building and gets in his car. He drives the long frosty road into D.C. proper and is impressed that he only skidded and swerved a couple of times. He goes to his favorite liquor store and buys a fresh bottle of Four Roses, making friendly banter with the Pakistani guy behind the counter (whom he’d looked up in the FBI database multiple times.) He puts the paper bagged bottle into a long coat pocket and walks it to a clean enough bench that faces the frozen pond. He sips at the bottle with expert timing, taking care to avoid drinking within eyesight of the passersby in the park. 

When his chest and body finally becomes warm enough, and the gnawing worries at the back of his head mercifully abate, he takes out his work phone and calls up Fritz. His call is picked up after a few rings. “Fritz….” 

“Hello, sir.” 

“I’m just calling to check in. How’s everything going?” 

“Mostly successful, sir.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“I’m getting closer.”

“I heard you didn’t go to the coordinates when they were sent to you. We got guys tracking him for you. All day. All night, even. Gotta use the coordinates, man.” There is silence at the other end of the line for what feels like minutes. 

“Understood, sir. I have my way of doing things, and…” 

“I know you do. That’s why I wanted you on this. But there are certain things we do that will help put you in a position to do the things you do best. Don’t worry so much about tracking him anymore, let us handle it.”

“If you trust your guys to handle it, I guess I’ll have to do a better job of listening. I’ll follow your lead.”

 “That’s all I’m asking. Just follow my lead.” The FBI Director trails off at the last syllable, and stares wistfully at the pond. “You know…. they’re telling me I could be put on trial for treason.” 

“What’s that, sir?”

“Treason…. You believe that?” 

“What for?” 

“Says if I botch the job, I shouldn’t be telling you this…. he doesn’t really mean it.” 

“We’re gonna get the bastard. If it’s the last mission I complete. I’m gonna get him.” 

“I believe you, Fritzy… I really believe you.” 

Director Harris hangs up. He tucks his phone into an inner coat pocket and stuffs his hands into the outer ones, against the cold. He weeps silently as he looks out onto the frozen pond.

#

“Picture this: I’m in the middle of a village outside of Mosul, bumfuck nowhere, up in the foothills of the Ural mountains. We had just got done raiding the village. We were up there for God knows what reason— sorry, or should I say ‘Allah?’ (they laugh at their own joke) Reclaiming some sacred land or something or other, and we’d destroyed all of these religious icons and had torn up the temple, blew it up and everything, and I’d just got done beheading this guy, and I’m wiping the blood off my scimitar on his jacket and I think to myself, ‘Am I even having fun with this anymore?’” 

The Tourorist smiles warmly while the executives around the conference table laugh at the macabre anecdote. “So, I booked the first humvee out of there, got a haircut, and here we are.” Their pale blue eyes twinkle behind thin, rimless eyeglasses. Their medium length blonde hair is slicked back over the top of their head, the wavy blonde ringlets hang over the collar of a thick twilled navy sports coat, which they’re wearing over a crisp white oxford shirt. Their golden tanned skin pops against the white of the shirt. They grab a glazed donut from the spread in the center of the conference table. 

“So, was can you tell me about this guy I’m protecting?” They take a large bite out of the donut. If one didn’t know any better, one might think they were a Swedish Businessman. But no, the Tourorist was not that. They’d come from a very wealthy family and made even more money as a hedge fund manager. Bored of a metropolitan life, they’d faked their death, and sought adventure in various war zones across the globe. A master of disguise, they would change their appearance and identity to fit whatever group of freedom fathers, rebels, insurgency, or mercenary outfit they’d joined up with. It was a life of true “adventure” and having hundreds of millions of dollars to spend on weapons, training, and connections made them quite an asset in combat, and a valuable member of any army, no matter how unofficial. When they got bored, they would fake their death or kill everyone in their outfit, and then jet to the next civilization in collapse to start the fun all over again. Hence the moniker “Tourorist” (terrorist + tourist). 

Peter realizes he’s been staring at a picture of the intern’s tits on his phone, as one of the executives calls out his name “Peter, I’ll let you take this one, you’re the only one in this room who’s had any contact with our fair haired subject, I believe.” Peter exits the messaging app on his phone and tries to center himself in the conversation. 

“I’m sorry, I— well you flatter me, contact is a stretch, but uh— he’s an interesting guy, that’s for sure. To be honest, he’s hard to track down. Kinda just does his thing.” 

The Tourorist smiles at Peter. They look at him steadily. “I love that. A true lone wolf. Shouldn’t be too difficult to run interference for him. My assistant already confirmed with me that the price is right, I believe she confirmed the bill with… you all…” they point around the room casually, like a middle manager would do while baiting an answer about some menial task from his direct reports. “…Only question mark for me currently, as I’m prepping my load out, what type of firepower am I going to be up against?” 

The old executives exchange wily grins around the table. “The full firepower of the United States government.” They all laugh like jackals. Peter tries to join in but his heart’s not in it. 

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