“There’s one in the outside lane, and one in the inner lane,” Marta explained.
“Try to get over to the other lane,” Mike rapped out the order. “See if you can make the next exit.”
I felt the truck move, then jerk back as Marta attempted the maneuver, then abandoned the effort.
“They’re too close,” Marta explained breathlessly. “I almost hit that one with the trailer.”
Mike let out a gust of breath, perhaps rethinking his decision to have Marta drive. Backing off might be the correct move in the old days, but now she was surrendering the initiative to the other driver. I think Mike would have happily sideswiped the car if that’s what it took to clear the way.
“Bryan, get ready,” Mike warned, but the words were unnecessary. With the windows already down, I was accustomed to the buffeting of the wind and braced for contact. I had the rifle ready to rock, and at car length distances, I knew the short barrel of the little AR carbine wasn’t an impediment to what I would need to do.
“Marta, keep us steady at this speed, then be prepared to slow us down when I give the signal,” Mike added, finishing his pre-fight preparations. We’d discussed our procedure if we were hit by bandits, either at a roadblock or on the road, but I knew repetition made for good leadership. Say it, say it again, then repeat one more time to drive home the lesson.
Mike’s truck had a nice big diesel engine, more than capable of maintaining highway speeds even while towing a load, but the beast wasn’t built for evading high speed pursuit. Instead, we would hope to our stingers were sharp enough.
Wrapping the seat belt around my left arm, I leaned my upper body slightly out the window, resting the barrel of the AR against the windowsill. The positioning, while awkward, gave me a solid rest for the weapon as the pursuing sedan drew near. I wasn’t able to use the sights and intended to aim by feel when the shooting started.
The car was a Chrysler 300, a model I’d always liked, but would now be forever tainted by the events to follow. In the questionable light, I could only tell the Chrysler looked as packed as a clown car, with the rider in the shotgun seat at least working to bring the barrel of their rifle to bear.
My suddenly aggressive move seemed to have caught our pursuers off-guard, as the driver’s foot dropped off the accelerator for a second and the car wobbled for one brief instant, and I saw the shotgun rider’s mouth open in some unheard cry before the car steadied.
I fired first, riding the muzzle rise just like Mike warned me as I triggered a short burst into the hood of the car, then swept the barrel up to rake the passenger side from front to back. Each short squeeze of the trigger resulted in a staggering burst of fire, five or six rounds pouring down the barrel like they were racing each other to a target. The roar was deafening, despite my earplugs, but I held tight as I saw the sparks and pockmarks explode from the fiberglass and metal of the car frame, and I registered several shapes spasm even through the dark tint on the windows before the incoming rounds turned the glass opaque white.
Adapting quickly to the hammering recoil, I walked the rounds back and forth across the pursuing vehicle, focusing briefly on the driver, then hitting the hood again until the Chrysler’s engine seized. The tires veered to the left, out of control, until the driver’s side slammed into the Jersey barriers lining the road shoulder. The stricken car struck with sufficient force to sheer the bolts holding them into place and move the heavy concrete walls as the dead car ground to a halt.
“Clear!” I screamed out, pulling back inside the body of the truck and moving carefully enough to avoid touching the overheated metal of the AR’s short barrel. I was shaking from the adrenaline and the violent recoil of the AR, but I had enough control to thumb the safety into place. I had no idea how many rounds remained in the drum, but I estimated I’d burned through at least half the hundred rounds in just a few mad seconds of fire.
“I’m done, Marta!” Mike called out just as I was trying to find a place to set the overheated AR. I had just enough wits left in me to reach out a hand and pat the seat in front of me.
“Anybody else around?” I asked, my voice too loud in the absence of gunfire.
“No, road’s clear now,” Marta replied tightly.
“Can you stop for a second?” I asked, and Marta began slowing the truck even as Mike looked back with a question in his eyes. He was curious, but not too worried, so he sat on his question.
I held up a finger, then set the AR down on the floorboard and picked up the Marlin Camp Carbine. As the truck rattled to a stop, I stepped out with the carbine shouldered, rapidly pumping out rounds into the passenger area of the car. At nearly a hundred yards, I wasn’t trying to necessarily hit anything, though at least one ragged scream told me I’d scored once without even trying.
One magazine, then the second, and I was turning to climb back in the back seat of the truck.
“Mike, you have any trouble with your target?”
“Bitch, please,” Mike complained in a mocking tone, then turned to Marta.
“Drive, please, honey, and let’s take the next exit. I want to put some space between us and this.”
“You got it, sweetie,” Marta replied, but I could tell she was rattled. It was one thing to hear the stories, and another to be stuck in the middle of a firefight.
As Marta brought the truck back up to speed, drifting over into the far right lane for an exit, I felt Mike’s stare bore into me as I continued looking out the window.
“What was that about? You already empty that drum?”
“No, but you think the cops will at least show up to the scene? Maybe send in a forensic team?”
Mike shrugged. It was the reason he’d made a point of changing the license plate before we left. The one on the truck now went to a junker he’d bought, same year and model, he’d explained it was destined for scrap and never registered. If anybody asked, he would explain this was the restored junker and he had a bill of sale. The VIN didn’t match, but it would buy us a few minutes. Of bigger concern was the presence of closed circuit cameras, and the reason for switching the plates.
“Given the number of dead we just dropped on the system, I’d say yes. That why you used the Marlin? To confuse the process?”
“Partly. They’ll now have these two ARs in the system, but I’m thinking this Marlin might already be in there.” Then I asked the question I should have voiced earlier, if I hadn’t gotten distracted. “Oh, where did your target end up?”
“Ran into that flooded ditch. Car sank like a stone. I didn’t see anybody get out, but if they were still in the car, they better get their gills in gear.” Mike added that last bit with a wry grin. “Still, you were up to something with that Marlin, weren’t you?”
“As long as we make it out of this mess without being identified, this might be useful,” I admitted, “we can use that weapon and maybe draw attention elsewhere.”
“You thinking about leaving a trail of breadcrumbs?” Mike teased, but I could tell he was considering what I’d said, and didn’t say.
Thinking about hiding the truth in a field of lies, I had a sudden realization that hit me so hard I sat back in my seat.
“Shit, Mike, I just realized where I saw that car before,” I started, but Mike cut me off.
“At the self-storage place,” he said, “the same place I saw that Nissan I just ventilated.”
As he spoke, Mike cast a careful glance at his wife, who snorted. Marta was still affected by the adrenaline, I could tell from her slight oversteering, but otherwise she appeared to be recovering fine.
“Boys, I knew there must have been more to that story, but from the way you all acted, I figured it was something I was better off not knowing.”
“There’s just some things you can’t unsee or unhear,” I affirmed. “Just know that if I’d recognized that car sooner, we’d still be there while I built a fire.”
“Destroy the evidence?” Marta asked curiously.
“No, there might be some survivo
rs,” I growled, “and I’ve always heard how bad it was to die in a fire, burned to death. Figured I’d like to find out with those pieces of shit while they sizzled and popped their way to Hell.”
“Sometimes, it’s better that all you can do is shoot them,” Mike chided me, a reminder of our discussion about the ways killing can change a man. I wasn’t eager to change into someone who enjoyed killing, but I was willing to make an exception for those asshats.
We drove on for another three hours, near to where it was impossible to see without our headlights, but all the way, Mike had been guiding Marta on a roundabout route that led to a heavily-eroded gravel road, a private drive, just outside another one of those little wide spots in the road that didn’t rate as an incorporated town.
“Where is this?” Marta asked testily. I’d become savvy enough about gunfights and nerves to know she was over her post-battle jitters. Now she was crashing from the caffeine buzz, having finished off three Dr. Peppers in only an hour as she fought to stave off exhaustion. Mike and I had both offered to take over driving, but Marta merely grunted and leaned forward.
Now she was worn down and ready to stop.
“Scott Brister’s bugout location,” Mike explained, gesturing further down the private drive. “If you go down another hundred yards, there’s a keypad on a gate.”
“We’re staying at Scott and Allison’s place?”
Mike nodded, but his lips were pressed together. I knew that look.
“They offered, but you feel awkward, right?”
“Yeah, I just don’t feel right sleeping in their place when they aren’t here. His sister Clara is here with her husband Martin, but Scott says he’s stuck until Boeing lets him go,” Mike explained with a scowl.
“That’s sad,” Marta said, “but sorry, I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping in the truck, so just get over it and give me that gate code.”
“Yes, dear,” Mike’s rejoinder had all three of us chuckling as Marta shifted the truck back into gear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Even getting up at o’dark thirty, we knew we wouldn’t make it home in time for Marta to meet Dorothy for their ride to work, so Marta called Dorothy to let her know she would be riding in with us. They made arrangements to ride home together when they finished up for the day. At Mike’s suggestion, Wade would ride in with his wife, and Mike and I planned to swing by and pick him up.
That was the plan, anyway.
When we pulled onto the road leading to the loading zone in front of the hospital a little after 6:30 in the morning, we knew something was wrong. The soggy morning sunlight flickered off what looked like a hundred flashing police lights congregated all around the hospital grounds. Off to the sides, I made out a half dozen of what Mike called deuce-and-a-half trucks, standard haulers for the National Guard, and a pair of what I could only imagine were Stryker combat vehicles.
“What the…” I started to say, but Mike slowed and gestured for Marta.
“Honey, call in at reception, let them know you’re on your way in, and that Dorothy is a few minutes behind with Wade.”
“Mike, why would I do that?”
“Because I think somebody hit the hospital last night,” Mike announced with a heavy sigh. “Every one of those cops and whoever the Guard sent out are going to be wound up tight. Best not to take them by surprise.”
“What about all the weapons in the truck?” I asked, thinking this might be a good time to make ourselves scarce.
“Keep your FAL out. Everything that would get us strung up by the ATF goes in the safe under the seat. And yeah, Bryan, that includes the smoke grenades.” Mike stressed the word ‘smoke’ as a signal that he might not have disclosed everything to Marta. A little misdirection since actual smoke grenades weren’t covered by the NFA as a destructive device. While Mike halted briefly on the side of the road, threatening to collapse the asphalt into the raging torrent of the overflowing ditch, Marta made her call and I took care of housekeeping.
In keeping with plans to minimize our exposure, I stashed the Camp Carbine as well. Marta finished her errand before me, so I listened and worked, kneeling in the scant space of the floor as I placed the ARs Mike transformed into fully automatic rifles. By removing the Beta-C magazines, I managed to make everything fit. The underseat storage wasn’t any kind of bootlegger’s hideout, but out of sight was enough. We hoped. I thought about Mike’s vow not to surrender his weapons again and resolved to keep my cool and keep my brother from attracting any official attention while letting Marta out to start her shift. As soon as I figured out how to pull that off, I thought I could report to the United Nations about spreading peace in the Middle East.
Marta wasn’t the only one showing up for the day’s shift, so Mike nosed into the little queue of vehicles dropping off at the front doors. As we got closer, I could see where the entrance, once made up of double sliding glass doors, now consisted of several sheets of layered plywood and a sheet of plastic over one side. Not a good sign.
Each person exiting at the drop off zone was allowed in, one at a time, and only after showing their employee ID card. Four armed guards, three men in military garb, and one in a Jasper County Deputy uniform with sergeant’s insignia, stood in a loose formation, two with rifles at port arms, and watched the workers dismount from the vehicles. Fortunately, Mike recognized the deputy as someone with whom we’d gone to school.
As Marta slid out of the passenger seat, one of the National Guardsmen accepted her ID card for examination while another reached for her purse. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I saw Mike lean closer across the seat as the Guard reaching for her purse now reached for Marta’s arm instead.
I beat Mike out of the truck, and one of the National Guardsmen drew down on me as I emerged from the back seat. I’d left the FAL on the seat, but I still had the XD on my hip, my hands away and out in front of me.
“Sir, get back in your truck,” he ordered. I could see the rifle steady in his hands at four feet away, finger inside the trigger guard if not already on the trigger.
“Can’t do that, sport,” I replied, my voice calm despite the squirt of adrenaline already pouring through my system. “That’s my brother’s wife your man’s holding. She works here.”
“If she’s trying to bring a gun onto these grounds…”
“Everybody who works here has been bringing a gun for weeks because the employees can’t count on you guys to protect them,” I countered, trying hard to rein in my growing frustration. This soldier had me dead to rights, and damn it, I knew better than argue with a hostile who had the drop on me.
“Whoa, hold on,” the deputy called out, “just stand the heck down, both of you. Bryan, I can’t let your sister-in-law on the grounds if she’s armed. I know,” he hurried continued, “the administration turned a blind eye on it before, but not anymore.”
“Then let her go, and we’ll call it good,” Mike said from where he sat, now in the passenger’s seat of the truck. By moving, he’d made a statement to anyone who cared to notice. He wasn’t in a position to drive away. I couldn’t see his hands, but I had a gut feeling he was just waiting for the right moment to unleash hell on these four.
“Look, Mike, we had an attack last night, and everybody’s on edge,” Sergeant Millwood explained, his voice betraying the tension he was feeling. Everyone could see emotions were running high and tempers were threatening to escalate. “You just need to let this go, okay? In fact, if your wife wants to keep her pistol, that’s fine. She’s even got a carry license, doesn’t she?”
Marta spoke up then, her tone allowing for no sass or back talk.
“As soon as this corporal lets my arm go, then we can talk about it. But unless we can feel reasonably safe coming to work, you cannot expect any of us to stay. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Corporal Cansler, you can stand down. We’re all friends here. Just a big misunderstanding.”
“Can’t do that, sir. You’re not in my chain
of command, and I’ve got orders to detain anyone trying to break protocols here.”
The young corporal didn’t look happy about what he said, but I could tell he was caught between his orders and common sense. I stood ready, on the balls of my feet, but kept my hands out and visible.
“Hold up, troop.”
The voice came from my left, back towards Marta and the small crowd of security, but I maintained my watch on the soldier in front of me until he looked away at the new speaker. The man who approached was dressed in the same uniform as the other soldiers, but even my untrained eye could tell he had more stripes on his sleeves. Some kind of senior sergeant, I gauged. Staff sergeant, maybe.
“What seems to be the trouble, Corporal?”
At the question, the corporal turned, releasing Marta’s arm as he did. The young soldier in front of me took a step back and moved the rifle down, into a low ready carry position.
“Staff Sergeant, we were just checking in this employee when we discovered she was likely armed,” Corporal Cansler replied, his voice in a reporting monotone.
“You think anybody is going out in public these days unarmed, Corporal?”
“Staff Sergeant Hall, this is a gun-free zone. I was just enforcing the rules,” he replied, and I could hear a little frustration in his voice.
“And what about you, Private Ellis? What provoked you to raise your weapon?”
“Sergeant, this man refused to return to his vehicle, and he’s armed as well.”
I watched as Staff Sergeant Hall shook his head, almost theatrically, and he looked at the third soldier, who so far had only been observing the proceedings.
“What about you, Private Mendoza? Why haven’t you joined in this little drama?”
“Staff Sergeant, neither subject has made a hostile move, and the man only got out of the truck when Corporal Cansler grabbed his sister-in-law,” the short Hispanic soldier replied succinctly, and maybe with a little touch of distaste in his tone. “I was ready to back my team, but this didn’t seem like something to escalate. Plus, I figured somebody needed to watch the man still in the truck.”
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning Page 23