The Labyrinth Key

by Christopher Cartwright

  No matter the history, it was one of Ethan’s few possessions and he loved it. He intended to get full use out of every last part of the car.

  Ethan opened the hood and inspected it. It was like a routine between he and the automobile now. Every time he returned, a quick check-up of the car was necessary. No wonder he hadn’t felt grounded. He’d been remiss in his duties.

  The engine modifications he was adding to improve the old beater’s longevity and mileage looked just as he’d left it. They were nearly complete, but he did want to clean up the insides a bit. Messy work, but oddly satisfying. He picked up his toolbox and started working. He first removed the housing and, with the steam cleaner, methodically went in every nook and cranny. Almost no dust had accumulated, but it was procedure. Soft rock played in the background, and soon, Ethan was immersed. His hands moved as if they a sentience of their own, and the sense of purpose that Ethan longed for finally settled in.

  Until Ethan noticed something. His family had argued against it, but he had insisted on setting up security cameras around the grounds. Of course, he didn’t need it, but it gave him a sense of comfort that he knew exactly what was happening on his own piece of soil. The monitors live-streamed 24/7 every room of the house, including the garage. They barely ever kicked into action, only catching raccoons and the occasional deer rummaging around the trash outside of the house at night, but it was much better to be safe than sorry.

  It was the garage monitor that Ethan had seen out of the corner of his eye. On one of the feeds there was a blurry yet completely unmistakable shape of a man. He was creeping through the bushes, scanning around, until he looked directly at the camera.

  “What the hell?” This man was clearly looking for something. Ethan gripped the wrench.

  Some townie come to rob him? Some drifter? If it was a townie, it was a good bet he knew exactly who he was coming to rob, and that made him stupid. If it was a drifter, some junkie looking for a score off the highway as it turned into the named road, then he’d gotten caught casing the joint. And he had the bad luck to stake out a SEAL. That made him double stupid.

  If it was someone else…

  The shadow stopped, completely still. Its left arm went to its neck, bringing up the collar to his mouth. Talking into a radio.

  Shit.

  Not a beat job, then. Ethan flicked his fingers on the floor. This was something else, a coordinated operation. Who were these people? He knew there had to be more than one; who talks into a radio, alone? Had they known this house was his? How had they found it to begin with?

  Ethan swung to look at the other cameras, but his gaze was distracted by the initial scene: In grainy black and white footage, the man reached in his backpack and brought up the distinct image of a gun. He trained it at the camera watching him.

  Ethan never heard the shot, but the camera went to static.

  Silencers.

  Double shit.

  Ethan wiped his hands with the rag. Couldn’t risk slipping on his weapon. He also wiped the wrench. He stayed calm and didn’t panic.

  He fell back fast into training, fighting the surreal collapse of space and time as Syria became Little Creek and he no longer considered who, or where, he was. As he’d learned in training, his heart rate didn’t budge one bit. Just as Ethan had been dragged into a bunker alone, not knowing where his men were or if they were still alive. Even when he’d been tortured, held at knife point, gunpoint, or watched the concrete around his bare feet, stripped of boots, jump into the air as his captor shot for his toes, his heart rate maintained. With satisfaction, Ethan had remained collected enough to use the distraction of a rescue team hammering the door to take control of the situation, breaking the man’s nose with his hand. Then killed him with his own gun.

  Life or death situations didn’t really faze him. Surely, these men couldn’t be worse than that.

  Ethan didn’t know why people would be after him; all he knew was that apparently, they were. Without thinking, he had already put the rag on the ground. He slipped back through the garage door, closing it silently behind him and made his way over to the drawer in the kitchen.

  He opened the drawer. Some people kept junk drawers in their kitchen. Ethan kept his own version of the practice: an M4A1 with a close-range receiver, a handgun, a tactical belt and vest, and more bullets than Ethan could count. Ethan quickly put on the belt and vest, loaded his magazines into all his pockets. He should be good. He didn’t know what kind of firepower these men had, but he hadn’t met something the M4 couldn’t handle.

  With the weapon gripped in Ethan’s reactionary hand, he sidled around the half island and made his way down the short hallway to the stairs and to the second floor, blessing the carpeting, though it would make any approach also harder to hear. From the second floor he would have a better vantage point, but the stairs creaked and groaned if he went too fast. Ethan stepped up each one slowly and over the ugly carpet he’d never bothered to change and always hell to vacuum. He eased up slowly, with his gun squarely trained downward into the living room. The layout of the condo was the one downside; too many places to take cover with its “modern” alcoves and stairs that jutted into the hall and led to the bath and bedrooms, downstairs. The stairs twisted awkwardly at a short landing, obliterating his view. He had to risk it. He glanced out the window at the landing but, of course, could see nothing.

  These men weren’t stupid.

  They weren’t stupid, and they weren’t yet knocking down his doors. Why? They had to know he was aware of their presence; taking out a security camera would do that.

  As he crept into the half-second floor which he kept for guests and looked like no one lived there at all, another thought popped into his head. Ethan had built a ladder from the upstairs bathroom to the roof: It was his preferred smoking haunt, as he hated having to scrabble climb the awkward chimney to the tar. He mentally patted himself on the back.

  He hoped they – like the condo managers – didn’t know about his access to the roof.

  The skies were now bleak, the sun obscured by blankets of clouds. He attached his ACOG scope to his M4 and peered through the sight, seeing that the red dot was activated. Perfect. He reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. The wireless security feed flickered to life on the tiny screen and Ethan started scrolling through the perimeter cameras.

  Side door. Gone. Patio. Gone. Garage. Gone. Front door. Gone. Yard. Gone.

  Shit, shit, shit. He was operating blind. Who were these people?

  Things didn’t look too good. Whoever they were, they were well armed and professional. The man on the screen had been dressed in a black and white suit, giving him the insane look of a lawyer who chose to spend his lunch break peeping in other people’s windows- with a military grade rifle slung across his front.

  Stupid? No. Ethan shivered. Wearing a suit in a combat situation served no purpose, except to look stylish. He was damn sure there was body armor under those cufflinks and tails.

  They looked like Secret Service agents, out of place against the rural landscape of the country town. He wondered how the hell they’d found him, and what the hell they could possibly want.

  Been home two weeks, boy, he thought to himself. Your own damn fault for thinking it was too quiet. What did you say? Find something to do. Couldn’t you just stay satisfied with the car and the easy life?

  Ethan shook his head. He was grinning. Action. He thought of his groceries, still on the counter.

  If he lived through this, he’d have to put those away.

  Ethan slid out the window and onto the roof, the gritty tiles cracking under his boots.

  As he peered over the edge, he saw the figure of another man slip out of sight and under the eaves. He was sure there were more and sure they had the condo completely surrounded. Damn. Was there legitimately no way out of this other than fighting?

  He prayed his neighbors wouldn’t come home from work early.

  Ethan used his scope to assess in
a full 360-degree rotation for any possible escape. There was even a man stationed in front of the sewer exit, 2 miles away. The only possible chance he had was to climb across the roof and shimmy down on the other side, but that would be suicide. It wasn’t terrain he knew.

  No. There was no escape.

  Cocking his gun, Ethan peered into the forest line. A man in black stood, assault rifle shouldered, staring at the house but not at the roof. A mistake he would regret for the rest of the short life ahead of him.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Finger on trigger.

  Squeeze. Gently.

  The suppressed ping of the M4 was a familiar sound to Ethan’s ears. Neck shot. No body armor on the neck.

  Instantly, the suit-coated assassin collapsed, red staining his flawless shirt.

  Ethan didn’t have time to contemplate his kill. He didn’t even have time to admire his perfect shot. Instantly, bullets rained down on his house. The ledge that Ethan was using as support shattered as a barrage of distant sniper fire seemed to hail from every compass point. Ethan threw himself on the rough tiles, wincing as his magazines jammed into his stomach.

  He hauled himself back through the window and bolted for the stairs, heading back down. He’d be a sitting duck up here if they got in the house.

  On the ground floor he sprinted to and ducked against the wall behind the open drapes. Glad they were open. Sorry and glad.

  He peered out.

  Men emerged from the cypress line that bordered the field behind his property in black suits, quick and quiet. Silencers on all the guns. Where the hell were the neighbors?

  Ethan readied his phone to radio for help - RADIO- it’s called 911, civ boy- but startled by a shot, he dropped the phone.

  Shit.

  He’d kept the windows open, just the screens letting in the air. Ethan kicked it hard. It popped out with a twang and into the grass below. Ethan leaned for a quick peek.

  Bullets rained in.

  Ethan winced, then took aim and started firing. Years of SEAL training took over, and his crosshair jumped from center mass to center mass as bullets flew. His phone stayed forgotten on the floor.

  He methodically switched to the other side and fired off a round. Then he dropped to his belly and elbowed across the rug into the bedroom and fired off a round from there. As return enemy fire grew thinner, Ethan felt what little stress he had fade away.

  By now he was in his office, with a view of his patio and the dying flowers. Ethan peered out from behind his fake fig tree and aimed.

  The man went down with no sound at all.

  Ethan stood in the silence, breathing hard. Heart rate a healthy 100, if he was any judge. Breathing hard.

  Hands steady, breathing hard.

  Ethan peered out again and cautiously inspected his view. It seemed clear, but he knew that all it took was just one assassin, hiding behind a bush somewhere. Even his dead foliage provided some cover. And that cypress line was suicide. They could fire from behind the screen of dense bushes until he died.

  Silence. Police sirens? Neighbors? Nothing.

  Christ. He should have picked a house closer to town and to hell with the questions.

  Time to get out of here.

  Ethan slung the rifle over his back and took his pistol out. It was a better weapon for close quarters. He made his way cautiously out of the office and back down the hall into what passed for his kitchen. He glanced at the garage door. If he could manage to get the car out, he could hit the highway and figure out what the hell had just happened from a safe spot.

  In the distance, car engines grew closer. Ethan didn’t know whether they carried more assassins, help, police, or some unlucky (or was it lucky?) neighbors. But he didn’t intend on staying long enough to find out. Ethan wasn’t taking his chances betting it was the police. Not in this town. They wouldn’t be much help with their outdated firepower anyway. And when it came down to it, he’d shot first. Could he claim self-defense?

  Military hero, white, male, lower thirties. In this political climate? Of course he could. No doubt whatsoever.

  Ethan stepped out of the blind spot of the hall and into the…

  Blinding pain; he staggered back, feeling warm blood stream down his temple like an unstoppable cry. A pistol whip. Ethan stumbled onto the floor, already getting his pistol up to fire. He shot blindly, aiming ahead until his vision cleared, but a black boot kicked the gun away and Ethan screamed at himself for his stupidity. The screens he’d kicked out. Of course they’d come in the house. And he hadn’t heard a thing.

  Ethan looked up. The edges of his vision were red, but he could make out the man towering over him. Black suit and cold eyes stared down at Ethan as he cocked his pistol.

  “Wait.” Ethan struggled to sound calm. It was the best thing when talking to terrorists. “Who are you? Where are you from? And what do you want from me?” He coughed and tasted hot iron. “I haven’t done any-”

  “You don’t need to know.” The man smiled, slick. It enhanced the legal appearance. “You won’t live long enough to care anyway.” With that, he aimed his gun at Ethan.

  Ethan prepared to kick. He had to time it just right, though- if he misjudged, this man would shoot him dead here and now and none of it would matter at-

  His execution was interrupted by a yell.

  Ethan opened his eyes to see the man and Sam Reilly, grappling, smash into his mother’s cherry dresser and dining table, breaking a chair leg as they slammed together to the floor.

  What the-

  Ethan sprang into action and threw himself into the fray, trying to haul the man off Sam. There was no way he could get a shot off in the chaos, even if he could reach the gun-

  The three men wrestled, racing desperately for the gun. Ethan wrenched an arm out of the thrashing mass of bodies and with all his strength nailed the assassin in the face with his elbow, bloodying his nose.

  It was enough. Sam lunged forward, grabbed the pistol and in one move swung it around and struck the hitman hard across the ear.

  The assassin went limp. Ethan checked for a pulse. It was there, and strong. He was just knocked out cold.

  The two men panted in the dusty scent of carpet and fabric softener and gun smoke and blood and sweat. The milk Ethan had bought had gotten knocked off the counter during some part of the scrabble and now sat in a puddle on the fake wood floor of the kitchen.

  Ethan stared at it, trying to process all that had just happened, but the brain recovers at its own pace, likely busy shunting the last vestige of adrenaline back to where it belonged.

  He turned and held his hand out to Sam, the last person he’d expected to see here, spitting blood out of his mouth. “Thank you.”

  Sam grinned. His face was bloodied and scratched, and he had grass stuck to his dirty shirt. He took Ethan’s hand and shrugged. “Don’t thank me,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I was only repaying the favor.”

  In the distance, the sound of cars got louder. And was that a helicopter Ethan heard? Sam glanced toward the window, pushing himself up. “We can talk about who owes who later. Right now, we have more company to deal with.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sam checked his pistol, doubting he’d many shots left. “I’ll drive. You can do the shooting. You’re the SEAL anyway.”

  Ethan nodded in agreement. Sam still had a plethora of questions for Ethan, but he would have to save those for later. “Where’s your car?”

  “In the garage.” replied Ethan. “It’s a rotary.”

  Sam threw up his hands. “What do I care what car you drive? You could tell me it’s a Schwinn bicycle, do we have a choice?”

  Ethan shot him a look. Sam shut his mouth.

  Sam and Ethan crept towards the garage door, careful to check around the corners for any more possible assailants. Ethan shook his head. “We’ll have to full steam it out. Garage is vulnerable.”

  Sam raked his hands through his hair. They came away bloody.
>
  Ethan didn’t know it, but Sam had been staking out Ethan’s house since before the assassins came. He’d come armed, but not with much. It was only by pure chance that Sam had managed to save Ethan’s life. As Ethan eased open the in-house door to the garage, gun at the ready in case they’d already breached, Sam hesitated.

  Ethan looked back. “What? Now’s not the time for-”

  Sam shook his head. He’d wanted to mention the key, but the talk would have to wait. There wasn’t time. Sam had to trust that Ethan fighting those men he’d interrupted was a good sign- if they’d thought the key was hidden in the house, they’d have shot him on the spot and taken their sweet time looking. As it was, they’d seemed keen to keep him alive. And the only reason they’d need him alive would be to tell them where the key was.

  Ethan tightened his lips and cautiously opened the garage door, aiming inside. The garage seemed to be clear. Twitching his head to notify Sam, Ethan eased inside. Sam gripped his pistol and followed.

  Ethan slowly walked the perimeter with the M4 carefully aimed up.

  Sam waited; his own pistol drawn. When he was younger, he might have been impatient at such a check. But he had had too many brushes with death and solely due to his own carelessness. He was wiser now.

  Ethan finished his round, and then beckoned Sam forward. The car chimed as Ethan unlocked it. Sam, already heading to the driver’s side, barely caught the car key when Ethan tossed it to him. That would’ve been embarrassing, he thought. He wrenched open the door.

  Sam slid into the leather interior and twisted the key in the ignition. He expected the loud yet smooth roar of a muscle car, but he was greeted with a rough, almost distinct chop, chop, chop as the car started. Christ. What had they gotten themselves into?

  “Is there something wrong with the car?” Sam tested the gas as Ethan fumbled for the garage door opener and Sam braced himself for attack.