Rough Company

by R. A. McGee

  “Smells like teen spirit,” Porter said.

  “Which way first?”

  “Left. If we work our way around the fire, we can catch Kevon from behind.”

  Badway nodded and started left.

  The fire line put out thick columns of smoke. Porter’s eyes stung and blurred as he followed his cousin, long way around, trying to find the end of the fire. Before long, they found it.

  The fire had worked its way from the scrub grass into the forest, and Badway and Porter picked their way through the trees, avoiding the glowing red embers as they went. Several dozen feet later, they’d passed the fire and were in between it and the road that ran in front of the plant. Porter stepped out of the forest and took stock.

  The fire was on his right, increasing in intensity. To his left was the guardhouse and exploded gate. The carcass of the Yukon was there, still smoldering, but the vehicles Kevon and his guys had arrived in were nowhere to be seen. He looked up toward the water tower and gave a thumbs up. He couldn’t be sure if Amy saw him or not, but wanted to try and let her know they were okay, since the radio died.

  “Where to now?” Badway said, stifling a cough.

  “We need to find their cars. They have to be somewhere waiting for the fire to drive Stacy and Vance from their hidey-hole. Kevon isn’t going to risk going door-to-door to find them.”

  Porter jogged across the grass, far enough from the fire to be safe, but close enough to use the flames and smoke and embers to mask his movements. He moved the entire length of the fire line, coughing as he went. When he came to the far end of the fire, virgin grass the flames hadn’t ravaged yet, he dropped to one knee.

  Porter looked toward the open-sided warehouses, and saw what he was looking for.

  In the space between the warehouses and tree line, a space Porter and Badway had sprinted across not long ago, a black SUV and a sedan were slowly trawling along. At the moment, they were pointed away from the cousins.

  “There they are,” Badway said.

  “I have eyes.”

  The vehicles hit the tree line and turned around, slowly driving the way they had come. Straight at Porter and Badway.

  “I’m thinking ambush,” Porter said.

  “You read my mind.”

  “Good. We only have one magazine apiece, so don’t get too happy with your rounds.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I hit what I aim at,” Badway said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Porter said.

  “When I was in Vance’s house, it sounded like the Fourth of July outside. You didn’t hit shit.”

  “It was dark, dickhead.”

  The men stayed low, half-running, half-crouching as they moved across the grass that separated them from the nearest warehouse. They took up positions behind the large cement blocks that housed the stone for the concrete.

  The vehicles rolled toward Porter, Badway, and the ambush.

  “Just a little closer,” Porter said as the SUV crept nearer.

  “Wait as long as you need,” Badway said. “I swear you aim like a stormtrooper.”

  Porter ignored his cousin. He knew Badway’s chatter was a release valve for the adrenaline that was building up. Porter would have his own release soon enough.

  As the SUV rolled closer, Porter clicked his rifle off of safe and stuck the barrel around the big blocks, using the stone to help stabilize his shot. Badway was flat on his stomach below Porter, rifle aimed at the first vehicle in the small convoy.

  The SUV was close enough that Porter could read the front license plate. “Now.”

  Porter pulled the trigger, dumping a volley into the front windshield of the SUV. Badway shot low, shredding the tires, attempting to disable the vehicle. The driver hit the gas and the engine whined, but the SUV didn’t speed away. Instead, it idled off to the right, exposing the sedan.

  Porter turned his fire from the disabled SUV to the next vehicle. He repeated his tactics, launching rounds through the windshield.

  This time it was a two-way shooting gallery. Rounds came streaming out of the sedan—someone was shooting back. Porter didn’t duck behind the rock; instead he stood tall and continued to fire.

  When Porter was a firearms and tactics instructor, he’d had a hard time teaching new recruits that lesson. During training and simulations, they would always duck behind cover to hide from the bullets firing back. Sometimes this was advisable. Other times, like in this instance, it was better to stand your ground and keep the pressure on.

  Porter had the advantage, and he wasn’t giving it up.

  The smoke from the grass fire was now intermingled with the smell of spent rounds. Porter’s heart pounded in his ears, the only thing he could hear as his head rang from the barrage of gunfire.

  The sedan stopped rolling forward, then lurched as it reversed, tires grabbing for purchase in the tall grass. Porter followed it with bullets the entire way as it slid and skidded backward and away from the shoot-out.

  From the disabled SUV, a fresh volley of shots rang out. Someone in the back seat was joining the fun.

  In his peripheral vision, Porter saw his cousin scamper along the ground, hop up, and run the other way.

  Badway wasn’t running from the fight; he meant to flank the new shooter in the SUV.

  Porter continued shooting into the SUV, aware that Badway was somewhere to his left now.

  Three shots later, Porter felt the feeling of the bolt of his rifle locking to the rear: it was empty. Thirty rounds gone like a flash. In one practiced movement, Porter dropped his rifle to the left, allowing it to hang by its sling, and pulled his Glock. He zeroed in on the SUV but didn’t pull the trigger.

  His ears rang from the repeated explosions of the rounds going off. There was smoke hanging in the air between Porter and the SUV that wasn’t from the fire Kevon had set. It smelled of spent sulfur, an accelerant in modern rounds.

  On his left, Porter saw Badway dart across the gap between the big concrete blocks and the tailgate of the SUV. From his vantage point, Porter saw the left passenger door swing open, and a thin man ran from the wreck of the vehicle. Badway was working his way from the tailgate to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  “He’s running,” Porter yelled, not at all sure Badway could hear him.

  Badway looked at Porter, then stood and looked across the hood of the SUV. The thin white man was running down the fire line, back the way the cousins had come in.

  Badway gave chase.

  Porter was more interested in the fleeing sedan. He let Badway go, then moved to the SUV. Through the spider-webbed windshield, he could see the driver was dead. A quick walk around the vehicle showed no one else inside. Porter opened the driver’s door, dumping the body out and to the ground.

  Once the man was out of the seat, foot off the gas pedal, the engine stopped whining. The car was a mess, but had only stopped rolling because the dying driver had knocked it into neutral as he slumped. Porter slid in, dropped the car into drive, and slammed the gas.

  The SUV responded well, engine healthy enough but limping along on the shredded tires and dinged-up rims. Porter turned the SUV, pointing it in the direction of the sedan. He trusted Badway to handle himself.

  The fire raged on and had overtaken several of the trailers by now. Black smoke was thick in the air. Porter bumped along in the SUV until he saw the sedan, speeding away from the last trailer. Porter watched as Stacy Brown chased after the black car and knew what had happened.

  Kevon had Trey.

  No telling what had happened to the rest of the group, but Porter didn’t care. He turned and paralleled the sedan, with maybe thirty yards between the cars. They were headed past the warehouses, toward the tarmac.

  The sedan cut sharply to the left, trying to pass in front of Porter. He stomped the gas as hard as he could, but the sedan was faster and, with no blown tires, was going to pass right in front of him, its path to the road clear.

  Saying a silent prayer that Trey wasn�
��t in the back seat, Porter pointed the SUV at the spot the sedan was going to be, and managed to hit the rear quarter panel, spinning the sedan out in the grass. The accident was the final insult for the SUV, and it shuddered and came to a stop.

  Porter tried his door, but it was stuck and wouldn’t open. He slammed into it with his shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Shots rang out, slicing through the lifeless SUV. Porter scrambled across the console and into the passenger seat—no small feat due to his size. He hit the door latch and dived out onto the grass.

  Porter pushed to his feet, looking through the window at the shooter. The man had the sedan’s driver-side door open, leaning against the frame. A quick peek revealed that it wasn’t Kevon.

  Porter now understood that there had been four people in Kevon’s party: Kevon, the driver of the SUV, the person Badway was hunting down, and the man shooting at Porter.

  Pulling his Glock, Porter worked his way toward the back of the SUV, trying to line up a shot at his assailant. It was no use. The man had good training and knew Porter was pinned down. He had no intention of letting Porter peek his head out. If only the recruits he had trained could see him now, he thought—they would finally understand the power of dominant position.

  Porter dropped to his belly, looking underneath the SUV. Often this would offer a marginal shot: legs, feet, or the like. Porter didn’t care; he needed something. Instead, the man must have seen Porter’s shadow, and fired several rounds underneath the SUV. Dirt and rock sprayed into Porter's eyes as a far-too-close round impacted the dirt.

  Working his way both to his feet and to the front of the SUV, Porter decided to use the engine block as the best available cover, and shoot back until one of them was dead. As he peeked his head above the engine block, a different type of gunshot echoed throughout the area.

  The man had been shooting at Porter with a pistol; this sound was deeper, the sound of a rifle round being cracked off. Porter finished raising his head, and the man was looking toward the tree line. Round after round was plowing into the sedan and the dirt around the man. Porter seized the moment, using the man’s distraction to his advantage.

  He leaped onto the hood, exposing himself. While his pistol rounds would shoot through the sedan’s door, Porter wanted a clean shot. The change in elevation exposed the top third of the man’s body.

  Even if the man noticed him, Porter was counting on him not being able to orient himself fast enough to shoot. The shooter turned, bringing his pistol to bear on the woods and the origin of the rifle rounds.

  Porter emptied his pistol into the man, hitting him several times in the upper torso. The shooter fell back into the sedan and didn’t move. Porter hopped off the hood, slammed a new magazine into his pistol, and pointed it toward the woods.

  “I just saved your ass. Don’t shoot me,” a voice said. Seconds later, Amy Olson walked out of the woods, lugging Badway’s rifle with her. “What the hell is on your face?”

  Thirty-Nine

  Porter pulled the shirt sleeve down off his mouth. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “I got tired of waiting on the water tower. The radio was dead and I couldn’t talk to you, and when I saw the extra vehicles coming into the factory, I assumed you guys needed help.”

  “You figured right.” Porter strained his eyes toward the figures in the distance.

  “Where’s Baddie? He’s not…?”

  “He’s fine. You stay here; Stacy Brown should be showing up any minute.”

  “You want me to shoot her?” Amy said.

  “No, I don’t want you to shoot her. We’re on the same team now,” Porter said.

  “That’s news to me. Good thing you told me,” Amy said.

  “I’m going after Kevon. Don’t let anyone who isn't Badway come toward that plane, got it?”

  “I’m on it,” Amy said. She popped the bipod open and sat it on the bullet-riddled front hood of the SUV.

  Porter press-checked his pistol, ensuring a round was in the chamber, then ran after the escaping figures. He wasn’t as fast as he once was, but contrary to Badway’s ribbing, he was quick enough. It didn’t take him long to close the distance on the figures enough to see what was happening.

  Kevon had a gun to Vance’s head and was pushing him toward the airplane. With his left hand, he was dragging Trey along with him. Porter stayed close to the tree line, on the right side of the tarmac—the tree line he and Badway had waited in earlier in the day, the same tree line Amy had popped out of a few minutes ago.

  Opposite the runway on the big property, well past the metal-roofed warehouses, the fire was growing in intensity. Porter was too far away to see the trailers, but he was sure they were enveloped. He could only hope Badway had found his way through the danger.

  Moments later, Porter was close enough to see Kevon push Vance up the metal staircase that led to the plane’s cabin, Trey being dragged by the arm the entire way.

  Porter counted to ten, then left the tree line, crossing underneath the nose of the big plane, working his way around to the staircase. Pistol pointed up, he ascended the stairs as quietly as his size thirteen shoes could take him, glad to be wearing his Chucks.

  The side door of the plane was still open. Porter paused for a moment, then stepped from the metal staircase over the threshold and into the plane. He ducked his head so he didn’t hit it on the metal shell of the fuselage.

  Porter peeked around the corner. The group was heading toward the cockpit. If they reached it, there would be little he could do.

  Since September eleventh, the doors of cockpits were near impenetrable. Porter knew he wasn’t getting in with his pistol.

  He stepped down the aisle between the rows of dark blue vinyl seats. Porter caught the group as they entered the first-class cabin. He pushed his head and gun through the hanging blue curtain that separated the haves and have-nots.

  “Hey, kiddie rapist,” Porter said. “Kevon the molester has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  The man spun around, holding Vance in front of him as a shield, pistol pushed into the pilot’s head. Then he pointed his weapon at Porter.

  “You can't shoot at me,” Porter said. “You know if you miss and poke some holes in the shell of this big bitch, it’ll never take off, right? The cabin will be depressurized. Your getaway will be screwed.”

  This was a lie. In fact, the large plane they were standing in could operate with several dozen bullet holes in the fuselage. Movies, however, taught many gullible people otherwise.

  “You get your ass out of here,” Kevon said. “We’re flying out, and that’s all there is to it. I got my boy. I’ll get Vance to set me up real nice in South America somewhere. Shame I didn’t get to kill my bitch wife, but there’s always next time.”

  Porter stepped the rest of the way through the curtain, pistol pointed at Kevon’s face. The front sight of the Glock was steady on the base of the man’s throat. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Like hell it isn’t,” Kevon said. He pushed Trey into the row of seats to his left. “Stay there, boy.”

  The child wailed as he hit the ground, his terror manifesting in ragged cries.

  Porter stepped to his right, all the way to the window seat of the row. He kept his sight on Kevon the entire time. Now, due to the angle, Trey was in no danger of being shot by an errant round.

  Kevon pressed the gun into Vance’s head. “Stop moving. Porter, I swear to God, I’ll kill this man. I should anyway. Asshole slept with my wife. Tried to take my son. If I didn’t need him to fly this plane, I’d have shot him by now.”

  Porter’s finger rested on the trigger. “Here’s the thing, rapist. When you pick a human shield, make sure to pick someone I give a damn about. I don’t even like that guy.”

  Vance’s eyes went wide. He struggled at Kevon’s arm.

  Porter pulled the trigger twice. One round hit Vance in the side of the face, skirted along his cheek and tore a chunk of his ear off. T
he other round hit Kevon underneath the cheekbone, splattering the contents of his skull along the cockpit door.

  Kevon’s body stiffened as his nervous system shut down. His hands contracted on his pistol and he shot Vance in the arm, then dragged the man down on top of him as he fell down, dead.

  Porter stepped down the aisle, over the twisted pile of men at his feet, then reached over and picked up the small brown boy with the curly hair.

  His opinion that mixed children were the best-looking on Earth was cemented when he looked into the boy's large eyes. Trey, on the other hand, was terrified.

  “Mr. Alex,” Trey screamed. “No! Mr. Alex. Get up. Get up.”

  Porter carried the kicking child out of the plane and started down the metal staircase.

  Stacy Brown had gotten past Amy and was sprinting toward the airplane. Amy followed her, more in an effort to keep up than trying to stop her. Porter set the boy down. “See your mommy? See her? Run to her. Go.”

  Trey screamed for his mother, and carefully made his way down the stairs, running to her as soon as his feet touched the tarmac runway.

  Porter stepped back into the plane, working his way back up to Kevon and Vance.

  Vance was moving slowly. The round that hit his face had gouged out a canal in the side of his head, but it wasn’t too deep. The round that Kevon shot hadn’t actually hit Vance, but the muzzle flash had shredded the front of his shirt. Porter pulled Kevon’s stiffened arm away from Vance’s neck.

  “I can’t… I can't believe… you shot me.”

  “It’s your own damn fault. Why were you wiggling around like that? If you would’ve stood still, both bullets would have hit Kevon.”

  “I was scared you were going to shoot me,” Vance said.

  Porter grabbed the man under the arm and pulled him to his feet. The lobe of Vance’s ear was hanging at a gruesome angle.

  “Let’s just call it even,” Porter said.

  “Even? You shot me in the face.”

  “And you tried to blow up a building on top of me. Not to mention your guys shot at me and Sarge. You could have killed us.”