Boyd breathed a sigh of relief. Ellie, along with the rest of her family, could easily be seen through the bay window in the living room with his powerful Vortex binoculars. The discussion appeared lively and animated with lots of large gestures, yet Ellie appeared unharmed. There was finger pointing from a man he assumed to be Ellie’s father. Another man, tall and lean, short, light brown hair, late twenties or early thirties was pacing around the room. The conversation seemed centered around him.
The tall, lean man seemed to be answering questions from Ellie’s father, who appeared agitated. Boyd found himself wishing he had some microphones on the window. L.T. was always saying that all information is useful and Boyd was wondering what was being discussed. Furthermore, Ellie was standing close enough to the tall, lean man that it implied a certain degree of familiarity. More than once the man placed his hand on Ellie’s arm in a reassuring manner. Boyd turned to walk back to his car and grab a window microphone and then thought better of himself. Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. Their business was their business.
Boyd glanced at his watch. Probably every Marine in the history of the Marines, from infantry to helicopter mechanics, has stood watch at some time in his career, so waiting 45 minutes for L.T. to arrive was going to be child’s play. It should be the easiest sentry duty he could remember. Boyd mentally worked his way through the 11 General Orders he learned verbatim during recruit training.
First General Order: To take charge of this post and all government property in view.
Check. He had a good view of the beautiful two-story brick farmhouse, the metal building to the left of the house, and the long driveway.
Second General Order: To walk my post in a military manner, keeping always on the alert and observing everything that takes place within sight or hearing.
Check. No one would slip through without being seen.
Many of the rest of the General Orders did not apply in this situation, but it pleased him when he realized he could still recite them verbatim. His DI would be pleased. Well, maybe not. Are DIs ever pleased?
Boyd was mentally discussing the hell that must be involved trying to mow such a large yard when he spotted headlights coming down the road. As expected, the vehicle slowed to successfully navigate a sharp corner located shortly before the Carmichael’s driveway. However, this car slowed down even more after the corner, almost coming to a stop as it passed the driveway. Boyd could make out the silhouette of a full-size sedan, probably an older model. Definitely not L.T. He was beginning to walk towards the driveway for a better look, but the car suddenly accelerated away from the corner. He leaned against the closest tree and relaxed.
Maybe the car had slowed down to avoid an animal.
Intermittent traces of the red taillights were visible through the trees as the car continued on its path away from the house. The engine was barely discernible; a noise that would have been lost in the captivating cacophony of crickets, katydids, and cicadas if a person was not intentionally focused on it. The automobile was easily a quarter of a mile away when Boyd noticed an increase in the intensity of the taillights. The car was braking.
The taillights cut out a strange arc in the distance as the undeniable whine of a power steering pump reaching its end limits reached Boyd. It was hard to tell, but it appeared that the car was turning around in the middle of the road.
Was this why L.T. wanted him to watch the house? Boyd had agreed as a favor for L.T., never thinking that his presence would be needed. If the Lieutenant were right, if Boyd’s presence were needed outside the Carmichael house, he would never doubt L.T.’s inner voice ever again.
The strange car’s headlights became visible as the car completed its three-point turn in the middle of the country blacktop road. The car appeared to be returning as slowly as it left. One hundred yards from the driveway entrance the headlights vanished. Boyd strained to hear the motor; however, as if on cue, the katydid and cicada orchestra seemed to actually get louder, thus drowning out any chance of hearing the motor.
A dim light became visible near the spot he last saw the automobile. Most likely an interior dome light, which meant someone might be exiting the car. Some bushes were blocking his view of the car. Boyd repositioned himself for a better view. Although he was easily 150 yards from the vehicle, the full moon gave him a great view of two men standing near the vehicle clearly engaged in conversation. The conversation was completely unintelligible, yet one of them pointed to the Carmichael house more than once. There was a break in the conversation as one man moved to the back of the vehicle and opened the trunk. The other man was leaning against the front fender of the vehicle.
The trunk lid completely blocked Boyd’s view; however, Boyd did not need a visual to know what the man was doing. The unmistakable sound of someone chambering a shell in a pump shotgun resonated above the nighttime din. Damn, he thought to himself, these rednecks really love their shotguns. “Let’s do this.” It was the man with the shotgun. After he had closed the trunk lid, the other man shushed the one holding the shotgun.
The Eleventh General Order immediately came to Boyd’s mind: To be especially watchful at night and during the time for challenging, to challenge all persons on or near my post, and to allow no one to pass without proper authority.
The last part of the order stuck in his mind. These bastards did not have proper authority, and there was no way in hell he was going to let them pass. It looked like he might have to shoot someone after all.
Shit, L.T. had been right to send me.
Boyd quickly ran over to the Jeep. After yesterday, he had decided that his weapons, all of them, were going wherever he went. Boyd pulled his Remington Model 700 .300 Win Mag out of its hard case. It was his favorite gun. He loved long range shooting. In fact, he frequently competed in 600-yard competitions, winning most of them. Boyd had signed up early on in the Marines to be a Military Policeman. His second choice as an MOS would have been a Marine Corps Scout Sniper.
Boyd had not spared any expense on the rifle. A tried and true Leupold 3.5-10 Vari-X Police Standard Scope, one frequently used by SWAT snipers, sat atop the rifle. He used a quick adjust tactical sling, and the barrel was threaded to accept a suppressor, commonly called a silencer in the movies. Boyd was particularly happy with the suppressor attached to his rifle. It was built in Huntsville by a small startup company that aimed at providing the highest quality suppressors on the market. Boyd’s suppressor, a prototype, did not even have a make or model number yet. Boyd completed the package by only shooting hand loaded ammo specifically matched to his rifle. He was particularly proud of the fact that he could consistently get half inch groupings at 200 yards.
Boyd watched as the two men finished their conversation. Both turned towards the house, one holding the shotgun, the other holding a handgun. Decision time. Boyd did not want to let them get any closer to the house, yet he did not want to shoot anyone until he was sure of the men’s intent. An idea entered Boyd’s head. It was going to require a difficult shot. One hundred fifty yards in the dark from a standing unsupported stance, not exactly providing the three elements of a good shooting position as taught in the Marines. He had no choice.
Boyd pulled the rifle up. The rifle rested on his left hand with the sling intricately wrapped up in the left arm to provide proper bone support. He placed the butt of the rifle into the pocket of his shoulder and welded his cheek against the stock. He located his target down the side of the barrel before finding it in the scope. Boyd preferred extending his natural respiratory pause over the decreased breathing technique. He exhaled.
He applied slow, steady pressure to the trigger. Trigger control is the most difficult marksmanship skill for most shooters. Boyd had no flaws in his technique. No jerking of the trigger. No flinching as he anticipated the recoil. Just a perfect follow through. When the pressure reached exactly two pounds on the highly modified trigger, the gun fired. At roughly 3000 feet per second, the 180-grain bullet left
the gun and hit the target exactly as Boyd had planned.
The target responded exactly as he expected. It exploded. The explosion was heard easily at 200 yards. It brought a smile to Boyd’s face. His shooting instructors would have been proud.
***
The man with the shotgun shouted something while whipping his entire body around towards the sound of the explosion. Boyd was too far away to make out facial features in the dark, but he could tell the man was nervous and twitchy. The man with the handgun chastised the other man for being too loud. He also turned around towards the sound. His handgun was out in front, ready to engage.
The two men were about 10 yards from the car when Boyd shot the front driver’s side tire. Even though the driver’s side tire had been a more difficult shot, he chose the tire since it was on the far side of the car thus preventing the bullet from ricocheting off the pavement up through the undercarriage of the vehicle. He wanted it to look like a freak coincidence. It had been a truly wonderful shot. Boyd was even more pleased with the reaction. Neither of the two men had heard the report of the rifle; the suppressor had done its job. All they heard was the tire exploding. It also stopped both men from advancing on the Carmichael house.
Although it was night time, the moon was full, and the sky was clear. Thus, Boyd was cautious as he moved closer. He probably could have run up to them without them noticing, though; they were so focused on looking for the origin of the noise. Boyd stopped when he got close enough to hear most of their conversation. Now if he could just avoid giggling.
The man with the handgun was circling the car. “Holy shit, I was fuckin’ right. It’s a blown tire.”
“You got to be fucking kidding me. The fucking car was just sitting there.”
“Do I look like I’m kiddin’ you? You think I don’t know what a flat tire looks like?” He was angry, even the katydids and cicadas seem to go quiet in his general vicinity.
“Brent, we can’t risk shooting into the house now. We got no way to get away.”
Brent, the man with the handgun, said, “I’m aware of our fuckin’ predicament. The boss is gonna be pissed. We got to change this tire and fast. Maybe if we get it fixed in time, we can still go through with it. Get the jack and the spare and let’s get this changed.”
The man with the shotgun moved to the trunk and came back rolling the spare towards the front of the vehicle. He returned again carrying the jack. “Here, loosen up the lug nuts while I get this cheap ass scissor jack in place.”
Brent accepted the tire wrench. “I know how to change a fuckin’ tire.”
“What crawled up your ass, man? I never said you didn’t know how. It’ll just go faster if you friggin’ help me.”
“Sorry, Daryl. It’s just that the boss is gonna be pissed. And I really hadn’t planned on a getaway involvin’ a fuckin’ tiny ass spare tire. You’re not supposed to go over 50 on these damn things.”
“So we’ll buy a full sized tire when this is all over. Look, we’re only supposed to scare ‘em. Once we get this fixed, I will run up and fire a couple of shots into the house and run back. We’ll be out of here before they know what hit ‘em.”
Brent said, “I don’t like it, but it’s better than failin’. Lug nuts are all loose. Here’s the tire iron.”
Boyd was smiling to himself. If they thought there was any chance they were going to shoot up the Carmichael house, they were going to be in for a big disappointment. Boyd decided that the rear passenger tire needed to blow up as well. I’m not sure if this counts as shooting at someone, but damn, it’s fun.
Suppressors are not silencers. If the tire had not exploded, Brent and Daryl would have heard the crack of the .300 Win Mag. A good suppressor is fantastic at eliminating muzzle flash, though. If Boyd had to shoot another tire, he could do it without fear of being discovered even though he was easily 70 yards closer than before.
Changing the tire did not take long, and within a few minutes the spare was in place, and Daryl was carrying the flat back to the trunk. Brent was leaning up against the front fender, getting ready to light a cigarette while Daryl tidied up. Boyd waited until Daryl had his shotgun in hand before lining up and taking aim on the rear passenger tire. Two pounds on the trigger. One more flying projectile. Another exploding tire. A perfectly suppressed shot.
A barely suppressed bout of laughter.
At the sound of the tire exploding, Daryl dropped the flat tire he was carrying. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! What the hell is going on here?”
Brent whipped his body around towards Daryl. His gun was no longer in his waistband. “Get in the fuckin’ car, Daryl.” Brent was looking in all directions, peering into the dark for the unseen adversary that he now suspected.
“But we only got thr—”
“I know we only got three good tires. We also got someone out there in the dark fuckin’ with us. I ain’t heard a mother fuckin’ shot, but someone is shootin’ out our tires.”
“How? We’d have heard the shots!”
“I don’t know how, and I don’t care. They ain’t blowin’ up on their own; that’s for damn sure.”
Daryl walked around the front of the vehicle on the passenger side holding his shotgun at the low ready. Brent reached in and turned on the headlights while Daryl walked to the edge of the woods, trying to see anything.
Boyd had a great view of the events as they unfolded. He knew shooting out the second tire would arouse suspicion, but he did not care. Let them be suspicious; the important thing was that they leave before L.T. get there. Boyd doubted L.T. would show them any leniency if he knew what these two were up to, and he did not feel like digging any graves tonight.
“Daryl! Just get in the damn car, man. We’re gettin’ the hell out of here.”
“It’s like a three-mile drive into town. We only got three good tires.”
“You want to walk into town and leave our car right in front of the weather girl’s house, dumb ass?”
“No.”
“Then get in the damn car. We’ll drive into town and find a hotel and fix it in the mornin’. Fuckin’ sucks, but, hey, we ain’t dead, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, dead. You think that’s the Boogie Man out there? I don’t. The bastard is dickin’ with us.”
Brent opened the driver side door and starting climbing in. He was half in, half out, when he paused to stare at Daryl, who was still standing at the edge of the road peering into the woods. Brent cleared his throat, getting Daryl’s attention. He gestured for Daryl to get in the car. Daryl walked back to the car, pausing just before opening the passenger door. Both men were staring at each other across the roof of the American sedan. “Brent?”
“Yeah.”
Boyd could barely make out their voices.
“How the hell did a doctor do this to us? He should still be in Memphis.”
“I have no fuckin’ idea, but the boss might want to rethink his fuckin’ strategy ‘cuz this guy walks around beatin’ up people three at a time, and now he is fuckin’ teleportin’ through space and time. If he showed up wearing a damn Star Trek suit carrying a ray gun saying ‘Beam me up, Scotty,’ I wouldn’t be fuckin’ surprised. Now get in the damn car, fucktard!”
Daryl got in without an argument and the car drove off. Slowly. The unmistakable sound of the flat tire walloping and flapping on the blacktop could be heard for several minutes.
Boyd nearly laughed his butt clean off.
CHAPTER 32
To say that Dad’s Cobra was fast was a major understatement. Powered by Ford’s famous 427 ‘side oiler’ FE engine, a 500-plus horsepower racing engine, Dad’s 1966 Shelby 427 Cobra was basically a street legal race car. Top speed over 160 mph, 0-60 in under 4 seconds. Not to mention that Dad’s Cobra was not exactly stock; he had purchased the car from a man in Minnesota that had converted it for competition racing.
Carroll Shelby, a legend in his own time, created the 427 Cobra Shelby
for the sole purpose of humiliating anything in its path. His creation was enormously successful. The car was so powerful, so wickedly quick, that more than one buyer had returned his 427 Cobra to trade it for a Cobra with Ford’s less powerful 289 motor. My father loved the car. He never mastered it, but he loved it. It was his one extravagance.
Personally, I had a love-hate relationship with the car. On the one hand, it was truly the most amazing car I had ever had the pleasure of driving. On the other hand, it reminded me of Dad. While I was growing up, Mom and I used to watch Dad drive the 427 Cobra during various Autocross events across the Midwest. When I became old enough, Dad even let me drive the car in a few Autocross rallies. He took it pretty well when his 15-year-old son beat his track times. Dad said it was because I was just like the car — the perfect combination of brawn, power, and speed. I teased him back, telling him that some men were born to go fast; some were born to watch men go fast. He was the latter.
Now, the truly spectacular vehicle was mine, and I was driving it at breakneck speeds towards Emmettsville, Tennessee. Shelby Cobra speedometers are unique, a circular gauge with a needle that travels counterclockwise as the speed increases. The top of the gauge corresponds to 90 mph. I kept the gauge to the left of 90 for the whole trip once I left Memphis city limits. Normally, a 45 to 50-minute drive, I pulled into the Carmichael driveway in 25 minutes.
Holy crap, if my math was right, I had averaged over 100 mph from doorstep to driveway.
I jumped from the vehicle and ran to the front door, pounding, rather than knocking on the front door. Although it was only a few seconds, it seemed like a small eternity before the front door opened. When it did, I was speechless as I stared at the man in the doorway with a dumb look on my face.
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