The Hard Core

by Allen Manning

  “I won’t tell anyone why you’re there, but we should get that wound cleaned up first,” Chance said. “They’ll start asking questions if you’ve got a bloody jacket on.”

  Cars horns blared in the distance. Tires screeched as a driver swerved, colliding with another vehicle. Chance and Roland both looked back.

  “Looks like we didn’t quite shake those guys,” Chance said, watching the Escalade approach.

  Roland spotted another car, a beat up black Impala, speeding and weaving through traffic. The older model car was clearly joining the chase, and catching up fast. “Uh, are you gonna—”

  The Camaro shuddered and roared as Chance stomped down on the throttle. Roland barely heard the brrap brrap in the distance.

  “They’re shooting at us,” he said, ducking in his seat.

  “They can’t hit us at this speed,” Chance said, maintaining his focus on the road.

  “You’re not driving faster than their bullets,” Roland said. They could still get lucky.”

  “Just hang on, kid.”

  Teeth bared, Roland tightened his grip on the seatbelt as he clenched his jaws. The Camaro bounded over a hill and reached another intersection. Chance pulled the wheel hard, making the tight turn. The driver in the Impala followed, turning wide and narrowly missing an oncoming car.

  Reaching another intersection, Chance pulled the handbrake and took his car into a skid, drifting around the corner. He released the brake and watched his rearview as the chase car failed to make the turn, screeching to a stop. The vehicle rolled backward to correct their course.

  “Ha! Too easy,” Chance said.

  “Watch out!” Roland pressed his hands into the dashboard.

  The Camaro screamed toward the signs and cones blocking the road ahead. Chance slowed his car, pulling the handbrake again as he whipped the tail around in a bootleg turn. The Camaro faced back the way they came as it skidded to a stop.

  Chance looked over his shoulder, seeing no feasible way through the torn up asphalt beyond the construction signs. He drew his pistol and gripped the steering wheel tight. “Kid, when I give you the signal, you need to duck.”

  “Whoa, what’s that supposed to mean? What are you gonna do?” Roland asked.

  “If we want to get out of here, we gotta get through them.” Chance held the brake pedal and gave the engine some gas, letting the wheels burn out.

  The Impala’s tires peeled out in response. The passenger leaned out of the windows, holding a MAC-11 machine pistol, ready to open fire. Chance felt the surge of adrenaline, hoping his gamble would pay off in his game of chicken.

  Something to the side suddenly caught the attention of the passenger, and he scrambled to get back into the car. Before he could climb inside, A monstrous silver pickup truck slammed into the passenger side door of the Impala.

  The impact with the Ford F250’s oversized bull bar hurled the car down the street, barrel rolling out of Chance’s line of sight. Shards of glass and plastic spiraled outward as the vehicle spun away.

  A large, muscular man stepped calmly out of the truck and opened the rear door of the cab. He reached inside and grabbed an M4 carbine strapped to a rack. Slamming the shifter to park, Chance got out of his car and pushed his badge forward, keeping his pistol ready.

  “Detective Hunter, Detroit Police!”

  The big man looked to Chance with an easy smile. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Detective. Just have to take care of one more thing.”

  Without another word, he stepped into the middle of the street and brought his rifle up to his shoulder. Chance brought his pistol up ready to take the man down, but something in his head, some instinct, told him to hold his fire.

  The M4 barked two three-round bursts, the reports echoing loud off the surrounding concrete structures. The man stepped back toward Chance, and the Escalade flew past, careening out of control.

  * * *

  The Escalade screamed around the corner, engine whining as the driver sped forward. John braced the stock of his M4 against his shoulder. He fired a pair of bursts at the windshield of the SUV. Six holes appeared in the glass, as the driver’s chest exploded in a crimson spray. The vehicle continued ahead, losing control.

  John stepped off the path of the oncoming vehicle. The Escalade tires chirped and squealed, as it skidded, before colliding into the Impala. Sparks from the collision ignited the fumes from the Impala’s leaking tank, hungry flames engulfing both vehicles.

  John flicked the fire selector of his rifle to safe, and held it low, as he walked over to Roland and the Detroit detective. The two cars behind him exploded in a massive fireball. The blinding flash backlit the retired Ranger, and the wave of heat caused the two men watching the surreal scene to flinch and cover their eyes.

  John pressed the mag release and pulled out the partially empty magazine. He retrieved a reload from a pouch under his jacket, slapped the fresh magazine home, and put the other one in the pouch.

  Car alarms blared, headlights and turn signals flashed, as John nodded his head back to the pickup truck. “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Chance held his weapon low but didn’t holster it. He motioned for Roland to stay in the car.

  “Look, thanks for saving our bacon back there, but I don’t know who you are. I’m taking this man back to the station with me.”

  “My name is John Stone, and this whole situation is bigger than you realize, Detective.”

  Chance kept his guard up, stepping closer. John slung his rifle and held his hands up and away from his body. The big man also kept his distance and made no aggressive movements.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Stone, I’ll take my chances with the men and women back at the department.”

  John stood his ground in front of the Camaro. “I’m not here for you, Detective. I was asked to find Roland Forrester, and deliver him safely to a meeting with a man he was in contact with.”

  “What’s the name of his contact?” Chance asked.

  “To be honest, I never got his name. My friend trusts him, and I trust my friend.”

  “Well, that just fills me with all kinds of warm fuzzies. Let me be honest with you now, Mr. Stone. I don’t trust you—”

  “Wait,” Roland interrupted. “Let’s go with him. He’s right. About the meeting.”

  Chance looked at Roland, then back at John, weighing his options. He finally shook his head and holstered his Beretta. “All right, we’ll follow you for now. Where to?”

  “A safe house, just outside the city,” John said as he headed back to his truck.

  Chance called out to John before he got back into his car. “Hey, if this is a setup, then you’re under arrest, man.”

  John gave him a thumbs up without looking back.

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  Travis paced around his office, hands clasped behind his back until the call came in. “I need some good news, Parker. All this wait and see stuff is too much for my heart right now.”

  “Roland is safe. They were able to save him before a squad of hit men got to him,” Parker said.

  “What do you mean, they? I thought it was you and John.”

  Parker let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, about that. John says some detective helped Roland to safety, but he cleared the way for their escape.”

  “What’s the detective’s name?” Travis asked, tapping the spacebar on his keyboard several times to wake his computer.

  “I didn’t get much. John said it was something like Chase Hunter,” Parker said.

  Travis ran a quick search through his files for detectives in the Detroit Police Department. “Do you mean Chance Hunter?”

  “That’s the guy. I was close.”

  “Alright, well the good news is Roland is safe. Is John on his way to bring him to you?”

  “That’s still the plan,” Parker said.

  “Keep him secure until I get there,” Travis said. “I’m going to
dig into Detective Hunter’s files to see if he’s someone we can trust.”

  “Gotcha. Let me know if you need help cracking through any firewalls.” Parker ended the call.

  Travis leaned back, folding an arm across his body, and rested his chin on his thumb. The folder on his monitor populated itself with the list of files for Chance Hunter’s record. Starting with recent ones, Travis skimmed the content, looking for any red flags.

  Hunter had several commendations, but nothing that stood out as exemplary. There were also more than a few reports for his conduct, mostly having to do with his inability to keep his nose out of where it didn’t belong. Travis couldn’t fault the man for that, given his own past record as a Vice Detective.

  He ran a search, cross-referencing anything with the CARR Group. A case file came up from almost a year prior. It seemed Detective Hunter was very closely involved in the case against Vincent Treadwell and Silver Creek prison.

  Scrolling down, he found a series of reports, all from various officers and SWAT members detailing the firefight at the Silver Creek facility’s main headquarters.

  Was that you, Hunter? Travis thought. The incident was kept quiet on most news stations, but the information had come across the desk of many of his contacts in the Department of Homeland Security, as well as the FBI.

  “Well, detective, this is an interesting turn of events,” he said, standing from his desk and pacing around his office again.

  With his connection to the case, Chance Hunter might just prove valuable in their battle against International Security and the CARR Group.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Chicago, Illinois

  Faust wound his body, the backswing perfected over the years, through thousands of repetitions. The club met the dimpled sphere with a satisfying thwack as he followed through. The golf ball sailed over two hundred yards, starting just to the right, and curving in with a slight draw as it landed precisely where he intended.

  “Pretty good, right?” He turned to face the men behind him, wiping the club face with his thumb.

  CARR Group’s head of security, Troy, stood at attention, holding his hat in his hands, clasped in front of him. His second in command stood to his left.

  “You know why I asked you here, right?” Faust asked.

  “Forrester,” Troy said, keeping his eyes fixed on the driving range.

  “You are correct.” Faust pointed the grip of his club at the chest of the company's head of security.

  He returned to the tee where an assistant placed another ball. Faust repeated the same motions as last time, with different results. The impact had a touch of a pinging noise as the ball curved far from center. He gripped the club tighter, face reddening.

  “Amateurs!” he shouted, wheeling back to the group. “You just put the word out that I wanted Roland Forrester dead, and let amateurs flop around the city looking for him.”

  “Sorry, sir, I-I thought you might want to handle all this under wraps,” Troy stammered.

  “Yes, you half-wit. Under wraps, as in hiring a pro for a job that requires this level of professionalism.” Faust stood toe to toe with Troy nudging him with his forehead as he finished.

  Troy Spragg took a half step back, struggling to maintain eye contact with his employer. “Right away, sir. I’ll have this handled.”

  “This whole thing is a little more complicated now, is it not?” Faust returned to the tee again. “Forrester is in the custody of the Detroit Police. If we want this matter resolved, we’ll need—”

  Troy’s second stepped forward. “What if we raise the bounty. One million. That would entice more skilled hitters.”

  Faust shot an intense glare at the man before redirecting it at Troy. After a moment his expression softened.

  “Skilled hitters, you say?” Faust twisted his hands on the club’s grip.

  “Well yeah. More money would incentivize—”

  Faust whipped the driver across the man’s face. The club head connected with a wet thok. Troy winced, looking away. His second in command spun and collapsed, unconscious.

  “How’s that for a skilled hitter!” Faust stood over the man’s body, spittle flying and veins bulging in his forehead.

  He tossed the driver to his assistant and jabbed a gloved finger into Troy’s chest. “That’s your one and only strike, Spragg. Take care of this now. I want a team of professionals. Bring Forrester’s head to me.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Faust gestured dismissively toward the man lying in a heap. “And get your trash off my driving range before his incompetence kills the grass.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Corpus Christi, Texas

  Captain Donovan Hawke read the incoming transmission as it scrolled by. Pulling a dark gray t-shirt over his head, he put the tablet in the large pocket on his thigh and left his quarters.

  The thumping from fists impacting a heavy bag grew louder. Clanging metal joined the chorus. Hawke stepped into the training room and stood in the doorway watching his team.

  Tanika Sloane, known to the others as Flash, snapped out another combination on the punching bag, ending with a stiff jab as she shuffled out of hand-to-hand range. Dodging an imaginary attack, she slipped back in and buried a pair of hooks into the worn and cracked flesh of the apparatus.

  In another corner, Obie “Rhino” Gray gripped a barbell resting on the ground, adjusted his feet and tensed his body. Taking a deep breath and tightening his core, he pulled over eight hundred pounds of iron off the floor, locking the deadlift out before lowering it with a loud clunk.

  Captain Hawke walked into the middle of the room to join his lieutenant, Marci Driver. She focused her attention on the far wall. She held the Personal Defense Weapon in her hands, modeled after the full-sized bullpup rifles the others used.

  Shouldering the weapon, she pressed the trigger as it let out a muffled click. With no wasted movement, she swept the rifle to the side, hanging from its sling, as she drew the pistol, took aimed and followed with another click. Her expertise with small arms, and an affinity for fully automatic weapons earned her the moniker Burst.

  Each one, in turn, noticed Hawke’s presence and stopped what they were doing. Obie slapped his hands together several times, kicking out a cloud of chalk dust as he wiped the rest away on his pants. Tanika unwound the wraps from her fists. Marci holstered her pistol and adjusted the sling to move the rifle behind her body.

  “Morning, team,” the team captain said. “We’ve got new orders.”

  “Where we going, Captain?” Obie asked.

  “Michigan,” Donovan said. “Seems we’ve got some trouble brewing there that needs our attention.”

  “American soil? So that means keep it light?” Tanika asked.

  “This is a cleanup mission. Standard loadout, so you get to bring all of your toys,” Donovan said.

  “What’s the objective?” Marci asked, unslinging her rifle and working the charging handle several times before placing it back in the case.

  “I think you’ll like this one. We’ve got a deserter. Roland Forrester,” Donovan said.

  “Bag him up and drag him home?” Tanika asked.

  “More like a body bag,” Obie said, looking at the captain’s facial expressions. “Is he that dangerous?”

  “To us? No,” Donovan said. “To the organization as a whole? Absolutely. He’s looking to flip on Faust Kingston. He knows enough to bring CARR down. Maybe INSEC too.”

  “So he hasn’t met with anyone yet?” Marci asked, arms folded across her chest.

  “Of course he has,” Donovan said. “They wouldn’t bring us in unless things have spiraled out of control.”

  “Obviously,” Obie said.

  Donovan continued. “Faust put a bounty on the kid’s head, and a bunch of locals swarmed in and made a mess of things. Some Detroit detective scooped him up.”

  “Are we supposed to take on the whole police department?” Tanika asked, rubbing
some of the post workout swelling from her hands. “Just the four of us?”

  “This detective,” Donovan said pulling the tablet from his pant leg, “Chance Hunter, hasn’t resurfaced yet. He’s got Roland stashed somewhere. We drop in, flush them out, and clean up the mess. If Hunter gets caught in a crossfire, we just chalk it up as an acceptable loss.”

  “Sounds like Faust actually did us a favor with the hit contract,” Marci said. “We just need to make it look like another crew found Roland.”

  Donovan pointed a finger at her, confirming her analysis. “There’s more. Sort of a vegetables before dessert thing.”

  The strike team stood at attention, waiting for their captain to continue.

  “We’ve got to secure an INSEC recruiter and bring him to Kingston,” Donovan said. “Make sure he gets home in one piece.”

  “What? Babysitting?” Tanika asked.

  “Eat your veggies first, Sloane,” Donovan said. “The CARR Group will have a security team watching him until we arrive.”

  “Sounds like Faust doesn’t trust his own guys to bring the man to him,” Marci said.

  “This decision goes above Kingston. The recruiter is one of ours, not with the CARR Group.” Donovan slid the tablet back into his pocket. “We’re wheels up in forty-five minutes.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Detroit, Michigan

  John pulled a sturdy padlock from the latch and rolled the steel door up. The Camaro rolled in, parking inside as John went back out to get his truck.

  Once the vehicles were secured, Roland stepped around the car, offering a hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  John shook his hand and looked at the bloodied bandage. “We should put a clean dressing on that. There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.”