by Peter Nealen
Close Quarters
As I heaved myself upright again, I checked to make sure that I had penetrated far enough that my background was clear, and I wasn’t about to accidentally put a bullet into one of my teammates. There was the chance that something would over-penetrate and hit the house across the street, but there really are only so many angles that can be called “safe” when you’re opening fire in a residential neighborhood.
The subgun came out of my jacket, hitting the end of the sling, the fiber-optic sights gleaming even in the dark. I was only a step away from the car, and while they had been watching me and laughing, neither of the sicarios had gotten out, though their windows were rolled down to let the smoke out. I could see just enough to see the surprise on the closest sicario’s face, just before I obliterated it with a four-round burst of 9mm hollow points.
His companion didn’t even have time to register shock as the contents of the first guy’s skull splattered all over him. The other advantage of my position was that, instead of having to traverse the width of the car, as I would have if I’d opened fire through the windshield, I only had to move the muzzle a little over an inch to give Number Two the same treatment. Dark, glistening liquid splashed out the open window and his cigarette fell to the street as his lifeless corpse sagged against the door column.
The entire assassination had taken about three seconds, and the only sound had been the clicking of the action and the faint tinkle of the brass hitting the rocks.
Lex Talionis
Peter Nealen
This is a work of fiction. Characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Real locations are used fictitiously. This book is not autobiographical. It is not a true story presented as fiction. It is more exciting than anything 99% of real gunfighters ever experience.
Copyright 2017 Peter Nealen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, but not exclusive to, audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the author.
Praetorian Security and the Praetorian Security Logo are all trademarks of Peter Nealen. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
http://americanpraetorians.com
Also by Peter Nealen
The American Praetorians Series
Task Force Desperate
Hunting in the Shadows
Alone and Unafraid
The Devil You Don’t Know
The Jed Horn Supernatural Thriller Series
A Silver Cross and a Winchester
Nightmares
The Walker on the Hills
The Canyon of the Lost (Novelette)
Standalone
Kill Yuan
And in the councils of all the states of Etruria the leading men openly stated, “that the Roman power was eternal, unless they were distracted by disturbances among themselves. That this was the only poison, this the bane discovered for powerful states, to render great empires mortal. That this evil, a long time retarded, partly by the wise measures of the patricians, partly by the forbearance of the commons, had now proceeded to extremities. That two states were now formed out of one: that each party had its own magistrates, its own laws. That though at first they were accustomed to be turbulent during the levies, still that these same individuals had ever been obedient to their commanders during war; that military discipline being still retained, no matter what might be the state of the city, it had been possible to withstand the evil; that now the custom of not obeying their superior followed the Roman soldier even to the camp. That in the last war in the very field, in the very heat of battle, by consent of the army the victory was voluntarily surrendered to the vanquished Aequi: that the standards were deserted, the general abandoned on the field, and that the army returned to the camp without orders. That without doubt, if perseverance were used, Rome might be conquered by her own soldiery. That nothing else was necessary than to declare and make a show of war: that the fates and the gods would of themselves manage the rest.
-Livy
Chapter 1
You know, a normal person, upon stepping out of a grocery store in a small town in Wyoming might not even have seen the dark red Crown Vic and the four young men in it. It wasn’t sitting in the small parking lot, but across the street, in the shade of a big elm tree. There wasn’t much about it to make it stand out, aside from the tint in the windows.
If they had noticed it, and picked up on the fact that the four young Hispanic men sitting inside were watching them intently, like these four were watching me, a normal person still might not see it as an immediate threat. Uncomfortable, certainly, and slightly out of place; vatos, as these definitely were, just going by their appearance and attitudes, were not exactly common in northern Wyoming, and nobody likes to be watched by a pack of young men like that. But they might still see them as only a threat to be avoided, and try to ignore them long enough to get out of their line of sight.
But I am by no means a normal person anymore. Haven’t been for a lot of years. Most “normal” people would probably call me “paranoid” if they could see inside my head. I would probably correct them, pointing out that I am, in fact, “professionally paranoid.” It’s kept me alive in some very, very unpleasant places. I noticed the car immediately, and one look at the gangsters inside told me all I needed to know. These sons of bitches were dangerous, they were hunting, and they were specifically hunting me.
I didn’t look directly at them as I walked across the street toward my beat-up old pickup, but kept them within my peripheral vision, watching them without focusing on anything in particular. I’d learned a long time ago that if you keep your eyes slightly unfocused, you can actually see a lot more around you. Details get fuzzy, but any movement will be instantly visible, and you can keep track of your quarry spacially all the time. It also keeps people from getting that hackle-raising feeling of being watched, since you’re not staring at them.
Let these fuckers think I was oblivious.
I made a show of looking both ways before crossing the street, even though there is usually very little traffic in Powell, and crossed to the truck. My .45 was on my hip under my jacket, but I had a lot more firepower in the cab. Part of me was hoping not to have to use it in town; Powell had a very low crime rate, and committing the first killing in decades was not going to help us stay low-profile. We might have a good relationship with the county sheriff, but word of a shooting was going to get around.
I got in and started the truck up, making sure my SOCOM 16 was next to my leg and easily accessible. Meanwhile, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my latest burner phone, and sent a quick text back to Jim and the rest of the team. It was only one word: “Wildfire.” It was a duress code that we’d used clear back to Djibouti. It meant that things were getting hairy, and the guy who sent it was in trouble. The guys back at The Ranch knew where I’d been going, so they’d have a starting point. Still, it was a long enough drive that I couldn’t afford to wait around for support. I’d have to deal with this myself.
To my complete lack of surprise, the car followed me as I pulled away from the curb and headed west, out of town. They weren’t terribly good at this; they were following too close, and trying to pull this off in a small town was never a good plan in the first place. Outsiders were noticed, especially Hispanics in a place where most people were pretty white.
I was driving through town partially on autopilot, already thinking ahead, trying to remember good ambush sites. There was no way I was going all the way back to The Ranch with these clowns in tow, and if they were who I thought they were, shaking them was going to require some applied vi
olence. Outnumbered four to one, I wanted a terrain advantage.
Unfortunately, Powell sits on pretty flat ground. Surrounded by fields, there aren’t a lot of good choke points or covered and concealed positions that provided enough standoff close to town. I’d have to head north, up toward Polecat Bench. There were hills and ravines up there where I could set up, though I needed to open up that time-distance gap so that I could park the truck and move away to find a shooting position.
I was studiously avoiding thinking about the wider implications of a car full of possible sicarios in our backyard. There would be time for that later, provided I got out of this with my head still attached to my shoulders. I needed to concentrate on the fight at hand.
I wove through the outer neighborhoods, moving just over the speed limit. I’d made sure a long time ago that I knew Powell, Ralston, and Cody like the back of my hand, just in case. I don’t think that, at the time, any of us had figured that we would actually be E&Eing through ranchland Wyoming, but here I was, and the worst-case scenario appeared to be coming true.
I took a dogleg south and turned onto Highway 14, heading southwest toward Ralston. The Crown Vic was still following; I’d been moving quickly, but there was too little traffic to be able to lose them, particularly in the middle of the morning. Most of the locals were working the fields or the range at that time of day. That was okay, though; I hadn’t expected to shake them off in town.
I ran through the gears as I accelerated down the highway, the Crown Vic keeping pace behind me. They hadn’t started shooting, which was good, but I didn’t want to give them a straight line of sight any longer than I absolutely had to. They were bound to get impatient sooner or later.
I’d thought about going through Ralston and hitting the 294 north; there were several turnoffs into the foothills of Polecat Bench up there. But with them following so close, I realized that I didn’t want to stay on one road that long. So, as soon as a turnoff presented itself, heading out into the fields to the north, I suddenly stomped on the clutch and the brake and twisted the wheel, turning off the highway with a squeal of tires and onto the side road. Working the clutch and accelerator faster than I think I ever have before or since, I ran back through the transfer case, roaring past two farmhouses before taking another left.
The Crown Vic had almost spun out when I made that turn off the highway. They’d swerved hard to avoid slamming into my tailgate, then back to follow me through the turn, and almost flipped over. I was briefly disappointed that it hadn’t happened; that would have solved my problem, and possibly left one or more of them alive to work over for information.
I kept taking turns, avoiding staying on a straight line for very long. They had to be getting pissed by now, but they still hadn’t opened fire. Eventually, I was going to have to stay on the straight and narrow a little longer, put on some speed, and see if I couldn’t open that gap up a little farther.
Hitting the next major road, I banged a hard left and raced over the creek, heading up into the hills. I was pushing the truck as hard as I dared; I didn’t want to flip on a curve or lose control on a bump, but I knew the road and I knew the old Dodge’s capabilities well enough. I kept my speed right at the edge of what both the truck and I could handle, roaring up into the foothills.
I glanced in the mirror behind me. The Crown Vic was falling back a little. I grinned tightly. Tough guys they might think themselves, but my chollo buddies back there were flatlanders. They weren’t comfortable driving at high speed in the hills. I was opening that gap.
My next turn was a risky one. The first violent turn off of Highway 14 had been onto a paved road; this one was onto dirt and gravel. And I waited until the very last moment to stomp on the clutch and wrench the wheel over.
I damned near broke the rear end loose as I hit the gravel road. The truck definitely fishtailed a little, and it took a good hundred yards before I was confident that I was fully in control again. Then I was bouncing and roaring up the road and over a ditch, leaving a cloud of dust between me and my pursuers. They could easily see where I had gone, but they wouldn’t be able to spot me well enough to hit me for the time being, and if they were driving like flatlanders on the paved road, this gravel track was going to give them fits.
I had to slow down a little as the track headed into the next draw, but I was relying on that dust cloud to provide some concealment. I bounced back over the dry wash and turned off the dirt road onto a barely defined vehicle track going up the side of the finger.
After trundling another three hundred yards, just around the curve of the draw, I found my spot. I threw the truck in neutral, set the brake, and killed the engine. I didn’t have much time.
My chest rig was on the floor under my seat. A yank brought it out as I kicked the door open, then I swapped hands, grabbed my rifle, and bailed out of the cab. I had to move fast, before the dust settled.
I ran uphill, my boots slipping slightly on the bunchgrass as I went. I was aiming for a rocky outcrop at the top of the hill, hoping to get there before the gangbangers could get around the curve of the draw and spot me. I hoped they’d get focused on the truck and not notice me, even though the slope was open ground covered in sagebrush and bunchgrass.
My heart was pounding by the time I got to the top and flung myself behind the boulders. I leaned my rifle against the rocks, lifting one eye over the edge to watch the draw as I shouldered into my chest rig. I only had four mags in it, plus one in the gun, but a hundred rounds of 7.62 would be more than enough for this situation.
As soon as the fast-tech was snapped around my waist, I grabbed the rifle, bringing it to my shoulder and pointing the muzzle past the side of the boulder, my eye finding the scope as I scanned for targets. The dust was settling around the parked truck. There was still no sign of my pursuers, yet.
The draw stayed still and silent. Even what little traffic there was out on the highway was all but inaudible. The only sound was the whisper of the wind in the grass and the faint creak of my boot as I shifted my position ever so slightly.
I was suddenly struck by the impression that, if not for the old Dodge sitting down there on the slope below me, and the modernity of my rifle and chest rig, this wasn’t all that different from what some frontiersman might have experienced out there a hundred fifty years before.
Time dragged on, or at least it seemed to. The draw stayed empty. I was starting to think that the bad guys had given up. Or maybe they’d buried the grill of that low-slung car in the ditch only a few dozen yards from the road.
Then movement caught my eye. A voice echoed down the draw. Rendered unintelligible by distance, it nonetheless had the unmistakable tone of a curse.
I eased out just far enough to get the dark figure in my scope. It was one of the bald ones, wearing a black jacket buttoned at the collar and baggy jeans. He was struggling up the draw, a pistol in his hand. He didn’t look like he was dressed for walking in the badlands. And he really didn’t look happy about being out there, either.
I placed the stadia line on his upper chest and rested my finger on the trigger.
Then I hesitated. I knew what this was; those men were there to kill me, or, failing that, to kidnap me for torture and later murder. I didn’t know for certain who they were, but we’d killed enough MS-13 thugs in Arizona and Mexico that I had little doubt that those guys were there in some connection to the mountain range of corpses we’d left behind us in Mexico and Central America.
But we were Stateside. I’d willingly ignored and blatantly violated a lot of laws downrange, particularly in Latin America. I’d killed a lot of people. But for some reason, being in the US gave me pause. Technically speaking, if I dropped the hammer on that guy, from far outside the range of his dinky little 9mm, it would be a homicide, not self-defense.
But I knew, in that pause, that these dogfuckers wouldn’t hesitate. Giving them a chance would be suicide. My finger tightened on the trigger.
The rifle boomed loudly, the rep
ort echoing and rolling down the draw. The bald guy staggered, then fell on his face.
I quickly transitioned to the next one, a baby-faced little fat fuck with longish hair and a white t-shirt. He was momentarily frozen with shock; they must have been expecting to catch me unawares and helpless. Not only did that suggest that they had no idea who they were fucking with, but they must not have been familiar with the Mountain States. While not everyone was armed up there, a lot of people were, and not just with little subcompacts for CCW. Truck guns were pretty ubiquitous, especially with the hard times that had marked the last few years.
His hesitation didn’t last long, though. These guys hadn’t come up here to pop their violence cherry; they’d traded shots with other gangbangers before. He dove for the dirt, holding his pistol up uselessly, searching for a target.
I eased off a little of the tension on the trigger and adjusted. It wasn’t an easy shot at two hundred, but I was in a good position with good glass. I let out most of the air in my lungs, paused, let the reticle settle as best it could, and squeezed. The trigger broke just as the stadia line crossed the bridge of his nose.
Another rolling boom echoed down the draw, and he jerked as the bullet passed through his face and cored out his heart.
Satisfied that he wasn’t getting up again, I kept scanning, looking for the other two. There was no sign of the car; I assumed they’d gotten stuck and continued on foot. It was probably a pretty safe assumption. That was not terrain for a Crown Vic.
But after five minutes, they still hadn’t appeared. I came off the scope and eased away from the boulder, careful not to skyline myself. I scanned the slope behind me, then started working my way around to the western side of the hill. I should have been able to see them if they were trying to come around to my flank, but I was in combat paranoid mode at that point, and wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. Besides, it’s never a good idea to stay in one place for long, especially when you’ve just smoked two of the bad guys from that position. Mobility is security for a sniper, and for all intents and purposes, that was my role at that moment. I was alone, and couldn’t rely on anyone else to watch my back.