by Nate Hawk
Hmmm, he growled to himself as he exited his vehicle and began walking into a convenience store to purchase a few supplies. As he entered the building a young cashier looked towards him with concern written on her face. Who was this beastly man and what did he want? She didn’t bother with a friendly greeting and he didn’t bother with any false excitement. He grabbed some buns and hamburger meat. He handled a couple of bags of chips. Chips? I am letting myself go! He consciously returned the chips and walked to the produce where he grabbed a bag of apples. Then he thought, what the hell? and walked back, settling on a king sized bag of greasy potato chips.
When he was close the cashier offered a guarded, “How are you?” Kelly gave a half smile and another growl that was mostly hidden behind his seaworthy beard, and left it at that. He wasn’t the friendliest customer of the day but she could see that there was no need to be worried about Kelly’s intentions. There was a level of safety in his eyes. Something friendly… but something distant. In fact, quite distant. He paid the bill and made his way to the door as he had once or twice before in the same store. “Have a nice evening,” the cashier called from behind him. Kelly let out a sigh and made a motion with his hand as he heard a rustling coming from outside. Then he heard the shouting.
As he walked out the door he spotted the man in the wheelchair again. This time though he wasn’t alone. A couple of imported motorcycles had been parked and their riders were standing above the helpless cripple ridiculing him. The men were enormous and Kelly knew their type. They were gym rats, juiced up on steroids. The types that had forgotten simple mathematics tables but learned the Latin name for every muscle group in their bodies. They had muscles bulging in places muscles weren’t even supposed to be. They’d begun taunting the old man and at some point he had ended up spilling out of his chair and was currently sprawled out in the parking lot. The wheelchair was on its side and Kelly could see the two bikers laughing and kicking at the man. Kelly wasn’t the type to become easily excited but he had a soft spot for the underdog. Especially an old one that might have paid his dues decades before in Vietnam. The rage glowed inside of him like the heat box of an old locomotive. And just like a train, it took a few short moments to crescendo but there would be no stopping him once he got his momentum going. Kelly gently set down his groceries, careful not to bruise his apples as he walked over to the men with his hands held out in front.
“That’s too bad for you guys,” he said matter-of-factly.
The men did a half turn and began confidently sizing him up. Kelly was a bit taller but both of bikers outweighed him by thirty or forty pounds each. One had a shaved head and they both displayed arms full of tattoos. They behaved like they might have had an IQ of eighty-five: between the both of them.
“What’s too bad?” the one with the shaved head asked as his posture slightly shifted. The man had the aura and amusement of a man who thinks he’s about to win a fight.
“It’s too bad you guys don’t drive Harleys. You might have learned some damned respect along the way. Now I’m gonna have to teach it to you myself.”
That got the two hulking bikers fired up enough that they turned and began walking towards Kelly in anger. “What, you look’n for a dance partner, old man?”
Old man? Kelly thought to himself. I must be further gone than I thought. And he was. With the beard and overgrown hair Kelly looked like he had been put out to pasture years before. He was in his late thirties but his hair, clothing and current general condition actually hid the tale of what had been a mostly healthy lifestyle. Regardless, he was done talking. He took one quick yet controlled step towards the shaven man and completed a finger strike to his eyes. Kelly felt his middle finger and his ring finger drive deep into his opponent’s eye sockets. There was friction, a popping noise from something that must have been a tendon and then a muted suction sound as he immediately pulled back on his hand. As his opponent’s hands instinctively rose in a futile attempt protect his vision, Kelly punched with all of his force into the man’s solar plexus. The force knocked the man backwards into the first bike where it was easily toppled. The first bike only acted like a small speed-bump as the man’s momentum continued carrying him backwards towards the second bike where he landed in an inert heap.
Kelly saw a brightly colored and artistically detailed mural flying through the air towards him. It looked like a broken piece of the Berlin Wall but at the last moment Kelly realized it was actually the other man’s tattooed arm. Kelly quickly deflected the punch with a forearm block as he performed a palm strike to the man’s nose. The strike didn’t land well and proved to be more of a glancing shot than he had hoped for. Kelly stepped back a half turn as the man began with a couple of well-telegraphed windmill punches. As he did so, Kelly saw that the man’s padded biker jacket contained the nametag “Franco”. Slightly off balance and disappointed at the glancing blow, Kelly wasn’t in a position to swing towards the man’s face again. Instead, Kelly kicked hard on the outside of the man’s knee, shattering the joint and causing him instant immobility. The man crashed to the ground in a tirade of threats and pain as he clutched at his ruined leg. Kelly quickly pounced on his head with his foot causing instant unconsciousness. Before he had time to ponder who Franco and the other swollen thug might be, Kelly heard the police sirens wailing in the distance from Key West’s finest.
Kelly quickly helped upright the old man in his chair. “Damn! Woo Eee, Sonny,” the homeless man said. “I ain’t seen an ass-woop’n like that thur in some time!”
“Well, they deserved it. What’s it come to if you can’t go for a stroll without being accosted?” Hearing the sirens’ volume increasing, Kelly knew he had to get moving. He reached in his pocket and collected all of the cash he had. “Here is $24. Get some dinner and keep yourself safe out here,” he said.
“Oh, God Bless you, Sonny. And hey,” he said proudly with wide eyes as Kelly was nearing his vehicle. “I didn’t see nuff’n.”
“Just take care of yourself,” he suggested again. He picked up his groceries and like the cartoon character that he must have seemed, Kelly and his car were gone in a cloud of white coral dust.
***
Chapter 2
Owen had a pleasant visit with his folks but he was glad to be back out of California. It was stressful watching from a distance as his parents aged. It was even more stressful in person. Each visit was just a reminder to him that the two people that he had once admired the most were being whittled away at, one day at a time. Additionally, the congestion of LA and the ways of the city were things that Owen was always happy to abandon for somewhere slower-paced. He still had three personal days to burn off before reporting for his next assignment with the Agency. He had previously made plans to meet up with his friend and fellow operator, Angelo, so that they could hike a section of the Appalachian Trail in Vermont.
The two men had known and worked with each other for a couple of years. They had found that they had come from very different backgrounds. Owen had grown up in one of the worst suburbs of LA and learned to not only survive but to escape his impoverished beginnings and rise to the ranks of the CIA. Angelo had been part of a large family that ran a Texas ranch. Angelo came from good stock and was usually the best looking man in the room. Three generations had lived under the same roof and they all made individual contributions to keep the farm profitable. Despite their polarized backgrounds, the two men found that they had several things in common too. They both enjoyed pushing themselves to their limits and spending time in nature. They had made a loose commitment to each other to attempt hiking the entire trail, one segment at a time, as time allowed over the upcoming years.
The first sign of trouble had been when the two men were stocking up on supplies for their trip at Jasper’s Trading Post. They had loaded up with a few essential food items, batteries and water. Owen had tossed in some cigars and Angelo had produced a bottle of tequila. Owen gave him a look that said, We’re counting ounces here! I thought we
were watching the weight of our packs! Angelo glanced at the cigars and countered with a look that said, C’mon man, we only live once! Owen shrugged and tossed in a disposable lighter as ol’ Jasper tallied up the cost of their provisions. The trouble first showed its face in the form of rejection: credit card rejection.
Jasper hadn’t known what to make of the two men that sure didn’t look like any locals he’d ever seen. They also didn’t look like the average AT hiker that came through the area either. They were too… clean and too… well, fresh. Plus, Owen was the biggest black man he’d ever seen. He didn’t look like a backpacker at all. More like somebody Jasper would have expected to see on a fancy TV show. He tried to fight his amusement when Owen’s card had been declined. Angelo made a joke about the poor streets of Compton and Owen’s credit worthiness before producing his own debit card to make the payment.
“You can pay me back once you get your account out of the red,” he’d said with a chuckle.
“You can kiss my black ass,” Owen had countered as he shuffled through his pockets in an effort to produce enough cash to cover his half.
To both men’s surprise, Angelo’s card was declined too. Owen let out a guttural laugh as Angelo, always a man of smoothness, reddened in the face.
“By God, something’s gotta be wrong with your machine!” Angelo scolded as he pulled some crumpled bills out of his pockets in an attempt to match Owen’s half of the bill.
Even more embarrassingly, the two friends didn’t quite have enough cash to cover their ambitious list of supplies. After putting back a few nonessentials (but keeping the smokes and tequila) they paid their bill and exited the old wooden building. They were still talking about their predicament as they walked down a set of squeaky and settled steps to their rented SUV.
“What are the chances that neither one of our cards would work?” Angelo said, still frustrated that his card hadn’t worked either.
“I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s gotta be that hill-jack’s machine.”
“Well, I guess if that’s our only problem then we’re doing ok,” Owen said neutrally.
Angelo thought about his love/ hate relationship with technology. It was great when it worked right. Then he glanced down at his phone. “Do you have any cell service?” he asked, holding his device higher and making a slight turn in hopes of finding reception.
“Who the hell cares?” Owen said more like a statement than a question. “We’re in God’s country now. We need to put those city problems out of our minds and enjoy the time that we’ve got out here. Besides, in a few days we’ll be back doing the Company’s dirty work.”
Angelo sighed. “I guess you’re right. It just seems odd. We’re not that far out of civilization,” he estimated dryly. “I don’t have any bars…” he trailed off.
The men didn’t know it at the time but declined cards and bad cell phone coverage wouldn’t be the worst of their problems that day. In fact, the cloudless day seemed full of the promise of only good things but the afternoon hours would prove to be deadly. Events had already been set in motion that had turned the Agency which they worked for against them.
Satisfied with their gear, the two men didn’t think any more of the situation. They jumped in the vehicle and sped off. They were currently located between the Connecticut River and the Green Mountains. In that area the Appalachian Trail passes through high, rugged country with woods and overgrown farmlands. The elevation relief was challenging for East Coast standards but the men had added something additional to their hike. Stratton Mountain stared at them from the distance, growing in size slowly as the men weaved through the wooded country roads and towards the trailhead. As a former Marine, Angelo had no trouble navigating the map. They eventually arrived and found a good area to pull off to park so they could begin their ascent.
With their packs loaded up on their shoulders, Angelo got out the tequila and took a swig. Owen gave him a look of annoyance but eventually conceded that they had worked hard over the past couple of years and it was past time to take off the edge. They quickly found the trail and walked through the dense and rocky forest. Every once in a while there would be a clearing through the trees that would promise a glimpse of the challenging mountain that lay ahead. They trudged on in silence, soaking up the rare opportunity to put it all behind them.
The ascent was just enough of a challenge to bring back mixed memories of being grunts in the service. With their backgrounds, it would take a lot more than just an Appalachian hill to kick their asses. Angelo reached towards a dead pine branch and snapped it off to make a hiking stick out of it. Owen watched and he tried but he didn’t understand the point of a hiking stick. Angelo knew the point though: half nostalgic value and half for safety. Carrying a stick took him back to his childhood home on the range in Texas when he carried around a stick to keep the rattlesnakes at bay.
The men took long pulls from their Camelbaks as they continued their climb through the pine trees. They knew there was a fire tower on top of Stratton Mountain that would offer them an opportunity to view three states. God’s country, as Owen had put it. The men reached the metal structure and dropped their bloated packs at its base. They were sure the crime rate was zero on top of the mountain and although the men were tough, they had no desire to prove anything by taking their packs to the top of the tower. They clanged up one metal step at a time in a heavy-soled display of rhythmic tempo until they reached the top of the solitary gray structure.
“Howdy, hikers,” a uniformed forest service ranger said. “It sure makes for a challenging hike up here but the view certainly is worth it!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Owen agreed on both accounts as he wiped a fresh bead of sweat from his forehead. “It is beautiful.”
“You can see three states from here. The way you came up and back that direction is Vermont. Over that way’s New Hampshire.” She pointed to the corresponding geographical locations while she was mentioning them. “And southeast from here you can see Massachusetts.”
“This is solitude right here,” Angelo observed reminiscently. “I haven’t seen this much of the horizon since I was a kid. How many months a year are you up here?”
“Depends on the weather but usually sometime in May until sometime in October. The hiking crowd peaks during the summer and also when the leaves change in the fall.”
“Sounds like a great way to spend the warmer months.”
“Yes, sir,” she said proudly. “I’ve been spending my summers up here now for fifteen years. There’s nothing I would rather be doing and no other place I’d rather be doing it.”
Angelo took a deep breath of the fresh air. He scanned the horizon and looked forward to the area where they had planned on making camp that night. He realized that they were relatively close. The thought of camping at the top of the mountain had occurred to both of them but they were concerned the wind might tear apart their tents. Thinking about the progress they had made that day, he looked back the way that they had come. As he did so he noticed small towns scattered about through the trees like light freckles on an Irish girl’s face. But suddenly, as if two dark pointed pimples on an otherwise beautiful appearance, two black SUVs with limo tinted windows shot up the road that Owen and Angelo had come in on. He watched as six men jumped out of the vehicles with 10mm MP5s and searched for the trailhead. One man ID’d their rented SUV and sent a fusillade of gunfire into the engine bay. Another man quickly located the trailhead and appeared to broadcast its location to the other men.
Angelo said, “We need to get moving.”
“What’s the rush?” asked Owen.
“Low blood sugar,” he said pretending to appear light headed. “I need to get to my pack…”
“Nonsense,” the ranger said. “I’ve got sugar tablets in my medical bag. Now where did I put them?” she asked rhetorically as she began rummaging through her first aid supplies.
“It’s ok ma’am. My blood glucose monitor is down in my pack too. I’ll be alri
ght,” he promised. “I’m a Marine.”
“Ok,” she said, “but I’ll walk down with you just to make sure.”
Owen had caught on that Angelo wanted to shake their current company. “That’s not necessary ma’am. I was a medic in the Army. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
The two men quickly parted company with the forest ranger and began walking down the metal steps towards their packs. When they were out of earshot Owen gave his friend a what-the-hell look.