by Paul Kirk
"Why do you think someone’s out there, Mac?”
“Other than the tripwires and voices I heard earlier? I don’t know—probably some subtle changes in the overall sensory environment. Or maybe enough precursor cues at a subconscious level suggesting a more coordinated attack. Like I told you before, I’ve learned to trust this feeling.”
Connor stroked the barrel of his new shotgun, confirming the safety was off. Seeing his weapons check, Amanda checked her new Bennelli, confirming there were fresh shells in both chambers. Keeping busy to hide a burgeoning nervousness, she transferred ten rounds from her backpack to each front pocket, experiencing a moment of regret for entering the subdivision. “I’m sorry for bringing us here, Mac.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it, Snuff. It was ultimately my call anyway. We simply need to vacate in one piece and there’ll be no harm done. But yeah, I'm feeling a building urgency to get the fuck outta here. You ready?”
“Yeah, Mac, I think so.”
He studied the new weapon in Amanda’s hands. “You already comfortable with that Bennelli?”
“Yeah, Mac, it feels like it was made for me.”
“Okay, good. But I want you to keep the Remmy as your primary for now. That's the weapon you know and trust."
"Okay."
"Use it to scope those houses across the street. Mainly the one with the broken porch railing.”
“Alright,” said Amanda. She safed the weapon and forced it into her backpack side pocket sleeve. Not a great fit, but it would have to do until she found a better way to carry it. Leaning closer to the door, she poked the rifle barrel outside the door an inch to scope the houses across the street. “You want me to take out anyone I see or wait for assigned targets? Do we need a code sign?”
“Hey, slow it down some. Don't tighten up on me too fast. Stay frosty. For now, just keep scoping those houses, okay? Especially that blue stucco."
"Sure, Mac."
"Now listen up, once I'm out the door and assessing our exit, blow away anyone you see with a gun. Period. You see a gun, you shoot. Select targets at will.”
“Sure, okay, whatever you say.”
“Hang tight left side of the door here while ranging those homes. Once I’m out and secured, I'll signal for you to follow if it’s safe. Make sure to use available cover on your exit."
"I will."
Connor glanced at Amanda. He appreciated her effort to put on a grim, battle-ready face. He touched her arm. "Oh, and Snuff, it’s all right to be scared. A little scared is good.”
"Umm—"
"I'm out the door. Scope the houses."
Connor exited, the marine magnum held ready. Shifting right and left in a quick scan, he moved toward a large landscape boulder twenty feet away. The garage jutted out twenty-five feet into the yard to his left and he took immediate notice of the corner edge, since it was an optimal close range offensive. That is, until he sensed movement above and behind him on the roof. Instinctively, he spun, firing twice almost blindly. His shotgun sent a double boom across the subdivision.
“Drop back!” he yelled, pumping in another round and firing.
Amanda darted further away from the doorway, continuing to scope the houses across the street. His third shotgun blast blew the wounded man off the roof. Connor heard three quick shots from Amanda’s rifle finding their mark. Sprinting toward the garage door, he fired two well-placed shots that took out the midsection of a man coming around the corner of the garage.
“Move! Into the house!” yelled Connor to Amanda as he reentered the garage.
They heard the back door smashing to the floor now that all pretense of the enemy's stealth was gone. Connor and Amanda reloaded on the run with practiced ease. Grabbing Amanda by the shoulder, Connor stopped halfway down the hallway, smiling. Seeing the furious glint of excitement in his eyes, even with the sound of many men barging into the house, Amanda felt strangely calm.
“Knife ready, Snuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You might need it. We’re coming up on close quarters low and fast. Keep tight. Point and shoot. Don’t hesitate. Follow me.”
“Okay. The Beretta would be better, right? Close quarters?”
“Positive you're comfy with it?’
“Yeah.”
“Use it. We need move, now. We’re gonna take an aggressive assault to these men. They think they’re coming up behind us in the garage to play surprise—"
“Go. Go,” said Amanda, understanding his plan.
They moved like a dance team comfortable with each other, entering the kitchen. Connor blasted two men with blistering quick shots as they barged forward. The men were ratty but well fed. He stepped carefully over the blood, firing at a fat man raising a long-barreled rifle into position. The man slammed into the wall, and, just as Connor ejected the spent shell, he heard the incredible boom of both barrels of the ten-gauge Beretta behind him. A bearded man slipping in via the living room entrance, almost unseen, was slammed back onto the couch. He was nearly cut in half. There was not much left of him.
“Nice,” yelled Connor, “Get in the den! We need to see what else is out front!”
“What?”
Amanda was shotgun deaf. Using simple sign, Connor instructed her to follow. Once in the den, Connor took stock, reloading. With pride, he watched Amanda shifting to the other window instead of just hanging close for comfort. While she reloaded, Connor signaled that two more men were hiding out front, fairly well hidden behind the weeds and burnt cars about forty yards out. Nodding, Amanda traded the Beretta for the Remington. A few seconds later, the men were sprawled on the street with 30.06 caliber exit wounds draining their heads of blood. They waited in the den in for fifteen minutes, but no newcomers came to the party. After another five, Connor stood away from the window, smiling.
“Damn this shotgun’s loud,” said Amanda.
“Yeah,” said Connor, “It's much louder when you use both barrels at the same time. Nice shot by he way. And, there may be more bad guys, but it seems they don’t want to play right now,”
“We leaving?”
“Seems as good a time as any."
"Okay."
"Follow me, Snuff.”
“Alright.”
Stopping, Connor grabbed her around the waist, holding her close, face-to-face.
“You did real good, Snuff. Real good.”
“Um, thanks.”
“Excellent composure, poise and control. I’m beginning to think you were born for this. Nice target selection. Adaptable. You’re fuckin’ incredible.”
“Mac, I’m still shaking.”
“I know you are, I know. We’ll fix that later. C’mon.”
“But how come you’re not shaking?”
“Because...well…because, I’m too fuckin’ old to know how anymore. C’mon, let’s go.”
CHAPTER 2.2-The Subdivision Provides a Plan
Marty heard the commotion while backtracking. He still hadn’t discovered exactly where he'd made his mistake in tracking Connor and Snuff when the sound of gunfire reached his ears. Multiple shotgun blasts were distinctly heard just before three sharp reports from a rifle, likely a 30.06 that coincidentally was the rifle Snuff carried. Those rifle shots sounded the same to him as those he'd heard in the clearing a few days back with Davey. Listening, more urgent shots came and Marty decided to investigate. Choosing a route through a soybean field, it was his best estimate of a straight line to where the sounds had emanated. He was confident that Connor was somehow involved in the gunfire and increased his pace.
Cautiously, he arrived near the area that was his best guess of where the shots had come from. Using fairly good cover from which to assess the situation—he was at the front corner of a house and hidden from view by a tall row of hedges a few feet away—he scanned the surroundings.
Several dead bodies lay strewn near the house across the street. It was apparent in their placement that the dead men had focused their assault on the gar
age area of the home. The vinyl siding around the side door of the garage was riddled with bullet holes, but there was no evidence of any other fatalities.
A body lay half in the driveway and half in the street. An old man kneeled next to the body, shoulders shaking, presumably with grief. After ten minutes of surveillance, Marty was reasonably sure that there were no immediate threats in the area.
He edged toward the grieving man. Four feet away, he cleared his throat.
The old man spun to face Marty, trying desperately to rise. Marty stepped toward him, rifle aimed at the old man’s chest. “Stay on the ground, old man.”
“What the fuck do you want? You killed my boy Joey. You here to finish the job? Well, go ahead, you prick! I’m the last one left!”
“It wasn’t me, old man. I didn’t kill anyone here.” Marty scanned the area without losing sight of the old man, circling him slowly. Other than Joey in the driveway, there were six other bodies in sight. There was one within ten feet of the garage door, another in the middle of the street, and a third on the front lawn. Three more were slumped on the ground near a vehicle. There were weapons next to every body and Marty kicked the rifle next to Joey out of his father’s reach. “What happened here?” asked Marty.
The old man ignored Marty, crawling back to his son. Pulling a dirty handkerchief from his shirt pocket, he wiped the blood from Joey’s face. Marty prodded him with the barrel of his rifle. “Hey, I asked you what the fuck just happened here.”
“They killed Joey. He didn’t do nothing.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he was all angels and butter bread. Except, I'm thinking he and his friends were outgunned.” Marty pushed the rifle barrel into the old man’s chest. “Start talking...what happened?”
“There was two of ‘em. Nobody saw ‘em going in the house, but Joey heard ‘em in there. The rest of the guys talked Joey into setting a trap for when they came out. Only it didn’t work.” He paused, staring at his son.
“Talk to me old man, before I blow a hole in you.”
“The boys didn’t expect no fight. Never had one before. But these two knew what they were doing. They come outta that door with guns blazing.” He took his son’s cold hand. “Joey’s the last of my boys.”
Marty backed away from the old man, toward the garage door. He turned and trotted into the backyard, closely studying the ground for signs of a trail. He had caught the scent of the egress from the battle. He hopped a four feet high cyclone fence and trotted in a northeast direction across an empty field. He was almost positive that the two people who had killed the men were Connor and Snuff. He had regained their trail. His hunt was fresh again.
CHAPTER 2.3-Buzzy's News
“Are they ready, Sarge?” asked Major O’Malley.
“Yes, sir, they’re formed up on the front lawn.”
“Let’s do it.”
Major O’Malley and Captain Daubney followed Sarge onto the front porch. There were several controlled fires on the expansive front lawn that helped visibility. The men were grouped together in a random fashion, closest to the porch and glancing surreptitiously at Major O’Malley’s armed men. The unit appeared to be as nervous as Sarge’s men, neither group quite comfortable with the other.
“Listen up!” yelled Sarge. “These two gentlemen are Major O’Malley and Captain Daubney. Pay attention!” The men and women on the lawn calmed. “I respect these men. They’re United States Army officers under orders from the President. That’s right, you heard me, the President of the United States. They’re good men who could have killed us outright, but instead they’ve offered us a choice.”
The men and women on the lawn were not happy about the recent events and their combined voice was one of dissension.
“Quit your grumbling, dammit! I’ve had a chance to talk with these men and I trust them.”
“Whatta they want?” asked Carl, a heavy-set man standing close to the porch.
“They’re trying to find a man named Connor MacMillen. He goes by the name of Connor Mac. Anyone know him? Has anyone ever heard of him?”
Carl spoke again. “What if somebody knows him? Why the hell should we tell them, anyhow?”
Major O’Malley stepped forward. “We need to speak to Connor MacMillen about matters involving national security.” This was met with soft laughter. Captain Daubney twitched and started to raise his weapon.
“At ease, captain,” said Major O’Malley, sensing the movement.
Recognizing the element of danger, Carl put his palms outward in front of his chest. “Okay, hey I got the message, alright? Just asking is all.”
The tension in the crowd relented and Sarge spoke up again. “Listen guys, these men are willing to take our group in with theirs at some point. It’s a good move for us and I’m thinking of joining up with them. This isn’t mandatory—you can go your own way if you want to, but they’re more organized than we are and it’s likely that our lives will improve if we join up with them. Now, Major O’Malley’s question is if anyone here has ever heard of Connor Mac?”
A new recruit, standing further back near the street, spoke up. “What’s it worth to you?” he asked.
Major O'Malley studied the confidence of the slim stranger. “It’s probably worth a bottle of good whiskey and a few packs of smokes if you have something I can use. Maybe a quarter ounce of gold.” The men and women began to chatter about the reward while the man who had asked the question made his way to the bottom of the porch steps.
“You have something, Buzzy?” asked Sarge.
“Yeah, maybe. But not for no damn bottle of whiskey and stale smokes.”
Major O’Malley felt an electric jolt hit his stomach. The new man moved with a sense of confidence in his knowledge of Connor MacMillen. The major leaned in close as the man came onto the porch.
“If you can lead me to this Connor Mac, I’ll give you a whole case of whiskey and two cartons of smokes,” offered Major O’Malley.
“That sounds good. For starters,” said Buzzy. He glanced at Captain Daubney and the M-4 in his hands. “How about one of those weapons?”
“No. You can't have one of our weapons,” answered the major. “In fact, I’ve offered you a very lucrative deal and if you don’t start talking, I’ll shoot you where you stand.” All of Major O’Malley’s friendliness evaporated and Buzzy swallowed hard, nervously focusing on the porch railing, unable to meet the major’s intense gaze.
“Well, I know him.”
“How?”
“My crew—the guys I was running with before I ran into Sarge—we tried to talk with him a couple weeks ago.”
“And?” prompted the major.
“The fucker stole my smokes. Kicked our ass is what he did.”
“Go on,” said the major, barely able to contain his excitement.
CHAPTER 2.4-Knees Weaken
They had set up camp in a partially burned-out home at the end of a short road three miles from the subdivision recently vacated. Amanda was alone, stirring a feline stew with a wooden spoon. Adding a handful of wild carrots, scallions and some fat, live grubs, she wondered if she should invite Mac in for a sit-down meal. The stew smelled wonderful, simmering in the pot that rested on the propane grill in the backyard. She’d been surprised that there was still some propane in the tank. Most people left their tank valves open and, over the years, the tanks had slowly drained dry. The smell of the stew permeated the air; the generous dash of garlic salt discovered in one of the cabinets lent a strong scent to the stew. On the verge of signaling to Mac to join her, she heard his birdcall signaling a newcomer was near. She covered her anxiety by stirring the soup more vigorously.
Amanda knew the next few minutes might be tricky and still had mixed feelings about Connor’s plan to lure Marty into making a move. She knew that it was smart to explore the possibility of taking on a potential third member—it would make much less work for all three, help keep all three safer, and allow them to increase their pace. Of course, this was true only i
f the new third member could be trusted.
The man named Marty was coming. Amanda's knees weakened a bit and she felt a faint need to go to the bathroom.
CHAPTER 2.5-Sniffing the Bait
“Wow, check it out,” thought Marty.
He studied the beautiful young woman in his binoculars. After several moments, he caught himself lightly salivating, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. The woman was beautiful. Her hair was combed nicely, long and luxuriant and black as night. Her face held strength suggested by high cheekbones, full lips, and piercing blue eyes. He enjoyed her movements from house to grill. She moved with grace, almost dancing across the wild grass and lawn weeds. He noticed that she wore a snug-fitting tank top that emphasized the fullness of her breasts and the flat lines of her belly. Her jeans were worn with several frayed holes, but upon closer inspection, they were perfectly fitted to accentuate her hips and buttocks. On her hip, a long knife sheathed in leather hung from a sturdy brown belt and leg strap. He gauged her age at about twenty-five. For another half hour he watched as she prepared a meal. Unbelievably, she appeared to be alone.
Marty decided he’d introduce himself. Stashing most of what he carried, he slipped toward her. After ten minutes of careful progress, he was hidden near a small pine tree twenty feet from the grill. Under closer scrutiny, the woman lost none of her beauty. In closer proximity, she was more enthralling. Marty hesitated. He tried to clear his mind and analyze the tactical combat conditions. The interior of the house was unknown, he reminded himself. It was not conclusive that she was alone. But he admitted the risk of approaching this woman might be worth a closer look.
CHAPTER 2.6-Some Slack
Connor never lost sight of Marty, changing his position once when his line of sight was slightly blocked by an oak. He watched Marty wipe his mouth, but he couldn’t tell if it was from hunger or lust. Connor admired Marty’s cautious approach—he was clearly skilled in stealth tactics and chose excellent cover. Watching him move, Connor was quite impressed with the distance Marty covered in so short a time. Unless you knew where he was thirty seconds ago, Marty was almost invisible.