by John Grit
She pushed him away. “Go then. I expect every second you stay puts you in more danger, so go now and stop babying me. There are other men, men who bore me to death, but they’re men. I’ve forgotten you already.”
He laughed. “Good, find yourself a twenty-year-old to teach what to do in bed and be happy.”
“I would rather find one with a sense of humor.”
He gave her a strange stare. “A twenty-year-old? You ask too much.”
Pearl waved him off. “Get out of here. And don’t come back – unless it’s safe.”
He turned and rushed through the hallway and out the back door of the bar, making sure it latched when he closed it. Four miles away, he hotwired a Ford pickup and headed west, out of town.
As the miles flowed by at sixty miles per hour, traffic thinned, and so did the number of commercial buildings and homes. He pulled onto a dirt road and drove another thirty minutes, stopping at a gate. He got out and shot the lock off, then drove on.
It was ranch land that held scrub cattle. He knew the owners had people patrolling for trespassing hunters, and he needed to get what he came for and leave before someone found the broken lock at the gate. He stopped at a stand of oaks and got out. After retrieving the lug wrench behind the seat where it was clamped to the jack, he stepped into the woods. Exactly in line with two pines and positioned equidistant from each tree, he had buried a cache. He dug for a few minutes with the lug wrench. It made a poor shovel, but it was all he had and he made do.
The end of the lug wrench designed to pry hubcaps off clanked on metal. He dug around with his good hand until he found a nylon rope. Pulling on it caused the earth to move. He yanked on it in one direction, then the opposite, until an aluminum box emerged from the dry sand. After shaking as much of the sand off as possible, he examined it, checking for signs the seal had failed and allowed moisture in. Satisfied, he picked it up. It was three feet long, more than two feet wide, and deep. It was also heavy. He used the convenient handle to carry it to the truck.
After opening the tailgate, he set the box in the truck and opened it. Inside, he found his bug-out backpack, already loaded with needful survival items that would allow him to flee into wilderness and live out of it for a week. He put that in the cab, setting it on the seat. Working fast, he checked the barrel of an M4 to make sure it wasn’t plugged with grease or some object. It was clear. He slipped one of a dozen thirty-round magazines in and loaded the chamber. The three-position selector was already on safe. Next, he flipped the covers on the Aimpoint sight up and turned it on, checking to see if the red dot was visible. It was. He set the fourteen-inch barreled carbine aside and grabbed a one-foot-square, four-inch-deep waterproof plastic container. Inside, he found several wallets, each with a complete set of identification documents and several credit cards. One wallet held a corporate card with a one hundred fifty thousand dollar credit limit and two cards in the name of Joe Miller – the name he would go by for now. Also in each wallet was a valid concealed carry permit to go with each set of IDs. There was more paperwork for possessing full auto firearms and suppressors.
He checked the Jeep trail for unwanted company. Finding none, he pulled a stuffed money belt out of the same container and buckled it to his waist under his shirt. He left the U.S. passport and other documents in the container and put it on the seat next to the backpack.
Back at the tailgate, he produced a .45 caliber Glock from the metal box, checked the barrel for obstructions, and loaded it with a full-capacity magazine. Over the next five minutes, he put on a Milt Sparks Summer Special holster and a double magazine carrier, then slipped the new Glock and two loaded magazines in the holster and carrier. The old Glock he carried with him from his shop, and the magazines he took off the dead killers, he dumped in the now almost empty metal box. The last two things he removed from the box was a light photo journalist vest he would wear for the sole purpose of hiding his pistol and magazines and a new pair of Bates size twelve triple E military boots. He put the boots on the floor in the cab and slipped the vest on after taking off the nylon jacket and dropping it in the metal box.
On the way back to the gate, he came to a large pond and stopped to dump the pistol, magazines, and jacket in the deep end. He stuffed the magazines in the pockets of the jacket and wrapped it around the Glock. Then he threw it in the water. The gun could be connected to his former life as a scuba shop owner, as well as the shootings in and around the shop. Ballistics and his fingerprints on the gun and magazines would also tie him to the shootings if he were held for questioning temporarily because of his restricted weapons. Sometimes cops wanted to verify the federal forms for full auto and other restricted weapons before letting the owner go on his way. Ditching the gun and mags was not a cure-all, but there was no need to hold on to them. He had replacements and could get more.
He parked some distance from the hard road behind a stand of trees and waited for a lull in the traffic, which wasn’t long in that desolate part of Florida. Then he pulled up to the driveway, stopping long enough to close the gate and hook the broken lock to the chain in an effort to make it look unmolested if private security personnel checked it from the seat of a pickup. He also didn’t want cows getting into the road and maybe getting hit and killing a driver. He was in the habit of protecting Americans and the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic, not putting them in danger. He killed only when he had no choice or the man needed killing so bad he couldn’t resist.
After traveling a few miles on the paved country road, he pulled off into some woods and took his old wallet out of his back pocket. Removing only the cash, he threw it in the container with the other IDs and exchanged it for a new wallet. He locked the container and put it on the floor in the back. In most cases, a law enforcement officer could not open a locked container in a vehicle during a traffic stop, not without a warrant. From that moment on, he was Joe Miller. There were only three things that could prove otherwise: his DNA, fingerprints (both only a problem if arrested) and his face. That he could disguise later, but had a more important job at hand first. For the time being, a simple Stetson hat would suffice. It was amazing how a little shade could prevent someone from recognizing you from a distance or while driving in a car.
~~~
The next morning in Orlando, Raylan used one of the credit cards to buy a four-year-old Crown Vic, dark blue. It looked like an unmarked cop car or a Fed’s. It was not by chance he chose that model and color. It had a big V8. That too, might come in handy. His bug-out pack was locked safely in the trunk, out of sight of car burglars. The M4 was strapped to it, along with its suppressor. The suppressor for the Glock was in an inside pocket of the journalist’s vest. Extra magazines rode in the two outside pockets near the bottom where he could get to them fast.
~~~
Raylan parked the Crown Vic in a drugstore parking lot and walked a few hundred yards to a mixed residential/commercial area where several apartment buildings stood behind shopping centers. He paused at the corner of a building near an intersection across from Carla’s apartment, wary of possible danger. Carla was an ex-CIA operative like himself. He once thought he was in love with her, and she him. Circumstances had proven otherwise when she left the company for early retirement and unceremoniously dumped him without explanation. He chalked it up to her using him to lean on when the pressures of the job got hot and her not needing him anymore once she left the job. Further down the block, a dog barked – a pit bull that he knew from experience was worthy of his breed, a real fighter. But on this day, the dog seemed to really mean it. There was an unusual level of rage in his voice.
He knew the dog was daily chained to a tree in the owner’s backyard for a few hours in the morning, then allowed back inside. It was a single-family home, not an apartment. The reason he took notice of such things was the backyard was across a narrow parking lot from Carla’s apartment. There was also his training, compliments of Uncle Sugar. The hair on the back of his neck stood on en
d.
He set off to find a rare relic of the past: a payphone. To his surprise, he found one. Even more surprising, it hadn’t been vandalized and actually worked. First, he called Carla and warned her to stay in her apartment with a weapon handy. Next, he called 911 and reported suspicious men in the neighborhood and a possible home invasion at 1232 West Tenth Street, the address where the barking pit bull was. He yelled “I hear screaming from the home and gunshots,” then hung up and rushed to his car. He didn’t want to be near that payphone when the cops arrived.
It wasn’t more than forty seconds before sirens sounded in the distance. Seconds later, more sirens joined in, racing closer. He sat in his car and waited for real gunshots, praying no cops were killed. Well, they were properly warned. They should be ready for trouble. He watched what little he could see of the show from his position and listened to gunfire for a few minutes. The rattle of full auto fire mingled with pistol and shotgun shots. My neck hairs were right – again. Good to know my neck hairs still work. He cranked the engine and drove away, looking for another payphone to call Carla again, once the police had everything under control.
The phone rang four times. A woman answered. “Carla,” he said.
He thought he heard a gasp.
“Remember me? My name is Joe Miller. We met a few years back when we worked for the same company.”
“I recognize your voice, uh, Joe. Does that loud party outside have anything to do with you?”
“It’s more your party than mine. I invited the guests, but they came to see you. Sorry.”
“Is that what you called about?”
“I need to see you.”
“When?”
“ASAP. Pack light, but be prepared.”
“Where?”
“The place where we saw each other last, just after you retired. The clock has struck thirteen.” He noticed the pause.
“I understand.” She hung up.
He came in from the back of the complex, having climbed over a six-foot wall separating the apartment building from a home that faced the next street over. Her first-floor apartment door was wide open, as he expected. The lights inside were turned off, so it was impossible to see from outside in the sunlight. He knew she was inside looking out with a weapon in her hands. Knowing her, he figured it was an MP5 in 10mm. Strapped to her right side under her business suit jacket, she probably had one of the smaller Glocks in 9mm. He knew her to be as deadly as any man he ever met. They had worked together many times, and they trusted each other completely.
He constantly swept the area with his eyes. There was no sign anyone waited in ambush. No watchers behind trees, no suspicious loitering figures. The police raid had ruined their plans, and it was likely none of them were in the area at the moment. Still, he had the M4 adjusted to its shortest length and slung under his right armpit, concealed by the photojournalist vest. At any moment, Carla would emerge from her open door and run toward him where he hid in the little three-sided square made of cinderblock wall that contained the apartment building’s large garbage dumpster. It was his job to shoot anyone who tried to kill her.
Carla appeared, exploding from the door at top speed. He noticed she had something under her right arm, hidden by a jacket of light cloth for summer wear. The H&K MP5. On her back was a small pack. It contained everything she was bringing with her. As it was for him, it would be for her. She was leaving everything and everyone in her life behind, probably forever.
Raylan swung the carbine into shooting position and searched for danger.
As she raced across the parking lot at a yard-eating gait, he caught movement on the periphery of his vision. The glint of something at the other end of the complex. Maybe the glass lens of a scope or binoculars. He swung on it and looked through the Aimpoint, but he didn’t see anything more.
By the time he checked her progress, she was sliding over the lip of the concrete block wall and disappearing behind it. Letting the M4 hang from its sling around his neck, he held onto the dumpster with his good hand and put a boot up on the square piece of metal that garbage trucks hook onto when they dump the garbage into the back and used it as a step to vault over the wall. Just as he disappeared behind the wall, a shot rang out and a bullet sent chips of concrete flying, then sang off into the atmosphere.
Carla was waiting on the other side, barely breathing hard after the sprint. She kept her eyes busy as she talked, her right hand on the submachine gun. “That’s interesting. The shooter held his fire until he had a chance at you.” Her sarcastic smile always got under his skin, and he realized that part of her hadn’t changed at all. “It’s you they want.”
He looked around. “So it would seem. Let’s go.”
They got out of the neighborhood only seconds ahead of the police. The detectives working the crime scene where the shootout occurred earlier heard the shot and called it in, so they just made it out before the area was closed off.
Raylan kept the Crown Vic at the posted speed limit, heading north on I-75. “I wonder if the shooter got away. It would be nice if the local cops took him out.” He glanced over at her, noticing she had aged little since the last time he saw her. She was still more beautiful than a woman who knew a dozen ways to kill a man deserved to be. “One less to worry about.”
She appeared to be counting his wrinkles and gray hairs, not to mention appraising his waistline. “Your hand – shot?”
“No.” Raylan checked to see if the bandage had come loose in the excitement. “Cut. It’s been taken care of.”
“Retirement agrees with you,” she said. “I guess all that scuba diving has kept you in shape. You have a nice tan, anyway.”
Their eyes locked for a second. “So, you’ve been keeping track of me. Guess my scuba shop wasn’t so great of a cover after all.” He brought his attention back to the road. “I’m sorry they decided to drag you into this. You’re legally retired. I’m the one who left without permission.”
“Exactly what is this this I’ve been dragged into?” She looked out of her side window. “Or do you even know?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. All I know is someone has sent a lot of men to kill me.” He checked the rear view mirror. “Well, one other thing. The first team that came for me was a mix of pros and bums. Still, none of them carried IDs. They were sterile. Whoever put the operation together may have been in a hurry, but he or she was a pro.”
“Hmm,” Carla rubbed her chin. “They were in a hurry and threw together an ineffective team. That’s not very professional. I mean, you’re still alive.”
He grinned. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“I learned about what happened at your shop on the news, or at least what the police have released. If they had been successful, chances are I would be blissfully unaware of this this you’ve dragged me into. It’s obvious they staked my place out hoping you would come to me for help. That sniper was back-up for the team across the street.”
“Sorry.” He smiled. “If only I had known, I’d let them kill me.”
“Yes. I’m sure.” She unzipped her pack and dug into it, looking for a wallet with a complete set of documents, giving her a new name. “I wonder what my name is now. I hope I’m a few years younger.”
He grew serious. “Leave anyone important behind?”
She looked at him for a second. “No. You?”
He kept his eyes on the road and shook his head.
“Oh.” She stopped digging in her pack. “It’s that bad is it? You got it so bad you won’t even admit it. Yep. You left someone behind.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “You don’t know shit.”
“Yeah, I know. I bet you told her that when she said something that got under your skin and landed a little too close to that little human in you that you’ve managed to keep locked up in a deep, dark place somewhere in your gut.”
He glared at her for a second and trained his eyes back on the road. “Wow. I see you still sharpen that tongue daily
.”
“Sorry. Sometimes my wit gets the better of me and I accidently tell the truth.”
“Well, if you’re a truth teller, how about telling me who wants me dead.”
She laughed. “I can’t count that high. Even I’ve had thoughts of murder when thinking of you.”
“At first I thought it was because I left the company without permission. But that explosion on the fireworks barge at the same time they tried to kill me was too much of a coincidence to be an accident, so I doubt it was the company. What I can’t understand is why? What’s the point in blowing up the barge?”
“Reports say it appears to have been an accident. Let’s say it wasn’t. How does that tie in with the hit on you?”
He checked the rear view mirror again. “I just said the same thing in different words, Carla.”
“No. You said the barge explosion leaves the company out of the lineup of suspects; I didn’t say that.”
Raylan’s face turned to stone for a second. “Why would they kill American civilians?”
She repositioned the H&K so her jacket would keep it concealed. “Don’t be silly. You’ve been around the world more times than me. Our government has as much American blood on its hands as any other and certainly more than any non-government terrorist group.”
He was in no mood to argue with her about the sins of the U.S. Government or admit she was right. “Doesn’t make any sense.”
“To you,” she said. “That’s because you don’t know why they want you dead.”
He checked the rear view mirror.
“See a tail?” she asked.
“Not yet. I’m not expecting one, but the car may have been burned back at your apartment. If not, the car’s clean and we’re home free – for now.”
“Home free. That sounds really nice. Too bad it’s bullshit. There is no home free. Ever.”
“I don’t think it’s the company. You’re still righteous, so maybe you should reach out.”
She jerked her head and stared at him, but said nothing.