by Dirk Patton
“Good to see ya, brother,” he said.
“Good to be seen,” BK answered.
“And who’s this lovely lady?” the man asked, looking Ashley up and down with a broad smile.
“This is the reporter,” BK said. “Ashley Dumont, this is Mr. White.”
“Mr. White?” she asked, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Let me guess, you haven’t seen the movie, either.”
“Seen it? Hell, I’ve got it memorized,” he said, shaking her hand. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Dumont.”
Releasing her hand, he grabbed BK by the arm and led him several yards away. Ignoring them, she wandered over to where the rest of the team had loaded the cases into the back of a nondescript van. One of them was already open and a slight thrill of fear ran through her when she saw the weapons inside. Sticks glanced at her, opened another case and removed a holstered pistol.
“Know how to use this?” he asked, holding it up.
Ashley shook her head.
“Ever held one before?” he asked, frowning.
She shook her head again, eyes transfixed on the weapon in his hands.
“Might wanna think about learnin’,” he said. “Where we’re goin’, everybody’s gotta be able to take care of themselves. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” she asked, the reality of the situation starting to truly settle in.
He looked at her for a moment before continuing.
“Okay, no feminist bullshit or you can figure it out on your own. What I’m sayin’ is, you never know what can happen. And if the worst happens and you find yourself facing someone who means to do you harm, whatcha gonna do? Can’t depend on a stranger helpin’. Gotta defend yourself.
“Now even the biggest, strongest, meanest son of a bitch can be surprised and find himself in trouble. Whatta ya think will happen if you’re a woman and a man that outweighs you by a hundred pounds decides he wants ta hurt ya?”
Ashley took a deep breath, trying to reconcile her attitudes about guns with the scenario Sticks had painted.
“I get it,” she said. “I’ve heard all the propaganda from the NRA and the other gun lobbies. Granted, it makes sense out here in the middle of nowhere where there’s wild animals that might try to kill you and no cops around to help.”
Trippy, Doc and Cup had gathered around to listen to the discussion, sharing looks and a smile at her answer.
“What?” she demanded, putting her fists on her hips and glaring at them.
“Safer out here than in a city,” Sticks said. “Talk about wild animals, hell, there’s plenty of streets in New York that I wouldn’t walk down after dark. But we’re gettin’ off topic. You need to be able to protect yourself. Okay?”
Ashley wasn’t mollified, but still recognized the logic of being able to fight if she had no other choice.
“Fine,” she said. “Show me.”
She watched with no small amount of trepidation as Sticks walked over and clipped the holster to her belt. Drawing the pistol, he held it up in front of her, the muzzle pointing toward an empty pasture.
“Four simple rules,” he said, pausing to make sure she was paying attention. “First, all guns are always loaded. Even if you just unloaded it, you treat it as if it is loaded.”
Ashley nodded slowly.
“Second, never point a weapon at anything you don’t want to destroy. Ever. It ain’t like in the movies where you wave it around to give directions or make a point. If you ain’t about to shoot somethin’ or someone, it should be holstered or pointed in a safe direction.
“Third, keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Most of these damn accidents you hear ‘bout is fools that didn’t know how to handle a gun safely.
“And finally, be damn sure ya know what you’re shootin’ at and what’s behind it. I sure as hell don’t wanna get shot because I’m on the backside of whatever it is you’re shootin’. Got all that?”
She nodded, but had a deer in the headlights look on her face.
“Alright,” Sticks said, then turned his head to shout at their host. “Clear downrange?”
Mr. White looked at the pasture he was pointing at and nodded, turning back to his conversation with BK.
Sticks spent a couple of minutes going over the functions and features of the pistol in his hand. He showed her how to hold and aim. While he did this, Doc walked over and taped two pieces of paper to a wooden fence post. Handing the gun to Ashley, Sticks stepped behind her, ready to grab her hand if she did anything unsafe.
“See those papers? Shoot ‘em,” he said.
“But they’re only about fifteen feet away. Isn’t that too close?” she asked, turning to look at him.
Her gun hand pivoted with her body, bringing the weapon around. Sticks grabbed her wrist in an iron grip before she could swing the muzzle across the area where the rest of the team was standing. Ashley looked down in surprise, blushing when she realized what she’d almost done.
“Different mindset,” Sticks said. “Can’t ever forget what’s in your hand. Okay, let’s try this again. Hit those papers.”
Ashley extended both arms, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. She emitted a small squeal of fright at the brutally loud report and the force of the recoil against her hands. But to her credit, she kept the weapon aimed at her target. A target that was still pristine.
“What the hell?” she said, turning only her head to look at Sticks.
“No, they ain’t too far away,” he said. “Most times you need to use a pistol, it’s less than ten feet to your target. Anythin’ much more, might as well use a rifle. But fifteen feet is a good distance to learn.”
He moved in close behind, adjusting her grip on the pistol and delivering some more advice. When he released her hands, she aimed and pulled the trigger. This time, she was ready for the report and stayed steady until she realized there was a small hole in the lower left corner of one of the targets.
“I hit it!” she cried, aiming and firing again before Sticks could make any more adjustments.
He stood there smiling, watching her shoot until the slide locked open on an empty chamber. The top piece of paper was pretty well shot up. Lowering the pistol until it pointed at the ground, Ashley hurried forward, keeping her finger off the trigger, and counted the holes.
“Twelve!” she called excitedly. “How many did I shoot?”
“Fifteen,” Sticks said. “Not bad for a rookie! Not bad at all. Now, go load up and let’s see if you can kill that other target.”
“Time to move,” BK said from behind.
He and Mr. White had come up while Ashley was firing her final few rounds. The team responded instantly, making sure all the gear was securely loaded. Sticks handed Ashley a fresh magazine and watched closely as she loaded it into the pistol and holstered the weapon.
“It stays where it is unless your life is in danger. Understand?” he asked, looking directly into her eyes.
“Got it,” she said.
He nodded and led her to the waiting vehicle. She paused at the door, turning back to see BK and White exchange another hug.
Chapter 26
“How many?” BK asked softly.
The team was spread out into the woods, surrounding the abandoned FBI Suburban. A well-used, white Ford van was parked a few yards behind it. They’d unlocked it, but it was empty of anything that would give them a clue about the team of contractors.
“Found the kids. Least I’m guessing it’s them. Two sets of boots, one smaller and the person wearing them is lighter than the other. Also, got seven unique sets of tracks that are fresher,” Trippy said.
He was the team’s resident tracker. Having grown up in the hills of north Georgia, the son of dirt poor parents and the oldest of ten children, he’d been stalking and shooting game for the dinner table when most kids were starting elementary school. BK, who was no slouch himself, had never seen anyone who could read a trail and operate in the bush like Trippy.
“How long ago?”
Trippy tilted his head to the side and lowered it to the ground so the late afternoon sun was shining directly across the tracks.
“Maybe an hour,” he said quickly, climbing to his feet.
Ashley watched in utter amazement, unable to comprehend how someone could do that simply by looking at a footprint in the dirt. BK nodded and checked the fit of his radio’s earpiece before transmitting to the rest of the team.
“Listen up. We got seven X-rays, ‘bout an hour head start on us. Trippy on point with Sticks backing him. I’ll take the middle with Blondie. Doc and Cup, you got rear guard. Remember, this ain’t a bunch of goat fuckers. These boys went to the same school we did and probably know the same tricks. Okay, let’s move. Double time where we can. We got some ground to make up.”
Without a word, Trippy turned and jogged off down the dirt track. Sticks, seemingly just appearing from the edge of the trees, fell in ten yards behind him.
“Blondie?” Ashley asked, sounding indignant.
“Would you prefer princess?” BK asked, then broke into a jog without waiting for an answer.
Ashley glared at his back for a beat, then had to start running so she wasn’t left behind. Her leg was stiff, but despite her fears, the anesthetic Doc had given her was doing its job. He’d also explained that while there had been damage to her muscle tissue, it was in an area that wouldn’t affect her ability to run. It might hurt, but there was no reason she couldn’t keep up with the team.
She was more than confident that she could match any of them. A track athlete in high school, she’d stuck with running as she went through college and entered the adult world of work. But she was glad when no one handed her one of the vests the team wore, weighed down with a supply of fully loaded magazines. They also shrugged into large packs before picking up their rifles.
When she’d asked Cup how much weight he was carrying, he’d only grinned and shrugged. Sticks had heard the question and copied Cup’s answer when she turned to him.
“Doesn’t matter,” BK had said in the tone he used when he didn’t want to answer a question.
She hadn’t given it much thought until they made a sharp turn off the road and entered the forest. Following BK’s much larger form through the trees and brush, she couldn’t help but be impressed with how easily he seemed to move, despite carrying the burden of the pack. She’d seen cold weather gear go in, as well as several packaged meals and a bunch of spare ammunition. And like her, he also had four liters of water in a hydration pack with a long plastic tube running to a mouthpiece clipped to his collar.
But that was the only additional weight she carried. And as they began to climb, she was glad it was all. Accustomed to New York’s sea level altitude, she was soon panting for air in the thinner atmosphere. Within a mile, they slowed to a stop and she gratefully drew in several deep breaths as she mopped sweat off her forehead. BK appeared as relaxed as if they had only been out for a pleasant stroll.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
BK’s head snapped around, his finger coming up across his lips to silence her. She held her hands up in apology, feeling foolish even though she hadn’t known better. After several long seconds, BK stepped next to her and leaned close to mumble in her ear.
“Bad guys left a flare on a tripwire. Early warning. Trippy’s disarmin’ it and making sure there’s not anything more aggressive waitin’ for us.”
“More aggressive?” she mumbled back.
“Somethin’ that’d ruin our day,” he said, then moved away to peer through the trees in the direction of Trippy and Sticks.
They were only stopped for a minute before BK mumbled something into his radio and started moving again. This time, no faster than a walk. She hurried to catch up and he looked over his shoulder when she stepped on a fallen tree branch that snapped loudly in the quiet forest. He scowled at her and she got the message without having to be told.
But how the hell was she supposed to watch where she stepped and stay quiet while keeping him in sight at the same time? She sure couldn’t follow him by sound because, despite being nearly twice her size, he moved without hardly disturbing the environment. He seemed to know exactly how and where to place his big feet and had an uncanny ability to slither his body and the bulky pack around tree branches and past bushes with a minimal amount of disturbance.
Doing her best, she looked at each spot on the forest floor before taking a step. She was so focused on the ground that she was caught by surprise when the light began to rapidly dim. They were climbing the western slope of a mountain and when she looked out across the broad valley below, she realized the sun was setting. Turning back to the front, she had time to raise her arms for protection before running directly into BK’s back. He’d come to a stop again, his big left hand raised into the air and clenched into a fist.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, but he ignored her.
“Another tripwire,” he mumbled a few seconds later.
“Flare?”
He shook his head.
“Claymore.”
“What’s that?” she asked, never having heard the word.
“Anti-personnel mine. Now be quiet.”
She stared at his back with her mouth open. A mine? As in something that blows people up like you see on the news in Iraq? Her resolve to continue began to waver as she remembered the graphic images she’d seen on TV of entire vehicles disappearing in violent explosions.
What the hell was she doing here? In the middle of the damn woods, the sun going down and crazy mercenaries leaving mines in place to stop anyone who tried to follow them. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for, by a long shot! She was reaching out to get BK’s attention, intending to tell him she wanted to go back, when he turned to face her and sank to a knee.
“Drink,” he mumbled.
“I want to go back!” she hissed.
“Too late,” BK said.
“I shouldn’t be here!” she said, her voice starting to grow louder.
“None of us will be here if you give away our position,” he said.
“Fine,” Ashley mumbled, grabbing his arm. Fear was making her angry. “I’ll go back by myself!”
“Be my guest,” BK said, seemingly unconcerned if she left. “Sure you can find your way?”
Ashley looked around at the quickly darkening forest and realized he was right. She’d only been joking back in the city when she’d brought up the possibility of a bear. Now that she was actually here, the idea didn’t seem the least bit funny or even that unrealistic. She suppressed a shudder and immediately abandoned the idea of setting off on her own.
“Asshole!” she mumbled, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Yep,” he said, impervious to her insults. “Reach into my pack. On top is a helmet. It’s for you.”
She’d noticed the team had dawned helmets before setting out. Each had a piece of gear mounted to the top that she had no idea what it did, but they hadn’t offered one to her. But she was far enough removed from her element that she wasn’t inclined to question anything BK told her to do.
Releasing a drawstring, she lifted the flap on his pack and found a helmet with the same mechanism she’d wondered about. Removing it, she closed the pack and held it up as BK turned.
He took it from her, settled it on her head and tightened a chin strap to hold it securely in place. Reaching up, he swiveled a cluster of four long tubes down and a pair of small displays lit up directly in front of her eyes. She gasped in surprise when she could suddenly see everything around her that had been lost to the lengthening shadows.
“Night vision,” BK mumbled. “It’ll take some getting used to when you start walking. Better than it used to be, but depth perception is still bad, so watch your step until you’re used to ‘em. And you ain’t got much peripheral vision, so keep that in mind.”
Ashley didn’t answer. She was too enthralled with the magical device that allowed her to see everythin
g in the growing darkness. Tentatively, she reached up and swiveled the goggles away from her face. They shut down automatically and the dark world closed in around her. Pulling them back into place, she smiled like a child on Christmas morning when her surroundings reappeared.
“Don’t wear ‘em out,” BK said sarcastically.
Chapter 27
It was an oppressively hot evening in Washington D.C. The city had baked in the sun all day and choking humidity was keeping the air from cooling now that it was dark. Every bar and restaurant was packed to capacity.
A dark van drove sedately through the congested streets. On its dash was a next gen microwave emitter that was disabling every camera within a two block radius.
The vehicle drew no attention as it slowly made its way toward the Hamilton Pub & Grill on Pennsylvania Avenue, only a short distance from the Capitol building. The bar had been selected because it was a favorite of several high ranking members of Congress.
The driver and front seat passenger were former special forces operators, turned private contractors for the CIA. Officially on the books as government employees, they actually drew a much larger salary from a subsidiary of one of William Carter’s overseas corporations, paid into bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. With businesses spanning several nations unfriendly to the United States, any attempt to trace the source of the funds through a myriad of shell companies would quickly run into a brick wall. They were completely unattributable to Carter.
The van also carried five members of a fringe militia group from Virginia. All were felons, having spent time in state and federal prisons. They survived now by running drugs and committing the occasional burglary or murder for hire. They were outcasts with a hatred for the system they blamed for their lots in life. None had needed to even think about it when a stranger offered them a few thousand dollars in untraceable cash to shoot up a bar in D.C.
The passenger’s phone vibrated and he glanced down at the screen. Looking up, he caught the driver’s eye and nodded. They’d just received confirmation that the Speaker of the House was in the bar. That meant there would also be a security detail from the Capitol Police. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about who won the shootout or the final body count. All that mattered was the attack happen.