~~~~~
Vincent never expected to do anything more than watch for oncoming vehicular traffic and report back on the U.S. Marshal radio. He sincerely hoped the racket he just heard was nothing more than raccoons, a stray dog, or a rabid mountain lion that hadn’t eaten for a week. He’d settle for anything other than a former protected federal witness, turned government gun-for-hire.
Vincent gripped the radio and danced his finger over the call button. He looked out into the darkness, but did not detect any motion in the trees that stood 30 yards away. Even though he stood on the high ground, the pine trees limited his vision to the hill that rolled down to the street and the Wal-Mart that sat on the other side of the road. What initially seemed like an ideal spot to spy oncoming vehicular traffic now seemed woefully unacceptable for approaching foot-traffic.
Vincent looked down at the radio and contemplated calling in the disturbance. If he called the others over to help him for what he thought was probably nothing, he could put the whole plan at risk for. He decided the best thing to do was investigate himself. If there was something to report back, he had the radio. Schwartz and O’Neil gave them a new word signal for any emergency experience tonight. If things went south, all anyone had to say was “punt” three times.
Shauna and Nick both loved the football reference, but Vincent couldn’t help but think how close it sounded like a vulgar expression of the female anatomy. He argued to use “fire”, but both Marshals nixed that idea because it was a term they used in relation to their weapons. Vincent understood why that was a probable no-go. After nobody seemed concerned over the word, he decided it best to just let it go, since the likelihood of using it was miniscule. Now he wished he’d fought harder or had more than one suggestion earlier.
He stepped from behind the shadows and made his way toward the chain link fence. He felt completely vulnerable with no cover or concealment. But, by hugging the right field fence line, he at least eliminated anything to his left. His heartbeat quickened and his breathing became a little more rapid and shallow as he crouched along the fence, hoping to see a big fat alley cat. He took short steps, watching the ground in front of him as well as what potentially lay beyond the trees. He tried to remain quiet, but he heard each one of his steps sound like an alert beacon signaling his location to anyone with halfway functioning ears. His heartbeat boomed inside his head with increasing clarity and resonance.
To his right, about fifteen yards away, he heard a crashing sound of something trampling over pine needles and busting through tree branches. Frozen in fear, he did not think it was a person moving through the trees. Vincent stopped dead in his tracks, completely open and virtually unable to defend himself to whatever type of marauding beast awaited to devour him.
The animal burst from the trees at a full gallop and headed past Vincent. He first thought he was looking at a small bear charging forward before his stress induced brain could register what actually ran past him. It was a dog. It was large, brown, black, and white dog. Most importantly, it did not seem interested in him. He followed the dog with his eyes while his cranial synapses began firing new messages across his brain. He recognized this dog. He knew the color, the shape, even the collar.
He keyed the radio mic and shouted, “Bernie cunt, Bernie cunt, Bernie cunt!”
The Bernie Factor Page 40