by Justin Bell
********
Inside the Strickland house, the alarm chirped at exactly eleven-thirty and Strickland sat up, almost instantly awake. Unlike earlier in the basement, his expanded senses eagerly consumed the fresh autumn air that squeezed through the cracked bedroom window as the squeak of crickets welcomed Strickland to the waking world. His bare feet hit the carpet with a thump, and he was at the dresser. Mere moments later, he was clad in black, standing in the middle of his basement arsenal. It only took a few more minutes for him to slip the tactical vest over his head, snap the buckles, and slide his Glock 22 into the holster at the small of his back. Securing the pistol, he swept a silenced Heckler and Koch UMP submachine gun from its mount on the wall. As he slung the weapon over his shoulder, he dug the silencer out from a nearby drawer and slid it into a pouch on his vest, quickly accompanying it with a half dozen magazines for the automatic weapon. As he left the small room, he snagged a pair of night vision goggles from a hook by the door and snaked them around his head, then lifted the goggles so they pointed straight up. After loading the weapon onto the passenger seat of his Toyota Matrix, he pulled the manual release for the garage door and unscrewed the light bulb in the automatic opener. Very gently sliding the garage door upwards, he opened himself to the cool night air and felt very vulnerable.
Godsoe looked up dramatically from his smartphone when he heard the noise. Within a second, the goggles were pressed to his eyes and he saw his worst fear. An infrared green blob climbed into a car in the garage. The garage door was already open. Shit, Strickland was on the move!
"Smits, wake your ass up now!" Smits jerked his head forward, his hand jamming the key into the ignition of the car as if only by reflex.
"Fucking Strickland is on the move! He's fucking moving!"
Smits grabbed the goggles and looked. "All right, I've got him. We'll let him pass and take up pursuit after he's a ways down the road. Call this in now, Godsoe. Right fucking now."
Godsoe already had his phone out of his pocket and had half-dialed Burndock's number.
"Yeah?" came the tired voice on the other end.
"We've got problems, Burndock. Strickland's moving. Heading into town."
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Any indication where he's going?"
"None," said Smits, shaking his head slowly. Strickland's headlights glared over the slight rise in the dirt road, approached the car, then passed it and disappeared down the road. "He just passed us."
"Okay," said Burndock. "Give him five minutes, and then start pursuit. We've got the bug on his car. Fire up the GPS and download the tracking code in your notebook. That will connect you to the trace on Strickland's vehicle. Meanwhile, I'll call Irizarry and get a support team ready."
"Understood, we're on it," replied Smits as he powered up the GPS in the dashboard. His fingers danced across the touch screen and punched in the specified tracking code. A small green dot appeared about a mile down the road from their current location.
"He's got a mile on us, Godsoe. I'm going mobile."
"Got it," Godsoe replied and plucked his pistol out of his holster. He double-checked the magazine, loaded a round in the chamber, and slid it back where it belonged. The car's engine roared to life and the vehicle leaped into the road, turned left, and spun off in the direction of downtown Norwood, Vermont.
Gary Irizarry was accustomed to being awakened at all hours of the night from his time with New York Special Weapons and Tactics, so when his phone buzzed him out of a sound sleep, he swung his legs over the bed and was already walking towards his clothes dresser before he started talking.
"Talk to me," he said in a gruff voice.
"We have a problem," replied Burndock with a voice that was just on the edge between anticipation and sheer panic.
"Let me have it."
"Strickland is on the move. Snuck out of his house about ten minutes ago and he's driving into downtown. Your boys are in pursuit."
"All right. What's the deal?"
Burndock hesitated for a few moments before replying. "The deal is that he is a creature of routine and this is especially out of routine."
"We're on it."
The broad shouldered man hung up his phone with a press of his thumb, shaking his head slightly with a bemused smirk on his face. He pays the bills, he thought, as he then scrolled through his contact list and found the group listing for this operation. He began dialing as he yanked the dresser drawer open and searched for his clothes.
Bill Strickland glanced at the car on the side of the road as he flew by in his small Toyota, bouncing roughly over the uneven dirt and gravel. The car had moved down the road just a bit from where he had found the telltale signs of coffee stains a few days before, but yes, it had been there every night, and he had watched it every night.
The dirt road changed to pavement, and Strickland picked up speed just a little bit, cruising around sharp corners and down hills through the backwoods of this small Vermont town. It only took moments. With a wide turn, the Toyota Matrix rounded one last corner and emerged onto Main Street, moving at a swift pace with no road traffic at this time of night. Just ahead and to the left, a parking lot sat; the Matrix took a quick left hand turn and dragged to a stop in the loose gravel lot which stood just to the left of the Norwood town hall.
Wasting no time, he carefully pulled out his UMP, slung it over his shoulder, and then quietly snuck over to the front door of the town hall building. Within a minute, he had picked the lock and slid swiftly inside. There was a wide foyer with smooth tile flooring, but just to his right a small staircase went down into the bowels of the building. To the left, a small staircase went up. Taking the stairway down, he headed towards the clerk's office, where he had been only a few days before. At this hour, the building was empty, and in a small town like this, not even a posted guard or alarm system was visible. Strickland moved without concern, walking down the gleaming linoleum hallway. He glanced into a tall, wide window to his right, which looked in upon the town clerk's office, now empty and dark.
Strickland continued down the hall until he saw the familiar 'Employees Only' marked door. As he suspected, the door was locked tight. He pulled out his lock pick set then went to work. It took even less time to get access to the Records Room than it did for him to get inside the building, and he quickly walked to the filing cabinets and rows of folders. Glancing over the posted signs, he located the "Building Permits" section and couldn't help but walk quickly to that area, eager to see what he would find. Popping a small mag-light in between his teeth, he shone it down into the folder and flipped papers until he got to the year his house was built. Within seconds, he located the "Strickland" folder, and slipped the entire folder into a pouch inside his shirt. Killing the light, he backed out of the office and locked the door behind him, then walked back down that same wide hallway. Sliding smoothly out the front door, he walked over to his parked car, remarking that the night was still dark and quiet.
It wasn't all quiet.
The sedan was parked in the bank parking lot across the street, and the two men in the front seat saw Strickland leave the town hall and get back into his car. They couldn't tell what he was carrying or where he had been, but he was definitely sneaking around, a fact that did not sit well with Agent Burndock. In fact, Burndock was in the passenger seat of this vehicle, and was impatiently waiting for Irizarry's group to arrive. He needn't have worried. His headset buzzed with the hum of an incoming call and he was happy to hear Irizarry's voice on the other end.
"Where you at?" came the question.
"Post office parking lot, in the back. Good vantage point."
Burndock looked out the passenger side window and saw the small white United States Postal Service building just next to the bank, and let his gaze drift backwards until he saw a few more black cars parked in the parking lot behind.
"Good spot. Hold tight for just a second. Strickland just left the town hall and is getting back into his vehicle."
"
What is our objective here?" Irizarry lowered the goggles from his eyes where he saw the brake lights of the Matrix flash on.
"Listen close, Irizarry. The minute his car leaves that parking lot, I want four of your guys in that building immediately. We need to figure out what he was looking for and why."
"Break into a town building?"
"Relax. I've got your 'Get Out of Jail Free Card.' We're covered on this." Burndock continued to watch the Matrix back slowly out of the parking lot, and then curve left out onto Main Street.
"Covered legally, sure. But what about Strickland?"
"He's grasping at straws, Gary. Don't worry about it. Give him two more minutes, he'll be down the road, and you'll have a clear shot."
"Not quite a clear shot, Burndock," Agent Halifax remarked from the driver's seat, looking out his nearby window. "Our boy is pulling into the parking lot of that store."
Burndock spoke into his headset. "Irizarry, get two of your guys to get over to that store. Make sure Strickland is doing what he looks like he's doing. Pick your other four and get them in that town hall, ASAP." Burndock didn't bother giving Irizarry specific directions. He'd worked with him in the past, and he had confidence in his tactical planning. He was a lot smarter than he looked.
"On it."
Burndock watched as one car ripped from the post office parking lot, swerved left and surged down the short distance to the store. Almost immediately, it turned left into the parking lot. Meanwhile, Burndock could see four guys clad in dark clothes crouching across the street in bulky vests. Burndock knew these guys were professionals, but he tapped his headset anyway.
"Just a reminder, Irizarry?if things go sideways, Strickland must be taken alive. I don't want any gunplay here tonight."
"Nothing's going to go wrong, Burns. My guys know the spec." Irizarry had pulled his own pistol out and slid back the chamber to check that a round was loaded.
At the parking lot of the store, Irizarry's two men watched Strickland walk inside. They knew he was loaded down with a flak vest, but he wore a loose shirt and trench coat over it and looked unremarkable.
"He's in the store, boss," reported one of the surveillance men.
"Keep watching," Irizarry replied from the seat of his car. He'd sent four of his men into the town hall, but had elected to stay behind himself and coordinate. He would rather have been in the line of fire, but he understood his place in the team, and knew none of his guys had the leadership and tactical expertise that he did.
A few moments later, the quartet of operatives was inside the town hall, leaving Main Street as small town normal as it had been before they arrived. The four men in combat togs emerged into the wide foyer, and all drew their pistols. With a motion of his hand, the lead man sent the first three towards the stairway down, and then followed. Walking carefully across the polished foyer, the combat boots barely made a squeak as the feet crossed slowly, moving with care and caution towards the short flight of stairs downward.
The headset in the driver's ear chirped. "Sitrep?"
"No change, Gary. Car's still here; our boy's still in the store."
"All right. Keep watching." Gary thumbed his headset off and let his gaze drift towards the bank parking lot where Burndock and Halifax sat in their car, watching the same area he was. A quiet noise suddenly drew his attention to the town hall and he swiveled his head. The building looked normal. Suddenly, Irizarry had an uneasy feeling.
Strickland was in the foyer within seconds, very carefully easing the door closed behind him. The four men had gone inside, and left the outside door unlocked, which made his job all the easier. Seeing a car in pursuit, he had vacated the store out of a back door and slipped back across the street towards the town hall.
Strickland's first priority tonight had been the building permit, but he suddenly had an urge to have a little discussion with one of the men who had been pursuing him. Taking a careful step forward towards the short stairwell down, his front boot made a small squeak on the smooth tile floor. One of the men in tactical gear who had entered the building was lagging behind and he turned, staring straight at him. Strickland launched himself forward into a dead run and threw himself from the landing, not even bothering with the stairs. With a silent scream, his victim's mouth was wide open just as Strickland's shoulder and full 260-pound frame collided with his chest and drove him back into the wall. Strickland winced as he felt a wet snap of breaking ribs under his extended shoulder as the man crumpled beneath his impact. Strickland bounced, and then landed in a graceful crouch.
Before even thinking about it, Strickland extended his legs and sent himself surging forward, tucking his now throbbing shoulder underneath him in a tight ball. Bringing his knees to his chest, the commando went into a forward roll and the momentum carried him towards the trio of enemy combatants who were now turning in his direction. Slamming his boots down on the floor, he brought himself upright, between two of the men. The one on the left charged forward, swinging a straight lethal tree trunk of an arm, but Strickland moved quickly inside the arc of his swing and slammed the edge of his hand into his forearm.
The second punch collided with the man's nerve cluster above his armpit. Without hesitation, Strickland took that fist and whipped it the opposite direction, caving in his other enemy's right cheek and obliterating his jaw. Following the motion of his backwards punch, Strickland continued his spin just as the second man charged forward. His arms threatened to wrap around Strickland, but the momentum of his swing carried him to his right, and he slipped past the extended arms. Driving his right fist across his body and into his enemy's left ribs, he knocked the wind from his lungs, sending him crumpling to the floor.
Strickland stood in the hall, facing the last man standing, and the man pulled an automatic pistol out of his holster, pointing it at Strickland.
"Don't fucking move, you psycho. Don't move."
Strickland glared at the man with the gun. "I'm pretty sure your boss doesn't want you putting holes in me."
"Well my boss ain't here, shitheel. Self-defense and all that."
Strickland lifted both of his hands and spread his fingers apart. "I'm unarmed, brother. No threat to you. All I care about is why you're following me. I'm just trying to live my life."
The last man continued walking slowly forward, his pistol still raised. "You think I care about your life? I get a paycheck. That's it. I have no idea who the hell you even are."
Strickland frowned. "You've got nothing for me?"
"Sorry, bro. All I've got is this gun and your ass."
Strickland smirked. "Don't get too comfortable with either of those."
"Don't even fucking think -"
Strickland was on the move. He ducked smoothly down and left as he charged forward. His right hand laced swiftly outwards and struck his enemy's wrist just as his finger pulled the trigger. With a deafening blast, the pistol kicked back in the man's hand while simultaneously his wrist bone snapped. His fingers shot apart and the pistol flew from his once tight grasp, smacking against the wall and clattering to the floor.
"GODDAMN it!!" the man screamed in pain, but he did not stop. He charged forward, ending his scream of pain with one of rage, and swung his good fist towards Strickland in a stiff laser beam. Strickland slid out of the way, slammed the edge of his hand on the inside of the other man's elbow, and his arm coiled tight with the impact. He attempted to follow that up with another punch, but the bad guy careened into Strickland's center mass, and they both stumbled clumsily backwards. Strickland swung his foot back, stopping his backwards motion, then grabbed his enemy's jacket, and lifted and swiveled. For a split second, gravity was nonexistent as the surveillance man became airborne, heading towards the large window on the wall. Glass exploded, and thousands of tiny shards surrounded the body of the man as he continued his flight into the office beyond. He hit a wooden table on the other side, which splintered under his weight, and the man lay in a crumpled heap.
Strickland loo
ked at the chaos throughout the hallway, with the gunshot still ringing in his over-sensitive ears.
"Fuck!" screamed Burndock, his eyes opening wide. "Was that a fucking gunshot?"
Halifax was already out of the car, pulling his own pistol from the holster and running across the street.
Burndock opened his own door, pulling his own weapon. "Do not shoot him, Halifax, do you understand? I don't give a shit about anyone else, but do not shoot him!"
Suddenly up ahead, the door to the town hall burst open and Strickland was out in clear view of everyone. They almost stopped still.
Burndock lifted his hand. "Strickland? hold up?"
There was no listening. The blood thrummed in his ears?his nostrils flared, as he felt an almost uncontrollable rage surging through the tight skin covering his muscles. The urge to turn and run for the woods was almost irresistible, his wild eyes straining and scanning, soaking in all possible threats. Then he ran across the street. Burndock moved swiftly to intercept. He heard an engine fire up behind him and he glanced back, seeing Irizarry's car screaming from the parking lot, hopping a curb, and grabbing pavement with a short screech.
"Irizarry, don't hurt him! Don't do it!"
Up ahead, as Strickland neared the parking lot, the two men who had watched him enter the store both pulled out of their car, with guns raised.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" screamed Burndock. "Don't shoot!" he screamed as he ran, but he knew damn well adrenaline was usually taking over at this point, and his screaming voice was just another buzz in their ears.
Strickland's eyes focused on his Toyota Matrix, which was in the far side of the parking lot, and suddenly there were a half dozen armed men in black converging on his location. Two quick shots rang out from the black car in the parking lot, and he instinctively dodged right. The distinct zip of two bullets cut the air near him; he could almost smell the cordite, but they were still wide of the target. Instead of firing again, the two men began running themselves at an angle of intersection between Strickland and his Matrix. The ex-NSA commando didn't want to kill anyone tonight, but he couldn't let anyone get between him and his ride home.
Before he even realized, Strickland's silenced Glock was in his grasp and lifted towards the opponents who stood before him. He squeezed off three shots, sending bullets smacking against the metallic skin of his own car, causing the two other gunmen to duck and scatter. Then he covered the fifteen feet between him and his car in seconds. One of the gunmen just came out of his crouch and lifted his pistol, but Strickland ran headlong into him, slamming him back against the car. Out of the corner of his eye, Strickland saw the other gunman lifting his weapon, and threw himself across the distance extending his left foot in a rigid and powerful sidekick, pounding his opponent in the chest. The force of the kick lifted the man clear off his feet and into the air, his limbs flailing. Strickland heard the rapid puffing of a silenced submachine gun, and sparks exploded from the surface of his car in a lightning bolt pattern across the hood. He scrambled, but jerked as he felt the hot sting of impact at his left shoulder, throwing his momentum off as he moved for cover. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut he forced the pain from his mind, working to find a way out of this.
So much for taking me alive, huh?
It was then that Strickland noticed the other car, which raced past the two men and bore down on him, headlights searing his sensitive eyes. The engine gunned as it neared, the two-ton black metal rocket hurtling towards him at kill speed. Strickland left his feet in a vertical jump; his combat boots caught on the edge of the car door just under the window, and then tucked his knees deep. He extended his legs and was suddenly airborne, leaping high over the hood of the oncoming car. The large sedan slammed unceremoniously into the small compact Toyota, caving in the driver's side door and converting the plastic and metal external shell into a crushed beer can. Strickland landed on the windshield in a low crouch, then somersaulted over the roof and slid down the back windshield, cradling his wounded arm close to his body, just as Irizarry swung open his driver's side door and emerged, weapon in hand.
"Come on, mother fucker?" he growled, expecting Strickland to be high tailing it the other direction. To his surprise, he slid gracefully from the car, landed on the pavement, and threw himself back towards Irizarry, who squeezed off a few shots. Strickland was already sliding to the right, nearly pressing against the car then thrust his leg out in a powerful front kick, striking Irizarry in the midsection and pushing him hard against the open car door. His breath blew from his lungs in one forceful gasp, but he lurched forward and drilled a large, powerful fist into Strickland's face, his fingers crunching painfully against the left jawbone. The other man wasn't slowed, however, and punched him with a nasty left cross into his ribcage, and then slammed him in the solar plexus with a right punch, Irizarry falling to the ground, struggling to catch his breath. More puffing gunshots sent sparks flying from the open door as Strickland slid into the sedan and desperately reached out to grab the door handle, even as more fire exploded the metal around him. With a slam, the driver's side door pounded closed and he punched the car into reverse. The large automobile swung around to the right amidst the squeal of rubber on pavement. A few moments later, it roared forward and took off down Main Street, only leaving the fading red lights in the cool darkness.
Burndock stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by the chaos, and heard the telltale sound of a police siren warble in the distance.
This was going to do wonders for his career.