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Island Road
Mar. 15th, 2010 10:36 pmIt was late afternoon when he turned the 4x4 crew cab onto Island Road, crossed the narrow single-span bridge, and followed the less-traveled west fork to where it made the turn around the island's far end. The locals used to call it "the inlet road" because, for several miles, both the road and the shoreline paralleled the mainland so closely that anyone with a good arm could throw a stone across from one side to the other.
Before his time, the road had been well-maintained as an alternate route from the dilapidated resort that now occupied the island's far end. Now, the pavement was frost-heaved and broken, in some places so badly it would've been impassable except in the 4x4 he'd bought when he knew he was coming back here.
If he'd followed the east fork, he'd have gotten to the same place over a stretch of road that was equally bad, once it passed through the small town that lay just beyond the bridge on the island's east shore. But since he didn't have a lot of fans in town, these days, and preferred the solitude anyway, he took the road less traveled.
In fact the truck, along with the wicked-looking rifle in the back window rack, had just been returned to his possession. And both had figured prominently in his recent unpopularity. Although, to his way of thinking, they'd contributed more to the fact that he was still alive. And right now he was much less concerned about his social standing than he was pissed-off about the bullet hole that still adorned the windshield above his head. Still, that could be fixed with a trip to one of the bodyshops over on the mainland in the morning whereas, if it were two inches lower, he wouldn't have been here to worry about it.
Now, the big diesel lurched over an especially bad patch of broken pavement and he drove with practiced care while fully aware of his surroundings. When he'd thought about it earlier, he realized it was the perfect spot for something like that; they couldn't have done better if they'd chosen the spot instead of blundering into it.
But they had blundered, crashing in full flight just outside his line of sight. And when he'd rounded that last huge stand of swamp grass they were waiting for him. The range had been a little less than a thousand yards and they must've aimed just below the light bar mounted on the roof of the cab.
Considering it was dark and they'd just crawled out of their wrecked pickup and were likely blinded by his lights as he rounded the curve, it wasn't a bad shot. It was, in fact, perilously close to a kill shot. When he saw the muzzle flash, he instinctively locked the brakes, spun the steering wheel left, and dropped down on the seat. So much for assuming these were just random trespassers he'd been chasing.
The truck came to a stop with the passenger side facing his assailants and he quickly reached up and pulled the rifle out of its rack. With his other hand, he opened the glove box door and pulled out a loaded 12-round clip and then slid out the driver's door, keeping the body of the truck between himself and the crashed vehicle.
Cradling his weapon, he crawled on his belly into the drainage ditch at the side of the road. Just like Survival School at Ft. Benning, he thought, as he chambered the first round, sighted, and fired. Benning, or that desert hell hole where he'd contracted to work state security for the now-infamous Blackwater after his five years in the Rangers.
He'd done it, of course, for the money. And the adrenaline. Where else was a twenty-something kid with no college and a history of jumping out of airplanes at low altitude gonna make that kind of money? By the time he'd gotten out, the economy was already in the tank and, for all the apparent deprivations of military life, he'd managed to develop some exotic hobbies.
Like long-range marksmanship with the Barret .50-caliber in the back window of his pickup. But this was hardly long-range and the force of the huge slug blew his target backwards as the round ejected and he chambered the next.
Bad luck, fella. And your friend isn't doing any better. There'd been only one time when his evasive driving skills hadn't allowed him and his security detail to avoid trouble and it had ended the same way - with the bad guys face down, leaking blood and other body fluids.
On the other hand, it was a little like those early raids in Mosul, the Humvees converging on a market place that should be deserted at 2 A.M. and, when you hit the lights, it was like roaches scattering across the floor of a slum-dweller's kitchen.
Target acquired, breath held, trigger squeezed. So little recoil for such a large round, he was always amazed. Second target down and not moving. He would watch for a few second to confirm that.
He'd thought about walking the thousand or so yards between himself and the two downed targets. Unlike the other places he'd been, there'd be no buried IEDs, no one watching from inside a house a few meters away for the right moment to trigger a follow-up blast. Still, he found himself doing a visual sweep of the broken-up road and what was visible of its shoulders. He'd found it a hard habit to break.
But the real difference here was the notion that every life had to be accounted for. Even lowlifes like these two, whoever they were. He doubted he knew them and why bother to find out anyway? To the citizens he'd once thought he was protecting, this would be a crime scene. And as remote as that concept seemed, from the life he'd been living, he supposed that he'd better respect it.
He thought briefly about calling the local sheriff and decided against it. No way of knowing who else might be in on this. And besides, the sheriff had recognized that look of his the first time he'd seen him.
The one that said, "You can't touch me because I have absolutely nothing to lose." The one that drove people like the sheriff to do absolutely anything to prove that they owned you. Until you've pinned them face down in the mud like that bastard drill instructor at Benning.
No one fucks with you after that. At least no one within arm's reach. Unfortunately, whoever set this up was not in that category. Even the sheriff, even if he was in on this, wouldn't be far enough up the food chain to make a difference. No, the sheriff was in it strictly for the money. That's what he'd recognized right away about the sheriff. Just another humble public servant on the take.
So he'd cast his lot with the state cops. Told them his story and told them to bring body bags and a measuring tape. Because getting his story told to the right people, and getting it documented in feet and inches, was the important thing. He knew that, too, from the other place, from the way things had gotten later on, before he'd gotten out for good. From there and, oddly enough, from another life that had started and then ended just a few miles from here.
It was one of the troopers, a sharp-eyed old guy who looked like he was closing in on retirement, who remembered his father. Wonder who he'd pissed off to be working this detail at this time of night. But he wasn't here to talk about the old days, just mentioned it in passing. Mentioned it after that same appraising glance he'd gotten from the sheriff.
But the old guy was a different sort from the sheriff. Maybe because he knew something of the backstory. Or maybe because he'd gotten lucky, as he'd hoped, and found somebody honest. And, if that were the case, he might also have some hope of staying out of jail. With two on the ground, it was still a long shot but one he might be willing to take with an honest cop.
[To be continued...]
LPK
LiveJournal
3.15.2010
Before his time, the road had been well-maintained as an alternate route from the dilapidated resort that now occupied the island's far end. Now, the pavement was frost-heaved and broken, in some places so badly it would've been impassable except in the 4x4 he'd bought when he knew he was coming back here.
If he'd followed the east fork, he'd have gotten to the same place over a stretch of road that was equally bad, once it passed through the small town that lay just beyond the bridge on the island's east shore. But since he didn't have a lot of fans in town, these days, and preferred the solitude anyway, he took the road less traveled.
In fact the truck, along with the wicked-looking rifle in the back window rack, had just been returned to his possession. And both had figured prominently in his recent unpopularity. Although, to his way of thinking, they'd contributed more to the fact that he was still alive. And right now he was much less concerned about his social standing than he was pissed-off about the bullet hole that still adorned the windshield above his head. Still, that could be fixed with a trip to one of the bodyshops over on the mainland in the morning whereas, if it were two inches lower, he wouldn't have been here to worry about it.
Now, the big diesel lurched over an especially bad patch of broken pavement and he drove with practiced care while fully aware of his surroundings. When he'd thought about it earlier, he realized it was the perfect spot for something like that; they couldn't have done better if they'd chosen the spot instead of blundering into it.
But they had blundered, crashing in full flight just outside his line of sight. And when he'd rounded that last huge stand of swamp grass they were waiting for him. The range had been a little less than a thousand yards and they must've aimed just below the light bar mounted on the roof of the cab.
Considering it was dark and they'd just crawled out of their wrecked pickup and were likely blinded by his lights as he rounded the curve, it wasn't a bad shot. It was, in fact, perilously close to a kill shot. When he saw the muzzle flash, he instinctively locked the brakes, spun the steering wheel left, and dropped down on the seat. So much for assuming these were just random trespassers he'd been chasing.
The truck came to a stop with the passenger side facing his assailants and he quickly reached up and pulled the rifle out of its rack. With his other hand, he opened the glove box door and pulled out a loaded 12-round clip and then slid out the driver's door, keeping the body of the truck between himself and the crashed vehicle.
Cradling his weapon, he crawled on his belly into the drainage ditch at the side of the road. Just like Survival School at Ft. Benning, he thought, as he chambered the first round, sighted, and fired. Benning, or that desert hell hole where he'd contracted to work state security for the now-infamous Blackwater after his five years in the Rangers.
He'd done it, of course, for the money. And the adrenaline. Where else was a twenty-something kid with no college and a history of jumping out of airplanes at low altitude gonna make that kind of money? By the time he'd gotten out, the economy was already in the tank and, for all the apparent deprivations of military life, he'd managed to develop some exotic hobbies.
Like long-range marksmanship with the Barret .50-caliber in the back window of his pickup. But this was hardly long-range and the force of the huge slug blew his target backwards as the round ejected and he chambered the next.
Bad luck, fella. And your friend isn't doing any better. There'd been only one time when his evasive driving skills hadn't allowed him and his security detail to avoid trouble and it had ended the same way - with the bad guys face down, leaking blood and other body fluids.
On the other hand, it was a little like those early raids in Mosul, the Humvees converging on a market place that should be deserted at 2 A.M. and, when you hit the lights, it was like roaches scattering across the floor of a slum-dweller's kitchen.
Target acquired, breath held, trigger squeezed. So little recoil for such a large round, he was always amazed. Second target down and not moving. He would watch for a few second to confirm that.
He'd thought about walking the thousand or so yards between himself and the two downed targets. Unlike the other places he'd been, there'd be no buried IEDs, no one watching from inside a house a few meters away for the right moment to trigger a follow-up blast. Still, he found himself doing a visual sweep of the broken-up road and what was visible of its shoulders. He'd found it a hard habit to break.
But the real difference here was the notion that every life had to be accounted for. Even lowlifes like these two, whoever they were. He doubted he knew them and why bother to find out anyway? To the citizens he'd once thought he was protecting, this would be a crime scene. And as remote as that concept seemed, from the life he'd been living, he supposed that he'd better respect it.
He thought briefly about calling the local sheriff and decided against it. No way of knowing who else might be in on this. And besides, the sheriff had recognized that look of his the first time he'd seen him.
The one that said, "You can't touch me because I have absolutely nothing to lose." The one that drove people like the sheriff to do absolutely anything to prove that they owned you. Until you've pinned them face down in the mud like that bastard drill instructor at Benning.
No one fucks with you after that. At least no one within arm's reach. Unfortunately, whoever set this up was not in that category. Even the sheriff, even if he was in on this, wouldn't be far enough up the food chain to make a difference. No, the sheriff was in it strictly for the money. That's what he'd recognized right away about the sheriff. Just another humble public servant on the take.
So he'd cast his lot with the state cops. Told them his story and told them to bring body bags and a measuring tape. Because getting his story told to the right people, and getting it documented in feet and inches, was the important thing. He knew that, too, from the other place, from the way things had gotten later on, before he'd gotten out for good. From there and, oddly enough, from another life that had started and then ended just a few miles from here.
It was one of the troopers, a sharp-eyed old guy who looked like he was closing in on retirement, who remembered his father. Wonder who he'd pissed off to be working this detail at this time of night. But he wasn't here to talk about the old days, just mentioned it in passing. Mentioned it after that same appraising glance he'd gotten from the sheriff.
But the old guy was a different sort from the sheriff. Maybe because he knew something of the backstory. Or maybe because he'd gotten lucky, as he'd hoped, and found somebody honest. And, if that were the case, he might also have some hope of staying out of jail. With two on the ground, it was still a long shot but one he might be willing to take with an honest cop.
[To be continued...]
LPK
LiveJournal
3.15.2010
