by Evan Graver
“We should add these to our loadout for Belize,” Ryan said.
“That’s what I got them for,” Greg said.
“Cool.” Mango sat down and began feeding nine-millimeter hollow-point cartridges into magazines.
Ryan stretched and yawned. “It’s been a long day. Let’s get out of here.”
In truth, he was tired from the late-night flight to Tampa, the short day with Emily, and another red-eye to Houston. He’d been up the better part of thirty hours.
“I’m going with you,” Greg said. “I have to drop Mango off at his boat.”
“I caught an Uber here,” Ryan said. “My Jeep is still at DWR.”
“I know,” Greg said. “I knew you were here because the alarm was off, and I checked the cameras.”
The three men went out to Greg’s Chevrolet SS. The four-hundred-and-fifteen horsepower, four-door sedan had a six-speed automatic transmission with paddle shifters and custom controls for Greg to operate the gas and brakes with his hands. Greg liked to drive it hard and fast. It never took long to cover the short distance between Ryan’s office and DWR, and even less time to traverse the twelve miles to their home on Tiki Island.
When Greg’s grandfather had recruited Ryan to help run DHS operations, Ryan was living on his thirty-six-foot Sabre sailboat, Sweet T, in Wilmington, North Carolina. Upon moving to Texas, he’d bunked with Greg at Greg’s Tiki Island home until he could move his sailboat to Texas. Mexican pirates had sunk Sweet T, and Ryan continued to live in his friend’s house while he searched for a new boat.
Greg settled into the driver’s seat. Ryan broke down the wheelchair and put it in the back. When Ryan slid into the passenger seat, Greg held up a pistol version of the KRISS Vector. It had a clear, extended magazine loaded with blunt-nose hollow-point .45 rounds.
“What are you going to do with that?” Mango asked, leaning forward between the two front seats.
“I’m using it for protection.” Greg grinned. He shoved the gun between the driver’s seat and the center console and fired up the engine. He bumped the transmission in reverse and backed out of the parking space. Ten minutes later, they were at DWR and cleared through the security gate.
After dropping Mango off, Greg drove west on a blacktop top feeder road flanked by a canal on the left and a field of oil tanks on the right. As he approached State Route 197, Greg slowed just enough to look both ways for traffic, then gunned the engine and turned left without stopping.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder to see a four-door Ford pickup truck with oversized off-road tires and a lightbar turn out of the tank farm’s driveway. He kept watching the truck in the passenger side rearview mirror. Vehicles like it were commonplace in the oil fields and refinery parking lots. This one was barreling down on them.
Greg jammed the hand control down, and the sedan accelerated away from the pickup. Ryan glanced at the speedometer. They were doing almost seventy miles per hour.
Ryan looked down when his phone chimed with a text message from Emily asking if he had safely returned to Texas. He was in the middle of thumbing a promise to call her this evening when he felt Greg tap the brakes. He glanced up to see a pickup pull out of a turnoff in front of them on the east side of the road. There was another truck hidden by the first, which Ryan could only see when the lead truck pulled away. Instead of turning to go north, the truck swung into the southbound lane and stopped. The second pickup pulled its front bumper up to the rear of the first, effectively blocking all four lanes of traffic.
They couldn’t use the shoulder to go around the trucks, not with water-filled ditches running along both sides of the blacktop. With no other option, Greg slammed on the brakes. The car’s tires screamed in protest as they started to slide on the pavement. Greg spun the wheel hard in a U-turn.
Through the driver’s side window, Ryan saw the Ford closing on them. Smoke poured off the right-side tires as the Chevy SS leaned harder on them. The acrid stench of burned rubber filled their nostrils.
The back window of the sedan exploded as gunfire began to hammer the car. Ryan watched the big Ford veer into their lane in an attempt to hit them head-on. More bullets slammed into the car. Side windows burst, and glass cascaded onto the two men. A shot sent the passenger side mirror spinning off the Chevy. Men leaned out the side windows of the four-door Ford and aimed more guns at them.
Greg strung together curses as he ducked behind the wheel. He had extensive evasive driver training and was putting all his skills to work, but three trucks full of shooting guns made his efforts almost worthless. Ryan snatched up Greg’s KRISS Vector and used the barrel to knock out the remaining glass from his side window. Leaning out, he began pumping lead at the oncoming truck.
The two vehicles aimed straight at each other now, and the gunfire had died down. Ryan guessed it was because the men didn’t want to hit their companions in the other vehicles. Greg’s hand mashed the accelerator, and he used the paddle shifters to keep the engine’s RPMs high. The big V-8 roared in protest.
Ahead of them, the truck’s massive steel bumper grew larger in the Chevrolet’s fractured windshield as they engaged in a high-speed game of chicken. Ryan brought the rifle barrel down a fraction and fired at the truck’s front tires and grill. Two bullets found their mark in the front left tire. The tire lost pressure, and rubber shredded off the rim, causing the truck to veer into the ditch. Its front end slammed into the mounded earth, sending a cascade of dirt and water into the air. The rear tires lifted off the ground with the impact and twisted the truck sideways when they bounced back against the earth.
The Chevrolet fishtailed as Greg accelerated away from the hail of bullets. “What the hell?” he screamed. “Those guys just killed my car!”
“We can get you a new car.” Ryan twisted around in the seat. He watched as the driver and passenger of the Ford ran to the other trucks. The blocking trucks made K-turns and fled the scene.
“No, screw that. Those guys came after us on purpose. What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know, but if they’re after us, they’re probably after Mango.” Ryan grabbed his phone from the floor, where it had fallen during the wild maneuvering, and dialed Mango’s number. It went to voicemail. He dialed Jennifer, Mango’s wife. It went to voicemail. Ryan redialed Mango’s number. Voicemail picked up, and Ryan started in. “We just got ambushed. Stay inside and undercover. We’re coming to you.”
Greg must have known exactly what Ryan was thinking, because he accelerated to a breakneck speed considering the steam pouring from under the hood and the flop of rubber from a flat tire. Even though the car was equipped with run-flats, the self-sealing system could not accommodate two pencil-sized bullet holes. The flat tire caused the car to slew from side to side as he drove. He turned onto the access road leading to DWR and pushed the car to its limits.
It seemed to take forever to reach the gates into the DWR compound. The guard stepped out and looked over the car while pushing his ballcap up on his head. “Evenin’, Mr. Olsen, seems like you’re havin’ some car trouble.”
“Skip it, Tommy, just let me in,” Greg snapped.
“Yes, sir.” The guard slapped the button to open the gate and saluted.
Greg ignored the gesture and leaned out the window. “Tommy, if any strange vehicles come charging in here, try to stop them.”
“With what, Mr. Olsen?” Tommy asked, holding his arms up in exaggerated questioning.
DWR had never hired armed security, believing the presence of security alone was enough to prevent theft and destruction. The isolated nature of DWR’s compound was also a deterrent.
“Keep your head down and run away if someone tries to crash the gate.”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, a quiver in his voice.
Greg gunned the engine and felt the front right tire slide on the pavement before it began to roll. He managed to limp his car into his designated parking space.
“Can you get your chair?” Ryan asked, kicking open the d
oor.
“Yeah. Go.” Greg waved.
Ryan hopped out of the car carrying the KRISS Vector with a fresh magazine Greg had produced from the glove box. He glanced at the shattered and bullet-riddled vehicle and wondered how they’d survived. He ran toward Mango’s sailboat. The blue, steel-hulled Amazon 44 sat beside Dark Water, a Hatteras GT63. In the evening sunlight, both boats gleamed bright and clean.
“Mango,” Ryan yelled.
Mango appeared in the Amazon’s cockpit and looked for the man calling his name. He turned slightly, held his arms out from his body, and shrugged.
Then he ducked down as a shot rang out. The bullet whined as it ricocheted off steel.
Ryan threw himself flat on the ground and brought the pistol up. He scanned for the shooter, knowing the weapon he had in his hands was useless against a long-range sniper.
Chapter Ten
Greg Olsen pulled the titanium frame of his wheelchair from the back seat. He drew it across his chest, careful to avoid smashing it into the steering wheel, and set it on the ground outside the car. Next, he reached back for the rear wheels and cushion. He placed these in the front seat and reached for the frame again. He unfolded the chair’s seat back then pushed the right side tire’s quick release axle into the frame’s axle tube and did the same for the left side. He loved the push-button quick releases on the rim’s axles, which allowed the tires to slip on and off with ease. He positioned the chair beside the car and locked the brakes, tossed the cushion on, and transferred from the car’s leather bucket seat to the wheelchair. The entire process took him seven minutes. He’d timed it on several occasions.
The report of a gunshot made him stop. He knew Ryan wasn’t carrying a rifle, and Mango had a stainless Mossberg Marine twelve-gauge shotgun on the sailboat as well as his Glock 17 pistol. Neither of those firearms made the distinct sound he’d just heard.
Greg raced across the massive aircraft hangar converted to DWR’s headquarters. The elevator was still on the first floor where he’d left it. The doors slid open when he punched the UP button. A minute later he was on the second floor, pushing hard for his office. He habitually carried a Sig Saur P320 concealed on his body, but he needed more firepower for the current threat. Inside his office, he opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out two loaded magazines for the Barrett 98B.
The elevator was waiting for him, and he rode to the rooftop deck. Greg knew there was only two possible directions the sniper’s bullet could have come from. Both would involve infiltrating an oil tank farm—either the one directly to the west, which didn’t have the best line of sight, or the one across Industrial Canal. The latter was where he believed the shooter was laid up. He set the gun’s bipod on the counter of the outdoor kitchen used to serve a hot lunch to DWR employees every Friday.
Before he began scanning for the sniper, he looked over the edge of the building and saw Ryan lying on the pavement. He was halfway between the building and Mango’s sailboat, and totally exposed.
Greg could not see Mango, so he called his cellphone.
Mango growled, “What the hell, bro?”
“Any idea where the shot came from?” Greg asked.
“No, and I don’t want to poke my head up for him to get a second look.”
“Keep down, and I’ll try to spot him.”
“My guess is he’s across the canal to the north.”
“Copy.” Greg put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter.
Ryan leaped to his feet and sprinted toward the cover of the boat docks. The sniper’s rifle boomed again. He dove to the ground, rolling to avoid scraping his hands and shins on the coarse blacktop. His still-sore shoulders and ribs screamed at him. His wrist began to bleed while sending daggers of pain up his arm. The gun sounded again, and the pavement in front of Ryan’s face exploded. He clamped his hands to his eyes as he writhed on the pavement.
Greg had not seen the shot come within a hair’s breadth of hitting his friend. He was busy scanning the rooftops of the oil storage tanks across the river. He’d narrowed the location down, based on the booming echo of the rifle’s report.
Police sirens floated on the stiff eastern breeze.
Across Industrial Canal, two- and three-story oil storage tanks sprouted out of the ground. Each tank had a stairway curving up its flank. Greg watched for movement, running the scope quickly over the tops of the tanks. He stopped on a light gray tower at the edge of the canal. A shooter lay sprawled under a gray tarp. Greg might have missed it except for a corner of the tarp flapping in the breeze. Exposed was a jeans-clad leg and a black shoe. Greg took a second to examine the sniper hide. The tarp had been stretched to cover the man and the gun, forming a small tent over the scope and barrel. Greg was thankful the shooter had chosen to forego a silencer, by doing so, given away his position.
Greg focused his scope’s crosshairs on the center mass of the prone man. Factoring the wind, humidity, and angle of flight for the bullet, Greg made the calculations in his mind and matched them to the dope card taped to his gun’s stock, where he had recorded detailed performance data based on the aforementioned factors, allowing him to adjust his scope hold based on previous shots at the same distance.
He inhaled, allowed half a breath to escape, and held the rest. Between beats of his heart, he stroked the trigger.
The big gun bucked against his shoulder. Across the river, the covered lump twitched once and stopped moving. Greg watched through the scope and said, “I got him!”
“Keep your eye on him,” Mango said. “Ryan’s hit. I’m going after him.”
Greg took his eye off the scope and looked for his friend. He found Ryan lying on the pavement with his right hand clamped to the side of his face, a crimson stain turning his neck and hand red.
“Shit.” Greg pressed his eye to the scope again. The tarp flapped in the breeze, and the sniper had disappeared. “Double shit!”
Chapter Eleven
Mango ran across the lot and dropped to his knees beside Ryan. “You okay, bro?”
“I got something in my freakin’ eye.” Ryan continued to press the palms of his hands to his eyes to stop the pain.
“Hang tight, buddy. We need to stop the bleeding. Let me take a look.”
Ryan rolled onto his back and pulled his right hand away from his face. Chunks of asphalts had sliced open spots on his cheek and forehead. Both wounds bled freely but were not life-threatening.
“Can you open your eye?”
Ryan raised his eyelid and grit ground against his cornea. It felt like a small boulder had lodged itself behind the lid. Tears flowed as his body tried to wash out the foreign debris. He closed the eye and rolled to a seated position.
“Come on, bro, let’s get you cleaned up and see if we can flush out your eye.”
“What about the sniper?”
“Greg nailed him.” Mango helped Ryan to his feet, and they walked across the lot to the restrooms on the first floor of the DWR building. Ryan washed his face, then positioned his eye under a trickle of water to help flush out whatever was causing the abrasion. Mango went in search of a first aid kit.
The water did not help. After Ryan toweled his face off, Mango cleaned his two cuts with hydrogen peroxide and applied bandages to them.
Greg parked in the door to watch the proceedings. His cell phone rang. “Hello?”
Even without the speaker on Ryan could hear the conversation.
“Mr. Olsen, this is Tommy at the gate. There’s an ambulance and two police cars who want to come in.”
“Send them to the hangar, Tommy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Greg shut off the phone and clipped it to his belt. “We’re about to have company.”
Ryan, Mango, and Greg went out to the parking lot and watched the three vehicles come to a stop at the front entrance. Ryan used his left eye and kept his right covered with his hand. It felt better to have it covered. He was unsure if the slight blurriness in his left eye was from washing it out, or
if he was getting old.
Two uniformed officers, one male, and one female, stepped out of a Texas City Police Department Ford Explorer after shutting off the light bar. Two men exited an unmarked Dodge Charger, and a man and a woman scrambled from the ambulance.
“What’s the emergency, Detective Schlub?” Greg asked.
The barrel-chested man with a bushy mustache reminded Ryan of a short Tom Selleck, a Magnum P.I. wannabe. He wore blue jeans and a blue-and-red checkered dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On his hip was a Heckler and Koch USP 9, two spare mags for the gun, and a set of handcuffs.
His partner was tall and lean, with a long, sloping nose on a narrow face. He was dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit. His jacket bulged around his handgun.
“Mind if we have a word, Greg?” Tom Selleck asked.
“Better bring the medics,” Greg said. “Ryan has something in his eye.”
The woman paramedic motioned for Ryan to sit down on the ambulance’s back bumper. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and used a flashlight to look in Ryan’s eye.
Ryan read the nameplate on her shirt. “See anything, Lucy?”
“I see some grit. Have you tried flushing it?”
“Yes. Nothing came out.”
“I want to flush it again.” She produced a small bottle of saline with a tube on the end, and had Ryan lie on his back. Holding up his eyelid, she squirted liquid into his eye. After a short flush, she let go of his eyelid. “Any better?”
Ryan fluttered his eyelid. It still felt like closing it on a gravel pile. “No.”
“You need to see a doctor to get those pieces out. What got in your eye?”
“Asphalt.”
“How did that happen?”
Ryan sat up and covered his eye with his hand. “I tripped.”
“The same way you got the cut on your wrist?” She pointed at the blood-stained bandage.
