The man’s grin widened.
“Yeah, you were all pretty stupid about that.”
Darren recoiled at the man’s words. “What - what do you mean?”
“I mean, they pulled a body from the wreck. Just because the man kind of looked like me - at least before his face was smashed in - ” he brought his hands up and made air quotes, “‘during the wreck’, and just because they found a wallet with the name Stephen Baldinger in the car, the police and the medical examiner assumed it was me.” The man grinned more widely, giving him a sinister look.
“I knew my parents wouldn’t want an autopsy. They didn’t want to disturb the body after death. The police and the coroner’s office saw it the easy way, which was how I wanted them to see it. They believed it was simply a dumbass driving carelessly on a dangerous road.”
“So who was behind the wheel?” Darren asked, feeling himself step backwards as he tried to increase the space between them.
The man waved his hand. “Ahhh, doesn’t matter.” He smiled again as he added, “But it wasn’t the guy who visited Corporal Ramirez and his family in San Antonio…”
Darren felt his jaw drop as the man’s words sunk in.
“But they died in a house fire…”
The man chuckled softly, nodding his head slightly, barely able to control his pleasure. “Sure they did, Captain. Sure they did.”
Feeling anger rise inside him, Darren turned his head to look around the room. His gun was on the -
“Looking for this?” The man held up Darren’s pistol, the one that matched his father’s. He looked at the gun appreciatively. “You know, I always thought of you as a bit of a pretty boy. A pansy ass who had everything handed to him.”
He glanced at Darren, measuring him. “Don’t get me wrong. I still think that. I just didn’t think you’d own an Ed Brown Nineteen Eleven.”
Holding up the gun, the man admired it. “I think it looks better in my hand, though.” Nodding with an air of finality, he looked back at Darren, meeting and holding his gaze. “Yeah, I’m gonna keep this.”
“The hell you are, Staff Sergeant,” Darren replied, stepping forward. He was betting the other man would still respect the military Chain of Command. A Non-Commissioned Officer didn’t threaten a Commissioned one.
He bet wrong.
Without the slightest hesitation, Steve Sommer lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, putting a bullet between the man’s eyes. The man’s head was rocked backwards by the impact, causing him to stumble towards the window. When his body came in contact with the wall, he slumped down, collapsing to the floor.
“Damn.” Sommer said, shaking his head. “I was kinda hoping he’d fall through the window, like in the movies. That would have been cool, don’t you think, Hank?”
Hank came into the room, holding a beer in his hand. “Yeah, it would have, but it’s probably better if the glass isn’t broken.”
“True.” Steve said, nodding.
“What was he talking about, you being dead?”
As Sommer turned to look at the other man, his face hardened, indicating the subject was not open for discussion.
“My old life.”
Stephen Baldinger’s departure from the Marines Corps had been both sudden and unplanned. The bottom line was that he hadn’t wanted to leave the Corps. He loved the military life, he loved the structure and discipline that came with it, he loved wearing the uniform, and he loved feeling like part of a team, a family, part of something bigger.
But most of all, he loved the killing.
It was disappointing to him that the U.S. Military and the fuckers in Congress were pussyfooting around the situation in the middle east. The United States was big enough and strong enough to wipe those Muslim bastards off the map, so why weren’t they allowed to do it?
‘Fucking P.C. bullshit,’ he’d thought as he’d sat in the sidewall seat of the C-17 as the plane made its way across the Atlantic, heading towards MCAS Cherry Point. Around him, other Marines snoozed in their seats, happily dreaming of being home.
Not him.
He knew Corporal Ramirez was back at the camp, telling anyone he could get to listen about what he’d seen Baldinger do. The Marine Corps leadership, who’d already proven themselves to be unwilling to do whatever it took to win the war, would take Ramirez’s accusations seriously.
They’d ask around. Chances were, others had seen or suspected what he’d been doing, but most had been smart enough to keep their suspicions to themselves. Now, with Ramirez breaking the seal on the who situation, they’d sing like fucking songbirds.
Then leadership would come for him.
He guessed with the time difference and the time they’d take to investigate the accusations, he probably had 96 hours at the most once he was back at Camp Pendleton. The safest bet was to assume he had no more than 72 hours.
Which meant he needed a plan.
Obviously, he had to run, but where? Mexico? An be surrounded by fucking Beaners? No fucking way. Asia was worse, there were more of them, and all different kinds, too. Canada? Give me a fucking break. He was an American, and he had no intention of leaving.
Which meant he needed to disappear without leaving.
But how?
He needed to find a way to get them to forget about him.
To not look for him.
Suddenly, it came to him.
They wouldn’t look for him if he was dead.
‘Alright, now we’re getting somewhere,’ he thought as he unbuckled his harness and made his way to the restroom near the front of the aircraft.
By the time the plane touched down in North Carolina, he had the beginning of a plan.
By the time he arrived in Oceanside, California, he’d have every part of the plan figured out.
“Damn, that’s a sweet truck,” he said, looking over the big Red Ford F-150 Raptor Edition. He whistled softly, shaking his head appreciatively.
“Uh, thanks man,” the driver said, holding his bag of Mexican food in his hand as he waited for Stephen to move out of the way.
Leaning over, Stephen looked at the wheels. “What are those, seventeens?”
“Nah, man, I upgraded. Got the 18 inch rims.”
“Fucking sweet, man.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“I saw you have the Rhino lining in the bed, too. Smart. That stuff is awesome.”
“Yeah, I had it on my old truck. It really holds up.”
“Definitely,” Baldinger said, jamming his hands in his pockets and nodding as he turned his head from left to right, admiring the big machine.
“You wanna check out the interior?”
Stephen feigned surprise. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“Nah, man, not at all.” The man looked Baldinger over. “You in the military?”
Stephen reached up and rubbed the back of his head, feeling the stubble there. Laughing, he asked, “How’d you guess?”
The man laughed in response.
Smiling, Stephen said, “Yeah, out here at Camp Pendleton. Seventh Marine Regiment. Infantry.”
The man nodded. “That’s awesome, man,” he said, before looking away. “You know, I almost joined the military.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but, uh, you know...I, uh, got like a good job, and I didn’t wanna give it up.”
Stephen nodded. ‘Pussy,’ he thought to himself, before saying, “It’s all good, man.”
“Yeah. Maybe someday. I’m not that old yet.” Reaching for the door, he opened it, exposing the truck’s leather bound interior.
Stephen whistled. “Nice!” Stepping closer, he looked in and nodded again. “You know, I saved up a good chunk of change while I was over in the shit. I’m serious thinking of getting one of these.”
“Awesome, man. They’re sweet.” The man looked back and grinned. “Wanna go for a ride? I’ll let you check it out.”
“Yeah? That sounds awesome, bro, thanks.”
“No problem
at all, man. It’s the least I can do for someone in the military. Ya’ll are the real heroes.”
“Cool, thanks.”
The man cocked his head to the side slightly, then said, “You know, we kinda look alike.” He laughed. “Shoot, people’d probably think we’re brothers or somethin’.”
Baldinger laughed, then stuck his hand out. “I’m Steve. Steve Sommer.”
The other man smiled. “Eric Handley. Nice to meet you, Steve.”
Planning out the ‘accident’ was easy. First, with the man’s body in the trunk, he drove out to the Pala Indian Reservation and visited the casino, where he placed a number of bets on upcoming football games. While he was there, he made sure the cameras captured clear, unobstructed views of his face as he strolled through the casino, pretending to work his way through multiple drinks as he did. Just before two a.m., after spending over three hours at the casino, he made his way back to his car, tickets for his bets in hand. He carefully placed the tickets inside his leather wallet and placed it in the center console storage box.
Driving to a dark part of the winding, two lane road that was Highway 76, he pulled over and spent twenty minutes pouring alcohol down the dead man’s throat and over the clothes he’d taken from his own closet and dressed the man in. Next, he spilled alcohol inside the car, making sure it soaked into the carpets and seats. When the bottle was nearly empty, he screwed the cap on tightly and set in on the passenger side floorboard.
Getting the man’s body behind the wheel of Baldinger’s old car had been more challenging than he’d expected, but he’d managed. The real issue had been the blood from where he’d to basically disfigure the man’s face. Though he figured the crash would do enough, he couldn’t take any chances with anyone looking too closely at ‘him’ at the scene of the accident or later in the morgue, so he gave the man’s face a few extra smashes with the wrench before stuffing him into the car. Doing so made the man’s clothes messy and his skin slick. Fortunately, he’d thought ahead and purchased latex gloves and an extra pair of sweats, both of which he’d burn in a bonfire at the beach later that night.
Having finally placed the man’s body behind the wheel, with the seatbelt intentionally left off, and the car lined up with a dangerous curve that had already claimed multiple lives, as evidenced by the series of small crosses that were adorned with bouquets of flowers, he started the car’s engine. Leaning in through the door, he carefully placed the man’s left foot on the brake ensuring it was pressing the pedal all the way down, then placed his right foot on the gas. Reaching across the man’s body, he put the car in gear. The engine revved loudly as it tried to move the car while working against the vehicle’s brakes. Stepping back and closing the door quickly, he yanked the rope he held, pulling the loop that he’d loosely placed over the top of the man’s left foot. The foot was pulled off the brake before the rope came flying out of the car, just as the engine took hold and sent the car speeding towards the curve in the road. The car smashed through the guardrail with ease before plummeting towards the piles of dirt and rock fifty feet below, where it landed with devastating force, smashing the front end of the car all the way into the vehicle’s back seats, just as Baldinger had hoped for.
Watching from the road as small flames emerged from the engine compartment of his old car, he smiled before turning and walking away, crossing the road and climbing the hill on the other side. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the bushes onto a small road, where he’d parked the man’s truck.
From there it was the trip to the beach, where he’d allowed himself to enjoy a single beer while he destroyed the clothes and gloves in his pallet-fueled bonfire, then down to the International border. Once in Mexico, he parked the truck in front of a bar, intentionally stradling the painted lines that outline the space. Glancing towards the group of men he’d spotted in the corner of the lot to make sure they were watching, he stumbled drunkenly as he exited the vehicle, then made a show of dropping his keys on the ground as he headed into the bar.
Two minutes later he exited the building through the back, pausing only to make sure the truck was gone before catching a cab back to the border.
Finding another cab, he paid through the nose to have the driver cover the fifty miles from the border back to the truck owner’s house in Oceanside, but he didn’t mind.
It was the dead man’s money anyway.
After a long, hot shower, he fell into the man’s bed, where he stared at the ceiling, planning out his next steps. He’d need to leave town, obviously, but what then? He had a nice stack of money, just over twenty grand, but it wouldn’t last very long if he didn’t have any income. Plus, he still needed a new car.
With that in mind, he settled on a plan. He’d catch a Greyhound bus to somewhere north in the state, where he’d lie low and find a job, something low key that would preferably pay under the table.
When the time was right, he’d move on with his new life.
With the shackles of the military off, he’d expand his mission.
He’d make his country better by removing the parasites that ate at it from the inside.
There was a lot to do, and it would require a lot of planning, but first, he needed a new name.
Something fitting for his look and features, but also something with a special meaning to him.
During his spare time on deployments, he’d studied World War II history under the guise of wanting to learn about war tactics and how to defend the country against the rise of fascists all over the world.
In truth it was so he could learn about the Nazis. They’d had a plan, and they hadn’t been afraid to execute it.
Of all the Nazi leaders he’d studied, one stood out. A man who’d not only been a soldier in the 16th Panzer Division, but one who’d also helped massacre hundreds of people, including a hundred and nineteen children.
A man by the name of Gerhard Sommer.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
West of Lemoore Station, California
In a manner that had become routine, Daniel awoke early for his guard shift without needing an alarm. Bringing his watch up, he turned it away from Serafina before pressing the button to illuminate its face.
1:22 AM.
Almost forty minutes before his shift.
‘Damn, it’s still really early,’ he thought as he released the button, extinguishing the light. He considered trying to get another twenty minutes of sleep, but knew he’d be unable to. Aside from knowing the alarm would wake his wife, something he didn’t want to do, his bladder was also full, and the more he thought about it, the more he had to go.
Moving the covers aside, he quietly slid out of the bed. He grabbed his clothes from the top of the dresser and carried them to the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He relieved himself, then got dressed quietly and brushed his teeth, using a small bottle of water to rinse his mouth.
Exiting the bathroom, he tiptoed quietly out of the room, closing the bedroom door behind him carefully so as not to wake his wife. Walking quietly on the hardwood floor of the big home, he was grateful that they’d found the place. With four bedrooms, a living room and a family room, it’d been easy for them to spread out: He and Serafina had taken the master bedroom, the three girls had taken the guest room, sharing the queen size bed, Logan and Paul had each taken one of the smaller bedrooms, and Joe had readily agreed to take the large couch in the family room at the rear of the house.
In the kitchen Daniel filled the stovetop coffee maker with water and coffee grounds, lit one of the gas stove’s burners using a match, then set the percolator on top of it. Returning to the living room, he grabbed his boots and put them on, then did a series of stretches before knocking out a set of fifty pushups to get his blood flowing.
By the time he was finished, the coffee on the stove was ready, so he poured himself a cup before making his way back across the living room and out onto the front porch.
At some point, the rain that had come suddenly the evening
before had stopped, leaving the air clean and crisp. Unfortunately, the moisture had settled into the manure the cows had left in their enclosure not three hundred yards from the home, releasing the scent of the dung into the night air.
Above the ranch house, the night sky was partially lit by the moon, which, while barely half full, still shone brightly, in part due to the lack of light pollution that had become a norm in the world’s constantly powered existence.
Until the outbreak.
Joe’s larger, chunky frame sat on the steps of the porch, looking out across the yard. Finding the man sitting there surprised Daniel. It was supposed to be Paul’s shift, and he and the young man typically spent twenty or so minutes chatting before the young man went to bed. Over the last two weeks, Daniel had come to enjoy the interactions. The young man was smart, inquisitive, and impressionable, and he clearly enjoyed their conversations.
“Hey Joe,” Daniel began, keeping his voice low, “where’s Paul?”
Joe started slightly in surprise, which was a bit of a concern for Daniel. The man should have heard Daniel’s approach. If he couldn’t hear an opening door barely ten feet behind him, how could he be keeping a vigilant watch?
Turning slowly to look back at Daniel, the man said, “Oh, you’re early.”
Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Where’s Paul?”
Joe turned away and looked out towards the yard. “Couldn’t sleep, so I took over for him. Figured at least one of us could get some rest.”
Moving to the steps, Daniel nodded as he sat down. “Nice of you to do that. It does get hard, sleeping in a different location every night. Seems like we’ve barely had three nights in one place over the last two weeks. It’s been rough.”
Reilley nodded. “Same here. I slept in my car a couple of nights, in random homes on others. It sucks.”
Daniel nodded again, bringing his cup up to his mouth. He sipped his coffee, enjoying the warm liquid’s taste. Feeling the rush in his veins as the caffeine entered his system, he felt his senses awaken more.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 36
