Dwyer parked three rows behind them to their right. Harder to spot when you're on their right away from and behind the vehicle. Passenger mirrors usually point straight back. The driver is the one to watch out for. They do all the looking. It's predictable.
Dwyer got out of his car. Approached their vehicle from an angle. The bomber, the passenger had gone inside. Dwyer was moving in on the driver's blind side, from the right. Had to get a good look at him. He could see the driver’s head. Just the back, but enough to see his hair. Dark brown, almost black. Then his profile came into view.
The driver was clean looking and older. He had a light colored shirt with a button down collar. Kind of tanned.
Dwyer moved back to his car. It didn't take long before the bomber appeared. Food in his hands as if this was just another day doing nothing and going nowhere.
Dwyer's uncle was a bail bondsmen. Took him under his wing when he was twelve. Had a connection with him. He could see Dwyer wasn't like most kids. He was observant. They had lived in New Jersey. Lots of crime. Dwyer saw the pattern. The more people squeezed into a small living area the more crime. It's inversely proportional to living space. His job was to watch and listen. His uncle taught him things; things like being cautious and taking your time. He learned what to look for in street people. Their favorite cons. Racketeering from the Italians. Drug dealing from the Columbians. Gambling from the Chinese. He saw how people reacted to stress. He told Dwyer most people are nice. But some will light a can of hair spray in your face just to watch your skin melt. Never underestimate the bad guys. They're always looking for a way to beat you. Especially the ones with a monkey on their back. Drugs, debt, they're driven by something they can't shake, fear. They'll watch everything you do looking for an opening, a weakness. Dwyer remembered the lessons. Think like a hunter he was told. Always be aware of your surroundings and who's watching you. The rule is to spot them first. He looked in his rear view mirror, no one of any concern. He looked left then right. No one was watching him. Then pulled out behind the bad guys.
Chapter 13
The black Mustang peeled away. It was moving fast. Maybe they were making up time. They'd only stopped for a few minutes at the truck stop and now they were flying maybe seventy-five or eighty miles an hour.
They had traveled for two and a half hours straight up the highway-heading north. They were about one-ninety to two hundred miles north of Tampa. Dwyer hadn't a clue where they were going.
He had driven south on I-75 just a few days ago. He remembered the area was rolling hills. It reminded him of horse farms. The estates were partitioned with white fences and clusters of live oak trees. He remembered thinking how peaceful it looked.
It was dark. An exit was approaching on the right. Dwyer saw the red brake lights come on. He slowed down so they wouldn't see him pull off the highway behind them. They stopped for a beat at the end of the ramp and merged onto a two-lane road. At the corner was a gas station. Not as big as the highway truck stop but one of those twenty-four hour places that are always busy. The parking lot was big with a couple of truckers turning in for the night. Mostly it was cars. Dwyer studied it as he drove by. When you don't know where you are, places like this are important. He took in as much as he could. The number of cars, young, old, what the people were like. Who was hanging out there? Analyzing whether it was safe.
He let himself fall further behind as they cruised along the quiet road. The surface was rough, used by farm vehicles. He could tell by the ruts in the asphalt. It reminded him of a joke he heard a flight attendant say after a hard landing; it wasn't my fault, it wasn't the Captain's fault it was the asphalt.
He bounced around a bit and took his foot off the gas pedal. They pulled further away. The Mustang's brake lights came on. It turned left onto another two-lane road. They were out in the country. It was pitch black. There were no other cars on the road. Dwyer slowed down and turned his headlights off. Waited a moment before he turned onto the side road then pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.
He saw them pull into a gravel driveway and motor a few hundred feet into a farm. He got out of his car and watched them. They were far away but he heard their engine shut down. Then it got quiet, dark and silent. He heard their car doors close, two bangs. He heard voices, far in the distance, hard to distinguish, but voices just the same; they were talking. He saw the dark outline of a farmhouse and some large buildings. They were beyond the wall of trees that protected the place. Then he heard the door slam shut. They'd entered the house. There were two outside lights on at the farm. Above what looked like a barn, a single light shone down on the front door. It was maybe twenty feet above the ground. The other was above a door leading into the farmhouse. Neither one lit up the property. In fact they didn't light up much of the area.
Jack Dwyer stood under a warm black sky. The stars were scattered across the universe above him. Gave him a kind of lonely feeling like he was the only one out there. Then the insects started up. He could hear cicadas singing, they were all around him. It was loud, almost noisy, and it was everywhere.
An amber glow lit up. Someone was smoking outside one of the large buildings. Dwyer watched it. The person was standing still. Then there was a second glow. He couldn't see them, not even a silhouette. A moment later the red dots standing against the inky darkness of night disappeared.
Dwyer was about fifteen hundred feet from the driveway. He was sitting on the hood of his car, waiting, watching the farmhouse. Then he saw a dark shape move. At that distance it was hard to tell what it was. The silhouette was walking. He saw the outline of a rifle. A guard. It was night duty and he was protecting something or someone.
It was the weapon that told him he was in the right place. He put a positive spin on it. The pretty girl, Kelly Paul is missing. No dead body has turned up. She's probably still alive. A guy with a gun protecting the place told him that. The good news was she could be in there. The bad news, a guy with a gun is protecting the place.
Dwyer eased himself off the car. His eyes focused on the guard. He opened the driver's door. The interior light went on. Reaction. He slammed his palm over the light. He slid into the seat and watched the guard. He was expecting movement. Nothing. He closed the door. Started the engine. Kept the lights off. Slipped it into reverse. The tires spun on the gravel. He hit the brake. Panic rose up inside. He was being careless. He wasn't thinking. He studied the guard. He was still there. If he would have heard the car he would have reacted, but nothing changed. No sudden movements from him, no signaling for help. Dwyer waited, then exhaled. He looked in his rear view mirror. Blackness. Both hands were gripping the steering wheel tight. He eased his foot off the brake.
It got quiet. Even the cicadas stopped.
Then he heard a noise, outside. Someone was there. More noise, all around him. The door opened. The interior light came on. A shotgun barrel was pushed into his face. A dark image of a man stood there, then another. Three of them, two on one side the other on the passenger side. That door opened. He was surrounded.
The shotgun was a double barrel. Looked new. Held steady, lined up on Dwyer's face. He could smell the oil used to clean it. The guys fingers wrapped around the barrel were strong, solid. He wasn't nervous.
Behind him was another guy. Looked young, twenty-five maybe thirty. He was holding a rifle. A big gun. He was a little more cautious. Looking around, up and down the road.
The guys were white, crew cuts. Mean faces. Big guys. Muscular, pushing iron type muscles.
"So, ah, what are you doing?" the guy with the shotgun asked.
"You a cop?" Dwyer responded.
They stood there staring at Dwyer. Like four guys not sure what to say.
"Did you hear what I said?" the guy repeated.
The guy with the shotgun spoke direct. Like he knew the answer. Had an accent, southern with a drawl. Not Mississippi, maybe Georgia, or the Carolinas, but definitely southern, Dwyer thought.
"I pulled off the highway to catch
some sleep. Didn't know I was trespassing."
They were looking in the back seat, scanning the inside of the vehicle.
"Maybe you should just get back on the highway. What do you think?" The guy said.
"Ok," Dwyer said.
"Good," he said. "You need directions to the highway?"
"I got it."
The guy pulled his shotgun out of the car and closed the door. He motioned for Dwyer to put the window down. The other guy, the one in the passenger side closed his door.
Dwyer slid the window down. Didn't move too fast. Didn't want to make them nervous. The guy leaned on the doorframe. Poked his head in. Big face, kind of filled the space.
"Where did you say you we're going?"
He sounded like a cop. Maybe military police.
"I didn't," Dwyer said.
The guy’s eyes penetrated Dwyer's. There was silence. They stared at each other. This was a tough guy, experienced. He was watching, looking for a reaction that would give Dwyer away. The tension had risen. No point in risking it. Dwyer took in a big breath.
"Going north," Dwyer said. "Atlanta for a day. Then west; California."
"You got family there?" He asked.
Dwyer shook his head, "No."
"You got family here?" he asked.
"No."
He grunted and did another look inside the car. Then stood back.
Dwyer kept looking at him. He folded his shotgun across his arms. He was struggling with what to do. His gut told him something wasn't right.
"Nobody comes this far off the highway to catch some ZZZs. So what's going on?" he asked.
The guy was no dummy. He knew Dwyer's story wasn't right. Nobody in charge of guarding something of importance would fall for it.
"Ok, guys. I'm low on gas, have no money. I was just looking to see what I could get," Dwyer said.
The shotgun guy gazed at Dwyer. Not sure whether to believe him or not.
Dwyer saw his eyes glance at the gas gauge. It was almost empty.
"So why did you pick this place?' he asked.
"I don't know. Got off at the truck stop, needed gas. Knew I was low on funds so I drove down this road."
The guy gazed at Dwyer. Memorizing his face, etching it into his memory.
"All right asshole, get out of here."
Chapter 14
The truck stop was just another gas station off the highway. The main fuel area had four lanes with three sets of gas pumps. The building located in the center was lit up with bright white and green signs, Hess. The front was a wall of glass with posters of this month's special. Inside were four rooms. The big room, the convenience store, was filled with racks of food, snacks and beer. A smaller room had a selection of trucker’s supplies. Leather wallets, key chains, t-shirts and boots, cowboy boots. The place had showers and a small restaurant. It was open twenty-four hours and was busy. The girl behind the register was young, lots of makeup. There was another register for the truckers store and showers. An old woman was stationed there.
Jack Dwyer parked his car behind the building about eighty feet from the back entrance. An empty spot in a row of vehicles. They looked like they had been sitting there for a while. Tree pollen was accumulating. But it was night. This area of the lot was poorly lit. Nobody would notice his car; it would blend in like the others.
He walked across the parking lot and around the building to the front doors. He stepped inside; nobody gave him a second look. He decided the front door was better, less likely to be noticed.
He headed for the beverage coolers and slid the glass door to the side. Reached in for a soda. Flavor didn't matter. He wasn't thirsty. He let the door close and stood facing it. He scanned the reflection in the glass looking at every face in the place. At least all the ones he could see. He was looking to see if anyone was studying him. He was close to the trucker’s stuff. A glass case, about ten feet away. Inside were knives.
Dwyer wasn't a knife expert but he knew the stories from the Gulf War. As a military psychologist he talked soldiers through their post combat experiences. He'd learned what damage a knife can do. He remembered the details, the advice. Rule number 1: Don't show your knife to your opponent. That will only give him time to react. Rule number 2: Cut your way in, cut your way out. Rule number 3: Distract the opponent with the blade; kill with the free hand.
Dwyer eyed a large Military Ka-Bar Black Tanto Knife with an eight-inch powder coated carbon steel blade. He could see himself cutting in, cutting out. The wound would be small. The thickness of the blade. The injury could be deceiving. The knife-edge goes in and cuts its way through skin and tissue. Lots of blood. It doesn't push meat out of the way, it cuts through it. Slices a deep channel for itself. And an eight-inch blade makes sense when you want to reach the inner organs.
Stabbing someone is not like what we see on TV. Lunging in from the distance shows the weapon, there is no surprise. Someone wanting to kill doesn't do that. They hide the weapon and at the last moment, the knife appears. You don't have time to react. That's how the pros do it. It's very hard to block a knife attack. If you do manage to block it. The guy holding the blade just cuts his way back out. Forearms, fingers, face. The face bleeds heavy. Very distracting when blood is pouring into your eyes, kind of takes the fight out of you. Cut, bleeding, shock, fending off a knife attack is harder than you think. The forearm carved up is very painful. The blade nicks the bone, severs nerves, veins, paralyzing.
Jack Dwyer spent fifteen minutes in the truck stop. He wandered the aisles picking out a few items, candy bars, pound cake and back to the cooler, close to the knives. He was waiting until there was nobody at the counter where the knives were kept. He looked left, then right and moved straight to the counter. The old woman looked up. She didn't say anything, just looked at him.
Dwyer eyed all the knives one last time and pointed to the black Ka-Bar. The one he'd been looking at all the time.
"It's a good hunting knife," she said.
Dwyer nodded.
"You want to see it?" she asked.
She opened the case and took out the Ka-Bar. The eight-inch knife with its sheath. Then handed it to him.
"Feels nice," Dwyer said.
"So you want it?"
Dwyer nodded.
"The rest of the stuff too?"
Dwyer slid the food items he had across the glass case to the old woman and pulled out his wallet.
"Hunting?"
"More or less," Dwyer said.
She placed the items in a bag and Dwyer pulled out a stack of bills, cash. Vacation money. He knew not to use his credit card in the machine. That could be traced. He didn't know what was ahead of him. He kept waiting for the woman to give him change. It was late; she was tired. Dwyer kept looking around, sneaky like. The old woman didn't notice. But nothing was out of the ordinary. People were coming and going, getting coffee, snacks and paying for fuel.
Dwyer walked to the front door. He stopped at a display by the door. Pretended to be reading something. He was looking outside. Making sure he was safe before leaving the store. Made sure the parking lot was safe. Nobody looked at him as he made his way around the back. He got into his vehicle and watched the traffic coming and going from the gas station. He sat still. Not really sure what to do.
He got out and stood next to his car, his back was against the door. What to do? In front of him was a brightly lit truck stop. With people getting on with their lives. He glanced at some of the people. Families, kids, happy people. A few hundred feet, the entrance to the highway. North or south he could go either way. He could escape.
Then he looked behind himself along the edge of the parking lot. Beyond was a field. It was black. Nothing but a solid line of trees. The sun had gone down a few hours ago. It was maybe ten or eleven o'clock in the evening.
Kelly Paul was a beautiful woman. She was missing. Whatever the reason was, she had a story. A curious story, certainly; one about which that Dwyer couldn't stop thinking.
&nbs
p; He moved along the parking lot and stood at the edge where the guardrail formed a boundary and stared out into the field. Thoughts rushed through his head. He could see himself walking through the field. Walking into the line of trees. Walking into the farm.
It was one of those moments when you’re safe but your next choice is dangerous. He was searching inside, questioning himself. Was he up to the task? What if it was all in his imagination? What if the pretty woman wasn't there at all? He would just be getting into a whole lot of trouble. Then he saw her face. Something about fighting for the underdog grabbed him. It made him angry when he thought of what happened to the innocent people at Starbucks. He knew how he would feel if he had just left and he didn't like that feeling. He'd thought about becoming a Navy Seal when he first joined the military. Changed his mind over a woman. She didn't want him to risk his life. It didn't last; he kicked himself for not going for Seal training. He knew he had the right stuff. It was moments like this where he had to prove to himself he was Seal material. Here he was again making a choice over a woman. Old habits run deep.
He stepped over the guardrail. It was about two and a half feet high. There were two guys on the far corner of the gas station. Maybe three hundred feet away, they weren't paying Dwyer any attention. They were talking, drinking a beer. He looked over his left shoulder to the other side of the building. Quiet, nobody.
The he faced the field right in front of him. It was now or never. He was looking beyond the trees. Looking to see where the farmhouse would be. It was located on a diagonal from where he stood. It was an eight-minute car ride by road. At forty miles per hour that would be five miles by road. Walking on the angle he could cut that in half, maybe two or three miles. Walking at an average pace through a field, four to five miles an hour, it would take him just under forty-five minutes.
Dwyer took one more look at his car, the gas station. The highway out of here. Then made his move. It was time for an adventure.
Shockwave Page 6
