SANCTIONED - an action thriller collection: a Shadowboxer collection volume one (Shadowboxer files Book 1)
Page 23
If not whole, then a holed man. He grinned and a passer by flinched at the skull like apperance it gave his emmaciated face.
Brill nodded to himself. Food.
Something warm to keep his core temperature up. Soup. The liquid could keep him hydrated.
He spotted a homeless man, and followed him. The guy could be on the hunt for a bottle or a meal, but he was walking away from the hospital and it was as good as any other direction to Brill.
They walked for blocks, what felt like miles to his tired feet and underused muscles.
The grin came back. He had rucked eighty and hundred pound packs up jungle mountains that hurt less than this slow amble through the concrete canyons.
But the bum led him true.
Technically, the bum led him to the street and turned right. Brill saw a soup kitchen to the left, a homeless shelter that served up bologna sandwiches, salty generic chips and Styrofoam cups of yellow watery chicken noodle soup.
He got in line behind three women chatting about different topics to each other, none listening, no one paying attention to him.
The line moved quickly. An easy set up. Get a Styrofoam plate and plastic spoon.
A guy behind a table slapped a sandwich on the plate with one hand and a scoop of chips with the other. Both hands had sterile gloves like the ones surgeons used.
At least he wouldn't need a tetanus shot, the grin came back.
He felt like he was grinning a lot. Scaring a lot of people.
But damn it, he was alive.
Some woman shot him twice and left him for the birds in the desert, and he lived again.
They had a saying back when he worked for XO in South Africa. Any day you wake up is a good way to start.
He was awake, he was free, and now he had food.
The soup was ladled into a cup by a white haired man with kindly features. He wore a priest's collar and a benevolent smile.
"Hold on," he said, and ladled in a second helping. "You look like you could use it."
"Thanks," Brill rasped.
The first words he spoke since waking and it was an expression of gratitude. More grinning as he shuffled to a table in the corner and sat with his back to the wall.
The gunslinger's seat, they called it but he didn't care today. His focus was on filling his empty stomach with calories and letting his body do some healing.
He ripped the sandwich into sections and dipped it into the soup, making the hard bread easier to chew. The chips were split into tiny pieces and turned into floating croutons that swelled up with the liquid, and went down smooth as he drained the cup.
The white haired man approached with a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. He set it on the table and poured it for Brill.
"I wish we could offer you more," said the priest.
"It was enough," Brill patted his flat stomach and felt his ribs poking out through his skin.
"I'm Father Claremont," the man introduced himself. "I haven't seen you here before."
"Passing through," Brill rasped.
"As are many," Claremont sat across from him. "May I pray for you."
"I don't know that it would do any good."
Claremont nodded.
"A lot of people feel like that, but just this morning, I asked the Lord to let me help someone new today and here you are."
Brill snickered.
"That's a house bet, Father."
The priest smiled.
"Probably so," he glanced around the room. "But there are so many that need it. If my prayers can help them in even a small way, then what harm is there in them?"
"Okay," said Brill.
He didn't bow his head as the priest clasped his hands in front of his face and closed his eyes in concentration. His lips moved as he recited the Lord's prayer and added a supplication to help the man in front of him, and guide all those around them.
Brill had been raised in the church, the Baptist arm of it in true Southern style. But once out in the world and learning of all the wonders of a dozen different religions, he felt he could take or leave it.
That's what most people did anyway. Take what they wanted and left the rest.
But he wasn't sure anyone had prayed for him since his grandmother passed away. Certainly not to his face, and not for him where he could see.
It was a kindness, and he vowed to repay it somehow.
"Amen," Claremont finished and stood.
"Thanks," Brill said for a second time.
"I hold service at St. Mark's on Lincoln," Claremont told him. "We don't overnight there, but I open the doors all day if you want some shade sometime."
Brill watched the priest attend to some of the others in the room and rested at the table. The full belly, the escape from the hospital and the aches of his wounds made him sleepy.
He didn't have time for that yet, but he could rest and plan out the next step. The men and women around him shuffled out in singles and pairs, back into the street to do what the homeless do. He noted a lot of mental illness, a lot of twitching and sniffing associated with drugs, and a lot of third world behavior.
That was what he was most familiar with.
Watching people, learning about them, and finding ways to kill them.
He had been good at it once.
Or damn lucky, which he would take.
A skinny Latino kid shifted from foot to foot, brown pants slung below his buttocks so his tight white underwear showed across his glutes. He noticed Brill staring, and glanced away, then tried to sneak over in an obvious way.
"You looking to score?" the boy scratched his nose as if he were trying to hide his lips to keep prying eyes from watching.
His two front pockets bulged with something.
Product thought Brill.
And a pistol. Maybe cash.
He'd seen this guy before. Not him precisely but his type. Guys like him who preyed on the weak. They were part of the problem.
"Yeah," he said and the kid's eyes lit up.
"You got cash?"
Brill patted his pocket on his pants and nodded.
"Let's go outside," the kid whispered. "If they catch me doing anything in here, I can't come back."
Brill pushed up off the table and held on until the room stopped spinning. Then he followed the kid through the door. He saw Claremont watch him, and shake his head in sadness.
Outside, the kid led him further down the alley.
"Keep going," said Brill as he glanced back over his shoulder.
There were a couple of guys lounging outside of the door, but this part was empty. When they rounded the corner, it was emptier still.
The kid turned around, digging in his pocket.
Brill didn't stop moving. He slammed into the kid, punched him in the throat and kneed him in the groin. When he collapsed to the ground, Brill punted his face and knocked him out.
Should kill him, he thought.
But that would bring police and questions.
Somebody might identify him, and someone could connect the dots. Better to just let it be a mugging. He bent over and almost lost his lunch as pain washed over him.
It sent him to a knee, which was fine since he was closer to empty the kid's pockets.
Several hundred dollars, a worn .38 and two dozen tightly rolled baggies of white powder was his reward, along with a set of keys on a fob.
He'd have to hunt for it, but he had cash, a weapon and a ride plus a full belly.
Which he almost lost again standing up. He had to hold onto the wall to keep from pitching over next to the drug dealer.
But it passed, as he knew it would and he hobbled out of the alley. Brill found the car by pressing the unlock button and listening for the beep. It was a beat up sedan, dropped low and polished to perfection. The interior reeked like a Jamaican bar, but the tank was full. He turned down the volume on the cranked up radio and cruised away from the neighborhood.
It was time for a new hunt and he knew just where to star
t.
KEEP READING:
WANT SOME MORE?
DIRTBAG MURDERS
He stopped at a gas station/general store combo on the edge of the National Forest that bordered the Needles in South Dakota. Even though it was a popular destination for climbers and hikers, the general populace had yet to discover the untamed beauty within. It was perfect for what he wanted.
The plan was to go off grid and under radar for awhile. The van he had acquired in Los Angeles worked well enough, and the modifications he had made to the interior would make for very comfortable camping. After years in the dirt, the soft memory foam mattress on a raised dais in the back would feel like a pillow. Space was a little tight, at least until he could clear some of the gear out and inspect it.
Still as far as camping went, it wasn't glamping, but it definitely wasn't cramping either. A couple of chairs in the cargo hold would set up nicely by a campfire and there was even a hammock he could string between two trees.
It had been a good purchase from a vanlife climber who needed quick cash.
It had left him a little light on funds though.
He wrestled his wallet out of a pocket and inspected the contents. When he left LA, he didn't get a chance to visit the bank to clean out accounts, and the $10,000 he kept in a go bag went to buying the van, and escaping from the men chasing him.
A lone twenty dollar bill rested in the creases, the weathered visage of Andrew Jackson looking as tired as he felt.
Still, it would buy gas and food, enough to get him into the park and to a remote location, plus simple food stock to last a couple of weeks. Sure there would be no feasts, but with the fishing gear in one of the boxes, and foraging, he could supplement dry goods.
CHAPTER
He walked through the door, chimes announcing his entry and stepped back into the past. The General Store had panelled walls covered with stuffed animal trophies. Deer, Elk, a Moose all watched the eight packed aisles. A freezer took up one wall, and each aisle was dedicated to select goods. One for dry goods, one for canned goods, one for camping supplies, one for pre-packaged food. Beer took up one lower shelf and looked to be the most travelled section besides the sacks of rice and beans.
The man behind the counter was between sixty and seventy, weathered skin from years in the sun made a map of wrinkles across his brow. He watched Brill with alert eyes and nodded with a tight smile.
"Morning," he said.
Brill smiled back and returned the nod as he made his way to the dry goods aisle. He selected the cheapest items he could find. Ramen noodles and plain oatmeal. He counted out eight dollars worth in his head, which would feed him for a couple of weeks and carried it back to the counter.
"That going to be it?" the old man raised an eyebrow at the narrow choice of food.
"Ten on unleaded," Brill said.
The man began ringing it all up on a cast iron register that looked like it belonged in the last century.
The door swung open, tinkled the windchimes above the frame and they both glanced over.
Two men rushed in, bandanas covering their lower faces, beanies tugged low over their heads almost obscuring their eyes.
The first man was about Brill's height, rail thin and twitchy. He held a grimy .38 revolver in a shaky hand that wavered in front of Brill's nose.
"Don't move," the robber squeaked.
Brill held up his hands. The old man did the same.
The robber's buddy stood by the door, another ancient pistol swinging back and forth to cover the empty aisles.
Squeaky moved his gun from Brill to the owner and licked his chapped lips.
"Give me-"
Brill grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face into the counter. The robber's nose crunched and fountained a stream of blood across the floor as he slid into a crumpled pile.
Brill jerked the pistol from his hand as he fell and aimed it at the second gunman.
"Drop it," he warned.
The man ignored him or couldn't hear, so lost and hopped on something that made his pupils the size of saucers.
He lifted the pistol in a slow arc.
Brill thought about shooting him. It would be easy enough. He could tell by the weight of the pistol that it was loaded. There was the real chance that the weapon would explode in his hand due to negligent care, but he took the chance and pulled the trigger.
The pop of the bullet was loud in the confined space of the general store and made the robber flinch. The bullet thudded into the doorframe where Brill aimed, showering splinters of wood across the gunman.
He made a noise between a grunt and a shriek, fell backwards out of the door and disappeared, leaving his partner to face the owner and the erstwhile hero.
"Should I shoot him?" Brill shrugged and glanced at the old man behind the counter.
"Probably," the old man sighed. "But that'd be more trouble for you than for him."
Brill slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants and searched through the rack of camping supplies. He grabbed a pack of zipties and secured the unconscious robber's wrists and feet.
"How long before the police respond?" he asked.
"We've got a Deputy that routes out here," said the owner as he watched Brill truss up their prisoner.
"Take her about twenty, maybe thirty minutes to get here."
"Make the call," said Brill. "I can't wait that long."
"Yup," said the owner.
He scrutinized the man who saved him from being robbed. He was forgettable, with a plain face, average height, average hair. The only thing that set him apart from any of the hundreds of other visitors he got a week was the extreme musculature in his forearms and development under his clothes. The man exuded fitness, like an endurance athlete to the extreme.
That was saying something, thought the owner.
He saw dozens of hardened climbers and runners each week, so he knew an athlete when he saw one.
There was something about his eyes though. The face was lined, there were scars on his cheeks, and knuckles, but the eyes were bright and dark, like a predator's. They studied the room, studied the owner, studied the robber on the floor.
The owner felt measured and like he came up short.
"You said eighteen dollars," Brill pushed the twenty dollar bill across the counter.
The owner pushed it back.
"Fill up your tank, and fill up a couple of bags of chow," he said. "Just my way of saying thanks."
Brill nodded and put the twenty back into his thin wallet.
"Thanks," he grunted.
"My gratitude to give," said the old man.
He held out a hand.
"Leon," he introduced himself.
"Nice to meet you," said Brill shaking his hand. "John."
"The Deputy is going to want to ask you some questions," said Leon.
"Tell him that he slipped," said Brill.
He took two bags off the counter and began filling them with supplies.
He kept to low cost, easy to prepare items. Leon might be grateful, but he still had a business to run.
"Appreciate it," said Brill as he headed for the door.
"Where you planning to camp?" Leon asked.
"Got any suggestions?" Brill asked.
If he shared information with the old man, as well meaning as he might be, that intel might be given to the police and they would come looking for him.
If the police came looking, there was a fifty fifty chance they would want him to come in, and if they ran his prints, alarm bells would go off in the Beltway and bring a river of shit down on the region.
A river full of black helicopters and jack booted mercenaries intent on scorching the earth to turn up a man that important people thought was dead.
Better to avoid the civilized world altogether, hence his sojourn to the wild lands of North America.
About the Author:
Chris Lowry is an avid adventurer and ultrarunning author. He divides his time
between Florida, Arkansas and California where he trains for 100 mile Ultramarathons. He has completed over 68 races, including 18 marathon's and 12 Ultramarathons and is planning a Transcontinental Run across the United States from Los Angeles to New York City in 2017. He has kayaked the Mississippi River solo, and biked across the state of Florida. When not outdoors, he is producing and directing a documentary film about adventure and writing. His novels include Sci-Fi thrillers, Spy thriller's and mainstream fiction. He loves good craft beer and meeting with reading clubs and running clubs, especially if the aforementioned beer is offered.
Conscripted
Mission One
Shadowboxer
Decreed
August 2017
Dirtbag Murders
August 2017
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