by Jeff Olah
“Aren’t you gonna need—”
Another burst of static cut him off. “When I give you the signal, start backing down the street. Real slow.”
To his right Natalie had turned in her seat. She was leaning in close to Noah, holding his hand, and speaking under her breath. Owen was only able to make out every third or fourth word.
“Sure … who … try … down.”
Over Owen’s right shoulder and huddled low in her seat, Ava stared at her mother and her brother. Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open. She finally looked up at him as her lower lip began to quiver. “Dad?”
With the intersection out of his periphery, Owen looked back at his daughter through the rearview mirror. He knew what she was going to ask, but at the moment, he didn’t have an answer for her. There was something happening, something he figured had to do with whatever Natalie and Kevin knew from before the end of everything. Something he also probably wasn’t going to like.
“Everything’s fine sweetheart. We’re going to Aunt April’s beach house.”
“But Mom told Noah that—”
Natalie shot up in her seat, now facing Owen. “I’ve seen those men before, that BMW. The ones I told you about from the city.”
Owen watched as Kevin rounded the front of the truck, his pulse starting to climb. “Same guys who took the shotgun and threatened Noah?”
“Yeah, I think so. Same SUV for sure, it has to be.”
Owen set the two-way radio back in the console and reached for the Glock. He pulled Natalie in close and kissed her forehead, turning his eyes back to his children. “You guys stay down.”
Noah shot forward in his seat. “Dad, wait. Those are the bad men!”
Owen knew the rest of the story. Natalie had explained every single detail of the encounter three days before. Although that wasn’t going to change what needed to happen. Eight days ago, he would have shifted the SUV into reverse and run from whatever this was, but not today.
“It’s okay buddy, I’m just going to talk to them.”
“But Dad, I don’t want you to go.”
“Just stay down on the floor, I’ll be right back.”
Before his son could respond, Owen opened his door and stepped out. At nearly the same time, four men exited the BMW and started toward the center of the intersection. A stocky man wearing a black tactical vest came from the driver’s side, holding a pistol in his right hand and a shotgun hanging from his left.
Owen dipped back inside and looked from Noah to Natalie. “That the guy?”
She wasn’t looking back at him. Her eyes were straight ahead and her hand shook as she gripped the center console. “Yeah, he’s the one.”
“Get down on the floor.” Owen slammed the door and walked quickly around the front of the SUV, raising his weapon as he moved.
The three others joined the stocky man, now forming a wide arc nearly thirty feet away. There was a tall man, much taller than the others, at least by a good eight inches. He was younger too, probably in his early twenties, maybe even a late teen. He stared at Owen for a moment, then at the SUV, then to stocky man to his left.
There were a few seconds of pressured silence. Owen figured that if he allowed them to speak first, he could steer the conversation, maybe avoid having to kill every single one of them. And in front of his wife and kids.
But as the tall man turned on his heels and began to whisper something to the man in the tactical vest, Kevin stepped forward, now clutching the Beretta M9 that belonged to his wife. He looked beyond the four men and through the windshield of the BMW, his voice coming out louder than Owen thought necessary. “Let’s not do this.”
The four men stared at Kevin for a beat and then turned toward the vehicle they’d exited only seconds before. As the passenger door opened, Owen also took a step forward and under his breath said, “What are you doing?”
“Owen, go back, we don’t have time to debate this, I’m serious.”
From the open passenger door another man exited. He wore a fitted Henley, dark colored jeans, and had a jagged scar that cut a line from his right eye halfway down his cheek. He stepped quickly to the others and also held a weapon—what looked to be a Ruger nine millimeter. As he approached he locked on Kevin, his face quickly softening into a smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me … Kevin Rodgers.”
Kevin didn’t respond.
The man with the athletic build continued to grin as he turned to the men on his left and right, and then back to Kevin. “Well I’ll be damned, I was right. Goodwin told us that you had died back there in the city, that you had become one of those things, that you would no longer be a problem, nothing to worry about. But here you are, no worse for wear.”
Kevin took in a breath, releasing it slowly as he looked over the five men, finally resting with the man in the Henley. “Declan, I see you’re still running pointless errands for the man on the golden throne.”
The man Kevin had addressed as Declan began to nod, his expression quickly hardening. “And I see you chose to stand on the wrong side of this thing, I mean you can’t think this is going to end well for you,” he looked from Kevin to Owen and then finally to the SUV. “Or for any of them?”
Kevin began to nod. He also turned and glanced at Owen before looking down at the weapon in his right hand. "You know me Declan, you have for years." He paused, but then turned his eyes back toward the man in the fitted Henley. "Do you really want to do this?"
"You know me just as well, what the hell do you think?"
"I think you're overconfident as usual, but this time it just might get you killed."
Declan looked to his right and then to his left. "So I see you're still having trouble with even the basic concepts of math, specifically addition and subtraction. Although, it never really was something you excelled—"
“Enough.” Kevin used his free hand to motion Owen back toward the SUV. He narrowed his eyes and started to raise the Beretta, stopping just before he pushed past the point of no return. “I know why you’re here and what you’re trying to do. But it’s not happening, she’s not leaving here with you. Not without a fight.” He was now looking from one man to the other, pausing for a moment to meet each man’s eyes. “So the question is, which of you is ready to die for Marcus Goodwin. Who’s willing to sacrifice everything, just to further that lunatic’s twisted agenda?”
Declan took a step forward, again looking back at his men. He began a slow clap, laughing as he slowly turned back to Kevin and Owen. “Boy, in all the time I’ve known you, I must say that I had absolutely no idea you were such a talented actor, or maybe a closeted motivational speaker. You really had me going there for a minute. What’s next, you asking us to join your little band of do-gooders and then we all ride off into the sunset holding hands?”
Kevin tightened his grip around the pistol, breathing in through his nose. He leaned his head slightly toward Owen and spoke in a raised whisper. “Go now, get them the hell out of here.”
Owen took another half step forward, now nearly shoulder to shoulder with Kevin. He didn’t respond or even look toward his friend. There wasn’t a reason to, and the men thirty feet away needed to see this.
Kevin paused for a count of three, bit at the corner of his lip. Looked like he was thinking over his next move. “Last chance to do this the easy way,” he finally said, “you’re not going to like what comes next.”
Declan turned away from Kevin, nodding toward the shorter man in the tactical vest. “Shoot Mr. Rodgers, and then the husband. And then if she still doesn’t get out of that SUV, go over and shoot her children.”
Before Owen or Kevin could react, the man to Declan’s left raised the pistol in his right hand and squeezed off three quick shots. The first exploded into the driver’s side headlight. Only inches from Kevin’s left arm; however, the next entered his shoulder, just above his armpit.
Kevin was knocked back into the grill of the pickup, and quickly toppled to the ground. He dropped his
weapon, rolling onto his left side, and clutching at his injury.
Instinctively twisting to his right, Owen flinched as a lightning rod of white hot fire tore across the left side of his face. The super-heated projectile had ripped a line from his chin to his ear, sending a wave of excruciating pain down into the base of his neck. He bit into his cheek, tasting blood as he shoved away the thoughts of death and quickly fired back two wild shots of his own.
He lost track of the rounds the instant they left the barrel. Although as he stumbled to the right, now clenching his jaw and wiping away a handful of blood, he noticed the man on the far left had dropped to the asphalt, a pool of blood growing around his body.
Now everything slowed. Owen watched as Declan started forward, retrieving a small pistol that had slid away from the motionless body. Beside him, the stocky man in the black vest now shouldered his shotgun and walked quickly toward Owen and the SUV.
Out of his periphery, Kevin lay on his back, his head pushed into the driver’s side front tire. His legs were bent at an odd angle and his arms laid out at his sides.
And he wasn’t moving.
Owen pushed away from the SUV, bringing the Glock back around and tracking from Declan to the short man in the tactical vest. “NO!”
The man continued forward, slowing from a jog as Owen fired another shot. He flinched and nearly lost his footing as the round buzzed by the side of his head. But now standing less than five feet from the hood of the SUV, the stocky man pointed the shotgun at the windshield and fingered the trigger.
Four ear-splitting explosions came in rapid succession.
Owen dropped the nine millimeter and grabbed at the sides of his head. “NOOOO!”
Less than a second later, the man in the black tactical vest was thrown sideways, the right side of his head peeled back, chunks of flesh and brain matter tossed to the street. The man’s body instantly went limp and the shotgun bounced on its stock and slid to a stop near the front bumper of the SUV.
The next three shots came at almost the same time. And before Owen had a chance to turn away, the man nearest the BMW was hit just above his right clavicle, his head torqueing violently to the left and the projectile nearly decapitating him. His body appeared motionless as it spiraled to the ground.
To the right, the tall young man who had looked out of his element since walking into the intersection now wore a horrified expression as he dropped his weapon, turned on his heels, and sprinted back to the BMW.
Out in front, Declan stepped back as the street exploded only feet from where he stood. Fragmented asphalt blew outward from the softball sized depression, the shockwave peppering not only the man Owen intended to kill, but also Kevin’s already battered body and the massive black pickup.
With his eyes darting between the downed men, Owen quickly retrieved the Glock, and moved to the driver’s door of the SUV. He took a look inside. Nat, Ava, and Noah were all still huddled on the floor. Thankfully, they were also still in one piece. He was going to make sure it stayed that way.
He was going to end this.
Turning back and raising the nine millimeter, Declan was gone. The man who’d ordered him dead had also sprinted back to the BMW and was now climbing in behind the wheel. The motor appeared to be idling, although the luxury SUV had yet to move even an inch.
From the bed of the pickup, Lucas leapt into the street, and started toward Kevin. The teen looked over his shoulder three times. He appeared to be focused on a row of apartment buildings not more than fifty yards from the intersection.
“OWEN, HELP!”
Owen ran to his friend, but watched out of the corner of his eye as the BMW finally began to back away, its windshield punctured near the upper left corner. He wasn’t sure if it had been his handy work or the last of the mysterious gunfire. Either way, there were still two men he needed to kill.
Lucas had come in over Kevin and was checking for a pulse. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. He looked like he was second guessing himself and just about to hyperventilate.
“LUCAS.”
“Uh, yeah?”
Owen turned to face the BMW and planted his right foot. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Owen tracked the luxury SUV as it began to back into a turn. He dropped his index finger over the trigger and emptied the magazine. The first two rounds went high—less than six inches above the hood. The next three punctured the driver side front quarter panel, each ripping a hole in the otherwise pristine SUV. The last entered through the window behind the driver’s door, sending a hailstorm of fractured glass through the interior.
His heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest as the BMW rolled to stop.
“LUCAS, IS. HE. OKAY?”
Behind him, the passenger door opened. Harper leaned out. Her hands were shaking and her lip quivered, tears were running down her cheek. “Owen?”
Without turning to face her, Owen said, “Stay put, we’re getting out of here.” He moved out away from the truck and scanned the street, searching for the Beretta. But as he found it laying a few feet from his friend’s foot, he could hear the low rumble of the BMW’s motor as it pulled out from the sidewalk and raced away.
He scooped up the pistol and started to run, but it was too late. The high-priced SUV had turned the corner and was gone.
“DAMN IT!”
“Owen.” Lucas’s voice was weak. “I … uh. I don’t think …”
Owen swallowed hard and turned back toward the pickup. He watched as Lucas cradled Kevin’s head and looked down at his body. The teen shook his head, fighting back tears of his own. “I … I don’t think he’s breathing anymore.”
19
The barrel was still hot. Waves of radiating heat warmed the right side of his face as he brought it in next to his ear. The man sat at the window, staring out over the long city block, debating whether he needed to do anything else to help those people. He had already told himself what she’d want him to do, and now just needed to convince himself that he would have actually listened to her.
He started to grin at the thought of her face tightening up, and then the tilt of her head. She’d have told him that he was better than any of this, and that there wasn’t really any question at all. He needed to do whatever he could—that was just who he was.
The man stepped away from the window, straightened his black t-shirt, and tucked it into his pants. He’d made his decision; well he’d actually made the decision when he lined up the first shot, but he never really had a choice.
Not now and not five years ago.
He took a quick inventory of the room, figured his chances of returning were less than half. He took the rifle and stepped quickly to the center of the room. Everything he needed in a three-foot square, it was simple as well as effective. He was ready, always ready.
The backpack was next. It held the food and supplies he’d gathered over the last three days. Everything he’d need to get him through at least another seven. He slid the straps over his shoulders, placed the SIG into his waistband, and hurried to the door.
Listening for a moment, he tapped the wall alongside the frame and gave a count of three before opening the door and peering out into the hall. Six bodies, exactly where he’d placed them two nights before. Three near the entrance to the stairs, two outside the elevator, and a large female positioned dead center in the hall, less than ten feet from where he stood. Nothing better to keep the dead away than the dead themselves.
He reached the landing outside the third floor before there was anything other than the sounds of the pulse in his ears and the rapping of his boots against the stairs. The hollow thud against the wall and the low guttural moans caused him to miss the first step and catch the outer edge of his right foot on the second.
Before he could reach out for the railing, he slammed into the wall, and was launched forward. There was two seconds of weightlessness that seemed like a full minute. What his eyes couldn’t see, h
is mind replaced with the horrific images of what might lie below. The thought of crashing headfirst into a pile of decomposing bodies was only slightly more appealing than the alternative. He may end up covered in blood and smell like death for the foreseeable future, but he decided that was much better than a broken arm, or something worse.
Then his right elbow hooked the railing, or at least that’s what he was picturing. He was pushed back to the center of the stairwell, his arm going numb from finger to shoulder. He leaned back, extended his legs, and although he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, he closed his eyes, bracing for impact.
Another second or two and as the underside of his pack caught a step, he was tossed into the opposite wall, stopping on a dime as he met the next landing. His right arm had come back to life and now there was an odd pain pressing in on his lower back. The kind of pain where you aren’t sure whether you’re going to be walking funny for a few hours or end up bed ridden for a week.
But for the moment, he had more pressing matters. That pain, whatever it was, would have to wait. He’d deal with it when he was done with whatever this was.
Up on his feet, the man in the black t-shirt pushed the rifle back, re-cinched the straps on his pack, and started again. He made it to the first floor without incident and sprinted through the lobby, finally stopping at the doors and sliding aside a pair of eight-foot potted palms.
Pushing open the doors, he checked his watch, moved to the sidewalk, and continued out into the street. With his hand over his eyes, he spotted the pickup truck and the light-colored SUV. They sat less than fifty yards away, and now there appeared to be at least three more people.
He took a deep breath, wasn’t exactly sure he was making the right move. He really knew nothing more than what he’d seen from the window and couldn’t be sure these people even wanted his help.
She would tell him to trust his gut, and right now his gut was telling him to start moving.
It was a short sprint to the next block. He stayed hidden behind a large delivery truck until he could hear their voices. There was a man barking orders, a woman responding to the requests, and what sounded like a boy who was firing off questions in between.
