by Nick Thacker
The Thompson brothers were from Texas, raised on a ranch north of Abilene. They had grown up most of their lives farming, hunting, and wreaking havoc on their sleepy town. Their father was an avid farmer and rancher, and their mother was a housewife. Both the boys enjoyed a comfortable existence living the American Dream.
To outsiders like Bryce, the family of four seemed to have a normal existence, but their commonalities with the traditional American way of life ended with a home-cooked meal each night.
Their father, Mr. Thompson (Bryce hadn’t ever heard his first name used), was an ex-Marine who had served in Vietnam and the Gulf War, and had a distinguished service record that contradicted his nonchalant farming life. As boys and young men, the Thompson brothers were trained by their father to track, hunt, and shoot like soldiers, and the three of them had even spent weeks at a time on numerous occasions living off the land on camping trips and survival expeditions on their 100-plus acre Texas farmstead.
In college, Bryce loved to listen to their stories, often told by the brothers via intense bickering and arguing matches; Wayne staying coolheaded and understated, while Jeff would exaggerate the stories beyond recognition. The effect was a hilarious hours-long epic, complete with animated descriptions and accounts acted out by the pair.
One of Bryce’s favorites was the time when twelve-year-old Wayne and ten-year-old Jeff, home for the summer from middle school, had decided to go on a camping trip for the weekend down by the farm’s brook — this time unaccompanied by their father. They’d gone to the same location plenty of times and had long before stashed gear and supplies at the campsite for a quicker setup. This particular weekend the boys had forgone their mother’s prepared picnic-style meals, planning instead to catch or hunt their own. The only food item they brought, however, was a plastic 12-ounce Coca-Cola bottle Jeff had filled with dry ice from the supermarket on the way home from school. He didn’t tell Wayne he’d brought it, and when they were about to cast their lines, Jeff filled the bottle with water, tightened the cap, and threw it in a bit farther upstream. As it floated past, he casually asked his older brother to grab it, claiming he’d accidentally dropped it in.
As Wayne reached for the bottle, the pressure inside from the reaction of the melting CO2 and water forced the plastic to expand and explode — right in Wayne’s face. Half of the busted cap left a shallow yet bloody gash from his left cheek to his ear.
At first Wayne didn’t respond. The pain of the small cut didn’t immediately set in, so Wayne’s first reaction was to chase Jeff through the campsite and neighboring farmland. Being older and faster, he eventually caught Jeff near the house and started to deliver a memorable beating — which was abruptly interrupted by their mother, who happened to glance out the kitchen window just in time. The tongue lashing she gave both boys was almost as bad as the beating Wayne had tried to give Jeff; to make matters worse, their father came home and restricted both boys to the house for a week.
Bryce had met the brothers in college in a required physical fitness course and liked them instantly. They tried to meet up often, to work out, grab a pizza, or just hang out. By the time they’d finished their degrees — Wayne’s in Agricultural Economics and Jeff’s in Recreation Studies — Bryce had watched them grow into two of the finest men he’d had the pleasure of knowing.
When they trained together — in college or as young soldiers — they would usually get into competitive lifting sessions that would leave them sore for days afterward. Bryce loved their charismatic personalities; wherever they were, people seemed to flock to them. They had great hearts and cared for people, a trait instilled into them by their parents and cultivated over years of hard work managing the farm’s cattle, fields, and the multitude of daily chores. Bryce considered them his closest friends, even though he hadn’t seen them for more than three years prior to hiring them for this job. It was great to be back together — almost like college again.
Bryce shook off his nostalgia as he approached the final checkpoint of his round. After this stop, he’d reenter the research base for a brief 15-minute break. Following that he’d start the entire loop over again for a final round, a one-hour trip around the facility’s buildings and research labs, followed by one more check of the power plant’s core unit. Finally, after six trips around the base — equal to about a 7.5-hour shift — he’d retire for the night as the Thompson brothers and a few of the other security guards took up the early morning shift.
His last stop for the route was a small building set apart from the main facilities. Its construction was similar to the rest — white, stucco exterior with few windows — but Bryce wasn’t sure what was inside. The building had only one door on the southeast side and was simply labeled “H.” As the building was set on a small hill, he liked to take a brief pause at its north side and look out over the rest of the complex. Getting a bird’s-eye view of the entire place let Bryce see how sprawling the Whittenfield Research firm’s grounds were. From here, nine buildings filled his vision. All painted an eggshell white, all mostly the same size and roughly the same shape — one or two stories tall.
Looking down, Bryce noticed the Thompson brothers returning from their trip out on the town. They were too far off to make out the details, but he instantly recognized their walk — an ambling gait, sort of a hybrid between a duck and a cowboy who’d been on a horse for too long. Stealth wasn’t in their nature. Bryce chuckled to himself as he watched their lazy stroll toward the building’s glass entranceway, their motions indicating that they were again engaged in a heated — though certainly trivial — argument.
As they closed in on the front door, Bryce noticed something else. Something moving behind the brothers, around the next building to their north. His eyes darted over to the spot, the rest of his body instinctually going stiff.
There it was again.
If he hadn’t been focused at the spot, he would have completely missed it. It was a very large man, crouching down and clad in black. It looked like Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame — if Quasimodo had been a larger-than-life football player. The man was clearly stalking something — sneaking toward the building the Thompsons had just entered.
Bryce unclipped his handheld radio unit and lifted it to his mouth.
“Attention all detail. We have a breach. Single male suspect appears to be entering the main hallway of Building ‘E’. Remain on high alert and await further instructions, out.” With his other hand, Bryce lifted his pistol from its holster.
If the brothers can just get to the room, I can reach them on their handsets, he thought. I can keep watch until they’re in the room, call for backup, and approach the intruder myself.
As the black-clad man slowly crept forward, keeping to the shadows, Bryce reconsidered. Wayne and Jeff wouldn’t make it to their room before the intruder reached the doors; there was no time to wait. Bryce needed to get control of the situation right now. He wasn't sure who this guy was, but he certainly wasn’t here for a business meeting.
With a flimsy outline of a plan — overtake the intruder first, ask questions second — Bryce stood and quickly plotted his route down the hill. Before he could take a step forward, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was behind him.
Turning on a heel, he swirled his body around and down, planning to land prone, gun drawn and forward. As he dropped, something hit him on the left side of his neck, causing his mind to jumble. His body went weak as he fell forward, but he could just make out a figure in front of him.
Black cargo pants, military combat boots. Voices above him, speaking another language. Russian? The figure moved closer, and bent down to retrieve something from the ground. Bryce hadn't realized he’d dropped his pistol when he was struck. The figure straightened, and Bryce drifted into unconsciousness onto the grass.
12
Wayne and Jeff had been inside the building for barely two seconds when the two security officers on duty rushed past. Behar was already dripping in sw
eat and heaving as he waddled by. “Captain Reynolds issued an early alert order,” Bensen called as he passed. "Must be some kind of drill; we haven't heard any update," he finished.
The brothers picked up the pace toward their shared room, their ongoing argument about which lady at the bar was single suddenly unimportant. "You think there's something going on?" Jeff asked his older brother.
"No idea, seemed pretty quiet out there tonight.”
"Yeah - let’s just grab our gear; we can change later if we need to."
As they entered their room they could hear scuffling in the hall ahead, around the corner to their left.
They both froze at the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
"What the hell?" asked Wayne.
"Watch my back,” Jeff said, tossing Wayne’s gear toward him. “I’ll see if I can get a look around the corner.” He grabbed his handgun and radio and hustled back into the hall with his brother close behind.
At the corner Jeff crouched, peering carefully around the corner.
A shot from somewhere down the hall narrowly missed his unprotected head.
"Shit!" he yelled, ducking back undercover.
Wayne grabbed him by the collar. “Let’s go around — we can block their exit from the north wing!”
Jeff followed his brother the other direction, crouch-running in the dimly lit hall. With no sounds from behind them, they focused their attention forward, expecting a threat at any moment.
This building housed the scientists' quarters — mostly dormitory-style rooms along the exterior wall. The rooms on both floors opened onto the inner perimeter hall, with a single large amphitheater and meeting hall taking up the center of the structure. The brothers intended to intercept the shooters — whoever they were — by cutting off their escape route either through the theater or around the hallway.
The theater entrance was directly in front of the main doors. Wayne slowed and took up a position outside the theater doors, careful to stay out of the light coming through the glass doors of the main entrance. He signaled for Jeff to stay put.
Jeff turned, automatically taking up the rear guard. "If they come through the theater, they'll have a straight shot through the main doors," Wayne whispered almost inaudibly. "Stay here and don’t let ‘em get past you. I'll move up to the next corner and see if they're trying to get around the back way.” Without waiting for a reply, Wayne ran forward, hugging the wall. He paused for a second at the corner, peered around it, then disappeared from Jeff's view.
Wayne could see the far end of the hall clearly. Two men were standing against the wall, looking the other way. One of them eventually caught the movement in his peripheral vision. As he turned the soldier lifted his assault rifle to his eye — just as his head disappeared in a cloud of blood as Wayne’s hollow point impacted the bridge of his nose.
Wayne’s Smith & Wesson Compact 9mm wasn't silenced and in the closed-in hallway the shot was deafening. Without slowing he targeted the second man — now fumbling around, trying to bring his weapon to bear — and fired two more shots, putting the man down. As he fell, Wayne continued his quick jog, only slowing as he reached the bodies and the next corner. As he dropped to one knee to check for vital signs and move the weapons out of reach, Jeff ran up. Taking stock of the situation, Jeff breathed a sigh of relief.
“Let’s get to work,” Jeff said, almost solemnly. His entire demeanor had changed. Five minutes earlier he had been a fun-loving, carefree kid brother. Now Wayne saw Jeff’s face take on a steely resolve; the quietly indignant look of a cowboy who’d just learned that there was a trespasser on his land. Wayne knew from experience that in situations like this it was best to point him in the right direction and stay the hell out of the way.
They looked around the next corner expecting an immediate onslaught of gunfire. Instead, there was almost complete silence as they cautiously moved ahead. The only sound was a faint beeping. Wayne pinpointed the source at the same time: About 200 feet ahead on the left wall was a tiny blinking red light — each pulse corresponding to a muted beep.
“Get back!” Jeff yelled, pulling Wayne off his feet as he turned to get away. They ran together toward the safety of the corner wall, both men stretching out into a full sprint.
The explosion lifted them off the floor and flung them toward the two dead soldiers. A shockwave and billowing heat enveloped them, close enough to choke them with scathing, burning smoke but not close enough to injure them. Assuming that whoever had set the charge had planned it as an escape route, Maybe scrambled to his feet and charged back through the smoke, determined not to give the intruders any room for escape.
Two soldiers burst through the rear theater doors ahead of them, but the first was dropped instantly by Jeff’s 9mm. Wayne’s shot missed the second man, giving the soldier enough time to fire a wild round toward them before leaping out the newly formed exit.
They dropped behind an overturned table to reload. Before they finished, a flashbang grenade popped to their right — thrown out the door by someone still inside the theater — and Wayne’s entire world went white.
Jeff, being closest to the grenade, was knocked out. Wayne fared slightly better, momentarily deafened and seeing double, but able to see nonetheless. He ensured that Jeff’s arms and legs were out of the line of oncoming fire and rolled sideways into the theater.
Luckily there was no one near the door as Wayne entered — no one jumped out to finish him off. Regaining his footing, he shook off the flash grenade’s effects, checked left, right, and center, and ducked behind a row of seats. He looked toward the stage. A red curtain was pulled across it, but a section of it was billowing softly. He could see a light behind the curtain interrupted by moving shadows. Someone was on the stage.
Wayne moved quietly toward the side aisle leading to the stage right entrance, but he didn’t get far. There was a loud crash from behind the closed door, prompting him to duck down behind another row of seats.
A man burst through the backstage door, fuming. He was followed by two more soldiers, and they were dragging along a younger man, probably in his mid-twenties.
“I thought there was to be little resistance!” the man in the lead shouted to no one in particular.
“Sir, we expected a light security detail, and our intel indicated there would be no more than three guards on duty at any time,” one of the soldiers said. The men were moving toward the exit, directly across from where Wayne was now hidden on the floor. If they continued through the doors, they’d see him for sure — the seats would not keep him hidden as they walked past.
“I don’t care if they had a small army of attack dogs — this was supposed to be a covert mission! In and out — but then you shot that scientist and woke up the entire complex!”
Wayne took it all in as the group closed in on his position. If he could swing around, somehow get a straight shot from under the chairs, he might be able to take out the leader — possibly give him a fighting chance.
He tried to shift his position, but the row just wasn’t wide enough for him to do it without standing up. Oh well, he thought. He’d have to make a stand from here, lying on the ground and firing underneath the chairs at their feet. He didn’t want to take the chance of their finding Jeff sprawled out helpless in the hall.
He waited until they were three steps away from the exit and only two away from spotting him. Wayne was good with a rifle — damn good — but firing a handgun, laying on his side, through two rows of chairs at a moving target — well, the closer, the better.
He fired off two shots in rapid succession — missing the lead man’s foot but shattering the man’s shin. The soldier crumpled to the ground, screaming and clutching his leg.
The leader and his remaining backup raised their weapons and looked for the source of the shots. Wayne was way ahead of them. They were reacting to him, and he wanted to keep it that way. Another shot, and the leader flew backwards against the wall. The other soldier grabbed the unarmed younger ma
n’s arm with one hand and fired two quick shots in Wayne’s general direction. Not wanting to let the young man go, he dropped his gun, snatched a round object from his belt, and flung it toward Wayne.
Grenade. Not a flashbang, but a live military-issue fragmentation grenade. Time slowed down as Wayne took a fraction of a second to evaluate his options:
Run or crawl away — running would leave him vulnerable from the waist up, and crawling was too slow — he had no time to get away.
Try to catch the grenade and throw it back toward the exit — he might have a chance at injuring the last soldier or at least cutting off his escape route, but he also had a good chance of hurting his brother or the hostage.
Wayne reached up and followed the grenade’s trajectory. He got a hand on it and, sitting up, risked the temporary exposure. He threw it as hard as he could over his head onto the stage. It rolled under the curtain and out of sight backstage. Wayne crawled as fast as possible toward the exit as the other two men ran…
And for the second time in five minutes, his body was rocked by an explosive blast.
The fireball that erupted from the stage obliterated the raised platform and engulfed the walls next to it, but the blast was far enough away that the only immediate effect on Wayne was a renewed ringing in his ears. He lurched to his feet and ran for the door in pursuit of the two men.
13
Jeff groaned and sat up. Have I been unconscious?
The blast from the flash grenade had rattled his brain, and it took him a minute to clear his mind. He heard gunshots in the theater, but he couldn’t yet get to his feet. He waited by the table for a moment, trying to clear his head and gain his bearings.
