Apocalypse Law 4

by John Grit

  Just down the street was a bar he knew that had a back door, so customers could park behind the building and enter without being forced to walk around to the front. He planned to duck into the bar and out the back and maybe lose the tail by running through the dark parking lot and into some trees. He prayed that whoever this was didn’t start shooting into the crowd to get at him. Judging by their failed efforts in his scuba shop, it was a tossup as to whether the man shadowing him was a pro or amateur.

  The doorway to the bar, Papa’s Sloppy Joe, a play on Hemingway’s favorite bar in the Keys, was just a few more yards on his right. Music and laughter emanated from within, and it sounded packed. The patrons didn’t seem to know what had happened in the bay. Raylan thought the music might have been so loud inside that they didn’t realize the explosion was not normal fireworks, which even after the tragedy and the ensuing panic, continued on when a few idiots lit small firecrackers and threw them in the street, too drunk to comprehend what was really happening. He grew to hate firecrackers even more than he had. Every time one went off, he forced himself not to duck.

  He slipped past partiers standing just inside and pushed through the bodies swaying to music while holding drinks in their hands, the backdoor his target. A few jostled patrons complained and yelled insults at him as he pushed through the crowd. Discarding the cap to make it more difficult for his shadow to ID him, he moved on. The weight of his pistol and the extra magazines were reassuring. He expected he would have to use them before the night was over. So be it. He planned to live and see the sunrise. Others might not be so lucky.

  Raylan resisted the temptation to look back and see if his shadow had followed him into the bar and instead pressed his way through the final three yards to the backdoor. It was dark outside, with only one weak streetlight in the corner of the parking lot. Just what he wanted.

  He looked around and spotted the wall that separated the parking lot from the wooded area behind. He ran through the lot, darting between cars, many containing drunken lovers in the back seat, and pulled himself up over the five-foot concrete wall in one fluid motion. Landing on his feet on the other side, he ran into the trees, the dark swallowing him in seconds.

  His sliced hand bled again, turning the white T-shirt crimson, but he only felt the wetness, as he couldn’t see the blood in the dark. Climbing over the wall had torn loose clotted blood. Whatever was left of the kill team had seen their plan go to hell, and they were at that moment as much operating on instinct as he was. He had taken out a large part of their team, probably most of it, leaving them desperate. He expected they didn’t care any longer if witnesses were left behind or innocents got caught in the coming gunfight. Then there was the fireworks explosion on the barge. Was it an accident? If not, what was its purpose? A diversion? For what? Again, he thought of the weird mix of professionals and amateurs, the large number of men sent after him, and the fireworks explosion. It didn’t make sense. But one thing was for certain: Someone wanted him dead and was willing to send plenty of personnel to get the job done. He had little hope of getting away without more bloodshed.

  Bark flying off a tree next to his face brought his thoughts back to the present. One of them must have brought night vision goggles. He bolted, and in two steps was in an all-out run to put distance between himself and the shooter. Another suppressed shot slammed into a tree. He didn’t risk a glance over his shoulder. There was no time. He just ran. The killer was firing as he ran after him, limiting his accuracy. The chance the killer would hit him was small, barring plain bad luck on Raylan’s part. He raced through the trees, depending on the dark and cover of woods for safety.

  Everything changed when he ran out of woods and exploded onto a back street. Immediately, he was confronted by a figure fifty yards to his left brandishing a pistol. Looks like I’ve run out of amateurs and am left with pros. These bastards are coordinating their hunt well by using cell phones, or perhaps CIA communications equipment.

  Raylan dove for the cover of the woods he had just left. The gunman unleashed a burst of rounds, chewing bark from pine trees. Landing on his stomach, Raylan squirmed around until he could aim from prone. His pistol had night sights that glowed in the dark. He lined them up, aiming for center mass of the man’s silhouette, and squeezed off two shots. The man went down, firing a last shot as he died on his feet, the bullet bouncing off the sidewalk and singing into the air.

  Raylan pushed up from the ground and walked to the edge of the woods, searching the street in both directions. He had little time. There was a killer in the woods racing toward him, and he wanted to get across the street before that one got close enough for a shot while he was in the open. He heard leaves crackling under boots at a fast pace. Too late.

  Instantly, he dropped to his knees and turned to face the danger, pistol at the ready. A blur of motion twenty yards ahead veered to his right. He fired three aimed shots. A satisfying crash in the brush was his reward. He got up and approached cautiously, looking over the pistol sights. When he reached him, he fired a round into the man’s chest. He noted that the man appeared to be bulky in the torso area. Kevlar vest. A thought raced through his mind that he needed to put a round into the man’s head to be sure.

  Before he could shoot, the man brought his left leg up and kicked him in the groin. Raylan doubled over, but held onto the pistol. The pain momentarily left him vulnerable to further attack. All he could do was concentrate on maintaining possession of the weapon as he tried to get far enough from the downed man to avoid another kick. He backpedaled two steps before tripping over a root and falling backward. His elbow struck a tree, causing his arm to go numb, and he involuntarily dropped the pistol.

  The killer had trouble getting to his knees, giving Raylan time to recover. He was on him before the man had time to find his weapon that had landed in the forest debris, applying his boot to the man’s face. His head snapped back and he collapsed to the ground. The night vision goggles he was wearing flew off into the dark. Raylan hoped he was out, but was taking no chances. He stepped forward in preparation to kick his head off or do his best trying.

  The man came to life, rolled onto his side, and swept with his right leg, knocking Raylan’s feet out from under him. He landed on his butt. Rolling away from his attacker, he got to his knees just in time to deflect a powerful kick aimed at his face. He got on his feet and drove forward, straightening his legs. When he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed the man’s crotch, lifted him over his head, and threw him against a tree trunk, trying to break his back. He grunted and landed on the carpet of leaves.

  Raylan lashed out with his boot, but the killer dodged it by falling on his right side and rolling away. He kicked at the man again and felt a satisfying connection with his jaw and heard his boot smack against the man’s face. He followed it up with another brutal kick and heard a crunch as the cartilage of his nose fragmented.

  Expecting him to be knocked out, Raylan relaxed and stood there catching his breath. To his shock, the man sprung up and charged. He punched the man on his forehead; it was the only target available, since the man had his head too low to get a punch into the face as he drove in, and there wasn’t enough time to kick him. Raylan instantly regretted it when his hand nearly broke on the hard skull. Unfazed, he drove his head into Raylan’s stomach and then straightened out, clipping Raylan on the chin with the back of his head just before he had time to jerk it out of the way. Raylan’s head snapped back, and he staggered but didn’t go down.

  The killer came back at him, punching wildly. Raylan kicked him between the legs and punched his left eye twice, in rapid succession, blood flinging from his right hand. He dropped to his knees. Raylan jammed thumbs into both eyes. The man screamed, covered his bloody face with his hands, and fell back, squirming on the ground. Kicking him in the stomach caused him to double over on his side, leaving an opening Raylan took advantage of. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the man in a chokehold from behind, pushed his head down, and then
twisted, breaking his neck.

  The woods became silent but for his heavy breathing. All of this has reminded me why I got out of this shit in the first place. He searched the woods for his pistol, but found the man’s, so he stepped over and scooped it up. A .45 caliber Glock, the same as his. He searched for his pistol. Finding it, he slipped it under his belt, dropped the magazine out of the other pistol and pocketed it. Before leaving, he jacked the chambered round out and threw the other pistol in the woods. He would rather carry the weight of extra ammo than a spare gun. A quick search of the man’s pocket netted two more magazines and a wallet that held a little cash but no ID.

  Several blocks away, he thought his night might take a turn for the better.

  Proving him wrong, a figure peered around the corner of a building thirty yards away, pointing a suppressed pistol in his general direction. He instinctively reacted, drawing, bringing the pistol to eye level, and pulling the trigger in one fluid motion. He saw part of the man’s face blow off before his body collapsed onto the hard concrete.

  He approached the attacker’s motionless form as he swept the area for more danger and possible civilians calling the police on a cell phone. They would be busy with the explosion and those injured in the panic. Still, a report of a shootout in the streets could not be ignored. There wasn’t much time, but he wanted to search the body. It might be his last chance to learn who was after him. It could be enemies of the U.S. or even the CIA. He doubted the CIA. A few at the top were pissed, but would they want him dead?

  Still watching the alley, he reached his bloody hand down – now minus both the soggy T-shirt and paper towels – and quickly searched the fallen attacker for any clue who his enemies were. He found a smashed earphone and throat mikes strapped to his neck. State-of-the-art com gear that allowed the wearer to communicate on a special frequency without actually speaking, just using the vocal cords. He’d used them himself many times and knew U.S. Special Forces used them, especially SEAL team members. He found another wallet with a little cash and no ID. Damn. A thought came to him. He checked for a dog tag hanging from his neck. Nothing. He wouldn’t be that lucky, and this man wouldn’t be that stupid, not so stupid as to wear a dog tag after taking such measures not to have any ID on him. You’re getting desperate. Don’t do that. Think! Features of the dead man’s face could be European, but could be American. Hell, he could be most any nationality.

  His weapon was another .45 caliber Glock, so he pocketed the magazines and then faded into the darkness. On the far end of the alley, he waited in the dark, scanning with his eyes and listening.

  From the opposite side of the next street, he heard conversation over echoing footsteps. It sounded like two young women talking about the explosion and where to go next. For a second, he envied them their innocence and naiveté. They had no idea how cruel this world was and how little governments valued human life.

  He needed to get away from the scene, get his escape and evasion kit — what he called his bug-out pack — and find another place to restart his life.

  Chapter 2

  Sirens wailed from all directions. Several police and state trooper patrol cars sped toward the carnage, as Raylan walked at a yard-eating gait away from the bay. Three ambulances rushed past him, lights flashing. Others raced by in the opposite direction, carrying the wounded to a trauma center. His hand caked in dried blood didn’t seem so suspicious, since several people on the sidewalk were also bloody from minor injuries or the blood of those they’d helped until professional care arrived. Some chattered in rapid, excited voices. Others sat on public benches and talked slowly to loved ones in subdued tones, their eyes still seeing the horror of people badly wounded, or staring off into space in disbelief of what they had seen over the last hour.

  That he would be suspected of murder and the police would try to look into his past was a certainty. The bodies in and around his shop and his disappearance alone would put him in the center of their radar screen. He smiled at the image he had in his mind of detectives and federal agents coming to a brick wall and wondering where the hell he came from and what his real name was. They might even think he was involved in some way with the explosion — perhaps even suspect him of being a terrorist. He didn’t smile when thinking of that possibility. The CIA might get involved. No, they already were. If the explosion proved to be no accident, the company would be all over it, and they had the means to dig up his real past. They should know. He’d left fingerprints all over the shop, and his blood. Blood and hair meant DNA. The CIA had both his fingerprints and DNA on record. His driver license photo, also on the state’s computer records, would match the company’s photos of him. It didn’t matter whether the CIA sent the killers or if they didn’t; the company would be after him soon enough.

  The only question was how long it would take before the company got involved in a serious way. If it was the CIA that wanted him dead, they would feed information to the local police, and finger him as a murderer, an enemy of the state bent on terror. They would fabricate evidence. At most, he had a few hours to get out of town before they tightened the noose. Damn it. He had hoped the company didn’t see him as important enough to expend a lot of resources on. After all, he just wanted to resign from the company and live in peace. No. Important or not, he knew too much.

  The safest thing was for him to assume the company was behind it all, and local and state law enforcement, as well as the FBI and Homeland Security, would be fed a big steaming bowl of BS, complete with a story of how dangerous he was to the country and had to be stopped dead.

  After walking two miles, he turned and continued towards another section of town that had bars and tourist attractions that leaned to the seedy side, his destination a bar owned by a woman he’d befriended shortly after opening his scuba shop. A long-time diver herself, she’d walked in one day, bought a few items in preparation for an outing with friends in the Gulf and wound up staying three hours, just talking diving. She had a strange attraction to him, always lingering on the edge of trying to seduce him but never crossing some line only she saw. After several months, that all changed. She and he had spent many nights together. She was about seven years older than him but not half bad looking and was always fun to be with, upbeat and seldom down. She was an endless fountain of funny jokes.

  Pearl was from New Orleans. In her forties and looking thirty from any angle at a distance, mainly because of her thin build that she worked hard to maintain. “All women’s bodies are high maintenance,” she always said, “but most don’t get that needed care from their owners.” Up close, she didn’t look thirty; her face made men swear she was twenty-five. She had lost her first husband to divorce (he’d beaten her) and another to death by traffic accident. What puzzled Raylan was the fact she was still heartbroken, not over the death of her second husband, but the fact she was forced to leave her first one because he was so abusive. She once tried in vain to explain. “He was my first love and will always be in my heart for that reason. His anger issues weren’t his fault. He came back from the war that way.” Raylan figured the guy must not have beaten her too much. After all, she didn’t have a scar on her face, and her teeth were perfect. But then, maybe he limited his blows to her body. She did have a face no normal man would want to punch.

  The night was still young, but the explosion had dampened business for Pearl, with the police diverting traffic away from the bay. Raylan found there were only a few patrons in the bar. Two fat vacationers from Boston were in the middle of a loud argument over who disliked toothless inbred Southerners the most.

  Raylan heard them make lewd comments to one another about what they’d like to do with Pearl.

  Pearl remained quiet, but kept an eye on the loud, sunburned Northerners.

  Raylan walked across the barroom to her with a smile.

  She knew him by his alias; David Sutton. Pearl’s face showed shock. “David, darling! What happened to you? What’s wrong with your hand?”

  Raylan had a
n explanation ready: the explosion and ensuing panic on the street. He glanced down at his swollen, bloody hand, aware of the bruising on his face that must have been obvious.

  “Jesus! You were in front of your shop when the barge blew up?” Pearl rushed to look him over closely. “You should go to a hospital.”

  “No. They’re way too busy with seriously wounded. Ambulances are hauling more victims away as we speak. I would just be sitting out of their way until sometime tomorrow morning. What a waste of time that would be. Might as well take care of it myself.”

  “Take care of it yourself?” Pearl examined the gash. “It needs stitches. Are you in the habit of stitching your wounds yourself?”

  “It looks way worse than it is. I would appreciate your help with it. You have a first-aid kit, don’t you?”

  She gave him a you’re crazy look. “It’s for minor cuts. There are no sutures in it.”

  “Fishing line will do. I know you have your tackle in the back.”

  She glanced at the two Bostonians, who had stopped arguing and were taking an interest in their conversation. “Uh, let’s go in the back and clean it up. Then we’ll talk about a clinic fifty miles from here I can take you to. I doubt they have been receiving any of the explosion victims.”

  Raylan followed her into the back room.

  After closing the door, she turned on him with a hard glare. “What the hell is going on?”

  He kept a straight face. “What the hell do you mean?”

  Her hard glare broke, and a faint hint of a smile formed on her face.

  He chuckled. “You know better than to ask too many questions.”

  She folded her arms. “Yeah. There’s a brick wall around you that no one can get through with a sledgehammer.”

  “You don’t say that when we’re in bed.”