The Storm Before the Storm

by Joe Russell

  After about five minutes, Dave halted and motioned for Mike to look down in front of them. They had come upon a muddy part in the trail and a tire track was clearly visible, and from the looks of it, it was relatively fresh.

  “That was made today, probably within the last few hours.” Dave said, trying to keep his voice down despite the wave of emotion that had once again washed over him. It wasn’t the most crucial piece of evidence they had found; the smoke column, which was closer than ever, already suggested that someone was here. Still, given the desperation of their circumstance, Dave clung to it in his mind. He needed everything he could get.

  “Yeah,” Mike said, as if Dave had covered everything he had to say on the topic.

  The two looked at each other in silence for a minute, thinking the same thing from different angles. Despite his frustration in how Mike had acted outwardly that day, Dave knew that Mike was sincerely concerned about the girls’ safety and wanted them to be rescued or escape, or anything that would ultimately result in their safety from whatever predators had taken them. The difference, which Dave knew to a degree, was that Mike didn’t really want to have to be the means of that rescue. Like most men, especially these days, he loved the idea of being the knight in shining armor, but was afraid of the risks or too lazy to make the effort. In most daily circumstances for most men, these risks were not actually the potential effects of a physical struggle but in some instances, in this instance, they were. Dave, on the other hand, wanted this fight. He certainly had his flaws as a human being and as a man, but cowardice in this setting was not one of them. Sure, he was scared, but more of harm to the girls or of failing them than what could happen to him in the process. Cowardice, after all, wasn’t feeling fear as much as it was acting or refusing to act because of fear. Like most good men, he didn’t want a fight if it wasn’t necessary, but would be the first to draw his sword if it was. And he knew this was one of those times where it certainly was. As he saw it, the tolerance of wickedness was the betrayal of righteousness, and he wasn’t about to tolerate anyone who had laid a finger on Sandra or Jen.

  Dave moved to continue down the drive, careful not to step in the mud. They continued to move down the trail in the same cautious manner as before and a couple minutes later, they were peering around a large oak at the source of the smoke, an old cabin. And to Dave’s delight, fear, and fury, in front of the cabin sat the old truck from the day before. His eyes narrowed, and his hand instinctively moved to where his Ruger rested, ready as he was. He’d had a bad feeling about those guys the day before when they’d crossed paths and now, the fact that they were the first other people he had come across on the day his wife and sister-in-law had happened to be kidnapped just couldn’t be coincidence.

  “What now?” Mike whispered. He was peering around the other side of the tree at the same scene. “Is it safe to get any closer?”

  “Probably not,” Dave answered solemnly, “but I don’t think we have a choice. If the girls are in there, then we have to find out. I don’t know what exactly we’ll do if they are, but we need to know if they are or if we should keep looking.” He heard Mike sigh, figuring it was an indication that he unfortunately agreed. Dave however, was hoping they were inside. It’s not that he wanted them to be in trouble, but he already knew they were and it was better to find them sooner rather than later. He hadn’t mentioned it to Mike, but he feared that this was a little more than just a few locals forcing the girls to entertain them. He didn’t think it was a common thing in these rural areas, but human trafficking was quickly becoming one of America’s biggest social and criminal problems, and his worst fear now was that it was what the girls had been taken for. It would be a lot worse than the less organized alternative because it would likely mean that the girls would be removed from the area before he or the authorities could even begin to start searching. He didn’t disagree with Mike’s notion that contacting the police or rangers for help would be a good thing and if they’d had a working cell phone or radio or ride into town, he might have done just that. Probably would have, in fact. The fact of the matter however, was that they didn’t have any of those things and given that the search for the girls could likely be very time-critical, he didn't’ feel it was wise to waste time on anything else.

  “All right,” Dave said gravely, “we need to go in.” He heard Mike sigh audibly, but he didn’t argue.

  “What’s the plan then?” Mike whispered.

  Dave thought for a moment before replying. “Maybe just one of us should go,” he said. “If something were to happen to both of us, then we’d all be screwed.” Mike was silent. Understanding why, Dave continued, “I’ll go. Hopefully, they’re not here or I can sneak up on them if they are. I’ll leave my bag here, along with my Junglas. If this doesn’t go well, you’ll have to either find help or get the girls yourself. No pressure.” Dave meant that last comment as a joke to lighten the mood, but it fell flat. Mike’s anxiety was painted all over his face.

  Dave and Mike retreated into the thick woods a short way and Dave unslung his pack. The Junglas rested in its sheath and seemed to beg silently for Dave to allow it to come along, like a dog when it knows you’re about to take a walk by yourself. Dave briefly considered taking it, thinking of the value of a short-range weapon in unknown close quarters. He had used the large blade to chop small branches and split coconuts, so it didn’t take much to imagine what it could do to a person. As he debated, he removed the Ruger from its waistband holster. It had a round in the chamber and nine more in the short magazine. He pulled the two extra magazines from their pouch in his pack, replacing the compact ten-rounder with the full-size seventeen one. He topped off the ten and placed both spares in his left-hand cargo pocket and returned the pistol to its holster. No, he wouldn’t take the Junglas. As much as he wanted to roll in like a knight charging a dragon and maim any hostiles, he knew that taking the cautious approach was more prudent. Should something go wrong and he got captured or killed, Mike would be the girls’ only chance of rescue. He couldn’t leave Mike with his pistol, both because he may need it now and because the city slicker would be more likely to hurt himself with it than actually be able to use it. Although Dave had no formal military training, he had enough skill and more importantly, the mindset of a warrior. Mike did not, and that worried Dave. He hoped that if it came down to it, Mike would be able to turn a little of that wanna-be gangster toughness into the real thing, but there was no time to worry about that now. At least Mike was a big guy and if the situation called for it, he would probably be able to figure out what to do with a tool that could split coconuts. Either way, Dave had his pistol and his BK17 and hopefully, that would be enough. It all depended on what awaited him inside. Heck, the girls might not even be in here and busting in like a SWAT raiding team might just cause more problems. He had to know though, and there was one way to find out. He gave Mike a final look, took a deep breath, and started toward the cabin.

  Chapter 12

  Leesburg, Virginia. Present Day.

  Will McCoy sat at his office desk with a look on his face that could kill, had anyone been there to see it. It was Sunday and here he was, preparing a set of plans that were due the following morning. He was a civil engineer at a small firm in Leesburg, Virginia, near where his best friend Dave Galanos was originally from. He almost never worked on weekends, especially Sundays, but the job he was working on had been so full of unforeseen pitfalls that putting in time now was the only way it would be ready to submit on time, which was not optional. Needless to say, he wasn’t thrilled to be there.

  It was about eleven in the morning and he had been there since a little before eight. He was an hour or two from being finished, he hoped, but his head hurt, either from needing coffee or lunch. He decided to play it safe and get both. Standing up, he stretched his large frame, feeling his back cracking. He was a few years older than Dave and a whole head taller, and powerfully built. He grabbed his wallet and phone and adjusted his Glock 19 in its
concealed holster, then started for the door. Once outside, he locked the door of the small office and started across the parking lot. He turned and regarded his ride, a 1994 Honda Shadow Spirit 1100cc cruiser.

  The image that the bike conveyed was not necessarily what one would associate with Will and for that matter, neither was his job. However, Will was a unique individual. His previous occupation, not counting engineering school at Virginia Tech, was an aspiring Mixed Martial Arts fighter in the heavyweight division. Only after some sobering persuasion from his girlfriend (at the time), did he decide to settle down and try something else. The couple had not worked out in the end, but he had to admit that maybe she’d been right about a few things. His mind flickered back to the fact that he was here on a Sunday. Well, maybe, he thought. Now, he was the office manager and lead designer of a small but successful civil site development firm with its main office in Reston, closer to the city. It was a slight change of pace from his previous occupation.

  Most people in his situation would have left the bike with the memories of his previous life, trading it for a Harley, a BMW, or at the very least, a new Honda. Will wasn’t that way. He liked money because it bought toys, but he wasn’t into the kind of toys that are meant to be shown off. Despite having a pretty good income, he still lived in a modest cabin he had bought years earlier. He drove a 1975 Ford Bronco that his grandfather had bought new, but rode his old Honda most days, even in the colder weather. He had bought the motorcycle for $2,400 when he was twenty-five and although he had made numerous modifications and upgrades to it over the years, he just couldn’t bring himself to upgrade, as most would say, to something newer or nicer. The old thing ran perfectly and he had lots of memories with it.

  Being a Sunday his options were limited, but he walked a few blocks to a sandwich shop he visited once or twice a week and got a ham, egg, and cheese bagel sandwich and a coffee to go. Walking back, he passed the old courthouse. On the lawn was a large statue of a Confederate soldier erected in 1908, in honor of Loudon County’s Civil War soldiers. There were still repairs that needed to be made from the riot that had taken place there the previous summer.

  Will made his way back to his office and settled in his chair, ready to devour his sandwich. He hoped that he would be able to finish up the plans he was working on shortly and head home. As he ate, his mind drifted back to the previous August when the riot had taken place.

  On a Saturday, there had been a huge rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, organized by either the alt-right or white supremacists, depending on who was telling the story. Many of the participants were neo-Nazis and other similar groups who showed up with weapons and riot gear, supposedly to show support of not removing a confederate statue. A crowd of counter protesters also showed up, many to peacefully protest the hate that they saw the other side displaying, but there were plenty that came with obvious intentions of participating in the violence that quickly began and soon spiraled out of control, resulting in someone deliberately driving into a crowd of counter protesters, killing a woman and injuring more than a dozen others.

  The nation, at least those on the side of the counter protesters, was enraged by the events, furthering the divide between an already politically-fragmented population. These people were only more enraged by the President blaming the violence on both sides, rather than singling out the side that had initiated the protest. As a result, a mob had toppled a confederate statue in Durham the following Monday, with other related rioting across the country. Then, it had happened in Leesburg.

  It was unclear exactly how it had happened, or who had initiated what became an even worse situation than the Charlottesville riot, as it was an informal event with no prior planning on social media that could be tracked. It was that Tuesday, the day after the statue came down in Durham, that violence broke out in the lawn of the courthouse between groups of a similar makeup to those who had come to blows in Charlottesville. This time, though the number of protestors was much smaller, the violence was more unrestrained and the more aggressive attempt by the local police to squelch the violence only seemed to add to it in the end. After witnessing what had happened earlier that weekend, many participants on both sides had come armed. It was impossible to know who was armed for the purpose of invoking violence or who wanted to be able to responsibly defend themselves, but it didn’t matter. Someone had started yelling, then they were pushing, then people were punching. Then shooting, then more shooting. Then the cops were there, shooting at the shooters. Shooters in the crowd shot back at the cops. Then the mob had begun to move like a stampede, trying desperately to get away from the shooting, even as some were still shooting.

  Will had been at the office when this was taking place. He had been on the phone with the main office in Reston when he’d heard muffled pops from outside and thought, but was hesitant to believe, that they sounded like gunshots. Leesburg was not the kind of place where one would expect violence in the streets but then again, neither was Charlottesville. He had told his boss, the president of the small company, that he ‘had to go and would call back later’. He stood and moved to the window, and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. People were stampeding down the streets of downtown, forcing cars to stop in their tracks. Most of the people at first appeared to be pedestrians that had been running errands or grabbing a bite to eat on their lunch hour, and were now undoubtedly running for their lives away from the violent rioting mob that was dispersing, but still fighting, away from the courthouse. Then, he saw the protesters. Some were retreating like the others ahead of them, but they were distinguished by their helmets, signs, and other gear that was common apparel for the modern hobbyist protester. However, mixed in with these less hardcore protesters were the ones who were fighting. Most were brawling or battling with clubs, batons, and other handheld weapons, but a few were still shooting. Will saw one obvious white supremacist with the stereotypical neo-Nazi haircut knock a black man to the ground with a plexiglass riot shield and beat him repeatedly with a baton until another black man shot him at point blank in the back of the head, holding his gun high and cocked to the side in true gangsta fashion. Half of the man’s head was separated from the rest of his body in a sickening spray of red and the shooter had yelled and kicked at the lifeless body before being tackled by a police officer.

  Will had been watching in stunned horror when he was brought back to consciousness by a scream from the next room. Jill’s watching too, he realized.

  “Jill! Mark!” Will called, gathering his composure. “In the kitchen!” He moved into the hall and to the small kitchen. Mark and Jill, the two younger engineers that worked in the office with him, came running in to join him.

  “We need to do something!” Jill cried hysterically. “There are people out there being slaughtered!”

  “No way I’m going out there!” Mark replied defensively, as if Jill was commissioning him directly.

  “No one is going anywhere,” Will said with authority, trying to keep his cool. He left the kitchen and in a few strides, had reached the front door where he locked the deadbolt and drew the shades, then killed the lights on his way back. “We’re going to wait it out here,” he continued reassuringly.

  “But those people out there…” Jill began.

  “There’s nothing we can do out there,” Will cut her off.

  “Yeah, Jill,” Mark said.

  Will glared at him, irritated by his attempt to mask his cowardice in such a way.

  “The police are out there now. If we go out we could get shot, and there’s not much we can do against armed rioters. Let’s just wait for it to pass.”

  Neither Mark nor Jill said anything in response. They had waited silently in the kitchen for what seemed like an hour, although it was probably more like twenty minutes. At one point, they heard loud shouting right outside their building and maybe even what sounded like someone trying the door, but nothing happened. After a while, all they could hear was the bustle of first responders cleaning up the wr
eckage of the presumably finished riot.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The days and weeks following the riot were fairly normal for the most part. There was only one real event directly affecting Will that precipitated as a result. Three weeks after the riot, Mark announced that he was leaving and although he didn’t specifically cite it in his resignation letter or in conversation, Will knew that witnessing the event had affected him deeply. None of them had talked about it a whole lot, but one time Mark had made a passing comment about how now even Leesburg wasn’t a safe place to be. Will couldn’t really blame him, as everyone was different and responded to traumatic life events differently, but he wasn’t too surprised either. Mark was a talented young engineer, but didn’t strike Will as someone who had a high tolerance for that sort of thing. What Mark was blessed with in brains he lacked elsewhere, and Will didn’t press the young man. Although he regretted the loss of a much-needed employee, he thought that it might’ve been for the best.

  Jill, however, had surprised him. Despite her hysteria during the event, she proved to be a much tougher person than Mark in the days following, seeming to bounce back despite the horror she too had witnessed through her office window. Will had suggested that they all go home as soon as the streets opened up that afternoon and take the following day off to mentally recover. On Thursday however, while Mark seemed to stare blankly at his monitor and jump at the slightest noise or movement in the office, Jill seemed to be getting along just fine. Will didn’t really ask her about it, but got the impression that she was neither numb to it nor unhealthily suppressing it, but simply exercising a strong person’s attitude that life needed to go on. He was certain that she, like him, or any other normal person would be affected in a deep way from what she had seen, but was happy that she seemed to be handling it well. Rolling with the punches, as they say. That was his preferred expression. The world is rough and that’s all we can do, he thought.