by Frank Perry
the drinking and drugs, but he just seemed to have the worst luck with bosses. Over twenty-odd years, he’d fallen from police patrolman, production foreman on a road crew, to shelf-stocker at a building supply chain store, to being homeless. At barely fifty years old, he looked twenty years older. The world was cruel; he knew that, he’d experienced it. Every two-bit boss he’d ever had didn’t have the brains God intended for a watermelon. He’d been dealt a bad hand in life and lost everything. He didn’t blame himself; it was everyone he’d ever been around. He was tired of living in the mud and being stepped on. Now … now he had a profession that could pay him some real money! All it took was a couple conversations, and he got five thousand dollars stuffed in an old mailbox down the road. He’d watched the sleek sports car pull up to the abandoned mailbox and just slip it inside. He could live for months right now and never even finish this job. There were no contracts or receipts.
He only had to finish this job to get the other half of his money. His new profession as a contract killer was brilliant. He just ran an ad in the magazine and “whammo,” FIVE THOUSAND. The guy didn’t even negotiate. Later today, he’d get another five grand.
He owned an old .30-06 bolt-action rifle that his grandfather had used for deer hunting. It was about the only thing he took away from the divorce. His storyline to the “client” was pure fiction. He had been a pretty good shot in Army basic training, but that was over thirty years ago, and he had never fired a rifle again. He had served with the rank of Private in menial assignments before the Army discharged him early for budget reasons, having never attended advanced infantry school. The box of his grandfather’s ammunition was faded and only had a dozen, or so, cartridges. But even if the ammunition had lost some of its oomph, it wouldn’t take much for the big rifle to do this job.
He had practiced using the folding chair as a gun support aiming through the back door of the camper shell. He could push the door upward and take the firing position in less than eight seconds most of the time. Once he was behind the chair, he was able to point and shoot. Sometimes, the chair would collapse accidentally, or he would inadvertently kick it while moving hunched over into position, but he was getting better at it. From less than a hundred yards, he figured that he could shoot fast and jump out of the back and get to the cab to escape. He was becoming a man of precision although he had never practiced the entire sequence. He’d never crawled out of the bed and run to the cab. It was early while he waited, before eight o’clock, but a swig of bourbon had helped calm his nerves. The morning was cold and raw with a freezing wind blowing. The sky was unusually dim and heavily overcast; but, at least, it wasn’t raining.
His client thought he had hired a mercenary, a ruthless killer. Well, he was being one today. In fact, that was what he’d become in his mind. He’d convinced himself. No morals, no conscience … he’d seen the movies. His mind was right. He had done everything he’d claimed over and over in his mind. People are just flesh and blood, so what was experience anyway? He was mentally keen for this. He’d soon be able to ask for even more money. He just had a few problems: his pulse raced, his hands shook, and sweat was blinding him, even in the frigid confines of the truck bed.
Then the door to the apartment opened, and he stiffened, moving into position next to the tailgate, ready to swing the door up on the camper. The window was made of Plexiglas covered with dirt and bird droppings; but even through the muck, he could see that something wasn’t right. There were three people coming from the apartment, not two. He pushed the door up slightly to get a better look. He needed to be careful not to be seen. He was parked among other cars in the lot and people were leaving for work around him. He needed to do this with split second timing. As he raised the glass higher, he slipped on the metal bed floor collapsing the chair as the door slammed shut, making too much noise. “SHIT!”
He hurriedly lifted it again as the three people continued walking in his direction. He recognized the man for sure. He didn’t want a long shot, but he also didn’t want them to see him. The window went up and eventually locked as he scrambled on hands and knees behind the chair, which wobbled and threatened to collapse again. He used his left hand to steady the chair and lifted the rifle with his right to rest on the back. He was shaking uncontrollably as he remembered to pull back the bolt to load the gun. It was awkward chambering the bullet while trying to keep everything balanced. He completed the task and brought the rifle back into firing alignment. The targets were less than a hundred feet from him! He tried to aim, but the front and rear open gunsights wouldn’t align as sweat filled his eyes.
Outside, John smiled and glanced at the girls, happy to be helping Mary get her life back on track. Kelly was clearly enjoying it too; this whole episode was helping define their relationship. He looked toward his Mustang and pressed the key fob to unlock the doors … then he saw the beat-up truck. It was out of place in the upscale complex -- something wasn’t right! Something was misplaced. It just didn’t seem right. He reacted from instinct -- he’d been ambushed before and just reacted without thinking. He knew in a split second that someone inside the truck was pointing a gun at them. He yelled, “Incoming” and rammed the girls down between two parked cars. They both screamed, startled and hurt. The noise that followed was deafening; except to John, who’d heard it before, it sounded to him like a dud round or sub-sonic load. It could have been deadly, regardless.
The chair collapsed as the gun fired. The shooter dropped the rifle and scrambled to escape. He rammed into the roof, gouging his forehead while careening over the tailgate, falling out of the narrow window opening, landing hard on the pavement. He fell contorted on his side after scraping his arm against the rusty tailor hitch. He struggled to his feet, planning to run to the cab, but John was already on him. The sound of gunfire had triggered survival instincts; he’d been ambushed by the Taliban. He’d repressed the experience for five years, but some things cannot be forgotten. Rather than recoil in fear, he attacked. He closed the distance to the rear of the truck in less than four seconds, getting there as the shooter fell out. As he started to rise, John kicked his head and had him on the ground, barely murmuring through a broken jaw and smashed sinus. The old man was heavier than John, but out of shape. John smashed his face down on the pavement again without mercy. The injured man screamed obscenities and his bladder released as John yanked one arm high up his back in an arm lock, sending a lightning bolt of pain, dislocating his shoulder. The man screamed and cried again, “Ahh ... my shoulder! You’re killing me! Get off!” He tried feebly to push up with his free left arm, but couldn’t budge.
John leaned down, gasping at the man’s odor. “Stop moving, scumbag, or I’ll cripple you for life!” Slightly more pressure would rip the old man’s shoulder joint to shreds. He yelled back, “Kelly, call nine-one-one!” She was already reporting the emergency. Other people were gathering around, some taking video with their smart phones. John now had both arms behind the man who lay with his nose and lips bleeding on the asphalt, sobbing helplessly. John held him without relaxing his grip. A police siren was blaring less than a mile away.
Detective
They didn’t make it to work on time. Kelly was talking to Mary in the background, near her apartment, trying to console her, and the detective was talking to John after the shooter was taken away in handcuffs. “So, Mr. Hollis, what did you see?”
John explained the entire blurry sequence as he remembered it. “Basically, I just reacted from instinct. When the guy fired and missed, I got him down.” She took his whole statement.
She asked, “Do you know for sure that he was aiming at one of you?”
“I heard the round pass very close. It sounded sub-sonic. It was no accident; he’d planned the ambush. I’m sure when you measure the ballistics path, you’ll figure it out.” He was tempted to bring up Lorne’s warning, but didn’t.
She continued, “Woul
d the perp have any reason to harm you or either of the ladies that you know of.”
“Honestly, no. I’ve never seen that guy before. It was an ambush, and we nearly walked into it. None of us have any enemies that I know about. You can ask them (indicating the girls) yourself.” The detective nodded that she would be doing that.
They stayed in the parking lot for over an hour while the police sorted through the truck and interviewed witnesses. John was surprised how well Mary held up, but figured that Kelly had calmed her down. He would need to call Gort later to tell him about it. The truck was finally towed away, around noon and the three of them went back inside Kelly’s apartment.
Kelly had a lot of questions to ask John. The conversation remained low key, mostly to avoid alarming Mary, who had become more composed. A couple hours later, they took her to the train at BWI to return to Portland. She wanted to leave, but also wanted a promise that she could return sometime and see the Institute, which Kelly promised.
