by John Grit
Patriots Betrayed
John Grit
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This novel is intended for entertainment purposes, and the mention of official positions and government agencies are for literary effect and nothing more. There are numerous things that are not one hundred percent accurate and real-world in these pages. That’s why it’s called a work of fiction. It’s not intended to be an accurate rendition of the real world.
Copyright ©2013 by John Grit
All rights reserved.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover photo © 2013. Image from Bigstock.com by Gino Santa Maria
Chapter 1
Gentle wavelets lapped at the white beach sand on the leeward side of the bay. Sport fishing boats with outboard engines drifted a hundred yards or more from the beach, their occupants casting artificial lures for trout and redfish. Music and the smell of barbeques, both on the beach and the decks of the larger sports craft, drifted on the late-afternoon air. Beach-goers and fishermen alike steamed in the heat and drank sodas or beer. A few jumped into the water to cool off their sunburned skin. Several young European women not familiar with America’s blue laws illegally bathed nude, to the delight of teen boys.
All were reminded that it was the Fourth of July when eager children that couldn’t wait for dark lit firecrackers. No one attributed the sound to danger, gunfire, or paid much heed. Excited groups of young children tore up and down the waterfront, squeals of glee and laughter mingling with the deeper tone of adult voices. Tanned Florida natives and lobster-red sunburned Northern tourists packed the outside patios of restaurants, hoisting beer and wine to the setting sun, anticipating the fireworks-lit evening that was to follow.
A barge anchored a safe distance offshore, and loaded with dangerous fireworks, buzzed with the frantic activity of skilled technicians wiring the rocket tubes that were already loaded with powder. The crowds on the beach and the inshore streets and shops had no thought to the dangers. Two officers in a Marine Patrol boat kept sport boats at what they were told was a safe distance.
~~~
The chime of the scuba shop’s door sounded, alerting Raylan Maddox. He shifted his focus from the spear gun at his work bench in the rear of the shop to the monitor screen, displaying four camera shots of the front and back of his shop, both inside and out. He got up from the chair with a sigh, noting the time. There had been no customers for at least an hour, and he was finally getting overdue repair work done on his personal diving equipment. So late in the day, there was little hope of more paying customers, especially on the Fourth. He had opened on this holiday only because so many regulars needed their air tanks filled for a planned weekend dive on a shipwreck, and no other shops would be open. Opening on the Fourth was more of a favor to the regulars for their faithful patronage than a need for extra cash. Anyone partying heavily on this night would be a fool to go diving tomorrow, so business had been slow except for a half dozen of his best customers, the serious divers, who abstained from drinking before a dive.
As Raylan walked through the door that separated the back room from the customers’ area, a knife blade flashed toward his neck. He barely got his hand up in time to keep it from slashing his throat. He took note of the skill of his assailant as the man yanked his head back while trying to drive the blade into him. Only Raylan’s hand prevented the attacker from succeeding. Rusty training from years ago returned to him, as if it had never fallen into disuse. His body was as fit as ever from his active lifestyle, and muscles came to life, spurred on by adrenalin. He bent over and at the same time yanked down on the man’s forearm with both hands, flinging him over his right shoulder. Raylan didn’t let go when the man landed on his back, his feet crashing into a display of face masks. He held on to the man’s arm with both hands, twisting it and, with his left knee, bending it backward until it snapped. The man’s high-pitched scream pierced the air. His long-bladed knife rattled on the tile floor. Raylan snatched it up.
“Who sent you?” Raylan demanded. He looked around the shop, searching for more danger. He didn’t see anyone, so he bent down and sliced the man to the bone under his armpit. “You’ll bleed out soon if you don’t get medical help.” He pulled his cell phone from a carrier on his belt. “An ambulance can be here in time…if I call right now.” He glared at the man. “Who sent you?”
The man moaned, but said nothing.
“You’re running out of time. Soon, you won’t be able to talk even if you want to. Then you’ll pass out and die.”
Raylan stared at the hardened thirty-something face, trying to put a name to it, or at least a nationality, so he could guess what agency the man worked for. It might even be the CIA. Somehow, the man didn’t appear American, but there was no way to know if he didn’t talk. Damn it. Speak. Say something! “Okay, if you want to die so bad, just lie there and bleed out.” He dropped the cell phone and smashed it under his boot. If it was the CIA that wanted him, the cell phone could be tracked and was useless to him.
Raylan heard pounding on the backdoor. He rushed to the counter where he kept a .45 on a shelf, hidden under some papers. A bunch of amateurs. Must be a robbery. No, that doesn’t mesh with this one’s skill.
A dark-clothed hulk rushed through the shop’s front door and climbed over the counter near the cash register. He swung at Raylan with a roundhouse calculated to take Raylan’s head off, but he ducked, and the punch went over his head. Raylan slashed at him with the knife, then feinted with it as he punched him in the gut. When the attacker bent over holding his stomach, Raylan slashed out and cut his throat. The man’s legs buckled, and he staggered forward, falling face-down on the floor.
The pounding at the backdoor grew louder.
Raylan fell back onto one of the chairs behind the counter, and checked for injuries. His left hand had been sliced by the man’s blade, but when he flexed his fingers, they moved, so no tendons or nerves had been severed. After taking a few seconds to catch his breath, he stood panting for a few moments more. Then, after glancing at the front door, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and ripped several off. He pressed them against the gash. Returning to the nearest corpse, he leaned down and felt in his clothes for a weapon, but he had carried nothing other than the knife and a wallet with a credit card that had the name Tom Jones on it, an obvious alias, and a few hundred dollars. This one was definitely a pro. But the other one?
More pounding at the backdoor snapped his attention back to the danger at hand. If this was just an assassination attempt, they sure went about it in a weird way.
Raylan reached for his .45 caliber Glock behind the counter and headed for the back of his shop just in time so see pieces of the door fly off and hear muffled gunshots from the other side. Suppressor. What is this, a team of pros and amateurs working together?
Not wanting the still unlocked front door behind him while he watched the backdoor, Raylan ran into the back room and off to his left, where he could see anyone coming from the back and front at the same time.
A gloved hand pushed the door open. The man moved cautiously until he arrived at the work bench. His eyes lingered on the spear guns, and he stood for a few seconds, scanning the room and listening. Looking over the gun sights, he made his way toward the front of the shop, always leading with his right foot and keeping the pistol at eye level.
Raylan stood from behind a large air compressor and the water tank used to cool scuba tanks while they were being filled. “Drop it, if you want to live.”
The man froze. “I want to live.” He held the pistol
straight ahead and bent over slightly, as if to lower the gun to the floor. Halfway down, he swung and fired just as Raylan double tapped him through the heart.
The killer dropped to the floor. A dark puddle of crimson grew from under his body and expanded by the second. Raylan stepped over him, snatched up his pistol and checked it. A Glock with extended barrel and threaded muzzle to screw the suppressor onto. More evidence of a pro. The model and make of the pistol wasn’t as telling as the high-grade suppressor. After all, almost everyone carried Glocks, cops, crooks, and law-abiding citizens alike.
Raylan crouched by the dead man and performed a quick search but found nothing other than another wallet with a few hundred in cash. No ID.
Before he could get a good look at the dead man’s face, a sound from near the back door alerted him.
He threw himself onto the floor and fired twice at the silhouette blocking most of the light from outside the doorway. His ears rang from the loud report of his pistol in the confined space of his shop. A suppressed shot from the wounded man tore a hole through a tool cabinet by his head. Raylan fired two more rounds, and the intruder fell back onto the concrete outside.
He waited while lying on the floor, checking to his right in case another killer came in from the front. Ten seconds passed slowly. Could be more of them.
Nothing.
If anyone else was in the alley out back, he’d be waiting for Raylan to come outside and check the body.
Raylan jumped to his feet and ran to the front of the shop, stopping at the counter and grabbing another wad of paper towels to clench in his hand and slow the bleeding. He tried to keep blood off a light nylon jacket that he slammed on, despite the heat and humidity outside. Before heading for the front door, he slid the .45 in his pants waist, and grabbed four magazines to dump into the jacket pockets, two on each side.
He paused just inside the door, ears straining for any sounds. Voices from the street and the occasional explosions of celebrators’ firecrackers were the only ones he detected.
Nothing from the back of the scuba shop.
Raylan made certain the gun was hidden under his jacket so it wouldn’t attract unwanted attention from the public and law enforcement. Carrying concealed was legal in the state with a permit, but open carry was allowed only under certain conditions and certainly not on crowded city streets full of tourists from the North and even Europe, where the sight of a gun could cause a panic. Looking out the door, he estimated there were easily several hundred people meandering on the sidewalks and spilling over into the streets, hindering car traffic, which would make it easier for him to make his escape on foot. He took one more look around the shop that had been his cover for the last year and took off into the crowd. Looking back was a bad habit; looking back too long could get you killed.
A rocket burst ripped into the air overhead and lit up the darkening twilight. His reaction was to flinch, and it took all he had to not duck, but he kept moving through the crowd. Another sounded before he forced a fake smile and mirrored the delighted expressions around him, in an effort to blend in.
He steeled his nerves, forcing his pulse to slow. Years of training rushed back to him. A third boom reverberated across the bay, and a staccato popping of firecrackers set off by people in the crowd followed. A glow from the multi-colored starbursts illuminated the night sky above the barge offshore and reflected on the water’s surface. Another round of rockets was set off, just before a tremendous explosion rocked the entire crowd. As they looked upon the fiery carnage, their faces instantly changed from glee to horror. The barge disappeared in a ball of fire. Seconds later, materials blown from the barge, including pieces of the men working on it, began to crash down onto the crowd. People ran in panic. Those who fell, or were knocked down by those behind them or falling debris, were trampled on — including small children.
Raylan ran with the crowd, not stopping to help anyone, but not pushing anyone down or trampling on those underfoot. What he witnessed disgusted him. Men knowingly trampled on small children, even babies, their screaming mothers trying to shield them with their bodies. He moved across the road to a line of buildings that comprised one end of the square.
Whoever had come after him might have been the cause of the barge explosion, but such accidents were known to happen; that’s why the rocket tubes and fireworks were on a barge out on the bay in the first place. It certainly saved lives on this Fourth of July.
His carefully-constructed cover was blown. But why the barge explosion, if it wasn’t an accident? Who sent those killers? Sending a team of pros mixed with amateurs made no sense. America’s enemies were better than that. Unless it was a mix of foreign terrorists from the Mideast and inexperienced immigrants or native-born Americans turned into radicals.
Why now? For the last twelve-plus months, he had been a threat only to a few fish that met their fate on the tip of his spear or hook. He had enjoyed the last year, scuba diving several days a week and fishing as much as he wanted. It mattered little if his business turned a profit, but it did. He found he wasn’t such a bad businessman, even after all those years spent killing a few bad people to protect millions of good people. He frowned as he ran. What good people? Had he ever met one? Yes, of course he had. People who had never harmed another human being in their lives.
He asked himself again, why now?
Raylan was indistinguishable amid the other men moving along the street – a sea of bobbing heads and tanned skin mixed with lobster-red Europeans and Northerners. His odds were better in the dark, and the panic from the explosion helped as much as endangered him in the stampede. Even if his pursuers had photos, which he assumed they did, in the gloom it would be hard to pick him out, and with the panic further complicating any possibility of identification and pursuit, he considered himself much safer than he had been when he left his shop.
His hand throbbed as he considered his next step. He had a plan of course, and a plan B and a plan C, all thought out in advance. He hadn’t spent all of his time scuba diving and fishing. It would be a matter of minutes, at most, before the body outside the back door was found and the police went on full alert, broadcasting a BOLO to bring him in for questioning. Even the chaos of the explosion and the resulting panic wouldn’t slow an investigation of several murders too much. He would soon be hunted by both America’s enemies and America’s police. Damn! How do I keep getting myself into these fixes? He missed his year of peace and quiet already.
He ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a black baseball cap emblazoned with the logo of a collage football team and an overpriced T-shirt to wrap his hand in.
The young cashier paid him little notice and kept looking outside at the fireball on the bay and the panicked crowd rushing by. “I tried to call 911, but the lines were jammed,” she said, still looking out the window. “Do you know what happened?”
He shook his head, put a twenty on the counter, walked out onto the sidewalk, and joined the rush again.
Raylan moved around a group of young tourists who had become too tired to keep running and appeared to be close to heatstroke, if not a heart attack. They were soaked in the heat and humidity and panted like dogs, except their tongues weren’t hanging out. He thought they should be, from their appearance.
He spotted a suspicious face on the far side of the street. A man with a dull green do-rag on his head and wearing a windbreaker in spite of the heat and humidity was keeping pace and continuously glancing his way.
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 Slopp
y 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.
