by Justin Bell
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sedan bumped over the uneven dirt towards the dark back roads of Norwood, Vermont. Night settled through the trees, and even if there had been any houses this far back in the woods, they couldn't have seen the crumpled front end or beat up metal surface of the mid-sized vehicle as it bounced over gravel and dirt.
William Strickland still wasn't sure that this was a good idea. He had just left the scattered chaos of downtown, an absolute level twelve clusterfuck of machine gun fire, vehicular assault, and broken bones. He wondered just how the goons downtown were going to explain this one. He needed a few supplies. Supplies that he could only find back at his home. He hoped that they hadn't left a guard car back at his house, but just to be certain, he swerved right at a "V" in the road and went deeper into the woods. Even with the front-end damage, the headlights still worked, and Strickland followed them through a few winding turns, looking for familiar landmarks. He saw a tree he recognized from one of his morning jogs, pressed the brake slightly, and eased the wreck of an automobile to a stop by the side of the road. Grabbing all of his gear, he sliced through the tree line and was engulfed by blackness and leaves.
He thought back to his stop at Louisa Gutierrez's house on his way home and shook his head, disappointed. Part of him had thought, just for a moment, that perhaps he might find a friend in this strange fight. She'd approached him on her own volition, come to his house, checked out the crime scene, and extended her hand in an offer of help. She was the Chief of Police of this tiny little town, and Strickland thought that maybe she might help him.
No such luck. He'd heard her inside, heard her right on the other side of the door, in fact, but she hadn't answered. She'd drawn in her breath, pressed her lips closed, and just pretended she wasn't even there. Once the headlights appeared, he'd made a break for it and jumped back in the beat up car he'd stolen, then elected to head home at top speed.
Now he was across the street, behind the thick spread of trees, his shoulder and jaw aching. Thankfully the gunshot wound in his arm appeared to have passed straight through, and he thought he could treat it himself. First he had to find a quiet place that wasn't under surveillance.
In spite of what the people watching his house may have thought Strickland knew all about the "animal attack" that had taken place on the two hapless men parked out there a little while ago. Now that he was slowly moving through the same section of woods that the supposed bear had moved through, he was a bit curious how the whole thing went down. Bears were large, broad creatures, and had a tendency to leave a large path in their wake. This path, on the other hand, was narrow and sleek, as if it was deliberate, and by a creature far narrower than your typical brown bear. Paw marks scattered throughout the moist floor, revealed by the night vision goggles, and they were certainly large, though a bit closer together than Strickland thought was normal.
As he continued forward, he made sure to keep scanning with the goggles, and stopped short, sighing under his breath. These guys were thorough. Sure enough, one of their trademark vehicles remained on the side of the road near his house. He could see it from the woods, but they could not yet see him, and he had plans to keep it that way. Strickland walked a little closer, squinting through his goggles and noticed two men in the front seat of the car. The sedan was not a dummy as he had hoped. The even thump of his heart drummed in the back of his head, and he felt himself tensing again, in his natural element. He forced the churning emotion back in check and fought with himself to relax instinct and use his smarts.
Slipping a flash bang grenade from his tactical vest, he pulled his silenced pistol from its holster and walked low towards the car, working out the plan in his mind. The flash bang in his hand had a five second fuse and had to be timed precisely. He set his pistol down and pulled the pin for the flash bang, but held the trigger down with his left fist as he picked up the pistol with his right. With a twist of his fingers, the trigger popped out and the fuse officially started its all too brief countdown. Strickland waited for two seconds and then tossed the small cylinder underhanded towards the car, lifting his silenced pistol into a two-handed firing position. He closed his eyes tightly and ducked his head, waiting for the brief flash of light and heat, and sure enough, it came.
Cresting at about three feet above the car, it dropped to just above the windshield, and then exploded in a shockingly potent scar of white light bursting from the blackness of night. The explosion was loud, and the windshield spider-webbed from the impact. Inside the car, the two men were shocked and they instinctively threw themselves backwards in their seats, disoriented. Strickland sighted down the extended silenced barrel of the Glock 22 and squeezed off two shots. As soon as the second shot erupted, he took off towards the car at a flat run. With a soft thud, the passenger window exploded into a spray of gooey safety glass and dropped down out of sight inside the car door. With another muffled sound, the second shot plowed through the driver's side window on the other side with the same resulting spray of glass fragments. Both bullets missed flesh and blood as Strickland had planned and his dash over the grass brought him to the passenger side of the car within seconds. Reaching in the now non-existent window, he flicked the lock and then threw the door open, revealing the dazed and confused men inside. Wasting no time, his fist closed around the collar of the man in the passenger seat, dragged him out onto the grass, and brought the butt of his Glock down on the left temple, forcing him into unconsciousness. The driver was already getting his bearings when Strickland coiled his legs close to his body and launched himself forward like a human missile, barely slipping through the center of the car. The surveillance man blinked his eyes, trying to focus, when suddenly a linebacker-sized enemy barreled into him at full speed, his shoulders extended. With a shattering crash, he slammed backwards against the inside of the car door behind him, and then crumpled. Just to be sure, Strickland struck him in the temple with the butt of his pistol as well, rendering him just as unconscious as his partner.
Sliding out of the car, he stepped away and ran fast towards his house. As he approached his front door, the keys swept from his left pocket and unlocked the front door, sending Strickland practically spilling inside. A minute later, he was in the basement heading straight for his hidden arsenal, and fifteen seconds after that, he was inside, yanking a duffle bag from a hook on the wall by the entrance. He threw it unceremoniously on the floor and pulled out drawers from his filing cabinet, plucking out the items he deemed necessary for his next move.
As part of his independent contracting work, he had to maintain many different identities and those papers came with him first, quickly filling up the bag with metal boxes. More lockboxes with cash, credit cards, passports, and other forms of identification came in next. Strickland glanced quickly at his watch knowing that he didn't have much time, and he was discouraged to see that it had already taken him fifteen minutes to get this far and fill up the bag. His eyes danced over the weapons scattered across the wall, but reluctantly he backed out of the room and replaced the fake wall panel, leaving all armaments behind.
Leaving the armory, he pulled his laptop out of the docking station and crawled under the desk to retrieve the power adapter. Those were the last two items to go in the duffle, and Strickland slung it swiftly over his shoulder, and then was halfway up the stairs. As he entered the living room, he stopped for a moment, slowing his breathing and attempting to get back under control. Once again, his heart rate had surged and he felt on the verge of panic; sweat pooled at the back of his neck, and his breath came in hushed gasps. As he grew stressed, his sense of smell and hearing seemed to increase as well and he had to lower his head to shut out the oppressive noise of nighttime animals surrounding the house. The house was dark, and with a sudden and unexpected gut punch of loneliness, it occurred to him that he was preparing to leave his family home, and still had not made any progress in finding them. Emerging from the front door his legs pumped as he ran across the road, headlights appearing a ways
down.
There's the backup!
Continuing his run straight towards the parked sedan, he left the ground, slid over the hood, and sent himself hurtling into the trees. Five minutes later, he yanked the door open on the stolen car, speeding off into the night.
