I hope everbody likes this chapter. In case anybody is wondering, I'm writing this story into a setting that I have been around: the slums and the
golf resort of former president Carter really are about 20 miles apart, I've been to all of these places, and yes the breakin trick that I describe
would theoretically work.
. If anybody does something stupid and blames me though I'm going to hurt them.
Memoryshock: you debut next chapter.
Reikuro: i haven't forgotten about you either
.
"Sir, we can't hold the kid in the field, we're not set up for wounded here. We have the security clearances- I can hop military transports from
here to Ramstein with the kid doped up, pass him off as a casualty from Iran, and be back in four or five days with him alive and speaking
coherently."
"Is this a professional decision, or is it because the kids almost as much of a savage as you?"
The gorilla shook his head in exasperation. "To hell with it, I'm gonna go in there and shoot him. No sense making him die slow if we're not gonna
let him live to talk to us."
The thin balding agent glared back at his massive subordinate with chilling confidence and authority.
"Do you read the bible Gunnery Sergeant?"
"Only before deployments.", the Marine's words were as full of pride and self reliance as the meaning behind them was.
"Did you ever read about what King David did to Uria the Hittite?"
"Why sir? Did he let him die when he was supposed to be getting answers from him instead?"
The Gorilla's resentment was becoming tangible in the air, but the smaller agent squared his shoulders as he stepped closer and glared right back.
"Uria was a soldier, and Solomon was a king with something to hide. To make sure it stayed hidden, he had Uria sent into battle on a suicide mission.
Now can you do your job or should we talk some more about casualties from Iran?"
"I can do my job, sir. How should I handle this."
"You don't. You find that cop. I'll get the kid a foreign background and have him transfered to Guantanimo."
Night had fallen yet again. The criminal always returns the scene of the crime, He hopped the back fence and rushed to the window in a hunched stance,
staying low and peering through the windows. The police had wrapped things up, nobody home. He stepped up to the sliding glass door and pushed it
carefully, feeling to any movement. It was loose in its tracks, just loose enough that he could shake the latch loose.
He surveyed the house more carefully than he had before now, wary of being caught, or of missing some important detail. What a place to live; the
carpet was a mat of grit and thread- nearly worn through in several places. The lynoleum tile nearly peeling up from the kitchen floor cracked and
squeaked underfoot. The faint glare of a streetlight through the houses smoke-tinted windows reflected off of the dirty walls and carpet making the
darkness more brown than black. Tom turned into the hallway marveling at how such a house could hold a bigscreen TV and an Escalade in the driveway.
The whole place gave Tom the jitters, and just then the quiet peeling sound as his shoes tracked over the bloody strains in the carpet thundered like
a tell-tale heart, causing him to freeze in his tracks before realizing what it was.
He flexed his neck, turning it to one side till the crack of joints released some of the pressure weighing down on him. Steadying himself now he began
to stand on his toes and press his fingertips into the attic door and the ceiling around it. It wouldn't budge. He knocked on it carefully- is
sounded remarkably solid and gave no hint of an echo. Something over it? He looked around the ceiling in frustration then moved on to the closet at
the end of the hall. Nothing there either, or if there had been the police had taken it.
The front door rattled against the hinges as somebody began to open it.
Dammit, burglar alarm? He slipped into the closet quietly and shut the
door, then lowered himself to a crouching position to peer under the door. The lights came on and several sets of boots made their way into the hall
and stopped in the middle, facing towards one wall. The water-heater closet?
The water heater came out immediately, clattering onto the carpet, dry as a bone.
what the hell?
One by one the sets of boots disappeared into the closet.
Either that's a lot bigger than it looks or else this is where the "closet" metaphor came from, ey boys?
Minutes past without a sound. He couldn't stay till they were gone. He had to know what was being moved. He drew his gun and crouched, slowly easing
the closet door open. Not a sound. He threw the door open and scrambed into the master bedroom just feet away, completely unnoticed as he spun and
leveled his gun at the doorway behind him.
Crap, the closet door. A quick peak assured him he coast was clear, and he stepped into the hall quickly, easing the closet door shut. He
moved back into the room and slid his hand over the door. The key he had hidden fell to the carpet. He grabbed it and quietly excused himself via the
window.
The side of the house was pitch black and somewhat noisy compliments of the air-conditioner fan just feet from the window he had exited. Nobody would
notice him here. He slipped down the side of the house to the side door of the garage. A screen vent beside the door offered both an excellent view of
the garage, and a nice full smell of the filthy rags and assorted household chemicals stored nearby. A black van was backed into the garage, back
doors open and seats removed. The cargo area already held several boxes and a few thick green tubes witch black octagonal ends.
I don't know what it is, but I think I'd like to know.
Two men walked into the garage. The first carried a massive tripod. The second carried what Tom could only identify as the largest and most sinister
looking weapon he had ever seen. The black-fatigue clad soldiers struggled briefly with the weapon as they fit it into the cargo compartment, then
returned to the house. Tom couldn't see anybody else in the garage.
Feet, don't fail me now!
He turned the doorknob and threw his shoulder into door. The door was solid, but the two small screws holding its latch were not. Tom burst into the
room and swept the room with his gun, coming to rest on the door leading into the house just in time to see his assailant. The soldier struck the
weapon from Tom's hand expertly, swinging his knuckles sharply into Tom's wrist as his other hand seized the back of Tom's palm. Tom's arm went
numb and began to give almost immediately, turning the gun in towards his own body under the force of the soldier's grip. Instantly Tom pivoted to
his left, and rotated his shoulder, leaving his shooting arm behind him and effectively in an arm bar and throwing his left elbow at the attacker,
catching him squarely in the eye.
Tom could barely feel his arm as he squared off with the soldier, only bothering to raise it at all out of habit. The soldier feigned a lunge and Tom
caught him with a jab. The soldier backed up instinctively and Tom took advantage, stepping in with a stomping kick at the soldiers knee and finishing
him with an elbow as he folded to his knees. The soldier fell into the shelves on the wall beside him with a tremendous clatter.
fcking ametuer Tom turned and rushed to the van; the keys had been left in it.
DEFINATELY ametuers
The rest of the men in the house arrived only in time to watch their their vehicle accelerating down the street. From the church window that Joe had
fired from the night before, Gunnery Sergeant Hunt could only watch. He'd expected his quarry to come investigate his accomplice's last position.
Apparently they were professional afterall, he thought to himself. Joe's "act" had almost taken him in. Joe had seemed off to him; if the kid
wasn't an independent he must have been a trained monkey. Apparently he was a trained monkey, and the cop was the one with the sense.
The gunny leaned against the wall and peered out the window as the hired help below stormed the neighboring house, presumably to get keys to a
vehicle.
That's just great, make a big mess guys. I wonder who's gonna have to pick up after you. He left the room and finished his thought
out loud, "I should have stayed with Recon.".
Tamarisk Country Club was the last place on in the world a manhunt would ever begin. Gerald Ford golfed there! Surely President Ford and his neighbors
weren't harboring any criminals. At least not blue-collar ones. The security guard took one glance at Tom's badge and let him in. He didn't even
remember to take down the van's license plate number. Seven dollars an hour didn't buy what it used to- the guard didn't even see Tom come back on
foot and steal the customer contact book and key box out of the patrol car. Who would have thought Tom would be glad for having once been a rental
cop?
It was late spring, and in the deserts of Southern California temperatures were supposed to be creeping into the 90s from time to time by now. Of
course they weren't, but it had only been two years and most of the "snow birds" had not yet figured out that climate change was turning their
winter golf resort into a year-round habitable climate. Most of the yards were completely dark- not even a garden light. A sure sign that the home
owners were away for the summer already.
Too modern-looking. I may as well squat with taste... Jesus when did all of these pretentious old snobs suddenly give up on the old manor look?
WOAH, that one could be a modern art masterpiece... I'd burn it down if I could afford to blow my cover.
The foolishness passed soon enough. The one hidden behind a long yard and a small hobby grove was nice and isolated, and the golden monogram on the
mailbox would make finding the right entry in the contact book easy. He parked and flipped through the book.
"G, G, G... OK, so do you belong to the Garrets or the Glovers... Number 03, Golden way... you are the Glover house. Alarm code 1225."
I want to live on a street so exclusive I can have a two digit address. And now I do!
Tom pulled the van into the driveway and turned out the lights, then produced the leatherman pocket tool from his belt. The toolbox containing the
security guards key was guarded by a nice strong master lock, and a pair of pathetic little made-in-Taiwan hinges. Ten minutes after arriving at the
gate with a badge and a plan, Tom was a resident at one of the most exclusive clubs in Palm Springs, a short walk from a PGA golf course.
[edit on 24-2-2005 by The Vagabond]
