Nightcrawler
Member
8, Part 1
8: The Way of the Gun
“Nervous?”
“Yeah,” Austin said, breath smoking in the cold morning air. “I can’t believe I’m really doing this. It doesn’t feel real.”
“It will soon enough,” I said. “That’s the way I felt my first time too. You’ve been living in a fishbowl your entire life, bro. You’re about to see the real world for the first time. This is your last chance to take the blue pill and go back. If you do this things won’t be the same.”
“Why are you letting me come?”
“Why do you want to go?”
“Those men tried to kill me. They shot me. I’m involved now.”
“Actually, I hadn’t thought of that, but you may well be right. Those guys were obviously tracking me, and if they’ve ID’d you, you could be in danger as well. Besides…there haven’t been a lot of times in my career when I’ve been able to say this, bro, but we’re doing the right thing. Don’t get me wrong. Our targets were bad people. Drug runners, smugglers, mercenaries, terrorists, **** like that. But it wasn’t about that. It was about the money. This, this is different. We’re saving a bunch of innocent young girls from the worst life imaginable.”
“It’s weird, though…and I can’t get this smirk off my face.”
“Austin,” I said, scanning the parking lot, “this is the most important thing you’ve ever done. You’ll be fine. It’s normal to be a little jittery. I’m really surprised that Becky let you go, though.”
“Me too, actually. She’s not happy about the whole thing, but she didn’t try to stop me, either. We talked about what you were just talking about, about how I could be in danger. I…I have to do something. If they come after me, she could get hurt, and…you know. Like I said, it’s weird.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to finish a fight, Austin. It’s better than waiting around for ‘em to come after you again. ‘Sides, what woman wants to see young girls forced into sex slavery?”
As we talked, we stood in the lower lot not far from where my canvas-covered car was parked. Snow began to gently fall, and it was cold out. We didn’t have to wait long, though. A large white van pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of us. The side door slid open, and we climbed in.
“Who is this?” Ling asked sharply. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat.
“This is an associate of mine. Didn’t you say you wanted more guys?”
“Yes, but you said…”
“Last minute change, darlin’. Let’s get going. I need to make one stop.”
“Stop?”
“Yeah, stop. I have to get my stuff. What, you think I keep my weapons in my dorm room? The RA might not understand why I have a box full of hand grenades.”
“You keep that one gun there,” Austin said helpfully.
“Where are we going?” Ling asked, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes.
“To my storage unit. Take a right once you get on the road.”
Once we were underway, I observed Ling’s compatriot. The van was being driven by a large man of obvious African descent. His head was clean-shaven, and he struck a silent but imposing figure. Ling had said she had one more person on her team; I had no idea where the other EXODUS operative was. They were both dressed in black outfits, with jackets and gloves. It was awkward, and I don’t handle awkward silences well.
“So where are your weapons?” I asked. Ling looked back at me again.
“In that locked container,” she said, pointing to what looked like a large steel tool box.
“Have you guys got credentials in case we get pulled over?” I asked, a little more seriously.
“Don’t worry, Michael,” Ling said. “We’ve done this plenty of times before.” I took that as a no. Most people don’t realize that unless all you want to do is buy beer underage, having alternate ID is a lot more involved than simply forging a driver’s license. Any cop in the country can run your license through the computer and will tell in an instant if it’s legit or not. The trick is to have your alternate identification officially issued by the proper authorities, and that requires more time and effort.
“So have I,” I retorted. “I just like to have a backup plan.”
“You worry too much. Now where is this storage unit of yours?” It didn’t take us long to get there. We pulled into the place, and I got out of the van.
It was a strange feeling as I unlocked that storage unit. I hadn’t been in there in months; I only went in once in awhile to make sure my weapons weren’t rusting. I stepped in and turned on the light. The unit wasn’t heated. There was a large, waterproof, steel security lock-box against the back wall, one of several that lined the walls of the unit. My breath was visible as I crouched down and undid the combination lock.
“Holy ****,” Austin said as I opened it. “I thought you were joking about the hand grenades. It’s like an illicit arms warehouse in here.” I chuckled as I retrieved my rifle.
My rifle was a custom job, built by Hawk a couple of years before. It was a FAL type rifle, but built with American-made parts from DSA, Inc. of Illinois. It was semi-automatic, and chambered for the .308 Winchester cartridge. It had a 16.25” barrel with a short flash hider, and the handguards, grip and buttstock were synthetic. The stock was mated with an old-style steel buttplate to shorten the length of pull, and the rear sight was replaced with a better, US-made one that was easier to adjust. In place of the dust cover was a DSA manufactured aluminum optics mount, on which I had mounted an Aimpoint COMP-C sight.
This electronic sight projected an illuminated red dot for me to aim with, and worked well in low light. As I picked the rifle up, I turned the sight on, to see if the batteries were still good, and pulled the charging handle back slightly to ensure that the chamber was empty. I then shouldered the rifle and looked through the optic. The buttstock was icy cold against my skin. Hefting this weapon brought back a flood of memories.
“Which one’s mine?” Austin asked, pointing into the box. In it was a second FAL carbine, nearly identical to the one in my hands, plus about fifty magazines, small parts, and other equipment. In various containers like this one, I had quite a few firearms and thousands of rounds of ammunition, plus some heavier weapons and explosives. I hoped to hell that no one ever broke into it. If that did happen, though, I’d rented the place under one of my assumed identities, and they most likely wouldn’t be able to track me down.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” I asked.
“Um…no, but…”
“Then you don’t get one. You’re not ready. You have much to learn yet, Brasshopper,” I said, smirking. “Oh, and Austin? Why don’t you leave that camera in here?”
“W…what? I don’t have…”
“Austin,” I said, grinning sardonically, “I wouldn’t have lived this long if I wasn’t observant. I know what you’re trying to do. What filmmaker wouldn’t? But the documentary you’re trying to make will either get us both put in prison or shot by EXODUS. Leave the camera.”
“Okay, fine,” he said grudgingly, and took the small digital video recorder out of his pocket. He placed it on top of one of the lock boxes. I grinned at him. He at least dressed in subdued colors, including that same damned green jacket he always wore. There wasn’t any real need to ninja up like EXODUS, I didn’t think, but you feel weird doing this stuff dressed in bright colors. I wore heavy black jeans, a dark gray sweater, and a thick black denim jacket to keep me warm. Thin leather police gloves covered my hands. I took those off, and then removed my jacket.
Austin seemed taken aback when he saw the revolver on my left hip. It was a stainless steel Smith & Wesson model 629, a .44 Magnum with a three-inch barrel and night sights. I wore it in a Kramer-brand horsehide scabbard on my left hip.
Setting my jacket on the box, I crouched down and opened another one. I then reached in and removed my body armor vest. It was one I’d acquired about a year and a half before; it was level IIIA soft armor with ceramic rifle plates front and back. I undid the Velcro on it and strapped it on.
“What the…?” I said as I put the vest on.
“What’s wrong?” Austin asked.
“I don’t remember it being quite this snug,” I said sheepishly.
“Freshman fifteen?” Austin asked, laughing.
“I guess so! Damn.” I had been slacking off on my workouts over the last few months. Hmph.
“Ah, screw it,” I said, putting the armor back and closing the box. “Shouldn’t need it anyways. ‘Sides I don’t have any for you.” I reached into the first box I’d unlocked and grabbed my chest harness. I dug deeper and retrieved four loaded twenty-round magazines. Each contained a jacketed soft point load that Hawk had rolled for me. It was tailored to work well in my carbine’s short barrel. I inserted three of the magazines into the pouches on the olive drab harness, and stuffed the fourth one into my back pocket. I grabbed my three-point web sling and closed the lock box again. I put all of the items I’d collected into a large hockey bag and zipped it up.
“What is taking so long?” I heard someone say. We turned around, and Ling was standing in the doorway, looking…cross. “Let’s go,” she said, and turned on her heel. Austin and I looked at each other.
“Me-yow,” I said, and he did his best not to laugh out loud. I put my jacket and gloves back on, shouldered the bag, and we stepped back out into the light.
We rode in the back of Ling’s van for more than two hours, most of it in silence. Ling had a satellite phone and spent quite a bit of time talking on it in Chinese. The large fellow driving the van said not one word the entire time. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the van came to a stop. Austin and I looked up at Ling.
“We wait here,” she said. “Shen, my other teammate, is waiting several miles down the road. He will tell us when the truck passes his position, and then he’ll follow. We’re going to create a road block and ambush the truck.”
“How are we going to block the road?” I asked.
“About half a kilometer ahead of us is a narrow bridge with no margin on either side. We’ will be able to use the van to block the entire road.”
“And what if traffic comes from the other direction?”
“That is why we must act quickly. We believe this to be a little used portion of this road, though.”
“Where are we?” Austin asked.
“Over a hundred kilometers from Marquette.” I looked out the windshield. We were pulled off of the highway and were parked at one of the many Roadside Parks that could be found across rural Michigan. There was nothing to it but a small parking lot and a couple of outhouses.
We waited for what seemed like hours. In all that time, only two cars passed us on the highway, which made me feel better. It was late afternoon when Ling’s phone suddenly rang. She answered it, listened for a moment, said something in Chinese, then hung up.
“Let’s go, Michel,” she said to the large man driving the van.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied, his voice booming and deep. It was the first time we’d heard him speak. Ling looked at me, and her face split into a predatory grin.
“It’s time,” she said. I grinned back at her. It only took us a few minutes to get set up.
CONTINUED NEXT POST...
8: The Way of the Gun
“Nervous?”
“Yeah,” Austin said, breath smoking in the cold morning air. “I can’t believe I’m really doing this. It doesn’t feel real.”
“It will soon enough,” I said. “That’s the way I felt my first time too. You’ve been living in a fishbowl your entire life, bro. You’re about to see the real world for the first time. This is your last chance to take the blue pill and go back. If you do this things won’t be the same.”
“Why are you letting me come?”
“Why do you want to go?”
“Those men tried to kill me. They shot me. I’m involved now.”
“Actually, I hadn’t thought of that, but you may well be right. Those guys were obviously tracking me, and if they’ve ID’d you, you could be in danger as well. Besides…there haven’t been a lot of times in my career when I’ve been able to say this, bro, but we’re doing the right thing. Don’t get me wrong. Our targets were bad people. Drug runners, smugglers, mercenaries, terrorists, **** like that. But it wasn’t about that. It was about the money. This, this is different. We’re saving a bunch of innocent young girls from the worst life imaginable.”
“It’s weird, though…and I can’t get this smirk off my face.”
“Austin,” I said, scanning the parking lot, “this is the most important thing you’ve ever done. You’ll be fine. It’s normal to be a little jittery. I’m really surprised that Becky let you go, though.”
“Me too, actually. She’s not happy about the whole thing, but she didn’t try to stop me, either. We talked about what you were just talking about, about how I could be in danger. I…I have to do something. If they come after me, she could get hurt, and…you know. Like I said, it’s weird.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to finish a fight, Austin. It’s better than waiting around for ‘em to come after you again. ‘Sides, what woman wants to see young girls forced into sex slavery?”
As we talked, we stood in the lower lot not far from where my canvas-covered car was parked. Snow began to gently fall, and it was cold out. We didn’t have to wait long, though. A large white van pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of us. The side door slid open, and we climbed in.
“Who is this?” Ling asked sharply. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat.
“This is an associate of mine. Didn’t you say you wanted more guys?”
“Yes, but you said…”
“Last minute change, darlin’. Let’s get going. I need to make one stop.”
“Stop?”
“Yeah, stop. I have to get my stuff. What, you think I keep my weapons in my dorm room? The RA might not understand why I have a box full of hand grenades.”
“You keep that one gun there,” Austin said helpfully.
“Where are we going?” Ling asked, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes.
“To my storage unit. Take a right once you get on the road.”
Once we were underway, I observed Ling’s compatriot. The van was being driven by a large man of obvious African descent. His head was clean-shaven, and he struck a silent but imposing figure. Ling had said she had one more person on her team; I had no idea where the other EXODUS operative was. They were both dressed in black outfits, with jackets and gloves. It was awkward, and I don’t handle awkward silences well.
“So where are your weapons?” I asked. Ling looked back at me again.
“In that locked container,” she said, pointing to what looked like a large steel tool box.
“Have you guys got credentials in case we get pulled over?” I asked, a little more seriously.
“Don’t worry, Michael,” Ling said. “We’ve done this plenty of times before.” I took that as a no. Most people don’t realize that unless all you want to do is buy beer underage, having alternate ID is a lot more involved than simply forging a driver’s license. Any cop in the country can run your license through the computer and will tell in an instant if it’s legit or not. The trick is to have your alternate identification officially issued by the proper authorities, and that requires more time and effort.
“So have I,” I retorted. “I just like to have a backup plan.”
“You worry too much. Now where is this storage unit of yours?” It didn’t take us long to get there. We pulled into the place, and I got out of the van.
It was a strange feeling as I unlocked that storage unit. I hadn’t been in there in months; I only went in once in awhile to make sure my weapons weren’t rusting. I stepped in and turned on the light. The unit wasn’t heated. There was a large, waterproof, steel security lock-box against the back wall, one of several that lined the walls of the unit. My breath was visible as I crouched down and undid the combination lock.
“Holy ****,” Austin said as I opened it. “I thought you were joking about the hand grenades. It’s like an illicit arms warehouse in here.” I chuckled as I retrieved my rifle.
My rifle was a custom job, built by Hawk a couple of years before. It was a FAL type rifle, but built with American-made parts from DSA, Inc. of Illinois. It was semi-automatic, and chambered for the .308 Winchester cartridge. It had a 16.25” barrel with a short flash hider, and the handguards, grip and buttstock were synthetic. The stock was mated with an old-style steel buttplate to shorten the length of pull, and the rear sight was replaced with a better, US-made one that was easier to adjust. In place of the dust cover was a DSA manufactured aluminum optics mount, on which I had mounted an Aimpoint COMP-C sight.
This electronic sight projected an illuminated red dot for me to aim with, and worked well in low light. As I picked the rifle up, I turned the sight on, to see if the batteries were still good, and pulled the charging handle back slightly to ensure that the chamber was empty. I then shouldered the rifle and looked through the optic. The buttstock was icy cold against my skin. Hefting this weapon brought back a flood of memories.
“Which one’s mine?” Austin asked, pointing into the box. In it was a second FAL carbine, nearly identical to the one in my hands, plus about fifty magazines, small parts, and other equipment. In various containers like this one, I had quite a few firearms and thousands of rounds of ammunition, plus some heavier weapons and explosives. I hoped to hell that no one ever broke into it. If that did happen, though, I’d rented the place under one of my assumed identities, and they most likely wouldn’t be able to track me down.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” I asked.
“Um…no, but…”
“Then you don’t get one. You’re not ready. You have much to learn yet, Brasshopper,” I said, smirking. “Oh, and Austin? Why don’t you leave that camera in here?”
“W…what? I don’t have…”
“Austin,” I said, grinning sardonically, “I wouldn’t have lived this long if I wasn’t observant. I know what you’re trying to do. What filmmaker wouldn’t? But the documentary you’re trying to make will either get us both put in prison or shot by EXODUS. Leave the camera.”
“Okay, fine,” he said grudgingly, and took the small digital video recorder out of his pocket. He placed it on top of one of the lock boxes. I grinned at him. He at least dressed in subdued colors, including that same damned green jacket he always wore. There wasn’t any real need to ninja up like EXODUS, I didn’t think, but you feel weird doing this stuff dressed in bright colors. I wore heavy black jeans, a dark gray sweater, and a thick black denim jacket to keep me warm. Thin leather police gloves covered my hands. I took those off, and then removed my jacket.
Austin seemed taken aback when he saw the revolver on my left hip. It was a stainless steel Smith & Wesson model 629, a .44 Magnum with a three-inch barrel and night sights. I wore it in a Kramer-brand horsehide scabbard on my left hip.
Setting my jacket on the box, I crouched down and opened another one. I then reached in and removed my body armor vest. It was one I’d acquired about a year and a half before; it was level IIIA soft armor with ceramic rifle plates front and back. I undid the Velcro on it and strapped it on.
“What the…?” I said as I put the vest on.
“What’s wrong?” Austin asked.
“I don’t remember it being quite this snug,” I said sheepishly.
“Freshman fifteen?” Austin asked, laughing.
“I guess so! Damn.” I had been slacking off on my workouts over the last few months. Hmph.
“Ah, screw it,” I said, putting the armor back and closing the box. “Shouldn’t need it anyways. ‘Sides I don’t have any for you.” I reached into the first box I’d unlocked and grabbed my chest harness. I dug deeper and retrieved four loaded twenty-round magazines. Each contained a jacketed soft point load that Hawk had rolled for me. It was tailored to work well in my carbine’s short barrel. I inserted three of the magazines into the pouches on the olive drab harness, and stuffed the fourth one into my back pocket. I grabbed my three-point web sling and closed the lock box again. I put all of the items I’d collected into a large hockey bag and zipped it up.
“What is taking so long?” I heard someone say. We turned around, and Ling was standing in the doorway, looking…cross. “Let’s go,” she said, and turned on her heel. Austin and I looked at each other.
“Me-yow,” I said, and he did his best not to laugh out loud. I put my jacket and gloves back on, shouldered the bag, and we stepped back out into the light.
We rode in the back of Ling’s van for more than two hours, most of it in silence. Ling had a satellite phone and spent quite a bit of time talking on it in Chinese. The large fellow driving the van said not one word the entire time. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the van came to a stop. Austin and I looked up at Ling.
“We wait here,” she said. “Shen, my other teammate, is waiting several miles down the road. He will tell us when the truck passes his position, and then he’ll follow. We’re going to create a road block and ambush the truck.”
“How are we going to block the road?” I asked.
“About half a kilometer ahead of us is a narrow bridge with no margin on either side. We’ will be able to use the van to block the entire road.”
“And what if traffic comes from the other direction?”
“That is why we must act quickly. We believe this to be a little used portion of this road, though.”
“Where are we?” Austin asked.
“Over a hundred kilometers from Marquette.” I looked out the windshield. We were pulled off of the highway and were parked at one of the many Roadside Parks that could be found across rural Michigan. There was nothing to it but a small parking lot and a couple of outhouses.
We waited for what seemed like hours. In all that time, only two cars passed us on the highway, which made me feel better. It was late afternoon when Ling’s phone suddenly rang. She answered it, listened for a moment, said something in Chinese, then hung up.
“Let’s go, Michel,” she said to the large man driving the van.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied, his voice booming and deep. It was the first time we’d heard him speak. Ling looked at me, and her face split into a predatory grin.
“It’s time,” she said. I grinned back at her. It only took us a few minutes to get set up.
CONTINUED NEXT POST...