Page 51 of Gatling
I cast a glance at Kingpin. He dipped his head in a nod.
“Let’s see if you take your own advice.”
After everyone had trekked off to take up their positions, I tugged my duffle open and geared up. I hadn't worn my tac vest in over fifteen years, and the weight of it felt strange, but comforting at the same time. When I was finished, I hitched the strap of my bag over my shoulder and began hiking into the trees.
My lungs were mildly soothed by the cool, moist air, but breathing was still an agonizing experience. I couldn’t do more than a slow jog for a minute or two before I felt lightheaded, on the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen.
As I followed the tire tracks into the woods, the ratchety-clank of an old motor growled from somewhere up ahead. I dropped my bag to the ground, drew my pistol, and took aim.
One second ticked by. Followed by another. And another.
The engine drew closer. Metal rattled.
Then Olson’s rusty Sedan lumbered into view, bouncing on the frozen muddy ruts. I didn’t see any sign of Kelsie in the car, but that didn’t mean anything. She might be in the trunk, hidden out of sight.
God forbid.
As soon as Olson spotted me, he slammed on the brakes.
No longer blinded by the effects of the pepper spray, my vision hadn’t fully recovered yet either. A dream-like haze made the edges of everything smear together.
In the military, I couldn’t afford to wait for the right moment to take the shot. Perfect conditions didn’t exist. Wind and rain, sand and dust, enemy fire and a barrage of explosions, I had to adapt to all of it.
Take aim. Fire. Even when it seemed impossible to hit the target.
I pulled the trigger, aiming for Olson’s tires first to slow him down.
One tire blew with an explosive burst of air.
He skidded into a wild, swinging U-turn, speeding back the way he came.
The hunt is on.
I unclipped the radio from my belt.
“I’ve got eyes on Olson. I need two men on backup, north-western corner of the property.”
“Sending Hot Shot your way,” came Kingpin’s response over the radio.
“Tex is on the move,” Blackbeard announced.
For over a mile, I followed Olson’s tracks. Hot Shot crashed through the trees, brushing pine needles out of his mohawk. Tex appeared more quietly a moment later. I gestured up the road.
“We should be closing in,” I said.
In a nearby tree, I spotted a flash of movement and glanced up, raising my pistol.
A video camera, mounted into a tree trunk with no branches for climbing.
“He has a security system.” I pointed upward. “We’re being watched.”
“Do you think Credence could scramble the signal?” Hot Shot offered.
I tossed my walkie-talkie to him.
"Good thinking. Let him know what the situation is. Tex and I will keep going. Catch up with us when you’re done.”
An additional half a mile later and we reached the bunker, nestled into the loamy earth.
