To The Lions - 02 Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To The Lions

  Amazon Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2013 by Chuck Driskell

  Published by Autobahn Books

  Cover art by Nat Shane

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  First Edition: September 2013

  For Phillip Day, a great friend who truly cares.

  Chapter One

  Texas

  Gage Hartline thought he’d cleaned all of the blood from his hands. But he saw a little bit, right there, just underneath his fingernail. There wasn’t supposed to be much to the contract job he’d finished that morning—but Gage, many years before, had learned to ignore the word “routine.” Along with a team of other operators, he had been contracted to provide transport and security for a remote meeting in the hills of northern Mexico. During the meeting, however, as seems to occur in meetings of that sort, shots were fired. By the time the smoke cleared, and the rival faction had been dispatched, Gage was on a chopper, racing north, back over the border, holding both of his hands to his fellow operator’s chest, providing a seal of life so the man could continue to breathe.

  That had been this morning, just after dawn.

  Thankfully, the man who’d been shot was going to live. In fact, according to the two doctors who had performed very private surgery on him, he’d been lucky. The bullet had missed his heart and spine. And, per the doctors, whoever had provided first aid against the bleeding and the sucking chest wound had most definitely saved the man’s life.

  Gage’s hands twisted on the wheel as a feeling of positivity coursed through his body. Years before, he’d received intense battlefield medical training at the Army’s Operational and Emergency Skills Course—the training had served him well on a number of occasions. Today’s shooting victim wasn’t the first to benefit from Gage’s extensive training. While dealing with a shooting didn’t typically constitute a good day for Gage Hartline, this day had been a success. The operator was alive and would recover fully.

  Before taking his money and the prearranged rental car, the originator of the job had issued each of the operators a dire warning: “You’re radioactive right now. Lay low.”

  And lay low Gage would but, according to his rumbling stomach, it was long past time to eat. He checked the mileage on the highway—13 more miles to flavor nirvana.

  Behind the wheel of a silver, rental Chevy Impala, Gage motored to the north on Interstate 35, the air conditioner blowing cold white vapor at him in an effort to counter the outside Texas heat. His destination was the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. He was more than halfway there, having watched the southern half of Texas float by as he cruised at 79 miles per hour.

  From prior experience, Gage had planned a food and fuel stop in Waco. His reason for doing so was a transcendent Texas barbecue joint, named Rudy’s, just off the interstate. Though Gage lived in North Carolina, a place that boasted of their famed brand of pork barbecue, Gage couldn’t understand the regional rivalries and the constant bashing of the other barbecue styles.

  He loved all of it.

  Six minutes later, Gage exited the highway and parked between Rudy’s and the adjacent gas station.

  * * *

  Nearly full for only the second time in a week, Gage refilled his half-gallon cup with iced tea and sat back down to polish off the remainder of what had been a massive pile of succulent beef brisket. While he ate, he powered up his mobile phone, seeing a text from Colonel Hunter, the former leader of Gage’s special operations team. Gage swallowed a mouthful of brisket and called the colonel.

  “You alive?” Hunter asked without preamble.

  “So it seems, sir. How are you?”

  “Keeping the reaper at bay. Wily old bastard’s gettin’ closer every day.” Hunter’s tone turned serious. “How’d it go?”

  “Went fine until daybreak. There was a little dustup at the tail end of the conference.”

  “Body bags?”

  “None on our team. One guy had a hole in him, though. Supposedly no permanent damage, thank goodness.”

  “This world…”

  “Yeah.”

  Hunter paused a moment before saying, “I need to run something else by you.”

  “Before you tell me, sir, just know that I really need to shut it down for a month or so.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “I realize that, but I need a little time to reset. I’ve been gone eighty percent of the time in the last six months. There are bills to pay. Dentists to be seen. Clothes to wash. I also need to call our friends in the Unit, too…do a little training. I just need to get caught up and feel my own pillow for a month.” When referencing “the Unit,” Gage was speaking of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, most commonly known as Delta Force. Located on the populated area of Fort Bragg’s western edge, Delta has access to some of the finest training grounds and methods in existence.

  “I know you’ve been on constant red cycle, son.” Hunter cleared his throat. “But understand, there’s big green to be made on this one. Big green. Naturally the character you’d be working for is the unsavory sort.” Hunter let that last part hang.

  Gage thought about how little money he actually had. And, being nearly 44 years old, his body would likely start to fail him in the coming decade. He could use a nest egg. Then he truly could “shut it down” for a while—maybe for good.

  “By big green, are you talking high five figures?”

  “My intel says the potential is well into seven figures.”

  That made Gage pause a moment. “When are we talking about, sir?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Clarify, please.”

  “You’re back tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. Due in Raleigh on the first flight.”

  “Then you’ll need to leave tomorrow night.”

  “Shit,” Gage breathed.

  “Big green, son.”

  “Who’s the originator?”

  “I’ll tell you that in person.”

  Gage stared down at his remaining brisket. Rudy’s didn’t serve their food on plates. When a person goes through the food line, they carry a wax paper-covered sturdy plastic crate, like soft drinks come stacked on. This allows Rudy’s servers to pile the meat and sides on in pound quantities.

  Although his belly was full, Gage really wanted to finish his brisket and accompanying cream corn and green chile stew. And he’d hoped to do so without the weight of a high-paying job on his mind. He asked Hunter when he needed an answer.

  “Tomorrow’ll be fine. Let’s meet mid-morning out at Raeford. Talk it through over a greasy breakfast. Can you get there?”

  “As long as American Airlines does their part.”

  “Fine.”

  Just as Gage was about to end the call, he heard a distant scream. He turned, seeing some other diners standing and pointing out the window.

  “Gotta go, sir. See you around ten tomorrow.” Gage hung up the phone and shoveled another bite of brisket in his mouth. He continued to watch the crowd at the window.

  “Looks like more of ‘em gang members,” an older man with a classic Texas drawl commented. “Little peckers are ruinin’ ever-thang ‘round here.”

  “That boy ain’t done nothin’ to ‘em nei
ther,” chimed in a heavyset woman.

  Another piercing scream penetrated the restaurant, followed by yelled protests from the assembled crowd.

  “Damn it,” Gage breathed. He threw down his fork, took his buttery wedge of Texas toast, and stalked outside. It didn’t take long to see what was going on. Across the parking lot, between the fuel islands of the gas station, four tough-looking post-teens had surrounded someone. The way they moved to block the person made it clear they weren’t letting him pass.

  And they were cackling like hyenas.

  Bad situation.

  Walk inside the gas station and tell the attendant. Then leave.

  Gage licked his lips, glancing at the gas station. There was a line of people.

  They were watching the scene. They should intervene. Call the cops, even.

  Stick your head in, tell them to make the call, and leave.

  He turned back to the group of toughs. They were bumping the person in the center with their chests.

  Their curses were vicious.

  They laughed.

  They mocked.

  Leave it, Gage.

  “Stop bothering him!” was the yell from an unseen woman. “Can’t you see he ain’t looking for a fight?”

  Ignoring the protestations of his inner voice, Gage took a bite of toast and edged toward the encounter.

  As he neared the scene, the picture grew clearer. The man in the middle of the circle was probably only about sixteen years old. He had dark skin and a pair of thick glasses, and judging by his clothes and lack of musculature, it was obvious he wasn’t the type to engage four violent gang members. He looked like the type of kid that should be on the debate team—not brawling at a gas station. Once it was clear that he wasn’t getting past the group, he lowered his eyes in an unthreatening manner. He just stood there, not engaging his tormentors at all.

  He was displaying patience. The kind of patience Gage Hartline did not possess.

  Beyond the scene, at the gas pump, sat a battered old Buick with a Louisiana handicapped license plate and sticker. Outside the car was a woman of approximately fifty years of age. She was utilizing a walker and was on a cell phone, speaking frantically. She had to be the young man’s mother and she was looking around, frantically telling the person on the phone anything she could to identify the gas station where they’d just filled up.

  Gage’s attention turned back to the punks surrounding the young man. They were probably a few years older than the young man they were mocking, maybe as old as mid-twenties. Covered in tattoos and adorned with numerous piercings, they all wore the same style sleeveless jacket, each with the same poorly-drawn logo pronouncing them as members of some piss-ant gang called the 5th Street Fiends.

  When Gage had almost reached them, the woman on the phone yelled at the gang members that the police were on their way.

  “Fuck the police, fuck you, and fuck your bitch-ass son,” one of the punks yelled, high-fiving his buddies as he laughed at his own insult.

  Then one of the punks began mimicking the young man. He put circled fingers over his eyes and began to walk in circles, saying “I’m a little bitch,” over and over. This drew riotous laughter from his friends.

  This wasn’t a racial incident. There were all manner of skin tones involved. No, this was nothing more than cruelty. Sheer bullying.

  Gage hated bullies.

  He thought back to the warning he’d received this morning.

  You’re radioactive right now. Lay low.

  You heard the man, Gage.

  Lay low.

  Lay low.

  One of the punks smacked the young man in the back of the head, sending his glasses tumbling to the concrete.

  Gage finished his toast and slipped the telescoping blackjack from his back pocket.

  Wait for the cops, Gage.

  The young man’s mother screamed.

  “Shut up, you fat old bitch!” one of the punks yelled. He turned and shoved the boy they were tormenting, sending him to his knees.

  Rage ruled the evening.

  Punk number one—short, tubby, and with a shaved head—was the first one to hit the deck. Gage struck him with his elbow just behind his right ear, turning him off like a light. If he’d had the luxury to pause and admire his handiwork, Gage would have seen two of the punk’s front teeth break as his head smacked the oil-stained concrete.

  But Gage was already on to punk number two, the biggest kid of the bunch. He was the one who had done the little mime job earlier. He’d turned, cursing Gage as he pulled his arm back for a punch. Before he had a chance to throw that punch, Gage’s trusty spring-loaded blackjack smashed his nose, sending him down to the ground, squirming like an earthworm on hot asphalt. Not satisfied that the punk was out of commission, Gage smashed a straight left into his ear as he passed, momentarily silencing him.

  The last two punks had backed well away. Gage grasped the young man who’d been the target of their insults, lifting him and nudging him toward his mom. Gage looked at her and told her to drive away.

  When Gage turned back to the two punks still on their feet, his eyes went immediately to the gun being aimed at him. The punk aiming it, a ghostly white kid with a poorly-represented Eminem fantasy, held the gun “gangsta-style.” It was a small, cheap revolver, probably a .32.

  “You dead, mothafucka!” he yelled, pulling his lips back to his gums in some prehistoric effort to appear menacing.

  His still-standing partner, a stick-figure tattooed punk, stood behind his gun-toting friend, sneering and saying, “Yeah, bitch, who’s bad now?”

  “The police are coming!” the mother yelled from Gage’s right.

  “Get in the car, ma’am,” Gage said, keeping his eye on the gun. “Just drive away.”

  “Get on your knees, muthafucka!” the one with the gun said to Gage. His finger was all over the trigger.

  Heart thudding, Gage chanced a fast glance to his left. The first punk was still down, facedown, teeth fragments shrouding his face. He wasn’t moving or even twitching, making Gage briefly wonder if he’d killed him. The second one, the one with the gash across his broken nose, was sitting up but didn’t seem to have any will to rejoin the fight. Turning back to the one with the gun, Gage pondered his options.

  “I said get on your damned knees!” The punk took a few more steps in Gage’s direction.

  Keep coming, you little shit.

  “Cap his ass, Slick. Burn that bitch down,” the stick-figure friend urged.

  Suddenly, sirens punctuated the night. Probably from years of conditioning, both punks whipped their head to the sound.

  Bad for them. Good for Gage.

  He lurched forward, leading with his right boot and catching Slick, the gun-toter, in his narrow chest. The .32 went off, shooting up and shattering a fluorescent light. The kick knocked the punk into his skinny friend as they both tumbled to the concrete.

  Lurching forward, Gage kicked again, knocking the .32 from Slick’s hand. Gage kicked a third time, connecting with the kid’s jaw, snapping it like a dry cottonwood branch. As his motion continued, Gage brought the blackjack down on top of the fourth punk’s head, sending him to the ground.

  After a fast scan of all threats, Gage pushed the .32 again with the side of his foot, sending it skittering under an adjacent car. He stood there in modified knife-fighter’s position, the blackjack at the ready in his right hand. Three of the punks were awake but seemed to have no appetite to come off the deck for another dose of the former special operations soldier.

  With the blackjack pulled back, ready to strike, Gage yelled his query to the conscious fiends. “Why were you picking on that kid?”

  The skinny one that had been dispatched last still retained a measure of piss and vinegar. From his downed position, he snarled and extended his middle finger as he said, “Blow me, pendejo.”

  Conspicuous due to its flashing lights, a police car could be seen rocketing under the interstate bridge. This would all be
over in less than a minute. Keeping his eyes on the other Fiends, Gage dropped the blackjack. He straddled the skinny Fiend and dug a fingernail into the soft skin behind the punk’s ear. With his other hand, he gripped the Fiend’s vulgar middle finger, bending it to a point of whiteness.

  “Aiyee!” the punk screamed.

  “Tell the kid and his mother that you’re sorry!”

  The Fiend continued to scream, but said nothing. With no time to spare, Gage snapped the Fiend’s finger like a dry twig, immediately grabbing the one next to it.

  The Fiend’s agonized screaming pleased Gage.

  “What do you say now?”

  “No! No! Please!”

  “Tell them!” Gage yelled, twisting and pulling the finger, simultaneously burrowing his fingernail into the soft skin behind his ear.

  “I’m sorry!” the Fiend cried. “I’m sorry for what I did to your son!”

  Screeching, the police car bumped over the curb and roared into the gas station.

  Gage released the pressure but maintained control over the gang member.

  “Stop!” roared the command over the police car’s loudspeaker.

  Somewhat mollified, Gage straightened, raising his hands above his head. With admirable efficiency, the police took control of the scene.

  The first few minutes were utter chaos and went about the way Gage expected. Once the McLennan County sheriff’s deputies had taken control of the situation, they began to attempt to determine what exactly had happened. Sitting alone in the air-conditioned police car, his hands cuffed firmly behind his back, Gage remained quiet. Though a tiny piece of him was angry that he’d let himself get pulled into such a situation, he didn’t regret it one bit.

  In fact, he’d rather enjoyed it. But Gage’s primary concerns were with the young man and his mother.

  Gage watched her, sitting over by the store portion of the gas station, tearfully explaining all that had happened to a trio of deputies. The deputies occasionally glanced at Gage.

  Finally, after about a half-hour, a statuesque, ebony-skinned deputy wearing sergeant’s stripes opened the rear door of the police car. He helped Gage out, leaving the cuffs on.