I look on to see if any of them feel uncomfortable bullying the woman and the situation. They all appear to be comfortable with what they are doing with the exception of one younger man standing off to the side. His eyes dart around everywhere else but the situation in front of him, shifting his stance from side to side in apparent discomfort.
“Drop your weapons and move on assholes,” I say aloud standing from behind the car and aiming my M-4 into the central mass.
The startle amongst them is an amazing thing to see. I have never grown tired of watching people react to someone close by when they had no idea that someone was there. The shock is close to paralyzing for them. The trick is to keep them that way and not to let them recover; keep them off balance.
“Drop them or die, your choice but make it quick or I’ll decide for you,” I say seeing the group turn their gaze to one man in the middle; seeking an answer as to what they should do.
The one in question is a tall, lanky man in jeans and a blue t-shirt with a rip in the front. He’s sporting a red hat with a New England Patriot’s logo on the front; his longish, brown hair curling out from under it in a tangled mess. He has bully and coward written all over him judging from his cornering this family and exerting his control over them with seventeen others behind him. I have seen his type before. Seems strong with his buddies and superior numbers behind him, but take that away and he’ll cower and whimper in the corner. The uncertainty of what to do is written all over his pinched face, a face dominated by a rather large nose. He feels the need to be strong or lose the respect of the men with him, but his cowardice is coming to the surface. The quick change from dominating the scene to being faced with someone strong causes a conflict inside. He cannot yield nor can he bully. He is at a loss. A short time passes with his indecision.
“Everyone hold your fire but be ready, I’m taking one out,” I say into the radio.
I line my red dot up on the head of the apparent leader and flip my selector switch to semi. A small pull on the trigger and the M-4 jars slightly against my shoulder. The crack of the round firing and going supersonic, sending its deadly payload outward, startles the group further. The steel round connects with his head with a solid thunk, rocking his head backward and tossing the cap into the air. Blood sprays outward and to the rear, a brilliant pink mist lit by the sun. Bits of bone and clumps of brain matter add mass to the mist. His body stiffens and both the lever-action rifle he was carrying and his body falls straight to the ground, the rifle clattering on the pavement and his body hitting it with a fleshy thump.
“Last chance shitheads. Who’s next?” I call out moving my red dot to the man standing next to their fallen leader.
Every man stands with shocked expressions. See, most people expect the banter to continue and the one with the wittiest line wins. They think the war of words is the actual battle. They watch way too much TV. Or did. This is the last thing they expect or want. The realization that I am not kidding around, or that banter and talk will even be a part of this, dawns brightly upon them. They expected something like they were engaged in with the family to ensue. Nope, not going to happen. You cannot fuck around with mentalities like these. Especially when they are confused as to which choice they should make. You make it very clear what the right choice is and do it right from the start.
“Lynn, bring your team out into the open but ready to open up,” I speak into the radio.
Black Team emerges from the tree line, lining up along the parking lot on the other side. Spaced apart but ready to deliver immense amounts of firepower should they need. The men notice the movement to one side of them and see Red Team positioned behind the cars with their weapons trained on them on the other. Most drop their weapons before being told to. They outnumber us by a fair margin but also know the odds of them living long enough to make that count, should it come down to a fight, are slim. They know when to say when.
“Move over there slowly,” I say pointing to a spot in the parking lot to my right with the barrel of my carbine. “In the middle and sit down with your hands on your head. Move in any way we don’t like and you’ll not appreciate the result.”
“Lynn, move up and cover them,” I say as the group of men shamble over and sit down on the warming pavement. I direct Red Team to set up a small perimeter, shoulder my weapon and move over to the woman with my hands open.
“It’s okay, ma’am, you won’t be hurt,” I call out towards her.
She is still holding the revolver out in front of her but she has lowered it down at an angle. I can sense she feels conflicted; feeling both saved, or at least hoping so, and unsure if she should relax. The young boy is still clutching her waist with his eyes now darting from her and to the man, his dad apparently, lying on the walkway.
“Lynn, can you come over here?” I ask into the radio holding my position.
“Can you talk with her? I think she may still be in a little shock and need a woman to assure her she is safe,” I say to her once she arrives.
Lynn shoulders her rifle and walks over to her, hands spread in a reassuring manner. The woman does not raise her gun up but she does not lower it either. A little sense of relief flows from her to see a woman and she lets Lynn approach, the boy sliding around behind his mom as Lynn draws near. Lynn comes to a stop in front of her and slowly puts her hand out to the pistol in the woman’s hand, pushing it gently down to the side. I cannot hear exactly what the conversation is but I can tell there is one by the woman’s mouth moving. She abruptly erupts into tears and, dropping the gun on the ground, throws her arms out and gives Lynn a hug, enfolding her and sobbing on her shoulder. Lynn puts her arms around the grief and shock-stricken woman.
After a few moments, the woman recovers and draws back. Unwrapping her son’s arms from around her, she bends down to say something to him. Standing after she has a word with her son, she walks over to where her husband lies on the ground, the pooled blood around him drying in the warming air. She crouches down and I observe her remove the wedding band from his hand and deliver a kiss with her fingers to his cheek. Standing once again, she gathers her son and walks with Lynn back towards me, the woman stopping a few feet away as if uncertain of her position or safety.
“She says they were trying to find food and water when they were waylaid by these guys,” Lynn says with a measure of disgust nodding towards the group of men sitting on the pavement, bunched together with Black Team forming a semi-circle around them. “They shot her husband when they became cornered here and he tried to defend them.”
“That’s kind of what I thought,” I reply. I wave the woman over and she approaches in a hesitant manner, automatically sweeping her son behind her in a protective manner as she nears.
Dark circles around her brown eyes tells of the horror and sleeplessness she must have faced over the past few days; as does the grime and dirt spotting her face. Her diminutive stature belies the look of determination in her eyes she had just a few moments before as she stood off the group of men looking to harm her and possibly her son.
“I’m very sorry for your loss ma’am. You’re safe with us and be assured no harm will come to you or your boy,” I say.
A look of relief passes through her eyes on hearing my words and eyeing the armed men around her; her body language showing a measure of the tension inside releasing.
“Do you know of or heard of anyone else alive?” I ask.
Looking back at me, she shakes her head “no” evidently not trusting to talk at this time.
“You and your son are welcome to come with us. But just so you know, we’re not staying here. We have an aircraft and are heading to the Northwest. It’s your choice but I would feel very remiss leaving you here,” I tell
