Let the Music Play - 43. Dead Man's Hand

Air Force Investigator Lieutenant Phelps continued to interview Joe Clump. Twice he interrupted the interview, once to confirm that a search team had already been dispatched to Jerry Clump’s Los Angeles residence, and a second time to show Joe a photo of Jerry Clump, sent over his phone by the FBI, which Joe identified as his father. Now, at least the enemy had a name and a face. Thanks to Instinct and Joe, they also knew that Mr. Clump had a penchant for altering his appearance.

While the interview proceeded a few yards away, The Shadows and Instinct finished their conversations. On the far side of the living room, near the bedroom doors, Helen and Barbra sat, hand in hand across a small pine table. Barbra, trying as best she could to offer support, mainly stroked Helen’s hand as Helen unburdened herself. Günter's death had hit her hard.

Jim, sitting quietly as Joe’s interview with the Air Force investigator neared its end, heard the conversation at the kitchen table die down. Remembering The Shadow’s unease regarding the bikers, he got up and walked over to them. Approaching the table, Jim smiled as he said to The Shadows, “I’d like to take you over to meet the guys next door. They’re good people, just ask your buddies here.”

Brandon, noting the anxious expression on Steve’s face, nodded in agreement as he said, “Jim’s right. They’re great guys. They saved our lives. Go over and meet ‘em. Just don’t touch their jackets or their motorcycles unless they invite you to.”

At the mention of motorcycles, Steve’s eyes lit up. “Dude, I love motorcycles. I’ve got a Honda CBR six-hundred back home.”

Shaking his head vigorously, Brandon said, softly enough that Zeke, seated the furthest away, did not hear, “Do us all a favor and don’t mention that. They don’t think much of Japanese bikes.” Brandon’s brow furrowed as another thought occurred to him, which prompted a further warning, “Don’t say anything about me and Chase, or you and Wilde. I’m pretty sure a lot of those guys wouldn’t be cool with it, and we can’t afford any issues coming up, not now.”

Given an opening, Eric asked, “Speaking of… what’s up between you and Wilde now?”

With a sheepish grin and a reddening face, Steve glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the two deputies, Joe, and the Air Force officer were out of earshot. He replied in a low voice, “It’s just us now, no more girls.”

Wilde chuckled and added, “Yeah, still doing girls was his idea, and he got jealous. I knew he would, he just had to figure it out himself. He’s a bonehead sometimes.”

Steve smiled as he gave Wilde a playful punch on the arm and said, “Yeah, okay, it just took me a while, is all. So, when do we meet the bikers?”

Jim fielded that question. “I’ll take you three and Barbra over right now.” He hoped no one would mind, but he felt it better to take The Shadows over alone, rather than accompanied by Instinct. He felt his crew would take to them a little better if introduced separately first, rather than being descended upon as part of a large group in what the bikers now thought of as their turf. The bikers had become more territorial since the arrival of the Sheriff’s security detail; Helen had made it clear that the bikers were welcome in the house, but few had felt comfortable dropping by for a visit before, and felt even less so now; instead gravitating towards the Jacobs Ranch. It was a slightly uncomfortable situation, but one that Jim felt could be managed as long as everyone was careful. The bikers still thought highly of Instinct, and that was Jim’s other reason for taking The Shadows over alone; he wanted to insulate Instinct from any hard feelings if The Shadows managed to make a bad first impression.

“We’ll be back soon. You guys get set up for poker; I plan on cleaning you all out, a quarter at a time.” Jim said to the members of Instinct, heading off anyone thinking of tagging along.

“We’re having a barbecue tonight, and we want to invite everybody. Let ‘em know to bring some cooking grates, grills, whatever they’ve got. We’ll supply the steaks and foil-wrapped potatoes, plus the beer. We’ll need somebody to go into town with the Jeep to get the stuff, though,” Jon reminded Jim

Giving Barbra’s hand a squeeze, Helen said, “We’ll go. I know better than to play cards with Eric.” Eric’s grin, followed by his extended tongue was, as she’s expected, his reply. The two deputies a few feet away heard the invite, and had noted that Jon had glanced in their direction as he’d issued it as a way of including them, too. Neither deputy had any intention of attending; mixing with bikers was not their idea of fun and they had explicit orders to be civil. However, both men expected to be relieved by the shift change before dark, so both were happy that their replacements, plus the one officer outside, could be the ones to deal with that situation.

The clatter of chairs scooting on the oak floor filled the room as The Shadows got up from the table. As Jim ushered them towards the back door, he heard the Air Force investigator telling Joe, “Thank you; that may be very helpful. I’m going to phone it in right away.”

Jim cast a sympathetic eye on Joe; the guy clearly felt uneasy, and probably unwelcome. Seeking to fix that, Jim said with a smile, “Hey, Joe, if you’re done, come with us. We’re going next door to meet the guys.”

Relieved to be included, Joe walked towards the door as the Air Force investigator gathered up his notes and said, “I need to phone my base again. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Fishing out his scrambler-equipped satellite phone, the investigator followed Jim, The Shadows, and Joe outside, before turning to the west and putting fifty yards between himself and Instinct’s ranch. He could have phoned from inside, but he needed to be free to discuss his thoughts, and that required privacy to avoid any security concerns. Once he was in contact with Edwards Air Force Base, he made his opinion clear to Captain Vargas. “Sir, I’m fairly sure that Jerry Clump is the ringleader. That makes him Prometheus...” The Air Force investigator, enjoying the afternoon sun and mountain air, continued to walk west as he continued his report.

“Poker sounds good,” Jon said, as he reached into a kitchen drawer for the deck of playing cards. Happy to see that they were still there, Jon tossed them on the table, looking forward to the distraction of a game. “Let’s play a few hands while we wait for everyone to get back.”

Eric began to shuffle the cards. “Dealer’s choice: the game is five-card draw’. How about we invite Joe to play when he gets back? He’s miserable here, he feels like a pariah. He’s got his bad history with us plus his old man is running around the country planting nukes. That’s gotta suck. So when he gets back, why don’t we give Joe a chance? I think that maybe he’s really changed. He looks like he’s clean and he’s tried to help both us and the Air Force, and we sure don’t need any extra enemies right now.” Surprised that it was Eric, who had loathed Joe, that was the source of the suggestion, the other three member of Instinct nodded their agreement as Eric dealt out the first hand.

In his makeshift headquarters at a ramshackle farm outside of Asunción, The Scar sat in a barn, surrounded by bales of pungent hay, poring over endless lists of officers. The method of payment was simple; one of The Scar’s agents approached the officer and made the offer of immediate payment of half of the money via the access code to a bank account containing the offered amount. If the officer accepted, he was given the code and was able to verify the funds immediately. The other half of their bribe would be delivered electronically within a day of The Scar’s taking power. The Scar had every intention of keeping his part of the bargain; he knew he’d need to rely on some of these men for years to come.

On his computer screen, The Scar arrayed the names into four columns; those who had been approached by his agents, those who had accepted, those who had yet to be approached, and those who had declined. The fourth column was, in The Scar’s opinion, worryingly large. What concerned him the most were those who had rejected his offer. Specifically, his concerns involved whom they may have then told. He’d been hearing reports of unscheduled troop movements, mainly into the capital area. Those movements lent proof to his suspicion that the Paraguayan government knew something was afoot. The development had been expected, though it was hardly a welcome one.

Perusing his list, The Scar identified the units involved as being under the command of officers who had rejected his offer. Rubbing the scar above his forehead, he selected several units under the command of officers who had accepted the offer. He then drafted some marching orders of his own. He now commanded a force larger than that of the officers arrayed against him and he planned to make full use of it. An overwhelming show of force, coupled with diplomatic pressure from the United States should, he reasoned, result in capitulation. He would then renew his offers, quite certain that they would be accepted under the circumstances. The Scar wished to avoid open conflict; not for humanitarian reasons but for pragmatic ones. He wanted his takeover to appear unchallenged.

The rank and file on both sides were mainly conscripts, which made the officers the key, as The Scar had known all along. The correlation of forces, on paper at least, was mildly in The Scar’s favor. However, he had no illusions regarding the dedication of his troops; they would be less inclined to follow their officers than those of the loyalists. Still, The Scar knew that numbers mattered and so did perceptions. One of his units was armored, so he decided to send it to the Palacio Legislativo – the seat of the Paraguayan Legislature. The unit contained four World War Two vintage Sherman tanks, which would serve as clear statement of intent.

The Scar doubted that the Presidential Guard, whose loyalty was still uncertain, would move to oppose him and would at worst remain positioned around the Presidential Palace a few blocks away. The Presidential Guard had its own armor, slightly more than The Scar commanded, but their commander was said to be still mulling over The Scar’s offer. The Scar had sweetened the deal by raising the offer to two hundred million and he hoped it would work. If the Presidential Guard came over to his side, the country was as good as his. If not, it would just take a little more time.

Checking his watch, The Scar nodded to himself. No matter what, in forty-eight hours or less, Paraguay should be his. He expected to be making his first speech from the balcony of the Presidential Palace the day after that.

Dimitri’s report was the other thing weighing on The Scar’s mind. The loss of Mario would hinder their plans – though in The Scar’s opinion it did nicely tie up a loose end – but Dimitri had given assurances that in spite of the opposition, he had a workable plan for the following day. If it were not for the fact that the band was the only link to the placement of the bombs, The Scar would have ordered Dimitri to abort the operation. The Scar knew that Dimitri had a love of inflicting pain and death, a reckless bloodlust that often led him into trouble. He hoped that Dimitri would be cautious; he needed Dimitri and did not wish to lose him. Had The Scar known that Instinct had already told all that they knew to the Air Force, he would have called off the hit, but Dimitri had not seen the Air Force General’s arrival in the Osprey and so The Scar remained blissfully unaware of that development.

Arriving at the Jacobs Ranch, Jim smiled as he saw two bikers sitting behind a few bales of hay, using a small spotter-scope and some field binoculars to keep an eye out. A quick glance around revealed one other observation post, and his practiced eye discerned a third, partially concealed in a copse of trees.

Brody opened the door as Jim, with The Shadows, Joe, and Barbra trailing behind, approached the front door. Brody greeted Jim with a tapping of fists, and Jim said, “We’ve got some new arrivals here who wanted to come over and meet you guys.” Jim motioned with his eyes at the observation outposts, and a subtle nod signaled his approval.

Once everyone was inside, Jim noticed with amusement that the three Shadows clustered together, obviously feeling a little uneasy. Joe found that he felt more comfortable around the bikers than he did around Instinct; during his wild days he’d met plenty of bikers and found them to be, by and large, tough but forthright.

Jim had read The Shadows correctly. They were nervous, and their body language showed it. That unease drew curious stares from the two dozen bikers in the room, which only served to heighten The Shadow’s disquiet. Suppressing a chuckle, Jim decided to break the ice by introducing Joe and Barbra first. “Guys, this is Barbra, a good friend of Helen’s, and next to her is Joe, a former member of Instinct and a guy who has been helping us and the Air Force get to the bottom of this mess.” Jim was careful to avoid any references to the nature of Helen and Barbra’s relationship, and he’d also decided that it would be better to avoid mentioning Joe’s relationship to Jerry.

Over a dozen bikers, decked out in dusty leathers and sleeveless denim jackets, stood up, coming over to shake hands under Brody’s watchful eye. Barbra greeted them all warmly, and Joe breathed a sigh of relief that they did not seem to hate him on sight. He also said a silent “thank you” to Jim for not mentioning that he was the son of the man likely behind the two attempts on the lives of Instinct.

“And these three guys are The Shadows,” Jim said, a little louder and making a point to smile, “They are Instinct’s opening act and came out here to support them, just like you guys did.” Jim had to fight hard to avoid laughing as the dozen standing bikers crowded around The Shadows, who began to look downright frightened. Jim could tell that the bikers were well aware of the impression they were having, and were enjoying it.

Deciding that The Shadows had suffered enough, Jim laughed and said, “Chill, guys. They’re okay and they’re friends of the Instinct guys. Speaking of... Instinct is having a barbecue tonight and they want you guys to come on over and have some fun. They’re even providing the beer and a jam session, so come on over around dusk.”

One of Body’s bikers arched an eyebrow and asked, “What about Johnny law? There could be trouble if those cops hassle us.”

Jim nodded solemnly, and then broke into a grin as he replied, “You’re right. You guys missed a big scene when the Sheriff came over. Helen reamed him a new one, and laid down the law; if the cops hassle us at any time, they’re out of there. She also made it crystal clear that you guys are welcome over there, anytime. If the cops give anyone any shit, come to me or Helen and they’re gone.”

Brody smiled and added, “Yeah, when the cops first showed up after we plugged that guy, Helen and Instinct stood ‘em down. That’s some lady; she stood up for us.” Barbra smiled to herself, proud of the impression that her lover made.

The biker who had raised the subject nodded, feeling satisfied. Jim returned to the subject of The Shadows by flicking a thumb in their direction and saying, “Maybe these guys will play tonight too. If any of you play the guitar, join in. It’s not every day you get the chance to jam with a pro.”

Deciding to join Jim in breaking the ice, Brody asked The Shadows, “So, what do you guys do besides music?”

Zeke, who hadn’t heard Brandon’s warning to Steve, replied, “We do some rock climbing, Steve’s into motorcycles too, but Wilde and me, not so much.”

Recalling Brandon’s words, Steve cringed. He hoped that he wouldn’t be asked, but that hope vanished in a heartbeat as one of the looming bikers asked, “So, what do ya ride?”

Steve swallowed once, and considered lying. That thought soon faded with the realization that claiming to own a Harley would open him up to a slew of questions he couldn’t answer. Deciding that being caught lying to the bikers could be worse, he swallowed once before replying softly, “It’s a Honda CBR.”

A deathly silence descended upon the room as every biker turned to stare at Steve. The silence was broken as a chair rumbled across the oak floor as its occupant slowly stood up. The biker, the largest of Jim’s crew at six foot seven and three hundred pounds, strode forward, coming to a halt inches from Steve. The huge biker crossed his massive tattooed arms and glared down at Steve. After glancing behind him and sending a quick wink in Jim’s direction, the biker returned his glare to Steve and said with a growl, “You ride Jap Crap?” Steve began to stammer a reply, but the biker began to grin, and said in a badly affected British accent, made ever more painful by his slight southern drawl, “Tisk, tisk. I suppose there’s just no accounting for taste, my good man.”

“Every Doctor and his second wife rides a Harley,” Steve replied, trying his best to match the contrived accent of the biker.

A few strangled chuckles, followed by gales of laughter from the assembled bikers filled the room, and Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that he was safe. The big biker, laughing and smiling, extended a hand and said with a mirthful grin, “No big deal, we won’t hold it against ya... much.” Relieved, Steve shook the biker’s hand, wincing at the crushing grip, as the mood in the room became far more jovial and relaxed.

Brody cemented the good mood by quipping, “You guys climb mountains? Damn, that’s fucking nuts!” The grins all around let Jim know that everything would be just fine.

Pulling on a pair of mirrored gold-rimmed sunglasses, Dimitri reviewed his plan. He knew he’d need to be both fast and quiet; at least at first; the bikers on the adjoining property were close enough to hear any gunfire. What that meant to Dimitri was that he needed to be on his way out of the property within thirty seconds of the first shots, before the bikers could react. Dimitri’s reconnaissance had revealed that there were two deputies stationed inside and one on watch outside. The two inside would be a problem, but he believed he could handle them. The risk loomed large, but the hunt was on. Besides, he thought, what was life without a little risk to keep it interesting?

Taking a longing glance at the small cardboard box he’d placed in the passenger seat footwell, Dimitri wished that The Scar’s selections for the weapons stash had been a little more comprehensive. The box’s label was simple block printing: ‘MK3A2 concussion offensive hand grenade (4)’.

The MK3A2 offensive hand grenade, commonly referred to as a concussion grenade, is designed for use during close combat, especially in confined spaces such as buildings. The explosive force, when used in an enclosed area, is greater than that produced by the fragmentation grenade. The concussion grenade, due to its intended close-quarters use, does not produce shrapnel like a fragmentation grenade. It is very effective against enemy soldiers located in bunkers, buildings, and fortified areas. However, its main effects are concussive; simply tossing one into a large room would not be a sure way to kill its occupants. For that, Dimitri wished that he had a few fragmentation hand grenades like the M61. Those would have made his mission far easier, but he chased that thought from his mind; he had to make do with what he had, and what he had were four concussion grenades. He slipped one into his pocket, leaving the other three concussion grenades nestled in their box. Unlike his previous attempt to kill everyone in the ranch house, there would be no attempt this time at covering up the planned killings, so the grenades could be used.

Wheeling the Sheriff’s Department SUV onto Instinct’s property, Dimitri drove slowly to avoid drawing any undue attention. The comings and goings of Sheriff’s Department vehicles had quickly become commonplace and Dimitri had taken note of the fact that their arrival most often went without notice from those on watch.

He knew that the operation was risky, but he believed that the element of surprise would be the decisive factor. Dressed as he was, in a uniform complete with a hat and sunglasses, he felt sure that no one would recognize him in the few seconds he’d need. People tended to see what they expected to see, and Dimitri intended to make full use of that fact.

Dimitri turned the SUV around, facing it east towards the road. Tugging the Stetson down to partially conceal his face, Dimitri climbed out and ambled over towards the lone outside deputy. The man, sitting on a log beside the north side of the house and foolishly out of sight from within the building – and thus unseen by the biker lookouts on the Jacobs Ranch to the south – stood up as what he assumed to be his relief approached and said, “About time you showed– ” The cold flash of Dimitri’s knife embedding itself in his windpipe ensured that the deputy would never finish that, or any other, sentence.

Dimitri took great care to avoid spattering himself with his victim’s blood. As soon as the man had fallen, Dimitri dragged the body a few feet, to the partial concealment of a bush.

Smiling to himself, enjoying the thrill of the hunt, Dimitri bounded casually up the stairs to the front porch, flipping the catch off of his holstered service revolver.

There were no windows around the front door, so Dimitri could not see inside. He needed to ensure that all five of his targets were dead, so he’d dismissed the tempting option of simply hurling a grenade or two through a side window.

Dimitri tapped on the locked door as he said in a calm, rehearsed, unaccented voice, “We’ve got an intruder, three hundred yards out. Paparazzi.”

In the living room, Eric discarded a card. Before drawing, he looked up from the black pairs of aces and eights he was holding to ask Helen in a hopeful voice, “Can we send Jim and some of his guys after the paparazzi, please?”

With a chuckle at Eric’s question, Chase shoved back from the table and headed for the restroom.

One of the two deputies sitting in the living room answered Eric before Helen had a chance to speak. “Let us handle this. We’ll arrest him for trespassing.”

Eric shrugged and returned his attention to the poker game. Jon, holding a pair of threes, decided that Eric was bluffing and raised him a quarter.

One deputy remained sitting while the other walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Seeing what he assumed was a brother officer, he opened the door. It was to be his last mistake.

With his hat still pulled low and his sunglasses on, Dimitri strolled in, angling his body to the right to conceal his gun hand. The deputy who had opened the door gave him a puzzled look when he realized that the new arrival was not someone he recognized. It would take him just two seconds to become alarmed, but that would be far too long.

Smiling, enjoying the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the kill, Dimitri walked to the center of the main room, quickly glancing around to confirm that his five targets were all in sight. Eric and Brandon were sitting at the kitchen table, Eric sitting at the side and Brandon with his back to Dimitri. Helen was pacing slightly to the side. Jon sat on the opposite side of the table, intently studying the cards in his hand. Chase was on the opposite side of the living room, approaching the bathroom door.

Dimitri was pleased to find that his targets were also alone except for the two remaining deputies. That suited him fine; he figured he’d be on his way out the door in less than twenty seconds with eight dead bodies in his wake.

Eric glanced up from his cards, looking to his left, and dropped them as he saw the face, a face he’d seen once before, in Australia. He opened his mouth, intending to shout a warning. He was almost in time.

In a blur of motion, Dimitri drew the .45 caliber service revolver he’d taken from Deputy McClatchity. An expert marksman with years of training, Dimitri shot from the hip, sending two rounds into the torso of the deputy who had opened the door.

Spinning around lightly on his feet, Dimitri raised the revolver as he turned, bringing it to bear on the seated deputy. Two more shots rang out, ending the deputy’s attempt to draw his gun by sending a .45 caliber slug through his heart, and a second one through the bridge of his nose. Continuing his turn, Dimitri pulled his nine millimeter Makarov from his pocket with his left hand and began to swing both guns in the direction of the kitchen table, where the poker game had come to an abrupt end.

What Dimitri had not expected was that, contrary to police procedure, the protectees were still armed. Therefore, Dimitri hadn’t been concerned when, with his eyes still adjusting to the dimmer light inside and further hindered by the dark sunglasses, he’d been unable to see what was under the kitchen table. Dimitri’s first thought when he saw Brandon, Eric, and Jon all reaching under the table was that they were ducking for cover.

Helen had stopped pacing when the first shots rang out, and though her own gun was just two yards away, it might as well have been on the moon as she saw Dimitri’s guns swing in her direction. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized they were not aimed at her, but at Eric, who was looking the other way, intent on grabbing his gun from under the table. Time seemed to slow to a crawl for Helen. She saw it all clearly; none of the guys would be able to fire in time. There was nothing she could do, except for one thing. Not hesitating, and knowing the cost, Helen bolted to her right, interposing herself between Dimitri and Eric just as Dimitri’s .45 barked again, its bullet aimed squarely at the center of Eric’s back from a dozen feet away.

Helen barely felt the impact, at first. The hollow-point bullet slammed into her abdomen, flattening itself and fragmenting, causing massive internal damage. Helen stumbled sideways towards the wall as Eric and Brandon lifted their shotguns from the floor, swinging them around towards Dimitri as Jon followed suit.

Dimitri felt as if time had slowed to a crawl as he realized that three shotguns were coming up. Knowing that he wouldn’t have time to kill all three before they could fire, Dimitri squeezed off one shot from his Makarov as he began a jump to his right.

Jon had seen the gun coming to bear. He’d tried in vain to dodge to the side, only to be spun around and thrown off his chair as the nine-millimeter slug slammed into his body.

His adrenalin surging, Eric’s first shot ripped through the air a fraction of a second too soon, missing Dimitri to the right.

Outgunned and frantic for cover, Dimitri leaped to the side as the blast from Brandon’s twelve-gauge tore through the space Dimitri had occupied a moment before. Dimitri continued his desperate lunge, trying to remove himself from the line of fire. In the fury of the moment, he hadn’t noticed that the shotguns were single-barreled and not semi-automatic, and thus the only two remaining in action needed to be pumped.

Brandon and Eric bolted from the table, focused on Dimitri and oblivious to the fate of Helen and Jon.

Dimitri dashed headlong towards the open bedroom door, as Brandon and Eric both chambered rounds. Chase, having heard the gunfire as he entered the bathroom, dashed out; intent on getting his gun, just in time to emerge into Dimitri’s path. Dimitri slammed into Chase, surprising them both.

Jarred out of his hand by the impact; Dimitri’s Makarov skittered across the flagstone floor, coming to rest a dozen feet away. Chase looked towards the fallen gun, but Dimitri looked at Chase, seeing in him a way out, and a means to an end.

Chase tried to grapple with Dimitri, but Chase was off balance and Dimitri was still in motion and stronger, hurling both himself and Chase through the open bedroom door. With a speed borne of long practice, Dimitri’s right hand brought the cold steel of his bloody knife to rest on Chase’s throat. The command Dimitri issued was simple and direct: “Move and you die.”

Using his left hand, which still held the .45, Dimitri spun Chase around as Brandon and Eric, guns leveled, approached from the other side of the open door. With a knife at his throat, Chase had no choice but to comply as he became a shield for Dimitri.

Knowing that time was running out, Dimitri cursed the fact that he had only the service revolver, with just one bullet remaining against two armed targets. The grenade in his pocket was useless; he couldn’t spare a hand to use it. Noticing at last that the shotguns were single barrel, a sudden idea occurred to him, one which would reduce the number of armed targets to zero. It also appealed mightily to his sadistic nature. Pointing his gun at Brandon, Dimitri said, “I know what this one means to you. Unless you do exactly as I say, I will cut his throat and you can watch him die. If you comply, he lives.”

Dimitri pulled Chase back a single pace. Nodding in Eric’s direction, Dimitri told Brandon, “Kill him or your boyfriend dies. You have two seconds.” To emphasize his point, Dimitri allowed his blade to draw blood as it sank into Chase’s throat.

There was no time to argue, no time to think. Wishing he could get a clear shot at Dimitri, Brandon saw the blood begin to trickle from Chase’s neck… but there was no way to shoot Dimitri without killing Chase. Eric, standing six feet to Brandon’s side, saw the blood on his younger brother’s neck as the knife began its gory work, and in desperation, knowing there was no other way, he looked at Brandon, seeing the barrel of the shotgun in his hands. As Brandon’s head turned and their eyes met, Eric looked into Brandon’s desperate face, nodding once as he said, “Do it, Brand, do it now, you don’t have a choice.” Eric had used Chase’s nickname for Brandon, to emphasize his point and make Brandon think of Chase.

Chase, in spite of the pain and fear, struggled and cried out in an attempt to save Eric, but Brandon did not pause.

Helen, slumped against the wall, wracked by agony, heard Eric’s words and looked up from her bloodied abdomen in time to feel her dread doubled as she watched Brandon swing his shotgun though ninety degrees, directly towards Eric.

Seeing that his words had their desired effect, and hoping that his final sacrifice would not be in vain, Eric stood tall, chest puffed and shoulders back, brave and unafraid as he closed his eyes to await his end.

On the streets of Paraguayan capital Asunción, an uncharacteristic tranquility made the afternoon seem ominous to those familiar with the vibrant pulse of the city. It was the calm before the coming storm.

© 2008 C James

Please let me know what you think; good, bad, or indifferent.

Please give me feedback, and please don’t be shy if you want to criticize! The feedback thread for this story is in my Forum. Please stop by and say "Hi!"

Many thanks to my editor EMoe for editing and for his support, encouragement, beta reading, and suggestions.

Thanks also to Shadowgod, for beta reading, support and advice, and for putting up with me.

A big "thank you" to to Bondwriter for final Zeta-reading and advice, and to Captain Rick for Beta-reading and advice.

Special thanks to Graeme, for beta-reading and advice.

Any remaining errors are mine alone.