Firepower, John Cutter [best summer reads .txt] 📗

alright,” said the pudgy, red-faced man beside him. There was a certain swagger in their banter that Vince attributed to the AR-15s. Carrying automatic weapons made some people feel powerful.

The short guy and pudgy one had the same type of cap, the same cammies, unmarked by any insignia. The third man said nothing. He was darker, deeply tanned, black hair, no cap, lips pursed in his craggy, pocked face. He had the stripes of a master sergeant on his cammie jacket. But apart from the marks of rank, no insignia. All three men had their fatigues tucked into military-issue boots. Were they from some kind of National Guard training program? But they would have the insignia for that.

“Ya’ll are trespassing,” said the pudgy man.

“This is the Talladega National Forest, isn’t it?” Vince asked calmly.

The man blinked and shuffled his feet. “Ye-es. But this trail is right on the edge of private property. And it’s not an authorized trail.”

“You work for the US Forest service?”

“Well — no.”

“You have some kind of special permission to be here yourselves?” Vince made it sound as if he was just curious.

The big man with the sergeant’s stripes answered for pudgy guy. “That’s not at issue.” He had a deep, rumbling voice. “We belong here. You don’t. We saw you on security camera; we came to tell you to turn back.”

“That a federal security camera?” Vince asked, as if only casually interested.

The sergeant frowned. “Doesn’t matter whose it is.”

“Colls, I don’t think this guy gets it,” said the short guy with the blond hair, talking to the sergeant.

“Don’t use my name in the field without authorization,” growled Colls, glaring at the shorter man. “And you address me as Sergeant.”

“Okay, fine — what we going to do about the intruder, Sergeant?”

“I’m just passing through,” Vince said. “I’m on my way to private land. I have permission to camp there. I came from this direction because I wanted to see the Talladega forest. If you boys can move out of the way, I’ll head on.”

Colls shook his head and hefted the AR-15. “You’re not passing through here. You’re going back the way you came. You find some other route to where you’re going. But not in this forest. Not at all.”

“You going to use that rifle on me if I don’t go back the way I came?” Vince asked. He had no gun himself, not with him. Just a razor-sharp army-issue combat knife, neither too big nor too small, in a metal sheath on his right hip. It had served him well on a number of night missions.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Colls. “We’ll use our rifles only on assigned targets, or in self-defense. There’s three of us. You’ll go, alright.”

“‘Assigned targets’? You fellas have regulations and everything! Nice and shiny. Who are you… serving with?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” said the red-faced guy, stepping forward, now jabbing the AR-15 toward Vince. “Sarge, what if he’s FBI?”

Colls grunted. “Not impossible.” He scowled at Vince. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours — I mean, besides Colls?” Vince asked. “I’ll show you my ID if you show me yours. All I have is a driver’s license.” He smiled sadly at the pudgy guy. “I’m afraid I’m not with the FBI. Nothing so interesting. I’m an out of work freelancer, taking a hike.” The concern about the FBI reinforced Vince’s suspicion that these men were from some off-brand militia.

“Just show me your ID,” Colls said, pointing the rifle at Vince. “Now.”

Vince gave them a faint smile. Inside, he was taut, feeling anger build. He didn’t like anyone to point a gun at him. Ever.

But he stretched, as if loose and bored, then shrugged and said, “I guess I’ll have to revise my plan.” He looked at the AR-15 in the hands of the nearer, red-faced man. “That’s a nice new weapon you’ve got. Selective fire?” Smiling, Vince took a couple steps toward the pudgy man, keeping the militiaman between himself and the other two, as if he wanted to admire the gun. He noticed pudgy guy hadn’t taken the safety off on his rifle. “What load you use?”

“Stop right there!” Colls growled. “Give me your ID and then put your hands up!”

Vince shrugged. “Sure thing.” He reached into a pocket, slowly, so as not to make the militiamen nervous, and drew out a wallet. There was very little in the wallet. It was slim. It contained a Veterans Administration card, a driver’s license, and a thousand dollars in cash. No credit cards. Nothing else.

He took out the driver’s license, replaced his wallet, humming “Strangers in the Night” as he did it — and suddenly skimmed the plastic-encased license at Colls’ feet. The three strangers automatically looked at it.

Colls bent to pick it up — and Vince made a series of moves in under two seconds.

Vince stepped in close to the pudgy guy, grabbing the barrel of the AR-15, jerking it from the militiaman’s hands before he could move, instantaneously ramming it back into the man’s gut. Pudgy guy gasped and bent double. With one hand, Vince reversed the AR-15. With the other, he grabbed pudgy guy by the neck and dragged him up to block the muzzle of the short guy who was trying to move into a firing position.

The militia sergeant was straightening up, the license in one hand, rifle in the other. Neither he nor the short guy could hit Vince from where they were without killing their buddy.

“Freeze!” Vince snarled.

He had the rifle pointing at the sergeant, its stock braced on his hip, his finger on the trigger. He hadn’t had time to take the safety off too — but he figured they weren’t going to see that from where they were.

The pudgy guy was wheezing, Vince’s hand tight on his throat, hopelessly trying to