As they drove down a small gravel hill,
Duke’s eyes roamed the parking lot. Relieved to spot the particular vehicle
they needed, he pointed to it before slowly pulling up to the front door of the
Granger’s Quarry office. He pressed the hatch button and got out, followed by
Fiddler, and watched two more men on his team unload their own vehicle right
behind them. They each grabbed a cheap AR15, all loaded with 30 round mags of
5.56 mm ammunition. One hundred twenty bullets should do the trick.
They closed the back ends of the vehicles,
and Duke pointed to Thing 5 and then to the black F150 Ford truck they’d passed
in the parking lot. Thing 5—or Alpha, as he was really known—was the
number-five guy on Duke’s team and not yet deserving a personal pronoun. On Duke’s
crew, a name had to be earned, but he was confident that Thing 5 knew what to
do. Next, Duke’s focus turned to Thing 6, or Bravo. He pointed Bravo toward the
front steps of the office and said, “Not until you hear me first.”
Thing 6 nodded as Duke and Fiddler headed
to the green shed for the weekly BS meeting. Today, at least one of them
will have something real to gripe about. The large industrial, metal shed
next to the office had an eighteen-foot garage door open to the September
elements. Duke could hear someone talking inside, so he raised his fist to stop
Fiddler and quickly peeked inside. Sure enough, maybe fifteen guys sat in
there, listening to some asshole at the front, yakking away—probably Chris
Granger.
He pulled his head back and nodded at
Fiddler. “Looks good. Here we go.” They moved their heads around the corner but
held their weapons back. Duke yelled out, “Clyde!” One head turned around, and
Duke recognized the face. They had the right guy.
After that, he and Fiddler walked in,
raised their semiautomatic rifles, and opened fire. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Easy.
The meeting broke up as body after body flew and went down in fast order with a
bit of screaming, upturned chairs, and pointless running and ducking. Nothing
unexpected.
Duke registered Clyde taking cover behind a
large steel drum canister, and once he’d made sure all the other fourteen were
either dead or nearly dead, he finally rounded the corner of the drum and set
eyes on his final prey. Clyde Hinton, age eighteen, was squirreled into a ball
with shaking hands covering his face, his young body cowering for cover.
“Fucking little asshole,” Duke said,
pointing his rifle at Clyde’s chest. “You’re one lucky bastard, you know that?
You listen hard now to what I got to say, kid.” He dropped the point of the gun
to his side. “Open your eyes!”
Clyde did as instructed.
Duke leaned his face closer to the boy and
hissed, “Run. Run far and run fast, Ringo. Don’t call the cops with that cell
phone in your pocket. You touch it, and I’ll know. Then you’re dead for sure.”
Clyde’s eyes opened wider, and his body
jerked as a few more pops echoed through the loud acoustics of the shed. Duke
inched closer, his breath now directly warming Clyde’s face. “I know where you
live, Ringo. I know your daddy is Mr. Sherman Hinton too.” Duke reached into
his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he thrust in Clyde’s face and
ordered, “Read it!”
Clyde looked at it as Duke explained, “It’s
a receipt from a fucking gun shop in Cloquet for a $550 piece-of-shit AR15 that
has your name on it. You bought the gun. You did this crime,
motherfucker.”
“I, I…” Clyde stammered.
Duke ripped the piece of paper out of
Clyde’s hands and stuffed it back into his own pocket. “The original is in the
office. Right by the time clock and your miserable name. You should collect it
and whatever else you find in there before you run. But don’t worry; I’ll give
you time to leave here alive—as long as you don’t use your phone. But remember,
we’ll be watching.”
“We good?” Duke yelled at Fiddler who was
leaning over, picking up a few shell casings.
“Good.”
Duke punched the nose of his weapon into
young Clyde’s crotch, who pointlessly dropped his hands to cover his balls.
“Run, Ringo. Cut and run. Do as I say, and don’t you ever look back. You call
the cops and your old man, Sherman, burns alive. Got it?”
Duke walked away, passing a few bodies
covered in bloody flannel. The distinct aroma of gun powder, blood, and death
filled his nostrils and flashed him back to other equally satisfying missions.
This one, though, was nothing like the others.
For many reasons.
Annabelle Lewis, a pseudonym
for the author, lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Regrettably? Perhaps.
She still believes she’s a Texan even though the math no longer supports
that. Nor her birthplace. Nor her residence. No offense, Minnesota.
You’ve got your good points too, but only about six months of the year.
In
her youth, Annabelle was a complete failure. Ask anyone who knew her.
Any of her teachers and family would tell you this. High school
graduation was a sad day for all when Annabelle walked proudly off the
high school stage, her thoughts consumed with boys, beer, and
after-parties, and later into the arms of her parents. Her father’s
laughter and singular remark? “I didn’t think you’d make it. Get a job
at the post office, they have a good retirement plan.”
A high bar
and words to live by, but Annabelle wanted more. She needed to flunk
out of college too. But damn, she sure did have a good time. Trivial
arrest records not-withstanding, it was a growth period for our girl.
And if you look closely, you’ll see a bit of what was to come when she
majored in criminal justice. Her lifelong aspiration was to become a
judge. Hmm.
For better or worse, Annabelle didn’t graduate from
college but did find gainful employment and a fulfilling career. This
path ended when she became a mom. Married to her wonderful George, who
to this day can hardly remember an actual proposal, Annabelle finally
became a mother. She didn’t have a clue how hard she would need to work
to keep those self-imposed requirements of Downey-fresh, iron-pressed
sheets, home-baked meals, and mom-of-the-year awards arriving. She
composed a small self-affirmation song and made her children sing it to
her for money. She was a very good mom.
After clearing the
largest hurdles of motherhood and regrettably, begrudgingly, and
not-without-tears, launching her children onto the world, she looked
around and realized she had a lot to say. Picking up a laptop, she got
to work.
Annabelle spends her days continuing to tackle the
challenges of motherhood, for both her humans and canines. She also
writes. And reads. And cleans. And cooks. And bakes. And cleans again.
She also supports her husband, George, in an administrative capacity for
their small business. She’s in charge of payroll and cuts George’s
checks. This leads to no marital acrimony.
In the beginning, with
the blank page staring at her and possibly in a hostile mood after
being literally mauled by a dog and by the world in general, she had an
idea. What if she could wield a force of good upon unsuspecting
evil-doers? What if she had the resources to get the job done without
dealing with committee and anyone else’s whiney-ass opinions?
It
was gold. It took off. Annabelle sat down and began to write and
couldn’t stop. To date, having written over a million words in the
Carrows Family Chronicles and her second series on the Boston
Clairvoyants, several items have become quite clear. Annabelle had a lot
to say. Annabelle really enjoys writing. And although she hates all
things technology, she begrudgingly pounds her head on her desk daily as
obstacles are thrown in her path. Almost a hero.
Since entering
her world of make-believe, she has rebelled against all intrusion of
real-world responsibilities. Her house is a mess, but she tries. Her
family is fed, but more often than not, on takeout. She vows to shower
every day, but no, it’s a vow she’ll never keep. Her friends are
neglected, but not in her heart.
Read her mordacious blog!
Read
her books! Follow her on social platforms! Sign up for her newsletter!
These are all good things. What are you waiting for? Jump into bed with
Annabelle. She’s having a swell time. You should join her.
