Patriots Betrayed (2 page)

He asked himself again, why now?

Raylan was indistinguishable amid the other men moving along the street – a sea of bobbing heads and tanned skin mixed with lobster-red Europeans and Northerners. His odds were better in the dark, and the panic from the explosion helped as much as endangered him in the stampede. Even if his pursuers had photos, which he assumed they did, in the gloom it would be hard to pick him out, and with the panic further complicating any possibility of identification and pursuit, he considered himself much safer than he had been when he left his shop.

His hand throbbed as he considered his next step. He had a plan of course, and a plan B and a plan C, all thought out in advance. He hadn’t spent
all
of his time scuba diving and fishing. It would be a matter of minutes, at most, before the body outside the back door was found and the police went on full alert, broadcasting a BOLO to bring him in for questioning. Even the chaos of the explosion and the resulting panic wouldn’t slow an investigation of several murders too much. He would soon be hunted by both America’s enemies and America’s police.
Damn! How do I keep getting myself into these fixes?
He missed his year of peace and quiet already.

He ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a black baseball cap emblazoned with the logo of a collage football team and an overpriced T-shirt to wrap his hand in.

The young cashier paid him little notice and kept looking outside at the fireball on the bay and the panicked crowd rushing by. “I tried to call 911, but the lines were jammed,” she said, still looking out the window. “Do you know what happened?”

He shook his head, put a twenty on the counter, walked out onto the sidewalk, and joined the rush again.

Raylan moved around a group of young tourists who had become too tired to keep running and appeared to be close to heatstroke, if not a heart attack. They were soaked in the heat and humidity and panted like dogs, except their tongues weren’t hanging out. He thought they should be, from their appearance.

He spotted a suspicious face on the far side of the street. A man with a dull green do-rag on his head and wearing a windbreaker in spite of the heat and humidity was keeping pace and continuously glancing his way.

Just down the street was a bar he knew that had a back door, so customers could park behind the building and enter without being forced to walk around to the front. He planned to duck into the bar and out the back and maybe lose the tail by running through the dark parking lot and into some trees. He prayed that whoever this was didn’t start shooting into the crowd to get at him. Judging by their failed efforts in his scuba shop, it was a tossup as to whether the man shadowing him was a pro or amateur.

The doorway to the bar, Papa’s Sloppy Joe, a play on Hemingway’s favorite bar in the Keys, was just a few more yards on his right. Music and laughter emanated from within, and it sounded packed. The patrons didn’t seem to know what had happened in the bay. Raylan thought the music might have been so loud inside that they didn’t realize the explosion was not normal fireworks, which even after the tragedy and the ensuing panic, continued on when a few idiots lit small firecrackers and threw them in the street, too drunk to comprehend what was really happening. He grew to hate firecrackers even more than he had. Every time one went off, he forced himself not to duck.

He slipped past partiers standing just inside and pushed through the bodies swaying to music while holding drinks in their hands, the backdoor his target. A few jostled patrons complained and yelled insults at him as he pushed through the crowd. Discarding the cap to make it more difficult for his shadow to ID him, he moved on. The weight of his pistol and the extra magazines were reassuring. He expected he would have to use them before the night was over. So be it. He planned to live and see the sunrise. Others might not be so lucky.

Raylan resisted the temptation to look back and see if his shadow had followed him into the bar and instead pressed his way through the final three yards to the backdoor. It was dark outside, with only one weak streetlight in the corner of the parking lot. Just what he wanted.

He looked around and spotted the wall that separated the parking lot from the wooded area behind. He ran through the lot, darting between cars, many containing drunken lovers in the back seat, and pulled himself up over the five-foot concrete wall in one fluid motion. Landing on his feet on the other side, he ran into the trees, the dark swallowing him in seconds.

His sliced hand bled again, turning the white T-shirt crimson, but he only felt the wetness, as he couldn’t see the blood in the dark. Climbing over the wall had torn loose clotted blood. Whatever was left of the kill team had seen their plan go to hell, and they were at that moment as much operating on instinct as he was. He had taken out a large part of their team, probably most of it, leaving them desperate. He expected they didn’t care any longer if witnesses were left behind or innocents got caught in the coming gunfight. Then there was the fireworks explosion on the barge. Was it an accident? If not, what was its purpose? A diversion? For what? Again, he thought of the weird mix of professionals and amateurs, the large number of men sent after him, and the fireworks explosion. It didn’t make sense. But one thing was for certain: Someone wanted him dead and was willing to send plenty of personnel to get the job done. He had little hope of getting away without more bloodshed.

Bark flying off a tree next to his face brought his thoughts back to the present. One of them must have brought night vision goggles. He bolted, and in two steps was in an all-out run to put distance between himself and the shooter. Another suppressed shot slammed into a tree. He didn’t risk a glance over his shoulder. There was no time. He just ran. The killer was firing as he ran after him, limiting his accuracy. The chance the killer would hit him was small, barring plain bad luck on Raylan’s part. He raced through the trees, depending on the dark and cover of woods for safety.

Everything changed when he ran out of woods and exploded onto a back street. Immediately, he was confronted by a figure fifty yards to his left brandishing a pistol.
Looks like I’ve run out of amateurs and am left with pros. These bastards are coordinating their hunt well by using cell phones, or perhaps CIA communications equipment.

Raylan dove for the cover of the woods he had just left. The gunman unleashed a burst of rounds, chewing bark from pine trees. Landing on his stomach, Raylan squirmed around until he could aim from prone. His pistol had night sights that glowed in the dark. He lined them up, aiming for center mass of the man’s silhouette, and squeezed off two shots. The man went down, firing a last shot as he died on his feet, the bullet bouncing off the sidewalk and singing into the air.

Raylan pushed up from the ground and walked to the edge of the woods, searching the street in both directions. He had little time. There was a killer in the woods racing toward him, and he wanted to get across the street before that one got close enough for a shot while he was in the open. He heard leaves crackling under boots at a fast pace.
Too late.

Instantly, he dropped to his knees and turned to face the danger, pistol at the ready. A blur of motion twenty yards ahead veered to his right. He fired three aimed shots. A satisfying crash in the brush was his reward. He got up and approached cautiously, looking over the pistol sights. When he reached him, he fired a round into the man’s chest. He noted that the man appeared to be bulky in the torso area.
Kevlar vest.
A thought raced through his mind that he needed to put a round into the man’s head to be sure.

Before he could shoot, the man brought his left leg up and kicked him in the groin. Raylan doubled over, but held onto the pistol. The pain momentarily left him vulnerable to further attack. All he could do was concentrate on maintaining possession of the weapon as he tried to get far enough from the downed man to avoid another kick. He backpedaled two steps before tripping over a root and falling backward. His elbow struck a tree, causing his arm to go numb, and he involuntarily dropped the pistol.

The killer had trouble getting to his knees, giving Raylan time to recover. He was on him before the man had time to find his weapon that had landed in the forest debris, applying his boot to the man’s face. His head snapped back and he collapsed to the ground. The night vision goggles he was wearing flew off into the dark. Raylan hoped he was out, but was taking no chances. He stepped forward in preparation to kick his head off or do his best trying.

The man came to life, rolled onto his side, and swept with his right leg, knocking Raylan’s feet out from under him. He landed on his butt. Rolling away from his attacker, he got to his knees just in time to deflect a powerful kick aimed at his face. He got on his feet and drove forward, straightening his legs. When he was close enough, he reached out and grabbed the man’s crotch, lifted him over his head, and threw him against a tree trunk, trying to break his back. He grunted and landed on the carpet of leaves.

Raylan lashed out with his boot, but the killer dodged it by falling on his right side and rolling away. He kicked at the man again and felt a satisfying connection with his jaw and heard his boot smack against the man’s face. He followed it up with another brutal kick and heard a crunch as the cartilage of his nose fragmented.

Expecting him to be knocked out, Raylan relaxed and stood there catching his breath. To his shock, the man sprung up and charged. He punched the man on his forehead; it was the only target available, since the man had his head too low to get a punch into the face as he drove in, and there wasn’t enough time to kick him. Raylan instantly regretted it when his hand nearly broke on the hard skull. Unfazed, he drove his head into Raylan’s stomach and then straightened out, clipping Raylan on the chin with the back of his head just before he had time to jerk it out of the way. Raylan’s head snapped back, and he staggered but didn’t go down.

The killer came back at him, punching wildly. Raylan kicked him between the legs and punched his left eye twice, in rapid succession, blood flinging from his right hand. He dropped to his knees. Raylan jammed thumbs into both eyes. The man screamed, covered his bloody face with his hands, and fell back, squirming on the ground. Kicking him in the stomach caused him to double over on his side, leaving an opening Raylan took advantage of. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the man in a chokehold from behind, pushed his head down, and then twisted, breaking his neck.

The woods became silent but for his heavy breathing.
All of this has reminded me why I got out of this shit in the first place.
He searched the woods for his pistol, but found the man’s, so he stepped over and scooped it up. A .45 caliber Glock, the same as his. He searched for his pistol. Finding it, he slipped it under his belt, dropped the magazine out of the other pistol and pocketed it. Before leaving, he jacked the chambered round out and threw the other pistol in the woods. He would rather carry the weight of extra ammo than a spare gun. A quick search of the man’s pocket netted two more magazines and a wallet that held a little cash but no ID.

Several blocks away, he thought his night might take a turn for the better.

Proving him wrong, a figure peered around the corner of a building thirty yards away, pointing a suppressed pistol in his general direction. He instinctively reacted, drawing, bringing the pistol to eye level, and pulling the trigger in one fluid motion. He saw part of the man’s face blow off before his body collapsed onto the hard concrete.

He approached the attacker’s motionless form as he swept the area for more danger and possible civilians calling the police on a cell phone. They would be busy with the explosion and those injured in the panic. Still, a report of a shootout in the streets could not be ignored. There wasn’t much time, but he wanted to search the body. It might be his last chance to learn who was after him. It could be enemies of the U.S. or even the CIA. He doubted the CIA. A few at the top were pissed, but would they want him dead?

Still watching the alley, he reached his bloody hand down – now minus both the soggy T-shirt and paper towels – and quickly searched the fallen attacker for any clue who his enemies were. He found a smashed earphone and throat mikes strapped to his neck. State-of-the-art com gear that allowed the wearer to communicate on a special frequency without actually speaking, just using the vocal cords. He’d used them himself many times and knew U.S. Special Forces used them, especially SEAL team members. He found another wallet with a little cash and no ID.
Damn.
A thought came to him. He checked for a dog tag hanging from his neck
.
Nothing. He wouldn’t be that lucky, and this man wouldn’t be that stupid, not so stupid as to wear a dog tag after taking such measures not to have any ID on him.
You’re getting desperate. Don’t do that. Think!
Features of the dead man’s face could be European, but could be American.
Hell, he could be most any nationality.

His weapon was another .45 caliber Glock, so he pocketed the magazines and then faded into the darkness. On the far end of the alley, he waited in the dark, scanning with his eyes and listening.

From the opposite side of the next street, he heard conversation over echoing footsteps. It sounded like two young women talking about the explosion and where to go next. For a second, he envied them their innocence and naivete. They had no idea how cruel this world was and how little governments valued human life.

He needed to get away from the scene, get his escape and evasion kit — what he called his bug-out pack — and find another place to restart his life.

Chapter 2

Sirens wailed from all directions. Several police and state trooper patrol cars sped toward the carnage, as Raylan walked at a yard-eating gait away from the bay. Three ambulances rushed past him, lights flashing. Others raced by in the opposite direction, carrying the wounded to a trauma center. His hand caked in dried blood didn’t seem so suspicious, since several people on the sidewalk were also bloody from minor injuries or the blood of those they’d helped until professional care arrived. Some chattered in rapid, excited voices. Others sat on public benches and talked slowly to loved ones in subdued tones, their eyes still seeing the horror of people badly wounded, or staring off into space in disbelief of what they had seen over the last hour.