O.k., here it is. One more part, because I'm having trouble finishing it. There have been a few events in the Bear's lives that have taken preference. I write for my own pleasure. I do appreciate the comments. They are your opinions. I apologize for it taking so long. But a Bear's gotta do what a Bear's gotta do. (My apologies to John Wayne.) It is not an excuse, just a reason. I will say that it's easier writing in Sci-Fi than in Loving Wives. They love me more, I guess. The last part is coming. I promise. (I sound like a cheating wife with these excuses.)
Please, enjoy.
This is the second part. I hope the first was acceptable. It kind of grew while I was writing it, and I tried to keep it flowing. It got so long that I felt a second part was warranted. I hope this meets with everyone's approval. This should answer any questions. Please, enjoy.
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So I went home and pulled into my garage. The door came down and I was secure from the prying eyes of the world. I went in and upstairs to my guest room. I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the slut's bed. I had picked up a Reebow Gear Tactical backpack and proceeded to load clean clothes. Two pair of jeans, four pair under shorts, two pairs of khaki pants, four t-shirts, sneakers, and four pair of heavy socks. I took off my civilian shoes and put on a pair of heavy duty waterproof boots. Then I went through Lorelei's bedside drawers and found a ball gag.
(She would never play games like that with me.)
I packed everything up and left to go. I went out to the garage and started up the truck. The garage door went up, I backed out, closed the door, and left my life behind me.
First stop-Long John Silvers. Another fish and shrimp dinner and a coke. I pulled around and parked in the lot. I looked around as I ate supper. FINALLY!! There it was. An eighteen wheeler puled up next door, while the driver went inside to get some food. I got out, with the tracker in my hand and hustled to the cab of the truck. Florida tags. The trailer said "Key West Seafood" with a large fish superimposed on the words. It would have to do. I stuck the tracker on the inside of the frame rail and made it back to my truck.
I finished dinner, tidied the cab a little and waited for the driver to come out. Finally, he appeared and made his way to the cab. The tuck started and moved out onto the street, turned right up the entrance ramp to the Interstate, and headed South. Step one-check.
I got out and locked up the truck. Carrying my 'luggage', I walked to the storage lot as the sun was setting. I let my myself in and went to unit #243. Opening the door, I gazed upon my other baby. Now that Samantha is gone. I unslung my backpack and secured it to the back of the bike.
I sat down on the seat and spooled up my laptop and check out Jeremy Hun Chang's schedule. It was close to 5:00 p.m. and it showed he would probably be getting ready to go out 'hunting'. My data showed he was between conquests. I checked the route to his apartment and figured I had about thirty five minutes to get there.
Shut down my laptop and stowed it. I picked up the egg crate helmet and strapped it on, followed by gloves, a face mask, and goggles, and fire up the bike. I checked the odometer and knew I had enough gas and then some to do the job. I had opted for the over-sized gas tank figuring Lorelei and I would do a lot of highway traveling together.
Yeah, right.
I spooled out and stopped, closed the door and slipped the pad lock on. I moved to the gate and as it opened, I drove out.
Thirty two minutes later I was parked in the parking lot in front of the prick's apartment. I locked the helmet and the goggles on the bike, and pulled a stocking cap over my head. I made my way to his apartment unit and climbed the stairs to his door. I could hear the television in his apartment. I was about to knock when the t.v. went off and footsteps came to the door. I heard the rustle of keys, and the clicking of the locks. I was ready. The front porch light came on and the door opened. His head was down as he was fumbling with his keys. He walked right into me, stumbled slightly as his head came up. My right hand caught him in the throat and he choked. My left hand punched him in the face, hard and he blacked out. I caught him and dragged him inside. I sat him in a chair and zip-tied him to the arms and legs. The ball gag went in his mouth and I turned and locked the door. Then I went and took a 'tour' of his apartment. Ransacking the bedroom as I went, then his bathroom. Found it. Vials of heroin and some hypodermic needles. I filled one needle with water, then went back to the living room.
I went and got a glass of water, took a small sip, and threw the remainder in his face. It woke him and flushed the blood off his nose and his lower jaw. I peeled off the face mask and the stocking cap, and pulled the ball gag out of his mouth.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he blubbered.
Pulling one of the 380's out of my waist band, I thumbed off the safety and stood staring at him. When he finally focused, terror spread across his face.
"You don't know who I am." A statement. He shook his head.
"You fucked, sodomized, and murdered my daughter."
A look of puzzlement spread across his face. "Who ....?"
"Samantha Starne. Ring a bell??"
"I don't know her", he stammered.
Holding up the hypo and the vials, I said, "And I suppose these are insulin?"
His eyes widened.
"One question. WHY? Answer honestly and I won't kill you. Lie and you die. Understand, I know more than you know. You don't get a second chance."
He was panting. Then he was crying.
"It was Wilkes. Him and that bitch lawyer."
Light bulb snapped on. "Lorna Duschense." Now I had everything I needed. Soon so would the FBI.
I put the ball gag back in his mouth while he tried to scream. I took the hypo and pressed the plunger, ejecting a small amount of liquid.
I stepped away from him and said, "I'm Samantha's father, prick."
If it was possible for his eyes to bug out more, he would have been blind. I pulled the 380 out and calmly shot him in both knees. He almost screamed loud enough to be heard around the gag. I pulled out two more zip-ties and put them around his thighs, just above his knees, tightening them securely. Then I picked up my foot and slammed his testicles. Once, twice, three times. He went limp. Just before he passed out, I stuck the needle in his arm, and shot him full of 'water'. Let him think about that while he wallowed in pain. He might bleed to death, or not. I really didn't give a shit.
I also didn't care about forensics. The guns were untraceable-at least to me. The authorities would eventually know who did this, but by that time I would be gone, or dead.
Or both. I didn't really care.
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I left, got on the Harley, and rode away. Two and a half hours later, I was ensconced in the woods above the FBI safe house with the Barrett set up on the bi-pod. I would have liked a laser dot sight, but I was almost 1500 yds. out from my target. Oh, well, when the first round hits, he'll have two or three seconds to think about his sins. I scoped out the house.
It was a ranch style house, about 1600 sq. ft. Brick exterior. So I would have to wait for him to come outside. Shit. This could take a while. I holed up with my pee bottle and six rounds of ammo.
The sun went down and lights came on inside the 'family room' (I assumed that's what it was), but the drapes were closed. I waited till the lights went out, then set my phone for 6:00 a.m. I sacked out. That's what training does.
Nine hours later, I woke up about seven minutes before my alarm went off. Canceling my phone and stretched a little bit, and loosened my fingers. I rolled to the weapon and squinted through the low light scope. Still dark. I was a little thirsty and hungry, but not like down in Venezuela. This might take a while ......
Suddenly lights came on in what looked like a kitchen. The curtains were not closed and I could see two figures. Then another light came on at the other end of the house. Frosted window-(bathroom?). Possibly. Then that light went out. There was movement in the 'family room', then the drapes opened, just as the sun came up. There stood a young man drinking coffee, talking to someone over his shoulder.
He turned and walked away. Not my guy. I slowed my breathing and flipped the safety off. My breathing stabilized as another figure came to the sliding patio doors. BINGO!! Target acquired. He looked around while he sipped his coffee, talking and laughing. Then he turned and said something to someone over his shoulder. He reached up and unlocked the door and slid it it open.
'Come on, you son of a bitch.'
He stepped out and walked to the edge of the patio. He smiled and stretched, sipping his coffee. Putting his cup down on a small table, he stretched and started to do some calisthenics. His legs were spread and he was stretching.
"Bye, bye fucker."
The first round took him in the balls. It picked him up and threw him backwards, crashing into some patio chairs. The second one hit him in the left hip, almost severing his leg. About that time, the first boom rolled across the hillsides and down towards the house. His screams obviously alerted his guards, but the third round was on it's way, impacting his forehead and blowing the top of his skull off. By that time, the two young agents were outside with guns drawn, looking for an assailant. One of them saw Wilkes's remains and promptly lost his cookies. The other one was on his radio, screaming for who knows what.
But I was gone, abandoning my weapon, scopes, and piss bottle, grabbing only my poncho. They would know who did it. I didn't care. I was disappearing. To quote Horace Greeley's purported dictum, "Go West, young man."
Last evening I had posted a letter to my attorney. In the heavy envelope was a missive to Lorelei, a letter to the FBI detailing Jeremy Hun Chang's involvement, and a letter to Alexander, apologizing for everything. Included was the DVD of Samantha's torture (That what I saw it as) I thanked him and bid him good bye.
Michael Starne disappeared. John Dorne was starting his life.
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He picked up the local highway and stayed low profile till he got to I-90. As he passed over the Missouri River, both pistols and the ammo were tossed. Then it was on to Sturgis, South Dakota. It took a little more than four days, just riding, eating, and sleeping. He arrived on the Saturday after the motorcycle rally started.
He rolled into town and drove around scoping things out. This was the place. His beloved bike would vanish with barely a trace. He motored out of town until he came across a truck stop, doing a land office business. Excellent.
Returning to Sturgis, he found a rather large mass of bikes just parked. A minimum of foot traffic, once you had parked your ride. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. He found a recently vacated spot and pulled in. Shutting it down, he drew a few appreciative glances as he undid the backpack and tent and gathered his coat and poncho. He surreptitiously left the keys in the ignition and calmly walked away. A good looking ride with New Jersey tags would probably be gone after four or five days. If not, it would be towed and the local cops would be chasing Richard Smith for quite a while.
