I.
It was rough going through the scraggly winter brush. Here and there the brown and gray dormant vegetation contrasted with the deep green of pine thickets. They all stumbled from time to time, making their way through the thick mat of dead pine needles. Donald had it the worst by far with his hands tied behind his back. His patent leather shoes did not offer much purchase on the forest floor. Not near as much as the military style boots worn by John and Peter, the two large men who walked behind him.
As observer would find them an ironic sight this deep in the forest. Their business suits belonged on the busy streets of some big city like New York or Washington , D.C. , not in the middle of the National Forest in Northern Alabama miles from the nearest human habitation. Even stranger were the MP5 submachine guns John and Peter carried. These were not hunters out to fill their bag limit.
They had been walking for an hour, and in that time Donald had fallen flat on his face more than once only to be pulled to his feet by one of the men behind him. There seemed to be no end to this walk. They would just go on forever and ever.
Lost in his thoughts, Donald stumbled again and almost fell, caught himself, and paused to take a breath. The pause was not a long one as the muzzle of an MP5 jammed into his back urged him on. He didn’t mind. As long as he was walking everything would be fine. It was the command to stop that he feared. When they told him to stop they would kill him. So he just kept on walking.
Donald looked to the horizon wishing he could walk on forever. Then the whole world tilted. He was falling again. He tried to steel himself for the impact, but the pain of his body hitting the ground never came. He was dead before then.
The crosshairs lay across a tan hide, three inches back from the shoulder and one-third of the way down from the spine. They fell a little, and then they rose. Then they lay perfectly still, bisecting that little patch of fur as the animal grazed. It was unaware of the violence about to be unleashed on it from the ridge three hundred yards away.
Something changed. A ripple went through the muscles under the tan fur and swung back and forth getting a look around and complete ignoring the few leaves still left in the higher limbs of the bush it was standing in front off. There was a quick blur of movement and the deer was gone from the sight picture in the scope.
Sergeant Roland Sandhurst, United States Army (Retired), lifted his head to watch the now tiny deer bound off to the east and disappear into a patch of young pines on the edge of the clear cut he was overlooking from a small ridge. It was a large doe, not a trophy by any means, but good meat for the table and a necessary kill to keep the deer population under control. As other natural predators were removed via human expansion and unethical hunting practices by a few bad eggs the deer population had exploded. Now all that kept that population in check was the American Hunter, a rare enough predator these days.
Now the doe would survive, at least for today. She would probably make it through the hunting season to breed and increase another bloated herd of white tailed deer by one more spotted fawn. That herd would thus be even more vulnerable to disease and famine in the coming years. But that’s life.
Roland scanned the landscape with a practiced eye, taking in the clear cut with its new growth in ten yard sections. His gaze moved from east to west as he tried to find what had spooked the doe. If it was out there his practiced eye should find it.
And so he did.
His eyes locked onto a small clearing at the western edge of the clear cut where the heavy forest walled in his chosen hunting grounds. Three men were walking there, two behind a third. He swung his rifle in their direction to get a more detailed look through his 10-power Unertle scope.
What had been almost undistinguishable even with his excellent vision was magnified into three distinct human shapes. The man in front appeared to have his hands tied behind his back. The two behind him were armed…it looked like sub guns to Roland. And they were all in suits.
What the fuck were these peckerwoods doing way out here?, Roland thought to himself, Some kind of mob thing? In Alabama
What was about to happen was all too obvious, and while he was not sure of the exact legal ramifications of defending a third party at three hundred yards, taking no action was not an option. The man with his hands tied was about to die. Roland knew this from grim experience. There was no other reason why two men would be herding a third deep into the National Forest with submachine guns.
Roland put down the rifle and picked up what looked like a pair of binoculars. In fact, it was a laser ranger finder. He was well versed in the use of such devices from his professional career and had come to appreciate their use in civilian life.
A push of the button on the side sent an invisible beam out to a spot in the clearing in front of the three men. The beam bounced back giving a range of 481 yards, give or take a yard.
He set the rangefinder down on the ground. Taking up the pack he always carried hunting and hiking he laid it flat on the ground about a foot and a half from the edge of the ridge. He picked up his rifle and position himself on the ground in the prone shooting position with the pack acting as support for the rifle. It was not as good as sandbags, but it would serve.
He pulled the rifle tight into his shoulder and felt his check touch the polymer stock as he aligned his eye with the scope. It was a good rifle, a lefty version of the classic Remington Model 700 chambered in 7mm Remington Magnum. Roland had had some after market modifications made by an excellent gunsmith, replacing the barrel and giving the trigger mechanism a five pound release.
He had four rounds of Winchester Ballistic Silver Tip loaded in the rifle. One round was chambered, and three filled the magazine. They were his preferred hunting round and would work as well against a man as they would against a deer.
Roland looked for his targets through the scope, willing one to appear bisected by his crosshairs. He found the bound man first, and began to track left to bring the man’s captors into his field of view. As he began tracking left the bound man seemed to stumble and fall. A split second later Roland heard the sharp crack of a gun shot pierce the peaceful forest. He realized with a grip tightening of his grip on the rifle that he was too late.
He continued the rifle moving until he had the two killers in his field of view. He focused on one of the men who was standing a little bit in front of the other with his back to the ridge. They seemed to be standing on either side of the body. Perfect targets. He could shoot the first target, cycle the bolt, and then shoot the second while he was still stunned by his partner’s chest exploding.
Roland lay the crosshairs in the middle of the back of his first target, right between the shoulder blades. He breathed in and out, watching the crosshairs move down a little and then back up. He breathed in and out, calming his entire body. He breathed in, let half of his breath out, saw the crosshairs freeze on his target, and began to squeeze back on the trigger. The recoil of the rifle would come as a surprise, just as it should. Soon.
His finger stopped, and Roland removed it from the trigger. He was to late, and there was no way for him to justify calling them an imminent threat to his own life.
Roland was angry, very angry. The two men out there were murderers, and they deserved to die. He had killed men for less, and had been more than willing to kill these two to save a man’s life. Every instinct he had, every emotion, told him to aim and put down his targets.
But this wasn’t war. He was a civilian, and as a civilian his rules of engagement were limited to acting in defense of his own life or another. It was too late for that. The man’s murderers could not possibly threaten a witness they did not know existed.
Their plan had been almost perfect. They were deep in a National Forest that was closed to hunting, far from any possible witnesses.
It was almost perfect because they had not taken into account the exceptions to the hunting ban, namely government and ex-government employees with special licenses for the stated purpose of cropping herds. Roland had only been granted one because of his military career, and even then it had been difficult. Most people today viewed killing animals for food as cruel, though they had no problem buying the meat all neatly wrapped up in plastic.
“Well, Roland,” he said, “time to be a good witness.”
He watched the two men through the scope. One, Roland assumed he was the one who had pulled the trigger, searched around on the ground for something. Probably looking for a shell casing. The man knelt down and picked up something too small to see at such a long distance. The man stood up and said something to his partner. Both turned and began walking toward the edge of the clearing.
Before getting too far away the second man stopped and turned around. As if he had just thought about it, he removed a pistol from under his jacket and took aim at the body on the ground. Roland listened to the distant cracks as he watch the man’s arm move with the recoil of the shots. Insurance shots, Roland though to himself.
Roland watched as the men walked out of the clearing and into the trees without stopping to pick up the spent brass. “Mistake number two,” he said. “You boys aren’t as clever as you think.”
Roland sat up, and then setting his rifle aside he took a map out of his pack. They had been heading due west when they hit the trees. Roland had marked the clear cut on the map during a scouting trip a couple of weeks before. He studied the map west of his mark. Just as he remembered, there was a small parking area with trailheads that led into the forest.
Roland’s Ford Expedition, along with his cell phone, was parked at the main recreational parking lot at the main entrance to the forest. He could go for his phone or one of the Forest Rangers, but then he would know nothing more about the killers than he already did. However, if he headed west he would hit the trail he assumed they were making for about a mile away.
Roland knew he could move through the forest faster than the killers. For one, he was dressed for it. He had on good hiking boots, and was wearing clothing he’s found to be perfect for moving through the woods. Besides, he’d been doing things like this for most of his career. And on top of that the murderers did not appear to be in any kind of a hurry. He might even be able to overtake them on the trail.
At the very least he figured he should be able to get to the small parking area in time to see the killers from closer than five hundred yards. There was always the possibility that he could capture them if he could get close enough.
He smiled at that last thought. In a holster inside the waistband of his pants he carried a Kimber Custom II 1911A1 .45 ACP pistol. He knew there was little chance they would surrender, but they would also have no idea what he could do with that pistol. Going up against two men with submachine guns with nothing but a pistol wasn’t exactly the best plan he could come up with, but it was the only one that would allow his to report the crime he’d witness without bringing on his own legal troubles.
Roland put the map back in his pack and the slung the pack onto his back. He picked up his rifle and began to move westward. He worked his way down off the ridge and across the clear cut towards the area were the body lay. He moved almost without sound, seeming to float on the ground and bend around prickly bushes and low lying limbs of trees.
When he reached the small clearing he found the body face down on the ground. He stopped about thirty feet away. He did not want to contaminate the crime scene for the detectives, but at the same time he wanted to be sure the man was dead. Human beings had the funny habit of surviving the most terrible things, in his humble experience.
Moving in closer he realized this was not one of those times. The man had a visible hole in the back of his head. Roland kneeled down and setting his rifle aside rolled the body over. He took one glance at the face and then looked away. Most of the man’s forehead was gone. What little part of the brail left inside his skull was pulverized. Probably a high velocity hollow point, Roland thought.
Roland did a quick search of the man’s pockets and found a wallet in the inner left breast pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled it out with gloved fingertips and lay it on the man’s chest. He flipped it open to find an ID identifying the man as Special Agent Donald Carr of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Fuck,” Roland said. He left the wallet where it lay on Agent Carr’s chest and set off again, even more determined to catch up to the two murderers. A man getting killed in the middle of a forest was strange enough, a Special Agent of the FBI getting executed in the middle of a forest was something out of a Tom Clancey thriller. “Fuck,” he grumbled again.
. . .
John and Peter emerged from the hiking trail and made their way over to a large SUV. Both had their weapons hidden under their jackets now just in case someone was in the parking area. No one was in sight, the closest witnesses being in the occasional car that passed by on the road a few hundred feet away.
Inside the SUV John started the engine as Peter dialed a number on a cell phone he had removed from his pocket.
“Well?”
“It’s done,” Peter said.
“Get back here as soon as possible.”
The call was disconnected from the other end, and Peter replaced the phone in his pocket. He looked over at his partner and gave a single nod. John put the SUV into reverse and backed out of their parking space.
In less than a minute they were on the road heading south towards Birmingham
. . .
Roland watched as the SUV drove away. It was a silver Chevy Trail Blazer, AL license plate number 14T23X. Roland memorized this as the Chevy pulled away, and when it was out of sight he walked out of the edge of the forest.
There was a small visitors’ center in the middle of the parking lot. Roland walked over and found a map of the forest and its hiking trails, campsites, and other recreational areas. He also found bathrooms, vending machines, and probably one of the last remaining pay phones in the state.
Roland went over to the payphone and picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. Hearing a dial tone he dialed 9-1-1 and then there was a brief pause before an operator picked up.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My name is Roland Sandhurst,” he said. “I’ve just witnessed a murder while I was hunting in the Jefferson National Forest
“You say you witnessed a murder?”
“Yes, a fucking murder, as in dead body,” Roland hissed.
“Are you sure the person is dead?”
“Yes,” Roland said through clenched teeth. “I’m a retired Sergeant in the US Army. I checked the body for vital signs before following the murderers. I also checked his ID. He’s a Special Agent with the FBI, name of Donald Carr.”
“Wait, wait,” said the operator, “FBI? Is this a prank? Making prank calls to 911 is a serious---”
Roland was fed up. “Stow it! Get someone out here now and put out a call to stop that truck!”
“Truck?”
“The God Damned truck the mother fucking killers left in!”
“Sir, there is no need for profanity,” the 911 operator said.
Roland was growing more irate by the moment. This was beginning to remind him of the main reason he had left the military. Self important bureaucrats had the nasty habit of slowing down responses to emergencies to the point that when help finally did arrive it was too little too late.
“Look,” Roland said, “call Deputy Lisa Sheldon of the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department. She can vouch for me.”
“Hold, please,” he heard, then The Beach Boys started singing over the phone.
Roland waited and grew angrier with each repeat of the chorus to ‘Little Surfer Girl.’ It was ridiculous that a person calling 911 should have to put up with this. Hell, he should have just capped the two pricks back when he had them in his scope then left an anonymous tip with the FBI. Too late for that now.
The Beach Boys went off and a new voice asked, “Mr. Sandhurst?”
“Yes,” Roland answered.
“This is Sheriff Murphy,” the man said. “I heard the call go out to Deputy Sheldon over the radio. She’s spoken to me of you though we’ve never met.”
“Look, Sheriff,” Roland said, “I don’t mean to be rude but you need to get some people out here and put out the call to stop that SUV.”
“Already done, Son,” Sheriff Murphy said.
Roland cringed at being called ‘Son.’
“I’ve got a deputy heading to your location,” the Sheriff continued. “Should be there any minute. I’ll be along with the investigative team as soon as we can get out there. We’ve also made a call to the FBI. They’ve confirmed Agent Carr failed to show up for his duty shift and hasn’t been heard from. They’re sending a man from their office in Huntsville
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Roland said, letting out a sigh.
“No problem,” Murphy said. “I’ll stay on the line with you until my deputy gets there.”
