Part of him hated it—that he would take something that wasn’t his. The other part of him relished the breakdown of the Rule of Law. When overseas on deployment, he had gotten hooked on living outside the law, like an addict to heroin. Once he saw behind the curtain and realized he could break with civilized norms at will, assuming he was sufficiently badass, it was hard to go back.
Taking gas from a farmer, though disturbing to Chad’s sense of honor, pumped him up. He had already decided that he would leave the farmer a couple of hundred bucks. That tipped the scales decidedly in favor of taking a walk on the wild side. Luckily, Audrey was asleep, or she’d definitely have an opinion about his plan. Not surprisingly, she had big opinions about Chad’s personal morality.
Chad quietly kitted up with his AR-15, plate carrier and ceramic plates—they had “disappeared” with him when he left the SEALs—a few mags, his Sig Sauer 9mm, two five-gallon gas cans and the GasTapper. He wore his NVGs on his bump helmet.
It was just after midnight.
Chad parked a quarter mile from a likely looking farmhouse and went in on foot. As he approached, moving behind one grain silo at a time, he closed on the house. Two late model trucks were parked in front, along with an old tractor.
Chad wasn’t sure if the tractor ran on diesel or unleaded, so he worked his way toward the trucks. Between the grain silos and the trucks was a forty-yard gap of gravel and he covered it in a sprint.
A dog started barking. Chad power-slid behind the first truck, juggling options in his mind. Technically, he should disengage. On any other assault, the dog would probably be a deal killer. He’d lost surprise and he needed at least ten or fifteen minutes to siphon the tank. That felt like a lot of time with a dog barking its fool head off. Someone was bound to come investigate.
But who would come? There wasn’t another farmhouse for several miles, so he would be dealing with some old farmer and maybe his dog. Chad didn’t want to shoot the dog or anyone, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t come to that. He figured he could probably talk the farmer through the transaction and disengage if necessary.
On cue, the screen door creaked open. Chad didn’t like the sound of things because the farmer didn’t yell at the dog. That meant the farmer knew something was up—maybe the tone of the hound dog’s barking, which sounded a lot like a crow being beaten with a whiffle bat. Chad had to assume the farmer knew there was a real threat in his yard.
Oh, well, Chad thought, I suppose my ninja skills might be a little rusty.
“Hello,” Chad called out. The screen door creaked again, presumably the farmer ducking back inside behind cover.
“Who’s there?” the farmer bellowed.
Yep, Chad thought, old guy. “I’m just driving through and I’d like to buy some gas.”
“This look like a service station to you, son? Why don’t you head on down the road toward Albin? There’s a service station there. Opens in the mornin’.”
“They selling gas?” Chad asked, already knowing the answer, but hoping to talk the farmer into sharing some of his.
“Nope.”
“Then why would I go there?”
“Why would you come here?” the farmer countered.
Chad felt a chill. The farmer was stalling. That could mean only one thing.
Chad jumped up and made a dash for the silos, deciding to break contact and end the mission. About half-way across the gravel driveway, something hit him in the chest like a two-pound ball peen hammer. He went flat on his back mid-run and hit the ground, gasping for air. As soon as he hit, he flipped over and crab-crawled to the first grain silo, still sucking air like a Shop-Vac through a pixie stick.
“You best start talking, asshole.” A new voice came from very close, and it wasn’t lost on Chad that the round had hit him in the front plate instead of the back plate. That old codger had sent someone out to flank him. Chad knew the gunfight was three-quarters lost, but he hadn’t made it through BUD/S by being a quitter.
Fighting his way out of this pickle would leave at least one Nebraska farmer dead, assuming he survived himself. Better to talk.
“I’m just looking for gas. I got money to pay.”
“Just stay exactly where you are, buddy. My old man will waste you with that 30-30 of his just as easy as I’ll waste you with my own blaster. You maneuver at all and this conversation’s over.”
What the fuck? Chad thought. The dude talks like an operator. How the hell could that be?
“Hey, bro. Just a wild guess here, but that little love tap you gave me felt like an AR.”
“Yeah,” the voice from the dark replied, “and you must be wearing plates if you’re still breathing.”
“You SOF?” Chad asked.
“75th Rangers. What about you, trespassing asshole?”
“I’m from the Teams. West Coast.”
“That explains why you think you can come in here and take what you want, I guess.”
The old farmer yelled from the porch. “That boy say he’s U.S. military, son?”
“Yeah, Pops. But he’s a SEAL. Fuck him.” He’d said it with a slight lilt in his voice, so Chad eased down to Defcon Two.
“Good thing I’m not a knuckle-dragging redneck asshole, or you’d probably want to make babies with me. Am I right?” Chad fired back.
The Ranger cut loose with a rumbling chuckle. “So, Navy princess, how we gonna back down from this little stand-off? I did shoot you, after all.”
“I wouldn’t get a big head over it. They’re probably not going to put you up for a medal or anything.”
“Yeah, but in a fair world, they would,” the Ranger laughed.
The old guy interrupted. “What are you dumb sons a bitches going on about? We going to shoot this guy or bring him in for a drink?” The farmer didn’t find the jabber as entertaining as the military vets.
“What about it, Navy? You going to put down your gun or are we gonna get to slinging hot rocks at each other?”
Every cell in Chad’s body grated at backing down, but his oversized ego wasn’t worth killing a farmer or a Ranger. Better to swallow a little pride than kill an American on some Nebraska driveway.
“All right, Army, I’m coming out with my rifle hanging.” Without giving him a chance to insist on more, Chad walked out. He flipped his rifle around to his back on his two-point sling and put his hands on his hips. He might be giving in a little, but he wasn’t putting his fucking hands up in the air.
“Put your hands up,” the Ranger commanded as he came around the silo, rifle pointed at Chad’s chest.
“Fuck you,” Chad answered.
The Ranger let it slide. He dropped his AR to the low ready. “Why do you need gas so bad you’d die for it?”
Chad wasn’t about to tell anyone that he had family nearby. He was trained to be more untrusting than that.
“I’m making my way across Hicksville, getting back to friends and family in Nevada,” he lied just to feel like a professional.
The Ranger’s dad came out of the house, shushed the dog, and walked over to the boys.
“Whatcha doing prowling around my spread, son? You look geared up to shoot Bin Laden.”
“I apologize, sir. Frankly, I was planning on borrowing some of your gas and leaving you a couple hundred bucks.”
“Hmpf,” the farmer snorted, “if I had to guess, I’d say you got family somewhere out in the night waiting for you in a car.” He looked Chad in the eyes and Chad did his best to betray nothing.
“Well,” the old man continued, “come up on the porch for a quick snort and I’ll give you some gas. No charge. We got plenty of gas.”
Two hours later, the three men still sat on the front porch, drinking Jameson whiskey and telling lies. The men were bellowing loudly in a heated contest as to who could tell the dirtiest joke when Audrey appeared out of the darkness.