Once his jacket was on, boots laced, pack secured, Andy got his night vision system in place. It was a tactical helmet, military issued, with an L4G30 mount from Wilcox. Secured to the swiveling J-arm was a PVS-14 night vision monocular, powered by a Gen 3 image intensifier. Jake had the same unit on his helmet.
For Andy’s sixteenth birthday, Jake had bought his son an X-Bolt Micro Hunter rifle and helped him with the paperwork for his firearm identification card. It was a lighter-weight rifle with all the features of a full-sized X-Bolt. Jake had wanted Andy to have some way to protect himself for years, and now, legally, he could.
Andy slung his rifle over his shoulder and without a word headed for the trailer’s back door. Jake fell into step behind his son, grabbed his own rifle by the door, and checked his watch. In five minutes, Andy had gone from being sound asleep to crunching dead leaves on his march through the woods.
His son was learning.
Through the night vision monocular, the world was an eerie shade of green, but the powerful optics made the forest come alive. They could see everything in pristine detail, from the smallest tree branches to the bumps and ridges on fallen leaves. The path they walked was a well-defined escape route that Jake meticulously maintained. It was far enough back from the road so they passed behind houses without being heard or seen, and wide enough in most places to let them walk side by side.
Both Jake and Andy were on the lookout for the slightest bit of movement that might betray the presence of the enemy. They refrained from talking, though Jake used preset hand signals to check in with Andy.
Andy kept his rifle slung over his shoulder, while Jake’s was trained on the darkness. Both were on high alert, ready to pick up any noise-a snap of a twig or the rustle of some branches. Nothing. Not a sound. But that didn’t mean they weren’t out there somewhere. Eyes could be watching from the shadows. Keep moving. No other choice would do.
At some point, the path widened and became a road. Jake and Andy kept to the wood line and continued their march. Moonlight, which had powered the night vision optics, now provided enough illumination all by itself.
Eventually, the duo emerged from a copse and entered a vast hilly field, looking like a pair of soldiers returning from a scouting mission. They trekked another quarter mile before reaching a small fieldstone building situated directly behind the Groveland Gymnasium.
Built in the 1980s, the Groveland Gymnasium served the students and faculty of Pepperell Academy and housed an indoor hockey rink, squash and racquetball courts, swimming pool, basketball courts, weight-lifting area, and all manner of fitness amenities. It was best of breed, as was everything at “The Pep.”
Jake lowered his night vision to scan the darkness once more. All clear. He took a moment to assess his son’s condition anew. Sweat matted Andy’s hair below the helmet, and his short, sharp breaths meant the adrenaline rush was still in effect. Through it all, Andy remained alert and focused. He was disciplined and well trained. Jake didn’t like to brag, but he was proud that his son’s body and mind were as strong as his character.
To the east of the fieldstone structure stood the other campus buildings of Pepperell Academy, Andy’s school and Jake’s place of employment for the past ten years. While Andy looked on, Jake removed a loose stone affixed to the side of the field house to reveal a hidden key. Through the unlocked door, Jake and Andy entered a room crammed with supplies-bags of ice melt, sand, cones, all sorts of maintenance equipment.
In the center of the room, Jake moved a pile of lightweight mats to reveal the outline of a two-by-two square cut into the wood of the floor. One side of the square had two hinges, and a rusting metal ring lay in the center. Jake pulled open the trapdoor to reveal a ladder to the level below.
Nearly all of the buildings of Pepperell Academy were connected by a series of tunnels, some of which were rumored to date back a century. Forward-thinking architects, long before Jake’s tenure, had designed the tunnels to hide the infrastructure belowground. They understood the value of distributing services (water, gas, power, heat, steam, telecommunication, and even coal) around campus without impeding the pedestrian traffic or having to maintain unsightly sewer lines and utility poles aboveground. The effort created a labyrinth of passageways few had ever seen.
As head custodian and grounds manager for Pepperell Academy, Jake was one of the few employees with access to these secret passages. The kids and faculty, even other maintenance personnel, were not permitted to use them. That was one reason it made a perfect bug-out location (BOL).
With their packs still on, rifles slung over their shoulders, Jake and Andy descended the ladder to the underground passageway below. The corridor they traveled was in an older portion of the tunnel system, and they followed it to another locked door. The passageway included several rooms-most, but not all, unoccupied.
An ADEL Trinity-788 Heavy-Duty Biometric Fingerprint Door Lock secured entry to one of the rooms. Jake put his finger on the biometric scanner, and the door opened with a click. They entered the room and Andy turned on the light.
The room was a massive larder, well stocked with canned and dry food, sacks of rice, water, fuel, portable heaters, gardening tools, guns, knives, and ammo. Jake lowered his weapon and took out a stopwatch. He pushed the stop button and the tension left his body in a long exhale. Andy relaxed as well.
“That’s three minutes faster than the last time,” Jake said to his son. “We’re doing well, but we can still do better.”
Andy slumped to the floor. He needed a moment to regain his composure. Jake could see the stress of the trek had taken a significant physical and mental toll. Andy’s eyes flared with anger, but he mustered enough restraint to keep his emotions in check. His son hated these drills, and had been vocal about it for some time. However, whenever he protested, Jake would say, “Death doesn’t schedule an appointment.”
CHAPTER 2
Few things in life brought Fausto Garza more enjoyment than causing pain. Looking at Eduardo, the bruised and battered man in front of him, gave Fausto a rush of pure pleasure. Eduardo was sitting on the trash-strewn floor of an old, abandoned warehouse and was tied up with rusty chains secured to a radiator. His left eye was swollen shut, but he still had some vision out of the right. Jagged cuts from Fausto’s many rings marred both of Eduardo’s cheeks, and dried blood stained the front of his torn guayabera. For a time, the open wounds had poured blood, enough so Fausto had to apply dirty rags to the skin to keep Eduardo from bleeding out. He needed his prey conscious.
The unmistakable scent of urine filled Fausto’s nostrils and fired up more pleasure centers in his brain. He relished the smell of fear like a fine perfume. It even got him aroused. He’d seek a release for his pent-up desires as soon as he disposed of Eduardo. But first, Eduardo had some information to share.
Fausto crouched to get eye level with Eduardo. “¿Dónde están las drogas que te robaste?” (“Where are the drugs that you stole?”)
Eduardo’s eyes flared; but as he gazed into the face of death, his bravado retreated like a nervous paca vanishing into the forest underbrush.
“No le robé ningun drogas, Fausto,” Eduardo said. “Lo juro por la vida de mi madre.” (“I didn’t steal any drugs, Fausto. I swear on my mother’s life.”)
Fausto, a natural-born skeptic, didn’t believe him. “Where are the drugs you stole?”
“I took nothing from you. Please, you must believe me,” Eduardo answered. His split lips could barely form the words and his speech came out slurred, as if he’d spent the night alone with a bottle of mescal.