Jim was now the hunted. Peter the hunter. Peter held his 9mm Beretta in his right hand, pointing the weapon at Jim’s head while using his left hand to signal for Jim to throw his weapon to the ground.
Jim waited several tense seconds before complying, dropping the weapon to the soft earth below.
“My compliments,” Peter said. He circled Jim like a wolf circles its prey. “You stayed with me for a decent amount of time up to this point. You have provided me with some excitement to an otherwise boring drive.” He smiled at Jim’s predicament then pointed over to the water then back to the forested area. “I must say it is a beautiful country you have here. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to live and enjoy it any longer. You have stumbled upon something that does not concern you, and you will have to pay for it with your life.”
“Somehow I knew you would say that,” Jim replied. He watched Peter, waiting for just the right moment to strike. He wasn’t going to die without putting up a fight.
“Which department do you work for? FBI? CIA?”
Jim shook his head in response. “Neither one. How about three for a dollar? You can have one more guess.”
“You Americans and your wit. Even when facing certain death. I like that.” He resumed his pace in front of Jim. “Let me see, after the FBI and CIA you only have local and state police officials, I take it you are affiliated with one of these agencies?”
“The one and only Atlantic City Police Department at your service,” Jim responded, bowing slightly for effect.
Peter could sense that Jim was probing for a weakness in his movement, looking for a way to free himself from his unfortunate situation. With him being employed as an officer of the law, he was surely trained in ways to forcefully take down an armed suspect. Peter decided to not push the prospect, moving back several feet.
“Did you appreciate my little trick with the logs?” Peter pointed to the logs on the front seat. “I learned it the hard way, fighting the Russian troops in my country.” He searched Jim’s face for any sign of an understanding, sensing none.
“Don’t feel bad, you were not the first to fall for such a dastardly trick and you surely will not be the last. I had the pleasure of killing 6 Russian soldiers with a single hand grenade after they too had searched my car back in Chechnya.”
“Chechnya?” Jim said, spitting out his response, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “What in the hell are you doing over here?”
“I am but a simple tourist,” Peter replied, once again smiling at Jim. “I am checking out your historical areas before they disappear.”
“Come on, you can do better than that. Since you are going to kill me, would you grant me one last request and allow me to ask what you are doing in this country.”
“The equivalent of one last cigarette before you die, yes?” Peter said. Usually when his men captured a Russian soldier back in Chechnya they would cut his head off with-in seconds of his surrender, not caring to carry on a conversation with an infidel. The Americans were a different breed, but like their Russian counterparts, infidels just the same.
“Since I don’t smoke, I guess you could say that,” Jim said. He needed Peter to move just close enough where he could lunge for his weapon. That would be his only chance.
Peter stopped his pacing. He fixed an all-knowing stare at Jim, realizing the man was stalling for time. If the situation were reversed, I would probably do the same. “Alright you will have your precious information before you die. But first, I also have a demand to be met. You will have to position yourself on your stomach. I am but one man and I don’t want you to try something silly.”
Jim pondered the request for a moment, wondering if he should strike then and there. Knowing that if he were to comply with Peters demand and lay on the ground, he would lose what might be his only chance to overpower the man. He would in effect be signing his own death warrant. No, it had to be now or never. His life was in the balance.
As he stood wondering what action to take, images of his departed wife and son suddenly appeared to him. They looked real enough to reach out and touch. The images stood on the edge of the tree line no more than 15 feet away. Jim smiled as he saw the image of his young son standing with a fishing pole two sizes bigger than he was, trying to act cool for an 8 year old. Beside his son stood his wife with 2 suitcases on either side of her, looking impatiently at her watch. It was if they were both waiting for their vacation to start, evidently the one they never had a chance to go on years before, only now he was the one holding things up.
Jim eyed Peter as he now stood only 5 feet away, gun pointed at his head waiting for the right moment to present itself and strike out. Every second that ticked by was a second of his life lost forever. Jim looked past Peter, glancing at the images of his family for reassurance, still waiting, his wife now waving what appeared to be three plane tickets in front of her. She looked radiant in her blue dress he gave her the Christmas before she died. Jim smiled as she pointed to her watch.
Peter glanced to his left wondering what, if anything was behind him. “What are you looking at my friend? Are some more agents closing in behind me that I should know about?”
Jim brought his right leg up in a karate split, kicking the 9mm from Peter’s hand, the weapon landing some 10 feet away.
After the initial shock wore off, Peter countered with a quick, one-two blow to Jim’s face, pushing him back into the side of Peter’s car.
Peter dove for his weapon with Jim following in quick pursuit, him falling on top of Peter as they both struggled for control of the weapon. After several seconds, it wound up in Peter’s hand, but not in his control.
Peter seemed the stronger of the two, having just completed his intense physical training in Syria, but Jim was not about to give up, rolling about on the soft ground in a life or death struggle for control of the weapon. They struggled to the water’s edge, still rolling and trying to gain control of the weapon. A shot rang harmlessly from the weapons barrel, surprising them both as they stopped struggling for a split moment wondering if the other had been hit. Seeing neither was affected, they resumed their battle. Jim was able to get his finger on the trigger, but Peter still controlled the weapon with his firm grip. Peter once again was able to strike Jim in the face as the struggle ensued, causing the blood from his previous wound to temporarily blind Jim in one eye. When Jim took a moment to wipe away the blood from his eye, Peter escaped his one-armed grasp and jumped up to stand over him, weapon pointed at Jim.
Jim lay on the ground, struggling to search for his families apparitions in the tree line, panicking when they vanished, only to reappear beside him, one on each side, ready to help him to his feet.
“Goodbye, American,” Peter said, backing up several feet to avoid any blood splatter on his clothing, the bullet entering the center of Jim’s chest, killing him instantly.
Peter quickly searched Jim’s pockets for his truck keys, thinking it would be best to take his vehicle and throw the proverbial dogs off the scent.
Jim’s body lay on the water’s edge. Nothing could have saved him that day. The shot went right through his heart. It took only seconds for his life to drain away.
It would be another senseless killing, one whose numbers would only increase by day’s end, possibly by a million fold.