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Chapter Six: Authored by H.J. Nealson

07.13.2011
1830 hours
Trooper Clive Jenson


Subject Header: Highway 40 Incident


On July, 13, 2011, I, Trooper Clive Jenson, being of sound mind and body, responded to a radio call from Unit 620 at or around 1245. While en route to the location, Unit 620 called out for back up on the radio, informing us that he was taking fire. I made my way to the location, and saw that two unknown individuals were firing weapons at Unit 620. Utilizing my cruiser, I eliminated one gunman who was flanking Unit 620’s location. Having eliminated the first gunman, I exited my vehicle, taking my department issued shotgun, and keeping the K-9 counterpart in the vehicle. 


The gunman retreated into the truck but was still firing at Unit 620. I told Unit 620 to cease his firing so that I could gain a tactical advantage. The gunman exited the truck with firearm in his hand. I placed a single shot in the head of the armed suspect and terminated the threat. I cleared the truck visually and called out to Unit 620 that it was clear.


Local Sheriff Department responded with local medical professionals and Unit 620 was treated for a wound to his leg.


I was escorted to Trooper Station #13 by Lieutenant John Davidson and was questioned about the incident. 


This is all I have to report at this time.


Trooper Clive Jenson
07.13.2011
1830 hours

Chapter Five: Authored by H.J. Nealson

07.13.2011
1830 hours
Trooper Sam Evans


Subject Header: Highway 40 incident


On July 13, 2011, at or around 0800 hours, I, Trooper Sam Evans, being of sound mind and body, reported for at my post for my assigned duty, along Highway 40. After making various traffic stops, and responding to three calls, I posted up on Highway 40, watching traffic for speeders and unsafe driving patterns. At or around 1245 hours, I watched as a rental truck, license plate number HHT636, was driving at 80 miles per hour according to the radar in my unit. I commenced a traffic stop. Once the rental truck was pulled over to the shoulder of the road, I made initial contact with the driver, obtaining a license, proof of insurance, and registration paperwork. Inside the front of the truck there were two males. The driver was a Hispanic male who appeared to be at or around fifty years of age, and preferred to be called Juan Perez. The passenger was a Hispanic male who appeared to be at or around twenty years of age, and I was informed by the Driver his name was Pablo. Upon further review, it was determined that the license was a forgery. I called into radio dispatch to request a canine unit.


I attempted to make secondary contact with the two individuals in the rental truck. As I approached the rental truck, I noticed that the two occupants were arguing. I approached from the passenger side door and saw that the passenger had a handgun pointed at the head of the driver. I drew my own firearm and ordered the passenger not to shoot. The passenger fired one round directly into the temple of the driver. I fired my weapon towards the passenger, and took cover behind the rental truck as I called in for additional units and advised dispatch of the situation. 


Once I was off the radio with dispatch, the back door of the rental unit opened up and I was fired upon by an unknown individual who was utilizing a rifle. I used my ticket book to block the shots from hitting my face, and blindly returned fire in the direction of the unknown individual, while retreating to the rear of my patrol vehicle. 


At this point, the individual from the passenger side of the truck exited the vehicle and was firing several rounds in my direction. The unknown individual from the back of the rental truck continued firing on my position from the front of my patrol vehicle. The two individuals spoke in Spanish to each other. The man who the driver of the rental truck had called Pablo posted his position at the front of my patrol vehicle and he fired on my position continually. The second gunman broke off to the left of my patrol vehicle, flanking my position.


At this point, I saw Arizona State Patrol unit 4-0-2 neutralize the individual on the left. The individual known as Pablo jumped into the back of the rental truck and continued firing at me.


At this time, my department issued firearm was now out of ammunition. I Holstered my weapon. As I was reaching for my back up firearm, I heard muffled traffic coming from the radio. I ignored the radio traffic and readied my back up weapon. The rounds from the remaining gunman ceased for a moment. Suddenly I heard a single round from a 12 gauge shotgun fire, then heard Trooper Clive Jenson call “clear.” 


Shortly thereafter, the local sheriff’s department responded and the local EMS personnel treated my leg for a shallow cut.


I was escorted by Sergeant Don Cook to Trooper Station #13 and was questioned about the incident. My firearm has been taken from me pending an investigation into the shooting, and I have been relieved of my duty pending the conclusion of the investigation.


This is all I have to report at this time.


Trooper Sam Evans
07.13.2011
1830 hours

Chapter Four: Authored by H.J. Nealson

     Trooper Clive Jenson chuckled to himself. Dispatch told him to keep the dog awake. Bullet was a notoriously lazy canine, his name being a sort of false advertisement. “You hear that Bullet? You need to wake up. There might just be some dangerous motherfuckers coming up.”
     Bullet barely even picked up his head to look at Jenson. 
     “Three minutes, Bullet, and then…”
     Suddenly the radio erupted.
     “SHOTS FIRED!” the radio screamed. “I HAVE SHOTS FIRED! THIS IS EVANS! I COULD USE SOME BACKUP! MULTIPLE TARGETS FIRING ON MY POSITION!”
     “I’m on my way, Evans!” Clive said into the radio. He then buried the gas pedal as far into the carpet as it would go, lights and siren announcing his coming. Hold on buddy, he thought hoping that the message was telepathically sent to Evans. 
     At the top speed his cruiser would go, Jenson could now see Evans’ vehicle with Evans taking cover behind it. The back of the pulled over UHAUL was open and he noticed that there were two armed men pointing their firearms in the direction of Evans, who was returning fire. One was in front of the 620 cruiser and the other was flanking on the driver side.
     Jenson could see Evans trying to pick his shots by looking underneath the car to see where the gunmen were. Evans was not giving up, and Jenson was not going to let him down.
     Obviously still focusing on killing Evans, the flanking gunman did not even see Jenson’s patrol car until it was two yards away from sending him to the pearly gates with St. Peter and the whole she-bang. As soon as he made contact with first gunman, Jenson saw a Mini-14 fly straight up, saw the torso pop up and to the left, and felt the legs crunch underneath him. Stomping on the brakes, he slammed the car into park and heard the gears grind like a wind up toy until the car skidded to a stop. 
     Evans was still firing toward the back of the UHAUL, so Jenson flanked in the direction of the blood splatter on the highway to avoid getting hit in crossfire. With his Remington 870 in his hands, Jenson saw muzzle blast repeatedly flaring up from the back of the UHAUL. There was no way to get a good shot without completely exposing himself. 
     “Evans,” he whispered in his radio. “Cease fire. Hold still. Let him think he got you.”
     The gunman from the UHAUL fired five more shots towards Evans, but received no return fire. Three more shots rang out. Still no return fire. The gunman jumped out of the back of the truck, his weapon at low ready. He looked to the right to make sure the road was clear so he could confirm Evans’ death.
     That look to the right was all that Jenson needed. The last thing the gunman saw was the blasting barrel of the Remington spitting double ought buckshot towards his skull. At that range, the only thing that remained was a slumped back neck. Behind the falling, already deceased gunman bits of skull, hair, and teeth were scattered amongst the thick blood, that looked brown against the wooden interior of the truck.
     “Clear!” Jenson shouted as he ensured that the truck was completely empty. He turned to make sure Evans was alright and ran to his location behind the patrol car.
     Evans was lying on the ground, bleeding from his left leg, but did not appear to be in extreme pain. He looked up at Jenson.
     “You always steal all the thunder, you cock block,” he said to Jenson then laughed softly.
     Jenson looked at his leg. “You okay, buddy?”
     “Yeah. I just skinned it on the fucking highway. Lucky for me these motherfuckers had a spray and pray outlook on shooting. They must not pray enough.”
     Jenson keyed the microphone on his radio. “4-0-2 on scene with 6-2-0, several shots fired. Two armed suspects, Code: Black. Send EMS. Officer down.”
     “Officer down?” Evans said. “Really?”
      Jenson looked at him and laughed. “You are a member of the law enforcement community and you are on the ground.”
     “Thanks, man. Seriously. If you hadn’t been here…”
     Jenson cut him off. “…If I hadn’t been here then you would have shot these fuckers dead and I would have had no fun at all.”
     Evans stood up and brushed his shirt. He looked at the downed gunmen. 
     “Shit, Jenson. You don’t fucking play.”
     “No, I don’t. Here sit down in the back seat. Relax for a minute. The bean counters will be here poking and prodding with our heads shortly.” He helped Evans to the back seat.
     Dispatch was screaming at them on the radio.
     “Dispatch, this is 4-0-2, what do you need?”
     “This is dispatch, is everything okay now? We have several state and county law enforcement agencies heading your way. Are you and Evans okay though?”
     “Yes, dispatch. Been a little busy though. Will advise if situation changes, but we are ok.”
     “10-4, 4-0-2. Good job.”
     Jenson leaned on the car next to where Evans was sitting. He put a large amount of Skoal Wintergreen in his left lip and offered some to Sam. Sam took it and emptied the rest of the can into his mouth.
     “Thanks,” he said as he handed Clive the empty can. Clive laughed out loud and threw the can inside the car. They could hear several sirens approaching from behind them.
     “Here comes the cavalry,” Evans said dryly. 
     “Yep. You sure you are okay?”
     “Yeah, I just wish I would have seen this coming sooner.”
     “You can’t see stuff like this coming. You thought it might be drugs?”
     “Yeah.”
     Jenson watched the Sheriff’s Department coming. “They are gonna keep us separate to make sure our stories match up, Sam. You got my number. Call me tonight. I am gonna need a drinking buddy.”
     Evans looked up at him. 
     “Will do, Clive. Will do.”
     The sirens cut off as the Sheriffs all pulled up and exited their vehicles, scanning the location for any signs of trouble.

Chapter Three: Authored by H.J. Nealson

     Evans was in pursuit of the speeding UHAUL with his lights on. The driver must have finally noticed, as he began to slow down as he pulled over to the shoulder. Evans was continually surprised by the large percentage of people who only use their mirrors every mile or so. Fucking idiots, he thought. Only making their ticket cost more money.

     As Trooper Evans parked his car behind the UHAUL, he ran the plates in his computer. The truck was registered to a small border town, and showed no tied warrants and was not stolen. This was a slight disappointment to Evans. Never any action, he thought.

     Sam looked at the side mirrors on the truck and noticed that the driver was looking at him with some confusion. Perhaps the driver did not realize after pulling off the interstate that the speed had reduced. Oh well. Speeding was speeding. It was posted so really there was no excuse. Evans leaned over and grabbed his ticket book from the passenger side dash. He strained at its weight.

     When Evans was in OJT, or on the job training, his trainer gave him a tip on how to take a ticket book serve two purposes. By placing an old armor plate in the ticket book, it could be turned into a small bullet proof shield. The vests that the Troopers wore protected the torso and the organs within, but the head was totally exposed. In a pinch, if some crazed gunman decided he didn’t want a ticket so bad he was willing to kill over it, the ticket book could be used to protect the throat, face, and head.

      Evans liked that idea and had armored his ticket book. He felt that the added weight to it was worth it on the slim chance that it would ever be needed. The trooper would have never believed that within the next six minutes, the ticket book would have three rounds resting within.

     “Dispatch, 6-2-0,” Evans said boringly into the radio on his shoulder.

     “6-2-0-, Dispatch. Go ahead 6-2-0,” replied an even more bored voice on the other end.

     Dispatch, this is 6-2-0, I am currently 10-6 with a 10-45, on Highway 40 near mile marker 112. Ran vehicle for wants and warrants, 10-4 on that end.”

     “10-4, 6-2-0.”

     With that, Evans opened his door and began to walk slowly to the UHAUL. He noticed that the driver was still looking at him with a puzzled look.

     As soon as Evans reached the driver door of the truck, he noticed a second individual in the passenger seat. Both the passenger and the driver were Hispanic. The driver appeared to be in his mid to late 50’s and the passenger looked to be early 20’s. Evans couldn’t help but notice that the passenger had a look to him that was not normal. It wasn’t a nervous look. It wasn’t a frightened look either. But Evans had seen that look before.

     “Sir,” Evans said to the driver as he looked from behind his sunglasses inside the truck. “Will you do me a favor and turn off your engine. I don’t wanna waste your gas today.”

     “Yes, sir,” the driver responded in a thick Mexican accent. He then turned the key and killed the engine.

     “Now, sir,” Evans said to the driver. “Could you do me another solid and let me see your license, proof of insurance, and registration for the vehicle?”

     “Yes, sir,” the driver repeated as he grabbed the paperwork and the license from the middle glove box. “Why did you pull me over today, sir?”

     Evans grabbed the paperwork and the license and responded “Well, buddy, you were going a little fast today. Fifteen miles an hour over the posted speed limit to be exact. That’s a little unsafe, partner.”

     “Oh,” the driver chuckled softly, “I didn’t know. Sorry about that, Officer.”

     “Don’t worry about it. I just would rather pull you over for speeding and have you slow down than see you in an accident. So where are you fellas heading today?”

     The driver paused. “We are heading to Wichita, Kansas. My son and I will be moving there. He got a job on a farm there that pays good money.”

     Evans looked at the passenger. “Is this your son?”

     “Si…uh, yes, sir,” the driver answered. Evans noticed that the driver, whose name according to the license was Juan Perez, was beginning to look nervous as he looked at his son.

     “Son,” Evans said to the passenger, “what’s your name?”

     The passenger just stared blankly toward the open road.

     The driver said something to the passenger in Spanish and looked back at the Trooper. “Sorry, sir, his English is not so good. His name is Pablo. He is a good kid, but his English is not…”

     Evans watched Pablo as Mr. Perez continued to talk. That look. He had seen it before and his gut told him that something was not right. Sam cut off Mr. Perez in mid sentence.

     “Mr. Perez what is in the back of this truck?”

     Juan looked at the passenger and did not answer.

     Evans repeated the question, keeping his eye on the passenger. “Mr. Perez what is in the back of this truck?”

     “It is our belongings, sir. We are moving to Kansas.”

     “Do you have any illegal firearms or other contraband on here, sir?”

     “No.”

     Evans noticed that Juan’s hands were gripping the wheel tight. Juan was worried.

     “Mr. Perez, do you mind if I take a look at the contents of this truck?”

     “Sir, we don’t have anything…”

     “In that case it won’t take but a moment.”

     “I would prefer if you don’t, sir.”

     Evans clipped the paperwork and license on his ticket book and figured that a search of the vehicle would be worth the time. 

     “Mr. Perez, I am going to run your license and make sure you are not wanted in any of our 50 states. I will be right back.”

     “Okay, sir.”

     “Hold on, partner, I will be right back.” With that, Evans began walking back to his patrol car. His instincts told him that there was something wrong. He watched the truck out of the corner of his eye until he made it into his unit. 

     “Dispatch, 6-2-0,” Evans said into his shoulder, while watching the truck vigilantly. The driver was now talking to the passenger, apparently arguing with him. 

     “6-2-0, Dispatch, go ahead.”

     “Dispatch, this is 6-2-0, I am still 10-6 on this 10-45, requesting an additional unit. Possible Code-3.” Evans was letting the dispatcher know that he believed there was contraband in the vehicle and needed a K-9 unit for probable cause.

     “10-4, 6-2-0,” the dispatcher replied. “4-0-2 is en route to your location. ETA 10 minutes. Stall them if possible.”

     “10-4, Dispatch. I’m gonna go talk to them.”

     “10-4, 6-2-0, be safe.”

     As Evans began writing the speeding ticket, he ran the license number. The license number came back to a Robert Goodman, not a Juan Perez. Evans looked at the license and noticed that it had been manipulated. It was a fake or an alteration. 

     Evans stepped out of his unit and held the ticket book in his left hand while his right hand unsecured his side arm. It was just then that he remembered where he had seen the passenger’s blank stare before. It bothered him that it took so long to see it. 

     It was the same look on all the faces of his SEALS right before action. It wasn’t a look of fear or nervousness, but of knowing what was about to happen. The passenger must have known that they were going to be busted for whatever contraband was in the vehicle. Evans opted to walk up to the passenger door.

     “Dispatch, this is 4-0-2, I am on the highway now, about three minutes out from 6-2-0.”

     “10-4, 4-0-2, make sure the dog is awake.”

     “10-4.”

     Evans was walking slowly toward the passenger door when he saw it happen. The passenger was holding a Hi-Point 45 to the head of the driver. 

     “No!” Evans yelled as he upholstered his weapon. At that moment, in the side mirror, he saw the passenger pull the trigger, which ripped a hole in the skull of the driver. Trooper Sam Evans then fired four rounds into the cab of the truck as he tactically retreated to the rear of the truck.

     Evans called out with shots fired on his radio, and then all hell broke loose.

Chapter Two: Authored by H.J. Nealson

     As he walked into the airport, Agent Gabriel Ortiz looked at the TSA security personnel and the equipment they used and felt nothing but total disgust. Normally, he would be riding in a private jet with which he could bypass all security measures that the American public were subject to. Underwear bombers, insane rag heads, and the politically correct fuckers on the Hill made it “necessary” that the average citizen have their shafts stroked and breasts groped for “National Security.” More like Top Flight Security of the World. 

     I miss Israel, Ortiz thought as he neared the first security checkpoint. In Israel, the security were taught to profile. If it looked like a duck and walked like a duck, they figured it might just be a duck and would check accordingly. If you were an 80-year-old white woman, they let you through. If you name was Randy Thompson and you were from the middle of nowhere, Kansas, they didn’t ask to feel you up. But if you wore a towel around your head, were reading the Koran, and your name was Mohammad Mohammad, they would make damn sure that under that dress wasn’t an IED that would kill innocent people.

     Not in America. No, in the name of protecting the people, the fat TSA man ahead was scanning everyone who comes though and that made Ortiz upset. This rent-a-cop was going to earn his pay today. Ortiz smiled slightly as he thought of this.

     “Sir,” the mustached fat man said to Ortiz, the dill pickle from earlier still on his breath, “please remove all items from your pockets, remove your belt, and place the said items in this bucket prior to walking through this scanner.”

     Ortiz glared at him. 

     “Young man,” he growled at the TSA rent-a-cop, “I do not consent to this. I am not going to expose myself to radiation just so you can skip this process on some Middle East fucker behind me because you don’t have the backbone to stand up to real threats! And brush your teeth you fucking hillbilly.”

     This took back the TSA security agent. No one ever told them no. And never with such force. He looked at Ortiz and wondered what was upsetting this man so much. It was just security protocol…

     “Sir,” he said while he gave Ortiz another visual one-over. “If you choose to decline walking through this scanner, I will be forced to do a manual pat down if you wish to board your flight.”

     The civilians in line behind Ortiz were beginning to look nervous. Ortiz could sense this and played on it.

     “You telling me you wanna feel my dick, playboy?”

     “No, sir, that’s not what I am saying. I am simply telling you that…”

     Ortiz cut him off. 

     “You wanna feel my dick! Ooo papi! Alright! Let’s do this! Now do I need to have my clothes on or off for this? I gotta tell you, hillbilly, you just made my day! The only action this dick has seen in the last year has been my left hand and a hooker in New York. See, I like to use my left hand because, well, it just feels…”

     “Sir, there is no need for this! I am merely informing you that a manual pat down is necessary in order to maintain…”

     “Maintain what, hillbilly?” Ortiz was visibly and audible showing his anger. “Security? Is that what this is? Let me tell you, you fat fucking piece of shit, I have defended this country from threats that you will never even hear of. And I have to say that I did not do it so you could maintain your power trip on civilians…”

     “Mr. Ortiz,” boomed a voice from behind the checkpoint. A man in a fancy business suit walked up behind the agent that Ortiz was yelling at and whispered something in his ear. The agent’s eyes fell to the floor. The suited man, who appeared to be carrying a handgun on his right hip, then walked up to Ortiz.

     “Gabe,” he said in a soft voice. “Just what in the fuck are you doing today?”

     Ortiz looked at the man for a moment, trying to place him. Ortiz smiled.

     “You know, Killian, you look a lot different without a fucking beard.”

     The man in the suit did not smile. “Now, Gabe, that just might be. But you can’t go around making a stink in front of a lot of civilians. You know that.” The suit put his arm on Ortiz’s shoulder and looked at the crowd as his way of reassuring them. “Now come with me and we will just let this all go, okay?”

     “But your man has got me all sorts of horny now. I really wanna feel his large, soft hand…”

     “Ortiz, stop!” Killian looked left and right. “I thought you CIA spooks were supposed to keep a low profile anyway. You packing? That what this is about?”

     Ortiz scoffed. “I am packing, but I have all the paperwork that makes it legal. It isn’t about that.”

     “Then what is it, Gabe?”

     Ortiz paused. 

     “I don’t know, Killian. You know how I get sometimes.”

     Killian looked at him. He knew exactly what Ortiz was talking about. He served with Ortiz in the cloak and dagger division of the Navy.

     “Look, Gabe,” Killian said with a sigh. “I am going to put you in cuffs and take you in the back. Once we get back there, I will release you. Okay?”

     “Fair enough.”

     Killian loosely put the cuffs on Ortiz, grabbed his things, and escorted him to a windowless room. Once inside, Ortiz slipped the cuffs and handed them back to him.

     Killian Johnson ran his fingers though his thinning hair. 

     “What the fuck, Gabe!?”

     “What do you mean, what the fuck?”

     “Gabe, you are very lucky I know you. I mean the odds are fucking astronomical. If you had pulled this shit anywhere else, you would be dead or in jail. It would have escalated. Jesus tits, Gabe!” Killian was pacing the room in anger.

     “Look, Killian. I am sorry. It’s just that this whole illusion of security gets on my fucking nerves. You know what really maintains security. People like you and me who sneak in the back door and cut the throats of the pieces of shit before they cause trouble.”

     Killian rolled his eyes. “Look at you. All philosophical, suddenly. Is the job still getting to you?”

     “Fuck you, Johnson. I love my job. Sitting behind a desk, like you.”

     Killian rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Ortiz, I hope you know the huge favor I just did for you.”

     “I do.”

     “Well, you are fucking welcome, Gabe.”

     “Yeah. Thanks.”

     “Gabe, get the fuck out of here. Your flight to Mexico leaves soon. If you ever want to talk just call me, don’t come in here spouting shit.”

     Ortiz grabbed his things from the desk. He looked at Killian. 

     “I am sorry, Killian. I really am. Is the public going to see the footage of this ordeal?”

     “No, I already have my men erasing the footage. Once again, you are welcome. To you and the CIA. It‘s near the end of my shift so I told that ‘hillbilly’ to dispose of the footage so I wouldn’t have to come back and deal with it.”

     “Appreciate it.”

     “Gabe, I know you are not sitting behind a desk anymore.”

     Ortiz stared at Johnson for a moment but said nothing as he opened his briefcase to ensure everything was still there.

     “What makes you say that, Killian?”

     “Your passport says Rodriguez. You always used that name on missions. Plus you are not using Agency aircraft for this flight. You are going ghost for this one.”

     Ortiz pulled a silenced Ruger P95 from his briefcase and placed two rounds in the heart of Johnson. As soon as Johnson fell to the floor, Ortiz placed a third round in Johnson’s head.

     “Johnson,” he said to the bleeding corpse, “you said that the odds of me seeing you today and you helping me through the checkpoint were astronomical. You were right. You see I knew that you would help get me out of a tight spot. You did that many times in the past. You always were as loyal as a dog. 

      “Now, dog, you have helped me sneak through security on an international flight. Your body will be removed from the premises sometime later on tonight by men who believe they are serving their country. You won’t go missing until after the weekend, by which time I will have returned to the country with lots and lots and lots of money. See, my flight to Mexico isn’t even CIA motivated. I help the cartels beat the borders in exchange for cash.”

     Ortiz pulled Johnson’s body behind the desk and grabbed his magnetically coded badge. He then placed boxes around the desk in order to hide the fact that there was a body and commenced to clean up traces of blood in the room. 

     “Johnson, it was not by chance that we met today. You were a calculated risk and I am the mathematician. You were a disposable asset. You and your ‘security team’ just got played.” Ortiz placed the Ruger back in his briefcase and walked to the door. He looked the room over to ensure that there was no evidence that would clue security on any disturbance throughout the weekend. As soon as Ortiz was satisfied, he turned off the light, exited the room, locked the door with the badge, boarded his flight, and ordered a chilled Vodka.

     Twenty four hours later, Ortiz was on the other side of the border, confident that Johnson had not even gone missing, sipping on bottled water inside an elegant mansion. He was scheduled to meet with his contact in exactly seventeen minutes.

     On the agenda for the meeting was selling information on how to tap into Border Patrol networks. This provided a wealth of opportunities for his client, and transferred over into a wealth of cash for him. His client would now be able to crash Border Patrol networks, loop visual feeds, and interfere with heat reading technology. 

     Ortiz was going to make bank today. Plus, he had already forgotten about Johnson.

     Johnson who?

Chapter One: Authored by H.J. Nealson

     With his car parked under the weathered overpass, Trooper Sam Evans scanned the highway. While his eyes were trained on the road, scanning and watching the traffic, his mind was elsewhere. Sitting alone on the side of a road for extended periods of time did that to Evans. That was one part of his job that he did not enjoy. Up until a few years ago, sitting alone never happened and boredom was seldom an issue. Now the most action he encountered was the occasional irate driver who called him a son-of-a-bitch and claimed to have fucked his mother. 
     Times had changed for Evans, but it had always been that way for him. Unless he was doing something tangible, he felt that his time on this earth was being wasted. Sam had graduated from high school and joined the Navy against the advice of his parents. He felt that it was his way to help make the world a better place, while rebelling against happy family life for no reason in particular. It made him into the man he is today… at least partly it did.
     The traffic was picking up on the highway. Evans focused again on the road and gripped his wheel to help ground him in reality, as if it would stop his mind from wandering. He noticed that the segment of the overpass above him must have been constructed in three pieces. He could hear the car tires bump three times against the pavement as they went. This made him smile. It took him back to his days in the Navy.
     Suddenly, in Evans’ mind, he was no longer sitting in his patrol car watching traffic or wearing the uniform that the State of Arizona issued him. He was seated in the chopper with the rest of his SEAL team, wearing BDU’s, MOLLE gear and nursing his silenced MP5.
     Sam knew that his daydreams might eventually be the end of him, but he gave into this one. The cars overhead started it by sounding like a three-round burst. Oh fucking well,  he thought.
     He remembered that the situation had turned ugly for a unit in Iraq. They were escorting a prisoner, a card in the deck, from the middle of nowhere out in the sand dunes to a military base about 40 kilometers away. Apparently the unit’s navigator did not do a hell of a good job, as evidenced by the fact that he led them straight into a secret Al-Qaeda base where they were captured after putting up almost no fight. The initial report didn’t need to say that it was an Army unit. That was a given.
     Once the unit went missing, aerial surveillance was deployed in search of them. It turned up nothing but that did not matter because an informant tipped off the whereabouts of the secret base and provided detailed descriptions of the layout. According to the informant, there were a few more cards from the deck there and the unit was alive.
     That is when Evans’ team was called. They were asked to rescue the captured unit and also capture as many of the insurgents alive as possible. The SEALS accepted the mission but once it went into the planning stages, it was decided that the whole “capturing insurgents alive” portion would unofficially be scrapped.
     The plan was to hit the base at night, using darkness for cover. The darkness also provided another advantage. Initially, the Iraqis believed that the American forces would not be able to fight in the dark. Iraqis felt that this would be an opportune time to use hit and run tactics against the Americans. Iraqis also believed that they would get lots of pussy in the afterlife by blowing up embassies by recruiting retarded children and manipulating them. It was all horse shit. The darkness actually provided the American forces a very unique advantage. Using FLIR technology, rag heads could be seen miles away and shredded into jelly from miles away. That came into play on this particular mission.
     After taking the perimeter guards simultaneously, Sam and his men would push into the camp and silently kill anyone who wasn’t black, white, or Hispanic. 
     They executed their plan well. Evans remembered the sound of the three-round bursts spitting out of their MP5’s. It was the most beautiful combination of sounds. Three muffled whispers followed by “thump, thwap, and crack.” The “thump” was the sound of the round entering the body, either in the stomach or in the heart. The “thwap” resulted from the second round tearing into and through the throat, esophagus, and neck. And the best sound, the “crack,” which came elegantly last, was from the third round breaking bone in the face and skull. It was efficient. It was art. 
     Another thing stuck out about that night. Gabriel Ortiz, one of Evans’ SEALS, went crazy after the hostages were rescued. Ortiz wasted a lot of ammunition pumping shots into the deceased rag heads as they lie dead. It was a momentary loss of sanity on part of Ortiz. It was strange that a man who had killed for so long and with such efficiency would snap in that moment. There was a long conversation held between Ortiz and upper brass following that ordeal.
     Other than the overkill on part of Ortiz, and the fact that none of the Army pukes cried upon rescue, all Sam remembered was that he bagged four insurgents. He remembered everyone he killed. The movies had it partly right. The eyes must be portals to the soul, because if you looked at the eyes of the dead you killed, their ghosts would never give you peace. The eyes would haunt forever.


     Evans jolted in his patrol car sharply. He noticed that sweat was dripping from his forehead into his eyes and there was white on his palms and knuckles from gripping the steering wheel tight. Although his mind and body both had returned to Arizona from the daydream, he felt uneasy. Arizona State Trooper Sam Evans. It sounded fancy saying it, but it didn’t make him feel good about his past. 
     The radar on the dash beeped wildly at him just as a UHAUL drove by him. It was barreling down the highway fifteen miles an hour over the posted speed limit, not even caring to slow down as it passed by him.
     “Alright, Sam,” he whispered to himself. “Time to write a ticket.”

Field Report: Paulie

////////Secure transmission for POTUS eyes only////////
//////////11232010_0440hours_encrypted_yes/////////////
Operator: Spotter
Codename: “Paulie”
Workstation ID#: 3-P894712
Date of Report: November 23, 2010
Time of Report: 0350 Hours
For the situation where we will be a rescue team, I will be the spotter for ShitFuck. My code name is “Paulie” and if you want more info, kiss my ass. I am a trained killer, not a fucking reporter. Clandestine my ass. Fuck you. I don’t give a shit of you are the fucking president, this shit should not go in a report.
Fuck off

For other writers...

This blog is a brief break in posting stories to let any other writeres out there to know that if you would also like your stories published on my blog with the same terms and conditions, in the light of the stories reaching their intended audience, email me and I can post them for you

Field Report: ShitFuck

////////Secure transmission for POTUS eyes only////////
//////////11232010_0433hours_encrypted_yes/////////////
Operator: Long Range Marksman
Codename: “ShitFuck”
Workstation ID#: 3-P894712
Date of Report: November 23, 2010
Time of Report: 0345 Hours
On 11222010, “Foreplay” ordered us to meet him at Headquarters for a potential mission briefing. We all arrived and were briefed on the “God’s Soldiers” situation. We discussed this at length and we came up with a plan that we can pull off. For this mission I will be providing long range cover fire and am using the code name “ShitFuck.”
No other details will be provided at this time due to rats being responsible for this mess.

Field Report: Biscuit

////////Secure transmission for POTUS eyes only////////
//////////11232010_0421hours_encrypted_yes/////////////
Operator: Field Commander
Codename: “Foreplay”
Workstation ID#: 3-P894712
Date of Report: November 23, 2010
Time of Report: 0330 Hours
On November 22, 2010, at 1800 hours central standard time, I was contacted via pagers. Upon receiving the page I contacted Command to verify the page. I was instructed by Command to report to HQ with my team by 2200 hours with the rest of Whiskey Team, assemble in the Lounge, and await further instructions. I then paged the other six members of Whiskey Team and instructed them of Command’s needs. Whiskey Team was on site at HQ by 2130 hours.
At approximately 2200 hours, Agent Killian Jones, briefed us on a situation that was in development within the continental United States. At 1400 hours, the Vice President of the United States was abducted from his vacation home in Ohio, resulting in several Secret Service casualties. One agent from the Secret Service is MIA and considered an armed and dangerous traitor who assisted in the abduction. At the time of our briefing, the general public as well as the family of the VP was unaware of the situation. It was essential that this remain discrete. 
According to the report, a domestic terror cell, who had been investigation by the FBI, was claiming responsibility and demanded that the President give into their demands or they would claim the life of the VP. In their communications with the Oval Office, the terror cell, the self acclaimed “God’s Soldiers”, gave away their position.
Whiskey Team has been asked to rescue the VP from “God’s Soldiers”, while making sure that none of this ever comes back to the White House in any investigations. After consulting with my team, we decided that such a rescue could be done with relative ease. “God’s Soldiers” only had 30 active members and were armed with .223 rifles and 9mm side arms. FBI was kind enough to provide us with complete layouts of the area, video footage, photos, aerial surveillance shots, and audio clips from the phones of the targets.
I would take command on this mission, scheduled to take place on November 26, 2010, at 1000 hours. We chose this date and time because according to the experts at the FBI, this was when those awake would be at their groggiest, and those asleep would be deeply so. 
The other members of Whiskey Team will provide brief descriptions of their roles. A full description will be provided post-operation, as we do not yet know if there are other sleepers in the Oval Office.
End of Report.

Welcome

Welcome to my blog. 


My name is Nick Panek, I am an author who has a new idea about how to get my material out to the audiences my work is intended for. 


I will post my stories on this blog, one chapter at a time. I give anyone who reads them my full and unconditional permission to read, print, and enjoy these stories with no questions asked. As long as you do not try to steal my stories and call them your own, I think this is a good way to help people be able enjoy reading my stories and save money. I will never ask for any payments from any readers on this blog. That would, of course, defeat the purpose.


The subject matters I write about include mystery, adventure, police, military, and the occasional romance and poetic piece. Feel free to leave comments questions or concerns on this blog and any additional ones.


I hope you enjoy the stories I present to you, and also feel free to tell me what kind of stories you would like me to post.