Ambush
1052 Words
Afternoon, seven o'clock, First Team office area.
Five group leaders, including Julian, sat chatting and laughing.
Ten minutes later, Marcus Vale strode in. Everyone stood.
“Sit, sit.” Marcus poured water, expression helpless. “Propaganda team took the big conference room—squeezed us out. Fine—here works. Rowan—brief the situation.”
Rowan Mercer—First Team Group Four leader, Asian descent, dark skin, short but wiry, all muscle—spoke crisp. “Claude haggled three times before the middleman admitted it’s Silas Hart they’re moving. Price settled—Claude gets fifteen thousand NeoDollars transport fee. Guarantees delivery to the wasteland.”
Marcus sipped. “Elias still no-show—personally with Claude?”
“Old fox smarter than a monkey,” Rowan grinned. “Whole Salt Lake judiciary wants Silas. No ironclad grip—he won’t surface.”
“Tomorrow night?” Marcus thought, frowned. “Detailed plan?”
“My suggestion—hit after he clears the district. Guard down, no civilians—fewer worries.” Rowan low.
Silence—everyone weighing.
“Captain—word?” Julian raised head.
Marcus smiled. “No outsiders—ideas welcome.”
“Rowan—person not thing. Just for smooth capture,” Julian turned, smiled explanation.
“No issue—this case yours anyway. We assist—you core,” Rowan knew Marcus pushing Julian, polite.
Julian nodded, clear logic. “Don’t recommend waiting outside district. Two big reasons. First—I came from wasteland. Know it. Nuclear zones, endless sand, complex terrain. Silas’s crew ruthless—we tasted Third Ring. They snuck in from outside—know terrain better than us. Uncontrollables too high—weapons, pickups unknown.
Second—Claude’s tie is garrison. Relations sour. Can’t tip them it’s a sting—leak kills op. No tip—sudden grab risks military-police clash…”
Marcus silent beat. “No flaws—thorough. Your plan?”
Julian. “Like this…”
Meeting twenty minutes. Marcus stood, decided. “Julian’s scheme.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yes, sir!”
“…”
Salutes. Marcus instructions, then shoulder pat Julian. “You bring him—I make you fly in department.”
Julian grinned. “Deal.”
…
Next day, 9:30 p.m.
Julian with gear requisition slip to rear logistics—unexpectedly Sebastian.
“Night shift?” Julian smiled.
Sebastian jumped up, easy. “f**k—married, luck turned. Week-plus—extra overtime list. Crashing here nights.”
“Newlywed—no home plowing, squatting here?” Julian teased.
“Plow anytime—money windows rare.” Sebastian grinned. “Thinking extra shifts—pay you and Victor quick.”
“No rush.”
“Debt’s debt—uncomfortable. Extra mouth home—costs up.” Sebastian tired sigh, changed topic. “Logistics for what?”
“Op—gear.”
“What op?” Sebastian casual.
“Julian—hurry, roll call,” Caleb rushed in.
“Coming.” Julian handed slip. “Read—I’ll list.”
Julian read: “Plate ballistic suit set, breaching batons three, tactical…”
Sebastian warehouse shelves, grabbed per list. Caleb called two in—carried out fast.
Five minutes. Julian smiled. “Done—find you midnight snack.”
“Deal.” Sebastian nodded.
Julian left warehouse. Sebastian alone—face pale, heart pounding.
What op needs plate armor? Julian no other cases—likely drug ring.
Uneasy, thought long—left recording area, dialed department acquaintance.
“Hey bro—busy? Nothing—logistics chat?”
“Op.”
“Late op? Even off-duty pulled?” Sebastian casual.
“Assist garrison—gun runners.”
“Ah!” Sebastian instant relief. “When done? Watch Network live…”
“No clue—find you after.”
“Deal.”
Call ended. Sebastian behind desk, muttered. “Half month—should be out.”
…
Compound assembly.
Marcus collected all phones. “Task recap—we’re not assisting garrison. Drug dealers. Max secrecy—comms surrendered, unified radios, preset channels. Anyone switches frequency—dereliction.”
Two-minute brief. Forty-plus geared, group leaders led—rapid departure.
…
Half hour later, Pine South District, New Era Avenue intersection.
Silas Hart with four brothers, fur-collared coats, scanned, bent into hybrid pickup passenger. Others squeezed rear.
“Not garrison route?” Silas asked.
“You mayor?” Driver rolled eyes. “Garrison pick up here?”
Silas scratched nose. “Heh—gunpowder? Paid or not?”
“f**k—wife birthing, overtime you lot. Any day but today.” Driver cursed, pulled off curb.
Silas glanced, pulled half black bread bag from coat, chewed silent.
Rear—Vincent Hale right pocket grenade, thumb in pin ring—ready pull.
Fifteen minutes drive—crossed kilometer-plus frozen river—to Pine South edge. Sparse people, dim shop lights.
“How long to wall exit?” Silas.
“Soon.” Driver floored, over riverbank bump—car rocked.
“What?” Silas frowned.
Driver braked. “Left front flat.”
“You kidding?” Silas cold. “This job—no check first?”
Driver hot too, turned. “You know s**t! Minus forty-plus—parts freeze brittle. How check? Blowtorch?”
Silas knew weather—swallowed. “Check—puncture or what.”
Driver grim, out, crouched left front, quick look—back in. “Tire cold too long—ran fast, thermal crack.”
“How fix?” Vincent frowned.
“No worry—ahead truck repair shop. Heat, patch—done.” Driver watch. “Time left—no delay.”
Silas scanned, bad feeling rising—but no choice. To Vincent. “Pocket thing safe.”
“Got it.” Vincent nodded.
Car river road, low left tire, two more kilometers—stopped dark repair shop front.
…
Road sides.
Caleb radio low. “All groups—runners trapped!”
Opposite shop snow crust—Julian in heavy plate armor low. “They exit—we go. I take primary.”
Words fell—Silas pushed door, jumped passenger, scanned.
Whoosh.
Julian burst. “Lights out!”
Snap.
Shop lights died.
Silas spun. “f**k—driver problem…”
Before finish—saw bear-like armored Julian charging.
Clink.
Grenade pin dropped. Vincent wide-eyed roared. “f**k—guns—fight!”
- Writer
