THE KILLER ANGEL: Book One "Hard Player" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 1) by Myles Stafford
Authors: Myles Stafford
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anyone could imagine, smiled with eyes glistening at the news. She produced a tin of fine chocolates that we all shared and enjoyed. After a calm night, we bade farewell to our new friends on a cold, damp morning, but not before making multiple suggestions on how to better protect themselves along the way.
Even then, perhaps in some small premonition, I wished that we could do more for Abe and Mary, and felt sadness at not being able to guide and guard them to their journey’s end. I was feeling a growing responsibility for the welfare of others, and sometimes chafed at being unable to be in multiple places simultaneously to aid those in need. More and more, I could see that survivors needed assistance, and I had the skill and the tools to do so. I felt a developing urge to apply my talents for the sake of others.
Kip will help me figure out this dilemma
...
Brick and I pushed ourselves hard for the next few minutes down a damp road, slick with wet, green algae. It was still misty and chilly, and the morning dew was pooled in leaves on the asphalt. Each breath produced a puff of fog. It was great to be alive.
Suddenly, in the distance behind us, there was a ‘pop’, then another. Then one more. Then silence.
Brick and I looked at each other, and then, without comment, retraced our steps, but now we stayed off the road, moving smoothly, efficiently...and ready.
We passed our previous night’s campsite.
I re-checked my weapons, loosened my rifle, and took it off of safe. Brick was ready, too, anticipating the worst, hoping for the best.
It wasn’t long before we came across Abe’s and Mary’s little wagon, broken - smashed, as if for fun - its contents ransacked, scattered. Not the work of runners.
Still moving slowly and silently through the woods, just off the road, we soon located Abe and Mary lying in the road, holding hands, but not moving. After a few seconds of study, as I provided overwatch, Brick went to check on the couple. Both dead; shot in the head. Abe twice.
Brick came to me. “For their little wagon of things? They had to kill them?” Brick’s eyes watered red and his face was flushed with anger. “Oh dear God, I will never get over this...those gentle folks were so close to a new home.”
We looked at each other, but said no more. We knew what had to be done, and immediately moved out. For the first time, I felt a burning sensation in my cheek, sensitivity in my new scar. It would not be last time.
Between the two of them, it was hard to tell who was the better tracker, Brick or Ben, and they worked off of each other in a way that I could only marvel at.
Brick would find something, make a soft whistle,then Ben would hustle over, sniff, and off they would go, with me trailing fast. The path to those criminals was easy to follow, though, since those guys believed themselves to be bad enough to handle anything. They would soon learn otherwise.
Moments later, we heard voices ahead - rough, young, filthy, street toughs. I backed off and moved somewhat to the side with Ben, as Brick took point. Brick signaled “stop and wait”, then moved out of view.
Upon returning, he whispered, “No sentries, but they have a miserable looking pit-bull chained to a stake. They have a big motorhome that they are living in. Six guys are visible, but I can’t see inside the RV. Plenty of guns and knives, but they’re stupid, dirty, foul-mouthed and just sitting around boozing and snorting cocaine. They’ve got a runner, too, alive; chained to a tree. Female. Naked. ‘Hate to think of what that’s about. A real nasty bunch.”
We moved in a little closer to study our quarry. There was loud talking from the camp. The day was warming and steam was rising from the moist forest floor. Six ugly looking bottom feeders were lounging around a fire.
“You shouldn’t have killed the bitch, shithead.” A heavily tattooed, greasy looking dude said. “I wanted her to suck my dick.”
“She would’a bit your
Even then, perhaps in some small premonition, I wished that we could do more for Abe and Mary, and felt sadness at not being able to guide and guard them to their journey’s end. I was feeling a growing responsibility for the welfare of others, and sometimes chafed at being unable to be in multiple places simultaneously to aid those in need. More and more, I could see that survivors needed assistance, and I had the skill and the tools to do so. I felt a developing urge to apply my talents for the sake of others.
Kip will help me figure out this dilemma
...
Brick and I pushed ourselves hard for the next few minutes down a damp road, slick with wet, green algae. It was still misty and chilly, and the morning dew was pooled in leaves on the asphalt. Each breath produced a puff of fog. It was great to be alive.
Suddenly, in the distance behind us, there was a ‘pop’, then another. Then one more. Then silence.
Brick and I looked at each other, and then, without comment, retraced our steps, but now we stayed off the road, moving smoothly, efficiently...and ready.
We passed our previous night’s campsite.
I re-checked my weapons, loosened my rifle, and took it off of safe. Brick was ready, too, anticipating the worst, hoping for the best.
It wasn’t long before we came across Abe’s and Mary’s little wagon, broken - smashed, as if for fun - its contents ransacked, scattered. Not the work of runners.
Still moving slowly and silently through the woods, just off the road, we soon located Abe and Mary lying in the road, holding hands, but not moving. After a few seconds of study, as I provided overwatch, Brick went to check on the couple. Both dead; shot in the head. Abe twice.
Brick came to me. “For their little wagon of things? They had to kill them?” Brick’s eyes watered red and his face was flushed with anger. “Oh dear God, I will never get over this...those gentle folks were so close to a new home.”
We looked at each other, but said no more. We knew what had to be done, and immediately moved out. For the first time, I felt a burning sensation in my cheek, sensitivity in my new scar. It would not be last time.
Between the two of them, it was hard to tell who was the better tracker, Brick or Ben, and they worked off of each other in a way that I could only marvel at.
Brick would find something, make a soft whistle,then Ben would hustle over, sniff, and off they would go, with me trailing fast. The path to those criminals was easy to follow, though, since those guys believed themselves to be bad enough to handle anything. They would soon learn otherwise.
Moments later, we heard voices ahead - rough, young, filthy, street toughs. I backed off and moved somewhat to the side with Ben, as Brick took point. Brick signaled “stop and wait”, then moved out of view.
Upon returning, he whispered, “No sentries, but they have a miserable looking pit-bull chained to a stake. They have a big motorhome that they are living in. Six guys are visible, but I can’t see inside the RV. Plenty of guns and knives, but they’re stupid, dirty, foul-mouthed and just sitting around boozing and snorting cocaine. They’ve got a runner, too, alive; chained to a tree. Female. Naked. ‘Hate to think of what that’s about. A real nasty bunch.”
We moved in a little closer to study our quarry. There was loud talking from the camp. The day was warming and steam was rising from the moist forest floor. Six ugly looking bottom feeders were lounging around a fire.
“You shouldn’t have killed the bitch, shithead.” A heavily tattooed, greasy looking dude said. “I wanted her to suck my dick.”
“She would’a bit your
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