Bobby Akart - Desolation

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” began Hank in a defeatist tone. “My guess is Lindsey’s been planning something like these confiscations since the president declared martial law. Obviously, Key West was the first likely target. However, it won’t be long before Sheriff Jock will have his deputies heading up Seven Mile Bridge.”

Erin patted Hank on the leg. “You’ve made some powerful friends. As I said, you definitely impressed Commissioner Marino at the hospital the other day. So much so, he stuck his neck out and approached the other commissioners.”

“What I don’t understand is why doesn’t Marino carry the torch. He’s obviously ready to make a move on Lindsey.”

Erin was quick to reply. “He needs a political outsider who’s known in the community. The Albright name obviously is respected in the Keys.”

“Maybe. I’m just not so sure to what extent our family is that well known on the other keys. We’ve had very little to do with Key West. Folks in Islamorada know us, but not so much in Key Largo.”

“That’s where networking and the other commissioners come in,” said Erin encouragingly. “You should solidify your support in the areas you know best. Show the other two commissioners this move is viable. Then let the mayor and sheriff hang themselves. Heavy-handed approaches to governing never work regardless of which side you’re on. Eventually, the people turn on tyrants. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Hank until he suddenly leaned forward in his seat and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. He pointed through the windshield. “Hey, that looked like Mike’s truck with his emergency lights on. He turned by the Winn-Dixie.”

“I saw him, too. He was in a hurry, wasn’t he?”

“Hold on. Let’s see what’s going on.” Hank accelerated and raced past the International House of Pancakes, which was in the process of being looted. He glanced over at the restaurant and simply shook his head as he focused on finding his brother.

“I’ve got two armed men with weapons at low ready near the utility yard,” said Deputy Sanchez, who’d turned in his seat to remove the shotguns from the roof-mounted gun racks. “How do you wanna approach this?”

Mike pointed through the windshield. “They’ve seen us. What happens next is on them.”

Mike raced into the high school parking lot, which was shared with the Florida Keys Community College. The two men retreated behind the wall, but Mike caught a glimpse of another man milling about at the other end. He, too, abruptly disappeared.

The first entrance to the parking lot had been blocked with a stalled car, so Mike drove past it, skidding to a stop on the sand-covered road at the next entry. He sat there for a moment while Sanchez racked rounds into the shotguns.

“That damn wall has our view blocked,” Mike complained.

“We have to separate, Mike. Each of us will approach from a different end and converge on them in the middle.”

“We need backup!” Mike was still agitated. He was trying to police Marathon with four deputies, one of whom was on Lower Matecumbe Key, and the other two had just gotten off of their shift.

Suddenly, one of the gunmen poked his rifle around the block wall and fired toward the truck. The bullets missed to the right, kicking up sand and asphalt as they skipped past.

“That’s it! Idiots!” Mike exited the truck, and Sanchez followed his lead. Each ran in opposite directions to take up positions behind parked vehicles that afforded them a view of the utility yard. Sanchez ran in a low crouch until he reached a green power transformer adjacent to the building. He’d arrived undetected. Mike wasn’t as fortunate.

Still easily winded due to his lung injury, he had to slow down as he reached a viburnum hedgerow that separated the utility yard from the school entrance. He was well concealed, but he had little in the way of ballistic protection. Just as he reached the hedges, bullets sailed over his head and ripped through the foliage. The gunmen had no way of knowing precisely where he was located, but they certainly had him pinned down.

Mike dared not shoot back. He remained in a low crouch, hidden from his assailants. He thought for a moment. These shooters weren’t disciplined nor were they trained. He keyed the mic on his radio and whispered to Sanchez, “Fire on them. But be ready for them to fire back. I need you to draw their attention.”

“Roger,” Sanchez responded. Seconds later, the boom of his shotgun filled the air as he broke cover and quickly unloaded on a vehicle parked near the utility yard entrance. The windshield exploded as the pellets struck the truck. Then he shot again, purposefully aiming toward the end of the stucco retaining wall. Hunks of stucco and the underlying foam were torn away from the wall.

“Inside!” shouted one of the men. “Fall back and get inside! Now!”

Mike could hear their hurried footsteps as the shooters found their way to the concrete stairs leading to the loading dock. He peeked through a thin section of the viburnum hedge to get a better look.

Just as he stood to round the hedges and enter the utility yard, he heard a vehicle approaching from the main highway. He raised his shotgun and turned toward the sound, prepared to shoot. He slowly lowered his rifle and exhaled as he recognized the Suburban he’d obtained from the impound vehicle lot. The driver’s side window was rolled down, and Hank shot him a concerned look.

Mike began waving his arm at Hank, directing him away from the scene. Shots rang out again as two of the gunmen began firing upon his position from the windows above the loading dock roof. Mike swung around and dropped to a knee. He was approximately two hundred feet away from the shooter, not optimal range for a shotgun, but close enough to cause serious injury.

He fired. The double-aught buckshot reached its target, blasting through the partially broken glass and striking the two men who foolishly failed to take cover. Both screamed in agony as they were knocked backwards. Mike had no way of knowing whether they were killed, but they certainly didn’t fire back.

He rushed across the parking lot, glancing up at the building as he went. He noticed Sanchez break cover and run toward the stucco wall to get closer to the loading docks. He reached the Suburban just as Hank and Erin exited, weapons in hand.

“You two need to get back in the truck,” Mike said angrily.

“Not gonna happen,” Hank shot back. “What can we do to back you up?”

Mike brusquely grabbed his brother by the arm and led him around the truck to get them out of the open. He looked at Erin and then addressed Hank.

“These guys mean business. They fired on us first, Hank. That means they’re stupid. Stupid is dangerous. You follow?”

“Yeah, I follow. And I’m not gonna let you take them on alone. I, um, we can handle ourselves.”

Mike looked over the hood of the Suburban and confirmed Sanchez was in position. He shook his head but then came to the realization he and Sanchez were greatly outnumbered. He assessed their choice of weapons. Hank had a shotgun, and Erin was holding an AR-15. Both had their handguns tucked into paddle holsters at their waists. Erin even had a backup magazine in her jeans’ back pocket.

“Geez, Hank. Are you sure about this?”

Before Hank could answer, another gunman showed up at the upper windows and fired toward Sanchez.

“Yes. Now, what do you want us to do?”

“Okay, Sanchez and I have to flush them out,” he began. He turned toward the building and gestured as he spoke. “I need you and Erin to take up positions on each end of that stucco wall. If they come toward you, and they’re armed, then you shoot them. Understand? None of this hands-up-or-I’ll-shoot nonsense. If they’re armed, shoot them.”