Alistair McIntyre - Shallow Creek

Almost an hour ago, he’d called the number Fisher had passed to him. After four increasingly anxious rings, Michelle’s cousin had answered, giving Brendan instructions for the meet. Knowing that he shouldn’t enter a situation like this without some reconnaissance, Brendan had picked up Marcus before racing over, his truck’s roaring exhaust note providing the soundtrack to his night. They’d ditched the truck up the road and hoofed it the rest of the way in.

“It’s not too late to back out of this,” Marcus said, his eyes still scanning the area ahead. He’d tried a number of times to dissuade Brendan from doing what he had to do, but it wasn’t working.

“It’ll be fine.”

That familiar pre-mission antsy feeling grew in his chest. The parking lot around the dark warehouse was empty, at least within the limited confines of the weak floodlights mounted haphazardly across the side of the building. Brendan gave it one more minute. The anticipation brewing internally flared, and Brendan knew he had to move.

“It’s time,” he said. Marcus nodded reluctantly. “I’ll squawk twice on the walkie-talkie if I need help.”

After installing the earbud from his radio into his ear, Brendan slipped quietly from their observation post. With a glance over his shoulder to confirm the road behind was clear, he slinked from shadow to shadow, only breaking cover when absolutely necessary. The pattern of illumination on the ground close to the large warehouse contained many holes, and Brendan exploited each of them to reach a small side door.

Now that he was closer, Brendan could see the dilapidation and obvious signs of neglect of the place. No signage anywhere hinted at a possible usage for the warehouse, so Brendan assumed it was as abandoned as the gas station next door. After confirming that his pocket still held his trusty knife, Brendan tried the door handle.

It turned easily in his hand and he found himself staring into a brightly lit, and mostly empty, warehouse. A desk stood in the middle of the open area, and a man stood behind it, smirking towards Brendan.

“It’s about time, man,” Scott Fisher said amicably enough. “I’ve been waiting.”

Brendan paused long enough to sweep the open area, but couldn’t see anyone else around. Part of him nagged at him to leave, telling him that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but backing down wasn’t his style.

“Come on in.” Fisher waved towards the desk. “The water’s fine.”

Brendan let the door close behind him, and then walked up to the desk. Fisher motioned for Brendan to take a seat across the desk from him, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. When Brendan stayed standing, Fisher shrugged and sat down himself.

A loud click echoed throughout the building as all the lights except the powerful floodlight directly overhead switched off. From within the intense cone of light, everything beyond disappeared entirely. Adrenaline started to build in Brendan’s veins as his senses kicked into overdrive. Bolting for the door seemed like a choice plan, but Brendan knew his eyesight would be reduced to nothing after he transitioned from the brightness to the darkness.

“Alright, man,” Fisher said as he placed his elbows onto the desk and let his fingers form a bridge. “I got a little problem with your story from earlier.”

Brendan tensed up.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, trying to hold back his growing concern.

“Yeah,” Fisher replied gruffly. “You’re either dumb, or really fucking dumb.”

That was Brendan’s signal. The game was over. Survival instincts kicked in.

But he only took one step in Fisher’s direction before strong hands locked onto his arms. He turned his head as a solid kick to the back of his leg dropped him to his knees. The coordination and suddenness of the attack surprised him, but he instantly shot back to his feet and lashed out in all directions. His right arm came free from its restraint, and his fist whipped across his body to score a direct hit against the jaw of the man on his left. The guy’s face disappeared from the cone of light, only to rebound back into it with a hellish fury etched into its brow. Unfortunately, the man’s hands held firm. Before Brendan could land another punch, something heavy and blunt struck the back of his skull, knocking him back to his knees, where his captors forced his arms up behind his back. The old shrapnel injury in his shoulder protested profusely, but not a sound escaped his mouth.

“You’re pretty quick, but not quick enough.” Fisher casually came around the desk. He parked his rear end on the table, and then bent down to lift Brendan’s face to his own. “You’re probably thinking about how bad an idea this was, am I right?”

When Brendan said nothing, Fisher eased away, and then struck like a coiled cobra, smacking the teeth loose on the left side of Brendan’s mouth and knocking the small bud from his ear. The taste of blood hit him almost as hard as the seething rage begging for a chance to crush Fisher’s face. No matter how much he thrashed, Fisher’s goons held him in check, now obviously far more respectful of Brendan’s abilities. For the first time, Brendan thought hailing Marcus might’ve been a good idea about two minutes ago. On cue, someone pulled the radio off his belt and tossed it to Fisher.

“You didn’t come alone?” Fisher asked, feigning shock. He placed the walkie-talkie on the desk and nodded to some unseen goons, presumably commanding them to go find Marcus.

“So you want to distribute crystal meth, Brendan?” Fisher asked, stroking his bloodied knuckles. Brendan didn’t acknowledge the question, so Fisher continued. “There’s two options here. Either you’re not really a dealer, in which case, I want to know why the fuck you’re here, or you’re really a dealer, in which case I want to know why the fuck you’re here.”

Brendan just glared back at the man he thought he’d known. Anger started to fade as embarrassment rose to take its place. Fisher hit him again, this time a little higher, closer to the eye. The swelling sensations started almost immediately.

“Marines are tough, but this ain’t worth it, man,” Fisher told him, once again sitting back onto the edge of the desk. “If you just explain yourself, we won’t fucking kill you. How’s that sound?”

The fury was back, that primal anger that knew no bounds, the rage that knew no control once the leash came off. And now his collar felt slack. The previous thump to the back of his head indicated he’d get one shot at this before they were on him. His anger assured him that’s all he’d need.

Fisher was talking again, but Brendan wasn’t listening. The thugs pinned him down as he struggled to push back. He upped the intensity until he felt the right amount of resistance.

Faster than his captors could anticipate, Brendan ducked forward and wrenched both hands free. Fisher flipped backwards over the desk in retreat. Brendan swiveled and saw the man to his right caught off balance. A quick kick to the side of the bastard’s knee evoked an unhealthy pop that left the man shrieking and falling.

Lying on his back now, Brendan’s hand went to his pocket as three shadowy figures entered the lighted circle. The first came at him with all the brazen confidence of a man who wasn’t used to his prey fighting back. Brendan waited for the guy to grab his shirt with both hands. The folding knife flipped open in Brendan’s right hand as his arm shot straight towards the man’s groin. As the knife penetrated up to the handle, the goon’s grip slackened enough to drop Brendan back to the floor. The guy’s face twisted in pain as he jerked away suddenly, wrenching the knife from Brendan’s grasp.

Sensing his advantage dwindling, Brendan kicked the ailing man over and regained his own feet. The desk stood to his back, and two men with billy clubs slowly approached from the front. The one on the right sported a ridiculous bleached mohawk and some trashy facial hair. He spoke with all the elegance of a Cockney wanker.