LifeShield

Waiting to Pounce

Jonathon squirms from the needles tickling his neck, where they'd inevitably found the few spots of exposed skin. Like a turtle doing yoga, he stretches stiff muscles, blending his movements with the gusts from the gulf. Probably safe. A team had swept through here a mere twenty minutes ago, but he lived by the rule that someone was always watching.

He'd hugged the same dirt under this chunky fir since dawn, when the first rays of sunlight played havoc with IR sensors. He'd been lucky, the only bugs easily flicked away, the sunshine tempered by the shade near the heart of the tree and the wafts of breeze that made it this far in.

Only a few more hours of opportunity left, before dusk forced him to use the same trick to escape. He scans automatically from underneath the lowest limbs, where the generous centimeters of clearance gives him a wide arc of vision while remaining hidden. He starts from the right, where the line of identical first stretch into the distance, then out through the sculpted walkways to the sliver of the palace in view.

Breathing stops as a group emerges. Dark suits give him hope, even more the stems of wine glasses and blocky tumblers.

Senses amp into overdrive when he spots pairs of men in bulky suits radiating out from the group, their eyes roving in predefined quadrants. They'd only be there for him. The teams float roughly 20 meters in every direction. Should be eight, though only six are obvious. Jonathon can't see up, but his minds eye places two snipers on the roof.

With a half turn from one of the guests, Jonathon spies the thinning gray hair and black suit he's looking for, nestled in the center of power. The familiar, easy smile is given to those pressing close enough to catch his precious words. Disgusting really, knowing the secrets buried in this man's past rivaled Jonathon's own. Probably what makes him such an effective leader. The groups strolls, sipping their wine and whiskeys, oblivious to his presence, thinking themselves utterly safe.

Yesterday this time, they would have been.

In the hours of Jonathon's sojourn under the fir, he'd felt a storm brewing in the world, knew his instinctive move was the right one. It'd meant that months of planning was tossed out like trash, the moment he'd unwrapped the shrink wrapped phone to text a single word, "Now."

No, it's time to go to ground. Whatever's coming, it's gonna be big. He'd find someplace warm, with women in bikinis sipping fruity drinks with umbrellas. Somewhere to wait out the lashing fury of a world gone mad.

Assuming of course, I survive the day.

The group meanders into the center of the garden, where all eight paths converge.

Time.

Pulling the slender device from his breast pocket, Jonathon flips up the plastic cover, lets his finger rest lightly on the button. He waits a breath, feeling his lungs fill, empty. A single muscle contracts down.

Ten seconds.

He moves quickly, but with the ease of practice, drawing the long barrels out of the lowest holsters. Glocks, with tritium sights. He needs speed and accuracy over all else. Elbows digging into the compact soil, he edges close to the line of sunlight, breathing steadily in a vain attempt to rein in his racing heart.

The flash from the gulf filters in through the far trees. Jonathon is moving before the sound hits.

BOOM!

Heads turn, following the black smoke billowing from the bay up to the sky. He's crossed the roadway before they turn back. Lifting both guns, firing simultaneously, crimson liquid explodes from the heads of the first team barely a meter in front of him. With the silencers, their bodies collapsing on the path make more sound, giving him precious seconds.