Ok, I didn't want to do this, but some of you have posted reviews that require response. And, since you all reviewed under the sobriquet guest and I am only computer semi-literate and could not determine how to pm you, this will have to be public: I will break it down for you.
1 – I am not a millennial, I'm a boomer, specifically, I'm a seventy-year old woman (ok, I'm only 69, but who's counting?).
2 – I do not delete reviews – not even those that constitute ad hominem attacks on me and my opinions. If reviews were deleted, look elsewhere, it wasn't me. That said. It would be appreciated if you reviewed my story – was it good, well-written, believable, or unbelievably stupid – and not my opinions.
3 – I have opinions – you don't like them. You have opinions – I may not like them. That's life. Suck it up, buttercup. Stop acting like the millennial you thought I was.
4 – Writers write what they want to write. Readers read what they want to read. If you don't like what I write – don't read it. I'm not changing myself or my mode of expression to please others. My stories are not your safe space.
The motorcycle, dark-colored as clothes he wore, barely discernable from the road he drove it on, sped silently and smoothly to the north. He smiled, grimly; it was a responsive machine, hardly needing more than a hint of a touch to direct it where he wanted. The Harley might have been a child's dream, but this was an adult's. It was such a seductive toy, that he almost lost himself in the pure joy of driving it – almost: until he saw lights ahead, just over a rise. He slowed, then stopped. The lights were stationary and he didn't remember there being a fuel stop, rest area, or any structures in the vicinity that could account for them. He dismounted and walked the bike to the edge of the road, concealing it in some bushes; then he made his way, slowly, to the top of the rise.
As he suspected, it was a roadblock. Whether they were looking for him or it was merely a curfew check was irrelevant; anyone out after curfew was automatically suspect and subject arrest and jail.
He returned to the bike, as carefully and silently as possible. He was about half a mile from them, so there was a good chance, since he was driving without lights, using the infrared sensors in his helmet, that they weren't aware of his presence. He moved himself and the bike further back into the brush.
He contemplated the situation for about half an hour. He was familiar enough with this stretch of highway, but not with any back roads nearby, and he couldn't check for alternate routes without triggering their web sensors. He decided that there was nothing to do but dig in for what he hoped would be a short wait.
He heard footsteps and voices, male and female, moving towards him and tried very hard to shrink into the landscape. It was a little before 4:00 am. Dawn was at 5:30, and he didn't have much time. He heard the crunch of steps come even closer, then stop, probably 30 feet from him. His left leg was cramping up, but he remained absolutely still.
"Do you think he could have turned around, maybe found another road?"
"Do you think he even existed? The caller said he couldn't be sure, that what he saw could have been nothing more than a shadow. What he described sounded like it was either a phantom of imagination or cutting edge military tech. Do you really think they have access to that kind of tech?"
"I doubt it. But, every time we don't act on information, even dubious information, we risk loss. If they do have the tech, we have to find out."
"Yeah, but if we keep trying to find it when they don't have it, we're just wasting resources that can be better used elsewhere."
Castle resisted the impulse to move forward and check on the owners of the voices, but they sounded familiar. It had been a very long time since he'd heard them, but it he was certain it was his wife – ex-wife – Kate, and Ryan. He allowed a small smile. Ryan would deflect Kate soon enough. He would have become adept at it. He listened as the steps receded into the dark, the voices became fainter. He slowly moved his cramped left leg and began massaging it. He would wait half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, then check on the status of the roadblock. It would be near dawn by then. He didn't want to ride in daylight, but if he had to, he would. He had to get to his people before they bugged out.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, it was grayish light: pre-dawn, and brightening rapidly. He shook himself into alertness; he could really use a cup of coffee – even the underground's crap. Moving slowly, he rose unsteadily, first to his knees, then his feet. He moved a step towards the road, then another – ready to sink back into the cover of the scraggly trees and thorny brush at the first sign of danger.
At the edge of the road, he saw footprints, which had obliterated his tire tracks; a fact that made him smile – more a grimace than a smile, but intended to show something akin to – not displeasure. He looked both ways and saw nothing coming from either direction. Light though it was, it was still dark enough to require lights. Keeping to the edge of the road, ready to dive into the bushes, he moved to the top of the rise. Maintaining what he hoped was an unobtrusive, unnoticeable crouch, he looked down to where the roadblock had been just an hour before. Gone: except for a lone watcher, who appeared to be asleep, they were gone. He quickly formulated a plan.
He made quick time back to the motorcycle. He rummaged through the saddlebags, finding food and caffeinated water, and to his satisfaction, a military grade sniper pistol, with a silencer. The ammunition consisted of tranquilizer rounds. He chugged the water, feeling the effects of the caffeine almost immediately, and hastily consumed a flavorless protein bar.
Checking everything quickly – the helmet, his boots, the action of the gun – he walked the bike back to the road. Again, watching for traffic, he started up the slight incline, pushing the bike until he reached the top.
The watcher was still there and still appeared to be sleeping. He positioned himself behind a convenient road sign (he wondered why it seemed that all road signs seemed to be located at the tops of rises), he took careful aim and fired. The watcher jerked up in what seemed like surprise, looked around, then, very slowly, slumped over. Because the round was a tranquilizer, and not an actual bullet, the sensors implanted in the person's body wouldn't register and transmit anything as abrupt as injury or death and would, therefore, not set off any alarms at his or her headquarters. Eventually, though, someone would note inactivity and come to check the guard. Castle mounted the bike and carefully started down the hill, slowly increasing velocity. By the time he reached his top speed, he was miles past the sentry-post, hopefully not being followed, and about forty minutes from Plattsburg, which was near his destination.
Ten miles south of Plattsburg, he turned off onto a gravel road and drove about five miles before stopping. It was full light now, the beginning of what would be a beautiful, warm, cloudless day. He pulled off the road, into a dilapidated shed that, from the outside, appeared as if it would collapse if someone looked at it crossly. He waited there for half-an-hour by the clock, listening – for cars, motorcycles, people on foot, dogs, helicopters – anything that would indicate that he had been noticed and followed. The only thing he saw was a heavily pregnant doe, who had regarded him with alarmed curiosity, then, deciding he was no threat, moved on. Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger, he started back up the road. Headquarters was another ten miles.
If he had been less tired, less stressed, he might have appreciated his surroundings. It was possibly the best of Upstate New York – woodlands, meadows, picturesque farms. He had, at one time, thought of living in the area and had, in hopes of starting a "hobby farm", bought land with a run-down nineteenth century farmhouse and outbuildings. He wished that it was the location of headquarters, but it was now in the hands of Kate Beckett-Castle (he wondered why she had kept his name, even in hyphenated form) – one of her rewards from a grateful nation (others being the loft, the house in the Hamptons, and the bulk of his bank account). He hoped she was taking good care of it.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the overgrown yard in front of a derelict house. He was home.