Kennedy sat on the dusty ground inside the abandoned silo, his legs stretched before him. In one hand was a walkie-talkie, in the other was a Ka-Bar warthog knife he spun absentmindedly along his palm. Strapped to his waist was a utility belt, a kydex holster where he kept a Desert Eagle 1911 in .45 ACP, and several extra magazines. A round was chambered and ready, eight more are on standby with plenty of replacements to follow.
Outside was a clear night sky and full moon. Surrounding the corroded structure was complete silence, but Kennedy, as did McKinley and Ayrie, knew better; they were coming.
Morgan had presented to the property well in advance to speak to the owners of the farm. If they were to keep up their explicit acts of violence, it would inevitably garner a few suspicious glances. In truth, they wished to avoid innocents getting caught in the crossfire; to hell with everything else.
Plus, when a Texas Ranger knocks, you answer.
Morgan told the old couple he needed to survey their land for the oncoming weeks, that reports were coming in of unruly trespassers, immigrants, drug smuggling, maybe even human trafficking. Though the elderly had no say in the matter, allowing them to think so, helped smooth the process over. Permission was granted, and Kennedy could relax just a bit more than before.
The people hunting Wick were becoming smarter, in seemed. The first half-dozen couldn't figure out what the silo was, and the rest began flanking the structure from the sides and rear, using the tall stalks to their advantage. At one point, a man walked right past Kennedy. He didn't see the elongated, displaced shrubbery or the twenty-something inch barrel jutting out with a suppressor attached to the end. But Kennedy didn't blame him; sometimes he spooked himself.
Pressing his broad back against the cool metal surface, he waited in pitch darkness. They always came when it was dark, like the French and Native Americans.
Rust had eaten through the walls, allowing slivers of moonlight to slip through, spot lighting small portions of the concrete with a ghostly glow. Ayrie and McKinley were using the NODs tonight somewhere. Their last contact advised Kennedy of their positions further down the road. If anything headed their way, they'd be the first to know.
Taking a slow, silent breath, he filled his lungs and continued to wait, trying not to picture something in the impenetrable darkness looking back at him. Something skittered past him; a rat. He mentally groaned in annoyance.
Perhaps it was the same rodent that startled the first assailants.
He chuckled, recalling the memory fondly.
The small radio in his hand coughed as static filtered through. He looked down at the screen's orange glow.
"KY, we got incoming - fast."
KY was his nickname, like Kay-Why, because he was slippery, especially for the ladies. He put away his knife.
Drawing his knees up, he rested a forearm and hit the press-to-talk key, "What's it look like?"
"Black F-150, multiple hostiles in back. We're en route."
"Roger." Kennedy acknowledged quietly.
On cue, the roaring engine and tires rolling against soil reached him. Shouting and hollering like hoodrats strung out on wacky tobacky. It appeared they had no intentions of a surprise.
Rising, he silenced and clipped the device against a molle loop on his chest rig and adjusted his hand firmly around the 1911's pistol grip. He leaned against the nearby wall.
"Where's his car?" someone muttered.
"Behind it, ya think?" Another replied.
"John Wick!" A third voice called; the one in charge, Kennedy reckoned. The truck's engine cut, amplifying more laughter. "You in there? Because if you are, you might wanna come outside!"
Several men chuckled in conjunction.
Kennedy chuckled, too.
McKinley and Ayrie finally met back along the road at the same time. Breathing carefully from the near dead-sprint, Ayrie motioned quietly towards McKinley; they both split off into the tall corn field.
Car doors slammed and steps scuffed against the dirt. Perhaps surrounding the silo. Kennedy waited, ears and eyes straining to see in the oppressive darkness.
"I'd hate to have to do what D'Antonio did to your home," the man went on, his voice drawing closer. Kennedy could picture him; nicely dressed like the ones who fell before him. Hands resting in his pockets, leisurely strolling with not a care and all the time in the world to waste. Already Kennedy didn't like him, and had no idea who D'Antonio was. But what the hell kind of name was that? He sounded like a prick.
"It was a beautiful home," the stranger continued, his voice had a faint inflection of an accent Kennedy couldn't place. "Much more beautiful than this…"
Much more beautiful, Kennedy mocked with a scrunched, sour expression in the darkness. God, he wished this man would shut up.
"John?" the man sighed, annoyed. Kennedy shifted, popping his neck.
Why was he still talking?
"I promise a swift end. You won't feel a thing."
The door to Kennedy's left kicked open. A unified rattle of raised guns followed as the door swung, disturbing settled dust in the flooding headlights.
The Ranger did not flinch. His heart did not race, but his eyes did narrow a bit.
A shadow stretched across the concrete, telling Kennedy a plethora of information; his hands were empty, but that didn't mean he wasn't armed. He was also confident, standing fully erect and relaxed.
"I know you're in there, John," said the man. "You can't hide forever."
Kennedy watched the shadow reach into itself. The arms did not return to his side; he was armed now.
Pressing his back against the cold metal surface, Kennedy held his breath, waiting for the right moment to present itself.
The shadow compressed as he closed in. His hands then the barrel, and then the gun. The man came through the doorway, one careful step at a time.
Kennedy lunged.
Detaching from the thick shadows like a colossal beast, he wrapped an arm around the man's low-ready, capturing both arms. He surged forward, pulling both himself and his victim out of the truck's headlights and immersing them into the shadows. The man shouted as Kennedy thrust his wrist, freeing the pistol while cracking bones and a howl filled the silo.
Using his own mass, Kennedy pivoted, slinging the man against the concrete while snatching up the discarded weapon.
The man hit the floor and Kennedy stepped back into the thick darkness, pocketing the weapon.
Ayrie and McKinley reached the edges from both sides. They came at an angle, forming a funnel towards their suspect and their vehicle with their back to the silo. This ensured no cross fire passed through the stalks and turned friendly. With the headlights provided, there was a clear view of six culprits. In unison, they pushed away their night optics.
Then opened fired.
Bullets flew. Windows shattered. A man's hand blew off. Another round ate through the jaw bone. Bright red blood spewed through the night air, captured by the harsh headlights as the blindsided men fell.
Inside, Kennedy pulled his Warthog free, blade facing out, scraping its hair raising way as he traced the innards of the silo. Outside exploded in a cacophony of gunfire; Ayrie and McKinley had arrived.
The man was no longer composed. He was frightened. The ragged heaves as his lung worked in heavy panic allowed Kennedy to pin his whereabouts, even though he remained in the thick shadows.
"You're not John!" he choked, footsteps scuffing as he pulled himself to his feet. A crashing sound filled the space, reverberating off the metal walls and disorienting the intruder as he bumped into aluminum bins left behind. Mindful of the headlights that sliced through the center of the silo, Kennedy carefully moved closer towards his quarry, concealed within the oppressive darkness.
Pop! Pop!
Until they went out.
The near-tangible darkness swallowed Kennedy and his new friend whole while outside erupted to a volley of gunfire.
small chapter. I know, not sorry! I wanted to get something out, even if it was just a little taste, so ya'll didn't think I gave up on the story or fell off into the deep end. My move is going great, thanks to those who asked.
Kitana Mayo: Now that you say that, it makes sense. But that's also very silly for him to do that. In the script, Helen names the puppy Moose and when John steals the second dog, he names her Miko. Interesting, nonetheless!
NotYourLoveMonkey: Did you! I'm flattered! I'm glad you like it so far!
jayjay0815: Haha! I finally got an email alerting me of your review! They must be listening to us O_O;
Holly: I miss you!
Sylarfan: Thank you very much :D
Inkandtrees: Very true! I like to know what they're thinking. There's a hundred things going on in someones head. Sights, sounds, smells, their own thoughts.
SuperSaiyanKnight: Thank you for the message regarding FFA!
Guest(s): Nope! This is NOT the end! We still have mo' blood to spill...