Chapter 23 #2
Moose spotted the two rooftop guards through his scope—rifles raised, scanning different directions, unaware of the danger creeping closer. He gave Shadow a subtle nod.
Suddenly, Link’s voice broke over the comms, calm but urgent. “DEA and State Police are about five miles out, moving fast. You need to hold position and maintain the situation until they arrive.”
Moose’s voice was steady as he replied over the comms, “We won’t start anything. But if they make a move, we’ll respond—fast and hard.”
There was a pause, then Link added, “That SUV we spotted stopped just outside the farm. No movement detected yet.”
Moose exchanged a look with Bear, the tension thickening. The clock was ticking, and they had to be ready for whatever came next.
Shadow moved swiftly up the fire escape behind the drug store, his footsteps silent against the metal. Reaching the rooftop, he crept low and silently across the flat surface, slipping up behind the gang member without making a sound.
The man was a walking stereotype—bulging muscles covered in faded tattoos that snaked up his arms and across his neck, thick gold chains resting heavily on his chest. His brutish grin revealed few sharp thoughts behind the brawn.
Before the brute could even realize someone was there, Shadow twisted his arm, pried the rifle free, and delivered a precise strike to the neck. The gang member crumpled instantly, unconscious.
Without wasting a second, Shadow gagged and hogtied him tightly, ensuring he couldn’t raise an alarm or escape.
“One tango down.” Shadow whispered over the comms.
Moose replies, “Hold for DEA. Keep your aim on the guy on the roof of the barber shop.”
Shorty was slumped against the flagpole at the center of town, surrounded by gang members who watched him like wolves eyeing their prey. Their eyes were cold, calculating—but Marcus DeLuca, standing closest to Shorty, held no personal grudge against him.
Marcus was a man with a purpose beyond Shorty. The deep scar cutting across his cheek only sharpened his hard features as he kept his gun trained not on Shorty, but with a steady, dangerous intent toward someone else—Elena.
Viper stepped forward into Marcus’s line of sight, her petite frame—a stark contrast to the typical Army Ranger stereotype—standing just five-foot-four but radiating unshakable confidence. Her voice stayed steady, unwavering.
“Marcus, the DEA and FBI have warrants for your arrest. Aaron’s recordings are stored in the cloud, there’s enough evidence to put you away for good. And as for Aaron, you can bet Elena had no idea what he was digging into.”
Marcus sneered, dripping with contempt. “Warrants? You think a woman telling me how this ends means a damn thing? Women like you should know your place—serving men, not playing soldier.”
Viper’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. “I serve my country, not men like you. And those agencies closing in? They’re the ones who’ll bring your kingdom down.”
Townsfolk stepped out from stores and houses closing in quietly, hemming the gang from all sides. Their numbers grew with every step, footsteps blending with distant murmurs of anticipation.
Moose raised his voice above the mounting din. “Everyone, step back! Go inside. Let the Protectors handle this. The DEA and FBI are nearly here. No one needs to get hurt.”
His words barely cut through the crowd’s roar. Faces flashed with fury, eyes blazing defiance.
“This is Banner, Tennessee! We take care of our own!” someone shouted. “Shorty’s one of us—we’re not letting city punks take him!”
The crowd surged forward, raw loyalty fueling the chaos. Moose clenched his jaw. Any hope of calm was slipping away.
The gang was clearly outnumbered. The leader’s gun pressed hard against Shorty’s temple—a volatile gamble.
“Stay sharp,” Moose hissed into the comm. “This just got a hell of a lot more dangerous. Link? Where’s the DEA?”
Suddenly, the diner’s front door slammed open. Gladys stepped out, shotgun raised and unwavering. “Let my husband go, y’all bastards.”
Marcus swung his gun toward her chest.
A shot rang out. Viper threw herself between Gladys and Marcus, rolling to absorb the impact, knife ready in hand.
In that instant, the State Police and DEA swarmed in, descending like a well-oiled machine.
Four gang members on the ground were swiftly taken down, hands cuffed and weapons secured.
One agent moved to replace Shadow, efficiently cuffing the gang member Shadow had tied up, while another agent neutralized the lookout perched on the opposite roof. The tide had turned in an instant.
Calmly, Link’s voice came through the comms. “DEA’s on scene. The SUV we spotted earlier stopped two farms down. Five tangos got out and are slinking through the neighboring property like they’re playing war games or something—moving slow, staying low, clearly trying to avoid detection.”
Moose shook his head with a half-smile, sarcasm threading through his tone as he replied, “A little late on the DEA notification, don’t ya think?
” He glanced toward the center of town where the agents were corralling the gang members.
“Maybe they’re just waiting on directions from Marcus now—figuring out their next move. ”
Viper crouched beside Gladys, her hands moving gently over her arms and legs as she checked for any injuries from the tackle. “You alright?” Viper asked, voice laced with concern.
Gladys blinked, shaking off the surprise of Viper’s tackle. She tightened her grip on the shotgun resting in her lap, a slow smile tugging at her lips despite the stumble. “Well, sugar, I reckon I’m tougher than I look. Just a little shook up, that’s all.”
Moose’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Fall back! The DEA has this handled; let’s get back to the farm.”
The clatter of boots and rustle of gear filled the air as Moose and the team broke into a sprint, adrenaline driving every step.
Shadow’s voice crackled over the comms, clear and steady amidst the turmoil.
“That shot? Came from the DEA agent who was on the roof with me. He took out Marcus before he could get a shot off at Gladys.”
Moose took one last, hard look at the scene before turning on his heel. The team moved fast, boots pounding the pavement as they raced back to the trucks, a growing, gnawing worry tightening in his gut.
His instincts flared—his “oh shit” meter sending sharp signals through every nerve. He barked into his comm, “Link, what’s the sitrep from Jake? Something’s setting off my gut.”