A Series Of Science Fiction Short Stories

Reacher Short Stories by L.E. Fitzpatrick

Series Excerpt

John didn't like their car. The tyres were cheap, fine for city travel but no good for hitting country dirt tracks. He wasn't confident about the battery either. They were going into hibernation and the car was filled with useless gadgets which would drain the power in a week. It was Italian too. John was particular, he liked his cars German—everything else was only good for scrap.

He filled the car with petrol, watching as one security guard went in and was replaced with another. From where he was standing he could inspect the quality of their weapons. They were forgeries, probably good for a handful of shots and little else. It was easy to manufacture weapons for novice fighters looking to protect themselves. If a man wasn't interested in heavy duty a counterfeit rifle would do nicely, but John could see by the arrogance with which these weapons were being held that the shooters had no idea how lousy their armoury actually was.

The new guard leaned against the wall of the entrance. He was feigning disinterest in John, more fascinated in the floor than what was going on in front of him. He should have been more cautious. He should have been watching John.

The petrol pump clicked. The car was full. John opened the boot. The movement drew the guard's attention but only briefly. His casualness was starting to annoy John. Even when John removed a petrol can from the boot the guard barely flinched. With a shake of his head John went back to the pump and started filling again.

A rumble struck the road into the service station. A concealed bend hid whatever was coming, but John knew it was big. He glanced up at the guard. He hadn't drawn his weapon, he wasn't even concerned. This was an ambush.

As the first glimpse of the Humvee came into view, John had already put the petrol can down and replaced the pump. If he ran, took out the guard at the door, he could make it into the service station. But what would be in there? And what vantage point could he take? The Humvee rolled closer. Six men inside and a mounted turret on the back. It was overkill and it was going to be their downfall.

The Humvee rolled towards the pumps. The men inside were cheering. These weren't trained killers, or even the wild men of the north intent on raping and eating anything that crossed their territory. These men had just been made desperate. Whether it was a failed delivery, or maybe a robbery that had seen their supplies dwindled, something had pushed these men towards drastic action. Their plan—and it was obvious to John—was to lure unsuspecting travellers to them and rob them for everything they had. John could see from the dark glint in some of their eyes that killing had followed as a consequence. These men were getting a taste for it. It would be a thirst they wouldn't have for long.

John moved quickly. His weapon was pointing at the guard by the door before the car stopped. The guard dropped, a hole in the centre of his head. John adjusted his position, calculating the next target. The driver's head hit the car horn. The Humvee rolled forward, hit the second petrol pump and stopped. The men inside were in shock. Two of their own were dead and they hadn't even made eye contact with their killer.

As they piled out of the vehicle, John was already moving. Using his own car for cover, he fired another two shots. One man flew back, punctured in the chest. The other clasping his neck as his jugular erupted in a fountain of blood. Then John ran. A volley of shots clipped the bricks of the service station wall, but John was already behind the corner. He flexed his shoulders and dared a look.

They were coming. Two of them. The youngest of the pack, taking brave steps towards the side of the building. Their breathing heaved under the pressure. Their footsteps crunching on the dirt. John counted. Six. Five. Four. One of the men was wavering. He slowed behind his comrade. Three. Two…

The gun came before the body. John snatched the barrel and slammed the weapon into the wall. Its owner yelped, fumbling for a hold on the weapon. John shot him in the chest, then turned the corner to deal with the coward.

The turret nearly caught him. He ducked back to cover as it ate up the tarmac. And then he heard it—a shout coming from inside the building. The turret stopped. It was his chance. He stepped out, grabbing the last guard on foot. He pulled him close, putting a bullet in his leg. The boy screamed, his writhing body was a perfect shield.

Holding onto him, John marched, seeking out the man operating the turret. Like a fool the gunman was standing upright against his machine gun, looking at John with a gaping mouth. It took one bullet to bring him down. John pushed the boy he was holding to the floor. He fired his gun again, putting a full stop to the bloodbath.

As he stepped over the body in the doorway, John's mind was already on clearing the inside of the building. He heard groaning coming from the kiosk. The noise coming from a pile of shelving. It wasn't Charlie or Rachel so John wasn't interested.