Half Past Midnight by Jeff Brackett Read Free Book Online Page A

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    I finally prodded myself into action. I sprinted from the trees to the side of the overturned pickup. Then I waited, listening for a response.
    Nothing. So far, so good. I ran for the trees on the far side of the road and crouched next to a large pine. The trees were quiet, and the only sound I heard was the pounding of my heart. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
    I began the search, picking my way as quietly as possible through the trees, uphill to the motorcycle. I had nearly finished my inspection, keeping close track of the time, when I heard a faint buzzing coming from the thick underbrush about twenty yards ahead. Not quite a buzz, though, different somehow, but familiar.
    I listened intently, willing my heart and breath to silence so that I might identify the tantalizing sound. I finally realized that, while I sat there frozen in place by a noise in the brush, my time was steadily ticking away. I couldn’t afford to wait around for the source of the disturbance ahead to jump up and identify itself. So I stepped out from behind the tree to investigate. As I did so, two things happened simultaneously.
    The first thing was relatively insignificant. Something in my head clicked, and I finally recognized the buzzing as the faint sound of a carrier wave over an open radio channel. As soon as I realized that, I froze. That sound indicated that someone was watching the road, which in turn indicated that the road was unsafe for travel.
    Even as this ran through my head, and I prepared to carefully work my way around and up to the motorcycle, something much more critical occurred. I heard the sharp “snick-chak” of a semi-automatic handgun being cocked behind me.
    “All right, buddy, you’ve got two choices here,” the voice behind me gloated. “You can either raise your hands and come with me real quiet-like, or you can make a run for it. Who knows? You might even make it.” He paused. “Well, what’s it gonna be?”
    I could tell he was too far away for me to try for his gun and, even if he were closer, I didn’t know whether it was at the level of my head or back. Since I wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal, I surrendered. I raised my hands, glancing at my watch as I did so. Six twenty-nine, just over ten minutes left.
    “Smart move,” the voice said. “Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and unsling that machete.”
    Chancing a glance behind me to see where he was exactly, I did as he told me.
    “Face front!” he yelled. “Did I tell you to turn around? Huh? You do what I tell you, only what I tell you, and only when I tell you to do it. Got it?”
    When I failed to reply, he practically screamed, “Got it?”
    “Yeah, I got it.”
    “You can call me ’sir,’ asshole.”
    I toyed with the idea of doing just that, but restrained myself. He might overreact if I called him “Sir Asshole,” and I really didn’t need a hole in my back. “Yes, sir.”
    “Good boy!” he sneered. “Now, why don’t you pull that pig sticker out of your belt and drop it, too. And move real slow… I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
    I slowly removed the Bowie and tossed it on the ground next to the machete.
    “Okay, now stay real still.” I heard him shuffling toward me. He picked up my knife and machete then edged around, keeping about ten feet between us until he reached the bushes in front of me. The first thing I noticed was his clothing: hunter’s camouflage coveralls. He was about thirty-five, hard years, from the look of the lines on his face. Most importantly, he pointed a large-caliber handgun at my chest.
    I had a sudden, intense desire to urinate, but managed to suppress it.
    He reached into the bushes and pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Larry? It’s Frank.”
    I heard a slight British accent in the reply, “Yes Frank, what is it?”
    “Larry, I found someone sneaking around in the woods down here.”
    “So what’s the problem?” The voice sounded bored.