No Turning Back
NO TURNING BACK
BRIAN CRAWFORD
Maverick BookWorks
NO TURNING BACK
Copyright © 2018 by Brian Crawford.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
Maverick.BookWorks@gmail.com
First Edition: April 2018
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
NO TURNING BACK
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my parents, Mark and Mary Crawford. Somewhere in the gene pool, I seemed to have received a gift of gab and storytelling along with a healthy desire for creative expression. Thank you.
Acknowledgments
Every writer has a part of the writing process that they don’t enjoy. For some, it is the research. For others, it might be outlining, or editing. I have found I don’t like this section. Not because I don’t want to say thank you but because I’m afraid I’m going to forget someone.
First, I want to thank Ed Krug for giving me the idea for the book. When I first told him that I was thinking about killing him in my second book, he laughed. I am laughing as I write this when I remember Ed saying that by killing Dr. Evans I cheated him out of being validated even in my fictional world. (Sorry, but at least I didn’t kill you).
Thanks and love to my wife, Miranda, for all her support. Her belief in me is inspiring.
Thank you to my team of beta readers whose input made the book better than it would have been without them. (It would have had even more typos, too, if not for them). If I didn’t wear them out, I hope they come back for the next one.
As always, I want to thank my readers, for taking a chance on an unknown writer. I have appreciated the positive reviews from the first book on Amazon, your emails, and on social media. I hope I did not keep some of you waiting too long for the second one.
If you would like to be notified of new book releases or want to send me a message, you can contact me at Maverick.BookWorks@gmail.com or find me on Facebook.
Epigraph
No science is immune to the infection of politics and the corruption of power.
— Jacob Bronowski
The politician … is sometimes tempted to encroach on the normal territory of the scientific estate. Sometimes he interferes directly with the scientist’s pursuit of basic science; but he is more likely to interfere when the scientist proposes to publish findings that upset the established political or economic order, or when he joins with the engineering or medical profession in proposing to translate the findings of science into new policies.
— Don (Krasher) Price
CHAPTER 1
Ignorance is bliss. Like most people, I couldn’t remember the poet that first wrote the phrase, or the poem he wrote it in, but I did remember discussing the poem in English literature class many years ago. The poet was lamenting the lost innocence of youth, and maybe he was right in his case, but ignorance was not bliss in my current situation. Ignorance can get you killed. What you don’t know can hurt you.
While in Naval Intelligence in the early Eighties, I had gone undercover to investigate a drug smuggling operation out of Southeast Asia. I had sat in on strategic planning missions listening to admirals and generals discuss the role of the U.S. military on the world stage. Now, on the eleventh of November in 1993, while watching the Chicago Veteran’s Day parade, I wished I had been involved in counterintelligence instead. Particularly, counter-terrorism.
Israeli counterintelligence wrote the book on counter-terrorism. That much I knew. However, I had never seen their playbook. It was not my field of expertise. I was mentally scrambling to come up with my own terrorist checklist on the fly.
Two white males standing seven yards to my right were the reason for my distress. More than once, I had noticed the two men were trying too hard to avoid making eye contact with anyone. People were looking up and down the street at the bands playing, or the floats, or the pretty girls perched on the back seats of convertibles. Not these two. They appeared to be engaged in a stare-off with an unseen opponent.
It was unnatural. And unnerving.
Both men were of average height. They were thick. Not the kind of thickness that comes from a gym. Instead, they looked like they had spent most of their adult life lifting heavy objects for a living. One looked to be around 30; the other was probably in his mid-forties.
Both wore inexpensive, thick slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a sturdy sports jacket appropriate for the weather. Their jackets were properly sized, not overly bulky as if they were hiding something underneath. They wore casual leather shoes with rubber soles.
If it had not been for the constant forward stare, I might have thought they were Chicago detectives. They had that kind of look. Thick, strong men wearing thick, sturdy clothes in case they needed to engage in some physical activity. One thing was for sure; these guys were not on lunch from the Stock Exchange.
Neither man was wearing a backpack or carrying any other types of baggage. Nor could I see any suspicious bags or other items near them. The younger man had his hands casually stuffed in his trouser pockets. The older man stood with his hands at his sides.
Neither man looked nervous. No talking under their breath. No unusual sweating. No twitches or tics. No furtive glances at each other checking to see if the other man needed reassurance or was having a change of heart.
I was starting to feel stupid. My mental checklist had only one x in a box: their vacant stare. It was hardly enough to go on. I started to turn and walk away; however, my inner voice kept insisting that I keep a vigilant watch on the men. I had learned not to argue with my inner voice.
We were still seven yards apart. Twenty-one feet. My subconscious must have picked the distance. There is a long-standing rule in law enforcement called the 21-foot rule that states an attacker with a knife can close on an officer and successfully attack him before the officer can unholster his gun and respond.
Was I expecting them to have a gun? Maybe. Maybe they were after someone. Maybe they were going for mass mayhem. Two shooters ruining Veteran’s Day in Chicago for years to come.
If they did have only guns, and not bombs, I felt much better. They didn’t realize I was watching them. They wouldn’t know what hit them. And I would hit them. Hard.
Then again, why wait until they made the first move.
Slowly, I started closing the gap until I was a little less than 10 feet away. At which point, I turned my back to the parade to face the men and smiled. The younger man noticed me first. He glared at me briefly before nudging the older man to look my way.
“You got a problem?” said the older man in a thick Chicago accent.
“No. Just enjoying the parade,” I replied.
“Then enjoy it, and stop staring at us.”
I said nothing and continued staring and smiling. Staring and smiling while they tried to focus on the parade. Staring and smiling for a full 30 seconds. Staring and smiling until the level of discomfort was too much for the older man. He tapped the other man’s shoulder and motioned for them to get out of there. Before walking off, he said, “Enjoy the parade, weirdo.”
I watched them walk down the street and turn a corner heading north. There was no proof that I had done anything other than run two men off from watching a parade; however, I felt relief that they had left.
***
I looked around for a few minutes after the men left for any bags or packages left lying around unattended but found nothing. My paranoia eventually subsided, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the parade. Nearly an hour earlier, I had dropped my mother off at the greystone she used to share with her soon-to-be ex-husband in Old Town, a historic neighbo
rhood on Chicago’s North Side. She asked me to give her a couple of hours so they could talk alone. I still had an hour to kill, so I thought I would do some window shopping on the Magnificent Mile, the name given to the upscale section of Michigan Avenue running from the Chicago River to Oak Street. Bloomingdale’s, Neiman Marcus, Ralph Lauren and hundreds of other stores competed for space in the high-rent district of the Magnificent Mile. I passed Cartier, Saks Fifth Avenue, Tiffany’s, and several other expensive boutiques.
I was window shopping in front of a store selling expensive handbags just south of Oak Street when I saw the two men from the parade reflected in the storefront glass. They were on the other side of Michigan Avenue shuffling around in a crowd of people doing a poor job of feigning interest in the expensive stores. I switched directions heading south on Michigan Avenue and watched as the two men paralleled my movements.
Twelve years ago, while in Naval Intelligence, I had been tasked to follow a target on more than one occasion, so I knew what to look for. It was also why I was confident the men were following me. But why I wondered. Because I stared at them? So what. I decided to head back to the handbag store and went inside where I could observe the men through the glass while I pretended to look at handbags. Like before, they paralleled my movements from the other side of the street.
My earlier assumption that they were potential terrorists was obviously wrong. It appeared they had been following me all along, which didn’t make any sense. Why would anyone in Chicago be interested in anything I was doing? The only two people I knew in Chicago were talking in a greystone in Old Town. And it’s not like the men were muggers. No one in their right mind tries to mug a guy like me: 6’4”, 235 pounds, and built like a professional athlete. Not exactly an easy mark.
I left the store, crossed Michigan Avenue at Oak Street, and then walked a few blocks west before heading north towards Old Town. Using reflections, I spotted the men continuing to follow me.
Three or four more blocks and I would be back at the greystone. If something were going to happen, I did not want it happening in front of Mom’s house. Staring and smiling had been enough to run them off earlier. Maybe it would work again. Deep down, I doubted it, but it was worth a try.
I turned into the next alley and waited. As expected, the two men entered the alley nearly 20 seconds later. Their eyes widened when they saw me standing in the middle of the alley smiling at them.
“We meet again, boys.”
The younger one replied, “I guess we do. What’s up with this guy? He’s always smiling.” He turned to look at the older man, who did not reply, before looking back at me. “You going to answer us? What’s up with you?”
“I’m wondering the same thing about you guys. Why are you following me?”
“Who says we are following you.”
“I do.” I was still smiling.
They were unaffected by my charm. The two men moved away from each other as if prompted by some unseen cue. Flanking maneuver. So this is how they want to play it.
“You know, back at the parade, I thought you were terrorists or something. You were following me, huh?” Neither man answered. “Not going to tell me what this is about?”
The older one replied, “After.” A small smirk formed as he spoke.
“I can’t get you to walk away?”
No response.
“Okay, have it your way. I should warn you, though; this will probably not end well for you.” I assumed a fighting stance.
“Look,” said the younger man, “He’s gonna try and go all Kung Fu on us.”
This time I didn’t respond. These two had been following me for over an hour and were not going to turn back now, which left me only two choices: run or fight. I am exceptionally fast, especially for a man my size, but I did not feel like running.
Both men were about 10 feet away, trying to figure out a way to flank me; however, my carefully chosen alley was too narrow for them to spread out too far. Neither man appeared to be carrying any weapons. That was good. Neither man seemed to be in too big of a hurry advancing either. Not good. It meant they were patient. They had done this before.
I slowly retreated while looking for an environmental funnel — something that would force the men to have to advance one at a time. I stopped next to a dumpster jutting out into the alley, which effectively narrowed their fighting space by several feet. They would still be able to attack me simultaneously; however, both would have to remain in front of me while they did.
The two men slowed their advance and took an offensive fighting stance. The older man was smirking. The younger man was slightly ahead of the other man.
Almost within striking range. I feigned a punch at the younger one. He backed up out of range while the older one advanced on me. I had anticipated that. Immediately, I aimed a front kick at his closest knee. The kick missed. He was quicker than he looked. Hmm, I had not expected that.
His smirk was replaced with a smug smile. It was like he had anticipated my entire move. This was going to be more difficult than I originally thought. Maybe I should run after all. It would be easier and a guaranteed victory; these two were not built for speed.
I turned and broke into a full sprint in the other direction, which caught them off guard and allowed me to gain a sizable lead. Up ahead, the alley intersected a perpendicular alley. I turned left, looking over my left shoulder as I did. The younger man was easily 10 yards behind me and another 10 yards ahead of the older man.
I stopped running immediately after turning the corner and flattened my body up against the wall. My attackers had made their first mistake, and I planned on capitalizing on that fact. Within seconds, the younger man bolted around the corner at a full sprint. My arm shot out in an attempt to clothesline him; however, he ducked under my arm losing his balance in the process and stumbled forward before falling onto his hands and knees in the alley.
I decided to take a slightly different approach with the second man. No clothesline this time. The slower, older man rounded the corner. His eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him; however, he had too much to process at one time and was not ready for me running right at him. The man anticipated the unavoidable contact by lowering his head and leaning his body forward to prepare for a tackle. But I did not tackle him. Instead, I aimed my left shoulder directly at his head, whipping it forward at the last minute. The impact with his face was tremendous. The result was immediate. I swore I could hear the small bones in his face breaking. He fell to the ground. Unconscious. Not surprising. What was surprising was seeing one of his eyeballs hanging outside the socket by his tendons. It was gruesome.
I turned towards the younger man, who was back up and was assessing the situation. The look of confidence he had a few minutes earlier was replaced with fear and disgust. “What the hell, man, you ripped his eye out!”
“No, I knocked his eye out.”
“Knocked it out. Who cares? His eye is out. How does that happen? Who does that to another human being? You’re a frigging psycho, man.”
“So tell me why you were following me or I will do the same to you.”
“Bullshit, man. There ain’t no way you’re gonna do that to me.”
His hand started to reach into his jacket. Maybe he had never heard of the 21-foot rule, but he was getting ready to experience it firsthand. I closed the distance so quickly that his hand was still in his jacket when I hit him in the jaw with my right elbow. The blow knocked him off his feet. His head made a loud thud against the concrete.
I couldn’t believe it; he was still conscious, and his hand was starting to inch toward his jacket again.
I straddled the younger man while grabbing his arm. With my other hand, I reached into his jacket and felt around until I found his gun. A snub-nosed .38 revolver. Dependable gun. Easy to conceal. Decent stopping power when loaded with the right ammunition. And now it was mine.
I stood up and put the gun in my jacket pocket. “Like I was saying before, why were you following me? I’m done asking nice, so don’t even think about not answering me.”
He was dazed for sure, but the foggy look still did not hide the fear in his eyes. He was probably still imagining his friend’s eye hanging by a thread. He sat up and spoke. “Ew oke my aw.”