Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

HARD WOOD By Tyson Adams

Despite what most people believe, security guarding is not really that dangerous a profession. Most of the time you patrol around, watch a few video monitors, try not to fall asleep in that quiet hour in the dead of night, just in case someone actually has any idea what is in the maze of shipping containers I guard by night. Needless to say, I was not expecting tonight to be when I would find myself on my knees, nursing a broken hand, about to have my throat slit. I suppose the evening could be worse; I could still have that Madonna song stuck in my head.

A minute ago I was at the darker end of the compound, the furthest spot away from the constant activity of the docks, walking along one of the many rows of multicoloured brick towers. The noise had been faint, a clink of metal on metal, a noise I recognised from somewhere in my past. I had approached the next intersection with my flashlight held out in my left hand, my trusty Beretta 92 extended in my right. My memory was scratching at me, telling me that the sound meant danger and not some kids hiding their drinking place. The movement had been quick, merciless. I caught a glimpse of a man in dark blue as my gun fired from being slapped out of my hand. The next moment I found myself on the ground scrambling after my gun, only to have a boot crash down on my hand, once, twice, three times and it felt like there was nothing left of my right hand but fire and shards of bones.

Five years ago, I'd lasted two weeks into a tour of outer Desert-stan before being blown up and losing my lower left leg. Despite my short stay, my brain recognised the sound of a rifle barrel on metal. Not that the early warning had stopped me having my butt kicked. My hand hurt, the pain was blocking out most things, but somewhere inside a dark figure was striding forward. That dark figure was anger: anger at the world, anger at the enemy, anger at the loss of a limb and the painful rehabilitation, anger at whomever was robbing this place.

A rough arm embraced me around the chest and wrenched me to my feet. I could feel the firearm slung across my attacker's chest and saw the glint of the knife he was about to use on my throat. For a moment I was thinking more about whether the glint was moonlight or a chance sighting of the compound lights. But then I remembered that the light source was far less important than the fact the knife looked really sharp.

The dark figure stepped forward. Enough.

My left elbow flew back, hitting flesh, then my right, stunning the attacker. I bent, pulling him forward with me, and then reached between my legs. My right hand was useless, but I was able to grasp the attacker's right ankle with my left hand and hook it with my right forearm. I rolled down and dragged the leg up, locking my hips against his, and then pulled. Perfect rolling knee bar: thank you basic unarmed training. The attacker screamed as his knee snapped, but I wasn't done yet. I scrambled away from him toward my fallen flashlight. The heavy aluminium light was the perfect baton. My attacker tried to block the swinging left-handed blows but the dark figure was still incensed, leaving a bloody red mess of the man's skull in his wake.

Out of breath, I tried to collect myself, to settle some of the adrenaline and push the dark figure back into the recesses of my mind. I realised the evening had only just started. My attacker was on watch, he was kitted for a night operation, with a radio throat mike, dark blue clothing that blended into the low light of night, a suppressed Heckler and Koch UMP – not a common firearm – and body armour. I was surprised he didn't have night vision goggles and a helmet, but his kit suggested a professional team, here for something they shouldn't be here for. It wouldn't be long and someone would come looking; I might as well take the fight to them.

It was a ridiculous idea. Unknown assailants of an unknown number, whom I was going to confront for some unknown reason. I guess it was partly adrenaline, partly that sense of service drilled in by basic training, but probably it was just that desire to prove myself as a warrior. Most people would just take up a contact sport, I was going to hunt down armed thieves in a shipping yard at night; shrinks would have a field day with that logic.

I needed to arm myself and go on the hunt. I looked around and saw my Beretta. It had stove-piped as the gun had fired and been knocked from my hand, the nine millimetre casing sticking up and jamming the gun. I picked up the gun and tried to clear it, but couldn't, the fire in my hand reminding me how useless I now was at piano. Next was the UMP: holding a sub-machine gun one-handed was also out of the question. It works in the movies, but I'm pretty sure that the movies have their own set of physics, one where the hero can take on a small army of people shooting at him and only be in danger of losing his shirt.

That left the knife, a mean looking Randall Model 16 fighting knife.

I grabbed for my radio, finding it missing, then realising it had been taken from me and smashed while I had been lying on the ground complaining about my hand. The one my former attacker was wearing had a coded key pad, which made it useless to me, unless I wanted to have a one-way argument without looking crazy. As keen as I was to go after the rest of the people my attacker was with, I knew I needed backup. The other security guards I worked with were scattered all over the compound, they'd have a hard enough time regrouping, let alone reaching me quickly. My mind was made up.

The knife went into my belt and the now bloodied flashlight clicked on in my left hand as I headed for the closest call box. There are call boxes scattered over the compound, for emergencies much more mundane than this. The box contains a radio handset and medical kit, exactly what I needed right now. I was trying to run, but my prosthetic had slightly twisted during the fight and was causing me to limp. Five years ago I would have covered the ground at a brisk, athletic pace, now I was moving with an inelegant rolling gait at just faster than jogging pace. I'd adjust the leg, when I reached the call box, so that I could move better. Still no replacement for my running leg that was sitting at home with my neglected gym gear.

"Larry!" I whisper-shouted into the handset. "It's Steve out on the north-west perimeter."

While I waited for Larry to pick up his end of the line, I worked on catching my breath and opening the medical kit with one hand and my teeth.

"Steve? Why aren't you calling on your radio?"

"No time for that. You have to call in the cops. We've got some heavily armed S-O-B-s out here stealing stuff."

"Shit. You okay?"

"I'll be fine. Just call it in, yeah?"

With so much metal around, phone reception is terrible: radio and landline is pretty much the only way to communicate around here. I heard Larry pick up his phone and make a call before coming back on, "Middle of the night, armed response will take a while to get mobile, but they said they'd send the chopper."

That was good, but even the police helicopter would take time to get here and, even with their thermal imaging cameras, it would take them time to find these guys. I was still the closest and best option, plus that dark figure in my mind was stretching and warming up: someone was ready for round two. I adjusted my artificial leg, readying it for action again.

"So, what are they stealing?"

"Beats me." I replied, but I intended to find out.

It didn't take me long to find my attacker's friends. I knew I was looking for a truck, something big enough to hold the contents of one or more shipping containers, and something that could be used to unload the container onto the truck. That meant reversing sirens.

I crawled quietly forward to observe the thieves, keeping to the shadows. The pain in my right hand flared anew, making me wince with each shuffle across the asphalt. My right hand had become my weapon, as I had used the surgical tape from the medical kit to tape my broken hand around the confiscated knife's handle. Now the knife was both a splint and a menacing seven-inch blade.

The thieves were spread around the truck, four of them, keeping an eye out for people they could shoot. Another similarly dressed man was operating a forklift, unloading pallets that were stacked high with something, I couldn't tell what. My main concern was not what they were stealing, just that they were willing to kill for it, which meant I was willing to lethally persuade them to stop. Definitely trying to prove my warrior status.

Five guys, armed and dangerous. I didn't love those odds, but I always liked a challenge.

The first thief was easy: I slithered up to him on my belly, almost silently. He was expecting people to be walking around, not crawling, so I managed to get within arm's reach of his legs. Quickly, I slashed the blade across the inside of his upper thigh. The legendary Randall was razor sharp and the thief merely swatted at his leg, thinking at first that he'd been bitten by a bug. Then the sting grew as the blood pumped out of his femoral artery, but he was already weak, too weak to cry out, too weak to stand, falling as though fainting. He tried feebly to grab at me as I crawled past him, but his strength faded as his life ebbed away.

The second thief was about forty metres away, walking back and forth, covering the gaps between two lines of containers. He would walk away from the operating forklift, assess the furthest open space, before returning to the closer gap, his eyes focused on the distance. As he walked away from me I made my move, standing up and sprinting as fast and as quietly as I could, my goal the shadow on the furthest side of the first gap. The noise of the forklift covered my footfalls, the half-light made me hard to spot, even if my quarry had been facing me. I flattened myself against the container, hiding in the shadows at the corner, and waited. I counted the seconds, calming my breathing: thirty, forty, fifty. Then the soft crunch of boots sounded just next to me, my heart leapt into my mouth, doing its best to abandon ship. Then the man appeared, walking past me.

I fell in behind him. His face registered shock as he turned, shock that turned to terror as my knife/hand plunged into his side, penetrating deep into his heart. I dragged him away with my left hand, scuttling backward, making sure he was out of sight.

Three down, three to go.

The other two thieves on guard were on the opposite side of the loading space. I would have to cross open ground and risk being spotted by the armed forklift driver. If there was one thing losing my leg had taught me, it was that crossing a road in a war zone was dangerous. Well, that and that having an artificial leg meant you had to pack many legs for different occasions. Instead of crossing the open ground, I backtracked and circled round, going the long way. The forklift came to a stop as I came back to the action. My trip had taken too long.

What to do?

It was hard to tell how much time had elapsed since the police had been called: what seemed like hours was probably only ten or fifteen minutes. That meant the police should be close, I should hear a helicopter at least. But I couldn't risk these thieves escaping. No one equips themselves with seven hundred dollar knives and exotic sub-machine guns for a simple heist. This was big and I had a duty to stop it, plus, in for a penny, in for a pound. I'd just killed three guys, what was another three to my murder trial?

A shout from the driver. It was an alarm: he'd spotted that his lookouts were down.

The remaining two guards sprang into action, looking very serious and deadly with their firearms strafing the surrounds. The closest man was seconds away from spotting me, so I did what any rational person would do: ran straight at him, bellowing a roar as I neared him.

Shock struck him. Realising that someone was attacking from his blind side, he tried to whirl quickly to face me. I crashed straight into him, knocking him down like I was a rugby player and he was a badminton player wondering what the rugby guy was doing on the court. My knife/hand slashed at his throat, nearly cleaving his head from his shoulders. Then the sound of suppressed gunfire chattered in the night air. I rolled away from number four as quickly as possible, running for the only cover there was: the truck.

I dived to safety behind the front of the big rig as the engine roared to life. Startled, I scampered sideways, as the truck jerked forward and started to accelerate. The forklift driver had decided to make a run for it. I ran alongside the truck, both to try and jump on board and to avoid being shot at by his abandoned accomplice. The foot ladder on the side of the truck's fuel tanks was level with me, but the truck was rapidly gaining speed. The truck lurched slightly as it lost speed with a gear change and I leapt, landing my feet on the lower step and grabbing the rough footholds of a higher step with my good hand.

It took me a moment to balance. Bullets flew at me from the thief who was now, well and truly, left behind. As quick as the firing stopped from him, the muzzle of the driver's firearm barked in my face. The shots were wild and none came close, but the heat and flash seared my face like a welding burn. I pushed up and shoved at the barrel with my good left hand and tried to stab into the open window with my right. The knife was taped into my hand the wrong way around, it needed to be underhand. I heard a scream of pain from the driver as the knife sliced into his gun-wielding forearm.

He lashed out with his other hand, connecting solidly with my face. I felt myself begin to fall and grabbed wildly for the rear-view mirror. Catching the frame, I hung precariously in mid air, half dead, half alive, my grip the only thing stopping me from becoming street art. The driver swerved to try and throw me, only to have the truck start to fishtail. He fought with the rig to bring it back under control. I looked ahead and saw two things: lights and a fence. We'd reached the port road and were rapidly approaching the main gate. On the opposite side were approaching police cars.

The driver was still battling with the steering wheel and missed the gate, instead crashing us through the tall mesh fence. The wire tore and the sharp ends sliced through my clothes and flesh, as the truck bucked up and down over the concrete curbing. I finally lost my grip and tried to break my fall with my face, managing to instead roll like a stuntman in the movies.

Every part of me now hurt. It was hard to tell if anything other than my hand was broken, or if I was just in the early stages of becoming a giant, walking bruise. As I slowly pushed myself to my feet, I saw the police shoot out the tyres on the truck, the driver responded by braking hard, not risking ramming the impromptu roadblock with no effective steering.

Movement caught my eye: I glanced back, seeing a fleeing figure: the other thief.

Without thinking I took off in pursuit. Adrenaline shot into my arteries and all the aches and pains became a dull throb, pushed back by the dark figure who had focused my vision onto my quarry. The man I was pursuing was laden down with his tactical equipment and had already been running to keep up with the escaping truck. Still his pace was quick enough that it took everything I had to close the gap between us. My breath rasped, but I pumped my legs harder. Somewhere my brain was thinking I had the wrong leg on for running, but my body didn't seem to care.

I gained on the thief and made a desperate lunge, managing only to trip him as I fell. It was enough. We both fell heavily but I was on him in a flash, holding him down and wrestling with him, trying to drive my knife/hand into his chest. His arms snaked around me, pulling me into a choke hold. I tried to lever out of it but found myself suddenly weak. I flailed my knife/hand at him, trying to fight, trying not to die.

Air rushed back into my lungs, my vision widened again, as pin-pricks of light fluttered before disappearing. I looked around and saw my adversary grasping at his throat, trying to stem the red spurts of life issuing from him. I sat back and watched him fade away, only now becoming curious as to what these men had been stealing, what they had died for, what they were willing to kill for, what I had killed for.

The next few hours were a blur of questions, bandages, threats, kind words, more threats, and a paramedic that kept shaking her head, clearly not impressed with my splint. It was only when the sun was fully up and the flashing lights and crime scene tape had attracted tourists, that I really came back from my zombie state.

"So Steve, you took out all five by yourself?"

The man who spoke was dressed better than the police I'd spoken with earlier. That meant better pay, which meant he thought he was more important. Maybe he was.

"Guess so." I replied.

"These paramedics want to take you to hospital. Apparently you're pretty banged up."

"I feel like I had a fight with a steam roller."

He gave a chuckle. "It was good work you did."

"Thanks."

"Ex-military, right?" He must have recognised the knee bar move.

"If you could call it that." I said, hinting at my short service record.

"It was well done."

"So… what were they after?"

"You don't know?"

"I didn't have time to ask."

"They were after a shipment of timber."

Wood? This was about a shipment of wood?

"I'm a little tired and they gave me something in this inhaler; did you just say wood?"

"Timber, but yes. I've been after these guys for a while now. These people were part of an international crime syndicate dealing in illegal timber."

"You're kidding, right?"

"The truck you stopped contained African Blackwood and Gaboon Ebony from Madagascar. The Blackwood alone is worth twenty five thousand dollars a cubic metre, the container was half-filled with it. The rest was the ebony and that fetches three thousand. All up that container held three hundred thousand dollars worth of extremely rare timber."

It might be valuable stuff, but still, wood! Six men had risked their lives and had been willing to kill for a few hundred thousand dollars worth of wood! Then again, it made as much sense for people to die over a shipment of wood as the war I lost my leg in. I guess if criminals can make a buck exploiting something, they will. I guess timber is no different from drugs, weapons or slaves to the criminal mind.

The man held out a business card as the paramedics started to make moves to take me to the hospital, "Steve, I could use a man like you on my team. You ever been to Madagascar?"

BIO:

Tyson Adams started writing after an unfortunate accident with an imagination and a pencil at a young age. Not being allowed to carry out black-ops operations, he instead writes thrilling stories. In his spare time he can be found pretending to be a guitar virtuoso in his lounge room.

Tyson has a couple of science degrees, is married with a son and fur-kid and is a vocal proponent of renewable energies and quality whiskey. For more you can visit his website tysonadams.com, follow him on Twitter and Facebook, or see what he's reading on Goodreads.