Vengeance

46 WOODMORE, MARYLAND

Cheryl Payne parked her truck on the gravel driveway near the front door of her father’s home. After visiting a nearby friend, she had decided to stop by and check on her new tenant, see if there was anything that needed repair or improvement. George’s Jeep wasn’t at the house, so she assumed he was out and considered returning another time. But she decided to knock, just in case a friend had borrowed the car.

After receiving no response, she started back toward her truck, then stopped to peer through the living room window. Everything appeared as it had during her walk-through on the day George had decided to rent the house — not a single piece of furniture had been moved, nor was there any sign that George had moved in. Perhaps he had only a few belongings, which were probably in his bedroom.

As she walked toward her truck, she noticed a set of tire tracks through the grass leading to the barn. George had been keenly interested in the barn for some reason, and she wondered why. After retrieving the keys from her purse — she had given George the spare keys to the property — she headed into the backyard. The barn was locked, as expected. Looking over her shoulder to ensure George wasn’t pulling into the driveway, she unlocked the door and slid it aside. After she flipped the switch by the entrance, yellow light illuminated several unexpected items.

In the center of the barn, a small worktable had been set up, and clamped to it was one of those extendable desk lamps frequently found in college dorms. On the table was a single tool — a metal X-Acto precision knife. As she wondered what George was up to, Cheryl spotted what appeared to be a stack of boxes or crates covered with a blanket. She pulled the blanket away and examined two large wooden crates and a small one on top, each with unusual markings. The markings on the front of the large crates caught her attention.

She pondered the words, wondering if the crates contained what she thought they did, then spotted another marking.

Cheryl sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse quickening when she heard the sound of an approaching car.

She threw the blanket back over the crates and hurried to the barn entrance, quickly pulling the door closed behind her, fumbling to slide the padlock shackle through the hasp and into the hole in the padlock body. Finally, the shackle went in and she turned around just as George’s Jeep came into sight. As the SUV ground to a halt, Cheryl hoped — and prayed — that there was a simple explanation for her new tenant’s possession of several crates of explosives.

After turning off the engine, Mixell kept his eyes fixed on Cheryl Payne. The woman was standing in front of the barn door frozen in place, her eyes wide with fright. It took only a second to process what had occurred — that she had another set of keys and had seen what was inside the barn. Mixell took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was only one way this could play out. He reached into the glove compartment and slid his pistol into one back pocket of his pants and the suppressor into the other.

He stepped from the Jeep and waved to Cheryl as he casually strode toward her.

“Hi, Cheryl. What brings you around? Is there something you need from the barn?”

It took her a second to latch onto the lifeline he had thrown.

“Yes… actually, yes. There’s, ahh, some tools in the back I need for a project at my house. I was hoping you’d be home, and when you weren’t I tried to get into the barn, but the door was locked.”

“Not a problem. Just show me what you need and I’ll put ’em in your truck.”

“That’d be great, George.”

She forced a smile, but Mixell noticed the slight quiver of her lips.

He unlocked the barn door and pushed it aside. The lights were on. His eyes went to the crates, noticing that the blanket was draped over them in a haphazard manner, not neatly like he had left it.

Cheryl Payne had clearly seen too much.

She accompanied him into the barn, and Mixell stopped when they reached the crates. Cheryl took a few more steps before she also stopped and turned. Offering a disingenuous smile, Mixell straightened the blanket, returning it to how it had been previously placed. Then he waited for Cheryl’s inevitable realization — that he knew what she had seen, and that she would likely not leave the barn alive.

Her eyes went to the crates. “I… I don’t need to know what you need that for. I really don’t care. It’s none of my business.”

Cheryl continued on as Mixell reached behind his back with both hands, retrieving the pistol and suppressor.

A trained opponent would have reacted instantly after spotting the firearm, attempting to disarm him. But your average civilian…

Cheryl stood frozen as he screwed the suppressor onto the barrel, processing what she was seeing and what was about to happen. She took two stilted steps backward, then fled toward the door.

Too late.

He finished attaching the suppressor and put two bullets into her back, dropping her to the ground.

Mixell was sometimes mesmerized by what a human body could do when sufficient adrenaline entered its bloodstream. As red stains spread across her back from the bullet wounds, Cheryl pushed herself to her feet and staggered toward the door.

He aimed and put a round into the back of one knee, the bullet shattering her kneecap as it exited. She collapsed to the ground and Mixell put another bullet into her other knee.

She wouldn’t be moving anywhere now. At least not very fast.

Cheryl crawled slowly toward the door, another few feet before finally halting. She lay on the barn floor, whimpering, as Mixell approached.

He aimed the pistol at her head, holding it steady for a moment. Then he unscrewed the suppressor and returned it and the gun to his back pockets. Cheryl wasn’t going anywhere, and she’d be dead in a few hours.

Mixell checked her pockets, verifying she didn’t have her phone on her, then retrieved her keys so he could move her truck.

Stopping at the barn entrance, he turned the lights off, then closed and locked the door.