Story Excerpt #1

Excerpt #1 from a project I started just before the summer ended. I scrapped the original and have restarted. The storyline is mostly the same but some interesting twists are being thrown into the mix.

Oh by the way for those of you curious I've tossed Marksman out the window. I don't want enjoy it anymore. Ending was North Korea gets invaded and our Oompa Loompa pal Kim Jong Un sets off a nuke killing everybody. Yay!

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It was a normal day. Dean's scheduled day at the range, in fact.


The outdoor range that he had a membership at was very quiet on Wednesdays. Middle of the week, fathers weren't bringing their sons to shoot, and very few people used the thousand yard section of the range the club operated, even on busy days.


Dean wasn't on the thousand yard range though. Currently he was on the submachine and PCC section.


There were a few people on the range at the moment. One was applying some grease to the bolt of his MP5K, and two others were loading thirty round Glock magazines for a pistol caliber carbine. PCCs were basically an AR platform rifle that fired pistol rounds like 9mm, .40 S&W, and .45. This rifle appeared to be chambered in 9mm.


Dean claimed one of the lanes and set down his load. A suitcase sized gun case and a large ammunition can. He first opened the gun case and picked up the submachine gun.


An FN P90 fires a 5.7x28mm round. It looks a lot like a very small rifle bullet. It was good at puncturing body armor and had a very high velocity. A magazine for the P90 held fifty rounds. Dean had added an EO tech holographic sight, flashlight, green laser, and threaded the barrel. Currently the barrel could mount a flash hider, compensator, or suppressor. The suppressor for the gun was in the box, but Dean had the compensator on it for the moment.


He activated the sight and set the brightness to his level, then popped open the ammunition can and grabbed a magazine. Slide in, smack down rear section, and cycle the charging handle. He smiled slightly. The gun was ready.


The MP5K a few lanes over opened up with a staccato of gunfire, accompanied by the clanging of the steel target. Dean noted several instances where there was a bang and no clang. He chuckled. A shooter with too much money and too little experience.


He estimated about fifty feet to the target and pulled the P90 up. He already had custom ear protection in, clear plugs that were inconspicuous and let him hear with perfect clarity, even Bluetooth pair to a phone for calls and music, but when a certain decibel of noises was reached, the audio cut out.


The target downrange was two steel plates. One was above the other. He set the reticle on the bottom target.


He flicked the safety up and set the sights. Then he pulled the trigger.


The bullpup design of the P90 made it ridiculously easy to control recoil. The recoil of the gun and concussion from the comp felt great to Dean. He had to go shooting more often, for pleasure if nothing else. Keeping his edge up never hurt.


Eventually the weapon clicked empty. Dean calmly removed the empty magazine and put it on the small table that marked the firing line. He briefly glanced at his target and sighed. “Grouping isn't tight enough." He stated aloud.


As he grabbed another magazine from the ammo can, the MP5K started up again. This time only a couple rounds missed the steel plate. The shooter smirked at Dean as he locked the bolt back and extracted the magazine.


Dirtbag eh? Okay. Try this on for size.


Slide in. Slam down. Yank charging handle. Sights on the second steel plate and on the trigger again. Fifty rounds later Dean had a center mass group not more than four inches wide. Pretty good at fifty feet.


By now the rich guy with the MP5 was pissed. Another thirty rounder in, slap down the charging handle, and flip to semi auto. Her began squeezing rounds off trying to hit the head. He missed six times.


Dean rammed another mag home and cycled the bolt. He also flicked to semi auto and began squeezing rounds, but instead alternating between the top and bottom targets. The steady bap-bap-bap-bap-bap of semi auto fire continued.


He didn't miss once.


The angry shooter threw his MP5K on the ground and Dean raised an eyebrow. He stormed over with a hand raised. “Who do you think you are?" He screamed at Dean.


“Just a man enjoying his range day." He replied quietly.


“**** your range day! I've invested so much in this range, this bay belongs to me! I'll have you kicked out, you know!"


Dean decided to dub the man Dirtbag for the moment, and pursed his lips. “That would be a big inconvenience. But if I were to have you kicked out, I'm sure I could pay off your investment out of pocket."


The man scoffed. “Yeah, like you have two point five million on hand."


Dean chuckled. “Maybe not on hand, but there's fifteen rounds of nine millimeter under my left armpit if you really want to push me."


“And I have seventeen in my car for you, jackass!" Dirtbag shouted.


“Can you get to your car in the parking lot a hundred and fifty yards away before I can let a few off though?"


By then the two men with the carbine were slowly walking out of the line of fire. Dirtbag glanced back at his MP5K as Dean reached for a P90 magazine, and slid it home.


“Don't you dare."


“**** you."


Dean's right hand rested on the charging handle.


Dirtbag picked up the MP5K, grabbed his gear and stormed off. Dean's eyes followed him, but stopped once he spotted three new people stepping into the range.


Military cuts, sunglasses, jackets meant for both comfort and utility. Thigh holsters with very expensive Sig Sauer P227s. Dean sighed as he IDed the person in the lead as the other two moved to pull security.


He unloaded the P90 magazine as Gilan Homes, friend and CIA agent, flashed his badge. “Dean. You and I need to talk."


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Two hours later Dean was sitting in a white room with a table that felt like a jail cell underneath and office building. It also doubled as a CIA base of operations. An underground base of operations in fact. He had been relieved of his M9 pistol in his jacket, as well as a SOG combat knife. The M9 would be missed. He had put a bunch of parts in it, changed the sights and grips, even threaded the barrel.


He probably wouldn't be getting it back.


The door opened and two men were admitted in. Gilan in combat gear with a 5.11 tactical chestplate, comms gear, boots, with an M4. All black. The other guy, obviously some sort of “special agent" type in a suit. Dean leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, throwing his feet up on the desk. He didn't like guys in suits. Hated them, in fact.


“Dean Nathanial Reaves. Former U.S Marines, FBI, and Secret Service respectively. Defected to Russia during the invasion ten months ago. Was recently in contact with Sergei Morovich. Is this information correct?"


Dean laughed. “So that's why I've been whisked away on my range day."


“Is this information correct?" The agent asked more forcefully. Gilan crossed his arms and leaned back against the door.


“You might get an answer if you asked politely." Dean replied deadpan.


“Is. This. Information. Correct?" The agent asked very deliberately, stepping around the table to be within arms length of Dean.


“You're funny when you're angry."


The agent swung the back of his hand around towards Dean's cheek. Effortlessly, he reached up and grabbed the agents wrist. There was a click in the back of the room as Gilan raised M4, the muzzle trained on him.


“If that had connected," Dean said quietly. “you would be on the floor screaming in pain right now."


“Like hell I would."


“I might answer your questions if Fobbits would play nice."


There was almost no reaction from the agent, except for his eyes, which Dean was locked on to. Fobbit was a slang term for soldiers who spent their time as pencil pushers in bases. No self respecting soldier would be caught dead as a Fobbit.


The agent wrenched his wrist from Dean's grip. He let him. The agent readjusted the cuff of his suit and moved to stand at the other end of the table, out of Dean's reach. Gilan lowered the M4.


“Let's try this again." The agent sighed. “I'm well aware that a Spetsnaz operative my the name of Sergei Morovich spoke to you in person. What was the purpose of his reaching out to you?"


Dean met the question with silence.


The agent looked him in the eye, his personality having changed completely. “Just my being in contact with him means you've already signed your death warrant. You might as well give us what we want and we'll be done with this."


“I didn't know that the CIA, Secret Service, or whoever the **** you are this week could spy on American citizens." Dean said coldly.


“American citizens don't meet with Russian spies. Especially Spetsnaz." The agent retorted. “Speaking of your friend Sergei." He said, reaching into his suit pocket and withdrawing a photo. “You might want to look at this."


He slid the photo across the table. Dean glanced at it briefly. He didn't need to look at it closely to know that the Spetsnaz operative wouldn't be bothering him anymore.


“I'll leave you with that on your mind." The agent said, turning to leave the room. Gilan opened the door for him. “We'll be seeing each other again"


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Dean paced the small room now. He was aware that he was very very ****ed. Completely ****ed. The federal government had its claws into him now. It would be very hard to get out of the sticky situation he was currently in.


The wall to the left had a large glass window inset into it. One way. He couldn't see through it, but he was almost sure there was someone on the other side watching his every move. Maybe even recording it.


Then the door opened.


In came two new agents wearing balaclavas that concealed their identity. They had M4s with sights and suppressors. Gilan came in behind them, minus a balaclava. Gilan shut the door behind him. Dean leaned against the wall opposite to the one with the window.


“You know just how ****ed you are right?"


Dean nodded. Gil shook his head and turned slightly. His right side facing Dean. He noticed that Gil's hand was wrapped around his P227, his other hand keying his comm.


“This is Echo One actual, Reaves had escaped into the building. Lethal force is authorized. Shoot kill."


Gilan whipped his pistol out of the thigh holster and shot both of the guards in the room. Headshots. They crumpled like rag dolls, the suppressor keeping the kills quiet.


The door to the cell was opened, and two more guys came in. Gilan didn't shoot them, but whispered clear. The second one in shut the door, and the first one unslung a backpack.


“Suit up." Gilan told Dean, reaching inside his vest and withdrawing an M9. Dean's M9. “We're getting you out of here."


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End of Excerpt 1.

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Yeah, Marksman is scrubbed though. Rip 2016-17