Book 1: The Rebirth of the Aztecs

Chapter 2 Part 2: Unexpected Guest

Stoneman’s instincts screamed at him to run, fight, or act, but instead he calmly continued to make noises like a man who had no care in the world. If this would be ambusher was going to kill him in the head he would’ve charged him while he was still vulnerable in the shower. No, this fellow planned to take him as he left the restroom which meant the only chance a man in Drake’s position had was to convince his attacker his prey was still unaware. On a positive note, this meant he had a chance to dry off, and put some boxers on. No one wants to die as naked and cold as they came out of the womb.

Soon the adrenaline was threatening to ruin Drake’s shower as a cold sweat began to come on. Unfortunately, he didn't bring anything but his boxers and his spare side arm to his shower. He didn’t even have a spare magazine. Not that a conflict in such a tight space was going to need more than sixteen rounds of 5.7 from his tiny boot automatic. A man felt naked without his spare, and the pirate captain wasn’t wearing much to begin with.

At least he’d dragged his leg holster in with him. Thinking fast, Drake strapped the holster belt around his bicep with the butt of his pistol resting on his chest. Taking a dry towel, couldn’t get rust on the piece after all, the pirate threw nonchalantly over his shoulder covering the gun nicely. There was a bulge, but no one was going to see that in the dark. It was just going to have to do.

Drake stomped as loud as possible to the door, and took one last deep breath as he centered his mind on the task ahead. The proper aggressive mental disposition may not be the bullet that tore through your enemies brain matter, but it sure as hell helped getting that bullet on target. Never more so then when in extreme close quarters. CQB as the old Washington Empire’s army used to put things. A man had to shift gears as much as he had to train to react without thinking.

The marine ranger cracked his neck in anticipation. The pop and brief pain centering his mind. This wasn’t the first assassin in the dark who’d wanted his skin, and considering Drake’s new profession he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes one just had to tell himself he was the one here to kill, not the one to be killed. Who cared if you were wrong? You weren’t going to be around to call you out on the lie.

Drake heard a shuffle behind the door around the large king size bed with the panoramic windows overlooking the stern deck and the inky black of the ocean beyond. So, not going to jump him the second Drake opened the door or walked into the cabin. Not how the pirate would’ve handled the ambush himself, but now wasn’t the time to complain about professionalism or amateur behavior.

The pirate captain took a final second to sneak his right hand under the towel to feel his spare piece in as natural a way as possible. The 5.7 Catalina Rattler was a gift from his father before Stoneman had run off to join the High King's tip of the spear. She was hand crafted from inside the Catalina Professional Armaments workshops nestled in the hills overlooking the city of Vinyard Circle where the Stonemans had laid their roots.

With the collapse of the old world many things came cascading down including the 9mm hegemony for personal sidearms and sub guns. Pre World War Three the Catalina Professional Armaments started their company as a 3D printing shop making custom paintball gun paraphernalia, then their own paintball guns with a machine shop, and then starting making very illegal guns under the nose of the old fascist Californian legislator. A terror organization that would make even homicidal despots blush by all accounts. Little wonder they wanted weapons to defend themselves from such tyranny.

From that tradition came the Rattler designed to handle the 5.7 military grade rounds that were smaller, faster, and capable of piercing armor far better than a nine millimeter. That meant more rounds in micro guns to be hidden in pocket holsters or taped inside door frames when dealing with secret police and jackboots of all kinds. Post war the underground workshop became a full fledged arms dealer though they still sold very specialized fancy paintball guns. Got to keep to your roots after all. The CPA Armaments led the way in 5.7 adoption, and had a long list of “civil defense” experience to hammer out a model that spread worldwide.

The feel of the gun’s light polymer grip customized to fit his hand despite the weapon disappearing into his palm always reminded the once Lieutenant of home.

The fights that had brought the tiny sidearm had always been personal, dirty, and desperate as any plan C worst case scenario weapon was suited. Each time he told himself he was going to be the one to go home and kiss his mother. He would be the one defending his home, and making the other die for whatever motherless whore he was pillaging for. Tonight all he felt was a bitter resolve.

No, he wouldn’t be the one to go home.

Nor the one fighting for his people on the wall against barbarians.

Even if he won, the rolling vineyards of his childhood would be beyond his grasp.

What was he fighting for anymore?

For the first time in his life Drake had no answer. The realization threatened to beat down his resolve. To let his drive flow out of him like a punctured wineskin over an abyss. To just let the freak win. Go down swinging after eradicating one last pedo monster. Not a bad resume to hand over to St. Peter when he made it to those pearly gates. Not bad at all.

No emotion showed on Drake's face as his hand strangled his Rattler. Truth be told he couldn’t come to a decision which was already putting one foot in the grave in any fight. Still, he kept the side arm in place even as he let his right hand relax at his side. At the very least he’d make this assassin work for his prize. Was that pride? Or stubbornness? Judging by what he’d seen of his father, grandfather, and brothers Drake was pretty sure it was stubbornness. Giving up wasn’t on the menu no matter how brittle his soul had become. So be it.

Drake kicked the door open waiting for the shots of a suppressed weapon, a lunge from a knife wielding opponent, heck he had half tricked himself into thinking up something more exotic like blow darts when he saw a figure sitting on his bed looking out over the sea. To his surprise he found first officer Beatrice with the biggest kitchen knife he’d ever seen laying across her lap. Tears were all over her face, and more anguished confusion than the pirate could’ve imagined.

“Took your time in the shower Captain,” Beatrice’s voice was shaky and showed clear signs of tears. Not small tears. Full on snot filled all bets are off wailing kind of crying if her disheveled uniform shirt was anything to go by. This was not what Drake had bargained for when he’d resolved himself to a quick death.

Stoneman sighed, and after checking the room for more attackers, checking the hall, and locking the door went back to his unexpected guest. This seemed like a situation that was far more complicated than his semi suicidal addled mind could handle right about now, but sense death by midnight assassin was off the table the Pirate Captain figured he didn’t have too much of a choice in the matter…

The Story Will Continue Every Monday

Thanks for reading! Click the image below to go to my blog so you can be updated on future projects, and support the Grizzly Clan so we can keep the stories flowing.