Page 50 of Ex-SEAL Bad Boy

SOPHIA

I hear the sound of the buckshot as it whizzes by my ear.

It takes me a second to realize I haven’t been shot.

As I spin around, I see a man in a suit crumple to the ground beside a small utility shed, a large automatic falling from his hand.

“Lucky I was still carrying this,” the old man said, nodding towards the shotgun.

“Who the hell is that?” I ask, my ears still ringing from the blast.

Ethan rushes over to the man, feeling for a pulse in his neck, then uses his boot to roll him over.

He reaches into the man’s pocket and draws out a bulky wallet.

Flipping it open, I can see that even from a distance, it contains some sort of badge.

“FBI,” Ethan announces, studying the credentials before dropping the wallet on top of the body.

“I guess we owe you our gratitude, Mr. Kramer.”

“It was nothing. Just glad you two are safe.”

“Is he really FBI?” I ask, suddenly concerned with the implications. Shooting a law enforcement agent, a Fed at that, puts this on a whole other level.

“Badge looks legit,” Ethan says.

“Chances are, he’s the real deal, but I don’t think this was an official visit. Probably a rogue agent.” He looks around, trying to make sure this guy doesn’t have a partner.

“He’s a single, and these guys travel in pairs.”

“I don’t understand.” I’m near tears and confused as to what’s going on.

“I told you, these people are powerful like you couldn’t possibly comprehend. Politicians, FBI agents, celebrities, you name it,these people have access. Guys like Whitmore, they have a list of contacts they can call upon to do whatever’s needed.”

“So we can’t trust the police?”

“We have to be careful. We show up at a police station, lawyers in tow; we’re probably safe, but we’re not going anywhere with some rando who claims to be a cop or an FBI agent.”

“What are we going to do? It’s not like an FBI agent can just disappear and no one asks a question,” I tell him, bordering on hysteria.

“Calm down. We’ll be fine.” He draws me into an embrace.

“If this guy is operating off the reservation, the bureau isn’t going to advertise it. It’s better if he just disappears. That way they don’t have to take the PR hit.”

He sighs and looks at Mr. Kramer.

“Can you think of a place we can dispose of this guy?”

“Oh, yeah,” the old man chuckles. “This isn’t the first unwanted guy to come poking around where he doesn’t belong. My granddaddy used to run moonshine back in the day. Eventually the Feds got the idea that it’s better just to leave us country folks alone.”

“Come on inside and get something to eat.”

I don’t think I’ll be able to eat. It’s all I can do not to throw up.

I keep hoping this nightmare will end.

Walking into a mid-century brick ranch home, I smell bacon frying, and some of my appetite returns.

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