Active Shooter by Eduardo Suastegui

Now would come the fun part. The door's
alarm rang out as we stepped outside.
    Sirens already sounded out in the distance.
And we were out in the open. I spotted them, two more of them, to
my right, by the front door, heading into the library.
    Bridget followed my lead when I squatted down
to hide behind a concrete trash can holder. From there, I saw them
run into the library.
    “Now, let's go,” I said.
    I put the guns away, grabbed her by the arm,
and we ran to my SUV.
    I opened the passenger door and helped --
really pushed -- her in. “Do you have anything in your car we
need?”
    She shook her head, but it was the sort of
response that said she really didn't comprehend my question more
than the type that provided me with an unequivocal “no.” It didn't
matter. We didn't have time to deal with a "yes," anyway. I don't
know why I'd asked the question. Maybe I was responding to the
trained instinct to be thorough.
    Eyeing the front entrance, I made my way
around the hood of the SUV and climbed in. With my left I took out
one of my pistols while with my right I started the car.
    I drove out slowly and turned north. No one
followed us.
    Halfway down the block, I saw a squad car
turn onto our street, heading right for us. I pulled to my right
and it sped by us.
    “Are you OK?” I asked Bridget as I pulled
out.
    “What the hell was that?”
    “That, Bridget, is what we're into.”
    “Who were those guys?”
    “Who did they say they were?”
    “Federal Agents. They said they were Federal
Agents.”
    “Did they show any ID?”
    “No.”
    “Then, they could have been anyone. Remember
that in case some sharp investigator connects you with that blood
bath and brings you in for questioning. You were abducted,
kidnapped, a victim.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Your cover story. You wanted to know about
Ops. Well, you just saw one. And here's an important ingredient for
these little games. How to deny you were involved. The cover
story.”
    I drove out to Atlantic and turned south. We
drove in silence, eventually joining Imperial Highway traffic. As
we traveled east, I eyed Bridget. Her composure seemed to return
with every passing mile.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Bellflower.”
    “What's in Bellflower?”
    “Our next ride. Are you up for a little
off-roading?”
    ***
    Bridget didn't say much the rest of the way.
After I'd wiped the steering wheel and dashboard, we left the SUV a
few blocks from the intended destination. We made our way on foot
until we arrived at a Self-storage facility. Once inside, we found
my unit. I unlocked it and rolled up the metal door to reveal a
modified VW Baja Bug, painted in dull gray. Its exposed Porsche
engine stared back at us. Cardboard boxes and mounds of my worldly
possessions surrounded it.
    I told Bridget to stand to the side, and I
went in to start the engine. It had sat for a couple of months, and
it took three attempts to get it started. An initial sputter gave
way to a satisfying rumble. I backed it out, parked it against the
fence and left it idling as I climbed out.
    “I hope we're not planning to stay in there,”
Bridget said.
    I smiled at her. It was good to hear her
cynical humor return. “I just need to get a few things,” I
said.
    I left it up to her, and she followed me in.
Inside I dug out a couple of sleeping bags, a hiking backpack and a
tent, along with some rope. Outside I mounted these items atop the
Baja Bug's roof rack and used the rope to secure them.
    Bridget watched me from inside the storage
unit, and I rejoined her there.
    “What's the plan?” she asked me as I rummaged
for a large backpack.
    “You tell me. I didn't open Pandora's
box.”
    “What are we doing, Andre?”
    “Treading water and swimming away from the
sharks. No plan. Just action and reaction.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bridget's
face tighten with frustration and anger. I went on with my search.
I unzipped the backpack to expose and old set of