The Zone by RW Krpoun Page B

sight on one but caught myself, as I was maybe ninety feet away with no real cover. Last time I had had a distraction, more distance, height, and a cluttered roadway to work with. Here they would roll right over me. They would pay, but so would my ex and those with her.
    I slipped away while they were dragging the occupants of the minivan out the windows. The screaming stuck with me…well, in one sense it never stopped.
     
    At sixty-one minutes my target was in sight: an old gas station, the kind with two repair bays and an office, red brick with gray cinderblock where the windows used to be. I did a quick circuit of the building and then knelt by the back door; I could have gone in through the front, but you don’t overcome a lifetime of honesty in the first go.
    The department had sent me to a course on lock-picking when I was in Tactical and it had in come in handy at times. It was also very useful for practical jokes, so I had kept the skills sharp. The dead bolt was good, and took six minutes; the knob lock was cheap and took less time than choosing and stowing the picks.
    Fifty-four minutes, and I was stepping into the building. Luckily the alarm system was either down or turned off, because I don’t know much about them. The square bulk of a truck loomed in the darkness; I snapped on the M-4’s light and locked the door behind me. The big red and white vehicle was a bit canted: flat front left tire. There were spares in a rack and a tool bench, so all was not lost. I noted its bumper numbers and headed into the office. I used my multi-tool to pry open the key box on the wall and found three sets of keys with the bumper number stamped into brass disks.
    A wall locker looked interesting, and its lock wasn’t too hard to open. Inside were three old Winchester pump shotguns, short barreled riot guns, with ammunition stacked at the bottom along with fire extinguishers, road flares, and a first aid kit.
    Fifty minutes. I found the air compressor and got it started. The floor jack was in plain view, too, but the truck was at the jack’s top end rating so I had to work with extreme care. I wondered where the jack stands had ended up.
    Twenty plus minutes of wrestling, cursing, and getting completely filthy followed; ironically, the lug nuts took less than two-usually they get put on with air wrenches by guys who thought a hernia was funny. Finally it was in place and bolted on. I checked the air in the other five tires and the spare, the fluid levels, and the belts-everything was good. The truck had a short metal ramp that came out of a slot under the back doors, for money cases I guessed; I rolled the two remaining tires from the rack and the floor jack into the cargo area and strapped them down. The cargo area was a simple box with a bench seat along one side and shelves along the other. Tie-down points and webbing let you haul all sort of things, and came in handy for the ties and jack. There was no connection to the vehicle cab except an intercom.
    I transferred the contents of the locker to the cab, inserted the key, and said a silent prayer.
    The diesel light came on-good deal; I had less than a quarter of a tank -not so good. At twenty-one minutes the engine jerked and shuddered into life, settling down to a steady rumble that boded well. I hit the gray plastic door opener on the visor and the garage door ratcheted up its rail. I closed the door again after I pulled out, and tucked the opener into the glove box along with a key that fit the front door that I had taken from the key box because the station was a secure place with a bathroom, and you never know when a bolt-hole might be handy.
    It was about twenty-two urban miles to the project without detours; figure forty minutes without problems, longer if problems developed along the way. I had to gas up, too. Thirty-odd minutes of light after sunset.
    I didn’t start rolling immediately. I could call ahead, they could be ready…to do what? I had no plan, just