23

            Mike lived in Duluth, a suburb about thirty minutes northeast of Atlanta.  The city was a case study of the rapid growth that had swept across the region a decade ago.  Strip malls, restaurants, and assorted retail stores blanketed the streets where not long ago there had been only fields and forest.  Signs advertising various housing communities bristled from the ground at seemingly every intersection.

            The area’s boom phase had ended, unfortunately.  These days, many of the strip malls were full of empty stores that had gone out of business, and among the signs touting new subdivisions were nearly as many ads promising deals on foreclosed properties. 

            “I hope he doesn’t think we’re crazy,” Lisa said, as Anthony turned into a residential neighborhood.

            On the phone, Anthony hadn’t given Mike the full scoop, only told him that they were in trouble and needed somewhere to crash for a short while.  Mike had readily agreed, as Anthony had known he would. 

            “He’ll be cool,” Anthony said.  “You know Mike.  This’ll sound like the plot of a movie to him.”

            “It would sound like one to me, too, if we weren’t living it for real.”

            The neighborhood in which Mike lived was so new that many of the houses were still under construction.  Several home sites were merely square plots of red clay with “Under Contract” signs sticking up from the ground.  Bulldozers and backhoes lay like sleeping giants on other properties, and construction debris littered sections of the road.

            Mike’s home was in a cul-de-sac, a ranch with a red brick front, white fiber cement siding, bay window, and attached two-car garage.  An elm sapling strained to grow in the front yard, young leaves shuddering in the night breeze, and a United States flag rippled on a pole beside the door. 

            Slowing in front of the driveway, Anthony tapped the horn. 

            He’d also told Mike that they needed to hide the Tahoe—and promised that he would know why when he got a look at the SUV.

            “I can’t believe we’re coming to his house at one o’clock in the morning,” Lisa said. 

            “Mike’s a night owl.  I bet you he was watching a movie he’s seen a thousand times.”

            “I hope you’re right.  I feel bad about disturbing him.”

            “Don’t feel bad.  He won’t.”

            The garage door rose.  A late model, metallic blue Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked inside.  Alongside the jeep stood a red Ducati motorcycle, sleek as a rocket on wheels. 

            Mike wandered outside the garage.  He was in his early thirties, short but powerfully built, with dark hair trimmed in a high and tight cut.  He wore a Raiders of the Lost Ark t-shirt, blue sweats, and sneakers. 

            Mike’s family had emigrated from the Philippines to the United States before his birth, and had wanted him to pursue a career as a physician, an attorney, or, failing those, a nurse, a popular vocational choice in their family.  Mike had shocked them when he enlisted in the Marine Corps after graduating high school.  He had grown up idolizing American action movie heroes and wanted to live the dream.

            He had lived the dream, all right.  During his six-year active enlistment, he had logged more time in combat zones than any other grunt Anthony knew, with the exception of himself.  Like Anthony, he’d suffered only minor wounds, which considering the action they’d seen, seemed downright miraculous sometimes. 

            Mike waved them into the garage.

            Anthony parked next to the bike.  He pulled the digital voice recorder out of the stereo and pocketed it.

            “Let’s take the Bible with us, too,” he said to Lisa.  “While we’re here, maybe we can start reviewing it, try to make sense of things.”

            Nodding, she slipped the Bible in her purse—next to the .357 he’d given her.  

Guns and Bibles, he thought.  A strange combination if ever there was one.

            “Evening, ladies and gents,” Mike said.  He grinned.  “Don’t you know I love having visitors in the wee hours of the morning?  Usually booty calls, though.”

            “Hey, Mike.”  Lisa hugged him.  “Thanks for letting us come.”

            “No doubt.”  Anthony gave Mike a handshake and a pound on the shoulder.  “I really appreciate this, man.  It means a lot.”

            Mike waved off their praise.  “Hey, all I was doing was having a Hannibal Lecter marathon.  Manhunter to Hannibal Rising.  I’m at The Silence of the Lambs so far. ”

            Anthony winked at Lisa, and she smiled briefly.

            “Yo, AT, was this damage caused by gunfire?”  Mike examined the Tahoe’s shattered right tail light, dents on the bumper, and the ragged hole in the rear windshield.  He shuffled around the side and saw the rupture in the front window, too. 

            “What does your expert opinion tell you?” Anthony asked.

            “My opinion?”  Mike put his fists on his waist.  “I think you been in a scuffle with a rifleman, AT.”

            “We’re on the retreat from a rifleman—a whole bunch of them, we think.”

            “And you haven’t bagged them all yet?  You’re slipping, dude.”

            “What can I say?  Married life has made me soft.”

            “They track you here, you think?”  Savage interest glinted in Mike’s eyes, and he glanced out the garage at the dark street beyond.

            “We don’t think so,” Lisa said.  “Tony gave them the slip.  You should’ve seen him in action.”

            Anthony shrugged.  “I did what had to be done.”

            “Damn, I was hoping I might see some action, too.”  Mike punched the button beside the doorway to lower the garage door.  “Let’s head in.  I can’t wait to hear what this is all about.”