Chapter 2 / Page 2

As far as anyone knew, Jim Harper was a successful businessman. A man happily married with two children, a nice house, and a big dog. Harper had achieved the American dream. Granted, he could obliterate the ten-ring on any target from fifty yards. Yes, he knew how to make a bomb out of household items. Indeed, he could teach the Marine close quarter combat instructors a couple of things. However, those were secrets from a past Harper rarely thought of. He had been a warrior; now he was content to be husband and father, and a karate instructor on Saturdays.

Old habits born out of survival never die. He did notice the pickup truck pulling into the parking lot five slots down from his parking spot. The same truck had picked him up as he left his house—two Caucasian males in a late model Ford F-150. They simply parked and sat in their truck. After so many years, who would be interested in him again?

He opened the rear hatch of his Nissan Pathfinder and grabbed the gym bag containing his uniform, belt, and pads. Leaning into the rear of his truck, he pulled the cased Glock 19 from its compartment. Pretending to examine something in the gym bag, he loaded a fifteen round magazine into the Glock, racked the slide, and slipped the pistol into his coat pocket.

A Glock 19 is certainly close to the perfect weapon for a defensive pistol. Unlike other weapons, a Glock can digest just about any bullet configuration it is fed. Glocks rarely jam. They work in sand, water, heat, and cold. Jim carried 115 grain Gold Dot Hollow Points. A 9mm may not produce a one shot stop, but it does deliver a punch accompanied by an ear-ringing bang.

Harper dropped the gym bag on the ground behind his truck, closed the hatch, and turned towards the two in the pickup. He did not like people following him. He liked people even less who lurked outside of his home. So, with a wave and a smile, he walked over to the pickup.

The goons inside the pickup were caught off guard. Harper closed the distance before the two had a chance to react. He grabbed the driver’s side door and opened it, bringing the Glock into view for the first time. Still smiling he said, “You boys have been following me.” Stepping in, he jammed the muzzle into the ribs of the driver and pulled a Sig 229 from the driver’s shoulder holster. “I don’t like being followed.” He continued flipping the safety off the Sig while pointing it at the passenger. “So if I see you around my house, or outside this school or anywhere else—someone could get hurt.” He chuckled nodding to the passenger. “I presume you have something similar to your friend here. I’ll give you three seconds to drop it in his lap.” The Sig turned towards the passenger’s kneecap.