olive-drab footlocker into the center of the floor. Secured with a casehardened steel lock, it was too heavy for one person to carry. Less than a year ago, while on active duty, he had the Army’s most sophisticated equipment and weapons available, but he was trained to defend himself with nothing if necessary. Inside his locker was a small gun case. He lifted the lid and removed his Beretta 92 nine-millimeter, similar to the military M9 sidearm he carried in combat. There were seven loaded magazines in the case, so he slipped two into his pocket plus one in the gun. He quickly changed into green camouflage utilities. He smeared on face paint, added his floppy head cover, boots, and knives. He slipped two power bars and a water bottle inside his leg pockets before dousing the light. Moving slowly, his eyes took several seconds to adjust to darkness. He chambered a bullet and flipped the safety, then placed the Beretta in his shoulder holster.
He listened for any unusual noise outside while pushing the locker back against the wall then made his cot look bulky under the single blanket. Six months had passed since regular PT workouts, and he wasn’t in the same physical shape as before, but working at the club kept him reasonably fit.
Opening the door slowly, he stepped out without locking it. He crouched and moved toward some trees. Brush surrounded the shed. The most direct route up the hill was from the general direction of the river road.
He moved into a tree cluster and settled in a spot twenty yards away that gave a clear view of the shed. The moonlight was excellent, but his head was throbbing again.
The wind noise was low and he was able to synchronize with the natural sounds around him as he closed his eyes fighting off a massive headache.
Hours later, something disturbed the harmony around him. The natural sound was somehow out of rhythm. He sensed movement nearby even before hearing footsteps and heavy breathing. The sound was faint, coming from a path behind him. He concentrated on controlling his respiration and remained absolutely still. The Berretta would be impossible to sight in the shadows, but muscle memory would be accurate enough at this distance. His mouth was dry, and he controlled the urge to cough, sipping water slowly.
He remained motionless, listening intently and controlling his breathing. His pulse raced as sweat beaded on his face. From the sound, a heavy person was moving slowly along the trail toward him. There was mild apprehension, patience--patience. He brought his right hand slowly across his chest and gripped the Berretta under his left arm, flipping the safety off. Any rapid movement could compromise his concealment.
The man coming was careful. Peter turned slightly to his left. Brush concealed the path, but it became thinner about twenty feet away. He waited and listened; controlling his nerves.
Seconds seemed like minutes; then, he saw a shape appear then stop where the path widened. The man had a small flashlight focused with a pencil beam a few feet ahead of him. In the moonlight, the man could see the shed and trees where Peter was hiding. Peter closed his eyes and turned his head back slowly in the direction of the shed. His made no rapid movements. If the intruder used his flashlight to search the area, Peter did not want his eyes to glint. After half a minute, the man crept forward. As he entered Peter’s peripheral vision, he slowed. The guy was big and out of shape. From his movement, he was probably ex-military. His head was uncovered with short gray hair or mostly bald, in his late forty’s or early fifties. His right hand held a semi-automatic pistol with a muzzle suppressor.
Moving ahead cautiously past Peter’s position, he stopped about five feet away from the shed, slightly to the left of the door. Peter was behind him and slowly shifted weight right to improve his aim, careful not to make any noise. He estimated the distance to be about sixty feet.
The gunman pulled his flashlight from his pocket, and held it palm-down in his left hand to support his gun hand.
The door had no handle and opened outward by pulling on the hasp. The gunman moved closer. Using his left hand, still bracing the flashlight, he pulled it open a few inches, and then rotated half way around with his right elbow inside the opening to throw it open. He took a step inside the doorway and used the flashlight. Peter could see the pencil beam oscillate for a few milliseconds. The gun fired twice.
Without hesitating, Peter ran forward, “Don’t move! I have a gun; if you move, you DIE!”
He quickly shortened the distance between them, but his aim never left the middle of the attacker’s back. The man made a barely-perceptible rotation toward Peter, “I said DON’T MOVE! I have a full magazine and you will die! Don’t be stupid!” Peter stopped ten feet away, his gun cradled.
“Keep your hands where I can see them and take one step backward—slow—slow!
“With your right foot, kick the door closed--don’t turn around!” His commands were forceful and clear.
Once the door was closed, he said, “Be frozen like ice! I’m going to give you some instructions. If you do everything exactly right, I won’t kill you. If you hesitate or do anything stupid, I WILL shoot.”
The man responded in a surprisingly calm foreign voice, “Mister, are you cop?”
“Nope, just a guy defending myself. I’m trying to let you live, but I have no problem shooting you either.”
“How do I know you even have gun,” the man sneered.
“Make a move! It’s not hard to find out. Now, drop to your knees, and don’t turn one inch!”
The big man did not move for several seconds. He was too old and fat to move fast enough to dodge a capable shooter. So, he lumbered down on to one knee then the other, finding it difficult to remain balanced with both hands in the air.
Peter moved one pace forward. His gun was now aiming just below the base of the neck. He commanded, “Drop the flashlight!” The man obeyed. “Be very careful! Bring your left hand over your head and grab the barrel of your gun.” Done, he ordered, “Release the gun from your right hand,” and the man obeyed.
“With your left hand, place the gun on the ground to your side.” The man moved his left hand with the gun straight down as Peter instructed. Peter said, “Place the gun as far out to the left as you can reach!” The man groaned a little trying to bend his torso toward his left side without turning.
Peter did not want the gun dropped, risking a discharge.
“Place both hands behind your neck, interleaving your fingers.” The man seemed to anticipate each command. “With your right hand ONLY, undo your belt, unsnap and unzip your pants.” This was done. “Now clasp your hands behind your neck.”
Peter moved closer to the man’s left side using his left foot to move the gun farther away, and then said, “Now, lay face down, and don’t unclasp your hands!” This was painful for the attacker.
Once down, Peter said, “Move your hands slowly behind your back and interleave your fingers,” which was done.
The entire disarming and takedown had taken about a minute. With the man under control, Peter removed a cell phone from his shoulder pocket, turned it on, and dialed 911.
He explained his emergency and location. He also mentioned that Officer Ruiz of the Cary Police was familiar with the location.
Ending the call, he picked up the gun on the ground, but never moved his point of aim from the man’s back. The weapon in the dirt wasn’t familiar, but he located the magazine release button and dropped it. He then cycled the chamber and tossed it away. While doing this, the gunman did not attempt to move. For several minutes, both men remained silent.
Police cars converged along the frontage road. Peter could see their flashing lights, but the road itself was hidden by brush. He was relieved to hear Ruiz’s voice from the fairway. “Peter, are you up there?”
“Yes, I’ve got a guy on the ground by my shed.”
“Okay, are you armed?”
“Yes, I have a 9 millimeter pistol pointed at the guy on the ground.”
“Can you come out where we can see you?”
“No, this guy is not restrained an
d dangerous!” He half expected the man to say something, but he remained silent.
“All right, we’re going to come up now from different directions, so don’t be surprised.”
“Okay, but tell everyone that I’m not the bad guy.”
“Understood Peter, just keep the gun pointed away from any officers.”
That was the last dialogue until the police converged, coming up two different paths. They approached cautiously and instructed Peter about procedures as they relieved him, took his gun and cuffed him in the process. They handcuffed the man on the ground then got him to his feet. Nothing was said between Peter and the gunman. After some dialogue amongst the responders, Peter was released.
Ruiz found herself interviewing Peter once again about an armed attack in their quiet town. She commented on his attire, which he shrugged off. It was going to be another long night, so she asked him to come to the station to give a full report.
Later, at the station, Ruiz got a call from the processing officer handling the shooter. In his wallet, they had found Eric Curran’s driver’s license.
Ruiz called Agent Gallagher’s cell phone number, which went to voicemail.
Peter
Peter Shields grew up in a coal-mining community near Wilkes-Barre PA. Life revolved around the high school even though few of the residents had graduated. The town had a one-screen movie house and a