Targeted

Chapter 1Crawling through the weeds toward the drainage ditch, Eddie let out a stream of curses that would have made a sailor blush and his mother wash his mouth out with soap—if she was still alive. Not that he knew one way or the other if she was, but… He’d been jogging home from town and wasn’t too far from his rented house, oblivious to everything but the cool night air and silence surrounding him, when he heard a car’s motor on the winding road behind him. He zigged toward the verge, figuring he had time to make it to the ditch before the car came around the curve. He had no illusions that whoever was in the car was out for a late-night spin as it was moving without headlights. He would have been out of sight in plenty of time, he thought later, if he hadn’t stepped in a hole hidden at the road’s edge and wildly flailed his arms to keep from falling, making himself the perfect target. The car came up behind him, doing well over the speed limit. He thrust forward, not caring if he tumbled into the ditch—he could handle a few bruises from the stones when he landed. Unfortunately, he didn’t move fast enough. The car hit him with a glancing blow to his leg, sending waves of pain radiating through it, throwing him onto the weed-filled verge before speeding away. As he made it to the ditch, he heard the car screech to a stop and turn. “Coming back to see if I’m road-kill?” he spat out, anger and fear lacing his words. He figured he had maybe half a minute to find a place where he wouldn’t be immediately visible when they drove past. He hoped they didn’t know the exact spot where they’d hit him. Like the verge, the muddy ditch was filled with tall weeds. He took advantage of both, doing his best to cover his face and hands with the slime as he made it into a thick patch of underbrush. The car came to a halt a few yards away on the road above him. Its headlights were on, now, and he heard a car door open, and then someone pacing along the verge. Sucking in a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his leg, he held dead still, praying the darkness would keep his attacker from finding him. “Okay, you little S.O.B, you couldn’t have gotten far,” a man muttered as he moved along the verge. From the rustling of the weeds, Eddie knew he had started toward the ditch. Then, suddenly, a second set of headlights brightened the dark road. A car came to a stop above Eddie’s hiding place and he hoped to hell it wasn’t the man’s accomplice if he had one. A car door opened, and someone said, “Car trouble, sir?” “No, officer. Just looking for a place to take a piss. I’ve been on the road for, well, too damned long without finding a gas station or whatever.” “There’s one about half a mile on from here, in the direction your car’s facing. I would suggest you make use of it, not our pristine roadside.” There was vague amusement in the officer’s voice, behind the steeliness of his words. “Thanks. I’ll be on my way, then,” the man replied, not seeming the least bit happy. There was the sound of one car door slamming shut, followed immediately by a second one closing, and then the two vehicles took off, both heading east down the roadway. Eddie didn’t wait a second longer than he had to before getting out of the ditch to head into the trees a few feet away. His leg hurt like the devil, but it supported him, so he figured nothing was broken. “Now all I have to worry about is whether he knows where I live, and will he come looking if he does?” He thought not. Every attack against him, and there had been too many over the past two years, had been done to make it seem as if they had been accidents. The first one he’d put down to exactly that—an accident—thankful he hadn’t been badly hurt or even killed. After the second one, he’d begun to get the message that someone was after him. Why? He had no clue, but he wasn’t about to stay put to find out. He’d packed up the basics and left town, keeping a low profile, ditching his ID and credit cards for new ones that he obtained from a man who was in the business of creating forged IDs. That had happened because of Mac, a smalltime hustler who had been his on-again-off-again lover. Mac wasn’t happy that Eddie was going off without him, but he understood why and had accepted it with ill good grace as he hadn’t really had a choice in the matter. His parting gift, if it could be called that, was the names of people in various other cities who could make Eddie more fake IDs and cards, for a price. Not that the money part was a problem for Eddie. He had inherited a very small fortune from his father when he died and took the time before leaving town to withdraw what was left of it from the various banks where he’d deposited the money long before his troubles started. He’d sometime wondered if that was why Mac had hooked up with him, not that it mattered. The man was damned good in bed and a decent friend when he wasn’t involved in his less-than-licit activities. Thankfully, he never tried to get Eddie involved in them. He’d have been hard-pressed to do so if he had. As he’d told Mac at one point, “I’m no goody-two-shoes, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend half my life looking over my shoulder so I don’t end up in jail.” Now he was doing precisely that, looking over his shoulder—not to stay out of jail, but to stay alive until he found out who was after him, and why. The cash was safely packed away in a hard-sided messenger bag he bought for that purpose, once he found out that close to two-hundred thousand in twenties and fifties took up a hell of a lot less room than he’d expected. That, and his two other bags holding his clothes and a few other necessities, fit into his bike’s saddlebags. He had ended up first in a small, Midwestern city where he soon learned that it was possible to live a cash-only life as long as he was willing to stay at a resident hotel that didn’t require he have a credit card. He was unwilling to use the new one once he figured out it could be used to track his movements. He got a job working for a small construction company whose owner was more than willing to pay him under the table. He had been there for four months when he had another ‘accident’. He was walking down from the third floor at the hotel because the elevator was, as often happened, out of order. He’d reached the top of the second-floor flight when something hit him in the middle of his back. He fell, rolling down the concrete stairs to the next landing, cracking his head in the process. When he came to he was looking up at two men in white—EMTs he realized. “You’re damned lucky to be alive,” one of them said. “Alive and unbroken,” the second one added, “Although you’re going to be hurting for a while. We’re taking you to the ER to be checked out as you probably have a concussion.” Eddie had quickly set them right, saying he had no intention of going to the hospital. “I’ve got a bottle of Ibuprofen which should help with the pain.” The EMTs tried to argue and cajole him into coming with them but gave up when it became obvious he wouldn’t. They helped him up to his room and, with a warning about what to watch for in terms of a possible concussion, they left. Twenty hours later, after getting some sleep, Eddie was dosed up on Ibuprofen and on his way out of the city. He moved from city to city, always leaving when he was involved in another situation that could have ended in his death, including what was meant to look like a vicious mugging that left him badly beaten and unconscious in an alley, bleeding from a knife wound in his side. That time he did end up in the ER, but only long enough to be stitched up and dosed with antibiotics and a painkiller. They moved him to a ward; he waited until the doctor was gone and took off. Once again he was on the run, no wiser about who wanted him dead, or why. Finally, tired of trying to stay safe in cities where he couldn’t tell if the next person he ran into might be the one who was after him, he decided to make a big change in his lifestyle. After doing what he thought of as his due diligence, he chose a small town in the mountains outside Denver where everyone knew everyone and a stranger was always noticed and talked about. For a month he was that stranger, despite getting a job at the small country store as a stocker and part-time clerk—all he could find where he could be paid under the table. Then, he met a man who owned a small house a few miles outside of town. The guy was looking for someone willing to rent it so he didn’t have to worry about it being vandalized when he was out of town. That was something he told Eddie happened all but three months of the year, when he used the house during ski season. After Eddie agreed to be the house’s caretaker in lieu of half the rent, and to find somewhere else to live from December through February, they settled on a rental figure that worked for both of them and Eddie moved in. * * * * Eddie staggered to the edge of the trees surrounding the house’s property, leaning against one of them as he surveyed the area. He didn’t see anything to indicate his attacker was somewhere around, but he wasn’t willing to bet his life on the fact that he could be doing what Eddie was, watching from the trees for his return. Eventually pain got the better of him and, very cautiously, he made his way around to the miniscule yard at the back of house. He figured it was the best place to cross to get inside without being seen, if he was careful. Taking a deep breath, he hobbled the few yards to the back door, unlocked it, and slipped into the dark kitchen. He stood silently for several long moments, listening for any sound that signaled he wasn’t alone. Deciding it was safe, although he wasn’t about to turn on any lights, he made his way through the main room to the bedroom and the bath off to one side. With the bathroom door closed, and because there was no window, he felt it was safe to turn the light on. Then, he stripped out of his mud-covered clothes, tossing them in the trash basket. He needed his shoes, so they went into the tub to be washed when he showered. He surveyed the damage to his leg and winced. It was one huge bruise from his calf to mid-thigh. Fortunately the skin hadn’t been broken, thanks to his heavy jeans, but it was abraded. A careful tactile exploration told he what he already knew, nothing was broken although he couldn’t rule out a minor fracture. With nothing he could do about that, he popped three Ibuprofen, turned the shower on as hot as he could take it, and stepped in. The near-scalding water did a lot to ease his aching muscles and get rid of the worst of the mud. When it began to cool, he washed himself and his shoes, stood until it turned cold, and got out. He dried off, put the shoes on the edge of the tub to dry, brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his tangled brown hair. Then, he shut off the light and returned to the bedroom. “I should get out of here right now,” he muttered. He was feeling marginally better, so it was an option. However, he needed to sleep and decided it would be safe enough. I survived the shower without the bastard tossing something electrical into it, or giving me a shove so it would look like I fell, hit my head, and died as a result. There’s not much he can do to me while I’m sleeping that would look accidental, and that seems to be his MO. Having convinced himself it was safe, he slid into bed, and once he got somewhat comfortable, he fell into a deep sleep.