CHECK IT OUT! The first 900+ Words of Remington Colt's new story "10 'Til Blowback - Volume 1 - The First Hour"

Remington Colt was nice enough to share the first 940 or so words of his new series with me to put out here on my blog and other social media.

“10 ‘Til Blowback” is the first of four new series that Remington will be introducing over the coming weeks.

I hope that you enjoy this taste of “Volume 1 –The First Hour”, the rest of the story rocks and flies by.

Here is the Amazon Kindle link for the story, it will be available on Kobo and Barnes & Noble over the weekend as well:

http://www.amazon.com/10-Til-Blowback-Volume-ebook/dp/B00FGEO51K/re...

“10 ‘Til Blowback – Volume 1 – The First Hour”

Simon Wick, owner and television pitchman of Wick Candles & Christian Store Group, approaches the front door to answer the door bell. The doorbell routinely rings; he has kids, but this time the ring sounds ominous. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up like soldiers on high alert. He looks back at his Rhodesian Ridgeback dogs, Peter and Paul, brothers from the same litter. “Sit. Stay,” he tells them, adding a hand gesture with a closed fist. They immediately sit on their haunches, dispassionately looking at the door as if they had no care as to who was on the other side. One could say that if you were eighty pounds of lean muscle and teeth, you would not have a care in a world either. Their sole care was Simon and his family, gathered today in Simon’s modest two story home, enjoying a birthday party. One of Simon’s grandsons just turned three, thus the balloons, cartoon characters and streamers throughout the house. Simon had silver and gold glitter dusting his shoulders, a stark contrast to his high alert approach to the door.

Simon looks back at Peter and Paul one last time, they cock their heads to the left in unison, looking back with a “What?” type expression. He grabs the door handle and gives it a pull. Standing in front of Simon are two men in tailored suits. Simon does a quick scan. The shorter one is dressed in an ill-fitting suit, not the best cut of fabric, more off the rack and a tad too small. The taller man looks like someone ran his suit through the dryer set on the highest temperature, and Simon can see both of his wrists and bare ankles, he doesn’t even wear socks. The colors of the suits are drab, the attitudes even drabber. Simon thinks, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit like that; they must be government service employees, cops, or military. He has good accountants so he discounts the IRS right off the bat. Besides that, most IRS agents don’t have nineteen inch necks or jarhead-whitewall haircuts.

One of them with the ability to speak and not in sign language says, “Excuse me sir, we are looking for a Mrs. Krista Jones and her son. Major Jones would like to have them back at the base for their protection.” Krista is Simon’s daughter and their son is the focus of the party.

“Sure, please come in,” Simon says pleasantly. “If you would, can you show some ID please?” Simon steps back one step and sideways one step, like a placekicker about to launch a field goal. He turns slightly, now standing at a forty five degree angle to the closest man. Peter and Paul’s ears don’t even go up. They don’t move; they just sit there like statues.

The man closest to Simon, the shorter one, says, “Sure, no problem sir, let me get it out.” With that he begins to reach into his jacket and Simon sees the handle of what looks like a gun, and the man’s hand is reaching for the brown, cross hatched handle instead of a wallet or id billfold.

In one fluid and lightning fast motion, Simon slips slightly to his left and his right hand reaches out and grabs the man’s right wrist as he is about to grasp the handle of his weapon. Simon pivots on his left foot and launches his left fist with the knuckle of middle finger protruding out into the soft spot directly behind the man’s now exposed right ear.

As the first assailant begins to crumple to the ground, either unconscious or dead, Simon smoothly and efficiently, draws the weapon out of the first assailant’s holster, hidden under his suit jacket. Like a mongoose eyeing a cobra, his eyes never leave the second man. The second man is immobile, still trying to take it all in, his jaw slack in disbelief. Less than a second has passed since the first man reached for his gun.

Simon continues smoothly through his motion, his momentum carrying him forward, eyes locked on assailant number two. He points the now drawn weapon at the man’s neck; they are just feet apart, and “POP”, the Taser X26P releases its talons into the soft skin on the right side of the man’s neck.

The man collapses into a writhing heap. Peter and Paul cock their head to the other side, still sitting but now expectant. Simon looks at them and swears they are smiling, and would laugh if they could.

Simon quietly says, “Ice Cream,” and points first at the still writhing taller man and then the dead-still second man. Peter and Paul launch like shots from a cannon, and are instantly growling in the faces of each assailant.

One assailant cannot hear them and appears lifeless, but Peter drools on him anyway and barks incessantly. Paul just growls into the other man’s face as the man lies on the hardwood floor, uncontrollably twitching. Enough time has passed and the Taser has cycled; Simon depresses the trigger again to send another high energy jolt through the still spasming assailant.

Time is not a friend of Simon right now and he knows it.

Other than the audible “Pop,” the greeting and small exchange and the word “Ice Cream” not another word has been spoken.

“It has begun,” Simon thinks quickly to himself. What has been following him in the deep dark recesses of his mind has finally come to pass.

He has been preparing for this day for the last twenty plus years; mentally, physically, and spiritually.