Walking Together - John Fetto

Hawley was hunkered down under the desk at the back of the warehouse, behind bags of cement. Boots stepped toward him, flashlights searching the warehouse. Tate called out Hawley’s name, calling him a chicken shit, telling him what he’d do when he caught Hawley. It would take time, but they would find him at the end of the row. All Hawley had to do was wait.

Crow called out when he found the light switch, and cursed when he figured out Hawley disabled it. It just made them madder, cursing him, talking trash, until they made it half way down the row, and their lights found him under the desk, and held steady. Hawley peeked over the bags, saw where they were, saw the handguns as their raised them toward the Tate let loose with another volley of expletives. They were halfway down the row and the beams of their flashlights glinted off the wires that ran from the stacks to underneath the desk to the clacker in Hawley’s hands. Hawley ducked down, as tight to the ground as he could and clicked the device three times setting off four claymore mines, shredding the two men trying to kill him.