text: “Grayson County, this is Julie, please hold” “Julie I--” The phone cut to hold music, as Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen instinctively bit down and gritted his teeth together. Allen was the victim of a rough morning. He had been given orders from his supervisors to assist the state of Virginia with enforcing their new laws against semi-automatic firearms, and the feedback had been astounding, even in his own office. Six of the eighteen agents he supervised had turned in their guns and badges, four of those being the most tenured in the office. His A-team, his go-to crew. He had begun checking on all of his remaining dozen agents in the field and had been successful with most. Except Miller. Miller was his young gun, prone to fits of stupidity and headstrong. Maybe it was a mistake sending him the furthest from the office, without a senior agent to go with him, but that’s what the locals were for, right? “Grayson County, this is Julie, is this an emergency?” “Kind of, yeah” Allen haltingly gave up into the phone “This is Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen, I sent a -” Julie cut him off at the pass, “Yeah, an ATF agent was here this morning, are you his supervisor? Because if so, he might need to have a talking to about manners and making demands of local law enforcement.” “Right, okay, I’ll talk to him when he gets back. Can you radio your deputy and see where they are at? I can’t get him on his cell, and he’s not answering emails either.” “He doesn’t have a deputy with him. We’re not enforcing that particular piece of legislation out here. My boss told him to pound sand, and the Sheriff has the same view. Anything else you need? These phones are ringing off the hook--someone lost a load of cattle out of a semi and we’re busy.” Allen sighed, knowing somehow that Miller would manage to piss off the local law enforcement and go at it alone. “No ma’am, good luck with your cattle issue, and I’m sorry for Agent Miller’s conduct, we’ll try to remind him to play nice with others.” Allen pressed the phone down into it’s cradle on his desk, looking over the various paperwork stacked there, and glancing at the monitor to see a growing inbox waiting to be conquered. As the special agent in charge of a Virginia Field Office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, Allen’s email was constantly filled with directives, requests, new policy and personnel issues. The director’s office had sent a memo detailing the new Virginia laws that required confiscation of firearms of a number of different and very common types, and confiscation was not going well. Of the twelve agents that Allen now supervised, three had reported being shot at, one was without a vehicle due to some sort of sabotage on their tires, and the remaining eight had all encountered resistance from a number of sources, including local law enforcement, citizens and the ever present news media. So far, since the beginning of their day, they had seized a total of three firearms. Two from a self-proclaimed “Instagram Influencer” and one from a 45-year-old assistant to a Senator, who did not want to lose his seat at the table with his boss, a rabid anti-gun legislator from the middle of the suburbs. Three guns. That was it. One of the other field offices reported two agents down, both in critical condition after leading a raid into the home of a former Special Forces Sergeant who lived in a cabin closer to Lexington. They made it almost a hundred feet from the house before withering fire cut down several the agents and local law enforcement. They gathered up enough courage to evacuate everyone, leaving a few cruisers and a ton of equipment right there in the yard. Allen feared that they would find this again and again, as the Virginia backwoods seemed to be a preferred retirement ground for many of the United States Military’s finest former experts. Allen tried Miller’s cell phone again, this time from his personal phone. JP was usually reliable but could be headstrong. He had caused Allen grief more than a few times from his brash demeanor, usually tangling with local law enforcement or citizens, and it had put him within inches of a formal reprimand from Allen a time or two. JP was, without a doubt, a lawyer who also happened to carry a gun. His six-foot, broad shouldered frame could be intimidating, but even more so was his ability to whip your words around to change the meaning and make you argue not only with him, but with yourself. It was a dangerous skill, especially with some of the idiots they dealt with on the street, but Allen had to admit, it was usually effective. Miller’s cell phone continued to ring, eventually going to voicemail. Allen hung up. He had already left a pair of voicemails, the first concerned. The second, more authoritative, with an order to call in immediately. “Ryan!” Cal Grassley called out as he turned the corner into Allen’s office. Cal was their resident equipment wizard from the Technical Services Branch. He carried a printout with him as he strode into Allen’s office and plopped his overweight body into one of the chairs across from Allen’s. His smudged glasses and coffee stained tie paired with a defeated look on his face as he slid the paper across the cluttered wasteland of Allen’s desk. It slid by in the one clear spot and promptly landed on the floor, its landing accompanied by a hard sigh from Allen. “Cal, please tell me you found something on Miller” Allen growled, leaning down to grab the sheet from the weathered carpet at his feet. Grassley responded with a sigh, explaining “His last activity was fairly early this morning, sent a read receipt on your email with the list of targets, then...well, nothing. His signal kind of peters out after that. Doesn’t really seem to be any pings off the cell towers, but that’s common for that kind of rural area.” Allen shook his head. “Cal, is there any way to track his car? I know my Tahoe has OnStar--can’t we just do that?” Grassley tilted his head a little, thinking on the query. “I know that Ford has the 911 Assist, but he’d have to have turned it on, and then the car would have had to been in an accident. Probably not.” Allen tilted back in his chair, pondering this latest predicament. Cal popped up out of the chair, surprising Allen with his agility, especially compared to his size. “I’ll be back in my hobbit hole if you need me, I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Allen nodded, silently contemplating his next move. The best move would be to have the locals go look for him, but with JP’s prior confrontation, that search would be half-hearted at best, and at worst, not done at all. Allen went to his email and examined the roster of agents. Woodley would be the next closest, but he had lost all the tires on his vehicle when he went to get gas in a rural area, and made small talk with the clerk at the station while paying--apparently pay at the pump was not the standard like it was in the DC Beltway. Alvarez and French were the next two closest, their day had started with harassment from the local police department, and so far, had resulted in no seizures and nobody willing to answer the door for federal agents in plate carriers with rifles. Allen glanced at the list, mentally trying to remember which of these towns was near what. His next name on the list was Lindsay Clay, his newest agent to the office. She had wavered at being sent to Roanoke to assist a local group of Virginia State Police who would be going door to door in the suburbs, but relented when advised by a senior agent that it held the least amount of danger anyone would face in this particular type of scenario. Clay was a fresh-faced blonde from the DC area, where she had excelled at lacrosse and went to the University of Virginia on a lacrosse scholarship, playing under Julie Myers. Prior to her ATF career, she had never fired a gun, never even held a gun, in fact. She was book smart, but certainly not street smart, and the ATF’s field training officers had their hands full trying to train the green-ness out of her. She was a capable agent, though, and was well-versed in the law. Allen decided that she was his best bet for finding Miller and bringing him home. The fact that she was a semi-attractive blonde wouldn’t hurt, but the fact that she knew the rules and took orders well would seal the fact that Allen could trust her to reel JP in and bring him back. The trick now would be getting in contact with her and getting her going. Allen dialed her from the desk phone, hoping that the familiar number would get her to answer him. “Special Agent Clay” Lindsay chirped, seeing the number on her screen and knowing that this was probably some more guidance. She desperately needed guidance, as the team that she had been given for this operation consisted of a four-man squad of brand-new troopers, fresh out of the academy and roaring to go. Clay had spent most of her day trying to temper their enthusiasm and hoped that the call from the Field Office was a return and regroup order. This day had not gone well so far. She had been carrying a heavy shotgun, wearing her heavy body armor, and going house to house with a team that had the general maturity of middle schoolers. This was not what she had signed up for. “It’s Ryan, how’s the day going? Never mind, listen, I need you to go find JP. He’s gone missing near you in Independence, or Freedom, or Liberty...I can’t remember what the hell the name of the town is. You need to go find him and then report back here ASAP. We’re getting our butts kicked and we need to strategize.” “Okay. I just need to know where I’m going.” Lindsay breathed a sigh of relief at the news that she’d be teaming up with Miller. He seemed to know what he was doing, most of the time. Plus, he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, though he did seem a little full of himself. She watched from the back of her Tahoe while the four troopers walked up to the next door in the little suburban neighborhood, they had chosen to through next. “It’s Independence. He was near there. Ask around, figure out where he’s at and follow him back to here. If you get time, try to hook up with Woodley--he lost some tires earlier today and he’s stuck. I’ll figure out where and text you.” Allen hung up the phone without finishing his conversation. Lindsay sighed. Jamar Woodley was not the agent she wanted to have to pick up and be stuck in the car with. He was loud, animated and hyper aware of his surroundings. She was sure that he’d be driving the locals nuts by the time she got to him. Maybe she could make JP pick him up. That would be perfect for her. She could turn up her music, drive home and maybe make it back to her townhouse to soak her sore muscles in her own bathtub tonight. She turned to head towards the troopers as the windows from the two story they had chosen exploded with gunfire. Rounds slapped the dirt around the troopers as the glass spread all over the carefully manicured landscape. Clay pulled her pistol while scurrying back towards the relative safety of the blacked-out Chevy. She reached to hit the release for the back hatch as she saw one of the troopers take a shot to the leg, screaming out in pain. Her original plan involved grabbing a shotgun and hoping to at least give the troopers some covering fire. Now her plan was to grab the medical kit and hopefully get close enough to make sure they all survived. The fire intensified, then slacked as the shooter (shooters?) inside reloaded. She saw two troopers make a break for their cruisers, while the wounded trooper and the fourth stayed put near the door. The first trooper to reach the cruiser jumped in the driver’s seat, as Lindsay watched the second attempt to open the door to his cruiser, he spun, a rifle round striking the plate on his back, and knocking him to the ground. The first trooper swung his cruiser across the lawn, beckoning the two sheltered by the door to get in. The wounded trooper began a low crawl across the yard, only to collapse halfway, crying and shaking, his exertion too much to bear with his wound. His partner ran to him, grabbing the handle at the back of his carrier, dragging him towards the relative safety of the cruiser’s backseat cage. The two of them loaded in the back, returning fire as the third sped his way out of the combat zone. Lindsay looked to the second cruiser, seeing the trooper there struggling to get up. She started to examine the area, looking for cover, or at least concealment from the view of the shooter inside the house. The fire had slackened, with the main threat removed from the front door, and Lindsay saw movement inside. She took the opportunity to jump in the front seat of the Tahoe and backed up next to the open cruiser door and reached across the console to open the passenger door, her pistol still gripped in her left hand on the wheel. The trooper looked up at her from the ground and grasped the side of the seat, pulling himself up into the vehicle. His eyes met hers as he glassily stared at her, stunned from the impact and the previous minute of madness. “Get me the hell out of here” He bellowed, wheezing as he spoke. She turned the wheel and punched the gas. The Tahoe churned it’s back wheels into the Virginia grass, fish-tailing as it scrambled off the lawn, the smell of cordite hanging in the air.