Migration—A Consequence of Color

Geert twisted the door handle leading to the mud room, slowly opened it and peered inside. The light automatically came on and Geert was a little startled with the change. Damn automated systems. Nothing except a few lockers, dirty boots, and hooks hanging on the wall with muddy sweaters and jackets. He walked to the door at the end of the room, manually turned the light back off and paused to pick up any sounds coming from the kitchen. The pause gave him time for this eyes to readjust to the darkness. Once I open that door, I have to be ready for anything Geert thought. Here goes…

Unlike at the first two doors into the house, Geert did not hesitate this time. He opened the door, quickly stepped through the lit kitchen, blinked a few times to readjust his sight again, and immediately passed the modern cloud accessible Sub-Zero refrigerator. He then skirted the center island eight-burner /grill combination commercial range with stainless steel hood, and continued towards the first light down the hallway to the right.

Glock 17M raised to shoulder height with the right hand on the grip and the left hand over the right for dynamic tension, Geert shuffled down the hallway as he was taught. The gun was always pointing towards what he was looking at and he made good time with a minimal amount of effort. Just as he neared the den door, voices could be heard coming from the room.

“Shouldn’t Ray have called back in by now? It’s been about 10 minutes since he went outside.”

“We’ll give him a few more minutes to check in. I’m not expecting any trouble. Nobody knows we are here except for the Secret Service and the US Marshal’s Service.”

“Ok, I’ll take your word...” Before Sam could complete the sentence, Geert rounded the corner of the door frame and put a bullet into the side of his head. Brains and blood flew against the wall and Sam’s head lurched sideways from the impact of the 9 mm round. Due to the work of the silencer to trap the escaping gases, the only sound that could be heard was a deadly “pfftt” and the mechanical workings of the gun itself.

As quickly as humanly possible, Geert twisted to the right and slapped rounds into the remaining three people. He was especially pleased of his shot placement on the second marshal. The round hit William dead center in his forehead as he turned toward his assailant and sprayed the curtain behind him with his life fluids. He collapsed straight to the floor in an unmanageable heap. The technicians had their back turned to him and were still too focused to react properly to the threat. They died without fully turning around with bullets to their backs and sides, and a final shot to each head as Geert stood over the bodies.

Four in seven seconds. I think that’s a new record, even for me thought Geert. Now I just have to find the principle, vandalize the place a bit, and I can get out of here. My Briefing said that he should be just down the hall. Hopefully, there were just the five others and nobody is waiting to surprise me.

Geert quietly reloaded a fresh magazine since he had expended eight out of the ten rounds in the pistol, left the room and proceeded further down the hall towards the office. I hope he’s where he is supposed to be. This house is too damn big for hide-and-seek. Geert reached the office door and listened for movement. Ah, he is in there and it sounds like he is alone. Geert slowly pushed the door open, walked into the office and pointed his handgun right at Jason’s head.

Jason thought he heard something hitting the floor, but did not think too much about it. One of the guys must have dropped some equipment or something. But as Jason heard another sound and looked towards the door, he ended up staring into the dead eyes of a large white man who was definitely not from the US Marshal’s Service. The man that came in appeared well built with a look straight out of the days of the Vikings, right down to the scraggly beard and scar down the right side of his face from his eye to his cheek. Wearing black camouflage gear with a black tactical vest and a knife attached to his right thigh, the stranger looked like a member of SWAT. All that was missing was the helmet gear. He was pointing a gun with a silencer at Jason and was just staring.

What the hell? “Who are you?” yelled a nervous Jason. “What are you doing? I have security here in the house! What do you want?”

“What I want is your life. Don’t worry. It will be for a great cause boy.”

Geert DeWitt fired three rounds point-blank into the face of the next African-American Attorney General of the United States.

Acknowledging the loss of contact with Jason’s retina, the computer chirped “Eye contact terminated” in the female voice personalized to Jason’s tastes.
You got that right. Stepping gingerly so that he did not track any blood through the house, Geert policed his eleven spent shell casings from the office and the den. He was a little pissed off that he had not thought to attach a small bag to capture ejected shells, but he was satisfied that he didn’t leave any obvious evidence that would implicate him directly. Geert reached into his vest pocket and extracted a small can of paint.

Once the message-writing was completed, Geert retraced his steps, exited through the back door of the garage, and re-merged with the darkness.