Sedona AZ (April 22, 2015) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal, and reproduced exactly as it was written, by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhōg’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 18 –

After cleaning up, I assessed my situation. The compound appeared located in a high mountain desert. Was I still in Canada, the Okanogan perhaps? Was I in Eastern Washington or Idaho? There were no vehicles in the drive, in fact there was no driveway, just an airstrip one hundred yards from the house. It looked as if everything had been flown in and I’d be humping it out.

I had found a few grand on Granger. A pretty tight M6A2, threaded short barrel configuration with holographic site, was hanging in the den and, on the floor beneath it, a canvas bag holding numerous loaded clips and an automotive oil filter in a pouch. I grabbed the weapon and the bag. Every move created more pain, I was hurting badly. Passing through the kitchen, I indulged in some of the refrigerator’s stores, attempting to recharge and top off my fluids.

Partially up the ridge, behind the compound, I saw the aircraft approaching, looking like a Cessna 206. Reflexes kicking in, I dropped to the ground. The plane made a pass over the compound, likely seeing Daemeon sprawled out in the pool with Hooky Miller beside. I wondered if the fellows in the plane were heavy hitters. Watching the aircraft for several seconds, intense pain began to radiate from both of my hands. I had dropped atop a fire ant nest and the devils were stinging me in hoards. There was no time to think. Adrenalin pumping, I slid backward off the nest, brushing both arms as I egressed.

The Cessna came in at a blistering pace, its mirage mirroring the aircraft, an image that pulsed and fluttered beneath its actual wings. And then a thick aerosol of dust, a burly brown plume that rolled and expanded the moment its rear wheels touched down. The scene seemingly needed a rumble or a growl, but there was nothing more than the engine drone as the nose lowered to touch the earth. Wiping fluid from my eyes, I propped up the M6 carbine for action. The 206 was my ticket to ride and I was going to take it from its current occupants. The sun beat down on me with a fury as I lay in wait, spreading out extra clips ready for use as the Cessna taxied to a standstill. My heart was racing from the high ground, knowing that I hadn’t been spotted. The aircraft turned to face me, then stopped as I heard the engine fall to silence while the prop slowed to a halt.

From a hundred yards out, I sighted the trio as they exited the Cessna into the sweltering heat. Holding fast, I waited. Watching the three bust ass to unload cargo from the aircraft, I knew they’d not seen the two bodies that lay exposed, out in the open, or they assumed them to be Candor and myself. Surely they must be wondering why their comrades weren’t there to help. If they only knew they would be with them soon.

The men were slightly out of effective range so I waited patiently beneath the afternoon sun.

“Fucking wankers…You’re more than dead, mother fuckers!” My thoughts were filled with nothing but absolute assurance that I was their predator and they were my prey. The M6A2 sighted each accordingly.

“You’re last to go, asshole,” I said aloud while watching the largest of the three men bend over, gasping in the heat like a seasick wanker chumming over the side of a boat. His shirt was off and his skin gleamed with sweat, highlighting folds of fat that stepped down his torso resembling a road map crammed away in a hurry. Panning the rifle’s barrel to the right, I viewed the youngest and most fit of the three men.

“You’re number one, baby,” I said beneath my breath, knowing he would pose the most threat. He was in the best physical shape and armed with a long slide .45 ACP that from my range looked to be a stainless AMT Hard-Baller, but I couldn’t be certain. Just beside the aircraft, I sighted the second kill shot, sitting motionless atop a pile of wooden crates the three had skidded out. Number Two was sitting stock-still, bent forward, head between his legs and both hands on his knees resting within the Cessna wing’s shade.

Lowering my weapon, I reached into the canvas bag and pulled out the long thin oil filter painted flat green to hide its original bright orange color. Keeping an eye on my visitors, I threaded the filter to the end of the M6A2, adding eight inches of quietness, and raised the rifle back up into a firing position. I could feel the added weight of the silencer hanging off the end of its barrel and chocked out on my grip, just a bit with my left arm. The men were still in their relative positions, passing around a canteen, each taking a couple of swigs before passing it off. Number Two had a second helping before laying it on the crate beside him.

My attention moved to the largest man as he pulled out his heat, a snub nose .38, a belly gun with its short barrel. It would pose little threat to me. I watched him open the cylinder, give it a spin, and slap it back into the gun’s frame with a flick of his wrist, like a bad actor in a vice movie.

“That’s why you’re number three, Tubbs,” I thought.

Number One was peering in my direction, scanning the terrain for threats, no doubt wondering why his instincts were on edge. I thought it poetic that the rugged ridge line he was studying would be his last processed images. I watched Number Two stand to his feet.

Hidden in the rocks waiting, I thought about Reegan and wondered how and what she was doing, and if she was alone. I thought about her taste on my lips, her scent, the feel of her breath against my neck. I thought about how much I loved her, and how I planned to kill Two Gun Johnny and those who had harmed her. Nothing and no one would stop me.

I sighted my first mark. The three had finished unloading the plane and now, apparently, were headed toward the compound. He was leading the group with Number Three’s obese ass bringing up the rear.

“Perfect. Three bottles of beer all in a row…” I thought while waiting as they drew closer. Marking Number One, a slight breeze came up the ridge and I decided to adjust for windage. Lifting my head from the rifle’s stock, I felt shooting pain from the shattered molars and wiped sweat again from my eyes, forcing them to focus. Turning the rifle’s adjustment screw slightly upwind so that the breeze would veer the bullet to the right and into my mark, I nested back into the stock and reacquired the targets. Fuck! My mouth hurt. They had advanced slightly with the gap between two and three wider. I took aim for Number One’s temple, just above the ear. Inhaling, I held the breath as my finger tip articulated and pulled the trigger.

The mark’s head blew apart while his arms bent at the elbows and his fingers fluttered about momentarily. His body weaved a second before dropping where it stood as the gun cycled, ejecting the spent cartridge and chambering a new one. Numbers two and three were laboring to climb, heads down, slowly trudging up the path oblivious to what had just taken place. Just as the second mark became aware, my index finger released the same carnage, this time splitting the skull, piece of it flipping up like a toupee caught in the wind. Two fell down in a pile atop of the first. Tubbs, seeing what had happened, turned to run back to the plane. Squeezing tandem rounds I halted his progress after four paces.

Breaking camp, I descended the ridge and made for the Cessna. The 206 turbo was a hot little package, outfitted with a factory Robertson’s STOL kit, Short Take Off and Landing, great for hot, thin high mountain desert air. As I left the compound that bird climbed like a homesick angel. Clearing the discharge from my eyes, I determined this location was somewhere in northern Idaho. It was time to go see the Fed’s. Whatever I was infected with was propagating inside me by the minute.

Stopping at an airstrip outside of Bend, Oregon, I rang Deacon from its pay phone.

“Deacon?”

“Yea…?”

“It’s Shaun. They got Candor. I’m sorry, mate.”

“We figured.” His voice was aggressive and unfriendly. “My brothers in Vancouver caught two armed Russians breaking into the clubhouse…they squealed while being cubed into crab bait. We might have left it at that, but with Candor dead…” Deacon paused, seemingly to compose himself then continued, “Their severed feet’s floating around Vancouver, still in their shoes, a notice we’ll be taking out more of them soon.”

“I’m sorry it went down like that Deacon.”

“He had a daughter, ya know..she’s turning seven next week, Shaun, or should I call you Collins?” Deacon asked with contempt.

“It’s protocol, mate. I didn’t know you when we..”

“I don’t know who the fuck you are, whatever name you go by! All I know is that my brother’s dead and it’s because of some bullshit you’re associated with!” Deacon interrupted.

“Deacon, there’s more to the story, I’ll..”

“Fuck you, Shaun!” he yelled before slamming down the phone.

I didn’t blame him. He had me pegged.

Next I rang the Feds, filling them in and advised them to expect me soon. I just needed to get to Oregon, get a cypher out to Russ, check on Reegan and Shugo, and process what had taken place. Taxiing down the strip, I noticed two Dodge Chargers race onto the tarmac and begin to chase the 206. It was in vain. I had already pulled her up and keeping the sun to my right shoulder, I tried not to let my body’s pain dominate the moment.

Landing at the Creswell airport, I was twenty minutes from my place. Arriving and parking a couple of blocks away, I noticed a wheel artist, surveillance operative using a vehicle, parked a block up. There was no mistaking the situation. They were there to apprehend me.

I didn’t think they knew about my Eugene house, but it was no matter. I’d put myself in check. Knowing the moment the Feds identified me that the rest of the surveillance team would be alerted to form a containment box around the block and swarm my house, I was pissed. Fuck! I told them I’d turn myself in.

Out of habit, I questioned my moves, deciding what to do, considering my options to avoid checkmate. I hadn’t been spied yet, there was still time…if it wasn’t for that damn bio weapon..

My thoughts turned to Bill Sinclair, an acquaintance who committed suicide by cop rather than be captured. While zeroed out beneath the sights of numerous guns, Sinclair had moved both hands towards his pockets as the cops screamed to freeze and not move. Bill had looked at the officers then, as three guns steadied upon him, smiled and called out, “If my hands go in my pockets they’re coming out blazing!” His hands slid into the jacket and a hail of bullets erupted, a torrent that cut him to pieces.

They found a small Bible in one of Bill’s pockets and a picture of his wife and three children in another. That wasn’t my style. Besides I was tired of running, tired of planning ahead, tired of sizing up strangers, tired of being ready to leave the planet in an instant. I was tired of having my finger on the trigger all the fucking time.

The thought bore through my head like a bullet that I could turn around now and never look back, but I needed medical attention. There would be no more running, no more looking over my shoulder, no more wondering when the Feds would finally catch up to me. I walked down the block to my home, noticing the little things, like cracks in the sidewalk betraying roots up heaving its thick cement slabs.

I noticed the faded “Missing Cat” poster barely readable, rust stains running from its tacked corners and a sea of desolate staples that once held messages to the telephone pole. Rounding the corner to my block, I felt an odd feeling of nervousness. I noticed a surveillance team trying to appear invisible as they talked amongst themselves in a car. I knew an open mic was calling in the troops.

“Oh my God, don’t overact with the hand gestures!” I thought watching the goons inside the vehicle, hands jabbing in the air. I reached into my jacket and lightly caressed the Glock, seasoned with its numerous kills. I thought of capping those fuckers, just for their bad acting. I visualized the play, one behind the ear and the other in the forehead, followed by a sprint to freedom.

My hand let go the shapely Hoag grips as I came to a sea foam green house and proceeded down the drive to its entrance. I was home. I would surrender.

I went into the house as if completely unaware of the wave that was about to surge over me, and proceeded straight into the kitchen to make a strong drink. Taking a thick blue glass from the cupboard, it hit the counter with a dull thunk soon followed by a peeling gasp that escaped the fridge I opened. Three sprigs of past its prime mint, slightly moldy lime and lemon, sugar, club soda, and the all important Bermuda rum rallied together on the counter. I looked out the kitchen window sheathed in tan curtains. They were out there waiting.

While muddling one of the mint sprigs with a fork, I wondered how many agents would show up and laughed out loud imagining what the neighbors would think, then sprinkled two teaspoons of sugar over the mint. “Fuck them!” I thought squeezing the lemon into the mix. “Fuck them all!” as the lime splayed in my grip, most of it dribbling into the concoction. Mixing, my mind raced to the tempo of the fork’s vigorous stir. Next went in the ice, two shots of rum, some club soda, a slice of lemon, and the remaining sprigs of mint. Grabbing my iPod, I sauntered out onto the front porch. Putting on the headphones, I selected Spoon “Vittorio E” from the playlist, cranked the volume, sat back on a deck chair with my feet up on the porch rail to wait for the Feds. I savored the minty taste of the Mojito as my legs soaked up the fading rays of the sun.

The music pulsed in rhythm. I watched and waited, waited for the beginning of a new chapter in my life. The breeze was refreshing. All the trees had new growth and the lilacs were exploding. The song played on…“I took a river and the river was long”…as I waited for the inevitable, wondering how much longer. I watched a honey bee make its rounds on a bush that grew next to the porch. It moved from blossom to blossom, hard at work. The thought of running again crept into my mind. I could disappear, I’d done it before….but running wasn’t in me any longer. In fact, there was no telling how much time I had left on this earth. So I thought about Reegan, I missed her terribly. There was no time to get out a cypher.

Thinking maybe they wouldn’t come, I noticed a woman at the top of the hill talking on a cell phone while looking my way. No doubt a pavement artist, the net was closing. The Mojito was refreshing as I watched the well choreographed production play out before me.

A man in a mid 1980’s Corolla pulled up, and parked in front of the house next door. He wore a black baseball hat, blue jeans and a grey tee shirt. Obviously another goon.

A song was nearing its end, as was my Mojito, when a black SUV rounded the corner and approached my house. The woman at the top of the hill was now walking my way, as was the man in the baseball cap. Then, I noticed another fellow coming up my driveway from the back yard.

“Didn’t see that bloke coming…” I thought before downing the last swig of Mojito, savoring its minty flavor and placing the glass on the table. Looking up as I stood, I gave a subtle wave to the approaching posse and made my way towards the front steps to meet them.

“I thought you guys advertised no more late fees,” I said with a smile.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com. Some SedonaEye.com scenes have been edited due to content, however, be advised that some language may be considered offensive or inappropriate. Look for the unedited Cambire, The Story, available at booksellers and retailers in the fall of 2015 to be published as Change of Allegiance.

Read www.SedonaEye.com for daily news and interactive views!