For Those I Love...: I will do horrible things

By John Carpenter

TI has lived a successful life and is enjoying time with his wife and extended family. When evil touches his life, and the police are unable to assist, he is forced to unleash the creature that dwells within. He opens the cage that restrains the violent skills he perfected behind enemy lines, skills the US military taught him and used to eliminate its enemies all over the world. Together with trusted and new friends, he takes matters into his own hands to satisfy justice. This is a fast-paced story that races across North and South America, finalizing in a showdown that reaches across the globe. Based on real-life situations that’ll grab you by the throat and will not let you go until the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662443459

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For Those I Love...

I will do horrible things

John Carpenter

Copyright © 2021 John Carpenter

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

Although some of the characters in this story are based on real people, the story is fictional and should not be accepted as reality. Nevertheless, the author has spent many hours speaking with the real TI and couldn’t have written this story without his contributions. TI is my friend, and I am a better person for it. Some of the exploits in this story are based on real experiences. Long live the badass.

ISBN 978-1-6624-4344-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-4345-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

A truly brave man is ever serene; nothing ruffles the equanimity of his spirit. We admire him as truly great, who, in the menacing presence of danger or death, retains his self-possession.

—Inazō Nitobe

A harmless man is not a good man. A good man is a very, very dangerous man who has it under voluntary control.

—Jordan Peterson

Chapter 1

Logan, Utah

The air was crisp as the temperature began to drop and cooler weather eased into the Wasatch Mountains. Soon, the colorful leaves would drop off the deciduous trees, leaving them bare in expectation of another frigid winter while the evergreens stood proud. Until then, David Smith, aka Tire Iron, surveyed his autumnal surroundings with silent contentment as he drove up the canyon toward the range where he would test fire a new handgun he’d just finished building. Turn after turn, he drove toward his goal. The whole time enjoying the peaceful picturesque surroundings that he’d earned in past conflicts. After a final turn, the tires of his Blazer gripped the dirt and slid to a stop in the gravel parking lot of the secluded range.

As he sat in his car, he listened to the shots from the other shooters echo off the surrounding hills. Each gunshot seemed to ricochet down the rugged valley as if it was escaping the scene of a crime. Listening to the amicable cracks, his heart felt calm, and his mind was at ease. This was a place that just seemed right, almost welcoming. If a psychologist ever asked him to go to his happy place, it would be here. Instantly, the thought that society might condemn him for not choosing something more romantic, or socially acceptable, like the arms of his beloved wife entered his mind like a damning indictment from Inspector Javert from Les Misérables, but if he was being totally honest, he had to admit, albeit apologetically, that this would be the place. It was unpretentious and truthful. If you didn’t aim true, you missed, and no excuses were entertained. It didn’t profess to be anything it wasn’t. Although bucolic and Spartan, it functioned and generously met his needs.

This rustic spot carved out of the mountains served as both a proving ground for new projects as well as a therapeutic venue where he could find momentary solace and restitution. TI unbuckled his seatbelt, unlocked his door, and planted his boots firmly in the gravel before walking to the back of his truck to collect his range bag and pistol. He put on his ear and eye protection as he retrieved the gun he was here to test. The gun du jour was a traditional 1911 chambered in .45 ACP, but the best part was that it was made from an 80 percent frame, so it had no serial number. Normally, TI preferred a modern striker fired pistol. He carried both a Glock and a Smith & Wesson Shield every day, but he appreciated the watch-like precision that was stereotypical of a 1911 as well as the manufacturing challenge it presented. He knew that if the various pieces didn’t fit exactly and in mechanical harmony, the gun simply wouldn’t run but instead would fail miserably in a series of galling feeding malfunctions. On the other hand, John Browning, the American genius of firearm designs, made the right, some say inspired, choice with regards to the angle of the grip. With an angle of 118 degrees, a 1911 fit a shooters’ hand like a proverbial glove, and other than holding his wife’s hand, nothing else compared. Some even went so far as to call it perfect. Not bad for a design over a century old. It has been said that a 1911 is like a supermodel. It’s simply beautiful. The pistol has attractive curves and sparkles in the sunlight, like a finely faceted diamond. It’s definitely the kind of gun you’d be proud to have on your side and pridefully show off to your friends.

However, also like a supermodel, a 1911 can be temperamental, some would even say demanding. For example, you cannot simply feed it any pedestrian ammunition. It likes what it likes and is renowned for not properly cycling the cheap stuff. Also, due to its tight tolerances, it requires an almost-ritualistic regiment of cleaning and attention to detail. None of this was typical of a Glock. They might be unsophisticated, some even call them blocky and ugly—like a biker chick with tattoos, worn leathers, and smelling of motor oil and stale beer—but they are always ready to mix it up. Because of its simplicity and loose tolerances, a Glock went bang every time the trigger was pressed and after all the debate, that’s what was needed in a gunfight. The common Glock has between thirty-three to thirty-four stamped metal, easy to drop-in parts, whereas depending on the model, a 1911 may have as many as fifty-seven to nearly eighty pieces, each one requiring precise workmanship.

TI fed seven rounds into the thin single stack magazine before firmly seating it into the mag well and pulling back the slide to load the chamber. So far, so good, he thought as he pointed the unproven pistol down range. He delighted in the smoothness of the trigger pull. It was light, crisp, and had a very short sharp reset. Some described it as breaking a thin glass rod. As he pressed the trigger, the gun fired, sending a satisfying shutter up his arm and into his body. The squatty .45 caliber projectile exploded out of the threaded barrel at 850 feet per second and smashed into a steel plate hanging twenty-five yards down range. The instant gratification of an audible ring confirmed the gun fired, and the suppressor height sights were aligned properly. After taking a cleansing breath and readjusting his grip, TI rapid fired the pistol to slide lock. Freedom! he roared in his best Braveheart impression.

The slide is a bit stiff and so is the slide safety, TI told himself. Nothing a little more filing and some lithium grease won’t fix. After loading another magazine, he rapidly emptied it through the barrel and then collected his gear and left. His ephemeral foray into self-indulgence had been satisfied. Normally, he’d spend more time at the range, but it had already been a long day. He’d had a very early morning phone conference with a security chief in Kabul, Afghanistan. Kabul was eleven and a half hours ahead of his Utah home, which converted any live call into a Zero Dark Thirty event. Yet he was more than happy to make the sacrifice of rolling out of a warm bed stateside. The alternative was being away from his home and family. This was sexy when he was younger, but at this stage in his life, it had lost its one-time appeal. He had done his fair share of world travel, mostly as a young Marine in the less-than-luxurious confines of a C-130, or the belly of a troop ship. Now, TI enjoyed the enviable title of security consultant. Being a consultant didn’t require him to travel to far off war zones, and it paid much better. Tire Iron’s reputation was well-known, and those in positions of authority enthusiastically sought after his wisdom and opinions.

As he navigated down the mountain toward the highway, his cell phone came to life with the unique ringtone associated with his wife, Janette.

I know. It’s getting late, he hurriedly justified as he answered the call. I’m on my way back as we speak.

That’s good to hear, but it’s not why I called, his wife lovingly answered. Will you swing by the grocery store on your way home? I’m out of butter. I used what we had on the mashed potatoes.

No problem, TI replied, relieved that he wasn’t in trouble. Do you need anything else?

Nope. That’s all. Then Janette added, Please, get home in time to take a shower before your niece arrives. I don’t want you smelling like gun oil and the range at the dinner table.

"But the last time I did, you said that combination was better than Polo," TI reminded his wife in a mischievous but playful way.

That’s between you and me. Your niece doesn’t need the distraction, Janette fired back coquettishly. Anyway, that would be weird.

TI chuckled at Janette’s good-natured tease before agreeing with his wife and ending the exchange. Janette’s call had reminded him that his niece, Sandy, would be coming over for dinner. TI’s older brother, Sam, lived 380 miles south in the city of St. George.

Sandy, his only daughter and child, was attending the University of Utah, and TI had been appointed her unofficial guardian angel while she was away from home. TI remembered how difficult it was for Sam and his wife to see their daughter leave home. Even though she was only four hours away, they acted like she was going to school in another country. They had adopted Sandy as a baby after a difficult twelve-year ordeal with infertility treatments. Sandy was definitely Sam’s North Star, his touchstone. She was daddy’s little girl in every possible way, and if it wasn’t for the fact that TI agreed to watch over her, Sam would never have allowed her out of his sight.

As TI pulled into the grocery store parking lot, he drove methodically. Not only was he looking for a parking space, but he was also observing the people as they entered and exited the store. Were they acting appropriately?