Bikers harass an obese farmer at the market, unaware he is a retired Delta Force Commander.
Punches were delivered quickly to the obese farmer’s jaw. James Cooper remained calm. He seized the biker’s punch midair, twisted it precisely, and muttered, “Not today.” Storm riders screamed and bones snapped in Eagle’s rest market.
Nobody knew the overweight tomato seller had slain more foes than the gang. They believed they were harassing nobody. They erred. wrong as hell. Before we begin, subscribe and stay with me to the end. Leave a comment with your city so I can track this story’s progress.
You won’t want to miss what occurs next. James Cooper cleaned his forehead with a worn rag. The early morning light griddled Eagle’s Rest Farmers Market asphalt. The corner nearest Main Street was his stand. His appearance was offset by orderly rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers.
342 lb. The scale stated so last week. James no longer cared about statistics, but others did, especially those who valued men by their waistlines. Good morning, James. Coffee-holding Sheriff Tom Anderson stopped by. Despite the heat, his uniform was sharp. Good morning, Tom.
James
Be grateful. Tom nodded and left, shoulders tense. James has seen similar anxiety in warriors who knew something horrible was coming but couldn’t see it. Markets filled swiftly. Mrs. Henderson bought her customary 3 lbs. of tomatoes. Their mother shouted in rapid Spanish as the Martinez youngsters rushed between stands.
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Someone had harmed the timeline. Well, well. See what we have. The voice chainsawed the market’s pleasant buzz. Conversations ended. Faces turned. Lance Python Kingston led five storm riders through the market.
The 6’4″ tattooed man wore a leather vest that promoted violence. He learned early that fear was cash. They headed to James’s stand. Fat man, do you sell food? Python stopped 3 feet away, his boots bringing dirt to James’s perfectly organized veggies.
James responded, “I do,” steadily meeting his gaze without resistance. “Food! ” Python squeezed a tomato till juice spilled down his fingers, then dropped it. “You eat a lot of your product, Porky? ” His gang mocked Q.’s mechanical harshness. James remained silent. He heard worse in Arabic. Russian Pashto.
Words were sounds until you empowered them. Fat boy, I inquired. The Python leaned in. His breath smelled like old beer and smoke. James replied simply. I like tomatoes. More giggles. Mrs. Henderson held her frozen shopping bag. The Martinez youngsters were quiet. Sheriff Tom was presumably on a convenient emergency radio call.
Python’s arm crossed the stand. Pavement tomato explosions. Rolling cucumbers entered the street. Green pepper confetti. “Oops,” Python grinned. “Butter fingers.” James surveyed the devastation before returning to Python. Mild, friendly attention was his constant expression.
But something flashed in his eyes like lightning before everybody saw. “Accidents happen,” James remarked. Accidents. Python approached James, his chest almost touching his large belly. You know my opinion? Think you’re more than fat. You seem soft. You’re the weak garbage that makes our country pitiful. May be. James concurred. Python’s face grew.
Bullies loathed opposition and acceptance. James merely gave him the latter. You mocking me? No, sir. I concur with your opinion. Sir. Python laughed forcedly. Uncertain. You hear that obese man believes I’m a sir? One of the younger motorcyclists with a scorpion tattoo on his neck stepped forward.
Python, perhaps we should teach him etiquette. Maybe we should. Python agreed. James’ shirt was in his fist. Would Porky like a lesson? The phone buzzed again in James’ pocket. He didn’t need to verify. It was clear to him. Abort confirmed. After eight years of work and patience, Lance Kingston, a small-time enforcer for something bigger, threatened to ruin it all because James wouldn’t give him the fear response he wanted.
James answered slowly, I think you should let off of my shirt. Python blinks. He chuckled a real laugh. Think, think. Pulling back his fist. In close battle, James killed 43 soldiers. He battled in Yemeni training camps and Afghan Fallujah mountain cave cellars. He could disarm Python in 4 seconds, shatter his collarbone in 7, and knock him out in 1.
2, but one move would wipe out 8 years of coverage. The fist advanced. James made a slight weight change, like combat veterans do reflexively. Python missed his face with a blow off his shoulder. “Are you slippery?” The Python snarled. “Just lucky,” James added. A black SUV approached the market.
“Dark windows. Improper government plates. Misconfiguration. incorrect glass reflectivity. Python saw it. From predatory to alert, his expression shifted instantaneously. He answered, “We’re not done here, fat man,” backing away. “Not even close.” Storm bikers sped out of the parking lot with motors blaring.
Black SUV didn’t follow. The engine idled. James gingerly picked up fruit, knees complaining. His hands were calm, but his mind raced. Instead of the sheriff, FBI Agent Sarah Martinez posed as his customer.
That’s sloppy. “They’re escalating,” James whispered, dropping tomatoes into a basket. Three months early. We saw the SUV. Neither ours nor theirs. Then who? The question. James rose up, grumbling half-heartedly. The Storm Riders are foot warriors. Always were. Someone gives them confidence.
Intelligence underestimated weapons shipment speed. Python’s not smart enough to plan. Sarah pretended to study a cucumber. 48-hour bundle. Now there’s a company observing the watchers. Do we leave? James regarded her. Really regarded her.
Former army intelligence officer Sarah, 32, joined the FBI’s organized crime branch. She handled him for 3 years. He never questioned his techniques. He never doubted his cover. Finally, he said no. We’re too close. If you’re exposed, James. Not so. His delicate, somewhat uncomfortable smile had been mastered over eight years.
I’m the fat farmer, remember? Sarah left her basket of uneaten vegetables. James cleaned his stand. Most of his produce was ruined, but he meticulously preserved it. Waste not, want not. Not.
He regularly heard his Delta Force commander say it while eating MREs in a godforsaken desert. Mr. Cooper. James turned. Probably 16, a girl with brilliant purple hair stood there nervously. Jenny’s daughter is Emma. Hi Emma. Mom needs something. She stated the coffeemaker broke again. Needs your touch. Real smile from James.
Jenny’s, a little cafe three streets away, had good coffee and pie. His operations hub had communication equipment buried behind the walk-in freezer. Announce my hourly arrival. Emma nodded and fled, purple hair bouncing. Black SUV was still there. James loaded his last produce into his 1987 Ford pickup vehicle, which leaked oil and smelled dirty.
Excellent camouflage for a man who wished to blend in. He drove leisurely, observing the town. Eagle’s Rest had about 8,000 people. Four churches, two taverns, one high school, and a 1985-frozen main street. The environment where everyone knew each other was ideal for certain procedures.
