The Man From Mars - Episode Forty One

   The three Filipina women, the Filipino man, and myself, all look to Tiny for guidance.
   I had just gotten out of the restroom of this so called safe house, when the Filipino guy came running into our room stating, "They're here."
   With the three women now looking around and holding butcher knives, Tiny gives orders in Tagalog.
   "Ladies, tapusin na sa paglilinis ng silid at sa iyo, kumuha ng sasakyan ko handa."
   (Ladies, finish cleaning up the room, and you get my car ready.)
   The newcomer, who had given Tiny the information, jackrabbits out of the room once he hears his orders. The three ladies go back to finishing up their cleaning and bagging up the dead body.
   Then, Tiny tightly grabs me by my upper arm, and starts dragging me out of the bedroom, down a flight of stairs, through the enfilade, and finally into the garage with a waiting, running, Mercedes-Benz SL 65 AMG inside.
   The whole time I am yelling through the pain, "I can walk you know."

   The Filipino man was inside the garage, holding the driver's door open, so Tiny could get in as quickly as possible.
   He did this, after tossing me to the passenger side of the car, like a rag doll, saying with gritted teeth, "Hurry up and get in."
   His demeanor showed me that the situation must be dire, so I did as he said.
   Before I had my seat-belt on, and with the garage door swiftly going up, we were off. Almost clipping the top of the Mercedes with the bottom of the door as it went upwards.
   Tiny was not about to waste any precious time.
   No sooner did the front of the car peak it's nose past the front of the garage, did a hail of bullets start pounding every inch of the vehicle.
   The end of the driveway was blocked off by two huge black SUVs, and I could clearly see through bullet proof glass that, that was where the machine gun fire was coming from.
   With the sounds ricocheting pings ringing in my ears, I realized what I was thinking.
   Machine gun fire?
   My mind had turned this scenario into a nineteen-twenties gangster movie to help me cope with the situation.
   I'm sure these guys were professional mercenaries. Carrying the latest assault rifles. Maybe the Singapore Bullpup Combat Rifle or the Heckler & Koch HK416. Something with a lot more bite to it then the old Thompson machine gun.
   Yet nothing happened to us. The Mercedes just kept rolling along.
   We get halfway down the driveway, and with Tiny never taking his foot off the accelerator, he veers to our right, through a line of huge Mesquite Texas trees. With the lower outlining branches already trimmed for a tunnel effect, I would assume, for just such an occasion.
   So no branches would be in our way.
   Not that they would impede our progress if assault riffles couldn't. They were probably trimmed so they wouldn't be a distraction on a getaway.
   I took a look to my left and saw a line of five men, now on the other side of the two vehicles, rapid firing in our direction. I didn't see any bullets ricocheting off the windows any longer, so my best guess is, they were trying to shoot out the tires.
   But we just kept moving speedily away. Bouncing up and down, as we rode over the roots of trees, which were sticking slightly up out of the ground. 
   Tiny veers to his right once more, aiming for an open area past the prearranged planted line of trees.
   We were about to reach a crest of a small hill, where I couldn't see what is on the other side, so I panicked and yelled, "Tiny!" With all the trepidation and fear I could muster in my voice.
   I should have known Tiny knew what he was doing. Maybe practicing this escape route on more than one occasion.
   After jumping the small hill, where as, we maybe only got off the ground an inch or two, we land on the far end of a small airport's runway. Again, with Tiny never taking his foot off the accelerator.
   "Not another puking helicopter ride?" I ask anxiously.
   He never had time to answer my question, because, by the time I was finished asking it, we are already sliding up, next to a Global 8000 Bombardier Aircraft. With the jet engines already running of course.
   I knew what type of craft it was, because of the big letters telling me so, painted up and down the rudder.
   We hop out of the car, run up the lowered staircase, with Tiny barking orders for me to strap myself in, while he goes forward to the cockpit.
   The private jet starts moving slowly forward, with the pilot angling the plane straight down the runway. Then the G forces hit me hard, pushing me back hard against my seat, as we start to takeoff.
   I do have enough strength in my neck and enough time to look out my passenger side window.
   Before we get too far away from the Mercedes, I see the same Filipino man hopping inside and driving off in the opposite direction.
   To no one in particular, I say to myself, "He has to be a twin brother!"

To Be Continued.....

Hopefully Next Week.

This is,

Noticing I Don't Recover From Surgery

Like I Used To

When I Was Young,

Jim Hauenstein,

And,

“Ever seen a bullet-smashed windscreen? The hole at the center becomes an eye. You see less through it but you gain focus, a sharpness.”
- Bilal Tanweer, -

That is my story and I am sticking to it!

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