Second Chance

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

June 1990

He could see how someone would love this place. He imagined himself sitting in an Adirondack chair and looking out at the lake. He imagined it was still early, the sun barely over the eastern mountain and dew still on other chairs and the grass. He loved the morning at lakes like this one, with the cool air awaking his senses, the waterfowl beginning to stir, and the quiet stillness making it possible for him to hear the lapping of the water against the beach sand. In another place and time, he would use the cabin and surrounding forest as a respite, a place to escape the drudgery of everyday life or a place where he could overcome writer’s block. However, reality wasn’t like that.

Micah Vaughn sat on pine straw and against a pine tree. He needed to reload his Sigma, a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol, and found cover behind this tree. He used two 16-round magazines during the ambush, emptying them into the cabin. He wasn’t sure if any of his shots had hit the two men inside, but their return fire wasn’t as rapid recently.

His heart was pounding. He was sweating. He was bleeding for two wounds; a flesh wound, a scratch, on his left shoulder and shrapnel in his right thigh, parts of a .22 bullet entering his body after first hitting his car. Though he had been a private investigator for five years and had qualified to carry a concealed weapon, this is the first time he’s had to use it in anger. The words his father told him when Vaughn received his concealment license ran through his mind, “If you’re going to remove it from the holster, you better damn kill the person!” He shook his head: he didn’t know if he killed one of them or not.

The private investigator ejected the spent magazine, removed a full one from the ammo belt he put across his chest, and slammed it into the gun. He pulled back on the pistol, placing a bullet into the chamber, and peeked around the tree. He swallowed hard, knowing this action would draw fire.

The bullet ricocheted a few feet in front of him, kicking up some straw and dirt. Through the small dust cloud, he saw only one of the men appearing out through an empty window. The agency identified the man as Coles Eades. The researchers said this man was former Army, served ten years without trouble, reaching the rank of technical sergeant before leaving with an honorable discharge. Vaughn learned that the man had a background in hand-to-hand combat, teaching recruits for the last three years of his service. He also received information that told him Eades was just an average gunman.

The last bit should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. He was in a life-or-death situation and knowing the better shooter of the two was not firing at him didn’t matter. A man with an angry gun was still an angry man with a gun. He retreated to the safety of the tree and tried to come up with a plan, one that had him run right to the cabin, gun firing wildly. Nicknamed Chance for having received a second chance at life at three-years-old, he didn’t want to test it now. He needed to come up with a better course of action. He closed his eyes and quickly thought of how to attack Eades safely, without losing his own life.

He knew the direct route wouldn’t work. The former sergeant had the benefit of protection, of being behind walls, albeit ones that were rotting away and full of holes. No, that was a suicide plan.

He thought of heading into the forest and circling around, surprising Eades from the rear. It would have been a great idea, if his thigh weren’t throbbing; reminding him that he had lead in his body. He reached down and felt. It was damper, wetter, than the last time he touched it. He looked down: his right pant leg was a mess of blood and dirt. This damage was bad. He knew it. If he survived this ambush, he would be spending days in the hospital recuperating. Because of this, circling around was out.

Chance thought slinking to the lake, using the grass mounds in front of the beach as cover. He turned and crawled on his belly to the shore. He traveled a few yards before a shot echoed off the distant mountains. Eades shot randomly, believing he was behind the pine. This could work: Chance was out of the line of fire. He reached the soft black sands of the mountain lake and relaxed a moment. He needed it.

He was feeling the blood loss. He was tired. He was dehydrated. He reached into the cold water and cupped his hand. The liquid felt good. It cleared his mind some. He felt an energy burst, one that could get him further down the beach to where he could see the gunman better, but he knew he needed to rest more. He cupped some more water.

“Give it up Vaughn,” Eades called out. He knew Vaughn had moved and wanted to know where. “You know you can’t leave here.” Another shot rang. Vaughn saw a dust cloud rise from his previous location. He smiled inwardly.

Chance stayed silent. Though he was inexperienced in gunfights, he used common sense and didn’t react, knew not to give out his location.

“You know if you do get out of here, we’ll go see that daughter of yours. You know the one that you rarely see because she thinks you’re a lousy father. The one that thinks you should have married her mother.”

He knew it was the truth. Maria was just eight but she was very wise and intelligent. Her mother was a 25-year-old full professor of Mathematics when Chance met her in 1982. She was not his teacher, just someone that covered his Pre-Calculus class. Theresa San Mateo was a beautiful redhead with dark green eyes and when he looked into them for the first time, he felt something. She did too, because she immediately came to him and told him to meet her after class.

Their affair was passionate though short-lived, lasting until the New Year. She left the city, telling him that she was returning home to New York City to work for IBM. He didn’t hear from her until July of 1983 when she called to tell him they had a seven pound, five ounce baby girl she named after her maternal grandmother. Chance wanted to marry her, asked her to do so, but she declined, telling him he could raise the girl by herself.

Chance did see Maria frequently, Theresa and her returned to Schenectady in the fall of 1983. Every time they were together, he asked her mother to marry him, which the woman declined. Over the years, the proposals became infrequent, finally ending when the girl entered kindergarten.

Maria did mince words, however, her anger that her parents weren’t like her friends’ parents. She wanted hers to be married, to live together. She wanted the idyllic family situation. Her disappointment was beginning to wane. The last time Chance saw her, she told him that it was good that he didn’t live with her and her mother.

“Mommy’s been spoiling me more,” were her first words to him when she buckled in his car. He smiled: they weren’t going to argue.

Chance wanted to tell Eades that Maria was now fine with him not married to her mother, that she’s made peace with them never marrying. He opened his mouth to answer, but the shot that fired made him close it. He went to take another drink of water when he saw them, three round stones the size of baseballs, and a new plan materialized in his mind.

He quickly took a few more sips of water and grabbed the lake stones. He put two in his pockets and readied himself. He would throw the first stone over the cabin, distracting the gunman enough to allow Chance to hobble away from the water’s edge. He would throw a second stone towards his original hiding spot. That distraction would let the private investigator burst onto the porch and into the door, where he’d open fire and kill Eades. Chance took a few deep breaths and crawled to a grassy knoll. He peered over it and saw a rifle barrel still pointing at the pine.

“It’s now or never,” he mumbled to himself. He stood and launched the stone. He heard it land on metal, more than likely the tin roof on the back porch. He saw the rifle leave the window frame. Chance crawled up the knoll and tried to sprint across the field grass and wildflower choked lawn. He threw the second rock, missing his target by a few yards.

“You’re an idiot,” he heard Eades say before another shot rang out. It worked.

Chance tried to run faster, but his leg gave, caused him to stumble before he reached the potted and broken boards of the porch. He rushed towards the door, steeled himself for the crash against hard wood.

The door, once ornate now, had rotted to almost nothing. It exploded when Chance’s body hit it. The Sigma was in his right hand, ready to fire when he entered the cabin.

“Hello,” the private investigator said before he pulled the trigger three times, each bullet hitting the target. Eades fell to the floor, blood coming from holes to his left shoulder, stomach, and forehead. Chance did not holster his weapon as he approached the fallen advisory, unsure of whether or not he was still alive. He kicked at him with his Timberlands: the wide-eyed man did not move.

He placed his pistol away and leaned down. He closed the man’s eyes. He turned to his left and saw the other man, Eric Judge, seated on an old leather chair. His head and neck bent backwards, telling Chance that he, too, was dead. He sighed heavily and collapsed onto the floor, the pain and blood loss made him woozy for a moment.

“I should have listened to her,” he thought, she being his secretary, Marcy Hunter. Earlier, she had told him that he was walking into an ambush. She told him that Van Rossum and his men didn’t want to meet peacefully and discuss the information he had. Mrs. Hunter told him that Van Rossum had the location; someone from the agency had leaked it to him.

“I’ll be careful Mrs. Hunter,” he told her when he left the office. Now, as he sat bleeding and in need of a doctor, he knew she was right. He should not have come.

He sat on the floor for ten minutes before attempting to stand. The thigh was now too painful, the exertion to run from the beach too much. He fell back down, onto his hands and knees. He pushed himself back up, this time putting no weight on his right leg.

He hopped out of the cabin, off the porch, and headed to his car. He saw that it survived the shootout with just a few holes. He smiled, believing that he’d survived his first gunfight. He was a few yards from the Chevy when he felt the pain of a bullet entering him back.

Van Rossum was there. He didn’t see the executive when he arrived; thought the man wouldn’t soil his hands with this task. He was wrong. Chance fell to the ground. His breathing became immediately difficult. He knew the bullet hit a lung.

He looked up and saw he was close to his car. He gathered strength and crawled to it. Another shot rang, this one hitting just to his left. He crept faster. He went in front of the car and relaxed a moment: he had cover.

Chance opened the door and pulled himself in. The key was still in the ignition. That was a good sign. He turned on the car, and tried to sit up. He fell to his right: pain was great. He fell on an envelope of pictures, a gift the previous day from his sister Veronica.

They were from a prom he attended eight years previously, forgotten about and packed away in his mother’s home. She told him that she found them while she and their mother were cleaning out the attic, looking for baby pictures of their youngest sister Stephanie. She gave them to him during lunch. He was going to look at them better when he got home, but never brought them inside.

Two pictures fell out under him. He pushed himself up and looked at them. He saw the smiling, innocent face of his younger self, turned towards the more loving face of his date, his first love, Antoinette De Fiore. The same electricity he felt when he first saw her ten years ago coursed through his body.

“I miss you,” he caught himself saying. He tried again to sit. This time, he had nothing left and stayed down. He began to see darkness creep into the edges of his sight. He tried to take a normal breath, but it hurt. He couched and knew there was blood coming from his mouth.

Chance heard footsteps on the gravel outside the car. Again, he tried to get up, sit and drive away. Nothing happened. He coughed again.

The passenger door opened. He heard a laugh in the distance. The darkness was creeping more into his vision. He knew he was going to pass out soon.

Chance raised his head slightly, faced the man. He knew it was Van Rossum; it could be no one else. He saw the barrel of a pistol facing him. Chance fell back down, resigned himself to his fate.

He heard a shot ring out in the distance as the darkness enveloped him.



The teenager awoke with a start, his ears still hearing a gunshot. He looked around and saw that he was in familiar surroundings: his bedroom. He sighed heavily in realization that it was just a dream, but he felt pain in his shoulder, in his back. He felt pain, albeit slight, when he breathed. His right thigh burned faintly.

It was just a dream, he reassured. He didn’t know why he still felt where bullets had entered his body, but comforted himself that it didn’t happen.

“Don’t be so sure,” someone in his mind whispered.

He jumped out of bed. “What in the Hell?”