Richard Fyre woke up with a jolt. His hand flew to his bedside table, hand wrapping around the textured black grip of his old Marine M9A1. He looked around, and realized it was just him, lying in bed, in his own house. So he released his gun and pulled himself out of bed, and began his morning routine. 

He quickly changed his clothes into his Redman County Sheriff's uniform. A pair of dark tan trousers, a black t-shirt, and a black jacket; marked with patches and identification. Next went his “belt”, a heavy combat belt held up by a suspender system . On the belt was a radio system, a few magazines for his pistol, a fixed blade knife, a flashlight, and his HK45 sidearm. 

He left his house quickly, anxious to get to work, only stopping on the way out the door for his rifle, shotgun, and hat. He got into his patrol vehicle, a modified Ford Raptor, and gunned the V8 engine. He was soon roaring down the old dirt road from his house on his way to the Sheriff's station and county jail, in the town of Redman.

Within ten minutes he was parking outside of the building, and was just stepping out of the car when multiple long burst of gunshots rang from inside. Panic ensued on the town square,  but not Fyre, he leapt into action, freeing the HK from its holster, and pulling back the hammer. He kicked the door down, shattering the the dead bolt, and ran into action. The first thing he saw was the junior deputy on the force, gun in hand, four bullets in his chest. Then he walked into the main office, and saw the assailant, just as he was diving through the window. Fyre reacted in a split second, gun flying up and putting a .45 ACP bullet in the man’s leg. He rushed to the window, only to find the man had disappeared.

He looked around the office, seeing his partners, and friends, lying on the ground, or slumped over chairs and desks, all riddled with bullet holes, most with their service pistols still holstered. Then he heard a scream from outside the office, and rushed to see what had happened. A young waitress at the nearby diner had decided to see what had happened, and had found the junior deputy’s body. Fyre did his best to calm her down, then brought her outside, only to find  that the Redman City Police Department, 18 men in all, had surrounded the building. 

He had just made sure that an officer was blocking the door when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. A large beefy man, wearing a heavy trench coat despite the 85 degree heat was walking away from the scene, and with a notable limp as well. Fyre drew his sidearm, and called out to the man “You there! Stop or I will fire!” The man stopped where he was, and Fyre began to walk forward. But then the big man suddenly spun, hand reaching out from under the coat. In the hand was a HK MP5k, a small submachine gun chambered in 9mm. Before the man could pull the trigger, Fyre already had. The heavy bullet striking the big man in the throat. The round struck just under the man’s sizable adam’s apple, breaking through the skin and muscle, shattering his spine into pieces before flying through the back of his neck, lodging into a brick wall. 

The big man died in seconds, just enough time for Fyre to see what was in his other hand. The C4 remote detonator brought back memories from his time in Iraq, and he knew the damage that any amount of C4 could do. It happened in a split second, the man pressed the button on the detonator, and Fyre emptied all 12 rounds from his mag into the man’s chest.

There was no delay on the detonator. The second the big man pressed the button six buildings from all over the square exploded into flames. 

By the time Fyre recovered from the shockwave, the first State Troopers had arrived. The square was in ruins, half the buildings either crumbling or on fire. 150 people had died in the blasts, far more injured.

Fyre overheard one of the troopers saying that they already had a lead, saying the address to his partner. So Richard Fyre, last man of the Redman County Sheriff’s Department, slipped out of the ambulance he was sitting on, changed mags in his HK, and hopped in his truck. 

He was roaring down the highway, long since leaving his county lines when the truck pulled in front of him, he laid on the horn, never noticing the other truck pulling behind him. Then it happened, a semi truck, 20 tons of metal, rammed his pickup. The driver side crumpled, airbags ejected, and Fyre was thrown through the windshield..

Fyre woke up in a ditch, every part of him hurting. He patted himself down, checking for holes, or other grievous wounds, his ankle was broken for sure, so were a few of his ribs, there was a piece of glass sticking out of his left arm. Then he heard the noise. Footsteps, getting closer, Fyre reached for his pistol, but it had flown free during the crash. He looked around him, looking for his gun. There! His rifle, a FN M4A1, still with a mag in the gun. He snatched it up preparing for a fight with whomever rammed him. But it was one of the State Troopers, who recognized his uniform and rushed to his aid, holstering his own pistol.

Then Fyre saw them, four men, each wearing full combat gear and ski masks each with AK74s. One of them raised his rifle and shot the trooper, he was dead before he hit the ground. The others kept walking forward. Fyre raised his own rifle, chambered a round, flipped the safety, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun spewed fire, eight rounds of 5.56x45 flying out of the barrel. One man fell, and the others fired their weapons, a bullet hit Fyre in the leg, he didn't even flinch. He held the trigger, spraying rounds into the three men. He kept up the fire until it stopped firing with “CLICK”. Out of ammo. The barrel was smoking, the brake had turned red hot. All three men were lying on the ground, dead as a doornail.

Fyre pulled himself to his feet, using the M4 as a cane. The blood from his leg seeped into his boot. Blood flowed freely from multiple lacerations all over his body. He walked over to the dead trooper, grabbed the man's radio, and called for help. Then he lifted the man onto his shoulders and hobbled to the road. 

When the EMTs and State Troopers arrived on the scene, they found Fyre and the dead trooper leaning against the guardrail. Fyre’s uniform was soaked with blood, from both himself and the trooper. They thought he was dead until he rose from his position. Fyre walked to one of the trooper’s car, a Dodge Charger, got into the driver’s seat, and drove away, engine roaring, sirens blaring, and the shouts of the other’s falling onto deaf ears. 

As he drove a grim smile fell onto his face. He was back to war.