Chương 14: Chapter 13: "Toledo Steel"

After I finished eating, I grabbed my gear and started configuring everything at the kitchen table. My tactical vest was a heavy nylon shell that held my old level 3A soft body armor panels. It was designed to stop shrapnel and most handgun calibers, and while it wouldn't do a damn thing against stabbing weapons, it was a hell of a lot better than a long-sleeve shirt. On the outside, the vest was set up exactly how I used to carry it: my ASP collapsible baton, a canister of O. C.

pepper spray, two pairs of handcuffs, a spare cuff key, and a dedicated pouch for the radio. I clipped my tactical gloves to one of the shoulder straps. They were heavy-duty nylon with molded carbon-fiber knuckles—perfect for smashing someone in the face if a situation went south. Next, I took my leather tool belt and stripped off the knife sheaths and the hammer loop, sliding them directly onto my duty belt.

I adjusted the placement, making sure the heavy framing hammer sat far enough back that it wouldn't interfere with drawing my firearm. Finally, I checked my get-home bag, which I could now officially classify as an assault pack. I crammed a couple of fresh bottles of water and two cans of beef stew into the empty spaces. I might only be driving ten miles outside the city limits, but I had no intention of getting caught away from base without my ruck and survival gear.

I unstrapped the target arrows I'd gotten from Dan and replaced them with my own quiver. These arrows were tipped with standard tri-bladed broadheads. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened my status screen to check how the System calculated the gear. I was floored to see my Armor Class had jumped significantly: Armor Class: 25 The System broke it down cleanly. I still got a baseline point each for my t-shirt, boots, BDU top and bottoms.

The carbon-fiber gloves gave me another point, plus a bludgeoning damage rating of 3–5. But the real kicker was the tactical vest, which the System classified as "light armor," granting a massive flat bonus of 20 points. Fully dressed and geared up, forty pounds of my carrying capacity was officially spoken for. I hoisted the ruck, grabbed my recurve bow, and turned to Denise, ready to head back out into the night. She looked me up and down, her brow furrowing.

"Something is missing." I smiled.

"Oh yeah? And what's that, baby?"

"Hold on," she said, turning on her heel and heading down the hallway toward one of the back bedrooms. When she walked back into the kitchen, she was carrying a long, ornate hand-and-a-half broadsword resting in a leather-bound wooden scabbard. I froze. My breath hitched in my throat. I had hoped they managed to grab it when they cleared the house, but seeing it right here in front of me was something else entirely. I carefully set my ruck and bow back on the linoleum and stepped toward her.

Taking the heavy scabbard in my left hand, I wrapped my right fingers around the grip and drew the blade a few inches. The steel caught the dim solar light, and my Inspect ability triggered instantly: The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. [You have found: Broadsword of the Miller. Rarity: Rare. Quality: Exquisite. Damage: 50 Slashing, 50 Piercing. Traits: Sharpened, Cleave.] I stared at the floating text, absolutely amazed.

Not only did it pack some serious damage stats, but it was a named weapon, specifically recognized by the System as belonging to my family. My oldest son, Mike, had given me this sword right after he enlisted in the Army, pairing it with our family crest hung on a military guidon. Nothing mattered more to me than family, and this blade represented my absolute will to protect them.

It was a masterpiece, hand-forged by one of the last two traditional artisans in Toledo, Spain, who still practiced the historic fifth-century techniques of hardening and tempering steel. The Cleave trait was self-explanatory, but I focused my mind on the Sharpened text to see what it actually meant: [Sharpened: Perpetually sharp. This blade carries a razor's edge that never requires maintenance. It is said a sharpened blade cuts with its wielder's will.] I slammed the blade back into its scabbard with a sharp, metallic clack and pulled Denise into a crushing embrace, burying my face in her neck.

"God, I fucking love you," I whispered.

"Thank you, baby."

"I fucking love you too, my love," she whispered back, holding me tight.

"You didn't think I'd let my warrior go out there unarmed and unprepared, did you?"

"I'm a Ranger, honey," I corrected softly, a smirk spreading across my face.

"The class is Ranger." Denise pulled back, playfully slapping my armored chest.

"Oh, geez. Put your red pen away, Mr. Technical." Her expression softened, and she gripped my vest, pulling me back in for one last, deep kiss.

"Just come home to me."

"I will. I promise." Holding the sword, I grabbed my ruck and bow. I gave a sharp whistle to Dog, who immediately stood up from his ham bone, and headed out into the dark garage. I tossed my bow, ruck, and the broadsword onto the bench seat of Chad's old square-body truck. I turned to Dog, who was eyeing the passenger side.

"Sorry, bud. You're way too big to ride up front with me." I dropped the heavy steel tailgate and patted the bed.

"Up." Dog vaulted into the truck bed without a second thought, his heavy paws landing with a dull thud.

"You ready to roll?" Chad asked, walking out into the driveway behind me.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I said, turning around.

"Shouldn't take too long. I just need to verify my mom and Alex are secure, and then I'm making a straight line back here."

"Here," Chad said, reaching into his pocket and handing me a heavy, gold-colored pocket watch.

"No electronic components to fry, but I've kept the mainspring wound tight, so the time is dead-on." I clicked the latch open. The mechanical hands pointed right at 4: 00 AM.

"Thanks, Chad. I shouldn't be gone for more than two hours. If I'm not back by 0600, hit me up on the radio net. The signal will reach out that far, right?"

"Absolutely," Chad nodded.

"These are high-grade, police-issue units. They'll pull a clear signal past thirty miles, and I know you aren't venturing anywhere near that far out."

"Perfect. Does Frank have his unit online? I want to keep comms active while we're driving."

"Already gave him a handset and a backup charging cradle," Chad said with a proud smile.

"You two can stay in constant contact until we assemble a better plan." I laughed, shaking my head.

"I never should've doubted you, old man. You were definitely ready for the world to end."

"You have to be," Chad smiled grimly. I walked over to the side yard where Frank was throwing the last of his personal gear into the back of the Ford van.

"Alright, Frank, here's the playbook." Frank paused, wiping his brow.

"How are we running it?"

"We're going to handle it exactly like we ran logistics convoys in Iraq," I explained, leaning against the van door.

"You're going to take point, and I'm going to trail you about a half-mile back. You'll have to run with your headlights on so you can actually see the asphalt, but because of my night vision, I can run completely blacked out. If you hit an ambush or roadblock, you dial me in on the radio, and I'll be right behind you to flank them. Moving as a blackout shadow means whoever tries to stop you won't ever see me coming until I'm on top of them.

If I get pinned down or caught somewhere, you just keep pushing for your house. I've got Dog in the truck bed, and we can handle our own business." Frank nodded, a serious, determined look settling over his face.

"Makes perfect sense to me. What's the routing?"

"Simple," I said, pointing toward the dark tree line.

"We track north for a couple of blocks until we hit that long country blacktop on the outskirts of town. Then we throw it in high gear and head straight east toward your place."