Safety Hazard: Wynn Garrett Series, #6

A

Wynn Garrett Series

Novel

WYNN C. GARRETT

#6

Safety

Hazard

Bruce A. Borders

BORDERS

PUBLISHING

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2013

Bruce A. Borders

Cover Design Copyright 2013

Bruce A. Borders

All Rights Reserved.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction of this book in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any informational storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express written permission of the author and publisher.

The Wynn Garrett Series

#1 Mistaken Identity

#2 Holy Terror

#3 Remote Control

#4 Judicial Review

#5 Even Odds

#6 Safety Hazard

#7 Dark Day (2014)

Warning: This book is unapologetically pro-American and anti-terrorist. It contains language that some may consider offensive. This language, along with multiple acts of violence, is directed toward Islamic radicals. If you are sympathetic to the terrorist’s cause, sensitive to criticism of radical Islam, or are easily offended by such content DO NOT READ.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About The Author

Other Books By Bruce A. Borders

CHAPTER ONE

Safety. He was sick of hearing about safety. Everywhere he looked that’s all he saw. Every last company on the planet wanted to make sure they were known for being safe.

That wouldn’t be so bad, but it was all for show. Most companies didn’t care a wit about actual safety - only how the public perceived them. And the public’s reaction was based solely on feelings.

To make things worse, new laws were being enacted at the speed of light, to force anyone who didn’t go along with the hype to comply. When it came to safety, both the government and the private sector were in full panic mode.

In most cases, this phenomenon, merely an illusion of safety, was the result of frivolous lawsuits and not borne out of any real need for precaution.

It was all so annoying.

And the most offensive to him were the orange safety vests. On any given day, the streets of the average American city looked like there had been an invasion of escaped convicts. Finding anyone not wearing one of these useless accessories was becoming a difficult task.

Safety vests were once reserved for construction workers or others who could actually benefit from them - like hunters. But these days, they could be seen virtually anywhere. Cops wore them. Truck drivers wore them. Gas station attendants, and even box boys at the supermarket all got in on the action.

The latest incarnation of the safety vest, included shirts and coats in a vast array of colors: fluorescent yellow, lime green, or whatever other color was the latest to be deemed safe. High visibility clothing they called it. And it was ever as much offensive as the original orange vests. The world was in a frenzy, a mass state of hysteria, over safety.

He frowned, mumbling to himself, Next, there’ll be a law dictating every pair of shoes have non-skid soles - and then fining people who refuse to wear them!

Whatever had happened to common sense? Most so-called dangerous situations were quite easily avoided simply by paying attention. If you’re driving - don’t run over pedestrians. If you’re walking, don’t walk out in front of cars! Those two common sense rules had kept the vast majority of people alive for decades.

He shook his head in wonder. Wearing a safety vest did not keep anyone safe. They still died if someone didn’t pay attention.

At first, he supposed, the brightly colored clothing had demanded the attention of all within the vicinity. But as the wearing of such safety attire became more prevalent, it was losing any effectiveness it once had. No one stuck out from the crowd. Not when everyone was wearing them! Drivers didn’t even seem to notice. Ironically, this left the people who thought they were being safe, right back where they had started.

The man pulled his gray, and quite dented pickup into the parking lot of the local hardware store, still grumbling to himself as he got out. In the end, he knew his complaints were futile. Long ago, he’d learned it is nearly impossible to use logic when arguing with idiots.

Shaking his head again, he blew out an exasperated sigh. If the whole world wanted to wear ugly neon colors in a hopeless effort to feel safe, he wasn’t going to stop them. But that didn’t mean he had to participate in the lunacy.

He could dismiss it all as simply an irritating fad, that is, until some moron with a little bit of power tried to mandate that he wear it. Then, the irritation would become a major problem - not for him, but for all those misfortunate individuals who thought they knew best for everyone else.

Stepping through the automatic doors, into the store, the first thing to catch his eye was a plastic yellow sign propped up on the floor. Caution - Slippery When Wet!

No kidding! he muttered. How much did they pay the college educated ‘genius’ to figure that one out for them?

Strolling casually to the rear of the store, the man nodded to the clerk behind the gun counter, looking past him to the ammunition.

Something I can help you with?

Yeah, I need ten boxes each of .45 and .38, he said.

The guy behind the counter raised a questioning eyebrow. Ten each?

The man nodded.

Instead of reaching for the requested ammunition, the clerk produced a questionnaire, clicking a pen in his right hand. Name?

I don’t see as my name is anyone’s business. I don’t need permission. It’s still legal to buy ammunition in this country.

The store clerk had heard it before and was used to the objection from customers. In a quiet tone, he explained. New regulations require us to fill out this form for anyone purchasing more than four boxes of ammo at any one time. Leave it to the government to complicate everything, he added, trying to diffuse what he thought could escalate into a dangerous situation.

I’m sure you know what you can do with your government regulations, the man spouted.

The clerk shrugged. If it bothers you that much, it’s easy enough to get around. Just buy four boxes. And then come back for another four later.

The man rolled his eyes. That would require five trips.

Yes, I know it’s a hassle.

It’s more than a hassle, the man argued. It’s a good definition of stupidity. I’d eventually leave the store with the same number of boxes either way.

The clerk nodded. I agree. Thinking a moment, he added, Tell you what, the rules don’t say anything about how long you have to wait between purchases. If you want, I’ll just ring up five different sales.

About time you figured that out, the man responded.

Ignoring the remark, the guy behind the counter scanned the four boxes of the first sale. Why do you need so many bullets?

I might need to shoot somebody, came the blunt response.

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, the clerk laughed nervously. That might be why the government wants a record of ammunition sales.

No, they want a record so they can pretend to be concerned about terrorism. Instead of focusing on the most likely suspects, namely Muslims, they target American citizens. Just like at the airport. If we had nuked all the Islamic nations on September 12th, we wouldn’t be having this problem. And maybe I wouldn’t need so much ammo.

The clerk blinked in surprise. Although he was inclined to agree with the man, and suspected many Americans felt the same way, most people were a bit reluctant to come right out and say it.

He eyed the strangely outspoken man a moment. The guy hadn’t appeared boisterous or belligerent. When he spoke, he had simply stated his opinion matter-of-factly; confidently, almost as if killing the terrorists was exactly why he wanted the ammo. Eyeing the now silent customer again, the clerk nodded to himself. If shooting terrorists is what the ammunition were for, he’d sell the man all he wanted.

Completing the sale, all five transactions, the self-confident man sauntered outside to his pickup. His house was only a mile away. That should have meant a short trip. But things in his life were never easy.

He’d driven only two blocks when he saw the red and blue flashing lights up ahead. A wreck.

Two ambulances, a fire truck, and several police cars blocked the one-way road. With no side streets to turn onto, traffic had come to a stop.

His first instinct was to back up until he could get turned around. Then he noticed the police car in his mirror. The squad car was parked off to the side, and partially obscured. Obviously, the cop was waiting for drivers to become impatient with the delay. Waiting to issue a revenue generating citation the moment anyone of them dared to disregard the sacred traffic laws.

Abruptly, the man at the wheel of the pickup pulled to the side of the road. Climbing out, he walked purposefully back toward the cop car.

The officer saw the man coming and watched him warily, not sure if the strident step indicated a disgruntled individual or not. He didn’t have to wonder long.

It would seem to be a better use of your time to block off the road at the last intersection, so no other traffic got caught behind this wreck. Then, all of us who are stuck here could turn around.

The man’s attitude didn’t set well with the police officer. You need to return to your vehicle and wait until the crash has been cleared, he directed.

Why? Is there some new law against pedestrians?

The arrogant cop gave the man a contemptuous look. No, but this is the scene of an accident and I can’t allow you to be walking around aimlessly. It’s simply too dangerous.

There it was again, safety. Apparently, that was all public officials could think of these days. If you were actually concerned about my safety, you would have parked further up the street and directed traffic around the accident, instead of sitting here waiting to pounce on anyone who tried to leave.

Get back in your vehicle, the officer ordered in a loud voice.

The man sighed. He would never learn to like cops as long as he lived. Knowing it was useless to argue, but ever willing to test the limits of his freedom as an American citizen, he turned on his heel. His jaw set in determination, he walked back to the pickup and slid inside, slamming the door shut. If the cop wanted him in his vehicle, then that’s where he’d be. And if the officer were hell-bent on issuing a citation to someone then he’d be the someone.

Turning the key, the engine roared to life under the heavy foot of the disgruntled driver. Dropping the gearshift lever into drive, he made a u-turn, calmly driving the wrong way up the street. He didn’t bother even looking at the cop as he passed.

As expected, his conversation with the police officer wasn’t over. Siren wailing, lights flashing, and burning up a few hundred dollars worth of rubber, the patrol car left the parking spot, moving in behind the gray pickup.

The driver of the pickup pulled to the side of the road and rolled down his window. Provoking policemen, while usually not a good idea, was intensely gratifying, and one of his favorite afternoon activities. Smirking to himself, he watched in the mirror as the pompous lawman slowly approached.

The expected excoriating lecture did not come, however. As the officer neared the driver’s door of the pickup, his radio beeped and he paused in stride.

Unit 763, came a scratchy voice from the radio.

763, the officer answered.

It’s going to be awhile before we can clear the crash. One of the victims requires life-flight and can’t be moved. We’re turning traffic around. You’ll need to escort the vehicles off the one-way road.

The officer’s frustration was hard to miss. Copy, he said into the microphone.

Taking the last few steps to the pickup, the cop stared at the driver; well aware the man behind the wheel had heard the orders on the radio. Wait here until I get into position in front of you. When the rest of the traffic approaches, follow me. His sullen look and defeated tone made it obvious that he was not at all happy with the untimely decision to turn the traffic around.

The driver of the pickup grinned, not trying to hide it. Starting the engine, he watched the officer return to the squad car.

When the car came to a stop in front of him, he pulled his pickup out into the lane. Waiting a couple of minutes, until the other vehicles stuck behind the accident were ready, the man slowly followed as the cop led the line of cars back to the department store parking lot.

Veering sharply into a row of empty parking spaces, the officer motioned the traffic to go around. He didn’t make eye contact with his latest antagonist as the pickup rolled past.

Exiting the lot on the far side, the man behind the wheel of the pickup smiled thinly. It was going to be a good day! Maybe a good week! He’d managed