Flanagan didn’t move. Someone had shot him. He didn’t feel any pain. Shouldn’t he

  feel something? Was he dying?

  He closed his eyes and mentally took stock. He seemed to be okay other than lying

  on the side of the road on his face. Did he want to stand up? Was the gunman still

  there? What were his options?

  He heard steps crunching toward him. He decided that the walker was behind him and

  on his right side. How close was he going to come to make sure that he had

  committed the deed?

  The steps stopped. The position wasn’t close enough in Flanagan’s judgement. One

  of them would have to move closer to the other before he could get his hands on the

  other man.

  He heard the click of a pistol hammer drawing back. He knew that his coat would

  take another impact. His head wouldn’t. He had to take advantage of whatever

  surprise he had.

  Flanagan rolled against the other man. He took his assailant’s legs out from under

  him. He moved the other way as the man hit the road.

  The gunman tried to crawl away from the confrontation. He had lost his pistol

  somewhere so he didn’t shoot the suddenly living target like he wanted. He wanted

  the distance to find the gun, get set for continuing the fight, or running away. He did

  not like the sudden weight on his back, trying to bulldog him into the ground.

  Flanagan grabbed his enemy by the neck, wrapping an arm under his chin. He locked

  his grip with his other arm. He held on until the man stopped moving. He pulled the

  man’s jacket down to hamper his arms before looking around for the missing pistol.

  He spotted the revolver lying on the asphalt and scooted over to pick it up. He

  climbed to his feet and looked around. What did he do now?

  The gunman got his hands under his body to push up to his feet. A clubbing to the

  back of the head stopped that.

  Flanagan emptied the man’s pockets. He kept the small amount of money and the

  wallet he found. He left the rest on the road. He opened the wallet up and found that

  his assailant was Ian Shanks. He took the license card and dropped the wallet.

  He liked having a name for his enemy. It gave him avenues to attack. He walked back

  to the guard house. The police would know who Ian Shanks was if he had been in

  business long enough to feel their touch.

  At least he knew two things. His jacket had muffled the impacts of the bullets so he

  had barely felt them. He had to be personally killed for whatever plan to continue.

  Once he knew for whom Shanks worked, he would know who wanted him out of the

  way.

  “Hello, Mr. Flanagan,” said the guard. “How was your walk?”

  “Some guy tried to kill me,” said Flanagan. “Let me see the phone. I have to call the

  police to come out and get him.”

  “It will be the state police out here,” said the old man. “They handle anything outside

  the city.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” said Flanagan. His mind turned over the timing. Someone must have

  told Shanks he was coming back to the factory. Or Shanks had been told to watch for

  him. Were there watchers on his house? “Operator? I need to call the State Police.

  Someone tried to shoot me just down the road from the Flanagan chemical factory.

  I left him on the road to call for help.”

  Flanagan hung up. He leaned against the door of the box. He watched the road. He

  didn’t see any lights on the road, but that didn’t mean anything.

  If Shanks had a partner, the partner could drive up without lights, pick up Shanks,

  drive away, then cut his lights on to see. A minute without lights wasn’t going to slow

  a determined driver down any.

  “What went on?,” asked Pop.

  “Someone took a shot at me in the dark,” said Flanagan. “He missed. Now I’m hoping

  the police will arrest him so I can press charges and find out what’s really going on.”

  “A bombing and a shooting,” said Pops. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why’s that?,” said Flanagan.

  “Why bomb the place? A bombing stops the place from working, but if it misses, then

  it does nothing,” said Pop. “Shooting you won’t stop the place from working. Others

  will keep it going because of the money involved.”

  “A man named Courtland offered to buy the factory,” said Flanagan.

  “If he blows it up, what good does it do him?,” said Pop. “Unless that’s the point. In

  which case, why offer to buy it? He must know you would never sell.”

  “I would never sell?,” said Flanagan.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Mr. Flanagan, you treat this place like it’s your child,” said Pop. “You’re here every

  night. You know everyone, and everyone knows you. Anyone with half a brain would

  know you would never sell once they heard you say anything about it.”

  “So you think the only way to get the factory is to get rid of me?,” said Flanagan. He

  smiled at the analysis.

  “Unless getting rid of you had nothing to do with the factory at all,” said Pop.

  “I don’t follow,” said Flanagan.

  “Yes, you do,” said Pop. “Whomever is trying to kill you might not care about the

  factory at all. You just think he does because of this offer for it. He might want to kill

  you for other reasons that you don’t know yet.”

  “So if I can figure out whom Shanks works for, I will know what’s really going on?,”

  asked Flanagan.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Pop. “On the other hand, you might have two enemies

  acting across from each other. One wants the factory, the other just wants you dead.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” said Flanagan.

  “Once you run down this Shanks, and whom he works for, then you can see if it has

  something to do with the factory,” said Pop. “If it is something personal, how many

  want to kill you?”

  “I don’t really know,” said Flanagan.

  “I would suggest you make a list,” said Pop. “Then you can check on everyone you

  suspect.”

  “Good idea,” said Flanagan.

  He considered the idea that he might have been wrong about someone wanting to take

  the factory from him. It opened up a list of suspects that he had no idea where it

  ended.

  He needed to have other people look into things he couldn’t do himself. He might

  need auditors to check his company finances. Were things going as well as he thought

  they were? Had he missed something?

  Flanagan came out of his reverie when he saw flashing lights approaching. He

  wondered if the state police knew this Ian Shanks. Who had hired the hitman?

  He considered that Shanks might be an alias. If it was, maybe it had been used often

  enough that someone real had been attached to it.

  A pair of state policemen got out of a marked car after it pulled up to the gate. They

  didn’t look happy to be called out in the middle of the night. One pulled out his pad

  to take notes as they approached.

  “I’m Patrolman Broderick, and this is Patrolman Coulsin,” said the lead officer.

  “Someone reported an attack.”

  “I did,” said Flanagan. “I was walking down the road. Someone shot at me. I fell

  down. When the robber got close enough to take my things, I jumped him and fled.

  I left him down where it happened.”

  Flanagan pointed into the darkness beyond the factory.

  “All right,” said Broderick. “That seems straight forward. He didn’t take anything?”

  “No, sir,” said Flanagan. “I got his gun from him and hit him with it. Then I came up

  here to call for help.”

  “You got his gun?,” said Broderick.

  “Yes, sir,” said Flanagan. He pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket. He extended

  it butt first.

  The state policeman checked the weapon’s cylinder, sniffed the barrel. He shook his

  head.

  “Been fired four times,” said Broderick. “Looks like a .38. Maybe the lab will have

  a ballistics match when we turn it in.”

  “Serial number?,” asked Coulsin. He wrote down the number as it was read to him.

  “This is the other guy’s?,” said Broderick.

  “Yes, sir,” said Flanagan.

  “Do you have a firearm?,” asked Coulsin.

  “I have one in my desk,” said Flanagan. “I use it to test materials.”

  “What do you mean?,” asked Broderick.

  “I work here in the factory, and some of the things that I work on have to be tested

  to see if they can be hurt,” said Flanagan. “Typically I use a .38 like this one. I don’t

  carry it around with me.”

  “What’s your name?,” Broderick pointed at Pop Stevens.

  “Paul Stevens,” said Pop.

  “What do you know?,” asked Broderick.

  “I saw Mr. Flanagan walk down the road here,” said the guard. “I heard some noise

  but I didn’t see what caused it. Mr. Flanagan walked back here from where he had

  gone. Then he called you from here instead of calling from inside.”

  “Flanagan?,” said Coulsin.

  “Frank Flanagan,” said Flanagan.

  “Why were you walking down there in the dark?,” asked Broderick.

  “I had been working on something,” said Flanagan. “I just came out to walk some of

  the frustration off.”

  Flanagan broke into the chemical formulae for the suit of armor he was working on

  without going into what he had already done. He noted that Coulsin seemed to write

  two words of his lecture down, but he didn’t see what they were.

  “All right,” said Broderick. “Can you show us where you left this guy?”

  “Sure,” said Flanagan. He checked his watch. “He probably came to and fled by

  now.”

  “If he is still there, we’ll take him in,” said Broderick. “The lab will run the gun for

  his fingerprints. It looks like a robbery gone bad. You’re going to have to file a

  statement.”

  “I’m ready to do that,” said Flanagan.

  “Where did you get that jacket?,” asked Coulsin. “It looks purple.”

  “I made it in my lab,” said Flanagan. “I had hoped for something else, but the

  chemical dye turns everything purple.”

  “Sounds bad,” said Coulsin.

  “Worse,” said Flanagan. “It’s scratchy like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Bad, eh?,” said Broderick.

  “I would take it off, but I have to put it under a microscope now that I have worn it,”

  said Flanagan. “The faster we get this done, the better I’ll like it.”

  “Let’s collect our robber,” said Broderick. “Bring the car, Quin. I’ll walk down with

  Mr. Flanagan. Turn the high beams on. We don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Right, Pat,” said the younger officer. He put away his pad and walked over to the

  patrol car. He got behind the wheel as his partner and Flanagan started down the road.

  Broderick had Flanagan stay out of the light from the headlights as they walked. He

  paused at a spot and put down a quarter. He walked on for a bit more.

  “He should be a few feet ahead,” said Flanagan. “I remember the stars when I came

  around the bend.”

  Broderick looked back, shielding his eyes with a hand. He gestured for his partner to

  cut the lights.

  “The factory is out of sight,” he said. “The guard might have been able to hear the

  gunshots, but I don’t think he could have seen the sparks from there.”

  Flanagan looked over his shoulder. He agreed with the eyeball assessment. Even if

  Pop had seen the sparks of the shots, would he have thought they were gunshots, or

  something more innocent?

  Coulsin cut the lights back on and they walked forward some yards. Flanagan

  compared what he could see in the light to what he had seen in the dark. They were

  right on top of where Shanks should be. He wasn’t lying there for them to take away.

  “He’s gone,” said Flanagan.

  “He left some blood behind to prove your story,” said Broderick. He pointed at a

  patch in the road. He looked around. “He could be anywhere by now. We’ll put out

  a notice and hand the gun over to detectives to trace down. Maybe they’ll get lucky

  and run him down before he heals up.”

  Flanagan frowned, but nodded. There was nothing more he could do at the moment.