More than a Divorce Statistic

I got out of the car, uttering a nasty curse, and went back to the trunk or the boot, as they say here in England. I started going through my bags looking for my power cord when it hit me that I'd left it in my room at the hotel. I felt like a total screw up. Here I was in a strange country, with no phone, and no idea where I was.

While I tried to figure out what I was going to do next, I decided to get my gun out. Yeah, I know, it's against the law to have a gun in England. In fact, I think it's against the law to have a gun in most countries in Europe. But I'm an American, and I wasn't about to travel around with no protection. I brought my Ruger 9 mm with two magazines, each magazine holding eighteen bullets. I figured that would be sufficient protection.

You're probably wondering how I was able to get my gun through customs. Actually, it wasn't that hard. I disassembled the gun first and then put the pieces into special boxes I had made. If they x-rayed my suitcase and saw inside these boxes, the strategically placed metal made the pieces look like something completely different. For instance, the barrel would look like a smoker's pipe. In any event, I never had one bit of a problem throughout my trip.

Again, you're probably wondering if the gun was in pieces, how could it be of any use? Usually, when I traveled about the countryside, I kept the pieces close by. I could quickly reassemble the gun if I needed it. So far, I hadn't needed it and hoped I never would. But right now, I was in the middle of nowhere, and it was getting dark. I assembled the gun and loaded it.

After I reassembled it, I stuck the gun in my waistband. Then I started down this back road, wondering where it went. It wound around until I could see a large stately house up ahead on a hill. Surely, someone at that house could tell me where the hell I was.

The road snaked up the hill and brought me to the back of the house. My heart dropped a bit as I could see no lights on this side of the mansion. I turned off the car and began walking to the front. I was just about to round the corner when I heard yelling and two gunshots. When I quickly glanced around the building, I could see two men lying face-down on the ground. Another man had a young boy with a hood over his head, and the boy was kicking fiercely. The other two men were yelling at each other, with one of them pointing at the two men on the ground.

"Ya fucked up big time, mate," I heard the man pointing yell. "Go back inside and check that the others are still locked up."

Once the man disappeared inside, and the man struggling with the boy tried to put him in a car, I stepped out and yelled, "Drop the gun and put your hands up!"

The man did not drop his gun. Instead, he spun with lightning speed and snapped off a shot at me. I returned fire. His shot went wide, but mine hit him in his gun shoulder. He not only dropped the gun, but he dropped to his knees. The man holding the boy released him to see what had happened. In that instant, the boy took off running. The man started after him. So, I lined up a shot on the man, but my shot went low. Still, it managed to hit one of his legs. It knocked him down, but only for an instant. Quickly, the man was up, hobbling away in a different direction.

With this temporary reprieve, I raced back to my car and fired it up. I stomped the gas pedal and roared from behind the building. As I raced by the man on his knees, he scrambled for his gun. Seconds later, he was firing. I figured he was shooting with his non-gun hand, so I was reasonably safe. I was wrong.

I felt the burn on my lower left side, and when I reached to feel it, my hand came back with blood on it. I had no idea how badly I was hurt, but I couldn't stop now. I raced down the road and found the panicked boy running parallel to it. I slid to a stop and opened the rear door behind me.

"Get in, kid," I yelled, "they'll be after us in a few seconds."

The kid had fear etched all over his face, but I guess he figured I was a safer bet than the assholes behind us.

Once he slammed the door, I stomped the pedal again, and we barreled down what I assumed was the front driveway.

"Hey, kid," I asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

The kid looked to be in shock and just shook his head.

When I reached the end of the driveway, it was a 50/50 decision -- right or left. I chose left - bad decision. If I had gone right, it would have led to a highway, and from there, I could have quickly found help. Left took me deeper into the countryside where there didn't appear to be any houses. I would learn later that this was an area with very large estates. There were literally miles between some of the houses.

"Damn," I said out loud, "we're almost out of gas."

The boy seemed a little confused, so I converted into "British speak."

"Petrol," I amended quickly. "We're almost out of petrol."

"Oh, I say," the boy commented weakly. That's horrible. What are we going to do?"

I love the British accent, and on kids, it's adorable. However, in this particular instance, his accent was the last thing on my mind.

"I'm going to get off this road," I said as I turned hard to the left and began racing up a hillside. Thank God I had a Range Rover. It made going overland a breeze. I didn't think that the Mercedes I'd seen in the driveway would fare as well.

Checking the compass built into the dashboard, I told the boy, "I'm going to head south because, if nothing else, London is south of us."

I glanced at the boy in the rearview mirror again, and it was clear that he was terrified but still holding it together. I gave him a lot of credit for that. Most kids would be balling and freaking out.

As we raced along, I asked him his name.

The question seemed to frighten him, but he stuttered, "G, G, George."

"George, my name is Mike," I told him. "Now, tell me what's going on?"

"Please, sir, what is your proper name?"

"My proper name?" the question threw me until it suddenly came to me what he was asking. "Oh, my proper name is Mike Adams."

"Thank you for saving me, Mr. Adams," the boy said in a timid voice.

"I haven't saved anyone yet," I responded and pressed my question. "Where are we, and why were those men trying to take you."

"I, I, I don't know exactly," George responded. His voice was shaky, and I didn't want to push him too hard. I liked that he was showing as much poise and courage as he was. "I was at my friend Peter's house for the weekend when those men broke in. They threw a bag over my head, and one of them picked me up. I don't know what happened to Peter, his parents, or their servants."

"Sounds like Peter's parents have money, and this is a kidnapping. They probably took Peter also," I offered my view of the situation. "We have to keep moving until we find some help."

We continued along across fields and streams but found no houses or any buildings for that matter. All I could think to do was to keep heading south. We had to run into a road eventually. We came over one hill, down into a field, and then up over another hill. When we crested the second hill, the car began to chug and sputter. I knew that the gas was all but gone, so I found a clump of bushes to hid the car.

When the car came to a stop, I popped the door and went around to the back. Picking up the tailgate, I pulled one of my suitcases to me and began to explore it. I didn't find what I wanted, so I pulled my other bag to me. After about thirty seconds of searching, I pulled out my flashlight, that's a torch if you're British. I flicked it on and searched my bags again. About a minute later, I found what I was looking for, my second magazine.

"George, listen up," I said to the boy after opening his door. "We're going to have to head out on foot. I don't know if those men will realize that I've left the road, but we have to assume they will and keep moving until we find help."

Before we took off, I grabbed two sweaters, a wool cap, a large bottle of water, and four packages of crackers. It was getting chilly out, and I didn't know how long we'd be on the run until we found help. Also, I didn't know about the kid, but I was kind of hungry.

I knew the car was pointed south, so I looked up in the sky and picked out a star that was fairly bright in that direction. I figured we could follow that.

We walked for about three hours, occasionally stopping to rest and take a drink. We passed over several streams, but I didn't dare refill the bottle with the water. It was now closing in on midnight, and I knew the kid was exhausted. But, despite the hard going, he hadn't offered a word of complaint. We didn't talk much because I didn't want to give away our position in case anyone was close by.

After finding a clump of bushes, I scrapped together two mounds of leaves to create make-shift beds. Then I told George to get some sleep. He didn't argue, and within minutes, he was fast asleep. I stayed awake for another hour. The first thing I did was to check my wound. It appeared to be a deep cut along my left side where the bullet had creased me. It was still bleeding slightly, so I tore off part of my undershirt and tied it up as best I could. Then I took one of the sweaters and put it over George. The other one, I put on and then fell into a very uneasy sleep. It was the first rays of morning sun hitting me that woke me up. As I sat up, I groaned; my side hurt like hell. I now wish I had taken the Ibuprofen with me.

When I sat up, that woke George. As he sat up, I asked, "How do you feel this morning?"

"I'm quite sore, sir," he responded.

"I'm right there with you," I laughed. "Here, have some crackers." I tossed him a package.

As he sat there eating, I studied the young man. He was still scared but was remarkably poised. I handed him the water as I gave him another package of crackers. Then I checked my wound, and thankfully, it didn't seem to be bleeding anymore.

"Excuse me, sir," George said timidly. "What's to become of us?"

"We're going to find help, and then your parents will pick you up, and I'll get on with my vacation. But first, I assume, I'll have to see a doctor to stitch me up."

"You seem awfully brave, sir," he said, looking at the ground. "I wish I could be as brave."

"What are you talking about? You've been extremely brave," I assured him. "Most kids would be balling their eyes out."

"But I did cry, sir," he looked at me in alarm. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"Look, George," I said gently, "crying is no big deal. Everyone cries at some time or another. Crying just shows that you care about something. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I just don't want people to be disappointed in me," George said, looking directly at me.

"George, I going to give you one of your most important life lessons," I said with a smile. "There is only one person you don't ever want to disappoint."

George looked at me, confused. "Who would that be?"

"The only person you don't ever want to disappoint is yourself," I said firmly. "If you do what you think is right, and you do your best, then you don't have to apologize to anyone. And if anyone tells you differently, you tell them to bugger off."

This got a laugh out of George, and his spirits began to rise.

Once we gathered up our meager belongings, we started off again. I was hurting pretty bad, and I knew my wound was getting infected. I just had no way to keep it clean. Not only that, but I no longer had a star to guide me, and I wanted to stay more to the tree line rather than walk openly in the fields.

The going was harder than the night before, but we managed to plod on. Off in the distance, I could see helicopters circling around. I hoped they were looking for us, and I wished they would come in our direction.

By midday, we were out of water, and I had no choice but to refill our bottle from a stream. I only hoped that there weren't any of the bad bacteria floating in the water. Still, I reasoned that we should be found before either of us got sick.

Night started to fall over us, and we still hadn't found any houses. Afterward, I would learn that, somehow, we had managed to thread our way between at least a dozen homes. If we had only veered one way or another by several hundred yards, we would have spotted them.

Once I found another clump of bushes and prepared our beds, we settled down. Only this time, there weren't near as many leaves, and I was hurting pretty bad. I also felt a little flush and knew I must have a fever.

The following day, we started again. Only now, it was hard for me to keep up. The look in George's eyes was one of sympathy, uncertainty, and fear. I knew that George still didn't trust me completely, but I just smiled at him and told him everything was okay. He didn't believe me for a second.

Throughout the second and now the third day, our conversations had picked up considerably. I no longer worried about being heard. We talked about many things -- his schooling, his friends, even a little about his parent. He seemed reluctant to talk about them, so I didn't push. He did say that his father and mother were very strict, and they expected a lot from him. I reminded him again that the only person he had to satisfy was himself.

On toward the afternoon, I was beginning to burn up. We had reached a spot where we couldn't remain in the wooded area. We would have to cross this field to move on. I told George we were going to quick-time it across the field to the woods on the other side.

We were about a hundred yards from the new tree line when I heard the distinctive sound of a diesel engine. I cursed under my breath because it sounded like a Mercedes.

"Run, George," I ordered and started after him. I glanced back in time to see a Mercedes come up over the hill and start down into the field, straight at us. We just made it to a group of fallen trees when the shots began. They were coming from the car that was barreling down on us.

We climbed over the fallen trees, and I took up a position.

"George, listen to me closely," I said as I held his right arm. "I want you to keep running. Try to get as far away from here as you can. But when you hear the gunfire stop, I want you to find a place to hide, and don't come out until they're gone."

"But Mr. Adams, what about you?" he asked with panic in his eyes.

"I'll stall them as long as I can," I said. "Now be a brave lad and take off like I told you."

I think George was going to argue with me, but I pushed him away, and he took off running. It was a good thing, as the Mercedes was now less than a hundred feet away. They started shooting again. Only this time, I started shooting back. I don't think they expected that. People in Britain usually don't have firearms. In any event, the car skidded to a stop, fishtailing sideways.

The men hid behind the car and began shooting. As near as I could tell, there were five men in the car, and all of them were armed. I found a spot where I could take a knee and have space between the trees to fire through. As I sparingly returned fire, I hoped like hell that George was putting mega distance between us.

I was halfway through my second magazine when it happened. It felt like this gun battle had been going on for hours, but it was less than five minutes. I had been lucky so far; the trees had blocked most of their shots. But then one bullet found its way through the branches and slammed into the right side of my chest. It threw me backward onto the ground. It took maybe ten seconds or more for me to pull myself up again. While I was down, one of the men decided to rush my position. That was a bad mistake for him. I hit him center mass, and he went down. I fired twice more, but then I began to fade. At that point, I heard a roar, and a shadow passed over us. That was when I saw the helicopters swoop in. Armed men were dropping down ropes, firing as they descended. Then I got very tired. and I closed my eyes.

I woke up once to find bright lights and incredible pain. There was a woman at my side immediately, and I remember someone saying, "We need to get him back into surgery." Then the darkness descended on me once again.

When I awoke the second time, it felt like I was floating on something. The room I was in was bright, and I had no pain. Then there was a matronly nurse at my side taking my pulse. When she saw my eyes were open, she smiled.

"Welcome back, Mr. Adams," she said with a delightful British accent. "It's so good to have you amongst the living. You gave us quite a turn for a while. We thought we were going to lose you at several points last night. But the doctor thinks you're finally out of the woods."

My throat felt as raw as could be, but I had to speak. "The boy?" was all I could rasp out.

"All is well, Mr. Adams," the nurse said kindly. "Someone will be along shortly to talk to you."

The nurse didn't really answer my questions, and this filled me with anxiety. But shortly, I fell off to sleep. When I awoke again, I could see that it was nighttime. After a bit, an orderly showed up and fed me some soup, and helped me drink some juice. There were IVs all around my bed, and all of them were being fed into me.

I don't know how long I slept next, but it was light out when I awoke again. A doctor was standing next to the bed, studying a chart.

"The boy?" I rasped out my questions again.

"Ah, Mr. Adams, you're awake. Excellent," the doctor smiled at me. "The boy is fine. However, I was told that he was quite distraught when you were brought in. He was found holding you and begging you to wake up. He was covered in your blood but otherwise unhurt. Is he a relative?"

I shook my head, but even this mild exertion tired me out, and I fell back asleep. But I mustn't have slept quite as long because it was still light out when I awoke. A nurse came in after a few minutes and smiled when she saw me awake.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Adams?" she asked.

"My throat is very sore," I responded, slightly stronger than a whisper. "Also, my chest and side hurt."

"I'll get you something for the pain," she said and then added. "There are people who wish to talk to you. Do you feel strong enough to do so?"

I nodded.

A gentleman who appeared to be in his forties walked into my room. He settled into a chair next to my bed. His hair was salt and pepper, and he had a bushy mustache. His cheeks had a ruddy tinge to them.

"Mr. Adams, I'm Inspector Blair from Scotland Yard. I'd like to get an informal statement from you if I might?"

"Of course," I said and was surprised that my voice seemed stronger.

"You have obviously had quite an ordeal," the Inspector began. "The doctors tell me it was touch and go for a while. They're still a little concerned by your infection, but thankfully, you seem to be on the road to recovery. But I was wondering if you could tell me about your part in the incident this past Monday?"

I shook my head slowly as I tried to gather my thoughts. "I'm afraid that I can't tell you very much. I really have no idea of what was going on. I think I stumbled into a kidnapping. Before I knew it, George and I were on the run. We spent days trying to find help. But we never found anyone. Then the kidnappers caught up to us. I tried to delay them long enough for George to get away."

The Inspector smiled at me as though he knew much more about the incident than I did. Well, that wouldn't be hard because I knew virtually nothing.

"Tell me, Mr. Adams, how did you happen to wind up at the particular house where the kidnapping was happening?"

"I got lost," I admitted sheepishly. "I hadn't charged my phone before leaving London, and I was trying to use a paper map. But all I managed to do was get hopelessly lost. I found a dirt road that led up to the back of that mansion. I was hoping that I could get directions from someone there. However, when I came around the front, I saw them trying to abduct George. I had a pistol with me, and I used it to get the boy free. We took off in my rented car, but I was almost out of gas. When the car stopped, George and I had to go on foot. Like I said, we couldn't find anyone to help us. After that, I was just trying to delay them. How did you find us?"