by TR Kohler
A woeful miscalculation on their part, not realizing that whatever shortcomings existed in their daughter weren’t from a lack of accountability.
Quite the opposite, in fact, her tendency to focus with laser precision on a particular task precluding her from having time for other, more frivolous measures.
Measures such as looking after the small fish swimming aimlessly in the bowl on her dresser.
Or now being tasked with caring for Kidman’s dog while he is away. A job he no doubt left her as some sort of condition for his agreeing to help in the first place.
Something there is no way he would have done if he knew how badly it ended for that beta fish so many years ago.
Standing in front of a bank of cabinets in the kitchen of the main farmhouse, Kari peers in at the various offerings before her. The stacks of stainless-steel bowls and pots, many appearing to have never been touched before.
New acquisitions made in anticipation of a crowd eventually on hand that will far exceed the meager number currently residing on The Ranch.
Bypassing many of the larger offerings on the middle and top tiers of the cabinet, she begins with a pair of the smallest options available. Solid steel pieces that have been polished to a mirrored shine, more than four inches deep at the center.
Certainly, more than enough to hold whatever sustenance an animal as slight as the Rhodesian Ridgeback by her side might require.
The one that as yet has not ventured more than a few inches from her since the call from Kidman a couple of hours earlier. As if hoping to again hear his voice, she has mimicked Kari’s every movement to the point that twice Kari has even slipped into invisibility in hopes of losing her.
Efforts that produced very little effect, the dog’s unparalleled sense of smell making up for whatever visual deficiencies there might have been.
Her presence now enough to draw a sideways glance from the cook working at the far end of the kitchen. An unspoken complaint about the presence of an animal in a sanitary environment.
Rumblings that are kept at bay either through good sense or registering the look of irritation resting on Kari’s features.
The answer likely being a combination of the two.
Carrying the silver bowls the length of the prep table before her, Kari goes to the stainless-steel refrigerator standing nearby. Pulling open the double doors, she stands illuminated by the pale light pouring out, letting the cool air from within wash over her.
A stance she maintains long enough to consider the options before taking out a glass carafe. Upending the bottom, she fills one of the bowls with water and places it on the floor nearby. An offering Ali’i immediately falls to as Kari returns her attention to the refrigerator.
A search that lasts only a moment before a familiar voice says, “I’d start with the chicken breast.”
Not needing to look over to know the sound belongs to Doc, Kari instead keeps her focus on the offerings before her. A search that lasts just a moment before spotting what he is alluding to, a platter of grilled chicken under cellophane on the top shelf.
A spread that is likely meant for the trainees or the ranch hands at some point, though at the moment she can’t bring herself to much care.
“I swear he did this on purpose,” she mutters, reaching up and peeling back the front corner of the plastic wrap covering the dish. Casting a quick glance to the far end of the kitchen to make sure the cook isn’t watching, she snags a pair of breast filets off the end. Sliding them into the second bowl, she returns the cellophane before swinging the door closed.
A move as close to nonchalance as her annoyance will allow.
“Definitely,” Doc replies, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. Leaning himself against the matching stainless-steel prep tables behind her, he folds his arms across his chest.
Around his neck is his signature hand towel, the sweat staining the entire shirt beneath it hinting at a recent training session of his own.
Replenishment being the likely reason for his sudden appearance in the kitchen. Getting to laugh at her ongoing travails being a small side benefit.
The show to his upcoming dinner.
“But to be fair, somebody does have to watch the old girl while he’s away.”
Using his hips to lever himself up from the table, he bends himself in half. Extending a hand, he rubs it along Ali’i’s haunches, the attention enough to pull her up from her water.
Muzzle dripping, she turns and glances back, a small sound of approval emanating from deep within.
“Ugh,” Kari replies, one corner of her mouth curling up as she watches the interaction. “I forgot you’re a dog person.”
“Always have been,” he replies. “You remember-”
“Estonia,” Kari finishes, recalling full well the stray that Doc earned one of his many scars saving. A ragged mutt that was already on its last legs, likely not surviving another month either way.
A memory she flings away with a shake of the head, thrusting the bowl of chicken out before her. “What am I supposed to do with this now?”
“Uh, put it on the floor,” Doc answers. A small smile forming, he pats Ali’i one final time, adding, “She’ll pretty much do the rest.”
“She doesn’t need-”
“Nope.”
“Don’t have to-”
“Nada,” Doc inserts, his bemusement growing as she uses the cane to lower herself to the floor, placing the food down beside the water.
An act that ends much the same as the previous, the dog immediately falling to it. A flurry of teeth and jowls with a soundtrack of grunts and garbled chewing.
No less than a dozen reasons why Kari has never desired to own another animal of her own since the beta fish’s untimely demise.
“And when she’s done, be sure to take her out back,” Doc adds. “Otherwise, you’re going to have quite a mess on your hands.”
Not sure which part of the ongoing conversation she loathes more, Kari rolls her gaze up to him. A biting scowl that gets him to raise his hands in submission, signaling there will be no more discussion.
An opening she is not about to let slip past.
“He called in a couple hours ago,” she says.
Watching, she sees as Doc transitions, his expression shifting from bemusement to surprise. “The Kid? Already?”
“Yep.”
“That can’t be good.”
“Nope,” Kari responds, employing Doc’s own word from a moment before. “I guess we already have confirmation that this is strictly a retrieval job.”
Leaving the fate of the soldiers left unsaid, she watches as this time Doc moves from surprise to solemn.
“Damn,” he mutters. Flicking his gaze over, he adds, “Does the president-elect know yet?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kidman manages to keep his seat throughout the first few moments of the sound of engines approaching reaching his ears. Not wanting to upset the delicate newfound balance between himself and Sanga, he forces himself to remain impassive. Rooted in place, he listens closely as the sound grows ever closer.
Rising in volume until the source is unmistakable.
The clear din of Jeeps, much like the one that he found burned out and toppled on its side earlier in the day.
Likely, the same ones that were also present during that attack, eventually having worked their way back here.
Careful to give no outward sign of recognition, he watches as Sanga rises before him. Casting aside any regard for Kidman, his focus instead goes to the doorway and the two younger men that appear there.
A pair that for the first time seem to have lost interest in Kidman, eager now to aim their angst at whoever is fast approaching. Just barely inside, they stand practically hopping in place. Bodies thrumming with anticipation, awaiting word from Sanga.
Three men stuck in the same position as Kidman, pausing and listening, until the all-too-familiar staccato rhythm of rifle fire rings out.
A sound that ser
ves as a starting pistol, every man inside the room bursting into movement at once.
First to move are the two young men. Shouting animatedly in unison, they shove outside, disappearing as fast as they arrived.
People fast becoming accustomed to fighting, the sound of it now almost Pavlovian, spurring them into action.
Departing just a moment later is Sanga. A leader conditioned to be a bit more prudent. Someone that experience dictates must take at least a passing glance at the incoming threat before barking out orders.
No doubt plans that are much different than what his cohorts have in mind.
The instant the space is cleared, finally, mercifully, it is Kidman’s turn to move. A quick jump from his perch on the stool to the cot lining the far wall. Dropping his backside down on the front edge, he loops his wrists down around his feet, bringing his hands up before him.
A quick movement that allows him to rise and snatch up one of the pahoa, the razor teeth making quick work of the zip tie holding his wrists together.
The moment its tensile strength is broken, he snatches up the twin knife. A matching set gripped tight in either hand, complete disregard given to the rest of his belongings for the time being.
Items that can wait.
Hopping from the edge of the bed to the doorway, he steps out to find Beya has already departed, off to warn villagers or provide aid. Left in his wake are Sanga and Wembo, the two standing and waiting, staring intently at the path approaching from the south.
In their hands are weapons of their own. Remainder rifles that age and rainforest humidity have done their best to denigrate, rust lining the barrels.
Weapons that Kidman wouldn’t trust at a firing range, much less in the face of incoming hostiles.
“Hazik?” Kidman asks, his sudden appearance causing both men to flinch. Each turning in unison, they take him in, the front tip of Wembo’s weapon rising upward.
A journey that makes it no farther than his hip before Kidman lunges across the small expanse between them. A quick movement that covers the short distance, catching the barrel of the gun with his left palm.
With his right, he raises the pahoa, flashing it just long enough to prove he could wield it if he wanted before taking a step back.
“I am not your enemy.”
A gesture he leaves at that before turning to Sanga. “I can help.”
Chapter Thirty
The first words out of Sanga’s mouth aren’t made in response to Kidman’s offer. Attention pulled away to the south, they are an observation. An instantaneous assessment from someone that has spent much time in battle, knowing how to immediately sight the most pressing dangers, even if he is in no position to act on them.
A problem Kidman does not share with the man.
The moment Sanga extends a gnarled finger before him and shouts, “Machine guns!” Kidman knows immediately what he is referring to, the targets towering above the frantic villagers as they tear into view.
A Jeep matching the one that was tossed on its side and burned out back at Kidman’s original insertion point. Much like the other vehicle, it too has been stripped of any extraneous metal, the top and sides all cleared away.
An open-air weapon lined with a pair of machine gunners standing in the back. Two men with guns balanced on the metal frame outlining where the doors should be, both spraying bullets with aplomb.
No regard for targets. No real pattern to their destruction.
Nothing but a wanton disregard for the people around them and a desire to create as much chaos as possible.
A sight that sends a bolt of acrimony through Kidman, both fists tightening around the handles of the pahoa blades.
“On it,” he mutters.
Any concern for who might see him dissipating, he takes two steps forward before jumping across the breadth of the village. A quick hop that takes him from bisecting Sanga and Wembo to perched in the back of the lead Jeep.
A position not greatly dissimilar to riding the stand-up paddleboard back home on Molokai. Feet spread wide, hair whipping behind him, weight balanced as the Jeep sways over the uneven ground.
The entire width of the vehicle being no more than a few feet, he finds himself nearly touching shoulders with men on both sides. Three adults crammed into a space barely large enough for Ali’i to move freely.
Ideal quarters both for the weapons in his hands and the fighting style he has spent the last years learning.
Certainly, better than the unwieldy guns clutched by his opponents.
Kidman starts by shoving his entire body straight back. Foisting his shoulder blades flat against the man behind him, he thrusts hard with his legs, pinning the man against the top rail of the Jeep.
An unexpected jolt that sends the machine gun toppling from its firing position as the man’s chest mashes into the metal. A puff of breath escapes his lips, magnified by Kidman driving both elbows past his hips.
Twin pistons that strike into the man’s kidneys, his weight sagging against Kidman’s back.
Just enough of an opening for him to fling himself straight forward, driving the tips of his knives into the second gunner’s exposed shoulder blades. Razored steel that easily pierces the skin, buried almost clear to the hilt.
Makeshift handles that effectively render the man into a marionette, his weapon sliding from his grasp as his arms sag over the top rail of the Jeep frame.
A position that allows Kidman to keep the knives buried in the man’s flesh. Convenient balance points that he uses to snap his weight to the side, firing off a side thrust kick into the back of the head of the man behind the wheel.
A vicious blow that drives his face forward, mashing it into the steering column before him.
Back-to-back shots that set the man’s brain rattling against the inside of his skull. Instant unconsciousness as the wheel begins to list, the Jeep drifting from its previous path. Pulling hard to the left, it glides across the twin ruts it is following, squaring in on the oversized base of a kapok tree.
An impending target leaving Kidman just enough time to jerk his attention in the opposite direction. A quick glance to see his next target, the second Jeep bearing down behind him.
A setup not unlike the one he just dispatched, this Jeep carrying a third gunner in the passenger seat. Three men all standing tall, continuing to fling bullets at the thatched roofs of various huts.
A square formation within tight confines there will be no jumping directly into the center of.
Clearing the pahoas from the man’s back before him, Kidman sights in on his next landing site. A small target along the dirt path less than five yards from where the vehicle now rests.
A spot he jumps directly to before dropping to his knees. Bringing both knives together before him, he crouches low, holding them just inches above the ground. A post he maintains while listening closely, the driver completely oblivious to his sudden arrival.
The man’s focus on the scads of villagers continuing to scatter, their cries piercing the air, he keeps the vehicle on a direct path. A route that runs the passenger side tires right across Kidman’s outstretched blades, the forged steel tearing through the rubber. Cleaved trenches that cause the Jeep to lurch hard, the entire front corner dropping to the rainforest floor.
A table with one of the legs knocked out from beneath it, the top tilting at a hard angle. Enough to send the gunners in the back toppling to the ground, the uneven weight driven into the soft earth.
An untenable position that drags the Jeep to a halt, a mound of moss and mud bunched around the remains of the wheel.
A destruction not quite as complete as the landmine earlier, but equally effective in rendering the Jeep inoperable.
A way to even the odds as well, making the two men still in the front of the vehicle easy targets. One seated behind the wheel, still trying to figure out what just took place. The other, the gunner that was tossed sideways as the corner he was standing in was knocked out from beneath him.
People that have no idea he is even present until he jumps into their midst, landing in the open backend.
Chapter Thirty-One
The man that was standing in the passenger seat and was tossed sideways upon impact never so much as made it back upright. A few quick moments that saw him look up just as Kidman jumped into the rear of the Jeep. A flash of recognition that crossed his features before Kidman landed a kick to the man’s cheekbone.
A direct shot with a thick-soled boot that snapped the man’s head to the side. Eyes rolled back in his skull before he even came to a stop, not to move again.
A fate the driver only managed to do nominally better than, making it as far as a cry escaping his lips before Kidman lashed out with the pahoa. A backhanded swipe that struck the heel of the knife just above the man’s ear.
Solid contact that pitched his entire body to the side, his left arm sagging over the driver’s door.
A total engagement of less than five seconds that already has Kidman looking back in the opposite direction. A quick scan of the ground in search of the two men that toppled out when he first destroyed the Jeep’s tire.
A search that can’t help but entail the increasing chaos of the scene.
To either side, villagers continue to scatter. Screams pierce the air. A handful of gunshots as well, militia members spilling into the village from the opposite direction.
A multi-front assault using twenty soldiers or more. Men bent on destruction, some advancing with weapons raised, others beginning to set fire to structures.
Interlopers just starting to receive some pushback from Sanga and his men, scattered return fire beginning to appear.
Giving the area one full sweep, Kidman’s attention returns to the two machine gunners from the Jeep. Both having lost their weapons in the fall, they have descended into hand-to-hand combat, the two of them squaring off with Wembo in the center of the rutted lane.
