by TR Kohler
The first sharp bark of rifle fire.
“You go!” Kidman shouts. Shooting a finger toward the elderly couple now bunched tight behind them, he adds, “Take them, get to the trees. I’ll hold them off!”
“What about-” Anika begins, making it no further before Kidman yells, “Go!” before jumping himself away.
A hop fueled by adrenaline and anger as he tosses himself into the center of the lead Jeep. A sideways leap, more of a flying tackle than a jump.
A move borne completely of reflex and reaction, far removed from any training or experience he might have.
One that hits square where he was aiming, burying his shoulder into the stomach of the closest shooter. Feeling the breath release from the man, he braces his feet on the side of the vehicle, shoving forward as hard as he can.
An impromptu thrust that knocks them into the second shooter behind him, all three tumbling from the back of the moving vehicle. A rolling tangle of limbs perfectly formatted for Kidman’s mood.
For the training he’s spent three mornings a week engaged in for the last several years.
The first mistake both men make is in trying to untangle themselves. Pull free and make their way to their feet.
Slow, delayed movements that give Kidman all the opening he needs.
Curling his fingers back, his first shot drives the heel of his hand into the side of an exposed knee. A concentrated shot going against the natural hinge, shoving the entire joint from alignment.
A snap of tendons and ligaments, neutralizing any further threat as the man spills to the side. A heap of yelps and groaning as he pulls himself into a ball.
Twisting back the opposite direction, Kidman jumps onto the back of the second gunman. Having made it to his hands and knees, his back sags just slightly under the newfound weight.
The exact pose Kidman was hoping for as the man’s arms bend, both elbows lowered to obtuse angles.
Targets that Uncle Kamaki would practically salivate over.
Compromised positions that make it almost too easy for Kidman to slide to the side. Grab ahold of the two parts of the man’s arm and drive his own knee straight through.
The man having much the same reaction as his cohort, Kidman leaves him writhing on the ground, holding his mangled limb. Jerking his focus up, he scans the area around him, another pair of Jeeps having entered the melee. More than a dozen militiamen in total, many having spilled down onto the ground.
People running to and fro. Bright muzzle flashes as they fire into the air.
Errant screams. The heat of huts beginning to burn.
A scene he looks past for just a moment, his attention going to Anika’s hut. An area that reveals nothing as he scans farther beyond, a flash of movement catching his eye in the dense forestation of the tree behind it.
A flicker of silver, the hair belonging to the elderly woman.
The jump back is just as fast as the original. An instantaneous relocation that sees Kidman drop in directly beside the woman. A step ahead is her husband.
Another before that, Anika.
Ahead of her, at least three others. Young children barely rising to Kidman’s chest.
Turned sideways to usher the villagers along, Anika sees him land. Eyes wide, her face bears the strain of the situation. Her attention swivels to either side.
“Anika,” Kidman says. “We’ve got to go.”
“No,” she replies, her eyes glassing as she shakes her head. “You can’t jump all of us, and I won’t leave them.”
“I could...” Kidman begins, his voice trailing away as he takes in the scene before him.
The most people he has ever jumped with before is two. One in each hand. A third he could feel reasonably certain about, if they wrapped themselves around his waist.
Beyond that, he has never tried. Never even considered.
Definitely not a group as large as this, in a rainforest so dense he wouldn’t be able to make it more than a few yards at a time.
Swinging his focus back the other direction, he takes in the opposition. The group that has already accomplished what they came for, but still continues to wreak havoc on the village.
Rifle shots aimed into the air. Torches tossed into huts.
Devastation caused for no discernible reason.
A sight that makes his entire body thrum with animosity as he casts a glance back to Anika. “Keep going. Faster, as deep into the woods as you can.”
If there is a response, he doesn’t hear it. His entire focus winnows inward as he sights in on his next jump. A leap right into the center of the encampment followed by a series of quick hops. One after another after another, working his way among the intruders.
Each one ends with a quick strike. Knees and elbows to throats and joints. Eye gouges and groin shots.
Anything that might render an opponent ineffective. A combination of his ability and Lua training and wanton venom.
A string that takes down nearly a dozen men before feeling the fiery pierce of a bullet to the back of his shoulder blade. An errant shot that is just enough to slow him down, allowing another to enter his leg.
Twin stabs that blur his vision as he lifts his gaze. Prevent him from making a clean jump away.
A quick sequence that ends with a blow to the side of his head, turning his world to black on contact.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Hazik heard the stories shared the day before. The tales of the man that Fumu and his fighters encountered in Bukari. The one that seemed to bounce from one Jeep to another, taking out their gunners before they really even got started.
War stories. The kind of thing that mixes myth with the shock of battle. Nothing more.
Or so he had thought.
The realization of his error now tastes like bile rising along the back of Hazik’s throat. Marching across the clearing comprising the center of the small village, the self-loathing he feels is not only for dismissing the earlier stories, but for not recognizing the man at the center of them sooner.
The previous afternoon, when he had the chance.
The person now sprawled flat at Fumu’s feet. The one who is dressed slightly differently and wearing no small amount of blood and sweat, but is obviously the same one he encountered on the road outside of Makoua the day before.
A visual that causes the vitriol Hazik has been carrying for days to heighten, his features hardening as he sweeps his gaze from the man up to Fumu.
“Who is he?”
“The American,” Fumu replies. “From Bukari.”
Lifting a backpack from the ground at his feet, he plunges a hand down into the top of it. Drawing out a plain brown file, he thrusts it toward Hazik.
An offering he accepts without a word, already suspecting what he might find. Maps of the various local villages. Schematics of the various diamond mines.
Orders on how to approach and what to seize.
Perhaps even directives to take out Hazik and his fighters, clearing the area for their own personal infestation. Assumptions that – like with the man at his feet – are proven grossly inaccurate.
Even if they do confirm the tale shared by the prisoner just a couple of hours earlier.
Up first in the file is a pair of photographs. Images of a young girl with dark tan skin and long dark hair hanging straight past her shoulders. No older than her teenage years, in both shots she is looking away, as if the pictures were taken without her knowledge.
Beyond them, the only other thing present is a single sheet of paper. A mission overview so to speak, outlining the girl’s name and last known location.
The instructions to find her and bring her back as soon as possible. Clear directives scrubbed of any identifying features. No mention of who sent the man. No directions on where to take her.
Nothing but the girl. Without a doubt, the healer. The one that can magically cure people with the touch of a hand.
Another story Hazik would not believe if not for what he just witnessed
, the vast majority of his men now in the throes of agony. Broken bones and dislocated joints, rendering them basically worthless.
Somebody deemed important enough to send two different batches of men to find. The first group, soldiers.
The second, a man with abilities even greater than her own.
“Have we found her yet?” Hazik asks, flicking his focus up from the photos to Fumu before him.
“Not yet,” Fumu replies, “but we will. The men found a small footpath leading east, out of the camp. Lots of fresh footprints, looks like ten or more people used it.”
Grunting softly, Hazik motions with his chin toward the pack in Fumu’s hands. “Anything else in there?”
“Not really,” Fumu answers. “Some clothes. A canteen.”
Pushing his hand back down inside, he extracts a satellite phone. A device that looks almost space-age compared to the two-way radios carried by the militia.
“And this.”
Pulling his gaze away from the phone for a moment, Hazik sweeps the encampment surrounding him. A cluster of huts so small it barely looks worth the effort it took to erect. A couple of pitiful structures holding hands, the entire place smelling like goat shit.
The latest example of what he is trying to do. A transition from the old and antiquated into a state more befitting the twenty-first century.
If not for the damn villagers and their insistence on clinging to archaic practices.
Still carrying the handgun he took from the guard outside of the concrete bunker earlier, Hazik slides it from the small of his back. Aiming it at the device in Fumu’s hand, he motions for the man to drop it.
A fall that is barely complete before Hazik puts two rounds into it. Bullets aimed at center mass, destroying the electronic components within.
A process he then repeats on the man the phone belonged to. Twin shots into the prone figure’s back before returning his focus to Fumu.
“I’m going back to Makoua. Burn this place. And when you find the girl, bring her to me.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Two things announce Doc’s impending arrival long before he actually shows. First, is the rising of Ali’i from the floor by Kari Ma’s side. Ears extending straight up from her head, she peels her lithe form up off the floor, her body rigid as she stares at the door.
A pose that draws Ma’s attention away from the screen beside her, staring at nothing for only a moment before the second indicator reveals itself.
The sound of Doc entering the office suite of the farmhouse. Heavy, lumbering movements that cause the floorboards beneath him to creak and shift, making for easy tracking as he comes closer.
A trek that ends with him presenting himself in her doorway, his bulk nearly blocking all light, casting a wide shadow across her desk.
“Hey.”
To look at the man, Kari would not be remiss to think he was the one partaking in the workout, rather than just leading it. Dressed in his usual black gym shorts and plain gray sweatshirt, the ring of sweat that is normally framing his neck is even larger than usual. A parabola dipping most of the way down his chest and back.
Around his neck is another in an unending line of gym towels, ends both stained with sweat from being run back over his bald scalp.
Collapsing into the visitor chair across from her, he lets out an audible sigh before unscrewing the top of the bottle of water in his hands.
“Good workout?” Kari asks, an eyebrow arching slightly.
Bottle upended to his lips, Doc makes no effort to reply for several moments. Focused on pouring the water directly down his throat, he even ignores Ali’i as she walks over and balances her chin on his thigh until the last drop is gone.
Only then does he run the back of his sweatshirt sleeve across his chin, wiping away any that might have missed the target, before saying, “We’ve got to get an air conditioning system in that barn before summer gets here.”
Lifting one hand from his lap, he balances it atop Ali’i’s head. A heavy paw that flattens her ears as he rubs side to side, visibly shifting her entire scalp.
A movement she doesn’t seem to mind, her eyes sliding shut as he works.
“Might be easier to start with getting you some t-shirts,” Kari replies.
Hand still working at the bristly fur of the Rhodesian Ridgeback, he flicks a gaze up to her. A look that is momentarily tinged with annoyance before fading.
Replaced by resignation, he sighs slightly.
“You know we can’t go there yet. Not with the kids around here still so green.”
Knowing full well that he is referencing the litany of scars tracing his limbs, aftereffects of the life that The Ranch will now – at least in some part – be introducing the young trainees to. A timeline of mistakes both personal and policy etched into the man’s skin.
Reminders of the dangers that exist in the world.
The depravity that man is truly capable of.
As if her walking around with a cane isn’t indication enough.
“You think they can’t handle it?” Kari asks.
“I think, one thing at a time,” Doc answers. Lifting the bottle of water in the hand opposite Ali’i, he makes it as far as seeing it is completely empty before stopping.
A movement that causes Kari to slide open the top drawer of her desk. Extracting a mini water bottle from it, she tosses it across, the man deftly dropping the empty and snatching it from the air in one quick movement.
“How they doing?” Kari asks.
“They’re...” Doc begins, considering his response, before finishing, “doing. Remember how it was when The Kid started?”
A conversation they had not long ago, back when first considering bringing the program back to life, Kari recalls the last time they were bringing along a new recruit perfectly well. A baseline of human nature, exacerbated by the unique gifts people like them possess.
A tendency to rely on what is easier, growing exponentially depending on the strength of the ability.
“Potential?” Kari asks.
“Plenty,” Doc answers. “Just have to teach them how to get out of their own way. And each other’s.”
Also having debated the potential pitfalls of bringing in so many recruits – especially of a certain age – at the same time, Kari merely nods. Growing pains that the original iteration of the program had certainly gone through, and that was with people much further along in years.
An inevitability they had decided to deal with as it arrived.
Something that appears to be happening now even faster than anticipated.
“That’s kind of why I asked you to stop by,” Kari says. “I’ve been tracking some new possibilities, could use your input.”
Removing his hand from Ali’i’s head just long enough to untwist the top on the new bottle of water, Doc replies, “Sure.”
“Also, to let you know some of them are a little further away than this first batch. I might have to be away some in the next couple of weeks.”
Grunting softly, Doc nods. Remaining silent a moment, he seems to run the schedule looking ahead in his mind. A calculation that causes his gaze to narrow before eventually moving back to her.
“International?” he asks.
“A few.”
“Timeframe?”
“Just as soon as this situation the president-elect requested gets wrapped up,” Kari answers.
Pausing once more, Doc considers the new data before eventually asking, “Any word from The Kid since the supply run?”
Chapter Fifty-Six
For someone with the accelerated metabolism and healing of Kidman, the process of recovery isn’t something like waking from a deep sleep. The world doesn’t creep in one sense at a time. He doesn’t smell the caustic burn of smoke in the air or hear the crackling of huts burning nearby. His eyes don’t crack open to slits, trying to make sense of the filmy light making it all the way to the rainforest floor.
Really, it isn’t a process at all.
>
More like a resurrection, his body snaps upright into a seated position. His eyes and mouth all open wide, drawing in a deep inhalation.
The start of a sensory overload that includes sucking in the acrid bite of smoke. Feeling the increased heat of the raging fires. Seeing a full visual of the world around him.
A world that looks markedly different than the one he first encountered the day before.
“Shit,” he mutters, his head rotating to take in the destruction and despair around him. The complete change from what was so recently a happy place, full of families grouped up, enjoying the bounty he’d provided.
Scenes that could not be further from the one he is now staring at.
Images that send a jolt of adrenaline into his system, causing him to not even bother rising to his feet. Instead, he jumps directly from his seat in the center of the settlement common area to the threshold of the hut he was sitting outside of with Anika not that long before.
The makeshift medical unit that is now reduced to nothing more than a frame, the roof already having burned away.
A new location that is like standing on the edge of a blast furnace, oppressive heat smashing into him, sucking away most of the available oxygen.
Obstacles that register for only an instant before he performs a second quick jump. A skip from the doorway to the table standing along the far wall, the legs charred and blackened, preparing to buckle at any moment.
Grabbing for the pair of pahoa resting atop it, the metal superheated to possess a faint glow, he snatches the weapons up. Pops of light erupt before him as the pain of scalded skin hurtles up through his palms.
A sharp agony that tracks up the lengths of his arms as he immediately retraces his path, retreating from the hut.
A jump that drops the ambient temperature twenty degrees as he relinquishes his hold on the blades, letting them topple to the wet mud. A release ending with ten fingers extended like claws before him, the flesh pink and inflamed. Icy tendrils of seared nerve endings that cause him to draw in sharp inhalations, his head spinning as he waits for his healing to kick in.
