Blackjack Messiah

by Ben Bequer

  “You know him?” Edberg said, working the quick clot patch under his vest to stem the flow of blood that was soaking through his shirt.

  His response was cut off by the crack of gunfire from outside. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cyanide broke through comms, “Engaged, two targets, front door.”

  Pushing Edberg ahead of him, Michael cut through the house and out the back door. “We’re coming from the North door,” he said, hoping Cyanide would understand, but the only answer he got was a snare drum roll of automatic fire.

  Reaching the back wall of Hotel and peering around, Michael saw the hostiles around the corner, pouring fire into the front of the house. Ordering Edberg to provide cover with a quick gesture, Michael slipped out of Hotel, using the gunfire to hustle behind a small bramble that was more weed than bush without being heard. The gunfire stopped, echoes of it still exploding as the two men reloaded. Popping out from the other side of his cover, Michael put three rounds into the man who had reloaded his rifle, dropping him as he slid a round into the chamber. The other Boko fighter was having trouble with his weapon and didn’t look up as a second three round burst traced up his torso, the last round tearing a gash in his throat.

  “Cyanide? You okay?”

  “I’m hit, but I’m good,” she said. Goddammit, thirty seconds in and two of them were hurt. He’d have to send Cyanide and Edberg injured, racing after Franklin and company – or worse, he’d have to abort.

  “Coming to you, hold your fire.” Edberg was already pushing his way along the back wall, looking weary and pained, but keeping it under control. She was coming to her feet, helping the girl. Near them was a dead Boko fighter, and alongside the two guys Michael had shot were a couple more.

  “Figured I had it until the last two assholes showed,” Cyanide said. “You okay?” she asked when she saw Edberg shuffling toward her.

  “Where are you hit?” Michael asked, and she raised a bloody arm with a sheepish smile. He rolled up her sleeve to reveal a nasty gash on along the muscled part of her upper forearm.

  “I’m fine,” she said, as he dug into his gear for a compress, and wrapped her arm. “Thinking of calling it?” she asked as he finished.

  “These five were unaccounted for,” he said. “Which means they either just arrived or there are fewer girls than we first thought.”

  “It’s a scratch,” she said. “I can do this.”

  He finished tying off the wrap tight and looked back at Edberg, who was breathing heavily, leaning against the side of the building. “Get ready to clear out,” Michael told her.

  “Now wait a minute,” she said, following him as he checked Edberg’s chest, ripping open his gear. “Bullet made it through,” he said, studying the bloody mess.

  “Fucking bastard,” Edberg said. “I’m going to die in some shit heap in the middle of shitsville. Fuck me.”

  “Bullet’s stuck on the…” Cyanide started, as Michael struggled against something. He peeled back the top edge of the vest to reveal the tip of the bullet protruding from the inside. The vest had stopped most of the round, with only the final end of it piercing through his shirt and skin. “It’s barely a flesh wound,” she added dismissively, releasing Edberg’s chest in disgust.

  “Go on without me.”

  “What a pussy,” Cyanide said.

  “Tell my mother I love her.”

  Michael smiled at Edberg’s antics and looked in the direction of The Barn. The man with the satellite phone had probably called for reinforcements. In five, ten minutes, he could expect fifty guys with AKs coming from the Boko Haram village. “They had to have heard those unsilenced rounds,” he said, suddenly serious. “I don’t know if we’ll have time.”

  “These were probably the last hostiles in camp,” Cyanide said, her good arm lay over the woman’s shoulder. She may not have understood the language, but she seemed to get the gist.

  “Home,” Michael said. “Sweep the camp for more hostiles. Then give me a view of the village.”

  “Will do,” Travis responded. It sounded like he was in a mad house, with voices at all volumes and timbres buzzing through his microphone.

  “Mike,” Cyanide said off comms.

  “Update on Able,” Michael said.

  “Halfway to LZ,” Travis said.

  “Mike, we’re finishing this,” she said, grabbing his harness.

  He nodded, agreeing, but not in the way she was implying. “Edberg, give me your ammo.”

  “No, you don’t,” Cyanide said, raising her voice.

  “Rebecca, I’m not risking you or Ravel,” Michael said.

  “It’s not your call,” Edberg said. “We’re finishing the mission.”

  “You’re injured, both of you. I don’t need help to drive a stupid truck across the border.”

  “Yes you do,” Edberg said.

  “I don’t want you guys hurt,” Michael said.

  “You mean you don’t want her getting hurt,” Edberg said. “Let’s not bullshit each other.”

  “Why don’t you stay out of this,” Michael said.

  “My God, you two should just fuck and get it over with,” Cyanide said. “Oh, fuck, are we on comms? Home, you reading this?”

  “Reading what, Bravo?” Travis said.

  “He’s good,” Edberg said. “I like that guy. So, are we doing this?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cyanide said, her hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

  “Elite Protection…” Edberg began, reciting the SSI slogan.

  “Ultimate Peace of Mind,” Michael, Edberg and Cyanide finished.

  “Okay,” Michael said, moving toward The Barn. “Let’s hope these people can move fast. What’s her name?” he said, gesturing to the woman.

  “Aniki,” the girl said as all eyes turned to her.

  “Aniki, got it. Come on, Aniki. Let’s go save your people.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Extras: Trevor Kane and the Heaven Sword

  The wake began in earnest at eight o’clock sharp, with some light music in the background and a large spread of food setup on the massive island in the kitchen. Guests ranged from friends of Adam senior’s parents, the oldest nearly a hundred, to Junior’s associates and college mates, none of them older than thirty. Despite the variety of people, Trevor felt alone, and slipped out of the apartment through the main entrance, thinking that no one probably noticed – or cared.

  Below, the streets were busy with the traffic of people leaving the downtown area. There wasn’t a point in getting a taxi or Uber, he’d sit in traffic with the meter running. He didn’t really know where he was going anyway, so he walked.

  Turning onto Howard Street, the first thought was to head to the water, as it was so close. The Embarcadero was nearby as were the fishmongers and some of the lesser piers. Pier 39, the more famous tourist trap was north, but good eating could be found anywhere in the city.

  Instead, he headed north to Market Street and followed it southeast, ignoring the national food chains and walking past the malls and the busy streets, heading aimlessly across the town.

  Trevor had no money, nowhere to go, and he knew no one in town, but he walked with purpose, not merely meandering. But he didn’t know what guided him. He knew the town well enough, despite not spending more than two weeks here in the last decade.

  Perhaps it was the natural odors of the place, perhaps it was his subconscious working overtime, but within an hour, he found himself in San Francisco’s famed Chinatown. In particular, he stood before a small martial arts academy, The Yellow Lion Dance School. According to the pamphlet glued to the glass, the school was mostly fine dance during the day hours, but now, at night, it became a full-fledged Kung Fu academy with a select few students – who could all prove their Chinese descent.

  They were practicing Crane style, something that Trevor was more than familiar with, but he didn’t dare enter. He wasn’t pureblood Chinese – his father Julius had been an American – and he knew it would cause tro
uble. It had caused trouble everywhere else in China and in every Kung Fu-based academy he’d visited in the world.

  But it was interesting to watch the students work. The class was advanced, with seven students going through late progressions. There were two masters that he could tell. One was an old man, nearly ninety to his estimation, and the other was a close relative, probably his son and he was closer to Adam Senior’s age.

  Eventually, some of the students noticed Trevor outside, and one of them went up to the older instructor. After a brief conversation, he and the younger master came outside.

  “What are you doing?” they challenged him in rapid-fire Cantonese. “You can’t stand here.”

  The student put his hands on Trevor when another figure approached from the opposite side, drawing his and the master’s attention.

  “Get your hands off him,” Mason said, standing casually.

  “He can’t stand here,” the student said.

  Mason dug into his coat and withdrew a police badge. It looked genuine, though Trevor didn’t figure that he had any association with local law enforcement. To the best of his knowledge, the bodyguard was just that, and nothing else.

  “He can’t stand here,” the student protested, but his bravado was gone.

  “Why don’t the both of you fuck off and go back inside, before I get nasty.”

  The young master waved his student off and they went back inside.

  “Oh, and we’re going to stand here for a while,” Mason said, standing beside Trevor.

  “Thanks,” the young man said.

  “No problem. Guy’s an asshole.”

  Trevor said nothing, wanting to leave, but Mason meant for them to stay, as a form of thumbing his nose at the two martial artists, and he didn’t want to ruin his play.

  “I’m not really a police officer,” he said. “Not any more. This is a fake, but I’ve been carrying it for a few years now, thinking it’ll come in handy some time.”

  “Ever had to use it?”

  “Just did,” Mason said. “You alright?”

  Trevor nodded, but the gesture wasn’t very convincing. And besides, who goes for a walk at this hour, in this temperature, without a coat and for no good reason?

  “Cold?” Mason said, and that’s when Trevor realized he was carrying an extra coat in his free hand.

  “A little, yeah,” Trevor said, taking the coat and putting it on. “Thanks.”

  “That’s okay. Let’s get you back before they call the real cops,” Mason said, gesturing to the Bentley parked down the street.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Trevor said.

  “Not ever?”

  “Not yet.”

  Mason looked around, “Wonder if there’s a decent Chinese restaurant around here,” he said, a smile playing on his face.

  Trevor pointed to a small place on the other side of the street. It was a sliver in the wall, with only a window to sell take out.

  They walked over, braving the weaving traffic to cross. “Did Adam fire you?”

  Mason chuckled as they got to the window restaurant.

  “He did, didn’t he?”

  “It’s not your problem. Trevor. What’s good here?”

  They studied the menu, written in marker on the window. “I’m going to get dumplings,” Trevor said.

  “Ask her if they make General Tsao’s chicken,” Mason said, drawing an angry look from Trevor. Tsao’s was an American concoction, an abomination using enough elements of Chinese cuisine to pass for the real thing. It was popular in the states, as it was palatable, without any of the difficult flavors of traditional Chinese food. But it was something no true Chinese person would ever order. “I’m fucking with you,” Mason said finally, breaking into laughter. “God, I love that joke.”

  Trevor shook his head and turned to the lady at the window. “Xiao Long Bao,” he said, ordering soup dumplings. He studied the menu again and said, “And two bowls of Zha Jiang Mian. That should be enough. Oh, do you have money?”

  “I got it,” Mason said, pulling out his money roll and flipping a twenty-dollar bill away from its many companions. He slipped it on the counter casually, something that surprised the lady taking their order.

  He chuckled, “She pissed I’m paying first?”

  “No,” Trevor said. “It’s the way you flipped the money down. Like you don’t care.”

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “It’s rude,” Trevor explained. “Sorry, miss. He doesn’t know,” he told the counter lady, who took the money and disappeared behind a curtain. “Oh, miss! Miss!”

  The woman returned, “Make it three orders of Mian, one to go.” She left again, and Trevor turned back to Mason, “For the driver.”

  “Good thinking,” Mason said. “Sorry about the money thing. I never paid with Mr. Adam. Hell, most times I’d just wait in the car and eat leftovers, or whatever I could pick up.”

  “And Junior is really going to fire you?”

  Mason’s face turned, a smile appearing that Trevor knew was covering for his wounded pride. “That’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “And that’s why you’re mad at me,” Trevor went on. “My disappearing trick cost you your job.”

  Mason snorted, turning back to the driver. He couldn’t see him and worry crossed his face. “Like I said-“

  “I shouldn’t worry about it,” Trevor repeated. “But it’s true, isn’t it? He’s firing you.”

  “Already has,” Mason said, still looking at the car. “Where the fuck is he?” He dug into his coat pocket and dialed a number – it was on his speed dial – but no one answered. “Sonofabitch, he never…”

  Mason started walking away, fast enough with his long loping legs that Trevor had to hurry to keep pace.

  “Because I’m sorry, you know. I can talk to him for you and see that he doesn’t fire you.”

  Mason stopped, turning back to him. “Kid, he already has. Now shut up and stay with me,” he said and started running to the car, where a crowd was forming around the driver’s side. The bodyguard bore through the crowd with ease, making a hole for himself and Trevor and as they cleared the mob, they saw the driver’s door open, and Zhao Wen lying on the floor, his throat slit.

  “Fuck,” Mason said, checking the man’s pulse at his wrist. Nothing - he was dead. Freshly dead, though, the blood still flowing from the gaping wound.

  “Is he dead?” Trevor asked, but the guard was already in motion, checking the ignition of the car for the keys. When he didn’t find them, he checked the dead man’s pockets, drawing some commentary from the crowd.

  “He’s stealing the dead guy’s wallet!” one man said, others were muttering in Chinese.

  “Nothing,” Mason said, looking up and down the street, his eyes settling on a group of tough men that were walking in their direction. They were young Chinese guys, wearing dark clothing and moving toward them with purpose.

  “Come on,” the guard said, grabbing Trevor and pulling him in the opposite direction of the approaching enemies.

  “What’s going on?”

  Mason didn’t answer until they cleared the mob, “Someone is trying to kill you.”

  ——

  Trevor kept an eye on their pursuers as Mason led the way. There were four of them, running to keep up with their quarry.

  The clear leader was the tallest of the bunch, almost as tall as Trevor, with long black hair, slicked back and larger eyes than the usual Chinese. He wore a collar-less black jacket without a shirt underneath and matching slacks. A silver chain dangled from his belt down to his knee and up to his back pocket, probably securing his wallet.

  Beside him was the baby-faced one of the bunch, with his hair cut short and eyebrows plucked so they were only spread out about an inch from his nose, curving upwards to give his otherwise handsome face a strange, demonic look. He wore a black shirt with the collars turned up and black jeans. He was lankier than the rest, and ran with an odd, loping gait.

/>   The most athletic of the bunch had a dirty, ugly face, with a nasty scar that started just beside the left edge of the lip and curved upward along his cheek, dying deep into his scalp. His hair was short, almost scraped off, and his bare chest was replete with tattoos of eastern and western cultures. Trevor could swear the guy had an AC/DC tat beneath his Adam’s apple. He wore a thick bombardier leather jacket, of more use in a few months, with a furry collar and no shirt beneath. A large yin and yang icon on a thin gold chain bounced around his neck.

  The last guy had blonde/orange frosted hair and a jacket much like the lead guy’s. Blondie had it open, with a black shirt beneath and a silver cross dangling on a necklace. His face was a grimace, biting his lower lip and he, of all four, was the only one holding a weapon visible – a Wing Chun butterfly sword with a fat blade about 12” long.

  They were running fast, but not enough to catch up with Trevor and Mason. “They’re herding us,” he said, following the guard as he turned right, running into an alleyway. A few paces into the side street, Mason stopped. Trevor looked past him and noticed another guy was following on lateral streets. This guy was young, like the others, wearing black pants and boots and a white tank top that allowed him to display brawny arms replete with tattoos. They backed out of the alley and looked the opposite direction. Another guy was at the end of the alley headed left. He was thin like a reed, also wearing all black, with puffed up hair he had pulled back into a tail.

  “You’re not wrong,” Mason said, looking back at the original four pursuers. They had slowed, and spread out along the street, making it impossible to run past them. Trevor noticed that traffic had stopped as their enemies approached. No one honked or complained – most people stayed silent in their cars as the young guys walked past, then hurried off.

  “Can we call the cops?”

  Mason shook his head, “Damn, kid. Try to be helpful, if you’re going to have ideas.”