Dead Man Walking

by David Carter

  “No,” Benji replied.

  “But she’s your mother,” Blaze fired back.

  “No! I don’t want to!” Benji shouted.

  Blaze paused. “Why not?” he asked calmly.

  “Her hand is dirty!”

  Blaze remembered what Jane had told him about his disorder. He approached the situation from a different angle. “How about you sit next to her while I wait for the ambulance outside. Can you do that for me?”

  “Okay.” He smiled.

  “Good lad,” Blaze said. “You’re a brave little boy.”

  “I’m a big boy,” he retorted. “I’m nearly six.”

  “Yes, you are.” Blaze walked outside shaking his head. Literal little shit, he thought.

  The ambulance arrived and Blaze rode with Jane and Benji to the hospital. After discovering she had no medical insurance, Blaze tossed a roll of one-hundred-dollar bills on the reception desk. “Make sure Jane gets the best possible care,” he said.

  The stunned lady behind the desk assured him she would.

  As Blaze made his way through the maze of corridors to where Jane was recuperating, he spotted a vending machine. He bought two cans of soda and some crisps. He poked his head into Jane’s room and saw Benji sitting on a chair playing a hand-held video game one of the nurses had given him. He was glued to the screen.

  “Hungry?” Blaze asked as he took a seat next to Benji, careful not to make full eye contact with him.

  “Yes,” Benji replied. His gaze didn’t budge from his video game.

  “How about you finish the level you’re on then we can eat and have a chat?” Blaze asked him.

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  When Benji had put the game down, he tried in vain to open his bag of crisps. He still lacked in some basic motor skills. Blaze showed him what Benji thought was a neat trick, and popped the packet open for him. “So who were the bad men that hurt your mum?” he asked casually, remembering that Benji had a phenomenal memory.

  “I like chips,” Benji replied. “Chips are my favourite. And I’m nearly six.”

  Blaze exhaled heavily with frustration. He tried a different approach. “Does Mummy tell you you’re a big boy?”

  “Yes. Mum always says I’m a big boy.”

  “What about your daddy?”

  “No, he doesn’t call me a big boy. He calls me a little shit. But shit is a toilet-word, and I’m not supposed to say toilet-words.”

  Blaze seized the opening he’d created. “Was it your daddy who hurt your mummy?”

  A loud crunching sound from Benji’s mouthful of crisps was all that could be heard while he processed Blaze’s question. “No, it wasn’t Daddy this time. It was his friend. His friend has a yukky face.”

  “What do you mean, a yukky face?”

  Benji slurped back a mouthful from his soda can. “I don’t like looking at his yukky face.”

  Blaze had a feeling he knew who he was talking about. “Is his neck yukky, too?” he asked.

  “Yes. And he’s mean. He hit my mummy.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. I hid before he saw me. Mummy told me to be a big brave boy.”

  “And that’s exactly what you are.” Blaze mustered a smile.

  “I like you, Blaze,” Benji said as he stuffed another handful of crisps into his mouth.

  Blaze wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d never been around children before. But he liked Benji’s honesty—even if it was something he had no control over. “I like you too, Benji,” he replied. “And I’m going to find your daddy’s friend and make sure he doesn’t hurt your mummy again.”

  Benji didn’t reply as he’d emptied his packet of crisps and returned to his video game.

  Blaze looked at Jane laying back in her bed. He felt guilty. He should’ve known there’d be retaliation for her husband’s arrest. He’d screwed up. The brotherhood assumed she’d called the police. And he wasn’t there to protect her.

  Blaze knew what he had to do. He suddenly felt he had a purpose. And he would act accordingly.

  He stepped out into the corridor and dialled a number from memory into his phone.

  Agent Doyle was startled as the burner phone Blaze had left in his jacket pocket started ringing. Without hesitation he answered the call. “Blaze? Is that you?”

  “I’ll do it,” Blaze replied.

  “You mean you’ll go inside the brotherhood?”

  “Yes. But we’ll be doing things on my terms. And that’s non-negotiable. You understand?”

  Doyle couldn’t wipe the excited grin off his face as he replied, “You have my undivided attention...”

  Chapter 18

  “What’s so important that I had to leave the hospital at a moment’s notice?” Elizabeth Blaise asked Sharon as she sat down at a table inside The Greasy Axle. There was a small degree of frustration in her voice. She had been doting over Hampton ever since he’d been admitted to the Glendale hospital, much to his protestation.

  The morning breakfast rush was over; the only people inside were Elizabeth and Sharon. Two of the waitresses had gone outside on the front porch for their cigarette break.

  “Just take a breath, Liz,” Sharon replied as she brought two mugs of coffee over from the espresso machine. “I have some news,” she added, and paused for a nervous breath. “I think it’ll break your heart,” she stammered.

  Elizabeth’s demeanour changed instantly. “What’s this all about, dear?”

  Sharon cleared her throat. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but I’ve called the wedding off.”

  “You did what!” Elizabeth exploded, slamming her coffee mug down. Its contents sploshed over the edge and made a small puddle on the table surface. “Are you out of your mind? You’ve got the man of every girl’s dreams and you’re letting him go?” Her evergreen facial features for a lady in her late-fifties contorted with fury. “You know I’ve always thought of you as a beautiful, smart woman, Sharon, and I’ve always considered you as my own daughter, but I must say I think you’re making a huge mistake.”

  Sharon took Elizabeth’s barrage of words in her stride, as she’d certainly expected her outburst; Elizabeth had taken Sharon under her wing during her teenage years after her parents had died in a plane crash. They had been the closest of friends ever since.

  “Just let me explain.”

  Elizabeth fired up again. “You’d better have a damn good reason to let such a fine gentleman slip through your fingers–”

  “Bobby’s still alive.” Sharon cut her off.

  Elizabeth mouth froze wide open as she registered Sharon’s statement. “What did you just say?”

  Sharon sighed heavily. “Bobby’s still alive, and my lying, no-good, scumbag of a fiancé knew the whole time.”

  Elizabeth’s face turned pale. Her hands started trembling. Her heart thumped like a sub-woofer. “You mean to say that Ryan attended Bobby’s memorial service knowing he was still out there somewhere?”

  “Yes, and Ryan had to come clean to his superiors about it. He just messaged me to say he’s on his way to New York to track him down and bring him back to face a swag of charges being laid against him.”

  Elizabeth was reeling from the news. “Are you telling me that Steve was going to New York with Ryan without telling me—to bring my own son home so he can be charged and sent to prison again?”

  “Yes. But I’m sure he had no choice in the matter.”

  Elizabeth broke down in tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Liz.” Sharon got up and put her arms around her. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

  “Don’t be, love,” Elizabeth sniffled. She dapped her eyes with a napkin. “I’m just glad to know my Bobby is still out there. I’ve lived in hope that the reason they never found his body was because he somehow survived the accident. I’ve pleaded to God day and night for a miracle, and he’s answered my prayers.” Sharon held Elizabeth tight and her emotions ran away with her. When Elizabeth final
ly calmed, she asked, “What did Bobby do? What charges is he facing?”

  Sharon took a deep breath. “He’s wanted for murder; two murders, in fact,” she blurted out.

  Elizabeth’s chin dropped to her chest. She said nothing as her insides churned. “Start from the beginning,” she said at last, and drained the last of her coffee like a shot of tequila. “And go get something strong to drink,” she added.

  Sharon got up from the table and reached for a bottle of whisky perched on the top shelf behind the bar. Like mother, like bloody son, she thought.

  Chapter 19

  The darkness soothed Blaze as he sat against the wall in the rear of the black SUV. Agent Doyle had secured Blaze’s hands behind his back and blindfolded him before driving him to a secret underground FBI training facility. The journey reminded Blaze of when he’d been transported to prison back home in New Zealand, where he’d met his best friend, Danny, on the inside. Together they had formed a mutual trust and friendship, fighting twisted, hardened criminals to the death, before finding a way to escape the clutches of the miserable hell hole.

  Before he could sink further into his memories, the SUV jerked to a halt. And before he knew it, he was being snatched from the SUV by a pair of ruthless soldiers and tossed into a damp, pungent room. His lay facedown on a small metal grate in the centre of the gritty concrete floor.

  With his hands still bound and his sight impaired, he rolled over on his back and heaved himself up into a sitting position, then cursed loudly as a relentless shower of ice-cold water pounded him from above. After the initial shock was over, Blaze stood and looked skyward towards the gushing waterfall, almost enjoying the refreshing wave as it corroded through his darkest thoughts. If the FBI thought they could break him with a simple cold shower, they were grievously mistaken. Then as fast as the water started, it stopped. Blaze’s teeth started chattering as the sound of water trickling down the metal grate echoed off the chamber walls. His ears pricked up as he heard the sound of grinding metal and a ‘clunk’ as the door to his prison was unlocked and opened from the outside. Blaze concentrated and counted two sets of footsteps; they were slightly out of sync with each other. One set of steps stopped almost instantly upon entering the room, while the other approached Blaze from the rear. As soon as he thought the timing was right, Blaze lashed out with a savage kick and set the man approaching him back on his rear end.

  Without warning, a gunshot went off.

  “Fuck!” Blaze shouted as the rubber bullet ploughed into his abdomen. “I’ll kill all of you fuckers!” His anger started to rise. “If any of you lay another fucking hand of me, I’ll–”

  Blaze crumpled to the ground in agony as another perfectly aimed bullet ploughed into the exact same spot on his abdomen as before. “You fucking asshole!” he cursed. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that!” He let out a sadistic cackle.

  The man Blaze had kicked blindsided him with a swift jab to the side of his face. He and the other man in the room roughly shoved him down and strapped him on his back to a crude device. “Hold your breath, Blaze,” his tormentor snickered.

  The sturdy wooden board Blaze was strapped to tilted back until his head was just above the ground with his feet pointed skyward. Then the ice-cold water from the ceiling came crashing down on his face once again, in short, powerful bursts. “Fuck you!” Blaze screamed between each downpour. “You can’t break me! I’m fucking indestructible!”

  The water came gushing down, over and over and over. Blaze gurgled and choked with each surge. But he didn’t crack.

  When the last spurt of water subsided, Blaze shouted, “Is that all you got, Doyle? Get your fucking ass down here and show me what you’re made of!”

  Doyle and his superior were watching through a camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

  “Impressive,” Doyle’s superior said as he watched the live footage. How did you get him to change his mind?”

  “To be perfectly honest, sir, I don’t know why he agreed to the mission. However there are some concessions we have to make...”

  Doyle’s superior rubbed the bald spot on the back of his perfectly round head. His aging face strained as he removed his glasses to rub his eyes, and replied, “What are his demands?”

  “He wants us to take care of a woman and her autistic child. A decent home, education, money; the works.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He wanted a list of any black men in The Tombs that the country would deem as “a waste of taxpayers’ money.”

  “The Tombs, Doyle?”

  “Manhattan Detention Complex— where the woman’s husband and the current leader of the Aryan Brotherhood are doing time. There’s been so many gang wars inside, it’s now affectionately known as The Tombs.”

  “Why does he want a list of the worst black criminals we have on record there?”

  “Again, I’m not sure, sir.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yes, sir. He seemed okay with the idea that the brotherhood are looking for a new leader to maintain law and order inside. He is perfectly suited for this mission.”

  “You mean he didn’t ask for a big house, a million dollars, and a Lamborghini?”

  “No, sir. He wasn’t interested in money. He’s the most intriguing prospect I’ve ever encountered, sir.”

  Doyle’s superior leaned his rotund body over the desk as they watched Blaze on the monitor. He was borderline-hypothermic. He shivered uncontrollably.

  Doyle’s superior held down a small red button on the desk and spoke into an intercom. His authoritative voice said, “Move straight to phase three.”

  One of the agents in the room looked up at the camera and nodded. He released Blaze’s bindings and blindfold, before both agents left the room.

  “If he gets through this I’ll certainly consider your request to use this “Blaze” character, Doyle’s superior said.

  “You never said we were going to use prisoners during the testing phase!” Doyle panicked.

  “You have a problem using terrorists as live subjects?” Doyle’s superior lifted an eyebrow. “Because if you do, well, I can always transfer you back to the local precinct to write out parking tickets for the remainder of your career.”

  “Sir, there are certain protocols and ethics to adhere to–”

  “Save the bullshit, Doyle.” He cut him off. “These prisoners are sentenced to die in one way or another; you know how it works...”

  Doyle sighed. “Yes, sir.” He paused. “What about Blaze? What if one of them kills him?”

  “Have you tracked down his true identity yet?”

  Doyle gulped down a mouthful of saliva. “Truth be told, sir, that’s been proving quite difficult. I’ve run every search known to man in the database and there’s nothing.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Well, obviously he’s changed his identity, and used a professional at that. He could be an escaped convict with high-connections. Who knows? He’s a ghost, sir.”

  “Good. No one will miss him if he doesn’t walk out of our little fun house or if he blows his cover and the brotherhood deal with him in their own manner.”

  Doyle apprehensively nodded his approval as three gangly Arab men entered the chamber.

  Blaze snapped out of his frozen state. His eyes narrowed, he calmed his breathing and his muscles tensed. He thought about Jane and the bloodstains on her living room floor and little Benji, the innocent one.

  Let’s dance motherfuckers.

  Chapter 20

  The three Arab terrorists circled Blaze in the centre of the torture chamber. Blaze noticed their weak, malnourished faces. It was obvious to him they’d been locked underground for many days. Three sets of yellow, rotting teeth bared through their scruffy black beards as they imagined dismantling him limb by limb in order to please their god.

  “Kill the infidel,” said Abdul, the leader of the trio.

  Blaze eyeballed Abdul. “You’re gonn
a regret saying that, you filthy goat fucker.” He spat in disgust at his feet.

  Abdul’s face turned red. “You insult Allah! You must die!”

  Blaze smirked. He wasn’t in any way a racist, but he needed to rile the man up. He wanted him angry. It was how he drew out his opponent. “Don’t worry, when I’m finished with you, I’ll make sure Allah delivers your seventy-two virgins,” Blaze replied. “Although personally I’d prefer seventy-two dirty whores. But who knows? Perhaps you’ll get a herd of virgin-goats to share among your friends?”

  Abdul’s anger went through the roof; he was shaking with fury. He lost all form of self-control; he’d taken the bait.

  He rushed forward at Blaze, screaming in the name of Allah with outstretched arms. Blaze anticipated his move and grabbed hold of his hand and used his momentum to fling the leader into the unsuspecting Arab standing behind him.

  The two men crashed to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs.

  Without so much as a second to react, the third Arab found himself tackled around the waist and driven backwards into the gritty, concrete wall. In a flash, Blaze had him pinned by the neck. He balled his fist, leaving his middle knuckle protruding, before ruthlessly driving it into both of the man’s eyes, bursting them and blinding him instantly. The man screamed and repeatedly cried out to Allah in his native tongue, “Why have you forsaken me?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Blaze shouted, then with an almighty blow, crushed the man’s larynx. He slowly slid to the ground, croaking and gasping for air. Within seconds he was dead.

  One down.

  “It’s time to meet your maker,” Blaze said sadistically as he turned around and wiped the fluid from the blind man’s eyes from his knuckles.

  “I do not fear death,” Abdul replied indignantly.

  “You should.”

  “If I die, I die a martyr.”

  “Suit yourself.” Blaze took a swing at him. Abdul ducked his head. It was a costly mistake—for Blaze.