by D W Bell
Scared to break the rhythm of the production, one of the communications techs winced as if he had been physically struck by the mission update that whispered in his headset. “Sir. Capture team reports that the main house is clear and the stable is empty. No sign of the intruders or the broodmares.”
“What?” Boudreaux’s voice was livid with anger. “I can understand losing two interlopers doing their best to disappear, but how the hell do you lose an entire gaggle of waddling preggos?”
“Unknown, sir.” The communications tech paused with his finger to his ear to listen to an incoming update. “Capture team also reports that they have cleared the rooftop helipad. No joy. And we would have seen any inbound aircraft that would have made that exfil possible.”
The condemned man let out a defeated sigh, sure he would be blamed, and mumbled, “The only other way is the old pastor’s underground tunnel of love to that goddamned Jesus hot tub grotto inside The Garden To-”
The piercing clap as Boudreaux slapped his hands together in the ah ha moment startled everyone in the room and shook them each to their very core. “You got it, boy!” The little devil was instantly exuberant, “Way to pull victory from the jaws of defeat!” Up jumped the devil, as the song goes, and spun around to face his minions. “Well done, son! What’s your name?”
“Zack, sir.”
“Zack. Very good. Everybody keep an eye on Zack, he’s going places!” Boudreaux returned to his seat. “Now, Zack, you say the tunnel terminates in the grotto? Pull up the feed from that ridiculous Garden Tomb replica, won’t you?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Splendid. Robert, have the capture team pursue through the tunnel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Boudreaux’s black eyes narrowed in focus on the location in question, then widened and sparkled with mischief. A great peal of laughter emitted from the little man as he realized the strategic coup. Amid fits of hysterics he was able to sputter out, “The tomb opens directly inside their fortifications! They left the back door to The Alamo open… through the basement!”
Stinging tears of mirth watered Boudreaux’s dead eyes as his body twisted and shuddered with the maniacal laughter. The terrified technicians did their best to lose themselves in the work.
―
John was flabbergasted by the caverns they had fled to. He was sure the early Christians had nothing like this. Part ancient Roman bathhouse and part Playboy mansion, it was a jarring mish-mash of chlorinated steam hedonism and tacky decadence.
That being said, it was a thoughtful blasphemy. What with Mary Magdalene, demure but promising secret sins, standing in the shell of a knock-off fresco mural of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. The old pastor may have not known art, but he knew what he liked as the saying goes. An alcove fitted out with a bar and red felt card tables had a large painting of the Twelve Apostles smoking cigars and playing poker.
The underground tunnel terminated in the largest of the pleasure caverns, with its stone-guarded exit into the garden. The debauched baptisms that were rumored to occur in these “therapeutic” pools were private affairs by nature and necessity.
While the thought of bathing with the bevy of beauties he had in tow would normally be enticing, Smith’s only concern now was their safety and joining the battle he could hear raging outside in the previously peaceful and private Eden.
After a short, one-sided discussion he stationed his silent partner to guard the rear entrance and watch their six while he instructed the mothers to stick close to the rounded walls of the cavern to keep them out of the line of fire of any stray rounds that may pierce the portal when he rolled the protective covering away. John announced their arrival over the radio and prepared to pass through the breach into the light from the humid warmth and dark safety of the fantasy cave’s tunneled womb. He listened for a lull in the gunfire, rolled the faux-stone away, and stepped out into the sun.
―
“The hounds are in the tunnel, sir. Lead reports there was a feeble attempt to secure and booby trap the entrance, but the team was able to circumvent and breach without any casualties. They are on the scent and stalking.”
“Wonderful. I love when things just fall into place like this. Proof of a greater power watching over us, eh boys?” Boudreaux gazed disappointedly at the nearly empty decanter of his green libation. Feeling the frenetic energy of the culminating cinematic climax building, he poured the last into his glass to calm his nerves and mumbled, “Waste not, want not.”
―
“Jesus Christ, John! You look like shit!” Master Fu’s eyes widened in amused disbelief at the sight of the bloodied and bandaged John emerging from the replica Garden Tomb, and he nearly doubled over with raucous laughter, heedless of the war and death around him, as he realized the ridiculously ironic symbolism of it all. “I think you need a vacation, John. It would really work wonders. Maybe about three days or so. Take some time away and rise up a new man!”
“You’re fucking hilarious, sifu.” John grumbled good-naturedly through the pain of his wounds and the bad Jesus joke. “I got all the ladies in the grotto. What’s the plan?”
Master Fu gestured to the bullet-ripped surroundings and cordite choked air with a scowl, “That is the question, isn’t it? It seems our little Sunday drive has been cancelled due to the weather. It’s raining fucking armor-piercing bullets.”
John looked around at the depleted armor around them. Well-designed and solidly built though they were, there was just no way the vans could withstand the sheer volume of fire they had been subjected to all day. This little last stand was over. Both men cursed in vehement grief as the first of the minis ran dry, and the brave monk who had prayed his leaden rosary until the end slumped over dead. Spent.
Furious, John lunged to take a firing position on the line among the battle-raging monks but was stopped by Master Fu’s powerful paw on his shoulder. “No. We’ll take a few more before we go. Fall back into the cave and we’ll fire from the tomb in shifts. They will have to climb over or through the vans a few at a time, exposing themselves. The inside of our little fortress will now be a kill box.”
“Why not roll the stone back over and take the tunnel back to the big house?”
“Too much space to defend. This is the best spot for the resources we have left. Besides, dying in the defense of a bunch of mothers in a replica of Jesus’ tomb has got to be worth something upstairs, right?” Master Fu laughed with a shrug and began roaring orders to the remaining monks to drag the ammo into the cave while maintaining cover fire, disable the miniguns, and arm the charges in the vans.
John nodded in grim agreement, turned on his heel, and ran in a low crouch back to the cave mouth to prepare the others. Martyrs all.
Master Fu’s transmission was broken by an urgent broadcast on the global channel.
―
“Sir…”
“Oh for the love of God! When did it become unfashionable to give two weeks’ notice when one resigns a position? Philosophical differences aside, it’s a matter of principle! Disrespectful and downright rude.” Boudreaux sulked and muttered to himself, “Kids these days, no appreciation for decorum and proper etiquette. I weep for the future.”
Chapter 36
The stark contrast between Blackbird’s clipped, military-style pilot speak and the soothing, dulcet intonation of the luxury charter captain reply was comical at the very least, a different kind of cocky from the cockpit.
All paused in disbelief, friend and foe alike, as the trio of luxuriously sleek Bell 525s made an elegant pass over the battleground below, all eyes raised to heaven to witness the graceful spectacle. The hushed engines of the executive aircraft a dreamy love ballad compared to the death metal-screamo fusion of the SuperCobra’s mil-spec thrust.
Only Master Fu grunted and shook his head in amusement, and Boudreaux, ignorant of the radio traffic but seeing the events, sighed dejectedly from his video vantage point.
I won’t go into details, but the very high-profile client wanted to release hundreds of doves and then hover into the heavens among them as they departed. I am sure you can appreciate that the moment would have been ruined by bloody bird strikes, so we came up with a plan.
The backup aircraft performed a well-timed orbit over the flock to push the birds down with rotor wash and allow us to lift off unsullied as the bride. Would you ladies kindly assist us in this endeavor?>
―
“Sir, Hound team is reporting movement in the tunnel ahead. Requesting directive on capture or kill.”
Boudreaux was at a personal impasse. It would be an enormous coup to capture and cage the venerable tiger and then jab it with a pointy stick a while for his amusement, but the old man was wily, powerful, and unpredictable so he was not entirely certain his team was up to the challenge, even though they were some of his best. What to do?
With a dejected sigh of resignation Boudreaux made the call. At least the great tiger would be forever captured and immortalized via his team’s bodycam footage. “Kill. This charade has gone on too long. Let them off the leash. Disregard any concern for the breeders. We’ll take stock of what is left once it is done, and we can always get more.”
“Give me the point man’s feed on the screen and the mission channel in surround sound on the main speakers.” The finality of the statement was punctuated by the hollow thud of the empty tumbler being discarded next to the empty decanter. “The show must go on.”
―
The monks continued to fire from the cave mouth to keep the attention of the enemy focused there while the rest of the persecuted made good their escape through the catacombs. Golem and Master Fu took the lead with John bringing up the rear as walking wounded and to assist any stragglers. The coded clicks beckoned in his earpiece and he rushed to the head of the quiet column as quickly as he could without calling out in pain.
An attempt had been made by the engineers of this place to make the imaginary caverns seem as natural as possible, with varying degrees of success. The fleeing fighters were now halted at a narrowed passage between two large caverns. Master Fu knelt with his shotgun trained through the opening while Golem appeared to be cheerily disrobing down to boots and utility pants, his body a patchwork map and storybook of battle scars and torture. John knelt next to Master Fu and waited to be brought up to speed.
Through simple hand signals Master Fu made it known that there were a small group of enemies moving through the tight corridor in their direction. He indicated with thrusting fingers that the nearly naked and limbering up Golem was going to somehow take care of it.
Seeing that he was the topic of conversation, Golem, still hopping from foot to foot and stretching, smiled at John, pulled a large knife from his belt, made several superficial cuts to his chest and forehead, and began to spread blood over his body. When it was done he looked as if he had been badly injured in one hell of a fight. John nodded with furrowed brow as he started to understand the subterfuge.
Making a mockery of his own theatrical skill, Golem spit out his gum, passed his blade as a mask descending over his ecstatic smile, and adopted a look of pain and a pronounced limp as he got into character for his performance. He drew another large blade, this one wickedly curved and serrated, from the small of his back and began a slow shuffle into the cramped tunnel before them, coughing loudly to announce his appearance on the stage. The impromptu spotlights shining from the weapons of his former comrades illuminated his dramatic entrance.
His efforts were rewarded by the rustling sound of surprised soldiers desperately pressing themselves against the walls of the passageway to find cover and address the threat. Master Fu winked, passed his weapon to John, and then patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.
―
Boudreaux’s ears perked up and he cocked his head at the name of a favorite thought lost sounding over the loudspeakers playing the mission audio, and an image of his injured pet appeared in perfect frame on the main screen. “Golem?” Suspicious of the sudden happy reunion, Boudreaux called up all nine feeds of the kill team in a tile format on the big screen and stared at each with wary scrutiny.
Seeing no threat, only a wounded comrade who had most likely cleared the passage ahead of them, the kill team relaxed and lowered the muzzles of their weapons. They stepped forward, flat-footed, to see to the injured man, and Golem began his dance of death. Instantly he was among them, moving and cutting.
Back in the control room, the little green lights of vital monitors began to blink red, and then solid on to indicate dead. Helmet and bodycams suddenly produced only darkened stills of the floor and ceiling, and an unmistakable roar thundered through the loudspeakers in glorious, booming surround sound. One shot rang out and it was over.
“Of course. Perfect,” was all Boudreaux could mutter, increasingly irritated, “the Hounds have been put down.”
―
It was a massacre. Golem’s blades sliced, ripped, and tore through the flesh of his opponents, and bones broke and skulls shattered under the powerful palms of Master Fu once the old tiger leapt into the fray. The narrow passage made it awkward for the Hounds to bring their weapons to bear, and the old master’s kung fu was well suited to tight spaces. Both men flowed like rushing water over the blood splattered floor in perfect harmony, killing as they went.
The last man standing had fancied himself a designated marksman of sorts. He carried a SOCOM 16 chambered for the powerful 7.62 NATO round, coincidently the same caliber as the monk’s miniguns and rifles, basically a cut down M1A1 adapted for close quarters combat.
Much deadlier than the MP5 sub-machineguns favored by his colleagues, he quickly but smoothly raised the weapon to his shoulder as he saw the treachery unfolding before him from his position at the rear of the line. He acquired sight picture and alignment on the exposed back of Master Fu as the old man took down another member of his unit and squeezed the trigger.
Master Fu heard the shot as the last body hit the floor and spun around to evade or attack. His catlike reflexes were not
needed. As he turned he saw the rifleman and Golem facing each other and slumping to their knees, then the ground, dead. The shooter had sprouted a thrown blade from the center of his forehead, and a gushing exit wound had blossomed bloody from Golem’s bare back.
Golem had seen the mortal danger, and, unable to call out in warning, the Druze had stepped in to intervene. Master Fu rushed to his side, John following behind to make sure all the attackers were dead, but Golem was already gone. The old tiger shifted the body flat on its back, caressed the eyelids closed, arranged Golem’s cold hands in the Muslim position of prayer, whispered a few words, and stood to his feet. With an angry scowl he jerked his head in the direction they had been traveling, signaling they should keep moving.
John nodded, glanced down at Golem’s corpse to silently pay his respects, and shuffled quickly back up the tunnel to get the ladies ready to move again.
Master Fu spat in disgust on the body of the rifleman and activated his throat mic to contact the monks still fighting at the entrance to the blasphemous grotto,
Three clicks acknowledged the order.
―
Boudreaux looked over the streaming data on his remaining forces that were sacrificing themselves, still desperately trying to please him, and decided he was bored with it all. The caravan of preggos and their stalwart protectors had made it to the mansion’s rooftop and were being quickly and efficiently shuttled off to safety via luxury helicopters. Time to roll the credits and tease the sequel.
“Have all units stand down. Let them go.” All activity in the command center ceased in shock as the calm, quiet command was given. Sensing and reveling in the confusion, Boudreaux stood to face his audience and bowed with a devilish grin, as if he was the author of particularly intricate avant-garde play called to stage to receive his ovation.
