by William Oday
So he reached up into the open drawer and clawed at whatever he could get.
A razor edge sliced his fingertip.
“Ow!”
He yanked his hand back and pinched at the blood welling out. He reached up again, intent on grabbing whatever had sliced him. His hand closed around a handle and out came a plastic tape dispenser.
He cursed and slammed it on the marble floor.
He shoved his hand back into the drawer and felt a sharp point dig into his palm. He tried to pull out whatever got him. A letter opener hopefully. Even a pair of scissors. Anything that could protect Theresa.
Out came a wooden spoon.
A useless wooden spoon.
Were they allowed to eat at their desk? And if so, couldn’t they have used a fork? A metal fork? Something he could stab with.
He was about to reach back up when the crack of shots rang out. Not knowing if they were aimed at him, he ducked lower and squeezed up against the cabinet.
“What are you doing?” asked Theresa. Her words cutting in and out as more gunfire erupted.
They both instinctively dropped as low as they could.
“I don’t know!”
He looked at the spoon. Was he going to lull Cesar to sleep by tapping out a rhythm on his bloodied palm? Maybe break it apart and stab him with a splintered end? That could work.
He held the ends and tried to snap it like a chicken bone. It didn’t bend. It didn’t even creak. He lined up and slammed the middle down on his knee. The impact jolted through his body. He smashed the spoon again and again on the floor, and still it remained whole.
“What are you doing?” Theresa asked.
“Nothing that’s working.”
“Let me see it.”
Theresa grabbed the spoon and placed it diagonally against the cabinet and the floor. She leaned over and kicked it dead center. It cracked in half, leaving one side with a sharp tapered point.
He grabbed it and turned just as Cesar barreled around the corner, his polished gun spitting lead and flame.
Elio launched himself up and spun as something punched him in the side. Like an angry donkey landed a kick. His momentum carried him forward even as his body jerked around.
He landed against Cesar’s broad chest, and wrapped his arms around the shot caller’s thick neck like they were a couple at a slow dance.
He slammed his head up and caught Cesar on the nose. The two fell back into the wall. Elio scrambled for a hold. Some purchase that might slow down his much stronger adversary.
Cesar spun around and slammed Elio off the wall like a rag doll. He brought the gleaming pistol up to his face and rammed the barrel against his skull.
Never mind the bullet, the muzzle ripped a gash into his forehead. The pressure so fierce it felt like his skull was going to implode.
Elio watched as time slowed and Cesar’s finger curled around the trigger. The knuckles turned white as the finger curled in.
So this was how it would turn out. His violent end.
A sadness washed over him.
He would die. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst part was that he’d never know if Theresa made it.
“Don’t do it, Cesar!”
Elio turned to see Mason with his pistol pointed in their direction. He’d come.
But he’d come too late.
72
MASON held a bead on Cesar’s temple, and then the bridge of his nose as the man turned to face him. Everything inside him screamed to take the shot. The animal inside wanted blood. Wanted death. Wanted to kill and kill until no threat remained.
Elio.
What was he doing here?
A remote part of his brain registered the pressure of Cesar’s finger on the trigger. Saw that a round through Cesar’s skull might end up with another through Elio’s.
Like father, like son.
Both dead at his hand.
The killer inside didn’t care.
It pleaded. Begged. And then shrieked when his trigger remained unpulled.
It wanted blood.
But Mason was more than the soldier he’d been forced to become in Fallujah.
He was a husband.
A father.
A man dedicated to protecting lives.
He couldn’t take the shot.
“Don’t do it, Cesar,” he said in a calm voice. Like you might speak to a vicious dog.
Mason released the grip on his pistol and let it pivot on his finger until the muzzle swung up to the ceiling.
Cesar watched him, perhaps surprised for an instant that another dog would roll over and expose its neck for the kill.
Mason bent over and laid the gun on the floor.
“Kick it away.”
Mason did as instructed.
“You stupider than you look,” Cesar said with a cold, mocking tone.
He swung the chromed Desert Eagle off of Elio’s forehead and around at Mason.
Elio’s left hand shot up and slammed into Cesar’s face.
The brute roared and shoved Elio’s head through drywall. Cesar spun, reaching for the short wooden spoon buried deep in his eye socket. He howled as his hand bumped the shallow cup, stirring the wound and spilling more blood down his cheek.
Cesar spun to Mason and unleashed a barrage of fire. The large, mirrored pistol bucked in his hand.
Mason dropped to a knee as a round ripped through his hair. More rounds sliced through the air inches above his head.
He yanked his right pant leg up and pulled out the subcompact Glock 26 from his ankle holster. In one fluid motion, his finger dropped inside the trigger guard and curled back as the sight picture lined up on Cesar’s nose. Two rounds punctured his skull in quick succession.
The shot caller stood for a moment, a look of surprise frozen in his eyes.
Mason fired two more shots into his broad chest and the big man collapsed.
Still covering him, Mason approached. He stood above the body. The body of the man who’d put his daughter’s life in danger. The body of the man who’d put Elio’s life in danger.
Before he could stop himself, he unloaded the rest of the magazine into Cesar’s chest.
The killer inside grinned. Vicious. Hungry.
Mason understood then that it would always be a part of him. And that he had to accept what he was. What he’d done. Perhaps he could even use it.
It might be a necessary partner in this new, chaotic world. So long as he kept it on a tight leash.
73
“Daddy,” Theresa said as she rushed into his arms. He wrapped her in a hug he wished would last forever. A hug that would keep her safe from the world.
She buried her face in his chest and burst into tears.
“You’re safe, honey. You’re safe.”
“Thank you, Mr. West,” Elio said. A smile flickered across his face and then he collapsed back onto the wall and slumped to the floor.
Mason stepped over and spun around so he could inspect Elio while still keeping an eye on the fallen gang members.
There was a lot of blood. Too much.
Elio’s face was waxy and pale. Several shades lighter than usual. His eyes fluttered and closed.
“Stay with me, Lopez!”
The relieved feeling in Mason’s chest clamped back down, tighter than ever. Echoes across time lent their mass to the weight crushing down on him.
“Don’t quit on me, Lopez!”
Mason peeled up Elio’s shirt and found the wound. On the side, at or just below the ribs. Maybe a lucky hit. Maybe a death sentence. He’d seen similar injuries go both ways. He felt around the backside and couldn’t find an exit wound.
He ripped off the tattered remains of his suit jacket and packed it on the wound. The layers immediately saturated. He tore off his shirt and added that to the makeshift dressing.
“Theresa, I need you to be strong, honey. Elio needs help and we’re the only ones who can give it.”
“He sav
ed my life, Dad.”
“Hold this here.” He took her hands and showed her how and where to keep pressure applied.
He found some duct tape in a drawer and wrapped Elio’s torso, making sure the clothes stayed put. The kid needed immediate medical attention.
Mason had no choice but to hope his wife had made it home and could help. A call to 911 wouldn’t work because where would the ambulance take them?
An ER visit was out of the question. From the chaos on TV, few were receiving medical attention. Besides, he had no intention of exposing any of them to the contagion going around. Those dense, desperate scenes were ideal transmission vectors. Sick people, uncontrolled physical contact in a tightly packed space. People would leave the ERs once they saw no help was forthcoming, or once violence broke out and drove them away.
In either case, newly infected people would walk away from the encounter. They would go on to infect others.
Mason needed to get them home. And minimize further contact with others. At least until they had Elio stabilized and then had a chance to gather more information.
He dipped an arm around Elio’s good side and pulled him to his feet.
Elio responded with a mumbled grunt. His eyes opened and gazed on Mason with slow recognition.
“Let’s get you out of here, Lopez.”
Elio nodded.
“You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me.”
With Theresa helping to clear the way, Mason limped out of the office with Elio at his side. Elio’s head hung forward, barely moving. He’d lost a lot of blood.
Not again. Please not again.
They got out to the hall and ran into the bald man that Mason had seen earlier. The lanky man adjusted his overtly fashionable glasses and smiled.
“I’d like to thank you.”
“Who are you?” Mason asked.
“I’m Gabriel Cruz.” He waved around to nowhere in particular. “This is my place.”
The Gabriel Cruz. The richest man in the world. No wonder he looked familiar.
“Looks like you need some redecorating.”
“True.” Gabriel looked at Elio.
“He was one of the ones trying to kill me.”
“He was just as much a victim as you.”
Gabriel considered that.
“Well, as I said, I’d like to thank you.”
“Wasn’t here for you,” Mason replied.
He nodded and pushed on as best they could. They walked down the hall and found the central elevators. By the time they reached the first floor, the thick wad of fabric stuffed under the duct tape was soaked through.
They descended to the lobby and exited the building.
The Bronco’s door flew open as they approached. Iridia jumped out and stared with wide eyes.
“You did it!”
Theresa stumbled and caught herself. She gaped at Iridia. “Are you—“
“I’ll explain later,” Mason said. “Get in.”
“Is this a normal day for you?” Iridia asked.
“Iridia, help Theresa climb into the backseat.”
She held the seat forward and helped his daughter inside. She climbed in behind her and pulled the seat toward her to lay it as flat as possible.
Mason gently laid Elio in the reclined seat.
Iridia peeked forward and grimaced.
“Is he going to make it?”
Mason didn’t want to conjecture. He didn’t want Elio to hear conjecture. You assumed the best until reality forced you to accept something worse.
“He’s banged up, but he’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
He shut the passenger door and ran around the front. He climbed in and glanced back.
Iridia held Theresa’s hand in hers. She picked debris out of his daughter’s hair.
He cranked the throaty V8 to life and remembered to breathe.
“Holly! Daddy, wait!” Theresa yelled. “We have to get Holly. She’s out there.”
Mason studied the innumerable cuts on his hands. He didn’t know how to tell her.
“We have to get her! She’s hurt!”
Mason turned and his daughter froze when she saw his face.
“Holly didn’t make it, honey.”
“What? Where is she?”
Mason didn’t know how to respond, so he defaulted to how his wife would’ve answered.
“She’s in a better place now.”
He wished he believed that as implicitly as Beth did. For her, that was simply the way of things. As natural a universal law as complementary angles always adding up to the right angle.
She had the right angle. He wanted to share it, but wanting wasn’t believing.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s gone, honey. Her body is in the back. But Holly is gone.”
Theresa looked over the seat and sharply inhaled when she saw the covered body of her best friend. Of what used to be her best friend.
Iridia turned Theresa back around and cradled her in her arms. Theresa buried her face in Iridia’s embrace. Her body shook with choked cries. Iridia stroked her hair, holding her tight while she unraveled.
“I’m so sorry.”
Mason flicked on the lights. The devastation on the street ahead blurred into other, similar streets in his mind. In his past.
What was going on in Los Angeles? Why was it starting to resemble a war-ravaged city in a destitute, third world country?
Mason turned the Bronco around and accelerated away, determined not to let the past catch up to him.
Determined not to lose the son of the father he’d lost so long ago.
74
BETH wiped the sweat from her forehead, careful to use the sleeve of her shirt in order to keep her hands sterile. Somewhat sterile at least. Their bedroom wasn’t the cleanest version of an operating room.
Mason sat in the overstuffed chair in front of her, his head leaning back against the headrest.
“How’s Elio?”
Beth glanced over her shoulder at the stationary form lying on their bed. His feet rested on a pile of pillows. An avalanche of blankets covered him.
“Doing better.”
The blue tinge to his lips and the pale skin of his face laid bare the lie. Mason didn’t need the evidence. He could read the lines on her face as easily as lines in a book. They’d been together that long.
She’d managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize the wound, but Elio had lost a lot of blood. His heart had stopped and only an IV injection of epinephrine had brought him back. She’d already given him three pints of Mason’s type O negative blood.
But he needed more.
Her husband was as healthy as they came, but losing two pints would knock anyone on their butt. Losing three started to put vital organs in danger. Losing more and he could end up in the same situation as Elio. And he’d already lost a good amount from the bullet wound in his calf, several bits of shrapnel in his back, and dozens of other minor cuts and scrapes.
Losing any more blood would be a huge risk.
“Take another pint.”
She’d already taken two more than she felt comfortable with. Mason could barely move as it was. He was asking her to put his life in danger.
Her hands shook as she touched his cheek.
So cold.
“Mason, I can’t. You’re weak. There’s no guarantee that one more will save him and it might kill you.”
“Please, Beth. Take it.”
“Why? I know you care for him, but think about Theresa and me. We don’t want to lose you.”
Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.
Mason tried to swallow and gave up. His voice came out raspy and quiet.
“I promised to protect his son.”
“His son? You mean David?”
“Yes.”
“Mason, I know you promised. And you’ve done your best. You didn’t promise to die for him.”
“To myself I did.”
“Stop it
! Why are you saying this?”
Mason looked at the ceiling and she wasn’t sure if the conversation had ended.
“Talk to me. Please.”
Mason looked back to her. His face a wan mask of grief. His lips pursed and trembling.
“I killed him.”
“You didn’t kill him. You said it was the gang leader that shot him.”
“Not Elio. David.”
“David? What about David?”
“I shot him. I killed him.”
His eyes welled with moisture, but no tears escaped. He turned away.
She’d never heard this version of the story. David had died from enemy fire during a house breach. Mason had told it only once, long ago. But she remembered.
“No, you didn’t.”
He stared at the wall, and through it to a distant time and place.
“Beth, I did.”
None of it made sense. What was he saying? He was probably too out of it to know.
“It was chaos. Explosions everywhere. An inferno. I was trapped. The op went sideways. Insurgents hit most of the squad. I went down. I thought it was the end. I thought I was dead. But then he came back for me. Only I didn’t know it was him. I thought he was already down.”
His eyes unfocused, or focused on the memory.
“He was just a dark figure in the doorway. I could barely see. My eyes were swollen shut. Flames burned everywhere. I was furious. So angry. I wanted to kill all those muj murderers.”
Mason shut his eyes and shook his head.
“I thought he was an insurgent,” he said, “and I reveled in killing him.”
Beth grabbed the seat back to steady herself.
Suddenly, the two years following his return made sense. She’d known PTSD was a real thing. That Mason had lost squad mates. She’d known he took it hard.
But she never understood the depth of his suffering. Never understood the anguish that dragged him down.
She understood now.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
It would’ve helped her to help him. To support him. To give him space. To be more patient with his process. To understand.
“I couldn’t. I didn’t want it to be real. I half-convinced myself it wasn’t.”
“Does anyone else know?”
