The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  Another man sat beside the old woman. A dark, silent man with no expression at all on his face. Rain glistened in his hair and ran down over the long black leather overcoat. The pants of his expensive charcoal-colored suit were soaked but he didn’t care. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. He just stared at the other coffin. The small coffin of a child.

  He was thinking about coffins. How inadequate they were. Brass and wood and screws and glue and satin. Just materials put together to hold a body. How could they possibly hold the people who lay inside now? People who had brightened his life and given him hope. A reason to try to live well. To live peacefully. The woman who’d given him a reason to try a gentler life. Who’d made him feel human by loving him. Someone to plan with, to hope with. To grow old with.

  And the child. The gift. With her tiny hands and feet. The truly beautiful smile that only an innocent child possesses. Her happy gurgling laugh. The future for them all.

  Gone. Just gone.

  He felt it then. The rage. Sour, hard and utterly unquenchable. It started deep in his gut and rose up slowly through his chest. His breath shortened and his mouth went dry. For a few moments his eyes became unfocused and he saw what he wanted to see. The torn broken bodies of those responsible. Their shocked, dead faces leaking blood. The surprise in eyes that glaze over and die before you.

  Swallowing hard, the man blinked and slowly came back to the funeral. He counted his slow, thumping heartbeats and forced his thoughts back to the present. Now was not the time. He looked at the coffins again and fought back the images of their faces as they were now. Gray. Lifeless. Dead. Eyes that would never see the sun again or laugh or light up when they saw him. He forced himself to see their faces as they should be. Happy and full of life. As they should be right now. Today. This minute.

  The rage burned again and he gripped his knees hard to fight it back. Not now.

  Not now.

  The man brought a hand up to his face and was surprised it wasn’t shaking. Wiping the rain from his cheeks, he stared at his fingers. Those who watched him imagined his grief and thanked their gods that their loved ones still lived. That they were still safe.

  The priest droned on and the rain still fell. The old woman lowered her head and the old man stared at nothing. Finally, with muted words, the dismal service ended. The younger man got up and gently helped the old woman to her feet. She held out her arms and hugged him. The old man gazed into his eyes and gripped his forearms hard. Man style, they stared at each other a long moment and then the old couple slowly moved off.

  He stayed and shook everyone’s hand. Men patted him on the shoulder and teary-faced women embraced him. Later they would remember that he never hugged back. The priest was the last to go. A kindly old man who’d seen enough of life to know he could say nothing to this man that would matter. There were no words of comfort that would work. This man wasn’t the type. So with a gentle squeeze on the arm, the priest also left.

  The man stayed.

  Taking a deep breath, he stood in the rain and looked at the coffins. In his own way, with his own thoughts and memories, he said good-bye. He knew he’d never come back. Knew he could never kneel by their graves and feel any peace.

  The man stood there a long time. Finally he lifted his eyes and the rain cascaded down his coat. He was alone again. Turning, he walked away slowly through the trees and didn’t look back.

  The Sandman opened his eyes and stared up into the darkness. His heart was thumping heavily against his chest and he swallowed hard. Raising a hand he touched his face. It was dry. No wet skin from the Virginia rain. No priest.

  Just pain.

  The fan on the ceiling slowly came into focus and he tried to remember where he was.

  He swallowed again and exhaled slowly. Rubbing his eyes the mercenary concentrated on the details of the ceiling fan. Four blades, two chains, one light. His breathing slowly returned to normal as he realized where he was.

  Hotel room . . . not a funeral Not that day. His hands unclenched and he sank back onto the pillow.

  Suddenly someone yawned in the dark, and as the bed moved, he instantly rolled sideways out onto the floor. Sliding backward against the wall, he crouched, heart thudding again now.

  “What’s wrong, cudush?” A beautifully silky female voice asked. “Have you had a bad dream?” Anytime else the British accent would’ve been delightful, but right now it was disorienting. He tensed as a dark form emerged from the sheets. Who was it?

  “Come back to bed . . . it’s much too early.” She sat up on her knees and looked around. “Where are you?” He saw her flip her long hair the way only a woman can do.

  Of course. Cudush. The Hindi word for “darling.” Sidra . . . the Indian girl by the pool. The Sandman swallowed again and slowly stood up.

  “Cudush . . . where are you?” She repeated.

  He stepped back to the bed and paused, looking down. His eyes were fully adapted now and he could see her plainly against the white sheets. She was completely naked. His gaze traveled from her ankles upward along her long legs. She had muscled calves and skinny, almost boyish thighs that flared into a flat stomach. Like many women from hot, sticky climates, she’d shaved her pubic hair except for a thin line that ran a few inches up her belly. As she turned, the line of her ribs showed below her breasts. Which, he reminded himself, were perfect. Just big enough to fit in a man’s hand and each topped with a tiny, pert nipple. Merlot colored, he recalled.

  She looked up then, and he saw her eyes widen. Inhaling sharply, she shrank back from the big dark figure beside the bed.

  “Volush neer kidma marquelis,” she hissed and pulled the sheet up around her chest.

  He didn’t move but softly said, “Sidra . . . it’s me. Relax.”

  At the sound of his voice the girl visibly wilted a bit. Her shoulders fell and she laughed nervously. “I thought . . . well . . . you know what I thought.” She reverted to English but stayed up against the headboard.

  Smiling, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her. The pillows behind her were very white against her dark skin. A long strand of thick hair hung across her face and, with an utterly female gesture, she tucked it behind one ear. She was still breathing hard, he saw, as her breasts rose and fell beneath the sheet.

  “Tell me what you thought,” he said calmly and slowly reached for her. “Tell me.”

  She obviously didn’t see well in the dark but felt his hand on her leg. Dropping the sheet, Sidra slid across the bed and pressed her naked body against his.

  “I thought they had come back.” She twined her arms around his neck.

  “Not a chance,” the Sandman pressed a hand onto her back. “They had enough.”

  “Ummmm,” the girl moaned and nuzzled her small face against his neck. She stroked the hard muscles of his shoulders and thought about that. They’d eaten dinner at the InterContinental, a jazz club called Up on the Tenth. She’d wanted to dance, so after dinner they’d gone to the Dilbar. It was an Indian nightclub Sidra had visited on her one other visit to Dubai. The music was a weird blend of traditional Indian and Euro trash but the clientele didn’t seem to mind. They were mostly Indian expatriates or some part of an Air India flight crew like Sidra herself.

  But there were others. Sometimes solitary men who sat in corners and watched. Sometimes young Emirati males eager to see for
themselves if the rumors about non-Arab women were true. In this case it had been three young Americans. Who else but Americans would go out for the evening in polo shirts and tennis shoes? They were big, beefy boys who probably worked for one of the many private security companies in Jordan. Or maybe they were attached to the U.S. embassy. In either case, they were determined to show everyone who they were.

  Most of the patrons had ignored them, including the women, with the casual disinterest reserved for public embarrassment. This, and repeated rounds of drinks, had only made the sailors more belligerent. When her companion had excused himself to the lavatory, Sidra had quietly sipped her martini and watched the dancers. She hadn’t seen the three men watching her and was caught by surprise when they suddenly sat at her table.

  “Well now,” the biggest one had drawled, “lookit this pretty one.”

  As a flight attendant she was very accustomed to the attention of men. Prowlers mostly, looking for a quick one-night stand. However, there was a big difference between the security of an airline cabin and the uncertainty of a public bar.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” The man had blond hair and was staring at her hungrily. “You habla English?” He reached across and laid a big paw on her arm.

  Sidra pulled her arm back and looked hopefully toward the lavatories but the crowd was too thick to see her new friend. “I am not alone gentlemen. I am here with a man.”

  They just laughed.

  “Talks real pretty, don’t she?” The blond sat back and crossed his arms. He had a big tattoo on his forearm that read U.S.M.C. in black gothic letters. “Ain’t muchova man who’d leave ya here alone.”

  One of the others, a redhead with a protruding belly, turned a chair around and sat down. He leaned a shoulder against her and beerily breathed into her face. “You lookin’ for help, darlin’?” He chuckled arrogantly and the others joined in. “Who in here’s gonna say ‘boo’ to us?” He waved a hand around. “These little shitbirds? They keep provin’ they can’t fight for thesselves, so why would they fight for you?”

  Sidra got to her feet, heart pounding. “Excuse me please, but I need to go.”

  A thick fist fastened onto her arm and pulled her down onto the chair.

  “That ain’t nice, baby . . .” The blond’s face was hard. “We come all the way from the good ol’ U. S. of A. to protect ya’ll and ain’t getting much of a welcome.”

  She tried to move but he held her fast. “You’re stayin’ right here and you’re gonna give us a little entertainment till we say you can go.”

  The third man, another blond with a buzz haircut and body art covering his arms, leaned over the table. He had the biggest buckle she’d ever seen and his belly hung over his belt. “And that might last all night.” He smiled like a man who enjoyed throwing his weight around. “So get used to—”

  Suddenly his eyes widened as a hand snaked over his shoulder and fastened around his left bicep. He tried to straighten, but his legs were kicked out from beneath him and another hand shoved him hard between his shoulder blades. The man’s chin struck the table and he was pushed, stunned, to one side and toppled heavily to the floor.

  The other two Americans looked shocked and for a long moment didn’t move. Sidra smiled with relief as a tall figure moved into the light.

  “T’es d’ac?” he asked quietly in French, pulling her upright.

  “J’ai bien,” she replied as he firmly but gently pushed her behind him, all the time watching the two other men. They were staring at their friend, who was still lying senseless on the floor. The dancers had moved away from the table.

  “These animals would not let me leave,” she continued in French.

  “I know. We’ll leave now, I think.”

  But the big blond finally realized that the girl was leaving.

  “You fuckin’ bastard!” He growled, and jumped to his feet. “You . . .”

  The Sandman’s arm shot across the table and stiffened fingers jabbed into the American’s eyes. Staggering, the blond bellowed in pain, grabbed at his eyes and collided with a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Pivoting on a heel, the mercenary simultaneously shoved the girl further back and backhanded the redhead across the face. The powerful slap knocked the redhead off his chair but he rolled quickly to his feet.

  “Now you shit,” he wiped his face. “Now you get yours!” he sidestepped right, faked a punch and swung a huge left haymaker. The mercenary smiled a little and slid easily under the man’s arm. Amateurs.

  He jabbed two short punches into the exposed rib cage and felt the redhead flinch in pain. As the man stumbled forward, the Sandman simply rolled around the American’s back and drove his elbow hard into the man’s kidney. He gave a queer little froglike leap and crumpled to the floor.

  Spinning around, the mercenary saw the blond lunge to his feet, wiping frozen daiquiri from his face. The Sandman’s foot flicked out and caught the big man in the kneecap.

  “Ahhh . . .” he moaned and toppled sideways against another table before crashing to the floor.

  Backing toward the girl, the mercenary kept his eye on all three men and watched the crowd for any others. He picked up his scotch from the table with his left hand and took Sidra’s elbow with his right.

  The redhead was sitting up but holding himself oddly. The blond with the popped kneecap was swearing profusely and not moving at all from the floor. The third man was out cold.

  “You fuckin’ bastard,” the blond spat at him, his eyes bright with pain and hate. “Our buds’ll find you and put your French ass in the ground.”

  The mercenary calmly took a sip of scotch and kicked him in the face.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Trailer trash like you is easy to see coming.” He smiled. “And easy to smell.” The American-accented English was unmistakable.

  Eyes wide with pain, the man was shocked. “You’re . . . you’re American!”

  “You owe the lady an apology.” The Sandman regarded him with indifference. “Give it, and I won’t stomp you like the cockroach you are.”

  “But we’re fightin’ for you!”

  “The most dangerous thing you do is go to the shitter every day. And if you three are the best America has to offer, then al Qaida has nothing to worry about.” He took a step closer and both men shrank away from him.

  “Now apologize.”

  The two men looked at each other then back at the mercenary. He hadn’t exerted himself in the least and all three of them were down. Even now he just stood there, no swearing or blustering. Dark and quiet.

  The redhead swallowed and lowered his eyes. “I’m . . . I apologize.” He looked away in shame.

  “To the lady, you ignorant sack of douche. Not to me.”

  The man raised his face, eyes swimming with pain. “I’m sorry . . . miss. I . . . we didn’t mean anything by it,” he mumbled.

  The blond tried to sit up again. “You go fuck yourself.” His face was flushed and there was a deep gash on his cheekbone. “You—”

  The mercenary’s left leg flicked out again and caught the man on the end of his chin. The sailor’s head snapped back and thudded against the floor. Wide-eyed, the redhead watched the stranger step toward him. “Please . . . mister . . . don’t do anything else. I . . .”

  But then the bouncers arrived. Five of them. All big men dressed in black who pushed their way through the crowd. Two of them pulled the redhead to his feet an
d muscled him toward the door. The other three picked up the other two Americans and dragged them toward the exit as well.

  All around the dancers clapped and the music started up again. One man, who looked to be the manager, surveyed the scene and approached the table.

  “Sir”—his English was badly accented but understandable—“I apologize for this. Those men should never have been permitted in the club.” He righted the fallen chair. “I hope you will allow me to cover your bill.”

  “Ma feesh miskallah,” the mercenary replied in colloquial, educated Arabic. “Not a problem. Thank you.” He was backing into the crowd. The last thing he wanted was a public event.

  “Ah . . . but sir!” The manager looked horrified. It was one thing to have a wealthy foreigner involved in a problem but quite another for an Arab.

  “It’s all right,” the Sandman waved a hand deprecatingly. “Simply imprison them and call the Yankee embassy. I”—he took Sidra’s hand and gently moved toward the door, —“do not wish to be involved with such as this.”

  “But of course, sidi.” The manager looked around. “But . . . but . . .”

  “I do not wish to be involved.” he repeated firmly and pressed a hundred-dollar bill into the man’s hand. “You understand?”

  The manager’s face cleared instantly. “But of course. I will take care of everything, sidi. And I hope you will return when . . .”

  But the Sandman was already leaving away. In a daze, Sidra had been guided toward the exit as the people around them backed away from her escort. The cool night air had cleared her head and as they waited for a cab she’d turned and stared at her companion. He was watching her, a faint smile on his calm, hard face and she knew she didn’t want to be alone that night.