Brotherhood and Others

by Mark Sullivan

  “Name one other,” Julio said.

  “That girl we kidnapped a couple of years ago,” Robin said. “The one who escaped and stole back her ransom money because you were too drunk to—”

  Julio was aiming the pistol right at Robin’s head.

  * * *

  More shots. More bullets ripped the water around the canoe. Monarch heard one hit, splintering the wood right behind him.

  Like a racehorse under a whip, he pulled with every ounce of strength, over and over again, trying to put distance between them and the bullets.

  The wind came up at his back, helping to take them finally out of range. The shots were fewer behind them and the bullets fell harmlessly on the water. But even as the sky turned a brilliant red, Monarch kept up his relentless paddling, and was now able to see the southern shoreline of the lake ahead of him a mile or so. They’d get there, and then hike south, eight, nine miles? And Barnett? Had she heard his last transmission?

  “American, look behind you!” Fasi cried.

  For the first time in many minutes, Monarch looked to his rear. There were three canoes on the lake back there almost six hundred yards. There were at least five boys in each canoe, all of them paddling hard.

  Monarch was swinging his attention away from them and caught movement in the trees. Bands of boy soldiers were running along the shoreline, trying to cut them off.

  * * *

  “I knew you hit me!” Julio roared at Robin. “You let that little bitch go, and stole the ransom money!”

  The leader of La Fraternidad glared at Claudio. “You lied to me too, told me no way Robin did that, that I just drank too much. You’re part of it. You!”

  “Julio…” Claudio began.

  “Shut up, traitor,” Julio said, now swinging the gun back and forth between Claudio and Robin. “Empty your pockets or I’ll shoot you like I did the cleaner.”

  They hesitated. Julio cocked the hammer on the pistol. “Do it.”

  Claudio reached in and got the four gold ingots, put them on the table.

  “Lying thief,” Julio said in disgust. “I knew you were trying to blind me while you got them from that safe.”

  “Robin’s right,” Claudio shot back. “You’ve been taking too much.”

  Julio tilted his head. “So what, you want a revolution?” He looked to the other thieves. “Against the one who helped rescue all of you from the garbage heaps?”

  The other thieves were shaking their heads, none willing to come to Robin and Claudio’s side on this count, especially with Julio drunk, pissed, and armed, having already shot one man tonight.

  Julio smiled bitterly at Robin and Claudio. “I know you think you’re smarter than me, but I read, brothers.” He had the gun pointed at Robin again. “You know how great men stay in power, men who lead for year upon year, decades?”

  “I know dictators eliminate their enemies,” Robin said, glaring at the gun.

  Julio’s anger returned. “That’s right. They do.”

  “So you just going to shoot us, is that it?” Robin said. “Right here in front of everyone?”

  “You broke rules,” Julio said. “You got to be punished or no one will listen to me ever again.”

  “But like this? With me having no chance to defend myself? Like the cleaner tonight? Is that how you like it now? Shooting defenseless people?”

  Julio’s face turned beet red, but he did not lower the pistol. “You want a chance? Is that it? To what, fight me?”

  To Robin it was clearly a better alternative; he’d rather have a chance than no chance at all. “Yes,” he said. “I want to fight you for control of La Fraternidad.”

  At first Julio looked insulted, but then grinned wickedly, said, “You know, I like that better in so many ways.” He glanced at the other brothers, gestured with his chin at Claudio. “Tie up this traitor up.” Then he looked back at Robin, and said, “And give this dead thief a knife.”

  * * *

  The wind shifted broadside to the canoe when they were less than two hundred yards shy of land. The boys running on the lake’s southern shoreline were at least a half mile shy of cutting them off. But the three dugouts were closing hard behind them. Monarch glanced over his shoulder, and saw Gahji in the front of the closest dugout, about three hundred yards back. He was trying to aim.

  “Go left!” Fasi screamed.

  “What?” Monarch said, whipping his head around and feeling like the diamond in the knapsack on his back was like a bull’s-eye.

  “East,” the pygmy insisted. “Go in there.”

  Monarch looked left, seeing heavy weeds on the water that became a wall of reeds far out from shore.

  “How deep’s the water in there?” Monarch yelled. He cut his paddle to turn the dugout toward the marsh.

  “That’s the point,” Fasi yelled. “You and me with this pole to push us, no problem. But five in the canoe, they’re in—”

  A burst of gunfire cut him off. Bullets spit and sliced the water to their right. Monarch drove them forward into the lilies, heading toward the flooded marsh. Ten strokes later his paddle hit bottom.

  Fasi was already handing him the push pole. Monarch stood, grabbed the pole, stabbed it into the mud, and heaved himself against it before another burst ripped the lily pads to their left.

  “Shoot at them!” Monarch shouted.

  The pygmy scrambled back toward him, grabbed up the gun, showed only a moment’s hesitation before leaning out, aiming around Monarch, and pulling the trigger. The recoil threw Fasi and the gun out of the canoe.

  “Shit,” Monarch said, crouched as he went by and grabbed the little man by the back of his shirt, heaved him and the gun, now coated in muck, into the bottom of the dugout.

  He got two more solid pushes and they were almost to the high marsh grass. Fasi was up on all fours. He wiped the mud from his eyes, said, “There!”

  Monarch saw the narrow channel of the water and pushed again, and once more. The dugout hit deeper water and accelerated just in time.

  Bullets slashed at the grass and reeds that swallowed them. He could hear shouts behind them and more shots. But they were harmless, just a waste of ammunition. Fasi lifted a machete Monarch hadn’t noticed before and slashed at the branches that blocked their way. In less than two minutes, Monarch had almost poled them to shore. He heard cursing behind them that intensified. Carrying the machete, Fasi scrambled out onto drier ground with Monarch close behind him, carrying the mud-caked AK-47. Up on the bank, he paused to look back over the high grass toward the lake.

  Two of the dugout canoes had foundered in the mud. Several of the boy soldiers had jumped overboard, trying to pull the dugouts back to open water, and were stuck as well. But the third canoe, Gahji’s, looked like it had never gone toward the marsh at all, and he and his paddlers were now less than one hundred and fifty yards from land.

  “Come,” Fasi said, and pulled Monarch after him into the jungle.

  * * *

  Robin held a double-edged fighting knife in his right hand and used it to track Julio’s movements. The other thieves had pulled the benches back and crowded the basement walls. Claudio had been bound and thrown on the ground in the corner.

  “So you think you can cut Julio?” the gang leader sneered, his gold tooth gleaming. “You think you are big and strong enough to take control of La Fraternidad. My Brotherhood?”

  Robin kept the knife pointed right at Julio’s chest, just the way Julio had taught him. “About to find out,” he replied.

  “Ahh, my little thieving idiot,” Julio said, playing to the crowd before lashing out at Robin with a vicious backhand strike.

  Robin was quick, but not quick enough. Julio’s knife flayed a three-inch gash on his right bicep. Blood spurted and ran down his arm. Some of the brothers were cheering Julio now, and Robin understood Julio’s strategy: Cut my weapon arm as often as possible, cripple me, and then finish me.

  He felt the blood running onto his hand, making it more diffi
cult to hold his knife. Julio sensed it, leered at him, and said, “You should have taken the bullet when you had the chance.”

  * * *

  The pygmy had some kind of internal compass.

  Monarch realized this within five minutes of entering the rain forest. To Monarch the jungle proved a three-dimensional maze that left him feeling directionless, and clawed at by dripping vegetation, vines, and the exposed roots of trees that grew a hundred feet or more, up through several canopies toward the light and the sky.

  But it all seemed familiar to Fasi, who pushed on, clambering around and over obstacles, cutting through the vines and thorns that blocked their way. Monarch kept checking the compass function in his watch, and was amazed that the needle hardly wavered off of a southeast heading.

  “Shouldn’t we be going straight south?” he asked at one point.

  “Soon,” the pygmy gasped. He was moving quickly, but there was a definite limp in his stride.

  Monarch looked behind him, realized that they were leaving strong evidence of their passing: broken branches, crushed ferns, and turned rocks.

  Easy tracking.

  He’d no sooner had that thought than in the distance to his west he heard a bird call that didn’t sound quite right. And then another from due east. And a third that was directly behind them, not far north, maybe two hundred yards.

  Gahji was on their trail. And he had other experienced hunters with him.

  Fasi seemed to realize it as well, and started pushing himself, slashing forward, and then turning and grinning. “It’s ahead here fifty yards,” he whispered. “The main trail. We’ll move much faster now.”

  “Give me the machete,” Monarch said in a low, urgent voice.

  * * *

  The slash to Robin’s upper right arm was deeper than he’d thought at first. It burned now as well as bled. There was no doubt about it. The arm was weakening. Julio must have seen that, because he started to strut and broke into a big grin.

  “You feeling it now, my brother,” Julio boasted. “That’s just the beginning. You gonna die from thousand little cuts like that, my little thieving idiot. The last one’s gonna be your throat. Ear to ear. Brand-new smile.”

  Whether it was from the blood loss or the beers he’d drunk so fast or the rush of adrenaline, Robin’s vision started to tunnel. He no longer saw Claudio on the floor in the corner, or any of other gang members. There was just blood-lusting Julio standing between him and life.

  The gang leader feinted and then slashed upward and diagonally, just missing Robin’s belly, but the tip caught his right bicep high near his shoulder, the second cut there. The pain was white-hot, and Robin started to fear that death was staring him in the face.

  * * *

  To confuse Gahji and the other boys hunting them, Monarch cut out the suggestion of multiple side trails with the machete. Then he and Fasi took care to leave no trace as they worked their way to the trail to the lower lake. They ran the entire way, almost two hours, stopping only to drink in streams they crossed, hearing no evidence of anyone still following them.

  At each stream crossing, however, Monarch dunked the mud-coated AK-47 until the banana clip released and the bolt opened. He got the live shell out of the chamber, and let water flow through the barrel, the action, and the clip after emptying it of the last five rounds. Wasn’t the best way to clean a gun, but it would work. Or at least it should.

  About an hour and a half into the journey, Monarch thought he heard the thump of a helicopter somewhere far behind them to the north. That had to have been the chopper Lieutenant Zed had called in to ferry the diamond experts out. Monarch expected his own rescue to come from the southeast.

  But what if Lieutenant Zed commandeered the helicopter?

  That seemed the rebel leader’s most likely course of action. He called softly to Fasi, “How far to that lake?”

  “Not far,” the pygmy called back. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. No more.”

  * * *

  Robin almost succumbed to fear, almost let it make him believe that he had no hope of survival. Then he almost gave in to blind anger, almost went crazy, and on the offense.

  But something held him back.

  Robin had trained with a knife, but had never fought with one. Julio, to Robin’s knowledge, had never killed a man before this evening. But he had seen Julio in many knife fights where the object was to cut your opponent, but not kill him. The leader of La Fraternidad was an expert, and he looked ready to take his game to a whole other level, feinting, looking for another opportunity to strike.

  Then Robin heard the voice of his dead mother saying, “Sometimes the greatest strength is acting weak.”

  His tunnel vision faded. Robin was suddenly aware of everything, the smell of his blood, the smell of sweat, the other brothers roaring their approval at Julio, and Claudio watching him like he was his last best hope.

  Sometimes the greatest strength is acting weak.

  * * *

  Thunder rumbled close and the air was filled with the scent of approaching rain when Monarch hit the narrow shoreline of the lower lake, hard on the heels of Fasi, who was gasping and dripping with sweat. The pygmy waded out into the water and sat in it, splashing his face, ignoring the lightning in the distance.

  Monarch wanted to go in there with him, wanted to get all the grime and sweat off him, but his training would not let him. Instead he found a good position where he could watch the pygmy, the southeastern horizon, and their back trail.

  Less than five minutes later, he saw a wall of rain coming from the south, and was surprised when a helicopter burst out of that wall. He checked his watch. Ten minutes early.

  Fasi started to wade back toward shore. Monarch looked around, saw no logical place for the helicopter to land. The shoreline was too narrow and the jungle up against it too thick.

  “Stay here for now,” Monarch yelled at Fasi. “They’ll lower a rope or a basket.”

  “Basket or rope?” the pygmy said, looking worried.

  By this time, Monarch could clearly see the helicopter, a big construction chopper. Gloria Barnett sat in the copilot’s seat, a tall, redheaded woman. The bay door was open behind her. John “Tats” Tatupu, the huge Samoan-American who’d become an integral part of his team, was leaning out, looking for him.

  Monarch stepped out into the water, signaled to Tats that they’d need an active pickup. Just as the rain caught up with them, the pilot hovered the chopper forward and Tats threw two harnesses at Monarch. They landed in the water about six feet offshore.

  Fasi retrieved them. Monarch kept the gun under his armpit while working to adjust the harness for such a little man, but got it done and his own harness on quickly. The rain had turned torrential. The helicopter wash was throwing water when Tatupu snaked out the door a heavy rope with loops hanging at intervals off the side.

  The pygmy looked more agitated than he had confronting the crocodiles. “I’ve never been up in the air before,” he said.

  Monarch reached out and showed Fasi the carabineer attached to his harness, said, “We’ll link that to the rope. You’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  But the pygmy was no longer looking at the carabineer, the rope, or the helicopter. He was staring in disbelief past Monarch toward the trail that had led them to their rescue.

  * * *

  Robin acted dull, glanced at the two wounds and the blood running down his right arm and along his ribcage. He tried to flex the arm, and grimaced as if dealing with a racking pain.

  “Please, Julio,” Robin gasped. “I can’t. My arm, it’s…”

  His right arm was trembling now, quivering in spasm as if Julio’s second cut had severed a nerve. Robin struggled to keep his knife pointed at the gang leader. But with every second that passed, his right arm and the knife drooped lower. Robin finally grabbed the knife with his left hand, and heard Julio laugh.

  “You gonna fight Julio left-handed?”

  Robin made an awkward feint toward
the gang leader, who laughed again before going stone cold, the way he’d looked shooting the cleaner at the factory.

  Julio jabbed at Robin low, toward his stomach. Robin tried to block it, and took a slice to his forearm. He had been so slow to react that Julio became emboldened. The gang leader made a series of quick feints as he advanced, trying to close the ground, trying for the kill.

  Robin backed up, clearly on the defensive, right arm useless. Julio tried to slash diagonally at Robin’s torso, left shoulder to right hip.

  But this time Robin was quicker.

  Much quicker.

  His left hand shot out, knuckles and the hasp of his knife hitting the inside of the gang leader’s right elbow. Julio gritted his teeth, pushed against Robin’s left hand, and then stepped in to punch Robin with his free hand.

  As Julio swung, Robin released the pressure he had on the gang leader’s left elbow, and flicked his knife to his bloody right hand.

  Robin took the punch to his stomach. He saw Julio’s knife coming to stab him even as he plunged his own blade deep into the neck of the founding jefe of La Fraternidad de Ladrones.

  * * *

  The instant Monarch saw the pygmy’s expression change there was no thought, only action. He kicked his own feet out, and twisted hard left as he fell toward the water, pulling the trigger the second his mind registered bodies aiming at him through the pouring rain.

  The five-shot burst hit all three of the boy soldiers before Monarch landed on his elbows in the shallow lake water. Two of the boys dropped and floated lifeless, pelted by rain. Gahji lay half in, half out of the water, forty yards down the bank, staring up at the rain, his seventeen-year-old mouth working as if he’d had every bit of wind in the world knocked out of him.

  Monarch flashed on an image of Robin on the floor in the basement of La Fraternidad, stabbed in the lung, watching Julio bleed out and his eyes lose light.

  Feeling like he was going to be sick, Monarch got up, and splashed through the shallows to Gahji, wanting to help him, hating that he’d had to shoot him. Gahji’s eyes found him. Along with hatred in them, Monarch saw a piteous boy who’d been cast adrift, parentless, sucked into a warped life where you could end up like this, bleeding and confused and dying long, long before your time.