Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  “Fucking bullshit politics killed those girls.” Vickers groaned.

  “You know who stopped us at phase line echo? American contractors, guys just like us but now making six times as much working private. I was never more pissed off in my life,” Klyde confessed.

  “Makes me see red every time I hear that story,” Vickers said.

  Klyde looked over to Brennan, who was now sitting along the far wall. “From that day, Sergeant Brennan…all of us swore nothing would stop us from helping innocents like those girls again.”

  “Hmm, makes sense why that pissed him off,” Owens said referring to the news their mission had been compromised by political leaks. Owens walked over to Brennan and sat next to him.

  “I assume those chatty kathys told you,” Brennan said.

  “Yeah.”

  “That shit pisses me off. It’s unnecessary and costs lives. I hate it,” Brennan growled.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask. I heard the guys talking about you yesterday,” Owens said and paused.

  “And?”

  “They said you have a ritual of sorts before you go into a gunfight. What is it?”

  “They’re talking about my prayer. I always take a good twenty seconds to recite a prayer if I think the lead is going to fly. It helps to calm me, and now, I’ve been doing it so long that it’s just what I do.”

  “Sort of like ball players who wear the same underwear during play-offs,” Owens said in a weak attempt at comparison.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s like wearing the same boxers for weeks, but as far as a ritual, yeah it’s the same,” Brennan said.

  “What is it? What’s the prayer?” Owens asked.

  Brennan gave him a leery look and asked, “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah, I do, but if you want to tell me to go pound sand, I’ll understand,” Owens said.

  “My old man taught it to me. He was in Vietnam in 1974; it’s what he’d recite too. He told me his old man, my grandfather, used to say it too.”

  “You’re from a family of warriors?” Owens asked.

  “Yeah, my dad was a Marine, my grandad and even my great-granddad, all Marines,” Brennan said.

  “Same for me, all sailors though, going back generations. My dad was a frogman too, an old UDT guy.”

  “It’s good, it really is,” Brennan said.

  “What is?”

  “The family thing, carrying on traditions, I like it, but I do question whether I want my son to join. It’s so fucked up now,” Brennan confided.

  “Don’t get yourself too worked up. It’s always been fucked up; this is just our generation’s version of it.”

  “Hey, I’m going to get my guys to the armory. We’ll chat later,” Brennan said standing up.

  “Hold on, the prayer?”

  “I’ll write it down for you. See ya,” Brennan said and walked off.

  A Marine in first squad turned on the television.

  “…from all over the country, more and more reports of bloody hands being spray painted on buildings. Some say it’s just pranksters while others say it’s a sign, a harbinger, and others that these places are being targeted by the terror group The Bloody Hand. When we return from our break, we’ll sit down with a terrorism expert to discuss this and the latest on the leak concerning a possible military strike in Mexico and if the president has possibly violated international law.”

  Disgusted, Owens hollered, “Turn that shit off!”

  San Diego, California

  “Before I give this to you, please promise me you won’t do anything stupid with it?” Chris asked, holding the gun box in his hand.

  “I’m not going on any rampage. I just need something now. That waiting period is leaving me defenseless,” Brett said.

  “This is the same model handgun you purchased and have been using. I thought it best to give you the exact one you’re going to get and have been training with.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Brett said.

  “No worries.”

  “I don’t know how I can repay you,” Brett said.

  “How about a six-pack of PBR, the twenty-four-ounce cans,” Chris said.

  Brett furrowed his brow and asked, “You serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “Pabst?”

  “It’s an old tradition going back twenty-some years. Something my friends and I do to say thank you.”

  “But Pabst, that’s shit beer,” Brett replied.

  “It’s not bad, and on a super-hot day, an ice-cold PBR tastes mighty fine.” Chris smiled.

  Brett stuck his hand out.

  Chris took it.

  The two men shook.

  “Oh, I’ve got something else for you,” Chris said, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Brett.

  “What’s this?”

  “Trevor Cassidy’s address, just in case you want to pay him a visit. Don’t go stalking him with my gun now,” Chris warned.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “If you go over there, let me know what happens. Also, I’ll take the morning shift at the school,” Chris said, referring to the security patrols they were doing during the beginning and end of school.

  “You’ll be the first to know. That used to be Madison,” Brett moped.

  “So how is she, any word?”

  “Nope, she won’t even take my calls and no replies to my texts. She’s really pissed off.”

  “Oh, she just needs more time. My wife will stay pissed at me for a week just for not putting down the toilet seat,” Chris joked.

  Brett tapped the gun case, smiled and said, “Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”

  “No lunch?” Chris asked.

  “Can’t, sorry, maybe tomorrow,” Brett answered and walked off.

  Chris watched Brett leave. He wanted to help but having been married for seventeen years, he knew these domestic issues could take a while to mend.

  Brett got in his car. Normally they would have done lunch, but he had somewhere to be. He unfolded the note and started to plug the address into his phone’s mapping system when a text popped up.

  “I need your help.”

  It was Madison.

  He immediately replied, “Okay.”

  “I won’t be able to pick up boys from school. Traffic is a mess, highway is shut down.”

  “I’ll do it, no problem.”

  “And we need to talk. I’ll pick up dinner.”

  “Sounds good,” he answered.

  “See you later,” she texted.

  He stared at her texts. A feeling of joy began to rise in him. He hated fighting with her and he missed his boys dearly. He glanced at the note with Cassidy’s address. He folded it and placed it in his pocket. He’d wait to go by, the last thing he wanted now was to mess up his chance with Madison.

  Paris, France

  Joram just wouldn’t give David what he wanted, the answers to the questions Grim had sought. David was selfish though, he wasn’t asking for Grim, but because he thought it would be good for the documentary.

  Joram had spent the past several hours going over the lives of the men whom he’d defected with. He gave David insightful details that would provide good filler content for the documentary but nothing that was earth-shattering. Every time David would bring the conversation back to the bioweapon, Israfil or the twelfth imam, Joram would deflect.

  David’s patience was wearing thin.

  Joram exited the bathroom and once more proceeded to the refrigerator. He opened it and took out a package of presliced salami. He read the ingredients and remarked, “You’re health conscious.”

  “Why do you say that?” David asked.

  “No nitrates,” Joram said, holding up the package of salami.

  “You might want to check the date on that,” David warned.

  Joram stopped chewing on a piece and read the packaging carefully. “Hmm, says it’s past due by several weeks but it tastes fine. Or maybe my taste buds were ruined after eati
ng all that horrible food in Raqqa.” He walked back to his chair and sat down. He gave David a glance and could see weariness written all over his face. “You look tired. Shall we call it a night?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s continue. I was telling you about the time we were in Mexico.”

  “Stop, please.”

  “What?”

  David rubbed his face and lamented, “What am I really doing here?”

  “I chose you to tell my story. I want the world to know how it all happened.”

  “What happened? Your defection from ISIS and your creation of The Bloody Hand?”

  Joram winked at David and said, “You don’t give up. You just want to jump ahead, spoil the story.”

  “I need to know who I’m speaking with.”

  “Why? Will that change anything…anything at all?” Joram asked curiously.

  “Ah.”

  “If I told you that I’m the twelfth imam and that I’m the holy leader of The Bloody Hand, would it make you pause? Would you want to continue, or would you run out of here screaming bloody murder and call your friend the CIA officer?”

  “I just need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do.”

  Joram pulled a slice of salami from the package and stuffed it in his mouth.

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  “You’re not going to tell me,” David said.

  “I will, but patience, my friend. Answer me this, you’re one of those people who picks up a book, you read the first chapter then skip to the last chapter.”

  David put the pad down on the coffee table and stood up. He began to pace the room.

  “Sit down. Let’s continue,” Joram urged.

  “I can’t place it, but every time we talk, you’re different. It’s like I’m speaking to a different person every time. You’re clearly not the man I met three years ago. I would expect you to be different after your experiences, but the man in Turkey that first day was different than who is sitting in front of me now.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re…more confident. I don’t know, you’re different. You seem like…”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…this is all orchestrated…like…how did you know I spoke with Grim? Huh? How did you know that? Did you follow me? How did you get here so fast? How did you know where I lived? How did you find me and get my phone number? You just seem to know everything. You’re too…”

  “Too what?” Joram asked. He was enjoying this analysis very much.

  “In control,” David blurted out.

  “Because I am.”

  David’s eyes widened. “You are, aren’t you? You’re in control of it all?”

  “Control of what, David? You seem to have a grand theory at play in your head.”

  “How did someone like you—a man on every terror watch list, a man known to the CIA, MI6, Interpol—get to Paris so quickly. How could you fly? It’s impossible with all the facial recognition out there. They would have spotted you.”

  “Do you want me to tell you?”

  David rushed to his chair, sat down and picked up his notepad. “Yes, please.”

  “I flew private.”

  David’s pen was pressed against the page with earnest, but when he heard Joram’s reply, he lifted it and asked, “Private?”

  “Yes, David, I flew private from Ankara to Slovenia, a car was waiting for me there. I then simply drove to Paris. Very easy, David, now does that answer your question?”

  “Is that a common route?”

  “Common? No. We vary our arrival cities when we fly but we always make sure we land in countries with limited customs. The Balkan states are very weak on immigration and customs, and if you do run into an issue, they all can be bought off. Greed is a wonderful thing when you need it.”

  “Europe truly is porous? Easy to get in and out of?” David asked.

  “Yes, and so is Latin America and Mexico. It’s ridiculous how easy it is. It’s gotten tougher under the new president but fortunately the previous American administration’s policies were so lax we were able to exploit them.”

  David paused from writing. He looked up and asked, “The way you’re talking right now. You’ve been inserting jihadis through the U.S. southern border?”

  “Did I say that?” asked coyly.

  “You said we were able to exploit them.”

  “Well, we were also able to exploit the refugee flows and the visa programs. Did you know last year over seven hundred thousand visa holders overstayed and are still in the United States? Do you want to know how many were ours?”

  “Right there, you’re admitting you are The Bloody Hand and you’ve infiltrated the United States,” David declared.

  “I see that you’re never going to let this go and, well, I did kind of give it away,” Joram said before pausing.

  Waiting on pins and needles, David sat, his leg bouncing up and down with nervous energy.

  “To answer one of your questions, yes, I am part of The Bloody Hand.”

  San Diego, California

  “City and law enforcement officials are telling us that May 1 is likely to be one of the worst and quite possibly the worst day for protests we’ve seen in San Diego. The reason? Around the world, May 1 is recognized as International Worker’s Day. It’s already a prominent day for protest and civil disobedience by workers’ groups, unions and other special interest advocates. We’re hearing now that immigration groups plan to join these protests to voice their opposition to the recent controversial actions by the president and what many see as his overreach in regard to recent military actions taken by his administration. Law enforcement officials are saying if you don’t need to travel, don’t. They’re predicting that the freeways will be shut down again as protestors target them…”

  The front door opened.

  Brett quickly grabbed the remote and turned the television off. The last thing he wanted was for Madison to hear the television news and assume he was obsessing again. He rushed out of the kitchen and hollered, “Hey, boys, your mom is here. Get cleaned up for dinner.”

  Madison strolled past him into the kitchen, holding a couple of bags in her hands. She held one up and asked, “How does Thai food sound?”

  “Excellent,” Brett said, coming in behind her.

  “And I picked up some ice cream, mint chocolate chip,” she said, holding up the second bag.

  “Wow, you do still love me,” he joked as he went for a kiss.

  She didn’t recoil. She let his lips touch hers and followed with one of her own.

  “I missed you,” Brett said softly.

  “I missed you, too,” she replied, putting the bags on the counter.

  “After dinner, let’s talk,” she said.

  “But don’t the boys have to be in bed?” Brett asked.

  “Of course, I thought we’d sleep at home tonight. The boys are missing their home. They love staying at Mom’s but nothing is like home.”

  “So true,” he said.

  “Upstairs, wash up, brush teeth, then bed,” Madison said to the boys as they sprinted up the stairs, happy in the knowledge they’d be sleeping in their own beds.

  “Glass of wine?” Brett asked.

  “Yeah, why not,” she answered.

  Brett opened a bottle, grabbed two glasses and headed for the couch.

  Madison joined him. She sat opposite him and put her feet up on the coffee table.

  “Maddy, I’ll just come out and say it, I’m sorry I upset you, but please know my intentions are pure,” Brett said.

  “I know they are. I was just embarrassed, and to be quite honest, you were acting a bit manic. I was scared.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that I worry.”

  “I love that you care so much, but we can’t let all of this stuff, the terrorists or protestors, affect our lives. There’s only so much we can do.”

  “But aren’t you the least bit concerned about th
at handprint being spray painted?” Brett asked, concerned she was too laissez-faire.

  “I’m not. I think it’s just one of those idiot protestor type people. You give them one excuse and they act like children. Do I think it’s some grand plot or conspiracy? No.”

  “But they’re popping up everywhere, all across the country.”

  “Remember a couple of years back, people dressing up like clowns. It started with one or two, then morons were copying them. Soon, dozens and dozens of sightings of creepy clowns,” Madison said.

  “I remember.”

  “It’s just like that, nothing more. Social media spreads these things like wildfire and losers don’t have better things to do than go and do stupid stuff. These viral things come and go. What about the time people were planking everywhere. You couldn’t look on Facebook without seeing some idiot kid doing it.”

  Brett thought hard about what she was saying. There was truth in her words. People were sheep like in their behavior and if it got them attention or could rack up likes on Facebook, they’d do it. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I’m not saying there aren’t bad people out there. I’m not saying we shouldn’t be concerned for our boys’ safety, but at what point does concern turn to paranoia?”

  Brett could easily see her point. Have I become paranoid? Is there a balance? He thought.

  “I want my husband back,” Madison said softly and scooted closer to him.

  “I need to ask,” he said.

  She stopped moving and asked, “What?”

  “The gun I purchased, I want to keep it,” he said.

  She squinted and pursed her lips. “I suppose so, but you need to get a safe first and you need to train…a lot.”