Payback

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “True.” Leroux quickly entered another search and pointed at the result. “But real soldiers don’t need to steal their own transport trucks. Three were reported stolen an hour after the supplies were picked up.” He printed off the details then turned to the room, the food forgotten. “Okay, here’s what I want. Check for any hits thirty minutes on either side of the two thefts in the same geographic area. We might get lucky if someone used a cellphone or radio to initiate the theft or to notify someone of their success. Start pulling satellite imagery, CCTV footage, everything. We need to find those trucks.” He stood up, shaking the pages. “I’m going to see the Chief. We might just have our first real lead.”

  The room emptied save Sherrie. He smiled at her sheepishly. “Sorry, hon, but dinner’s going to have to wait.”

  She stepped over and gave him a kiss that threatened to awaken something tucked away at the moment. “I love it when you get all boss-like.”

  His cheeks burned as he searched for something to say. “So what are you going to do?” he finally asked as she stepped out of the office, he following.

  “Head home, watch some Netflix.” She smacked him on the ass. “Now go save the world.” She winked and slinked off, putting a wiggle on for his benefit.

  I’m the luckiest man alive.

  Sung Residence, Mango, Florida

  “Aww, Umma!”

  Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung feigned mock exasperation at his mother. She wagged a wooden spoon at him. “Set the table. That’s your job.”

  “But I don’t live here anymore, Umma. I’m a grown man!”

  “Nonsense. You’ll always be my little boy. Now go!” She ended the conversation with a jab of the spoon, pointing toward the dining room. Niner stood up from the kitchen table, his shoulders slumped in defeat, then stomped from the room, winking at his dad who merely shook his head then the newspaper he was reading.

  “Don’t provoke your mother. I’m the one who has to live with her after you leave tomorrow.”

  Niner switched to tip-toes, his nephew giggling and pointing. “Uncle Carl funny!”

  Sergeant Jerry “Jimmy Olson” Hudson shook his head. “I have to work with that.” He rose, following his buddy to the cabinet where the family kept their dinnerware.

  Niner smacked his ass, making a kissing sound. “If you don’t like it, you can always ask for reassignment.”

  “Then who’d keep you out of trouble.”

  “I never get in trouble.”

  Jimmy laughed. “With that mouth? It’s a wonder you have your original teeth!”

  “I’ll have you know this mouth has saved both our lives on more than one occasion.”

  “Right, like the night you chose your new nickname.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault those rednecks decided to get into an intellectual debate unarmed.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it now? An intellectual debate?”

  “What’s an interlectial rebate?”

  Jimmy turned to Niner’s nephew, apparently unsure of what to say.

  “Now whose mouth is getting us in trouble?” Niner grabbed a stack of plates and handed them to his friend before turning to his nephew. “It’s where stupid people open their mouths, and smart people like your Uncle Carl shove their foot down it.”

  “Carl!”

  Niner cringed at his mother’s shout. “Sorry, Umma!”

  Jimmy grinned.

  The night in question had started off as a celebration, the twelve man Bravo Team heading out to a bar for some brewskies, but instead encountering a group of “intellectuals”, one of whom took a disliking to Niner’s Korean American heritage, hurling some fairly lame racial epithets at him including slant-eyed.

  Niner had responded with a string of gems, including Nine Iron.

  Embarrassed, the man had taken a swing at a Delta Force operator.

  Further reinforcing the notion he was an idiot.

  Niner had dropped him with one punch, the man’s friends joining in, triggering a melee that the regulars at the bar still spoke of to this day.

  And Niner had insisted his new nickname be Nine Iron. Dawson had wisely shortened it to Niner over time.

  Niner liked the story of how he got his nickname, it rare that you got to choose your own, but no one was going to turn him down.

  Jimmy on the other hand…

  Someone had found out that Jimmy was the editor of his high school newspaper. Jimmy Olson had been the result. Dawson’s Big Dog had been something from basic training, matching his initials. He knew Dawson hated it, but that was part of the charm.

  You never knew what you would end up being called, and quite often, you didn’t like it.

  So when an opportunity to pick his own had come along, he had jumped at it.

  Some weren’t bad. Red had been given his nickname because of his red hair and wasn’t the only one named because of a physical trait. Mickey’s ears, Jagger’s lips, Spock’s eyebrow and Atlas’ physique had all earned them monikers that he wasn’t sure they were happy with at first. Now they were just names, none of them really thought about their meaning anymore.

  His was the only one he knew of though that had been earned after punches were thrown at him. None had landed, but they had been thrown.

  He finished setting the table with Jimmy, Jimmy having visited the Sung household enough times for them to have a routine that worked. They were done within a few minutes.

  “Dinner is in five minutes. Everyone wash up.”

  The heavy pounding of nieces’ and nephews’ feet filled the air as a lineup quickly formed at the single bathroom of the modest bungalow. His family wasn’t rich by any means and was barely middle class anymore. They had been forced to downsize when their mortgage had come up for renewal during the crisis at a value higher than the house was worth. His father had been forced to do what millions of other Americans had done.

  He declared bankruptcy.

  They walked away from everything they had built and rented this house. His father had been lucky to keep his job as an accountant and they were one year away from having the blemish removed from their credit history, at which point they hoped to buy another home.

  It was something his father never discussed, but his mother did on rare occasions, never when her husband was within earshot.

  He was ashamed.

  In Korean culture, as in any, losing one’s home for any reason was one of the supreme embarrassments. In fact their relatives back in Korea had no idea why the change in address had occurred.

  It simply wasn’t discussed.

  Niner had felt terrible when he heard the news. He had offered to help but his father had refused to even hear his pleas to save the family home he and his siblings had been raised in. Always practical, his father had said the house wasn’t worth the amount of the mortgage, the bank refused to refinance for the full amount until housing prices recovered, so rather than try to borrow the difference, which would wipe them out financially regardless, it was actually better to wipe the slate clean. He wasn’t too concerned with the ramifications on their credit history since millions upon millions of Americans would have the same blemish on their records. If banks didn’t want to issue credit to this massive minority of the population for seven years, then that was their loss.

  Things hadn’t worked out the way his father had planned, that much was clear since they were still renting. His mother had told him once that his father was saving for as large a down payment as he could, wanting to take on as small a mortgage as possible so they couldn’t get burned again. They were in their early fifties and he didn’t want to be saddled with a large mortgage for the rest of their lives.

  It made sense, but the fond memories he had growing up in the family home were all that were left. He’d never see it again, never see the room he had spent more than half his life in, never sit in the backyard he used to play in, never drive the streets he had learned to drive on.

  When he had heard the news he had
let himself cry for a few minutes, a mix of self-pity and the shared pain and embarrassment he knew his mother and father must be going through.

  They had moved during the night.

  One day they were waving to the neighbors good morning, the next day they were gone, the shame too great to face people they had formed relationships with for decades.

  The Sungs had simply disappeared into the night.

  It had been hard on the family, hard on the marriage, but his parents were traditionalists—divorce was never in the cards. They had weathered the tough times and he was certain his father would have them back in a home they owned soon, in better shape than they had been before the crisis.

  He had faith.

  As he washed his hands in the sink he looked in the mirror and frowned at what he saw. He was tired. They had just come off the op yesterday, rushed to Florida after the debrief to salvage what remained of their weekend plans, leaving little time to rest.

  And he never slept well here.

  It just wasn’t home.

  They say home is where the heart is, but his heart was back where he had grown up. He loved his parents and loved seeing them, but this house wasn’t his home. He envied some of the guys who had grown up military. They truly did understand the concept that home was the family, not some building you slept in. Bouncing around the country and sometimes the world with their father or mother, living in half a dozen different towns or cities growing up, they learned to make friends quickly and never become attached to the room they slept in—it may change the next day.

  But Niner had grown up in only two homes—the first he was too young to remember, then the family home he had spent over fifteen years in before leaving to join the army.

  Something that his father had been intensely proud of. He had wanted his son to become an accountant like him, but math had never been Niner’s passion. He could do it, he just didn’t like it. Whether it was some sort of rebellious reaction to the subject his father loved, or that he was simply more interested in physical work, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was he had been drawn to the military, especially after 9/11. His country was hurting and he felt a duty to help it heal—by confronting those who would hurt it.

  And the best way he could think of was to join the military and defend his country from those who would do it harm.

  It hadn’t taken him very long to set his eyes on Delta.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw the call display. Uh oh. He swiped his finger. “Go for me.”

  “Need you back here ASAP.”

  “Got it. Jimmy?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, he’s here with me. It’ll take us a bit. We’re at my folk’s place in Florida.”

  “Helo’s waiting for you at MacDill.”

  Niner’s eyebrows popped. Must be important. “Okay, on our way.”

  He hung up and stepped out of the bathroom, waving his phone at Jimmy. “That was BD. We’ve been called up.”

  “Any details?”

  Niner shook his head. “Nope, but must be important. There’s a whirly bird a waitin’ for us.”

  It was Jimmy’s turn to be surprised as he pulled out his own phone. “I’ll check the news for any buzz.”

  “I’ll break the news to Mom.” He started to walk down the hall when Jimmy grabbed him by the arm. “What?”

  Jimmy lowered his voice. “Ask her for some take-out.”

  Niner’s eyes narrowed, a smile creeping up half his face. “Just cuz we’re Korean doesn’t mean we own a restaurant. Why don’t you bring your dry cleaning next time?” Jimmy blanched causing Niner to laugh, smacking his friend on the shoulder. “Just kidding, buddy, you should see your face. Of course I’m asking for food. I don’t want this trip to have been a complete waste.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Grab our gear, I’ll be a minute.”

  He continued down the hall to break the news.

  News all too familiar in the Sung household.

  Somewhere in Sierra Leone

  “Wake up!”

  Sarah Henderson felt a none-too-gentle jab in her side as she was startled awake. She opened her eyes and was momentarily disoriented, forgetting where she was, but as her eyes came into focus the terror of her new reality gripped her chest tight.

  She had been abducted with her friend, forced to lie their way through checkpoints while on their way to their eventual death.

  She couldn’t imagine it getting any worse.

  That was until she looked over at Tanya and saw the terrified expression on her face. Sarah looked down and saw the driver’s hand caressing Tanya’s leg.

  She nearly vomited.

  She felt her own mind beginning to shut down, to protect itself against what might be to come. Her arms wouldn’t move and her chest was so tight she felt immobilized, as if a massive weight were pressing her into the back of the seat.

  She closed her eyes, already unfocused as she imagined them both being gang raped for days or weeks on end until they both eventually died from the ordeal.

  She could imagine nothing worse.

  Except perhaps dying from Ebola.

  Ebola.

  The thought hooked her, her downward spiral halting for just a brief moment as her mind focused on the line that had been tossed it by her subconscious.

  Ebola.

  Death from it was horrendous, painful, lonely. But it could be fought with some success. And so could this situation. They couldn’t win against these men if they were determined to physically harm them, but Major Koroma had implied their expertise as doctors was partially why they were here.

  You can’t repeatedly rape your doctors and expect them to save your people.

  Reality rushed back as a modicum of hope resurfaced. She turned to Koroma and pointed at the driver’s hand. “Are you going to allow that? I thought you were supposed to be an honorable man?”

  Koroma leaned forward and looked, snapping some curt words at the driver whose hand immediately darted away.

  “Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arm around Tanya’s shoulders, pulling her tight against her as the poor woman sobbed.

  She’s going to be of no use.

  She was already mentally broken and Sarah feared if her friend didn’t snap out of it soon she might not be able to serve any useful purpose beyond being a piece of meat for the letches they could find themselves surrounded by.

  “We’re going to be okay,” she whispered in her friend’s ear. “You need to think of your family. You need to be strong for them if we’re going to survive this. Just keep thinking of them, okay?”

  There was no response, but she did feel Tanya’s chest heave as a deep breath was sucked in and held.

  At least it was something.

  The truck came to a stop, it now pitch black, artificial lights few, flaming barrels and torches more common, the stars brilliant in the night sky, the new moon nowhere to be seen. Major Koroma climbed down then held out his hand for her. She decided it was best to take it. If she could establish some sort of connection with this man—a non-sexual connection ideally—he might take pity on them. Her goal was survival, and if that meant sleeping with the man, she might just do it, though the very thought disgusted and enraged her.

  If I were a man this wouldn’t be happening.

  She took a breath, helping Tanya down.

  If I were a man I’d be dead already.

  She shouldn’t have to use her sexuality to save her life, but at this moment she could only think of three things she had to offer. Her father’s money, her skills as a doctor, and her body.

  She hoped the first two would suffice but Koroma had certainly indicated they wouldn’t.

  She jumped as they were suddenly surrounded by a group of men, handshakes exchanged as the other two trucks pulled up. Flashlights played around the group and the sounds of a sleepy village beginning to stir, lights and lanterns being lit around them suggesting many more might be about to join them.


  Which was never good in an Ebola plagued country.

  Crowds meant death.

  And these people didn’t seem to understand that.

  She turned to Koroma. “If you have an Ebola problem here, I suggest nobody shake hands or touch, and you minimize the size of the crowd.”

  A floodlight flicked on and Koroma’s face was suddenly visible, a frown creasing it, his eyes suggesting concern. He nodded. “Keep everyone in their homes. I need three crews to unload the supplies, everyone else home. I don’t want to risk spreading the disease.”

  A hush descended upon those gathered as they seemed to recognize the foolishness of what they had done. Shouts erupted and the sounds of doors slamming shut could be heard up and down the street they were on as three crews were hastily chosen, the unloading beginning within moments.

  “Follow me.”

  Koroma led them toward the only building that seemed to have some lighting. A dilapidated sign in front indicated it was a community center, but someone had spray painted the word ‘Ebola’ over ‘Community’. A skull and crossbones had been tacked underneath it.

  A sense of foreboding swept over her as she felt a shiver race up her spine. She was in regular clothes, no protective gear, and they were about to enter what might be a building loaded with Ebola patients.

  She grabbed Koroma’s arm. “Wait.”

  He turned. “What?”

  “Are there infected people in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re not properly dressed. We need personal protective gear.”

  “My people have never been provided them by your governments, so why should you get them?”

  She paused, thinking of a suitable response to counter his political argument. She smiled. On the inside. “The longer we stay free of infection, the longer we’ll be able to help your people. If we get exposed, we could be useless within days and no help to anyone. Let us treat your people properly and we may be able to save many of them.”

  This argument seemed to at least give Koroma pause.

  “What do you suggest?”

  She pointed at the stack of supplies quickly forming. “Don’t bring any of that inside.” She stepped toward the pile and spotted what she was looking for. “You have the proper gear here. We’ll need to inventory everything we have, but first we need to see what’s happening inside. Let us suit up and do an assessment, then I’ll be able to tell you everything we need to do.”