The Uvalde Raider

by Ben H. English

  “How…” Ezekiel Templar began, still trying to discipline his lurching mind against the near unimaginable horror his thought process had high centered upon.

  “Do you mean how did we, a blissfully ignorant and uneducated people, obtain large quantities of such a fearsome weapon?” interrupted Yahla al-Qassam. “It is a long and involved story, Colonel. Too long and involved to tell here, and best left for the pages of future history books to describe in detail what happens tomorrow.

  “But suffice to say that it was done with the assistance of both the Syrians as well as the Iraqis, along with many of our Islamic brothers in other places and countries.” Qassam leaned forward ever so slightly to accentuate what he said next. “I am curious, though. What is your perspective now of your supposed allies and enemies in any war for or against any Muslim people?”

  Qassam continued to press hard, noting how the color had drained from the older man’s face. The gravity of his words were also sinking into the consciousness of the other two men before him, and their obvious discomfort and growing alarm fed his insatiable appetite to control as well as dominate.

  “As Hiroshima had its Enola Gay and as Nagasaki had its Bockscar, so will San Antonio have its Uvalde Raider. Think about it Colonel, we are standing on the brink of a future that will change not only nations but the world itself. We have the weapon; we have the ability and we have the will to employ it to its full potential. Nothing will ever be the same for any of us, for the roles of the past millennium will change forever in the four- and one-half minutes it takes for that airplane of yours to cover twenty-three kilometers. Islam will begin its new ascent as has been foretold, and all our enemies will either die or be relegated to their rightful place of dhimmitude.”

  The terrorist commander leaned forward still further, forcing Ezekiel Templar to look up as the old man pondered the sheer moral awfulness of what had been revealed. Qassam was not boasting idly, nor was his an empty threat. One look into his euphoric eyes and every one of the captives sitting before him had no doubt whatsoever as to his absolute sincerity.

  “What do you think of my plan now, Colonel Templar?” taunted the Hezbollah leader.

  Ezekiel Templar shifted his position ever so slightly on the edge of the overstuffed couch. In the expectant atmosphere of the room, the aging Texan cocked his head resignedly and raised one eyebrow while lowering the other. He looked hard at the terrorist leader looming over, his hazel eyes turning black as coal as they stared at his younger antagonist with an unmistakable aura of open disgust.

  Calmly, with a composed manner that belied the sea of rancor welling up inside of him, Ezekiel Templar replied. “I think it’s the result of a twisted, too smart for his own good, mind of a murderous sonofabitch spawned by a mother who likely recoiled in horror at his birth. She should have stomped the life out of the little cockroach then, and chalked it up as a mercy killing for the betterment of all mankind.”

  Ezekiel now took his own pause for full effect. Then he added, “That is what I think of your little plan, Qassam, and of you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Whatever the response that Yahla al-Qassam was expecting from Ezekiel Templar, the one he had just received was clearly not what he had in mind. The triumphant passion in the terrorist’s face changed to open surprise followed quickly by an active, venomous anger. Unable to contain the boiling rage bubbling up from within, the Hezbollah leader shrieked in a loud, primitive manner that has no understandable meaning in any language, yet conveyed more than any words could ever describe.

  Everyone within earshot froze in the middle of their assigned tasks, both the men inside the room as well as those outside working on the bomber. Even his human pit viper, Mustafa, seemed somewhat taken aback by the alarming display of emotion. The second-in-command stood there, primed to spring into action but unsure of what he should do or why. It was plainly evident that none of them had ever seen their commander behave like this before.

  Qassam kept the long, piercing wail going and then in the midst of his overwrought fit lunged forward. He began pummeling the older man rapidly with open palms about the face and head. At this point Mustafa did make his move, grabbing Ezekiel with both of his powerful hands and jerking him to his feet.

  The wail died away as Qassam expended all of the air left in his lungs. But in his blinding anger, the Hezbollah leader pushed his henchman away and shoved Ezekiel down on to the couch again. He resumed his attack with mostly ineffectual slaps at Ezekiel, who had hunched himself up to brace against the blows. No one else dared to interfere or try to pull Qassam off and calm him down.

  The terrorist leader discontinued the indecisive slapping and then started a series of awkward kicks aimed at the older man’s head and torso area. Twice he nearly lost his balance before he stepped back, chest heaving and with the tottering stance of someone in the midst of exhaustion. His eyes were partially unfocused and rolled ever so slightly as if he were experiencing some sort of physiological disorder. Looking down at his bound prisoner, they refocused and filled again with a peculiar brand of rage reserved only for the most inhumanly cruel or the certifiably insane.

  Redirecting upon the origin of his rampage, the Hezbollah leader started forward again but stopped in mid-stride as some other idea entered his head. His right hand went into the front pocket of his trousers, producing a diminutive Beretta Bobcat .25 ACP pistol. He brought the blued steel handgun up, cocking the exposed hammer and pointed its muzzle squarely into Ezekiel’s face, finger on the trigger. Mustafa stepped back and away, while everyone else in the room grimaced at what was most likely to come. Everyone except Ezekiel Templar, who stared down the barrel of the small pistol as if it was nothing more menacing than a number two lead pencil.

  The terrorist leader stood there, chest heaving and breathing heavily with a crazed, disheveled look on his face. The lack of reaction from the older man seemed to stymie his murderous provocations, and indecision began to creep across his features. The pistol barrel wavered ever so slightly, as a sliver of a resurgent self-control came again to Yahla al-Qassam’s consciousness.

  Qassam slowly lowered the pistol, glowering at the retired colonel and now acutely aware of how his behavior must have been viewed by both captives as well as captors. Ezekiel Templar grimly held to his same piercing stare, a thin line of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth amongst the other cuts, bruises and welts that were beginning to dot his face.

  “Well done, Colonel, very well done”, the Hezbollah leader literally spat out the words. “Probe for your enemy’s weak points, identify them and concentrate to exploit them. Your long-ago reputation as an intelligence operative is well deserved.

  “Providentially enough for you, it came to me just now what you were attempting to do. Yes, I know what you were thinking: Let me see if I can put this man off balance, to so irritate or anger him as to make him cease thinking logically. That is when we all make our mistakes, isn’t it? When we become so emotionally involved or distracted as to lose control of ourselves as well as our objectives.”

  As Qassam spoke the tiny Beretta hung loosely at his side, muzzle down. However, the pistol had not been returned to its prior hiding place and the hammer was still cocked back. Ezekiel Templar remained silent, never breaking his line of sight.

  “You very nearly overplayed your hand, Colonel,” the terrorist continued. “But I suppose if I had put a bullet between your eyes, it would have worked to your advantage. I would be missing one high profile hostage, and far more importantly would have shown my men that I am not the leader they believe me to be. Killing thousands as part of a plan to win a war is the mark of a strategist, killing one in a fit of rage is nothing more than the conduct of a common criminal, someone with no concept of strategy, discipline, or honor.

  “Yet you have managed to make me lose face in front of my men, and I will have to deal with the reverberations from that as well as the resultant loss of any respect. For that, you will be punished. This will not
be done in anger though, nor as part of some senseless personal vendetta.” Turning to Mustafa, he communicated rapidly in Arabic. After receiving his instructions, the second-in-command nodded and quickly went out the door. Soon enough he had returned with the others who had been working on the bomber. The men crowded themselves into the room, and the close confines became thick with uncertainty and tension.

  After everyone was present, Qassam began to address his compatriots using a slow, emphatic tone. As he did so, Micah Templar again tried to understand what was being said but could only pick out the occasional word or expression. In general though, it was obvious the terrorist leader was explaining what had occurred and was coincidentally painting himself in the most favorable light possible.

  Micah looked over to his uncle, who sat there calmly with a nigh inscrutable presence about him. Beyond him the younger Templar could see Max Grephardt. The German perched on the edge of the couch exuding a quiet defiance, his blue eyes having turned cold as stone to match a jaw set as if made of granite. Whatever was to come, Micah drew a grim satisfaction in being among a rare breed of men who possessed abundant amounts of both courage and resolve.

  Once finished with his speech, Qassam returned his attention to Ezekiel. “Colonel, I have explained to them what has occurred over the past few minutes and that punishment must be meted out for such disrespect, as well as why.”

  The Hezbollah leader raised the Beretta again, carefully aiming it between Ezekiel’s eyes. “I could press this trigger right now and end your life in the next second, and not one of my men would think twice of it. They understand the concept of respect that is demanded from all non-believers as much I.

  “Or…” and Qassam shifted his aim over to Max. “I could just as easily shoot your dear friend here. Personal anguish and a survivor’s guilt for being the cause of his death would be a very hard thing to live with, don’t you think?

  “Or…” Qassam shifted the muzzle of the Beretta a third time, putting the tiny pistol’s sight picture on the left eye of Micah Templar. “I might decide to kill your nephew. After all, what could be worse than the loss of a dear friend, other than the needless death of your closest living relative?

  “But perhaps it is the other way around.” The terrorist glanced back at Ezekiel and smiled in a manner of pure self-dramatizing enjoyment. “Who knows, maybe I should force you to make the choice. That would be an interesting play on one’s sense of morality, would it not? No matter what the outcome, such a decision would haunt someone for the rest of their lives and beyond.”

  Qassam gave every appearance of idly considering the thought before adding, “However, you can rest easy concerning all three of these possibilities. A few minutes ago you made mention of how Allah favors the merciful, and how he values compassion and kindness among his followers. Allah is merciful indeed and I am prepared to do you a kindness, whether you deserve it or not.”

  Without warning the Beretta changed direction again, pointing back and down near where Ezekiel Templar was seated. The single shot sounded like an exploding cherry bomb inside the room, and Ezekiel choked back a scream as the .25 caliber bullet burrowed into his upper left leg. His entire body went rigid with pain following the initial shock from the impact. A seething sensation of physical torment swept through him like a fast-moving prairie fire, blossoming into a wrenching grimace on his face.

  Seemingly with a mind of their own, Ezekiel’s wrists struggled spasmodically against the plastic zip ties, bruising and cutting the skin in the process. Gasping for breath and fighting to regain control of his agonized body, the man moaned and grunted with animal-like effort to release what was consuming him inside. Blood oozed freely through the fabric of his trousers, and in turn smeared itself upon the sofa cushions while his body writhed about.

  As Ezekiel continued to battle against the fiery throes engulfing him, Qassam leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “You can go ahead and scream, Colonel. I hear that it is good for the soul.”

  The Hezbollah commander straightened back up and turned to address his men. His tone was matter-of-fact as he explained more about his reasons for the ‘merciful’ solution chosen. All nodded in agreement, some even smiled while one or two chuckled in regards to what had occurred. Once Qassam was finished they returned to their assigned tasks, save for Mustafa and the rifle-toting terrorist assigned as guard.

  While simultaneously struggling against a rising inner fury, Micah had been observing Tio Zeke all the while. A gray pall covered the features of Ezekiel’s face, underscored by tiny droplets of sweat. His breathing had eased somewhat and was more regular now, as the old man mentally willed himself into doing so. Most concerning was the continued free flow of blood down his uncle’s leg that was spreading to the floor. It needed tending to, and soon.

  When Qassam turned from his men and faced the captives again, he found himself subject to a biting, unyielding glare from the bristling highway patrolman.

  “Qassam, my uncle needs medical attention” Micah said through set teeth. “Take these handcuffs off so that I can do something for him. You won’t gain anything by letting him bleed to death.”

  The terrorist leader studied Micah carefully for several moments before replying, “I think not, Officer Templar. I see a certain wildness in your eyes that I do not like, and I do believe if I were to remove your shackles you might try something other than to help your uncle. Then Mustafa would be forced to kill you and I would still be missing one hostage.”

  Qassam spoke a few words to Mustafa in Arabic and the second-in-command stepped forward, jerking Max Grephardt to his feet. He spun the elderly German around and removed the zip ties that secured Max’s wrists.

  “I think it would be best for all involved if Herr Grephardt saw to Colonel Templar” advised the Hezbollah leader.

  Max rubbed and flexed his hands and wrists, trying to work some life back into them. He knelt beside Ezekiel and gave the bullet wound a cursory examination. “I will need a medical kit, a good one, to do something about this,” observed the German.

  Again, Qassam spoke to Mustafa who walked over and grabbed a large orange bag stacked in a pile of other equipment. From several feet away, the terrorist halted and effortlessly tossed the heavy carryall toward the prisoners. The intended trajectory was deliberately aimed at Ezekiel’s injured leg but Max saw it coming and reached out, deflecting the bag away where it landed against the foot of the couch.

  Micah’s eyes narrowed as that barely contained inner fury nearly boiled over, and he shot an ice-cold stare at Mustafa. The second-in-command returned in kind, wickedly lifting a corner of his mouth into a half smile as he strode away from the three men. Micah continued to bore visual bullet holes into the terrorist’s back all the while.

  ‘There will come a reckoning, you pitiless bastard,’ Micah thought. ‘Good Lord willing, there will come a reckoning.’

  Grephardt opened the bag quickly, searching about and finding a pair of scissors. Working in deft fashion, he cut the fabric of Ezekiel’s trouser leg away and gingerly examined the wound more carefully. Ezekiel Templar winced and groaned, but made no other sound save for his heavy breathing.

  The German looked up at his friend. “It is a clean wound, Ezekiel, both in and out. I would imagine,” he paused and looked over to the terrorist leader, “it was meant to be that way. A flesh wound calculated to cause the maximum in discomfort and pain.”

  Qassam nodded slightly in affirmation, bowing a bit from the waist in mocking formality. Max returned his attention to the bullet wound. “Our main concerns are to stop this bleeding and keep the area from becoming infected.”

  “You will find everything needed in that medical bag, Herr Grephardt” interjected the Hezbollah leader.

  “I will need water, distilled water if you have it” responded Max, still concentrating on the bleeding wound. Qassam spoke this time to the guard, who brought over two gallons in plastic jugs. With them Max cleaned the wound and unscrewed the cap o
n a bottle of antiseptic gel. “Get ready Ezekiel, this is going to burn.”

  Ezekiel Templar gritted his teeth and nodded to Max. He grunted as the antiseptic was worked into the entry site, followed by an adhesive pad of clotting agent. Max cautiously rolled Ezekiel’s injured leg to one side and treated the exit point. Micah marveled at his uncle’s ability to withstand the pain and keep from calling out.

  Grephardt began wrapping Ezekiel’s thigh with a wide roll of gauze to help stabilize the area. Finding antibiotics inside the bag he gave some to his friend along with a couple of pain killers, which were washed down with a long drink from one of the plastic containers. Yahla al-Qassam looked on impassively. Once finished, Max placed the remaining contents back in the bag and shoved it across the floor in Qassam’s direction.

  “Excellent work, Herr Grephardt” mused the Hezbollah leader, “one might even think you had some latent talent in that area. But then again, it is said you were thinking about becoming a doctor before the war.”

  “That is true” agreed Max. “But that was all a long time ago and the plans for one’s life often have to become something else.” Changing the subject, the German added, “He will need more water to replenish the blood loss.”

  “It will be done” replied Qassam. “The guard will be instructed to provide him with water at regular intervals. And yes, I understand about one’s future plans when young. I was going to be an architect but Allah had different plans for me. Such are the sacrifices we make for those things we hold dear.”

  The terrorist returned his attention to Ezekiel, studying him intently. Making certain that he had the older man’s eye, he commented further. “Let me know if there is anything else that I can do for the colonel. His continued good health is of real importance to me. You see, his value as a hostage could mean a great deal to the welfare of all.”