State of Terror

by John Brown

  It was in one of these acts of kindness that Benson found himself out in the yard, one of their random, special privileges. It was unbearably hot and muggy outside. A warm rain poured down intermittently. Under the watchful eyes of soldiers manning the gun towers looming over the yard, the prisoners milled around, shuffling aimlessly, not daring to talk or even to look at one another. Benson was miserable, his mind wandering darkly. He had long imagined that he would leave this world from old age, of natural causes. Not like this.

  I’m no hero. They’re wearing me down. I’m losing control, wasting away into nothingness. It would be so blissful to just let go and end the struggle. It would be so easy to just give up.

  There would be no words of wisdom he would pass on, no profound truths to share with loved ones gathered around his deathbed, no statue erected to his memory. The world would continue on just the same without him, as if he had never been born. No drama, just quietly disappeared and forgotten. He had always wanted his life to count for something, to have some meaning or ultimate purpose, and yet his path had taken him here. A dead end.

  He tried to summon up a prayer from the liturgy. There had to be one for the hopeless and the downtrodden, for the dregs and the ostracized of the world. A prayer for those who would be raised from the dust, casting off the yoke of oppression; a prayer for deliverance from tyranny.

  A prayer for those with nothing left to believe in.

  Despondent and listless, his mind in a fog, he drew a blank, and so he made up his own prayer.

  “Dear God,” he said out loud, looking toward heaven, “please forgive my feeble words. I’ve never asked anything for myself. Now I’m asking. Save me. Get me the hell out of this.”

  A guard ran over and jabbed him in the ribs with his rifle. Returned roughly to his cell, he collapsed on the bed. No sooner had he shut his eyes than a baby’s crying was broadcast throughout the compound. Whimpering softly at first, it turned into the frantic, hysterical squalling of an infant in extreme distress. His own son had cried like that with occasional bouts of colic; crying jags so acute that he had literally lost his breath, gasping as if he was drowning, crying with no air and no sound coming out, gurgling and suffocating and turning color. More than once, they almost thought they would lose him. It was a terrifying time.

  He used his pillow to block the noise, to no real effect.

  Benson had been dozing in a groggy haze when two guards burst into his cell. He awoke with a violent start. One guard stood watch next to the door, both hands on a submachine gun strapped around his neck; the other tied Benson’s hands behind his back and jerked him to his feet. With Benson in the middle, the three trooped single file down the corridor and exited the building into a yard Benson hadn’t seen before. They stopped in front of a concrete wall pocked with bullet holes. A line of soldiers facing the wall stood at attention, their rifles pointing skyward. They wore the same uniforms as all the other soldiers here, a special camouflage pattern in tan, light gray, medium gray, and black, with a matching beret bearing a distinctive unit insignia Benson didn’t recognize. None of them would make eye contact with him, studiously staring straight ahead, looking at nothing.

  The guard to his rear bent over to make some adjustments in the rope that bound Benson’s hands behind him. In that moment, Benson spun around, dragging the guard off balance. Leaning back, he brought his left shin up hard into the man’s groin. The guard doubled up, paralyzed with pain. Benson punched his right knee into the man’s face, sending him crashing to the gravel on his back.

  The other guard rushed Benson from the side. His hands still tied, Benson sidekicked the guard’s leading leg at the knee, breaking it with a crunch. The line of soldiers dropped their weapons and came running. A bear of a man lunged at him, wrapping his arms around Benson’s waist from behind and squeezing hard. Benson stomped on the man’s foot with his heel and smashed the back of his head into the man’s face, breaking his nose and teeth. The soldier collapsed in agony, clutching his bloody face in his hands.

  His chest heaving, gulping air, Benson faced several soldiers forming a tightening circle around him. He rushed one of them, kicking him squarely in the ribs with all his effort. The man fell, but the others tackled Benson, pinning him face down on the ground, piling on and crushing him with their weight until he could hardly breathe.

  A uniformed officer sauntered over, his shoes crunching on the gravel. Benson saw the dark brown pant legs with blue stripes approach. The colors were unknown to him. He struggled to raise his head to look up from under the pile of soldiers. The bars and nameplate identified this officer as one “Captain Kelly.” Benson dropped his head to the gravel again.

  His arms still securely bound, the soldiers yanked him to his feet. A blindfold was tied around his eyes. He was shoved in front of the concrete wall.

  “Any last requests, Mr. Benson?” Captain Kelly said.

  “A one-way ticket to Canada,” Benson replied between strained breaths. “Coach will be fine.”

  “Ready! Aim!”

  Benson turned around.

  “Shoot me in the back, cowards!”

  Captain Kelly moved in close, pointing his gun at Benson’s head.

  “Fire!” he yelled.

  Benson fell down in a heap.

  15

  Team VIPR

  BENSON HAD FREQUENTLY BEEN UP LATE the past year putting together a complicated banking deal for a Middle Eastern client. It wasn’t his usual line of work, but he’d volunteered for the assignment anyway, thinking that it might help broaden his horizons and provide a much needed challenge. Almost immediately, he regretted it. It was far more laborious and protracted than he had thought possible. The time zone difference meant some long nights in his upstairs home office. Although she knew it would probably be temporary, Jane was unhappy, feeling neglected. It seemed to her that there was always something “temporary” coming up between them.

  “Tom’s been so distant,” Jane confided to her friend one day while they were out shopping, poring over the racks at a clothing store. “He’s always on the computer, always working — even when he’s home. We never talk anymore.”

  “I had the same problem.”

  “Really?”

  “You better believe it,” her friend said. “So he’s working late — again — which he says is for me and the kids, so I go, ‘Hey, what about us? We need some alone-time, like when we were dating, you know, before kids. Hello, we need to communicate,’ I tell him. ‘It’s the foundation of a healthy relationship, everyone knows that.’ So he goes, ‘You know, when I am home, it’s like you’re always making plans to go out shopping or something.’ He gives me this look, and he goes, ‘You’re guilty, too.’ So I had to admit he was right — at least this time.”

  “What did you do?”

  She dragged Jane over to the Intimate Apparel department. Jane held aloft a skimpy garment on its hanger. It was all strings and red satin and lace. She held it up to her face. She could see her friend right through it.

  “You want me to wear this?”

  Jane felt that she was still in good shape, but it didn’t seem quite appropriate for a woman of her age — not that she looked or felt old. It’s just that mature woman don’t wear these little items, she figured. At some point, a woman gives up things like bikinis and short skirts. This certainly seemed like one of those things. Sexy lingerie would seem ridiculous after having been married such a long time. Tom would think it was stupid, too, she was sure.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but Tom will take a whole new interest in you — and you’ll love it, too. Trust me on this one. Works every time.”

  “But I’m still the same woman whether I’m wearing sweats or a teddy, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  They had just finished dinner when Daniel announced that he would be spending the night at a friend’s. Benson drove him over there. Upon returning, he went straight up to his home office and logged onto his chat group, reading for a while
to catch up on the conversation. Someone had written, “We shoud bomb there jihad taliban ass’s to smitherens.” A reply read, “Id nuke those terrorist aholes myself, mass asasination or like poison there narcotics with anthrax LOL.” Benson sighed. Another day of thoughtful, civilized discussion. He wondered why he bothered with this stuff. He hardly ever posted anything anymore. The chats and social network sites had been mildly interesting at first, but it was getting stale and consuming precious time he didn’t have.

  He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. It was getting late. He was only halfway through a business proposal due first-thing the next day and he needed to stop procrastinating. He’d brought work home with the idea that he might be able to better concentrate away from the office and the meetings and the ringing phones. It wasn’t working out as planned.

  He heard soft music playing from down the hall in the direction of their bedroom. He recognized the lush harmonies of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé Suite No. 2. Jane used to play classical music when she was in a romantic mood. It seemed like it had been a long time since he’d heard that suite. He put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes, savoring the gorgeous melodies.

  Jane appeared in the doorway, wearing sultry, arresting lingerie. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, lounging provocatively.

  “Honey, are you coming to bed?”

  He opened his eyes, astounded. She hadn’t worn seductive lingerie since their early years. Jane smiled warmly. Her sheer red slip, only partly covered by a long black satin gown left untied, exposed a deeply plunging neckline and long, bare legs.

  Rising from his chair, he put his hands on the small of her back and buried his face in her throat, her soft hair caressing his cheek. She wrapped her arms around his neck, standing up on her toes, pressing her body tightly to his. She draped one leg around him and rubbed herself against him. The subtle scent of roses and vanilla and the warmth of her delicious body was intoxicating. Looking into his eyes with smoky lust, she held his face in her hands, kissing him wetly and deeply. He picked her up off the floor. She clung to his shoulders, her legs gripped around his waist. They kissed hungrily, their passion building.

  Jane hopped off, flushed and breathing heavily. She took his hand in hers. He could feel her pulse beating through her hand.

  “I’m ready for bed, baby,” she said.

  “Give me five minutes.” Immediately, he regretted saying something so amazingly stupid.

  “Five minutes,” he croaked, his mouth suddenly having gone bone-dry.

  Jane stood so close that he could feel the heat radiate from her body. She let the slinky black gown slither off her shoulders to drop softly at her feet. Looking at him with heavy eyes, she slowly pulled down a red satin shoulder strap, baring herself. His heart raced.

  “Five minutes,” Jane whispered in his ear.

  She grazed her lips against his, her eyes wide open.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  His eyes followed her as she sashayed to the bedroom. He should have dropped everything. What could possibly be more urgent? Still, he had to finish a proposal for lending to these Muslim countries or his head would be on the line. And yet, this wasn’t a final agreement. Maybe he could save time by leaving some items open for discussion at the meeting tomorrow and wrap it up later.

  It being against their religion to pay interest, no one would lend them money. They were getting around it by selling their assets to the bank and then leasing them back at a premium. When the lease ended they would own everything again, just as before. It was just like borrowing with interest, without actually calling it interest. The more he thought about it, though, the more complex it would be to make it function properly, especially to have it pass muster with the various taxing authorities. He sketched out the proposal, at last satisfied that it would work. The details could wait.

  It was almost two hours later that he looked in on Jane. The bedroom was dimly lit. The music still played gently and sweetly. The faint scent of lavender and sandalwood candles, long burned out, lingered in the air. Rose petals were scattered on top of the blanket. An open bottle of champagne, two crystal flutes, and a silver bucket filled with melted ice were on the nightstand. A silver platter held ripe strawberries and a bowl of whipped cream.

  He stood at the side of the bed, gazing down at her with a heavy heart. On her side, facing away from him, she slept softly, her arms embracing her pillow. The silky red lingerie rode all the way up her bare legs, exposing her lovely figure. He watched her bosom rise and fall gently with each breath. He sighed, filled with regret.

  I’ll take her out to dinner tomorrow, he promised himself.

  Just the two of us.

  An elderly woman held a phone closely to her mouth, looking over her shoulder. Although alone in her darkened house, she used one hand to surround her mouth, speaking in hushed tones. A light was on in an upstairs room in the house next door.

  Benson’s house.

  She waited anxiously for the operator to come on. Annoying music played through the phone while she peered up at the room next door. A slick mechanical voice came on the line.

  “Please wait. All operators are busy serving other customers. Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order received.” The irritating music returned. After several more iterations of recorded message and music, she heard a click.

  “Hello?”

  “Thank you for calling 1-800-TIPS,” said a friendly voice. “My name is Kimberly, ID 977-88-A521. For quality purposes this call is being recorded. How may I help you today?”

  “This is Mrs. Rosy Parker at 1169 Morning Glory Circle? A man next door is acting real strange? I swear he never goes to sleep, the lights are on all night. Maybe — maybe he takes drugs!”

  She became agitated over her breaking insight. It explained everything. She should have seen this earlier; how obvious it all seemed now. Her heart started racing; she breathed heavily into the phone trembling in her hand.

  “Okay, please calm down, ma’am. Ma’am? Now could you please spell your name for me? And I’ll need your REAL ID number, too.”

  “Oh my, maybe he’s on crack? I’ll bet he has weapons, too, I think I saw them one time in his garage. Shit! Can you check, I’d feel so much safer. And I understand there might be a little … um, reward?”

  Benson and Jane drove down the road mostly silent, looking straight ahead. Their conversation was somewhat strained after the events of the previous night. They were headed to a charming, romantic restaurant where they could relax and talk, a place where Benson could be forgiven for the night before and they could start over. The image of Jane in her sheer red lace and satin slip had been burning in his mind all day long. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance.

  “I’ve been preoccupied with work. It’s temporary, I promise.”

  Jane was usually talkative, but not tonight. She had put herself out and had been snubbed, feeling deeply wounded.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Uh oh.”

  Benson slowed the car to a crawl. The pulsing lights of squad cars and police vans blocking the street created a hypnotic strobe effect in the dark, the sight of which always aroused in him an inexplicable anxiety. “Team VIPR” read the sandwich board signs placed along the curb. With a broad movement of his flashlight, a cop directed Benson into a vacant parking lot cordoned off by barricades. Drivers were exiting their cars, interrogated by police working in teams roving from car to car.

  Benson pulled into the lot and lowered his window. A meaty cop leaned over and stuck his head partway inside the car, uncomfortably close to Benson.

  “Problem, officer?”

  The cop held a rifle in his right hand, resting his left forearm on the door sill. Checking out Jane, he then peered into the backseat. He eyed Benson for a few seconds before speaking.

  “Good evening, folks, I’m Officer Russler. Where you headed tonight?”

  “Out,” Benson said.

  “W
e’re going out to dinner,” said Jane.

  “Well, we don’t wanna keep you too long, you should be on your way in a couple minutes with a little cooperation. You both U.S. citizens?”

  “Are we being detained or are we free to go?” demanded Benson.

  “I asked you a simple question — now you both U.S. citizens, or what?”

  “I don’t have to answer any questions. Are we being detained or are we free to go?”

  “Identification, please.”

  Seething inside, Benson reached for his wallet and displayed his REAL ID.

  “Take it outta the wallet.”

  Officer Russler examined the card, frowning at it for a long time, inspecting both sides. Benson stared at the dazzling strobe lights surrounding them, his anxiety rising by the second.

  The cop passed the card back to him.

  “Know why I pulled you over?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Russler abruptly stood up and opened Benson’s door.

  “Step outta the car, please.”

  “You don’t have any right—”

  “So now you’re gonna tell me my rights? Get outta the car, now.”

  Russler barely gave him enough room to exit. The instant Benson managed to struggle upright, the cop clamped a powerful hand on his shoulder from behind, digging in painfully. He grabbed Benson’s opposite wrist, holding it tightly behind his back, and then pushed him over to the front of the car, slamming Benson down until his chest hit the car’s hood.

  “Spread your legs,” Russler commanded.

  He muttered some police code into his shoulder radio. Another cop ambled on over, snapping on blue latex gloves as he went. Russler kicked Benson’s feet apart some more. Jane stayed inside the car, aghast.