by Mel Odom
He’d lost all control. And nobody was stepping in to talk sense into him.
“I’m gonna kill you.” Buck advanced on her with more confidence. Blood leaked from one of his ears as well as his nose now.
Desperate, Bekah turned and clambered on top of the car because Buck was close enough to intercept her before she could get around it. Once atop the car, she took a step and vaulted into the back of a pickup parked nearby. When she landed, the L-shaped jack handle in the pickup bed bounced and clanged. Seizing the jack handle, she vaulted over the other side, toward her vehicle.
Her legs nearly collapsed beneath her as her knees threatened to give way. She remained standing through sheer determination and stubbornness. But Buck came around the vehicle from the rear and slashed at her with the knife.
Automatically, Bekah grasped the jack handle in both hands the way she would a baton. She blocked the knife blow, and the clang of metal on metal rasped over the other sounds of the crowd. Moving forward, she snap-kicked Buck in the crotch like she was going for a fifty-yard field goal. He yelped in pain and sagged backward.
Mercilessly, Bekah let her Marine baton training take over, still dazed and only thinking that she wanted to make it home to her son that night. Stepping back again, she swept the jack handle down onto Buck’s knife wrist. The blade glinted as it spun free and dropped, and the crack of wrist bones sounded like gunshots.
She moved to the side and swung the jack handle again, hitting Buck in the side of the knee. Something crunched, and Buck fell sideways. He curled into a fetal position and held his injured knee, screaming in pain like an animal. Still on autopilot, Bekah stooped to deliver a final blow, then caught herself and kept the jack handle raised. With a fearful yelp, Buck covered his head with his hands. As she drew a shaky breath, the whoop-whoop of a police unit roared over the parking lot.
Still breathing rapidly, her legs feeling like spaghetti beneath her, Bekah stood and let the jack handle dangle at her side. She didn’t let it go. Buck might get up one more time, or someone else in the crowd might decide to take sides.
The sheriff’s department cruiser slid to a stop in the parking lot and emptied several potholes along the way. The whirling light splashed over the crowd, and they stepped back, unwilling to get caught up in the legal repercussions.
The deputy climbed out of the cruiser with his hand on his pistol. He was tall and lanky, with a dark crew cut and a square jaw. His uniform was neat and pressed. Bekah recognized him as he came forward. He was one of the Trimble boys. She couldn’t remember which one other than it was the one who had played baseball with Billy Roy and Buck. Her hopes sank because she knew the deputy wouldn’t be inclined favorably toward her.
The deputy waved at her. “You put down that jack handle.”
Without a word, Bekah dropped the jack handle. All of a sudden, she felt incredibly tired. Adrenaline crash. She recognized the symptoms from her previous tours.
Buck still rocked in pain, but he no longer screamed hoarsely.
“How bad is it, Buck?” The deputy stood over the fallen man almost protectively.
“Feels like my knee’s broke. So’s my wrist.”
“Lemme call for an ambulance.” The deputy did that, speaking into the handi-talker pinned to his shoulder. When he was finished, he glanced back at Buck. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“She went crazy, Alvin. Plumb loco. Attacked me with that tire iron. Musta been one of them flashbacks from the war or something.”
“That’s not what happened.” Bekah took a step forward.
The deputy, Alvin Trimble, threw up a hand. “You stay right there.” His other hand eased his pistol from its holster. “Not another step.”
Bekah froze, but she couldn’t stop talking. She was going to be heard, and the record was going to be set straight. “Buck attacked Connie Hiller in Darlton’s. I was just defending her.”
“With a tire iron?”
“Yes. Buck had a knife.”
“A knife?” Alvin took a mini Maglite from his utility belt, flicked it on, and shined it around the parking lot. “I don’t see no knife.”
Bekah didn’t either. The blade had been there only a moment ago. “It was here. Somebody picked it up.” That was the only answer she could come up with.
“Yeah. Well, we’ll see about that. In the meantime, you’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Drunk and disorderly. Assault and battery. Disturbing the peace. I’ll think of some more along the way.” The deputy put the flashlight away and took a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
“I was defending myself. I was defending Connie Hiller. Take a look at her. Buck beat her before I stepped into it.”
“We’ll let the judge figure that out. Now you just turn around and don’t start nothing.”
Bekah almost ran. She’d never been in trouble with the law before outside of a speeding ticket when she was seventeen. She’d always lived her life quiet and small and never got in anybody’s way. Billy Roy, on the other hand, had been arrested a number of times—for speeding and fighting and drinking. He hadn’t been quite that way when she’d married him, but he’d turned on the trouble afterward. She’d had to bail him out of jail three times, and it had taken her grandpa’s money to do it.
Silently, she steeled herself, turned around, and stuck out her left hand when she was instructed to. The narrow, cold steel clamped around her wrist just short of biting into the flesh. Several of Darlton’s clientele had their phones out now and were taking her picture. In minutes the news would be up all over Facebook and Twitter. Callum’s Creek had embraced the technology that enabled faster gossip with pictures.
Alvin wheeled her around so that her back was to him while he clamped the open cuff around her other wrist. Her hands were now secured behind her, and she had to squelch the immediate claustrophobic feeling that snaked up from her belly. All she could think about was what this was going to do to her granny and to her son. Granny would understand, but there was no telling what kind of stories Travis would hear.
Alvin grabbed her by one arm and pulled her away from the vehicle. “Let’s go.”
Bekah nearly tripped because her legs weren’t quite keeping up with her thoughts. She made a quickstep to keep up, and the deputy shook her irritably.
“Don’t you try nothing, missy, or I’ll clock you.”
Holding in her anger and a scathing retort, Bekah marched resolutely toward the waiting cruiser. The Marines had taught her to march, and she did it now with all the skill she had. Just kept putting one foot in front of the other. And she held her head high.
Phone flashes went off around her, bright sparks against the neon-threaded night.
Alvin opened the back door of the cruiser, put a hand on top of her head, and shoved her in. Sitting with her hands cuffed behind her was hard and uncomfortable. She leaned back and tried to keep herself calm. The mesh that separated her from the front seats was a constant reminder of where she was and how much trouble she was in. Just breathe. Keep breathing. That’s all you can do right now.
Leaning her head to the side, she peered out the window and watched as the crowd closed in around Buck. They acted like they were concerned and worried, but Bekah knew from experience that most of them just wanted to see what had been done to him. The deputy tried to keep them back, but everybody had a story to tell. Hands gestured and called for attention. Alvin shook his head and talked, but nobody was listening.
Finally, after fifteen minutes according to the dashboard clock, an ambulance pulled into the parking lot. Two EMTs, both guys she recognized from high school, got out of the vehicle and brought out a stretcher. They worked quickly, putting Buck on a backboard and strapping him to the gurney. When everything was in place, they pushed Buck into the ambulance.
A shadow fell across the window an instant before Billy Roy stepped into view. He flashed a mocking smile at her. “Appears you got some bad trouble on your hands, Rebecca A
nn. I would say I’m sorry . . . but I’m not. This may be better than watching Buck take your head off. I figure you’re gonna get some county time out of this. You and your son have caused me plenty of grief these past few years.”
Bekah had nothing to say. She knew the sheriff’s cruiser had audio and video pickup equipment in the back. That was standard these days even in Callum’s Creek.
Deputy Alvin Trimble approached the car and touched his hat to Billy Roy. “Hey, Billy Roy.”
“Hey, Alvin.” Billy Roy grinned like a possum. “Got you a bad ’un tonight, huh?”
“Man, you sure knew how to pick ’em, didn’t you?”
“We all make mistakes.” Billy Roy nodded toward Bekah. “You’ll want to watch yourself. Them Marines have sure riled her up.”
“I get her back to the jail, she’ll gentle down pretty fast.”
Billy Roy nodded and touched his beer bottle to his hat brim. “I’ll leave you with it.” He turned and walked away.
Bekah took another breath and worked on the next one.
4
WHEN THE FOUR-WHEEL-DRIVE JEEP rumbled down the narrow street, Rageh Daud ducked into the nearest alley and attempted to hide. The early-morning light filtering through Mogadishu betrayed him, though. Or perhaps the men in the jeep were wide awake and looking for opportunities, and the sudden movement merely landed him on their radar.
Whatever the reason, the jeep pulled into the alley after Daud, and he hardened his heart for what he knew he must do, for what he must accept. Only for the moment. That was a promise he silently made to himself. Hardening the heart these days didn’t take much. Sometimes he was surprised at the violence that he could unleash. Perhaps he was not so different from his father.
“Hold on there. We want to speak to you.” The voice was blunt and heavy, full of authority.
Daud kept facing the other end of the alley and walking. He wore khaki pants that were a little too big for him and a lightweight cotton shirt that had once been white. He was slim and of medium height, his skin dark except where months-old scars crossed his arms, neck, and right cheek. His hair was short and curled tightly in toward his scalp. He no longer looked like the man he had been. His losses had marked him and changed him forever. He was a hollow man now, filled only with hate and a desire to make others hurt.
One of the men released the slide on an AK-47. The sound was immediately distinctive, and Daud knew it well. He stopped and held up his hands.
“Now you understand.” The men laughed in the bullying tone that made Daud so angry. Lately, there were many bullies in Somalia, many killers and defilers who did atrocious things in the name of God.
Daud hated those men and knew they were worthy of his attentions. Slowly, he turned to face the three killers. His gaze swept over their faces, and he knew them in a glance more deeply than they would expect. After all, he had grown up around such men. His father had commanded them, keeping them in line with his hard fists and a bullet when necessary.
The one holding the AK-47 lowered it. He was young and brash, a youth who had taken to the hard side of life because he feared being a victim. His scraggly beard barely shadowed his cheeks. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. Still, even small children were dangerous when armed with assault weapons as they often were these days.
For a moment, though, Daud thought of his own son, how he had held him after he’d been born, and how he’d held him the last time only a few months ago when he’d laid him in the same grave as his mother. Daud quelled the flicker of pity he felt for the boy holding the rifle and instead focused on the ice-cold intensity of the ever-present rage that wore him like a suit of clothes.
The driver was a slightly older version of the boy. Not a relative. He was just what the boy would become if he lived so long and learned no other direction in his life. Older, heavier, with eyes that were totally dead and uncaring. He picked at his yellowed teeth with a fingernail.
In the passenger seat, their leader sat and glared arrogantly, filled with self-importance. He was in his early thirties—the oldest of the men—and wore better clothes. A gold tooth gleamed at the front of his mouth. That tooth told Daud that the man wasn’t a native of Mogadishu, and probably not of Somalia either. The Somali people knew better than to choose something like that gold tooth because it would mark them for thieves who would take that very tooth out of their mouths to put food on the table.
Daud guessed the man was from the Middle East, come down to be a leader among the al-Shabaab faction. Many were arriving from the Middle East since they had more training than the local people.
“What do you wish?” Daud lowered his hands to his sides.
The leader nodded curtly, his lips curled cruelly. “We are al-Shabaab, and we are raising funds for our efforts to retake our city. We wish for you to donate.”
The al-Shabaab were Islamist militants warring with the Transitional Federal Government. When the TFG had taken over the city, the al-Shabaab had retreated to the jungle, but they hadn’t entirely gone away. Mogadishu was too big and scattered for the TFG and the African Union Mission to Somalia (AMISOM) to effectively police. Plus, the TFG and AMISOM units got distracted watching over each other as well.
There was little trust left in Somalia. The al-Shabaab were believed to be funding the pirates that captured international ships and held them for ransom. Even if that were not true, the Islamist faction still raided the city and left decapitated citizens in their wake as a message.
Daud quietly regarded the men for a moment. They claimed to be al-Shabaab, and he had no reason to doubt them, but he knew they were truly there merely to rob him. He was a man alone in the city. “I have only a little money.”
“I do not believe you.” The leader cocked his head. “Your shoes say you have money.”
Daud resisted the impulse to look down. He had deliberately chosen worn clothing, but he’d been loath to jettison the hiking boots. Somalia was rough country. A person had to have a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get around. Traveling the land on foot was no easier.
Now it looked as though his boots might be the death of him.
Reluctantly, Daud reached into his pockets and pulled out a thick wad of paper Somali shillings. The paper currency was almost worthless in the present economy. Buying a loaf of bread took a fistful of banknotes.
The man in the passenger seat climbed out and stepped forward. Daud resisted the impulse to smash the man’s face in when he came to a stop in front of him. Such an action would only get him killed. Perhaps the young man with the rifle might not respond quickly enough or accurately enough, but the driver would. Daud was certain the man already had a hand on a pistol beneath the jeep’s dashboard. At this distance, he would not miss.
The leader took the currency from Daud and quickly riffled through it. The bundle held a mixture of old notes and new, and even some of the Canadian notes that had been brought into the country when the Transitional National Government had been formed in 2000. The influx of additional monies had almost bankrupted Somalia. The people of Mogadishu had revolted and forced the TNG to buy back the foreign currency.
Smiling coldly, the leader shoved the bills into his shirt pocket. “This isn’t the money I was referring to. I want the real money.”
Daud didn’t try to hide his subterfuge. He had prepared for this as well. He reached into his other pocket and brought out the thin sheaf of American money he had hoarded for his trip to Mogadishu.
The leader stared at him suspiciously. He flipped his thumb idly over the money. “American bills. Where did you get these?”
“I sold personal belongings. A computer. Some jewelry.” His wife no longer had need of her wedding rings or the other things he’d bought her during their marriage. He’d still felt guilty about not putting those things into her grave with her, but he’d needed money if he and his son were to survive. Then, after his son had died, Daud had needed the money to get supplies, information, and a pistol. He was going to s
urvive, and he would recognize few friends and few allies.
“Liar.” The word cut the air like a bullet.
Daud stood quietly in front of the man. “I am telling you the truth.”
“The American CIA pays our people to spy on their brothers.”
“I am no spy.”
“I do not believe you.”
“I am sorry, but that is the best answer I can give you. Months ago, I was a businessman. The attacks within the city killed my wife and son.” Daud felt the wetness gathering in his eyes, and it surprised him. He’d felt certain he had no more tears left. But he told the truth so the man could sense no falsehood. “My business was destroyed. I sold what I had left.”
“And you did not leave the country?”
Daud shrugged. “Where would I go? This place has always been my home.”
The man waggled the American currency. “I do not believe this is all the money you have.”
Daud stood still and silent.
“Give me the rest of it.”
“There is—”
The man moved more quickly than Daud would have believed possible. With a practiced economy of motion, the man smashed his pistol butt into Daud’s forehead.
Stunned, head suddenly throbbing with pain, Daud dropped to his knees. He almost reached for the man’s legs to yank them out from under him, but he stopped himself just in time. If he did that, the man or the boy with the assault rifle might shoot him. Still, he was tempted, and he could be fast when he wanted to be.
The man hit him with the pistol again, then whipped Daud down to the rough ground. At one time the alley had been covered by concrete, put there by the Communists who had been in control of the country in the 1970s, when Somalia had been the Somali Democratic Republic. But time and use had worn the concrete back down to bedrock. The rough surface dug into Daud’s face, but he could barely feel the heat or the abrasive texture against his nerve-deadened cheek. He tasted his blood, though.
