Lovers Sacrifice

by R. A. Steffan

  Circle of Blood Book Three: Lover’s Sacrifice

  By R. A. Steffan & Jaelynn Woolf

  Copyright 2018 by R. A. Steffan

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Epilogue

  ONE

  THIS REALLY WASN’T how Mason had expected to spend his Friday morning.

  Endless piles of paperwork? Definitely. Arguing over the phone about continued funding for the clinic? Probably. Counseling sessions with some of the children under his care? Yep.

  Staring down the barrel of an automatic weapon wielded by a twelve-year-old? Not so much.

  The black muzzle of the AK-47 never wavered as it pointed at Mason’s chest, held securely in the hands of a wild-eyed Haitian boy. The child appeared dwarfed by high-powered assault rifle cradled against his scrawny shoulder, but Mason knew all too well how deadly he could be.

  The MP escorting a small group of newly liberated child soldiers to Mason’s rehabilitation clinic had turned his back for less than a second before the boy struck like a snake—yanking the weapon from his slackened grip and turning it on the people he no doubt saw as enemy captors.

  Both Mason and the MP stood frozen in place. The MP’s mouth was hanging open in surprise. No doubt the man had thought himself lucky to draw such a cushy posting in Port-au-Prince, guarding adolescents instead of fighting in the rebel-held villages out in the hinterlands.

  More fool him.

  As the physician in charge of the ragtag, under-funded Center for the Rehabilitation of Underage Conscripts, Mason knew exactly how hazardous the duty they were performing here could be. And if he survived the next few minutes, he would bloody well find out who had failed to adequately brief the hapless soldier standing next to him. At which point, he would rip that person a new orifice, Hippocratic Oath or no.

  It was fairly obvious that the MP was going to be little help in defusing the situation, though Mason supposed it would have been worse if he’d decided to go all Rambo on the kid and do something fatally stupid.

  Mason stood perfectly still, his hands hanging loose at his sides, trying to breathe calmly through the massive adrenaline dump coursing through his body. He recognized the hallmarks of the body’s fight-or-flight response, though his detailed medical knowledge of the process did little to curb the wash of instinct that was trying to shut down his logical thinking ability just when he seriously fucking needed it.

  His senses were heightened, strained to their utmost, taking in the oddly jarring sounds in the background of the tense scene. The happy shouts of children playing. The creak of palm trees swaying in the sea breeze. The smell of salt clinging to the air, buried beneath vehicle exhaust and decomposing garbage.

  The way the matte black finish of the automatic weapon’s barrel seemed to swallow the daylight.

  Mason mentally shook himself, trying to force his focus back to the boy—to his body language and facial expression. Remaining calm was the key. Panic would only get him—and possibly a lot of other people in the immediate area—killed.

  There was no cover to speak of in front of the clinic, and few options for outside assistance. Even if the wide-eyed child holding the rifle felt like letting Mason stroll around the corner for a moment to place a leisurely phone call on his mobile, calling the coppers in Port-au-Prince these days was about as effective a method of summoning help as picking up a random tin can from the street and shouting into it.

  Face it, mate, he thought. It’s up to you to keep this thing from going tits-up.

  He took a slow, measured breath and let it out before speaking.

  “Okay, let’s just take a minute to calm down and talk,” he began, his Aussie accent becoming more pronounced than usual, as it always seemed to when he was under stress. “You’re in charge… you’ve got the gun. I promise you, you’re perfectly safe here—”

  The boy lifted the gun a fraction, his aim moving from Mason’s chest to his head. “I might be safe, blan,” he said, eyeing Mason’s pale skin and obviously foreign mode of dress, “but you aren’t. Have this soldier take me an’ the others back where you found us, or I’ll kill you.” He bared white teeth. “Maybe I’ll just kill you anyway, eh? What d’you think of that?”

  Movement in the corner of his eye drew Mason’s attention, and a face appeared at the screen door of the building next to him. Bugger.

  “Joni,” he said in a calm voice, speaking to the young nurse who was little more than a teenager herself, “why don’t you take the rest of the children out the back way and go down to the beach for a bit?”

  Their eyes locked, and he saw the same fear he was holding at bay reflected in her face. He forced a reassuring smile and jerked his head toward the back of the structure, silently imploring her to get herself and the other children to safety. With a clipped nod, she backed away from the door, and he could hear her issuing quiet instructions to the kids who had gathered at the front of the clinic for their mid-morning medications.

  He turned his full attention back to the boy and steeled himself to try something that would either improve the situation… or escalate it.

  “It’s me you need to talk to,” he said in the same conversational tone. “I’m the one in charge, here. Let’s have a chat, just you and I.” He flicked his eyes to the MP. “You—take our other guests inside, please, and help Joni.”

  The soldier looked at Mason like he was bent in the head. He might’ve even had a valid point about that. Still, Mason nodded toward the door, insistent.

  He met the eyes of the half-dozen other children who had arrived with this group. “Go on—please make yourselves at home. There are bottles of Coke chilling on ice in the corner of the front room. Help yourselves.”

  The other boys looked uncertainly at each other, but after a few moments of indecision, two of them wandered toward the door and peeked inside. Upon seeing the large red cooler sitting in the corner as promised, they went inside. The others followed.

  “Go on,” Mason told the MP, praying like hell that he wasn’t making a deadly mistake.

  With a final, uncertain nod, the man backed cautiously away until his hand brushed the doorknob. He opened the door and slipped through, closing it silently behind him. The AK-47 did not erupt into a deafening hail of gunfire, though its muzzle did begin to tremble almost imperceptibly.

  Well, that’s everyone except me out of harm’s way, at least.

  Letting the air flow silently from his lungs, Mason turned back towards the boy in front of him and tried to give him the same friendly smile he’d used to reassure Joni. It felt like the muscles in his face had frozen, though, and he didn’t think he’d really pulled it off.

  The child staring at him with bloodshot eyes did not react, simply gazing back with a sort of dull, distant anger. The only move he made was to readjust his grip on the powerful AK-47 clutched in his small hands. He shifted on his feet, standing in front of Mason in baggy cargo shorts and nothing else, save for the soiled green bandana tied around his head.

  Mason didn’t want to make any move that might startle or upset the boy, but, at the same time, this stalemate needed to end. The longer they stood out here, staring at each other with a high-powered weapon between them, the greater the likelihood that Mason would end up riddled with bullet wounds.

  Moving slowly, Mason lowered himself into a crouch so th
at he was below eye level with the scared and angry boy. At the same time, he did a quick visual inspection, cataloging the child’s condition with the eye of a physician.

  Short, brittle hair. Bloodshot eyes, flat affect, dilated pupils. Probably under the influence of some sort of stimulant. Discharge from the eyes and nose. Chapped lips with sores in the corners of his mouth. Thin frame. Bloated belly. Multiple scars and marks from badly healed wounds. Partially healed gunshot wound to the upper right arm, from approximately six weeks ago. Cracked feet showing signs of advanced fungal infection.

  “How old are you?” Mason asked, looking up at the boy.

  The question seemed to startle him. He blinked several times, and a look of confusion crossed his features before they hardened back into flat anger. “I’m fifteen, blan. What do you care?”

  Stunted growth due to emaciation.

  “I bet you’re a hell of a soldier,” Mason said in lieu of an answer. “You overpowered that MP like it was nothing.”

  “I’m the best in my unit,” the youth bragged, tipping his chin up as if daring Mason to dispute it. “That’s why you’re gonna send me straight back, and the others, too.”

  “Okay, let’s discuss that,” Mason said easily. “My name’s Dr. Walker, by the way. What’s yours?”

  There was a tiny hesitation. “They call me San Silans.”

  Silent Blood? Christ on a crutch.

  For the thousandth time since arriving here, Mason mentally shook his head in disbelief over what was being done to Haiti’s children during this long and bloody civil war.

  “Sorry, San—my Creole is shit, as you can probably guess,” he said, not completely truthfully. “What’s your real name?”

  He’d seen this before, many times, from other child soldiers receiving treatment at the clinic. Their captors would take them from their families—sometimes dragging them straight from the arms of screaming or dying relatives—and erase their pasts. They would brainwash the children, ranging in age from those who were barely more than toddlers to those in their teens, using a combination of drugs, intimidation, and rudimentary psychological techniques.

  After a few weeks or months, the victims were utterly convinced that their loved ones had been killed and desecrated by “the enemy,” and that to avenge them, they were honor bound to kill any government soldier who came into their sights without hesitation. The rebel unit was their new family, and the penalty for disloyal behavior was death at the hands of their fellow child soldiers.

  The boy hesitated at Mason’s question about his real name, a flash of something like unease crossing his features. “My name is San Silans.”

  “It’s just that San Silans is an unusual name,” Mason pressed carefully. “Maybe there was something else you were called before people started calling you that?”

  The kid pursed his lips together in a tight line, his knuckles tightening around the stock of the rifle. He stared hard at Mason, as if sizing him up—or perhaps trying to understand him. Mason returned the boy’s gaze without blinking, purposely keeping his energy low and calm.

  The moment stretched out like taffy, before Mason’s captor dropped his eyes to the side, giving a bit of ground. Though he maintained his firm grip on the weapon, a fraction of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

  “I used to be called Eniel,” he muttered.

  “Eniel,” Mason repeated. “That’s a traditional name in the south, isn’t it? A good name. Strong, like you.”

  “Yes.” Eniel still wasn’t meeting his eyes.

  “Well, Eniel, since you’re here at the clinic, what can I do to help you?”

  Eniel’s eyes hardened. “I already told you, blan. You can send me back where I belong. I need to report to my commander. I won’t stay here with you government scum.”

  Mason spread his hands in a gesture indicating harmlessness. “Eniel, mate—I’m Australian. I’m not a rebel or a government lackey. I’m just here to help pick up the pieces.”

  Eniel lifted the gun and jerked his chin toward it. “The stupid kochon I grabbed this from is government scum. You could smell it on him.”

  “And you ran him right off, so no need to worry about him right now,” Mason said. “Eniel, we can’t send you back to your commander. Your commander’s the one who sent you here in the first place.”

  “Lies!” Eniel snapped, his voice rising.

  Actually, that much was the complete truth. Mason and his contacts had been negotiating the release of child soldiers from rebel forces for months now. Public image was enough of a concern for the insurgents that they were willing to give up some of their low-value fighters in exchange for the goodwill it would garner.

  Especially the ones who were already on the verge of physical or mental breakdown… though it would probably be better for Eniel not to hear about that part, just now.

  “I’m afraid it’s the truth,” Mason countered. “Your commander was worried about you. He sent you here for medical help. That’s a gunshot wound on your arm. It must be bothering you, even though you’re such a good soldier that you hide it well. I could help you with that.”

  As if on cue, Eniel’s body began to quiver. He sniffed hard, wiping mucus from his nose with the back of one arm. It smeared and glistened across his face as his eyes glittered in the bright sunlight. “He said I had to get in the truck with the others. He didn’t say what would happen or where we were going.”

  Mason nodded in understanding. “And what did you think about that?”

  Eniel raised and lowered one shoulder. The shaking in his body intensified, and he scowled at Mason, almost as if another personality had consumed him. “I thought maybe it was a test, or a mission.” He pointed to the clinic building. “They are from the government; they are the people responsible for killing my family! I thought, maybe, this is a way for my commander to infiltrate the enemy, by sending me here to kill them!”

  Mason knew better than to argue with him. He’d heard the same story many times before. It was common practice to tell young, impressionable children that the government had been the ones to kill their families. The rebel leaders instilled that hatred among their young soldiers early on to ensure total obedience. It would take them months, if not years, to undo the brainwashing most of these boys had sustained.

  “Like I said,” Mason began, “I’m not a part of your war. I just want to help you, like your commander intended when he ordered you to come here. So, when was the last time you ate? Are you hungry?”

  At the mention of food, Eniel’s gaze seemed to tighten on Mason’s face. What had been dirty looks and constant scanning before, suddenly became almost dog-like hunger, focused and unmoving.

  “Come on,” Mason coaxed, keeping his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “We’ll get you a meal and you can tell me a bit more about yourself.”

  The boy stayed completely still for several moments, staring at Mason’s face.

  Shite, I’m getting too old for this. My legs are going completely numb, Mason thought, as he tried to slowly shift positions to allow the blood flow to return to his tingling right foot.

  Eniel’s shoulders sagged and his grip softened on the AK-47. He grimaced, as if in physical pain. “You should be afraid of me. I have… done things. Terrible things.”

  Mason felt his heart ache, as it always did when the children at his clinic spoke about their past. All of them had been turned into monsters by the rebel kidnappers that forced them into the war, giving them weapons and brainwashing them until everything they used to believe was forgotten. Many of them had killed hundreds of people, mowed down opposing forces, or even killed other child soldiers in different militia units during the night for scraps of blanket or morsels of food.

  It was likely that Eniel was no different, standing here in the bright sunlight with snot smeared across his face, pointing a high-powered weapon unerringly at Mason while looking so weak and malnourished that it was amazing he could even stand up.

  Most people woul
d look at Eniel and see a murderer. But Mason knew that he was merely seeing a weapon, fashioned and honed by adults who placed more value on winning a war than on the sanctity of childhood.

  Ironically, the phrase “it’s not your fault” was one of the surest ways to enrage a child soldier. They hated hearing it, because it chipped away at their tenuous sense of control over their own lives. And yet, it was true. One did not blame a grenade for exploding and killing people. One blamed the person who pulled the pin and threw it.

  Eniel was not to blame for the lives he had taken. Every day, Mason told himself that the rebel commanders at whose feet those deaths truly rested would pay eventually. At times like this, he almost wished he could personally extract that payment—but he knew that his place was here, healing the broken bodies and damaged souls of these, the most vulnerable victims of Haiti’s relentless war against itself.

  “Eniel,” he said after a quiet moment, “lots of the young people here have done bad things. I still want to help you.”

  “Why?”

  Mason had to gather himself for a moment before answering, “Because in this clinic, we don’t leave anyone behind.”

  Eniel cocked his head at that, fidgeting, his thin fingers trembling around the stock of the gun. He shrugged one shoulder towards his ear several times, as if to displace an irksome fly. Shifting his weight back and forth, his gaze turned towards a gap between the buildings, where only a few palm trees blocked the view of the beach and stunning blue ocean.

  Finally, Eniel looked at Mason and parted his chapped, raw lips. “I… I…”

  Mason didn’t move, just remained frozen in his position, a look of quiet expectation across his face.

  “I left people behind,” Eniel said in a rush. Wetness glistened in the corners of his eyes. “My friends…”

  In a very soft voice, Mason replied, “Why don’t you put the gun on the ground and tell me more about that.”

  Eniel gripped the gun harder for a second, pulling it towards his chest. A wild fear seemed to grip him, making him look eerily like a cornered animal. Mason remained still, his calm expression never wavering.