Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  Justice heard the unmistakable rattle of an AK47’s wooden stock as it struck a solid blow behind Batya’s skull. She tumbled to the hard earth, but rolled onto her side to absorb the impact of an unforgiving terrain. Justice clinched his fist into hammers of fury. He stopped walking. The terrorist behind him shoved him in the back, but nothing budged. Justice knew better than to extend a hand to Batya for help—they’d take it as a sign of weakness. He wasn’t even sure if they’d discovered she was female.

  Batya stumbled as she stood. Her listing left shoulder rammed into Justice and he listened for a cue to attack. Other than a low grunt, he heard nothing—maybe it wasn’t a tumble on purpose—maybe she really was injured.

  His guard screamed in his native tongue, but Justice understood every word—move or he’d be shot. Justice shrugged because he knew they’d not shoot him. Not yet anyway.

  They passed beneath the guard tower. It was empty and Justice sighed in relief. Even a mediocre shooter on higher ground could be deadly during an escape attempt.

  He glanced quickly to Batya, but she glared, blinked three times to signal that Justice should look to the East. He grunted, “Fuck,” as he was struck between his shoulder blades. He was shouldered in the lower back as they crossed over the ridge and headed downhill. Three other terrorists waited beneath a tattered lean-to tent.

  How the hell can they stand sitting around a campfire in this heat?

  Batya feign a coughing spell. “Six total. I’ve still got a five shot. You take the last one.”

  While she was bent to give Justice the heads up, a guard smashed his rifle into her spine and sent Batya tumbling down the hill. Her body bounced then folded once it stopped against a cragged boulder.

  Justice took a stutter-step after her but stopped. His heart exploded with anger. They’d struck a woman. He’d been brought up better than to ever raise a hand to a female, but these pricks either didn’t know or wouldn’t care. He had to contain his responses. If these terrorists detected an emotional connection they’d prey upon any concern he showed for her.

  His insides rippled with hate. Justice would welcome an appearance by Ben at this stage. These pricks deserved to be tortured and devoured. Maybe he wouldn’t hunt so hard to take Ben out after all. His eyes never left Batya. She never moved.

  “Pick that piece of dung up.” A rifle waved across his face. “Carry him to the camp.”

  Justice smirked beneath his dust-covered shemagh. They hadn’t detected Batya was female. They’d kill him quick and have a field day with her once they found out. He had to contain his actions—no way could he let them know he understood their tongue. This was his chance to get a clear assessment on Batya’s status and possibly a battle plan.

  He felt rifle tips jabbing him in the back, but the light armor and thick tactical vest absorbed most of the blows. He followed their hand signals and pretended not to understand their commands.

  “Go,” said the smallest of the group. He pointed to Batya and simulated lifting her up to carry. Justice nodded and limped downhill until he reached her motionless body.

  Lips welded shut by the salty crust of dehydration, he waggled his jaw to tear them loose. Justice’s left eye was almost infected shut, and his body seared like hell as he craned over Batya’s body. Dread covered him, as he detected nothing from her.

  “I swear if they killed her they’ll think Ben Ford was Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.”

  “Who is this Mr. Rogers? Where is his neighborhood?” Batya mumbled.

  Justice fought the urge to sweep down and hug her. She was still alive and sassy. He eased over and told her he was ordered to carry her. He suggested she remain limp.

  “Finally, you get the honor of carry me as I’ve carry you this entire operation,” He felt her body bounce as she laughed at her own joke. He thought it was funny, too, but also realized she probably meant what she said.

  His knees felt the strain of maneuvering across the rocky soil with her additional body weight thrown across his shoulder. He wavered, but was determined to stay strong to finish the fight. He’d been in worse battles between his brothers. These clowns were only armed with assault rifles; his brothers fought with their wit.

  “Listen close,” she said. “I’ve got a five-shot in my hand. Get me under the west side of the tent and move to the south side.”

  “Why?” He strained to keep them both upright.

  “I want the sun in their eyes when I draw my weapon, and I don’t want you in the fire line.”

  “Where did you get a revolver?” Justice asked.

  Batya’s voice baited him. “I’ve got assets you don’t.”

  “Oh, yes, you do, sister.” Justice tucked his chin to hide the boyish sneer her flirt caused.

  The six shitbags circled them as Justice crunched into the camp. He kicked through the fire to cause a little stir. He was ready to end this charade. Their yelling and pointing of unidentifiable commands grew louder as he neared the canvas tent. One of them pointed and shouted, “Here. Here.”

  Justice ignored them and gently laid Batya on her back so she’d have a straight shot at the group of them. He arched his broad back to shield her from their punches and kicks.

  They began to tear at his equipment—his concealed KA-BAR knife was shifted in the struggle. He dropped to one knee and groaned loudly after one of them planted his sandaled foot between his legs from behind. Justice felt his nut sack ram into his stomach at the force. They cackled like schoolyard bullies at the blow to his dick.

  “Kill these motherfuckers now.” The pain strained Justice’s voice, but his message was clear. He rolled to the south side of the tent.

  Batya’s flowing tunic disguised the revolver as she shoved the gun forward. The first round struck one terrorist in the forehead—he was dead. The second round exploded the trachea of the terrorist who stood next to the first victim—his head flopped forward in death.

  The smallest one realized what happened before the others did. In typical terrorist fashion, he chose to haul ass rather than fight. Justice thrust his right arm out and snatched the coward by the face. He wasted no time breaking his neck—three down.

  Meanwhile Batya quickly unloaded her third and fourth rounds of high-powered ammunition into fatal zones of terrorists four and five.

  “Where’s the last one?” Justice yelled.

  “I’m not seeing him.”

  Justice jumpstarted to a sprint, but the aches in his body and the uneven ground caused him to tumble hard.

  “Catch him,” Batya yelled.

  The last terrorist sprinted up the ridge toward the radio. A cry for help would mean more killers than they had ammunition for or time to fight. He willed his big body across the rocky incline, but he knew there’d be no way he’d outrun the slightly built native. He took off in that direction and only hoped to kill him before he’d given too much information away.

  Justice heard Batya encouraging him in the background, but as hard as he churned his arms and legs, he couldn’t make up the difference in distance. He zipped out his trusted knife and in his best throwing effort let it zing through the air. Bull’s eye. The razor sharp blade sunk into the guard’s back.

  Justice saw him stumble and hoped it was his chance to catch him. It wasn’t. The terrorist knew his fate. He’d make sure snitching out the Americans would be his last act of defiance.

  “Fuck. No.” Justice said as he watched the meatless fingers grasp the tall microphone stand and smash the transmit button. His head dropped in defeat but his body hurled closer to minimize the damage.

  A single shot rang out. Justice felt the pressure of the bullet’s trajectory sail past his head. His shoulders jerked up toward his ears and he stuttered to a stop. He watched the last one of the six fall to the ground, the radio still in his grip.

  “Son of a bitch that’s some good shooting.” He laughed as he looked back about fifty yards to where Batya knelt under the tent. She was soon on the move to commandeer an old Jeep a
nd rattled over to pick up Justice.

  “He radioed to them, we have to flee.”

  Justice rocked back into the webbed passenger seat. “First off momma, that was one hell of a show back there. Second, I’m an American—we don’t flee.”

  Her eyes slipped through the smallish space between her headscarf. He detected her smile by the raising of the cotton material wrapped around her cheeks and mouth.

  “You’re welcome, American.” They sped away from the camp. She directed his attention with her thumb to the rear of the Jeep. It was full of rifles and ammunition—no water canteens though.

  “They’re like camels I guess—no need for hydration. Just bullets.”

  Batya tugged at the shemagh, “Where to?”

  Justice began to answer but stopped. He’d not noticed how beautiful her lips were. Even through the desert’s best effort to grime anything that lived, she shone like a jewel.

  “I asked, where to?”

  He shook his head, “Khojak Pass. There’s a grove of shade trees. We need a break from this sun, and maybe we’ll get lucky enough to grab some water from travelling tribesmen. It’s a popular passage route.”

  The ride was quick but the jolting took its toll on Justice’s battered body. He shielded his eyes to scan the area for possible Taliban scouts. It was just a matter of time until their rebel forces would converge. He needed to recover fast and prepare for the next battle.

  “Pull over there out of sight,” Justice pointed to a mound circled by sparse shrubs.

  “Is this an oasis or a debris center?” Batya pinched her nostrils together as she waved her other hand to swat away flies.

  Justice melted into the curve of his seat, “Stop,” he said sharply. “It’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Ben.” Justice whispered his name as if afraid spoken any louder would summon the devil himself.

  She gripped a short-barrel submachine gun, “He’s here?”

  His head moved side to side with a mournful purpose. His face felt tight enough to crack. He saw himself in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. Justice read the worry lines etched into his face through the years and the many tough situations. Often against impossible odds, he’d survived. He wasn’t sure if this would be one of them.

  “Is Ben here, I asked you.” She gagged at the stench in the arid sky.

  “He was here.”

  Chapter 4

  “Mother, you know this is a business-only form of communications. I’ve asked you not to call me on the secure satellite phone. I have a job to do, and I don’t want to get into trouble again because of you.” Ben scolded his mother, Dr. Eleanor Worthington.

  “Benjamin Franklin Ford, now don’t you dare talk to your mommy in that manner. You apologize right now.”

  Ben dug his heels into the dust-covered hill that looked down over the Popi Tribe. “No, not this time. I’ve been busy and don’t want you juggling thoughts in my head.”

  “Benjamin, have you been bad again?”

  “I’ve been what your experiment trained me to be. I’m good at my job and I’ll get it accomplished.”

  He lifted the high-powered night scope binoculars and directed them toward the village. Darkness had fallen and temperatures dropped. Ben travelled light and had grown used to the misery of drastic weather shifts over the last year in-country.

  “Benny, you’ve got to come in. All we want to do is talk to you. We’re very proud of you and the job you’ve done. Let us show you how proud we are.”

  “Do not call me, Benny. I’ve asked you numerous times not to call me that.” He cozied against the least hard rock formation he could find that still afforded a view into the village. “Please respect me. I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Sweet baby boy, you’ll always be mommy’s baby boy.”

  “Thank you, Mommy,” Ben nibbled across the outside of his right index finger. He’d taught himself to substitute that for sucking his thumb while mommy baby-talked him.

  “Now Ben, please stop eating people. It’s going to make you ill.”

  He slammed down the scope. Gravel and sand shifted beneath his ass and boots. “I’m not eating them. It’s what the CIA taught me to do. It’s tactical and helps them understand that America means serious business. It also scares the shit out of them so they talk to me.” He snickered.

  “Benny, did you just curse at your mother?”

  His back stiffened and pulse quickened. Suddenly Ben didn’t feel the cold, “No, Mother. I did say a bad word, but not at you—ever.” He inched his way back from the cliff’s ledge that overlooked the tribe below. “I really have to go now. The natives are getting restless,” he said crudely. His laugh buried itself beneath his woolen neck scarf.

  “Son, please listen. It’s time to come home. Daddy and I miss our baby,” she smooched while she spoke. Ben smiled at her kisses, but then revolted at the thought of his father, Theodore “Ted” Roosevelt Ford.

  Ben’s finger nibble devolved into a hard crunch against knuckle. “Daddy doesn’t care about me. He said I was a sick fucker when he found out about the tastings I’d performed.” Ben dabbed at his eyes to wipe away the moisture that accompanied the memories of his father’s rejection.

  “Not true, Benny. Just this afternoon he said how proud he was of you. He even thinks he can get you back into West Point. If you stop eating people of course.” She taunted her bribe with a caveat.

  Ben swallowed hard once, then twice. “Mother, stop bullshitting me.”

  “Benjamin,” she yelled. “How dare you?”

  “You said he spoke with you this afternoon. I’m not an idiot, Mother. It’s still morning in the Pacific Time Zone. You both do still live in Las Vegas, don’t you?”

  “Enough of this charade. Benjamin, you get your ass home right now. I knew you wouldn’t make it in the special program.” Her voice spiked. “It’s because of you that we had to cancel the funding for the research. And because of you, I’m out of a job.”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re next.”

  Worthington stuttered, “What? Benny, how dare you threaten mommy. I was just angry with you because I miss you.”

  “Mother, I asked you to stop bullshitting me.” He clicked his tongue behind his teeth and held the satellite phone out to check the remaining battery charge. “Because you wanted the top research position at the CIA, I was pulled from my appointment at West Point. For a lousy job that you lost anyway, because you sacrificed your only son.”

  “Not true.” Her words mixed with tears.

  “Stop the water works, Mother. I’m what your lab created. Don’t fret, I will come home. Right after I dine on Osama bin Laden. But don’t forget my words, Mother—you’re next.”

  “If you live to come home.” She snarled.

  His blood boiled in an unusual eruption of emotion. Ben’s lips quivered as he tried to measure his words. This would be his last communication with his mother, so he wanted to make it good.

  “I know Justice Boudreaux has killed the other twenty-four like me. They aren’t me, Mother. I’m special. He’s here and he’s close—I sense his presence. His spirit is pure but wounded. I won’t kill him because of that, but yours, Mother—your spirit is evil and you won’t be so lucky.”

  He heard her huff across the line, “We’ll see about that, you little shit. Justice is just as warped as you are. You’d do well to get him before he gets you. The other twenty-four were better than you. You know why?” she asked.

  He took the bait. “Why?”

  “They weren’t sissified momma’s boys like you are.”

  Ben did his best to balance the night scope across his bent thighs as he mashed the hard plastic phone receiver against his face. His tears never really stopped welling in his eyes, but it was his mommy after all.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” Ben cleared his throat and tried to shield the mouthpiece against the whirling wind gusts. “I regret to inform you that our next en
counter will not be by happenstance but by design. It will be then that I will have you.”

  “Benny?”

  “Yes, Mommy?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Chapter 5

  Wrath warmed Ben through the night’s bitter cold. His thoughts bent between the mother who raised him and the whore who sold out her son for a top position at the CIA. He had a mission, and with the earliest of sun’s rising came a gorgeous cloud kissed sky. He was in the cradle of civilization, yet other than the majesty of sunrise and the peaceful surrender of night to day, these people were insufferable when it came to helping him.

  He snaked his leathered hand into his light cotton kameez to retrieve two strips of beef jerky which would sustain him until he foraged for additional sustenance. His high school’s JROTC training and early military enlistment had prepared him to live off the land. The CIA taught him to live off other people.

  Ben wasn’t really sure what they’d done to him, but after a steady diet of experimental psychotropic drugs, violence and Americana, he could only focus on what he was programmed to do—kill.

  He’d slept exactly forty-seven minutes. A bit groggy, he’d learned to operate on less rest. He could sleep once he died, he was told by his trainers. This day held lots to do.

  The Popi tribe stirred early also. They’d held late night meetings with what was left of their council. Ben chortled at the thought of the other high and mighty tribal wise men still string wired against the trees. The edges of a razor thin grin curled upward as he imagined the horror passersby must have felt to see what remained of the bodies.

  I bet Justice is pissed.

  A confrontation grabbed his attention. Three Afghanis looked to argue—he assumed it was over him. Ben shoved the hearing enhancement device further into his ear canal. Not much luck eavesdropping from this distance, and considering that the wind gusts muffled and distorted an already difficult language to understand.

  His scope spotted Sunni. His ass looked flat worn out. He grabbed at another man, possibly older, but difficult to tell. The third man was definitely the oldest and had probably skipped on their round table at Khojak Pass because he looked too feeble to travel.