by LS Silverii
Ben shook his head violently. “That’s enough of that shit.”
An expert in stalking, Ben remained a safe distance from the caravan. The line of old clunkers and new military surplus vehicles from the U.S. rambled around narrow goat paths and zipped past huts and stone houses until arriving at a provincial outpost.
Ben kept his distance and pounded his thigh as he watched everyone exit their rides. He was pissed that Justice would team up with the local police to hunt him down. That totally violated all SOG protocols while operating in a covert environment. Ben didn’t mind the fair fight of one-on-one, but enlisting the locals made him reconsider his position towards the man he’d once admired.
He felt around for his long-range scope but wasn’t able to locate it before the group entered the building. He stretched his thin frame across the hood but wasn’t able to make out much within the shadows beneath the mud and cement structure.
Wild thoughts slammed around in his head as he cursed and kicked the dirt beneath him. His pulse spiked as he imagined what they were all saying inside that shitty building. Did they know where he was?
He winced as he dropped and his body crashed against the dirt. Ben rolled under the vehicle—had they dispatched a drone to blast him—it’d serve him right. Sweat meandered across his face and into his eyes as he lay as still as the dead beneath the chassis. His ears buzzed from straining hard to listen for an aerial device. He felt the familiar deep ache in the base of his skull from the stress.
Ben hated not knowing, so he decided to do something. He crawled out from under the closed space, and after brushing his duds off, he looked up into the ink of night and shot a big middle finger just in case there was a drone.
“Fuck off, if you think I’m going to go down like that.” He wiggled his thigh and pulled the light cotton pants away from where dried semen had stuck the cloth to skin.
“You tell ’em bad boy.” Ben cackled.
“No shit, huh? Lets get going. We gotta know what they’re planning to do to us.”
Ben took off toward the outpost, but stopped suddenly. Both hands sandpapered across his face and he growled in agitation, “Stop doing that shit.” He chuckled at the irony.
Anger pumped his muscles full of stiffness, but he still managed to maneuver quick and silent across the open range. The absence of exterior guards caused him to be extra cautious, but he had seen a large crowd dump into the outpost earlier. His eyes narrowed while thoughts of Justice’s betrayal bombarded his psyche.
Ben avoided the dim open-air patio but voices inside captured his attention. He struggled to settle his heavy breathing—it’d be a dead giveaway if a guard heard him panting like a dog.
Windowless, the building’s only door looked feeble. The place was a shithole where the Afghani and United Nation’s Coalition forces assigned crooked and questionable local police. Ben became even more curious as to why Justice would affiliate himself with a band of questionable characters.
“Fuck this, lets get out of here,” Ben whispered.
He punched himself in the left temple. “Stop talking to me.”
“Okay, but mommy would want us to be safe,” he pleaded.
Ben leaned into the darkness and flattened himself against the wall. He was dying to know what plans Justice and his bitch female partner had to capture and kill him. The interior voices became clearer. His interest was maxed out, but the sounds he overheard didn’t reconcile with a briefing or operation planning.
His palms scorched as he touched the mud building that still held most of the day’s heat in the walls. Ben pursed his lips at the sting of his cheek against the mud stucco, but it was the only way to eavesdrop.
He smacked in disgust. “And to think I just jacked off thinking good thoughts about that bastard.” A grin curled his mouth as the memory of his orgasm seeped into his thoughts.
A loud, booming roar sounded like a wild beast, but he recognized the voice as Justice Boudreaux. Ben’s body tensed to flee but his rigid frame wouldn’t bend to run. That didn’t add up—why would Justice be screaming while the others enjoyed such a clatter?
Maybe his female companion is entertaining the troops.
“Jabar, I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!” Justice’s voice.
Those words shook Ben. Justice was in peril. He was a fellow American after all. But Justice could take care of himself—right?
“Fuck off, American.” Ben heard a Middle Eastern accent say.
Fury bubbled just beneath Ben’s surface. No way in hell was some terrorist going to curse America or a brother citizen. He and Justice had both served in the Army, and despite their differing missions, they both bled for the red, white and blue.
“Ben, get a fucking grip, idiot. That dude wants to kill you. Fuck him—you’re home free, sucka.” He mocked himself.
He pressed his palms into the mud exterior and chewed the inside of his cheek, debating.
“Maybe so, what can we do? Oh heck, what can I do?”
“You had it right the first time, idiot.”
“Enough out of you,” Ben chastised.
Suddenly, the situation worsened, demanded his attention. His body readied for an attack or ambush. He was too close to have still been unnoticed but it made no difference. He was a machine that killed for his country. There was no better time to be that machine than now.
Ben squatted below scarce light and crept through the shadows. Cool night breezes and the anticipation of killing drove icy spikes into his spine. He reached the patio and had a clear view through the open door. The scene looked like one of the cockfighting matches he’d attended in the Philippines, horrible and chaotic.
No one gave a shit about him. They were too focused on what was in the middle of that tiny room. Ben licked his chops at the close collection of naked brown meat. He was well outnumbered, but oh momma the possibilities if he could overcome them all. That Popi village would fail in comparison to this ass buffet.
He patted an erection down and prepared. There’s a process to killing. You don’t just start in; the mind is your most lethal weapon—it has to be sharpened first.
“Hey, idiot,” he whispered.
Ben swatted his hand against his ear as if batting at mosquitoes.
“Where’s Justice, idiot? Why we going to get involved with this. You know mommy is going to whip us.”
Blood pooled toward his core, the body’s natural preparation for battle. A sharp shooter, Ben preferred knifes in a surprise assault. But he was still confused by the absence of Justice.
Then he saw it—he saw her. A combat boot hung limp at the end of a pale bloodied leg. An arm flailed in defense, but the demons jeered as they lined up with their dirty dicks to enter her.
Ben’s erection faded, his gut rumbled, threatened to erupt. Tears welled in his eyes. He felt his bottom lip begin to quiver, but tried to convince himself to remain clearheaded. All ten fingers white knuckled the leather-wrapped grips of his KA-BAR knives. He tried to breathe past the giant wet lump clutched in his throat.
“Oh my goodness, the poor girl,” Ben whispered.
“Kill those motherfuckers for America, Ben.” He blinked. “Do it now,” he screamed.
Ben exploded through the open door. Within seconds, he’d killed four of them. Shouts of horror and curses in Dari and Pashto filled the small space. No one reacted to defend themselves—they only shrieked like bitches. Ben slashed efficiently—no time or energy to waste on butchering them. Before anyone could slip their dicks back inside their tunics Ben had killed five others.
Ben’s breathing was heavy. His muscles screamed to stop.
“Go, idiot. They’ll kill us too,” he muttered through clinched lips.
A radio filled the room with a klasik muzik mix of vocals and instrumentals. Ben flashed on the belly dancing ragas associated with the classical rhythms. He grinned as he sucked air into his heaving lungs.
“Focus you idiot. This is no time to think about belly dancers.”
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The knives in his hands zipped across throats and plunged into the back of skulls. “I didn’t stop working,” he buzzed at his reply.
Four more easily dropped in the chaos. To be fair, one took a bullet from another one who obviously wasn’t familiar with the full automatic function of an AK47.
Dust and smoke clouded the confined space. Confusion reigned over all but Ben. His focus was clear—kill everyone not American.
Exhausted, he climbed over the mounting piles of bodies. He’d come too far to stop now. Two men with rifles slung around their necks could’ve easily taken him out had they not been so worried about fastening their pants to conceal shriveling dicks. Before they looked up and leveled a weapon, Ben had plunged his razor sharp blades deep past their sternums. He’d never felt more alive or more powerful.
Ben heaved to jerk the knives back. He faced down a narrow corridor of death’s stench and flickering yellowed lights. He surveyed the cage doors and immediately knew what had gone on. Justice had not been cooperating—he had fucked up and been captured.
Through the cloud of conflict and shadows, Ben spotted a chubby man cowering against the back wall. Tears streamed over bulbous dark cheeks. Jeweled rings adorned flailing fingers. Ben stopped to savor the moment.
“You must be the Jabar I’ve heard so much about,” Ben said with a southern drawl just for fun.
“No. No. No. Jabar was killed. I’m a prisoner here too. You saved me, my hero.” Jabar wept.
Ben giggled at the acting, but mostly at the blubbery body he knew he’d rape very soon. His hard-on returned.
“So, you’re not the famous and mighty Jabar?”
“No, my king.”
“Say ‘Fuck off, American.”
Jabar buried his fat face in his meaty palms. “No.”
“Say it, Jabar.” Ben remained at the hallway entrance to heighten the drama of the moment. He did have a flair for theatrics after all.
“I no speak English.”
Ben’s patience was running out. Fury for being lied to ignited in his veins. The blood ripping through his body demanded action.
“Say it,” he bellowed like the devil.
“Shytan,” Jabar mumbled in Dari. “Fuck off, American,” he repeated in a feigned broken dialect.
“It’s you after all, you little rascal. Seems like you’re more the devil than I am.” Ben’s muscles tightened again, but he was physically drained. Adrenaline and the promise of another feast and fucking was all that willed his body to move.
“Please, I will pay you many riches.”
Ben twirled a knife in his hand, the other one he slipped back in its sheath. A wicked grin slathered across his face as he began to whistle the national anthem of the United States.
“You know that song?”
“Yes, it’s what your invading soldiers played every day.”
Ben motioned with his hand for Jabar to stand. “Now stand at attention and salute my national anthem,” he said while he saluted. “And feel free to sing along if you know the words.”
“Please, I cannot.”
“Cannot or will not?” Ben moved closer.
Jabar’s eyes darted toward the empty cells—possibly looking to lock himself inside for protection.
“Salute,” Ben ordered then began to whistle.
Jabar fell against the wall. The fat of his man boobs jiggled—Ben was aroused. He was more plump than Juicy was.
“Salute, damn it.”
“No, please.”
“Fuck him, Ben. Let’s butt fuck him.” Ben grunted.
Ben stiff-legged down the hall with his knife ready to take Jabar apart.
“Watch out,” yelled Justice.
The traitor bolted from an open cell. Ben was smashed into the side of the hallway by a vicious blow from the man with the American-made white teeth. His blade flipped from his fingers and landed handle up in the dirt floor.
“Kill him,” Jabar cried.
The man looked dazed from the impact, but his eyes were drawn to the lethal blade. Ben stood empty handed. The man laughed, flashing two rows of perfect teeth. He dove for the knife, had the make on Ben. Justice shoved his massive frame against the cell door one last time and launched his long arm through it. His vice grip snatched the man’s ankle, throwing him off balance.
Before he straightened to attack, Ben mustered all the strength he had left and drove his second knife into the man’s back. It severed his spine. The man collapsed in the hall. Ben noticed his back rose and fell with each labored breath. Too bad. He’d die an even more horrible death suffocating under his own weight.
Jabar was frantic. Ben noticed a puddle of piss beneath Jabar’s feet.
“You going to clean up before I take you.” He motioned for Jabar to crawl into an open cage. He lifted the key ring from the hook and locked him in. “I’ll let you marinate while I tend to my guests.”
Jabar pleaded through sobs, “What will you do to me?”
“Baby, all I can say is, you might want to take advantage of this time alone and try killing yourself. It’ll be much more pleasant than what I’m going to do with you.”
Ben fell against the opposite side of the corridor. Drained once the adrenaline of killing escaped him, he kneeled to face Justice. Instant recognition.
“Justice Boudreaux, I presume.”
“Benjamin Franklin Ford, it’s my pleasure.”
“What shall I do now?” Ben asked.
Justice pressed his face against the rusted bars, “There’s been enough killing tonight.” His eyes cut toward Jabar’s cell, “Well, maybe just one more.”
Fatigued, Ben’s quaking hand rattled the ring of keys as he maneuvered the old skeleton key into the slot, “I couldn’t agree more.”
Ben stepped back toward the front room as Justice unfolded himself from the small hole. Ben was intimidated in the man’s presence. Not just his massive build, but the man exuded badass.
“Too bad we’re not playing for the same side,” Ben said awkwardly.
Struggling to stand upright, Justice smiled. “We are on the same team, just not the same rules.”
“Who is she?” Ben asked as he backed up around the table where Batya laid motionless.
“My partner.”
“Jewish?” Ben asked.
Justice nodded.
“Because of Tel Aviv?”
Justice nodded.
“You know they provoked me.”
Justice nodded.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” Ben said politely.
“Thank you.”
“No thanks needed. It’s what Americans do—look out for one another.” Ben said. His eyes fixed on Justice, he moved toward the hallway.
“True. Plus it’ll make it easier on us both when the time comes,” Justice said. His eyes averted contact with Ben’s.
“Yes, of course. When that time comes.”
Justice dressed Batya, who was still unconscious. Ben watched, but his thoughts focused on enjoying Jabar soon. Justice gently lifted Batya and stopped to peer out into the blackness of night.
“Ben, why’d you do it? Risk your life to save the man who’ll soon erase you?”
Ben wiped the dried blood from his chin and smiled. “You were in peril, but I knew you could take care of yourself. But then I saw that helpless woman being raped by those Osama bin Laden clones. I had to do something.”
“But you could’ve walked away scot-free.” Justice still looked confused.
“I’m a cannibal, not an animal.”
Chapter 9
Musty and tattered, a canvas veil cloaked the flatbed’s cargo area. It looked to have once been a UN military asset donated to the Afghani Local Police. It was the best of what sat in front of the outpost but was still a piece of shit.
Justice kept his bloody hand beneath Batya’s head as he eased her onto the bed of the truck. She moaned but remained unconscious. He smoothed his hand over her hair and pushed back the
strands twisted against her forehead.
“Batya, it’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you,” Justice whispered.
He hurried to the driver’s seat and worked the ignition until the clunker spewed to life. There were no NVGs, night vision goggles, to be found, so driving blacked out was out of the question. He eased the truck into first gear and slowly let his foot off the clutch. His calf ached, and he realized the damage he’d self-inflicted as he’d fought to escape the cell. He’d have to hurt later—he had work to do now.
The camouflaged vehicle lurched to the corner of the building. Justice smashed the brake and gnashed his teeth together. It stung where Jabar had stabbed him, but the force of hitting the brake must’ve caused the wound to open. He pressed a cloth against it—that wasn’t his biggest concern.
Headlights moved closer from across the horizon. From the height of the headlamps, it looked like a light personnel carrier—definitely military grade. Headlights turned off on his vehicle, Justice rechecked the cache of weapons he’d taken from the armory.
“Justice?” Batya whispered.
He torqued his torso to lay his right hand through the opening. “Yes, baby?”
“Now I am a baby?” she grumbled.
“Sorry. Please lay still. We got company and it may get ugly.”
She whined with a quivering tone that cracked her voice. “More soldiers? Kill them.”
“I’m not sure. Hold on.”
The last thing Justice wanted was another fight. He was beyond battered and his body was close to shutting down. His focus was reserved for locating a safe haven and nursing Batya back to health. Gingerly, his right hand slipped out of her weakened grip and he patted the RPG—rocket propelled grenade—launcher. No matter how many were in that carrier, one blast from the RPG and it was over.
His eyes darted between the approaching vehicle and the weapon. In good conscience, Justice couldn’t open fire on unknowns.
“Are you going to launch a preemptive strike or not?” Batya asked. Her voice rasped with concern.
Justice squeezed the steering wheel. He blinked repeatedly, trying to will his vision to slice through the night. Lifting the RPG onto his lap, he exhaled with the reality of what had just happened and what might yet occur.
