Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  The night temps had dropped drastically and this moment of calm while they awaited transport let him finally feel just how cold it was. He tried to comfort Batya, but he knew her quaking body was more from shock than the cold—it was just a matter of her will to survive.

  “Company.” Fury whistled.

  Confused, Justice asked, “Chopper?”

  “Headlights. Out but moving fast.” Fury’s words were clear and focused. He’d laid out to cover their position until his unit arrived, and looked to be ready to stand strong where Justice knew he’d become distracted with Batya.

  “That’s Boyd’s men. We’re not going with them.”

  Fury glanced back to his brother. “You’re going to fight American soldiers?”

  Justice low crawled to him and took a prone position with his eye pressed against the scope. “These are mercs—mercenaries—gunslingers hired by the CIA. They belong to no nation. The dollar is the only flag they swear allegiance to.”

  Fury snugged his face closer to the scope of his rifle. “If you say so.”

  “They fight for cash where we’re fighting for each other. Hell yeah, I say so.”

  “How about we lay a few warning shots across their bow around a thousand yards out?” Fury snickered.

  “Just like the old days. Remember daddy popping buckshot at the alligator poachers?” Justice brushed his leg against his brother’s. Those were the few decent memories he had to recall about his bastard of a parent.

  Justice jerked at the buzz from his secure satellite phone.

  “Jumpy ain’t ya?” Fury teased.

  “Seeing ghosts.” He pulled the cell out of the deep cargo pocket on his trousers and pressed the green button.

  “Go.”

  “This is Dunnigan.”

  “I know who it is. I’m not sure why you called.”

  “You’ve got to get out. Boyd has launched a pack of hounds.”

  “No shit. And you’re his superior, so why did you authorize?”

  “I didn’t. He’s coordinating with a Pentagon group that’s splintered from my chain of command. I’m going to reel him in, but for now you’ve got to get to safety. Exactly where are you?”

  “Where am…” Justice froze.

  Shit, he’d allowed emotion and fatigue to cloud this whole fucked up operation. He bit his bottom lip as his chin tucked closer to his chest. The winds had picked up. Sand blasted his exposed cheeks.

  Fury looked at him—Justice motioned for him to keep watch over the approaching convoy. This stunk of a set up. Dunnigan had just authorized a drone strike to save them, but now he was asking for location. Shit’s going bad—quick.

  “Headlights getting hot. At least four vehicles. We going to pop hot rounds, or what?” Fury’s earlier confidence sounded shaken.

  He muted the call. “Hold on, might be US forces.”

  “Then we’re safe?”

  “I think we’re getting fucked from both ends. Stay on scope and trigger. Tell me once they’re about a thousand yards out.” Justice turned back to his call.

  “They’re closer than that. What do we do?”

  Justice heard Dunnigan’s voice muttering to someone in the room that they were less than a thousand yards away.

  “Justice, time’s running out. Help me to help you,” Dunnigan pleaded, his voice absolutely void of sincerity.

  “Hire or sworn?” Justice asked.

  “What?”

  “Hired or sworn, damn it.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “One is treason. The other is self-defense. Tell me, you motherfucker. You owe me that much. We go too far back to turn suit-side soldier on me.” Justice’s fire was back to full flame.

  Fury tapped his elbow. “What to do?”

  “Drop your weapons, Justice. We’re here to help,” Dunnigan repeated.

  Fury tugged again—his almond-shaped eyes wide, asking the question.

  “I’ve got five more bad-ass brothers that have or are serving in our military. Dunnigan, you answer me or you’ll spend the rest of your dishonorable days looking over you shoulder until one of them shoves his KA-BAR in your gut.”

  “Five hundred yards and closing,” Fury pleaded.

  Justice glanced back at Batya. His mind ached with the decision’s potential for repercussion—for all parties.

  “Last chance, Dunnigan. You do not want a rogue coming after you.”

  “Sorry, Justice. Not this time, old buddy. Just turn yourself in.”

  Justice placed his finger across his lips—Fury nodded.

  “Okay, put one round through the driver’s windshield. Head level.” He said it clearly.

  Dunnigan screamed, “Justice, damn you. They’re only hired to do their job.”

  He muted the call. “Put it in the grill of the engine,” he told Fury.

  “Justice!” Dunnigan yelled.

  “You always were weak when it counted most, Dunnigan.” Justice mashed his index finger to end the call then wrapped it over the rifle’s trigger.

  “Blast the engine blocks. They’re too uncommitted to advance for the honor of duty.” Fury nodded as they both unleashed a hell-fire of 50 caliber bullets.

  Chapter 13

  Ben had work to do. The police outpost interlude had derailed his schedule. He wasn’t upset about the killings, and to be honest, Jabar’s ass was more delightful than he could’ve imagined. Still disappointed over the missed opportunity to fully enjoy chubby back at the Popi village, Ben found Jabar had served as a wonderful consolation.

  However, he was upset that someone he’d admired so much hadn’t cared enough to warn him about the three Greek soldiers who interrupted his date night. Of course, they paid with their lives, but Ben had acquired a particular taste. Greek didn’t settle well with him.

  Just outside of Islamabad, one of Pakistan’s most progressive cities, he eased back onto a pile of musty pillows tossed about the straw floor. He sucked from a hooka pipe and growled as a choppy mist of vapor invaded the room. Even the scented tobacco failed to disguise the stench of bodies piled against the opposite wall.

  He lifted the satellite phone from his bag and glared at the keyboard’s eerie green glow. Humming, gaze darting across the ceiling, Ben tapped his finger against his teeth. He huffed as he slammed the phone back into his desert-camouflage go-bag.

  “Damn woman is going to be the death of me.”

  “She’s mommy. She loves us.” He countered.

  “Fuck off.”

  He lifted the phone again and gently pushed his finger against the raised numbers.

  “Mommy, it’s your baby boy.”

  “Hello Benjamin.” Dr. Worthington’s answer was terse.

  “Are you still upset with me, mother?” Ben asked, readjusting the pillows closer to the opening in the wall.

  He pressed his greasy palm over the receiver, “Of course she’s still pissed. You’ve been a bad boy Benny.”

  Ben bit his teeth together and took another deep breath before he returned to the call.

  “I’m not angry with you son. I’m very disappointed in you.”

  Her words cut deep. He’d always strived to make her proud of him. Ben had put himself through things he hated in order to gain her favor. Sports were just one example. She’d decided Ben needed the exterior toughness through high school to aid his ability to pass West Point Academy’s rigid physical fitness exam. He only did it to please his mother.

  “I’m sorry, mommy. Am I still your little boy?”

  “Stop that stupid baby talk. It’s time to grow up and do the responsible thing.”

  Ben snickered. “See pussy boy. I told you she was pissed. Fuck that bitch,” he whispered through a small slit in the corner of his mouth.

  Rage ripped through him. Ben sprung to his feet and paced the tiny space. His bottom lip quivered but he blinked back tears.

  Don’t dare show her weakness.

  Breaths felt hot as he cursed into his palm to ensure his
mother didn’t detect his anger. He scurried across the floor to ram his boot against a corpse. The old man’s body lifted and then sank back down.

  “Ben, have you been bad just now?” his mother demanded.

  He cringed at her intuition. She’d always read him with ease. It was possibly why she’d convinced him to withdraw from West Point.

  “Not bad, mother. I needed a quiet place to call you.”

  “Damn it, Benjamin. You are out of control.” Her words quaked with fury. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing, mother. Nothing is wrong with me.” His words conflicted with the fist that gripped his heart. Mother was always there while father was often away. His career was always more important. He’d always made sure Ben knew that.

  “I’m close, mother. I’m very close to accomplishing the mission. America will be so proud of me. Maybe West Point will accept me, too.” Ben tapped his chest with primal pride.

  “Ben, please. Let the real heroes handle this. They’re closer. We’re proud of you, but it’s over. Come in and we’ll get you help.”

  Ben collapsed to the ground. His elbow rested atop the flesh pile, “Real heroes?” he whispered. Emotion spiked. “What do you mean, get me help?”

  “I meant we’ll call the Academy about admissions.”

  He clucked. “Fucking liar.”

  “Don’t talk to mommy like that,” he spit into the air.

  “Give it up, Benjamin. Turn yourself in,” she ordered.

  Ben was shattered to the core yet again. He zipped the razor sharp KA-BAR from its sheath. He pressed the narrow tip against his Adam’s apple. It burned at first—then a rush of endorphins masked the pain that surrounded the cut. He felt drops of blood trickle over his weathered skin.

  Looking into the reflective surface tacked to the wall as a mirror, he gulped and watched the blood roll up and over his Adam’s apple. A quick finger swipe lapped the coppery taste of blood onto Ben’s tongue.

  He watched his reflection in the dingy mirror. He was pleased and pissed.

  Probably good we’re both here together, Benny.

  “Benjamin, are you still there?” his mother demanded.

  “Goodbye mother dearest.”

  Ben punched himself in the temple. “No, talk to mommy.” His face ached from the blow. He heard the click of the call ending—mommy was gone.

  The barbaric accommodations began to irritate Ben’s sense of taste. It was time to move on. He’d learned of the physician helping the CIA to confirm Osama bin Laden’s hideaway. He was Ben’s best bet for capturing the killer. He was so close—he licked his lips at the fantasy of tasting the mongrel.

  It was mid-April and Ben knew his time was growing thin. His mother, that bitch, had blocked the Agency’s support he received such as transportation, communications, food and medicine.

  His handlers, a sub-group within the black ops section of the CIA’s Special Activities Division operated outside of his mother’s domain. They understood the value of Ben’s mission—they often told him so. They snuck provisions as they were able to, but his mother was one powerful force among the special project’s teams.

  Heinrich, Ben’s point of contact had let slip that Dr. Shakale Atrigi had almost pinpointed bin Laden’s location by using a bogus hepatitis scam to snatch the terror leader’s family DNA. Ben needed to get to Abbottabad, about sixty miles away. He knew Heinrich was using him like a puppet, but that was okay—Ben would return the favor once he returned to the States.

  “Heinrich, this is Ben Ford.” Ben gazed out from the opening. He needed transportation.

  “You dumb ass, I told you not to use names. Even if you’re on a secure line.”

  Heinrich’s disapproving tone, mixed with the aged-flesh Ben had devoured earlier caused him to heave. He vomited. Ben pitched to the corner of the room because throwing up on the corpses would’ve been just plain rude. He was quick to regain his composure as expelling the ill-suited delicacy had become common.

  “Sorry, but for one, that’s my name. And secondly, I am most certainly not a dumb ass. I’ve been evaluated by the Agency and my IQ exceeds 180, so go suck on that—Heinrich.”

  “Okay, my bad, dude. I shouldn’t have called you a dumb ass.”

  Ben smiled. “It’s okay, I understand you are under a lot of stress, and I am probably not making things any easier.”

  “Ben, what does that mean?”

  “Now, now—no names said you.” He corrected while he shuffled the bodies around. He liked to look over them even after consumption. The composition of inhumanity fascinated him—as did anatomy.

  “How about we give you a code name? Gray Man?” Heinrich suggested.

  Ben’s spine stiffened. His chin jutted. He hummed, “Oh, Gray Man. Now that sounds mysterious—I like it.”

  “Okay, Gray Man, please explain what you mean by you’ve made things more difficult.”

  Ben sensed the judgment in Heinrich’s voice and took offense. He decided to keep quiet about what he’d done.

  “I need transportation to Abbottobad. I need to exit Jalalabad immediately,” he said with a hint of eloquence.

  “Did you fucking kill the host family?”

  Ben giggled, covering the cell with his thigh. A brisk finger slap from his left hand and he jerked the phone from beneath his leg and continued.

  “Well, let’s just say the training you provided years ago went to good use.” Ben traced a thin, wispy finger along the eldest victim’s chest, but stopped just before reaching his dick. Or at least where his dick used to be. “I’m just doing what the Agency wants me to do.”

  “You motherfucker, it took us years to cultivate that family as informants. Your mother was right—you’re too fucked up even for the CIA.”

  “Mommy? You spoke with her, what did she say?” Ben’s hope soared but his heart hurt over the distance between he and his mother. “I hope she’s proud of my work.”

  “She fucking hates us,” Ben’s other voice slithered out the words. It even scared the shit out of him once he’d said them aloud.

  “Who’s there? You better be alone dumb ass,” Heinrich threatened.

  “Just us. I mean me.” Ben smirked.

  “What, yeah, she’s beyond proud,” Heinrich said. “Gray Man, I don’t know how to cover this up much longer. You’re my top priority because you’ve come closer than anyone to catching the goat, but you’re making my life a fucking nightmare.”

  “Well, Heinrich, I most certainly apologize for that. I shall try harder to refrain from the tastiness of this exotic land.” Ben struggled to control his wrath at being chided. “May I ask one question of you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How many years have you spent outside the United States operating covertly?” Ben tapped an uncut fingernail against his front tooth.

  “None.”

  Ben’s shoulders shuddered in the flash of contempt, but he inhaled and then exhaled slowly like mother had shown him for controlling his anger. He smoothed his hair with a flatten palm while he thought of just the right thing to say.

  “Heinrich, you’ve done nothing but sit your plump rump behind that desk for years. I’ve kindly put up with your ridicule, and have almost forgiven you for abandoning me when I needed you most in Tel Aviv. I’ve lived like a beast for these last years while you sip your whiskey and gossip with mother behind my back.” Ben dropped the phone to his side and circled the cramped room.

  “Benjamin. Pick up the phone,” Heinrich screamed.

  Lightning bolts of memories blasted through his mind, but it was decision time despite the past. “Heinrich, I’ve decided to come home.”

  “Are you fucking out of your mind? We’re so close to the prize. Ben, don’t you want to win the prize?”

  Heinrich’s voice was condescending. His easy manipulation of Ben through the years had come to an end.

  “I can no longer in good conscience continue to do your bidding. You have hurt my feeling for the f
inal time.”

  “Hurt feelings? Buck up big baby. You ain’t going nowhere till I say you are. Understand me Ben, or Gray Man, or whoever the fuck you think you are theses days.”

  A moist palm slapped Ben across the cheek. “He’s onto us. He knows who we are. Let’s run away,” Ben squealed.

  “Fuck him. I ain’t afraid of some desk jockey,” Ben replied.

  He buttoned the top button on the dead older man’s day coat and adjusted his turban. Ben thought he looked so peaceful—despite missing a body. He patted the corpse to thank him for accepting his load of seed, while ignoring Heinrich’s screams over the phone.

  “Heinrich, that is no way to speak to me. If you think I made your life miserable with this body count, just wait until I get home.”

  As he often did, Ben ended the call on his final word. He knew how people hated being hung up on, but he liked the feeling. It was time to set his plan in motion.

  He had a doctor to see after all.

  Ben cleansed himself in a small washbasin before he donned his shalwar kazeem. He wasn’t particularly fond of cotton briefs but liked the way the loose-fitting tribal clothes allowed him to move freely. His frequent erections seemed to pop tent the traditional clothes and cause embarrassment for some—pleasure for others. He removed a dark colored day coat from one of his victims and added it to his collection for a more polished look.

  He had a doctor to see after all.

  He’d ditched the vehicle used to arrive in Islamabad. Justice knew what fleet had been left outside the compound—it’d be nothing for him to track it. Ben desperately needed another way to make the sixty-mile trek to Abbottabad. He’d walk if he had to—wouldn’t be the first time.

  Ben grew tired of the mud hut but knew he was an instant target of the entire CIA and military now that he’d broken free of Heinrich. His handler’s subgroup had invested much to spearhead a covert ground game against bin Laden. Heinrich’s radical black ops unit regularly worked counter to the rest of the CIA and military intelligence communities. It surprised Ben that Heinrich would even communicate with mother—they hated each other.