Gabriel: Only one gets out alive.

by mike Evans

  Gabriel set the phone down on his end, and the woman could only hear the whimpering of Imad. Gabriel picked up Mohammed’s phone and called the news station. When a man answered, Gabriel said, “If you want a breaking news story—and you don’t want to miss out on this one—then you need to come to 562 Leeland York Street.”

  “What’s the rush, buddy?”

  “If you don’t get here in a few minutes, the CIA is going to beat you to it and they are going to lock this fucker down. You aren't going to have any chance at seeing it or getting the inside story. There are no second chances today; you either make it or you don’t.”

  “Did you say the CIA? You mean the Central Intelligence—”

  Gabriel cut in, “If you don’t move now, it is already going to be too late. They will never disclose any of this. Stop wasting time or you are going to have to explain to your boss how you missed the biggest story of the year.”

  “Yeah, yeah… you are right, buddy. Thanks. You are a damn saint, man.”

  Gabriel laughed into the phone as he stared at the dismembered terrorists lying in front of him. “Yeah, I’m just a regular fucking angel. Get moving now.”

  Epilogue

  Frank sat across from Tony, who was smoking a cigarette, as they tried to write up a report. A knock at the door interrupted them and a secretary poked her head in. “Mr. Fox, I have a message for you. I think that you are going to want to see this, sir.”

  Frank looked up. He was sick of trying to make a report that would work for everyone. He did not yet know how he was going to explain that the man they hired to save the doctor was the same man who killed a high-level protected witness. He motioned for her to come in with his fingers. She pushed through the door, bringing a laptop and a typed manuscript. Frank said, more joking than anything, “Thank you, Veronica. I appreciate you taking the time to drop that off. Do you think it is a priority?”

  She looked at the papers and back up at the two men. “If I were you, sir, I’d fix whatever it was you did with this guy’s money and set it straight, with interest.”

  He held his hand up reading it and then the two listened to the recording on the laptop. Frank looked more perturbed than nervous. “What do you think, Tony?”

  Tony sat back in his seat, kicking his feet up and smiling. After the last few days, he’d given up any worries about smoking in a federal building and lit up another of what seemed like an endless chain-smoking marathon. “What do you mean what do I think? I think it’s fucking great! Did you hear the thing at the end? He told me that I was safe to sleep! That is as good as gold. If Gabriel says it, he means it. The idea that I don’t have to worry about him… do you know how great that is?”

  Frank smiled, not putting a lot of compassion into it. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you are going to be okay, Tony. Really, that reassures me and I feel so happy. You know that he can’t touch us. He’d have everyone in the country after him if he tried taking one of us out. You think he knows that?”

  “My concern with Gabriel isn’t whether he understands. The problem with Gabriel is that he doesn’t give a shit. If you don’t fix this, he’s going to come after you. Do you want to put your wife through something like that?”

  “She’s tough. Besides, I thought that Gabriel has that moral code that keeps him from hurting a woman or children?”

  “That has nothing to do with that. It’s what he will do to you in front of her. If you are lucky, he might make it so you only need to drink from a straw for the rest of your life.”

  “And this is the guy that you want to rely on when the shit hits the fan and the nation is at its worst?”

  “Yep, it might not be pretty, but he gets it done. He might do some things that we don’t like, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t come through. He’d probably still be working for us if we hadn’t screwed him over in South America all those years ago. It wasn’t his fault we couldn't get him out. You going to give him his money back?”

  “How do I explain something like that to the accountants?”

  Tony shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea in the first place. You fucked the pooch on that. I told you we could have thought of something else to get him to take the job. You said we needed to use money, because you didn’t understand Gabriel. You didn’t listen, and now you have the devil on your heels and you still don’t seem to appreciate the circumstances that are hovering behind you.”

  Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Veronica came back in unannounced. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think that the two of you need to see this.”

  Frank, who was finally starting to worry about his longevity on Earth tried to get her to leave. “Veronica, you can’t just barge in here. This is classified.”

  “I can appreciate that, sir. You know that I would not barge in, but I think that you might want to see what is happening on the news. It is blowing up on all the local stations.”

  She hit the television, and they saw a blonde-haired news reporter outside, trying to use the grimmest face that she had to show her concern for the men in the hotel room behind her. She was clueless as to who the two men were and kept referring to them as victims. The camera panned to her right and zoomed in on a blood-covered man, showing a message carved into his chest. The camera then panned back out, revealing that the man’s eyes and tongue had been removed. Tony stood up and walked to the television. He turned around, pointing at Frank. “You fucking pay him! You figure it out, goddammit. I don’t care how, but you make sure Gabriel gets paid. He’s going to come after you and then we are both fucked. I know he said that I was okay, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave something to chance that could just as easily be fixed with a few clicks of a mouse.”

  Frank saw the man, as well as the message. “Seems like he got a bit patriotic, didn’t he? As he looked closer at the television, he hit the pause button and looked through his files, bringing out a picture of Imad and Mohammed. He pointed at it. “He… he got Imad. He did it. There are the containers the doctor told us about. They looked exactly like the ones he described. Holy shit! That crazy bastard said he would find them and he did it. He took care of them so we don’t even have to worry about trying the son of a bitch.”

  Tony was watching the paused screen and he motioned to Veronica. “Hey! Turn that on would you?”

  When she did, Tony watched in awe as he saw Imad’s lips moving slowly. They were impossible to make out. The blood that covered them mixed with his facial hair and was a black, hairy, bloody mess. Tony pointed at him. “He left the fucker alive, look at him.”

  Frank said, “It was genius. He lives and he goes to jail a tangled mess. The videos and the interviews will show what happened to him for the rest of his life. Gabriel will force fear into the hearts of terrorists everywhere. They’ll think of him as America’s personal vigilante. Hell, they’ll call him Batman.”

  Tony grabbed his briefcase. “We can pick this back up in the morning. I can’t take any more of this today; you figure out the money and I’ll go clean up the news media shit. You have a huge mess to clean up now. If I were you, I would focus on Gabriel’s money. Remember his words. He doesn’t joke about anything, especially his money.”

  Frank nodded, looking at Imad and listening to the news reporter finally say, “He looks like he is asking to die. He just wants to die.” Seconds later, the cameras were knocked out of the way as police, CIA, and emergency medical techs rushed into the hotel room. The cameras were watching as they pulled the knives from Imad’s hands, and he finally fell to the ground.

  Frank punched at the keys, furiously looking through his files and trying to do whatever he could to rectify the situation. He found a way at long last to get the money transferred back into Gabriel’s account. When he did, he sighed a giant breath of relief, made the sign of the cross, and prayed that it was not too late. He knew also that when he needed to call upon Gabriel again, he would do it under much more respectful terms.

  *****

 
; Gabriel drove back to his place. He knew that he needed to stash the truck and then stay on the down low for a good time to come. He looked in the mirror, thinking of Imad, and realized that leaving him alive might be one of the most dangerous moves he had ever made. He thought of the work and the connections a man like that might be able to strike in prison. He also knew it was going to be months before he’d be able to do anything on his own that wasn’t from a hospital bed.

  Gabriel flipped up his laptop as he pulled over near a Starbucks, knowing he could get a Wi-Fi signal. When he did, he hit the quick link, tapped in his password, and saw that the accounts were back to their normal amounts and, one in particular, had an extra zero in it. He thought of Frank Fox and realized that maybe Tony was able to help him understand why he did not want to aggravate a man like Gabriel.

  His phone started to buzz on the dashboard. He hit a button on his steering wheel, muting the music, and pushed the send button on his phone. When he did, a voice came over it before he could speak. “Daddy, it’s Mikey. Mommy says we need milk. Are you on your way home yet?”

  “Hey buddy. Yeah, Daddy had a long day today. You tell your mom I’ll stop and get milk and cookies, okay, Mikey?”

  There was a squeal on the other end and then everything went silent. “Jacob, are you still there?”

  “Yeah baby. I’ll get milk; I just need to wrap up a few more things and then I’ll be on my way home, alright?”

  “Yeah, I just wanted to tell you how much I love you. There were horrible things happening in the news today and I couldn’t stand to think of you being out and about with all this craziness happening. Get home quick, please. I love you.”

  “Not as much as I love you, baby. I’ll see you in a while. Bye for now, honey.”

  The End

  By

  Mike Evans

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  The Orphans: The Orphans

  Survival of the Few: Survival of the Few

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  Overcoming Fear: Molly

  By Shaun Phelps

  Overcoming Fear: Molly is a work of fiction By Shaun Phelps. All of the characters contained herein are fictional, and all similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  This text cannot be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission from the author.

  Electronic Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright© Shaun Phelps 2015

  Chapter 1

  I’m driving down the road, repeating my new daily routine: “I can do this. I have done this. I will do this. I have lived through this, I will live through this.” I repeat the words over and over again until I am just repeating, “I can, I have, I did, I will.” I started this routine of positive self-talk about two weeks ago when I first learned I would be teaching substance abuse classes as a part of my mental health internship. I have always had a fear of public speech. Speaking in front of a class of fifteen convicted criminals isn’t necessarily public speech but it is somehow just as frightening.

  Last week I was told by Dr. Kinsington, my kindly old Professor, that I would be teaching the class by myself. It was fairly convenient of my car to stall, and I regretfully called in to my new workplace to tell them I was broken down and could not make it to work. I did not mention I was only two blocks away. I am ready for my college degree, for sure. I’m just not sure I am ready to confront so many angry people all by myself.

  My mentor did reach out to me the next day to make sure my car was working and offered me a ride for this week. It was apparently important to him that I not only attend my internship hours, but also teach his weekly class--as he had other-scheduled sessions that could not be conflicted. I adamantly confirmed my commitment to his program and thanked him again for his belief in me as a student/professional.

  So there it is. I can, I have, I did, I will. I know this because I have taught, I was successful and I will be successful again--only before I had my mentor helping me. Tonight I will be alone in a room with a large group of people who wish I was dead. I will survive, I know, because I can, I have, I did, I will.

  I show up to the substance abuse center thirty minutes early and begin to review the night’s curriculum. Tonight we will be reviewing the downward cycle of substance abuse. How it starts from fun or peer pressure and ends at rock bottom. I will be relying on heart-felt testimony from some of the older members. I can do this. I know I can, because I have, I did, and I will.

  I open the doors at fifteen minutes prior to 6 p.m. and start taking roll and money. At 6 p.m. sharp, I lock the door as a part of the state-mandated curriculum of “show up on time or go back to jail.” It is a full house tonight. There are fifteen attendees ranging between 18 and 45 years of age. All of them are mirroring an “I want to go the fuck home” look that helps boost my self-esteem.

  I start strong, describing how people fall into substance abuse without expecting their lives to fall into complete and utter shit. I draw a downhill slope and ask for examples from the group to show how their life quality had started to decline. After an uncomfortable silence, I describe how people often start keeping secrets from family and start using drugs more frequently than just recreational use. I ask a little more desperately for comments and suggestions and am rewarded with none.

  The class ends. I do not die. I narrate the whole hour-and-a-half and avoid any panic attacks. I assign the class homework to analyze how their lives had declined from drug use and send them home at the court-mandated 7:30 p.m.

  After the students leave the building, I take a long series of deep breaths, congratulate myself as sincerely as possible on a job well done, and start cleaning the room. As I make my rounds I find some (almost all) of the homework assignments crumpled on the floor or left on or under chairs. My self-esteem is at an all-time high at this point. I’m a failure before I even finish grad school.

  After locking up the building, I notice two of my students in the parking lot. A scrawny kid named Steve, the other a kid named Dan equally a runt in size. As I approach them, they lower their eyes and start shuffling in different directions. Steve is in the worst position, as he is standing directly next to his car.

  “What’s going on, Steve?” I ask politely.

  “Nothin’ man! Can’t a guy just have a polite conversation without being harassed?” Steve responds with an overly defensive tone.

  “Dude, seriously? You are selling drugs in my parking lot?” I don’t know this for sure but I take a logical leap of faith and give him my best ‘for shame’ look.

  “Man! It’s just Molly! It’s hardly a drug at all!” Steve starts looking around the parking lot. I’m starting to worry he might be chancing an opportunity to stab me. “Look, man,” Steve says nervously, “I don’t want any trouble! Please, here, you can have the Molly, I’m coming clean, never doing any drugs again! Your class really taught me a lesson!” Steve shoves a little baggy of crystalized powder into my hand. “Just please don’t tell my probation officer!”

  I stand there for a minute stunned. What the hell just happened? One minute I’m having an innocent conversation and the next minute I’m holding a baggy of glorified Crystal Meth in one hand and the fate of a man in the other. I straighten up to my full 7’ stature and give him my best authorita
tive look. “Just don’t let me catch you again.”

  Steve mutters some gibberish, jumps in his car, and drives off, leaving me confused and holding an illegal heart attack in a bag.

  Holy crap. I’m holding onto illegal drugs! Should I call the police? Should I throw it away? Holy crap! My thoughts spin a mile a minute. I’m not exactly sure why, but instead of throwing it away or calling Steve’s probation officer I hide it in the back of my drawer at work, lock the drawer, and the building on my way out.

  I drive home in a haze filled with dreary and miserable thoughts. Everything I wish I would have said differently in class, everything I feel I did wrong, and the fact that I left illegal drugs in my desk at work. This has not been a good day.

  I park the car and open the door to the sounds of my children, Nivek and Brodie playing. Nivek runs up and gives me a big hug. “Hi, Daddy! Wemissedyousomuch and we’vebeenplayingoutsidealldaybecauseDominiqueis…”

  “Heyyyy, buddy, slow down! Dominique is what?” I ask.

  “Dominique is sick! Butit’sokayshesaidwecanplayoutside!” We have a gated front yard and we live in a pretty nice community. It isn’t unusual for us to let the children play outside. We always have a door or window open so we can listen or keep an eye out for them.

  “Oh, well, as long as it’s okay! Who is Brodie playing with?” I ask, with an inquisitive look at an elderly man playing catch with my daughter.

  “That’sCharleshe’sreallyfunandhejustmovedin!!!” Nivek is a very verbal child, his excitement is infective, but it also tends to make his conversation a bit jumbled. He is eight years old--eleven months older than his eight-year old sister. He is a handsome and responsible blonde-haired blue-eyed boy who bears no resemblance to his brown-haired brown-eyed father. Brodie, the described sister, is almost an exact image of me, though, with her long, thin brown hair and brown eyes. The only exception is she makes a much prettier girl than I ever could.