Stream of Madness

by Jim Roberts

  Joe was held in place by the twisted ISIL leader’s strangely hypnotic voice.

  “Your soul is on fire with hatred, but not for me or us. For yourself. Tragic.” Abruptly, Moussafi stood up, breaking the bizarre moment. “Let your hate guide you into the next life. As-salamu alaykum.”

  “Joe.”

  Moussafi paused, “What did you say?”

  “My name. It’s Joe. I just wanted you to know it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to kill you. You should know the name of the man that kills you.”

  The Commander let out a laugh that echoed across the barren waste of the Syrian plateau. Joe watched Moussafi shout several orders to the remaining militants. The militant leader withdrew a black balaclava from his pocket and pulled it over his head, replacing the sunglasses afterwards.

  Dyson, his voice shaking noticeably, leaned over to Joe, “What’s the plot, Joe? Tell me you have something.”

  Joe searched the scene for a way out. Nothing. He felt the darkness rise up in his mind, clouding his vision.

  Goddamn it, not now!

  The ISIL militants finally seemed ready. The camcorder was set up to overlook the desolate landscape of the so-called District of Bones. Moussafi spoke something in Arabic to Sayid. Two of the other militants took the massive ISIL man’s place behind Joe and Dyson. Sayid picked up the prone body of Jian Chou and hoisted him to his feet.

  Joe immediately realized what was to happen.

  “Wait…leave him be! He’s wounded – he can’t hurt anybody!”

  Moussafi disregarded Joe, as if the Peacemaker were invisible. Sayid brought the Asian man to Moussafi and placed him on the rocky ground a short distance from the camcorder. The poor guy had no energy to sit. Sayid had to perch the Asian man on his knees and hold him up by the hair. The sight of the poor man made Joe sick to his stomach.

  Moussafi produced an eight inch long knife from his belt. The militant operating the camera gave the ISIL commander a thumbs up. Moussafi began his speech, “To the warmongering allies of America; to the nation of Japan whose foolish support of a sick, callow democracy shall lead them to the flames of hell, be warned. You failed to pay the small ransom for this man’s life. In response, we shall fan the flames of our vengeance with his blood. Allahu Ackbar!”

  Joe’s heart began to pound. He wanted to rush forward and stop this horrible scene, but the two men holding weapons to his back would surely kill him.

  “Stop! Don’t you fucking do this!” Joe shouted as loudly as he could, trying to get the knife-wielding militant to halt.

  Moussafi reached over and brought the knife to Jian Chou’s throat.

  “No!” Joe cried.

  With an almost casual movement, the militant brought the knife across the prisoner’s throat. Blood, thick and viscous, burst forth from the ghastly wound, spraying across the ground in a fan of deep crimson. The dying man’s eyes opened wide, in horrible shock and disbelief. A gurgling noise escaped his lips as blood streamed from the wound and into the sand.

  Dyson winced and turned away, a thin cry escaping his throat. Joe could only stare at the scene, the horror burning into his mind like a branding iron.

  Then, Moussafi began to saw with the blade – severing tendon, arteries and finally bone. The display of wanton cruelty was enough to churn a man’s stomach for the rest of his life.

  After a minute of gruelling work, Moussafi tore the head from the body.

  Joe heard Dyson retching into the sand beside him.

  The haze in Joe’s mind vanished, replaced by a burning anger – a flood of rage that rose up from somewhere inside him.

  “You bastards! You barbaric sons of–”

  He was silenced by a rifle butt to his back from one of the guards.

  Moussafi held the head up for the camcorder. “The Islamic State shall never die! Allahu Ackbar!”

  Joe Braddock had never felt such a torrent of emotion. The casual brutality of the murder he’d just viewed was somehow more awful…more personal to him than anything he’d witnessed Olympus do in the past year. This was so…sickening, so lacking in humanity. It was barbarism, plain and simple.

  Moussafi set the head to rest on top of the corpse of Jian Chou. He gave an order to Sayid in Arabic. Nodding to his commander, the militant goon moved towards Joe. Tensing his body, Joe prepared to break the zip ties, and at least take this fat bastard with him.

  Sayid bent down and grabbed the Englishman.

  Dyson was hauled onto his feet, his face a sick color of grey.

  “No, don’t you…” Joe stood onto one knee, but was quickly knocked back down with a swift blow to his back. But he wasn’t going to stop, “He’s got a family…what’s the point in doing this?”

  Moussafi spoke to Joe in his commanding tone, “Your time will come. Sit and witness justice be done.”

  “Fuck you! You’re cowards, every one of you!” Joe was almost foaming at the mouth. The two militants behind him grabbed Joe, forcing him down onto his chest.

  Dyson walked towards the camcorder, not resisting. He turned to Joe and spoke in a voice that was at once calm and terrified, “Keep it together, mate. Don’t show these bastards you’re scared.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Moussafi barked as Sayid placed the Brit down on his knees beside the headless body of Jian.

  “Stop!” Joe shouted, “Stop this! I’ll tell you anything you want to know! I swear! Don’t you hurt that man!”

  Dyson’s continued to speak, fearless of reprisal, “Joe, if you get out of this, find my wife and my daughter. Find them and tell them that I love them. Promise me you’ll do that, please?”

  Joe had to fight to pull his head up, “Can’t you hear me you bastards? I’ll tell you anything! Listen to me!”

  “Promise me, Joe!”

  “I–” Braddock’s next words were stifled by the hand of one of the jihadists.

  Moussafi turned back to the camcorder, “To the weak kneed rulers of the United Kingdom, you have failed to remove yourselves from this war. Payment for your disrespect towards our caliphate shall be made with the blood of this man. Allahu Ackbar!”

  Joe tried to shout through the gloved hand across his mouth.

  He could only watch as the knife fell again.

  He saw the blood burst forth, soaking the sand again.

  The head was removed and held aloft.

  In his own mind, Joe could only scream.

  THE HEAT of the desert had started to dissipate as evening approached. Joe felt hollowed to his core as the two guards dragged his prone body over to Moussafi. The area in front of the camcorder was drenched in blood. Joe passed by the body of Paul Dyson and saw his severed head sitting on the back of the corpse, eyes staring listlessly at the sky.

  Joe felt the darkness in his mind return, drowning out most of the words spoken by Moussafi.

  “To those of the army of Olympus, you have trespassed on our sacred territory. Your alliance with the fool dictator al-Assad is over. As a warning to your army to never return to this country, this spy you have sent to attack us will die by the sword and will of Allah.”

  Sayid hoisted Joe onto his knees, forcing him to stare into the camcorder lens. He felt like he wanted to shout out to the camera, tell the world who he was, and that he wasn’t afraid to die. But he would not risk the mission and the trust he’d been given. He would die alone and unnamed. That was all Joe had left to give.

  Moussafi held up the knife in a show of theatricality. “Long live the Islamic State. Allahu Ackbar!” The militant gripped the knife and leaned forwards to cut Joe’s throat. Joe saw the man’s eyes flash behind the balaclava with glee, “Goodbye, Olympus dog.”

  Joe met the man’s eyes. You ain’t getting the satisfaction, scumbag. Joe grit his teeth.

  This was it. A moment of pain, then it would all be over…

  Crack!

  Moussafi was knocked off his feet, blood spewing from a bullet wound in his right shoulder.
A nanosecond later, Joe heard the report of a rifle shot.

  Sniper!

  The terrorist pitched to the ground, the knife falling from his nerveless hand. Joe’s breath caught in his throat as the reality of what just happened set in. Instantly, the other ISIL militants raised their weapons and fired blindly in the direction of the gunshot. Joe could see a ridgeline of large boulders nearly half a mile away that could perfectly conceal a shooter. At this distance, the ISIL men were firing blind.

  The chaos gave Joe the moment he needed.

  He lifted his arms up as high as he could behind his back. Then, with all his might, he brought them down against his body with a violent jerk. He felt the plastic zip ties snap from the tension.

  He was finally free.

  Twisting around, he leapt to his feet and faced Sayid. The man had been firing his AK towards the horizon, too busy to pay attention to his prisoner. Joe exploded towards the jihadist, making a mad grab for the weapon. Shocked by the attack, Sayid was knocked backwards, his shots going wild. Joe managed to maneuver the path of the gunfire towards the camcorder operator. The young ISIL soldier was perforated by a series of bullets that ripped his torso to shreds.

  Throwing his weight full force into Sayid, Joe pushed the man completely off his feet. As he fell, Joe was vaguely aware of the two other ISIL men being subsequently gunned down by a series of sniper bullets. Pencil Thin was sitting in the driver seat of the semi-truck. Seeing his brothers in war fall to the sniper fire, he tried to start the engine of the semi. A final rifle shot from the ridge exploded through the windshield and sent a fan of blood splattering across the inside of the truck.

  Joe was alone now with Sayid, who in the Peacemaker’s weakened state would certainly tear him apart.

  The two men rolled across the ground, flailing against each other in a mad flurry of limbs and fists. The cloud had raised from Joe’s mind–he was thinking clear now, as adrenaline filled his body. The AK had been knocked from Sayid’s hands during the tussle. Joe made a mad scramble for it. Sayid shuffled up beside Joe, letting loose a manic howl of rage at the sight of his prisoner escaping his wrath. The ISIL militant aimed several violent strikes into Joe’s side, forcing the Peacemaker to wince in pain. Sayid wrapped his meat hook hands around Braddock’s ankle.

  The AK was almost in Joe’s grasp.

  Come on…reach!

  Sayid gave a hard tug and Joe saw his fingers miss the AK by a fraction of an inch. Flipping over on his back Joe braced himself just as a 300 pound militant threw his weight down on top of him, attempting to pin the Peacemaker. The two men continued to struggle around the execution area and Joe felt himself roll across the body of Jian Chou.

  A hand the size of a baseball glove wrapped around Joe’s throat; squeezing like a vice. Sayid roared something in Arabic, spraying the threat out in a shower of spittle across Joe’s face.

  With his peripheral vision, Joe saw the man fumble in his belt for what looked like a combat knife. Unsheathing it, Sayid brought the blade down towards Joe’s eye. At the last second, Joe brought his right arm across, blocking the thrust.

  The knife stopped a mere two inches from Joe’s face.

  The terrorist bore down hard on top of him. Braddock could feel the strength in his body ebbing. Sayid was simply too strong and would get the final strike in another few seconds. The ISIL soldier’s eyes burned with hate as a manic smile curled across his face.

  Joe had one last ace to play.

  With all his might, Joe smashed his forehead directly into his opponent’s cranium. The blow caused Sayid to falter, only for a second. His fingers loosened and dropped the combat knife to the ground beside Joe’s head.

  The opportunity was all Joe needed to regain his advantage. He reached his right arm up and thrust his thumb straight into the militant’s eyeball, gouging it from his cranium. Blood poured into Joe’s face from the grisly wound. The jihadist screamed to high heaven as he stood up.

  Crack!

  A bullet from the unknown sniper ripped through Sayid’s torso, sending him sprawling into the dirt, twitching.

  Joe wasted no time. He pushed himself to his knees and swept the ground with his hands, searching for the combat knife. Finding it, he raised the blade over his head and slammed it through the skull of Sayid.

  The knife made a gruesome sluicing sound as it bit through bone and brain. The jihadist shuddered for a brief second, than lay still.

  Christ!

  The exertion of the last minute left Joe dizzy and exhausted. Not knowing if he was in the clear yet, Joe crawled over to Sayid’s dropped AK and picked it up. No more shots came from the boulder ridge. Wiping Sayid’s blood from his face, Joe stood up, wagering that whoever was out there would have killed him already if he meant to.

  Checking the AK, Joe moved back to where Moussafi lay, writhing on the ground. The ISIL commander groped feverishly at the wound in his shoulder, trying to staunch the blood.

  Joe stood over the scum, vengeance burning in his eyes.

  “Joe…” Moussafi managed to sputter through his blood flecked lips. Braddock said nothing, allowing the man a final word, “You…will never escape this country alive.”

  Joe hefted the AK-74, “Told you I’d kill you, asshole.”

  The rifle bucked in his hands as Joe emptied the entire clip into Moussafi’s face. The jihadist’s head exploded like a watermelon, splattering flecks of blood across Joe’s shirt. He didn’t care; this was punishment, plain and simple. For the moment, Joe’s war with Olympus was forgotten and all he wanted was to rid of the world of this human garbage.

  Joe depressed the trigger. A deathly silence fell over the execution area.

  The adrenaline charging in Joe’s veins faded, leaving him lightheaded and in pain. He looked around the execution sight and blanched. The sand was stained with the blood of the dead. Joe swallowed the bile rising in his throat as his eyes came to rest on the dismembered corpses of Dyson and Chou.

  Hell.

  The noise of a car engine pulled Joe’s attention away from the slaughter. He peered across the steppe and saw what looked like a Jeep heading towards the execution area from the boulder ridge. The jeep kicked up a hail of dust that obscured a decent view of the occupant.

  Joe made a quick check of Moussafi’s corpse. The commander had three extra clips of ammunition for the AK. Joe chambered the release of the current mag in his rifle and loaded a fresh clip in.

  Whoever his savior was, Joe would meet him or her prepared.

  Braddock saw the Jeep come to a halt just outside of the execution area. A door slammed and as the dust settled, he saw a figure step away from the vehicle.

  The man was dressed entirely in black. Clothed in a dark cloak covering an obsidian black suit of armor, similar to that worn by the elite shock troops of the Olympus PMC. The arm segments of the suit were missing, showing off the man’s impressive physique.

  Joe’s heart began to pound. He knew his fear was irrational, but the reality was so close to his dreams, he couldn’t shake it off. He noticed the man had a rifle in his hands. Instantly, Joe’s own weapon was at his shoulder. “Don’t move! Who the hell are you?” he shouted.

  The figure began walking slowly towards the execution area.

  “I said don’t fucking move!” Joe repeated.

  The man kept walking, heedless of the Peacemaker’s warning. As he did, he held up his arms, showing he did not pose a threat. Joe kept the AK against his shoulder, the iron sights focused on the man in black.

  Joe’s aim didn’t waver. “Who are you?”

  The figure was now within thirty feet of Joe. The man finally came to a stop, his arms still raised. Joe saw the weapon he held was a PSG-1, the semi-automatic 7.62mm German rifle prized by snipers for its accuracy and rate-of-fire.

  “Sergeant Joseph Braddock?”

  Joe’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Who are you? Answer me, or I will fire!”

  “My name is Sandor Delacroix, Epsilon
Centurion of the Olympus 3rd Cohort.”

  Indeed he was the man Joe had seen in the video file back at the Cottage. Joe saw the wicked scar that sliced across his face, disappearing into his salt-and-pepper hair. The oft-broken nose and violent jaw left no doubt–

  This was his man.

  Delacroix looked Joe up and down, sizing the Peacemaker up. “You’re shorter than I imagined.”

  Joe relaxed his grip on the rifle, but maintained a ready stance. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Are you alright?” asked the Centurion.

  Joe realized the man was referring to the blood on his shirt. “Yeah. It’s not mine.”

  Delacroix lowered his arms. He slung the PSG-1 behind his back. Joe noted the Centurion also carried a .50 calibre Desert Eagle handgun in a holster on his belt.

  “You Peacemakers have strange luck, huh? Want to tell me why you guys toasted your own landing site at the same time you dropped into it? You almost killed me!”

  Joe made a pointless attempt to wipe the blood from his shirt, “There was a communication failure. A change in targets by a Jordan airstrike. I fell directly into their path.”

  Delacroix grunted. The mercenary veteran looked impressed, “Don’t know what guardian angel is sitting on your back, but I hope he sends some luck my way.”

  As they spoke, Joe felt suddenly strange. This was the first time he’d ever spoken face to face with an Olympus Centurion and he’d had no clue what to expect. In over a year of sending these soldiers to their graves, Joe had come to think of them as blank and emotionless. This man seemed alive and vigorous – a departure of everything the Peacemakers had come to expect.

  “What’s your plan to get us out of here?” Delacroix asked.

  Joe breathed easier as he lowered his guard to make his way over to the Jeep, “We missed the first exfil, but my people will make a second attempt at twenty-two hundred hours. We need to get back to the Raqqad valley. Do you have a radi–”

  “We can’t leave yet.” Delacroix interrupted.

  Before Joe could react, he felt something hit his throat, almost like a pin prick. He spun on his heel, grasping at his neck with his free hand.