Marked Man

by Jared Paul

  Overhead the sky had turned abruptly from overcast and bright to deep gray, threatening heavy rain. The sun behind the clouds was changing to a sickly green. Nothing here was making any sense, even for Iraq.

  Ross was about to abandon the mission when a barrage of small caliber shells rattled the pillar just inches over his head. The plaster crumbled down onto his helmet and fell into his eyes. Blindly, Ross waved the M4 at the opposite end of the street and fired a controlled burst. Wiping at his eyes, Ross pushed himself to his feet and started running north on Pizza Hut, turning occasionally to squeeze off a round.

  The compound Al-Shahari called home was in the same direction, but all of Corporal Ross’s instincts were telling him to run the other way, even though that’s where the fire was coming from. Dozens of small arms and assault rifles were singing together, urging him on to run faster. After sprinting fifty yards Ross took cover again next to a four-door Sedan parked on the east side of the street. Its tires had been shot out. Ross saw a tall shadow creeping up in his peripheral vision. He counted to three, lurched up and around, fired once, and shrank back down into a crouch. The tall shadow dropped its weapon and tumbled into the street, its white robes turning crimson.

  “That was a fucking hall of fame shot,” Corporal Ross bragged to no one in particular. Specialist Wilson was the second best marksman in the unit and could appreciate a shot like that. Only Wilson had no face and he was sleeping upside down in a Hum-V at the bottom of a crater.

  A mortar exploded in the center of the street a few dozen yards back. Clumps of hot sand rained down on Corporal Ross and for a few moments he went deaf. When his hearing came back it sounded like every gun in the region was trained on his position. Shots blistered the small Sedan from everywhere, shredding the sky blue metal like a cheese grader. Somehow an entire army of heavily-armed and well-studied Islamist marksmen had materialized out of nowhere.

  Corporal Ross felt the Sedan buckling beneath the weight of all that led and he had no choice but to flee for his life. He swung the M4 around in an arc and fired a few bursts aimed at the rooftops, then took off running away from the south part of Pizza Hut where the mortar round had come from.

  By some unhappy happenstance Ross found himself out of breath and low on ammo at the entrance to the Al Shahari compound. Corporal Ross paused and considered the options. On the other side of the door there could be a trap just waiting to be sprung, that was a distinct possibility. And yet if he lingered outside for another minute he would be cut down by a hail of .762s guaranteed. The choice was not so difficult after all.

  Ross made a Hail Mary motion with his hands, which he was surprised to find trembling. Even in the thick of a battle, his hands never shook like that. This was not fear. It was genuinely cold. Ross blew on his hands to warm them and slung the M4 over his back. He filled his left hand with his side arm and his right hand with his Yarborough knife and then he kicked the door in.

  The foyer of the compound opened into a wide, dome structure. An impressive marble fountain in the middle of the room pumped chlorinated water into a circular pool, its floor dotted with rupees, dinars and quarters. Miraculously, the place seemed deserted. Outside the echo of gunfire had ceased. Corporal Ross swung his side arm over every inch of the room and found nobody hiding. An ancient looking polished stone staircase wound up and around the dome, leading to upper levels. From the briefing Ross knew that Al-Shahari had likely barricaded himself in a bedroom on the second floor.

  Corporal Ross brought his boot up to the first step and was shocked at how little noise it made. Then again, his senses could have been playing tricks on him. He easily could have lost half his hearing in that cacophony, and there was no way the temperature could have dropped so rapidly. Clearly something was amiss with his body, but Ross had neither the time nor the gumption to check for potentially fatal wounds.

  The stairs looped lazily in a spiral, ever upward, ever tighter. After four times hiking up around the fountain, Ross found a landing with a pair of doors. The first was locked. The second doorknob gave in, screwing aside and opening the way into a dark hall. He cracked the opening just far enough so he could see in.

  A short man in a white turban and a black robe had his back turned to the doorway. Based on the intelligence, this had to be el-Balavi, trusted courier and bodyguard for his boss. He wore the same tunic and turban combo in every single surveillance photo they had gathered over the months. Ross knew that el-Balavi would likely be the last line of defense, and if he could get past him the target was virtually his.

  Corporal Ross tucked away his side arm as quietly as he could manage. Before making his move, he whispered the old Special Forces motto and mantra.

  “De oppresso liber.”

  Ross slid the door open and caught el-Balavi before he could turn around, slashing the Yarborough through his throat in one clean stroke and painting a Nike swoosh of red on the taupe wallpaper. The body dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. After checking to make sure there was no pulse, Corporal Ross sheathed the sticky knife and took out the sidearm again. He aimed straight and walked forward through the hallway.

  From all the reports the drones indicated that the room was the third on the right. More than once they had photographed Al-Shahari at the window, clad in nothing but boxers and a long shaggy beard, blowing cigar smoke outside.

  Corporal Ross slunk past the first door, inching along with his back to the wall. In the middle of the hall a window opened out with a view onto Pizza Hut Boulevard. It took a moment for his mind to process what he saw. A torrential downpour had started since he broke into the compound. Only it was not rain, but bullets. Bullets were falling from the sky, of every make and caliber on the planet. They rang when they hit the corrugated tin roof then bounced off or rolled down into the rain gutters, which were sagging. Below the terrace floor was covered in bullets. The fountain was overflowing with them. Slowly the reality of the situation dawned on Corporal Ross.

  “I have to be dreaming.”

  Dreaming or not, he wanted to complete the assignment. Al-Shahari was not going to escape the green berets, not in his subconscious, not anywhere.

  Corporal Ross left the window and strode over to the final doorway at the end of the hall. The door opened of its own accord. Suddenly anxious, Ross stepped inside and surveyed the scene. At the end of a long table an enormous white goat was seated in a luxurious looking sofa chair. It was wearing a military uniform, decorated with medals, insignias and honors. The goat’s horns stretched in a crooked spiral four feet over its head and its hoofs were drawn together like they were hands collected in prayer. Outside the torrential rain of bullets echoing off every surface was growing louder, almost deafening. The goat’s eyes were yellow with burning red irises, and they were gazing at Corporal Ross closely, with an alien intensity that made him shiver. The goat raised its left hoof in salute.

  Jordan Ross gasped and woke up.

  He was still upside down and still in considerable pain, but at least the giant goat and the terrorist snipers were gone. He was back in Brooklyn in an overturned station wagon. Through the spider-web cracked windshield, Jordan eyes were drawn to a glowing headlight across the street. A black sports utility vehicle was idling on the curb. It looked like it might be a Cadillac Escalade but it was impossible to tell with the front grill and the logo crushed in so badly. One of the headlights was busted, and the mirror on the right side was hanging by a cord.

  From the driver’s side a door opened and a bulky man wearing a black leather jacket emerged. Moving gingerly, he slid out of the seat and stood on the pavement. He had long gray hair tied back in a ponytail and his gut sagged over his belt. A glittering gold chain hung from around his neck. The man reached into his jacket and produced a flip phone. As he approached the station wagon, Jordan thought that he looked how Kenny Rogers might look if he permanently relocated to Las Vegas, shaved his beard clean off and completely let himself go.

  “Vladimir, allez-vous?” />
  The fat man was speaking French into the cell phone. Jordan spoke several languages fluently as part of his qualification for the Special Forces, but unfortunately French was not one of them. The Escalade driver didn’t look French though. Even two hundred years after Napoleon, many Russians and Slavs still spoke the emperor’s language.

  Fat Slavic Kenny Rogers continued talking, waddling over to Jordan, who tried to call for help but nothing came out of his mouth. Jordan wanted to swing his arm up and get the guy’s attention but his arm refused to obey. It was drooping limp, the hand resting awkwardly on the overturned roof. Jordan listened close but he could only make out words here and there, not enough to understand the conversation, at least not with only half of it to go on.

  Bending over and wheezing, the big man looked into the station wagon. Jordan had no other way to communicate, so he blinked twice so that the stranger on the cell phone could see that he was still alive and conscious. He instantly regretted that decision.

  Big Slavic Kenny pulled a nine millimeter out of a shoulder holster and pointed the weapon at Jordan’s face.

  “Un seul le male.”

  Jordan’s instincts were to grab for his old service sidearm in the glove compartment but he could not move, could not speak and could not protest in any way. The best defense Jordan could muster was to close his eyes and gnash his teeth, waiting for the awful pop that would turn everything to black.

  “Êtes-vous sûr? Ok je vais.”

  The pop never came. Jordan waited ten seconds and then opened his eyes. The big fat lumbering man was walking over to the curb. He got down on his knees and tossed both the cell phone and the nine millimeter weapon into a storm drain. Then he got up to one knee, dusted his hands off, and headed back over to the wounded Escalade.

  Inside the vehicle somewhere he found a bottle of Stolichnaya. He tipped back the bottle and took a few hard gulps, after which he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Jordan cringed on reflex. He used to do the same, but Sarah found the habit so revolting that she had purged it from him after just a couple of weeks living together. Sarah. Something was wrong with Sarah, Jordan realized. She had not made a sound. Jordan said her name but the word died on his lips and he could not move to check on her.

  The portly frog talker in the wide-waist slacks poured the Stoli all over the cab of the SUV. He doused the wheel, the driver’s seat, the dash, everything. When he was through he lit a cigarette. Jordan could not be sure but it looked like he winked right at him. Big Kenny smoked the cigarette down to the filter, put the cherry out on his tongue then tossed the butt.

  This guy is completely mental, Jordan thought to himself.

  Sirens echoed in the distance. Flashing red and blue lights started coloring the scene. The man walked towards the lights yelling, his arms wide and carrying the half empty Stoli bottle in one hand. After a couple of moments he stepped out of Jordan’s line of sight and he could only listen.

  “Hey! Officer! Dank God you are here I von to press charges.”

  Jordan heard a car door open and slam shut. Another voice answered the sloppy Slav.

  “Calm down sir. Could you put the vodka down and tell me what happened?”

  “Dis man! Dis driver he is maniac. He collides vis me out of blue and look vat he does to my Cadillac. I press charges. You must help.”

  If Jordan could have said anything he would have called him a god damned liar, although to be fair Jordan could not exactly recall how the accident happened. But he had not been at fault; that much he knew. The other voice seemed to belong to a cop, who said something into his radio and then addressed the big Slavic drunk.

  “Sir. I need you to put down the vodka.”

  “It is not mine the vodka. And is not important. Vat are you going to do about maniac in station wagon?”

  The two of them may have been scuffling. Grunting, the police officer commanded the man to get on his knees and place his hands behind his back. Jordan heard a pair of handcuffs click locked. The officer directed big fat Kenny to stay put while he went to examine the other car.

  “Hello? NYPD. Is everybody ok in there?”

  Around the fender the cop came wandering. He looked young and fresh-faced, and the uniform still fit him well. Over his heart there was a name-tag that read Richardson.

  “Sir? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

  Jordan blinked once, hoping Officer Richardson would get the idea. He tried to shift his eyes to demonstrate that the big drunken handcuffed jerk could not be trusted, but that was too ambitious.

  “Hey buddy can you say anything?”

  Jordan did not blink.

  “Is anyone else in there with you?”

  Jordan blinked twice.

  Officer Richardson leaned over and shined a flashlight into the car. With a slow, uncertain sweep, he directed the light towards the back seat. His face dropped. Jordan blinked furiously, trying to ask what was wrong.

  “Oh buddy.”

  When the paramedics arrived they used the Jaws of Life to free Jordan from the wreck. They put him on a gurney, put the gurney in an ambulance, and drove him to the Woodhull Medical Center on Broadway. One hospital was pretty much the same as the next, as far as the way they look. But Woodhull happened to be the emergency room he took Sarah too the morning she went into labor with Emma. Jordan would remember the acoustic tiling on the ceiling for the rest of his life because he stared at it for hours, anxiously waiting for any news on how the delivery was going. Sarah’s contractions were so slow that after nine hours they decided to induce. Emma came out perfectly fine, eight pounds and five ounces of bright shiny red beauty.

  One of the first things the nurses did with Jordan was to hook him up to a morphine drip. Jordan grew fond of the button in no time, enjoying the warm wave of euphoria that accompanied each click.

  It was a busy night for Brooklyn emergency rooms, as so many full moons are. Woodhull was close to capacity, and the staff looked haggard and tight around the temples. Several times a Filipino nurse pulled the curtain aside that was hanging around Jordan’s gurney and apologized for the long wait. Eventually a doctor figured out that Jordan could understand and communicate through blinking. After wheeling him out of the X-ray room, he showed him the slides and explained the situation.

  “Mister Ross can you hear me? Blink twice if you can understand.”

  Jordan obliged.

  “Ok Mister Ross. The bad news is that you were in a very serious car accident, as I’m sure you’re aware. You are aware of that, correct?”

  Jordan blinked once.

  “Alright. Your arm is broken, you sustained several deep cuts from the crash and lost a fair amount of blood but with a few transfusions you’ll be just fine. You also appear to have suffered a concussion which might result in some temporary memory loss. You do know what a concussion is? Blink three times if so.”

  Jordan blinked three times and wanted to scream for the doctor to get on with it already.

  “Also there may be a spinal bruise, which would explain why you’re unable to move or have full power of speech, but the X-Ray shows no structural damage so that should clear up in a few days. But you will have to take it easy for a few weeks, so no flag football. Blink once for me if you’re not going to play flag football.”

  Jordan blinked once. The doctor sighed and started clicking a pen against his clipboard.

  “Ok so there’s just one more thing. Uh. I’m not really sure how to. This is very difficult. There’s the matter of the other passengers in your vehicle, Mr. Ross. I’m afraid that uh, they weren’t as fortunate as you. The impact. Uh. I’m terribly sorry Mr. Ross. I’m afraid that they did not make it. We did our best to revive them but by the time the ambulances arrived… I’m uh. I’m very sorry. Do you understand what’s happened? I understand how hard this must be, but. Your wife and your daughter have passed on. Can you blink once for me if you understand?”

  Jordan stared at the doctor for a long time, but he did
not blink.

  Chapter Two

  For the first few days Jordan Ross showed up at physical therapy for treating his broken arm. He did the exercises but was gloomy and bitter, sometimes demonstrating a short fuse. When he stopped coming to the sessions his trainer did not go out of her way to bring him back. It wasn’t a bad break in any case and would heal on its own in time. He preferred to pass his recovery time alone, in the dark.

  Jordan got so exhausted and annoyed with neighbors coming by to offer their condolences that he drew the curtains and unplugged the answering machine. When the phone rang he let it ring. Knocks on the door went unanswered. Mail and magazines piled up on the porch. Dog poop accumulated on the front lawn, a slight Jordan would never have allowed under normal circumstances. He had chased a hipster and his Beagle off once for not picking up the mess. Now not even the sight of seven tightly coiled mounds of dog crap could get him off of the chair.

  One day after flipping through 190 channels and not finding a single thing worth watching, Jordan decided to get out for some fresh air. Wearing sunglasses and an old army jacket, he opened the front door and glanced both ways to make sure nobody would come rushing at him to say how sorry they were, and ask if he needed any help around the house. Once he was sure the coast was clear he locked up and ambled down the stairs. It was chilly, light flakes of snow falling here and there and evaporating before anything could pile up. Jordan hugged the jacket closer and walked with his head down to the corner liquor store a few blocks away.

  The owner of the store was Dominick, a cranky but charming Italian guy who had not seen Jordan in years.

  “Jordan how you been? Long time no see uh?”

  “Yeah long time.”

  “How’s the uh…”

  Dominick seemed to be on the verge of asking about Jordan’s family but he caught himself. Jordan wanted to thank him for his discretion but that would have only drawn more attention to how awkward it was. More than anything else these days, Jordan Ross simply wanted to become invisible and thus escape the stares that seemed to follow him wherever he went.