Of Blood and Stone

by Howard Upton

  Slowly, he slid the deflector between the sensor and the cartouche until he saw the shield turn a light blue hue. Haden was right! It worked just like he said. Once he was certain the deflector was functioning, he reached into the opening and removed the cartouche from its wooden stand. Just as gently as he reached to grab the jewel, he similarly withdrew his hand. He exhaled loudly in relief when the alarm didn’t sound. His hand slipped the prize into his pocket as he retreated to the elevator. Again, the doors to the elevator opened and he slithered into the closet, careful to avoid the mounted surveillance cameras. With the door locked he made himself as comfortable as possible. A storage closet wasn’t exactly a Ritz Carlton, but it sufficed.

  He dozed in and out of sleep as the night dragged on. A couple of times he heard footsteps outside the door and realized it was just a security guard making his rounds. Rafael checked his watch – 9:08 a.m. He had to slip out of the storage closet and blend with a few tourists before making his way out so as not to arouse any suspicion.

  He cracked open the door and looked around for anyone who might see him, saw no one and walked out of the closet. He left behind the cane that he had wiped down before stepping into the exhibit hall. There was no need to haphazardly leave behind fingerprints and make it easier for the police to track him down.

  With his cap pulled low, he stayed away from the view of the camera as he stepped into the open. Milling around in different rooms for almost an hour allowed a few tourists and museum goers the chance to start crowding the popular attractions. They would provide him the cover he needed.

  He made his way to the exit and left without so much as a glance from the first shift security team. Turning right at the corner of the museum and heading directly toward the parking lot where he’d left his rental, Rafael controlled his desire to run. When he finally reached his car he started the engine and dropped it in drive. Only then did he allow himself a sigh of relief and a wide grin.

  Rafael finished his dinner and watched the man at the bar who was still sipping from the same tumbler of liquor he had ordered when he first sat down. He got the attention of his waitress and asked for the check, handing her enough pesos to cover the bill and leave a respectable enough tip, but not so much that she would make an effort to remember him.

  He glanced at the man who was spinning the glass holding his drink. It was obvious he was trying very hard to look inconspicuous and bored. Rafael felt the reassuring presence of the pistol under his left arm and walked outside without looking directly at the stranger, but did take note in his peripheral vision that the fellow was Latino, thirtyish and muscular.

  Rafael turned on the side street where he left his car and threw himself against the wall of a stucco building. He heard footsteps moving quickly toward him. Not wanting to pull his pistol if he didn’t need to, he grabbed the Gerber pocket knife he carried and quietly opened the blade.

  Before the man knew what had happened, Rafael grabbed his collar and shoved the three inch blade into his side, below the floating rib. Just as swiftly, Rafael cupped the man’s mouth to keep him from screaming, only muffled sounds escaped the wide-eyed Latino. Rafael dragged him behind some boxes and forced him to the ground still holding firm to the knife.

  “Quien es, vato?” asked Rafael.

  The man winced as Rafael slowly turned the knife making the pain even more excruciating. His eyes widened and he jumped, trying to move away from the knife and the pain burning in his side.

  “Who are you? Why are you following me?” he continued to ask.

  The Latino grunted then replied, “Some gringo. He paid me to follow you, señor. Please, don’t kill me. I didn’t mean you any harm.”

  “I won’t kill you if you tell me who this gringo is. Is his name Haden?”

  “I don’t know, sen...,” his words tailing off as his eyes became glassy and he lost consciousness.

  “Dammit,” Rafael muttered under his breath as he checked around him to make sure no witnesses could see the strange comingling of bodies.

  He slapped the unconscious man’s face as he attempted to wake him. His victim sputtered and opened his eyes, trying to refocus on Rafael.

  “Tell me what this gringo looks like, and I’ll get you to a hospital. They can save you. Tell me!”

  The man’s jaw began moving, but blood dripped where words should have formed. He breathed short raspy breaths that grew more rapid before trailing off. Rafael watched as the man’s life force left him. He pulled the knife from the man’s side, wiped the blade on his victim’s shirt then pocketed the knife. Not taking the time to hide the man’s body, he jumped in his car and sped back to his hotel, packed his suitcase, grabbed the money he had hidden in the vent and left without checking out of the hotel.

  Oxford, Alabama, USA

  July 14, 2013 1:18 P.M.

  Evers sat in a rocking chair on his front porch thinking about Buddy’s offer. The money would be great, but he feared being sucked back into a lifestyle he detested. He had spent a significant portion of his life in the service of the CIA and fighting other people’s wars. The black and white of how the world works was merely a dream shared by most; the gray reality that permeated his mind would scare Joe Citizen to death.

  The power struggles, the money, the back door deals with “enemies” were just a few of the reasons he didn’t want, or need, to get involved, but the allure of that much cash would afford him his lifestyle without any worries. But more than the possibility of having a significant cash cow at his disposal was the allure of this cartouche. Of all the missions he’d been on, he had never been asked to recover a magical artifact. He would be lying to himself if he thought he wasn’t intrigued by the possibility of seeing its magic in person.

  Buddy’s involvement in this kind of search and find activity was perplexing as well. His old friend had always been one to find a target and take him out, or do things like destroy villages where suspected terrorist holdouts were hiding. To see him involved in this seek and find mission was almost as titillating as the mission itself. He knew he would have to have the discussion about the “whys” sooner or later, but decided to put it on the back burner for now. Buddy had unusually good reasoning skills and a good head on his shoulders and wouldn’t be involved in this type of thing without some serious forethought.

  Buddy Smith – he had known the old spook for half of his adult life. Evers’ strong distrust of other humans didn’t stop with Buddy, but he could honestly say that he had never lead him astray or lied to him, insofar as he was aware. Their shared time on various battlefields also perpetuated a relationship that only forms when certain death is imminent, that is, your death or the death of the targets being hunted.

  On more than one occasion, they stood back-to-back fending off guerrilla fighters in jungles and in deserts. Evers recalled a time he took a bullet in his side, and Buddy patched him up until he could receive proper medical care. Still, he was working for the shadow government, and for that very reason alone there was cause for concern. He also knew Buddy was a loner, as were most in their line of work, and that self-preservation trumped any past mission or time spent in the field together.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he didn’t fully trust Buddy, but for the moment he chose not to focus on him. Instead, he let his eyes and thoughts drift like a thick fog rolling over the mountaintop.

  He peered out over his property to the lake that was nestled at the foot of the big mountain. Reflections of the blue Alabama sky and the trees that lined the mountain shone like a postcard. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead before landing on a smaller limb at the top of a large oak tree just to his right. The hawk’s superior eyesight was focused on something Evers couldn’t see, but he knew whatever was there wasn’t long for the world. In a flash the hawk swooped down and snatched a field mouse in its talons. Evers heard the last squeak the little mouse would ever muster as the bird and its prey rose into the air, the hawk flying toward its hidden aerie somewhere in the surroundin
g woods.

  The afternoon air was hot but Evers’ garage and house were connected by a covered breezeway which usually allowed for a nice draft. He walked back in his house, opened his kitchen window and turned on his CD player, put on his favorite blues tunes from a band called Moondog Medicine Show. The Maryland blues band was a local favorite that he had caught while in D.C. a few years earlier. The female lead singer’s raspy voice reminded Evers of a cross between Bonnie Rait and Melissa Etheridge. She wasn’t hard on the eyes either he thought to himself, then smiled. He poured a glass of water and dropped in some ice cubes before walking back to his porch and rocking chair.

  Lana Spence belted out the harsh lyrics in "Bring It On" while he thought about Buddy’s offer. His mind drifted to his conversation with him two nights earlier. He wondered what the cartouche was and why Big Brother wanted it. They obviously wanted it pretty badly if they decided a former spook with certain martial skills was the right one to retrieve it.

  “And what the hell is an ancient piece of jewelry made in China doing in Mexico,” he mused?

  He was fascinated by these questions almost as much as he was the money. Evers raised the cold glass of water to his mouth. The water washed over his throat, sating his thirst and cooling his body, but did nothing to quell the uncertainties in his mind.

  “Well, Billy,” he said to himself, “sounds like you’ve talked yourself into this gig and you really don’t know what all is involved in retrieving this piece of jewelry. You’re a dumbass of the highest order.” He sighed and stared out at the lake.

  Their light armored personnel vehicle stopped one click from the building housing a number of known terrorists deep inside the northern Iraqi city of Mosul. Evers and his small assortment of tactical spec ops spread out and cautiously headed toward their target. The moonless night time operation was orchestrated to be carried out at 2300, long after the streets emptied of hawkers and pedestrians.

  The plan called for them to radio in air support once they were in position. Evers and his team would initiate the attack by hitting the first story of the multi-storied building with shouldered RPG’s. The ground level attack would force the terrorists upstairs, assuring them of the high ground, a tactical calculation they were willing to take. The Marine’s VMA air attack squadron would then begin raining down hell on the cockroaches as they scurried to the top. Their fleet of Harrier II’s would level the building while the ground operatives would remain on the deck to assure no terrorists escaped.

  “The Desert Pirates” was the name they had given themselves. They even had patches made up of a pirate’s face in front of a pair of cross-bones that they sewed on their uniform sleeves. MSgt Weiss acted like he didn’t see the patches which were forbidden. Weiss had also convinced their CO that the patch helped build unity in a small band of warriors. Most had gotten the patch tattooed somewhere on their body so their dedication would never be called into question.

  Master Sergeant Weiss keyed up his wireless mic that hung on his neck and ordered the unit into position. The team filtered around the building and found whatever cover was available. Evers moved to the front of the building with Sgt Kyle Golik, the sharpest sniper he’d ever met.

  Evers looked around for any rag-head bearing gifts of heavy caliber weapons or IED’s. He saw only one small boy in the distance, maybe sixty or seventy yards away, a child of no more than eight or nine. The boy stood and stared at him for at least two minutes. Evers could have sworn he saw the boy shaking.

  Golik made eye contact with Evers, who in turn put his index and middle fingers to his eyes then pointed to the boy. Golik looked at the kid, turned his head to Evers and shrugged. Both men returned their attention to the task at hand. Evers hauled ass backward, approximately twenty yards, and positioned his RPG launcher on his shoulder. Weiss radioed the rest of the team to do a check down, ensuring all exits were properly covered. The team acknowledged their readiness.

  Golik slipped another fifteen feet to his right to avoid any shrapnel from the RPG when it hit the door. He ducked behind a parked car and leveled his M16A4 at the building’s entrance. The sniper preferred a Barret XM109, but he was forced to carry the fully automatic rifle when on ground missions.

  Evers raised the sights on his rifle and then flipped a switch directing a red laser on the door. He nodded to Golik who called back to Weiss to let him know the door was “hot”. Others on the team reported they were hot on their targets as well. Weiss gave the orders to engage on his mark. He counted three...two...one.

  Evers squeezed the trigger and a grenade rocketed toward the door. In an instant it exploded. He could hear impacts and explosions from the rear of the building as his team launched grenades from their own RPG’s. The concussions of the blasts rattled his teeth. Sulphur seeped through the air and filled his nostrils. He could hear the VMA Harriers moving rapidly toward the building.

  He glanced over his left shoulder and saw the young boy walking toward him in a daze. Evers began yelling at him and motioning for him to get away. His pajamas hung off his small body, obviously too large for the boy, the pant legs dragging the ground.

  Two guided missiles hit the top of the building as a Desert Pirate on the back side of the building held the laser in place guiding the ordinance to their target. An insurgent managed to break through a downstairs window in hopes of saving his life. Unfortunately for him, Golik squeezed a burst of firepower from his M16A4 sending his lifeless body against the building.

  Still, the young boy ambled toward them. He was closer to Golik than he was Evers when Evers noticed the boy wearing a small backpack. His eyes grew wide as he watched the youngster take four more steps before stopping eight feet behind Golik,

  “FUUUUUUUCK! HE’S GOT A BOMB!” Evers screamed as he swung his rifle around and beaded down on the boy. A curious thing about high stress situations is the body’s ability to react without much thought and the mind’s capacity to slow down time when the adrenaline flows freely. Evers recognized the rush of adrenaline immediately, and vividly saw everything transpire in bits and frames. Seconds seemed like minutes and minutes turned to hours.

  There was no thought as he squeezed the trigger, and a burst of bullets pummeled the boy’s chest and stomach. Several rounds exited his body and ricocheted off a trash can. A shocked expression crossed his face before he crumpled to the ground. Dark red blood gushed from several openings and seeped onto the pavement all around his little body. He coughed once and more blood spewed from his mouth. Then he was gone.

  Evers ran to the little boy’s lifeless body while Golik kept an eye on the building. Fire engulfed what was left of the multi-story complex. Wood popped and metal twisted as it fell from the structure. The area looked as though The Apocalypse had begun in one small corner of the world.

  With the business end of his rifle, Evers rolled the boy onto his blood-drenched belly. As sweat ran down his chest and arms, he reached for the backpack’s zipper and slowly opened it. His heart pounded in his ears and chest as his mind imagined the enormous explosive he would find in the pack. The contents made him gasp. His heart sank and he fell to his butt as tears welled in his eyes.

  One stuffed animal and a partially eaten sandwich were in the bag. Much of the area’s youth were orphans and begged for U.S. servicemen to give them food or water. Many of these same children were forced to strap bombs on themselves and walk into groups of U.S. military personnel, but this boy wasn’t one of those children.

  Weiss radioed his team to report. Golik mic’d first to report one DAI – dead ass insurgent. The rest of the team followed suit, reporting positions and number of wounded. Golik walked to Evers and put his hand on his shoulder, looking first to the boy’s pack then back to his friend.

  “You didn’t know, partner. You saw the pack and did the right thing. Get the fuck up, and let’s get out of here. No one has to know about this, you hear? You did the right thing. This little fucker would probably have grown up and tried to kill us anyway, so le
t’s go! Right fucking now!”

  Tears trickled from Evers’ face as he rocked. Golik had been true to his word and no one ever found out about the boy’s death. If they had, he would have been court-martialed and possibly prosecuted for murder. The vision burned vividly in his mind and he could almost smell the little one’s death scent. His stomach rolled and lurched as the sense of guilt wracked his heart and mind.

  Like a painting, he watched the trees reflecting on the lake as he replayed that event, and several others, in his brain. As clearly as the morning sun shone on the water, the image of the young boy walking toward him etched itself in his brain. Hot, damp Alabama air hugged him like a wool coat, yet he paid it no attention because in his mind he was still in Iraq. After several minutes the memories mercifully floated away to the recesses of his mind, but he knew they were still there waiting to return. They were always with him like a bedtime monster living in a child’s closet that only came out late at night.

  A couple of hours passed but Evers still sat on his porch having gotten up long enough to pour more water and change CD’s. Microwave Dave and the Nukes, an Alabama electric blues band, sang "Beep Beep" while Evers tapped his foot. The music provided an escape from his demons and, for a short time, gave him the chance to still his mind.

  He heard the crunch of gravel well before he saw Buddy’s car next to his house, but there was no doubt in his mind who it was. The silver Dodge Charger was a nice looking car, but the dust from Evers’s driveway had dulled the paint. A car door opened, and the old spook stepped out dressed in a well-worn Hawaiian shirt, faded Levi’s and a pair of dusty cowboy boots. A cheap pair of sunglasses were perched on his nose, the wire frames having seen better days. He nodded at Evers as he walked to the porch.

  Buddy sat down in one of the extra rocking chairs Evers kept on his breezeway for the company he never had. He popped his neck and straightened his back after the bumpy ride down the long dirt and gravel driveway, removed his sunglasses and looked Evers in the eye.