(Wrath-08)-Evil In The Darkness (2013)

by Chris Stewart

  “Hey there,” one of the men called to them. “Hey there, woman. Where you from?”

  “Keep walking,” Sam whispered.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

  “Don’t say anything,” Sam whispered, nudging her again. They were pressed against a building on the opposite sidewalk now.

  Three of the men doubled their pace and moved out in front of them, two hemmed them in on the side, a couple more stood at their back. The apparent leader of the gang stepped up beside them. Reaching out, he grabbed a fistful of Azadeh’s hair. She held back a scream, but knocked his hand away. Turning quickly, Sam swept her to his side, pushed her against the building, and moved to stand in front of her, positioning himself between Azadeh and the gang leader. The Beretta M9 was in his hand now but he kept it hidden between his jacket and his ribs. “What’s the problem, buddy?” he demanded of the men. The hoodlums gathered around him. Too confident. Too cocky. They weren’t afraid of him. They didn’t have their guns out, but it was obvious to Sam that they were concealing guns in their clothing.

  Sam kept his Beretta hidden. If he had to use it, he was dead. He couldn’t kill them all—a couple of them, maybe more, but he wouldn’t get them all before one of them shot him in the head.

  He stood his ground, his shoulders square, his eyes unflinching, his body between the men and Azadeh. Pressing against him, she kept her head down and stifled a cry of fear.

  The gang leader looked past Sam, taking in the girl, his eyes a dull and angry fire. It wasn’t lust that burned inside him, it was a black ache for revenge. “Where you from, pig?” he demanded.

  Azadeh didn’t answer.

  “SPEAK TO ME!” he screamed.

  Sam leaned toward him. “Look, man, she isn’t part of the problem, OK? I know you want to hit them—hey, we all do. Believe me, no one wants revenge any more than me. But this doesn’t have anything to do with her. She’s been here in America for a long time. She’s—”

  “One of them!” the man sneered. “And we’re going to kill them. Every Arab in our country. None of them will live.”

  “She isn’t even Arab!”

  “I know an Arab when I see it. They all look the same. They smell the same. I can smell her Arab stench from here.”

  “She’s isn’t Arab, she is Persian.”

  “Persian, Arab, they’re all the same. And all of them are going to die.”

  Sam forced himself to stay calm, keeping an even voice. “Listen to me, buddy. Maybe you don’t see them different, but think about this, OK? There is innocent and there is guilty, and this girl has done nothing wrong.”

  The man shook his head in heedless rage. “Don’t play your stupid games on me!”

  “She is just as much a victim here as—”

  “Are you kidding me?! You and I are the only victims, baby. But that’s about to change.”

  A crowd began to gather, pressing closer and closer to the men. Faces of desperation, filled with anger and the deep lust for revenge.

  A sudden motion in the street caught Sam’s eye and he looked past the pressing crowd around them. Four soldiers in dark uniforms were moving down the street. They walked together. Too close together. Was that fear Sam saw in their eyes? He studied them quickly: heavy uniforms, Kevlar body armor, dark glasses, leather gloves. One of them carried a FN Minimi 5.56 Standard light machine gun. Another, the lowest-ranking sergeant, carried a NATO squad support weapon. Sam caught the first soldier’s eye, then motioned desperately toward him.

  The soldier stopped, looked at him, and took his protective glasses off, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Who are you with?” Sam demanded. It was a soldier’s question with many meanings: What unit are you with? Who’s your commander? What’s your specialty? What’s your army? What nation are you from?

  The four soldiers stared but didn’t answer.

  “Look, guys, I could use your help here!” Sam yelled, incredulous that they hadn’t acted to do anything. The gang members seemed completely unconcerned. None of them made any effort to hide the handguns that were stuffed inside their pants, and Sam saw the knowing look they shot each other.

  He took a quick step toward the soldiers, his heart sinking in his chest. “My name is Captain Samuel Brighton. United States Army, Special Forces.”

  The soldiers didn’t respond.

  “As one soldier to another—”

  “They’re not going to help you,” the gang leader sneered.

  Sam called to them again.

  The gang leader wrinkled his nose in disdain, then turned around to face the soldiers. “Hey there, boys. We ain’t got no problems with you here.”

  Sam hissed in desperation. “Can’t you see what’s going on?”

  The nearest soldier motioned weakly. “No English,” he stammered, as if that excused everything.

  “You don’t have to speak English,” Sam shot back. “All you have to do is not be stupid!”

  The foreign soldier looked away. A second one stepped forward, then turned and looked anxiously up the street. Sam saw the nation flag that was velcroed to the shoulder of his uniform. Uganda. “Listen,” he commanded, “I need you to—”

  The foreigner raised his hands again. “No English,” he repeated.

  “No English?! Man, don’t be so stupid.”

  The gang leader laughed and then whispered, “They’re not going to help you, soldier boy.”

  Sam swore, then turned and shot a deadly glare toward the dark man. Laughing again, the leader said, “The soldiers are our brothers now. After a hundred years of police oppression, we’ve got real friends in uniforms. To show our appreciation, we sent them up a couple of our women. They’ve been very friendly ever since. And ya know what—once we established we were brothers, I found out their instructions are pretty clear. Protect the food. Protect the water. Other than that, they can’t do nothing. U.N. regulations, they tell me. They’re peacekeepers. That’s it. That’s all they do. You got the water boys of soldiers here. So I don’t think they’re going to help you. Don’t think they’re going to help anyone at all.”

  Azadeh looked at them, her eyes pleading.

  The gang leader saw her eyes move. “They ain’t gonna help you, girlie,” he leered. “Can’t do a stinking thing for you.” He turned to Sam. “What do you soldiers call it? Rules of engagement? Is that right? Well it seems the U.N. has very limited rules of engagement for their soldiers.” He cursed in sarcasm. “Might as well send over a bunch of kindergarten teachers. Funny thing is, these goobers are working under the same stupid rules over here that they’ve been working under everywhere. They can’t be cops. No law enforcement duties. They can’t fight. They are peacekeepers, baby. They’re not ready for any war. They’re not here to participate in any conflict. Now, uptown, I hear things are a whole lot different. Thousands of real soldiers on the streets. But that’s only for the rich boys. The white boys. We don’t get no protection down here in the ‘hood. So what? We get along. Things ain’t no different than they’ve ever been, even with these baby-blue U.N. soldiers all around.” He turned and spat. “Seems kind of stupid, if you ask me, but I’m just a po’ boy. What do I know?”

  He leered at Azadeh. Her head was low, her shoulders slumping, her hands quivering at her side. She felt his eyes boring into her and pressed against the wall again.

  “Kinda crazy, ain’t it?” the gang leader sneered. “Here they are, four good soldiers, and they won’t do a thing to stop me. I could rape and kill you right here on the street, and they won’t even raise their guns. Sure, they might go back and file some kind of worthless report. U.N. Form 1592. Observance of the Locals. But that is all they’re going to do.” He bent his head and leaned toward Sam, looking at him below his upraised eyebrows. “Amazing, ain’t it, buddy. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.”

  Sam motioned toward the soldiers. “Listen to me, captain—”

  “No English,” the squad leader said again. Then they turned and started
walking away, shoulder to shoulder, four scared men, all weak and worthless, going through the motions but too frightened of their own shadows to accomplish anything.

  The gang leader watched them go, then spat a wad of dark phlegm at Sam’s feet. “You thought they were going to help you. Disappointed, aren’t you?”

  The four soldiers disappeared into the crowd.

  Sam’s chest was quick and tight. He kept his hand behind his back, the Beretta warm inside his grip. “Look at me,” he whispered as he leaned toward the man. “Do you see this uniform? You see these jump wings and combat badges? I’ve spent my entire adult life over there. I’ve dedicated myself to killing the enemy, and I’ve killed a bunch of them, I guarantee. But this woman behind me, she isn’t one of them.” Sam gestured to the filthy streets and chaos, then lowered his voice a little more. “She had nothing to do with this, man. She’s just like you. She’s just like me. She’s just trying to live through this, you know what I mean.”

  The gang leader didn’t soften. “She’s one of them. Anyone can see that. You might be stupid enough to believe she’s not here to cause us problems, but me and my crew ain’t so stupid anymore. It’s time to clean our own house.” He glared at Sam. “We got each other,” he nodded to his brothers, “and that is all we trust. Now, you got a choice here, white boy. You give her to us and we let you go. Or you can be a superhero and try to save her and we’ll kill you both right here. What’s it gonna be? You got three seconds to decide.”

  A flash of movement in the smoky morning pulled Sam’s eyes away. Four of the men drew their weapons and pointed them at his head. In a simultaneous burst of motion, he pulled out his Beretta and shoved it into the leader’s face.

  “You’ll never get us all,” the leader mocked.

  “Maybe not, but I’ll get you.”

  “Go ahead and kill me! Do you think I care? We’re all dead. We know it. I’d just as soon die from your bullet as from starving or puking my guts out on the street.” He moved an inch closer, pressing his forehead against the muzzle of Sam’s pistol. His face was loose and lifeless, his bare teeth sticking against the front of his dry mouth. “One thing I can promise you, soldier boy. You kill me, and your little princess there is going to suffer a long, long time. We could keep her alive for weeks, but it will seem like years. Or we could do this simple. You give her to us now, we kill her easy and let you go. You do something stupid, and we kill you, then make her wish she was dead. Now I’m not gonna do it for you, you army pukes know how to count. You got three seconds.”

  Sam hesitated, his face turning white with terror. A moment passed in silence. He closed his eyes in dread. Another moment of pure silence.

  “Guess that’s it,” the gang leader said.

  Sam deflated, swallowing hard against the knot inside his throat. He lowered his eyes and then his weapon. Cursing, he pounded his fist against his hip. Growing limp, he turned to Azadeh.

  She nodded and started crying, seeing the defeat inside his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry.” He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. They looked at each other, Azadeh pleading with her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry,” he told her. “I’ve got my family, my mother, all the others I have to think about. I’m so sorry to have to do this. It’s an impossible decision, but what choice do I have?”

  She didn’t answer. It wasn’t the first time she had been betrayed. Glancing toward the furious men, she knew it would be the last.

  “I’ve got to think of the others,” Sam concluded, his voice strangled in anguish, teardrops rolling down his cheeks. He lowered his head, unable to look at her, then leaned into her face, brushed her hair away, and whispered in her ear. “Be cool,” he said.

  Lifting her head, she looked up at him.

  “Be cool,” he said again.

  Turning, he glared at the gang leader and then started walking, pushing his way through the crowd of men. They held their shoulders against him and he had to turn sideways to work his way past. Sneering at his cowardice, they cursed and let him go.

  Focusing on Azadeh, his face contorted in rage and pleasure, the leader slapped her hard across the cheek. “I have a family,” he roared in pent-up fury. “My little girl is gonna die now. All of us are gonna die here and it’s all because of you. You and others like you.”

  Azadeh stared at him, her eyes wide in terror, a hand across her split lip. Then, looking past her tormentors, she watched in shock as Sam disappeared down the street. Her eyes blurred. It was over. She was defeated, and she didn’t care that much anymore.

  NINE

  Sam ran as fast as he could, pushing through the crowd, throwing bodies left and right. He felt the outpouring of anger all around him as he ran, heard the cursing voices, felt the hands that pulled at him from every side, but he didn’t stop. He had a few minutes, maybe less, and every second counted.

  He ran a block. The streets were crowded now, more so than earlier in the morning, much more than on the day before. He reached an intersection and stopped, looking left and right. Which direction did they go? Which direction? He didn’t know. He ran to the nearest light pole and pulled himself up a couple of feet, his eyes moving desperately.

  There. Ahead of him. He saw their pale blue helmets. He dropped and ran again.

  They didn’t hear him coming as he ran up from behind, the sound of his footsteps swallowed in the noise of the moving crowd. They were together, still abreast, and he aimed for the center one. Grabbing the soldier by the shoulders, he spun him around.

  The other soldiers stopped. Sam’s Beretta was pointing at the captain, the muzzle right between his eyes. The man’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide, his hands lifting at his side. The other soldiers made a half-hearted effort for their weapons, which were hanging from leather straps around their shoulders, but Sam flashed his gun toward them, freezing them like ice. “Don’t, don’t!” the squad leader pleaded in heavily accented English.

  “No English,” Sam reminded him. The soldier winced. Sam knew that he had lied; all NATO/U.N. soldiers had to pass a rudimentary English test.

  “Don’t kill me!”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Sam sneered at him. “If I had wanted you dead, I could have killed all of you by now.”

  “We didn’t, we didn’t hurt any of the women—”

  Sam angrily shook his head. “This is what the U.N. sends for soldiers!”

  “We don’t carry any money.”

  Sam jabbed the gun a little closer, making it obvious he didn’t care.

  “What do you want?” the man pleaded in frustration. He was starting to understand that Sam wasn’t there to kill him. Still, his hands trembled at the side of his head.

  Sam pointed to the automatic weapons the men were carrying. “Your weapons!” he demanded, pressing his Beretta half an inch closer to the man. The soldier had to lean back to relieve the pressure of the metal against the tender skin between his eyes. “Your guns!” Sam cried. “I want them now!”

  The soldier didn’t hesitate, slipping the light machine gun off his shoulder and extending it to him.

  Sam grabbed the light machine gun, turned toward the next man, grabbed his weapon too, then lowered his Beretta and turned and ran.

  Minutes, maybe seconds, was all the time he had.

  * * * * * * *

  Sam needed one thing. One simple thing. But he needed it desperately and he needed it now!

  Cover. A place to shoot from. A way to stop the men who were after Azadeh before it was too late.

  A building loomed behind him, the front door open. It looked like a high school, though it was remarkably beaten down. A large crowd had gathered on the corner where the wide cement steps met the street. A fence ran around the building and Sam dashed through the metal gate. Pushing everyone aside, he ran up the steps, taking them three at a time, rushed into the entry, and hesitated. The hallways were crowded with refugees—why the school was a better place to huddle than their apartments, he didn’t know. The cro
wd stared at him: blank eyes, lots of children, mothers and their babies. No one reacted to the sight of a crazy man and his guns. Sam studied the crowd in seconds, turned left, ran up another flight of steps, then turned left again. A long hallway, dark and empty. It was cold enough to see his breath. A line of doors on his left and right, dim light bleeding through the milky glass. He chose the first door, jerking on the handle. It was locked. Pulling out his handgun, he shot it open, pushed it back, ran into the classroom, slid down by the window, broke the sheet of glass with his Beretta’s muzzle, brushed the extended shards of glass away, and looked out.

  They were a long way down the street, almost a full city block away. The men had Azadeh surrounded. She looked at them in terror. The leader slapped her face, but she stood firm, not cowering. She had moved out from the wall. She was ready. She was going to fight them, standing right up to the end. As Sam watched, the leader reached over and grabbed her by the throat. He had a knife. The others started cheering. A couple of them stepped back, giving their leader room.

  Sam didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think. Every action was instinctive and sure.

  Lifting the light machine gun, he didn’t feel its more than sixteen pounds. The weapon he had stolen was a FN Minimi 5.56 Para, a short-barreled “paratrooper” version with a telescoped stock and a bluish metal magazine. Looking down the street, he realized it was too far. The gun wasn’t good enough. Not from this range, not for this kind of thing. He stared down the barrel at the group of men, catching flashes of Azadeh’s face between their shoulders as they moved about. He cursed in fear and frustration. The Minimi wasn’t accurate enough, not with all the men around her, all of them moving, all the other people on the street. He estimated the distance. A hundred and twenty meters. More than a football field away. Too far. Way too far. The air was windy and filled with smoke and blowing debris. He swore and lowered the barrel. The light machine gun simply wasn’t accurate enough for this sort of thing. It was made for power, not finesse, to deny area, not to make a pinpoint kill. Still, he knew he had to act. The Minimi wasn’t what he wanted, but it was all he had. Lifting the light machine gun again, he aimed, wishing for his own sniper rifle—did the U.N. soldier ever clean and sight this thing? He adjusted for the wind that blew down between the buildings, did a final estimate of the distance between them, pulled the barrel of the light machine gun a fraction of an inch up and left, then fired a single shot, his shoulder recoiling from the pressure as the hot gases ejected the spent shell and pushed another round into the chamber.