Core of Steel

by J. B. Havens

  I was watching the mountains grow closer and bigger as we prepared to land, morning fog rising off of them looking like smoke. We began our descent and I could see the dew clinging to the grass, shining like nature’s own temporary diamonds. The tree-line grew closer, the darkness within the forest disappearing by degrees as the sun rose higher. I had seen sunrise the morning I left; it was fitting that I saw it again the day I returned home. Only it was different now. The dew and fog were signs that summer would soon be drawing to a close. The dew would harden into frost in the cold morning air; the leaves would change to fiery red and deep orange. Snow would blanket the compound, making training more difficult and treacherous. The compound had changed in the few days I was gone, just as I had changed. We landed with a bump that I felt in my wound first. The pain lingered even after we came to a stop and Jordon helped me stand and handed me my crutches.

  I was still floating a bit from the last of the drugs coming out of my system; the pain was coming back in force as the painkillers left me. I imagined I could feel each individual stich in my leg, pulling and itching as I click-clacked my way out of the hangar. Jordon was by my side, ready to catch me if I stumbled.

  The men were all there with Jackson at the forefront, waiting for me to make my way to them. Flynn’s crazy-ass grin was a welcome sight. I knew he would have jokes because the last time one of us was on crutches, he was forever putting things on the grips or hiding one. Pierce was looking me over with a strange mixture of concern and relief. Jones and Jackson were light and dark stoic versions of each other, giving nothing away, just taking up space and looking bored.

  “Take a picture, it will last longer,” I mouthed off at them, smiling. It was good to see their faces. It was just as good to hear their rumbling laughs as it was to see them.

  “Jesus Mic, did you guys do a side job on the way back? You look like you’ve been staking out a doctor’s convention,” Flynn said, smiling wide and barely containing his laughter.

  I looked at the three of us standing together and realized he was right. Phillips, Jordon, and I were still dressed in classic green surgeon scrubs.

  “I’ll exchange witty repartee with you after I can sit down, Flynn.” We exited the hangar and I led the merry party into the rec room. I needed to sit and put a pillow under my leg. I would give myself this one day to lie around. Tomorrow I would be back to business as usual. As much as I was able, anyway.

  I sat in a recliner and shoved a pillow under my leg; it was nice when even a simple plan came to fruition. “Ok, boys, lay it on me.”

  “I missed your face, Mic,” Flynn said before ruffling my hair and jumping out of my reach as quickly as he could. It was smart of him to wait until I was sitting down. I threw a remote at him, which he caught skillfully, of course. Damn the man.

  “Enough screwing around,” Jackson barked. Everyone stood up a little straighter. “We’ve done an inventory of your gear. Your pack is missing, Mic.”

  “I lost it after I got hit, before we ran into the jungle.” I pointed to Jordon and myself.

  “What were the contents?” Jackson was onto to something here, I could feel it.

  “The usual, plus the file from Liam with the Frenchie’s picture in it. I know it was a mistake to take it, but I needed the picture. There were a bunch of women there and the picture was poor quality and not in color. I thought we might need to reference it.” If Jackson’s face was any lighter, I think it would have flushed red. The men shuffled uncomfortably around me. Jackson’s anger was a sight to behold.

  “Jones has some thermal images to show you.” Jones dropped a file into my lap. I looked a question at Jackson before opening it but he gave nothing away. Inside were satellite images from the morning of the attack. They were time stamped shortly after Jordon and I made it into the jungle. There was a man standing in the courtyard with a few others around him. I flipped from one picture to the next. Someone handed the man a pack; in the next image the pack was on the ground and on the last image he was holding a file.

  “Fuck.”

  “You’re eloquent as usual, Michaels. What else was in that file?”

  “The picture and the note from Linc, telling us it was the Frenchie. That’s all.” Jackson had me worried. It wasn’t like him to act like this. He must be getting pressure from upstairs. “Where is Linc, anyway?”

  “He’s in the barracks, sleeping, Pierce chimed in. He was one of the few brave enough to interject anything when Jackson was pissed off. “Has been sleeping for almost a day now. The CIA is going to take him off our hands in the morning,”

  “There is no way that file can be traced back to us if that’s what you’re worried about, Master Sergeant.”

  “You better hope not, Mic, because Mateo’s son is completely unknown to us. We don’t know anything about him or what he’s capable of. You get today off, but I want you in my office at zero eight-hundred for a full debriefing.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Well, that went well, Mic,” Flynn said in typical Flynn style. “Anybody up for a beer?” Every hand shot up other than mine. No mixing booze with pain killers or antibiotics.

  ****

  Riley sat in his bunk, head in his hands. He’d just gotten off the phone with his mother. The news wasn’t good. She was Stage Four now, and even with insurance the treatments were incredibly expensive. He had already sent her every spare dollar he had. He didn’t know how they were going to pay for the medications and treatments she needed. He was all she had; his father had split before even knowing his Mom was pregnant with him. It had just been the two of them for all of his life. He couldn’t lose her. She had a decent shot if she was able to get the treatments. He would do whatever it took to ensure that she did. If he had to sell his kidney or borrow money from the mob, he would do it. There had to be a way.

  The phone that he had just hung up, lit up and played his Mom’s favorite song. It was a number he didn’t recognize but that didn’t mean much. It could be someone from the team.

  He swiped the green button. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end quickly outlined instructions.

  ****

  Diego shouldered his bag as he got off the plane at a small nondescript airport in the mountains. Why would anyone want to live here? He thought as he climbed into the waiting car. He wanted to keep his visit to this backwoods, redneck place as short as possible. It was good to have family ties in Mexico. The cartel there helped him get into the United States unnoticed.

  He settled back into the leather seat, crossing one ankle over the other as he pulled out the only thing remaining of his father’s legacy. His machete. The mansion had burnt to the ground, every priceless piece of art destroyed, every memory crumbled into ash. He ground his teeth together as he rubbed an oiled rag over the blade again and again; polishing it, refining it, worshiping it. The blade was nicked in places, but still sharp enough to cut bone when wielded with an experienced arm and his arm was very experienced. His hand molded to the grip, and squeezed and released it, over and over. He imagined the feel of the warm blood coating his hand, hitting his face and neck. He’d been suckled on the lives of his father’s enemies. No one outside of their most trusted circle even knew of his existence. His father kept his secret to protect him, to nurture him, and to groom him to take over.

  He had always known the day would come when he would take his father’s place, when he would need to fill his shoes; he had just never imagined it would come so soon or suddenly. The manner in which his father was murdered was not so different from many of the deaths he himself had ordered. In fact, it was a mercy compared to some of the tortures his father had commanded. Whole families had been wiped out; his father didn’t care.

  Diego was no different from his father, he was his pride and joy. He was just as smart and twice as ruthless. Not yet weakened by drugs or drink, Diego was a child of the cartel. Instead of school, he attended meetings and brokered drug deals; he learned the logistics of th
e skin trade and how to pick mules.

  He was also a child of the twenty-first century, he thought as he swiped his phone. There were endless ways to tap into the dark recesses of the internet and get the information you wanted. All you needed was a secure internet connection and a person with the skill and knowledge and, you could find anyone, anywhere. Tapping the screen, he read the message forwarded from his contact here in the States. The Mexican branch of their cartel had been gathering what little information was available on Steel for a few years now, trying to stay under the radar.

  Steel Corps was his target now; when he was done with them, they would be as nameless as their graves. It was a name he had heard before, whispered with trepidation during meetings, voices laced with fear; men had said they were unstoppable. They were a group that existed above others and below. Operating within their government, but outside of the law, they were a force of professionals, backed by nations and comprised of men who would stop at nothing to complete their missions. Led by a woman whom many scoffed at, Diego knew she was unlike any other. He remembered her eyes burning with intelligence and fierce determination, flashing brighter than the flames around her. He would deal with her personally; he knew from the bottom of his soul that she was the one who had wielded the knife that killed his father. He would force her to watch as he brought everything she loved and believed in, crashing to the ground. He would dismantle Steel Corps, one brick at a time, crushing each member below his heel.

  The phone number he needed was listed in the text message. Putting the secure phone to his ear, he made the call, relaying instructions that would bring Steel Corps to its knees.

  Hanging up, he gave Hector the directions to take them deeper into the mountains. Soon, blood would avenge blood. His father’s blade would again sing; it would once again drink of the lives of his enemies.

  Chapter 25

  Phillips was lying in bed, trying in vain to sleep. The Frenchie’s face would give him no peace. She was burrowed into his mind; he couldn’t let it go. Everything about this mission re-cemented his decision to leave. Right after dinner he had asked to speak with Jackson in private. He had followed Jackson to his cabin; had spoken the truth.

  “Master Sergeant, I can’t do this anymore.”

  “What do you mean, Phillips, can’t do what?” Even before he finished, Phillips could see that Jackson knew what he meant. He was going to make him spit it out, every painful word.

  “I can’t be Steel anymore. I want my new identity as soon as Mic is back on her feet.” Phillips forced himself to meet Jackson’s eyes. He respected the man too much not to.

  “Want to tell me why?” He sat, waving the Sergeant to take a seat across from him.

  “I can’t stop seeing their faces. I can’t sleep without seeing them. I nearly walked away from the Frenchie. That was the last one. I’m done Master Sergeant.” Phillips laid it all out.

  “I’ve been expecting this from you for some time now. I could see it was wearing on you, son. I will submit the paperwork to the President. Two weeks, Mic will be back to full duty. You have two weeks to tell them.”

  Jackson lit a cigar, offering one to him. Phillips declined with a shake of his head. “Thank you, Sir. Thank you for understanding.”

  “No need to thank me. It’s I who needs to thank you. You’ve served with honor and integrity for years. I wish you every happiness. If you ever need anything, you know where we are.” Jackson stood and extended his hand.

  Phillips shook it, grateful to be leaving, grateful to have been lucky enough to have been Steel. Elated to be leaving under his own steam and not in a bag. He didn’t want his star on that wall. He wanted a life beyond the death and blood.

  “Godspeed, Phillips.” Jackson clapped him on the back and shut his cabin door behind him.

  Now Phillips needed to find the right time to tell Mic. She would understand, as would the others. They had Jordon now. Jordon was young and fresh. Not yet marked or scarred by the missions. He hadn’t yet seen the absolute senseless cruelties that humanity can inflict upon one another.

  On his nightstand his phone went on full alert, interrupting his thoughts. The screen was lit up and flashing, sounding a tone that only meant one thing. The perimeter was breached.

  Jumping into clothes and shoes, Phillips was on full tilt, adrenaline rush flashing through his blood, his heart beating double time. In the years they had been here, never once had there been a true breach. The occasional drunken idiot had to be dealt with, but never had the guards sent out this alert. He strapped on his sidearm, palmed his phone, and hit his door running. Already pressing buttons, he alerted the rest of the team.

  Pulling up the security camera feed, he saw there were five men in the training yard. Just standing there. They seemed to be waiting for something. He was going to be the first one there.

  ****

  I jerked awake, instantly going on full alert at the tones coming from my phone. Thumbing across the screen, I watched my worst nightmare unfolding before my fucking eyes. Men on the training field, Phillips running out to meet them. Jones pinged the phone; I tapped to answer him, turning on the speaker and tossing my phone onto the bed. I stood as quickly as I could, kicking my crutches out of the way. I ignored my injury, sliding my legs into shorts as I barked at Jones.

  “Report. Now.”

  “Five men came in through the main gate. I’m in the hub. Phillips en route; Jordon, Flynn, and Pierce also en route.”

  “Who are the men? I need identification.”

  “Running facial recognition now. Two minutes.”

  “Make it less. I’m going out.”

  “Mic. Your leg.”

  “Fuck my leg. That is Mateo’s son. You know it, I know it. I’m going.” I swiped the screen, cutting Jones off mid-sentence.

  A second later, the phone rang again. I didn’t have time for this shit. I had to get out there. I had my M9 in hand, running out the door. I put the phone to my ear.

  “Mic, Jackson here. I’m with Jones. It’s Mateo’s son. We have a name. Diego Fernando. Only other ID we have is a Hector, no last name.”

  “Copy.” I stuck the phone in the pocket of my shorts. Running full out now, I could feel stitches popping and blood starting to ooze down my leg. I pushed it aside.

  ****

  Phillips hit the field at a sprint, not slowing, assessing threats on each side of him. The man in the center he took to be the leader, henchmen fanned out around him. He raised his weapon as he ran, firing into the dirt at their feet, trying to break them up. It didn’t work. They must fear their leader more than death. He was breaking from his training and protocol. He wasn’t sure he cared. The need to end this drove him forward.

  One man fired on him, the bullet catching him in the knee. He went down, pain hitting him like a hammer. Mateo closed the distance, not wasting even a second to get to him. He saw Flynn and Pierce arriving at the edge of the field, too late. Too damn late. Phillips saw his death coming, felt it with the jerk on his hair, forcing him to his knees.

  “Now, dog, you die,” the man growled near his ear. Showing him the shiny blade that would bring his death, he shoved the edge under his chin.

  Flynn and Pierce were screaming down on them. The coward behind him was using him as a shield as his men fell around him, the hot metal of bullets from the .45s ripping them apart. The shots from Flynn and Pierce echoed all around; the muzzle flashes sparking in the darkness.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was almost out; he was going to live a normal life. He was going to buy a little house somewhere and do normal things like mow the lawn and go to football games. His future was slipping through his fingers.

  ****

  I hit the field and the sight before me nearly stopped me in my tracks. Phillips was on his knees with a machete against his throat. Diego had tons of time to finish it but he was waiting until I arrived. I needed to witness it. I knew it as sure as I knew Phillips was about to die. I looked on; ru
nning, pumping my legs as fast as I could, knowing even as I ran, I would be too late.

  ****

  Jordon made it to the field in time to see Phillips being brought to his knees. Mic was ahead of him, going as fast as she could with her leg in the shape it was in. He could see the blood staining the bandage from here. Jordon was in range; he brought his M9 up just as Diego started to swing, started the motion to take Phillips’s head. Jordon fired, hearing the thump of the bullet hitting Diego in the arm. Too late; he was too damn late. One of Diego’s men who lay dying raised his weapon and shot at Jordon. Fire flared from his shoulder out; Jordon faltered as the pain intensified. He tripped over his own feet, the pain making him clumsy. Hitting his knees, he could do no more than look on in dread.

  Flynn saw the movement and the muzzle flash, firing where he saw the light, low near the ground. Flynn ended the man’s existence before he could that see his shot had been true. The screaming hot lead ripped the man’s face apart, exposing his cheek bone, his eye popping from its socket, before falling down onto what was left of his face.

  ****

  I saw Diego start to swing, using two hands like he was swinging for the fences and the bases were loaded. I heard a thump. I saw a bullet hit Diego’s arm, not slowing him, not stopping his momentum. Phillips closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. The blade bit into his neck, blood spraying out and flowing down his large chest, painting his shirt dark red, almost black. The blood was flat in the light from the full moon; not shining, not showing that it was a man’s life draining away.

  Diego pulled the blade out and swung back to finish the job, taking Phillips’s head off the rest of the way. The meaty thunk echoed back across the field and trees. Phillips’s head rolled a short distance away, his body slowing falling over, his heart pulsing the last of his blood into the grass before beating a final time. His legs twitched, feet pushing against the grass, as his nervous system realized it was cut off from the brain.

  I didn’t stop. I kept running at Diego. I wasn’t letting this bastard draw another breath if I could help it. His arm hung limp where Jordon had shot him, the machete grasped loosely in his fingers, slick with Phillips’s blood.