by J. B. Havens
A scream of rage tore itself from my throat. Time slowed to a crawl. I didn’t think to shoot him, it would be too quick of a death for him. I wanted him to suffer, I wanted him to feel ball shriveling fear. I wanted his throat to close; I wanted him to gasp, and I wanted him to beg.
I threw my body into his chest, putting my arm across his throat as we landed, knocking the breath from his lungs with my body and keeping him from drawing another. He lay there stunned as I sat on his chest, putting my full weight on his throat. I kept screaming, spit landing on his cheeks which were quickly turning red, then purple, as he struggled for breath. He swung up with his good arm, his punch catching me in the temple. I saw stars as pain exploded throughout my head. His solid, well aimed hit caused my arm to slip from his throat. I saw the next hit coming and blocked it, the blow numbing my arm.
I raised up on my knees and threw every ounce of strength I had into kneeing him in the solar plexus. Pain blew out from my leg, stealing my breath for a moment. Quickly, before he recovered, I punched him in the face, aiming for his nose where it would create the most pain. His nose crushed under my fist with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed out, splattering my face and neck, as I hit him again and again. I destroyed his face and my hands in the process. I reveled in the destruction before me.
His teeth gave way under my assault, cutting my knuckles, but still I hit him. I hit him over and over until my hand was a pulsing mess of pain and I couldn’t lift my arm anymore. His head was lolling back and forth; his eyes were swallowed by swelling, and blood bubbles emerged from his nose as he tried in vain to breathe. I braced my arm back over his throat, pressing down with all my weight. I could feel his esophagus start to give under the pressure.
“Die! You fucker!” I screamed it into his face, my voice echoing and bouncing through the night.
His hand was thumping against the ground, reaching, grasping for the machete just out of reach. His fingertips touched it, knocking it farther away. I grabbed the handle with my free hand and watched the knowledge of his death wash into his face.
“Now, you die. You die at my hands for your sins. You die tonight in the company of your betters. You forfeit your life; may your soul forever burn in Hell. Tell your father… I send my regards.” With no hesitation, I shoved the blade through the side of his throat, his gurgle sounding the same as his father’s. The blood washed across my hand in the same warm stickiness. I ripped the blade out, exposing the inside of his throat and neck, the blood spraying out, slapping my chest.
I stood, Diego’s warm blood rapidly cooling on my skin, dripping down the blade, and falling off the tip a single drop at a time. I was hyper-aware of my surroundings, each footfall of my men sounding like thunder. The adrenaline didn’t slow; it kept pumping though me, casting the field around me into bright colors and rushing bodies. Guards were running everywhere, trying to set up a secure perimeter. Jackson was in front of me now, shouting at me, shaking me, but I wasn’t listening. I brushed him aside and stepped carefully across the grass to the men huddled around a single prone figure.
One of Diego’s men was still alive. I would drag him into our soundproof room and carve Phillips’s name into every inch of his body, until he told me what I wanted to know. I pushed Flynn aside. He started to protest until he saw my face. Holding his hands up, he stepped back and let me pass, quickly flanking me, guarding my back. Pierce fell in beside him, two sides of the same coin.
I squatted near the man’s head, wiping the machete blade on his shirt. “Talk. Now.” He gulped and shook his head ‘no’. “Tell me how you found us. Now. Or I start carving pieces off of you. You will beg for death. Speak and I will end you quickly. Keep silent and I will torture you for days.” Jackson would never allow it, but this man didn’t know that. I let my face show how very much I wanted him to keep silent, how very much I would enjoy carving him into little pieces while he was still alive.
“Diego…called someone.” He coughed up some blood. He was bleeding internally, dying by inches. “Riley; I heard him say Riley. That’s all I know…por favor.” He closed his eyes and turned his head away from me. I drew the blade across his throat, killing him quickly, just as I had promised.
Chapter 26
I strode away from them all and walked off into the darkness. Riley. Riley did this; Riley gave us up. I paced back and forth, twisting and swinging the machete as I circled.
When? When did Riley do this? Why? Why would he give them up, risk his life for that fucking scum Diego?
Dropping the machete into the dirt of the track, I ran back to the men.
“Jones, I need everything you can get me on Riley.” He nodded and jogged off, back to the hangar and the hub.
“Flynn, Pierce, find him. Fucking now.” They too nodded and jogged off. Only Jackson was left.
“Jordon?” I didn’t need to say more than that; Jackson knew what I was asking. Phillips would normally be giving me a status report on him, minute-by-minute, but Phillips wouldn’t be doing anything ever again. Phillips was dead; and as far as I was concerned, so was Riley.
“He’s stable. He was hit in the shoulder. Through and through. He’s going to be fine.”
“Good. That’s good.” I started to rub my hand through my short hair, but stopped myself in time, my hands were dark reddish brown and getting tacky.
“Mic, you’re in shock. You don’t even feel your leg do you?” He pointed at the blood-soaked bandage wrapping my leg. I looked down and for the first time since my phone went off I gave any thought to my leg. I shrugged and waved his concern away.
“I’m sure. Whatever. I don’t fucking care right now. I need Riley in front of me.” I heard shouting and turned to see Flynn and Pierce carrying someone.
“What fucking now?” I shouted, as I ran out to meet them, the throbbing in my leg making itself known. The shock and adrenaline were wearing off.
“It’s Riley. We found him on the ground next to the guard shack. The other two guards are dead,” Flynn said, breathless. He and Pierce set him down in front of me, laying him down on his back against the damp grass.
He held both hands tight against his stomach, blood seeping out between his fingers. He was pale and sweaty; the blood was dark, too dark. He was more than stabbed; he was gutted.
“Riley, tell me. What happened here?” I swept my hand around, encompassing the field and its decorations of bodies, to him and his guts slowing squishing out around his hand.
“It was me, Mic,” He choked and coughed, blood leaking out the side of his mouth. “Diego called me; my mom… she’s sick. Needed money. I took it.” He was shaking, quivering with pain and shame. “Didn’t know….I swear… didn’t know what he would do.” More coughing, more blood. “Sorry... so sorry. My mom… please… help her.”
“What happened to you?” I asked gently, gripping his blood coated hand.
“Diego… gutted me… machete. Said…” He was coughing so hard this time, so hard he lost his breath. “Said… I was a traitor… deserved a traitor’s death. Please, Mic. My mom…” He gasped, struggling to draw air with an injured diaphragm. His eyes went wide as he stiffened and drew his last breath, the air leaving him in a slow hiss. His hand went slack in mine. I dropped my forehead to our still joined hands, unknowingly smearing blood all over my face.
I looked up at the men gathered around us, their faces as grim as my own. Jordon was standing, brushing aside the assistance of a medic. Someone had called one of the locals in, since our medic was dead.
“Mic. God, Mic.” Jordon fell to his knees beside me. He brushed his hand down Riley’s face, closing his eyes. His hand fell onto my shoulder, supporting me. Looking at the faces of my men, I knew they would support me no matter what I decided to do.
“Find his mother. Give her whatever she needs. Tell her… tell her that her son died a hero.” The words stuck in my throat; Riley was no hero. Not every man who died wearing a uniform was. This one wasn’t; he was just a stupid kid, trying to do t
he best he knew for his mom. If he had come to us, we would have helped her, same as we were doing now.
“Pierce,” I said. He stepped forward.
“I’m here, Mic, tell me what you need.” His voice was flat and devoid of emotion; Phillips was his friend. He was the closest to him out of all of us. Pierce was sometimes the bridge between each of us; connecting us, and keeping us grounded to one another.
“Go to Jones; tell him to find the breach in our security system. I want it fixed ASAP.” I stood, wiping my hands on my shorts. I met Jackson’s eyes. He was guarded; there was something more at play here, something more bothering him. He would tell me in time, when he was ready.
My leg was only just holding my weight. I would need all the stiches re-done; I was sure. This also meant even more down time for me, but I wouldn’t think of that now. There was still too much to do. All the bodies needed policing, we had ways of taking care of them. Jackson was walking on, phone to his ear; no doubt he was already taking care of it. Flynn had the local medic pulled aside, telling him to keep his mouth shut under pain of death. Pierce was staring at the two sheet-covered lumps that represented all that was left of Phillips.
When did someone cover him?
I was in shock for sure, losing time. Spacing out. I needed to sit down; I needed my leg attended to, but I couldn’t look away from the sheet-shrouded body. I couldn’t drag my eyes from the empty shell that once housed one of the finest men that I had ever served with.
“Mic.” Jordon’s voice dragged me back, back into the moonlit night. “Mic, come on. Let’s take care of your leg.” Jordon wrapped his good arm around me, helping me limp over to the hangar and the waiting medic. “Mic, breathe for me. It’s ok. We’re here with you.”
I sat in a chair, propping my leg up when asked. The medic used gloved hands to un-wrap my blood-soaked bandage, tisking at me when he saw the damage I had done to myself. Both bullet wounds had reopened completely; blood was freely flowing down my calf and puddling in my shoe.
“Fucking great. These were new.” I threw a blood soaked shoe as far as I could across the hangar; the action doing little to relieve the rage and helplessness I was feeling.
“Mic.” Jordon was speaking, but I wasn’t listening. I was staring at the blood on my hands. I needed a shower, stitches or what-the-fuck-ever, be damned.
“Jordon, ask Jackson to call that doctor, the doctor from Miami. Let him fix us up. He’ll fly in. We need a new resident doctor, and I’m nominating him.” I flinched at whatever the medic was doing to my leg. I wasn’t paying any attention to him. As long as I could walk on it, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.
“Hurry up, get the blood stopped. I need to get moving,” I snapped at the medic. He was already pale, dealing with things way beyond his experience in the rural area in which we resided.
“Mic, for fucks sake, give the kid a break,” Jordon snapped at me. I wasn’t the only one feeling the strain tonight. His arm was in a sling, most of his shirt cut away, showing an already bloody bandage.
“What? Got a problem boy-o?” I glared at him, daring him with my eyes to say something.
“You know what, you’re not the only one in shock here. You’re not the only one who lost a friend,” Jordon shouted before walking out of the hangar.
I sat there watching the young volunteer medic wrap my leg. I spaced out, still feeling the handle of the machete under my hand, feeling the blood yet again flow over my skin. So much death tonight, so much sorrow. I swallowed it down; I would break down later. Right now my men needed me. They needed me to rally them, to tell them we would go on. It was how we would honor Phillips. We would go on missions, we would succeed, and we would come back whole.
Chapter 27
Two weeks later
Josiah Keen finished putting the last of the inventory on the shelf. Organizing books by author and genre might not be the most glamorous of jobs, but it was a decent one. He was lucky; he got to spend all day with books and the people who loved them.
Closing and locking the door, Josiah rolled up his sleeves and began the short walk home. He enjoyed the benefits of living in a small town in upstate New York where most things were within walking distance of his small studio apartment located over a bakery.
First, he had some errands to take care of. The jingle of the bell on the bank door was a cheerful sound in the otherwise quiet space.
“Evening, Josiah. Bringing the deposit for the night?” The kind elderly man behind the counter greeted him with a smile and hand shake, same as every Friday.
“Sure am, Bill. I also want to take care of my account,” Josiah said, sliding the deposit bag and his own pay-check across the counter.
“Of course, son. Just a moment and we’ll have you home and out of this awful heat.” Bill took the money from the bag and set it aside before writing on Josiah’s check. He gave Josiah some cash and a slip with his account balance.
“I really appreciate you staying open like this for me, Bill. Thanks again,” He said kindly.
“Always a pleasure, son.” Bill followed Josiah to the door, locking it behind him.
Josiah unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white business shirt; the heat was making the material stick to his skin. A cold shower was in order as soon as he got home.
But first, one more stop.
The small store was nearing closing time. The only businesses that would be open tonight were the theater and the café.
Ah, small town America.
Another friendly jingle greeted him as he opened the door. This would be a quick stop, he knew just what he wanted.
“Hello, Sandy,” he said, as he placed his Hershey Bar on the counter. He bought one every Friday. His one treat to himself.
“Hello, Josiah. This everything for you?” She asked as she rang it up.
“Yes, Sandy. Thank you.” He paid her and left with his prize. He felt like a little kid every time. Sheer joy at such a simple thing.
He continued on his way home, opening his chocolate and eating it before it melted in the heat.
Bliss exploded on his tongue with the first bite, the soft chocolate coating his mouth with creamy sweetness.
So bloody good. Most fab thing about America… the chocolate.
He thought to himself as he licked his long fingers clean.
****
I sat in Jackson’s cabin, looking at the stacks of files scattered on the coffee table. Jackson had his cigar and bourbon. I finally allowed myself a beer, the cold, thick creaminess of the Guinness coating my throat and warming my belly.
My leg was on the mend, wrapped still, but healing well. It would be a few more weeks until I could run faster than an old lady but I was grateful I had the leg at all. A few days after the night Phillips died, I spiked a fever and had to be treated for a secondary infection. Dr. Derek Hamilton lived on the compound with us now, as much a part of the team as any of us. He would never replace Phillips in the field, but he agreed to go with us on missions and, to be available on the jet for any care we needed. He had commissioned some add-ons to the jet’s galley, outfitting it for better on-site medical care. It was a prefect arrangement for the confirmed bachelor.
These files were the jackets on current service members that Jackson deemed worthy of a shot at Steel. This time around, he was letting me help choose our new guy. The files were organized by branch of the military and rank. I didn’t want anyone lower than a Corporal or equivalent. Whoever we chose also needed to have advanced medical combat training. I needed a new Sergeant, so Jackson and I had agreed to promote Pierce. Flynn was upset; it was the first time one of them was given a higher rank, and not the other. Jones was a Sergeant, but he had no interest in being my second in command. We’d see who we brought in and maybe bump Flynn up then. Pierce was having a great time strutting around, giving Flynn orders, and making him do push-ups whenever the mood struck him.
We should have gotten a new member in before this, but none of us coul
d bear to even think of it. The loss of Phillips was one we all felt acutely, both personally and professionally. He would be nearly impossible to replace.
I pushed five folders to Jackson. “I like these guys. One of these guys is in the 101st Airborne. Another has commendations for bravery and selfless service.” He took the folders from me and put them aside without even looking at them. “If you aren’t going to take my recommendations into account, then why am I here?”
“I have one that I really like. But I need to tell you a few things first.” He tapped the ash from his cigar into his green ash tray. I would forever associate the pungent scent of cigar smoke with Jackson. He crossed one ankle over his other knee.
“What is it?” I sat back also, sensing that I was not going to like this conversation.
“It’s about Phillips.” He reached over and handed me a letter. Seeing the Presidential seal at the top, I began to read.
Dear Mr. President,
This letter is to inform you that Sergeant Andrew Phillips, has tendered his official resignation from Steel Crops. He is requesting his agreed upon final pay and benefits. He thanks you for the opportunity that he has been given. He has served with the utmost honor and integrity but would like to move on to the next chapter of his life.
Yours most sincerely,
Master Sergeant F. Jackson, Steel Corps Commander.
“I don’t know what to say. He was leaving us? But didn’t tell me?” I looked at the letter again; it was dated the day he died. “Oh, I see. He didn’t get a chance to tell me. Why are you telling me this now?” I looked up from the letter and found myself startled by the anguish plain on Jackson’s face.
“That letter makes his death so much worse. He was moving on, wanted a normal life. Just when he got the courage to reach for something better, it was snatched from his grasp.” Jackson slammed his fist on the table, knocking his ash tray to the floor, ashes puffing into the air in a dense cloud.
