Then ... a scream that deafened sanity.
The world speeds back up and the noise is deafening. Everett is screaming.
I yell over it, and command calm, then try to move to help. My harness is locked. The mechanism is jammed. I’m strapped to the seat. I try to rip it, but it’s too strong.
My knife is in the leg side pocket of my flight suit. Wedging my leg in the space between the seat and the console, I stretch my arm down to the zipper. My fingers touch the edge of the metal and nimbly I gather the fabric, pushing the zipper open. I continue gathering more fabric with my fingers until I feel the cold metal of my revolver. I flip the snap and pull it from its holster. Quickly cock it, then return it and hunt my buck knife. By the time I pull it from its sheath, there is complete silence. Only the deep, even breathing of Everett fills my ears. I glance back and receive an affirmative nod. I cut the strap and free myself. Lay my fingers on Bradford’s neck. His jugular is quiet, confirming his death.
Exiting the vehicle, I quickly survey the danger. Looking around the empty area, I spot a burka running with what looks like an AK47. I move around the vehicle, assessing the damage while I hurry to Everett’s aid.
The roadside bomb was a singular hit.
We are immobile.
Trapped.
Stranded.
Alone.
I snatch hard on the damaged door and open it. Only the sound of heavy panting greets me as Everett, who is a seasoned soldier, controls the pain with deep measured intakes and exhales of breath, forcing control, knowing we must contain the situation if we are to get out of this alive.
"Bradford?"
"Dead."
"Fuck!"
I look down to find a badly mangled leg. Blood has saturated the flight suit. I can’t tell if it’s an artery or a vein. I talk softly while I take my knife and cut the fabric off. "It’s pretty bad, Easy, but it’s only a flesh wound. You’ll live, but you can’t move it." Our eyes briefly connect as I unzip my flight suit, and pull my arms out, letting it hang off my ass as I pull my t-shirt off. Both of us know that means target. I make a command decision. "Call it in and lay low. I’m going after the motherfucker. Shoot anyone who isn’t wearing an American uniform. That’s an order."
Everett nods.
I tie my t-shirt above the wound and cinch it tight, knowing the pressure is lifesaving. "Tourniquet. Just in case." I try to offer reassurance.
"I know. Go."
I turn toward the closest building as I pull my flight suit back on, estimate the time that has ticked off, the distance to it, the time it will take me to run there, and whether the motherfucker is hiding inside. As I reach into my pocket to retrieve my weapon, I hear Everett say in a voice just above a whisper. "Hard, my gun is jammed."
Without hesitation, I hand mine over. "Here. Take mine. That’s also an order."
I reach back in for my buck knife. As my fingers wrap around the handle, a feeling of calmness fills me. 'Hand to hand it will be then.' I pull it from its sheath, knowing all the years of training will give me the advantage. I see Augustus as I sprint to the building and hear the pride in his voice when he named me, The Bastard Son of Thor.
Entering the doorway, I slide quietly in. Checking the space for movement. Listening with the intensity of a hunter. Knowing my prey is close, but not knowing if the enemy is a lone wolf or a member of a pack. Every sense on high alert, I move from room to room. No one.
Climbing the steps to the first floor, I hear muffled voices coming from the room at the top. When I push open the bedroom door, a shocking sight awaits. Two women huddle together in the middle of the floor with one, two ... six small children lying face down. Their tiny faces hidden. Tiny hands over their ears. Only their sniffles can be heard. Along the wall to my right are three preteen boys standing at attention, but shaking with eyes bulging. Their faces full of fear.
'Only a coward would hide here.'
"Shush." I raise my finger to my lips and begin to back away, pulling the door closed, watching the eyes of the young boys. As they lose focus on me and see what’s behind the door, sheer terror fills their faces, then an automatic weapon begins spraying bullets. The women scream and fall over the children whose cries are more like wails. The young boys’ bodies fall to the floor and blood stains the wall behind them.
I kick the door open, driving it into the wall and thunder into the room with the ferocity of the roman heritage that pumps through my veins. Hell bent on securing not only Easy’s safety and the safety of the innocents but having my revenge for Bradford’s death. I charge the enemy as the gun sprays the room. He tries to control it and turn it on me, but I reach him first. My left-hand smashes into his throat while my right stabs the knife to the hilt directly in the ball of his shoulder. The gun drops to his side and sprays rounds into the floor. I drive my body into his with crushing power and yank the knife out. My choke hold pinches off the scream of pain and I lift the enemy combatant off the floor, feeling like a raging bear, needing to look him in the eye. Blood soaks the burka deep red and the sight is satisfying.
I stare ruthlessly at the red face of the murdering coward and see not a man, but a demon staring back. I can feel his jugular pounding to be free and remember the feeling of Bradford’s lifeless one. Laying the edge of my sharp blade against it, I slowly drag it across, using the edge of my thumb as a guide as my eyes pierce his evil eyes. As the blade slips through his skin, I watch them turn into the fearful eyes of a mortal man who knows death has arrived to claim him. I whisper his death name to him. "Motherfucker!" Then I slice his lifeline. Blood bursts forth with a velocity that shoots the ceiling, spraying it, painting it dark red.
Silence falls heavy, filling the room with a deafening sound. I hold my attack until there is no life left, then I nimbly flip the knife through my fingers and return it to its sheath in my pocket. Its job is done. As I release the murdering enemy combatant, I take the automatic weapon from his lifeless grip as the dead weight hits the floor with an echoing thud. I turn the gun on the innocent occupants, no one is moving. Silent eyes stare at me.
My cold eyes stares back.
Hard-Core.
