Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus Page 5

  He keyed his mic again. “Karakura, have you found them?”

  There was a momentary pause over the airwaves, and Ahmed heard what sounded like the pounding of boots and heavy, labored breaths coming from the other end. Then the man called Karakura, named after a Turkish demon, answered, breathing heavily, “Viper…we are heading for the sorting room…we think…they may have ducked inside…trying to escape.”

  “Do not let them elude us, is that understood?” Ahmed said with a little bit of a bite at the end. He would not go back to Wolf empty-handed.

  “We won’t,” Karakura confidently answered. “They are unarmed and scared. We will find them. Do not worry, my friend.”

  Ahmed liked the certainty in the man’s voice—not a hint of doubt.

  He signed off, bringing his attention back to his own whereabouts. He stood over the body of an airport security guard. The local had been shot twice in the chest by one of his men and was slumped against the mangled ATM. The poorly trained guard was trying to use it for cover, but their high caliber rounds pierced without issue.

  Ahmed stepped over a bloodied body seeing that the victim was a civilian and not a member of the opposing force. The man had tried to grab some of the Dinar being spewed by the machine. Fool.

  A groan sounded from behind the machine, alerting Ahmed—the Viper. Like his namesake, he quietly slid to the other side of the ATM, moving like a ghost. What he found reminded him of his boss, the American. The voice’s owner was lying prone in a pool of blood and money. He looked down at the pathetic man, watching his life drain away little-by-little.

  Feeling a small amount of pity for the man, Ahmed turned away to let him die in peace. He had no quarrel with him, this was just business. He and his men were killers, yes, but they weren’t monsters. As he began to turn, he quickly noticed the dying security officer raise a pistol towards him. Pain was clearly etched across the guard’s face at the effort of holding the weapon steady. It wasn’t an easy endeavor while you slowly bled out.

  Ahmed kicked the weapon from the man’s hand and drew his own sidearm, aiming it. Without even blinking, the Viper pulled the trigger, sending a .45 caliber bullet straight through the bleeding man’s forehead, killing him instantly.

  The assassin holstered his gun and turned, leaving the carnage behind. Karakura would see to the rest while he prepared for the next stage of their plan.

  10

  Nine iron in hand, I lead us off the belt system and down to ground level where travel will be quicker. My goal is to skirt around the men trying to kill us and get Dad and me to safety. The golf clubs are a contingency plan just in case we have to fight back. I hope to hell we won’t have too. I can’t imagine a scenario where a set of Pings can outdo a bullet.

  “Stay low and follow me,” I whisper. “Oh, and try to keep up, I’m not slowing down.”

  Dad looks terrified, like he’s about to mess himself. I can’t blame him either. I’m not doing much better, but at least I’m holding it together. How? Easy… Because I have to.

  We tiptoe behind some of the bulky machines, making our way towards the back doors.

  Having no real plan, I look at the various buttons and levers, trying to put one together. What I come up with is that they’re a type of large instrument panel or control station. I hold my hand up, telling Dad to wait, and flip open an important looking cover. The lightning bolt on the lid tells me it’s the main power breaker for this section of conveyors. I also notice that it has a set of manual override switches.

  Like in Jurassic Park, I think. Then I get an idea.

  “Diversion,” I say to myself

  “Diversion?” Dad asks, hearing me.

  “I’m going to throw the override switch for this section. Everything will turn on and draw our friends over. While they come this way to check it out, we’ll circle around the other way and do our best to avoid them. All we need to do is find a safe route out to the tarmac and signal for help. There has to be a bevy of police and emergency vehicles out there by now.” I look over for some sign of agreement. “Sound like a plan?”

  Dad shrugs. “I don’t like it, but it’s better than anything I can come up with.”

  “Good,” I say. “Let’s tee it up and stay out of the rough.”

  “Are you about done with the golf jokes?” Dad hisses, trying to keep his voice down.

  “Almost, but I’ve got a few more in the bunker for later just in case.”

  Dad rubs his forehead like he’s warding off a migraine. Or maybe he’s just trying to process my humor into a version his brain can handle. “Any more of this and I’m going to beg to be shot and taken out of my misery.”

  I’m about to comment, but get cut off.

  “Dammit, just flick the switch already, will you?” Dad growls.

  I give him a toothy smile and activate the manual override system, flipping on the big red switch. This quarter of the room blinks to life with a cacophony of lights and sounds. The overhead conveyor belts whirl to life, as do the large fluorescent ballasts hanging from the utilitarian ceiling.

  Shouts from across the room spur us into action as we duck around a corner and head into an unlit section of the room and wait. The only problem with my plan is exactly what I hoped didn’t happen. I hear the shooters agree on a plan of their own.

  “Split up and stay quiet,” One of them says, Dad once again translating for me. “They’re unarmed. If they don’t come willingly, shoot him in the leg, and we’ll drag him out.”

  Damn, I think.

  “What of the son?” another asks.

  I get the answer that makes me almost piss myself.

  “Kill him. We only need the old man.”

  Double damn.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder that awakens me from my stupor.

  “Now what?” Dad asks in a hushed tone.

  I try to think, but nothing new comes to mind. “Same plan, but this time if we run into anyone swing away and don’t miss.”

  I’m surprised when he says nothing, but nods in agreement, gripping his club handle tighter. He knows the stakes as well as I do. If we don’t succeed, I’m dead, and he’s in a whole heap of trouble.

  I jab a thumb over my shoulder, and we set off—away from the newly awoken machines. We zigzag our way through without following any kind of path. The only constant is that we are moving toward the facility’s outer doors and away from the gunmen.

  Terrified I’m about to die and not thinking, I rush around a corner and come face to face with a man dressed in black-on-black military gear. It matches nicely with the easily recognizable Soviet-made Kalashnikov. Oh, and the AK-47 is pointed at my face. I yelp and bring up my club in a skyward arc, trying at the very least to disarm the man.

  He blocks my attack and rams the stock of the rifle into my gut, sending me to my knees. While I gasp for air I’m hot again, but this time in the face, falling fully to the ground. Then…I wait for death but instead hear a shout and a thwack. It’s followed by a wet splat and a thump. I look up and see Dad standing over the still man with a killer glare. I also see his broken five wood, blood dripping from its face.

  It’s only when I look at the man lying on the ground behind me that I see the damage. His face is a mess of blood and gore. His nose was driven into his face with such force that it looks like a cheap B-rate Halloween mask.

  “What…happened?” I ask in a shaky breath.

  Dad bends down and helps me up.

  “You went around the corner before me, and evidently he didn’t see me. When he hit you the second time, I popped out and swung as hard as I could.”

  I look back down at the blood-soaked scene.

  “You obviously didn’t miss, did you?”

  He gives a shoulder shrug as if to say, “Guess not.” Then, he looks away from me almost embarrassed.

  “What?”

  He stammers and then answers. “I may or may not have closed my eyes.”

  I pale a little but slap my dad
on the shoulder.

  “Well, at least you made solid contact. But, in the future, can you please keep your eyes on the target.” I grip his shoulder tighter. “Especially when it’s holding an assault rifle?”

  He nods and then motions to the man in black. “You think he’s still alive?”

  “Not sure honestly, but he’s down for the count either way.”

  “I just…” he starts, his eyes starting to glisten with tears. “I just never killed a man be—”

  We get interrupted by a shout in Arabic.

  “Where’s Ghazi?” a voice asks. It sounds like it’s still over by the original entry point.

  “He went around the corner a few rows over but never came back,” replies another man.

  This one, on the other hand, sounds extremely close, maybe a row or two away from our current position.

  “Go check on him and report back to me,” orders the first man.

  Great… Just great.

  I grab another club for Dad, this time a three wood and hand it to him.

  “Here,” I say. “Let’s try to be a little more careful, shall we?”

  “You’re one to talk,” Dad retorts. “You blew around that corner like you were walking into the kitchen at home. Some people want you dead, and you didn’t even slow down to check to see if a man with a gun was standing there waiting for you. That’s even more reckless than you normally are.”

  Okay, he got me there. I was so focused on not dying that I almost got myself killed. Irony at its finest. If Dad hadn’t been there, I’d be a corpse right now.

  “You’re right, sorry.”

  “Son, it’s fine,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Just please be more careful, for both our sakes.”

  I nod and head off again, slowing as I reach another turn. This one is clear but squeezes us in tighter as we go until we have to travel single file, barely scraping through. But we continue on, moving forward another thirty, or so, feet.

  A barrage of bullets rip into the metal around us and send us sprawling to the ground. Dad recovers first, getting to his feet quickly, his body obviously not as beat to hell as mine.

  Another man rounds a panel and brings his gun up—another AK-47 from the looks of it. Dad swings but misses. While typically missing the assault rifle-wielding jerkoff would be a bad thing, his momentum sends him stumbling right into the guy. They get tangled up long enough for me to get to my feet and bring up my iron. I swing it as hard as I can like it’s a baseball bat and smash the back of the guy’s left hand, shattering it and sending the gun flying. The attacker screams in agony, but it's short-lived. He bends over and feigns like he’s dropping to one knee, but instead brings up some kind of pistol in his other hand.

  Before he can stand fully erect and shoot the both of us, I heft the iron high over my head and bring it down, blade first, like I’m chopping wood. I connect with the back of the man’s neck, audibly breaking it, severing his spine. The mercenary is dead on his feet, dropping in a heap on top of Dad as I drop the busted club. I look down at my hands with full comprehension that I just killed this man.

  Dad struggles out from beneath the limp body but eventually stands, softly putting a hand on my shoulder. He speaks, but I don’t actually hear him. The only thing I do hear is something about “not having a choice” and “he would have killed you,” but all I feel is anger. Pure unadulterated rage.

  I pull away from the soothing touch of a father and draw my most dangerous club…my putter.

  I face my dad and see his confused look as I bring up the club, squeezing it until my fingers turn white. I then remove the golf bag from my shoulder, opting for quicker footing. Dad’s just standing there, waiting for me to say something. I’m sure he sees the clumpy short shafted club as a joke.

  “Steel shaft—zero flex,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to kill him. I’m going to beat the living shit out of him and get some answers.”

  I turn, but stop and look over my shoulder. Dad’s eyes are still wide, like a deer in the headlights. I grip the club again. “Grab your balls and follow me. We’re finishing this.”

  11

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be carrying this thing,” Dad says, staring down at the weapon he now possesses. “Number one, I’m a terrible shot and number two…it’s a damned assault rifle, not the pea shooter we have back home!”

  I slug him in the shoulder, getting his attention off the weapon we just pilfered off the man I killed. “Keep the safety on and point it at the bad guy. You’re not going to need to shoot the bastard, just make him think you are.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he answers. “When he sees the two of us he’s automatically going to react like I’m the real threat.” He glances to my weapon of choice. “Honestly, he’s going to see that, laugh, and then shoot us both.”

  “Dad, calm down! He’s not going to shoot you. He might try, but I’m not going to let him.”

  “Thanks, Tiger, that’s comforting coming from a guy with only a putter in his hands.”

  I laugh at Dad’s sudden mood change. Normally the guy has a bug up his butt twenty-four-seven. He generally reacts with annoyance-tinged anger, but now he’s acting like something closer to the way I would act—am acting—in a situation like this.

  It’s gotta be the stress of everything going on, I think. I hope when all is said-and-done he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown or something.

  Gripping the club, I refocus and imagine the lashing this asshole is going to get.

  I turn and face Dad. “It’s all I’ll need. Let’s go.”

  In near silence, we approach the last area that we heard the third man speaking—the one giving the orders. There are a few more panels and workstations in front of a clearing, giving us some more cover to work with. The last man standing, so to speak, is about twenty feet from the group of machines we now hide behind.

  The space adjacent to us holds the door the attackers entered.

  If all goes well, it’ll be our escape route too.

  I put my finger to my lips and face Dad, mouthing the word, “Wait.”

  I peek out from behind our hiding spot and see a man standing in the doorway, pistol at the ready, not taking any chances. No AK? I think with a little more hope now and pull back, quickly forming a horrible, but a possibly successful plan.

  Tink. Tink. Tink.

  The gunman looks over and sees the Titleist golf ball I just tossed to him. It gently rolls to a stop a few feet from where he stands, causing one of the man’s eyebrows to raise in confusion. Then I step out, really confounding the man.

  I must look absolutely ridiculous. I have the putter over my shoulder, twirling it like an umbrella while singing in the rain. My wardrobe continues with my pant legs being hitched up around my knees looking like a pair knickers. Oh, and I’m wearing Dad’s cardigan too.

  Thankfully the man does nothing, seeing me step out from one side of the paneling without a care in the world. Putting on a show, I pretend I’m strolling through a luxurious country club just looking for my lost ball.

  Not that my bloodied clothes and beaten face would permit me into any of those fine establishments right now.

  I look over at him, and in the most pretentious British accent I can come up with, I say, “Oh, my young man, you found my ball! I was trying to play through and seem to have gotten turned around. Do you know where the twelfth fairway is?”

  The killer just stares at me blankly, as confused as ever.

  Well, at least I haven’t been shot, I think.

  “English?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Great,” I mutter.

  Plan-B, I guess.

  I clear my throat, and in the same waspy voice, I call for help. “Oh William, can you come out here please?”

  Dad steps out from the other side of the cover, AK-47 at the ready. He looks terrified, but puts on his best big boy face, trying desperately not to faint.

  I watch
as the gunman is about to swing his gun towards Dad, but he beats him to the punch and yells something in Arabic. The man halts his aim but doesn’t lower his weapon. Dad continues on in Arabic again, this time with a little more gusto behind it. He gestures to the concrete floor as if to tell the man to put down his gun.

  Nothing happens. The gunman just stares at Dad.

  Then, it happens.

  The black-clad man brings up his gun and squeezes off a few rounds at Dad, nearly hitting him. Luckily, we thought could happen and planned accordingly, just in case.

  Reacting on instinct, Dad quickly flicks off the safety and dives to the side, pulling the trigger.

  Now, I wouldn’t recommend doing this. It’s not like in the movies where Schwarzenegger and Stallone can fire a perfect burst of projectiles towards a target while they’re airborne. Those guys could probably knit a sweater and bake an apple pie in mid-air too if the director wanted it badly enough. This is real life, however, and is only being used as a diversion.

  I charge as Dad fires, hoping he doesn’t accidentally shoot me in the process. Fighting this guy with a bullet in my spine wouldn’t exactly work out. I’m at a full sprint when I get a gun leveled at my head, but I’m not there when the trigger is pulled. I’ve gone into a takeout slide, making a beeline for the gunman’s legs. It’s the same move I’d use if I were making the final dash for home plate or trying to knock the ball loose while going into second base. My high school coach would have been proud.

  He tries to readjust his aim but doesn’t get the chance. I swing up and with just enough oomph and hit his gun, sending it sailing somewhere behind me. Then, my forward momentum does the rest, and I slam into his lower half, taking him down to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  We roll a few times before he lands on top of me and immediately begins to try and pummel me. He lands a few really good body shots as I block my face, but they’re to no avail. What can I say? I stay in shape. I flex and take two more punches to the solar plexus, realizing that if he keeps this up, I’m going to be peeing blood for a week.