by Gabi Moore
My heart dropped into my stomach, and I watched as Joel dove toward the grenade. He tried to cover the blast up with his body or kick it out of the way if there was enough time. I knew there wouldn’t be enough time to manage and when I saw Joel head over toward the grenade, I knew that it would be the last time that I saw him alive.
Heroes are different than humanitarians, or at least, they are not always the same thing.
When the grenade went off, the three men were blasted with a spray of blood from Joel’s now shattered body. The life was gone from his body, but what was shocking was that the explosion was sequenced and much larger than I had anticipated. A series of explosions went off near the central pillar, as though coming from within the pillar itself.
I watched as the lights of the explosion illuminated the entire room, sending scatter shots of marble and concrete into the air around us. The three men attached to the pillar didn’t have a prayer of survival. There was only one thought in my mind, and it wasn’t even my own survival or the safety of the team.
Why? was all my mind was able to articulate.
I couldn’t understand why the terrorists would eliminate the hostages.
The chaos of the explosion knocked the remaining members of the team into the wall closest to the stairwell. We were losing ground and our composure.
While we were caught off balance, the remaining members of the terrorist team came down the stairs and opened fire. They were walking into a pincer attack, but unfortunately for our team, the firefight ended up causing casualties on both sides through friendly fire, as well as through enemy engagement.
As much as I don't like to say it, our training went out the window in the height of that emotionally volatile situation. We lost our cool and opened fire. The results of our actions were a series of loud explosions erupting from the barrels of our weapons.
Following the gun blasts, there was also the sound of blood splattering on the wall. There were cries that rose into the air while the bodies were falling down to the floor.
I thought about the two women and the child in the basement. I prayed that they would find some way to escape and that they would stay well out of the way of the firefight.
The terrorist group continued to pour down the stairwell, and we were overwhelmed by their numbers.
When considering the general theme of the events to follow, I can only imagine how much more valuable it would've been to be consciously responsive, instead of instinctually operative.
There's a certain type of movement that takes place when the body reaches a peak state of arousal. Time tends to stop, and all actions around me become slow motion. I can only attribute this to the endless amount of training that I performed as a SEAL operative. The trance state saved my life to be sure, but I can’t help but wonder if things would have ended up differently if we had all retained a bit more control of our awareness.
Both bodies and shell casings hit the floor, and I was in a state of meditative purity. Only two people were standing at the end of this second assault. One other operative from the team and myself are eliminated the entire terrorist threat. The initial threat had been eliminated, the casualties were great, but the conflict was not over.
The remaining soldier and I turned to see the door first floor burst open, revealing a SWAT Team of Italian Police Officers.
The SWAT Team wasted no time in making immediate snap decisions about who we were, and why we were in the building.
We didn't have jurisdiction here, and this project was an off-the-record situation. As a result, there could be no way for us to maintain our cover while engaging with the police. We were caught in a bad place, without any of the options available that would have alleviated the impending conflict.
Both the remaining teammate and I were fluent in Italian. Realizing that the situation did not look good, and would not look any better in the near future, my teammate called out in Italian. He tried to address the police directly. To share with them why we were on the premises, and to assure them that we were not in fact a threat.
The police were not interested in anything we had to say. They commanded that we drop our weapons.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some movement on the upper platforms of the stairwell. One of the remaining terrorists was alive and was raising a weapon toward the only remaining member of my team.
Without thinking, I turned around, aimed, and fired. My snap decision brought the terrorist ground. His body slumped down the stairwell, leaving me to passively listen to the police yell, and raise their own weapons into the air. Another shot went off before the police could fire; the sound had come from our side of the room.
In the face of an aggressive Italian SWAT Team, my teammate had opted to fire first, before being fired upon. In retrospect, I don’t blame him. In all reality, that decision of his probably saved my life.
We were all caught up in a situation that we didn't have any control over. There was no way that we could've known the hostages would be used as a decoy; as a mere explosive spectacle to flag the SWAT Team. There was no way we could've known that the police would be present to arrive at the situation so quickly. There is no way we could have known how many hostages were present, or how many opponents were within the stairwell. We did the best that we could given the situation, but when push comes to shove, our intel was wrong. What we could not have known was no longer relevant. The only things that remained relevant were the conflagration of circumstances which brought me into amnesia. I was the last man of my team, turning tail and running, with an Italian SWAT Team hot on my trail.
I sprinted up the stairwell, keeping an eye out for anyone that might be there in my past, but they were already dead. When I got to the top floor, I burst through the opening on the roof. Realizing that there was only one exit from this point I sprinted toward the edge closest to the dock.
My only hope was that I would be able to dive into the water below. Obviously, I didn't make it all away. As luck would have it, the bullet that found its way toward me only grazed the side of my skull. Flying through the air in a semiconscious state, my body met the water.
After that moment, all I knew was silence.
With my mind clear, I was able to go into the next room and sit down to share my newfound awareness with the old man who had rescued me.
I took a deep breath and looked at him from across the table. It was obvious that he was worn. He appeared both meditative, and under high levels of stress. His eyes were fixated on the bag which is daughter had left in his keeping.
I wasn't certain how much information to share with him, and how much information I should keep to myself.
I decided to air on the side of caution.
Chapter 6 - Tyler
"If the police are after me,” I began, “and you thought that I was responsible for the lives of those men and for the current whereabouts of those women and that child, then why did you let me live?"
My hands were folded on the table, and I made direct eye contact with him. I had to know where he stood on the matter before moving forward in any capacity.
"Let's just say I don't always agree with the story that's provided to me by the police. Besides, if I wanted you in prison, all I had to do was inform the police of your whereabouts, which wouldn't have been too much of a problem. Even if you had killed me, the chances of you getting off this island without police awareness are slim to none."
The man laughed.
I figured that he was some kind of manic conspiracy theorist, but then I thought about the situation more thoroughly. It seemed likely that his intuition was correct. He hadn’t turned me in, and had I killed him, I would have been an amnesiac in a lot of trouble. I woke up at no idea where I was at, or what was going on in the world around me. I could've figured it out. I'm sure my training would have kicked in eventually. However in the larger scheme of things, having no money, no passport, no weapon, no identification, and a warrant for my arrest — what a fucking challenge that
would have been.
The man sat there, rolling his stubbed out cigarette in his hand. He had a pensive look on his face, and the room smelled like ash. The fisherman nodded to himself, as though he were forming a conclusion in his mind.
"I know what you need, and I know how you're going to get it, but it's not going to be easy."
"I agree with you," I said. "I don't think anything here on out is going to be easy, not until I get stateside, and even then, I’ll have to answer for a flopped mission and collateral damage.”
"I don't expect you to tell me everything,” the man said, “but I would at least like to know if you're innocent."
He was staring at me from across the table, and I could tell that there was more to be had in our conversation, but he wanted to get something clear first. I couldn't turn him down. I understood why he would want to have that kind of clarity.
When you stick your neck out for someone, you want them to be able to respond to you. You want them to be able to justify why your behaviors were in alignment with a greater good. I knew that responding to this man's questions were just as relevant to the safety of the public as they were to his own ethical navigation.
I shook my head.
"I didn't kill any hostages. At the very least, I can tell you that with certainty. My team and I--”
"So there are more of you," he asked, raising his eyebrows in alarm.
“Not anymore. Seeing my weapon and the dog tags jogged my memory. If my mind can be trusted, I think I was the only one that made it out.“
The man nodded grimly.
“Then, you're aware that the police sustained injuries as well.”
"Of course," I replied, thinking about the final attack on the terrorist who had approached our team from behind the stairs.
If I hadn't taken the initiative to shoot that person, it's likely that they would have shot us both or the very least they would've shot my friend. The police might have interpreted the last terrorist and me as being on the same side. With those kinds of assumptions in effect, the terrorist might have even shot at the police, causing a firefight and presenting my escape. I could've been dead, instead of sitting here at this table with a grizzled fisherman.
"I can't be certain about it,” I continued, “but it seems to me like the whole thing was a setup. Our goal was to assassinate the leader of a dangerous terrorist organization, and instead, we found ourselves in a hostage scenario, fighting untrained gunmen."
"What makes you think they are untrained," he asked, twirling his cigarette in his hand nervously.
"I've spent enough time in training to know what a battle ready soldier looks like, and what a new recruit looks like when they fight. Any battle ready soldier wouldn't have made the same mistakes that the soldiers made. They went down too easily, they also didn't have any effective organization. They didn't respond well to the element of chaos present in the scenario. In retrospect, it seems to me like they were nothing more than fodder."
"Fodder?"
He stroked his beard pensively, while staring me hard in the eyes. I could tell that he wanted to break through to the source of this thing. I could tell he was a critical man, a man who didn't take things at face value.
"There was something wrong with that entire experience," I said, brooding over what details I could bring to my mind. "We were supposed to assassinate the leader, and instead, we found entrapped hostages and incompetent militia.”
"I agree," the man said. "It doesn't add up.”
I sat in silence for a moment and allowed myself some time to reflect. I was relieved that the man believed me, but that didn't mean that the entirety of my predicament was going to be alleviated anytime soon. My mind was spinning, attempting to secure a single place where I could start; some way that I might be up to gain ground.
"I have a favor to ask of you," the man said.
His hand reached out onto the table and came to rest on the backpack which his daughter had deposited earlier that afternoon.
"My daughter is in a position where she might need some additional protection. Someone of your caliber, who is able to successfully defend against Venice's finest, likely has the capacity to provide the type of protection that she will need.”
I regarded him with curiosity.
"Is this something that I'm doing for you as a thank you?"
"You could call it a thank you, though I think that you might find some benefit for yourself as well. You can start by taking this bag back to her. I'll give you her address if you're interested."
I took a moment to stare at the man, and my arms stretched high, over my back. I thought about asking what was inside the bag, but I realized that it might be better if I didn't know.
"Okay," I nodded. "I can do that for you. Thanks for everything.”
"No,” he replied, “thank you. I worry about my daughter’s health more than is healthy for a man of my age. She has my fighting spirit, but I’m afraid that bitterness has corrupted her intentions, and is contributing to a more confused state of awareness. It would be a great relief if you would go and share some of your experience with her. I think she fetishizes the idea of militant force, without truly understanding the ramifications of their consequence.“
“Playing mentor wasn’t exactly what I had cut out for myself,” I said, “but it couldn’t hurt. I’ll stop by tonight. Is there anything you can do to help me get overseas?”
“My daughter can help you. Go to her.”
Chapter 7 - Piper
My father, Nosa, had a man with him today when I went to visit. Most of the time when I visit my father, he is alone. The man is a conspiracy theorist and a world-weary philosopher. He spends most of his time out on the water trolling for fish. The rest of the time he spends at home smoking his awful cigarettes.
Dad has been practically useless since mom died.
In spite of the fact that he says he goes out to fish every day, he never comes back with more than enough to eat and barely scrape by. It's a good thing my father was never in debt because it allows him to maintain his minimalist lifestyle.
Of course, by minimalism I mean never trying hard enough to accomplish anything except scraping by. If you asked him, he would tell you that he is simply taking only what he needs. I would be inclined to believe that if the drastic change between his success when mom was alive and his current form of minimalism wasn't so apparent.
Last year, he actually had an accident and didn't have enough money to pay the medical bills. Fortunately, I was coming into some new work at that time that was more lucrative, and I was able to help him out. Ever since that moment, he stopped being so directly critical of my choices and moved to a more passive form of criticism.
The good thing about having a conspiracy theorist for father is that his natural level of distrust for organizational operations makes it easier to rely on him for help in matters which require some discretion.
While my father was a hard-working man, once upon a time ago, he encouraged me to be hard-working as well. I guess the problem that my father had with my current lifestyle is that he didn’t quite agree with the cause that I was working for. I tried to tell him that the cause was one that was similar to the values he held so strongly to, but there was no way to reach the man.
Better to simply let him stay out of the way.
Unfortunately, I was handling some sensitive materials, and I needed to have a temporary safe house. My father was supposed to hold onto those materials for me. I knew he wasn’t exactly going to be pleased about it, but I also knew that he wasn’t going to turn me away. As a matter of fact, he did not choose to turn me away, but for one reason or another, he had someone else do the work for him.
I was a bit surprised when my father's "friend" showed up in my apartment later on that evening.
But first, to paint a complete picture, let me share a bit with you about my ‘decompression’ time. What I was doing to treat myself right before this fucker interrupted me.
I
wasn’t doing much more than laying on my bed, checking my email at the time. Nothing terribly important going through my mind, and especially since I had just made the only drop-off that was necessary for the day.
I sang to myself a little song and smiled.
Generally, I was feeling like I needed to take a break and please myself for a while.
My position on the bed caused my breasts to spill out in front of me. I only get a chance to feel sexed when I’m far too stressed for my own good, or when I’ve taken a break from everything that has been going on in my life.
People used to call me a whore when I was younger, but I stopped paying attention to that a long time ago.
“I’m a woman,” I continued to tell myself, until eventually, I stopped giving a shit what other people thought altogether.
I sat up on the bed and straightened my spine. My breasts hung low on either side of my body, and I held them in my hands, pressing them together, and massaging my nipples. I would give them an occasional squeeze and then straighten my hair. My body swayed from side to side as I touched myself.
When you don’t have much of anyone around to fuck you on a regular basis, your mind tends to be free of a lot of the emotional drama that is so often associated with relationships.
I had nothing more to do with my time than take care of some business, and then find some time to relax and enjoy myself at the end of the day. So what if today, that ‘end of the day’ time came a bit earlier than usual?
“You should enjoy yourself, right?” I said out loud, rubbing my breasts together once more.
My nipples were growing red, and erect, as they usually did.
I had big nipples. They looked like cartoon-esque saucers of pink in my own eyes. Sometimes, I looked at them, and they looked like the breasts of a beautiful woman. Other times, I just thought they looked like pornographic cartoons. I suppose that is the internalized misogyny of our culture coming up to bite me more than it is an accurate interpretation of reality.