Sixteen Sunsets

by Mark Gardner

  The group made progress. They walked in silence until the girl spoke.

  “We’ll be there soon, kitty,” cooed Bree to her stuffed kitten.

  Globe’s heart rate increased every time the little girl spoke. It was sobering – she spoke so rarely, but when she did... You’d better listen, he thought. He used to feel the same way about Anne. He tried to remember when it went so wrong between the two of them. Justin, he thought and closed his eyes with a sigh, but that sigh died as Bree looked up at him, presenting the stuffed kitten. Globe forced a smile and patted the kitten on the head. Bree returned her attention to the stuffed animal and Globe once again marveled at her deftness as she moved through the woods. She never stumbled. She walked around hidden obstacles in the underbrush as if she had personally put them there. Content that he had placated Bree, he returned to his thoughts on Anne. When she saw Justin after he had completed a mission, she immediately focused her considerable attention on the young man. Globe’s attempts to keep them apart had led to their relationship evolving into an ‘us versus them’ mentality. A mindset that led to the two of them leaving the organization and...

  Globe’s thought was interrupted by the six-man team as they halted, still in formation. They fanned out along the edge of a clearing. Hand signals flashed as they took up defensive positions. The team leader looked back toward Globe and gave the hand signal that Globe had been waiting to see for almost a week: they had reached their destination.

  Joaquin awoke in a cabin in the Canadian wilderness. For the first time in years, he felt at home. He was relieved that someone cared about his well being. He felt like he had something to offer the world. His attention was drawn to noises coming from the kitchen area. Joaquin looked at a ray of sunlight shining through a high window. Dust motes swirled and danced in the beam. It’s not quite breakfast time, he thought and sat up to see what the noise was.

  Peter sat at the table with a needle and thread working two pieces of leather together. After stowing his bedding, Joaquin wandered the few short steps to the table. He glanced over his shoulder at Peter’s bed and saw it in shambles. The fire in the fireplace had been stoked, and an empty bowl with a spoon sat on the edge of the sink with a box of cereal open on the counter.

  Peter was stuffing odd pieces of hide and fur into the leather construct. He sewed the end closed and held up the oblong leather amalgam up for Joaquin to see.

  “A football?” queried Joaquin.

  “My son was never really interested in sports before he was taken from me.”

  Peter tossed the crude football in the air, catching it a few times. Joaquin walked to the counter and picked up the box of cereal, not taking his eyes off of Peter.

  “Eat up, son,” Peter smiled. “Let’s toss the...” he looked down at the football, “elkskin around.”

  Joaquin waved his hand encompassing the dirty bowl on the counter.

  “What about chores?”

  Peter shrugged. “The chores will keep for a little while.”

  “A man keeps his home...” Joaquin began.

  Peter pushed air through his lips. It was a half sigh, half raspberry. “I know what it takes to be a man, Joaquin.” Peter smiled. “I’m glad you do too. Eat up!”

  Joaquin nodded and ate his daily share of cereal. Despite Peter’s impatience, Joaquin cleaned his and the old man’s bowls before returning everything to their proper places.

  Holding the elkskin football, Peter gestured for them to walk outside.

  Kristof studied the cabin from his vantage point to the south. The smoke drifting from the chimney seemed almost welcoming. He looked across the clearing, past the deadfall traps, and into the tree line. He didn’t need the enhanced vision he had before to see a pink figure peeking out from behind a tree. The little girl, he thought, scowling. He counted six more figures among the trees, their winter camouflage doing little to hide them among the dreary trees.

  Kristof’s thoughts were inundated with strategies, angles of attack utilizing the rising sun and methodologies to lure the figures into the deadfall traps. He started to move toward the tree line, a plan hastily forming. As he got closer and his plan solidified, the door to the cabin opened and two figures emerged.

  “Team leader, this is Delta. I have one tango south of the cabin.”

  “Report tango’s movements, Delta.”

  “Affirmative, team leader,” a pause, followed by rustling as Delta moved into position. “Tango advancing, cover compromised. Permission to engage tango?”

  “Affirm, Delta. Team leader to Omega, secure your package and await instructions.”

  The rifleman worked the bolt on his rifle and withdrew something from his pocket, inserting it into the breach. “Chemical round loaded,” he said, the throat mic transmitting his words to the team leader. He squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened.

  When the rifle didn’t bark, his attention was drawn away from the little girl, Bree. When his attention returned, Bree was staring at him, shaking her index finger back and forth. He started to report the situation but found he had no voice. His vision faded, and he slumped over, his rifle falling beside his useless body.

  “Oh, shit!” Justin muttered as he pulled his gloves off with his teeth. He lurched forward, stumbling on numb legs toward the closest mercenary.

  “Justin, stop!” Anne hissed, but Justin had cleared the boulder they were hiding behind. He jumped over a fallen tree and came down behind one of the mercenaries. The merc had already started to swing his rifle around, and Justin’s hands landed on the exposed arm. But nothing happened.

  Peter stepped off the porch, throwing the football into the air.

  “Look out!” shouted Joaquin as Kristof emerged from behind a tree.

  Peter spun.

  “What the fuck?” shouted Kristof as he stormed toward the two. “You deny me, your flesh and blood to do what?” Kristof pointed at Joaquin. “Play house with this thug? This fuckin’ criminal?”

  Peter opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of small arms fire ended the confrontation.

  Anne stood over the dead mercenary, her Smith and Wesson 460 revolver pointed at the ground as she stooped to Justin’s body. She watched the event unfold with a detached sight.

  Anne had seen as Justin’s hands had grasped the mercenary’s exposed arm, but his grip had pulled up the skin-toned fabric. The mercenary had swung around with his other arm, and a four-inch Bowie knife he had hidden had landed on Justin’s neck. A fountain of blood had erupted and everything it touched wilted. As Justin’s body slumped, he reached to his wound to stem the tide of blood.

  Justin’s spatter struck the mercenary and it was enough to stagger him as Anne’s gun hand operated without her consent. A single shot felled the man, and the Bowie knife tarnished as Justin’s life faded.

  The five remaining members of the kill squad advanced from the tree line. No longer attempting to be subversive, they shouted commands to each other. Two immediately fell into pitfall traps, while the remaining three moved across the trap filled in by Peter with the two bodies lying broken at the bottom.

  A shot from one of the three hit Kristof while Joaquin and Peter stumbled back through the door to the cabin. One of the mercenaries stopped to bind Kristof as the other two ran up the steps to the cabin.

  “Joaquin,” Peter hissed, “I’ll distract them, get yourself away from here.” Peter ignored a look of disbelief from Joaquin and continued. “Head south until you hit a service road and follow it to a town.”

  Two mercenaries burst through the door. Joaquin staggered back and tripped over a bundle of fur cast aside from the construction of the football. He fell on his rear, and a yelp of surprise escaped his lips. Peter spun and charged toward the mercenaries, ignoring shouts to freeze and to get on his knees.

  The lead mercenary raised his weapon and the bark echoed off the tall ceiling. Peter fell against the table flipping it on one side, blood flowing from a neat hole in the center of his forehead. The o
ther mercenary trained his weapon on Joaquin while the one who had shot Peter knelt to check for a pulse.

  He reached, but before his fingers could find their way to the carotid artery, he slumped forward. Peter leaped to his feet, a wooden table leg in his hand. He slammed it into the mercenary’s weapon. It vibrated from the impact, and the masked man lost his grip on it. Before Peter could catch his breath, the mercenary recovered and thrust his open hand toward Peter’s solar plexus.

  It hit the spot and Peter staggered back, the wind escaping with an audible oomph. The mercenary was quick; he leaped forward and grabbed Peter by the hair and started to bring his knee up. Peter arched his back, the tips of his fingers crushing into the armpit of the other man.

  He clenched his teeth through the surge of pain as his finger joints bent in ways they weren’t designed to do. The mercenary screamed, but his knee managed to connect with Peter’s nose. The mercenary stumbled backward, and Peter crashed to the floor, unable to shield himself. The pain in his bloodied nose rendered him dizzy.

  The slam to the floor had hurt his shoulder; reverberations traveled down his arm caused instant numbness. Peter rolled on his back, reaching for the painful spot with his good hand. An unwelcome quest, the blinding pain from his broken fingers joined the all-consuming ache.

  Peter wasn’t paying attention to the movements of the mercenary. He could feel the other man prowling around him, breathing heavily from underneath the headgear. The mercenary then came down hard on Peter, straddling him and punching him over and over in the kidneys.

  He’s too damn good, thought Peter, staring into the obscure eyes of the lurching soldier, and I’m too damn old.

  The weight of the mercenary on Peter suddenly vanished as Joaquin lunged swiftly. From his position, Peter could see the boy’s body parallel to the floor as he dawned his fists, causing a surprising impact. The mercenary head rolled over from the hit but he composed himself quick enough to take Joaquin’s momentum of angry attack to hurl him toward the open cabin door.

  Joaquin clashed against the porch and slumped unconscious. The mercenary got up and found his weapon on the floor. He stooped to pick it up, but Peter barked at him. He had already staggered to his feet.

  The mercenary disregarded Peter’s drunken, weak steps and reverted his attention to Joaquin. Peter threw himself, blood-slicked arms clasping around the man from behind, attempting to stop the mercenary with a bear hug. Peter grabbed his bloodied wrist with his better hand and flexed his muscles around the barrel chest of his target.

  “Run, Joaquin!” Peter screamed. The mercenary threw his head back and hit Peter’s already injured nose, causing a new blast of pain. Peter lost his grip and fell to the floor once again. Out of breath, Peter started to get back to his feet, panting heavily, searching blindly for something to support himself on. It wasn’t death that he feared, but only that he wouldn’t secure enough time for Joaquin to escape. He had to get far enough away from his adopted son before he died and his power triggered.

  Peter grinned to himself. He could do this ass-kicking mercenary thing all day long. His foot lashed out as the mercenary turned toward him. His booted foot stuck the mercenary’s leg squarely on the kneecap. The pain flushed over the mercenary’s face, eyes wide and scream escaping his mouth. Peter reacted again; he reached into the fireplace and grabbed a burning log, and flung it at the mercenary.

  Peter had heard a scream of pain moments before realization hit him: as the flaming debris was doing its damage on the mercenary’s forearm and chest, Peter’s exhaustion and pain burned in his throat as he screamed a scream of pain. The edges of his vision blurred, black spots pulsating, threatening to render his sight dark. Peter felt the fight leave him. He still tried - pushing, scratching, roaring, growling - each moment he stalled the mercenary, Joaquin would hopefully be further away from their grasp. Whoever they were.

  Peter was thankful he couldn’t smell the awful scent of charred flesh - his broken nose made sure he didn’t. The mercenary waved his hands at the embers raining down the front of his flack jacket. The log was deftly deflected, and it landed next to the bed, rolling under it as if a petulant child wanted to hide it. The simile was lost on either man as they struggled to best each other. Life was the prize they each sought.

  Peter’s foe was busy dealing with the shower of flaming debris on his chest. He reached to work the release clasp of his flack jacket, but his burned arm couldn’t make the pull.

  Peter staggered blindly forward, and his head struck the other man in the crotch. The mercenary doubled over, and his coccyx hit the floor with a crack that made Peter’s teeth chatter. In the fall, the mercenary struck his head on the kitchen counter.

  Peter felt the contest of strength and wits end as his head lolled to one side and stared into the closed eyes of the mercenary. The other one lay nearby the back door, immobile. Peter and his last rival lay sprawled on the cabin floor as the cabin burned around them.

  Outside, the last remaining mercenary worked the release clasp to his flak jacket. Kristof’s hands and feet were bound with zip ties, so the mercenary had a moment to take stock of the situation. He rose and turned to the tree line as Anne and the rest of Globe’s team ran out of the woods toward the burning cabin. As his flak jacket fell to the ground, the mercenary withdrew a pistol. He recognized Major Globe but kept his weapon trained on Anne staggering through the scrub.

  “Rescue the subjects from the burning cabin!” Globe yelled to the mercenary.

  The mercenary jumped through the open cabin door, avoiding the smoking doorframe. He dragged Peter out and abandoned him at the bottom of the steps. He turned to return for his fallen comrade.

  “Stop!” shouted Globe as he ran past Kristof. “Secure the subject first you idiot!”

  The mercenary paused just long enough to slap a pair of metal handcuffs against Peter’s wrists. He bounded up the stairs, but the cabin was now fully engulfed. He staggered back and abandoned his teammate as Globe skidded to a stop at Peter’s prostrate body.

  “Where’s Joaquin?” Anne shouted as she brought up her Smith and Wesson, the red chrome reflecting the flaming cabin. Globe reacted by producing a TASER and shooting Anne in the chest. Her body convulsed, and she fell over dropping the .460 into Kristof’s lap.

  Kristof staggered to his feet, gripping the .460 with his bound hands. Globe dropped the TASER to the ground, and the mercenary froze. The heavy revolver felt light in Kristof’s hands even with the near miss he suffered at the hands of one of the mercenaries.

  A shot and then a red flower blossomed from the mercenary’s chest. Fragments of bone and canvas erupted as the mercenary fell back on the ground, the look of terror permanently affixed to his face. Kristof felt the hand cannon twinge his shoulder. The seared bullet wound on his shoulder broke open spilling thick blood onto his torn sleeve. Kristof swung the revolver toward Globe, ignoring the blood running down his arm and darkening the color of the chrome.

  “Stop!” Anne coughed as she regained control of her throat and lungs.

  Kristof sneered. “Stop what?” he spat on the ground at Globe’s feet. “We’re better than them.”

  “We’ve been their betters for centuries,” Anne pleaded.

  “Listen to her, Kristof, calm down.” Globe held his hands defensively.

  Kristof turned to Anne, but kept the weapon trained on Globe. “So they’re your pets?” Kristof ignored Globe, loading as much scorn into the last word as he was capable of.

  “They’re...”

  “Silence!” shouted Kristof. “They’re ants scurrying about their little ant farm. Sometimes,” he turned at pointed the .460 at the shocked R-C-M-P liaison. “Sometimes you have to kick over the farm.” He pulled the trigger and the liaison toppled over. He winced at the additional pain in his shoulder.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Anne. “This isn’t how we do things.”

  Kristof leered at her. “Maybe if you did, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Lost t
o the system. A system that only serves them and hinders us. We’re rulers! Why should we bend a knee, hide, run, fear? We’re gods to them.”

  He raised the .460 toward Globe again. “Wrathful Gods,” he declared, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a shot sounded from overhead. The sharp crack echoed off the canopy. Something impacted Kristof’s chest, and he staggered backward. His feet, still bound, didn’t allow him to regain his balance. His arms still bound were unable to flail, and he fell, striking his head on a rock.

  “You monster!” Anne screamed. “You killed him!”

  Globe rose and then stooped to pick up something from the ground. He held a black beanbag about two inches square. “It’s not very efficient to try to kill someone who can’t be killed.”

  The helicopter hovered over the clearing. A radio was dropped from the open hatch. Globe picked it up and spoke into it. “Area secured.” He looked toward Kristof and Peter before talking into the radio again. “Prepare to transport two subjects to the laboratory.”

  “What about Joaquin?” asked Anne.

  Globe shook his head.

  “What about Joaquin?” Anne asked again.