by Brian Shea
Casper paid no attention to Declan while he carried out his responsibilities. As a matter of fact, he seemed completely oblivious. He stumbled as he stepped up on the curbing near the ATM. Casper reddened at his misstep. Embarrassed. He waved to the bank teller visible in the window and gave an obligatory smile. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and hurriedly returned to her business.
Casper gave an exasperated shout toward the armored truck’s driver. Declan strained to hear her name but was out of earshot.
The driver looked younger than Casper. Her dark red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that exposed a tattoo on her neck, located just beneath her right ear. She was too far away for him to make out its details. From where he stood it looked more like a Rorschach inkblot than a tattoo.
She carried an air of arrogance. Maybe she felt that she deserved a better life. Maybe she did. She wore large hoop earrings, which Declan assumed must be against the uniform regulation. She didn’t look like a person that would care about such things. He named her Hoops.
Hoops handed Casper a clipboard. A brief conversation accompanied the exchange. Declan interpreted the interaction between the two guards. He deemed that Hoops and Casper were friendly toward each other but were not friends.
Declan didn’t know anything about the armored truck business, but he’d run enough security during protection details to understand the basic principles. Experience told him that these two had no prior military training. And if they did, it wasn’t in a combat unit. Hoops should have never left the vehicle. The driver’s door should have remained closed and locked until Casper returned. But she failed to do either.
Hoops stood there, outside of the truck, pulled out her cellphone, and started scrolling through the touchscreen. Probably checking her Facebook feed. Declan used his cellphone sparingly, if at all. He could never wrap his mind around this ever-growing need for digital connection. People moved through their daily lives with faces buried in the tiny screens, oblivious to the world around them. Hoops was apparently no different.
Casper moved to the rear of the truck. He unlocked one side of the double doors and removed a beige rectangular canister. Casper’s face showed the strain of its weight. He put the container down so that he could close and lock the rear door.
Declan realized that the guards must be replenishing the ATM. He looked at his watch. It was 5:06. Thursdays the bank remained open until six o’clock. The one day that the Clover Leaf Bank stayed open past the normal four o’clock closing time.
Casper had to put the canister down a second time to access his keychain that was attached to a lanyard on his belt. He then unlocked the front panel door to the ATM. And after fumbling with the interior, Casper withdrew a similar looking canister from the machine. Both metallic boxes rested side by side on the curbing. How much was in those containers?
Casper then placed the new one inside and secured the ATM. He waddled back to the rear of the truck and proceeded to lock up the used container. He noted something on the clipboard, returned to the passenger side, and entered the vehicle. Hoops became aware of his return and climbed back in. The two adjusted themselves in the vehicle prior to pulling forward. They drove north toward the city of Hartford.
Declan had been around money before and was never tempted. Several of his military targets were men of extreme wealth. He’d seen tables covered in gold and rare jewels, but the thought of taking any of it never crossed his mind. As an undercover narcotics detective, he’d raided several houses. The dealers, even at the street level, had large sums of cash on hand. Temptation never presented itself. That was before. The rules were different now. Declan faced a different enemy. And it was a fight he couldn’t afford to lose. Bend, break, or obliterate the rules. Pays to be a winner.
The persona of Ace resurfaced. He needed to be that guy again. This time in service to his family.
He needed Val’s support on this. “The good, the bad, and everything in between.” As he drove home from the bank he replayed the vow that they had said, in unison, on the night of their wedding. It was time to test the strength and veracity of those words.
Declan arrived at their small gray colonial. He saw, through the weathered window panes of the side door, that Val and the girls were seated in the dining area around their small kitchen table. He paused before turning the knob. Everything that mattered to him was on the other side of this door. His world visible through those small pieces of glass. Seeing their smiles only intensified the pain of his failure at the bank. Normally, he loved watching them when they didn’t know he was there, but today it had a crippling effect.
He entered. The loose knob jingled and announced his arrival. Val gave him a worried glance. She must have realized that he was later than expected. Her attention was quickly diverted back to the girls who were in an intense debate. They paused from their discussion about which Little Pony they liked best to yell their greeting. In unison, they shouted, “Hi dad!”
Laney sat in her chair with headphones on. She was somewhere else. Some days she would react to his entrance by simply looking up, but other days she was completely disconnected. Declan learned not to take these moments of isolation personally. He smiled and went from head to head, kissing each one. Laney allowed the kiss, but he felt her head pull back slightly. An involuntary reaction, like magnets of opposite polarity.
Val didn’t ask about the bank. Not in front of the children. But she took his hand and gave him a slight squeeze. A subtle gesture of support given in a fraction of a second, but a much-needed one. Declan let out an audible sigh. He pursed his lips and gave a single shake of his head. Val registered this. Her head drooped a fraction lower. Deflated.
Declan gazed into his wife’s eyes. The Little Pony discourse continued in the background as he silently mouthed, “It’ll be okay. I have a plan.”
There would be time to discuss things later. Right now, he needed to enjoy the reason he would take such a risk: his family.
2
The lack of warmth provided by the late August sun was a far departure from his homeland. He donned a light windbreaker to counter the slight chill in the air as temperatures dipped far below the average for this time of year. I have been in this country too long. I’m getting soft he thought to himself. But, time no longer held any meaning to him. Not since that day eight years ago. From that moment forward, his life existed to serve only one purpose: to right that wrong.
His skills sharpened in an unforgiving climate. It was no surprise to him that the average American was so weak. They were not born into adversity. He had seen their definition of challenge. Self-worth defined by trivial purchases or the latest trends. They didn’t understand what it meant to fight for basic needs. True survival. That’s why Khaled knew that he was destined to succeed.
Khaled’s justice would not be swift. It would be calculated and deliberate. His plan born from a pain so deep that it had divided his life into two distinct time periods. “Alnaeim”, or Bliss. And “Al Harq”, the Burn.
Alnaeim
Sonia was his everything. She gave his life purpose. His wife had died shortly after giving birth to her. He was left to father his little girl alone. A role that men in his country did not typically assume. Khaled never blamed his daughter, as some of the villagers had suggested he should. In fact, the opposite had happened. He looked at Sonia as his wife’s final gift to him. A blessing.
As Sonia grew, Khaled grew with her. He re-experienced life through her eyes. Every day on the way home from school they would pass by the market. Sonia would make him stop for a shaved ice. Khaled would throw up his hands in mock protest. Sonia would look up at him with that toothy smile. She could bend his will with a tilt of her head. What he would give to see that smile one more time.
Every beautiful memory brought with it an agony that was indescribable. That same pain now drove him forward against all reason. The goal of filling the void in his heart was the only incentive that held him to this world. What would h
e do when he carried out his plan? A ponderous thought. Maybe there would be a sense of peace, but life had taught him many lessons and through those, came the hard answer. He knew that would not be the case. Regardless, he would finish what they had started eight long years ago.
She would have been sixteen now. He speculated what she would have been like as a young woman. Every father wonders how his children will shape the world, but the answer had been stolen from him.
Thinking back to those years with Sonia, he recalled how simple their life had been. Khaled taught school in the village. In the ever-changing landscape of Iraq, he was a respected man. Education was revered. Khaled had been one of the few to leave, receive an education at an American university, and return home to share that gift. He completed his education at Northeastern University in Boston. He had intended a much different path for the utilization of his mechanical engineering degree, but the death of his wife had forced him to simplify his priorities so that he could raise his Sonia.
He had enjoyed his experience in the United States while residing in Boston on his student visa. At the time, he had held no ill will toward its people. That came much later.
Beyond his role as a teacher, Khaled also served as an advisor to the village elders. When the war came, and the Americans fought in the hills of his country, the elders sought to understand their village’s role. Khaled served as a translator. He interpreted for the council when military units came through. The actual fighting always seemed to take place in other villages. For many years his people had avoided the violence associated with the war.
Khaled was open-minded enough to see the reason why the U.S. military had originally entered his country, but he also believed that the overall goal of the mission was flawed. The war had dragged on. Khaled was convinced that the Iraqi people were destined to live under military occupation without end.
As a devoted father, he hated seeing helicopters flying overhead or the distant sound of gunfire and explosions. His daughter would ask, “Why did they come to our home? Why don’t they go back to theirs?” The answer always came out sounding contrived. But Khaled tried his best to explain it to his inquisitive little girl, “They think that they are protecting the world against evildoers. Even with honorable intentions, the outcome is many times unpredictable.”
Over time, Khaled became comfortable in his role. The translated conversations with military troops happened with increased regularity. Most of the men he spoke to were special forces operators. Some spoke his language, but poorly, and he found it easier to use English when communicating with them. When they found out that Khaled had studied in Boston they relaxed a little more.
The Americans were always on a hunt for wanted men. Resistance leaders, people who opposed their occupation. Sometimes the information they received would bring them to the village. Each time they came, no person of interest was found. The village became labeled as friendly, or at the least neutral. A fragile trust had been established.
Khaled was a keen observer and began noting the details about these military units, specifically its people. He learned their terminology for the equipment they carried, the uniforms they wore, and the meaning behind the patches on their sleeves. Softly he probed the soldiers in a friendly, inquisitive manner that never raised suspicion. Khaled eventually was able to identify all of the rank structure. From there he moved on and studied their name tags. Khaled felt it was important to keep a journal of these things. He told the Council of Elders about his book, but they did not seem concerned nor were they interested in his hobby.
Khaled excelled at facial recognition. It was made easier because, as time passed, many of the same units came through his village. Some of the servicemen recognized him as well. The greetings were friendly, but not overly so, because all alliances in his part of the world hung in a delicate balance.
The Council did not seem to mind the visitors, and at times were genuinely interested in the exchange of information. But more important were the resources the Americans provided the village. The military men almost always brought food with them, an age-old gesture of appreciation.
Sonia loved when they brought chocolate. Khaled pictured his daughter. Her small hand as she pulled on his sleeve. The tugging would cause his head to slowly dip, aligning with hers. Beautiful little Sonia would cup her hands gently around his ear and whisper, “Please Papa, one chocolate.” Her breath tickled his ear as she spoke. He would give anything to have one more moment with his daughter. Alnaeim.
Time passed. Attitude toward the Americans shifted within the Council. As with any political agenda, there was always someone jockeying for position. In their small corner of the world, it was the Council Elder’s son, Aziz. He did not see the American presence as noble and quietly argued his ideas away from his father. Khaled had overheard the subversive plot on several occasions, and Aziz’s opinion gained momentum with others.
Aziz was concerned about when the Americans would depart. Something that was bound to happen sooner or later. The village would be retaliated against for providing safe harbor. The results would be devastating. Khaled had worried about this too but felt that it would be far worse to become an enemy of the U.S. military.
Aziz pushed his ideas on the villagers over the course of several months. With support established, the Council had begun to listen. Khaled, as the translator, earned a front row seat during the tense negotiation with the American soldiers. It was his words that carried the message of the Elders. At the time, that had made him very worried, but he had taken solace in the fact that their little village had survived for centuries on the wisdom of the Council. He ultimately relied on their judgment to make the right decision that most benefited their people.
Khaled remembered the day that he was called into the Council Chamber. The space was a large dusty room with an elaborate rug of red and gold stitching that covered the dirt floor. Several tattered pillows were set in a circle, designed to provide a modicum of comfort to the members as they sat and discussed their agenda. Khaled recalled that on this particular day the air was colder than normal. The wind whipped the outside walls making an erie low whistle, like that of a tea kettle on the verge of boil.
The Elder spoke in his native tongue and greeted the foreigners gathered in the room. Khaled translated into English. Several of the Navy special operations men were present. Khaled had long ago noted that the patch above the breast pocket represented their affiliation. The Budweiser, as they called it, was the SEAL team emblem. These were hard men, who had done hard things. Khaled respected them.
All the men in the room that day had been in the village many times before. Their names already logged in his book. Only two of these men sat, Commander Banks and Lieutenant Richards. Khaled knew them to be the officers that oversaw this unit. Khaled did not know Banks well, but he had seen him on one previous occasion.
Khaled and Richards had early on established a fast friendship. It grew out of sidebar conversations after these council meetings. The two found common ground in the fact that both had attended universities in Boston around the same time. The Charles River split the difference between Northeastern and Richard’s alma mater of MIT. Strange how life intersected.
The additional two Navy men present stood and kept watch during the meeting, one by the door and the other near the window. Even though Khaled’s village was considered friendly toward the U.S., these Navy men never completely relaxed their sense of worry. Trust is a fickle friend in war. Khaled assumed that was a necessary mindset to have if your goal was to stay alive in a hostile country.
The Elder spoke, and Khaled translated. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to meet with us at our request.” A simple statement with a tone aimed at easing the tension. The sound of Khaled’s voice aroused the group. He noted that the men seated before him adjusted their position on the pillows.
Khaled continued, “I am afraid that we have some important matters to discuss. We hope that after this conversation you will see ou
r point of view.” Khaled’s voice was steady when he spoke, but tension percolated.
Pleasantries had passed, and the discussion shifted to the real matter at hand. “Your kindness and generosity shown to my people over the past year have been greatly appreciated.” He paused, listening to the Elder who spoke rapidly in Arabic. Khaled heard the context and was concerned at how the next statement would be received by the Americans. “It has been decided that we can no longer provide shelter and support to your military efforts.”
The Navy Commander, Banks, flinched at this statement. His eyes darted to the two standing SEALs. His right hand slowly drifted toward the sidearm strapped to his thigh. A barely perceivable movement, but Khaled saw it.
“Council Elder, help me to understand your change in position. Did we do something to offend you? Is there anything we can do to regain your trust?” Banks spoke calmly, a man obviously accustomed to such dealings.
The Elder waited patiently for Khaled to share his translation and then paused for a long moment as if to contemplate the implications.
The Navy men stirred. Khaled immediately could sense that this topic of discussion did not sit well with them. The man at the door whose name tag read “Morales” took a slight step back and subtly adjusted his equipment. His eyes scanned the room. The man named “Enright” appeared to become more still, if that was even possible.
Khaled realized what had happened. The impact of the Elder’s words. He immediately attempted to diffuse the situation. The Americans must have thought it was a trap. Like any cornered animal they would soon bare their teeth. Khaled quickly explained his perception to the Elder and requested permission to speak freely so that he could ease the tension.