Killing Ground

by Eric Meyer

  “Asshole!” he shouted, simultaneously wrenching his arm free and swinging at Ryder. The SEAL stepped aside, a movement that was fluid and fast. The punch whistled past, and he went to work. Getting in close, delivering a series of hard, vicious blows that stunned the big guy. In seconds he’d taken blows to the kidneys, to the groin, to the solar plexus, and a final scything kick that knocked his feet out from under him. He went down in a heap.

  He stared up at Ryder, his face dark with hatred. “I’ll kill you for that.”

  “Sure you will. Now get out of here.”

  He climbed to his feet muttering threats and staggered out the door. Nolan had joined Ryder, and they made sure the girl wasn’t hurt too bad.

  “Your nose could be broken. You should go to the ER room and get it checked out.”

  She nodded. “Maybe I will. Thanks for helping out. I thought he was going to hurt me badly.”

  “He was out of line, but I don’t think he’ll do it again.”

  She shivered. “I hope not. Say, Mister, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I mean; I am a whore. It’s just I didn’t want to go with him.”

  Ryder put his hands on her shoulders and fixed her with a hard gaze. “What you do is your business, but no man should treat a woman like that.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “Say, I wish there were more men like you.”

  He nodded. “There’re plenty like me.”

  The girl grimaced. “And plenty like him.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?”

  They walked away, back to their table to spend the last hour before they needed to return to Coronado. At 23.00 they finished their juice and left the bar. Nolan was suspicious when they walked outside. When they’d arrived earlier, an overhead light had illuminated the parking lot in front of the building, but now was in darkness. They took several steps toward their vehicle, and the men appeared. Ten in all, led by the big guy Ryder had knocked down in the bar.

  “Well, lookee here, don’t we have the Boy Scouts who helped out the whore?”

  Automatically, the two SEALs stood to face the threat, back to back for when they came at them from both sides.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Nolan said, loud enough for them all to hear, “You were out of order in there, and you should sober up and go home.”

  He heard Ryder murmur, “For those who are evil will be destroyed.” It should have been a warning.

  He chuckled. “So you don’t want any trouble? Too bad, trouble is what you’ve got. Take them, boys!”

  They came at them in a rush, intending to use their superior numbers and weight to knock down these two strangers and teach them a lesson. Nolan was no taller than Ryder, although he packed more muscle. They were wiry, strong, and skilled in unarmed combat. They took on the first two men, and Nolan chopped up with his right hand into the neck that came within range, pivoted on his left leg, and swung his right leg around to take down the man who was right behind. Ryder was slogging out with another man who was quick and fast, taking his time to put his opponent on the ground. That still left seven men against two, and someone slammed something hard into Nolan’s head. He afterward found out it was a baseball bat, and he went down.

  They started kicking him, and when he tried to get up, another blow from the bat knocked him back down. Three men held him down, and when he looked across, Ryder had floored his opponent, but two more men stepped up. One with a length of thick timber, and he smashed it over his head. Ryder dropped to the ground, and the big guy he’d slugged in the bar stood over him, his face screwed up in sneering triumph.

  “I told you, you’re gonna pay.” He slipped a knife from his boot, and the blade flashed in the moonlight. “You’re toast, motherfucker. I’m gonna carve you into little pieces.”

  “No!” Nolan shouted, “Don’t be stupid. You got what you wanted. Now let it go, before anyone gets badly hurt.”

  He turned his head. “Who said anything about hurting him? When I’ve finished, he won’t be getting up, not anymore. And I’ve got witnesses to say he attacked me first. I was defending myself.”

  He noticed John-Wesley move, and he wanted to stop it. Wanted to explain it was the big guy who was in trouble, but it all happened too fast.

  “Ryder, don’t…”

  He was a split second too late. The big guy bent down and lunged with the knife. Ryder cut up with the blade that had appeared as if by magic, slicing through the tendons of the wrist so obligingly offered to him. The guy howled in pain, but he gripped the knife, ready to strike again. As the SEAL jumped to his feet, his knife held ready to defend himself, the guy launched himself at him. His face was set in a furious grimace of rage. John-Wesley put up his left arm to deflect the blade and held his own blade ready to hold the bigger man back.

  He was coming in too fast. In his insane determination to extract revenge, he crashed into Ryder as if to beat him back with his superior body weight. As they came together he stiffened, his eyes widened, and he fell backward. He crashed to the ground, and where the knife had entered his chest, there was a huge, gaping wound, pumping out blood. His body jerked for a few seconds and then went still.

  They guy with the bat was bringing it down on Nolan’s head, not seeing what had happened to his buddy. He simply twisted to one side, and the bat struck concrete instead of his head. Nolan grabbed the bat and pulled. The guy was too stupid to let go, and as he came toward him, he slammed a finger strike into his eyes. Pulling the blow at the last second, so the blindness would be temporary. He spun away, howling in pain. Nolan got to his feet and kicked the bat away.

  Two of them had recovered from the beating and were running away. Four more lay on the ground, unwilling, or unable to get up. Three were on their feet, edging backward, and their faces mirroring their terror. And one man lay in a pool of his own blood. Ryder put a finger to his neck and shook his head.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Shit. We’re screwed.”

  John-Wesley shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. He walked onto my knife.”

  He sighed. “My friend, it’s not me you need to convince. When the cops get here, his pals will blame you. Can’t you see, ten against two, and we left one of them dead and the others like frightened rabbits. They’ll say anything to blame you. Blame us, probably.”

  He’d been brought up with a rigid code of ethics. “You mean they’ll lie?”

  “Like an Arab caught red-handed with your watch, and he’ll swear he was just checking the time.”

  He shook his head. “Boss, I don’t believe it. The cops will work out what happened.”

  Chapter Two

  The cruiser stopped outside the gate, and the patrolman unlocked their cuffs.

  “Remember, we’re releasing you on the say-so of some United States Navy admiral. The conditions are you don’t leave the base, except to report to the precinct house when we require you for further questioning.”

  “Do you think they’ll press charges?”

  He chuckled at Nolan. “You’d better believe it. Somewhere between violent affray and second-degree murder, with a chance of manslaughter if you’re lucky. Enjoy the sunshine, fellers. Where you’re going, it’ll seem like a distant memory. So long, I’ll be seeing you.” He smirked, “Real soon.”

  They watched him drive away, and when they turned around, Admiral Drew Jacks was standing there. He didn’t look happy. At fifty-five-years-old, he was on the verge of retiring from the Navy, and they’d just dumped a pile of horseshit on his doorstep. Jacks was the man who ran the entire Seal operation at Coronado. Short and bow-legged with close-cropped blonde hair and a neat beard, he was also broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, a hard man in a hard job.

  His razor-creased working uniform was devoid of unnecessary embellishment, just the name patch, Jacks, and the insignia of a Rear Admiral on the collar, the single star and gold stripe. Despite the crisp lines of his uniform, Jacks was not known for false vanity. His uniform was a perfect fit o
n a hard and trim physique, the result of constant training and long workouts. As tough and fit as most men half his age, he looked like he was about to tear them apart.

  “In my office, now.”

  They had to almost jog to keep up with him, and when they entered his office, he didn’t invite them to sit. Nolan decided it was up to him to explain. “Admiral, it’s not the way you see it. We were...”

  “It’s exactly the way I see it. You got into a fight outside a bar, a man died, and the cops want to charge you with murder. Have I missed anything out?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads. “That’s the way it looks, but…”

  “That’s the way the world sees it, Nolan. You’re due to fly out later today to the Mideast, and that’s impossible. I’ve already arranged for another officer to take your place.”

  “Uh, who would that be, Sir?”

  “Custer, the new man.” He managed an almost invisible smile, “Lieutenant George Armstrong Custer.”

  He winced. “Sir, he couldn’t command a cleanup operation in a public park. You need someone else, someone who knows his way around a fight.”

  “At least he isn't facing a murder charge,” he rasped, “Knowing your way around a fight didn’t do you a scrap of good, did it? I happen to believe he’ll work out just fine, especially with your Master Chief to back him up. He also had the advantage of speaking Syrian Arabic, which is why I chose him for this job.”

  “So they’re going into Syria.”

  “Yes, but that’s not your concern. Right now, I’m a man short. Custer was supposed to be going to Washington to convey by hand a case of top-secret documents too sensitive to be sent any other way. Part of the agreement with the cops is you wouldn't go overseas until after the trial, so I have to keep you inside the Continental United States. For the time being, you can’t leave. And of course, if the verdict goes against you, that’ll be never.”

  "We're innocent."

  He sighed. "Look, I know you men, both of you, and I believe you, but will a jury? I have no idea. Do this little job for me, and whatever you do, make sure you don't get into more trouble. Stay out of any bars, deliver the case, and get back here. That's all.”

  * * *

  They were eating a candlelit dinner in an exclusive Washington restaurant. The woman, Major Helen Shapiro, was in civilian clothes, a white knee-length dress that flattered her feminine curves and narrow waist. The white fabric of the dress set off her dark, flashing eyes and olive skin to perfection, a change from her normal attire for her work seconded to the State Department as a Pentagon liaison officer. During her service, she’d had occasion to chat to the President on several occasions, and they’d even built up a friendly acquaintanceship, as close as a mere Major could get to the President of the United States.

  She smiled at the other man, trying to keep it friendly. Her subordinate in the State Department, Edward Waverly, had enjoyed a checkered career. They’d dated for a while during college, and she’d found him shallow and uninteresting. Much to his dismay, she ended it quickly. More recently, Waverley had wound up with a junior post at the State Department, and when she arrived on secondment, he became her junior.

  He’d changed, although not in a good way. He’d been a good-looking guy, with the fresh-faced all-American image. Slim, fit, blonde hair, always well groomed, and ice blue eyes a tad too cold for most girls’ liking. Good schools, Ivy League university, until it all went wrong when he went too far with a girl who was tougher than she looked. She clawed him to prevent him removing her clothes, and as a result he bore three vertical scars on his face. As if he’d been clawed a wild animal, and as a result acquired a memento of his attempted conquest. Only a wealthy, well-connected father prevented him from being kicked out of his college, and ultimately into a junior post in the State Department.

  He was still the same Edward Waverly, always involved in some scheme or other, and his current one was no surprise. The candlelit dinner was another of his schemes. He leaned forward and gave her a warm smile. She recoiled from the powerful alcohol fumes on his breath.

  “Helen, this business in Syria, you’ll be carrying millions of dollars in cash to help the Kurds. I was wondering if you could divert just a little to help me out.” His expression was filled with pseudo-embarrassment.

  “Edward, you can’t be serious? Those people need that money. They’re desperate. It’s to buy food and drugs, and arms to defend themselves from their enemies. They’re fighting the Syrians in the south, the Turks in the north, and ISIS is all around them. It would be immoral to divert even a single cent. I’m sorry. It’s not going to happen.”

  She felt uncomfortable he’d even asked. She also felt slightly disgusted, and she made an excuse to leave early. He insisted on walking her back to her hotel, and she acquiesced. The streets were dark, and to her surprise he took a turning into a street she didn’t recognize.

  “Are you sure this is the right way?”

  “It’s a shortcut, is all. Say, Helen, what would happen if you weren’t able to travel to Syria? I mean, if you were ill or had an accident?”

  She was still looking around the dark, shadowy alleys and doorways, and her reply was automatic.

  “You know what would happen. They’d tell you to take it on.” She smiled, realizing what was behind it, “Edward, I see what you mean, but you can forget it. I’m as fit as ever, and there’s nothing to stop me going.” She chuckled, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find another way out of your financial difficulties.”

  * * *

  Inside, he was seething at her refusal, although he wasn’t worried. He’d anticipated a refusal and had already worked out a way to remedy his financial difficulties. First, he needed to employ his extensive knowledge of the darker, crime-ridden areas of Washington, and the weapon he always carried concealed inside his well-cut coat. Helen became more and more uneasy as they walked through the darkened streets, passing groups of feral-looking youths sprawled on the sidewalk. Eyeing them up, deciding whether or not to approach and demand money.

  Waverley reassured her as they quickened the pace. “You don’t need to worry, Helen, you’re with me. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

  She gave him a nod of understanding, although she didn’t look convinced. They turned into another street, and in order to cross the road they had to walk down two flights of steps to a pedestrian tunnel. She gave him another doubtful look.

  “Are you sure this is safe?”

  He returned a warm smile. “Helen, if it wasn’t safe, I wouldn’t bring you down here. I come this way almost every day, and I’ve never had a problem.”

  “If you say so.”

  They were halfway through the tunnel when he made his move, and it should have worked. He snatched out his cutthroat razor, unfolded the blade, but something caught her eye. Maybe it was the movement, or a reflection on the steel, but she reacted an instant and started running. Racing toward the end of the tunnel, and she was climbing the steps as he pursued her, cursing the way she’d upset such a perfect plan. She made it out into the street, and he caught up with her before she’d gone more than a few paces. He had to work fast, for she’d started to scream, and he grabbed her arm to stop her. He put his other hand with the razor around her neck. A swift, sideways slash, and she stumbled, falling as a gush of blood spouted from the gaping wound.

  He never knew what made him do it, but he was mad, furious with her refusal, furious with her ruining a perfect evening, and furious with her running. He knelt over her, slashing down with the blade repeatedly. Slicing through her neck a half dozen times, and some instinct made him slice deep into her breasts, disfiguring her beauty. She was still alive, making moaning noises as she gasped for breath through her ruined windpipe. He made a final stab through her neck that reached her spinal column and almost decapitated her. At last she stopped moving, stopped moaning, and he realized he was panting for breath after so much effort.

  He wiped the
blade on her dress, took a swift look around, and started walking away. Inadvertently, he passed beneath the spill of a street lamp, and he stared up and down the street. Two men were walking toward him. He switched direction and began to run the other way. He ran in a random direction, zigzagging through the Washington streets until he was satisfied he’d got away. Only then did he relax, and he started laughing.

  I did it. I’ve won. They’ll give me the assignment to convey the cash to the Kurds, and my problems will soon be over.

  * * *

  They were able to relax; satisfied they’d carried out a simple mission. Like Admiral Jacks had said, a straightforward task. Anyone could have done it, except for the top-secret classification of the documents they carried, but the Admiral had wanted them out of the way, and it had worked. At least for a couple of days, they were outside of police scrutiny, and Nolan had little doubt the crafty Admiral was already working on a way to fix things so they could keep on working until the hearing. Experienced SEALs were in demand with so many operations worldwide, and he wouldn’t want to lose two of his best men.

  They’d enjoyed a decent meal in a modest restaurant, all on expenses. Chatting about those things that most concerned them, once the small matter of the murder charge was resolved. Ryder had been even more morose of late, and he asked him was it the problem with the cops.

  “Hell, no, we didn’t do anything wrong, and that’ll work itself out.” Nolan wasn’t so sure, but he let him carry on, “I’ve got other problems. I lost my parents, but I still have an aunt who lives outside New Orleans. She’s sick.”

  “How bad?”

  A pause. “It’s cancer. I’ve been sending her every cent of my pay to cover the treatment, after I’ve covered my basic living expenses, but it isn’t enough. I’ve borrowed from the bank, done everything, but the money just drains away.”

  “No insurance?”

  “No.”

  “If there’s anything I can do…”