Payback

by J. Robert Kennedy

  They shook hands and hugged!

  She couldn’t believe the foolhardiness, after everything she and Sarah had told them repeatedly about avoiding all unnecessary contact. But then there was something in their tone, in their demeanor, that told her these people didn’t care whether they lived or died.

  If only we knew why!

  Clearly Koroma was upset at the West for their lack of response to the Ebola crisis, that much was clear from the conversations related by Sarah. And he had also lost his wife and son, which had to affect anyone. Which was why when Sarah had suggested he might actually kill his daughter rather than let her suffer and die alone, it had seemed completely plausible.

  And horrifying.

  It had brought home the reality of the crime she had committed, though in the court of law she’d probably be found not criminally responsible due to her mental state.

  That did little to comfort her now.

  These new events had her mind reeling with new possibilities. Something big had just gone down, that much was evident. The car was flagged as if government or diplomatic, and there was simply too much security for the man to not be important. She had seen the man look directly at Sarah, and it hadn’t prompted any questions. He knew who she was, of that much she was certain.

  And he hadn’t cared.

  None of them had cared that the Americans were apparently coming, and if they were coming, she had to assume they’d be here soon.

  Which meant whatever was going down was going down in the next few hours, perhaps even minutes.

  Which meant Koroma might murder his own daughter at any time.

  I have to save her.

  She turned to head toward the clinic rear entrance, part of her satisfied that this act might in some small way make up for the unspeakable one she had committed when she cried out in shock, a large hand suddenly slapped over her mouth, silencing her scream.

  “You listenin’ to tings you should na,” hissed a voice in her ear, the breath hot and foul, Koroma’s driver wrapping his other hand around her front as his groin shoved into her side, his free hand finding a breast and squeezing painfully. “I tink it be time to teach you a lesson.”

  She screamed into his palm but it was no use, her voice too muffled. And even if she could scream aloud, would anyone who heard it care? With a rough jerk she was spun around on her heels and pulled toward the rear of the building, her shoes making two long lines in the dirt, pointers to where her ultimate humiliation would come to pass.

  I deserve this!

  It was God’s way of punishing her for what she had done. Sacrificing the safety of an innocent child to save her own neck. She could imagine no worse sin, not even murder or suicide.

  Suicide!

  She had sworn she would kill herself if something like this were to happen, if she found herself powerless to stop her attackers. She wondered if Koroma had given the order, if the eight other men who had followed Sarah were now doing to Sarah what was about to happen to her.

  You poor girl!

  They reached the rear of the building, it backing onto a sparse area of yellow grass with no one in sight. He let go of his death grip on her chest and a gun was suddenly placed against her temple.

  “Get on your knees.”

  She knew what was coming and her mind began to shut down. As she dropped to her knees, shoulders sagging in resignation, she listened for Sarah’s screams but heard nothing. Instead all she heard was the sound of her assailant’s zipper opening, a musky, unwashed stench immediately causing her to gag in disgust.

  “You know what to do.”

  And she did. She gripped him, tight, and began tugging. The man’s moans were nearly instantaneous and the gun left her head, resting at the man’s side as he tossed his head back in ecstasy. Reaching into a pocket on the thigh of her scrubs, she pulled out a large scalpel she had found among the stolen supplies. Gripping it tightly, she pulled hard on the man, exposing the thick member then sliced, tossing away the resulting flesh as blood spurted from what remained, her assailant screaming in agony. She jabbed the scalpel deep into his inner thigh, yanking it downward, toward the knee, slicing vertically along the femoral artery, blood gushing over her hand, a pool of blood pumping onto the ground as the enraged man shouted at her in Krio.

  “What have you done!” he cried, the gun swinging toward her. She knew it was now only a matter of moments. If she could survive long enough, he would be no match within thirty seconds. She launched herself from her knees, her right hand still gripping the scalpel, her left hand reaching for the arm with the gun, her countdown begun the moment she sliced the artery still ticking in her head.

  Seven…eight...

  Her hand wrapped around his wrist, still powerful, he easily overcoming her attempt to deflect the weapon. She sunk the scalpel into his stomach, jerking up.

  Another cry of pain, this one turning into a whimper then a growl.

  Twelve…thirteen…

  His free hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing tight. She pulled the scalpel out, jabbing upward, catching the bottom of his chin, hitting hard bone. The grip tightened around her throat as she struggled to pull the blade free, it jammed in tight.

  Sixteen…seventeen…

  Her left foot slipped in the blood and she dropped to the ground, the grip on her throat loosening, her own on the scalpel lost. She grabbed at the gun hand with both of hers, the barrel now pointing directly at her head.

  Twenty…twenty-one…

  She pushed it aside, the man’s strength weakening. His grip on the gun loosened and she did what all of her training told her could be a death sentence, but covered in the man’s blood, she knew it was already too late for her if he were infected.

  Yanking down on his gun hand, she sank her teeth into his wrist, clamping down as hard as she could.

  Twenty-three…twenty-four…

  The gun dropped and he collapsed to his knees. His free hand swatted at her face, making contact, the sheer mass of it still enough to stun her, but the energy behind it now weak.

  She held on tight as another blow landed, this time even weaker.

  Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…

  He fell over to his side and she loosened her jaw, letting go of his hand, instead scrambling back in the large pool of blood, grabbing the weapon and pointing it at him.

  Thirty…thirty-one…

  His hand slowly reached out for her, his eyes wide with fear, then slowly closing as every muscle in his body relaxed, the outstretched arm finally hitting the ground with a splash of his own blood.

  Tanya looked to her left then her right. She was still alone, it appearing the man’s screams had brought no one. But for how long, she couldn’t know. She jumped to her feet, wiggling the scalpel free from the now nearly dead lump of flesh and rushed to the corner of the building. Peering around the corner, she saw no one. The door that led to the showers was only twenty feet from her. She rushed back to her attacker and grabbed him by the arm, attempting to drag him toward the side of the building but she soon gave up, the man simply too heavy, especially as a deadweight.

  I’ll need Sarah’s help.

  If she’s still alive.

  She peered again around the corner then darted toward the doorway leading to the showers. Stealing a glance through the glass, she yanked it open and jumped inside, racing for the shower room. Pushing the button to lock the door, she immediately stepped under the shower and turned it on, the cool water soaking her still clothed body as she collapsed to the floor, shaking uncontrollably as her rapist’s blood washed off of her then spiraled down the drain.

  As she lay on the tile floor, curled in a ball of shock and self-pity, she thought of that little girl and how scared she must be, all because of the selfish actions taken by a coward.

  And she pushed herself to her feet, determined to make sure they all survived until the Americans arrived, even if it meant Sarah had to endure an unspeakable horror.

  Northern Sierra
Leone

  Dawson sat in the passenger seat, their liaison officer, Margai, driving. Atlas, Jimmy and Niner sat in the back, the conditions cramped with Atlas’ broad shoulders, but complaints were few. The alternative was splitting up and driving in vehicles occupied by their escort who they couldn’t be sure weren’t infected. It was a new dynamic having to think of such things, and he would have preferred to have two vehicles, driven and occupied only by his own men, but that wasn’t an option here.

  In fact, initially Margai didn’t want them to even come.

  “I’m afraid I cannot agree to that. You are my responsibility, and I cannot risk you getting lost, injured or worse, infected. My men will check it out. If we find anything, we will let you know.”

  “Unfortunately I cannot agree to that. Your government promised us full cooperation. We will be investigating these sightings. You can drive us there yourself, or we will arrange our own transportation. Either way, we’re going.”

  Margai had smiled. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t get far. There are many roadblocks and checkpoints.”

  Dawson had pointed skyward. “Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”

  Niner had stifled a snicker nearby at the obvious Back to the Future reference, Margai either not noticing or choosing to ignore it. They were soon on the road with two troop transports accompanying them, half a dozen men in the lead vehicle, the trailing vehicle almost empty, it to carry back any prisoners.

  They had been travelling for several hours, their vehicles and Margai’s ID clearing them through checkpoints very quickly, little time lost. The sun was low in the west, to their left, their direction a mix of north and east jaunts along the windy road, long straight highways not something easily afforded in a poor country.

  It didn’t matter. According to Dawson’s phone they were already nearing the area in question, a cluster of small villages all within approximately fifty miles of each other, all the original homes to those involved. Several drones were in the air and satellites had been re-tasked to try and provide as much coverage as possible, but nothing yet had been reported.

  There was a squawk in his earpiece. “Bravo Zero-One, Control, maintain radio silence on your end.” Dawson felt himself tense up slightly, it clear their minders back home didn’t want Margai to know they were communicating. “We’ve got a UAV over you now. There’s a road block ahead, just over the next rise, heavily armed. It looks like they’re prepping for your arrival. ETA two mikes, over.”

  “It would be nice if we had some help when we got there,” said Dawson, turning toward Margai and smiling.

  “My men can handle anything we might encounter,” said Margai confidently, his right hand loosely on the wheel, his left holding a cigarette, his arm half out the open window.

  “We’ve got Royal Marines inbound by helo now, ETA fifteen mikes, over.”

  “I need to hit the head, can we stop? I’d hate to enter combat with a full bladder.”

  Margai laughed. “Just ahead there’s a village with a good restaurant. We can stop and get something to eat and drink there.”

  “How far?”

  “About two minutes.”

  “There’s nothing for the next fifteen minutes on this route, over.”

  “Can’t wait that long,” said Dawson, his right hand sliding to his hip as he turned toward the back of the vehicle. “You guys up for a piss break?” He made direct eye contact with each of them, all privy to the conversation with Control.

  His message was delivered.

  “Oh you can wait two minutes,” came the cheery reply.

  “’Fraid not.” Dawson pulled his weapon, jamming it against Margai’s ribcage. “Stop the vehicle.”

  “What are you doing?” cried Margai, his cigarette dropping from his fingers as he grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.

  “Stopping whatever it is you’ve got planned,” replied Dawson as Niner’s gun pressed against the back of the man’s neck. “Now come to a nice, easy stop.”

  Margai hammered on the gas, his hand shoving against the horn, the loud sound causing the troops in the lead transport to poke their heads out from under the canvas. Dawson pumped two rounds into Margai’s ribcage, scrambling the man’s heart and lungs. Margai collapsed into the steering wheel, the soldiers ahead of them raising their weapons. Niner reached forward and grabbed Margai’s collar, yanking him backward allowing Dawson to reach over and shove the door open. Pushing Margai’s body out of the vehicle with one hand, the other on the wheel of the rapidly slowing vehicle, he climbed over the console and dropped into the driver seat just as the first rounds from the lead vehicle tore into the windshield.

  “Return fire,” ordered Dawson as he slammed on the brakes, throwing the vehicle into reverse. Niner and Atlas leaned out their windows and opened fire on the rear of the lead vehicle as Jimmy climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Cover the rear!” he shouted to Atlas as he took over firing at the lead vehicle, Atlas spinning in his seat, taking out the shocked and confused driver of the now stopped trailing vehicle. Another shot and the passenger was eliminated. Dawson expertly continued to reverse the vehicle, swerving around the trailing vehicle as he updated Control.

  “Control, Bravo One, we’ve been engaged by our escorts. Liaison has been eliminated, over.”

  “Bravo One, Control Actual, are you intact, over?”

  Dawson always felt a sense of comfort when he heard Colonel Clancy’s voice—it meant the big man was aware of what was going on and had their backs. “Affirmative.”

  “Someone must have radioed in the situation. The vehicles at the roadblock are scrambling, heading your direction, over.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Four vehicles, at least two dozen hostiles.”

  “Lovely,” muttered Dawson. “Ammo check!”

  “Two mags!” shouted Atlas.

  Niner leaned back in for a moment. “One plus one just loaded!”

  “Three!” replied Jimmy as he ceased firing, the lead vehicle no longer moving, it apparently waiting for reinforcements.

  “We’ve got movement behind you, two vehicles. Possibly hostile, over.”

  Dawson slammed on the brakes.

  “What’s up, boss?” asked Niner as Dawson shoved the vehicle into first, hammering on the gas and popping the clutch.

  “The only weapons and ammo are in those trucks and we’re about to be surrounded.” They surged forward, racing back toward the trailing truck. He looked back at Atlas as he hit the brakes again. “Get their weapons and ammo.”

  Atlas jumped out, the tires already spinning as they raced toward the lead vehicle. Nothing moved in the rear, his team’s shots true, but most likely the driver and at least one additional man in the cab of the truck were still alive.

  “ETA sixty seconds on the vehicles in front of you, two mikes on your six. Marines updated on your status, ETA now ten mikes, over.”

  “This will be over by then,” said Dawson as he brought the vehicle to a halt, Niner and Jimmy jumping out, racing up either side of the stopped transport vehicle. Two shots rang out from either side before he was even out of the vehicle.

  “Clear!” shouted Niner, immediately echoed by Jimmy.

  “Weapons and ammo!” shouted Dawson as he jumped into the rear of the transport. Someone moaned to the left resulting in a double-tap to the chest. He began tossing weapons, mostly AK-47s, out the back then patting the bodies down for ammo, finding two magazines on each of the six men.

  “Look, BD, RPG!” Dawson turned to see a grinning Atlas holding up the weapon in one hand, two AKs in the other. “Got four mags, too.”

  Dawson jumped back to the ground, pointing to Niner. “Block the road with this,” he said, slapping the side of the transport. “Flatten the tires.”

  Niner nodded, yanking the body of the driver out of the cab and climbing in as Dawson surveyed the terrain. There were plenty of low trees with a taller grove several hundred yards to the east but there was n
o way they could make them in time; they would be sitting ducks if their opponents could actually shoot.

  The hiss of air filled his ears for a moment as Niner and Jimmy used their knives to flatten the tires rather than waste valuable ammunition. “Weapons and ammo in our vehicle, let’s head south. We’ll intercept the smaller force, take out one of the vehicles with the RPG, the other by surprise. That should allow us to continue retreating. If we can stay ahead of the approaching reinforcements long enough, the Brits might just get here before it’s too late.”

  Armfuls of weapons were grabbed and dumped into the back seat as Dawson jumped into the driver seat, turning the key, the engine merely turning over but not starting. And he already knew the reason.

  He could smell gas.

  He jerked a thumb at Atlas. “Check the other transport, see if it starts.”

  Atlas, not yet in the vehicle, tore off toward the only other vehicle that might still be functional, climbing inside and turning the key. It roared to life.

  But too late.

  “They’re here,” shouted Niner, pointing ahead as a column of vehicles crested a ridge, single file.

  “Hit the lead vehicle,” ordered Dawson as he stepped out of the vehicle, cranking the wheel to the left. He pushed, the vehicle inching forward then finally gaining some momentum as he directed it toward a shallow ditch at the side of the road. Stepping away the truck rolled into the depression, its front bumper slamming into the embankment with a crunch.

  The distinctive sound of an RPG launching to his right was ignored, the resulting explosion and cheer from Niner telling him all he needed to know. Reaching into the back seat, he pulled the weapons out, tossing them to Jimmy and the returning Niner as Atlas attempted to turn the massive transport on the narrow road behind them. He leaned out the window.

  “There’s just no room!” he shouted. “We’ll have to back out of here!”

  Dawson nodded, stuffing his pockets with magazines. “Let’s go!”

  They ran toward the rear transport, Dawson pointing toward the passenger side. “Jimmy, with Atlas! Cover the front!”