The backwards-hatted man stepped in close to the man-bun man. “Oh, so now you’re saying you’d assassinate him? That’s fucked up, dude. It’s that kind of bullshit right there that’s got this country so screwed.”
“No,” the man-bun man shot back, “it’s your narcissistic, megalomaniacal, so-called president that’s got this country so fucked up. With his leadership, we’ve all learned that hate and violence is now acceptable policy. I’m just following his example, bro, that’s all.”
The backwards-hatted man leaned down toward the man-bun man until their faces were just inches apart and said, “That’s bullshit and you know it, asshole. What’s got this country so fucked is you liberal snowflake mother fuckers with your love for homos and open borders. Fuckin’ dick-suckin’ fags and greasy Mexicans scurrying around everywhere in the country like fuckin’ cockroaches.”
The scraggily-haired man threw back a shot and began singing La Cucaracha in a bad Mexican accent. The back-hatted man joined in until they both doubled over in laughter.
“Yeah, that’s so typical of you ignorant alt-right fucks,” the man-bun man said without fear. “You’re all just a bunch of narrow-minded losers who blame anyone you feel threatened by for the failure of your own shitty lives.”
“Just like a spineless lib to hate all that America stands for and love to death anything that serves to bring it down,” the backward-hatted man said loudly.
His buddy picked up where he left off. “Just admit it, snowflake. You hate America, don’t you? You’d rather give all our jobs to every illegal wetback bastard who....”
The mood in the bar down-shifted as Kix Brooks began crooning from the jukebox about broken dreams and the sad light of neon moons, drowning out the rest of the ugly argument. Killian threw his shot back, rose carefully from his stool, took two uneasy steps, steadied himself with the back of an occupied stool, ignored the Hey, buddy, what the fuck look its occupant gave him, and then made his way to the three argumentative men at the other end of the bar. Just as he was calling to the two larger men to get their attention, his foot caught the leg of a stool and he stumbled right into the side of the backward-hatted man.
“Hey, dude. What the fuck?” the backward-hatted man said as he shrugged Killian off him and Killian went stumbling on into the scraggily-haired man.
Like a pinball, the scraggily-haired man redirected Killian and slammed him into the bar with a hard shove. As Killian struggled to hold onto the bar’s edge to keep from falling to the floor, the scraggily-haired man said, “This is a private conversation, dickhead, so why don’t you piss off and stumble your drunk ass back to the other side of the bar where you came from?”
After gaining his footing but still leaning on the bar for support, Killian turned back to the two large men and said with a slur, “You know what? If I hear either one of you say one more thing about Mexicans, I’m going to—”
“Hey look, dude,” the man-bun man said, cutting in, “this doesn’t have anything to do with you, okay? I got this. I don’t need any backup, especially from someone who can barely stand.”
Killian’s head swayed as he looked hard at the small man for a moment trying to get his eyes to focus. He then stood himself up as straight as he could and shifted his attention slowly back to the two large men. “Like I was saying, you redneck assholes... I’m gonna fuck you both up if I hear—”
“Listen you drunk fuck,” the scraggily-haired man said as he shoved Killian back into the bar, “none of us want to hear whatever it is you’re slobbering on about. Now get the fuck out of here before it really starts to get physical.”
The bartender walked over and said to the scraggily-haired man, “Now look here, Justin, don’t go startin’ no shit again, you hear. You know you’re already on thin ice.”
“I ain’t startin’ shit, Ned,” Justin said staring hard at Killian, “but I’ll be damn sure happy to end it if this drunk mother fucker here doesn’t get out of my face.”
“All right, all right,” Ned the bartender said obligingly as he wiped his hands off on the shirt stretched tight across his ample belly. He tapped Killian on the shoulder. “Sir, perhaps it’s time you shoved off. What do you say? I can call you a cab.”
Killian ignored Ned. He instead was trying hard to bring both his eyes back into focus on the two blurry Justins he was seeing before him. “What I’m trying to say here to these two... these two bigoted redneck monkeys here,” he said, his speech continuing to slur, “is that one of the finest men I know... a man who just happened to be from Mexico... died today.” He took in a deep breath and swelled himself up in an effort to intimidate. “So if I hear one more word about—”
“Ah, hell,” Justin said with a mean-spirited laugh to his buddy with the backward hat. “Sounds to me like one less greasy beaner we have to worry about stealing our jobs or raping our women.”
All the whiskey Killian had consumed that night wasn’t nearly enough to overcome his twenty disciplined years of SEAL mindset and training. A brutal left knee to Justin’s right thigh instantly reduced the scraggily-haired man into a position where his right temple was in perfect alignment for Killian’s violent right elbow. As the backward-hatted man reacted in his buddy’s defense, he too, after a quick pair of equally painful and debilitating blows – a kick caving in the side of an exposed right knee; an uppercut exploding into a glass-like chin – followed Justin straight to the sticky floor where he joined him in unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BEFORE
Lukos Sabra pulled his rented white Ford F150 off to the side of the road just before the one-lane bridge that crossed over Rust Creek. He kept the truck idling to allow its heater to continue to do its work as he finished the last of the coffee in his travel mug while contemplating the snowy terrain outside his window. He had never hunted animals before, but, in his camouflaged insulated overalls and his camouflaged winter jacket, with his non-resident archery license flapping off the back authorizing him to hunt both antler and antlerless deer, at least he looked the part. He grabbed his camouflaged cap off the passenger’s seat, flipped out the ear flaps, and put it on. Finished with the coffee, he stuffed his camouflaged pop top mittens into his jacket pockets and, from the backseat, grabbed his camouflaged backpack and set it on his lap. He zipped it open, tightened the lid of the thermos inside, and then checked to make sure his leftover kebab khashkhash wasn’t being smooshed.
Once outside in the frigid pre-dawn morning, he hoisted on the backpack and then reached behind the driver’s seat to grab the compound bow and quiver full of arrows, all of which, along with the coordinated winter outfit he was wearing, had been ordered online and received in the mail only yesterday. He shut the door, locked the truck, and then began his trek.
During his drive over from his motel, he had seen countless trucks like his parked on the sides of roads running along forests and fields, so he wasn’t worried about leaving his rental behind unattended. The only interest it might draw would be from other hunters passing by noting its location as a potential future hunting spot. But he knew all this already. He was familiar with both the location and the routine; although, what he wasn’t familiar with was all the snow. While painting the forest a beautiful coat of white and leaving it muffled within a reverential silence that filled one with a deep sense of peace and awe, for the long hours he knew he would be spending on his stake out he would much rather have the warmer autumnal weather he had the last time he was assigned here.
He crossed the narrow stone bridge, struck by how the bright, rusty red color of the steep banks along the stream running beneath him stood out in such contrast to the white of the deep snow covering the ground running up to them on either side. He then made a cut into the dark and hushed forest, its commanding trees lining the road absent of any “no trespassing” or “no hunting” signs. Not that any such signs would have kept him from his task even if they had been posted. He followed the creek, iced-over in patches, until he came
across the snow-covered foot path that would lead him toward his familiar spot. He had come to know the path well over the past year and he had grown a strong fondness for it and the wood through which it ran, for they reminded him of the plush green rolling hills he used to explore while growing up in Qardaha, a mountainous area of northwestern Syria overlooking the port city of Latakia, Qardaha. But instead of the Red Maples, Black Oaks, and White Pines that surrounded him now, the forests of his youth were flush with the majestic Aleppo Pines, Mediterranean Cypresses, and Cedars of Lebanon. Never once could he have imagined when walking down those winding forest paths of his childhood that one day he would be an American citizen walking down similar paths on the side of a gently rolling hill in Southern Pennsylvania.
Yesterday, Sabra spent the day on his computer researching Killian. Most of what he had learned was public information that even the most basic cyber user would be able to find out about anyone with minimum effort – home address, high school, college, military service – and all which he already had from a similar tasking he had had against Killian’s father Luc. Unlike his father who had a significance online presence due to his consulting business and book speaking engagements, Killian had no online presence whatsoever, no Facebook, no Twitter, no nothing.
Sabra broke off from the path several hundred feet before the forest ended and opened up onto a field that rolled down a hill and then back up toward Lebon’s barn. He walked, not carelessly, but not with any concern of where he was going, for it was a short walk until he found the tree he was looking for. It was a Red Oak and, unlike most of the other trees that, in their competition for the sun, had grown tall and thin with no low-level limbs, this one had managed to grow out wider with a thick trunk and thick limbs low enough for him to climb. When he found the tree during his initial tasking against Luc Lebon, it had already had a tree stand built onto a limb approximately twenty feet up. There was a hoist line hanging down from the stand. He tied his bow to the line and then climbed up to the stand to hoist it up from there. He had no intention of using the bow, so he set it aside. He unpacked his thermos and poured himself a cup of coffee into its lid. He sipped on the liquid warmth as he took a moment to enjoy the splendor of the sun dawning upon the snow-covered morning.
After taking a few languid sips of coffee, he took out a Swarovski STS 80 HD Spotting Scope from the backpack and got down to business. He looked past the barn and adjusted the scope’s sight onto the old Lebon farmhouse. He scanned it thoroughly and found no noticeable activity inside. After a few more sips of coffee, he aimed the scope to the lot beyond the farmhouse. Covered in a thick, graceful layer of snow, it was impossible to tell that beneath that layer was once a stately house that now lay in ruins... ruins of his own making.
He refilled his cup and, knowing he was going to be there for a long while, took several more thoughtful sips of the hot black coffee as he settled back into his tree stand and got himself as comfortable as he could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BEFORE
Killian snapped awake, not realizing that for once he had slept without the nightmare’s torment. He didn’t realize it because the severity of the hangover pounding in his head and thrashing in his stomach did not allow for it. It, the hangover, owned him completely and demanded his full attention and obedience as he sat on the cold metal bench with a tongue thick and dry as leather and eyes bloodshot and burning and staring lost at the wavery bars before him contemplating whether death would be a better alternative to the way he now felt...
He has never been in prison before; but somehow, even though he has no recollection of why or when he was locked up, behind bars is exactly where he feels he needs to be now. He leans his head back against the cold cinderblock wall. It feels good against the hot skin of his neck. Outside the bars, there is a hallway with a long wooden bench against the wall. He stands up, slowly, and walks to the bars and sees that, to his left, the hall opens to a room of which all he can see of it is the side of a counter. He looks up at the security camera pointing down at his cell. Looking up like that makes things begin to swirl again so he returns to his metal bench and lies back down. As soon as he is horizontal though, the spinning worsens. He quickly sits back up.
“Hey, is anybody out there? I think I’m going to be sick.” The effort it takes to holler out sends painful shock waves reverberating throughout his head. Despite the spinning, he has to lie back down and rest his head on the cool metal bench to ease the pain.
It seems forever before he hears the squeaky wheels of a chair rolling on the floor, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. “You puke it, you clean it. Them’s the rules,” a gravelly voice says as the footsteps approach. An officer walks up to the cell and looks down at him through the bars.
He looks up at the uniformed man, the bright, antiseptic light glaring from the uncovered florescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling of his cell playing havoc with his burning, blood shot eyes. “I really need to use the head Officer…” He looks down at the nametag above the right pocket on the officer’s blouse. He tries to focus his eyes on it but he can’t make out the name. He lets the sentence hang where he left it.
The officer grabs his belt and hitches up his pants. “Yeah? Well, you’ll have to wait until the other two officers on duty return from their rounds. Last time I was here alone and let a drunk out to use the bathroom, it turned into a situation. Seems we can’t trust you criminals anymore, so you’ll just have to stay put for now.”
“Sir, I don’t know why I’m here, but I can assure you—”
“You’re here because you put two men into the hospital. In other words, you’re here on felony assault charges, friend. And you’ll continue to be here until sometime tomorrow or whenever the court gets you on the schedule for an arraignment hearing.” He scratches at a nostril, glances at the finger, and then rests the hand on top of the gun holstered at his right hip. “Now you just sit tight, you hear, and as soon as the patrol team returns, you’ll be escorted to the bathroom. Check?”
The anger rises within him along with the bile that is barely containable at the top of his throat. He stands and walks over to the bars. The officer stands on the other side smiling at him. Like a striking viper, his hand shoots through the bars and grabs the officer’s fat neck and squeezes.
Astaghfirullah!
The officer gasps and grabs at the hand around his throat, trying to free it from his neck. But the grip is an unyielding vice that tightens the more he struggles. As soon as he realizes he is unable to free himself from the death grip, he goes for his gun. But he is losing consciousness fast and is unable to remove the weapon from its holster before the blackness washes over him.
He watches the light go out of the officer’s eyes and he drops to the floor with him as he collapses, unwilling to release his grip until after he guides the dead man’s head gently to the floor. He then reaches for the officer’s gun belt and unstraps it from his waist, bringing it with him back to the bench where he sits down, exhausted, sweating, nauseous. He unholsters the gun and relishes the feel of its cold, oily steel in his hand. He presses it against his fevered and sweaty forehead and, for the first time in a long while, he feels calmed, strengthened.
But the gun isn’t what he wants. He sets it down next to him and picks up the nylon belt and studies it for a moment. He takes off his own leather belt, loops its end back through the buckle of the nylon belt, then tests the combined strength of both with a hard tug. Satisfied, he stands on the bench and leans out to tie the end of the nylon belt to one of the short, sturdy posts that secures the light to the ceiling. He ties the end of the leather belt tight around his neck. Without hesitation, he grabs hold of the light and swings himself out underneath it. After his body stops rocking back and forth, he pulls up his legs so they won’t hit the floor and then pushes himself downward as hard as he can. The belts pay out and almost immediately come to a snapping, jerk of a halt—
“Hey, war hero, snap out of it,” the of
ficer hollered through the bars.
The voice startled Killian and he jumped in his seat. His hand went to his neck. He felt breathless.
“What the hell,” the officer said, “were you daydreaming or what, sitting there looking like a zombie with your eyes wide open.”
Killian said nothing. He just stared at the officer as he rubbed his neck.
“Anyway,” the officer continued, “you’re free to go.” He pressed some numbers into a keypad on the opposite wall and the cell door popped open. “Come on. I’ll get your things. Your truck’s around the back at the impound lot.”
Killian stood up slowly.
The officer headed back up the hall. “You need to go to the bathroom first? We got coffee.”
Killian stepped out of the cell and stopped. “Why?”
The officer kept walking. “Why what? Why do you have to go to the bathroom or why do we have coffee?”
“No. Why am I being rel—”
“I know what you’re talking about,” the officer said with a laugh. He stopped and turned back toward Killian. “You’re being released because the asshole losers you kicked the shit out of last night decided not to press any charges. I guess there were some witnesses in the bar who, like most people around here, don’t like those two jerks and made statements attesting to the fact that they were the ones who started the fight. And Reggie’s owner isn’t pressing any charges either, as long as you agree to pay for the damages to his bar. Consider yourself lucky, friend.”
Killian caught up with the officer and they both walked to the front of the station together. The officer punched a code into a security pad and entered the office spaces. Killian walked around to the receiving area in the front. The officer met him at the counter with a plastic bag containing Killian’s wallet, watch, car keys, and leather belt.
The Good Kill Page 13