Valiant

by Bradley Carter

  Earlier that afternoon, before getting ready to prepare food, Lieutenant Schaeffer’s wife, Susanne, realized she had forgot to purchase ketchup and pickles from the grocery store.

  She and her husband married right after high school, just before the Lieutenant began his military career. He was always a sucker for her curly blonde hair and green eyes.

  Their eighteen-year-old daughter, Ellie, was home from college for summer break. She shared her mother’s blonde, but kept hers long and straight. Leaving behind all the chasing boys at school, Ellie had recently been cured of homesickness, and insisted she go back to the store with her mother.

  The younger sibling, Benjamin, was fourteen-years-old. He looked more like a miniature version of his father, but with a head full of smooth dark hair. Benjamin wasted away the summer days with all his attention on video games and his mother demanded he take a break and come along. She never intended the three of them to be gone for very long, and in their suburban neighborhood, leaving her home unlocked while away in the daytime was nothing of a concern.

  Only a block from the supermarket, Susanne and her kids sat waiting at a traffic light. A black and white police SUV came to a stop behind them. When the signal changed to green, Susanne turned left, onto a side street and the light bar on top of the SUV began to strobe flashes of red and blue. It followed the car to a vacant parking lot, still within sight of daytime traffic and passersby.

  As he approached her window, the officer said nothing except to ask for Susanne for her driver’s license, which she happily surrendered to him.

  “Have I done something wrong?” she asked, seeing her reflection in the cop’s sunglasses.

  “I’ll be right back,” he replied.

  A confused Susanne sat patiently with both her hands on the steering wheel. Because of the summer heat, she rolled up her windows to keep the cool air inside. Benjamin stayed entertained by a game he was playing on his cellphone. Ellie sat in the backseat next to him, with her back twisted, watching as the policeman returned to his vehicle.

  Had any of the three been paying closer attention, they would have noticed a tiny black aerosol can, no larger than a pill bottle, lying on the back floorboard.

  Inside the SUV, the officer never bothered to run Susanne’s information in his computer. In fact, he never gave the dispatch center any notice of doing a traffic stop. He sat from the driver’s seat and waited, watching three heads in the car in front of him slouch over.

  A moment later, the officer walked back to the car and tapped on the window. Susanne lay hunched over the center console. Benjamin’s cellphone beeped and rested in the open palm of his sleeping hand. Ellie lay limp and motionless, resting across her brother’s lap.

  Over his radio, the officer called for an ambulance, reporting three unconscious people needing medical attention. The paramedics arrived a short time later and loaded all three into the back of the ambulance, but Lieutenant Schaeffer’s family never arrived at the hospital.

  Later that night, the three awoke to find themselves guests of Ft. Leavenworth Prison, locked inside separate cells of an abandoned wing.

  On the outside, Lieutenant Schaeffer had been looking around every corner, under every rock. A search began. News broadcasts were aired. Questions were asked. Posters, with the same photographs that hung on the living room wall, were stapled on every utility pole for miles. Throughout all the efforts being done, in his heart, the Lieutenant knew his family would never been seen alive again.

  For days, Susanne and her children were kept isolated, far away from any suspicious eyes. Inmates and staff lived and worked in the newly renovated area and came nowhere near the older part of the prison. The three innocent lives were kept from food and water, starving so they would grow weak.

  In his own cell, The Captain sat quietly on the edge of his bunk. A twitchy dark-skinned prisoner stopped outside the concrete room and nodded when he was noticed.

  “Casi es hora de pagar,” he said.

  Knowing his three guests were rotting away on the brink of death, the Captain nodded back.

  “Esta noche.”

  That night would be the beginning of his evil empire. He would later find out just how profitable his victims would be. In the hours that followed, he would learn how rich he could become.

  At some time in the middle of the night, two prison guards came into the abandoned wing and unlocked one of the cells. Ellie laid frail, thin, and barely moving on a soiled cot mattress. Her lips were chapped and her dry tongue could barely form words.

  The clanking of the locks woke her mother and brother from their sleep. Susanne barely had the energy to sit up, but when the guards grabbed hold of Ellie, dragging her kicking and screaming through the corridor, the girl’s mother found her strength restored with terror.

  Susanne stood, gripping and shaking the bars of her cell, begging and pleading the guards to leave her daughter alone. It did nothing to stop them. In a neighboring cell, Benjamin sat frozen and frightened, covering his ears to block his mother’s cries, as he watched his sister being carried through a steel door at the end of the room.

  Ellie was taken to a boiler room, a dark and hellish place in the basement of the facility. The guards released her from their grip, shoving her to the floor.

  “The bitch ain’t had nothin’ to drink,” said one of the guards. “Her shit’s probably dry as the dirt.”

  For a moment, the guard’s colleague stared at the whimpering girl. On the bottom of his pitted tan chin was an old thin scar, most likely a cut from a razor blade or sharp knife made long ago. This guard’s name was Mateo Cabal, and though his mark had long since been healed, it still itched from time to time.

  Mateo ripped away his uniform shirt, leaving his upper body still covered with a white T-shirt.

  “Get her some water,” he said, wadding his shirt with his fist.

  A repetitious pounding came from the other side of a closed metal door. The thumping sound echoed throughout the room as the other guard filled a dirty bucket with water from a rusty hose faucet. Mateo ordered the other guard to record everything, then shoved Ellie onto her back with his boot and dropped his weight on his knee across her chest. She tried to smack at him and push away, but her strength had been taken by the days and nights of fasting.

  The other guard fumbled with a small video camera. A small red light on the viewfinder began blinking and the lens came into focus, capturing everything.

  Mateo shoved as much of his wadded shirt into Ellie’s mouth as he could before the other guard handed him the bucket. It took less than half a minute for the water to pour out, but to Ellie, it was an eternity of simulated drowning. Once he removed his wet shirt, the girl gasped for air and coughed up mouthfuls of water.

  Against the wall leaned a torn bed cot. Jagged shreds of its metallic frame pierced through the worn holes of its dirty fabric. The other guard pulled it down, tossing it beside the young girl. The two lifted Ellie to her knees and slammed her facedown onto the cot. Her hands and feet were bound to its frame with industrial strength cable ties that were zipped so tight; they dug purple marks in her skin.

  Mateo opened the door to a small crowd of drooling and angry faces. Prisoners who snarled like wolves, about to be given a feast of raw meat. He told these animals he would only let them in one-by-one, and when one of them had finished; the next in line could take their turn.

  The second guard kept his video camera tight, widening the shot to capture the entire room.

  Ellie wailed and sobbed, rocking the ripped bedding from side to side. For the cost of a pack of cigarettes, each of the inmates took their turn ravaging her. Some would only take a few minutes. Others would indulge the experience for much longer. Their most horrific fantasies were theirs for the taking, in the flesh, stripped naked and screaming and bound to a cot on the floor beneath them.

  Some were only in it for the sex. Others would beat her with their fists, unleashing all of their pent-up anger from being incarce
rated. They’d choke her. They’d drag sharp rusty blades across her skin, and some brought cigarette lighters to burn against her fingers to make her scream louder while they had their way with her. All of this while the other prison guard recorded. At times, he would hold the camera to capture Ellie’s expressions. Other times, he would focus in more on what they prisoners were doing to her.

  The last in line was the twitchy dark skinned prisoner who had visited the Captain’s cell earlier in the evening. By the time he had finished, the poor girl was taking her last few breaths. Her final one would not come until one more person made her acquaintance. This one person stood in the doorway, listening to the air wheezing from her lungs.

  As he approached, he removed his shirt, exposing his thick chest and muscles. On the back of his right shoulder, was the tattoo of a bull’s head and horns. From his pocket, he removed a stick of chewing gum and tossed it into his mouth. Kneeling beside a dying Ellie, he lifted her head with a fist full of her filthy, nappy blonde hair, and pulled her face close to chewing lips.

  “I once told your father to keep his mouth shut. He never learned to follow my orders.”

  Ellie’s eyes glazed. Inside her chest, her heart filled with a sense of betrayal given to her by the Captain’s words, and then it beat once more, for the last time.

  8. WHAT’S SO FUNNY?

  I could go on and on about the benefits and downfalls of working the graveyard shift. Daylight is limited, especially when the seasons change. Unlike the mornings, the evening sun ends the day with a more beautiful cascade of colors, and not so much a blinding brightness. Once it sets, the skies begins filling with stars. The constellation Orion, with the three bright dots that make up his belt, signifies that winter is coming. It’s a good thing I remembered to bring my jacket.

  What I forgot this afternoon was to bring dinner. Dax offers to buy takeout, and he’s craving Chinese food. It’s a bit redundant to pack your face full of carbohydrates after a workout. Then again, I may need the energy.

  Dax and I sit parked with our cruisers facing opposite directions so we can chit-chat through our windows while we eat. I’m sure my car will smell like chicken fried rice for the rest of the shift.

  “You seem nervous,” he says, opening the lid of his meal.

  I shake my head.

  “No. Jitters from anticipating my first SWAT standby, perhaps.”

  Dax tears open the corner of a soy-sauce packet with his teeth.

  “What have you got in the trunk?”

  I take a bite of rice.

  “AR-15,” covering my mouth with my hand as I chew. “Bushmaster lower, Magpul furniture, and an Aimpoint optic. I built it myself.”

  Dax bounces his head before inhaling the aroma of his hot meal.

  “How’s Haylee?” he asks, before taking a huge bite of his egg roll.

  My appetite is small. Still chewing, I push the rice around with the tip of my plastic fork.

  “She’s fine. I think.”

  “Is she still dating Cole’s son?”

  Taking another bite, I nod.

  “I’m not sure how much longer it will last. She’s showing signs of trust issues, but I don’t blame her. Austin was being rather sneaky with his cell phone this afternoon.”

  “It’s this new generation,” says Dax, “and all this crap constantly being shoved in their faces with social media and whatnot. MTV isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s a crash course on how you’re expected to look and act. What’s acceptable and what’s not. Kids can’t sustain a meaningful relationship with someone when they’re always being shown there’s someone better, stronger, and closer to perfection. That’s why teen depression is so high; they’re being raised to believe their lives can be wonderful, and then reality sets in.”

  I listen to everything he says, but I’m distracted by a dark van speeding past other cars and coming to a stop in the forward lane at the traffic light.

  “I need some more napkins,” adds Dax, wiping his chin and opening his door.

  He hustles back into the restaurant, and I keep staring at this van with a decal printed on its side.

  A logo—The A Corporation.

  The left turn light changes to green, and the driver lets off the brake, only to realize he still has a red light. Large hands smack the steering wheel and the moment his light changes, he takes off.

  I close the lid on my takeout box and set it in the passenger seat. Throwing the shifter from park to drive, I pull off into the street.

  Most people stay driving behind or next to a patrol car when they see one. This van is way ahead of me in a matter of seconds. Catching up to him, matching his speed, I read the needle of my speedometer at sixty-five miles per hour, and pass a speed limit sign of fifty.

  My lights flip on, scattering red and blue flashes on the buildings along the roadside.

  The laptop mounted to the console of my squad car is on the fritz.

  ‘Connection lost.’

  Shit.

  The only way to access information is to call dispatch over the radio.

  “F-351, 10-7 traffic. Radio is secure,” I say, plugging my ear with an earpiece.

  “Go ahead,” replies the dispatcher.

  The van pulls into a lot of a closed business and comes to a stop.

  After a beep from the radio, I give the dispatcher the information on a plate.

  “Stand by,” they reply.

  As with any other traffic stop, I approach the driver’s side and keep my eyes on the front window. I tap my hand against the back left door panel. There are a couple of reasons why the police do this, but I’m not getting into that right now. I walk up to a window as it rolls down. The driver has his license ready for me, waving it up and down.

  My radio beeps again with the dispatcher’s response.

  “F-351, is this vehicle secure? It’s 10-99 local.”

  “Stand by,” I reply.

  With one hand resting on my gun, my finger taps the holster. I take the license from the driver, and ask if he knows why I stopped him. He’s a large muscular man with a lighter shade of dark skin. He turns toward me, looking me up and down. On his pitted chin is an old scar, like an old wound from a sharp blade or knife.

  “You were speeding,” I say. “Sixty five in a fifty.”

  His driver’s license reads Mateo Cabal, forty-six years old.

  He speaks English well, but still has a Hispanic accent.

  “I didn’t see you clocking me.”

  I don’t need to. Our patrol cars don’t carry radar guns. Riding behind him at the same speed, I’m able to tell how fast he’s going. It’s called ‘pacing.’

  “That’s not even legal,” says Mateo.

  Grabbing the radio strapped to my shoulder, before pressing the button, I assured him pacing is quite legal.

  I reply to dispatch, “Control, can you run 10-27 and 10-29 on a subject?”

  I give them Mateo’s information.

  A faint thud comes from the back of the van and the frame rocks one time, like something or someone is slamming against the walls.

  “What’s in the back?” I ask.

  Mateo continues to run his eyes from my head to my toes and back, smirking as though I don’t threaten him.

  “I’m going home from work,” he replies. “I install fiber optic cable. Back there is nothing but equipment.”

  It’s possible something had come loose and knocked the wall, but the idea doesn’t sit right with me. It’s a clever excuse, one I may have believed had this vehicle not come back as reported stolen.

  As I take a step back, he keeps his eyes on me. Another beep from my radio, and then a dispatcher’s voice.

  “Subject is confirmed and negative with a valid driver’s license.”

  “Send an additional unit.”

  Opening the driver’s side door, I tell Mateo to step out of the van. He complies, but slowly takes his time. The door swings wider and he waits. Before I have a chance to repeat myself, he p
uts one foot on the ground.

  “Today,” I tell him.

  His other leg swings out, and as both feet press against the concrete, he stands, towering over me at about six feet tall. His faded jeans and boots, the thin buttoned up red shirt, it doesn’t seem to be a work uniform of someone who installs cable. Grabbing my handcuffs from the pouch on my belt, I order him to turn around and lock his fingers behind his head, and so he does. I pull one of his arms down behind his back and click the cuff around his wrist. Then another clank from the back of the van draws my attention to the van rocking again.

  “That’s not equip—”

  Before the rest of my words come out, everything changes.

  With the open cuff still in my hand, Mateo whips back, spinning me around to face away from him. His cuffed arm wraps over my shoulder and the thick silver blade of a knife presses against my throat. The smallest bit of force will puncture my skin. His breath is heavy in my ear.

  “If I were you, mujer policía,” he says, “I would let this one go. Don’t concern yourself with things that are bigger than you. Things you can’t control.”

  A chirp of a siren and more lights flash from another patrol car pulling along our side. When the tires come to a stop, Dax rushes out, still leaving his door open. He comes close and draws his weapon, aiming at Mateo’s head.

  “Back away,” his deep voice shouts.

  Mateo’s eyes widened as he pulls back my ponytail, tilting my head farther back. Only if I roll my eyes down can I see Dax standing off with his gun. Mateo taps the tip of the blade to my skin, to the side of my neck.