by Ammar Habib
The red and black tactical suit covered him from his russet booted feet, to his gloved hands, and all the way up to his neck. His ware wore the red and black mask that he had inherited from Ethan. A dark grey cloak hung from his shoulders. Around his waist was a darkened belt, housing two long daggers. But instead of the throwing knives Ethan wore, two holstered handguns and several spare clips also hung from the belt.
He aimed his Yalguzag Rifle at the abandoned warehouse down the road, its barrel resting on the roof’s ledge. The meaning of the rifle’s name was a perfect representation of William. He motionlessly looked through its lens and into the den’s cracked and broken windows.
Inside the building stood four men. They were the only type of criminals left in the city: street scum. All they could do now was make their small deals here and there and scrap together enough not to starve. Anything above that would put them on William’s radar and they all knew what would happen then.
The criminals were all in a circle as they counted the money they’d made this week. It was only a handful of bills. William kept their leader in his crosshairs and his finger rested on the trigger. But he did not pull it. These people had not done enough to deserve death.
From his position, William noticed two heavily armored vans pull up. In the next instant, ten officers, dressed in tactical gear, quickly poured out of them with hardly a sound before they surrounded the building.
Speedily and efficiently, the officers closed in on the building. Three of them covered the building’s rear exit while the remaining seven lined up on either side of the front door with their backs against the wall, well out of sight from any of the building’s windows.
William maintained his crosshairs on the group’s leader while he watched the officers from his peripheral vision. He took a deep breath, keeping his nerves calm. They would go in at any moment now. He did not want to kill anybody. But the first sign of the bust going south, he would pull the trigger without any hesitation.
The head officer spoke softly into his radio before holding his semi-automatic rifle with both hands. Switching off his weapon’s safety, he held up three fingers without looking back at his men. The countdown began. The three became two. The two became one. The one became a fist.
They went in.
…and everything went according to plan.
Not a single shot was fired. The criminals barely had time to react. A minute later, all four of the dealers were in handcuffs and being led out of the building. The cops escorted them towards the parked vehicles down the road as they read them their rights.
William took his finger off of the trigger and rose to his feet. He turned away from the scene, heading towards the fire escape. The ends of a leather strap were attached to the rifle’s stock and receiver. William slung the strap around his shoulder, hanging the weapon off of it. He took out a small device from a pouch on his belt. Bringing it to his mouth, he switched on the communicator with the click of a button.
“Adam, are you there?”
Within moments, Adam’s voice poured out of the comm. “I’m hearing you loud and clear, boss.”
“Raymond and his three men have been apprehended without a shot fired.”
“I dropped off all the evidence we had on them to the police half an hour ago. They’ll all be getting a minimum of ten to fifteen without the DA having to break a sweat.”
“Good work.” Arriving to the top of the fire escape, William could see his parked black sports bike in the alley. “Are you monitoring the radio channels?”
“Yes. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
***
Cabaas’ fast-beating heart threatened to burst out of his chest. Standing in the middle of the secured room, surrounded by his last ten militants, sweat drenched his body. His hand tightly clenched a pistol. But he knew that if his men failed to stop this madman, then his life was forfeit.
Minutes ago, an explosion had ruptured on the other side of the mansion. Rancorous gunfire followed. When the bullets ended, they did not hear from the other men. It could only mean one thing: they were the only ones left.
Hearing something outside, Cabaas’ gaze suddenly flashed in the direction of the only door that led into the room. All the men turned that way too and held their weapons a little closer, tighter. The sound originated from right outside the door. Ethan must be there—he must be right outside, about to burst through the doors at any moment.
Cabaas raised his handgun. His arm trembled uncontrollably, and his body shivered with fear. It was now or never. He would either walk out of here alive, or he would be the next corpse on Ethan’s conscience.
The lights went out.
Shrouded in darkness, every man’s heart rate spiked. The Guardian’s presence was suddenly among them. In the next instant, the sound of metal cutting down flesh cut through the silence. Then screams. Multiple screams. But the cries were short-lived before bodies collapsed onto the hard floor.
The lights came back.
The entire ordeal occurred within a handful of seconds. Cabaas and the remaining eight men all stared in the direction of the screams. The Guardian stood there. Each of his hands clenched a bloodied dagger while two corpses rested at his feet.
The Guardian stood within three feet of the nearest militant, but his eyes aimed right at Cabaas. Nobody moved. The militants were looking at the man who had slain the rest of their comrades, and they were paralyzed with fear.
In a sudden move, the first militant tried to gun down The Guardian from point-blank-range with his AK47. Five rounds later, his finger let go of the trigger and he collapsed in a pool of blood.
Then the battle began.
The Guardian was upon the second man in an instant. Every man tried to gun him down. Every militant hoped and prayed that a stray bullet would end his life.
The deafening roar of gunfire and curses consumed the room. By the time the first body hit the floor, The Guardian took out a second militant in three masterfully quick strikes. The man collapsed with long and deep gashes on his chest. Swiftly leaping to the side, The Guardian kicked the third man into the line of fire. He easily sidestepped another stream of bullets before coming upon the fourth guard. With two fluid moves of his daggers, he turned his opponent into a corpse.
The Guardian found himself right between his fifth and sixth enemies. Without thinking, both instinctively fired at him from only a few feet away. Right as they pulled their triggers, The Guardian instinctively leapt backwards, avoiding the barrage. Instead, both soldier’s bullets gunned down one another.
The last two guards immediately came upon The Guardian. Knowing better than to shoot, they tried to beat The Guardian down with their rifles. Using their guns as batons, they sent down blow after blow in an attempt to back The Guardian into a corner. But The Guardian easily batted away their attacks. Gaining an opening, The Guardian’s elbow cross-faced one of the men, stunning him. With a swift move, he ended the first man’s life by driving his dagger through the man’s heart. And by the time the first man collapsed, The Guardian sliced open the last militant’s neck.
Ten corpses now littered the room. The battle took no more than a minute. The Guardian turned around and looked at Cabaas. The warlord remained right where he had stood throughout the entire battle. Only a few yards away, his trembling gun remained aimed at The Guardian, but he did not dare pull the trigger.
The Guardian sheathed his first dagger as he slowly began to move towards Cabaas. His voice was cold enough to bring fear into the heart of any man. “You know better than to point that gun at me.”
Without thinking, Cabaas dropped the weapon.
In the next moment, The Guardian roughly slammed the warlord’s back against the wall. He grabbed Cabaas by his throat and lifted him a few inches into the air. “You have information that I need.”
“Wh—what do you want to know?”
His hand crushed down on Cabaas’ throat. “Daken.”
That name suddenly shot
terror up Cabaas’ spine. “…D—Daken?”
“Where is he?”
“I—I… don’t know.”
In a flash, The Guardian brought the edge of his bloody dagger to Cabaas’ large stomach. “Lie to me and I will gut you like a pig.”
“I’m n—not… I swear. I don’t know where he is.”
“He put you in power!”
“I—I—I don’t know where he is. But I am in contact with one of his agents.”
“You know where the agent is?”
“No… but I know the next best thing: how to find him.”
The Guardian menacingly drew Cabaas closer to him. “You better not be screwing with me.”
“I—I’m not! I’m not! I s—swear!” Cabaas could barely speak as The Guardian tightened his grip on his throat. “There’s a man named Caine. He’s in Nigeria. He will lead you to Daken’s agent.”
“Where?”
“You’ll find him in a village called Borno.”
Borno. For a moment, Ethan forgot where he was. He knew that place. He had been there before. It was only sixty miles from the town where he had stumbled upon the Naira, girl that became his adopted sister, all those years ago. And to get to Borno, he would have to journey back through the town he swore to never set foot in again. Of all the places his hunt had taken him, he never thought that he would go back there.
After a long moment, Ethan’s mind refocused on the situation. Cabaass’ face was red and the veins were popping out of his forehead as he struggled for air. “Does he live there?”
“No… but he will pass… through there a week from today.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“The left side of his face has a scar… a bad one.”
Ethan let go of the warlord, and Cabaass collapsed onto the ground like a sack of meat. Falling hard on his leg, he gasped for air as his gaze slowly met Ethan’s.
Cabaass knew what would come next.
“Cabaas, you have murdered, tormented, and starved your people.” Ethan paused for a long moment before uttering the line he had said to countless vile men. “I am the creation of your sins… and they want you dead.”
Chapter 3
Saying Goodbye
A few days later:
Ethan knew this place. It was where he had met his adopted sister: Naira.
However, it looked nothing like he remembered. Years ago, this place was a graveyard. More than half the villagers and townspeople had been killed or kidnapped by the rebels the night before. Of the ones that survived the night, only a handful still possessed their homes. The streets were littered with decaying corpses. People were gunned down in the streets like stray dogs, others cut down with machetes.
Buildings were set ablaze and burned to the ground, and much of the rubble continued to burn into the next morning. Vehicles were riddled with bullets, many blown to bits by Molotov’s. All throughout the town, cries of those who had survived rang through the streets.
Women wept over their dead children. Children cried out for their dead parents. Men took their own lives when they saw their dead families. There was no rationale or justification for the killings. The attack’s motive was simply to instill fear in the hearts and souls of the villagers.
But that was all gone now.
A flourishing town had replaced the destruction. Not a single piece of rubble remained from that massacre, which was now a distant memory. Where wreckage and debris once lay, now stood two and three story buildings. They were not magnificent buildings, nor were they anything to brag about to the outside world. Their exteriors appeared weathered and their walls held numerous cracks, but they were better than anything the town ever remembered.
The streets, once littered with corpses and carcasses, were now lined with merchant stalls. Some were manned by adult males, while others were run by small children, children no older than Naira was when Ethan had found her. Fruits, clothes, pottery—whatever was needed—was for sale here. Scores of people crowded the street. Many wore their traditional clothes, but an equal number wore western adornments. The road was not wide enough for cars or trucks, but a few loud scooters and motorcycles worked their way down the road, kicking up dirt in their wake.
The cries that once echoed through the town were now replaced. Instead of sadness and fear, voices of the merchants, the joyous laughter of the children, and the conversations of the common people now rang through the streets.
The village now held more people, animals, and buildings than there before. It had healed better and bigger than Ethan ever thought possible.
Ethan could not believe his eyes as he looked upon the transformation. It had become a whole new world.
The foreigner, Ethan, gazed to his left. An orphanage stood only three blocks over. He had commissioned it to be built when he had started his foundation, and for the past few years, it had housed nearly forty orphaned children. Because of the orphanage, there would never be another helpless and uncared for orphan wandering the streets of this town ever again.
With a deep sigh, Ethan gazed back at the road in front of him. He knew that Borno would be in the next village over, but he did not know where to look once he got there. He would have to hitch a ride there and then figure out someplace to start. Wearing a pair of worn jeans and boots, his buttoned-down shirt remained covered in dust. Slung across his back was a large travel bag, and hidden under his shirt was a belt that housed a gun and a few throwing knives.
Slowly, Ethan started turning around, but stopped himself halfway. A woman walked in his direction. She carried a newborn baby, no more than a month old, and a three-year-old boy held her hand. But it was not the children that got his attention. He recalled seeing her years ago. She had been hunched over the corpse of her dead husband. Streams of tears had run down her dirty cheeks. He remembered hearing her endless cries, nearly feeling the anguish that consumed her soul. And on that day, Ethan was unable to take away an ounce of her ocean of pain.
Now, even she had healed.
Lost in his thoughts, he did not realize when her gaze met with his. He turned away, not wanting to bring attention to himself, but it was too late.
“Wait!”
He looked back at her. Her eyes revealed that she knew who he was.
“It’s… it’s you, isn’t it?”
After a long moment, Ethan slightly nodded.
“I remember you… and I know who you are. You’re Ethan Daniels. You’re the one who had the orphanage built here.”
Ethan replied in the native tongue. “Yes.”
“Years ago, you came here. I saw you. You watched me weep over my dead husband.”
Ethan glanced at the child by her side. The young boy stared up at him, obviously not used to seeing fairer-skinned men pass through the village. “Your memory serves you well.”
“The girl, Naira, you took her with you. Nobody even realized what was happening until the two of you were gone.”
“She had nobody to look after her… so I took the responsibility.”
“Did you treat her well?”
“Like a sister.”
“Where is she now?”
“In a better place.”
The lady nodded, but did not reply.
“I see you have a new family. Your children are beautiful.”
She slightly smiled at him. “Are you here to see the orphanage that you built? It’s not far.”
“Today is not the day for me to pay it a visit.”
“We owe you our lives. When you built the orphanage, you put a lot of money into our town and did not get anything in return.”
“Money did not rebuild this town. The people that live in it did.”
“Nonetheless, we owe you our gratitude.”
He nodded, but was silent for a few seconds. “…did it hurt?”
Confusion washed over her face. “Did what hurt?”
“When you finally let go of the past and started anew?”
She thought for severa
l long moments. “…the hardest part is letting go. Burying the past in the ground is the part that hurts most. But if you are willing to do what’s right, then you have nothing to fear.”
Ethan did not reply.
“I see a lot of pain in your eyes. It’s the same pain that I once had. And I see that you’ve let go most of it, but there is still some there. But you will have to learn to let go of it too. Then… then you can truly begin anew.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Ethan paused. “I’m glad to see that you healed up as well as the town did.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked away from her.
***
Leaning back in his leather chair, Villanueva closed his eyes. His office’s large window would have shown a nighttime view of the Presidential Mansion’s lawn, but the curtains blocked it out. Right now, Villanueva wanted to be alone and free from the world.
Only a single lamp on his desk was illuminated, leaving the rest of the enormous office in darkness. Right outside the door stood two secret service agents, but the room itself remained empty of any souls, except for the president. All that could be heard was the continuous ticking of the grandfather clock.
The president took a deep breath. Today had been a busy day. The high-profile interview went much better than he originally anticipated. Even a year into the job, he always worried about making a fool of himself.
Feeling a presence enter the room, his eyes suddenly opened in alarm. But right as they did, a presence came over him—a presence that filled his soul with fear.
No. Not again… not again!
His hand curled into a tight fist. But a moment later, it relaxed against his will. Villanueva slowly sat upright in his chair and looked at the person who now stood on the other side of the desk, a dark-skinned man who was not in the room a moment ago. On his face was a distinguishable feature: it was completely covered in scars left by flames.
The man was repulsive, but not because of his mutilations. His very presence and aura disgusted Villanueva. However, Villanueva did not show any shock or awe. This was not the first time this man had appeared here. Just like every time before, a spell fell over Villanueva, and he was unable to move a muscle, utter a syllable, or even hear his own thoughts. All he could do was obediently wait for the man to speak.