by Ora Wilde
“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Someone probably fucked up.”
Trent asked Marcos to look for the mall manager and determine what went wrong with our earlier request to have the premises vacated until we have cleared the place. Then he gave the order for us to scour the area and see if there was the slightest bit of truth to the info we were given.
The building was packed with people. City Stars Mall was a four-floor establishment that has been hailed as one of the biggest shopping centers in Egypt. That it was a Sunday didn’t help our cause. Locals - most of them with their families - filled up the lanes like ants in an anthill. Even the stairs were crowded with people who used the flights of steps as makeshift benches to rest their weary bodies.
“This ain’t good,” I told Trent as we made our way towards the first floor lobby.
“Let’s just hope that the info is indeed a clunker,” he replied with a concerned tone. “In the meantime, you and Jerry can do the crowd control. Make sure that the premises are vacated in five minutes, tops.”
“That’s asking a bit too much, don’t you think?” I said. “There are at least seven or eight thousand people here and only two exits.”
“Just get it done,” Trent reiterated his order.
Before Jeremiah and I could discuss how to proceed, though, Trent’s VHF radio crackled. It was quickly followed by a voice fractured by some static sounds.
“Captain Thomas!” the speaker boomed. “Positive on the intel! We’ve got confirmation via aerial FOV.”
Upon hearing those words, we all looked up. True enough, there was a solitary drone flying silently above us, swaying left and right in smooth but frantic motions as if it was trying to chase something. Its movements and the whirring noise it made caught the attention of some of the civilians.
“Control, give me IDDs on the targets,” Trent responded after drawing the radio closer to his mouth.
“Two males. Both wearing black shirts. Denim pants. White sneakers.”
“I need more specific details,” the Element Leader remarked with a bit of frustration.
“Short hair. Both of them. One’s carrying a backpack. Heat sig’s way above normal. OOI probability at around eighty percent.”
“Fuck!” Trent exclaimed. “I said I need specific details. There are thousands of locals here who fit those fucking descriptions. And our eyes don’t have infrared, so don’t bother telling us what you think they’re carrying in that backpack. We’re directly below the drone. Get the coordinates of our position and guide us towards the suspects. Lenny... go back to the ATV and pick up your bomb suit. We’re gonna need it.”
I didn’t hear Trent’s command. My eyes were focused on a duo who matched how HQ described our targets. There were many men who wore black tops and jeans and carried backpacks. But these two kept looking at us, only to turn the other way when I tried to meet their gaze.
So I went ahead, even before Trent could bark his order. I could hear him calling my name as I began to dash towards the two locals.
They saw me. They turned around and started to run towards the other end of the mall. That was enough to confirm my suspicion.
The chase didn’t last long. The crowd that day worked to my advantage. They had to squeeze their way through throngs of people, pushing anyone they could just to stay ahead of me. That slowed them down, but it only hastened my pursuit as they inadvertently cleared a path behind them.
Twenty or thirty seconds was all it took before I was able to lunge towards the one carrying the suspected explosives. The crowd parted, forming a circle around us. I mounted the target and tried to apprehend him. The first thing I did, which was what I was trained to do, was to wrest control over the suspected explosives he was carrying. I yanked his backpack away from his body with so much force that the straps broke off. I threw the bag away from his reach.
He fought back, so I had to strike his jaw with the back end of my rifle. His head snapped back, his skull almost shattered when it crashed hard against the marbled floor beneath him.
He was down and beaten. But something didn’t seem right.
He was smiling, and in a matter of seconds, his grin turned into a maniacal laugh as his eyes darted towards the crowd.
I followed his gaze.
And I saw her.
Short , black hair parted by a head band. Red dress. Flowered socks peeking out of her little black boots. She couldn’t be older than five.
She walked out of the horde of people that gathered around us. Her stride was slow. Her steps were methodical.
No. They weren’t calculated.
She was nervous. She didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to stroll through the crowd and settle near the center of the field just a few feet away from us.
Her eyes were at the verge of tears. Her mouth was trembling. She was sniffing loudly. And she was wearing a dark blue coat that extended to her knees.
A coat. In Cairo. In the middle of summer.
Shit!
I turned my attention towards her hands. My instinct was right. She was holding something. Whatever it was, her thumb was resting on top of it. She could press it at any moment... there... in the middle of everyone... in the middle of the lobby at the heart of the shopping center.
Thousands of lives would be lost.
Tens and thousands more would grieve.
I had to do something.
I pulled down the safety lever of my M27 and aimed its barrel at her.
People started screaming. Women. Children. Men.
The girl looked straight at me, her wet eyes and her mouth were wide with horror. She wanted to scream too. But she didn’t. She knew she had a job to do.
She raised her hand, and with it, the cylindrical device she was about to push.
She’d be the last sight I’d see.
She’d be the last sight everyone in that mall would see.
Unless I did something.
And so I pressed the trigger.
Semi-automatic. Thirty rounds. Her chest and her face were reduced to a bloody clutter beyond recognition.
The screams got louder.
I could hear Trent and Jeremiah yelling my name as they approached.
The girl was down, almost drowning in a pool of her own blood. Her hand fell away from her body. The device slipped out of her palm, unpressed, unused.
It rolled towards me and stopped by my feet.
The biggest letters were in Arabic. But a word below it was in english. Budesonide.
I dropped on my knees in shame and sorrow and disgrace and guilt. My heart was beating so fast, but I felt like I was already dead.
The girl. She wasn’t carrying a bomb trigger.
She was carrying an asthma inhaler.
And then, everything went black.
I found myself curled into a ball. I was in so much pain, yet, not a single part of my body was hurting. I was blanketed by total darkness that I didn’t even know when my eyes were open and when they were actually closed.
And I felt an absolute sense of desolateness, one that has been gnawing inside me for so long, only this time... this time it was making its final push, like a raging fire threatening to consume a piece of cloth that’s already withered and torn.
It was this anguish that was most unbearable.
It was this anguish, more than anything else, that I knew would end me.
أنت لم يمت
A voice. From the blackness around me. A girl’s voice. Soft. Gentle. Innocent. Whispering in Arabic. You’re not dead, she said.
It’s her again.
I tried to stand up. But I was too weak to support myself. I managed to rest on my knees. It was then when I felt something drip from behind my neck. It had a pungent, coppery smell. I didn’t have to see what it was. For all the years of violence that marred my life, it was a scent that I’ve become all too familiar with. It was blood.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
Every drop that fe
ll on the floor resounded loudly. Each reverberation lasted for seconds. I covered my nape to stop the bleeding, though I knew that it wouldn’t be enough to patch the wound. At least, it would stop the noise that I found very distressful.
I deserved this.
All the choices I made. All the things I’ve done. All the mistakes I’ve committed. They all led to this moment. Live by the sword, die by the sword, as they always say. The same goes for guns.
I should just give up. My life has been forfeit for so long. There was no point in continuing to struggle, when I always knew that my past would catch up with me.
Karma’s a bitch, as the saying goes. Mine started with a little girl.
أنت لم يمت
She spoke once again, repeating the words she previously said. I knew that my mind was fucking with me. Extreme blood loss. Hallucinations. It can do that to a man. It’s all in my head. She’s all in my head. She’s not real. Not anymore.
استيقظ
Now, she’s ordering me, asking me to get up on my feet. Bossing me around. Telling me what to do. What gave her that right? What made her feel that she was above me?
Was it because...
Was it because I killed her?
Dear God... haven’t I suffered enough? All those years I’ve spent at the brink of sanity, trying to make sense of everything, trying to find my way back, trying to piece together the shattered pieces of my life. Nights were endless, the torment unceasing. Every second I’ve spent thinking of her and what I’ve done, and though I’ve learned how to divert myself from the bane of remembering, the agony of the memory never yielded.
Lenny, get up.
She’s speaking in English now... and... and... and she knew my name. That’s new. She has haunted me before... many, many times before. But she never called me by my name. How could she? Even if she was a delusion, an echo, a ghost... she shouldn’t have known my name... for she never knew my name when she was alive.
One’s life flashes before his eyes just before he dies, they say. I knew I was dying. Five minutes. Eight at the most. That’s all it would take before I lose enough blood and my heart would explode in trying to pump out more than it could give. I was dying, and even in the darkness, the life that I’ve lived was being unraveled before me... in the form of this girl who defined the tragedy of my existence.
I wanted to say a million things to her. That I didn’t know. That I had no choice. That I lost control. That I fucked up.
That I was sorry.
But it’s pointless. She’s just an illusion, my guilt personified, a creature of delirium born from years of despair and liters of blood lost. Her voice, imagined or not, was the last thing I would hear. It was my fate. It was my curse. I should just give up.
I allowed my knee to buckle. A loud thump followed as my back fell hard against the concrete. The base of my skull crashed against the floor, producing another sickening thud. I felt a pool of blood forming at the edges of my face, drenching my hair with the metallic smell of crimson tincture. It was getting larger and larger with every passing second.
And I smiled.
It would be over soon. The pain. The suffering. The long nights of ceaseless misery and the days spent just trying to forget. The remorse that has become all too consuming. The sense of worthlessness that has become all too real.
Soon.
Just a little more.
Get up, Lenny. It’s not your fault.
I opened my eyes in shock, only to be blinded by the light that filled up the room. Around a dozen fluorescent lamps were on as well as two spotlights from opposite corners of the chamber. It took me a while to get my sight back but that didn’t stop me from scurrying to find her.
That girl.
She plays with my mind and crushes my soul, then she’ll lift me up and say that none of what happened was my fault? Often, I’d conclude that the shit that she’s been saying were just projections from my subconsciousness... that what she spoke were merely the words that I wanted to hear.
How could she forgive me, after all? She’s fucking dead. And even if the dead could speak, how could she forgive the man who took her life?
Still, whether it’s just my deepest thoughts stirring up some shit or not, her words at that moment were what I needed to hear.
I checked the back of my neck. I was bleeding. That part’s real. I searched for the bullet wound. I didn’t find any hole. Instead, there was a rather huge laceration from the middle portion to the right side of my nape. The bullet just grazed me, but the angle was enough to fool the motherfuckers who did this that it was a fatal shot.
I got lucky.
But I was still bleeding bad.
I reached for my kit from the makeshift pocket inside my kutte. I opened the pouch and scattered its contents on the floor. Out came a sewing kit, some bandages, a bullet and a tampon. It was the latter which I found most useful.
The tampon helped seal the wound, controlling the bleeding, making it a little more manageable. The bandages did the rest. Blood kept spewing out, though, but at least it wasn’t as bad as before.
I was still weak from all the fluids I’ve lost. I trudged towards the fridge that I saw near the kitchen area of the clubhouse. The bastards who fucked me up raided the damn thing, leaving it a complete mess. They didn’t even bother to close it. But there was a half-consumed pitcher of water there, and it was enough for me. I drank what remained in the jug. It would help my heart pump out enough blood to replace what has spilled out of my body.
I searched for my gun. It was not on the floor nor anywhere in the vicinity. Those assholes took it, a trophy of the kill they thought they had, or maybe an addition to their armory back at their headquarters. Even my cellphone was gone. The motherfuckers probably wanted to sell it for some cash. Can’t blame them for thinking small time. Most of them were petty hoodlums, after all, before the Godless recruited them to bolster their ranks.
I sat on on one of the chairs near the center of the room. I needed some time to process what has happened and to think about what should be done.
We arrived at Essex only to discover that the charter has been wiped out.
How?
Essex’s clubhouse was new. No one knew where it was. No one knew we were coming here. No one, except...
Shit!
Someone tipped off the Godless. Someone from the inside. There was a traitor within the club. There could be no other explanation for the trap that was waiting for us.
There was a phone on the counter at the bar. I could use it to call Prez. But should I? He’d just tell me to hold my ground until they arrived so that we could plan a rescue mission together. However, that would just make them vulnerable to another ambush. With a fucking double-crosser in our midst, the Godless could easily wipe out the mother charter as well.
I was supposed to be dead. That’s an advantage. I had the element of surprise on my side.
I had every reason to believe that the Godlesses were keeping Samantha alive. They needed her as a bargaining chip. They would’ve called Prez, arranged an exchange, demanded for him to agree to the patch up. If so, they would’ve told him that the Essex crew was no more, and that I perished with them.
There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey at the bar. I drank three shots straight to numb the pain that was eating up the entirety of my upper body. Less hurting would mean I could think clearer.
I could tell Prez that I was alive... but then again, that would just limit my options.
By thinking that I was dead, I’d be able to act on my own without having to wait for them and without having to put them into a compromising - and even fatal - situation.
But shit! Regardless of how much I wanted to save the girl, I’m just one man. And from all indications, I’d be up against an army.
Then again, she’s not just any girl.
She’s special.
I knew it the moment I met her. I believed it the moment she opened her soft, beautiful lips and made me
hear her pugnacious but angelic voice. All doubts were erased when my admiration for her never ceased despite the hostility she showed towards me.
I had to save her. Not because her father’s worried about her. Not because it’s what’s best for the club. I had to save her because I care for her... I care for her more than I value my own life.
And I promised her that I’ll keep her safe no matter what. I wasn’t planning on breaking that promise.
Yeah, I’m just one man. But fuck the odds. I’m gonna save her, or I’ll die trying.