Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix

by phill syron-jones

  “I’m afraid, Lord Steel, your party is over. And one more thing: my employer sends his regards.” With that, the stranger turned to the crowd as if to make an announcement, taking the microphone from Lord Steel’s grasp. He raised it up to address his hostages.

  Suddenly from nowhere six shots rang out. The blond mercenary turned to see a large bald military looking man with a menacing grin on his face. His large gun was pointed at Lord Steel, as he dropped to the ground. His wife and children had watched in horror as red eruptions exploded from his back until he fell to his knees, and, with a final shot to the head, he rested in a dark red pool that crept across the ground. Their shock was broken by the sound of automatic gunfire from the wood line. People were being cut down by random gunfire, women and men running for cover only to be slain by a loose round.

  Helen Steel watched in horror as she saw a group of four men heading for the marquee, and moments later there were mixed screams followed by gunfire. Her eyes grew wide as she saw holes appear as projectiles were being punched through the sides of the marquee, then there was silence. She grabbed her children’s hands and ran for the safety of the house. A woman dressed in black ran with them, her long brown hair flowing behind her.

  The bald mercenary smiled as he saw them and shook his head, as the blond mercenary raced up to him. He grabbed the man by the arm and yanked him towards him.

  “This was not the plan, you moron, now we have to finish this,” he snapped at the bald guy. “But remember none of the families are to be harmed, the man wants them alive.” The hairless man wasn’t listening, so the blond shook him again, shouting: “Am I understood?”

  He was answered by a false smile as he headed into the building with a group of other men.

  A taxi pulled up to the long driveway. Inside a soldier sat listening to the driver go on about the state of affairs in far-off lands, and the passenger, weary from the long travel, just looked out of the window and gazed upon the green fields of his home. He wore his camouflaged BDUs, the creases on his sleeves stood up like blade edges. He had been away for a long time and now it was time to come home. He did not want any fuss, just a quiet time with his wife and the rest of the family, but he knew that his dad would come up with some homecoming event.

  It all seem quite surreal to him being home, after spending so long in a land that was barren of luxuries or even trees and grass as he knew it, so he had to readjust his thinking. Was this a dream? Would he suddenly wake up and find himself back in the hell he had left? He slowly touched the car’s window glass, hoping it would actually be there and it wouldn’t fade away as soon as he laid fingers on it. He smiled as the feel of the cold glass sent a tingling sensation down his spine,

  He rested his warm cheek against the window and closed his eyes. “Oh that feels good,” he said, and the cab driver looked at him through the rear view mirror and shook his head. As they neared the house loud pops could be heard. Steel opened his eyes with a start and shot upright.

  “Stop the car!” the soldier ordered, but the cab driver paid no attention.

  “Stop this car now, God damn it!”

  The car came to a screeching halt.

  “What is wrong, you crazy man?” said the Indian driver, and the soldier got out of the cab and listened. Loud cracks echoed through the trees followed by screams: something was terribly wrong.

  “Get the hell out of here and call the police, tell them there are shots fired at this estate, have you got that?” The driver nodded and sped away, leaving the soldier to dart into the woods.

  Making his way slowly through the woods towards the rear of the house, the soldier had not gone far when he saw a figure all in black holding an automatic rifle; he was a sentry, put there to ensure that nobody got away. This was not a robbery, this was an execution. Looking round he crept forward behind the man.

  The guard had been standing for what seemed hours, he had no real idea why he was here or who these people were. All he cared about was that he was getting a lot of money.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack behind him, so he ducked down and trained his weapon. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline surging through his body. He blew out a lungful of air as a large rabbit hopped by. He stood up and laughed and turned, then gasped as a figure stood in front of him and punched him in the throat. The mercenary dropped to his knees clutching his throat, a gargling sound emanated from the man before he dropped to the ground and the sound ceased.

  The soldier stripped the man of his tactical vest and checked the ammo content of the rifle and the pistol: they were both full. He smiled an evil smile. “Payback time,” he thought. The radios on his vest crackled to life as the teams were giving sit reps.

  He knew he had to find his family, plus any survivors, and take as many of these bastards out as he could. Moving quietly and stealthily he made his way along. Before him knelt another man. The soldier watched the man looking here and there, sensing that the mercenary was jumpy and on edge and was aware that he could use this to his advantage. In front of the man stood a group of his colleagues, laughing as they shot at the feet of a couple of people, making them run back and forth.

  The soldier, whose name was John Steel, crept between the mercenary and the armed group and then suddenly he stood up. The mercenary yelped in surprise and opened up with his weapon, and the soldier dived out of the way just in time as a hail of bullets slammed into the armed men before him.

  The newcomer watched from his hiding place as a fire fight killed both groups of mercenaries. Grinning to himself, the soldier moved forwards and grabbed the dead man’s ammo.

  As he watched, the group of scared guests made it to the woods and disappeared to safety. He returned to searching the dead guard more carefully, which awarded him with a smoke grenade. He frowned as he surveyed the carnage before him. Who were these men and what did they want?

  He had too many questions but now was not the time to ask them. He knew he needed to cut down their numbers, and if he could do that without being seen, then all the better.

  After all, he reasoned, he was no good to his family dead. A large group of armed men stood at the bottom of the steps to the house, put there to make sure nobody got in or out. Steel tossed the smoke grenade playfully in his hand and hatched a plan. Moving carefully around the marquee to the end that was secured by guy ropes, he cut the canvas, using the knife in his vest pocket, and crawled in. The large tent was empty apart for a group of corpses who appeared to be huddled together. His anger raged.

  There was cutlery on the tables and many of the candles were decorated with pretty bows. He undid some of the ribbon on these and pulled out the grenade, then took out one of the magazines from the pouch on his vest. Sliding out enough rounds to cover the green cylinder-shaped grenade, he began to strap them to the explosive, using the ribbon.

  Outside, the group of mercenaries heard someone calling: “Help! Help me please!” The voice was fading and the herd of killers headed for the tent, fired up with blood lust.

  Ten men entered the marquee in search of the wounded man, weapons trained in search of a target as they crept in deeper. The rear man walked backwards covering their retreat. He suddenly stopped as his foot was hit by something, and he tried to yell before the room was filled with smoke. The group started to cough and splutter from the fumes, their vision impaired, arms swaying, trying to find the edge of the tent.

  Then, as the container began to get hot, the rounds began to fire off. Loose rounds flew all over, causing the group to stop and start to return fire, not caring that they couldn’t see their enemy. Other men rushed to their aid but only found death as stray rounds burst from the tent. Men fell screaming, holding their wounds.

  From inside the house the blond man came to the window and observed the madness. “Finish this before they end up killing each other,” he said.

  A large bulk of a man stepped forwards and removed the automatic grenade launcher from where it rested on his back.
Taking the two grips firmly in his hands he placed three rounds into the tent. As the projectiles hit they exploded with tremendous force. There were several bright flashes, then the marquee was ripped apart, sending pieces of timber and fabric whirling in all directions.

  Where the tent had been there was nothing to see but massive bulges of red and black flame. Burning pieces of debris fell from the sky in a shower of burning rain.

  The man replaced his weapon, grinning as he did so. “Boom,” he said, his tone deep and hollow. Joining the others they preceded through the house checking for survivors, looking especially for the four people who had run into the house earlier.

  “The mother, her two children and other women are not to be harmed in any way,” said the blond mercenary. Then he stopped, forcing the men behind him to come to a sudden halt, as he turned to look directly at one man. He was of average height, clean shaven, and had an eager look upon his face. “Are we understood?” His stare became intense, almost burning through the man, who backed off slightly and nodded.

  John Steel saw that the gardens were clear and had observed several mercenaries going into the house. He didn’t know the strength of their numbers but he did know there must be survivors because everyone had gone into the house. Moving across the body-filled lawn he kept low but moved quickly.

  Reaching the wall and the steps he chanced a quick look, finding there was nobody to be seen. Moving slowly up the stone steps he came across the body of a man, and was scared to see who it was. Looking closer, he found it to be that of his father. His head dropped down, and all he wanted to do was scream out, but he knew that would alert the guards and preclude any hope of rescuing the others. There would be time for mourning later.

  He kissed his fingers and pressed them down on to the head of the man, then he looked up to the house and anger burnt within him.

  Through the back door led into a large dining room. Beyond that lay the large hallway and stairs leading to the bedrooms. The soldier crept slowly towards the double doors of the dining room and slowly opened the door enough to take a look. In front stood a guard, and across from him at the foot of the staircase stood another.

  Steel took note of the hallway with its large marble floor and the dark wood main doors directly in front. A set of stairs that traversed the left wall was decorated with paintings of men and women, landscapes and animals; apart from the two guards he could see no one. He closed the door and sat down. He had to think and think fast. The radio that sat on his shoulder pouch squeaked and he quickly went to turn it off, and thought of a plan.

  Getting up, he raced to the large speaker by the door to the garden, and taking the headset he placed it down by the large black box, then, taking some tape he had found in the DJ’s tool kit he taped up the ‘send’ button on the handset, and then carefully taped the headset’s microphone to the speaker.

  He stood up and looked around; his face fell when he saw the microphone lying next to his father. Taking a deep sorrowful breath he walked over and picked it up. “Okay, you bastards want a party?” he thought to himself.

  The mercenaries walked through the large house going from room to room. The blond man had decided to wait in the large office he had found, where the oak walls and floor were complemented with heavy looking antique furniture—this room appealed to him. He had given instructions for them to proceed and bring back any survivors unharmed, but he was worried about Travis. After all, these men were not soldiers, they were hired convicts and therefore expendable! That was if anything should go wrong. Unfortunately Travis was a murderer and rapist of the worst kind: he was an animal, simple and basic.

  The blond man had given his junior an instruction for him to keep an eye on Travis, and well, if he did anything wrong, he would know what to do. The leader of the mercenaries walked round the room in awe of its splendor. He found a large wooden globe in a corner and opened it, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the fine brandies and whiskies, and he helped himself to a glass of the twenty-year-old malt. He walked casually to a massive wooden bookshelf. Dickens, Sun Tzu, Tolstoy, all the classics were there. The smell of old leather filled his nostrils as he leant forwards and breathed in the cultured atmosphere. Picking a book he sat down on the red leather chesterfield and set to reading, sipping the whiskey as he smiled and imagined.

  Steel knelt by the door with his back to the wall, reaching up he pulled a combat knife from a scabbard on the shoulder of the vest he had taken. The long blade glistened as the rays of the afternoon sun caught its sharpened edge. As he knelt with the Glock .45 in one hand and the microphone in the other, he took a moment to think about the events as they would happen: turn the microphone on, throw microphone to the speaker causing feedback, burst through the door, headshot to both men, get ready for men to come down stairwell, take them out, get out of room and head up stairs in all the confusion. It was a sound plan, in his head anyway.

  He mentally counted to three then, using maximum force, he threw the microphone towards the speaker he had placed by the open bay doors. Everything turned to slow motion as the missile sailed through the air and landed with a clang that shot through the loud speakers, and, in turn, through the earpieces of the mercenaries. The men grabbed their ears in pain as the feedback came full force, incapacitating them for a few moments.

  Steel swung open the doors and fired. Both guards took a round each, one to the back of the head and the other dead centre between the eyes. Steel watched as five men rushed down the stairs to find out what was wrong with the speakers. Steel cut them down with the pistol, and he watched in satisfaction as each of the men slammed against the walls of the stairwell as the impact of each round punched through them, leaving bloody smears.

  Time to move, he thought, only stopping to pick up the dead guard’s pistol, then rushing up the stairs with both weapons pointing in outstretched arms, he reached the upper hallway and knelt down behind a wall at the top of the stairs, waited for a second, then shot over to the first room.

  The blond mercenary bolted out of his seat and ripped the earpiece from its place. Racing out of the door he made for the stairwell, picking up his men as he went. He had found five men recovering from the sudden blast to the eardrums, but they were okay, well, fit enough to kill someone anyway.

  As he peered through the crack of the partially open door, Steel made out six men rushing downstairs. He knew could take them out, but he did not know how many more there were or where they were: no, he had to leave them and press on. Going down the long corridor, he checked room after room until he reached the end; there was nothing. He smiled to himself: if he found nothing then neither had they. Steel looked up towards the attic; he had to get to the attic.

  The blond mercenary and the others rushed into the dining room and found the microphone next to the speaker.

  He switched it off and threw it onto the lawn. Looking round he noticed the headset and speaker unit taped to the speaker, and ripping it off, he stood up.

  “The boy is here,” he instructed. “Find him. And I want him alive.”

  The others nodded. The head mercenary looked at the small microphone from the headset and smiled, he glanced up at the house and cast a view from left to right, trying to ascertain where his quarry might be. “Welcome home, John Steel,” he muttered.

  but never thought that as an adult he would be doing the same thing. The bulk of his body plus the extras made the journey fairly uncomfortable. Reaching the top, he used the knife to bore a small hole in which to see the attic. The attic was long and dark with only the light from the small windows in the roof above. It was large and spacious. Dusty boxes of long-forgotten things stood on top of one another, and as he looked he thought that only true fear would bring someone here; there was nowhere to hide, he thought.

  He saw that it was clear, and, lifting the sliding door carefully, he stepped out. Dropping to one knee he drew one of the pistols, realizing that he would have to make it to the other side to satisfy himself that there was
nobody here. Walking slowly and carefully he inched his way down towards the end, if nobody was here then they must have used the dumb waiter to go down to the kitchen or basement and then out from there. Moving slowly, his eye caught a shape in the distance. It was only a few feet away but the dark made it seem like miles,

  Keeping down, he waited for his eyes to adjust, then he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Slowly he opened them and saw that it was a women lying there. Her face was not visible but he knew who it was and he felt that he could not move.

  The blond mercenary went back inside the house and found that the others had regrouped in the large hallway; he walked up to the large man and nodded.

  “What happened boss?” asked the other man.

  “We have a homecoming after all it seems. I thought he wasn’t due back for another week, but never mind, what is done is done. Right, first things first.” The tall blond man looked at the group. “Where the hell is Travis?” he asked. Everyone looked round and shrugged.

  “God damn it. Okay, find that psycho before he gets us all killed. Now move!” The men split off, and he grabbed the large man’s arm and shook his head at him. “No, my friend, you’re staying with me.” The big guy smiled and reached down to take the strangely configured combat shotgun from one of his dead colleagues. As he pulled it up the dead man’s hands still clutched the weapon, refusing to let go, and this made the blond mercenary laugh as he watched his friend struggle with a dead man. “He was always fond of that, never left his side, even more so now it seems.” The big man looked up and shrugged.

  “Leave the weapon, my friend, it seems the dead have claimed it, and it’s not wise to annoy the dead.” The large mercenary let the weapon and the body drop, more because of fear of disobeying his superior than anything. The big man was part gypsy and grew up on his grandma’s tales of the old country and the legends and myths and curses. The blond mercenary had befriended him in the service. They had both joined the Foreign Legion many years ago but had later found a better employment.