Sabotage: Beginnings

by LS Silverii

  He cleared his throat, “I can understand that.” His words delivered more sincerely caused her to relax her grip on the car. “But I do need you to allow me to place these handcuffs on you so I may finish my investigation. Once everything is cleared up, I’ll remove them. But for now, it’s policy to secure you.”

  “But sir, I have no idea what I did to cause you to stop me? If you would just allow me to call my husband first. I’m not a criminal.” She explained. Bowing down to this abusive officer twisted her stomach, but it was the role she felt she had to play to escape the police report.

  “Ma’am, you caused a very serious car crash back there and then drove away without bothering to stop and offer aid to the victims. I have to investigate whether you are intoxicated or not.”

  She slanted her vision and caught a glimpse of the man. He wasn’t physically imposing—in post-baby shape she assumed she’d defeat him. He wasn’t going to relent, and she only wanted to get home to Justice and baby Grace. Batya turned to look at him. He shuffled to his left out of sight.

  Are American cops all so afraid of being identified?

  The blinking spot of light that came from her sedan’s interior signaled Justice was trying to call her. He’d grow suspicious quick, but without someone to babysit, he’d be helpless to search for her. The officer seemed to respect her position and had been patient though. This was Baton Rouge—what could happen after all?

  “Okay officer,” she conceded. Her arms slid down the trunk and rounded her hips until they rested on the back pockets of her faded denims. “I assure you I haven’t been drinking.”

  Batya heard the crunch of gravel as the officer approached her from behind. His cologne wafted over her shoulder and his breath landed heavy against her shoulders. His hands were strong as they clamped over her right fist. She suddenly felt helpless—like she had inside the Afghani police station.

  She gnashed her teeth together as the cuff bit into her right wrist between her thumb and wrist bone. Her back arched once the officer hyperextended her right elbow and jerked it toward her left wrist. Again, the bite of stainless steel and again she drew her lips back across her teeth with the bone bruising pain.

  “Officer, I’ve complied, but the cuffs are too tight. My hands are going numb,” She said in a panic of regret.

  “My apologies, ma’am. I’ll adjust them.”

  She held her breath before she sighed. “Thank you.”

  Batya felt the officer take hold of her right-hand fingers and ease them back toward him. She heard the jingle of keys, and allowed her back and shoulders to soften so he could unlock and open the handcuffs.

  Batya’s face slammed against damp metal. His forearm crushed the back of her neck. His bodyweight ploughed down, pushing her hard against the car, her face mashed against the trunk lid. She felt his hips rock forward as her belt buckle scratched against the tin license plate and trunk lock. She tried to resist but couldn’t get purchase in the loose gravel. Her gut was pressed into the curve of the trunk, cutting off her wind. She sucked deep for air, but his heavy pressure restricted it.

  “What are you doing?” Spit drizzled from the corner of her lips—or maybe it was blood.

  “What am I doing?” he taunted, his voice sinister and intimidating.

  She cried out as his fingers snaked through her hair, burned her scalp like fire. He craned her neck backward until spit bubbled in her mouth. Until her eyelids batted but she couldn’t blink. She wouldn’t allow herself to pass out. Metal creased as her forehead smashed into it. His fingers recommitted to their grip in her long hair. She tasted the coppery metallic tang of blood.

  She tried to sling her face to the right as his hot breath pressed against her left ear. He jerked harder. She felt his grip slip as strands of hair tore from her head. Tears streamed into a river of snot and blood on the trunk of the same car she drove the baby in to daycare.

  Batya glanced through the rear window and saw the heavily padded top of her baby’s car seat. No way would she die on this car. She pushed her ass back and was met by his pelvis that shoved her against the car again. No luck, except her feet had made contact with the ground. Intuitively she mashed her right foot against the outside of the officer’s right leg. Next, she drove her left heel into the inside of his right ankle.

  She felt his right knee give, and for a moment thought it was her chance to flee. His fingers tightened like a vice in her hair and sent her tumbling atop him into the dew-covered tall grass at the side of the road.

  “You bitch. You want to play rough, huh?” He said breathlessly.

  Her head flung back as he hit. The crash of his fist into her narrow chin dazed her. Blackness overwhelmed her as his fingers grasped her throat and squeezed.

  “Please,” she gasped.

  He flipped her onto her stomach and mounted her. She refused to give up—no way would she become a victim of rape again—not alive anyway. Batya writhed with what little strength she had left. He wasn’t overpowering so much as he was tactically skilled at ground fighting. But she was better. Her heels thrust up, striking his spine. The force of her blow sent him flailing over the back of her head.

  He grunted at impact, but was fast to regain control.

  “Enough,” he whispered and slapped a strap beneath her throat until it connected to cut off her air.

  “No,” she pleaded.

  “After I saved you from Jabar, and this is how you thank me?”

  His words resounded like a dream.

  “Ben?” she coughed.

  He chuckled. “In the flesh.”

  “How?” she asked through desperate draws of air. Blades of grass brushed her nostrils and mouth.

  “Because one of you missed your shot.”

  Batya spit out blood and dirt. “Missed?”

  He slapped her in the back of the skull, “Not completely.” He pressed closer to her ear. “You tell Justice Boudreaux he’ll pay.” Obviously winded from the battle, Ben’s words came quick and broken.

  “You mean…?”

  “You’re not going to die tonight. Deliver the message. I want him to hear it from you.”

  “I’ll do as you request,” she said with an ice-cold reconciliation after she comprehended that she’d survive to fight another day.

  “Batya. Do not misunderstand me. You will die—just not tonight.”

  “I said I’d deliver the message.”

  “Welcome to America.” He laughed. She felt another thwack against the back of her head and went black.

  Chapter 18

  Justice Boudreaux’s boots pounded the ancient cypress floors in their home. His vice grip strangled the phone in his calloused fingers like he’d used to crush enemies on the battlefield. He paced back and forth until someone picked up the other end.

  “Justice,” Carl Dunnigan said.

  “What the fuck…” Justice roared before he pressed his index finger to his sun-chapped lips. He looked to the baby, and then marched outside. “What the fuck is Ben Ford doing back in the country?”

  The CIA supervisor, Justice’s former Army Delta buddy, huffed. “Maybe because you fucked up the shot.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Don’t you mean, why didn’t I warn you?”

  Justice kicked the pile of metal fishing traps. The crash sent Batya scrambling outside with her weapon drawn—eyes cold and wide open. He shook his head and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “Carl, I’ve stayed off radar these last two years. I know shit got hairy back in the sandbox, but all I want to do is live my life without any bullshit.”

  “Ah, yes, how old is Grace now? Nine months.”

  Justice had known they’d track his every move, but hearing this federal government douche bag say his daughter’s name twisted his gut.

  “She’s none of your concern. Who sent Ben after us?”

  The phone clicked and Justice detected he was on speaker. He walked further away from the house, but his ire remained just as hot
.

  “Got the team on the call. Boyd and Schultz. What was your question, Justice?” Dunnigan’s words mocked the conversation.

  Justice ducked beneath the cascade of Spanish moss and pressed against an oak tree. “Who sent Ben?”

  “How old’s Grace?” Boyd quizzed.

  Justice bit into his cheek. Their asking about Grace was an intimidation tactic. He looked over the lake and wished he had them out on his terrain.

  “She’s safe, Boyd. How are Tammy, Bob, Jr., and Rachel?” Justice asked. “We can play this name game all fucking day, gentlemen. Or, you can tell me what’s going on with Ben.”

  A cough echoed through the line. “Ben is a loose cannon. Like you were before the incident,” came the condescending voice of an unknown man.

  “Who do I owe the pleasure?” Justice asked.

  “This is Heinrich Schultz. Ben’s handler.” Dunnigan said.

  “We trained him, Heins managed him and you tried to kill him. One of us failed their mission,” Boyd said.

  “My name is Heinrich, not Heins.”

  “Okay, whatever,” Boyd’s arrogant tone rang through the call.

  Justice squeezed the tree like it was Boyd’s head. “Whoever you are, what the fuck is Ben doing in the United States? That was never the plan.”

  Dunnigan chimed in. “Wrong, Justice. Ben is an asset, a resource relocated wherever the greatest threat to America happens to be positioned.”

  Justice’s shoulders hunched like a boxer’s gut-shot had landed square. He was back on CIA radar. He glared toward his home, and thought about his family inside. It was the first great thing he’d had in his life since escaping the brutal hell his father subjected him to.

  “Why now?” he asked in a gritty whisper.

  Boyd smacked his lips. “Times are slow.”

  “The Jew—the fucking Jew,” Heinrich jeered.

  Justice’s heart exploded. His pulse drummed in his ears. He leaned into the tree. “Are you talking about my wife?”

  “She is an enemy of the State. She illegally attempted to assassinate an American citizen while innocently trying to seek medical care.” Heinrich said unapologetically.

  “Justice, there might be issues with her being smuggled into the country. You both are subject to arrest and deportation.”

  “I’m a fucking United States citizen. You can’t deport me.” He beat his chest as he strutted away from the marshy grass at the water’s edge.

  “You and the Jew are out,” barked Heinrich.

  “Hey, Hitler. Enough with your anti-Semite bullshit. Her name is Batya.” Justice’s tattered leather boots slushed through the mud and fertilizer. His dread turned to wrath. “Carl, let’s be clear on this. You’re telling me that the CIA is now targeting me and my wife, and I presume our seven-month-old daughter because Batya missed a shot?”

  “No, because you fucked up the operation, and forced Dr. Atrigi to call in field operatives to extricate Ben. Now my chain of command is aware of this shit. Do you realize your name is currently with the Attorney General in review over the twenty-four murders of American citizens?” Dunnigan said.

  “What?” Justice yelled. “I was under your orders.”

  “Really? Seems all those orders disappeared,” Boyd said.

  “Justice, this is Shultz. Lets make this easy. You surrender the Jew, and you and the half-breed baby walk,” Heinrich said.

  Justice flexed his big bicep against his right eye to grab the pooled wetness. He’d already been through so much in his life and career. He was the best warrior America had to offer, and he did the secret shit people didn’t—and shouldn’t ever—know about. He was a true red-blooded American, and now he was being hunted by a federal agency because he’d followed their orders.

  Fuck them. I’m not going to become a victim. Neither is my family.

  “Hitler, I asked you to stop with the comments about my wife. Dunnigan, I don’t know what’s happened in your life, but you would’ve never run a unit like this.”

  Dunnigan’s voice sounded strained. “Times change, Justice.”

  “Core values don’t.” Justice waved one thick finger at Batya who signaled it was time to eat. “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with, but I never in my life would’ve imagined you’d allow a clown like Boyd and this other cock to dictate who you’ve become.”

  “Fuck off,” Boyd screamed.

  “You’ll get my cock,” Heinrich taunted.

  “I am an American Special Forces soldier. A Professional! I will do all that my nation requires of me. I am a volunteer, knowing well the hazards of my profession. I serve with the memory of those who have gone before me…” Justice recited.

  “I know the creed, Justice. Save your boot camp speeches—this is real world shit,” Dunnigan said.

  “De Oppresso Liber mean anything to you anymore, Carl?” Justice asked before he smashed his thumb against the end call button.

  The soldier’s stiff strut drilled into his being surfaced naturally as Justice marched back toward the house. Batya stood in the door with Grace. Her eyes narrowed as he approached. She was still the best at reading people’s non-verbal cues. She began to weep.

  Justice’s heart blackened with hatred for the men who threatened his family and caused his beloved wife such pain. They would have their day, but now it was time for family. The warrior in him became the husband and father.

  He held them both close. Grace cooed from within her cozy cotton wrap as Batya sniffed back tears of reality. His eyes also welled with wetness as they narrowed to skim the open horizon of fields and marsh that surrounded their bayou home.

  Are we being watched?

  “What’s happened to us, Justice? How is it that two highly-trained specialists have become targets?” Batya cried.

  Justice squeezed her closer and kissed her atop an unkempt ponytail, “Because we started playing by the rules.”

  She leaned back and swiped at a thin stream of snot that threatened her lip. She feigned a smile but the tightness in her jawline defeated the effort. Her bloodshot eyes that had already witnessed too much averted their gaze. One glance at Grace and she became somber.

  “Then we stop,” she said.

  * * *

  The fishing shed reeked of carcass and bait. Mosquitoes feasted on the morning’s fetch and what blood Justice and Sue had to offer. The Boudreaux brothers had been brought up in Louisiana’s swamps and thrived in the art of living off the marsh’s rich natural resources. It would’ve been nothing for Justice to vanish into his comfort spot, but never in his lifetime would he consider abandoning his family.

  “What’s eating at you little brother?” asked Sue. “I mean more than since you got back.”

  Justice looked across at his brother. The former United States Marine was a true bad ass, and had always known how to push Justice’s buttons. Even as kids, Sue gave him more shit than he could handle. But in the long run, that had added to the disciplined toughness Justice would need to survive his career.

  “Not sure what’s going on, but shit ain’t right,” he said.

  Sue passed an open beer bottle back over the alligator’s carcass and motioned for Justice to drink. Justice guzzled the rest of the cold froth and tossed the bottle atop a pile of other glass bottles and cans.

  “Weird shit going on. I might be in danger.”

  Sue straightened atop the upside down bucket. His shoulders drew back to ready attention as his face hardened in determination. Justice knew that look. Violence wasn’t far behind.

  “Who? You fuck with one Boudreaux, you fuck with us all.”

  “Politics gone south. The Agency’s pissed and somebody gotta pay. They choose me and Batya.”

  Sue yanked the top off another bottle of beer. The sun silhouetted him and caused the icy bottle to shimmer in the reflection of dark waters that surrounded them.

  “I’ll be damned. Live by the sword…”

  Justice grabbed for the bottle. “Die
by the sword.”

  “Whole team or a splinter?” Sue asked.

  Justice wiped off the foam that tickled his lips. “Not sure, but I see it as two subsections who used to operate in the blind, now joined forces and looking to blame me for the failure of their separate projects.”

  The Force Recon Marine emptied another bottle in one long tilt. His military tattoos flexed and popped as he mashed the glass between his fingers. Justice, who’d always loved his brothers, was proud of Sue at that moment for his sincere show of being pissed off at his brother being threatened. It was like being back in school at Turtle Bayou Elementary—Sue kicked bullies’ asses back then too.

  “We have to chop the head, or crush the whole snake?”

  Justice waved his hand and pursed his mouth. “Oh no, there ain’t no we in this scenario.” He stood and walked to the pier’s edge. The water looked so peaceful but he knew the shit that lurked below. “You got a wife and kids my brother, and it’s not your fight. I’m not a child anymore.”

  Sue jerked him around by the shoulders, his face wild with adrenaline, “You come before my family. Even before my kids. These ain’t fat-ass bullies back on the playground you’re dealing with, Justice. These motherfuckers are dangerous—they’re ghosts.”

  “Sue, I love you, but don’t say that. Your family has to be first. And yeah, these ain’t the spooks we fucked with in the desert. These are desk jockeys.”

  “Don’t take ’em for granted. They didn’t get where they are because they’re soft or stupid. As for my family, they’ll always be okay. You’re my brother and if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have never survived the old man.”

  Justice shrugged free from his brother’s clutch. He couldn’t look at him at the moment. Knowing he was right hurt a lot. Their father’s brutality was inhumane and often aimed at Sue—real name Bobby, but just to fuck with him, their father called him Sue. It wasn’t so much he was a Johnny Cash fan as he was an asshole. Justice bore his own beatings but he couldn’t endure those Sue suffered.