by Janene Wood
A third man, much older and shorter than the other two, was more formally attired in a suit and tie. His shoulder-length silver-grey hair was pulled back into a ponytail and a thick, puckered scar across one cheek dominated his face. He paced back and forth, puffing on a cigar and stroking the thin moustache that gave him a slightly villainous aspect. There was no sign of the drugs Strider was interested in, but it was a safe bet the heroin had already been stashed inside the crates of Ethiopian coffee listed on the original manifest and then loaded into the grey box-truck ready for transportation.
Chillingly, all three of them ignored a fourth man, lying on the floor beside an upturned chair, dressed in jeans and an all too familiar red Manchester United sweatshirt. Blood seeped from a gunshot wound to the man’s chest and from another between his eyes, congealing in a grisly puddle around his head. Even more disturbing was the trauma to the man’s face. Before he died, he had been brutally beaten; his flesh was a mass of bruises and contusions, inflamed so badly that his eyes had swollen completely shut. It was unlikely he ever saw the end coming. A fine film of white dust coated his neck and chin. Strider tensed visibly at the sight of Errol’s body, then stepped back to allow Jake a few seconds to survey the scene.
“Halil, go and find a tarp or something to wrap this moron in,” ordered the silver-tailed man. “He’s bleeding all over the fucking place.”
Reluctantly obeying, Halil grabbed a torch from the box on the table and stalked off in silent fury.
“You – boy,” barked Silvertail again. “Take that idiot's jacket off and mop the blood up as best you can.”
The youth in the baseball cap glanced nervously at the older man and dropped to the floor. Trying not to get blood on his own clothes, he crouched beside the body and struggled to extricate the dead man’s limp arms from within the red sweatshirt.
“Stop messing around and get the damn thing off! He’s not going to bite you,” growled Silvertail, puffing on his cigar until the end glowed red and carelessly blowing smoke over the youth’s head.
Strider and Jake conferred with a few whispered words and then crept out into the open space. Aiming his semi-automatic SIG Sauer at the back of the silver-tailed man, Strider called out, “You in the suit, turn around slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”
The crouching youth ceased his mopping and Silvertail slowly swiveled around. As he came face to face with Strider, he threw his cigar away and extended his arms sideways, perpendicular to his body.
“Put your hands behind your head,” instructed Strider, keeping his voice under tight control.
The Russian bared his teeth in a wide malevolent grin and made a strange sweeping motion with his arms, as if conducting an invisible orchestra. At once, a shimmering curtain of orange flame arose before him, sweeping across the open space from one side to the other. It quickly grew higher, its sudden intense heat forcing Strider and Jake back a few paces.
“Christ almighty!” exclaimed Jake, using his free hand to shield his face from the heat of the flames.
Strider was incredulous. “He's a binder!”
Silvertail turned back to the youth on the floor and yelled at him to run, his words almost drowned out by the loud crackling of the fire. The young man scrambled quickly to his feet and sprinted off without a backward glance, almost tripping over his feet in his haste to be gone. Still grinning maniacally, Silvertail faced Strider and Jake through the undulating wall of flames, as if daring them to come and get him.
The fire he’d conjured was a living creature, leaping and hissing and exploding erratically in every direction, its hellish tentacles climbing higher and higher. Wooden crates and pallets, stacked out of the way against the shelving units, were now aflame, feeding the hungry beast. It climbed inexorably toward the roof, spreading its talons. As if that wasn't enough, Silvertail pulled a gun from beneath his jacket and took aim.
“Watch out!” yelled Strider, throwing himself to the ground.
The first shot flew past his ear, sending his heart-rate into triple digits. He returned fire, but the Russian had vanished, appearing a moment later a short distance away. There was a rapid exchange of shots but thickening smoke and flying ash made it difficult to see. The fire had taken hold incredibly fast. The flames continued to grow, their fingers reaching the roof and racing along the wooden rafters.
With every passing second, the fire burned more aggressively. It was only a matter of time before the building was totally engulfed. Crouching low to the floor, Strider replaced his empty clip with a full one, and took stock of the deteriorating situation. The flames had already cut off the narrow passage to the door they’d entered through and were licking the wall behind them, leaving them trapped within an ever-diminishing ring of fire. The roar of the inferno was distracting and Strider curbed the urge to cover his ears. It occurred to him suddenly that Silvertail was no longer shooting at them. He must have made a hasty retreat.
“We've got to get out of here!” he yelled over the roar of the inferno.
“The back way’s blocked, we’ll have to go through the loading dock!” yelled Jake, edging closer.
“And try not to get barbecued in the process,” muttered Strider, all too aware that the only way out was through the flames. But even as he spoke, the flaming curtain which had birthed the surrounding inferno was gradually subsiding, leaving only a few, easily navigable spot fires. The blaze continued to rage out of control on both sides and behind them, but they were no longer completely contained. With luck, they should be able to cross to the main passage and make good their escape.
“Let’s go!” yelled Strider, moving as fast as the conditions allowed. After a dozen strides, he skidded to an abrupt halt, forcing Jake to pull up short behind him. The body of the beaten youth lay on the floor in front of them, forgotten briefly in the earlier melee. They couldn’t leave him behind; it wouldn't be right; Errol deserved better than that. He had given his life to learn the fate of his brother; the least they could do was ensure his mother had one body to bury.
Strider crouched beside the body and with Jake’s help, lifted the dead weight up and over his shoulder. Just as he tensed his legs to stand, there was a deafening explosion, the force of which knocked him off his feet and squeezed the air from his lungs. Pain radiated from where he landed on one elbow and hip. He lay still for several seconds gasping for breath, all too aware he was wasting valuable time. He finally dragged himself up off the floor and assessed the situation.
It was a real effort to breathe now. The air, already stifling from smoke, ash and depleted oxygen, had become a miasma of foul odours. Strider gagged reflexively, but had no choice but to breathe in the foul-smelling air. A second explosion ripped through the building, followed immediately by a third. Gas tanks, he deduced worriedly. The last two weren’t as big as the first, but that didn't mean there weren't other larger tanks waiting to go off. They needed to keep moving.
Strider looked over his shoulder for Jake and was dismayed to see his partner curled on the floor, clutching his side. Blood oozed through his fingers, stark red in the demonic glow of the dancing flames. Strider felt a frisson of ice-cold fear run through him, but forced himself to stay calm as he rushed to his partner's side. Jake was conscious, thank God, and the injury didn't appear to be life threatening.
“Bloody hell, Jake, you scared the crap out of me for a second there,” said Strider, kneeling on the floor and keeping his voice even. He yanked off his leather jacket, pulled his t-shirt over his head and folded it roughly into a thick pad, which he handed to Jake to use as a pressure dressing. He slipped his jacket back on and zipped it up.
“Shrapnel’s a bitch,” grimaced Jake between clenched teeth as he applied pressure to the wound. “Don’t worry; I’ve had worse,” he added with forced bravado.
“We need to get out of here before the whole place goes up,” said Strider. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” said Jake determinedly. “How hard ca
n it be?” he joked, wincing with the pain of just sitting up. Strider hooked his forearms under Jake’s armpits and pulled him to his feet, knowing the movement must hurt like hell. Nearby, Errol’s limp remains lay where they’d fallen after the first explosion. Strider eyed the body wearily and murmured a small prayer, one he’d had cause to use far too often over the years.
“Rest now, brother. May angels lead you home to heaven.”
“Sorry, mate,” he muttered when he was finished, “but the living come first.” He put his arm around Jake, supporting him as best he could, and they staggered toward the main passage, leaving Errol behind.
The thick, billowing smoke was as lethal as the fire itself. They tried to stay low and take shallow breaths, but by the time they turned the corner, they were both coughing uncontrollably. Strider didn’t allow himself to dwell on the amount of blood oozing from Jake’s wound; there was no point worrying about something he couldn’t control. Flames licked the roof above, sucking oxygen out of the air like a greedy babe at its mother's breast. The way ahead was relatively clear and he allowed himself a small glimmer of hope.
They hobbled forward as fast as Jake could manage, sidestepping piles of twisted metal and burning timber. Another explosion ripped through the air, knocking them off their feet like a pair of bowling pins and sending a mountain of burning debris toppling down in front of them. If they’d been moving any faster they would have been buried beneath it. As it was, the explosion had eliminated their only way out.
“What now?” panted Jake.
“God only knows,” muttered Strider dejectedly.
The two men looked at each other helplessly, their minds filled with identical images of human candles and obscenely charred remains. But giving up was not in their vocabulary.
The roar of the fire was deafening and the poisonous smoke obliterated anything more than a foot away. It was a struggle to stay properly oriented. Backing away from the debris in front of them, they turned in the opposite direction, only to run straight into a forklift truck parked in the middle of the aisle.
“What do you think?” yelled Strider.
“I think it’s our only hope.”
They climbed aboard and thankfully, the engine started on the first try. If this crazy, last ditch plan didn’t work, at least they had the dubious comfort of knowing they would suffocate from smoke inhalation long before the flames burned them alive. Strider reversed away from the wall, giving them a ten metre run up. Jake had one arm looped tightly around the rear roof support, the other hand holding Strider's blood-soaked t-shirt to his side.
“Ready?” yelled Strider as he prepared to floor it.
“Do it!” Jake yelled back.
Strider put his foot down and the tiny vehicle took off. He was betting their lives it would build up sufficient momentum to force its way through the weathered timber wall to the outside world, but it was the landing he was most concerned about, since it was impossible to know what sort of drop they were in for on the other side.
After a short period of rapid acceleration, the loud crack of splintering wood signaled a successful breach. The forklift flew through the air for three interminable seconds before landing heavily on the downward slope of the concrete forecourt outside. As Strider applied the brakes, they skidded uncontrollably. The forklift leaned precariously to one side, but he somehow managed to keep them upright until they slowed to a halt. He let out the breath he had been holding and took in a lungful of sweet, unadulterated air.
“Oh man, what a ride!” gasped Jake as he climbed down awkwardly from his perch and dragged deep breaths of clean air into his lungs.
“Better than any roller-coaster,” agreed Strider with a euphoric laugh. Leaping to the ground beside his partner, he confessed, “I was beginning to think we were never getting out of there.”
“Too close,” agreed Jake soberly.
Marveling at their lucky escape, they clapped each other on the back and turned around to gaze at the burning building. The hole they’d knocked through the wall had infused the fire with a fresh source of oxygen; it was going to be one hell of a job to put the flames out. Fortunately, that wasn’t their problem.
“We need to get you to a hospital, Jake,” said Strider. “I can't have you dying on me now.” His voice was upbeat, but his heart was heavy as he thought of Errol, lying dead inside the warehouse, burned now beyond recognition. Only this morning he had dismissed the boy’s fears, putting them down to paranoia and inexperience.
What a waste of a young life. And to make matters worse, the evidence had gone up in smoke, the perps had disappeared and the trail was cold. What a fucking dog of a day.
Regrets
Thursday, 8 November, 1979
24 hours after their miraculous escape from the burning warehouse, Strider sat on the third floor balcony of the Residence with his feet on the railing, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, staring out across the flat Paris skyline. The light had almost completely disappeared, bringing the gloaming to an end. He warded off the chill with another sip of scotch, feeling it gently warm him from the inside out.
It was almost ten years since he'd smoked his last cigarette, but tonight it was the only thing that successfully dampened the rage he felt inside. And the guilt. The alcohol had numbed his pain and right now he felt almost righteous, though he knew it wouldn’t last. And besides, that wasn't the way he lived his life. He always faced his problems head on, dealing with them one way or another. Though at least in his current condition, he'd be able to sleep tonight. He’d been dreading closing his eyes, ever since seeing Errol's ruined face and broken body lying in that obscene pool of blood.
How could he have gotten it so wrong? The question was an intellectual one rather than an emotional one; by this point he had consumed sufficient alcohol and nicotine to dull the edge of his anger, but he still needed an answer. He had been so sure the kid was just scared. Irrationally scared, not prudently scared. Not scared of anything in particular, just scared of the unknown, of leaving his safe, insular life behind and becoming embroiled in the unpredictable underworld of crime and deceit.
How could he have screwed up so badly? He normally had a good nose for sniffing out trouble, but yesterday it failed him completely and a kid was dead. Because of him. Because he’d put the job before the man.
In his line of work, he didn’t usually have to deal with civilians. It was years since he'd had to worry about ordinary people getting in the way of his job. Sure, his brothers were still human and therefore vulnerable, but they were professionals and knew the risks involved. They all burned with the same desire to make the world a better place; a desire to limit the influence of evil and strike a blow for godliness.
As a Guardian, it was easy to forget that most people had no idea what really went on in the world around them. To them, the world was a simple place: what you saw was what you got. And while they had very real fears and anxieties, they were mostly limited to their jobs, their mortgages and their families. Sure, they watched the news. They knew people fought wars, dropped bombs on their enemies, murdered their cheating spouses and mugged little old ladies for their pension cheques. They knew these things happened, but it was usually to other people. For most citizens of the civilised world, violence and mayhem didn't exist. If it didn’t intrude into their ordinary, blinkered lives, it wasn't real.
His mistake was in forgetting Errol was one of them. And now he was dead.
Strider had been in the business of death all his adult life, ever since graduating Sandhurst as an idealistic2nd Lieutenant and becoming so good at his chosen profession he was promoted time and again, not an easy thing to do in “peacetime”. But then, wasn't peacetime an illusion? There always conflict somewhere in the world.
It had taken its toll eventually, which was why he transferred out of his regiment, opting for the more clinical, less personal world of military intelligence. In the end, that didn't work out quite as planned, but for a short time h
e was utterly fulfilled, having found direction, affirmation and love in the most unexpected of places. Until that, too, was taken from him, leaving him adrift and rudderless on a vast and empty sea.
At that point, unable to recall with any clarity the man he used to be, or conceive of the man he needed to become in order to rebuild his life, his metaphorical drifting became literal. For more than a year, he roamed the African continent and tinderbox of the Middle East, moving from one hellhole to another, gravitating unconsciously to those places where his unique leadership and combat skills could be put to best use, seeking distraction from his grief and searching for meaning in an increasingly meaningless world. His reputation for a cool head under pressure, courage under fire, and fanatical loyalty to those under his command became a fiery beacon, attracting similarly disenchanted souls seeking fellowship and camaraderie in a world where it was usually every man for himself.
In Somalia, half a dozen such men, seasoned fighters like himself, attached themselves to him like limpets, despite his best efforts to dislodge them. To his eternal mortification, they started calling themselves “Strider's Scrappers”, and there was no getting rid of them after that. Despite his clearly, sometimes violently expressed desire to be left alone, they followed him to the Sudan and then to Lebanon, an encumbrance he would have paid good money to do without. It was only now, with the benefit of hindsight, that he recognised how much he had needed them – far more than they ever needed him – and how much credit they deserved for dragging him back from the empty, grey netherworld that had become his new reality.