RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone

by Frederick S dela Cruz

  “Possibly,” the Captain answered, “Possibly for further integration with other nuclear delivery mechanisms. And there’s another use in EMPs - electromagnetic pulse devices - that can knock out electronic circuitry, electrical grids, and devastate wide regions.”

  The Congressman suggested, “Gentlemen, let’s have this conversation with another person whom I know needs this insight. We’ll continue with the subject and also how you believe these mechanisms could make their way in our country.” He stood up from his chair and gestured for the two uniformed men to proceed to the door.

  Just as the three men reached the door, the longhaired man quickly transported himself back into the closet.

  The men left the room. After exiting the office, Barlon locked the door behind him.

  Hearing them walk away, the man went out from his hiding and made his way to Barlon’s desk. He set his eyes on the dossier.

  One photo was clipped together with several sheets of paper. The name written and associated with it was Malik Khel. He shuffled the documents around. A second photo was clipped over another stack of documents, and the name of that man was Omar Malshar Gul.

  * * * * * * *

  Half a world away, Malik Khel and Omar Malshar Gul positioned themselves on the east side of the mountain, about a forty-five minute walk from the main opening to their cave complex. Again on their patrol, they stopped for a brief moment to make certain that no one else was anywhere near where they stood.

  The shorter Gul spoke first. “Brother, other pieces are being put into position. Jalel has ordered men to be ready. The command soon will be made for other groups in the network to take their positions.”

  Khel listened, as he adjusted his Kalakov machinegun under his arm. His heart was heavy, but he did not want to reveal it to Gul. He felt his life was in greater danger than ever, and he wished that he had never walked this path.

  Nevertheless, Gul was able to see that his friend was burdened by the circumstances.

  Longing for the past and not desiring to speak of the present, Khel asked, “Omar, do you think we can be normal people again? Work once again to find ancient cities buried in the soil, carrying brushes and shovels? These weapons are becoming so very heavy for me.” Slowly lowering his head, Khel added, “Are they not heavy for you?”

  Gul was unsure of what to say. Of the two men, he was the one of stronger mettle, and now, as he searched for words to comfort his friend, he could find none.

  Remembering their visit to the United States five years ago, when their lives were much simpler, Khel raised his head and tried to smile. “Can we return to America? Go back to the beach? I can still remember my toes in the warm sand. You know? I will never forget.”

  Now, softly smiling, Gul’s eyes sparkled. “We can go. There is always hope.”

  Then, a movement, a distance away, caught Khel’s eye. He focused on a sleek white and gray-feathered bird of prey maintaining a still and steady hovering position high above the ground. With its head up and its body tilted forward, the bird beat its wings rapidly to maintain its fixed position, while its eyes followed its prey directly below.

  Khel kept his eyes on the bird, and then turned his shoulders slightly toward Gul. He wanted to ask Gul if he knew the name of the bird, but then he changed his mind and said nothing.

  The bird flawlessly and precisely adjusted its position, to follow its moving prey. There, it waited and hovered. A few seconds later, it angled its body downward, ready to strike.

  Far at the other side of the mountain, unknown to them, Jalel was meeting with his most trusted men. Like the bird of prey, he had been closely tracking and suspiciously eying Khel. Soon, he would be ready to command his strike.

  * * * * * * *

  In front of the Capitol Building, the longhaired goateed man walked on the dirt path along National Mall, in the direction of the Washington Monument. As he wondered why he was led to hear the conversation within the Capitol, he thought to himself, Playing Mr. Spy was fun, but what was it for? What now? These two guys risking their lives for the U.S. - what am I supposed to do about that?

  Feeling frustrated, he said, “And why the heck do I have a bunch of questions and no answers?”

  After mulling things over for a little while longer, he then thought more calmly, I guess I’ll be told soon enough. But he was uneasy about the circumstances and was hesitant to have any further involvement, adding, Uh, but I’m not sure if I wanna do any risking of my own hide.

  He was like a heavy stone, half-buried in hard-packed dirt, very difficult to start rolling.

  Foot traffic on the Mall was sparse. Walking on the south side, a short distance from Independence Avenue, he kept pace with a man’s footsteps far in front of him. Down ahead of him, a couple strolled in the opposite direction on the same path.

  The evening was still warm and an infrequent breeze cooled his skin. A half-moon was already rising.

  There was another man walking towards him far down past the couple. This man was in his early twenties. His face had strong features, his eyes where slightly deep-set, and his ears were back against his head. If he were to grow out his cropped hair longer, one would see that it was dusty-blond.

  He was Samuel Ian Kessian.

  Samuel Ian Kessian made his initials into a name that he preferred to be called by: Sik.

  He liked to wear black, thick-soled boots. Around his blue jeans he always wore a brown belt with a plain brass buckle. His favorite color was gray, like the gray t-shirt he wore that night, which he tucked into his jeans. It stretched tightly over him, revealing well-developed arms and upper body, due to years of strength training.

  Sik had an affinity for the military. His father was a Marine who died when Sik was a teenager. He tried to enlist once, but a discovered genetic defect in his heart prevented him from being accepted. Nevertheless, he lived his life with the regimen of a soldier. He exercised religiously, strengthening his heart, trying to overcome the defect given to him by birth. Following his father’s discipline, he started his day early, meticulously making his bed, folding away his clothes, showering, shaving, cutting his hair, eating breakfast, exercising, and working. But, at night, he let off steam by spending his time drinking beer and playing pool at local bars.

  He had unrealized significant dreams for himself, believing that his life had a higher purpose than what he saw was a dull existence. After learning of the circumstances surrounding his father’s death, he found his path. He was eager to put his life in motion, within the machinery of this higher purpose, eager and wanting to actively make his role in life.

  For the other man walking towards Sik, this man didn’t need to make a role in life. There was one destined for him, and him alone, but he avoided it. Now, with the excitement from his earlier stealth activity wearing off, his thoughts began to take on tones of negativity and reluctance. He began to complain, “Think about it. I’m not an international operative or some spy or some Superman supposed to save people at the last second.” The pace of his walk slowed. “What am I suppose to do with this stuff? I’m drunk half the time. I am a drunk. What can a guy like that do? Not hero work.” Then he joked to himself, “Ha. Maybe Lassie can lead me to an AA meeting close by.” He whistled for the mantis and called out, “Here, boy!”

  As the darkness of the evening grew, the two men’s lives were about to intersect.

  Sik sternly stared straight ahead at the Capitol Building.

  Their paths were about to cross and their lives were about to be inexorably changed. The rising half-moon shined a pale light over the grim encounter.

  The goateed man’s head was tilted down at the ground, as he tried to come up with excuses to disassociate himself from any possible future hero work, as he called it. As he began to lift his head, to glance at the t-shirt-wearing stranger a few steps away, he turned his head slightly at the man.

  Sik took his glare away from the Capitol and scowled at him.

  The two men were the same heigh
t and saw each other eye-to-eye.

  The goateed man felt that there was something about the scowling stranger that needed his caution. The man was familiar. The image of the man in the black van and the man at the rooftop of the hotel flashed in his mind. This was the same man.

  As they passed each other, he stopped just two steps behind Sik. He turned his head to the side, as the corner of his eyes followed the man in the gray t-shirt. He stood motionless for a few moments, trying to decide what to do.

  Sik’s black boots quickened their pace on the hard-packed dirt path.

  As the goateed man stood listening to Sik’s stride, he received a strong message in his thoughts that trembled in his chest and shoulders, telling him to start walking and continue walking straight ahead. It told him there would be another day for this encounter.

  But he fought the warning, and instead, he turned to follow. This is the guy who threw the woman from the rooftop, he thought, and this is possibly the same guy who strangled two others.

  Sik began to jog. He began to run. With the man behind him starting to follow, he headed east, crossing 7th Street. Ahead was the dark and large building of a museum. As the fast rhythmic thudding of Sik’s boots echoed in the night, he searched for a place to hide. He knew his pursuer was close enough to hear and see where he was going. Within a few seconds, he passed the entrance of the museum. Sik’s eyes searched left and right, as he sprinted. To his right, the corner of the museum was almost completely darkened. When he passed it, he formulated his plan: soon he would run back and return to this corner.

  After the next building Sik rounded it to the right. With his heart and lungs remaining strong and untaxed, his legs carried him swiftly. After another right turn, he went back parallel to Jefferson Drive. He was circling around.

  His pursuer began to tire, as he saw Sik make his way back around the museum. He thought, The guy’s just turning corners, circling. Slowing down to a jog, he gasped out loud, “Let’s make this…easier…shall we?”

  The goateed man disappeared, and then reappeared about ten steps in front of Sik. He believed he was more than strong enough to stop Sik. He widened his stance, crouched forward, and tensed his body. As he saw Sik quickly close the gap, he spread his arms apart, ready to grab the oncoming man.

  Sik increased his speed, leaned forward, and crossed his arms, ready to ram into the man in front of him. On impact, Sik growled and immediately uncoiled his back and uncrossed his arms, pounding into the chest of his pursuer.

  The longhaired man launched into the air.

  Unhindered and unfazed, Sik headed to the dark corner, just after the museum.

  While tumbling through the air, a surprised sheepish look appeared on the goateed man’s face. Crashing down into the ground, his feet flew over his body. He landed on his chest beside the dirt path and came to a halt flat on his face. As he puffed away the dirt, he sighed sarcastically, “Good thing I held back. Otherwise, I would have really hurt him.” Quickly, raising himself up, he brushed aside the pain he felt throughout his body. Taking chase once again, he gulped in air through the ache in his chest. He strengthened his resolve: he was going to catch this murderer. Yelling in anger, he leaped forward into his run.

  Sik made a turn at the dark corner of the museum. There, he immediately stopped and waited, hiding against the wall.

  With the darkness engulfing the corner, it was the perfect place to turn prey into predator.

  Sik’s lungs and heart were pumping with excitement. Consciously attempting to slow his breathing, and to calm himself, he took two deep breaths. Then, he reached for something at his ankle.

  As the goateed man ran toward Sik, something urgently told him to stop. The feeling was so strong it shook the joints of his limbs, causing him to stumble.

  But his desire to pursue was greater; it was a desire not of righteous purpose, but of revenge. Fighting through his stumble, he pushed off the ground with his hand, in order to keep himself from falling. With each stride, he breathed deep and hard, straining and pumping his arms. After few more struggling steps, he began to run upright once more. His lungs began to burn, as he raced to the same corner where he saw Sik make his turn around the museum.

  He reached it. He turned.

  Immediately, Sik sank a six-inch titanium blade into the gut of his pursuer. Sik clenched the goateed man close, as he deepened the blade. The muscles of his biceps, triceps, and forearm rippled, as his right hand jerked and shook the knife further and further in.

  Sik glared into the pained eyes of his prey. Then, as he withdrew his knife, he forcefully shoved his victim aside. Drops of blood fell from the blade, as he brandished it above his head.

  The half-moon above, almost at its zenith, gave dim light to the quiet kill.

  The goateed man staggered back and leaned against the corner of the building.

  Sik then calmly wiped the blade on the grass, placed it back into the sheath tied to his ankle, and covered it with his pant leg. Scowling, Sik said, “I had better ways to kill you, but this will have to do.” Then, patiently, Sik walked away into the night.

  The bloodied man fell on his back onto the grass, at the dark corner of the building. His hand reached for the gaping hole just below his rib cage. He panted, “Oh, my God. I’m sorry.” He hadn’t listened to the warning that told him to turn and walk away. Coughing, he gasped, “Oh, God.” The pain curtailed his breathing. His hand dropped to the ground. Staring up into the night sky, something caught his eye. At the roof of the adjacent building, a figure stood at the corner. With the night breeze pulling open the sides of his coat, there the hooded man stood.

  The half-moon was now exactly at its zenith. Its light gleamed eerily from the hood and shoulders of the man on the rooftop while illuminating the dying man’s face below.

  The hooded man watched, as the goateed man struggled to breathe. He said quietly, “He will not survive. He is panicked and doesn’t yet know how to save himself.” Then, thinking of the consequences, he added, “Our game has not yet ended, but Samuel is already receiving his vengeance.” Almost indifferent, he concluded, “This is too soon.” Moments later, he moved away from the rooftop and walked out of sight.

  The mantis appeared in mid-flight. With the moonlight reflecting off of its bright green torso, it landed on the corner of the building, a short distance above the bleeding man. Facing down, it inched closer and closer. Then, it stopped and put its front legs folded under its head. With its two black-dot eyes peering at the man, it saw him begin to lose consciousness and watched, as the man’s eyes began to roll up uncontrollably.

  It witnessed as the man gasped, and then took his last breath.

  Suddenly, the night darkened.

  The mantis turned its head almost completely around, to look at the moon. But the moon could not be seen. Obscuring it was the dark entity, floating formless up above, where the hooded man had earlier stood. Its millions of black particles expanded and contracted, hissing a dull hiss with each wave of movement.

  The mantis watched as the entity came closer and closer.

  Chapter 9

  Quantico, Virginia.

  The day after the Montreme Hotel incident, Special Agents Stevens and Etelson were walking through the FBI Forensic Science Center. They entered a lab where chemical analyses were being performed on the ink samples from their victims.

  As Stevens and Etelson walked in side by side, Stevens asked, “Hey, Martin, how goes it?”

  In front of them, a man stood with a straight and stiff back, wearing blue jeans and a dark shirt whose fading text in the front said, “I Want To Believe.” Holding a beaker in his hand with red liquid in it, he was Martin B.

  As she walked, Etelson spoke to Stevens, from the side of her mouth, “Beaker…”

  Stevens smiled.

  Standing next to a stool, at a table in the center of the lab, Martin B. swirled the contents of the breaker.

  Again Etelson spoke from the side of her mouth, saying, “Leder
hosen…”

  Stevens began to laugh out loud, but then tried to disguise it by coughing.

  A large smile grew on Etelson’s face, as she enjoyed Stevens’ reaction.

  Martin B. was just over six feet tall with thick, short, brown hair that had enough length to make a slight part on the right. Resting on his nose were thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses. Speaking with a very distinct German accent, he asked Stevens, “Are you ok? You are in need of a drink, yah?” He extended the beaker to Stevens, concerned but not overly concerned.

  Still coughing, Stevens held out his hand and waved the beaker away. Then, he said, “No thanks. I’ll be fine.” Gaining his composure, he asked, “Uh, what’s that anyway?”

  “It’s cranberry.”

  “Oh…yeah, no thanks. Anyway, we heard that you’ve got news for us about that additional substance in the ink.”

  “Yah, that’s correct.” Martin B. sat down on the gray, metal stool, then drank from the beaker.

  Martin T. sat at an adjacent table, writing with a pen and editing a report that he soon needed to retype and submit. Deep in thought, he didn’t acknowledge the entrance of the two agents.

  “Ok. So, what do ya have?” Stevens said, waiting.

  “Well, before I talk about that,” Martin B. said, “First about the blood of the two victims you had also asked us to analyze, we did not see anything out of the ordinary about their blood.”

  “No blood borne diseases, no genetic defects? Nothing?”

  “None found.”

  “Ah, ok…well, there goes one of our theories out the door.”

  Martin B. continued, “So, now about the foreign substance in the ink. I am absolutely sure it is not any substance that has ever been found anywhere. But it is quite strange, yah.” He took another sip, and then pushed his glasses up. He added, “The simplest explanation I can give you is that it is like human blood. But it is not human blood. If you understand what I mean.”

  “Yah,” Etelson said. “I mean…yeah. I think. So it’s like human blood, but it’s not human blood. Is it because of the DNA? And it’s mixed in with the pigments of the ink?”