The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change

by Thompson, A. S.

  “She has gone by a ton of names. I don't think anyone knows herreal name to be honest. Me, I call her Mother.”

  West's memory flashed back. “The woman at the meeting in New York. That was her, wasn't it? That’s yourmother?”

  “Ding, ding, ding! Someone get this guy a prize! Solid detective work, Sherlock,” Daytona joked, slapping West on the back. “Regarding your second question, some things are better left untold.”

  The Navy SEAL whistled for Jerry, but the bartender held up a finger and answered, “Be with you in a minute.”

  “A minute? Can you believe this guy?” Daytona said, pointing his thumb at Jerry. Daytona didn't appreciate the poor service, so he pulled out his gun with lightning speed and put two bullets in Jerry’s head.

  West reached for his pistol, but Daytona pivoted left and beat the sergeant major to the punch. West had a solid grip on his gun, but he was staring down the barrel of Daytona's .45 semi-automatic handgun.

  The man at the end of the bar and the couple in the booth stared at Daytona, utterly shocked.

  Keeping West at gunpoint, Daytona spoke to the others. “That would be your cue to leave, people. Go on, shoo, cattle, shoo.”

  Not wasting another second, the three patrons scurried out of the bar without their belongings. Their cries for help began once they were outside.

  “I'm going to lower my gun now so we can carry on with our polite conversation, okay? Don't get any ideas,” said Daytona, keeping to his promise.

  In flagrant disrespect, Daytona hopped up and over the bar and searched the shelves. He used the bar mirror to keep a watchful eye on Craig. When he found what he was looking for, Daytona used Jerry's dead body as a stepping stool and reached up to the top shelf. He grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and blew off the dust.

  “I've always wanted to see what the hype was all about. How about you?”

  “I'm good,” West answered, dryly.

  “Your loss,” Daytona replied, bringing over a fresh glass. As he poured the contents, he continued. “Moving on. Have you ever heard one of the less popular conspiracy theories that drug companies rule the world?”

  “Yes. What about it?” West answered. Truly, he did not. But intelligence was a useful tool.

  “Well that oneis true. Spot on, actually,” Daytona said, taking a second to enjoy the free liquor. He swashed the contents around his mouth to get the full flavor. “Mmm that was tasty. Don't think I'd pay for it though. So, more than wars, more than oil, the most lucrative business on this planet is life itself. The thing that people will most invest in is themselves. I guess at first, it was easy with globalization and all of these new diseases to treat, but as technology advanced...there were cures. But you're a smart guy, Gramps. I think you know where I'm going with this…”

  “No diseases to treat, no money. No money, no power,” West answered. It all made terrifying sense.

  While both of Daytona's hands were full pouring another glass, West drew his weapon and sighted in to Daytona's heart, but the Navy SEAL seemed amused. “Come on, Gramps, put that thing away.”

  “And why the hell would I do that?”

  “If you kill me, then Shanna dies. It's simple. So stop embarrassing yourself and put it down. Besides, we’re almost done here.”

  West put serious thought into it. He could easily kill Daytona and the guards outside, but he was unable to pull the trigger.

  Is this punk-ass kid telling the truth? If I take him out, would someone else kill Shanna?he thought.

  With everything that was going on, and the lengths at which these people were willing to go, West decided against the act. Reluctantly, he re-holstered the handgun.

  “That's what I thought,” Daytona declared. He resumed corking the bottle as though nothing happened. “So, with all the best diseases being treated, it was only a matter of time before someone had to go and start making them. I've been told they revamped the common cold, Ebola, TB, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

  West tilted his head to the side and said, “Really...next thing I know you’re going to tell me you guys created cancer, too?”

  Daytona laughed. “Cancer? Hell, that's the easiest one. Just fill food up with so much bad shit and re-label it with a nice name so when mom goes to the store to buy "all natural" she doesn't think anything bad about it...”

  Daytona paused and shook his index finger repeatedly.

  “...AIDS. Now that’s a funny story. Do you think that was really from some monkey in Africa? Try again. This isn't Outbreak with Dustan Hoffman. That shit was manufactured, by us, right here in the good ol’ U. S. of A. Actually, it’s just like the stuff you administered to your target in Quebec!”

  West’s eyes shot to Daytona’s. He was unsure how to take the last comment.

  “Come on, old man. You have got to stop giving me the 'I'm so confused. Somebody help me. What is going on?' look. It's kinda pathetic. Do you really think your target was working with a terrorist cell? Wait, before you answer that, do you really believe that stuff you injected him with was really a state of the art nano-tracking device? NNNNNNNN. WRONG!” he shouted, making a buzzer sound. Then, he pointed to the TV. “You and your spec ops buddies started this outbreak! You administered the virus all across the world!”

  On the outside, West was unnerved. Inside, he was sweating bullets. He knew Daytona wasn't lying. “Why are you telling me all this? Why haven’t you just killed me already?”

  “Oh, I’m going to enjoy killing you, don’t get me wrong. But I won’t get nearly the same pleasure as I’m getting now. To see the look on your face when you realized that YOU killed humanity! Mr. All American, Delta Force, Sergeant Major Craig West was responsible for all of this!”

  “I was responsible for everything” he said, shifting his eyes to the TV. “All the innocent people...”

  “Then we label you guys a group of terrorists out to insight global destruction and voilà,” he said. “We have a globally unified front, who wholeheartedly believe terrorists were responsible for this shit. Not America. Not 'the West'. It's pretty damn brilliant if you ask me.”

  “So what's the point of this bio-terrorism?” West asked. “Why kill off all the money?”

  “That’s actually a good question,” Daytona answered, nodding his head. “Finally, you're catching up. See, I knew you were smart. Well, the world kind of threw us a curveball. The global population had reached maximum capacity. People aren't dying like they used to and we can't feed everyone. It would only be a matter of time before a global nuclear war wiped out the whole planet...”

  Daytona’s opinions trickled out freely in a verbal stream of consciousness. “...Fucking North Korea and those Middle Eastern terrorists with their damn jihad.”

  “Global nuclear war would be good for no one,” West said.

  “Exactly. So, we engineered this infection. We know that most of the world is going to die, be it the infection or natural causes. But those chosen few who do survive it, will be the start of a new era. They…”

  “Will be none the wiser,” West finished for him.

  “Winner, winner.”

  Now West knew the end game. More than money. More than power. It was about keeping business open.

  “When the time is right, and the dust settles, we will be there like knights in shining armor…”

  “And everyone will flock to your boss like she's the Messiah. I'm guessing she already has the cure, but will wait to sell it off. She’ll make trillions and let the cycle start all over again.”

  “IT'S BRILLIANT!” Daytona exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  “It's insane,” West growled. His jaw clenched so tight he could feel the muscles spasm. “How are you involved? Let me guess, you’re the pathetic excuse of a son who's just following mommy's orders.”

  Daytona ignored the comment. The liquor seemed to be making him happier. “Eh, call it what you want to call it. At least I’m on the winning side. I do have a rather fun role in this play. I’m
in charge of enforcement, the law of the new world. With my particular skills, I'm the best candidate.”

  Keep telling yourself that,West thought about saying.You're just a puppet. Just as expendable as the next guy.

  “I tell you what, Gramps,” Daytona said, pouring two glasses. He pushed one over to West and gave him a look that said, “you better drink this or else.”

  Before continuing, Daytona held up his glass, and waited for West to mimic him. “Since you're the last one. And since you did so well getting away from me, I'm going to make you a deal.”

  West wasn't sure what to expect. “What deal could you possibly make me?”

  “All you have to do is hand over all your mission related shit, and yes, we know you have it. Then we go for a little joy ride, see some sights and in a quiet rest stop, you take a bullet to your dome…”

  “And?”

  “You die...and I swear I will leave your sister-girlfriend-whatever-the-hell-she-is-to-you, alone. You have my word she will not be hurt.”

  West thought about the proposition, but he knew there was no way that he could trust this animal. If he lay down like a dog and took the bullet, Daytona could renege and there'd be nothing West could do from beyond the grave. The choice was inherently simple. Fight. Protect the one he loved.

  “I got a better deal for you.”

  Daytona appeared visibly intrigued.

  “Look out! Gramps grew a pair of balls!” he said, followed by a hearty laugh. “I'm listening.”

  Daytona hadn’t realized, but this is one of the areas that Sergeant Major Craig West excelled in. Psychological manipulation.

  “You think you're mister big shot. You think you're the tits. The head honcho. The biggest, baddest, bully on the playground, am I right?”

  Daytona mused the notion.

  “You think you're mister NAVY SEAL, tough shit, don't you. And you think I'm a washed up Delta and you are...how did you put it? Younger. In better shape. Quicker and smarter, right? So how about we do it the old fashioned way and fight it out.”

  West knew there was no direct escape to be had. So he went for plan B. Call out Daytona's ego and fight.

  A long moment of indecision passed. West wasn't completely sure that he had his claws in deep enough.

  Then, out of nowhere, Daytona clinked his glass against West's and said, “You're on, old man. And since you are the oldest here, I'll give you the choice...fists or knives.”

  Now West had him. “Knives.”

  2004 hours

  The New Bedford marina was desolate. Not even one drunk, staggering fisherman tempted the cold. Boats raised and lowered with the increasing tide. Wooden crates, netting, and other fishing equipment laid idly by.

  Daytona and his pair of thugs disarmed West, gun and knife, before escorting him out of the warm seclusion of the Wet Net. As they exited the bar, the blowing snow felt like ice-cold daggers to exposed flesh.

  “This is how it's going down, Gramps,” Daytona said, taking off his jacket despite the freezing temperatures and unforgiving wind. “Only one of us is walking out of here alive. We keep going 'til one of our hearts stop beating.”

  “Boss, those aren’t our orders.”

  “Ya, are orders are-”

  Daytona’s associates declared.

  “You take your orders from me!” Daytona declared harshly. “One more word out of either one of you and I’ll kill you. Understood?”

  The dissent caused West to crack a faint smile before asking, “What happens when I win?”

  The question amused Daytona.

  “You mean,if you win?” he answered, rhetorically. “If you win, you walk away. Scouts honor.”

  “I wasn't in the scouts,” replied West, face completely serious.

  “Such a grumpy old man. Fine, spec ops code of honor. You have an operator's word. Warrior to warrior,” Daytona said, turning around to his thugs.

  West watched Daytona hand his jacket to one of the henchmen. He couldn't read Daytona's lips, but he didn't need to. West observed the guard’s ambiguous reply of, “Don't worry. We got it just in case,” and put it all together.

  No loose ends...Even if Daytona was the enforcer like he claimed to be. Even if he was connected with the leadership at the top, there would be no way I’m getting out of this scenario alive,West thought.

  Still, West continued to play along.

  “So I have your spec ops word on this?” West started to say, “I walk out of here if I win?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes,” Daytona replied, spinning around. A gust of frigid wind hit the navy SEAL, but he didn't seem fazed by it.

  “Then a display of good faith won't hurt.”

  Daytona raised an eyebrow.

  “Tell your boys to set their guns down on that crate over there, And not just the .45's that I see pressing against their coats,” West said, pointing to a wooden fishing crate. “It's close enough to where they can still get to 'em and shoot me if I run. And it makes me feel better about not being shot me in the back when we start.”

  “Do it,” Daytona ordered.

  “Boss…”

  “What if he-”

  Daytona flashed a look that said, “Do it now or I'll kill you,” so the men complied. Daytona even unholstered his own and tossed it to the men. “Happy now?”

  “A little.”

  Daytona pulled out the knife that he had commandeered off of West’s ankle.

  The double-sided blade measured six inches long and an eighth of an inch thick. It was a picture of true craftsmanship. The maker's initials were etched on the bottom of the leather-wrapped grip that was custom-built for West's hand.

  “Nice piece,” Daytona admitted, lifting it up with his left hand.

  “It gets the job done-”

  “But not as nice as mine,” he interjected, pulling out his personal knife.

  West stared at Daytona's choice blade. Fear didn't enter his mind, but maybe it should have.

  The Bowie Knife displayed pure intimidation. The steel blade measured twelve inches long and a quarter of an inch thick, and led into an upper guard above the handle. It was beautiful.

  “In case you were wondering, this is a replica of Jim Bowie's knife that he used at the Sandbar Fight. Only it's two and a half inches longer. It's my favorite.”

  As a lover of fine blades, West knew all about the famous Sandbar fight. He knew most of the world's different blades and their respective purposes, from the historic Italian stiletto to the American Buck. The Bowie knife was a solid blade, but in West’s opinion and experiences, it didn't make for a good close combat weapon- at least one that fit his style.

  West knew that compared to his blade, the Bowie had length superiority, a handle guard and a sharpened false edge. Still, West didn't prefer it. Knife fighting was all about getting close, using misdirection and counter attacks.

  “It's funny how kids think size matters. It's all about how you use it. You gonna give me a history lesson or my knife?”

  “A ‘get this show on the road’ attitude, I like it,” replied Daytona. He tossed West's blade onto the lightly snow-covered dock in front of West's feet. “Let's dance, Gramps.”

  As West bent down to retrieve the weapon, Daytona cheated and rushed him. West half-expected this, so he quickly grabbed the knife and rolled to his right. Daytona's upward swinging strike missed West's body considerably.

  “Nice try,” West said, coming out of the roll into a crouch. “This isn't my first duel, and this isn't the first time some punk has tried to cheat me like that.”

  “Guy's gotta try, right?”

  West didn't respond at first. He rose slowly to his feet, but remained hunched over in preparation. He tossed the blade into his left hand, and utilized a hammer grip, blade facing upward. “You know I'm going to kill you, right?”

  Through the wind and snowflakes, West could see Daytona's jaw muscles clench. The Navy SEAL fidgeted with his blade switching between a hammer and saber grip, the latter where
the thumb rests on the side or bottom of the handle.

  “We'll see in a minute.”

  “I agree. I wasn’t planning on it taking much longer.”

  West dictated the first round of attacks by pacing to his left, keeping his dominant left hand forward. Whenever he found himself in close-combat situations, he utilized a combination of Delta Force training and other knife fighting techniques he acquired over the years.

  Many things came into play, but West broke it down into three elements: chest, proximity, and style.

  He knew that during a fight, many people made the mistake of looking at their opponent's eyes.

  The eyes are deceiving, misdirecting. The best location is the solar plexus. The center of the chest dictates where the body goes- at least the upper half. Unlike the eyes, it cannot lie.

  Then came proximity. West believed that gauging distance was equally as important. An inch could mean the difference between a miss and a severed artery.

  Last was style. There were dozens, if not hundreds of fighting styles, weapons or otherwise. But when it came to knives, choosing the right style was paramount.

  Keeping all of these things in mind, and his own success rate, West believed his chances were good.

  Daytona mimicked West's pace and clockwise movement. As the two continued to circle one another, they drew closer and closer until Daytona, believing he was within range, struck. His speed and direct jab was quick, but West's reaction was a hair quicker. The sergeant major jumped back, and then pounced forward in a lighting counter attack that looked as though he was drawing an X in the air.

  “Come on, old man,” Daytona said, raising both of his arms as the midsection attack missed considerably. He switched the fight to a counterclockwise movement and continued, “There's optimism, then there's down right pathetic. You didn't really think your six incher could get inside my guard did you?”

  “Maybe I'm getting too old.”

  Secretly, West attacked for a different reason. Like everything else in his life, intelligence was crucial to success. Everything Craig West did had a purpose, and the purpose of that fruitless attack was for discovery.

  He’s too confident, Chucky,he thought,The way he leaves his leg out there. You’ve conditioned him now, use it!