by Scott Blade
The shorter guy stepped in closer and asked, “What ya gonna do?”
He jabbed the pipe into Widow’s chest plate again. Only this time he reared it back like he was thrusting a rapier into Widow’s center mass.
Widow didn’t wait for a third jab. He didn’t try to parry it, like a fencer would’ve done. He didn’t have to parry it because a pipe is a blunt weapon, not a stabbing weapon.
He grabbed the pipe, and jerked it to the right, swiveling violently with feet planted. The shorter guy went tumbling into the four o’clock guy, which put both of them out of the fight for at least a couple of seconds, which was all that Widow needed.
There were still four guys, perfectly fit for fighting and perfectly healthy. But they had all been stunned by Widow’s surprise attack and Widow hadn’t counted himself as one man against six. He had counted himself one man against six in the rain.
The sidewalk was only about six feet wide from the wall. And the overhang was only an inch longer. The rain still pounded hard, which gave Widow the advantage over the only guy that gave him any worry.
After he threw the shorter guy into the four o’clock guy, he had ripped the pipe completely out of the shorter one’s grasp and he lunged forward, left foot first, and drew up a vicious right kick straight in the twelve o’clock guy’s nuts.
And that look in his eyes, the one that had intimidated Widow for a moment, was exchanged for one of complete agony.
It occurred to Widow that these guys might’ve been football players for Arizona State. Maybe even star athletes, which would normally cause him grief because he would hate to ruin the university’s season. But that wasn’t the case because the football season was over. It was well into spring. Maybe this guy would recover in time for summer camp. The recovery of his love life, however, was a different story. That would most certainly take a little more time.
Widow saw the guy buckle and fall back out from under the overhang. The rain plummeted down on his face. And he screamed in torment.
Widow took a fraction of a second to check out the one o’clock guy with the barrel for a stomach. That’s when Widow figured for sure that they were frat brothers or teammates on the football team because the guy with the barrel for a stomach turned to help his downed friend instead of running at Widow. Which was a relief because Widow was sure he would’ve taken a severe loss if that guy ran at him.
Widow heard the scuffing of sneakers on concrete and knew that the seven o’clock guy was charging him from behind.
The pipe wasn’t heavy, but it would’ve been a slow action to try and slam it into the seven o’clock guy’s head, which was what Widow wanted to do. Instead, Widow half-spun back and elbowed the seven o’clock guy straight in the throat. He hadn’t intended to hit him in the throat. It was a lucky strike for Widow and an unlucky one for the seven o’clock guy.
He toppled to the ground, backward, and grabbed his throat. He started to cough and wheeze and drone without any noise coming out of his mouth. His throat wasn’t crushed. Widow was almost sure of that because he had heard that sound before and this wasn’t it. But it was damn close.
The last guy standing was the three o’clock guy, the same guy who had been texting in the sports bar.
He stood there and didn’t charge. He didn’t go to help any of his friends either.
Widow walked toward him, pipe in his hand.
The shorter guy had gotten back on his feet and he said, “Charlie, get him!”
The three o’clock guy, Widow assumed, was Charlie.
Charlie didn’t move.
The shorter guy moved into position to attack, followed by the guy that Widow had knocked down.
This seemed to give Charlie some courage because he also moved up and stood near the shorter guy. The one that Widow had knocked down with the shorter guy didn’t join them.
Widow could see that he was a little smarter and a much better friend than these two because he was kneeling over the seven o’clock guy.
He called out to them and said, “Chuck, Benjie, I think we need an ambulance.”
The shorter one was called Benjie, which didn’t surprise Widow.
Charlie reacted first and turned and ran over to his friend on the ground. Widow smiled at the one called Benjie. He was alone if he chose to fight further. And that prospect changed his tone—dramatically. He ran over to join his friends.
Widow looked at the guy on the ground with the throat injury. He paused a beat and listened to the sounds the guy was making. And then he saw the guy cough up blood. It was a lot of blood, but not life threatening. Not if he got medical attention fast enough.
Widow could hear the guy’s passageways trying to breathe. He watched the guy’s chest take deep expansions and heavy exhales. The guy wasn’t breathing hard or rapid. The body’s natural reaction to a crushed throat was to struggle for air. This meant extreme panting, which the guy wasn’t doing. He wasn’t breathing at full capacity either, but he was breathing.
There wasn’t much Widow could do for the guy if he stuck around. So, he didn’t.
This group of frat boys had taken causalities and that gave Widow the opportunity to dispatch the rest of them. But the first rule of fighting for a Navy SEAL was to haul ass. It was always best to avoid fighting. Widow had made his point.
He backed up into the rain, kept his eyes on the group, and vanished.
About fifty yards down the highway Widow ditched the pipe. He pulled his shirt up over his head like before, and walked with his thumb out. It didn’t take long before he had gotten a ride. There were two people in the car. They were both younger than he was. Both were black. Maybe they were related, maybe not. He didn’t ask.
One of them was nice enough to loan him a cell phone. He dialed 911 and reported the guys in the motel. He told the dispatcher that they needed a paramedic and not to wait. He hung up when the dispatcher asked for his name.
He returned the phone back to the girl in the front passenger seat. Apparently, the whole conversation had spooked the girls, which was understandable. About twenty miles later they ditched Widow at a gas station in the next town.
He ended up in Windmill Ranch after all, and looking for another ride north.
CHAPTER 6
THE FORMER NAVY SEAL stared out at the surf from his beachside villa in Isla Mujeres, Mexico, which was a small island in the Caribbean. The name translated to Island of Women. He wasn’t clear on why it was called that. He didn’t much care.
He enjoyed the company of women immensely. There was something else that he enjoyed much more; that was the life that he used to have. He missed it.
Running his own security firm was also a good life. But he still missed government-sanctioned murder. Killing the enemy had been the thrill of a lifetime. The US Navy didn’t only let him do it, but they also paid him for it. Hell, they had trained him for it.
The former SEAL was known in the Arab world as Qatal, which translated as killing or killer; he wasn’t sure which. Like the translation of Isla Mujeres, he never cared about the literal meaning. All he cared about was that they feared him and he liked that.
Qatal had no children of his own. No wife. No family. He lived a secluded life, bouncing around from place to place. He owned property here and there. All of it was under the name of his offshore business. Even though he had long been out of the SEAL teams, he was still a nomad.
Like a lot of SEALs, his family was his brothers-in-arms. Most of the guys from his platoon never saw eye to eye with him on how to do things. In fact, most of them loathed his methods, but no one questioned him, not even the higher-ups in the Navy. He was known for his brutality. Which was an asset to agencies like the CIA, back when he served in Iraq.
Qatal never held it against any of the other SEALs who disagreed with his ways. He still respected them, all of them.
In his years of service, he had met a few others who were likeminded. And some of those guys were a part of his crew now. The others were from other special forces from o
ther military branches. Some of them were even from other countries. Countries that used to be considered enemies of the US, such as Russia. He had two guys from there. Both of which he considered deadlier than most SEALs that he had worked with.
After being honorable discharged, and following a smooth career in the Navy, Qatal found himself with life skills that made him very dangerous. Many of the skills that he had learned in the Navy were applicable to daily life and they were marketable to plenty of industries in the US.
He had had his pick of employment opportunities after his service. The problem wasn’t that he was unable to find gainful employment. The problem had been that none of it was satisfying. None of it scratched that itch that he felt. None of it made him feel alive like he used to.
Qatal used to kill bad guys. After he left the SEALs, he realized that it did not matter if they were bad or not. It was the action that he missed—the rush. It was the thrill of the kill. It was more than just missing something that he was good at. He craved it.
He wondered if firefighters ever missed fire after they retired, or if cops missed solving crimes, or if doctors missed curing diseases.
When he had left the Navy, about ten years earlier, he tried everything he could think of to quench the craving that he felt. Six months into his civilian life he started a security firm. That wasn’t really the same as flying off to some godforsaken jungle or crumbling apartment complex in a war-torn city, or sneaking onto a beach at night on a black Zodiac and tracking down a target and killing them.
But ten years ago, when the man in California had called him and asked for help solving a problem involving the man’s business partner and his patriotic conscience, he found his new calling.
Qatal drank the last of his tea and set the mug down for a housekeeper to pick up when his satellite phone rang. He frowned because he was just about to head out to go on a fishing trip. The satellite phone ringing meant that the call was related to business because only business associates and clients had the number.
Qatal walked back to his bedroom and reached into a black canvas rucksack, pulled out the phone and answered it.
He said, “Yeah?”
He heard a voice that he hadn’t heard in a long time, a voice that he had just been thinking of.
The man from California said, “It’s me.”
Qatal ran his free hand over his shaved head, felt the stubble and said, “I haven’t heard from you in a long time.”
“I know. I know. I just haven’t had any need for your services in a while.”
The former SEAL said, “You sound nervous.”
“I’m not. Just under stress.”
“What kind of stress?”
“The bad kind.”
“You need me? You need my services, now?”
The man from California swallowed hard. Qatal was the last person on earth that he wanted to be calling. The man terrified him. Qatal had had a spotless service record, but that was only what was actually recorded. Many things were never recorded. At least, he never saw the records and he used to be in Naval Intelligence. He had had top-secret clearance. Most of the terrifying things that he had known about Qatal were just the rumors he heard.
They had met a few times. He remembered the first time that he was introduced to Qatal, the man in California saw his eyes. They were soulless, like two black holes orbiting in his eye sockets.
He remembered feeling like he was looking in them was like looking past the event horizon. He had zero interest in seeing those eyes again.
The man in California said, “Something’s going on. It’s bad.”
“What is it?”
“It pertains to you too.”
Qatal said nothing.
The man in California said, “We’ve both got a problem.”
“I’m listening.”
“They’re gonna unplug him.”
“Who?”
“Sossaman.”
Qatal stayed quiet, but he recalled the name and the mission.
“I got a call from an old contact. He sent me an article from a paper in Montana. They’ve got some law there that says the spouse of a comatose, incapacitated person has the right to pull the plug on him or her after ten years are up.”
Qatal spoke in a calm, sarcastic voice. He asked, “That’s a real law? Are they trying to torture the poor woman?”
“Sorry?”
“I mean a wife wants out of a marriage. Her old man isn’t giving it to her right. Then he ends up in a coma and she’s gotta live with him like that for ten more years?”
“I guess she can get a divorce. But that’s not what I’m calling about. We’ve got a serious problem.”
“You’ve got.”
“What?”
“You’ve got a serious problem. Not we. Just you.”
The man in California paused a beat. He didn’t want to upset the former SEAL. He waited and then he calmly said, “This is serious. This can be bad for us both. If Liam dies, then the wife will get his shares of my company.”
“We should just take direct action against them, both. Problem solved.”
“No. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“There are kids.”
Qatal said nothing, but his silence felt cold.
The man in California could sense it. He said, “I don’t want to be responsible for killing kids.”
“Unless they grow up and try to rat you out to the FBI.”
The man in California repeated, “This is serious.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m calling you. There’s gotta be something?”
“As I see it, we’ve got two options.”
“Tell me.”
“One is the option that I’ve laid out already. Let’s call it Option B.”
“What’s the second?”
“We can try to reason with her.”
“How?”
“How do you think? Think The Godfather.”
The man from California said, “I never saw it.”
Qatal made a Brando impression and said, “We make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
The man in California stayed quiet.
Qatal said, “We bribe her. Can we do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said that if he dies then she gets the shares, right?”
“Yeah?”
“So, is she getting checks for the value of those shares now?”
“No. The only way that she’d get their value is if she sold them.”
“Exactly.”
The man in California paused, the realization hit him and he said, “We offer to buy them from her.”
“Right. We bribe her with their value. If the poor bastard dies, then she gets those shares. Simply offer to buy them from her. And then whatever private illegal activities you’re into will stay private and illegal.”
Silence.
Qatal asked, “What is it?”
“The thing is they’re worth a fortune.”
“So?”
“I don’t have that kind of money. Everything is tied up.”
Qatal asked, “What do you do with your money?”
“I keep it.”
“I don’t care. It’s a rhetorical question.”
The man in California paused a beat and then he asked, “What about a smaller amount?”
“Might work. Might. Unless she wises up. Starts asking people how to read stock market spreadsheets. Then she might start talking to attorneys. They may end up talking to the cops. At that point, I can’t help you.”
The man in California said, “We gotta try. Maybe she’ll take it?”
“Doubtful. Even if she doesn’t wise up, she’ll still see it as a negotiation. You got the dough to negotiate?”
“No.”
“Then again, possible that she might want out.”
“How do you mean?”
Qatal said, “She’s been married to a dead guy for a decade,
right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then she probably wants out. She probably can’t stand to look at him. She probably yearns to get out. She probably wants her freedom. Wouldn’t you?”
The man in California stayed quiet and considered this. She probably does, he agreed, but then he started to doubt. He asked, “What if she doesn’t?”
Silence fell over the phone.
Finally, Qatal said, in his normal, serious voice, “Then we make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
The man in California said nothing.
Qatal said, “First thing’s first. We need to recon the situation.”
“And then what?”
“Then we need to pick Option A or Option B.”
Silence again.
Qatal asked, “What’s wrong?”
“If she refuses, then what? Option B?”
Qatal said nothing. He didn’t have to.
The man in California asked, “Just for argument’s sake, if we go with Option B, how would you go about it?”
“You want to know?”
“I care about the kids. I just don’t want anything to happen to them.”
Qatal laughed and said, “No you don’t.” He paused a beat, waited for a response, but then he asked, “If the whole family dies, what happens to her stock?”
The man in California paused and looked down at the ugly, trendy tile that the short skirt designer had also picked out for his office. Then he said, “It’ll revert to the state.”
“Then what?”
“Then they’ll hold it for ninety days. Usually, it’s ninety days. Then they’ll offer it to me to buy because I’m the next majority shareholder.”
“How much will they sell it to you for?”
“Nothing. Nickels on the dollar,” the man in California said and smiled afterward, like he was just thinking about that for the first time.
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. If we’ve gotta go with option B, you’ll be even richer than you are now.”
“I guess I just want to know that it won’t blow back on us? Liam was an FBI witness once. Won’t they investigate it if we just go in and kill everyone?”
“I do this stuff for a living. Part of my job back in the SEALs was manipulation warfare. I know how to get people to do what I want. If we gotta kill them, we simply get someone else to take the blame.”