“You are an extremely mean man,” Emil mumbled as he struggled to get up.
While Emil struggled to get up, Ron pulled a large, floppy hat from his backpack and put it on. When he slipped his backpack over his left shoulder, Ron’s eyes momentarily left Emil and scanned the horizon. Emil saw this as an opportunity to strike out, and he leapt towards Ron.
Emil showed far more agility and quickness then Ron had expected from the older man, but it was still several heartbeats too slow to achieve his objective. Ron easily sidestepped Emil’s lunge. Emil’s momentum carried him past Ron and sent him sprawling face down in the hot, coarse sand for his trouble.
Ron stood looking stone faced at the man and Emil chuckled, “Well, I had to try. It was a long shot, but I guess stranger things have happened.”
“Get up. We’re going to take a little hike,” Ron ordered. Ron kept his distance and wiggled the gun in the direction he wanted to Emil to go.
“I am injured. Lend me a hand, old friend?” Emil asked with a polite smile as he reached to Ron with his good right hand.
“Not a chance,” Ron stated curtly as he stepped back another step. It took Emil a couple of minutes to get to his feet and brush the sand off.
Smiling sheepishly he asked, “So, which way shall we walk?”
Ron wiggled the gun in the direction he wanted Emil to go. Emil smiled and pointed the same direction trying to lighten the mood before beginning to walk that way. Ron followed a dozen meters behind Emil as they walked across the desert.
As they walked, Emil held his injured arm across his chest, which only seemed to increase the blood flow. The blood soon coated his arm and was leaving droplets in the sand as they walked.
After a couple of hundred meters, they came to a rock outcropping. Ron ordered Emil to stop when he was about fifteen meters past it. Ron took a seat on a rock in the shade of the outcropping and got comfortable.
Staring at Emil, Ron withdrew a bottle of cold water from his backpack, slowly opened it, and took a long drink from it. He took several minutes to finish it, the whole time grinning at Emil who stood out in the direct sunlight with his hand over his eyes staring at Ron. Finally, Emil spoke. “You wouldn’t happen to have another bottle of water, would you?”
“I’d have thought you would have been smart enough to bring some,” Ron replied.
“Amusing, my friend. Please, tell me what I have done to offend you,” Emil stated with a warble in his voice.
Ron glared at Emil from under the brim of his hat. He didn’t answer Emil but instead opened another bottle of water and drank most of it over the next several minutes before he finally spoke.
“Some friends of mine visited the West Bank a couple of weeks ago. They were greeted with a great deal of hostility. Their lives came very close to being extinguished. It was my fault they had such a terrible time. I recommended the great night life to them,” Ron spoke cryptically. “But then again, I took your recommendation.”
“What are you saying?” Emil asked, feigning puzzlement.
“You watched and listened to my conversation with our friend in cell 64. Don’t bother trying to deny it. You’d be wasting your breath. You understood the conversation, and after I left, you told someone. I want to know who you told,” Ron demanded quietly.
“I always watch and listen. It is my job. I may pick up a few bits and pieces now and then, but who would I tell?” Emil asked, feigning innocence. As he spoke, Emil stepped forward a few steps decreasing the gap between them. Ron quickly fired a shot into the sand at Emil’s feet and waved the gun, directing him to back up again. Emil quickly complied.
“Who, Emil? I can sit here all day. I’ve got shade, water and energy bars. You, well, you don’t have those things, now do you? Plus, you’re injured, and you’re standing in the hot sun. Hell, it must be close to one hundred thirty degrees standing in the sun. I bet you’re losing a couple of kilos an hour just in water weight alone,” Ron informed him coldly.
“Yes, I’ll surely die if you force me to stand here for too long, and then I’d be useless to you. Perhaps we can come to an understanding—an arrangement. I’m sure it can be profitable for you,” Emil now tried to bargain with Ron.
“Like the arrangement you have with the al-Aqsa Brigade?” Ron stated, waiting for Emil’s response.
“Al-Aqsa! I spit on them!” Emil tried to spit, but his mouth was so dry he couldn’t. “That is if I had any spit!” he chuckled nervously.
“You were the only one who could have passed on the information that I was given. I want to know who you told,” Ron stated curtly as he took another drink of water. Emil licked his lips, wishing that he had some. “When you are ready to talk to me, perhaps I’ll share my water,” Ron stated, baiting Emil.
“I already told you. I told no one. I know nothing to tell. I am a prison warden, not a spy like you,” Emil pleaded. “I send the tapes to the Mossad. That is all I do.”
“Who, Emil? Who?” Ron shouted.
“I didn’t! I swear!” Emil cried out.
“I’ll wait,” Ron stated calmly as he took a large swig of his bottle of water. He then held up the bottle, allowing the small amount that’s always left inside after having finished the bottle to dribble out onto the ground.
“You are a bastard,” Emil grumbled. “A bastard!”
“Yeah, yeah…who?” Ron asked again. Emil stood there staring at Ron for several minutes, the sun beating down mercilessly; he could feel his skin burning on his forehead and arms.
Ron yawned as he reached into his backpack and pulled out a power bar, tore open the wrapper and slowly ate it. Then, he reached in the pack and retrieved another bottle of water, opened it and drank deeply. He emphasized the thirst quenching ability of the water by exhaling a huge ‘ahhh…!’ Then he stopped and wiped the condensation from the bottle on his forehead.
“Hey, Emil, did I tell you about this fantastic backpack? Yeah, some guy in the States invented it. It’s got a built-in refrigeration unit that weighs only two pounds. It’ll keep twelve bottles of liquid cold for up to forty-eight hours, even in this heat. The whole damn thing is insulated by some stuff the astronauts use in space. It’s just amazing.”
“I hope a scorpion stings you!” Emil spat through his parched and slowly cracking lips.
“I got my anti-venom shot last week,” Ron replied dryly as he checked his watch. “It’s only been two hours, old friend, and look at you. You look like you just climbed out of a swimming pool. I didn’t know someone could sweat that much.”
“Fuck you, you bastard! I have friends. They will avenge me,” Emil hoarsely barked. Then he tried a different tack. “My friend, I am old. The sun is killing me, and my wife has no one to care for her. She is sick, and my pension will not cover the cost of the medicines she needs. I must keep working to provide the medicine. If I knew what you were talking about, I would tell you. Please, don’t do this. Think of my poor wife.”
“Who?” was all Ron replied to Emil’s pleadings.
“I don’t know! I didn’t do this!” Emil cried out as he dropped to his knees. “I beg you!”
“That’s a nice touch. Back in Russia, were you an actor?” Ron asked flatly.
Emil’s face flashed with anger as he rocked back and forth on wobbly knees. Ron suddenly fired the gun, grazing Emil’s inner right thigh causing him to pitch forward on all fours, howling in pain. Not only did the new wound hurt, his wounded left bicep had been jarred by the fall, sending a wave of pain through his body. To add insult to injury, the sun-scorched sand was burning his bare hands and forearms.
“I like that position better,” Ron stated coldly. Emil shifted his weight and returned to a kneeling position. He gingerly wiped the sand from his hands on his sweaty shirt.
“You bastard! You motherfucking bastard! You shot me again! Do you intend to inflict small wounds upon me until I bleed to death? What can I tell you to convince you I did not do this?” Emil sobbed, clutching his thigh.
&n
bsp; “Oh, stop crying, you baby. It’s only a little flesh wound. Hell, I had four or five of those just a couple of weeks ago when I had to save my friends’ lives in the West Bank. You didn’t hear me whining like a five-year-old. Tell me, who are you working for? Tell me and it all stops,” Ron explained without compassion.
“I didn’t do it! I am innocent!” Emil yelled as loud as his raspy voice would allow.
“Well, then I should just kill you and go see your wife. Maybe she’ll be able to tell me,” Ron grinned as he spoke in a low voice that chilled Emil to the bone.
“My wife is sick. She doesn’t know anything. Please don’t hurt her!” Emil begged.
“I’ve got to have the name, and if I can’t get you to talk, well, I’ll have to find another way to get it. Ashrawl, he’s singing like a bird. The Israelis are going to be very busy over the next few months—a rocket here, a rocket there, an accident or two. But hey, I don’t need to tell you how you guys are. Hell, I bet you’ve enjoyed more than one off-the-books interrogation out at the ol’ prison. Am I right, old friend?” Ron took another drink of water before he continued. When Emil didn’t respond, Ron continued talking.
“Hey, have you ever heard of a Bogota bar-b-que?” Ron asked in a friendly tone. Emil shook his head no, his eyes pleading for Ron to stop. Ron really wanted to tell Emil the story, so he ignored Emil’s pleas and continued.
“When I was working in Colombia—that’s in South America—I worked for the DEA, the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. I was an undercover agent. My job was to get close to the drug lords and gather enough intelligence to bring them down.” Ron provided the necessary background info for Emil to clearly understand what Ron was about to share.
“One night,” Ron began his story, “I was asked, well, the number two man, who we called the Boss Man, he more like ordered me. You know, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He asked me to ride along with his militia into the city of Medellin. That night, we drove to the compound of one of the local judges, big honking place, very classy. He was supposedly an ally of the big drug lord we were working for.
“Now, down there, anybody who is anybody has bodyguards and this judge was no different. In addition, he had a dozen local police and another dozen or so Colombian Army regulars assigned by the Colombian government. The judge also employed a dozen, very large, rough-looking and heavily armed men of his own. They were all supposedly very experienced European mercenaries.
“Well, anyway, a dozen members of the militia jumped out of the truck a block away from the compound and disappeared into the night, while the Boss Man and I proceeded to pull right up to the front of the judge’s compound. We parked right at the front gate. The three car loads of local police and the truck load of military types that were assigned to guard this guy didn’t hesitate for a second. They drove away as fast as they could. They knew the score. One minute, they were standing around the front gate, and the next, they were gone.
“After the local guards took off, we sat there for quite a while, maybe half an hour. That whole time, all we heard were the bugs chirping and the chickens clucking now and then. It was really creepy. Then, just when I was about to fall asleep, the big gate to the judge’s compound slid open and out walked all of his private guards, each one with a handful of cash. They didn’t look up or look around. They just walked away with their heads down, counting their cash as they went.
“Within two minutes, the judge and his family, all bound and gagged, were lead into the street in front of their compound by the militia men. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Their feet were loosely tied so that they could sort of walk but not run. There was a rope binding them to each other, around their waists. It was quite a sight—the judge in his boxer shorts, his wife in her see-through nightie. Now, that was a great body. She was quite the looker, probably fifteen years younger than the judge. Their two young teenage boys were in their boxer shorts and their little girl, maybe six, was wearing Winnie the Pooh pajamas.
“At first, this judge was screaming through his gag at the Boss Man. He was swearing up a storm, though it was really hard to tell with the gag and all. He threatened to have the Boss Man jailed then shot, his family jailed and shot, but the Boss Man just stood grinning at him until the judge finally shut up and just stood there returning the Boss Man’s glare.” Ron took a breath and looked over at Emil who was looking down with his eyes closed.
“Hey, are you listening?” Ron asked curtly.
“Oh, yes, my friend. It is a lovely story. Winnie the Pooh, no?” Emil sarcastically replied without opening his eyes.
Ron continued with his story. “The two of them stood staring at each other for several minutes until the Boss Man spit on the judge’s feet. It was a signal. Five of our guys quickly ran around from the back of the truck carrying five unmounted car and motorcycle tires.
“They trotted up to the judge and his family then placed the tires over their heads. The tires were shoved down until they were wedged onto their shoulders. It was amazing how they had tires in the right sizes, so they didn’t just fall past the children’s shoulders to the ground. The tires stopped on top of their shoulders, a perfect fit.
“Even though I was a good thirty feet away, I could still smell gasoline. The tires had been stuffed with gasoline-soaked rags before they had been placed around the family’s necks and shoulders. Pretty sick, huh?” Ron asked, then waited for Emil to answer.
After a moment, Ron practically shouted, “Are you paying attention? I asked you whether you agreed that it was pretty sick. Now, answer me!”
“Oh, for the sake of God, man, why must you tell me this story?” Emil bemoaned. Looking up at Ron and seeing the gun pointing at him, he replied, “Yes, it is horribly sick.”
“Don’t make me have to ask you twice again, old friend. There is a reason I’m telling you this story. Now pay fucking attention!” Ron snarled menacingly. After a brief moment he continued. “Well, the judge, he starts screaming again, struggling big time trying to get away, but it does no good. He’s tied too well. So, he starts trying to kick at the guys holding him by the arms, but they easily sidestep his pitiful attempts while landing some pretty vicious blows to judge’s lower back and kidneys. The more he struggles, the harder they hit him, and the more pleasure they got from hitting him and watching him squirm.”
Ron paused for a drink of water and made an exaggerated sigh of pleasure when he finished. After looking at Emil for a moment and not seeing any change from the angry glare on his face, he continued.
“They beat him for a good ten minutes before the Boss Man finally spoke. I’ve got to tell you, it was like the sound of God’s own voice. Everything suddenly went quiet. I swear even the bugs stopped chirping. His voice was barely a whisper when he began speaking. He started by telling the judge he’d been found guilty of taking money from the drug lord and reneging on his promise of protection for the drug lord and his men. The penalty for this was death. Not just his death, but the death of his entire family. The Boss Man was practically shouting when he said this. You should have seen the guy’s face then. Talk about scared.
“Anyway, as the Boss Man said the words ‘the penalty for this is death,’ one of the militia guys lit a torch and stepped up to the little girl and yanked her gag off. The wife, seeing the torch, faints dead away, dragging the judge to the ground with her. The guys holding the judge stand him up and force him to face his little girl. They hold his head up, so he’s forced to watch in horror as his little girl is set on fire. I still have nightmares about the screams of that little girl,” Ron shared.
“It was sickening! The smell! The screams! I had to struggle not to puke. She was screaming in agony and the judge, well, he’s screaming like a stuck pig. The two teenage boys were screaming and struggling to break away, but the militia guys held them steady. Thankfully, the little girl died pretty quickly. After the screaming stopped, the only sound left was the sobbing of the judge and his two sons.”
“The militia guys separated the two of them and then stood the wife up. They took the tire off her and then ripped off her nightgown. Then a couple of the guys took turns raping her as the judge was forced to watch. That’s a big thing down there. It’s a huge disgrace to have your woman raped. When they were done, they stuck the tire back over her head as she knelt on the ground next to the smoldering bodies of her children. They set her on fire and then stood there with big grins on their faces, making jokes about her as she burned. The judge, this whole time, is being held down. He’s screaming and wailing at the top of his lungs.
“The judge was then hauled up on his feet and the Boss Man lit a cigar, grinning ear to ear, the whole time he was staring down the judge. While this is happening, a few of the militia guys decided they needed to take a leak and relieved themselves on the smoldering corpses of the judge’s wife and children. The judge, he starts trying to twist away again. He was crying out in anguish as he struggled, but it was to no avail.
“The narco-militia guys thought it was funny. They kept laughing at the poor guy as he tried kicking them, only to have them dance away and laugh some more. This went on for several minutes until the Boss Man made them stop and grab the guy again.
“The Boss Man then stepped up face-to-face with the judge and blew smoke in his face. The judge retaliated the only way he could—by spitting in the Boss Man’s face. The Boss just grinned that much wider before touching the cigar to the gas-soaked rags in the tire around the judge’s neck and shoulders. There was a problem, though. The rags and tire didn’t burst into flames like they had around his family’s necks. Oh, no, this one smolders for a bit. The judge’s head is slowly enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Then, a small flame starts at the back of the tire, setting the judge’s hair on fire which then quickly engulfed the judge’s head. The whole time he’s screaming, but he doesn’t move. He just stands perfectly still.
Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Page 20