by J. M. LeDuc
“Fetch it from where you’re standing,” he smirked.
Assessing the situation, Brent saw a three to four inch gap between the wall and the cup. He closed his eyes and went into a deep squat. As he meditated, he cleared his mind. He quickly went over each scenario until he decided on the best one. He stood up, withdrew his smallest knife from its sheath and threw it, much like a boomerang. It hit the far wall and deflected back towards the cup. The knife clipped the cup and pushed it about five feet forward. Without hesitation, he instinctively grabbed the largest, heaviest knife from its sheath and did the same. With its weight and size, it bounced off the wall with more force. It struck the cup with more speed, causing it to roll all the way to where Seven stood.
Seven bent down and picked it up. “Nice job, Professor.” Eyeing the other two recruits, he said, “The difference between what Venturi did now and what Jensen did an hour ago is simple.” He spit into the cup and pointed to Brent. “One acted on instinct and knowledge and one …” he pointed to Private Jensen who was lurking outside the facility, “acted on emotion.”
Seven paced the hangar, stopping to pick up Brent’s knives along the way. He walked back to the group, stopped in front of ‘the professor’ and handed them back. He stared at each of the three men. “Burn this on your soul,” he said. “Emotion will get you killed.” He walked toward the door, turned toward the men and finished his thought. “Not some of the time … all of the time.”
Brent nodded toward Seven who stepped on a small toggle switch causing the paper human target, fifty yards down range, to start to move.
He and Seven faced the target and took a classic shooter’s stance. A green light flashed which signaled them to begin. As the target moved, twisted, dipped and jumped, they emptied their guns in less than ten seconds. The target stopped at the far right side of the range. The only sound remaining was a faint clicking.
Brent’s face was blood red, his teeth gnashed against one another and the blood vessels in his forearms looked like a road map. He gripped his pistol with white knuckled fury and continued to squeeze the trigger even though his weapon was empty.
Every muscle in his body was taut—rigid. Although his eyes were cold, Brent’s demeanor was on fire. It wasn’t intensity, it was near insanity. The expression shouted revenge. It was the look of a soldier about to snap.
Brent was indeed on a mission, one of self-destruction.
Seven gently reached over and slid the gun from his best friend’s hands. “We’re finished, buddy,” he said.
Brent looked back with pupils dilated. A slight twitch was visible: the eyes of a killer. Facial muscles so tight, it seemed his skin would tear like a piece of paper. He opened his lips, but his teeth remained welded together. “I haven’t even begun,” he growled.
Seven watched as the man he most respected, unraveled in front of him. Brent turned to leave. Seven put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and stopped his progression. Brent snapped his head toward him. He was a man possessed.
“Easy, Colonel, you’re among friends. This ain’t no mission.”
Brent’s continence didn’t change. He glared back. There was a void in his eyes where compassion once lived. He turned and walked out of the armory.
“Mandatory meeting at thirteen hundred hours,” Seven yelled.
Brent stopped.
“Please,” Seven chewed on his lower lip and spit again. “Don’t make this even harder than it already is.”
Brent gave a quick head nod and walked away.
Dejected by what just happened and about to leave, Seven looked down range. He flipped a switch, the target moved and stopped inches in front of him. His shots found its left shoulder. Brent’s were kill shots. Twelve holes in the head of the target.
CHAPTER 3
Brent, dizzy on adrenaline, made his way to the locker room. He stripped down and eyed his reflection in the mirror. His eyes, sunken and surrounded with black circles almost took his breath away. He was a mere shadow of the man he had been just four weeks ago.
So much had occurred in the past month, it was hard to make sense of it all. He had spent his waking hours trying not to think about it, but the memories kept coming. Reflections of Chloe asking . . . no . . . begging him not to go in search of the Ark of the Covenant. Flashbacks of the operation in the Middle-East; one of the bloodiest objectives he had ever taken part in, and images of realizing that Red—second in command of the Brotherhood of Gaza—held Maddie and Chloe captive. He gripped the sink with both hands as the room began to spin. His vision clouded by the memory of Chloe’s death, a death he was responsible for.
Thirteen hundred hours approached. The directorate sat in the conference room so still they could hear each other breathe. Maddie glanced up at the clock as the final seconds ticked away. Brent still hadn’t arrived. As the second hand hit the twelve, everyone jumped at the sound of the door’s air-lock. He stepped through in battle fatigues.
“Why the uniform, Colonel?” she asked.
“It just seemed fitting,” he answered.
Maddie swallowed hard. He wasn’t going to make this easy.
He eyed the table. It was round like all the tables inside SIA. Maddie believed everyone was an equal and therefore she insisted on round tables. No one should sit at the head of the table. After a while, everyone had staked out his or her own territory and always sat in the same chair.
Maddie observed Brent as he eyed the configuration of the chairs. She saw his expression change when he realized the one usually occupied by Chloe had been removed. As he dropped his head, Maddie could almost feel his heart break. No one made eye contact.
Before he could say anything, Maddie brought the meeting to order. As usual, Joan typed as the director spoke. Her fingers moved so fast and light on the keys the sound was barely audible.
“I’ve called a special meeting of the directorate because of the de—” she couldn’t finish the word, “—because of the happenings of the past few weeks.” She looked over at Bishop Jessop and gave a weak smile. “The first order of business is to welcome the new member of the board. I have asked the bishop to join the SIA directorate. Over the past year, he has shown his worth and resolve in matters dealing with national security and I believe he has earned that right. President Dupree and the National Security Council agree.”
Maddie stood from her chair and walked to the front of the room. “We have always been open with one another, so if you have any objections to the bishop’s appointment, speak now.” The room was silent. “Good,” Maddie said. “That matter is closed.”
Her expression changed as she brought the next item up for a vote. “All our lives have been changed drastically due to the passing of our beloved Chloe. None more so than Brent’s. I have asked the colonel to take some time off, but he didn’t think it was a good idea.” Her attention shifted toward him. “Colonel, I’ll ask you once again, not as your superior, but as your friend, please accept a leave of absence from your duties so you can get your personal affairs in order.” She hoped beyond hope that he would agree.
He looked up. Eyes dead. “No,” was all he said.
Dejected, she inhaled and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. “Then you leave me no choice but to relieve you of your post.” With anxious urgency, she continued. “All those in favor, raise your hands.” Hers was the first to go up. Slowly, all but Joan raised theirs.
Brent noticed that even though the arms of those he considered family were raised, their heads were not.
Maddie stood tall and in a firm voice said, “The board has voted. Effectively immediately, Colonel, you are relieved of your duties at SIA and the Phantom Squad.” Brent continued to look in her direction. He didn’t appear to look at her, it was as if he was looking through her. His effect—nonexistent.
She turned and faced the room, “Any questions or comments?”
N
o one spoke.
“I have one.” Maddie swallowed hard as she heard Brent’s voice. “Will I still have access to HQ?”
Maddie had hoped to address this in private, but that was no longer a possibility. “No, Colonel. You have one hour to remove your personal items from your office. Effective at fifteen hundred hours, codes will be changed and your palmer recognition will no longer be valid.”
She turned her attention to Joan. “Please see that these changes are made in the security system.”
Joan pinched her eyes closed, wrinkled her nose, and swallowed hard. “Yes, Madame Director.”
Maddie turned her attention back to Brent. “Colonel Venturi, in ninety days, you will have the right to apply for reinstatement. If there are no further questions, this meeting is adjourned.”
The director gathered her papers and quickly left the room. Brent took one quick glance around the table, gave a head nod and followed suit, leaving everyone else still seated in their chairs.
Seven spit in his cup. “That went well,” sarcasm bled from his words.
“He’s hurting,” Bishop Jessop said. “Isn’t there anything else we can do?”
“He’s not responsive to anyone or anything,” Seven replied. “He has declined to speak to the staff psychiatrist and won’t talk about what happened. We were left with no choice.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing, Padre,” Seven scolded. “You run the homeless mission in Coral Cove. You know what it’s like when someone comes in and won’t accept any of the help you offer. I know for a fact that if they won’t seek help, you personally ask them to leave until they’ve had a change of heart.”
The bishop stood and flashed daggers at Seven. His arms flailed with every word. “Brent is no bum, drifter, alcoholic, or addict. He is our best friend.” He pointed a finger in Seven’s direction. “How many times has he pulled you from the fire? How many times has he saved your ass?”
Seven stood in the bishop’s personal space. His breath could be felt on the bishop’s face. “Plenty,” he yelled back, “and that’s why this is necessary. I’m trying to save his life.”
Bishop Jessop pushed his way past Seven and headed toward the door. “You sure picked a coward’s way to do it.” He punched the scanner, but nothing happened. His head snapped back towards the room. “Will someone please get me the hell out of here!” he yelled.
Joan, closest to the door, laid her palm on the black, glass plate and opened the door. The bishop stormed out of the room leaving everyone stunned.
“The colonel left us with no choice,” Joseph said.
Joseph Conklin was the agency’s past director and the last Ambassador of the Endowment before Brent.
“His emotions may be void,” Joseph said, “but underneath they are about to boil over. Any one of his decisions could cause irreparable harm to himself or anyone else in this room.”
CHAPTER 4
Omar, dirty and tired from his trip to Pakistan, finally made it back to Khan Younis. The Palestinian stronghold along the Gaza Strip had been his home and base of operation for the past forty years. He made his way to al-Qal, the ruins of a once majestic building back in the time of the Ottoman Empire. He traveled the main floor and passed camera ready tourists snapping pictures of every conceivable thing. He made sure to blend in and more importantly to stay out of the eye of the lens.
The tourists turned left into a small stairwell that would take them to a gift shop. He lagged behind and turned right past a sign which read, “stay out: structure unstable.” He smiled. He had placed the sign there himself. He wasted no time and traveled the centuries old hallways down into the bowels of the ruins.
In the deepest recesses of the catacombs, Omar had set up his headquarters. His accommodations were sparse. On one side of the room there was a cot and on the other side a desk and chair. He sat at his desk and thought back to the conclave that occurred just a few days ago. It had been necessary to bring the Brotherhood together. After the failure of securing the Ark Trilogy, the Brothers had been devastated. A new destiny had to be discussed. The organization had waited hundreds of years for the opportunity to get their hands on the arks. His second in command, Red, had been captured by Colonel Venturi, this generation’s Ambassador, also known as the Enlightened One, and a group known as the Phantom Squad. He personally held its leader responsible for defeating them.
Internal turmoil and grumbling of the brothers made it impossible for him not to show his face at the meeting. A thousand strong had shown up to find out what the Brotherhood of Gaza would do next, but most came to meet their mysterious leader. No one but Red had ever seen him before.
He drummed his long, boney fingers on the top of his desk and thought about his decision to bring in an outsider. He didn’t like the idea, but he knew the man’s knowledge of the enemy could prove invaluable. His long nails made a distinctive ticking sound as he continued to tap his desk.
“Excuse me, Holy One, but the visitor has arrived. What would you like me to do with him?”
Omar looked up at one of his minions. “Have the proper precautions been instituted?” he asked.
“Per your orders, sir.”
“No one saw you enter al-Qal?”
“No, sir. I brought him through the concealed entrance.”
“Then show him in.”
The servant turned and ran out of the room. Moments later, a man—hands tied and blindfolded—was led into the room. Omar looked at his new ally. He was dressed in khaki pants and shirt. The clothing typical of a mercenary. Clothing Omar found offensive.
A buzz cut topped his scarred head and stubble covered the stranger’s sharp jaw line. His muscular shoulders were visible under his loose clothing.
“You may dispense with the rope and blindfold,” Omar ordered.
Once the man was freed from his confines, Omar ordered his underling to give them privacy.
“Was all that necessary?” the man asked.
Omar could hear a southern drawl. He nodded. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused, but under the circumstances I saw no choice.”
The man rubbed his wrists where the ropes had been and blinked repeatedly trying to get used to the dim light. Once adjusted, his eyes slowly moved about the room. “Nice digs ya got here.” He oozed sarcasm.
It didn’t escape Omar.
“One must do what one must in order to stay safe, I’m sure you understand that.”
The man looked at his host. His eyes, daggers, pierced the old man. “Before we go any further, do you have what we agreed upon?”
Omar opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a thick envelope. “You Americans are direct. That has always been your problem.”
His guest motioned with one hand for Omar to hand over the envelope.
As he counted the bills, Omar continued, “I suppose I should be grateful that you place financial gain above all else.”
Satisfied with the cash, the American, known as Falcon, took a seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Whatever. Your message said that you would tell me what this is all about when I got here.” He opened his arms wide. “Here I am. Care to explain?”
“My organization has been plagued by a group I wish to get rid of. If you are as good as they say you are, you may be able to help me.”
“I am the best at what I do. Your little group of terrorists, The Brotherhood of Gaza, has developed quite a reputation, why do you need me?”
“I have learned that superior numbers don’t always equate to victory.” Omar stood and walked about the room. He clasped his fingers behind his back as he moved. He was still agile for a man in his eighties.
“Are we going to continue to play twenty questions or is there a point to this meeting?”
Omar stopped and faced Falcon. “Tell me, have you heard of a group known as the
Black Militia?”
The visitor’s hands balled into fists, his eyes squinted and his facial muscles twitched. “I may have heard of them.”
Omar decided to press the subject. “And do you know what they call themselves?”
“They are known as the Phantom Squad.”
The old man nodded. “And their leader, what is his name?”
The younger man stood up and mimicked Omar’s actions. “Now that’s a trick question.”
“How so?”
“They are led by a Captain Venturi, Brent Venturi, but
. . .” He intertwined his fingers, squeezed and cracked his knuckles. Through gritted teeth, he seethed. “The brains of the squad is a little punk known as Seven.”
Omar brushed his grey eyebrows from his vision. “It seems you’re not as good as I was told.”
Falcon stood nose to nose with the old man. “Care to clarify?”
“No.” Omar took a step back, finding both disrespect and false bravado in the man’s actions. “It is my understanding that you have connections within the U.S. Pentagon. I suggest you use them and then we will meet again at sunrise in forty-eight hours. If you come with the correct information, I will make you a very wealthy man. If not,” he shrugged, “you keep your down payment and I will find another way to get the information I need.”
Omar clapped his hands three times. Men entered the room and quickly retied the American’s hands and blindfolded him before escorting him from the room.
The old man again took his seat and drummed his fingers on his desk.
CHAPTER 5
In his new office, the bishop placed a phone call. The voice on the other end was familiar. It brought him hope and a smile. “Hi,” he said. “How have you been?”
Bishop Jessop could hear a quiver in her voice. “As well as can be expected. Is everything okay? Has something happened to Brent?”
The bishop paced the floor as he explained all that had transpired since Chloe’s death. He finished with what occurred earlier at the meeting. He listened to shallow, stunted breathing on the other end. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words didn’t come. He clutched the crucifix that hung from his neck for strength.