The two men let their eyes wander everywhere, except to the establishment that was adjacent to the teahouse. This was the one view from the terrace that most never saw because it wasn’t obvious or visually attractive. If they did see it, they intentionally ignored it.
Zack Batt did manage a quick glimpse when he bent down to retrieve a scally cap from his backpack to keep his bald head warm from the cool mountain breeze. What Zack saw when he caught his glimpse was precisely as he expected—an extremely forgettable outhouse post with meager signage. It alerted anyone who might care to gaze upon it that it was the location of the ‘Evin House of Detention’, known to many of its past and present inhabitants as ‘Evin University’.
Blaze and Zack were not interested in this outhouse for higher education earned abroad. They had other plans.
From the outside view, the facility did not look like much at all. An unsuspecting observer would not think much to inquire or stop and inspect. But the view from the road was certainly deceptive in its ability to reveal the huge complex of guard towers and cells that lie behind it. Over one hundred solitary cells and innumerable ordinary cells populated the grounds that could handle fifteen thousand prisoners.
Optics aside, the truth was Evin was full of horror. Inside Evin’s fences and walls, the terror was large and menacing. Its most prominent inmates found themselves there for their political speech and intellectual thoughts, their perceived religious infractions, or their discovered religious objections—or as was the case for Arash Jafari and many like him, for their specific religious conversions away from Islam to Christianity.
In Evin, those who did not cooperate were tortured in what felt like perpetuity. Rape, as a method of torture and an inducement during interrogation, was an old tradition at Evin. Any universal notion of basic human rights was jettisoned instantly when one traversed the front gate at Evin. And those drinking tea and chatting in Farsi about their shopping finds at the teahouse next door didn’t give a second thought to Evin on such a fine afternoon when the mountain air blew so benevolently.
Blaze McIntyre and Zack Batt’s thoughts were fully and thoroughly burdened with Evin. And they were fixin’ to do a little something about it.
“It’s good to see you Zack. I’ve heard all about your illegal escapades and dumbass heroics in the past few years, but never thought I’d get the privilege of rocking a mission with you side by side again. In all seriousness, it’s great to have you here.” Blaze let loose a huge smile as he shook Zack’s hand and subsequently slapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s been a helluva ride for sure Blaze. It’s damn good to see you too. Your pretty boy haircut and Tom Cruise silly boy face is better than the musky walls of solitary confinement any day. Besides, who else would be better to hang with on a trip like this? We’ve got a ton of fun ahead of us on this one.”
“Well our employers are blessed to have us both back in the game, cuz its pretty clear there is a ton of game to be had at this point. Hot getting hotter with the clock a tickin’. Speaking of, how is progress on your portion of this shindig?” Zack was confused at first, and then nodded slightly as he realized Blaze was asking about his work to infiltrate the Neo Iranian Nazi Party and get intel on Bushehr.
“Oh, yeah, that. Well, let’s just say the fishing is good, real good. I’m all lined up to hang out with an ocean full of fish after we’re done crashing our party. Gonna be chillin’ at the World Without Zionism Conference. Should be able to meet some friends and relatives of my contact who are employees at my portion of the trinity. Should be interesting.”
Blaze put his head down and folded both his hands over his forehead shaking his head in disbelief slightly. “I still can’t believe such a conference actually exists, but whatever. This is the world we live in now I suppose.”
“By the way, the name is Schmidt. Doug Schmidt. And there isn’t any Jewish blood in me. I am 100% German, and 200% Ayran. Got it?” Zack pointed his finger in Blaze’s face and cracked a bit of a smile.
“Got it. Just be careful though, cuz I might go Churchill on your ass at any moment you no good skinhead thug.”
“Churchill? He was a Brit. Proper. You’re a two-bit Mick with a grease ball hair cut. You ain’t got the goods.”
The two men both began to laugh. Blaze’s head naturally turned towards Evin as he laughed, but when his head pivoted back to Zack’s sight, his laugh began to soften. The two warriors sensed the weight of their mission and the evil of the ‘University of Evin’.
Blaze’s face got serious. Quickly. A determined look of purpose. Zack’s face followed suit. The two men sensed each other’s shift in mood and thought. They nodded their heads in unison.
Finally Blaze spoke. “While we laugh, he screams. Let’s get this recon done.”
Zack barked back, “Roger that. We’re gonna have to put all of our nuts, guts, and glory into this one.”
Blaze nodded. “Time to shamrock ‘n’ roll.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ROMEO, MICHIGAN
Diem McIntyre could still not believe that she actually had the meat of her day freed up. Her youngest and most-challenging son, Shane, had finally begun first grade—triggering the beginning of her new life. Kindergarten was half day at Shane’s school, Crosspoint Elementary School in Romeo, Michigan. It had been a good transitional year to get Shane used to school and to allow Diem a foretaste of daylight freedom from children. But now that Shane was in school for a full day, Diem could finally indulge in some extended ‘me time’ each day.
It was Shane’s third day of first grade and he exhibited no hesitations whatsoever and was full of excitement and energy. He bounced around joyfully making noise in the back seat of the Toyota Venza crossover vehicle that Diem drove haphazardly towards Shane’s school. Shane’s older brother Dennis was already in homeroom, as his day started earlier than Shane’s. Internally, Diem was also jumping for joy. She was excited, both for Shane and herself.
After years of enduring the laborious, anxiety-filled trials of childrearing, Diem was ready for a chance to catch her breath. All day. Every day. At least during the week.
With a husband who was, for the most part, effectively out of the home trenches and stuck in actual trenches of war, raising two rambunctious boys was very difficult. She was a tough woman and she carried her burden with grace, but over the years she faced extreme isolation, loneliness, and late-night fear. Her husband was not only rarely home, but was in dangerous lands doing dangerous things that she was unable to know about.
Instead, she was left to the extremities of her imagination. He rarely was able to contact her while on missions. On a rare occasion, she would get to actually see his face via a secure video conference. Will he be coming home this time? What if he is caught? Or worse, tortured? What if he is exposed and ends up on the evening news and excoriated in the press by the pundits? All of these questions teased her during daytime hours. At night, corresponding imaginative visions of worst-case scenario horrors haunted her dreams.
She got through those times in various ways. She leaned on her faith, her family, and her friends, new and old. Blaze’s parents and sister stopped by often to help out and keep her company. People at church were always reaching out as well. But one of the mechanisms that really proved to help her, particularly in the solitude of the evening when the boys were in bed, was the friends she connected with via social networking who were all military wives scattered throughout the country. She belonged to several such groups and found immense comfort in the common experiences and perspectives expressed by other wives. Of course, she could never really identify herself and had to use a fictitious online persona. That drove her nuts.
Diem pulled up into the school drop off line. She waited her turn like every other soccer mom—and Mr. Mom. Kids walked with the aid of chaperones from their parents’ cars with their backpacks weighing down their small, underdevelop
ed bodies. Diem tried to be patient. It was hard. She was already slightly disconnected from the mom routine just from the anticipation of another free day. Her thoughts bounced back and forth between a yearning desire to see Blaze and a sizzling exuberance to finally get on with her third day of freedom.
She was planning to do a bit of light shopping, meet a good friend for lunch, and maybe even take a quick power nap. She had hungered for this season in life for quite some time. It was really like a dream. And dream she did. Daydreaming, that is. While she struggled to patiently wait in the drop off line, she focused her eyes on the volunteer moms helping to receive the kids into school from the procession of minivans lined up before them, she continued to ruminate in the anticipation of her newfound freedom. Her daydream was abruptly interrupted by Shane’s voice from the back seat.
“Mom! When will I see Dad again? He hasn’t even heard me play the new songs I’ve learned on my guitar. I want him to hear the new Chili Peppers song I learned.” Shane’s understood little as to the reason for his father’s periodic absences.
“Daddy’s working honey. You know Daddy does important work and has to be away for a while at times. He loves you very much and asks about you all the time. He was very excited that you’re learning a Chili Peppers song when I told him. He remembers seeing them live at Lollapalooza in Scranton, Pennsylvania back in 1992!” Diem was doing her best to neutralize Shane’s temporary estrangement.
“Dad saw the Chili Peppers live? Wow. I didn’t know they were as old as Dad.” Shane gazed out the window pondering the implications of the probable age of both his father and that of Anthony Kiedis and Flea.
“Your Dad isn’t that old, but the Chili Peppers are an old band. Get your book bag together. We’re up next here honey.”
Diem glanced in the sideview mirror and saw a man on a motorcycle wearing a full leather riding suit slowly throttling a stealth looking sport bike about three car lengths behind her. That’s strange. What’s this guy doing? He has no kid with him, and this is the land of endless minivans, not sport bikes. She quickly pivoted her neck to check on Shane to make sure he was readying his book bag and preparing to get out of the car.
Diem contorted her head towards the back seat and gave Shane a kiss and a hug. While her head was turned, she missed the sight of the motorcyclist coming closer to her vehicle—although she did hear the volume of the engine sound getting increasingly closer.
A flapping, smacking sound emerged with a thud from the driver’s side of her vehicle. Something, or someone, had hit or slapped her vehicle. She craned her neck to the left and peered out forward from the driver’s side window. She caught a quick glance of the motorcyclist’s rear-end. His ass was slightly hoisted above his seat as he sped away from the drop-off line. He left nothing but a nominal plume of exhaust smoke behind.
The vehicle ignited quickly. Diem felt the heat implode within the vehicle. Her skin caught fire and the flames engulfed her in an instant as she watched Shane become swallowed in the explosion. Diem saw it all thrust upon her. She screamed Shane’s name and tried to brace the impact. It was no use. The explosion quickly rocked her crossover vehicle in a matter of seconds.
The reverberating sound of the explosion rocked the entire semi-circle drive of the elementary school child drop off line. The whipping, licking residual flames scorched the face of the building. Chunks of black asphalt, auto parts, and horrific airborne body parts of moms and children filled the chaotic air with a panoramic death-wind that was certifiably unfit for benevolent eyes.
The slightly hoisted backside of a random, murderous motorcyclist was one of the last sights seen by Diem McIntyre. One of the last sights after kissing her son. Her young, hope-filled son who perished almost instantaneously with his mother in the blink of an eye.
Elsewhere, a hardened warrior had no idea as to the agony and ocean of revenge he would soon be immersed in.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
EVIN PRISON, IRAN
The horrid smell of the drill bit merging violently with the vulnerable and helpless flesh of Arash Jafari’s right hand still hung in the misty air of his damnable Evin prison cell. It lingered as a constant reminder of a thousand unimaginable hells. His hand trembled as he examined one of the wounds. He knew the bit had pierced his hand completely and he was surprised he couldn’t see through it. The hole was now filled with a pulpy mass. He struggled to clench his fist regardless. He winced as the blood dripped from the hole.
This was just one of the unthinkable punishments Arash had been enduring for his crime of being an “anti-government activist”—a catch-all phrase used by the Iranian regime to imprison anyone for almost any perceived offense. In Arash’s case, that offense was the possession of the Holy Bible. In Iran, Bibles don’t go over too well.
The dementia had kicked in something fierce at this point and Arash had somehow managed to access what was left of his dilapidated soul to reach out to the Almighty. The hallucinations merged with his fragmented prayers and his flesh burned with pain at heightened intervals when he would attempt to cry out to God. His vocal chords projected no sound but his body spasms mimicked a man who appeared to be howling at the moon in agony.
Lord, I curse the day I was born as Job did, yet I believe in the day I will be delivered. I don’t know Your plans for me, but I trust that they are plans to prosper. If this is the end, I accept it, but I do not believe You brought me this far only for the purpose of a tortured death in Evin. You giveth, You taketh away….but You also restoreth, replenish, and re-claim. Re-claim me. Rescue me…. Rescue me, Lord of Lords, King of Kings.
A sliver of sunlight crept through a pinprick of a hole that existed in the corner of Arash’s seemingly Godforsaken cell. At the moment Arash uttered his prayer, the light began to illuminate and crystallize in his right eye with a beaming intensity. It was so powerful that it drew him into a bit of a trance and he sat there gazing into it with an elated sense of relief, as if God was illustrating His power to penetrate and make the light of His presence known in even the most hidden and darkest caverns of evil.
As the light seared his countenance, Arash was able to push away the culmination of his physical torture, his emotional agony, and his spiritual isolation. He felt God’s presence. And although he had mistaken feelings for promptings in the past, he was pretty certain that this was an affirmation of his prayers. His hope for deliverance was buoyed. His belief that he would be rescued was encouraged and his unflinching faith in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was cemented eternally.
A large rat scurried past his bare feet and Arash did not move and the rat did not inspect him. Arash sat naked, sweating, bloody, and exhausted. But he sat in a newfound peace that transcended the horrors of his circumstances. It was a miraculous state of spirit, as if he sensed that as was done for Moses during the Red Sea miracle, a proverbial road would be made in the ocean of Arash’s circumstances.
His tolerance for pain was suddenly increased to a maniacal threshold. He gazed upon the multiple drill holes in his hands and felt a kinship with his Lord and the suffering wrought upon Him on the cross by the nails that pierced His skin.
After countless sleepless nights, Arash Jafari finally found rest in his solitary cell in Evin. His naked body collapsed peacefully against the cell wall. The toxic cocktail of urine, blood, and rodent droppings that he sat in did not prevent his rest. All current hells were assuaged, and by the hand of God, rest was temporarily granted.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
SOMEWHERE ON I-75 SOUTH LEAVING DETROIT, MICHIGAN
“Have you delivered the groceries?” asked the stern, no-nonsense voice on the other end of Juan Herrara’s cell phone.
“Hell yes, meat, veggies, and even desert. All delivered, baby. Done deal.” Juan was too young to appreciate the importance of silly code language, but he played the game nonetheless. He was extremely proud of himself and was eager for affirm
ation from his anonymous cartel contact.
“Good. Follow the plan. Keep moving. We’ll deal with the rest.” The cartel ghost hung up the phone. No atta-boy, no ‘good job’. All business.
Juan was temporarily deflated. He expected at least some sort of appreciation from his invisible boss. Some sort of expression of gratitude or hint of a job well done. He got nothing. Straight up nothing.
Screw it. If the cartel wants to treat me this way, fine. I still kicked ass on this mission and I’ll get mad respect from the fellas in the neighborhood. It’s my barrio now. My legend has just begun to be written.
Juan couldn’t wait to exercise his bragging rights to his friends and enemies on both sides of the border. He’d make sure that he left out no detail every time he told the story. He’d detail all the recon work he did, scoping out the woman’s daily routine for days before he popped the bomb on that vehicle. He watched her patterns with the kids and shopping. All that crap. He knew her like he was Google fuckin’ earth. He even saw a vague silhouette of her getting undressed one evening with his binoculars. That part would be one he’d have to embellish for sure. What a body. He’d describe every inch of her as if he knew it first hand. He’d get a holler out of his boys for sure on that.
Juan had a huge grin on his face and a snide chuckle under his breath as he pulled the white, fifteen-passenger econo-van up to the BP gas station. He had already ditched the sport bike miles back behind a beaten up abandoned old barn in the middle of a cornfield somewhere.
Juan got out, after parking, and strolled into the convenience store. One chili cheese dog, some beef jerky, and a large fountain soda. Road fuel. Lots of miles left. He took off his flannel shirt as he walked back to the van, wearing nothing but a white wife beater tee shirt. His arms were big, strong, but still layered with baby fat. Scattered randomly all over his arms were dark blue tattoos done jailhouse style.
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