The Echo of Violence

by Jordan Dane

  “Oh, shit,” Kinkaid muttered.

  For a split second, everything in the room stopped as he watched the girl. He tuned everything out. Complete tunnel vision. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, but the instant was gone in a flash.

  A shrill scream rose above the panicked cries of men and women as they fled. The sound of the pitiable wail triggered a dark memory. He shut his eyes and tried to shake the past, but nothing would break him free until the blond girl screamed again.

  His eyes fixed on her and grounded him in the moment. Even from a distance he saw the little girl tremble. And her face had turned a vivid red as tears streaked her cheeks. She stared at the woman’s body in shock, unable to move. One of the attackers turned toward the crying child and yelled something in a language Kinkaid didn’t understand. The masked man raised his weapon and aimed at the little girl.

  The bastard was going to shoot.

  CHAPTER 3

  He had no time to think, only react.

  Kinkaid came out from behind cover and yelled, “Over here, asshole.”

  He took deadly aim and fired. One shot. Two.

  The hooded man staggered back with his chest glistening in streaks of red. With a surprised look, he dropped to his knees and collapsed to the floor, face-first. But the fight was far from over.

  In the confusion and gunfire, hostages leapt off the floor and raced for the exits. The gunmen were losing control. Kinkaid ran to grab the little girl, sidestepping the bodies and dodging the panicked crowd. Everything turned into a blur, and the air was thick with the sharp smell of gunfire. Something punched his side. And the skin of his stomach burned.

  When he got to the terrified child, he lifted her off the floor and held her in his arms. Whispering in her ear, he wasn’t sure what he said or what she heard, but it didn’t matter. Bullets whizzed by his head as he shielded the kid. He made it to a set of stairs down a hallway and ducked behind them, listening for sounds that someone had followed.

  He covered the girl’s mouth with his hand, being careful that she could still breathe. When he was sure that he was alone with her, he brushed back her curly blond hair and stared into big blue eyes brimming with tears.

  Holding her, he didn’t want that to mean anything—but it did.

  Her tiny body trembled in his arms. Seeing her so scared was like taking a hard punch to the belly. She was the child of one of the missionary teachers. Kate had introduced him to her parents earlier in the evening, but he couldn’t remember their names. His gut wrenched at the thought that she could already be an orphan. And all he wanted to do was hold her.

  His brain demanded objectivity. Other people needed him, too. Yet when he looked at the kid again—a part of him he thought had died years ago—made his normally detached reasoning impossible.

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re safe now, honey.” He lied, but he didn’t have a choice. “Tell me your name. Can you do that?”

  She didn’t answer. The kid grabbed for the sleeve of his jacket with tiny white knuckles in a death grip. Her face was pale and slick with perspiration.

  “It’s okay.” He yanked off his tie and undid buttons on his shirt. “You don’t have to say anything. Not until you want to.”

  When he reached for her, the pain in his side got worse. He winced and looked down under his suit jacket to see that his gray shirt was covered in blood. His blood. He’d been shot and couldn’t tell how bad it was. Was it a through-and-through or only a graze—or was the bullet still inside him? Not to alarm the kid, he shut his jacket and pulled her toward him. She clung to him and burrowed into his chest.

  Kinkaid rocked her until her heaving sobs turned to whimpers. With the child in his arms, old memories of a different kind washed over him like a cleansing rain. And he would have welcomed them, but now wasn’t the time. He had to move.

  “I’m getting you out of here, honey.”

  Down the hall, he heard the muffled sound of men shouting orders and the cries of women. Hostages were being moved. As long as he had the girl, he couldn’t afford to draw fire. He had to get her to safety before he could help Sister Kate and the others. Moving hostages would slow the armed men down. Maybe he would have time to maneuver ahead and stop them. An open door to his left looked as if it might get him to the courtyard and the garden. Still gripping his weapon, he picked up the kid and carried her from Dumont Hall.

  Kinkaid stuck to the shadows and sheltered the girl with his body. Outside, the air was muggy, and the breeze had died. A few hours ago, the courtyard had been beautiful in the moonlight. Now every shadow held danger, and his mind played tricks on his eyes.

  And memories of Kate plagued him with guilt. One way or another, had he brought this down on her? He gritted his teeth, dealing with the pain of his wound and a deep regret he’d be cursed to endure.

  Until a dark silhouette against a stone wall forced him to stop.

  He shielded the girl and raised his weapon to take aim at the dark shape until he realized what it was. A policeman in uniform lay slumped against the wall. Kinkaid covered the kid’s head with his hand, his fingers entwined in curls.

  He knelt by the man’s side to check for a pulse, but stopped when he saw his throat had been cut. A savage attack. His question about what had happened to the on-duty cops had been answered. And a wave of nausea hit him. The sensation mixed with chills and dizziness, adding blood loss to his list of adversaries tonight.

  “Please…get us through this,” he whispered, and clutched the girl tighter. Whoever had assaulted a fund-raiser at Dumont Hall had killed the guards in a bold plan to take hostages. But one aspect of the brutal attack stood out from all the rest.

  These men had known his name—and they’d come looking for him. Why?

  The uneven terrain and loose rocks made it hard to navigate in the dark. Kate kept her head down, focused on the four children who clung to her. Andre was an eight-year-old Haitian boy. She’d bought his first dress slacks and tie. He was wearing them now. And Daniel and Faye were brother and sister, the children of one of her teachers. A single mother. Kate didn’t think Daniel and Faye’s mother had been taken, but the woman would be worried sick. And Joselyne was the oldest child at age ten, the daughter of a local Haitian fisherman. None of these children should have been here. Their families didn’t have money.

  Why had they been traumatized like this? What were the assailants after?

  She avoided making eye contact with the angry men who shoved them down the dirt path to a street behind Dumont Hall. In the dark she stumbled, but she never gave the men a reason to punish her. She had to stay with the children. And judging by the behavior of the other hostages, she knew they understood the importance of sticking together and the gravity of falling behind.

  One of the armed men grunted and pushed them, the international language of intimidation. They appeared to have limited English and no French. The weapons in their hands spoke for them.

  “Where are they taking us?” one of her missionaries asked.

  “Do as they say. And don’t ask questions,” Kate kept her voice low. She hated to deny the woman an answer, but now was not the time. If they survived, they’d have to play it smart.

  “My little girl…I don’t see her,” the woman cried, clinging to her husband. “Where is she?”

  Count your blessings, she wanted to tell the woman, but she kept her mouth shut. To insinuate their plight would not end well wasn’t what Kate wanted to convey, even though she harbored dark feelings about why they’d been chosen. Hope would be a fragile commodity, given their circumstances.

  Once they got to the dirt-covered street, the men led them toward two dark vans and a couple of sedans. Neither van had windows. And three more armed men stood watch over the vehicles. When they approached, the men opened the van doors, and the hostages were separated into two groups. Her fellow teachers and members of the generous Port de Paix community who supported her school were taken from her sight.

  They
were led to the second vehicle, leaving Kate to face her fate with those nearest her. Without ceremony, they were shoved inside the first van. And almost from the start Kate realized they wouldn’t all fit, but she didn’t want to think about what the men would do if that was the case.

  “Please, Lord…have mercy,” she offered a hushed prayer and drew the children close to her, putting them first. If anyone were forced to stay behind, she vowed it would be her.

  “My wife is inside. I gotta be with her.” A man dressed in a suit nudged Sister Kate aside and crawled into the van ahead of her kids.

  Kate made the sign of the cross for the desperate man. Fear made people do terrible things they wouldn’t normally do. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping that he hadn’t thought about what would happen to those left behind. Judging by the shamed look on his face, she knew better. The man knew exactly what he’d done.

  From inside the dark van, hands reached out for the children. One by one they were lifted inside and squeezed into every spot. In the end, two adults remained standing outside the van, with no room remaining—Sister Kate and an elderly woman from town.

  Kate clenched her teeth and prepared herself for what would happen, but the other woman cried and tugged at the shirtsleeve of the nearest armed gunman.

  “Please…I won’t take up much room,” she begged. “I can fit. Please let me try.” The woman was pleading to stay with them.

  Kate shut her eyes and filled her mind with prayer. Her lips trembled with the effort and her heart pounded. Two other men came forward and laughed, amused by the older woman’s begging. They exchanged words that Kate didn’t understand, and time slowed to a painstaking crawl while she waited to see what the men would decide.

  In her heart, Kate had a feeling the news wouldn’t be good.

  The little blond girl hadn’t spoken. She only clung tight to his neck as he looked for a safe place for her. Off the stone courtyard, Kinkaid saw a dim streetlamp below where he crouched. He used the light to guide him through terraced patches of ground, the foundation used for a series of shanties made of stucco. The glow from the street lit a side door to a shack. The house wasn’t much, but he noticed that a torn window curtain moved.

  Someone was inside.

  He wasn’t sure he should risk investigating the match-box-sized shanty, yet he had to try. Whoever was inside might be scared, and he couldn’t blame them. If they kept the girl from harm, at least long enough for him to help the others, it might be worth the gamble. Avoiding the light, he crept through the shadows near the back of the house. He approached the window where he’d seen the curtain move and spoke in French.

  “Please…I know you’re in there. A little girl needs your help,” he pleaded. “Please open the door.”

  He wouldn’t leave the kid if the people in the shanty didn’t look trustworthy. The only way to find out was to get them to open the door. He reasoned with them in French and in English until the door at the side of the house opened with the creak of rusty hinges. Kinkaid gripped his weapon, ready to use it.

  What he heard next caused him to stop.

  “Mr. Kinkaid,” a woman’s voice whispered. “It’s me. Susan Winters. I have my husband and my kids in here.”

  At first Kinkaid couldn’t place the voice, yet the woman’s name brought back a memory. He had met her with Sister Kate at the school. Susan Winters was one of Kate’s missionary administrators.

  “Thanks for speaking up. That took guts,” he said.

  Kinkaid carried the girl inside and shut the door behind him. In the dark room, with only the pale light of the moon shining through the curtains, he saw the silhouettes of Susan and her family.

  “I have to get back out there. Can you take her?” he asked. “I don’t know who or where her parents are. And she hasn’t said a word, not even her name.”

  “Sure. We can take her.” Susan reached for the little girl, but the kid wouldn’t let go of him. He lowered her to the floor and knelt beside her.

  “I need to find Sister Kate, honey. I have to help her and the others. Can you be brave for a little longer?”

  He could tell that the kid wanted to cry. She touched his hand, and said, “My name is…Caitlyn.”

  Kinkaid smiled. He reached for her tiny fingers and kissed them. Her hand felt so small in his. “You’ve been a very brave girl, Caitlyn. Susan will take care of you now.”

  The girl nodded and took a step back, clinging to Susan’s leg. A part of him—the man he used to be—was sad to let her go. Kinkaid took a deep breath and stood. He touched Susan’s shoulder and looked at her husband, who stood beside her.

  “Stay put,” he told them. “Even until daylight if you have to. And keep watch. Trade off on guard duty.”

  After they both nodded, he headed out the door in search of Sister Kate. And in the stillness of the night, he heard voices dead ahead. Kinkaid gritted his teeth to fight the pain as he navigated through the dark. It had to be them.

  In a move Kate didn’t expect, one of the armed men shoved her and the older woman aside to haul out the man who barged into the van to be with his wife. Both the man and his wife were removed and stood next to Kate. The man’s mix of fear and indignation had vanished.

  “Please…what are you doing?” the man asked. “Don’t…please don’t do this. I’ve got money. You don’t need to do this.”

  “George, I’m scared. What’s happening?” His wife reached for his arm, but one of the masked men yanked both elbows behind her, holding her in place.

  Kate watched as one of the armed men came forward, the one who had given the order to remove George from the van. The hooded man walked with the assurance of a leader, and his amusement with the situation gave him away. Kate thought she’d play a hunch.

  “Why are you doing this?” She watched the man, and he gave her nothing. Under the hood, his dark eyes were a chilling blank slate. She held her breath and stood firm.

  When he turned to a comrade and spoke in his own language, Kate fixed her eyes on his, and interrupted, “Your fly is open. Better zip up.”

  The masked man looked down at his pants before he realized that he’d given himself away. He spoke English. And now everyone knew.

  “You speak English?” George’s voice cracked as he touched the arm of his wife. “Let me do the talking, Joanna.”

  “No, you do enough talking.” The leader glared at Kate as he spoke, but eventually turned his full attention to George. “As you see, we have no room,” he reasoned as he toyed with him.

  “But I can pay,” George argued. “For me and my wife, I can pay you.”

  “What about these?” The leader pointed at Kate and the older woman standing next to her. “And this one, she is a servant of your God. No?”

  George took a deep breath and didn’t answer.

  “Then it is for me to decide.” The leader smiled at Kate, his lips and teeth showing through a hole torn in his mask. The image raised the hair on her neck. “Does your God listen to your prayers?” he asked. “Perhaps we shall see.”

  And with one gesture from him, the horror began.

  Kinkaid still heard voices. Trusting his instincts, he peered through the dark to track the sound. Behind Dumont Hall, the steep hillside was terraced. He knew there would be a path down, but he didn’t have time to look for it. Shoving through brush and crawling over boulders used to reinforce retaining walls, he gripped his weapon and made his way down the hill. Sharp branches cut his hands and face. He pushed on, thinking only of Kate and the others.

  The moon cast a bluish haze over trees and boulders and shanty houses with tin roofs crammed next to each other. The dense setting obscured his view. He still heard voices and followed the sound.

  Although he tried to be quiet, he made noise as he went. It couldn’t be helped. Kinkaid hoped the sounds of the hostages would cover his movement. When he got closer, he slowed his pace to be more careful. With gun raised, he braced his back to the wall of a shack enci
rcled by a worn picket fence. He inched toward a corner to get a better view.

  The voices of men and women were clearer, but still a distance away. When he peered around the stucco wall, he saw a man dressed in black near a tree. His AK-47 leaned against a stone wall. The man had been too occupied with his full bladder to hear Kinkaid coming through the brush.

  He was relieving himself, dick in hand.

  Kinkaid pulled back and grimaced, leaning his head against the wall. He stalled until the bastard finished before he tossed a rock into the brush and waited. He focused on every sound and heard the gunman pick up his rifle. Kinkaid held his breath and listened. In a stupid move, the guy let the streetlamp below telegraph his move. A long faint shadow emerged and became more distinct as the man edged toward the shanty.

  Kinkaid had to play this right. Any noise would bring the others. And he wasn’t in any shape to play the tough guy. When the masked gunman came around the corner, Kinkaid racked the slide and aimed his Glock at the man’s head.

  “You gonna waste a good piss?” He had no idea if the guy spoke English, but he let the universal language of the Glock translate his intentions.

  After the man raised his hands, Kinkaid took his rifle. He leaned it against the wall behind him and kept his gun pressed to the man’s temple, but a chilling scream erupted in the night and shattered the stillness. The pitiable wail gripped him, especially when it came to an abrupt stop.

  Kinkaid couldn’t help it—he turned toward the sound.

  With the distraction, the masked man took advantage of his carelessness. The man shoved him to the ground onto his back and leapt on top, wrestling him for his weapon. The weight of the heavier man made it hard to breathe. And as they scuffled, they kicked up dirt. Kinkaid sucked dust into his lungs, choking on it. Sweat stung his eyes and made it harder to see in the dark.

  Still, he wouldn’t let go of the Glock.

  He rolled down an embankment and his spine collided with sharp rocks. The blows nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. And his wound felt as if it had been torn open. It stung like acid. Blood loss had made him weak. He struggled for consciousness.