The Echo of Violence

by Jordan Dane

  He had remembered the heat of the sun on his face and the sudden rush of coolness when her shadow blocked the light and she sat next to him. She was a soothing touch when he needed someone to care. The world had carried on without him in shades of black and white—absent any color and mind-numbingly empty—until one day he heard a woman’s voice.

  Kate’s voice.

  She had engaged his muddled brain, even after he had given up.

  Later, he learned that she sought him out each day. She read to him and talked with him as if they were old friends. It hadn’t mattered that their conversations were one-sided. Little by little, he began to listen to her. And one day, he said the first words he’d spoken in a long while.

  It had been a start.

  There were days since then that he wondered if her efforts had been worth it. His cynical nature made for a tenacious adversary. But as relentless as Kate had been with him back then, Kinkaid wouldn’t give up on finding her now. In his mind, her life tipped the scales in importance when compared to his. Any lifeline she’d given him years ago, maybe it had been for a reason.

  He owed her his life, such as it was. The least he could do was return the favor, even if it meant risking any future he had.

  Southeast Cuba

  With the strain of the day, Sister Kate felt her body shutting down. Her throat was parched and her mouth bone dry. She had climbed rugged mountain trails through a dense, bug-infested jungle. And despite the stress her body had endured, she noticed her sweating had stopped and muscle cramps in her legs and back had grown more painful.

  She knew the symptoms. Dehydration had hit her hard. And yet her captors had no mercy. Only now, after a full day of climbing, had they gotten any water at all. She shared her tin cup of water with the children, giving them the rest after she’d taken a small sip and held the moisture in her mouth.

  Hunger made her stomach growl as she watched the men eat in front of them at the campfire. On the trail they had discarded their masks and she’d been shocked to see their young faces. Most were under twenty. They looked Middle-Eastern, but she had no more understanding than that. Dark-skinned boys with the hardened eyes of hostile men, obsessed with ideologies she would never comprehend.

  Kate held the children. Listening to the sounds of their breathing, she knew Andre and Daniel were asleep while Faye and Joselyne kept their eyes on the men near the fire. They clutched at her tunic with their small hands. Firm, tense grips. She felt their bodies tremble and could do nothing about it. The ordeal was wearing them down, and she was completely exhausted herself.

  Several times she nodded off in the muggy heat, oblivious to the torment of bug bites. Every time she dozed, she imagined the horror happening again. The hacking sound of the machete and the screams would jolt her awake. If such nightmares haunted her, she couldn’t imagine what the children were going through.

  To stop fear from gnawing at her belly, she turned toward the other hostages. Coughing caught her attention. George was getting worse. He’d been shot in the shoulder during the siege at the medical clinic. Earlier, she had tried to help. There wasn’t much she could do now. Infection had set in and with the scent of blood in the air, the bugs had targeted him. She could tell he had a fever and had no way to treat it. She’d done her best to stop the bleeding, but George had been coerced at gunpoint into climbing the mountain trails like everyone else.

  The man would not last long in these conditions. He needed medical attention. And she knew that their captors would never allow it.

  Voices and laughter near the fire grew louder and more threatening. She turned back toward the flame and watched the young men become more agitated. The blaze deepened the shadows on their faces and made them look more sinister. And as they crossed in front of the fire—becoming more frenzied in their movements—their dark silhouettes eclipsed the light and cast elongated shadows over the hostages.

  Kate couldn’t understand what they were saying, yet by the looks they gave the women hostages, the young men were working up the nerve to do something wrong. They joked. They laughed. They yelled and coerced. And she feared for what would happen next.

  Two boys were hauled to their feet and shoved toward the hostages by other young men with rifles. The boys looked over the women, one by one. When they made their decisions, they grabbed two and grappled them to their feet.

  Kate recognized one of her missionary teachers, Susan Fleming, a single woman in her early thirties. The other woman was older, perhaps in her forties and the wife of a local Haitian government worker. Both women kicked and screamed. That only spurred the boys on. The violence escalated until more men got involved. And the one with the video cam followed the horde to record the humiliation.

  Kate’s eyes widened, and she glared at the leader—hoping he had the decency to stop what was about to happen—but he only watched his men with faint amusement.

  God, no! She wanted to scream. Do you have no mercy?

  After awakening Andre and Daniel, Kate rushed to her feet and confronted the leader, who sat on a fallen tree at the edge of the campfire. She didn’t know where she got the strength to approach him, she only knew that someone must.

  “Please…stop this. Can’t you see this is wrong?”

  He stood and glared at her, eyeing her up and down in a vile fashion as he walked a circle around her. A few of his men, who had remained at the fire, laughed at her.

  “Wrong? Who are you to tell me what is wrong?” he demanded. “Your God will not save you, you know. Your life is in my hands.” He grinned, white teeth against dark skin. “I am as powerful as your God now, yes?”

  The women struggled against the young men who hauled them away. Kate wanted it all to stop and didn’t know how to make that happen. Her breathing escalated, and she thought her heart would burst from her chest.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to.” She lowered her head and fought the hysteria welling in her belly. “These women did nothing to deserve such treatment. You can stop this.”

  “Yes, I can. But my men have needs.” He stopped pacing in front of her and stared down. “And this…” He tugged at her tunic. “…this will not protect you from what will happen out there. So do not call attention to yourself…or my men will be reminded you are nothing but a woman to pleasure them.”

  She kept her head down and avoided his eyes. A tear slid down her cheek. She had been shocked by his disrespect. Living the life of a nun had sheltered her. She had come to expect civility and deference to her position. Yet here she was nothing.

  Less than nothing.

  “Tell me,” he said. “If something happened to you, what would become of the children?” When she reacted to his threat with a choked breath, he laughed. “Go. Sit down and shut up.”

  He dismissed her and turned his back. And she shut her eyes, feeling utterly powerless. In a daze, she replayed his words in her head as she walked back to the children. They clutched at her and pulled her to the ground next to them.

  “Why did you do that?” Joselyne asked with her eyes watering. “He could have killed you.”

  She saw it on the girl’s face—she was the only lifeline these children had.

  “I’m sorry if I…” She couldn’t finish.

  The two women had been taken into the jungle, yet not far enough away to cover up the sounds of their torment—the cries, the beatings, the howling when each man took his turn like jackals with cornered prey. It made her sick. Through the trees, an eerie light from the video camera flickered, casting its light on images she never wanted to see. She shut her eyes, but that only made the reality more vivid in her mind. The boys had been goaded into losing their virginity by rape, an act of violence and degradation no one should endure. The young boys’ bodies were pumped full of adrenaline, and the pressure of mob mentality had taken over.

  There would be no turning back. And no shame for their actions.

  “What’s happening, Sister?” Joselyne asked. “What are
they doing to those women?”

  All the children clung to her. Kate didn’t want to answer Joselyne’s question. She only shook her head. The words—and the horror—were wedged deep in her throat. Yet she had to say something to calm them.

  “Time for a prayer.” She forced a faint smile and felt her lips trembling. “Can you pray with me?”

  She touched each of their faces to get their attention and prayed aloud. The children joined in, murmuring low. Kate’s body rocked as she held them. She fought the nausea building in her stomach and tried to block out the tortured screams coming from the jungle.

  Impossible.

  Unable to stop herself, she looked toward the campfire and saw the terrorist leader watching her and the children. His dark cruel eyes held no remorse. He smiled at her and, despite the heat, her body shuddered.

  If she’d had any tears left, she would have cried for them all.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sun seared the horizon and streaks of orange impaled the gray edge of nightfall—that solitary time of morning when words were an intrusion. Kinkaid had met Alexa’s team at the motel as promised. They all knew what to expect and got down to the business of tracking killers.

  When they got to the pier where LaClaire had moored the boat, Kinkaid headed belowdecks and loaded his gear, taking over the cabin that had been his from the prior voyage. He wouldn’t need overnight accommodations, but old habits died hard, and he liked his privacy. And having a cabin with a door and a bed would ensure that he had sack time on his way to Cuba if he needed it. Once they landed, there’d be no luxuries like a mattress or downtime. And the last thing he needed so early in the trip was for Alexa to get curious about why he was moving slower than the rest of her team.

  He heard the heavy footfalls of Alexa’s men on deck, and the boat engine kicked in. They’d be under way soon, and Alexa would expect him up top. He’d have precious few minutes to himself before the mission to rescue Kate and the others would consume him. And he knew exactly how he wanted to spend the time. Kinkaid took his iPod from its canvas pouch and put in his earplugs. He listened to the digital recording he always brought with him. It centered him, yet not always in a rational way.

  With his back to the half-opened door, he sat on the edge of his bunk and shut his eyes. He steadied his heart to a slow rhythm and imagined a different time and place, then pictured him there. He felt the boat lurch as it left the dock, and the water rocked the hull. Nothing distracted him—until a sultry woman’s voice pulled him from where he was.

  “I was wondering who had the choice digs.”

  When he opened his eyes, Alexa stood in the doorway to his cabin. He saw her blond reflection in a mirror and turned. Before last night, it had been a long time since he’d seen a woman like her. Tall and lean, she filled out her camo BDUs in all the right spots. Her Nordic good looks blessed her with flawless pale skin, full sensual lips, and blue eyes the color of glacier ice. A well-trained, intelligent woman he could trust with his life.

  But the life of Sister Kate was another story. He’d learned long ago. Never be the middleman to trust.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.” He pulled out his earplugs and stowed his iPod in a side pocket of his bag. “You need something?”

  “Didn’t know you were so into your tunes. You’ve…changed.”

  He stared at her a moment, trying to figure out how to respond. He decided this mission was too important to get sidetracked.

  “So I’ve been told.” He gave her no explanation. Nor did he make excuses for the man he’d become. “What’s up?”

  “Garrett sent an updated weather report. Lady Luck is not with us.” She narrowed her eyes and looked around the cabin before her gaze settled back on him. “Come up top. See for yourself.”

  She shut the door behind her and gave him privacy to wash down more antibiotics and check his bandages one more time. He was dodging a fever and knew it. He felt the heat under his skin.

  A little time, that’s all I need.

  On deck, he spotted Alexa alone at the bow of the boat and went to join her. The breeze buffeted her blond hair as she stared dead ahead. Her team was in the stern. Each man prepared for the mission in his own way. Some men needed to talk out the adrenaline rush and others only wanted solitude. She’d brought five men. All experienced hands.

  Joe was at the helm in the wheelhouse and gave him an anxious nod as he walked by. He’d seen that look before. The salty air was thick with humidity. Not even diesel fumes off the back of the boat masked the impending storm. The wind had picked up. And a dark bank of clouds menaced the horizon to the northeast.

  His friend had a right to be concerned.

  Once they got by the breaker wall, and the boat hit cruising speed, the swells pounded the hull and sprayed a mist onto their faces and clothes. It cooled his skin. Kinkaid stood next to Alexa, widened his stance for balance, and held on. For a long moment, they both watched the darkening horizon in silence, each rapt in thought.

  “That tropical storm has been upgraded to a hurricane, category one.” She turned toward him, her blond hair edged in fiery red from the sun. A surge of dark clouds welled up behind her, a somber warning. “Garrett tells me the experts are predicting it’ll get worse. We may have another Katrina on our hands, a category four with winds up to 150 miles an hour.”

  “You gonna pull the plug?” he asked, staring toward Cuba.

  “What if I did?” She crooked a corner of her mouth. “You’d dump me off on Gilligan’s Island and still head to Cuba, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you wouldn’t respect me in the morning.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it looks like we’ll have a ringside seat to the first hurricane of the season,” she told him. “You think they’ll name it after me?”

  “If they knew you, they would.”

  That made her smile. And inside, he did, too.

  New York City

  Afternoon

  “There’s something you’ll want to see on Al Jazeera.” Tanya Spencer leaned over Garrett’s desk and worked the controls to pull up an enlarged Internet screen for the Arab news network and project it onto one of his TV monitors on the far wall.

  He took off his suit jacket, pulled down his tie, and grabbed another cup of coffee while she worked behind his desk.

  “Can I get you a cup?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I won’t be here that long. And you’ll be busy after you see this.”

  He watched her work, a somber expression on her face and efficiency to her hand movements. Tanya had worked with him for over ten years. An elegant black woman with a keen intellect, a quick wit, and timeless fashion sense. Her Southern drawl could ooze sex appeal or demand your attention with its commanding tone.

  And Tanya knew how to wield both.

  She brought up a column marked TODAY’S SCHEDULE on Aljazeera.net and scrolled down to what she wanted him to see. A dark screen filled the monitor with an arrow in the center. Once she clicked on it, the show would start.

  A video.

  In the wake of al-Qaeda evacuating Afghanistan, the movement and its various splinter groups had gone underground and launched greater efforts online. The Internet gave them a new lease on life. And they utilized a growing range of multimedia content, including video training clips, photo stills of victims about to be murdered, podcasts that featured testimonials from suicide bombers, and even movie shorts with dramatic music that romanticized life in the jihad and aided recruiting.

  “I’ll warn you now. This is disturbing,” she said. Tanya gave him a look that got his attention.

  “That’s something, coming from you.” He took a seat near the screen.

  “No, really, Garrett. I mean it,” she warned.

  Without another word, Tanya dimmed the lights in his office and started the video. Shaky camera work and poor lighting made it hard to tell what was happening at first. Yet the recorded scre
ams gripped him from the start. English-speaking men and women were yelling. Their voices were mixed with the angry demands of armed men in masks, speaking a dialect of Arabic. He didn’t know enough about the language to understand it, but the AK-47s made their hostile intentions clear.

  The video camera zoomed in tight on two women. Both looked terrified and were begging for their lives. The drama held him spellbound. And what happened next made him jump. A machete came from off screen. He would never forget the sound of the blade hacking into the woman’s neck and hitting bone.

  “Oh, my God.” He’d never seen a beheading that close before. Blood sprayed the lens, and the video continued, but he’d seen enough. “That’s it. Turn it off.”

  He’d spilled coffee on his dark slacks. The accident gave him an excuse to turn the lights on and compose himself as he wiped the stain with a napkin. In his lifetime, he’d seen enough death to lose sleep when certain memories surfaced. And he had certainly killed when it had become necessary, yet the level of brutality some men inflicted on others never ceased to amaze him.

  “I tried to tell you,” she said.

  “I forgot. You’re the queen of understatement.” He set down his coffee and tossed the napkin onto his desk. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you wanted to share this with me.”

  “My team analyzed the background and some of the faces. We did a facial recognition on a couple of them.” She stepped behind his desk and removed the video from his monitor, replacing it with a news channel on mute.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “It’s footage from Haiti,” she replied. “A couple of faces matched the hostage list, including a nun who ran the missionary school. Sister Mary Katherine organized the fund-raiser that the terrorists attacked.”

  “She wasn’t one of those women, was she?”

  “No. And her body wasn’t found at the medical-clinic siege either. We can only assume they still have her.”