Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller

by Stephen Templin

He’d repelled Knockoff this time, but if the chance presented itself, the guard might retaliate for having lost face. Rather than think about possible repercussions, he chose to enjoy the small victory.

  A mosquito bit his arm. Although his hands weren’t free to smack it, he wiggled his arms until the pest buzzed away. He stretched his arms away, hoping the mosquito might land inside his arm so he could crush it between his arm and body. His captors had fed him some rice, but he was still so hungry that he fantasized about eating the insect.

  Although he was somewhat exposed to the bugs and the weather, dueling the mosquitoes gave him some entertainment, and the weather had been mild so far. Most of all, he was happy to be able to keep track of the sun, counting the days, and know that his colleagues would be searching for him. He still had hope.

  He knew Willy would send the best people to look for him, and if the Agency allowed it, Willy would come looking himself. Hank had first met Willy when they were Marines in the Basic Recon Course, and they continued training together until they were both assigned to Third Force Recon Company in Mobile, Alabama.

  Surely Willy had already contacted Max to begin searching for him. He hoped Max was already on the ground in-country. He wished Tom would come to his rescue, too, but Tommy had left the “family business” to go off to Georgetown University.

  But Tommy’s betrayal wasn’t as serious as God’s. After God let Hank’s wife die, Hank stopped praying to Him. Over the years, Hank’s anger turned to apathy. Where God was concerned, Hank was now on his own.

  Before he could think anymore about being rescued, his cell was unlocked and Knockoff and another guard entered and dragged him out so fast that he had no time to rise to his feet. The guards dropped him elsewhere in the building. He stood up, but they shoved him back down to the ground.

  There seemed to be more space now, and he recognized this as the room where his previous interrogations had taken place, but so far the only information he’d given was his name. When his interrogator demanded more, he asked for a representative from the US embassy, but each time the request was denied. Hank complained that the car crash was causing him nausea and headaches, and he asked for a visit from the Red Cross. He hadn’t really experienced nausea or headaches, but he tried to show ill health in an attempt to receive more favorable treatment. These were only the first days of his captivity, but he wanted to retain something of his strength for the moment when he might attempt to escape. He also wanted to get word out to the Agency that he was still alive and hopefully increase their motivation to rescue him. The interrogator said he’d think about requesting medical treatment from the Red Cross, but he said it without conviction. During another session, the interrogator asked him if he was Russian, but Hank insisted he was American. The interrogator told him that if he didn’t become more cooperative, he would have to bring in someone else—someone cruel.

  Knockoff and the other guard forcefully lifted Hank and sat him down in a chair. Then they walked away. Hank waited.

  Footsteps sounded from behind, becoming louder until they stopped in front of him. The person’s shoes appeared to be leather, and the fabric of his slacks seemed to be fine wool, but the blindfold prevented him from seeing any higher. This person was dressed better and smelled cleaner than his original interrogator. This was someone different.

  “What is your name?” the interrogator asked. He spoke Oxford English, and he sounded older and less Chinese than the previous interrogator. His tone was polite but businesslike.

  “Hank.” His real first name was easier to remember than any other, so he nearly always used it. He’d instructed his boys to do the same, with an alias for a last name. “Hank Nelson.”

  “Perhaps you can be of assistance, Hank,” he said. “I don’t care if you are Russian or American. For the time being. I just need to know why you were at Mr. Fang’s party the other evening.”

  Hank didn’t reply.

  “You are not in Vietnam now. You are in China. Nobody knows where you are. Nobody can help you except you.”

  If what he was saying was true, it’d be harder for the US to find him in China and even harder to launch a rescue. His spirits dropped, but he tried to hide it. He hoped Oxford was bluffing.

  “I want to help you,” Oxford said. “I know you are doing your job, but I have to do my job, too. Why were you at the party?”

  He’d given the first interrogator the runaround, so that interrogator must’ve kicked this up to someone more expert. Oxford would be less patient, so Hank told him something new. “I’m a tourist. A man in my hotel lobby sold me the invitation to the party.”

  “I heard you were injured. Did you receive medical treatment?” he asked with a hint of compassion in his voice.

  “No, sir.”

  Thud. Something hard hit him in the stomach with such force that it knocked him and his chair to the concrete floor. Bright light filled his head, and he wondered where his breath had gone. Then the light dimmed and the wind returned to his lungs. He hadn’t been hit that hard in years. The last time was in a barroom fight in Alabama. He was in better condition then and not nearly as surprised. But he didn’t want to let his interrogator know that he could take a punch. He didn’t want to encourage Oxford to hit him harder, so he groaned.

  His blindfold had been knocked off, and now he could see Oxford, a well-groomed Chinese man wearing a suit and tie. He helped Hank to his feet and back into his chair. Then Oxford stared down at him, as if searching for something. Tears. He wants to see me cry. And Hank better cry fast. He stared up at the light bulb so it’d make his eyes water and rummaged through his memories for the deepest pool of tears in his soul. He knew where the pool was, and he dove in.

  5

  It happened on Lundi Gras, the Fat Monday before Lent, in Mobile, Alabama. Unique among other cities in the state, Mobile boasted a cultural heritage of many nationalities and religions. All came together during the Carnival celebrations over the weeks leading up to Ash Wednesday, a tradition dating back to the eighteenth century, when Mobile was the first capital of the French colony. Not only were Mobile’s celebrations fifteen years older than New Orleans’, but they were also cleaner, safer, and more family friendly.

  As was tradition, public schools were closed on that Monday, and many children were out and about. Later in the day, Hank took his wife, Autumn, and their sons downtown to join the celebration. The temperature was in the upper sixties, refreshing for a family stroll before the onslaught of Mobile’s hot, humid summer. Max was five years old, and Tom hadn’t yet reached his first birthday, but the boys seemed to enjoy the festive atmosphere. Tommy loved looking at all the new faces and the variety of colors, and Max enthusiastically got his jump on in the bounce house and whacked targets in the shooting gallery. A .45 pistol rode on Hank’s hip, just in case, concealed by his untucked shirt.

  The Wayne family maneuvered through a sea of people and past the food vendors, where sizzling, smoky heat rolled off the grills and sweat beaded on the foreheads of cooks cranking out orders. The cool air filled with the aroma of seafood gumbo, Conecuh sausage and red beans, Callaghan’s bacon cheeseburgers, and fried chicken. One stand displayed freshly baked king cakes, each colored purple and gold with a small figurine hidden inside. Tradition was that whoever found the doll became king for the day and had to treat everyone to the next cake.

  “That gumbo smells good,” Hank said.

  “It does—but we need something that’s not too spicy for Max,” Autumn said.

  “How about the fried chicken?”

  “Fried chicken sounds great.”

  They ordered their food and sat on folding chairs around a metal table. “If we get split up, we can rally here,” Hank said. He used the same tactic with his Marines in the field.

  “Rally point here,” Autumn said, knowing the drill. She opened Hank’s backpack and pulled out Tommy’s bottle with a packet of baby formula mix.

  “Rally point here,” Max said dutifully between
bites of his drumstick. He knew the drill, too.

  As Hank ate, he noticed an unattended backpack on the deck beside an empty table. Mentally he shifted deeper into Marine mode. The United States wasn’t teeming with terrorists like the Middle East, but without knowing the origin or the contents of the bag, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that there was a bomb in it.

  Autumn fed the bottle to Tommy and looked at Hank. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Hank weighed whether to burden her with his suspicion or let her enjoy her meal. He chose the latter. “Nothing.”

  “You’ve got that look.”

  He tried to appear composed. “What look is that?”

  “The look that says something’s wrong.”

  He told her about the bag.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  He swallowed a bite of chicken and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “It’s probably nothing. But I’ll take a closer look.”

  “Maybe we should let the police handle it,” Autumn said.

  He walked over to the backpack and took a closer look. There was nothing unusual about the backpack itself—no wires or lights attached, no leakage, and no strange odors.

  He walked back to his wife and sat down.

  Autumn fed Tommy his bottle. “Are we safe?” she asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Can you be sure?” she asked.

  “Not with a hundred percent certainty.”

  A teenage boy dressed in jeans and a Murphy High School sweatshirt emblazoned with a panther came and retrieved the bag. His buddies waited off to the side. “Dumbass,” one of them teased. Then they walked off together.

  Hank and Autumn sighed with relief and smiled at each other.

  The sun dipped behind some buildings as the Wayne family finished eating and proceeded to the parade route. Along the way, Hank stopped. “Max, how do we remember our way back?”

  Max turned around and looked at where they’d come from. “Look back,” he said.

  “That’s right. It looks different when you’re going home, so you have to look back and remember the way home.”

  “I remember,” Max said.

  They resumed their walk until they found a crowd on the sidewalk that was closed off with barriers. The procession in the street was led by a Mobile police patrol car, white with a blue stripe and flashing lights. The siren sounded a short squawk.

  Soon the patrol car was followed by the Infant Mystics society’s float. Hank held Tom up to see it—a black cat standing on a cotton bale, a symbol of antebellum wealth. Tommy waved his arms and squealed happily. Standing on the float, masked riders in colorful costumes threw doubloons, and Hank caught one. He held it up and had to squint to read it in the growing dusk. On one side was printed a cat on a cotton bale and on the other side was the date of the festival. He offered the doubloon to Max, but the boy shook his head. Hank’s instinct was to give it to Tom, but at a year old, he might put it in his mouth and choke on it, so Hank pocketed the doubloon.

  “I can’t see, I can’t see,” Max’s tiny voice came from below.

  “We’ll move closer so you can see,” Hank promised. He squeezed past a costumed couple wearing fluffy feathered masks and feathered headwear. He pressed past people dressed in purple and gold, the carnival colors of justice and power. He reached a barricade where Max would have an open view of the parade. Hank looked around and was happy they’d moved up when they did, because the crowd steadily thickened.

  The sky darkened, and illuminated floats passed, each from the various mystic societies, the secret social organizations that made up the Carnival. More masked riders tossed gifts to the crowd. One of the throws, a string of plastic beads, hit a man who was busy talking and didn’t seem to notice as it fell to the asphalt. Max picked it up. He paused for a moment before he offered it to his mother.

  “That’s yours, honey,” Autumn said.

  But Max insisted. “I want you to have it.”

  “You keep that, Max,” she said. “It’s yours.”

  “I don’t want it. It’s for girls. I want a banana moon pie.”

  She smiled before taking a knee in front of Max and bowing her head.

  Max put the necklace over her head and let it rest around her neck. He gave a proud look of approval.

  Autumn’s smile broadened as she stood. She put an arm around Hank, who was still holding Tommy.

  Then came the Baker High School marching band that put the boom-boom in the parade. Their majorettes followed wearing navy blue and white, twirling their batons and dancing. To the delight of the crowd, a uniformed police officer slipped in behind them and did an impromptu performance, mimicking the movements of the majorettes.

  More floats passed, and spectators chattered and cheered.

  Tommy kicked and cried, and Hank hoped to catch a stuffed animal to occupy him. When one flew in his direction, he leapt to catch it, but he almost dropped Tommy in the process and had to dial it down a notch. The throw sailed over his head, and someone behind him caught it.

  “It’s getting late,” Autumn said as Hank passed the boy to her.

  “I want a banana moon pie,” Max said.

  Autumn tried to reason with him. “We can buy a whole box of moon pies on the way home.”

  “I don’t want to buy it. I want to catch it.”

  “Just a few more minutes?” Hank asked his wife. “They should throw some moon pies soon.”

  She struggled to hold Tommy, who was thrashing and whining.

  “I can hold him,” Max said. He was strong for his age and often held his brother, but Hank took Tommy back from his wife so Max could catch his moon pie. In Dad’s arms, Tommy calmed down.

  Hank spotted a suspicious man in a black and gold jester’s outfit with a dark gold–colored mask that extended from his eyes to his nose, exposing his mouth. He was alone. While others around him smiled and watched the parade, the jester frowned and faced the crowd more than the parade. He rocked back and forth on his heels like a metronome—something was stressing him. His costume was baggy enough to conceal a weapon and ammo.

  It was possible the man was merely in a sour mood, searching the crowd for someone who was supposed to meet him, but that didn’t explain the rocking motion. Maybe he was mentally challenged. Not knowing what was under the baggy costume or his intent bothered Hank. He made a command decision: “We can buy some moon pies on the way home.”

  The noise of the crowd and the parade had grown louder. Autumn’s gaze shifted from the upcoming float to Hank. “Did you say something?” she asked.

  “We need to go. Now.”

  The air popped, like someone lit a string of firecrackers. Others seemed to think the noise was part of the festivities, but Hank recognized the distinct sound of AK fire. Before he could stand between Jester and his wife, she went down. It happened so suddenly, and with Tommy in his arms, he failed to catch her. Hank dropped to a knee next to Autumn.

  More AK rounds reported. Jester held an AK in his hands, its muzzle flashing. He was coming in Hank’s direction and more bodies were falling. Hank dimly heard screams, but he couldn’t absorb the flood of stimuli assaulting him. His wife lay bleeding, and he had to give her first aid. But if he died, there’d be no saving her. And his sons were in danger, too.

  Now Max was looking at his mother, a horrified expression on his face. Hank grabbed him and put Tommy in the older boy’s arms. “Take Tommy to the rally point.”

  Max stood there, not responding.

  “Take Tommy to the chicken. Now!”

  Max hustled away with his brother, taking him out of the kill zone in the direction of the food vendors.

  Before Hank could consciously reach for his .45, it was already in his hand, and he didn’t know how it got there. All he knew was that he had to eliminate the threat before it eliminated him.

  He aimed at Jester, but a pair of spectators crossed in front of him, obstructing his aim. Jester blasted his way through the cro
wd, and the spectator pair fell, opening up a clear shot. Hank could aim for Jester’s chest, but the exit wound might hit someone behind, so Hank aimed higher, going for a lethal head shot. From Hank’s angle below, the background behind Jester’s head seemed clear. Hank aimed and squeezed.

  The crowd around Hank panicked even more, bumping into him and throwing off his aim. Blam! Hank’s muzzle flipped from the recoil and Jester spun as if he’d been hit, but he didn’t fall. The shot wasn’t fatal. Hank guessed he’d grazed the right side of Jester’s head. As Hank followed up to take the next shot, frenzied people crossed in front of him. “Get out of the way!” he hollered. Jester stumbled away from Hank’s direction. “Get out of the way!” he repeated, but no one around him seemed to be listening or thinking. Jester broke into a run, evading Hank.

  “I need an ambulance!” Hank shouted as he laid his pistol down next to Autumn, took off his backpack, and reached into it for his first aid kit. She lay on her stomach, and he gave her arm a shake. “Autumn, are you okay?” Her blood-soaked back and the widening blood pool surrounding her signaled that he better patch up her gunshot wound before she bled out. He produced gauze and lifted her sweater and shirt to expose the wound. The bullet hole led into her heart area. Now Hank’s hope of saving her dropped out of the bottom of his soul. Oh, no. He stuffed the gauze in the wound and applied a trauma bandage over it to keep it in place and help stop the bleeding. “Talk to me, Autumn, please.”

  He touched the side of her neck, but her pulse had stopped. He turned her over and administered CPR. “You’re going to be okay,” he promised her over and over. “You’re going to be okay.” He didn’t believe it, but he thought that if he said it enough, she might believe. Even if he lost hope, he wasn’t about to take away any last hope that Autumn might have.

  He lost track of time as he continued CPR, but there was still no pulse, and she wasn’t breathing. Sirens blared out and police and paramedics arrived. When the paramedics reached Hank, they checked Autumn’s vital signs. The older paramedic said, “I’m sorry,” and they moved on to the other casualties.