by J. B. Havens
I dried off and dressed in black tactical pants and a white Under Armour bra and tank. I smeared some goo in my hair and headed out to the hanger. I was focusing inward, tuning out the things around me. I was trying to get into the right head space for this mission. Everything with Jordon was put aside. None of that mattered now. I was all business. I had a checklist in my head that I needed to take care of.
Opening my locker, I checked my MP5, the rifle we would all be taking for this mission; we needed its versatility this time around. I popped the magazine and jacked the slide back. It was unloaded as I knew it was supposed to be. It was well-oiled and clean, in perfect working condition. I took out my KA-BAR and whet stone. Sitting on the bench, I spat on the stone and began dragging the blade across it in one smooth motion, honing the already wicked sharp blade even sharper. I wouldn’t be using bullets to deal with Mateo. It was the knife in my hand that was going to bring the reaper to him. This knife that was now spotless, oiled, and sharp enough to break through bone, would soon be covered in blood. I could almost feel the hot coppery wash spilling over the blade and my hand. I switched the whet stone for black electrical tape. I wrapped the handle of the wicked looking knife several times allowing my hand to stick better. This way when Mateo’s blood spilled from his throat and gushed over my hand, I wouldn’t lose my grip on the knife. I snapped off the tape and tossed the roll into my locker. Looking up, I found Jordon staring at me. By his expression he had been standing there for some time, watching me prepare for the practicalities of having blood on my hands.
“Did you need something, Jordon?” I asked, as he moved to his own locker and began his own preparations, checking his weapons and opening his pack. I copied his movements, pulling out my helmet and radio, testing that the batteries were fully charged.
“No, I don’t need anything. I was just watching you wrap that tape and realized why it’s necessary,” He softly explained. He had pulled everything out of his pack, checking each item before methodically repacking it. He looked up at me for a moment before looking back down at his pack. “Does it bother you?”
I didn’t pretend to not understand what he was talking about. “No. It doesn’t. The first time was the hardest, but now…..” I took a moment to find the right words. I knew I was a government-sanctioned assassin. Something that I was okay with. “Listen, what we do, what we all do here, is more necessary than John. Q. Public ever wants to know.” I closed the straps on my pack and took out my flak jacket. “We do a service for this country that most people don’t know about, and wouldn’t want to know about. It’s something that I have come to terms with. I can live with this. I sleep damn good, even right after a mission, because I know that I am doing the right thing.” I slid the metal plate out of my jacket, looked at it and slid it back in. I put my jacket back into my locker before closing it and leaned back against it, waiting for him to respond.
“I know that. I agree with you. I’ve killed before this; I’ve killed to defend my buddies and my country. But I’ve never snuck into someone’s home with the sole purpose of ending them. It’s different in combat, you don’t have to think about it. You just do it, just react. You know as well as I do that there is a difference.”
“Yes, I know.” My thoughts returned to the flashback I had. The different faces of men I had killed flashed in front of my eyes like a movie on fast forward. The guilt doesn’t eat at me, but I don’t forget their faces. “Are you going to be able to do this? Because if you are having doubts on pulling this off for us you need to tell me now. I can’t have you freaking out in the middle of this op. It just can’t happen. Either you are in… balls deep, or not at all, Jordon. There is no compromise on this.”
“Don’t worry, Mic,” Jordon said with a chuckle. “I read that file too. I have no problem wiping the Earth clean of this fucker. I’m just saying that it’s very different from what I am used to.” He rubbed his hand across the top of his head, smoothing what little hair he had. I had noticed him doing this at other times. It was a nervous tick of his.
“You’re nervous.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sure he is, Mic,” Pierce spoke from behind me. Flynn was beside him as usual, and Phillips and Jones were coming into the hanger now. Good, the whole gang was here. I looked from man to man, noting that no one had any doubt or censure on their faces. We all understood the nerves and angst before a mission, more so for one like this. This wasn’t going in and taking out a band of terrorists in a Middle Eastern hell hole. We were eliminating evil just the same though, and that’s what we needed Jordon to really understand.
“Well, hey guys, thanks for butting into a private conversation,” Jordon mouthed off.
“Fuck you very much, Jordon. If you wanted private you shouldn’t be talking in here,” Flynn responded with his classic Flynn-ism style. “We’ve all been there, dude. Hell, some of us are still there. But we are Steel, and we do this. We go in and dance with the devil so others don’t have to.”
“I know that. I don’t have a problem with this. It’s necessary and essential. This needs to happen. All I’m saying is, it’s different than combat.” Jordon sat on the bench a little ways down from me.
“For fucks sake. Of course it’s different than combat! This isn’t fucking combat. But there might still be people trying to shoot you, trust me. They aren’t going to be happy if they find out we offed this fucker. You don’t expect them to dance and sing ‘ding dong the witch is dead’ do you?” I snapped at him. I think I got where he was coming from, though. He was used to being deadly in defense of himself or the men next to him. I gestured to the others standing around us. “All these men need to know, are you going to be able to do your job out there?”
“I can fucking do it, damn you all. I will do it. Don’t make this into more than it fucking is, Mic!” Jordon shouted at us. At me. He stood suddenly and pointed in my face while he shouted.
“Better get that fucking finger out of my face before I break it off, rookie,” I snapped. He glared, but dropped his hand. “Don’t worry,” My anger began to fall away. “Unless something goes horribly wrong going to be the one slitting that fucker’s throat anyways. You just need to cover my ass long enough for me to do it. Now if we are done with this, I want everyone’s gear checked and re-checked. We are wheels up at zero six hundred hours tomorrow. Get your shit together and get some rest. It’s going to be a fucking crazy couple of day’s boys,” I walked away from all of them and went to talk to the mechanic responsible for the impressive Gulfstream jet we would be taking to Colombia.
MI-6 has an outpost in Panama that we would be landing at for a last minute debriefing with them, before heading to a small abandoned runway tucked into the jungle of northern Colombia. There would be a Stealth Black Hawk waiting for us there; it was our bird, but transported by the Brits. They had some sort of aid mission going on that they used as a cover to get it in unnoticed. It was the last of the help we would be getting from MI-6. They wanted to help, but couldn’t be seen as being directly involved in a mission of this type. They needed Linc out, but also needed to keep their hands clean. Plausible deniability. It’s the name of the game in politics. I could deal with that.
Flynn would be flying the Stealth Hawk and providing cover on the way out. If this went according to plan, we shouldn’t need cover on the way in. He would get us close, about five hundred yards from the mansion, before dropping us off and going to a higher altitude. With the stealth features of the Blackhawk, Mateo’s men wouldn’t be able to see or hear it. Flynn was to circle and observe before meeting us at the LZ, just under two klicks from the mansion on the other side of a small river. That was going to be the hardest part. Navigating two klicks of dense jungle, then crossing the river in the open. I didn’t like this part of the plan, but I didn’t see any other option with the terrain as it was. I had pored over the topographical map for the area and there was no other place within sixteen klicks that had a large enough clearing for the Black Hawk to hover a
nd drop ropes for us. Landing wasn’t an option.
There were roads, but they were of no use to us. This was obviously something Mateo took into consideration when he decided where he was going to build his seat of power. The only easy access was the road that led directly to the gates. What the Colombians called roads, we called dirt tracks. To get out fast enough the Black Hawk was the only choice. The longer we were in Colombia, the greater the risk of us being tracked down by Mateo’s men or it being discovered that Lincoln Adams was still breathing. Trekking through the jungle with no one trying to kill us would be a huge challenge in and of itself: add in a hundred murderous men more familiar with the territory than us, and it was a guaranteed recipe for a dirt nap.
I stowed my pack near my seat on the jet and headed to the mess hall for dinner. After tomorrow’s breakfast we’d be eating MREs for a few days, which was better than the chow line most of the time. I needed to talk to Jackson about that, again. No way should we be suffering with such shitty food. It had gotten better for a bit but was back to being instant food that was no better than eating the plastic it came in. The United States Fucking Government should be able to get a decent chef for us.
Chapter 13
In his room Jordon lay in bed, hands stacked behind his head, just staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t too worried about this mission. He was where he had always wanted to be. He was in the most advanced, well trained, high level, elite military unit in the world. He would never get credit or receive medals, but he was finally making a difference. That was the whole reason he had signed up in the first place. He wanted to help people, people who truly needed it, people too weak and beat down by their governments to help themselves.
Jordon began to lose himself in the memories of one person who hadn’t been helped. The one person that needed him most, that he hadn’t been there for. Everything he had done from that awful day forward was in penance for the one mistake he could never take back. One life that would never be lived. Dreams that would never be realized. He lived every day, every moment, for a life that never was. For a life that was ended too soon, cut brutally short by the bullets from a gang members’ gun, torn from this world because of drugs and a debt left too long unpaid.
He would gladly sacrifice everything for the opportunity to be here helping to take out cartel leaders, drug kingpins, and various terrorists; helping to stem the flow of the poison seeping down the streets in every city in America. He would cut out every part of himself and burn it on the pillar of justice.
He rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing hard as if to erase the memory from his brain. It was impossible. Any time Jordon thought of him, he had to re-live the entire thing. It was the only way to move on for the day, because there was no moving on for good. This would always be with him. Closing his eyes, he gave up and surrendered to the memory.
Jordon saw his brother Mattey standing in front of him like it was yesterday. He saw the angular features that used to look so much like his own. The hair that used to be shiny with health and youth now had scalp showing in places. His teeth were yellowed and a few were missing, when before he had the most amazing smile, capable of making any of the girls in school blush. Mattey was a shell of his former self, forever chasing the high and false euphoria that came when that dirty needle was in his arm.
Mattey was an All-American quarterback at their high school. He had full scholarship offers from Penn State, UCLA, and Alabama. He just had the hard choice of picking which amazing college he wanted to go to. His whole life was ahead of him, full of greatness found on the football field and success in the business world. Mattey was going for his MBA. The world was going to be his oyster and he was going to suck it dry.
Until one night Mattey went to a party with some friends from the team after winning the homecoming game. It wasn’t unusual for there to be drinking, lots of drinking but drugs were becoming more and more available. There was a dealer handing out one time only free samples of crystal meth. Mattey said later that he never would have tried it if he hadn’t been drunk. He did it once and was hooked for the rest of his life. Forever chasing that elusive perfect high.
While all this was happening he stayed in school, got good grades, went to prom with the head cheerleader, and laid her down in the back seat of his car. He did all of these things while Mattey was lost and alone. He was so ashamed of his junkie brother he just pretended that he didn’t have a brother, went on with business as usual. While he was losing his virginity with the prettiest girl in school, his brother was sleeping on the streets in filth, scratching open his skin, and counting the minutes until his next hit. In less than a year Mattey went from a bright future filled with happiness and success to being a skeletal addict gunned down in the middle of a strange city far from his family and friends.
He was the first person to admit that his brother put himself in that street that hot and rainy night. Mattey took the drugs, stole from his family, and lied and cheated in every way imaginable to get that next high, his whole world was lived from one high to the next. Chris should have been there for him. He shouldn’t have given up on him. He should have been there to rein Mattey in, to put everything he had into getting his brother off the streets and clean. But he didn’t. Chris let his own shame and betrayal cloud his judgement, until he lost sight of what was most important: Mattey.
It was something that he lived with every day, he had been living with it for almost ten years now in fact. Grabbing his wallet off his small dresser and pulled out the only picture of Mattey he had. His father had taken all of his oldest son’s pictures and burned them once the extent of his addiction was revealed. His parents wrote him out of their lives, as if he had never been. To this day, they didn’t speak his name. He ran his thumb over the smiling boy in his black and red football uniform. Down on one knee and holding his helmet, smiling his giant happy grin at the camera. This was the Mattey that he wanted to remember. The young man who loved football as much as air, who was crazy smart and endlessly kind. This picture was taken a mere week before that fateful homecoming party. Chris tucked the picture back into his wallet, in the same place it had been for nearly a decade.
Some might wonder why he didn’t join the police force, put on that blue uniform and badge. Jordon had honestly considered it, but after thinking about it, he realized that on the streets they were fighting a losing battle. He wanted to help at the root of the problem. He wanted to fight the terrorists that produced the product and sold it to fund their genocide wars. He wanted to eliminate the drug lords sitting like kings, while kids who bought their nose candy wasted away and destroyed themselves and everything around them. Like a surgeon, he wanted to find the root of the cancer and destroy it there. As the old saying goes, cut off the head of the snake and the body dies.
So for Mic and the others to doubt him for even a second was insulting; they had no idea what was in his head and heart. There was nothing about Mattey in his file. No one knew about him or his motivation for being here. He considered telling Mic, filling her in so she didn’t doubt him anymore. After merely a moment’s thought he gave up on that idea. He wanted her to banish all doubts based on his performance, not on the sad story of his big brother. He stood and stripped to his boxers, giving his body a good once-over with Icy Hot. It felt like the bruises on his ribs were getting better by the hour. Stretching and working through the pain as much as he could had lessened the stiffness usually associated with these types of injuries. He’d had his fair share of banged-up ribs to know how to deal with them, so it didn’t slow him down too much. Right now he couldn’t afford to be injured. He would just ignore it and pretend that he wasn’t in any pain. It’s how he had gotten through combat before. This wouldn’t be the last time he’d need to suck it up, he was sure.
Tomorrow when he rapelled out of that helicopter and covered her ass while they carried out their mission they would all see. They would see that he was here to stay, that he was determined to carry out this mission, and every
one that followed. They each had a different reason for being here, for doing these hard, awful, necessary things. He would keep his close to his heart, where it had been for years. He would follow his orders and do what he could to make a difference for people in this world that didn’t even know he existed. He would do it until he was brought home in a flag-draped coffin.
****
Alone in their cabin Pierce and Flynn kicked back and tried to relax, each with a cold beer in hand and some crappy reality show on TV neither of them was really watching. It was like this for them each time they got ready to ship out. This was the hard part. Their gear was in order, their weapons were oiled and ready. The waiting was the worst; waiting to put the rush of hand-shaking adrenaline they both felt to use. They were truly two sides of the same coin. They had been together since the very beginning, through basic and on to Ranger school. Pierce balanced out Flynn’s hyperactivity and was the only one able to rein him in when he got out of hand.
Rolling his sweating beer back and forth in his hands, Pierce turned to Flynn, and gave up the pretense of watching TV.
“Are you ready for this brother?” Flynn knew what Pierce was getting at. On the last mission, Flynn had a close call, too fucking close. Pierce was worried that his friend was still shaken up by it. An RPG had come dangerously close to the helicopter he was flying, forcing him to bank quickly and nearly crash. Alarms squealed and smoke rose from the overtaxed engine. Flynn was the man and was able to correct at the last second, but the close call had shaken him badly. Pierce had watched the whole thing unfold from the ground where they were waiting to be picked up. Jones had quickly dealt with the stupid fucker with the RPG because Pierce was too focused on watching his best friend and brother try to correct the near impossible spin.