Guardian
Authors: Erik Williams
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Contents
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M
ike Caldwell hadn't killed anyone in a Âcouple of weeks. Hadn't wanted to, either.
Until now.
He sat in his Lincoln Town Car in the makeshift lot at construction site R91 outside Ur in Iraq, the A/C blasting. He chased dark thoughts away and tried to gain a handhold on calm.
Go back to site R91
.
See what happened. And I did. Just like Glenn said. What do I discover? The prison's gone. Up and pulled a disappearing act. Oh, and the site foreman also happens to be a tattooed asshole member of that wonderful group that tried to kill you not too long ago.
Speaking of which, A. Haddad, the site foreman, stood by a backhoe thirty feet away, talking on a cell phone, staring at him.
Probably calling his buddies.
Which meant he better get moving.
They might be after you. Come at you in numbers. And you're all alone out here.
But the dark winds swirled around him with greater velocity. Mike considered throwing caution to the wind. He rubbed his fingers and licked his lips. He wanted his flask. Longed for the burn.
You're a killer. It's what you're good at.
The old thoughts bounced around his head as the blackness pushed in on him. Haddad stood there in the infernal Iraqi sun, never breaking his stare. Daring Mike to add him to his closet full of ghosts.
Mike had made peace with his past. Locked the ghosts of his victims away. They would always haunt him, but he believed he could bear them. As long as he didn't add to their grim population. But now, looking at Haddad, part of him wanted to bump up the total. Stuff one more in the closet of death that was his head.
Enough.
He licked his lips and looked away. He typed the foreman's first initial and surname into his cell phone and pressed Save. He wished he could have gotten a first name, but it hadn't come up before the conversation turned sour. All he could do was grab the name and initial off the foreman's name tag and make a promise to find out his role in the attack on R91.
Now leave.
But he didn't want to leave. He wanted to get back out and walk up to Haddad and put a round through each eye. One for Lowe and one for Greengrass.
Not now. You're burned. Get moving.
Mike shifted into drive and floored it. He'd had enough of R91 for several lifetimes. The rear tires spun, creating a cloud of sand. The Lincoln roared from the lot onto the main road leading from Ur to An Nasiriyah. He cranked the stereo and blasted Stevie Ray Vaughn through the speakers.
Just when he thought he'd put the last bit of craziness behind him, he not only learned the prison had vanished into thin air, but that the guardians still circled the site. They knew the prison had disappeared, too. Haddad had said as much. But they were still here. Why?
Doesn't matter
.
Ponder it when you're in safe country and no longer outnumbered. Because you have no idea who else is out here besides Haddad.
Just because there wasn't a prison to guard anymore didn't mean the desert-Âdwelling assholes wouldn't try something stupid. It wouldn't be the first time. How many times had they been wrong so far? Well, one: they thought they'd been guarding a demon.
But he knew it wasn't any run-Âof-Âthe-Âmill demon. It was something more. One of Satan's very own. The assholes had it big-Âtime wrong on that front. Not an Arabic folklore version of a demon at all. Nope, a fucking fallen angel.
Two, they hadn't even known the exact location of the prison. Just knew it was buried near Ur. So they protected a whole swath of land for God knows how many years. And the one time it did need protecting, when the construction crew dug it up and opened it by accident, they were nowhere to be found.
But it was all over now. Semyaza was gone. The prison had mysteriously disappeared. What did it matter anymore if Haddad belonged to the Ancient Order of Dumb Fucks or the Masons?
Mike's thoughts drifted to Greengrass and Lowe. Good men. Great Marines. The former now severely wounded and the latter dead, thanks to Haddad and his buddies. Maybe he wouldn't stop with Haddad. If he found out enough about the guardians . . .
Should have just killed him.
Mike tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Maybe not killâÂjust a good throttling. Beat him within an inch of his life. Something to relieve the anger until he found out more information on the guardians. Let Haddad know how lucky he was to be alive, at least for now. He could have exacted a little revenge for Lowe and Greengrass at the same time.
Mike considered turning around. Only for a second or two. He needed to keep his priorities straight, and numero uno on the list was getting out of Iraq and back to Langley.
“Fuck it.” He pegged out the volume. Stevie's long solo in “Texas Flood” reverberated around him. “Get back to work and put this shit behind you for now.”
The back window exploded into hundreds of pieces. Little bits of safety glass raked his right ear and the back of his neck. Mike swung the wheel hard left, swerving out of the line of the next rifle burst. He took a quick glance in the rearview. A dark blue Renault barreled down on him. An Arab with an AK-Â47 stood up through the sunroof, firing on full auto. Haddad's friends.
I took too long getting the fuck out of here,
he told himself.
Doom on me.
Mike swerved right and then accelerated back to the left, cutting serpentine trails down the road. The pursuit driver, though, was experienced and matched his movements, keeping the Renault close enough for the gunner to unleash another dozen rounds. Most of them connected, blasting out the left rear window. Glass flew; other rounds pierced the door and ripped up the passenger seat, sending leather upholstery soaring around the cabin.
“Motherfucker!” Mike risked taking one hand off the wheel to grab his cell phone. He made sure it was still on with the GPS locator active. He texted code 9-Â9-Â9 to Glenn, then slipped the phone under his seat before grabbing the wheel again.
Another burst erupted behind him, only to stop a second later. He glanced in the rearview. The gunner was reloading.
Mike straightened the car, straddling both lanes of the lonesome road. He eased off the gas as the Renault closed on his rear. The gunner had a fresh clip in and the rifle ready to fire.
He slammed on the brakes. The driver of the Renault wasn't quick enough, ramming the back bumper and trunk. The collision rocked Mike forward, and his head smacked the steering wheel. He blinked stars away and didn't linger on the pain coursing from his forehead to the back of his skull. Instead, he floored it.
The Town Car accelerated past fifty kilometers per hour. Mike checked the rearview. The Renault's front end was smashed to hell. The driver stabbed at the air bag. The left side of the bumper dangled and dragged up underneath the engine, both headlights destroyed and the grill cracked. But it was still drivable. And after puncturing the air bag, the driver gained ground fast.
The Town Car raced past sixty-Âfive. Mike tucked his Beretta under his left thigh. When he passed eighty, he lowered the driver's window.
Ninety.
He yanked up on the emergency brake and turned the steering wheel hard to the left. The Town Car skidded and spun, the tires screeching across the asphalt. Mike watched the pursuer as his car completed the 180-Âdegree turn.
The Renault tried to brake to avoid hitting him, but its closing speed was too great. As a result, the driver had to swerve, swinging to Mike's left.
Mike leveled the Beretta out the window and fired rapidly. He wasn't a good shot with his left hand, but he unloaded enough rounds to hit the gunner twice in the chest and once in the throat before the car passed behind him.
The main threat dead, he shifted into Reverse and accelerated. He tucked the Beretta back under his thigh and looked over his right shoulder while steering with his left hand. The Town Car slammed into the Renault's left side, smashing the door panel and shredding the right front tire.
Mike didn't let up, gunning the engine and pushing the Renault off the road and into a sand-Âladen ditch. The wheels spun as the driver tried to free the car from the soil. All he did, though, was dig the tires in deeper.
Beretta in hand, Mike bolted out of the Town Car, moving fast in a semicrouch. He kept the gun level on the driver as he swept around to his side, sites fixed on the man's head.
“Take your hand off the wheel and foot off the gas,” Mike shouted in Arabic. “Now!”
The driver looked at him. Blood poured from cuts on his forehead and formed small streams running down around his eyes and nose into a thick beard. He was young, probably no more than thirty. Mike saw the top of a tattooed letter on his chest in the V of a button-Âdown shirt.
“Do it now.”
The driver let go of the wheel. The revving engine eased down. A look of defeat spread across the man's face.
“Get out of the car.” Mike made quick scans of the road in front of and behind him. No traffic. No other pursuers. “Let's go.”
The driver moved his left hand down slowly to the handle and opened the door. He raised his left hand again and stepped out of the Renault. Mike could tell it wasn't the first time he'd had a gun on him or had been ordered out of a car.
“Good. Now turn around and put your hands on the hood.”
The man did as ordered. When his palms were flat on the crinkled hood, Mike moved up behind him and patted him down with his left hand. No weapons.
Mike stepped back, the Beretta trained on the back of the driver's head. “I know who you are. You're a Guardian of the Prison, right?”
The driver said nothing.
“A lot of good you guys are now. Last time I checked, the prison's gone. So either you're guarding sand or you were waiting for me.”
The driver shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Mike wanted to put a bullet in the man's skull but restrained himself. He needed information. “What do you want with me? You pissed I killed some of your buddies that night of the raid?”
“I am only following orders.”
“Orders, huh? Does Haddad give you the orders? Is he the boss man?”
No response.
“Guess I'll just have to go and ask him myself. I have ways of getting answers. Since you're not willing talk, maybe he will.”
“I do not think so.”
“Think what?”
“I do not think you will talk to Haddad.”
“Well, that's a nice thought for you. Too bad it won't happen that way.”
“No, it will. In fact, I do not think you will ever see Haddad again.”
Mike started to speak but stopped. Something wasn't right. He'd lost control of the situation. He wasn't sure how, but his gut tingled. It felt bad.
He scanned the desert over the driver's shoulder. Just sand and scrub. A whole lot of nothing.
There. A dark shape a few hundred yards away down the road. Facing him.
Shit
. He wanted to duck, to jump to the ground behind the car for cover, but before he could move his left shoulder exploded in a sudden burst of fire and pain. The impact knocked him back three feet and down. The Beretta fell from his hand.
The concussion of the sniper shot echoed around him. The burn spread into his chest and neck. Decent caliber round. He glanced at his shoulder, and bloody pulp stared back. No, it was only shredded bits of his shirt covered in blood.
Fuck, it hurt. He moaned and grabbed his shoulder, probing the wound. Good entry. Clean shot. Didn't feel like the clavicle was broken, though he was sure the shoulder blade was dust.
He rolled onto his side and pushed up to his knees with his right hand. His gun. He had to get his gun. The world blurred and spun around him. His heart hammered, pumping blood as fast as it could, trying to keep him conscious. It wasn't working too well, though. He fell back down to his side, barely able to stay conscious.
My gun,
he thought.
Find it.
“Do not move any further.”
The blurry shape of the driver stood over him. He saw his own Beretta pointed at him. Not good.
Mike forced deep mouthfuls of air into his lungs and tried to ignore the pain.
Stay awake,
he told himself.
Don't fucking pass out.
He didn't think he could follow his own orders. His head begged him to lie down. The fire burning in his shoulder activated a flood of endorphins coursing through his body. The natural reaction to trauma.
You survived a confrontation with a fallen angel. Don't let these camel jockeys get the better of you.
The motivational thoughts didn't help. His consciousness was shutting down. Time to sleep. Mike fluttered his eyes and rested his head in the sand. He exhaled long and deep. His shoulder didn't hurt as much now.
Another shape appeared next to the driver. This one was silhouetted by the sun. All Mike could make out through his rapid blinks was a rifle in its hands.
Fucking sniper. Probably jumped out of the car after it rear-Âended me. Should have covered that contingency. Always assume there's more than one shooter. Stupid mistake.
The two conversed in Arabic, but Mike couldn't make out the words. He closed his eyes and tried to pray. He couldn't think of anything to say. If they'd wanted him dead, he would be by now. No, they wanted him for something else.
Might as well get some sleep,
he thought, and passed out.