Vengeance: The Program Book 4 Page 3

  “Get my arm back in,” Rock grunts.

  “With pleasure,” Snake smirks.

  I don’t even see him move, Snake is that quick. The only evidence he’s pushed Rock’s arm back into the shoulder socket is his bellow howling into the night.

  “Damn, couldn’t wait.” I try for a laugh but it comes out a grunt.

  “When this is finished,” Rock’s panting, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

  Snake snorts, “I might be nice and let you.”

  I hold the ice pack on Rock’s shoulder as I look into the darkness where Bull disappeared. We all are. His presence is massive, the echo blazing a tormented trail through the dark.

  “I’m good,” Rock sits up. I hear the heavy rush of breath from his discomfort. “Go make sure he’s not killing somebody.”

  I don’t acknowledge his physical state, and no one else does either. That would be focusing on the negative, that’s not a place we go.

  I look back into the darkness. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  The truth is I wanted to go after him. No brother is left behind, even if he does it to himself.

  “Give me the ointment,” Rock holds out the arm that was just hanging limply at his side. “It’s payback time.”

  “What are you talking about?” Snake hands him the salve.

  “You look like a fucking leper. You’re blistering and shit is oozing from some of the spots,” Rock replies with a sadistic grin.

  “I knew that bastard had it up to the max.”

  Tonight’s game was electrocution for Snake. The lucky participant is tied with his hands hanging from the ceiling and their feet shackled to the floor. Electrodes are then stuck to their body, and they’re doused in water, just to give it an extra kick. I suppose we should be grateful they haven’t fried our testicles. Usually only welts are left as evidence afterwards, but Rock’s right. Snake’s body is covered in pustules with some raw and oozing. The fuckers really did a number on him.

  “Bastards,” Snake hands the ointment over. “At least they left my pretty face alone.” Snake sits on the edge of the wooden bench Rock’s straddling, his back facing him.

  “They figured it couldn’t get any worse,” Rock grimaces as he shifts.

  “You two play nice while I’m gone,” I take a deep breath, willing myself to start the trek to look for Bull when all I want to do is lay the fuck down.

  “Don’t get yourself shot,” Rock comments.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I wave him off as I walk away.

  Mostly they leave us alone after we’re let out of the hole. I’m not sure if it’s to give us a false sense of calm, if it’s to let us regain some strength to face another day of hell, or if it’s to mess with our heads. In my opinion, it really doesn’t matter. This is our time, and if they tried to fuck with us now, I couldn’t promise we wouldn’t retaliate. All bets are off when we’re out of there, and God help them if they try.

  Outside the circle of light in the middle of camp is where I find Bull. His large frame is illuminated by the moon looking sinister out here in the dark. He’s standing with his head bowed and his arms straight at his sides.

  “Bro, you okay?” the words feel foreign on my tongue. The sincerity isn’t.

  I’ve never had friends. All of this is uncharted territory, the comradery, how we look out for each other, the raw honesty. It’s like they threw us into a blazing fire and we melted together.

  Whatever it is, strange, unfamiliar, it’s good.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Bull’s voice is strained.

  I can feel the tension rolling off him.

  What they’re doing, beating us with our own nightmares and demons, is the ultimate weapon. It’s the only battle we’re at risk of losing.

  “You’ve got to let it go.”

  He slowly raises his head and looks out at the night. “I know.”

  “Do you? Do any of us?” I can feel my anger rising up again. It’s a constant war.

  He turns to face me. There’s a calmness in his expression, something I didn’t expect to see. “We’re not those boys anymore that came in here, Gringo. None of us are. I know that. This place, what they’re doing,” he sweeps his hand out, “they’re killing them. Hell. I’m glad, really. I don’t want to be him anymore. And I’d bet my right nut,” the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk, “you don’t want to either.”

  The truth of his words hits me like a slap in the face. He’s right. The realization is freeing. I’ll never forgive myself for what I did, but now, after everything we’re going through, I’m slowly beginning to come to terms with it. Maybe it’s because I’ve got something else to lose myself in rather than my unforgiveable deed. Maybe it’s because this experience has forced me to dedicate myself to others.

  “You’re right,” I agree with him.

  “Come on, let’s get back. It’s almost lights out, then it’s party time all over again.”

  I watch his huge frame slip through the shadows and into the light. I turn and look out at the darkness, wondering what’s out there, knowing we’re leaving a part of ourselves out here. As I walk back into the camp, everything looks a little crisper, slightly clearer.

  We’re going to get through this. What’s waiting for us is something else.

  CHAPTER 4

  Snake/Priest

  Fifteen Weeks Into Training

  Another day in paradise.

  A thousand more ways I fantasize about killing these motherfuckers.

  We’ve all gotten a little quieter, a bit more somber, and fucking skinny as hell, even Bull, his version of skinny. Our bodies are beaten to shit. I have to remind myself at times that we’re not POW’s, that we haven’t gotten captured by the enemy and we aren’t in a prisoner of war camp. That some psycho little kid isn’t going to come in and cut our heads off so they can put it up on YouTube.

  Every day it’s getting harder and harder to stay sane.

  I’ve got to be honest, it’s not easy.

  There haven’t been any leave days since we began this new assignment, there is no such thing as time-off, and recreation is a myth. The only things we’ve got is pain, mind-fucks, and each other. I wouldn’t have thought when we started this I’d want Rock, Gringo, and Bull to get my back, but us four together, those boys are my brothers and God have mercy on anyone who threatened us.

  We’ve been stripped of our privacy, our most horrible secrets have been ripped from us, and we’ve been forced to wear them like bloodied cloaks. They’re branding us with our shame, trying to make them our identities, tearing our mouths open and shoving them down our throats.

  We’ve got news for them: hell to the NO!

  We are not what we’ve done, we are so far removed from where we came from, or what’s happened to us.

  Just fuck them and all that propaganda bullshit!

  It’s us, and it’s them, and they are NOT going to destroy us. That is what we hold on to.

  “How much longer do you think this is going to last?” It sucks I can hear the solemnity in my voice.

  The guys don’t answer, not right away. We have no idea. That might be what’s really kicking our ass.

  The thought of no end in sight.

  Hopelessness.

  That’s what they want.

  They want us to give up.

  Hah! Fat chance.

  “Who knows? But it’s a pretty sweet deal, right?” Bull answers sarcastically. “We get three squares, we’ve got no responsibilities, and the luxury accommodations are all paid for.”

  Four beaten up laughs float upward in the darkness.

  We know it’s crap but it’s better than the alternative, it’s better than feeling sorry for ourselves.

  “Who knew we’d get an all-expense paid fitness excursion in the beautiful…where the hell are we anyway?” Gringo tries to be funny, but it’s impossible because he’s an angry SOB.

  “We’re in Hannibal Lecter’s Trainee Emporium, dude, and it’s got to be almost g
raduation time,” come my dry two cents.

  From his cot, Rock grunts a strained laugh. “No, the trainee vacation was full. They put us in the sample division. We’re so damn skinny, they’ve got to be preparing us for the upcoming skin suit line.”

  That, as sick as it is, pushes us over the edge. We laugh. Hard. It’s the first time we’ve laughed this way in a long time.

  “They got lucky with our crew and got two-for-one with Bull,” I’ve got to give it to Bull, the dude’s still big even after three months of virtual starvation and continuous torture. “Bull, dude, we’ll be long gone before you finally shrivel up and kick the bucket.”

  “At least he’ll have some fresh cut steaks for a while,” Gringo says.

  We might not be prep school graduates, but that right there is nasty. It makes us laugh anyway.

  “That’s sick, even for these bastards,” I shake my head with the visual.

  After a million-hour day, another in the endless line we’ve endured, right now we’re four guys being assholes and being real. It’s only this moment and these guys, not the cracked bones or torn muscles, not the scars and constant ringing in our ears, not the echoes in our heads of the recorded middle eastern tirades that scream at us endlessly during our sessions, and we’re certainly not the weak non-POWs.

  Inside this tent with a single swinging bulb, four canvas cots, and flies and mosquitos banging against the screen trying to get at the wounds on our bodies, we’re not soldiers. We’re Rock, Bull, Gringo, and Snake. Samuel, Gabriel, Rocco, and John no longer exist. Right now we’re not Special Ops mercenaries in training, we’re just red-blooded normal guys.

  “Bull, what’s the first thing you’re going to do once this shit is over?” I ask the big fella.

  I hear him take a deep breath.

  It’s a simple question, but after the life we’ve lived for the past fifteen weeks, it almost seems like a fairy tale.

  “I’m gonna get a big fat hamburger, a nice cold beer, and a sweet little lady to curl up with,” Bull replies wistfully.

  Oh, yes.

  “Sounds perfect, dude, especially the woman part.” I almost taste the thick patty, I can almost feel the juices drip down my chin, and my body hums at the thought of the soft flesh of a woman under my palm and against my skin.

  That is so good!

  “I’m going to be right there with you,” Rock adds.

  “Damn right,” Gringo agrees.

  I smile a melancholic smile. It’s not too much to want, a burger, a beer, and a woman to touch. I get what Bull meant by curling up. At this point, it’s not the sex, although that’s going to be good. It’s the affectionate human contact, the emotion. It’s the intimacy.

  “Sounds like we’re going to make it a party.”

  We all relish the fantasy.

  No, it’s not a fantasy because that shit’s gonna happen. The four of us are going to sit somewhere, maybe in some bar or restaurant with cold beers in front of us, the sweat dripping down the sides of the glass, pretty little ladies by our sides, and not a care in the world.

  My eyes close as I enjoy the images, almost tasting, smelling, and touching it all.

  Then they fly open and I’m on high alert.

  The light went out. There are hushed footsteps outside our tent.

  Most of the time during our training sessions, we’ve been blindfolded. Our ears became our eyes. With every sound, we knew what or who it was, exactly how far it had come from, and what the result would be from the impending threat. Although we’d been restrained and blindfolded, we could prepare, at least mentally. And in our minds, we waged war. We formulated tactical maneuvers, we calculated the distance and the proper impacts that would gain the most leverage. In the darkness, we planned and learned, and the sounds, smells, and sensations were our direction.

  In the darkness we became stronger.

  The heightened awareness pumping through me, Rock, Gringo, and Bull is like an electric current surging through us and connecting us.

  It’s on.

  Whoever the fuck is out there is going to be on the receiving end of four very dangerous sons of bitches.

  Each of us slips from the cots like a waterfall over the edge. Directed by the sounds of our own movements, we each take a position inside the tent. We don’t speak because we don’t have to. We move in sync, guided by the direction the other is taking, knowing what locations would make the best attack point.

  Bull and I each take a corner at the front while Rock and Gringo go down low toward the center. We have to be quick and we have to make each contact count.

  We don’t know who’s out there. Hell, we really don’t know where we are. We do know we’re still somewhere in the Middle East. When we were re-assigned, or when we accepted these new positions we were offered, we’d been outside Kabul, Afghanistan, the mouth of hell. They told us to get our belongings together. We were put on a helicopter and air lifted to some secluded base in the middle of nowhere with no one here but us four and the pricks who beat the shit out of us every day. And a commander we never see or hear from. None of us have been told if we’re close to enemy lines, we don’t know if we’re near any fighting. We do hear gunfire and explosions when we’re not in the hole, but it could be training excursions, or just the locals blowing each other up. Either one is highly likely.

  The only evidence of the unknown perpetrators is the barely audible sound of rustling fabric on the outside of our tent. To an untrained ear, it would meld with the sounds of the night, the wind, any objects moving, or the soft hum of civilization somewhere in the distance. I can make out from the locations where the noises are coming from on the other side of the tarp, there are eight of them.

  They must not think very highly of us if they only brought eight.

  I smile. This is going to be a piece of cake.

  The inside of the tent is still and practically immobilized.

  My breathing is shallow, it’s almost nonexistent.

  That’s on the outside. Inside we’re like fucking militia computers. Our minds are processing every minute input of data. Sounds, smells, location, and distance, cross referencing with any known information and creating analogies with the new metrics. We’re creating possible scenarios, tactical maneuvers and outcomes. In a hundred different ways.

  All within thirty seconds.

  The thing with being blindfolded is you absorb every single piece of information that’s available. You know every scent and sound, you count steps, ticks, seconds, and anything else offered. You lock all that shit down, chew it up to get every single piece of information you can to tell you exactly what you cannot see. You analyze more thoroughly, dissect it more precisely until every last shred of information is studied. Then you do it all over again because there’s always something else you missed, or something new has entered into the equation. It’s an endless cycle.

  This is how we know what’s coming for us now.

  They’re good.

  The men that are coming are trained, we know they’re men because of their gait, how they move, and their scent. The steps are measured and heavy, but they still land with as little impact as possible. Acrid whiffs of body odor slightly tinge the air along with whispers of mint, cigarette smoke, (probably American, it doesn’t have that heavy odor of a European or Middle Eastern tobacco), and coffee. From my position I hear a quick intake of breath. At that moment, I nod to Bull. He nods in unison. He heard it too.

  They’re coming in.

  My muscles flex in preparation. They scream at me with the residual agony they’ve endured. That shit doesn’t matter. A surge of adrenaline burns the pain away as I get into position. I don’t have a choice, none of us have a choice. It’s us or it’s them, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be us.

  In the dark, the flap silently bursts open and two men dressed in dark garb explode inside, their faces are covered, hiding their identity. They must have anticipated our positions because they each turn, one toward me, the ot
her to Bull.

  Simultaneously, knives slash into both the sides of the tent and rip a straight line down. Rock and Gringo each grab a wrist, twist, and dislodge the blades. In one smooth motion, they snatch the knives, pin their hands to the tops of their shoes, and slam the daggers through their hands and into their feet. Blood curdling bellows smash through the silence as the scent of blood hits our nostrils.

  Two down.

  I can see in the darkness that the man going for Bull is big. That means one thing: the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Bull knows that. The attacker’s also in a crouched position, protecting everything that’s vulnerable. What does my big boy do? He straightens his ass out. With an upper cut under the jaw, the fucker probably bit his tongue off, he’s opened the assailant and goes in for the kill with a knee to the family jewels.

  There is no such thing as a fair fight when some fuckers attack you in the dark.

  A growl followed by a moan ends with a heavy thud on the ground.

  Three down.

  The guy comes at me swinging with his arm out wide. He’s got a knife.

  Stupid bastard.

  Crossing my left arm in front of me, I latch onto his closed fist, then using his momentum, I redirect his swing downward. Right into his fucking thigh.

  “SON OF A BITCH,” he yells.

  Well, at least now we know they’re American.

  As I bring his hand down, I swing with my right, twisting my body, and punch him in the jaw with all of my body weight. With the knife lodged in his thigh, his head snaps sideways, he grunts, and crumbles to the ground.

  Four down.

  As soon as the two got incapacitated by Rock and Gringo, two more came barreling in over their buddies’ bodies. My boys had the advantage because they could see them coming from their unknown location.

  But the other guys have weapons.

  Rock and Gringo allow them to get all the way inside before they land a kick to their forearms and disarm them. Taking advantage of that split second their attackers are taken off guard, they jump on their backs and begin to choke them with a forearm pressed against their throats. The guys aren’t going down without a fight. The four of them grapple and roll and thrash as they roll around the small space.