Sabotage (24 page)

“Lassie, here girl!” A form came into view, a light-skinned man jogging along at an easy lope. Hassan waved to the man and pointed at the dog. The jogger smiled and waved back.

“There you are, Lassie!” he said. The man picked up his pace, both hands raised in excitement, a leash in his left hand. “Lassie, you really scared me, you know that?” The stranger was so focused on the dog that Hassan, by nature, did the same. He also looked down at the runaway, who still sat with her head cocked, looking straight at him. Then, to Hassan’s surprise, the dog barked once, and the guard’s hand involuntarily tightened on his weapon.

“No, Lassie, don’t bark,” the dog’s owner said. When Hassan looked up again, he squinted. There was a glint of something between himself and the man, spinning, and that’s when the flying blade caught him directly in the eye, plunging into his brain and silencing him forever.

+ + +

The two guards had been mid-conversation inside the compound gate, but they saw Hassan go down. They couldn’t tell whether he had just kneeled or fallen. It was their job to make sure nothing was amiss, so they went to their assigned duties like men on the eleventh hour of a twelve-hour shift.

One man went forward, easing the heavy gate door open, wishing that it was mechanized like so many of the other homes along the road. The second man stayed back, just in case. When the gate was finally open, the first guard on the scene saw that Hassan was on the ground and there was a stranger leaning over him.

“He just passed out or something! I think it might be the heat.” There was a dog, too, a beautiful dog.

How strange
, the guard thought, his eyes flickering back to Hassan.

“I can help you carry him inside if you want,” the American offered.

“Hassan,” the guard said, nudging him with his boot. No movement came from his friend. “Hassan,” he said again. Still nothing.

“He doesn’t look so good,” the American said, reaching to feel Hassan’s neck. Hassan was turned away from the guard, so he couldn’t see Hassan’s features. It wasn’t until he stepped closer to the unconscious man that he sensed something was wrong. There was a wetness on the ground—Water or—And that’s when he saw the crimson color of death running down Hassan’s face.

Before he knew it, the Good Samaritan sprang up, leading with his hand, too fast for the guard to react. He suddenly felt a pain deep in his throat. He had been stung. He tried to yell out, with no voice. The pain went deeper, and then there was only blackness.

+ + +

Cal held the man’s body up while a volley of rounds came from the third guard, striking the second guard in the back. Then he heard the snap of rounds behind him, and sensed the body thump up ahead. Guard number three was down.

“It took you long enough,” Cal said, dropping guard number two to the ground, who thankfully was wearing body armor. His friend Daniel trotted up behind him, Liberty coming in close too.

“I didn’t want to make it too easy for you,” Daniel said. “He knows we’re coming now. He’s heard the gunshots.”

The rest of the neighborhood was secure. Djibouti commandos vetted by President Farah had seen to that. So here they were, about to visit the man who’d changed the world.

Cal and Daniel scanned the area as Liberty sniffed the air. The only person inside was General Hachi. The Marines had no doubt that he would put up a fight. Oh, how Cal wished, no he hoped, that Hachi would put up a fight.

+ + +

General Hachi had, in fact, been in the shower when he heard the gunfire. He slipped out, tying a towel around his waist, grabbing his favorite pistol from the sink. He made it halfway to the bed, where he had a heavier arsenal stashed underneath. A growling form stalked into the room.

It was a dog. Why was there a dog in the house? At first, he thought that maybe his stupid guards had been firing at the animal. It had to be a stray. Wild. The standing hairs on the back of its neck rippled. He hated animals, ever since that night so long ago when he had been attacked outside of his home. Feral dogs, they called them, but in General Hachi’s mind, vermin was a more accurate term. The attack had left him bedridden for over a year. He’d received a hundred stitches, and his leg never fully recovered.

His people had dogs, and that was what he had alluded to with Vice Premier Ling, but he never ventured near the animal’s compound. Just the sight of the place made him want to run and hide.

The dog was barking at him now. Hachi’s weapon came up, and a millisecond from shooting, the trigger already heavy on his finger, a suppressed gunshot rang out. It shattered the weapon in his hand. Casting it aside, Hachi fell back, grabbing his bleeding hand. Two white men stalked into the room, their weapons trained on him. One reached down to touch the dog, while the other moved to restrain him.

It wasn’t that Hachi was surprised. Far from it. The last twenty-four hours had been nothing like he’d planned. He had watched in glee as the Americans turned on themselves and leveled their ire on the dead president. Then they’d turned to him and offered their aide and assistance. He met with FBI officials, the CIA, and a shadowy group of characters he could only assume were Special Forces who’d summoned him as the president of Djibouti. He had been glad, not only because they had come to the throne, but also because it legitimized what he had claimed.

Then, in the most peculiar twist, a man he hardly knew about, and only then did he know because of the election in America, the man who was to challenge President Zimmer, a man named McKnight took to the airwaves and attacked General Hachi. He had the nerve to tell the world that Hachi had been behind it all, even while other members of McKnight’s own government courted Hachi’s favor. On and on he had railed. It seemed as though on every station to which General Hachi tuned, there was McKnight’s face, lashing out at him, demanding that the international community do something about this madman.

He was no madman; he was the future. He had been in control, and his country had cast aside the jackals of America, and forged a new partnership with a rising superpower. Unlike his predecessor, Hachi held no illusions that Djibouti would stand on the world stage with the likes of America, Russia, and China. But he had bet his life and career on the fact that China would prevail. When he made the call to Vice Premier Ling, he hoped that the man would help. But there was no answer; there was only silence. His once strongest ally had closed the door.

Yet, General Hachi would not give up hope. There was no proof that he had killed the American president, and wasn’t it proof that the world wanted? Gone were the days of indiscriminate revenge, at least in the civilized world. The civilized world had cast such perverse actions aside, all for the sake of being modern and civilized. They were back to gentlemen agreeing to only shoot at each other in the light of day, standing across from each other, like the duels from the old days.

Hachi had believed, even if this McKnight and his cohorts pressed their claim, that with friends like Wiley, he could survive. After all, wasn’t it proper for deposed dictators to be allowed to go into exile? That had been his plan if he was to be ousted.

Now, here were these two men and their dog, bursting into his house—his domain! The nerve!

“Do you know who I am?” Hachi asked. The man with brown hair cocked his head and grinned.

“Why don’t you tell us who you are?”

“I am General Hachi, president of—”

The shots caught him in the chest, two in rapid succession. He looked down and saw the pock marks, and then blood flowed freely from his torso and dripped down to his white towel.
This was not how it was supposed to be!

He looked up at the men, and opened his mouth to speak, to demand that they get him medical assistance, but no words came. His chest seized. His eyes fell down to the dog, who was sitting now, looking at him curiously, with a silent question in those brown eyes, as if to say, “
Will you just fall down already?”

But Hachi was a proud man. He had been cast aside his whole life, first by his good friend Farah, who’d gone off to university. He had been left behind, and it was only through begging and pleading with school officials that he’d been sent to the military academy in France. He’d worked hard and earned his place. Then he had maneuvered through the ranks, and indisputably been given the worst of assignments, but he took it stoically. He had always blamed it on Farah—always Farah. How could he have done it any differently? The world was what it was. He was who he was supposed to be, was he not?

Now, as he looked down at the inquisitive dog, he wondered what his life might have been like if he had taken another path so long ago.
If only he had thrown hate aside, lived a simple life, and married a beautiful—

The thought disappeared into eternity, as the next bullets entered his brain, and the man who had been president of Djibouti for almost two days collapsed on the floor, dead.

The man with the blond hair walked over and checked for a pulse.

“He’s gone,” he said.

“Let’s go,” said his companion. “Liberty, come.”

The dog turned around, and went to her master. He reached down, rumpled the fur on her head and gave her a firm pat: “Good girl.”

Chapter 34

It had been a while since Vince stopped keeping track of how many times he got hit. His only focus now was to remain conscious to ensure he received the beatings in order to spare Karl. He was not even sure if Karl was alive anymore. The last time Vince had been able to lift his head and look to the left, he had thought he detected Karl breathing, yet he couldn't be sure.

Damn you, Karl
, Vince thought.

His friend had successfully goaded their abuser by using every racial slur ever invented denigrating the Asian culture. Now he was either dead or just a bloody pulp because of his actions.

"Hit me," Vince said through broken lips. It began again. The initial incarceration had rivaled a spa visit, but then, like a flip of a switch, it had turned dark.

He'd been trained to absorb all manner of pain, to put it all aside and keep his focus. But something inside broke when the Asian man informed them that President Zimmer was dead. There'd been genuine shock on their captor's face as well. For a time, he'd just sat in the room, staring at his hands. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours in the subterranean room where they now sat. It was impossible for Vincent to keep track of time, but it had all changed with a single phone call.

The man had left the room and when he returned, his once blank face was now twisted with a hangman’s cruel sneer. Vince knew it was all over when the man finally introduced himself as Major Ling.

He began the renewed conversation by saying, "When I was a child, five, maybe six years old, my father enrolled me in a martial arts school. I was young but large for my age. The first day a smaller boy sent me home with a black eye. My father gave me another. That night I went outside to where the peasant workers were doing some construction. I found a long two by four and propped it against the wall. Repeatedly, I hit that board until my hands bled. I did that for days. A week later, I returned to the martial arts school and beat the child who’d beaten me. I vowed then I would never lose again. I have always kept a two by four as a reminder of what weakness can lead to, of what defeat lurks just beyond the horizon if we allow it entry into our lives."

He'd shown Karl and Vince his knuckles. They were flat. He made a fist, but it looked more like a mallet than a human hand. Vince hadn't noticed it before, but he knew what it meant. After taking off his shirt and revealing his impressive physique, Major Ling slammed his fist into the metal door. He left an impressive dent for his effort. Then he held up his fist again. There was no pride there, just a silent, "
See, it doesn't even hurt."

Vincent expected questions to come; he always had. Interrogation was inevitable. Even after the initial flurry of punches, he'd steeled himself for interrogation, but none came.

Karl must have figured it out first, because that's when he had started goading Ling. He spat blood at the man, hit him in the face, but there had been no bloodlust in Ling's eyes. He just waded in and levied the pain. Surgically, like he knew every pain point in the men’s legs, arms, and torsos, but he saved their faces for his most crushing blows.

Vincent only lost consciousness once. He came to sometime later after Ling splashed a plastic cup full of Coca Cola into his face. The carbonated beverage stung as it penetrated every cut, jolting him back to awareness. On and on Ling went. Sometimes he would sit and take a sip of a freshly opened can that he grabbed from a bucket of ice near the door. Sometimes he would just stand and watch Vince. The Delta colonel was clueless as to his reason.

At one point, Vince had just asked the man straight up, "Why don't you just kill us?" Not that he wanted to die but that there seemed to be no reason for Ling’s prolonged beatings of him and Karl. The only answer he'd received was a quiet, "It no longer matters.”

While that might have given Vincent some measure of hope, he was no fool. A human body could only take so much. Already his breaths were coming with labored effort. For sure there were more than a couple of ribs broken, and if his ribs punctured his lungs, which he had no doubt they could, it was game over and lights out for Vince.