Mando Bk. 03: General Badass Ch. 07

Chapter     7: The Beheading

    Danny's point of view

I pop the clutch on my bike and race toward the opposite side of the house toward Danny, wave my hand overhead in a circle once before my index finger shoots straight out toward the front door, accompanied by the verbal commands,     "GO IN!," We rev our bikes and race to the house. I toss gas grenades into the van as I pass and ease down on the throttle enough to ride in the yard with minimum noise to face the picture window in the second room. I hear Gino crash through the door on his cycle, the whoosh sound of gas rockets shooting from the front and side ports, and then five dull spits from his silenced gun.

I do a speed demon wheelie and crash through the window like a cork from a Champagne bottle and land in the room skidding sideways.  My rear wheel slams into a table and sends it crashing to the wall. I come to a screeching halt facing two startled terrorists. The element of surprise slows their reaction time for raising their rifles. The barrels swing toward me too late.   I fire fast first, and they fall fast. What a perfect personification of a fatal attraction. A good terrorist is a dead terrorist.

I hop off the cycle and trot out of the room in search of Chuck. God, I hope he is alive.    

The crashing of the front door and window plus the roar of our bikes had the terrorist scattering faster than a school of fish dodging dolphins. Two terrorists with Uzi machine pistols exiting a room two doors down fire their weapons without aiming; they swing the barrels toward me and that sprays lead like a shower head.

I see the machine pistols and jump back into the room and wait for a lull. When one stops shooting, I leap into the hall and a hailstorm of bullets from one peppers my armor. Annoyed, I pop both shooters with my Glock. The lead in their head ends their hate campaign forever. That thought settles my nerves.    

Chuck! I've got to find Chuck!

Gino runs into the hall, takes in the scene, and crashes into the closed door opposite me. I hear something hit the floor with a thud and roll with the thumping sound of something not perfectly round. My heart jumps into my throat.  "Chuck!"

A whooshing sound followed by another thud and the same thumping sound draws me into the room. Something collides with my foot and bounces off. I glance at it and freeze. It's Chuck's head.

I dodge the second thing-another head.    

A chair turned over face down has someone tied in it. Something's odd. When I realize the body leaning toward me is headless and pumping blood from the artery in a cleanly severed neck, my heart grips like an angry fist, and my stomach free falls into an abyss. Chuck! Oh no! No! God no!

The movement to my right causes me to jump back and draw aim in one quick, practiced move. It's Falcon Hawk. "Gino! Where's-" The question freezes in my throat. His contorted face and glaring eyes stare in hate at the headless body he'd decapitated with the owner's sword.

I vomit.    

The chair the victim is lashed to faces the floor to expose Chuck's neck for the sword. Gino gives him a little dignity by righting the chair and sitting him up straight.

           I vomit again before glancing around the room to get my bearings. We're in Chuck's office.       I see a jacket hanging on a hook behind the door and wait until Gino places Chuck's head in his lap and I've taken pictures of him and Abud before draping the jacket over his head and shoulders. In seconds a dark red tie-dyed pattern instantly blooms from his neck sending ribbons of scarlet streaking down toward his lap. The sweet, sickening smell threatens me with dry heaves.

The finality of Chuck's demise has a firm death grip on our hearts and souls. Neither of us can speak as the icy fingers squeeze without mercy. As one we dash toward the front door and reach it before I break the silence. "Secure the house before the yard."

We go through the modern two-story four bedroom brick home and check all rooms before stepping outside with caution onto the circular concrete driveway.    Fifteen sick, distracted terrorists are busy. Some are puking violently, but others manage to control both ends long enough to reach for the gun slung over their shoulders by a leather strap.    

We show no mercy. Whether they are puking, shooting, drawing weapons or shitting their pants, we shoot to kill.

As soon as we're done, we run to the vans.    When I yank open the door, I'm greeted with a burst of bullets from the driver's burp gun. They bounce off my face shield, but the two shots I send his way drill deep into his skull and chest. He collapses on the steering wheel setting off the horn. I jerk him off the horn and sling him out the door so hard he sails ten feet before bouncing on the driveway hard enough to shatter his teeth and scrape the skin off his nose. He skids to a stop and doesn't budge. Death becomes him. "Go to hell, you bastard!" I spit.    

Gino's eyes dart from one body to another as he spits words of vengeance through tight lips. "Let's behead every one of them and Fed-Ex their heads home."His hate-filled eyes and pained face mirrors my thoughts and feelings exactly.    

"Good idea for the next batch." I make a broad sweep with my free hand. "But this time just convert the surviving assholes to DOA assholes."

"Save one for questioning?" He suggests.

I force a laugh. "And ruin my reputation? Kill the fuckers. We'll get more information from Abud's phone than from these pukes."

I take a quick inventory and search for breathers.   Only one is still alive. "I'll enjoy putting a bullet above your nose, cocksucker." A hard expulsion of air escapes his lungs with a deep rumble and coughing rattle; the death breath. "Damn you. How dare you die before I can kill you! You cheated me, you low-life murdering mother fucker." I'd like to shoot a few hundred more of these bastards right now to warm me up for a thousand more.

I stop fuming and focus. "Get Abud's phone quick, Falcon. His contact may call."

Gino races in and out, dodging bodies like a barefoot kid avoiding cow patties as he dashes through a pasture.  He returns and holds the ringing phone out to me before coming to a stop.   "Incoming."

I snap the phone from his hand and glance at the country code. Oman. I answer the phone in Arabic. "Allah be praised. Your infidel hostages out yet?"

"Coming out now, but there's a shit load of soldiers with guns to fetch the prisoners. There's too many for us to fight, what to do?" An excited voice on the other end of the line demands.

"Let them go and get the hell out of there, or you'll be their hostages or dead!" I yell to cover the difference in Abud's voice and mine. Shouting voices are different from our talking voices, and therefore harder to identify.

I hang up and stand close to Gino, "Get out of here, Gino Your makeup is so messed up it'll blow your cover. GO!"

He doesn't argue. A blown cover equals a dead Gino and Danny. He gives me his used clip to account for all the bullets we distributed so carefully among the dead bastards. He kisses my lips, runs to the front room and pushes his bike out. He takes one last look around, starts his Ducati and speeds off.

      I race back into the house for my motorcycle and roll that beautiful mean, racing machine out to the sidewalk and park it near two trees. The memory of Chuck's head rolling across the floor like a deformed bowling ball threatens another puke parade. The images in my mind are more vivid than when I was there. I'm grateful there was no time for Abud to turn on the camera to capture and broadcast the malicious barbaric act.         

I choke up. Those fucking barbarians murdered him because of me. Damn, that hurts. "Oh Chuck, I'm so sorry. Sooo, sooo, sorry we couldn't save you. I was two seconds too late like I was for those kids at the school. Two seconds. Ohhhh Chuck, please forgive me." Sobs take over, and I'm glad I'm alone.

I call the Director of the CIA, my backup contact. "Sir, we're clear here. Tell the crew in Oman to take our people this instant. Their guards should be running away at the moment. They'll be back with more soon so get our people out of there ASAP."

He asks no questions. "Consider it done." A minute later he is back on the line. "Taken care of. Our boys are moving toward their guards, and they are running away like you said."

"Yes, I just told them to run and leave the hostages."

"You told them to?"

"I answered the leader's phone. They are outnumbered and outgunned and want instructions.   I said,   "Leave the hostages and get the hell out of there or become the American dogs' prisoners." Vivid Images of Chuck's decapitated body makes yelling the instructions in a strained, overexcited, angry voice easy.

"Well done, Mando. You must have sounded enough like the boss to be the boss. An ambulance is on the way to you."

"Good. You'll need a good supply of body bags, sir. Any reason for me to stay? The scene tells the tale."

"Hold on until I get there. The press will want to know who to credit for eliminating the terrorist."    

I laugh. "I'm not sure if it was the FBI or the CIA Director who mobilized his team, or maybe it was both. I was never here, so I don't know."

"Understood. We're pulling up now. Great day in the morning! How many bodies am I looking at?"

Fourteen or fifteen, sir. I haven't counted, sir, but my best guess is a shitload-a wide load at that." The guilt of not saving my friend is so overwhelming it gives the victory a sour taste.

He chuckled. "Sounds like you rounded down. Walk to my car. I'm standing beside it. See me? I'm waving."

"I see you and am on my way." My lead feet take me to his car. I do not try to hide my sadness.

We shake hands. "Mando, what about Chuck? Where is he?"

"Second room on the left, sir."

"Why isn't he out here; is he hurt?"

I stare at my feet, kick the grass and look him in the eye. "They beheaded him, sir." I watch him process the information and see his eyes darken with anger and sadness, reflecting my own feelings. After a few moments, he puts on a mask, concentrating on the task at hand.         

I offer him the phone. "This is the leader's mobile, sir. I'm sure there is a lot of good Intel on it.    

He studies the phone traffic. "Yes, good Intel for certain. Thanks Mando."

I offer him my phone next. "Here's a picture of Chuck, sir."

He hesitates before looking at the pictures. When he sees Chuck's body in the chair with his head in his lap he grimaces, turns pale, and throws up.

"Sorry about that, Mando, but it's an automatic response I guess,"    He says in a weak, strained voice.

"Save some for when you go inside and actually see him." I examine the toes of my shoes so he won't see my moist eyes.    

"Sir, what do you need from me? What went down is obvious. When I crashed through the front door, they were running and shooting at me; I shot back. That's all."

"That's all, huh? Judging from your chest, you took a couple dozen rounds. Need an ambulance?"

"I'm good." I just want to go home for Gino to hold me while I cry my tear ducts dry. "The leader is in the room with Chuck. He's in the same condition. Headless, I mean. It's only right."

He doesn't ask if I shot him first. "Right. How many bodies are inside?"

"Eight or nine, sir." I force a grin. "Half a shitload at least."    

He removes a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his navy blue suit jacket and wipes his tense mouth. His six foot six frame towers over me. "Counting inside and outside is about two dozen, right?"

My head bobs automatically. "Give or take one or two." I can't get my mind off Chuck. Focus! "One more thing sir; I scattered a couple canisters of puke gas on my way in. That's why the vomit is all around these bodies.  It should have dissipated by now. Oh, yes, someone should notify his wife soon, or she'll see in on the news. She's visiting her sister in Atlanta."

The hard grimace claims his whole face. "Soon is right, but she shouldn't be told over the phone, either."

"No, sir."  I look around. "Well, sir, America's CIA and FBI agencies sure are efficient. I hope your team suffered no casualties." We manage a dry laugh.    

"No, my agents came out clean as a peeled banana. That body armor is worth its weight in commandos."    

The "worth its weight in commandos" comment turns my tense lips into a ten-two smile, and genuine laughter finds its way into the night air. That laugh is an excellent tonic. And right on time, too.    

"Mando, it's a joke among the FBI agents that they've never needed a pair of handcuffs when you're involved; just body bags. Is that true?"

I take that as a criticism and bristle. "Sir, I don't fight good guys, just evil ones. Cremated criminals don't tie up jail space, make or skip bail, enrich lawyers, or kill more civilians, agents or police officers. And their friends and bosses don't know they only have to defeat a one man menace that's hurting their business. If they did they'd pull out all stops and bribes in a massive manhunt."

I take a deep breath and answer his question. "The direct answer to your question is yes. In all cases, the bad guys' weapons were drawn or had already fired upon me. Here, I was the aggressor because I was the target. What happened to Chuck is what they planned to do with me."

"That wasn't a criticism, Mando; just the opposite. You're revered because of that. We government boys can't do what you can. And like you said, there's always been justification."

"Yes, sir."

He shakes his head. "Mando, there's no one in the world capable of doing what you and your team do. All agencies and defense department heads hate that you're forced to go inactive to save your own hide." He waves toward the house. "This thing with Chuck proves those bastards are giving finding you a thousand percent effort."

"Yes, sir, if I don't volunteer to disappear today, the terrorists will do it for me tomorrow."

"That's a fact." The DI nods his head toward the cluster of staring and whispering residents. "Telling the press we busted this ambush will hold if the neighbors think our arrival after the fact is a backup team."

"Quite right, sir. A little coaching might help solidify their memories, sir." I shrug. "Tell them the guys who attacked and killed Chuck were terrorists, and they'll say anything you want them to say, or say nothing if you wish."

For an answer, he takes long strides around the car to the middle of the road and waves the residents over.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am with the CIA, and the FBI is here. Terrorists were holding Chuck hostage and making demands." He points to the yard. "As you can see, that's a large attack team, and there's half that many more in the home. The leader of the organization is still at large."

The residents listen intently as the DI fills them in.

"The terrorist group is The Right Hand of Allah, the same ones who kidnapped the Vice President and attempted to assassinate the President and the Pope. I tell you this for two reasons. One, he was your neighbor and friend, and two, it is a matter of national security, and I beseech you to answer any questions from anyone by saying it was over before you knew what happened. Only the press will want to interview you. Authorities require no interview because we know what happened."

Someone from the crowd shouts the question of concern that's written on everyone's tormented face. "Excuse me, sir, are Chuck, and Ann all right?"

His countenance sags. "The wife's out of town and the news about Chuck is not good. Terrorists killed him about an hour ago, the best we can tell. I'm so sorry to bring that news to you."

The crowd erupts in wails, moans, expletives, and sobs. It's sad to see.

"Ladies and Gentlemen please help us by keeping what you saw and what I told you quiet. That includes the press and local law officers. This is a federal matter. Your silence is critical for the country's safety because the terrorists' leader doesn't know his whole mob is dead. Rest assured, when he finds out he'll be out for more blood. The less information he has, the better. Assume anything you say is going on the internet and the six o'clock news."

He chuckles and gives the clincher. "Besides that, who wants to be drilled and cross examined on a witness stand for days?" He walks back to the car.

"Sir, call me with questions. The blue boys are showing up, and a camera truck won't be far behind. The sooner these bodies are out of the yard the better."

His expression turns sour. "Right.    Better rush the removals. The FBI will help speed up the process. They'll help." He extends his hand. "Mando, this country is in your debt for many things."

My head shakes sideways. "No sir, I am not America's creditor, I'm a fellow citizen. Goodbye, sir."

I hurry to the bike and sneak away from the scene to avoid any more briefing requests. The CIA will share reports. I give the bike and the road all my attention to block out visions of a headless Chuck. It doesn't work.

Once I stow the motorcycle I scurry in to find Gino. He is easy to locate because he's coming toward me with his arms open. I run into his warm, secure embrace. "Hold me tight, or I'll fall apart." I cry and sob for half an hour without saying a whole sentence.         

"Oh, Gino" I cry with rib-rattling sobs, struggling to gain control so I can talk. Five minutes later I'm back. "Gino just one second earlier and Chuck would still be alive. I was too slow." I break. He holds me until the sobs subside.

"Danny, Abud reacted to the sound of our attack. Could we have done it any faster? Did you waste any time once inside?"

I think about this and shake my head. "No, I knew every second counted. But-"    

"But nothing. There would have been no exchange. His captors intended to kill both of you and you know it."

"Yes, but-"

"No buts! We both wish we could have saved him and we gave it every effort. He didn't die because we were slow, careless, or negligent."

I shake my head. "No, but he died because of us. They got to him to get to us. That's one thing we must live with."

"Yes, Danny, Terrorists killed him because of us. That's heavy baggage to carry."    

I break again. My heart shatters into pieces. I'm such a basket case I'm easy prey to anyone. Hell, a toothpick jab from a five-year-old could turn me into a corpse.

"Gino, do you want to tell Anne?"

He shakes his head.

My face brightens. "We could fly to Atlanta and tell her together, couldn't we?"

"No, that would take too long. We don't want Anne seeing it on the news first. Her priest may be a good choice for a messenger."

Without a word, I call the DI, make the suggestion, put the phone down, and bury my head in Gino's shoulder. I thought my tear reservoir was dry, but more crying and weeping proves that theory wrong.

Eventually my grief subsides long enough for my mind to clear. "Gino it's true they were trying to get to us, but Chuck assigned our missions. He participated that way," I say with a grim voice. "He took part in all the good we did too, like saving the VP and protecting the President and Pope and saving those kids in that school. He was part of that. And you too. He was the one who booked me to protect you."

I kiss and hug him without caring about getting his neck wet and shirt smudged with makeup from my disguise. "Like us, he knew the risks. And like us, he did it anyway."

Gino's eyes are red and puffy when he rests his nose against mine. "That's true Danny, but we hurt anyway. We need to deal with guilt feelings now, both false and real, or they'll eat us up."

"Yes, it started chewing on me the minute I hung up the phone from talking with Chuck."

"Yep. You obviously understood his code. They were after both of us."