Blood always leaves traces

'General Dyer conducted soldiers for firing on an innocent crowd of Indians through this passage.'

I read those fifteen words a couple of times before glancing to my right, where the passage began, and then to my left, where it led to the Jallianwala Bagh. I tried to imagine the sounds of Army issue boots that would echo if an entire battalion marched down the narrow corridor, then turned to my left and walked into the Bagh.

There was a slight drizzle but it had not discouraged people from flocking to the place. A little to my right was a stone in the shape of a pyramid, with the same inscription on each face, but in different languages. ‘People were fired at from here.’

I stood near the stone and looked as far as my eye could reach, imagining men, women and children gathering into the Bagh on Baisakhi, decades earlier. Then I thought of muskets being loaded at Dyer’s command, imagined the sound of the guns being cocked, pictured the uniformed soldiers raising their weapons to their shoulders. For a brief moment, I found myself thinking about what would happen if a squad of soldiers opened fire with M4 assault rifles at the crowd that was so happily going around posing for pictures and pouting for selfies on the ground where blood had once been shed.

Shaking my head, I turned my back on my morbid daydream and saw a memorial under a small canopy. Called the Amar Jyot, the perennially burning lamp was placed on a black stone platform to pay tribute to the over 1000 people who were mowed down by guns that afternoon. People were lining up to pose for pictures or selfies in front of the lamp. At least they were taking their shoes off before entering the inner sanctum, I thought before turning away.

A path led from the pyramid shaped stone to the inner part of the Bagh, and as I walked forward, the cold droplets of the drizzle on my skin seemed to be in sync with the tiny pinpricks I was feeling underneath, as I trod the ground where the blood of thousands had been spilled once.

On both sides of the path, the shrubbery had been trimmed and shaped to look like soldiers armed with rifles advancing into the Bagh, signifying the progress of Dyer’s soldiers as they continued their march of death. I walked slowly down the path, stopping at three walls of the Bagh, where the pockmarks made by bullet holes had been carefully preserved for viewers. Each mark was highlighted by a white square, which, in my opinion, was hardly adequate to convey the horror. 

  

While people were busily clicking pictures of each other and of themselves with the walls in the background, I was imagining bullets tearing through the flesh of the innocents before lodging themselves in the bricks. Faint cries of desperation echoed in my ears as I thought of the helpless men, women and children trying to scale the high walls, only to be cut down by the soldiers' bullets. My mind began conjuring visions of people trying to climb the heaps of dead bodies in a last ditch attempt to get out alive before being cut down by the barrage of lead coming from behind them. 

As I walked along the walls, I had to chuckle, although what I saw was far from funny. A stretch of wall between the two bullet-mark riddled ones was covered with graffiti. Declarations of love scrawled across the walls or initials carved into heart shapes decorated the walls which might also have been riddled with bullets had the helpless innocents tried to climb over these walls as well. Similar graffiti covered scores of other pillars that I saw while walking to the next destination on my grim pilgrimage. I saw it from afar before I reached it. The Martyrs Well.

The well into which, when left with no other option, the gatherers at the Bagh had jumped in a desperate attempt to save their lives. The same well became their crypt. A signboard over the well says that 120 bodies were later pulled out of the well. A grill covers the well now, and I pressed by face to it, trying to gauge its depth. Walking around its circumference, I finally found an open spot in the grill and managed to take a picture. Absurdly, I kept peeking to see if I could see any traces of blood. I couldn't but I somehow knew they were there. Blood always leaves traces.

A museum of sorts near the Martyrs Well has a heart rending account of an eye witness, Ratan Devi, who ran to the Bagh after hearing gunshots and ended up spending the entire night among the victims, some of them alive and slowly bleeding to death, due to the curfew imposed in the area. “I found a bamboo stick and used it to fend off the dogs, while sitting beside my husband's dead body. I saw three men writhing in agony, a buffalo struggling in pain and a boy, about twelve years old, entreated me not to leave the place,” Ratan Devi recounts.

The same space also has a painting depicting the massacre. I tried to take a picture but gave up. There were too many people taking selfies in front of it.

I walked silently towards a souvenir gallery near the exit. It contains framed photographs of newspaper articles about the incident, and the ashes of Shaheed Udham Singh, who later shot dead General Reginald Dyer in London. Photography is prohibited inside this gallery, which is a pity, as it also has on display a curiously basic example of how life can be snatched away without a moment's notice. A coin, one of its edges bitten off by a bullet, recovered from a victim's pocket. “The victim later succumbed to his injuries,” the plaque reads.

An old man tried to sell me selfie sticks as I walked out of the Bagh.

Acceptance

They raced through the dark corridors, side by side, knowing fully well how important it was for them to get to their destination on time.

“We need to hurry before the others get there,” she said, sounding worried.  

“If they’re not there already,” he said grimly.

They both rounded a corner and stopped in their tracks, panting. They were too late.

The inner sanctum of the man’s mind was deep, and at the moment, dark. The way it gets when someone goes around putting out all the lights in a fully lit room. Which was exactly what was happening.

As Hope and Resilience stood and watched helplessly, Anger went around pulling all the lights from their holdings.

Hope looked around and almost missed Joy sitting in a corner, head in his hands. She went over and knelt beside him.

“You can’t give up now. He needs you the most at this time,” she tried to coax him. Joy didn’t move. He had taken a blow in the gut, and wasn’t getting up any time soon. 

Resilience stepped forward and at that exact same moment, so did Denial.

“What do you want?” Denial snarled in Resilience’s face.

“This isn’t going to be of any use,” Resilience said.

“Yeah? Well, nothing is.”

“Come on…”

“Shut up!” Denial sneered and walked away.

Resilience watched helplessly as Denial walked around the sanctum of the man’s mind, stomping up and down, steam rising from the floor, as he went about shutting every window, completing the darkness. 

Resilience felt his power ebbing away with each passing second, while at the same time sensed Anger, who was just waiting in a corner now, getting darker and stronger. Hope, on the other hand, was still trying to revive Joy, who was as pale and gaunt as death by now.

“This can’t be happening,” Denial was saying. “There’s no way this is happening. It’s some kind of a joke. Or maybe a test. Yeah, a test. Any minute now, this is gonna turn out to be a test.”

Resilience winced. Anger gritted his teeth.

“I mean, how could this be happening, right?” Denial said.

“Why the hell not?” Anger snapped.

Everyone turned to him.

“WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT!?” Anger roared, standing up and coming forward. 

Resilience sank to the floor.

“Isn’t that how it’s always been? Hasn’t it always been one big bloody joke?” Anger raged on.

“But everything was so…so beautiful…” Denial said stubbornly.

“Oh yeah. Perfect setting, don’t you think? Build a beautiful dream and then take a goddamn hammer to it. BLOODY PERFECT!”

Dark black smoke was rising out of Anger now. The entire sanctum of the man’s mind was getting hot. Resilience was feeling faint and Hope had sat down beside Joy in the corner, too weak to say anything.

“Please,” Hope begged.

“Stop…” Resilience said.

Anger clenched his fists till he began shaking.

“Every time,” he hissed. “Every. Single. Time…” Anger’s skin was burning now. Huge, black flames were filling up the sanctum.

Everyone watched in terrified awe as Anger started burning to the ground. And from the ashes of Anger rose Grief.

Pale. Thin. Dark. Grief didn’t even look at anyone as she stepped forward. Denial was gone. Anger had burnt away. Joy had rested his head against a wall and closed his eyes. Hope was using whatever strength she had left to hold on to his hand simply to keep him alive. Resilience was curled up on the ground, too weak to say anything.

Grief walked around like a figure in mourning, exuding Depression from each pore. They could hear the man crying. Only tears flowed out of his eyes. His mouth was silent. But his mind was howling. Grief was doing her job well.

Resilience tried to crawl forward. But every movement he took drained him a little more than the previous one. Desperate, he looked to Hope, tried to call out to her. But she was using the last reserves of her very being to hold on to Joy’s hand.

Grief walked around, scattering gloom around the sanctum from her pale white robes. Depression, who hung overhead like a cloud, absorbed all the gloom, getting bigger and deeper. The more Grief shook her robes, the more Depression expanded.

Grief started melting as she walked, turning to tears and flowing out of the man’s eyes in a never ending stream. His mind wept bitterly. Depression kept getting stronger. By the fourth day, Grief had completely melted and turned into Depression.

Dark, scary thoughts echoed into the sanctum of the man’s mind, as he went through the motions of daily life.

It’s all pointless.

It’s no use.

You’re nothing but a joke.

You had no business being so happy.

“Please,” Resilience croaked. “It’s been a week already…”

Did you really think there was going to be a happy ending?

Have there ever been happy endings?

Do you think you even deserve them?

Have you not learned your lesson yet?

You’re stupid, you know that?

It was only on the tenth day that a trench coated, stockily built figure stepped into the sanctum, cutting through the dense could of Depression. Resilience twitched. Hope opened her eyes.

He kept staring at the center of Depression, which held its own. Undaunted, he walked right into the cloud, all the time staring hard from under his hat at the nucleus, which, unwillingly, grudgingly, began to dissipate.

It took another day, but at the end of it, the cloud had completely cleared. The newcomer walked around slowly, his heavy boots echoing through the sanctum, as the last few wisps of Depression took the form of Denial, Anger and Grief.

“If you kids’re done playing around,” Acceptance said firmly, “I got some work to do here.”

Denial, Anger and Grief looked as if they were going to start something. Instead, they meekly walked away and were gone within seconds. Resilience and Hope felt the life returning into them.

“You two,” Acceptance said crisply. “Off your asses.”

They got up with surprising ease. Hope looked down at Joy, who was still looking like a ghost.

“Let him be,” Acceptance said. “He’s gonna need some more time.”

He laid down a sack on the ground.

“Positive memories,” he said as he opened it. “Had to rummage around to pick out the best ones for the man to focus on. Get the lights back, will you? And open some windows”

Joy took his first deep breath in days.

I Am A Voice - Concluding Part

Part I, Part II and Part III can be accessed here, in case you haven't read them
_________________________________________________________________________

Romeo never once doubted me. Before the confused murmurs of the people in the hallway could reach a discernible level, he jabbed D’mitri in the throat with the small needle he had been carrying in a hidden compartment in the sleeve of his blazer. A needle dipped in the deadliest of poisons available. A poison I had guided Romeo to. Then he laid him against the railing and nimbly squeezed between the people towards the elevators.

He was outside an elevator when the lights came on ten seconds later. It took a good two minutes for people to find their bearings after the sudden blackout. It took them two more minutes to notice the man sitting on the ground, his back to the railing, head hanging limply to one side. Romeo was by this time entering our room on the second floor.

I turned just as he entered. The feed from the cameras on the first floor was visible on three screens in front of me. I had hacked into the hotel’s system earlier without a hitch. I quickly shut down the laptops and shoved them inside bags just as Bravo came in.

“Are you sure it was him?” Romeo asked me.

I showed him the reading from the voice comparison device. “His voice came on perfectly through your wrist mike. It was a solid match,” I told him. Silently, Romeo took the SIM card out of his cell phone and went to the bathroom to flush it down the toilet, while Bravo stuffed voice analyser in a separate bag, along with his wireless earpiece and wrist mike. I handed him my own just as Romeo came out and followed suit.

“Solid timing on cutting the power,” I told Bravo, who shrugged off the compliment. I looked at Romeo, who was staring daggers at me.

“What?” I asked him.

“I could snap your bloody neck right now,” he growled.

I pulled my best innocent face.

“All that justice and vengeance and restoring balance stuff you kept yapping about it my ear…”

“Hey, it gets pretty boring in here, surrounded by all these machines, you know. Gotta do something to make it more interesting….” I said.

Bravo started chuckling. Romeo said nothing.

“Besides,” I told him, “It’s nothing compared to what I tell myself in my head.”

Bravo burst out laughing. I followed suit. Romeo continued to glare.

THE END

I Am A Voice - Part III

The story continues. Click for Part I and Part II
___________________________________________________________

At first, Romeo was still. Then he gave a small nod.

Yes, I told him, you are. Tonight, you will punish this man for his sins. Tonight, you will complete your destiny, fulfil your purpose. After tonight, you will be proud of yourself.

Romeo clenched his fist but quickly released it. I smiled.

Do it, I told him.

He pulled out his cell phone, while casually turning around and leaning his back against the railing. Then he typed a short message: Italian food joint, red curtains. 15 mins. I knew because he had typed exactly what I had told him to type.

The moment is close, I said. After tonight, people will be scared to kill innocents. They will think twice before stealing from the poor and trampling on the weak. And you will be the unsung hero behind this success. That is your destiny. To be the silent shadow that strikes fear in the hearts of evil doers.

The Italian food joint with red curtains was further down the hallway, where the line of eateries turned to the left. Ten minutes after receiving Romeo’s message, the man in the expensive silk suit walked out of the coffee shop and started walking towards it through the thin evening crowd. It was that time of the day when guests at the hotel were freshening up to prepare for the evening ahead after a day of sightseeing. Romeo had by this time resumed his pose of a man mounting vigil over the lobby.

I waited. Romeo waited. We both waited for it to happen.

Of course it happened. That is what I do. I make mortals do my bidding and I make things happen.

It happened exactly a minute later, as the man drew up to where Romeo was standing. It happened almost at the exact second I wanted it to happen. But then, that was hardly surprising. What I say, happens.

Darkness enveloped the entire building as suddenly and unexpectedly as lightning falls. Romeo whirled around, grabbed the man in the suit and pulled him close.

“D’mitri?” I heard Romeo whisper. The startled man obliged with a startled “Kto?” the Russian for, “Who?”

Now, I commanded.

TO BE CONTINUED

I Am A Voice - Part II

Next part of the story. First timers requested to read Part I before this one.
______________________________________________________________

For weeks, Romeo had watched him, had followed his every move. He had broken into his house and looked through his trash and stolen his mail till Romeo finally learned that he was scheming with a character as unsavoury as himself. To inflict further damage upon a world that had already suffered much at his hands. And this is where we came in. Romeo and I were the avengers as well as the protectors.

So we took the other character out of the equation. That is to say, Romeo did. I am just a voice, remember? I am just the voice telling Romeo what to do. And Romeo, the ever faithful soldier of my cause, did it without asking me a single question. He trusted me. He believed in me. He was willing to be guided by me. And I was only too happy to make him the instrument of my vengeance on those who deserved it so badly I could almost hear them begging for it.

With me guiding him at every step, Romeo replaced the other character and started corresponding with the man in the suit. We killed the other guy, of course, after extracting every bit of information from him. Again, Romeo did it all. I just showed him the path. And he walked it in wonderful, obedient silence.

Every single command was only met with prompt compliance. 

Crush another finger joint; he isn’t talking fast enough.

He’s lying to you, shoot him in the knee.

You’re done with him. Kill him. 

All I had to do was ask.

And so, here he was, the man in the suit, waiting for communication from someone he thought was going to help him make more money.

Let him wait, I told Romeo. No, don’t go too close to him. Maintain your distance.

Romeo showed no outward signs of having even heard me. Smoothly, he walked past the coffee shop and stood outside a burger joint down the hallway. He leaned against the railing, looking down into the lobby. His head made tiny movements in different directions, as if he were waiting for someone and trying to spot them as they entered the lobby. This man was good. I had taught him well.

Ready to restore balance to the world? I asked.

TO BE CONTINUED 

I am a voice - Part I

I am a voice.

No, I’m not just any voice. I’m not some sound made by some random man’s throat that human beings have learned to interpret to make sense as per the languages they invented a couple of millennia ago. I’m not the noise emanating from some fair maiden’s delicate vocal cords that men pretend to be in love with when all they really want it a night of fun, to put it mildly.

What I am is a nameless, faceless voice in the ears of people who listen to what I tell them. And when I tell them to do something, they do it.

For most of the world, I do not exist. But for the ones I guide, I am everything.  

So when I told Romeo to wait in the men’s room for a couple of seconds while the man in the expensive silk suit left, he dutifully pulled out a pair of glasses from his blazer pocket, pretended to examine them in the light and then put them on. Then I told him to move. And he did.

Romeo quickly set off on a trajectory that kept the man in the suit in his line of sight. And where he ran the risk of losing sight of his target, he had me. I see everything. That’s why they listen to me.

Romeo was good. He followed the man exactly the way I told him to. He never hesitated or lost a step. This was the kind of minion I liked.

Slowly but surely, I told him. Tonight is the night of justice. Tonight, we avenge the poor and the helpless. Take the escalator next to the one he took. Not now. Yes, now. Tonight we colour his expensive suit with blood. Not the innocent blood he has on his hands but his own blood.

A stranger would never have guessed that Romeo was following instructions; would never have guessed that a voice was constantly whispering encouragement as well as commands in his ear. For all the world, Romeo was just another man making his way from the ground floor of the lobby of a plush hotel to the first floor. For the ignorant, he was just standing on the escalator letting it take him upwards while checking his cell phone for messages.

You are the chosen one, I had taught him. No one has the right to know your mission. No one is worthy enough.

The man in the suit stepped off the escalator and looked around at the restaurants and bars on the first floor before entering a coffee shop. He settled into a chair facing the entrance and placed his cell phone close to his hand. He was expecting a call, or a message. And he wanted to respond to it quickly.

I smiled.



TO BE CONTINUED 

Urban Warfare

FINAL PART OF THE TRILOGY. FIRST TIME VISITORS REQUESTED TO READ The Conversation AND An Overt Op FIRST. I'VE LINKED THE TITLES TO THE POSTS TO MAKE IT EASIER.

“I need your help.”

The number was unknown, but the voice was unmistakably Gloria’s. Loco swore. This was the worst possible time for a distraction.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“There are people trying to kill me. I’ve been on the run for three days and am using a stolen cell phone. I can’t do this alone anymore.” Gloria’s voice was remarkably calm.

Loco didn’t have time to ask questions.

“Keep your cell phone on. Help’s on its way. They’ll mention the name ‘Bellona’,” Loco said and rang off without waiting for a reply. He was short on time.

Ten minutes earlier, his commanding officer had called with an assignment.

“Team’s standing by near target’s location. I want you to lead,” were the instructions, followed by an address.

Loco didn’t usually do urban warfare but he was 30 minutes away from the objective, staying in a safe house following the shootout with Bane, and was the most logical choice.

Loco checked his Desert Eagle and ammunition clips in their holsters and pulled on a long overcoat. He then packed plastic handcuffs, two syringes, two vials of morphine, two flashbang grenades and a stun-gun in a small bag, which he slung over his neck and one arm. Walking out of the apartment, he plugged in a bluetooth headset and speed dialed a number. The call was answered at the third ring.

“What’s up?” Bellona asked.

“Special case. Top priority. And we pay from our pocket. Any free agents available?”

“Some. What’s the job? And location?” Bellona was already pulling up a list of available mercenaries.

“Rescue op. armed resistance. I’ll give you the location, and the target’s number on the go. And handle this yourself, ok? I’m gonna be unreachable for the next 60 mins.”

“Will do.”

Loco cut the call and dialed another number.

“I need a location,” Loco said to the man at the other end. He gave the number Gloria had called him from.

“Got it. Get back to ya,” Leone drawled.

“Get back to Bellona,” Loco said and rang off.

Bellona and Leone were part of a covert syndicate that Loco ran on the side. Loco and Bellona took mercenary jobs and found the right people for it, while Leone, with his hacking skills, provided tech support.

Getting into his car, he switched off his cell phone and placed it into the glove compartment along with the headset.

**********

Bellona’s cell phone chimed. The text message from Leone contained an address, with a postscript: ‘Loco wanted this location.’

Bellona entered the location in her desktop and narrowed her list down to two mercenaries who were closest to it. Loco had said top priority, so she emailed both the mercs, letting them know that they had to work together. They both replied within seconds. A price was fixed and both of them were officially hired five minutes later. Bellona gave them Gloria’s location and number.

**********

Their codenames were Pitbull and Hector. They rendezvoused outside a theatre ten minutes away from the the railway station where Gloria was hiding. Pitbull got into Hector’s car dialed her number as Hector started driving.

“Bellona said you need help,” he said.

“Where are you?” Gloria asked.

“Driving to the station. Be there in five minutes.”

“There are three armed men in a café across the road. They can’t come in because of the metal detectors. They’re all wearing black. ”

“Got it. I’m wearing a blue shirt and white jeans. Come out when you see me,” Pitbull told her.

“I’m wearing white and carrying a brown shoulder bag,” Gloria said before ringing off.

**********

Gloria casually paced to the entrance and cast an eye across the road. The three men were still there. She regretted ditching her gun but at least the metal detectors were keeping her pursuers out.

‘I should never have turned back,’ she thought. ‘Loco could have taken care of himself.’

Gloria had been spotted by a member of the team that had arrived to back Loco up. As her luck would have it, he turned out to be a former member of her unit before she deserted it before marrying Gideon. They both recognized each other, and a day later, she saw him lurking outside her house. That was when she decided to run.

Gloria flashed back to the feeling that came rushing back as soon as she saw Loco trading fire with Bane’s men. She hadn’t forgotten her training.

She caught sight of a blue shirt, not tucked in over white jeans. The man was exiting a black SUV and looking intently at the crowd inside the station.

Gloria moved to the entrance, ready to dash out just as a silver colored sedan came to a stop across the street. The three men in the café exited and walked towards it to meet the man who was stepping out.

Gloria looked towards Pitbull, who had obviously recognized her as well as perceived the threat across the street. He waved her back inside and drew his pistol with his other hand. Turning, he slapped the roof of the SUV. A second man sprang out of the car, with an M16 assault rifle in his hands.  They both took position behind the SUV and pointed their guns at the men crossing the street.

**********

Loco’s was getting briefed on the go “Target was spotted three days ago in…”

“Hostiles. 12 o’clock,” Loco snapped. His teammates reached under their coats and drew Scorpion sub machine pistols with extended magazines.

All four turned and ran. Loco jumped behind a parked car and turned in time to see one of his men get cut down by the M16. Loco swore. Shooting the gas tank was not an option due to all the civilians around. He hated urban ops.

“Did intel mention armed escorts?” he yelled into his mic angrily. The replies were in the negative. Loco made his decision. ‘The hell with bringing her in, shoot to kill!’

Fishing a flashbang out of his bag, Loco waited till the man with the M16 ducked to reload and yelled “Fire in the hole!” Then he pulled the pin, tossed the grenade and turned to cover his eyes and ears.

Loco and his team waited for five seconds before springing up and starting across the street. The two gunmen were trying to regain their bearings when they were both riddled with bullets.

“Target spotted. Left pillar near entrance,” one of his men called.

Without breaking stride, Loco pulled out an ID card.

“NATO forces. This is a counter terrorist op. Turn the metal detectors off!” he barked at the railway station guards who fell over each other to comply.

Loco went straight to the target, who was bent over behind the pillar, obviously having caught some of the flashbang.

He rounded the pillar, gun ready, just the target stood up. She had a fire extinguisher in her hand.

Loco dropped to one knee to avoid catching the spray in his face. The Desert Eagle rose and boomed twice. Both bullets hit the target in the face, blowing most of it away. Blood splattered on her white dress, and her brown shoulder bag skidded across the floor.

“Target down. Tell control,” Loco said.

Running out to his sedan, he switched on his phone and called Bellona.

“How’d it go? Is the target safe?” he asked.

An Overt Op

Continuation to The Conversation. Readers requested to read the previous post first. Hope you all like this one

Loco looked at Gloria’s retreating figure and sighed. Then he leaned back in his seat and looked at the man at the next table.

The man looked back. They both nodded at each other. Then the man came over and joined Loco at his table.

“Latte duet, huh?” he said, sniffing Gloria’s cup.

“Thanks for waiting,” Loco responded.

“In deference to the lady.” Bane said. “When did you spot me?”

“Oh, you I spotted the minute you walked in. Your seven Expendables took me some ten minutes to find,” Loco’s eyes had narrowed to slits as he stared at Bane.

Bane grinned.

“Guess you haven’t been exactly idle all this while?”

Loco smiled and shook his head. His mind flashed back to a few minutes ago.

“Yes we are,” he leaned forward and for the first time, looking into her eyes didn’t affect him. His hand slowly reached over to his cell phone, which he had placed on the table.

“Seven years…” Bane reflected. “We’ve been doing this dance for seven years…”

“And I always flee after stepping on your toes,” Loco said, smiling his cheekiest smile.

“Yes, we are cold blooded, ruthless killers. But only with those who come to kill us.”

Surreptitiously, he unlocked the keypad and dialed 7 – the speed-dial number to call for back up in case of any emergency. His fingers moved quickly as he held Gloria’s gaze.

“Not this time. I’ve got you surrounded.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“With those who have killed scores and wouldn’t even look at us as numbers in their list of victims. With them, we are their worst nightmare.”

Accessing an application, he sent the co-ordinates of his location to the local cell in the city, all the time not even looking at his cell phone once.

A pulse began to throb in Bane’s forehead.

Loco pulled his legs closer under the table, ready to spring.

“Some of us have wives, some have kids, others ailing parents. And we tell them all we can tell them, and they understand. They have to.”

The backup would either be a team from the nearest police station or, if that took too long, anonymous men in unmarked cars.

Bane’s hand moved to his jacket. Loco stole a speedy glance at Bane’s men sitting a various tables and saw them follow suit. The sounds around him dimmed into a hum as his mind focused.

He jolted forward, grabbed Bane by his lapels and pulled him close. Bane, surprised and cursing, slid over the table towards Loco, knocking cups and cutlery off the table. The two men came to rest on the ground in an awkward bear hug.

“Shall we dance?” Loco whispered in Bane’s ear and started rolling. His men could only point their guns as the duo rolled toward the kitchen of the open-air café. Loco reached the kitchen door, drew his Desert Eagle, and shot one of Bane’s men nearest to him. The .44 caliber round crashed into the thug’s face at close quarters, taking away most of it.

The gunshot gave Loco the confusion he wanted. As customers sprang out of their seats and started running and screaming, Loco sprang up and rushed to the kitchen, firing a couple of more rounds in his wake, sending Bane crawling for cover. His men could only get a few shots off while trying to avoid hitting the civilians.

***

Three blocks away, Gloria heard the guns go off from the direction of the café.

‘Loco!’ she thought.

Hefting Gideon’s rucksack over her shoulder, she turned and ran back.

***

“Is there a back door?” Loco snapped at the frightened cook. The man could only nod as his helpers looked on, cowering.

“Well, get out then! All of you!” he roared as he slammed the front door behind him and pushed a stool against the lock, jamming it. He risked a peek out of the window while the men ran out and saw Bane and his men take positions behind overturned tables. He then rolled over to the back door and jammed it shut as well.

“You feel it yet?” Gideon’s voice whispered his ear.

“I’m getting there, buddy,” he growled as he body slammed into autopilot.

Take position under window ledge. Check ammo clip. Five rounds. Check for spare clips. Two in each ankle holster. Whirl around. Find target. Fire. One down.

Swivel. Find target. Fire. Missed. Fire again. Got him.

Two rounds remaining. Fire them at Bane trying to crawl over to the door. Send the bugger scampering back.

Eject. Draw clip from left ankle holster. Reload.

***

Gloria pushed against the throng of people trying to run out of the square and came to a stop meters away from the gunfire. Five men had taken positions behind tables turned on their sides, and were firing at the kitchen. A quick glance told her that Loco was not among them.

‘Damn!’ she thought. ‘They’ll kill him!’

***

Aim. Fire. Fire twice again. Four down, four to go.

Gideon’s ghost ever present.

“Aim and fire, soldier!” always chuckling, always mocking.

Peek out of cover. One of the Expendables drawing an Uzi from the bag. Duck.

The hail of bullets chipped at the window ledge and the door. Loco had a feeling that the door wasn’t about to hold up against the barrage very well. He waited for the man to run out of bullets. His window would be when he stopped to reload.

Wait. Gauge direction of the Uzi. Focus.

He’s out. Spring up. Fire.

The man took the bullet in the chest, the Uzi falling out of his hands. The second slug rammed straight into his head. narrowing the score down to three, including Bane.

Just as he turned his gun on Bane, one of the remaining mercenaries fired his pistol. The bullets slammed into the wall in front of Loco’s face, sending chunks of concrete flying into his eyes.

“Shit!” he yelled, the gun falling from his hands. It clattered over the kitchen counter and onto the sidewalk outside. Loco crawled back inside, eyes hurting. Managing to keep one eye open, he found a jug of water and started rinsing his eyes.

Behind him, the door started falling apart under a series of kicks. Loco pulled his stiletto dagger out of the sheath beneath his jacket. Just as the door finally gave way, Loco rolled forward. He came up on his knees just as one of Bane’s mercenaries entered, and stuck the stiletto straight in his throat.

“Punctured the bugger’s throat,” Gideon chuckled in his head.

In the same movement, he grabbed the dead man’s gun out of his hand and rolled away from the door, coming to a stop with his back against the wall.

Stop. Breathe. Ready? Go.

Turn and rise. Aiming…what?

Bane’s last mercenary, who was advancing with his finger on the trigger, suddenly pitched forward. Loco saw the back of his head spout blood as he fell.

Loco stopped, confused. If that was the back up, why couldn’t he see them?

Bane stopped too. He turned around, his gun halfway up, not sure what to point at. Then his knees buckled and he fell down. Loco looked carefully. One of the legs was bleeding. Bane raised his gun at a dark alley across the street.

Loco raised his gun to stop him. However, Bane’s gun flew out of his hand. One more jerk and Bane lay still.

Loco cautiously raised himself to his full height just as the two unmarked cars slid to a halt at the café. Men in suits, guns drawn, poured towards the café. Loco recognized the leader, the chief of the local cell. Two more cars arrived, blocking his view of the alley completely.

As the men in suits surrounded him in a protective perimeter, Gloria slipped the silenced pistol inside her shoulder bag. Quietly, she picked up Gideon’s rucksack and left the alley as the crowd began to gather.

The Conversation

Just FYI, this is a new series, unconnected to the earlier one. Also, the last one - Flashback - was an independent story as well. The Loco the Hitman trilogy ended with 'Top Dog'. Hope you all like what I have to offer here

“I never did understand what exactly it is that you guys do,” she said, as Loco looked into his glass of iced tea. His chair afforded him a view of all those who passed by or approached the open-air café. However, a potential threat was the least of his worries right now.

“Apart from the fact that you’re soldiers, of course. Apart from whatever little you have told me about your work, I’ve noticed that all you guys ever talk about is guns, battlefields, maps…” she broke off.

Loco tried hard not to let his voice affect her. Once again, his mind flashed back to the time Gideon had introduced them, three years ago. They had acknowledged each other with polite greetings. As always, Loco offered a firm nod, looking straight into her eyes. That had been his first mistake.

“Covert ops,” Loco said. “Operations,” he clarified quickly. “We basically work on top secret missions for the government, in close co-operation with other governments. It’s ultra-classified. We don’t even know if there are other units like ours.”

The hint of a smile crossed her face.

“Even the comic books you read are all about war.”

Loco had to grin.

“Graphic novels,” he said.

She nodded.

“Which is just another way of saying comic books with nudity.”

Loco remembered arguing with her on this point for hours.

A ray of sunlight fell across her face, bathing it in a glow. Loco tried not to stare.

Over the next three years after their first meeting, Gideon had been instrumental in making them meet again several times. Loco had come to realise and accept the fact that there was definite attraction, which he could neither define nor try to deepen.

“Are you guys ever afraid?” she asked. There was genuine curiousity in her voice, like she’d always wondered but had never asked.

Loco shook his head. “Guys who’re afraid aren’t selected for our unit.”

“You mean they look for the crazy ones like you?”

“Something like that.”

“But you must feel something, if your jobs are so high-risk.”

Sierra Leone. 2002. Search and destroy mission.

“You feel it yet?” Gideon asked.

Loco knew what he meant. That feeling which begins at the base of your spine without your knowledge and creeps steadily up to your head when you see possible death coming your way.

“I’m getting there,” Loco replied.

“It’s hard to define. But yes, we do feel something.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“And you’re sure it’s not fear?”

“I know what fear feels like. I used to feel it a long time ago. Now, every dangerous situation is just another situation.”

Ethiopia. 2004. Assassination mission gone wrong.

“Is that a LAW I see on that hulk at the back?” Gideon muttered. The M72 Law was an anti tank rocket launcher. Both warriors knew only too well what it could do if fired at their crumbling single storey temporary shelter.

“Sitrep: ten men, eight M16s with grenade launchers, one LAW and one Barrett,” Loco counted off, looking through his binoculars. The sniper was already setting up his Barrett, aiming for the building. Within seconds, he would be ready to pepper the building with .50 mm rounds.

“And how do you guys deal with it?” she leaned forward, and Loco had trouble to make sure he didn’t look into her eyes directly.

“We get used to it, eventually. After a point, it’s just another feeling.”

Darfur. 2007. Flash raid.

“Guard’s down,” Loco whispered into his earpiece, laying the guard’s body down and pulling the knife out of his neck.

“This one too. Punctured the bugger’s throat,” Gideon chuckled from his end.

“We have 60 seconds to get the rest of them before the squad moves in.”

“Bet you we won’t need more than 45.”

“Don’t you feel like confiding in someone? All that killing…? Or does it become a habit as well? Do you talk about it amongst yourselves like we’d discuss shoes?”

The rise and fall of her voice was sending shivers up his spine. For the hundredth time, he told himself to get back in control.

Congo. 2008. Sabotage mission with faulty intel.

“I’ll take the two lookouts and the two sentries,” Gideon said, readying his Dragunov.

“I’ll take the patrol vehicle, then bust inside and C4 the fuel dump,” Loco responded.

“I’ll cover you. I counted at least five of them patrolling the inner area. Draw them out and I’ll cap their asses.”

“And I’ll deal with any remaining inside.”

“What’re you asking me?” Loco said.

“I’m asking you if you’re all cold blooded killers beneath this…this façade of professional soldiers!”

“Yes we are,” Loco leaned forward and for the first time, looking into her eyes didn’t affect him. “Yes, we are cold blooded, ruthless killers. But only with those who come to kill us. With those who have killed scores and wouldn’t even look at us as numbers in their list of victims. With them, we are their worst nightmare. Some of us have wives, some have kids, others ailing parents. And we tell them all we can tell them, and they understand. They have to.”

Afghanistan. 2010. Chase and kill.

“I’m going for the fuel tank. Let’s blow them to bits!” Loco roared into his earpiece over the sound of the Hummer’s engine, leaning out of the back seat through the open door.

“Hang on, get back in.” Gideon shouted. “I’m gonna ram the two bikers first; drive them right into that truck!”

“And then, one day…” her voice was a little more than a whisper.

Loco looked away and leaned back.

“Your luck runs out,” he said heavily. “It always does, sooner or later.”

Libya. 2011. Rescue mission.

“What, no false hopes for me?” Gideon was coughing blood.

“You know me better than that.”

“A lifetime of successful covert ops, and it’s a Libyan with a good throwing arm that gets me.”

Loco removed Gideon’s earpiece and opened up his shirt.

“Never saw the grenade coming. Bet I don’t look very pretty right now,” Gideon rasped.

“You ARE a freaking sight. Does it hurt?”

“Those kids get on the chopper?”

Loco could never be sure if Gideon saw him nod yes before dying.

She drained her cup and pushed it away. For a full minute, they both just sat there, trying to think of something to say. Then they both gave it up.

She pushed her chair back and slowly stood up.

“Your husband died a hero,” Loco said, not looking at her. “He was the best soldier I ever knew.”

She bent forward and picked up the rucksack containing Gideons’ personal effects.

“I know he was,” she said before walking away.

Flashback

“ENCORE!!”

They always called for encores when Loco fought. It was some thing to watch, the way he let his opponents tire themselves out, blocking and evading their attacks and then, in one unexpected moment, start raining attacks of his own. But most of all, they loved it that he seemed to be always smiling and laughing, even when taking hits. It was like the more he fought, the happier he was.

Loco smiled and grabbed a spectator’s handkerchief, wiping the sweat off his face and throwing it back. The man didn’t seem to mind.

“Bring it on!” Loco roared and the cheering intensified. His seventh opponent of the evening stepped into the ring.

The two men circled each other, eyes locked. His opponent, an immensely built man nicknamed Feather, moved first.

The punch would have made a small hole in a concrete wall. It missed Loco’s face by centimeters, who quickly stepped farther back. Feather came forward and threw another punch, which Loco again evaded and danced away.

Loco was getting bored already. But he knew that people paid a lot of money so they could watch these fights, and wasn’t about to end this one so quickly. He began stealing quick glances around the basement, which was only one of the several venues of the fights.

Sensing a drop in the decibel levels, Loco threw a look at the entrance while dodging a kick to the ribs. What he saw almost made him forget to duck as Feather aimed his next blow.

Twirling out of harm’s way at the last minute, he ran his eyes over a grinning Leone, a bemused Bellona and a shocked Celine.

He fell to the ground to avoid Feather’s swinging fists, then started rolling away as the bigger man tried stamping on his face. As he reached the end of the ring with nowhere to escape, Loco quickly threw both hands forward, palms out and caught the coming foot in his hands. The impact sent waves of pain through his arms, which he ignored and twisted, felling the tree-like man to the ground. Loco was on his feet and hopping before Feather could pick himself up.

Risking another glance at the three new entrants, he deduced what must have happened. Leone, in his enthusiasm to surprise Bellona and Celine, must have offered to take them to a place they had never seen before. He knew it would surprise them to see Loco fighting there, and that it would surprise Loco to see Celine and Bellona. Surprises all around.

As Feather came at Loco with more caution this time, Loco wondered how Leone would react if he had any idea what he had really done.

If only you’d known, buddy, he thought.

As Feather’s fist shot toward him, he stopped hopping and took it fully in the chest. Sound started dropping in the basement as Loco stumbled backward but regained his footing before he could fall. Even Feather was surprised.

A film seemed to fall over Loco’s eyes, and his mind went into flashback.

He was mustering the courage to talk to her the first time when Feather landed another punch in the chest.

He was trying to break her cool, distant demeanor when Feather followed up with a third punch, this time to the stomach, making him bend over.

He was smarting after being told off by her, his attempts at friendly flirting having been rebuffed when Feather grabbed him by the hair and straightened him.

He was finally detecting some warmth in her behaviour when Feather drove his fist into his face. Loco hadn’t tasted his own blood for quite some time now.

He was garnering hope from her warmth, trying to steel himself to ask if she would like to go out with him sometime when Feather drove his knee into Loco’s abdomen. This time, he let Loco fall to the ground.

He was learning from her friends that she was committed to someone else as Feather kicked him in the ribs.

He was discussing her boyfriend with her when Feather grabbed his throat and pulled him to his feet.

“It’s knock-out time,” Feather gasped.

“Gladly,” Loco responded. His hand shot out, palm open and outwards, and the heel of his palm crushed Feather’s nose. The hand quickly folded, and the elbow crashed sideways into Feather’s jaw, breaking it. The other hand followed, the closed fist ramming into the side of Feather’s turned head.

Feather dropped to the ground with a thud that resounded across the silent basement. Loco spat blood from his mouth.

Then he smiled a bloody smile and walked out of the ring before they could call for an encore.