John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

“Take it out with a sniper shot?” Harvey asked.

Jonathan shook his head. “We’re firing five-five-six millimeter, and you’re firing nines. They’re not reliable for that.” He cursed himself for not having spec’d out a 7.62-millimeter rifle to Josie. There was nothing like the proper application of M60 fire to raise havoc with electrical generators.

“We’ll just have to plant a second charge,” Boxers said.

Jonathan always got a kick out of how easy the Big Guy made complex operations sound. He was right, of course. “That one will be mine,” Jonathan said. He turned to Harvey. “That’ll put a lot more pressure on you as the sole cover. Are you up to it?”

Harvey cocked his head and smirked. “If I say no, do you have a replacement?”

It was a point well made in response to a stupid question.

“Don’t worry about me,” Harvey said. “I’m falling back into the habit. Since I haven’t shot a gun in a while, I might not have the most accurate aim, but I can pull the trigger enough to make the barrel hot.”

The radio crackled, “Hey, are you still there?”

“Sorry, Mom,” Jonathan said. “We were just doing a little strategizing.”

“Well, strategize this: I show two people leaving the compound and heading your way. They’re carrying flashlights, and from their posture, I’d say they’re holding rifles, too.”

Boxers snorted out a laugh. “Way to be stealthy,” he said on the radio.

Jonathan took comfort from the use of artificial light. It put the enemy at a double disadvantage. Not only were they visible before the fight began, but they’d likely be blind afterward because their night vision would be shot. That’s what he was hoping, anyway. Not counting on it, for sure, but hoping very hard.

“Are you sure they’re heading our way?” Jonathan asked.

“I know that they’re heading down the trail that leads to you,” Venice said. “Time will tell if you’re the ultimate target. I’m guessing no.”

“I’m guessing no, too,” Jonathan said. “If they know we’re coming, the last thing they’ll want to do is engage us in anything less than strength.”

“I think they’re setting traps,” Boxers said offline.

Jonathan thought that, too. “Mother Hen, keep an eye on them. If they stop for any length of time, note the location for us on the GPS.”

“I’ll try, but remember the four-minute delay.”

“I understand. Do your best to keep us informed. Now let’s clear the channel for a while.”

Venice was unsurpassed in her skills and her commitment to mission, but left to her own devices she could get very damn chatty on the radio. Sometimes you just had to cut her off early, before she could develop an unmanageable head of steam.

“I’ve got a question,” Harvey said after a couple of minutes had passed in silence. “In The Sandbox, we had a problem with Hadjis faking shit for the satellite coverage. They knew we were watching, so they’d put on a show. Any chance that our bad guys are doing that?”

“Impossible,” Boxers said with hesitation.

“How can you be so sure?”

Jonathan took that one. “Because Josie never knew about the satellite imagery. We kept that just for us. If he didn’t know it, then he couldn’t have told anyone.”

There’d been an argument between the guards as it came time to herd the boys into their sleeping huts, but Evan had no idea what it was about until Charlie explained it to him after the fact. “Some of the guardia think it’s a mistake to put you and me in the same hut. They worry that we can make plans that no one else can understand.”

Evan shrugged. “Well… yeah.” When he said it, “yeah” had two syllables.

The argument had lasted long enough for them to be the last to enter. Charlie’s feet had barely cleared the jamb when the wooden door slammed shut and something heavy slid across the opening. After the bolt or whatever it was slid into place, Evan heard a heavy rattle that sounded like a lock being snapped closed.

The hut held ten army-style cots, arranged in two ranks down either side of the rectangular interior, but with everybody inside, Evan counted only nine occupants, including himself. The heat and stench of the place were off-the-chart awful. Ten seconds in, he was seriously thinking about vomiting; but then the puking plan was derailed when one of the hut’s residents threw a pair of flip-flops at Charlie, beaning him on the forehead with the first one, and missing with the second, which sailed into the corner near the shit can. The rest of the kids cheered at that, and then there was a long string of angry Spanish, punctuated with pointing and derisive laughter.

The kid who threw the shoe jutted out his neck and made a move on Charlie, his shoulders and arms set for battle. As the distance closed, the fight seemed inevitable, so Evan stepped out to help his new friend. He met the attacker with a football-style forearm block to his chest, and the force of the collision knocked the other kid to the ground. His eyes hot and angry, the attacker tried to stand, but Evan knocked him down again. On the far end of the hut, the other boys started to shout, and they surged forward.

Evan didn’t care. Every one of them was smaller than he, and he was tired of being pushed around. If they wanted a fight, he’d give them one. He needed to hit someone, to break something. If it had to be noses and teeth, that was fine. God knew it wouldn’t be his first time.

The boy he’d knocked down crab-walked backward toward the others, who helped him to his feet. The war was on. Shit was going to fly.

Amid all the shouting, he never heard Charlie yelling at him to stop. He was surprised as hell, then, when arms clamped across his chest from behind and swirled him away from the fight. “Stop it!” Charlie yelled.

Evan was appalled. “Stop? Are you kidding? That kid just threw shoes at you!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said.

Behind them, the door to the hut flew open, and three guards stormed in, rifles at the ready.

Charlie darted over to them, his arms outstretched to show restraint. “No, no, no, no,” he said. And then there was a long string of Spanish. The guards seemed unmoved at first, but the longer Charlie talked, the more the men seemed to relax. On the far side, the other occupants of the hut had fallen silent, and went through the motions of climbing into their cots.

After thirty seconds, the incident had passed. From body language alone, Evan could tell that Charlie was finishing up some kind of negotiation. Cautiously satisfied, it seemed, the guards nodded and backed out the door. The locks slid shut, and it was over.

Charlie turned and glared at the residents, then walked the few steps to pick up the flip-flops that they’d thrown at him.

“What the hell’s going on?” Evan asked.

“Don’t ever try to fight my fights for me, okay?” He pointed at the end bunk-the one closest to the shit can. “That one’s yours. The newest guy gets the stink.”

Evan cocked his head, stunned. “You’re welcome,” he said.

Charlie turned on him. “I didn’t thank you,” he snapped. “Don’t think you understand this place, Evan. We have rules here, and one of the rules is that the new guy gets the stink. Because I’m your guardian angel, I get you, which means that I get the stink, too.” He moved to the second-to-last cot, leaving an empty one between himself and the next guy. He sat on the edge, then lifted his filthy feet on the end of the cot closest to the aisle and lay back. “Now try to sleep.”

Evan followed, but sat on the edge of his own cot, facing Charlie, his elbows resting on his knees. “He threw shit at you, man. You can’t let that happen. I live in a dormitory, too, and I’m telling you, you’ve got to fight for your reputation.”