Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

“Any idea what that helicopter is?” she said. Vivian shook her head, her straight black hair rippling.

Ellen shrugged. Probably a military assignment, or some old kook out for a joyride.

Then she saw the second helicopter.

It was in the middle of the road, spanning the yellow line. She slammed on the brakes, screeching the F-150 to a halt, leaving a rubber streak in the road behind.

“What the hell?” Vivian whispered.

Two men stood in front of the helicopter.

They both wore cowboy hats and boots. They also wore carbines, slung casually over their shoulders. One unslung his gun, pointed it at the vehicle, and gestured for them to get out.

“Don’t get out of the car,” Vivian said, her voice rising in panic.

“Do we have a choice?” Ellen answered.

Ellen pushed open her door, stood up, felt the waves of heat rise from the road. The sweat trickled down her lower back and into her underwear. She had time to think this wasn’t very feminine.

One of the men shouted something in Spanish at Ellen. She held up her hands. “Just look nonthreatening,” she told himself. “It’ll be over soon.” She reminded herself that this wasn’t the first time she’d been held at gunpoint. It probably wouldn’t be the last, either. A brief thought of Brett flashed through her head.

“ Fuera, perra! ” the same man shouted. Ellen turned back to look at the car. Vivian was still inside, tears rolling down her cheeks, shaking her head.

“ FUERA, PERRA! ”

Still she didn’t move.

Ellen had time for one thought— Oh, shit— before the Mexican pointed the carbine at the truck and fired a burst through the windshield.

The first bullet missed Vivian, but the second caught her directly in the face. Her head slammed back against the seat rest, the back of her head splattering. One moment, her pretty face was staring directly at Ellen. The next, there was no face, just a mess of tissue and tendon and bone and blood.

Ellen heard Vivian’s body slump over against the car door.

Ellen didn’t react. She went numb. This made no sense . Vivian was still alive. The helicopters weren’t here. This was Texas, for God’s sake, not the middle of drug cartel territory.

Except Vivian was dead. And the helicopter still sat right in the middle of the road. In Texas.

“ Pinche puta ,” said the man with the gun. He spat a string of saliva into the dust. Then, to Ellen, in broken English: “Get on knees.”

Ellen looked around quickly. There was nothing in any direction. Nobody.

She got on her knees.

The second man approached Ellen. Unlike his buddy, he wore a bandanna over his face; only his black eyes were visible. Ellen figured that this one made the decisions, the Boss—his buddy was a lackey.

“She worked for the governor?” the Boss asked. He had no trace of an accent.

Ellen nodded.

“You also work for the governor?”

Again, Ellen nodded. As she did, she felt the barrel of a gun against the back of her head. The shooter stood beside her, his carbine warm to the touch. Ellen closed her eyes, shut them tight.

“I’m not going to beg you,” she said.

A pause.

Then the man in black spoke, slowly. In English. “Shoot her.”

Ellen didn’t have time to close her eyes before she heard the click of the trigger being pulled—and then the split-second click of the hammer hitting… nothing. The gun was unloaded. Ellen opened her eyes.

The shooter laughed. “ Se cagó encima ,” he scoffed. Then he spit into the dust again.

“Get up,” said the Boss. “Get in your car. And tell your boss to get his men the fuck off my border.”

Ellen couldn’t argue with him. She didn’t have the strength or the presence of mind. She had gone numb; her brain had turned off the emotional spigot. She couldn’t process what she was seeing. She could just get out of there. Now.

She pulled open the car door, and the iron smell of blood hit her hard. She studiously attempted not to look to the passenger’s seat, where Vivian’s body was already drawing buzzing black flies.

For a moment she couldn’t move. Then, the icy feeling of anger began to creep up her spine. She slammed the car into gear and hit the gas, peeling off the road at a hard right angle. She gunned the engine, bringing the truck up to fifty mph. Sixty, seventy, eighty. She only knew one thing: she had to get as far away from these animals as she could, as fast as possible.

A few seconds later, in her rearview mirror, she saw the helicopters disappear into the distance.

She hit the brakes, skidded to a stop, the dust clouding around the truck, the engine growling. She looked down at her hands; her fingernails had bitten small, bloody half-moons into her palms.

She looked over at Vivian’s corpse, the bloody mess of her head.

She closed her eyes.

Only then did she allow herself to scream.

IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT. The muddy puddle at his feet ran red with his blood. All he could think about was Ellen.

Ellen, living the rest of her life alone. Ellen, put through hell again. Ellen.

At night in Kabul, temperature dipped to below freezing. The good news was that the cold had helped stop the bleeding. The bad news was that he was in danger of going into hypothermia. He could barely keep himself conscious—he’d only been able to do so thus far by jabbing the butt of the M9 into his wound to feel that sharp pain. Now his arm was numb. If he fell asleep, he’d be a carcass by morning.

“Get up, pal,” he said to himself, shaking off thoughts of his wife. “Time to go to work.”

At night, the streets emptied completely. Even the Taliban fighters didn’t want to be in the open—they’d be in nearby apartment buildings, no doubt huddled around their primitive fires. Electricity had gone out in the city periodically over the last few weeks, with Taliban fighters bombing electrical substations. Every morning, allied forces were finding more and more freezing bodies in the streets, despite the pitiful hamlets they’d set up for the poor around the city. That was all bad news, but for Brett, it was convenient—there was nobody to spot him hobbling toward the Kabul airport.

The airport would still be in American hands, Brett knew. It was located just north of the city, about nine miles from the center of Kabul. If there was any place left in Afghanistan that would remain in American hands, that would be it. The American military essentially owned the northern portion of the airport. If he could make it that far.

Brett struggled to his feet.

He knew he’d have to stay quiet—with the Taliban presumably running the place, there would be a bounty out for US soldiers—but every time he brushed his shattered arm against a wall, swollen to twice its normal size, he gasped in pain. Then, reluctantly, he took the magazine out of the gun and bit down on it. Hard. Better to crack a few teeth than to be featured on CNN being dragged through the streets. And the empty gun wouldn’t be of any use anyway.

The airport, he told himself.

The airport.

He’d seen the footage of the last helicopter taking off from Saigon, and he’d always groaned in horror at seeing it—it meant the end of a country. Now all he could think about was how the last soldier in that last helicopter must have felt.

Relieved.

By the time Brett spotted the airport, he couldn’t feel his legs. The airfield was exposed, with plains surrounding it on every side to avoid the potential for snipers or antiaircraft attacks on the runways. Thank God , Brett thought, it’s a dark night .