Weston Ochse - Age of Blood

“We have traffic in front of us and a federale hot on our tail.”

Walker paused to listen. “I don’t hear any sirens,” he said.

“Lights flashing. They’re five cars behind us.”

“Man must have called it in,” Laws said. “Can you lose them?”

“This isn’t exactly a Porsche 911,” Yank said. “But I’ll give it a shot.”

Centrifugal force threw Walker into the left wall. He cushioned Emily as best as he could, but she still grunted with pain. Holmes lost the light and it rolled into the blood, soaking the lens and turning the inside into a red-tinted hell. Just as Walker seemed to get his balance, he was flung the other way. The light spun madly and the head hit his leg and flew over it, impacting the wall. He held on to Emily, keeping her from flying loose. Holmes cursed as the head landed in his lap. He grabbed it by the hair to keep it from rolling.

“What the fuck, Yank,” Walker growled.

They heard sirens now, several of them.

They were knocked around for thirty more seconds when Laws came on the line.

“Prepare to dismount.”

“What’s the 411?” Holmes asked.

“Vehicle change.”

The truck slammed to a stop, sending the body chest-first into the wall between Holmes and Laws. Then Yank began a series of turns, finally pointing them 180 degrees in the other direction. After that, he backed up and shut off the vehicle. The sound of booted feet running across the top of the van was followed by the sounds of two men leaping to the street before the rear doors opened.

Light streamed into the interior. The blood was now everywhere. Emily and Holmes were covered with it. Walker had missed most of the flying blood because he’d been holding Emily, but the bottom of his pants were drenched in the stuff.

Laws waved. “Come on. Hurry .”

Holmes scrambled out first. Walker pushed Emily toward him, then ducked under the 550 cord that was threatening to clothesline him. Holmes pulled Emily into his arms and carried her like a child. She put her arms around his neck and sank her face into his shoulder.

Walker pulled his pistol from his cargo pocket just as the sirens came upon them, skidding to a stop on the other side of the vehicle. Taking in the entirety of the scene, Walker admired how Yank had set them up. The truck had essentially plugged an alley that ran between two three-story brick buildings. The rear of the truck opened into a long alley which had another alley coming in perpendicular and forming a T. Holmes ducked around the corner into this one just as the police began to shout commands through their loudspeaker from the other side of the truck.

Peeking around the corner, Walker saw that there was less than a foot and a half between the sides of the van and the walls. If the police were going to come and get them, they’d have to either go over or under.

He took off after Holmes. As he turned into the cross alley, he saw Laws using some of his own 550 cord to tie the hands of a man in a delivery uniform. He was pressed against the hood of a yellow van with a picture of an ecstatic chicken on the side below the words POLLO FELIZ. After Laws finished, he spun the driver around. The man’s eyes danced wildly above his gag. Laws pulled out a bag and placed it over the man’s head. Then he picked him up, carried him over to a dumpster, and tossed him in.

Meanwhile, Yank started the vehicle and pulled forward. Holmes got in the back with Emily. Walker joined them, happy that the back of the truck was filled with cooked chicken instead of a decapitated body. Benches lined one wall and he sat by the rear door. His vantage was perfect. It wasn’t until after they pulled out that a rotund policeman ran around the corner. He glanced once at the truck, then dismissed it. Instead, he had his pistol trained on the back of the restaurant where the truck had just made a delivery.

They turned the corner and pulled into traffic.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Holmes tapped his ear. “I can’t get through to the others.”

“Hey Yank, want some chicken?” Walker yelled, checking on the trays of cooked meat.

“You asking me because I’m black?”

“I’m asking you because I’m hungry and you stole a chicken truck.” Walker reached under a piece of tinfoil and pulled a leg free. It had been slow roasted. The smell was succulent. The meat begged to fall off the bone. He was bringing the leg to his mouth when he noticed Laws frowning. “What?”

“You’re hungry ?”

Walker grinned and cleaned the chicken from the bone in three fast bites. “I’m always hungry during an op.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Emily said, her face turning the color of a turtle’s underbelly.

“Walker, try and establish coms,” Holmes orderd.

Walker dropped the bone onto the counter and wiped his hands on his pants. “Roger.”

“So no news on the senator?” Laws asked.

The girl perked up. “My father? Is he coming here?”

Holmes nodded. “He was coming down to meet you.”

She smiled. “So that’s what the man meant—the man who killed the driver. He said he was there to save me and that he had a meeting with my father.”

“Who was the man who killed the driver?” Laws asked. “What did he look like?”

“Tall. Light-skinned. He was Mexican but more Spanish. He was wearing a white suit.”

“Know who that sounds like?” Laws said to Holmes, who nodded in return.

She squeezed shut her eyes. “It was really strange. I don’t know how he cut off that man’s head. I never even saw a weapon.”

“Didn’t you say that he had a meeting with your father?”

She nodded.

“How’d he even know the senator was coming? What sort of meeting is he going to have?”

“The sort of meeting where the senator leaves in the custody of someone else.” Holmes punched his leg. “You think Ramon had this planned the entire time?”

Walker suddenly got a weak signal. “—are in trouble… senator is gone.” He could barely understand Jen’s voice. There was a problem with the reception. “YaYa—oh my god, YaYa!” Then she began to sob, and the sound was so terrible and miserable that if he could’ve, Walker would have reached through the headset to make it stop.

Yank banged on the steering wheel. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Airport. Laws will give directions. Go now ,” Holmes commanded.

Yank’s face showed stone-cold rage. “What the hell is going on?”

“Shut up and drive,” Laws barked.

“This isn’t like any mission I’ve been on. We were always briefed. We always knew. We—”

Laws cut him off. “This isn’t like any other mission because we aren’t like any other SEALs.” Then he added, “Take a left at the next light.”

Yank complied, but couldn’t help but cry, “Bullshit.”

“We’ve been over this. This is what being a member of Triple Six is about.” Laws shook his head and slapped Yank on the shoulder. “It’s not all crazy monsters and supernatural mumbo jumbo. It’s being able to make the best decision you possibly can without any thought whatsoever.”

Walker knew that there had always been speculation about selection to Triple Six. Every SEAL had three days of screening and selection consisting of interviews, role playing, and test taking. They compared their answers when they were drunk, but most of the questions had been individually purposed. No one could figure it out. If there were any common denominators, it was the ability of a Triple Six member to react on their feet and not be dedicated to the exact replication of a preplanned or prepracticed ideal.

Holmes once again proved to the universe why he was the leader. “Everyone calm the fuck down and stop jumping to conclusions,” he said in an emotionless, even-keel voice. “We’ll find out what’s going on once we get there. If this is all a misunderstanding, we’ll all have a beer and laugh about it. If this really is what Ms. Costello says it is, then we’ll have to postpone the beer and laughter until after we rescue the senator and save the day. Understand?”