Jon Merz - Raider X

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Two things occurred to Thatcher as he stood against the wooden post with his hands tied behind him. The first was that it was much colder this early in the morning before the sun had done little more than peek over the horizon and he wondered briefly if he ought to have used the latrine before being marched out.

The second was that the eight men holding rifles twenty paces away looked a hell of a lot scarier than he would have ever dared imagine.

He supposed that was the reason for the blindfold they offered. Thatcher had turned down the officer with a smile. He still couldn’t get over the absurdity of the situation. He was about thirty seconds away from being shot by a firing squad.

Thatcher had never seen an execution before. He’d heard stories, of course, about how after being riddled with the large caliber bullets, the officer in charge would administer the final pistol shot to the heart, what the French called the coup de grace.

Thatcher figured the phrase meant “overkill,” since he doubted that one small pistol round would hardly be needed after the riflemen had done their job.

He thought about the brick wall immediately behind his post. Did the firing squad ever worry about ricochets?

Probably not.

He wondered how it would feel when the bullets pierced his body. Was it like getting stuck with a really big hypodermic? Or lanced with a hot poker? Would it even register or would it be over so fast that he didn’t even know he was dead?

This was what it boiled down to, he supposed: the worry of death rather than the actual feat itself. By that time, things were too far along to give much of a damn. But the anticipation, well, that was something else again.

The captain of the guards looked young. Probably the son of some wealthy aristocrat. Another year would possibly find him either dead or leading troops against the Germans. Already their war machine was grinding along and chewing up land across Europe, killing thousands every single day as they gunned toward England. This time around, they just might succeed.

Thatcher wondered what would happen if they did conquer Britain. Would they open the prisons up and let criminals go?

Doubtful.

Thatcher almost grinned. One way or another, his fate seemed to be tied to the same post his hands were. And it wasn’t exactly the thrilling glamorous life he’d thought he might lead when he first got mixed up in crime.

What was the hold up? Why wasn’t the captain barking out orders? Thatcher’s bladder was full. He could tell. He thought about politely informing the captain of the situation.

“Pardon me, old chap, but when you come by to hoist my carcass, there’s liable to be quite a spot of piss on the ground and covering me as I’ve got the full tank, you see.”

Better leave it a surprise. And besides, his bladder wasn’t the only thing about to let go. Death was the greatest plumber of all time. No clogs left in the pipes when the Grim Reaper got through with you.

The sun continued to climb and Thatcher felt momentarily thankful for the bit of warmth that seemed to settle down on his shoulders and face.

“Ready!”

The barked command startled him. That’ll teach you to go daydreaming, Thatcher, he thought. Especially when you ought really to be focused on other important things like the end of your bleeding existence.

The guards looked serious now. Thatcher could see the grim expressions on their faces. He wondered if many of them had done this before. Maybe this was a new training exercise for the British Army to make sure its soldiers could kill a man before they went to war.

At least it was a convenient way to get rid of the criminals like Thatcher.

The captain seemed to have found his calling. Thatcher could see the seriousness on his face. Was he enjoying this? Did he realize that Thatcher was about to die? Did he care?

“Aim!”

Apparently not. The rifle barrels looked like eight black eyes staring into Thatcher’s very soul. He’d already had a priest come to his cell to hear his final confession. Thatcher wasn’t a man of the church, but he did believe in covering all his bets. After all, who knew what waited on the other side?

He would have asked for a cigarette if he smoked. He could have stood there puffing away on the thing while they shot him. Cool as ice it would have been. And it would have kept him in good stead with the lads back in Luton who’d gather at the pub.

“Good old Thatcher,” they’d say, “he went out in style, he did.”

And then they’d toast him with a quick pint before getting back to darts.

But no cigarette burned between his lips. Just an acidic taste in his mouth. Bile, most likely, he reasoned. The old stomach’s gone and churned some up for me one last time.

The captain seemed to be looking his boys over once more. Those Enfield rifles must have been getting heavy. He’d give the command soon and that would be it. Harrison Thatcher, dead at last.

“Ready to die, then?”

The voice in his ear made him jump. He turned his head, aware that the rifles still hadn’t moved. Staring him in the face was a man he’d never seen before. Thatcher couldn’t help but marvel at how a free man would willingly choose to stand where he stood.

Before Thatcher could say anything, the man smiled and nodded across the yard. “Looks to me as though the lads down there are all set to squeeze their triggers and send you off to the netherworld. Probably taking up the slack on them now even as we speak.”

Thatcher managed to swallow. “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am.” The man looked around the yard as if he were appraising a home for sale. “Rather a lovely morning, I’d say.”

“I’ll withhold my opinion for the time being if it’s all the same to you, mate.”

“Indeed.”

Thatcher shifted. The rifles still hadn’t moved. “You need something then, sir?”

The man looked back at him. “You want to live Thatcher?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, do you want to live? Or are you one of those self-pitying fools who reckons his time is all but used up and wants to get sent off on a one-way down the River Styx?”

“I’d rather live.”

The man nodded. “Bit late to make that kind of decision now though, isn’t it? After all, you chose to kill that poor blighter when you had the option of letting him run.”

Thatcher frowned. “I’m an innocent, man, sir. I didn’t commit that murder.”

The man’s eyebrows jumped. “That so? Then I suppose you most definitely aren’t the man I’m looking for. I’d best let those chaps down the range get their work done. I expect they’re rather hungry for breakfast.”

He started to move away. Thatcher cleared his throat. “And just what kind of man were you looking for, sir?”

He turned back and walked closer to Thatcher this time until Thatcher could smell the coffee on his breath and see the yellowed teeth in his mouth.

“I’m looking for a man who can kill. My file told me that was you, Thatcher. But if you’re an innocent man, then perhaps there’s been a mistake on my part. Good day.”

He turned and started to walk away. Thatcher’s heart hammered inside his chest. A man who could kill? What was that about? Why now? Why here?

“Sir!”