Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

“Tea.”

“Would you like a fresh coffee, Mr. Phillip Sear?”

“I want to see my brother’s wife,” Sear said, leaning forward.

“Careful, Yousef; I think he is not happy with you!” Parviz laughed and gave Sear a mocking imitation of a dog snapping at him.

“After our refreshment, there is time. You will see her soon.”

After several minutes, the waiter brought a tray, served two cups of tea and set a small bowl of sugar cubes on the table.

“Our host will pay,” Yousef told the waiter, jerking his head at Sear.

Sear dropped several coins on the tray and felt the cocked hammer of the SIG through the fabric of his jacket pocket.

Several men left the café and the waiter cleared their tables of cups and ashtrays. An old grey-bearded man sat in the corner, the hose and mouthpiece of the hookah never leaving his clenched teeth.

“How long will this take?” Sear asked.

Yousef looked over the top of his steaming cup at Sear and blew across the tea. “Do you have the money?”

Sear tapped the hard shell case at his feet with the toe of his boot.

“Then it won’t take long.” Yousef poked Parvis in the shoulder and laughed. “Let us see the money,” His tone became deadly serious as he turned to face Sear.

“When I see the girl.”

“As you wish,” Yousef said as he stood. “We’ll get something better after,” he said to Parvis, gesturing for him to follow.

The three men left the café by the side door and entered an alley adjacent to the ruins of a brick building. Under the security light at the back door of the café sat a badly worn and rusted white Ford Econoline van that rested at a strange angle. Sear decided the odd tilt was from the tires being different sizes.

Yousef stopped by the side of the van. Reaching behind him, he pulled a revolver from the waistband of his pants.

“I want no tricks from you, “Yousef said, waving the pistol in a casual, almost comic way.

“Me neither,” Parvis said, also producing a handgun.

“No tricks,” Sears said as he set the case at his feet.

Parviz yanked the handle and the door of the rusted Econoline slid open. Mahvash turned and tried to sit up. Zip ties binding her hands made the struggle difficult and Mahvash fell against the dented interior wall. A blast of hot air rolled from the van and reeked of the burning ammonia stench of urine. Inside the floor was covered with a layer of rags and three army-issue khaki colored sleeping bags.

The rag tied around Mahvash’s mouth was stained with blood, sweat and what appeared to be vomit. Her eyes met Sear’s and flooded flashed with tears, anger and fear. Even though they met only once, she hoped she would recognized her brother-in-law. instantly. There was no recognition, only hate.

Sear quickly scanned the back of the van for explosives, or another member of the group. Mahvash was stripped below the waist. The sight of the blackened soles of her pink socks and the torn and stained University of Michigan sweat pants punctuated the lack of concern her captors had for her well-being. Her nakedness above the waist was barely covered by the lace bra she wore. Mahvash’s skin was a canvas for a myriad of cuts, scrapes, bruises and filth that marked the ninety plus days of her captivity.

“Mahvash, I’m here to free you,” Sear said softly as he pulled the filthy rag from her mouth and let it hang around her neck.

Her beautiful white teeth were yellowed and one of her front teeth was broken off nearly to the gums. She jerked her head, tossing back her greasy matted hair out of her face.

“You want me too?” Mahvash said in a sultry purr as she opened her knees wide.

“We have no more use for her. With the money we can get a good whore!” Parvis laughed and looked at Yousef for approval.

“Shut up,” Yousef growled.

Sear glared at the two men, his disgust flaring at the thought of what they must have done to Mahvash.

“So, there she is. Give me the money,” said Yousef taking a step toward Sear.

Sear shoved the case toward the two men with his foot. Unseen by either man Sear slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket. As Yousef bent to pick up the case Sear put a bullet through the top of his head.

Without removing the SIG from his pocket Sear fired two shots into Parvis’ chest. Both men were dead before they fell to the sand-covered pavement.

Sear stepped to the door of the van. The woman inside was not the college girl his brother had fallen in love with. She was not the young bride who had been taken from her parent’s home three months before. She was a shattered, damaged vessel that barely looked like the young woman who was taken and then repeatedly raped by the dead men at his feet.

The promise Sear made to Mahvash’s parents seemed an eternity ago. The promise to get her back no longer seemed reasonable to Sear. The daughter they knew was dead. Not just the life she led, but psychologically. He had seen it before; from Kabul to Croatia and back. What kind of life would she lead now? The nightmares, depression and terrors she would live with, he wouldn’t curse upon anyone.

Sear drew the pistol from his jacket pocket. He put one bullet through her heart. “Go to Aaron, sister.”

Moving quickly and with practiced purpose, Sear lifted the bodies of the kidnappers into the back of the rusty Econoline. He removed the five gallon gas can from the rack on the back of the van. There was less than two liters left, but enough to douse the interior, the bodies, and the front seats.

Sear took a rag near Mahvash’s feet and shoved it into the gas tank opening. Using his dented Zippo lighter he ignited the rag. Sear tossed the briefcase he had filled with newspapers in Abadan into the back of the van and slid the door shut.

He was a hundred yards down the street when the sound of the gas tank exploding rocked the silent night and the orange ball of flame shot heavenward.

Promise kept.

_______

Micheal Maxwell says he was taught the beauty and majesty of the English language by Bob Dylan, Robertson Davies, Charles Dickens and Leonard Cohen. Micheal Maxwell writes from life and a love of music, film, and literature. Missing one of his books is like finding part of a memory you thought you lost. You can find out more about the author at his website here: http://meettheauthor.blogspot.com/2013/10/micheal-maxwell.html

Turn the page to continue, or click the link to go back to the Table of Contents .

Afterword

If you enjoyed reading this anthology and want to sample any further works from the authors you’ve read, you can out more information here:

Nick Stephenson, author of Paydown : www.nickstephensonbooks.com

David Vandyke, author of Loose Ends : http://www.davidvandykeauthor.com

Robert Swartwood, author of Mr. Mockingbird Drive : www.robertswartwood.com

Ryan King, author of Ladies Weekend : https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6422624.Ryan_King

R.S. Guthrie, author of Veritas: Concubine : www.rsguthrie.com

Kay Hadashi, author of Divide and Conquer : www.junekatointrigue.com

Alan McDermott, author of Recidivist : http://jambalian.blogspot.com

Micheal Maxwell, author of Return of the Bride : www.michaelmaxwellauthor.blogspot.com

<<<<>>>>