Jack Wilder - The Missionary

He managed to get his eyes open, briefly. An old man sat across from him, staring. The old man nodded, but Stone felt his eyelids falling, fought and lost once more.

Danger. The feeling, the instinct flitted through him, churned in his gut.

The bus stopped yet again. “Quiapo! Quiapo stop!”

Sound altered. The noise of the road, the rumble of tires over concrete became a strange hum, layered over something wide and deep and significant. Stone strained for awareness. He had to wake up. He had to wake up. The dim interior lights of the bus blurred, focused, and he twisted awkwardly to look out the window behind him. He saw moonglow filtering through black clouds, refracting and glinting off of water; rods and rails and crossbars and wires: Quezon Bridge, then, going over the Pasig River.

Close, now.

He shook his head to clear the sleep away, a vain gesture, and the old man across from him only watched, then cut his eyes to the side. Stone followed the old man’s gaze to a teenaged boy in rain-soaked cutoff shorts, a clinging yellow tank top and tattered high-top shoes, who was tapping at a cell phone he shouldn’t have been able to afford. The boy’s eyes shifted from his phone to Stone, and then immediately away.

Danger . The instinct was focused on that boy. Skinny arms and legs, clumsily buzzed hair, dirty clothes, rotting teeth, and a too-new piece of technology.

Stone’s brain was sludgy, connecting the dots only with effort.

“Lawton! Lawton stop!” No one moved as the doors whooshed open noisily.

Stone lurched to his feet, bent and lifted Wren in his arms. She moaned, , twitched in his arms. Stone tripped over someone’s foot, caught himself before he dropped Wren, who was shaking her head and whimpering, caught in a dream or a memory. Solid ground underfoot, and away from the bus, away from the boy with cell phone. The bus stop had a bench, and Stone slumped onto the wet seat.

“Wake up, Wren. You gotta wake up.” He shook her gently. “C’mon baby. Wake up for me.”

She murmured, mumbled. “No…no. ‘Member, gotta…no—no more…”

He kissed her lips softly, touched her cheek. “Wren, wake up sweetheart. It’s Stone. You’re with me, babe. Wake up, okay?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Stone?”

“We gotta move. I think someone snitched on us.”

“Huh?” She wiggled, stretched, accidentally elbowed Stone in the injured side. He gasped in agony, bending over and stifling curses of pain. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” She slid off his lap and onto the bench next to him, hovering anxiously.

He waved her off, wincing as he straightened. “It was an accident. It’s fine. We gotta go, though. We gotta move. Someone saw us and reported us to Cervantes.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugged. “Am I one hundred percent positive that’s what he was doing? No. But I can’t afford to be wrong.”

Another bus came, heading south, and he tugged her to her feet, fishing the fare from his pocket of Filipino currency. The bus stopped, and they got on, riding it to the Ayala Avenue stop, then getting off again and crossing the street into Rizal Park. Another lighted fountain played with spumes of red and blue and green and purple water, dancing to the rhythm of a song Stone didn’t recognize. The fountain was distant, but loud and highly visible even through the trees and buildings in the way. Wren was stumbling beside him, trying to run but not quite able.

Some internal drive was pushing him. There wasn’t any pursuit that he could see, but he felt the need to run anyway. He hauled Wren into a jog.

“Why are we running? Is there someone behind us?” She twisted to look behind.

“We’re close to the embassy, I think,” Stone said. “I have a bad feeling. We need to move.”

Wren didn’t argue, just shook her arm free of his hold and moved under her own power. They jogged side by side through the park, cutting through the circular area surrounding the Sentinel of Freedom monument, then crossing a street before finally reaching the central lagoon with the dancing fountain. The park was well-lit by globular streetlights, and it was packed with tourists and locals coming and going, taking photos and milling around the wide, grassy open space. Flagpoles lined the approach to the Rizal monument, the flags horizontal stripes bicolored red and blue with a triangular wedge of white near the hoist, the white marked by a golden sun: the flag of the Philippines.

Stone felt the churning in his gut, the warning sign of impending danger. He led her past the monument and out of the park, across Roxas Boulevard, hustling them between honking cars and rushing taxis. They were near the Embassy, now. Less than a mile, surely, although he wasn’t sure. He was operating on a distant memory of Manila’s layout, maps memorized long ago, locations to remember in case the mission had gone completely haywire and he' found himself adrift in Manila. Now, those hours spent poring over maps and bus routes were saving his life, and Wren’s.

If they could reach the Embassy, they’d be safe. The Embassy would protect them, help them get home. But, Stone’s gut warned, Cervantes knew this, and he was sure to have the Embassy watched. Wren was silent beside him, panting, gasping, but keeping pace.

“We’re almost there, babe,” he told her. “Almost there. The Embassy is just ahead.”

Trees blocked their view, but he could see the lights shining through the foliage. His pulse pounded, and his gut screamed.

Tires squealed, horns honked, and then two bright headlights shone, approaching them from the south, barreling toward them the wrong way up the boulevard. Stone stumbled to a halt. He hunted for an escape, any kind of gambit to get them away, but there was nowhere to go. The wall of the embassy stretched away on either side of them. There was only the street in front of them, their way forward blocked by the approaching vehicle, its tires squealing as it skidded and swung sideways—a battered blue van, nondescript and easily forgotten. Stone shoved Wren behind him and racked the slide of his pistol. The van lurched to a stop, the sliding door wrenched open and the dim interior light showed three bodies kneeling on the floor, AK-47s leveled at Stone and Wren.

Twisting to look back the way they’d come, Stone saw four more men with automatic pistols approaching on foot, striding toward them at a leisurely pace, guns held down by their thighs.

“Shit.” Stone’s gut dropped away. “They’ve got us cornered, babe.”

“No. No. Nononono.” Wren shook her head frantically. “You can’t let them take me back there.”

“I’m sorry, Wren. There’s too many of them. If I so much as twitch, they’ll kill us both.” Guilt and horror rocketed through him; he’d promised Wren he’d get her home.

Wren was choking on her own sobs. “Let them, then. Let them kill me. I won’t—I won’t—”

“It’s not over yet. I’ll get us out of this. Okay? Just go along for now, and be ready.” He slowly set the pistol on the ground at his feet, then took Wren’s hand, lifting her chin so she met his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay? I promise. I’ll get us out of this.”

Wren didn’t look very reassured by this promise, especially when one of the assault rifle-wielding men hopped out of the van and scooped up Stone’s pistol, then grabbed Wren by the arm and shoved her toward the van. Stone’s heart stopped beating. The barrel of the AK turned, trained on him.

They didn’t need him. They wouldn’t take him with them. They’d just shoot him right here, mere feet from the US Embassy, and Wren would be—

Stone couldn’t think like that. He felt time slowing as his executioner shouted something at him, jerking the barrel toward the ground. Get on your knees! The message was clear. Stone stayed on his feet, refusing to kneel for his own death.