Blood and Sand (5 page)

10

With nine iron in hand, I lead us off the belt system and down to ground level where travel will be much faster. My goal is to skirt around the men trying to kill us and get Dad and me to safety. The golf clubs are a contingency plan just in case we have to fight back, even though I pray we won’t have to. I can’t imagine a scenario where a set of Ping’s can out do a bullet.

“Stay low and follow me,” I whisper. “Oh, and try to keep up, I’m not slowing down.”

Dad looks terrified, like he’s about to mess up his shorts and I can’t blame him. I’m not doing much better, but I’m holding it together better because quite frankly, I have to.

We tip-toe behind some heavy machinery—what looks like a massive instrument panel or control station of some kind. I hold my hand up telling Dad to
‘wait’
and flip open a cover. It’s the main power breaker for this section of conveyers. I also notice that it has a set of manual override switches.
Like in Jurassic Park,
I think. Then I get an idea.

“Diversion,” I say to myself

“Diversion?” Dad asks, hearing me.

“I’m going to throw the override switch for this section. Everything will turn on and draw our friends over. While they come this way to check it out, we will circle around the other way and do our best to avoid them. All we need to do is find a safe route out to the tarmac and signal for help.” I look over for agreement, “Sound like a plan?”

Dad shrugs, “I don’t like it, but it’s better than anything I can come up with.”

“Good,” I say. “Let’s tee it up and stay out of the rough.”

“Are you about done with the golf jokes?” Dad retorts.

“Almost,” I reply. “I’ve got a few more in the bunker for later.”

Dad rubs his forehead like he’s warding off a migraine, “Any more of this and I’m going to beg to be shot and taken out of my misery.”

I’m about to comment but I get cut off.

“Dammit, just flick the switch already will you?” Dad growls.

I give him a toothy smile and activate the manual override system, flipping on the red switch. This quarter of the room blinks to life with a cacophony of lights and sounds. The overhead conveyer belts whirl to life, as do the large fluorescent ballasts hanging from the metal utilitarian ceiling.

Shouts from across the room spur us into action as we duck around a corner into an unlit section of the room and wait. The only problem with my plan is exactly what I hoped didn’t happen. I hear the shooters agree on a plan of their own.

“Split up and stay quiet. They are unarmed. If they don’t come willingly, shoot him in the leg and we will drag him out.”

Damn,
I think.

“What of the son?” Another asks.

I get the answer that makes me almost pee myself.

“Kill him. We only need the old man.”

Double damn.

There’s a tap on my shoulder that awakens me from my stupor.

“Now what?” Dad asks in a hushed tone.

I try to think, but nothing new comes to mind, “Same plan but this time if we run into anyone swing away and don’t miss.”

I’m surprised when he says nothing, but nods in agreement, gripping his club handle tighter. He knows the stakes as well as I do. If we don’t succeed, I’m dead and he’s in a whole heap of trouble.

I jab a thumb over my shoulder and we set off—away from the newly awoken machines. We zigzag our way through without following a certain path. The only constant is that we are moving toward the facilities outer doors and away from the gunmen.

I rush around a corner and come face to face with a man dressed in black-on-black military gear. It matches nicely with the easily recognizable soviet-made AK-47 pointing at my face. I yelp and bring up my club in a skyward arc—trying at the very least to disarm the man.

He blocks my attack and rams the stock of the rifle into my gut, sending me to my knees. While I gasp for air and wait for death, I hear a yell and a thwack. It’s followed by a wet splat and a thump. I look up and see dad standing over the prone man with a killer glare. I also see his broken five wood, blood dripping from its face.

It’s only when I look at the man lying on the ground behind me that I see the damage. His face is a mess of blood and gore. His nose was driven into his face with such force that it looks like a cheap B-rate Halloween mask.

“What…happened?” I say in a shaky breath.

Dad bends down and helps me up.

“You went around the corner before me and evidently he didn’t see me. When he hit you I popped out and swung as hard as I could.”

I look back down at the blood-soaked scene.

“You obviously didn’t miss, did you?” I say.

He gives a shoulder shrug as if to say,
‘guess not.’
Then he looks away from me almost embarrassed.

“What?”

He stammers and then answers, “I may or may not have closed my eyes.”

I pale a little, but slap my dad on the shoulder.

“Well, at least you made solid contact. But, for the future can you please keep your eyes on the target, especially when it’s holding an assault rifle?”

We get interrupted with a shout in Arabic.

“Where’s Ghazi?” asks a man.

“He went around the corner a few rows over but never came back,” replies another man.  

“Go check on him and report back to me,” orders the first man.

Great,
I think.

I grab another club for Dad, this time a three wood and hand it to him.

“Here,” I say. “Let’s try to be a little more careful shall we?”

“You’re one to talk,” Dad retorts. “You blew around that corner like you were walking into the kitchen at home. There are people who want you dead and you didn’t even slow up to check to see if a man with a gun was standing there waiting for you. That’s even more reckless than you normally are.”

Okay. He got me there. I was so focused on not dying that I almost got myself killed. Irony at its finest. If Dad hadn’t been there I’d be a corpse right now.

“You’re right, sorry,” I apologize.

“Son, its fine,” he says patting my shoulder. “Just please be more careful, for both our sakes.”

I nod and head off again, slowing as I reach another turn. This one is clear and we continue on another thirty-or-so feet until a barrage of bullets rip into the metal around us and send us sprawling to the ground. Dad recovers first, getting to his feet quickly, his body obviously not as beat to hell as mine.

Another man rounds a panel and brings his gun up-another AK-47 from the looks of it. Dad swings, misses, but stumbles right into the guy. They get tangled up long enough for me to get to my feet and bring up my iron. I swing it as hard as I can like it’s a baseball bat and smash the back of the guy’s left hand, shattering it and sending the gun flying. The attacker screams in agony, but its short lived. He bends over and feigns like he is dropping to one knee, just as his other hand brings up some kind of hand gun I didn’t see before.

I heft the iron high over my head and bring it down, blade first, like I’m chopping wood. I connect with the back of the shooters neck, audibly breaking it, severing his spine, killing him on his feet. The man drops in a heap on top of dad and I drop the club. I look down at my hands with full comprehension that I just killed this man.

Dad struggles out from beneath the limp body, stands and softly puts his hand on my shoulder. He speaks but I don’t really hear him. I hear something about
‘not having a choice’
and
‘he would have killed you’
but, all I feel is anger. Pure-unadulterated-rage.

I pull away from the soothing touch of a father and draw my most dangerous club…my putter.

I turn to my dad and see his confused look as I bring up my club, gripping it until my fingers turn white. I remove the golf bag from my shoulder—opting for quicker footing. Dad’s just standing there waiting for me to say something. I’m sure he sees the clumpy short shafted club as a joke.

“Steel shaft—zero flex,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to kill him. I’m going to beat the living shit out of him and get some answers.”

I turn, but stop and look over my shoulder to my now wide eyed father, “Grab your balls and follow me. We’re finishing this.”

11

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be carrying this thing Harrison,” Dad says staring down at the Kalashnikov he now possesses. “Number one, I’m a terrible shot and number two…it’s a damned assault rifle, not the pea shooter we have back at home!”

I slug him in the shoulder getting his attention off the weapon we just pilfered off the man I killed, “Keep the safety on and point it at the bad guy. You’re not going to need to shoot the bastard, just make him think you are.”

“Easy for you to say,” he answers. “When he sees the two of us he’s automatically going to react like I’m the real threat. Honestly, he’s going to see your weapon of choice, laugh, and then shoot us both.”

“Dad, calm down! He’s not going to shoot you. He might try, but I’m not gonna let him.”

“Thanks Tiger, that’s comforting coming from a guy with only a putter in his hands,” Dad retorts.

I laugh at Dad’s sudden mood change. Normally the guy has a bug up his butt 24/7. He generally reacts with annoyance-tinged anger, but now he’s acting like something closer to the way I would act—am acting—in a situation like this. 

It’s gotta’ be the stress of everything going on,
I think.
I hope when all is said-and-done he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown or something.

I grip the club, refocus and imagine the lashing this asshole is going to get.

I turn to face Dad holding up my weapon of choice, “It’s all I’ll need. Let’s go.”

In near silence, we approach the last area that we heard the third man speaking—the one giving the orders. There are a few more panels and work stations in front of a clearing, about 20 feet from the group of machines we now hide behind. This empty space holds the door in which the attackers entered—and if all goes well—our escape route.

I put my finger to my lips and face Dad and mouth the word, “Wait.”

I peek out from behind our hiding spot and see a man standing in the door way pistol at the ready not taking any chances. I pull back and form a horrible, but possibly successful plan.

No AK?
I think with a little more hope now.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

The gunman looks over to see the Titleist golf ball I just tossed to him roll to a stop a few feet from where he stands. He raises an eyebrow in confusion and brings up his gun as I step out.

I must look ridiculous. I have my putter over my shoulder like I’m twirling an umbrella, my pant legs are hitched up around my knees like I’m wearing knickers, not to mention I’m now wearing my Dad’s cardigan too.

The man does nothing. He sees me step out from one side of the paneling without a care in the world, like I’m strolling through a luxurious country club or something. Not that my bloodied clothes and beaten face would permit me into any of those fine establishments right now.

I look over at him and in the most pretentious British accent I can come up with I say, “Oh, my young man, you found my ball! I was trying to play through and seem to have gotten turned around. Do you know where the Twelfth green is?”

The killer just stares at me blankly, as confused as ever.

Well, at least I haven’t been shot,
I think.

“English?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Great,” I mutter.

Plan-B I guess.

I clear my throat, “Oh William, can you come out here please?”

Dad steps out from the other side of the cover, AK-47 at the ready.

The gunman is about to swing his gun towards Dad, but Dad beats him to the punch and yells something in Arabic. The man halts his aim but doesn’t lower his weapon. Dad continues on in Arabic again, this time with a little more gusto behind it. He gestures to the concrete floor as if to tell the man to put down his gun.

Nothing happens. The gunman just stares at Dad.

Then, it happens.

The killer brings up his gun and fires a barrage of bullets at Dad, nearly hitting him. Thankfully, we were planning on this just in case and Dad quickly flicks off the safety and dives to the side, pulling his own trigger.

Now, I wouldn’t recommend doing this. It’s not like in the movies where Schwarzenegger or Stallone or even Van Damme for that matter can fire a perfect burst of projectiles towards a target while they’re airborne. Those guys could probably knit a sweater and bake an apple pie in mid-air too if the director wanted it badly enough, but this is real life and is only being used as a diversion.

I charge as Dad fires, hoping he doesn’t accidentally shoot me. I’m at a full sprint when I get a gun leveled at my head, but I’m not there when the trigger is pulled. I’ve gone into a takeout slide making a bee-line for the mercenary’s legs, like I was making a final dash for home plate. My high school coach would have been proud.

He tries to readjust his aim, but doesn’t get the chance. I swing up and with just enough oomph, hit his gun and send it sailing out the open door. I then proceed to slam into his lower half and take him down to the ground.

We roll a few feet where he lands on top of me and begins to try and pummel me. He lands a few really good body shots, but to no avail. What can I say? I stay in shape. I flex and take two more punches to the solar plexus, realizing that if he keeps this up, I’m going to be peeing blood for a week.

He’s about to start on my face too which definitely CAN’T take any more abuse at this point, when a rifle stock clocks him in the temple, deflating his barrage. He rolls off me and I give him a little extra push, sending him sprawling to the hard floor.

I stand and wince at my excessively beaten body and collect my putter. I stalk—or rather stagger—towards the recovering attacker, winding up for the best swing I can muster. I let loose, leading with the club head and thump him hard in the ribs, a sharp crack ringing out through the room. He howls in pain, breaking one for sure…maybe even two.

He tries to stand, putting a hand on the ground for balance, but I bring down the knife edge hard, taking out his wrist with a savage hack. 100% broken. The bend in his lower arm definitely isn’t natural.

The man wails in agony again, but this time he just kneels holding his mangled arm and slumps over to one side.

I look up at Dad, gripping the putter tighter and tighter and ask, “Should I have yelled fore?”

He just looks at me with obvious irritation, but gives me a little smile as a consolation prize. I can’t help it. I give him a Cheshire cat smile back and say, “Sorry, I’m just trying to be polite.” 

Dad shakes his head, smile completely faded, and steps up to the prone man, still holding his rifle and starts rambling on in Arabic again. He’s trying to find out who sent them to kill me and collect him and why.

“Who sent you?” Dad yells shaking his weapon at the man.

“You will burn in the end regardless if I tell you or not,” replies the assassin, his voice dripping with contempt.

The look of confusion on my face over his translation must be pretty noticeable because, the hired goon just looks at me and starts laughing. No, laughing isn’t the right word it’s more like a psychotic cackle, like something from a bad movie.

I look back over at Dad and shrug. I have no idea what to do next. I never thought I would be disarmed by a jovial lunatic. I heft the club and threaten the man, but he just looks up at me and with the most straight-faced jab I’ve ever taken says through Dad’s translation, “Even the chosen must meet their end sooner or later.”

He then calmly pulls out a dark spherical object, using our stunned inaction to his advantage, and tugs on a tiny metal piece. He holds it up with his good arm for us to see, like it’s a holy relic, and smiles. The lemon-sized item rolls out of his hand and thumps to the floor.

I’m already grabbing Dad and shoving him towards the exit. You don’t have to be a military bad-ass to know what a grenade looks like. Luckily for us, we’re only feet from the doorway and hit it and leap to the side just as an ear shattering explosion rips through the utilitarian hallway. The concussive force is mostly blocked by the concrete walls of the sorting room, but we still get kicked in the face by an invisible steal-toe boot and thrown into the opposite wall.

My exceedingly abused mind and body give up and I black out.