Chronicles of War

Part 1: Way of the Storm

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    "'Naked I came from my mother's womb, and
     naked shall I return there. The Lord gave,
     and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the
     name of the Lord.'"

    - Job 1:21

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Chapter 15: Made God

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Ed grinned like a maniac as James slid to a stop against the wall next
to him, smoking grenade launcher in hand. He dropped a huge green duffel
bag on the floor next to him, but Ed hardly noticed it. James was
holding an M79 'Blooper' grenade launcher, and it had his undivided
attention...until a voice boomed over the wall.

"WHO FUCKING FIRED THAT? WHO WAS IT?!"

Ed ignored the question with a shrug, looking closely at the sights on
the barrel, the breach-loading mechanism designed to chamber forty
millimeters of high explosive.

"Holy cow!" Ed said in amazement. He ignored the glare James gave him.

James smirked. "You're welcome. Kill the guy in front of the Dairy Queen
if he gets up, would you?"

With obvious difficultly, Ed pulled his eyes off of the firepower James
was holding, and looked at his friend. "Huh?"

The assassin opened his mouth, but was interrupted by another shot from
over the wall.

"WHO FUCKING SHOT MAX?!"

James shook his head, and sang loudly, "I shot the sheriff!"

Likewise, Ed finished with, "But I didn't shoot the deputy!"

"YOU ASSHOLES ARE DEAD!" The soldier screamed.

James and Ed looked at each other and chuckled inanely.

"Not terribly bright, are they?" James remarked, checking that he had
his pistol and phone secure before dropping the M79 and the radio in
Ed's hands. As an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and take out that sniper,
too, would you?"

Ed looked at the grenade launcher, and set his submachine gun on the
floor. "Sure. Did you find some ammo for this?"

James pointed at the canvas bag. "It's in there."

Ed set his jaw. "Guy in Dairy Queen. Sniper. I'm ready." He looked at
the grenade launcher, running his fingers over the release. Silently, it
opened up. Ed pulled out the still-warm shell to the round James had
fired, then fished out another grenade from the bag and jammed it into
the breech. He snapped the action closed with a solid clank of metal on
metal, and nodded to James.

The assassin moved into a sprinter's crouch and bolted. He was a few
yards away when Ed felt a bullet streak by his face. He froze for a
second, then checked on James. His friend was at the end of the wall,
clutching at his shoulder. Ed feared he was hit for a moment, then the
assassin threw out a thumbs up and ducked around the corner, under the
massive plants.

Ed swore under his breath, turning in the direction the bullet had come
from. Was he in the open, a sitting duck? He brought the 'Blooper' to
his shoulder. There was only one store open in the general direction of
his sights. Unless bullets suddenly traveled in tight, dramatic arcs, it
had to come from the one open place.

On the down side, this meant the sniper could be hiding anywhere in the
store. On the up side, that didn't matter with an M79.

The gun kicked like a mule, and the blast from the grenade hit him in
the face, even though he was more than a hundred feet away from the
store.

Sniper down.

Someone over the wall spat out a random swear word. Ed chanced a quick
look at the end of the wall, but didn't see a hint of his friend.

As he heard someone grunt in pain, he realized that James had turned his
grenade into a distraction.

----------

The voices were coming from a specialty coffee and pastry store called,
rather originally, The Coffee Shop. The walls were covered in plastic
boards designed to simulate old wood, like the entire store was the
inside corner of an old hunting shack grafted into the mall. The opening
was flanked by two pillars again covered with some plastic with a
pattern printed on them that looked similar to marble except for its
brown coloring. The only highlights within the store were the coffee
beans themselves and the cash register. The eastern counter was topped
with a long series of glass tubes, each big enough for James to loose a
leg in and tall as a small child, that were filled with dark coffee
beans. The till was a reproduction of a turn-of-the-century brass piece
whose true age of origin was given away by the integrated digital
display.

James anticipated Ed's gentle tug on the grenade launcher's trigger, so
he was around the end of the wall and closing in on the store by the
time an explosion ripped apart a store at the east corner outside of the
food court. He didn't pause, he didn't even stop to catch his breath. He
charged across the final fifteen feet to his next opponents. Ten feet.
Five. He was at the entrance.

The first man--most likely the one doing the yelling--was tall,
featuring a long face fitted with a pointed jaw that looked like it had
been created by someone grabbing his chin in a pair of plies and pulling
roughly. His cheeks were all but caved in, clear evidence of such
treatment. The M16 in his hands was pointed safely at the floor, and
barely registered. James punched both of the soldier's arms in passing,
hitting vital points that would cause the limbs to go temporarily numb.

The second man was further inside the store, and the last. The dead one
was nowhere to be seen. The second man had prickly black hair framing a
severe widow's peak. A square jaw was attached firmly to his
ridiculously short neck, and the black collar of his BDU pressed deeply
into the jowls under his cheeks. His black eyes held a cold rage in them
that was the perfect imitation of a mad dog. Mercifully, he wasn't
foaming at the mouth.

James dropped into a roll as he passed the man, who seemed pleased at
his appearance, even as he started firing wildly in James' general
direction. The bullets missed him in sets of three as the man squeezed
off burst after burst in pursuit of James. The glass columns behind
James, being somewhat less mobile, took every round full on, and ten of
the twelve columns shattered completely, emptying their payload. Roasted
coffee beans rushed onto the floor like a tiny black horde.

James finished his roll against the counter until the till, planted his
feet, and jumped at the man. The soldier had paused to adjust his grip
on his gun, pause for just a split-second, but was still too slow. James
slapped the gun away with one hand, and struck the man in the throat
with the other. The assault rifle slipped from the man's slack fingers,
and James took a half-second to kick it towards the first soldier.

The soldier finally retaliated with a blow to James' floating ribs. The
assassin fought the urge to curl into a ball and lay on the floor crying
until the hurting stopped. His guts felt like they'd been kicked clean
through his back and were hanging out the other side. He put his hands
up, barely warding off a powerful punch that came flying at his face,
then skipped to the side to avoid a crushing, but slow, kick. This was
going just great, he mused.

Then the soldier tackled him.

James landed on his back, and felt a hand close around his throat. He
cracked open an eye to see the soldier, with a purple face, draw back
his right hand for a killing blow. Amateur, James lamented as he whipped
up an elbow, deflecting the blow, and smashed his fist into the
soldier's opponents temple. The man's thick head jerked to side, his
eyes crossing. As the fingers around James' throat began to loosen, he
rammed a thumb into his opponent's eye.

The man jerked back like a spider trying to escape a flame. James pulled
one leg up, the pain and cramping muscles of his stomach threatening to
disgorge his meager breakfast, and assisted the larger man's departure
with a kick that sent him flying into the nearest wall.

In a moment of clarity, James reasoned that it would have been easier to
stand outside and shoot them.

Speaking of shooting, the soldier near the doors had regained control of
his arms and was aiming his gun at the assassin. James loved these
moments, when defeat was inevitable, when only a miracle could save him,
when all was lost...then he didn't need to fight; he wanted to fight. He
scrambled to his feet and jumped the counter, hearing bullets tear into
the cash register and the wall beyond. He landed on the floor as gears,
glass, and bits of twisted metal rained down around him. He pulled out
his pistol and checked the safety with one hand, while his other was
held up to stave off more debris.

There was a break in the gunfire.

James stuck his gun over the counter and emptied a whole clip blindly in
the general direction of his foe. He knew Ed wouldn't stick his neck too
far out in a fight. He also knew that his gun was suddenly jammed. Damn.
He cleared the action and found that he had one bullet left. Then the
other side took him turn, and James crawled as fast as he could across
the floor as bullets passed easily through the counter. He stopped when
the firing did, fortunately before he ran out of floor to flee across.

Move.

James tore over the counter with every ounce of speed he could muster.
As he dropped to the floor, he used his last shot to disable the action
on his opponent's gun. He'd been meaning for a kill shot, but it was
just as well. The soldier dropped the gun and went for his backup.

Then James slipped on the coffee beans.

Before he even hit the floor, he was already tearing open the front of
his flannel, plans changed, buttons popping off and flying in every
which direction, becomingly hopelessly lost in the thousands of coffee
beans lying on the floor. He rolled to the side and slammed a booted
foot down as hard as he could manage, smashing the beans into fine
shards and gaining marginally better traction as a result. As he quickly
finished getting to his feet, holding his flannel by one sleeve, he
spied the corpse of the ugly man laying face down in a pool of blood.

The soldier with the long face and pointy chin was looking at him
cautiously and pointing a pistol at him. The soldier was at least ten
feet away--too far for the shirt to reach before James was chewing lead.
Well, scratch plan A. Even with his reach, it was too easy to slip
again, and he wouldn't get a second chance at this. He charged, slipping
into a brief spin as the soldier sent a shot right through where he had
been standing a split-second ago. James whipped the shirt towards the
floor in a short arc, catching a few of the beans with the end of the
other sleeve and flinging them at the soldier.

The second shot went wide as the soldier waved the beans off with his
free hand. James took a huge step, and snapped at the floor with his
shirt again. Another volley of coffee went flying towards the soldier,
who missed his third shot.

It was over.

James exploded forward, the first two fingers of his right hand opening
to catch the loose end of his shirt. The man saw him coming, and jerked
his gun hand out of the way of James' disarming snap kick, but missed
the shirt flying at his face until it was almost too late. His other
hand came up and caught the shirt. A questionable move, since the shirt
wasn't dangerous; James was.

The first blow knocked the gun away, and the second took out a knee. The
soldier hit the floor just in time to catch the toe of James' boot with
his stomach. He quickly curled into a fetal position, but James stopped.

"Behold, the power of flannel," James said painfully. His knees felt
weak, his ears were ringing, and his ribs were killing him. He was out
of patience and, sadly, out of opponents.

He looked down at the soldier, willing his mind to focus. Right now he
needed to be more than able. He needed to be perfect and flawless in a
terrible way. He needed to get answers. He needed information. He told
himself lives where in the balance, though that wasn't necessarily true.
He told himself there was no other way, when there clearly was. He told
himself it wouldn't be so bad, but he knew better. It wouldn't be
bad--it would be horrible. He would be horrible.

He had to ask some questions now. He had to go fishing for his answers,
and there was really just one way to do it.

He realized he was breathing like he'd just run a mile. His left hand
was clamped into a rock-hard fist. The knuckles were white, the fingers
pressed together so tightly that they looked fused together. His chest
still ached with each breath. The pain from an assortment of minor
bruises hung at the edge of his consciousness, and his two close
calls--one on his leg that was scabbing over, and one on his shoulder
that felt dry and hopefully was just a welt--throbbed in time to his
heartbeat. At his side, his right hand slowly clenched and unclenched
rhythmically.

He was going to get answers.

Things were going to get ugly.

----------

Ed came around the far end of the wall as quickly as he could. The bag
James had left with him was heavy, but welcome. It was his blessed cross
and his holy water. It was his ammunition and explosives. It contained
their guns and a healthy dose of extra killing devices.

The Coffee Shop was an ugly place Ed avoided on principle. It's decor
was almost improved by the absolute mess James and three--no, that's
two, since 'Max' was apparently dead before the fighting started--
soldiers had made of the place in the last ten seconds.

James had removed his flannel, revealing an anonymous black t-shirt. Ed
took note of this, as James was the kind of character who never went
outside without donning a t-shirt with a snappy comment on the front.
Something about the carefully crafted anonymity of James' clothing set
his nerves on edge.

The two guys in the coffee shop were down, with the third dead and
laying inside, partially hidden by one of the big ugly pillars near the
entrance. One more was dead in a pool of his own blood. The last one was
alive and in a fetal position on the floor and groaning faintly. James
stood over the man like a cat about to play with a mouse.

James' chest heaved with each breath, and his right hand clenched,
relaxed, clenched, relaxed rhythmically at his side. The look on his
face was one of murderous rage.

Then his fist came down.

From standing to striking, there wasn't even the impression of movement.
It was so fast, so natural for James, that Ed had not seen the moment of
preparation. Everything after seemed to happen in slow motion.

The mercenary's body actually bounced six inches off the ground,
spasming. James' fist came down again, just a blur, slamming him right
out of the air and driving him onto the floor. With the third and fourth
strikes, Ed heard the wet snap of ribs breaking. The beating continued.

James finally stopped at ten. The savage punches left the soldier
wheezing and choking, his hands and feet twitching.

James stood, and Ed could see it. He was a hunter hiding the shadows, a
lion stalking an antelope, a snake shadowing a mouse. He was a hunter,
waiting. His right hand continued to flex and relax over and over again,
his eyes unwavering from their target.

It was almost half a minute before the soldier looked up again. When he
did it was to locate James' foot and try to drive a knife into it. The
assassin yanked his foot out of the way and brought it down in the same
spot his fist had been ruthlessly pounding thirty seconds earlier. This
time the soldier let out a choked scream while James kicked the knife
away from him.

Then he returned to stillness, watching his prey, hand flexing and
relaxing.

This was insane. Ed watched the scene with a sick feeling slowly
invading his stomach, like it being poured into his guts in liquid form.
James was torturing a man to death, playing with him, drawing the pain
out. Granted, he seemed to take no pleasure from it. It was almost as
though James was forcing himself to do this, even fighting it back. Did
he plan to interrogate this man? Hadn't he done this before, with
disturbing results? Would he bother asking a question? Would he get the
chance?

"What?" The soldier finally asked.

Ed watched James' face remain as emotive as a clay pot as he replied.
"I'm going to ask you some questions. Lie, and you get hurt. Refuse to
answer, and you die. First question, what are you trying to do with me?"

The soldier answered immediately. "Capture and interrogate."

"I presume you were not going to do the interrogation?" James grew the
ghost of a sneer with his words.

the man grimaced as he answered. "No, an expert was sent with us."

James moved to the next question without pause "What kind of questions
was he or she going to ask?"

"We weren't told."

James kicked the man in the side of his leg. To Ed, the blow didn't look
like it would hurt a lot, but the man jerked and groaned like he'd been
shot in the gut.

"You have a lot of unbroken bones so far," James said as if appraising a
fine wine, "Are you sure you didn't overhear something interesting?"

"I'm sure!"

"You and your...friends aren't going to kill me?" James asked levelly.

So, this was where he was going, Ed noted.

"Absolutely not," the soldier replied with total conviction.

"And what if I'm not Rick Genoni?"

The man shook his head as if lamenting the state of the world, and tried
to laugh. He sounded like he was coughing up a bone. "Good one."

Ed expected to see James force another serving of pain upon his prey,
but he just asked, "What makes you think I'm him?"

"You don't have a twin."

James was unmoved. You would have needed a seismometer network, a
supercomputer, and a team of scientists to tell if his muscles twitched.
"Do you know who set this in motion?"

"No." The soldier sighed.

"Who is your commanding officer?"

"Lieutenant Banks."

"Ed, there should be some handcuffs in that bag. Get them out. We're
going to lock him up. His buddies should get him some medical attention
soon." James looked down at the man with a real smile, a genuine smile.
His hand was vibrating like a paint shaker on overdrive. "Thank you sir,
you give me faith in the human race."

----------

When they stepped out of the coffee store, James glared at the food
court like he expected a hundred more soldiers to pop out from behind
cover and start shooting. He was daring them to try. He and Ed were
armed to the teeth, so to speak, and James was not going to let that
firepower go to waste.

He pulled out his phone, which he had recovered from behind the counter
inside, the coffee place and dialed a number seemingly at random. He
held it up to his ear, waited a moment, then hung up and put it back in
his pocket, satisfied.

Ed was a little curious about his old friend, and more than a little
afraid. His hands were steady and he walked with that silent jaunt once
again. He was only slightly wounded, except for his ribs, which he
wouldn't let Ed near.

Why did he go psycho back there? It was, to Ed, like watch two people
fight for control over the same body. One minute he was an amoral
death-machine plying his trade with no regard for the repercussions of
his actions, the next he was a jovial, considerate fellow with and odd
sense of humor. One second he was a monster, the next, human.

James pointed at the hallway that lead to the restrooms, and Ed followed
with a word of acknowledgment. They had made their way across the food
court, down the hallway, and through a familiar door marked "Employees
Only." Once inside, they paused to take in their surroundings.

Ed expected to dive for cover as the door opened, or roll in grenades
and follow with covering fire, so that he had entered the room with no
such fanfare, he felt at a loss for what to do next.

It was amazing what you could get used to.

The room was simply a storage area, with a large metal cabinet deposited
in the far corner to hold the more dangerous cleaning supplies. The rest
of the far wall was taken up by a two-by-four anchored to the wall and
holding a number of hooks and clips to hold the dozen or so brooms and
sweeps. A drain was set into the floor below, and numerous tracks of mud
and clean white tile ran from the ghosts of puddles below the mop heads.

The whole place smelled of grime and tar and harsh chemicals, detergent
on top of ammonia on top of cat litter. The glue-and-cardboard stink of
cheap paper towels. The sweet smell of industrial deodorizer. The
lighting was no more inspiring or uplifting, consisting entirely of a
single bare light bulb that left harsh shadows on everything.

James pulled a folding chair away from the wall, opened it up, and
collapsed into it. Ed put his back to the only bare wall in the room,
choosing to stand and let the cold of the concrete seep through the thin
uniform he wore and into his skin.

"What was that about?" Ed asked in a stage whisper.

"That," James stopped, then looked Ed in the eye and started again, "I
was trying to get some answers out of him. What you rather have me find
a get a Ouija board? We are in the mall."

Ed got directly to the point. "What did he mean, about you not having a
twin?"

James blinked. "Weren't you paying attention, dude?"

"Uh...yeah, but I'm not the high and might master of military strategy
here! Care to fax me a clue?"

"He's saying I look exactly like Rick Genoni."

"I got that part!" Ed yelled. "What about you?!"

James was quiet for a moment, watching Ed. "For some reason, these
soldiers have been told that I'm Rick Genoni. They're convinced he's me.
I don't know why, I just...don't know. But it has to be stopped, Ed.
These guys are well-financed. Whoever bought them has a million
contacts, awesome power to manipulate them, and no fucking morals at
all."

"What if they baited you here?"

"Like, Me me?"

"Yeah, what if they're after James, and they just made up Rick to
confuse you?"

James looked away for a moment, thinking. "To us, that really doesn't
change anything. They're still after me anyway. We should keep doing
what we have been doing--we keep the hostages safe, we kill off these
military guys where we find 'em, and we get out alive. If there is a
Rick Genoni, you can bet Hell itself that I'll find him and make him
pay."

Ed said nothing about the soldier James had beaten soundly, but let
live. He talked tough, but sometimes he was...a normal guy.

"JC Penny is next," James said abruptly.

For a moment, neither man moved. Their eyes roamed over the small space
many times, not taking in anything. Finally, Ed asked the expected
question. "Are you going to interrogate everyone you capture like that?"

"No."

The big guard paused like a man about to jump over a hungry crocodile
wearing a raw steak for underwear. "You looked ready to kill him."

"I needed him to fear that I would--as slowly as possible. I want his
friends running around, screaming their heads off, like a flock of
school girls lost in a haunted house."

"A tactical advantage." Ed stated simply.

James smiled. "Then I take pictures for posterity."

Ed stared.

The assassin rose to his full height and made to point at the door with
a flourish. His dramatic posing was interrupted when he stopped to
clutch at his bruised ribs and muttered a curse.

"JC Penny?" Ed asked.

James nodded and followed the guard out the supply room.