Part 5 (1/2)

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

Tink. Tink. Tink.

The gunman looks over to see the t.i.tleist 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 gus...o...b..hind 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 Ches.h.i.+re 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 p.r.o.ne 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 a.s.sa.s.sin, 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-a.s.s 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.

12.

I awake with a groan and open my eyes to see bright lights. Am I dead? Is this the entrance to heaven? I'm expecting to hear Led Zeppelin start playing soon. Then I feel the pain. Nope, definitely NOT heaven.

I cough and flinch when I feel my obviously bruised ribs expand and contract. I've never been in this much pain before-minus the wall-hug while playing ball, of course. I can barely breathe without feeling a sharp twinge in my midsection.

”Calm down,” says a voice. ”It's okay. You're fine.”

”Fine my a.s.s,” I croak and grit my teeth.

I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, doing my best to slow it down. As I do, the stranglehold on my chest and ribs loosens. Finally, I'm breathing better now, but the ache is still there. As long as I keep my breaths short and shallow I should be okay.

I try to sit up, but I don't get very far.

”Dammit!” I shout and wince, giving up and falling back onto the bed.

”Here, let me help you,” says the voice again, which I now recognize as my father's.

He leans over and grabs me under my right shoulder and slowly helps me sit up. An all new pain flares up in my back as the pressure moves from one part my body to another. I grunt in disapproval, but grit my teeth. At last, I'm sitting up-in a hospital bed I realize-feeling about twelve percent better, and that's being generous. It's probably closer to five.

I take in my surroundings and notice a stranger sitting in the corner. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and he's dressed in a basic, everyday looking black suit. His ”uniform” screams government agent.

”FBI?” I ask in a low, raspy voice.

He shakes his head slightly.